Chapter 12
“Several people are either acting suspiciously, can’t account for their time the night Baldwin was struck by the motorcar, or both.”
That evening saw me pacing my parlor while Nanny watched me from the sofa. Through the open windows came the sounds of the waves breaking on the rocky headland that bordered the rear of my property, the ocean as restless tonight as I was. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet, muffled each time I reached the threadbare area rug.
“Mrs. Ross attended the opera that night, but could have entered the theater during the intermission,” Nanny repeated from the details we had just gone over yet again.
I nodded as I turned to pace back in her direction. “Which could place her at Kingscote at the correct time. But I have nothing to prove it. Then there’s Francis Crane, who joined Mr. Bennett and his friends for cards at Stone Villa, but who has reason to resent Philip because of Gwendolen.”
“Stone Villa is awfully close to Kingscote.” Nanny picked up the shirtwaist stretched across her lap and continued sewing satin piping along the collar and cuffs. A little pile of buttons, pearly gray to match the piping, sat on the end table beside her. Thanks to her handiwork, I was able to stretch my wardrobe for years without appearing dismally out of date. “But would his resentment against Philip King be enough to prompt him to kill another man?”
“It might, if Mr. Crane wants Gwendolen badly enough.” I came to a halt and crossed my arms. “Then again, the Crane family is wealthy, whereas Gwendolen’s inheritance won’t be nearly as spectacular as those of other young ladies of the Four Hundred.”
“In other words, Francis Crane could do better?” Nanny nudged her half-moon spectacles higher on her nose and pushed her needle through the layers of fabric.
“In terms of character, no. I don’t believe so. But financially? Most assuredly.” I turned away and went to the front window, inhaling the salty night air. “I wish I knew what sent Baldwin outside that night. It’s exceedingly odd, considering he had guests to serve and footmen to supervise. John Donavan claimed to be outside smoking a cigarette. Mr. Baldwin might have hurried outside to do the same, but no extra stub was found.”
“Perhaps he went to meet someone,” Nanny said from behind me.
I pivoted on my heel. “That’s what I keep pondering. But who would he agree to meet during one of Mrs. King’s dinner parties? I don’t believe it would have been planned—” My hand went to my lips. I stood silent, thinking.
“What?” Nanny’s needle stilled again. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
I crossed back to the sofa and sat beside her. “If someone arranged to visit Baldwin that night, they had to have contacted him beforehand. No one at Kingscote mentioned having delivered a message to him, but perhaps someone telephoned him and asked—or demanded—he meet that individual outside. And if so . . .”
Nanny and I locked gazes. As one, we said, “Gayla might know.”
I nodded vigorously. Gayla Prescott served as Newport’s main switchboard operator and what was more, she and I had grown up together on the Point. She and another woman shared the switchboard, Gayla during daytime hours and Mrs. Graham, a widow, at night. But Gayla often worked late. Had she still been there when and if Baldwin received a telephone call that evening? I crossed my fingers that she had. Or, if Mrs. Graham had connected the call, perhaps Gayla could find out for me. I made Newport’s switchboard office my first stop the next morning.
Gayla seemed delighted to see me, especially when I set an item on her counter and unwrapped the linen around it. She and I were about the same age, and today, dressed similarly in starched, high-collared shirtwaists and, in her case, a dark gray skirt with rows of black ribbon near the hem. Her hair had been coiled into a thick topknot from which a pencil protruded on one side, and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles sat halfway down her nose. I’d always admired Gayla’s lovely golden-brown eyes and olive complexion that spoke of her African great-great-grandmother.
Careful of her topknot, she whisked off her headset and leaned low to sniff the fresh, straight-out-of-the-oven freshness. “Mm. Is that Mrs. O’Neal’s apple ginger cake?”
“It is,” I assured her with a grin. I had remembered it was one of Gayla’s favorites, and Nanny had been all too happy to oblige this morning, especially since she made one for us as well.
Gayla broke a tiny piece off a corner and popped it into her mouth. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We haven’t seen each other in months,” I replied rather disingenuously.
“No, but we talk nearly every day, don’t we?”
We did, whenever I placed a telephone call somewhere in town. For the most part, Gayla knew my work schedule and my social habits. “That’s true,” I conceded. “I was wondering if you might have connected a call to Kingscote the evening their butler was struck by that automobile.”
Anyone else but Gayla might have taken issue with my ulterior motive for visiting her and bringing her cake. But not Gayla Prescott. Quite the contrary, she motioned for me to bring another chair closer and leaned in toward me. “You’re on another case, aren’t you? Is this for the Messenger, or for Jesse?”
“Both, actually. Do you remember a woman in particular telephoning the house that evening? Were you here, or would Mrs. Graham have taken over by then?” I held my breath, hoping for the former. Mrs. Graham, an older woman, was far more likely than Gayla to adhere to the American Bell Telephone Company’s privacy guidelines.
“Let me think back . . .” She broke off another bit of cake, larger than the first, and appeared to consider as she chewed. “I’ve been working later than usual now that summer is here. Poor Mrs. Graham becomes rather frazzled if more than a pair of lines buzz at the same time. Once nighttime truly sets in there are fewer calls and then she’s fine. Honestly, she isn’t suited to the job, but I’d never say a word to anyone about it. She needs the money, don’t you know.”
“Gayla, are you remembering anything? Anything at all?”
“Oh, right. Let me see . . .” She picked up the cake and held it out to me in offer. I shook my head, and she set it back down. “Kingscote has so few calls. Mrs. King isn’t one for the telephone. I’m frankly surprised she had one installed. And of course being so close to town it’s not as though she really needs one . . .”
“Gayla,” I prompted, dredging up every last bit of patience I possessed.
“Yes, now that I think about it, I do remember putting through a call in the evening. It’s certainly a night that stands out in one’s mind, what with the auto parade that day and then, why, someone actually being struck by an automobile that very evening.”
“Do you know who called over to Kingscote?”
“Well, that I couldn’t say, I’m afraid. It’s not as though I listen in once the parties have been connected.”
I happened to know better, but I didn’t comment. Gayla’s occasional transgressions could be forgiven when one considered she spent her days cooped up in this tiny space with nothing more than one small window overlooking a side street. It must be terribly boring. Until, that is, the telephone lines buzzed with some new scandal or controversy happening here in town among people she had known all her life.
I held out a hope. “Do you remember if the caller was a man or a woman?”
“Well . . . early in the day I connected a few calls about deliveries for that night’s dinner.” She suddenly became defensive. “I only know that because the callers each said hello to me personally.”
“I understand. You know everyone in town.”
“That’s right.” She relaxed, but then frowned. “But I do seem to remember it being a woman asking to be put through later in the evening. I couldn’t tell you her name, though.”
“Do you know who answered the call?”
“Hmm . . . now let me see.” She consumed another broken corner of cake. “A woman answered, and then the butler came on the line. He sounded impatient, but at that point, I stopped listening, so I really can’t tell you more.” Again, the defensiveness. She rewrapped the cake and placed both hands around it, as if I might take it back for not having received satisfactory answers.
But I wondered. Had Eugenia Ross been the female caller? If so, how could I ever hope to prove it? The woman would never admit to having telephoned a man who died soon after. Could the caller have been someone else? Obviously, I needed to return to Kingscote and speak with whoever had originally answered the telephone that night.
* * *
I worked late at the Messenger that evening, making up for lost time. After the last of the staff had left the premises for the night, I double-checked that the back entrance and windows were secured before returning to my desk to complete paperwork that had gone unfinished due to my spending so much time attempting to clear Philip King’s name of manslaughter. Not that I felt a great deal of compassion for yet another wealthy young scion who had fallen into dissolute ways. Yes, at times he reminded me of my half brother, Brady, who had since mended his life, or my young cousin Reggie Vanderbilt, who had not, but it wasn’t Philip’s similarity to either of them that spurred me on.
I simply didn’t believe Philip could be guilty in these particular circumstances. I could not see how any human being, however debauched or drunk, could drive an automobile into another individual, leave him to die, sing his way to the dinner table, and look his own mother in the eye. Only a monster could behave in such a way, and however misguided Philip King might be, I didn’t believe him to be a monster.
For now, I forced myself to thrust these thoughts aside and focus on the work in front of me. With stacks of receipts, subscriptions, and orders spread out on my desk, I filled in columns in my ledger book, added and subtracted, and checked my figures twice over. I became so absorbed in the ebb and flow of the numbers that when the telephone on the wall summoned me with a jarring ring, I flinched so violently I sent a flurry of paper cascading to the floor.
A few unladylike words might have slipped through my lips as I stumbled my way over the mess I’d created and snatched the ear trumpet off its cradle. “You’ve reached the Messenger.”
“Emma, it’s Jesse. Ethan’s been hurt. Can you come to Kingscote?”
“Hurt how? Will he be all right?”
“He’s been in a scuffle and he’s very upset. Can you come?”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Having planned in advance to work late, I had already brought Maestro and my carriage up from the livery where I normally kept them during the day, and had parked them on Spring Street outside the Messenger’s front door. Quickly I shuffled the fallen papers into a neater pile, straightened a few more things on my desk, and hurried outside.
I reached Kingscote in a matter of minutes and stopped my carriage beside Jesse’s on the service driveway. Brian Farrell, the groom, met me and helped me down. Although twilight had set in, I could detect a shadow of a bruise on his cheek. I pointed to it. Had he and Ethan fallen to fisticuffs? “What happened there?”
“We had a bit of a to-do here a little while ago.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here.” I spoke sharply, my anger rearing although I’d yet to learn the facts. “Was this to-do as you call it between you and Eth—um—Mr. Merrin?”
“Good heavens, no, miss. Between us and Donavan.”
“Donavan? But what—?”
“You’d best come along, miss. The police are in the carriage house.”
Partway across the rear lawn, I began to hear voices raised in urgency. “That would be Donavan again,” Mr. Farrell said. “He’s right schnockered, miss.”
“Is he? Did he hurt Mr. Merrin very much? Or you? You have quite a welt blossoming on your cheek.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before, but I don’t think Mr. Merrin has been in many fights in his life, miss.”
“No, I don’t suppose so.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, I can’t see why the detective asked you to come. Men get drunk, miss. They fight. There’s not much of a story there and Donavan’ll be back to his usual self in the morning.”
“Does Donavan get drunk often? Does Mrs. King know?”
“Oh, now, miss, there’s really no reason to go bothering the missus. Like I said, men get drunk. Sometimes they get downright soused and say things, and even do things, they don’t mean. It’ll all be all right.”
Perhaps, but as we approached the wide sliding door of the carriage house, those voices, until now a confused hullabaloo, formed themselves into coherent words. And what I heard shocked me.
“I killed her. I killed her. God help me, I was to blame.”
I shoved open the door wider and went inside. There were two carriages in the large wood-paneled space, kept cleaner than many people’s kitchens. A worktable occupied a corner beneath one of the peaked windows, and there I saw Jesse and another policeman I knew, Scotty Binsford. They were standing over John Donavan, who sat hunched in his shirtsleeves on a stool. Ethan perched on another, holding a cloth-covered bundle of what I presumed to be ice to his jaw.
Jesse and Scotty acknowledged me with nods. At the sight of me, John Donavan moved to vacate his stool, though whether to offer it to me—unlikely—or to attack me, I’ll never know, for Scotty seized the coachman by the shoulders and forced him back down.
“Don’t you move. Not if you know what’s good for you,” Scotty warned him. A tall, broad fellow with abundant, apple-round cheeks and an easy smile, he was often underestimated, but I had seen him take down a troublemaker or two with ease. “Now, tell us who you believe you killed, and how?”
The coachman began to mumble again, something about driving through the rain late at night. Had there been a coaching accident? He slurred and stuttered over the words, leaving their precise meaning in doubt.
A shivery sound from Ethan drew my attention. Leaving John Donavan to Scotty and Jesse, I went to Ethan and crouched in front of him. “What happened?”
He shook his head in bemusement. “I hardly know. I was in the butler’s pantry. Dessert had just been served. There’s no company tonight other than Miss Wetmore,” he added in an aside. “And I heard shouting.”
“Mr. Donavan?” When Ethan nodded, I asked, “Who was he shouting at? The groom?” I glanced over my shoulder to where Brian Farrell hovered, watching, near the sliding outer door.
“No. I don’t know where Farrell was. Probably in his quarters above the stable.” He pointed to the far wall, which separated the building into carriage house and stable. “Donavan was outside alone. Alone and shouting. I came running out to see what was happening, and he charged at me, fists swinging. That’s when Farrell showed up.”
“Have you seen Donavan drunk before?”
Ethan shook his head. “Which isn’t to say he hasn’t been, but if so, he’s kept to his rooms.” He glanced upward, indicating the building’s second story. Another shudder passed through him. “Miss Cross, I don’t think I’m cut out for this kind of work.”
I placed my hand over his where it lay on his thigh. “Let me look at you.” Gently I moved his other hand, the one clutching the ice to his face, and lowered it. A nasty swelling was growing along his jawline on his left side, and I saw now that the seam where his sleeve met the shoulder of his coat had been torn. “Does it hurt very much to move your mouth?”
“Now that the ice isn’t on it, yes.”
I raised his hand and the cloth filled with ice back into place. “What about your shoulder, or is it your arm? It looks as though he grabbed you rather roughly.” I ran my fingertips over the tear.
Ethan rotated his shoulder without dislodging the ice from his face. “Hurts a bit.”
“I have my carriage here. We can give Dr. Kennison a call and then I’ll bring you over to see him.”
“No, I’ll be all right.” His voice shook.
“You don’t sound all right, Ethan.”
“He said he’d go to the missus.” This came from John Donavan, who moaned as he spoke. He sent a sideways glance at Ethan.
Jesse leaned his face close to the other man’s to recapture his attention. “Who said he’d go to the missus? Baldwin? Did he know about this incident?”
Donavan frowned as if confused by the question. His head sagged. “Yes, the accident . . .”
Jesse nudged him until he raised his face. “You’d better tell us what happened. And when.”
“My last post,” Donavan replied miserably. He looked up, the gas lamp on the wall illuminating a track of moisture on his cheek. “The daughter. She was so . . . so pretty. A nice young lady.” He balled his hands into fists and pounded at his knees. “Didn’t deserve. I shouldn’t have . . .”
“Shouldn’t have what?” Jesse pressed. “You said it was a rainy night. Were you drinking then, too? Is that why the accident occurred? And the young lady, your employer’s daughter, did she die as a result?”
“Thrown from the carriage. Her neck . . . was broken.” Donavan opened his fists and let his head fall into his hands. He wept loudly.
Jesse’s eyes narrowed in a way he had when he was about to act on a hunch. My guess proved correct. “And Baldwin knew, and threatened to tell Mrs. King, didn’t he? How did he know? Did the two of you work together in New York? Is that where this happened?”
“No, no.” Donavan shook his head repeatedly.
“But Baldwin knew,” Jesse insisted. “He knew and threatened to go to Mrs. King.”
“He promised he wouldn’t. Not if I . . .”
“If you what? Paid him?” Jesse, leaning low these past minutes, slowly straightened, but his gaze never left John Donavan. “Did you murder Isaiah Baldwin? Did you push the motorcar into him and pin him to the tree trunk?”
The coachman uttered a litany of denials, his hands tugging at his hair. Jesse and Scotty traded glances and nodded. Scotty unhooked the pair of hinged, ratcheted handcuffs from his belt and moved to secure Donavan’s hands in front of him. Donavan didn’t resist, but sat limply on the stool, moaning and shaking his head.
I left Ethan’s side and went to Jesse. “Do you really think he murdered Baldwin?”
“I don’t know, but if you ask me, he attacked Ethan because he believed him to be Baldwin.”
“He mistook one butler for another.” I nodded at my own conclusion.
“Considering his condition, we’ll take him in for the night at least and question him more in the morning, when he’s coherent.”
“And hungover,” I pointed out.
Jesse had the good grace to look chagrined. “The promise of a tall cup of water works wonders in loosening a man’s tongue.”
“As long as his tongue speaks true, and not what he believes you wish to hear.” I treated him to an admonishing stare.
“We won’t coerce him. You have my word on it.” He lowered his voice. “But I would think you’d be glad to see Philip King exonerated.”
“Only if you’ve found the guilty party.”
“In the meantime, what of Ethan?” Jesse gestured at my erstwhile society reporter with his chin.
“I’ll take care of him. He’s having second thoughts about continuing his role here.”
“Can’t say I blame him.” Jesse stole a glance at Brian Farrell, who still lingered by the carriages. “He may already have been found out.”
“Mr. Farrell has been with Mrs. King a long time, and she trusts him. I suppose we can, too.”
Jesse nodded and motioned for Scotty to walk the coachman outside. Ethan rose shakily from his stool and handed his bundle of ice to me. “Wait,” he said, and disappeared through a door. I heard footsteps on stairs. A few minutes later he returned holding a tweed coat and a necktie. “He might want these, especially if he has to appear at the courthouse in the morning.”
Donavan raised his cuffed hands together and pointed at Ethan’s face. “Sorry I did that to you.”
“You’re not yourself tonight,” Ethan replied. He held out the coat, and Jesse reached for it. Without an instant’s hesitation, he checked the pockets. His search yielded nothing, but I noticed something that induced me to grasp the garment by its collar and peer at the clothing tag sewn into the lining near the pocket. “Take him out,” Jesse said to Scotty. “I’ll meet you at the buggy in a minute.”
As soon as Scotty and the coachman left the carriage house, Jesse turned back to me. “What is it? What did you see?”
I handed the coat back to him. “The tag. It’s from a shop in Bristol.”
“So?”
“Where did Donavan say he was from?”
Understanding dawned on Jesse’s face. “New York.”
“I believe he might have been hired in New York, but this”—I pointed at the coat—indicates he’s from Rhode Island, but perhaps didn’t want anyone to know. Which makes sense if something terrible happened at his last place of employment, such as a girl dying in a carriage accident. Do you know who else was from Bristol?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “Isaiah Baldwin. He worked for a family named the Hendersons. At least according to Nanny’s friend, Jane Meeker.”
“And I’d put my money on Mrs. O’Neal and her friend any day of the week.” He let out a breath. “Philip King might find himself freed from his luxurious imprisonment by tomorrow. Good night, Emma. I’ll let you know if he confesses.”
As Jesse left, Brian Farrell approached Ethan and me. He looked Ethan up and down. “Ethan and not Edward, huh? So, who exactly are you, then?”
Ethan sank back onto his stool, the bundle of ice once more pressed to his face. I answered the question for him. “Ethan works for me at the Messenger.” Before I could explain more, Mr. Farrell’s features lit up.
“Ethan Merriman?”
Ethan nodded, none too happily.
“I read your columns every week. And I know for a fact the missus and her daughter always look forward to them. But what are you doing posing as a butler?” His expression clouded. “I don’t think kindly of anyone putting something over on the missus.”
“He’s not,” I interrupted. “Mrs. King knows all about who Ethan is and why he’s here. It’s not for a news story. He’s here to find out if one of the servants had a reason to murder Mr. Baldwin.”
“Ohhh.” Mr. Farrell’s eyes opened wide. “And now you think Donavan . . .”
“That’s for Detective Whyte to decide,” I said firmly. “And this doesn’t yet exonerate Mrs. King’s son.”
“I hope it does soon, for the missus’s sake.” He echoed what seemed to be a popular sentiment among the servants. Whatever they might think of Philip, they all seemed united in their esteem for his mother. Mr. Farrell chuckled down at Ethan. “You sure had us all fooled. Not that you’re much good as a butler. You’re not and that’s the honest truth. But I doubt any of us could have guessed you’re here as a spy.”
“And so I am.” Ethan surprised me by grinning up at the other man. “Will you keep our secret?”
“If this helps the missus, I surely will. You can depend on it.”
“And will you stay on?” I challenged rather than asked Ethan. “At least until we know whether or not Donavan is our killer?”
His forehead puckered and for an instant I thought he’d balk, but he slid the ice away from his face, stood up, and squared his shoulders. “You can count on me, Miss Cross.”