Chapter 11
Gwendolen King turned white. After setting aside her teacup with a slosh, she jumped up from her seat. “What on earth?”
She scrambled from the room, the rest of us quick to follow. The argument upstairs continued, and though less threatening than the initial outburst, three voices—two men, one woman—carried an intensity that sent us charging up the staircase. The landing opened onto a large square gallery. Derrick made his way to the front of our little group and proceeded toward the sounds of the scuffle.
Philip King, Francis Crane, and Louise Peake, the housekeeper, stood outside a bedroom at the far side of the gallery. Although their shouting had ceased, the two men had each other by the fronts of their attire—Philip’s shirt and vest, Mr. Crane’s coat lapels. Each held bunches of fabric in his fists as they played a strange tug of war. Mrs. Peake was attempting to separate them by use of both vocal commands and shoves at their shoulders, but they weren’t cooperating. In fact, I doubt they noticed her. They were both red faced and practically snorting like bulls. Derrick strode to them and added his efforts to the housekeeper’s.
“Gentlemen, and I use the term lightly, what is going on here?” His tone demanded an immediate answer. Gripping each man firmly by the shoulder, he forced the pair apart. “That is quite enough.”
The command proved unnecessary, for as they stumbled backward, they involuntarily released each other. Derrick moved between them and held up the flats of his hands, one at either man. “What the deuce prompted you two to behave so swinishly in a house where ladies reside?”
Mrs. Peake, a woman about Mrs. King’s age, sighed with obvious relief and backed away to stand near Gwendolen and Miss Wetmore. Her agitation hadn’t fully abated, and her bosom rose and fell with each labored breath. Clearly their behavior had left her shaken. Philip King noticed the rest of us hovering beyond Derrick and raised a hand to point.
“It’s because of her—Gwennie—that I’d like to wring his neck.” Philip started toward Francis again but Derrick stopped him with thump to his chest.
“What do you mean, Philip?” Without hesitating an instant, Miss King went to stand before her brother and set her hands on her hips. “How can you possibly think I’d want you to threaten Mr. Crane, or any guest in our home?”
“He doesn’t deserve to be in our home.” Philip’s chin went up in a show of defiance.
His sister fanned her hand back and forth in front of her face. “You’ve been drinking, Philip, haven’t you? That’s why you’re not making any sense. Mr. Crane is your friend. You’ve no business treating him in such a deplorable manner.”
“Don’t you wish to know why he’s here?” Philip countered.
“He came to visit you, you dunderhead.” Her voice started to rise. She paused a moment to calm herself. “But I do have one question for him. Mr. Crane, did you bring my brother liquor?”
“I most certainly did not, Miss King. I wouldn’t disrespect you or your mother that way. Isn’t that true, Philip? Why don’t you tell us where you got your brandy?”
The question drew our curious stares to the young Mr. King, who shuffled his feet and pressed his lips together.
His sister poked his upper arm. “Well? If it wasn’t Mr. Crane, who? Was it one of the servants?”
“It was no servant under my supervision, I can tell you that.” Mrs. Peake spoke with wounded dignity. “And if I find out someone has been sneaking alcohol up to this room, it will be the last thing they ever do in this house.”
“No, I don’t suppose any of the servants would take such a chance.” Miss King’s countenance fell as her bravado failed her. “He probably had it hidden somewhere in his room. Is that it, Philip?”
The young man shrugged and angled his glance away, but only for a moment. When his gaze returned to her, it was with a burning intensity. “Beware of him, Gwennie. Yes, I believed him to be my friend, but it’s not my friendship he seeks. He’s reaching above himself. Thinking he can—”
Miss King held up her hand. “Philip, please, don’t say such things.”
“He’s not good enough for you, Gwennie.”
“I think it’s time you returned to your room,” she snapped. She turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Peake, you have the key?”
“I do, Miss Gwendolen.”
“Well then.” Miss King turned away from her brother and returned to her friend’s side. Miss Wetmore slid an arm around her waist, and Miss King did likewise. As one, the pair turned and retreated across the gallery. Mrs. Peake remained, but moved off to a respectful distance, her key at the ready. Francis Crane hesitated.
“I’m sorry, old man. Didn’t mean to stir up trouble for you. Just wanted to see how you were doing, try to cheer you up and all that.”
Philip shook his head slowly, his eyes narrow slits. “Liar. You’re here for Gwennie, but it won’t work. She has no inkling you want her, and do you know why?”
Francis Crane only shook his head, prompting Philip to chuckle.
“It’s because she couldn’t conceive of tying herself to the likes of you. The idea would be so outlandish as to never cross her mind.”
“We’ll see if I’m good enough or not,” Mr. Crane said softly, but not so softly that I didn’t hear him. But even if those two simple words weren’t enough to prove Philip’s point, what Ella King had confided to me previously led me to believe Philip’s claim and suspect Mr. Crane’s motives for coming to Kingscote today.
Which was not to say I didn’t feel a certain sympathy for Francis Crane. If his intentions toward Gwendolen were honorable, why shouldn’t the pair be given a chance to discover whether or not they suited each other? I understood social barriers better than anyone, and I also believed that an intelligent woman like Gwendolen King could make such decisions for herself.
“Leave my sister alone, Francis.” Philip pivoted on his heel without waiting for a response from his friend, reentered his room, and shut the door behind him with a bang. Mrs. Peake moved swiftly to relock it, then proceeded along the corridor, presumably to the servants’ staircase. Francis Crane brushed past Derrick and me. We lingered a moment before following him downstairs.
Along the way I whispered, “I wish we had been able to speak privately with Philip, but I don’t suppose he’d be in a mood to answer our questions.”
“No, I don’t suppose so. Besides, what might he tell us that he didn’t already tell Jesse? He’s claimed innocence and hasn’t wavered. We know where he was that night. We know he drank heavily all day and drove the motorcar that hit Baldwin. And we also know that when he entered the dining room, he behaved as if he hadn’t a care in the world.”
“None of which proves his innocence.” We reached the turn in the staircase, draped in shadows. Derrick stopped me.
I looked up at him in silent question. He dipped his head and brushed his lips across mine, then pressed deeper in a warm and sensual kiss that left me rather giddy. Bemused, I gave a little gasp, a quick inhalation to replace the breath he’d stolen from me. He eased away, smiling, and touched a spot of moisture on my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Shall we?”
As simple as that we continued down to the Stair Hall, to be greeted by the others in the front drawing room.
“I’m terribly sorry about that, Miss King,” Francis Crane was saying. “I want you to know what he said isn’t true. I merely wish to support you and your mother during a difficult time.”
I glanced at Derrick, who quirked his lips in doubt.
“Yes, Mr. Crane, and thank you.” Gwendolen extended her hand to him, which he took in his own. “Philip’s accusations are terribly embarrassing, for both of us. I’m sure it’s the alcohol talking, and that if my brother were in charge of his faculties he’d never say such things. But it’s not the first time, as you may be aware.”
“Yes, I am. I’d always chalked it up to teasing, but now . . .” He sighed.
Derrick and I remained in the Stair Hall, where we could hear but not yet be noticed by the others. I could make out Miss King’s face only in profile, but I had a full view of Miss Wetmore. Her expression had turned wary, her features rife with speculation. If Miss King gave Francis Crane the benefit of the doubt, I fully believed Miss Wetmore did not.
* * *
I returned to Kingscote sooner than I could have imagined—the very next day—and it was another telephone call from Ethan that brought me there. This time, however, I went in through the servants’ entrance rather than the front door.
Mrs. Peake admitted me with a shrewd look that made me wonder if she had learned of Ethan’s and my roles in the investigation. However, she said nothing and brought me directly to the butler’s pantry, where I discovered Ethan sitting at his desk, peering at the housemaid, Olivia Riley, who perched stiffly in a hard-backed wooden chair. Unlike my own fiery-haired maid-of-all-work who also hailed from Ireland, Miss Riley possessed wheat-blond hair, pulled severely back beneath her linen cap, green rather than blue eyes, and not a freckle to be found anywhere on her fine-boned face. Jacob had termed her pretty. This was the first time I’d ever seen her, and for a brief moment I found myself envying her porcelain beauty.
Ethan stood when I entered the room. Miss Riley glanced up in surprise, but also in unhappiness at whatever situation had brought her to Ethan’s pantry. Ethan wasted no time in getting to the point. Mrs. Peake had followed me inside and closed the door, heavy oak with a large frosted glass window.
“I caught her rummaging through Baldwin’s room,” Ethan announced without preamble. Resuming his seat behind his desk, he explained for my benefit, “It hasn’t been cleared out yet, and I’ve been assigned a smaller room on the third floor.”
“What excuse did she give for being in Baldwin’s room, Mr. Merrin?” Louise Peake, dressed in somber black punctuated by a stark white collar and cuffs, folded her arms across her bosom. “I’ve a right to know. The women servants do fall under my jurisdiction.”
Ethan waggled an eyebrow at her, as if to say she had shirked her responsibilities. She seemed to read his meaning, for her nostrils flared and she stood taller. “She said she was cleaning the room,” he replied.
Mrs. Peake stared down at Miss Riley. “Now, we both know that’s a lie, don’t we, girl? I’ve given you no orders to clean that room.”
The girl took her time in answering, obviously weighing her options. It was clear she didn’t wish to respond, but she must also realize failing to do so could result in a prompt dismissal. She drew a breath and let it out slowly. “I was searching for something that belongs to me.” She spoke with a sharper brogue than Katie’s more melodic, West Ireland dialect. “Mr. Baldwin took it from me. Or stole, is more like it.”
“And what was the item?” I asked her.
“Why are you here?” she demanded in return.
“You’re in no position to be asking questions,” Mrs. Peake reminded her sternly.
Olivia Riley raised her chin. “It’s my business and no one else’s.”
“Perhaps Mrs. King should be asking these questions.” Mrs. Peake smiled without mirth. “She’s home this morning. Shall I ask her if she has a moment?”
Miss Riley’s mouth flattened and she shook her head. “Don’t disturb the missus, please. It’ll just get me sacked. I was looking for a brooch. My brooch. Belonged to my grandmother. Even during the Great Hunger, she refused to sell it. Not that selling it would have done much good when there was no food to be bought.”
I found a stool near Ethan’s hulking rolltop desk and brought it closer to Miss Riley. Sitting, I asked, “Why wouldn’t you want us to know that?”
“Because it’s valuable. I didn’t want anyone knowing I had it.”
“Or because you stole it from the missus,” Mrs. Peake charged, “or from your last employer.”
“I never stole a thing,” the maid insisted with quiet dignity.
“What does this brooch look like?” Mrs. Peake persisted.
Miss Riley’s mouth curled wistfully and she tilted her head. “Oh, it’s lovely. A cameo inside a ring of seed pearls. Mounted on gold, it is.”
“Where would you come by something that dear?” Mrs. Peake’s skepticism filled the room.
“I told you. Twas my grandmother’s.”
Mrs. Peake nodded, obviously contemplating Miss Riley’s story. “All right, so she wouldn’t sell it. What about your mother? Is your family so well off they didn’t need the money a piece of jewelry like that could fetch? I find it hard to believe.”
“Mrs. Peake, please,” I said, but Miss Riley didn’t appear daunted.
“We’re not well-off or I wouldn’t be working as a maid, would I? But I won’t sell it, not even as a last resort. It means too much. It’s a reminder we Rileys weren’t always poor, and a promise that one day we’ll be prosperous again.”
Would Mrs. Peake balk at such defiance? She studied Miss Riley for a long moment before releasing a breath. She spoke more gently, almost apologetically. “I’ll have to ask the missus if she’s missing any jewelry.”
“Good. You’ll see nothing has been stolen. Just don’t bring my name into it if you don’t have to, or I know I’ll get the sack. Employers don’t like hearing their servants’ names tangled in any unpleasantness. It’s always easier to send us packing than sort things out.”
Had she been dismissed previously? Rather than voice that thought, I asked a different question. “How and when did Baldwin steal your brooch?”
“It happened four days before the . . . accident.” Miss Riley gave a little shudder. “He came into my room one night and caught me looking at it. Snatched it right out of my hand. Said I probably stole it—just like you all accused me—and he’d be looking into where I came by it.”
Even as this disclosure sent a shudder across my own shoulders, Mrs. Peake’s mouth fell open. “He had no such right. No man should ever be in your room, I don’t care who he is. You should have come to me then.”
Based on what I had learned about Baldwin, if all he had stolen from Miss Riley was a piece of jewelry, she had been lucky.
“I was afraid to, Mrs. Peake. He said he’d get me sacked if I put up a fuss, and I can’t afford to lose this job. I truly can’t.” Here her composure slipped. Her lips quivered, and she quickly compressed them. As different as she was from Katie, I recognized her fear, her sense of powerlessness, and her desperation, for Katie had suffered all of this when she came to me for help four years ago. My heart went out to Miss Riley . . .
At the same time I acknowledged that here, perhaps, were motives for murder. “Miss Riley, did Baldwin make advances toward you?” My voice dropped in volume. “Did he violate you?”
After darting a glance at Ethan, she met my gaze without blinking. “No, ma’am. He might have shown a bit of interest, but I never gave him the chance. I know how to keep a man at arm’s distance.”
“Then why did he come to your room that evening?” This came from Mrs. Peake, once more allowing her skepticism full rein.
Again, Olivia Riley shrugged. “Whatever he wanted, he seemed more than satisfied taking my brooch instead.”
She sounded adamant in her denials, yet I wondered whether or not a brooch existed. As Mrs. Peake had implied, a woman in Miss Riley’s position owning such an article seemed highly unlikely. She might have entered Baldwin’s room searching for an entirely different kind of item, such as evidence that somehow linked her to his death. Or had Baldwin given her a brooch, only to take it back once he’d tired of her? Guilt singed me at such thoughts, but I couldn’t ignore them with so much at stake.
“Where did you work before this?” I asked her, remembering what Nanny had discovered about Baldwin getting a kitchen maid in the family way. I had wondered then if that maid and this one could be one and the same.
After a slight hesitation, she replied, “For a family in New York.”
“Oh? Who would that be?” I asked. “I’m familiar with many of New York’s fine families.”
“The name was Jenson.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Not a Four Hundred family.”
Convenient, I thought. “I see. And what position did you hold there?”
“Housemaid, like here. But they were closing up the house for the summer. That’s why Mrs. King hired me before she came up to Newport.”
I indicated that I had no further questions for her.
“Well then.” Ethan came to his feet. “We’ll have to keep searching for this brooch. Did you check the floorboards, behind any pictures hanging in the room, those kinds of places?”
“No, sir.” Miss Riley’s voice sank to a murmur. “I checked the clothespress and the nightstand, and under the mattress, but you caught me before I could keep looking.”
Ethan appealed to Mrs. Peake. “Do you have any more questions for her?”
“No, not at present.”
“And is it your opinion that she should continue her duties here? If so, I concur.” It pleased me to hear Ethan speak with calm authority. Perhaps taking on this position had built a new confidence in him.
“It is, sir,” the housekeeper said. “For now.” She aimed her next comment at Miss Riley. “But be aware that we will be watching you closely.”
Miss Riley nodded and reached up to tuck some stray blond strands under her linen cap. She stood. “May I go, then?”
Mrs. Peake nodded. “You may.”
Still, the maid hesitated, once again compressing her lips. The overhead light caught a glitter of tears in her eyes. “And if my brooch is found, will it be returned to me?”
Ethan and Mrs. Peake consulted one another silently, and nodded. “It will,” the housekeeper said, “so long as we don’t determine that it belongs to someone else.”
“It doesn’t.” Miss Riley went to the door and let herself out.
Once she had left, Mrs. Peake turned to Ethan and me, her hands clasped at her waist and her eyebrows raised like a schoolmarm who had caught her pupils cheating. “I’ll have you know this was highly irregular, having Miss Cross here while we questioned Olivia. Were it not for Mrs. King taking me into her confidence about who you are and why you are here, I would not have stood for an outsider—other than the police—interfering with a member of the household staff. As it is . . . Well.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Peake,” Ethan and I said at the same time.
“I hope you can clear Mr. Philip’s name,” she said more humbly. “For Mrs. King’s sake if nothing else.” The housekeeper excused herself, leaving me alone with Ethan. I took the chair Olivia Riley had vacated, while Ethan, with a sigh, sat back down at the desk.
“What do you think?” I asked him. “About Olivia,” I added, lest he believe I meant Mrs. Peake.
He seemed slightly taken aback. “You want my opinion?”
“Of course I do. You’ve been among these people day and night. Do you think the maid is telling the truth?”
His brow wrinkled. “I don’t like to think she’s lying.”
“How did she act when you caught her in Baldwin’s room?”
The lines in his forehead deepened as he considered. “Disappointed.”
The answer surprised me. “Not frightened or dismayed or . . .” I paused and hit upon the appropriate word. “Guilty?”
“Those things came after. At first, she only seemed disappointed not to be able to continue rummaging through the room. Do you think that means she’s telling the truth?”
“I don’t know, Ethan. Yet. But since she didn’t take anything from the room, no crime has been committed.”
“That we know of.”
I changed the subject. “Tell me, have you interacted with Miss King today?” Before leaving Kingscote after the incident between Philip King and Francis Crane yesterday, I’d managed to warn Ethan about Miss King’s suspicions.
“Not yet, but last night she took me to task for having coffee served in the wrong china. I should have listened to Martin. He’d tried to tell me which was the correct set, but I didn’t think it was important.”
“Oh, Ethan, those kinds of details matter very much to these sorts of people. Especially if she already suspects you. Did Mrs. King intervene?”
“She did. I give that lady a lot of credit for her cool ability to tell a white lie. She said she asked me to use the green Wileman china rather than the blue Meissen because the green put her in mind of the upcoming horseback excursion she’s planning through the countryside.”
“Ah, the reason Miss King asked you to inventory the picnic cutlery.”
“Commanded, but yes.”
“Any news about John Donavan? Is he still holing up in his quarters?”
“If Mrs. King doesn’t require his services, yes. He’s rarely seen except when he drives the carriage around to the front door to pick up the missus.”
“See if you can discover what he does on his own time, then.”
He promised he would, and I left him to get on with his work.