Chapter 3
“Why, I think that’s Donavan.” Ella King pressed herself up against the window in the small reception room, which flanked the front entrance opposite the front drawing room. The shouting continued. I stood at Mrs. King’s right shoulder—Gwendolen stood at her left—and the three of us pressed our faces close to the glass. With difficulty we peered out into the murky darkness interrupted by amber swirls of illumination beneath the gas lanterns on the drive. Philip had declared the night as thick as corn chowder, and he hadn’t been far off. Fog stretched languidly across the property, blanketing everything in its path.
“What do you see?” demanded Mrs. Wetmore from behind us. Mr. Wetmore had led Neily and Derrick outside with an order that we women remain in the house. Now they surrounded the man Mrs. King referred to as Donavan.
“I can’t see a thing. What are they doing?” Grace stood directly behind me, her hand braced on my shoulder. She practically pressed against my back as she craned her neck to look out. Maude’s face hovered above Mrs. King’s and Gwendolen’s shoulders.
“Over there.” I pointed to a gnarled shadow, hunched and twisted like a creature from the underworld. “By the beech tree.”
“Goodness, Mother, open the window wider.” Without waiting for her mother to comply, Gwendolen shoved the window higher. We all three stuck our heads out, and that was when I saw the fog-blurred lines of the rear panel of an automobile, stripped now of its colorful flowers, jutting out from beneath the European beech tree.
Mrs. King saw it, too, for she drew back with a strangled whisper. “Oh no. Philip . . .”
“What is it, Mother?” Gwendolen clutched her mother’s hand, then appealed to her friend. “Maude, can you see anything? Miss Cross?”
But I had already headed for the front door, was descending the steps and turning onto the drive when Donavan, nearly in tears now, choked out, “It’s him. It’s Baldwin. I think he’s dead.”
* * *
The mist ran clammy fingertips across my face and down my arms, raising shivers. I ran to the beech tree, nearly tripping over a root hidden in the grass, as Derrick, Mr. Wetmore, and Neily disappeared beneath its canopy of branches. The man called Donavan hovered off to the side, watching warily as the leaves swished back into place around the rear of the Hartley Steamer. I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Grace, indistinct and ghostly in the fog. Behind her, the other women approached at a much slower place, as if dreading what they were about to learn.
I ducked beneath the tree. The fog hadn’t drifted through the dense sweep of the branches and although the lawn lanterns didn’t penetrate either, visibility was better. The men were grouped around the front of the motorcar and something wedged against the trunk of the tree. My eyes soon adjusted to the darkness and I realized the object was a man in a formal dark suit—a butler’s attire. His legs and lower torso were pinned against the trunk, his upper body draped face-down over the motorcar’s vertical front panel.
Bile rose in my throat as the horror of death filled me. Yet in the same instant Derrick cried out, “He’s still alive. We need an ambulance here. Immediately.”
Could it be? Derrick was leaning over the body—no, leaning over the butler, Mr. Baldwin—with his fingertips pressed to the side of the man’s neck. I went nearer, and perceived, barely, the slight rise and fall of his spine. I moved farther still, until I could see more of the man’s form. His head dangled over the footboard. In this position he looked as though he might merely have been drunk and keeled over, except that a rattle, hollow and bleak-sounding, issued from his throat, and a dark bubble grew at the corner of his slack mouth. Blood.
Less than half an hour later, we were all back in the house—all but Mrs. King’s butler. The ambulance and the police had arrived, the former bringing medical staff who dislodged Mr. Baldwin from between the vehicle and the tree, and the latter securing the scene. It appeared to have been an accident, but one caused by the reckless misbehavior of a certain young man. Before I’d gone inside, I had asked a brief question of the doctor in charge. Would the man live? He had shaken his head in doubt.
Mrs. King ordered coffee laced with cognac and insisted we all drink it. Each Wetmore—the senator, his wife, and their daughter—had taken the news with stoic calm. I believe Gwendolen might have become a good deal more distraught had it not been for the calming influence of Maude. Mrs. King flitted about, seeing to her guests’ needs, which were few, really. But it kept her busy, kept her, perhaps, from fearing the worst. And the worst, for Mrs. King, centered not on her poor butler, though his likely fate clearly upset her, but on her son and whether or not he was responsible for what happened.
As for Neily and Grace . . . A few years ago, they had become involved in an investigation into the death of a member of the Four Hundred, one Virgil Monroe. As with tonight’s incident, questions had arisen then as to whether Virgil Monroe’s demise had been a mere accident, a result of some form of incompetence, or something more deliberate. As continually seemed to happen, I’d been drawn into those questions, and Neily and Grace with me. I believe at first Grace had found excitement in our search for the truth, but soon enough came to recognize the dangers.
Was she thinking of that time now? Was that the reason for the deep etches across her brow? Or was she simply attempting, as were we all, to puzzle out whether Philip, arriving late and tipsy and in the fog, could have run his automobile into Baldwin, and then strolled into the dining room as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Now, his coat unbuttoned and his vest rumpled, Philip sat slumped in a wing chair beside the fireplace, staring down at the flames reflected on the tips of his shoes and looking very much like a boy who’d been taken to task for his misdeeds. The police had questioned him briefly, and I could see by their expressions that his inebriated state raised their speculations as well as their disgust. His replies had been little more than two- or three-word sentences, surly and reluctant, but he had insisted he’d pulled the Hartley onto the drive without incident. Certainly without plowing into the butler. One of the officers had jotted down his claims. Then they left him to stew with the rest of us, and had gone back outside to rope off the area and make some preliminary observations. To that end, they’d ringed the area with Dietz canister lanterns, whose bull’s-eye lenses intensified the beams of light.
From outside came the sound of a newly arrived voice, issuing commands. I set down my cup and saucer and quietly made my way back out to the lawn. Derrick followed me, as I knew he would. But the others remained in the library, sipping their coffee and cognac in tense silence.
“Jesse.” I greeted the Newport Police Department’s head detective succinctly, and he returned my greeting with a mere nod, as if my being there came as no surprise. Jesse Whyte was about a decade my senior, with auburn hair and a fair, freckled complexion that hinted at his Irish heritage. He and Derrick also acknowledged each other with brief nods. “What have your men told you so far?” I asked him.
“If you mean did they mention Philip King having driven this motorcar all day after crashing it at the parade, and arriving home drunk right before the butler was found—”
I held up my hand. “So they’ve told you mostly everything, but perhaps not this. When Philip came into the dining room he acted as if nothing was wrong. He seemed completely at ease.”
“And drunk,” Derrick put in.
“Yes, and drunk,” I conceded. I couldn’t have said why I felt a need to defend Philip King. He had arrived in the motorcar and he had been—make that still was—drunk. Despite the sobering effects of the incident, he still lacked steadiness and a clear head. “Do you mind if I watch?”
“Stay out of the way. Please.” Jesse’s tone softened at that last word, turning what had started as a command into a request. I had no desire to interfere with police business, but possessed an insatiable need to reach my own conclusions. It had been that way for several years now, and Jesse had learned to trust my observations.
Was this the scene of an attempted murder?
To prove to Jesse I’d keep my distance, instead of moving toward the Hartley, I walked in the opposite direction. The fog still hung thickly in the air, muffling sight and sound, but what I sought could just as easily be felt as seen. Mrs. King’s guests, including Derrick and me, had parked their carriages on the east side of the circular drive, to the right of the house. The tree Philip’s motorcar struck stood to the left of the house, on the stretch of drive that led out through the gates. I walked slowly along the gravel. Derrick joined me, and we went all the way to the road, guided by the gas lanterns.
“What are you looking for?” he asked me when I’d turned around to once more face the house.
“Ruts.” I pointed to the gravel. “If Philip had come barreling from the road onto the drive, the gravel should have been much more disturbed than it is. There’s nothing here to indicate his careening wildly out of control.”
“Perhaps he didn’t careen. Maybe he rolled onto the property, and kept on rolling until he’d pinned his butler to the tree.”
“Quite possible.” I studied the angle of the automobile. It wouldn’t have been a completely straight path from the driveway to where Baldwin had been pinned to the trunk, but given Philip’s inebriated state and the uneven ground, the vehicle easily could have listed off its course. Or had Philip veered off on purpose? Had he accelerated at the last minute? I leaned down to study the gravel more closely and wished it were daytime. Sunrise was still many hours away, and I’d learned from experience that the sooner evidence could be thoroughly examined, the better. As I straightened, I saw Jesse emerge from between the branches of the beech. “Let’s go hear what he has to say.”
“I’m told the butler’s midsection is practically crushed.” Jesse turned to regard the rear end of the Hartley. “They’re much heavier than carriages, these automobiles.” He turned back to Derrick and me. “How long would you estimate between the time Philip arrived in the dining room and when you heard the coachman’s shouts?”
Derrick held out a palm. “The coachman?”
“John Donavan,” Jesse clarified. “It was he who alerted everyone, wasn’t it?”
I peered up at Derrick. “It was about ten minutes, would you say?”
“About that, yes,” he confirmed.
Frowning, Jesse asked, “Do you remember hearing him arrive? The engine. Screeching tires. A thunk?”
“The thunk of the Hartley hitting the tree?” Derrick shrugged. “I never heard a thing before Philip sang his way through the house. Emma?”
“No, nor me, either. But you know how this fog muffles every sound.”
Jesse breathed in deeply, then let it out in a rush. “So it’s altogether possible Philip drove onto the property, hit the butler, perhaps without even knowing it, considering he’d been drinking all day, and calmly went in to dinner.”
“Might the vehicle have rolled on its own? Philip might have parked at an angle toward the tree and then neglected to set the brake,” I suggested. If so, the butler’s injuries would still have been Philip’s fault, but somehow this possibility seemed preferable to his drunkenly slamming into another man. The former was merely an oversight; the latter, an act of criminal recklessness.
“Or is there a defect in the Hartley’s brake lines?” Like me, Derrick sounded hopeful. “Perhaps that first mishap at the parade wasn’t a coincidence, and none of this is Philip’s fault.”
Jesse acknowledged this with a tilt of his head. “We’ll have a mechanic take a look at the vehicle tomorrow. In the meantime, why don’t you both go home? Emma, do you need a ride?”
“No,” Derrick answered for me. His voice took on a slightly defensive note, or was it possessiveness? “Emma came with me. I’ll drive her back to Gull Manor.”
I braced for the old rivalry between the two men. I’d known Jesse all my life and had thought of him as my father’s friend, albeit a much younger one—until a few years ago, when he suddenly exhibited an interest in me that exceeded that of a family friend. I realized then that he was closer in age to me than to either of my parents, and I came to view him in a new, and shall I say, handsomer light. At the same time, I met Derrick Andrews, scion of a Providence publishing family, and he had also expressed a desire to be more than friends.
One man my social equal and a fellow Newporter; the other, a member of a society that would never accept me as good enough. His parents had certainly made that painfully clear. But Jesse and Derrick did more than pay casual court to me. At times they’d nearly come to blows, and had insisted I choose between them. Or no, to be fair, perhaps they didn’t insist; perhaps the insistence had been my own. Either way, I’d found myself unable to choose, wanting each man for different reasons, until some part of me that understood the truth, somewhere deep inside, did the choosing for me. And that choice had been Derrick, the man who sparked my passions, who inspired me sometimes to the brink of recklessness, who made me feel exuberant and wholly alive.
And Jesse? He hadn’t suffered long. Though he’d taken his time in telling me about her, he’d found a courageous, spirited young woman of whom I fully approved. I’d have been a fool not to, as she had once saved my life. But that’s not the story I’m telling just now.
If I’d feared Jesse’s reaction to Derrick’s possessiveness, it soon became apparent I needn’t have, for he grinned and nodded. “Good. See that she gets inside safely. Or you’ll answer to me.”
* * *
“There’s something for you here, Miss Emma.” Katie Dillon, my maid-of-all-work, strode briskly into the morning room carrying the usual stack of morning newspapers. Besides the Messenger, I also subscribed to the Newport Daily News, the Newport Observer, and the Providence Sun. I felt it important to stay abreast of what my competitors were printing.
The young Irishwoman set the stack on the table beside my elbow and propped an envelope against my coffee cup.
I raised it between two fingers. The inscription bore my name, but in no handwriting I recognized. “What’s this?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Miss Emma. It was on top of the rest. I can’t even tell you how it got there.” Bright red tendrils escaped Katie’s topknot to frame her curious face. Her cornflower-blue eyes practically begged me to open the missive. I did so at once.
And frowned in perplexity.
“What is it, Emma?” From across the table, Nanny lowered the book she’d been intent upon. “Not bad news, I hope. Or has it got to do with last night?”
Upon arriving home last night, I’d invited Derrick in for a cup of tea, and the two of us had told Nanny and Katie all about the happenings at Kingscote. They had joined us in hoping Baldwin would recover, and that the Hartley Steamer had been at fault, not Philip King. Now, as I read the note, I wondered if more malevolent forces had been at work.
“Listen to this. ‘Despite what the Kings think, all is not well with their servants. Baldwin got what he deserved.’” I looked up. “There’s no signature.”
Nanny reached out a plump hand. “Let me see that.” When I handed it across to her, she smoothed the folds out flat and bent her face close to it. “It’s not a practiced hand, in my opinion. Not that of a formally-schooled person.” She held the paper up toward me and pointed to a line of words. “The script is neither the Spencer style nor the newer Palmer method. There’s very little uniformity in the shapes and slant of the letters, which to me suggests the writer didn’t learn his or her penmanship in a classroom. Probably schooled at home. It could even be from one of the Kings’ servants.”
Katie had moved to look over Nanny’s shoulder, and she nodded at Nanny’s assessment. Nanny straightened and glanced up at her. “Have you heard anything about the goings-on at Kingscote?”
“Nothin’, ma’am.” Katie’s brogue became more pronounced than usual. She had come to America from Ireland some six years ago and, at times, she sounded almost like the rest of us. Clearly Nanny’s question caught her off guard and made her uncomfortable.
“Katie, if there’s anything,” I said, “it would be a good idea to tell us. Philip King is being held responsible for the butler’s injuries, though the police believe it was a reckless accident. If you have any other information . . .”
“I don’t. At least nothing definite.” Katie pulled out a chair at the table and sank into it. She propped her chin on her hands. “You know the Kings release most of their servants every year when they leave Newport for the winter, and hire new each spring.”
I nodded. The Kings’ system wasn’t typical of the Four Hundred. Most took their servants to their other estates when they left Newport, leaving a skeleton staff here to keep their summer cottages secure during the winter months. But the Kings had no other estates. When they left the island, it was to travel to Europe, where they rented lodgings in whatever country they inhabited. With Kingscote not being quite as large as some of the other cottages, Mrs. King hired a local caretaker to watch over the property in her absence, and her longtime groom stayed to care for the horses. The housekeeper, who had also been in her service many years, traveled with her.
“Well,” Katie said, “there have been some whispers that the butler has a bit of a checkered past.”
“What does that mean?” I asked her.
“That’s just it. I don’t know. But I have heard he has an eye for the ladies. The young ones, if you catch my meaning, Miss Emma.”
I shook my head in disgust. “I do. And that could very well be what this note is getting at. But who wrote it? One of Kingscote’s own servants, or someone who worked with Baldwin in the past?” I regarded Katie again. “Have you heard anything about where he worked before he came to Newport?”
“Somewhere in New York, is all I’ve heard.” She shrugged. “Mrs. King should know, shouldn’t she?”
“If Mr. Baldwin told the truth,” I said. “References can be forged, which he might have done if he’d had troubles at his last post.”
“I can probably find out.” Nanny studied the note again. “I’ll make inquiries.”
Yes, Nanny had access to information denied the rest of us. Though I thought of her more as a grandmother and dear friend, society would have termed her a servant. No one knew more about the goings-on in the great houses than the servants who worked in them, and their connections to one another stretched from region to region, from New England to New York City, to Long Island, and beyond. Nanny had only to make a few telephone calls to set that informative network abuzz; she’d probably have answers by the end of the week.
After breakfast I drove my buggy into town, to the diminutive offices of the Messenger. Another thing I had done last night was telephone our news reporter, Jacob Stodges, and give him the details of the accident. When I’d first taken the position of editor-in-chief of the Messenger, we’d had tensions between us, Jacob and I. I had been largely to blame, though it had taken me some time to admit this. My tendency had been to run with a story rather than assign it to Jacob, and he had been justified in resenting me for it. I loved reporting; my goal had long been to become a hard-news reporter, and someday I would make that goal a reality. But I’d taken the position as editor-in-chief when Derrick offered it, and my first responsibility was to him, our readers, and to the smooth operation of the business.
When I arrived, I discovered Jacob had gone to Kingscote to learn if there had been any further developments, and to try to speak with Philip King. I doubted he’d meet with success in the latter case, but I’d give him credit for trying. In the meantime, I’d brought the anonymous note with me, intending to bring it to the police station at the first opportunity. Jesse’s midmorning appearance in my front office made that unnecessary.
“I’ve just come from the mechanic,” he said after he’d greeted me and I’d offered him a cup of our typically bitter coffee. “The motorcar is sound. There is nothing wrong with the brake system. Which means responsibility rests firmly on Philip King’s shoulders.”
“Perhaps not.” I handed him the note. “This was waiting for me on top of our morning newspapers.”
Jesse unfolded it and read the brief contents, then looked sharply up at me. “How did I know things wouldn’t be simple?”
“Because they never are,” I reminded him.
“This note could be someone’s idea of a prank, a deplorable one. Or one of Philip’s own friends attempting to exonerate him. Who was supposed to accompany him to Kingscote last night?”
“His mother spoke of a Francis.” After finding Baldwin beneath the beech tree, I’d all but forgotten the exchange between Philip and Gwendolen concerning this Francis Crane. Philip seemed to believe his sister harbored romantic sentiments toward the young man, or was it the other way around? Difficult to tell, for Gwendolen’s fierce denial could just as easily have stemmed from aversion to Francis Crane as from a desperate attempt to keep her attraction a secret from the rest of us seated around the table.
“Ah, yes. Crane. Francis Crane. Family’s in coal. New money.” Jesse’s eyebrows rose speculatively. “Came down from Providence at the start of the summer, and he and Philip King are often seen together about town. Maybe he sent the note. A good friend would not want to see his chum in legal difficulties.”
“Look at the handwriting. Nanny judged it to belong to someone who isn’t well schooled, at least not as members of the Four Hundred are. If Francis Crane comes from money, new or otherwise, he would certainly have attended some of the best schools.” Jesse gazed down at the paper again, nodding vaguely. “Besides,” I went on, “even Katie has heard rumors about Isaiah Baldwin. Nanny’s looking into where he worked before coming to Kingscote.”
He shot me a look of comprehension. “I’ll ask Mrs. King, of course, but yes, have Nanny make her inquiries.” He stared down at the note again and rubbed his temple with the back of his hand. “Motive, shed directly onto Kingscote’s servants.”
“So then . . . possibly an attempted murder.”