Just before Lenox had departed Britain, a new heir had been born to one of Scotland’s great clans. He would inherit Britain’s oldest unbroken succession of titles and lands—not the War of the Roses, not the Battle of Hastings, neither the dominion nor the fall of the Romans had touched it. To mark the birth, a chain of bonfires had been lit along the country’s entire border, with riotous quantities of food and drink provided for their makers. According to a letter from an astronomer in the Times, the bonfires had been bright enough that they were likely visible from the moon, which had tickled many letter-writers’ and magazine essayists’ fancies.
As Lenox approached Cove Court in his hired carriage, he saw something like the equivalent of those bonfires in America: stationed at every door and window, motionless in the driving rain, hands behind their backs, heavy dark slickers giving them an intimidating uniformity, were hired men, guardians of the ancient and venerable Schermerhorn family.
Lenox had read a bit about them in Mrs. Berry’s copy of Who’s Who. Landfall in 1651 at New Amsterdam, the quick establishment of a thriving textile trade on Broad Way, the family’s consolidation and survival through the English takeover (when the city became New York), and now, as 1900 approached, a century of gentlemen and women living in the highest echelons of power, influence, and privilege. The elder Schermerhorn’s grandfather had outfitted a regiment in the Revolution; his father had been one of the founding members of the opera.
Standing on the top step at the entrance to Cove Court—it was 2:33—was Mr. Clark, his battle-scarred face solemn. He was polite (“Good afternoon, Mr. Lenox”) but impersonal. He led Lenox down the dark front hallway, with its sweeping staircase to the left and on the right an infinitely gloomy grandfather clock clicking away the seconds between two severe portraits, presumably of Schermerhorns who had long since joined the majority.
“Going to the Astors’?” asked Lenox of Clark.
Clark went so far as to smile at this. “Not in the capacity of guest, sir.”
Here, whatever America’s mores, the sir remained intact. In this case it sent a chill through Lenox for some reason.
The study looked as it had before, though there was rain lashing at the windows, and Mr. Schermerhorn the Fourth, the current patriarch, was openly sipping a glass of whisky this time.
“How do you do?” asked Lenox.
Schermerhorn looked tense. “Yes. Very well. Ugly weather. Should clear by evening they say.”
“You seem to have increased the security around Cove Court.”
“Necessary protection. Tricky time.”
He muttered this last bit, as if to himself. “Is Willie joining us?” asked Lenox.
“Yes.” Schermerhorn glanced at his watch. “He’ll be here any moment.”
Lenox took a seat. “I am in no rush,” he said mildly. Everything inside him was calling to get out of this situation, and while perhaps he ought to have listened to that instinct, he was trying, instead, to change it, to soften the dread mood within these walls. “Would you mind if I glanced at this copy of today’s Times? I’ve yet to see it.”
“Of course,” said Schermerhorn, and, briefly remembering himself, said, “What can I offer you to drink?”
“Tea, if it’s not too much trouble,” said Lenox.
“Not at all. Not at all.”
Something like normalcy soon returned to the room. Lenox was thinking of those bonfires still, for some reason—now, though, as a chain of clues.
As far as he was concerned, the case had all along presented three central mysteries. He had written them in his notebook on the first day he had been in Newport. He pulled it out now and glanced at the page, though without lingering over the words; better that he should be reading the Times.
He thought he could make a plausible guess about the second of the three questions, but the first and third were still a mystery. The first was the crucial one, of course. Yet it was the third to which Lenox kept returning in his mind again and again, trying to puzzle through that strange night.
Once more he made himself entertain the possibility that the older Mr. Schermerhorn had killed Lily Allingham. There seemed to be no plausible motivation, yet he had been extraordinarily tense during the past few days. It could always be love, of course, that he had been the one who loved Lily Allingham. They said there was no fool like an old fool.
Looking around the room, Lenox saw pride. The coat of arms, the tapestry, the old portraits, the painting of the Battle of Albany, the heavy monogrammed silver inkstand: Every particular of the room spoke first and foremost to pride. If he had killed Lily Allingham, it was because she had insulted his pride.
Almost by accident, pondering this, Lenox stumbled across his name again in the newspaper. This time the reference was highly favorable—it even called him the world’s leading detective, which certain partners within his own agency might have grounds to dispute—and again mentioned his invitation to Mrs. Astor’s ball.
Next to it was an article (“The mountain shall come to Muhammad! Archie Blaine, the retiring patriarch of the great family that bears his name, has deigned to visit his seventy-room Newport cottage on the occasion of the ball of the year, planning however to arrive in town and depart on the same day, unfortunately for local trade”—and so forth) that reminded him Teddy Blaine ought to be here. Perhaps Clark was keeping him out; if any man would dare close the door in a Blaine’s face in the town of Newport, Rhode Island, it was likely James Clark.
The door opened and two maids came in with tea. Lenox thanked them with a smile, made himself a cup, and, for all the darkness of this moment, the tension of waiting for Willie Schermerhorn to arrive, felt his body relax when he took a sip.
Another fifteen minutes passed. Lenox read—sometimes feigned reading—while Schermerhorn paced, occasionally going out into the hall, then returning with an awkward nod to his guest.
It was just before three when Lenox began to grow uneasy in a new way. At a quarter past the hour, the door burst open, and Clark, soaking wet, stood there.
“What is it?” said Schermerhorn.
Clark didn’t say anything, merely strode purposefully across the room and handed Schermerhorn a damp, folded piece of paper.
Schermerhorn read it, and seemed to pale.
“No,” he said to Clark. “Is it true?”
Clark nodded. “Yes, Mr. Schermerhorn.”
Schermerhorn stood there, the paper twisted up in his hand, forgotten, a look of horror on his face. He made for the door, grabbing a heavy cloak from a stand as he went, and after that, stopped, returned to his desk, rifled through a drawer, seized some object Lenox didn’t have time to see, and ran from the room.
Lenox stood and followed, astonished. He half expected Clark to stop him, but nothing at all kept him from matching the pace of Schermerhorn, who had run out into the driving rain and was headed directly toward the Cliff Walk.
For a panicked instant Lenox feared that he might jump. But of course it wouldn’t kill him, and anyway he didn’t. Instead, he took out whatever he had fetched from his desk and stood there with it. Lenox, nearing him, saw what it was: a glass, a telescope.
“What is it?” he called.
Even now he could sense Clark, fifteen or twenty yards away. He realized the town’s gossip might not be right that Clark had killed Lily Allingham—but it was right to fear him. Lenox’s own animal senses were always reminding him where Clark was.
Schermerhorn didn’t reply. He was standing stock-still, with the glass to his eye—another handsome object, needless to say, of polished brass and silver.
Lenox followed his gaze but couldn’t see anything. Despite the rain it was fairly clear now, the sky white, not so black and tumultuous as it had been. But it was still too dark to make out whatever Schermerhorn was looking at so closely through the glass.
Then he saw it: a small boat, richly outfitted, of white paint and dark wood. Lenox squinted but couldn’t make out the name on its portside stern. It was bobbing on the waves, sailing steadily away from them, away from Newport.
“Whose boat is that?” he asked Schermerhorn at last.
“My son’s.”