Chapter 4
Later that evening, I drove my carriage the short distance from my home, Gull Manor, to Crossways. Both properties lay along Ocean Avenue, mine on the shoreline, and Crossways on the landward side of the road, high on a rocky rise, where it looked out over its surroundings like a king on his throne. During the day I might have gone on foot, but Ocean Avenue twisted and heaved with the landscape, and made for dangerous walking at night. Upon arriving at the gates at the bottom of the main drive, I surveyed the Neo-Colonial mansion perched on its hill before me.
The secret of Mamie Fish’s success, I decided, was in never doing anything right.
Or, perhaps I should say, never doing anything in the manner prescribed by her peers. The newly built Crossways had opened at the beginning of the summer after nearly two years of construction. There were many among the Four Hundred who sniggered behind their hands and called the Fishes’ new home as blunt and stark as Mamie herself, and accused it of upsetting the balance of Ocean Avenue’s natural environment. While most of them had hired architectural firms like Peabody and Stearns; McKim, Mead and White; and Richard Morris Hunt to design Italianate palazzos, French chateaux, or Beaux Arts mansions, Mamie Fish had stood staunchly in favor of an American showpiece. To that end she had hired Newport architect Dudley Newton to design the house, and another Newport firm, the Vernon Company, to furnish it.
The result was a house with a large, center portico supported by four massive columns and topped by a peaked and corniced roofline. The main part of the house was flanked by two identical wings delineated by cornerstones and a loggia at either end, with balconies above. Shutters adorned the windows of the lower two stories while dormer windows revealed a third floor beneath the eaves. The house was not ornate, but neither was it modest. It spoke of forthright American values such as determination, industry, and sheer stubborn strength. Rather like Mamie Fish herself.
Tonight, electric lanterns emblazoned the wide sprawl of the lawns, with colorful bunting strung along the lantern poles. Interspersed between the poles stood those guardians of the harvest, scarecrows, but these were no ordinary straw-stuffed effigies. From what I could make out of those closest to me, each had been dressed in silks and velvets, with metals across his chest and a crown on his head. A ribald tribute to Prince Otto? Only Mamie Fish would have dared such a jest.
Whatever the Four Hundred might think of the house, it was common knowledge that virtually every cottager between here and the north end of Bellevue Avenue had coveted an invitation to tonight’s Harvest Festival; no wonder, with royalty attending. And, as Ethan Merriman had commented to me, tonight marked the last grand event of the summer. To my eyes, it looked as though most of the summer set had gotten their wish, judging by the countless carriages lining the drive and those still coming and going. In fact, I was forced to drive on or cause a collision as yet two more arrived.
It had been three weeks since I’d last covered a social event, and the memory of that one had me slowing my horse’s pace. That event, too, had had a special theme, not autumn harvest but ancient Egypt. The fantasy element had proved the perfect concealment for a crime, and now, confronted by those regal, mocking scarecrows, I hesitated.
But surely such events would not repeat themselves. I had a job to do, a job I no longer considered mine, but necessity had brought me here and I had a responsibility to the Messenger ’s readers.
Not being counted among the guests, I bypassed by the front entrance, which was flanked by two jack-o’-lanterns some twelve feet high, and instead drove around to the back of the house and to the servants’ entrance. I was greeted with the usual suspicion, but once I’d identified myself as being from the Messenger I was quickly handed over to the butler. He reviewed the etiquette I’d be required to follow, nothing I hadn’t heard countless times before, and brought me up the back stairs to his pantry off the dining room.
“Don’t make a nuisance of yourself, but don’t miss any pertinent details either,” he told me, and about-faced to carry on with his duties. “Mrs. Fish wants the entire country talking about tonight’s affair,” he added over his shoulder before dismissing me from his notice.
Every countertop and workspace of the pantry groaned beneath burdens of trays, dishes, bowls, and glasses. Around me, serving staff came and went like the tributaries of a river. A footman bumped me from behind and set me in motion. I began my usual walk-through of the rooms, careful to remain close to the walls where I wouldn’t trample on the trains of gowns or knock the elbows of guests holding small plates and glasses of champagne. I also took care to stay out of the way of the bustling footmen circulating with trays of all manner of delicacies.
All the first-floor rooms were open and being utilized. Here were no carved stone or marble embellishments such as could be found in my relatives’ homes, nor gilding or Renaissance revival murals or elaborate tilework. Missing, too, was the heavy, dark paneling of houses like Chateau sur Mer and Rough Point. Rather, crisp white casings, baseboards, and chair and crown moldings defined the fireplaces, walls, and arched window recesses. Though some of the furniture had been moved out to make room for the guests, what remained spoke of Newport’s premier furniture makers of over a century ago, Townsend and Goddard. The result was subdued, dignified, tasteful, orderly—in short, Colonial.
Each room had been festooned with autumn-colored bunting, thick garlands holding silk fruits and vegetables, and an abundance of late-season flowers: sunflowers and poppies, deep pink camellias, bright orange dahlias, golden chrysanthemums, and purple salvias. The guests had dressed to match, with the women wearing flowered gowns that borrowed details from traditional peasant garb, and the men sporting an unusual assortment of coordinating vests and neckties.
As I perused the house, I searched for cobalt blue—in gowns, cloaks, even hats—to attempt to link one of the guests to the Spouting Rock victim. I found nothing I believed would match the thread discovered tangled in his fingers. It had been a far-fetched hope; the killer surely would have disposed of the item by now.
A buffet of seasonal fall offerings covered the dining table. Next I came to the large, oblong entrance hall with its open, three-sided gallery above. The hall, the stairs, and the upper gallery were crowded with chattering guests, while new arrivals were admitted and relieved of their outerwear by two handsome footmen. Mr. and Mrs. Fish held court in the center of the hall, greeting their guests and keeping up a steady stream of comments and observations that had those around them chuckling. Mrs. Fish occupied an outlandish chair fashioned from farm implements.
“Howdy do, howdy do!” Mamie Fish called out to each new arrival. “Make yourselves at home, and believe me, there is no one who wishes you were there more than I do.”
Mrs. Astor, the queen of polite society, would have been scandalized by Mrs. Fish’s lack of elegance, but then I hadn’t seen Mrs. Astor on the guest list. Many others of Newport’s summer population were here, however, and none of them seemed taken aback by Mrs. Fish’s uncouth declarations.
I noticed numerous guests holding glossy, embossed sheets of paper, referring to them and laughing as they scampered off in various directions. The younger people, especially, seemed captivated by this activity, while the older set looked on indulgently. I guessed Mrs. Fish had arranged a scavenger hunt of some sort. I approached her hoping to inquire what items her guests would be seeking. With an imperious gesture, she motioned to a nearby footman, who thrust a list into my hands.
Gilded pumpkins, silver gourds, jeweled cornucopias, and other familiar yet lavish symbols of autumn were apparently hidden throughout the downstairs rooms and out in the gardens, waiting to be claimed.
Music from beyond the far end of the hall drew me in that direction. On my way I passed the library, where a host of men were playing cards, smoking, and arguing—politics judging by the words that flung themselves to my ears. I kept going and entered the drawing room, nearly as large as many of Newport’s ballrooms and, in fact, presently being used for that purpose. Most of the furniture had been cleared out, and what remained had been pushed to the walls. A string ensemble and harpsichord occupied one corner, currently playing a waltz.
It wasn’t long before I heard the name Otto spoken numerous times, and I searched the room for the royal guest. Here was the real story worth covering, for by this time in the social season an ordinary ball hardly warranted more than a few lines in any society column. Seeing no one who fit his description, however, I continued taking meticulous notes on my observations, being sure, as the butler had charged me, not to miss any pertinent details.
A couple on the dance floor caught my attention—or rather, the young woman did, for she seemed to be leading her partner rather than the other way around. Tall and slender, she was a striking beauty and moved with the grace of a ballerina, seeming to float inches above the floor. With her raven’s black hair, exotic violet-blue eyes, and heart-shaped face, she would certainly stand out in any ballroom; no doubt the young bucks had raced to fill her dance card.
I continued moving through the room, stopping to inquire here about a gown, there about the continued renovations on a mansion. I asked where families intended spending the fall and winter months, whether an upcoming wedding would be held in New York or London. I visited with my aunt Alva Vanderbilt, now Belmont. No other Vanderbilts were in attendance, as Mrs. Fish and Aunt Alice were on frosty terms at best.
Each time I interviewed someone new, I hinted at whether acquaintances or family members had recently gone missing. No one offered any insights. Though I wished to display the old photograph of my mother and Stuart Gale, I could hardly do so at a social event, or ask direct questions about the murder. What I did glean, however, were the fervent hopes of many a matron that Prince Otto would notice her daughter, become enchanted, and whisk her away to a castle in Austria. They practically tossed their daughters at me to ensure their names would be included in my article on tonight’s ball. Society mothers believed, often correctly, that creating a narrative in print around their daughters’ names somehow facilitated their wishes coming true. To that end, a long list of names occupied my writing tablet.
Through all my inquiries, the black-haired young woman never lacked for a dance partner, and never failed to be the center of attention with her graceful movements. During brief interludes she would drift off to the side and join a certain young man. By the perplexed expressions he exhibited while he watched her dance, one might suspect him to be a rival for her affections, but their likeness revealed him instead to be her brother—a disapproving brother at that.
The music paused, and after curtsying to her partner, the beautiful young woman once again approached the man I assumed to be her brother. Curious about them, for they were strangers to me, I moved closer. I had guessed their relationship correctly, for I overheard him say, “Do you intend to dance with every man here tonight, Sister?”
“If I have to, yes. The single ones, at least.”
“Are you that hard up to find a husband?”
“Don’t be crass, Auggie.” Despite the words, she spoke with a pleasant smile. “And do not get in my way tonight.”
“What does that mean?”
I wondered the same thing.
“When the prince arrives,” she replied with a haughty tilt of her head, “I intend for him to see me happily, gleefully engaged, not standing aside like some pitiful wallflower. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do believe Charles Eldridge is coming over to offer his arm for the next set.”
It would appear she had some history with the prince, and tonight wished to impress upon him—what? That she was happy without him? Playing hard to get? That was exactly the way to catch some men, but I couldn’t imagine this beautiful woman needing to employ such tactics to attract a man’s attention.
She didn’t move away from her brother until Mr. Eldridge reached her, a tall, elegant man with a sharply aquiline nose. She made a show of checking her dance card. Only then did she take a dainty step to join him on the dance floor. Mr. Eldridge caught her hand in his long-fingered, almost womanly one and expertly guided her through the steps. Her brother heaved a sigh and minutely shook his head.
I took that as my cue and approached him. “Good evening, I’m Miss Cross of the Newport Messenger.”
He started as if I’d poked him. “Yes?” He narrowed his eyes as if peering into the sun. “You’re Brady Gale’s sister.”
“I am, indeed. I didn’t know you were acquainted with my brother.” I held out my hand but he didn’t shake it.
“What could you possibly want with me?” He didn’t sound put out, merely curious. “I’m not wearing the latest from Worth, nor am I presently engaged or planning a coming-out trip abroad.”
I briefly laughed at his joke of comparing himself to a debutante. I had approached him because of his youth, because experience had taught me nice young men who escorted their sisters to balls were often naïve enough to let down their guard with journalists. In my most serious tone, I informed him, “I’m here to interview any and all of Mr. and Mrs. Fish’s guests. Simply by being here, you are of great interest to our readers.”
“Is that so?” He seemed rather dubious of that claim.
“Indeed. But if you don’t wish to be interviewed, I’ll move on and leave you to supervise your lovely sister. Speaking of Worth, is that whom she is wearing tonight?” I made a point of sending an admiring glance in the direction of the charming and no doubt costly gown, with its flowered bodice and tiny lace-covered sleeves.
“I believe she said Madame Paquin.” He made no effort to hide his boredom. He didn’t particularly wish to discuss his sister, but he might wish to discuss himself.
“Ah, then she spent the spring in Paris. Did you accompany her? Perhaps a word about your travels?”
At that invitation, he launched into a rather detailed description of his family’s trip abroad. I soon stopped him and inquired after his name.
“August Pendleton. My sister is Miss Katherine Pendleton.”
“Oh, of the Cincinnati banking Pendletons?”
“The very same,” he replied with a dignified sniff. “Up until recently I served as vice president and chief financial officer. I am now the owner.” He seemed not to wish to add anything to that, but instead returned to the topic of his recent experiences in Europe. I let him ramble, until I managed to circle round to his arrival in Newport and whether he had heard the news of the unfortunate occurrence at Spouting Rock.
“Rotten business, that,” he said. “I understand the police haven’t identified the body yet. Poor fellow. He’s probably got people wondering what happened to him.”
“Then you haven’t heard of any missing persons among your acquaintances.”
“Me? No.” He began to tap his foot, and I assumed I had overstayed my welcome. With my thanks, I began to move on, when he sighed and murmured under his breath, “I wish the guest of honor would show up so I could call it a night and take Kay home.”
By Kay, I assumed he referred to his sister, Katherine. Remembering what she had said about wishing to appear gleefully happy when Otto of Austria arrived, I stopped and turned back to him, my curiosity spiking. “Is your family acquainted with the prince, then?”
His lips flattened. “One might say that.”
I ignored his cynical tone. “Then you must be looking forward to the prince’s arrival tonight.”
“Not every prince is a prince, Miss Cross.”
More than a little intrigued by that revelation, I was forming my next question when his sister floated up and claimed his arm.
“Auggie, come with me, please.” As before, she spoke pleasantly enough, but a hint of dismissal flashed in her eyes as her regard skimmed over me. She would have guessed at my occupation by my simple attire, along with my tablet and pencil. Did she take exception to her brother speaking with a journalist?
Brother and sister hadn’t proceeded far when voices in the doorway seized not only my attention, but everyone’s in the room.
“Mamie Fish, admit it. Prince Otto isn’t coming tonight and never was. This was all a hoax and you’ve been laughing behind your hand at our expense.”