Chapter 6
Had I expected an angry reaction to this deception? I admit I braced for recriminations. None came, only oohs and ahs accompanied by laughter and exclamations of delight. At first the creature clung to his keeper’s neck, but after a few minutes some of his shyness ebbed and he lifted his head.
“Wherever did you get him?” a male guest asked.
“We have Alva to thank for that,” Mrs. Fish replied with a flourish toward my aunt. “A phone call to Harry Lehr, who has a friend in Portsmouth who keeps something of a menagerie on his property. But shush, the authorities are not to know that.”
“Well, Mamie, you’ve gotten the best of us, haven’t you?” The woman who made this pronouncement sauntered out from among the crush and approached the man in tweeds. “May I? Is he friendly, or will he take my fingers off?”
“He’s as gentle as a baby, ma’am, since that is exactly what he is.” He stroked the chimpanzee’s head as he spoke. “His name is Maximillian. Max for short.”
The woman removed her satin glove, and tentatively brushed the fur on Max’s head with a fingertip. She let out a giggle and petted him again, this time with her whole hand. “Oh, he’s adorable. Mamie, we should be furious with you, but I for one can’t seem to manage it.”
The others apparently agreed, though I did hear several sighs of disappointment from the mamas who had hoped to connect their daughters with a prince tonight. Only one person appeared unamused by Mrs. Fish’s antics. Isabel Clemson looked more relieved than anything else, and I wondered why both she and Katherine Pendleton seemed to have reason to disdain Otto of Austria. Miss Pendleton raised an eyebrow above a faint smile—or smirk, I should say. Mrs. Clemson merely aimed her gaze at the floor, breathed deeply, and turned away.
“Prince Otto really was expected tonight,” Mrs. Fish declared. “And to tell you the truth, I haven’t the faintest notion what happened to him.”
That sparked another warning across my nape, and I pondered running back up to the secretary’s room to use her telephone to let Jesse know he might have a missing aristocrat on his hands. Yet, people shirked invitations all the time. Rude, yes, but rarely sinister.
I turned my attention to the many guests, mostly women, who lined up for their chance to greet the little fellow. Before the night ended, I’d held him in my arms and marveled at how like a human infant he behaved. When more than one young lady declared her intentions of adopting a chimpanzee of her own, the trainer assured us that as Max grew his strength would increase until he became a danger to humans. By then, he would have to be caged and remain so for the rest of his life, for he will have lost his instincts for life in the wild. At those words, a deep sense of sadness descended on me.
Well after midnight, I found it necessary to stifle yawns and avoid glancing at the clocks dispersed throughout the house. I’d continued my job of meticulously cataloging details of fashion and fashionable news, but my interest in the fête had long since waned. Despite whatever leading questions I might ask, no one admitted to a lost acquaintance, and references to Bailey’s Beach and Spouting Rock failed to elicit any notable reactions. I had hit a dead end on the subject here at Crossways, and I longed to be home.
Guests began to trickle out the front door. The Clemsons, the Pendleton siblings, and many others claimed their outerwear and called for their carriages. Yet plenty of others continued to mill through the rooms. Suddenly, from the library, came a raw shriek and a cry of alarm so shrill the hair at my nape lifted. I hurried in from the front hall to discover little Max scuttling through the room, his leash trailing out behind him, leaping from one piece of furniture to another. In one of his hands, something small and colorful bobbed and flapped like a lifeless animal, until further scrutiny revealed the item to be a feathered headdress still connected to a partial hairpiece of spiraling tendrils. Near the hearth, an elderly woman, Mrs. Foster, had slapped both hands to her head in an attempt to shield her thinning hair from view. She cried out her mortification yet again, and shouted for someone to do something.
It was Max doing the shrieking as he scampered through the crowd. People reached for him but he eluded their every grasp. His trainer, whose name I had learned was Mr. Simmons, followed in pursuit, but could not penetrate the crush as easily as his young charge.
“Don’t chase him,” the tweed-clad man yelled, his hands up in a futile bid for order. “You’ll only drive him farther and faster away.”
Max disappeared into the loggia, and a moment later a guest called to Mr. Simmons. “He’s gone outside.”
Mr. Simmons hurried through the loggia and outside, and I followed close behind him. With no one now in his way, Mr. Simmons was able to almost match the little chimp’s pace. I only hoped that if Max made it to the scarecrow display, he didn’t decide to scale the pumpkins and bales of hay and disappear into the darkness. But as he reached the end of the garden, it was as if he’d come up against a solid wall. He halted so abruptly he somersaulted backward into the air. His motion never ceasing, he shrieked again—louder and more stridently than before—twirled about, and flew up into his master’s arms.
As I reached them, I understood why.
Death has a smell one never forgets, nor ever grows accustomed to. I’d become familiar with it over the past several years, but still I recoiled now as the breeze wrapped me in a grisly essence I will only describe as nothing fresh, nothing alive, nothing hopeful or reassuring. There is only finality and a sense of one’s own fragile impermanence.
* * *
Somehow, I retained the presence of mind to double back around to the house and assure everyone Max had been captured and everything was fine. Mr. Simmons remained outside, and I told the guests this was to soothe Max before returning him to the house, which was the truth. They dispersed, laughing. Someone retrieved the headdress and hairpiece from where it had fallen and discreetly returned it to its mortified, but unhurt, owner. Soon after, the remaining carriages were brought round and the last of the guests left. Mr. Simmons, looking pale and shaky, brought Max back into the house. The little fellow clung tightly round his trainer’s neck, resting his furry cheek on Mr. Simmons’s shoulder. After bidding him to find a seat in the drawing room, I took Mr. and Mrs. Fish aside, out of their servants’ hearing, and explained to them where Prince Otto lay.
Who else could be lying in the garden but the missing prince? In the electric glow of the hanging lanterns, I’d made out fine evening clothes and the smooth features of a young man. Mr. and Mrs. Fish insisted on hurrying outside. Once there, it took them only an instant to confirm my guess.
A telephone call brought the police, but in the middle of the night there was little they could do but to remove the body and cordon off the area. The electric lighting might have brought a semblance of daylight to the gardens, but it proved inadequate for the identifying of clues. Jesse questioned the Fishes, Mr. Simmons, and me, but learned little from any of us. He stationed two officers to stand guard until morning, and sent Mr. Simmons—along with an exhausted and fussy Max—home. He sent me home as well.
Needless to say I slept little that night and rose early in the morning. While breakfasting with Nanny and my maid-of-all-work, Katie—a very light breakfast as I had no appetite—I told them of Otto’s fate, how one of Mrs. Fish’s regal scarecrows had been replaced by the prince’s lifeless body. I remembered the young man who had come in from the gardens joking about the scarecrow having fallen over like a drunkard, and Mrs. Fish demanding to know who had given the effigy champagne punch. If only I or anyone had thought to go out and restore the scarecrow to its proper position, could we have helped the prince? Was he still alive then? We would never know.
After readying myself to leave home, I visited with my aging roan carriage horse, Barney, and then hitched my newly acquired and much younger horse, Maestro, to my buggy. Maestro, a sleek dark bay, had been a gift from Derrick Andrews earlier in the summer, and though accepting expensive gifts made me wary of a possible hidden price, he had made the gesture with such good nature that to decline it would have damaged our friendship. Besides, poor Barney, who had served both me and my great aunt Sadie gallantly for more than a decade, deserved to retire to a leisurely life of munching greens in the rear garden.
Overnight, heavy clouds had converged on the island, kicking the seas to a froth and bringing a cloying closeness to the air. I hoped the police would be able to finish collecting their evidence before the skies opened. As I came around a corner of Ocean Avenue and topped a rise, the roofline of Crossways came into view. It seemed the brooding clouds hovered only inches above the house. I reached the gates. Numerous vehicles blocked the drive, and figures in blue bustled across the lawn.
I left Maestro and my carriage at the bottom of the drive, off to one side, and proceeded on foot. No one confronted me. No one even noticed me. The bunting, lanterns, and royal scarecrows on either side of the drive had been removed, but a few on the side lawns still stood at attention and cast their mocking glares at the policemen. I spotted Jesse near the loggia at the east end of the house, but for now I didn’t intrude. The front door stood open and I ventured inside.
“I see you’re back. Well, come along.” Mamie Fish, clad in a loose morning gown, her wavy dark hair loose and brushing her back, accosted me as soon as I stepped into the entrance hall. Here, too, last night’s decorations had vanished; the servants must have worked long into the morning hours. I supposed after the discovery of Prince Otto’s body, the festive ornaments had taken on a macabre quality and the Fishes had wanted them gone. “You might as well be here, I suppose. It’s not as though we can keep a secret as whopping as this one.”
“No, ma’am. While none of your guests were aware of what happened when they left here last night, it won’t be long before newspapers all over town report the story.” I allowed her to convey me into the dining room, where she sat me down and instructed one of the footmen to bring another coffee cup. “May I ask if the police have discovered anything of significance yet?”
Her lips pinched into a tight ball as she frowned. “Not that they’ve told me so far. Never mind that the prince expired in my garden. I suppose my husband and I will be the last to know anything.” She busied herself with angrily spreading jam across a slice of nutty quick bread.
“I’m sure they wish to have all the facts before they make a report to you.”
“If only Otto had deigned to show up here on time, he might still be alive.” She wielded her butter knife in a vague gesture that sent a glop of bright red jam dripping onto the table linen. “Damned fool.”
Mrs. Fish’s harsh language and lack of sympathy shocked me, though I schooled my expression to hide the fact. “Do they at least know the cause of death?”
“Knife? Strangulation? Bullet? I don’t know.” She spoke with her mouth full. “Imagine dying among the scarecrows. As a scarecrow. If Otto were alive he’d be livid.”
“What?” She didn’t need to repeat herself. I’d heard her well enough, but I simply couldn’t fathom anyone taking murder so lightly. The footman reentered and set a cup and saucer in front of me, and then poured from the pot sitting on the table. I ignored it.
Mrs. Fish eyed me as if seeing me for the first time. “You’re experienced in these things.” I nodded, and expected her to ask me to investigate as I had done in the past. “Then you can help me save face.”
I blinked. “Save face?”
“Are you hard of hearing? Yes. Save face.”
“Good heavens, Mrs. Fish. The prince was out there during the festival. Those young people searching for hidden treasures, they must have walked right by him and . . .” I trailed off somewhat breathless, as though a great weight had knocked the wind out of me. “Shouldn’t you be more worried about the welfare of your young guests? How this will affect them once they find out?”
The thought of a body lying out in the dark, so close to the carefree revelry, thoroughly unsettled me. I’d been in the loggia as well. I had looked directly out at the prince without knowing it. A sickening sense of guilt settled over me.
“Of course. That’s why I need you to help me find a way, the correct words, to soften the blow.” And yet she smiled. “People will be talking about this for years and years to come.”
Her lack of empathy almost made me suspect her. But then I remembered Mamie Fish never wore her emotions on her sleeve. Opinions, yes, but feelings were quite another matter. She’d never publicly succumb to fear or sadness or even the slightest show of vulnerability.
“Thank goodness our boys already returned to school,” she went on after a sip of coffee, “and Marian, our daughter, left a week ago for Staten Island with her grandmother.”
“You didn’t wish your daughter to meet the prince,” I couldn’t help observing.
“She’s only eighteen. That’s too young to be married, in my opinion. Besides, I wouldn’t want her going off permanently to some shabby little country across the ocean. She’ll marry an American and stay here where she belongs.”
I remembered the conversation I’d overheard during the festival. “Do the Clemsons feel the same about their daughter? She didn’t attend last night either.”
“Isabel said Thea wasn’t feeling well. Does it matter?”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Fish—Oh, Emma. Good morning.”
I’d been sitting with my back to the doorway, and turned quickly at the sound of Jesse Whyte’s voice. He made no comment about my presence there, for he’d learned to expect as much. He merely came into the room, his hat in his hands.
“Mrs. Fish, I’ve spoken with your husband. He’s still discussing matters with the men outside, but he said you’d want to know our preliminary findings. According to the coroner, the prince was stabbed.” His gaze briefly shifted to me, then returned to Mrs. Fish. “Once, in the heart.”
A frisson of alarm went through me, even as Mrs. Fish blurted, “Good heavens, there must be blood everywhere.”
Jesse winced at her brusqueness. “Not as much as you’d think, ma’am. He appeared to have died immediately. Though, your reflecting pool is tinged pink, suggesting the killer used it to wash the evidence off his hands.”
“Well, I certainly won’t thank him for that.” Mrs. Fish took an audible sip of her coffee.
“You must realize what this could mean, ma’am.” Again, Jesse regarded me briefly. “One of your guests last night may have committed this act.”
“Nonsense. Do you think I’d invite a murderer into my home? Land sakes, young man.”
“Be that as it may, ma’am. It’s likely one of your guests is guilty.”
Mrs. Fish absorbed the information without blinking. “Well, exactly when was he killed? It’s hardly likely someone did it during the festival. They’d have been seen, wouldn’t they? So how long could he have been lying out there?”
“We can’t yet say, ma’am. Once we’ve examined all the evidence we should be able to determine more.”
“I certainly hope so. Someone stabbing one of my guests—of all the unmitigated gall.” After finishing the last of the coffee in her cup, she lifted the silver coffeepot that sat within arm’s reach.
Her composure astounded me. I wished to go outside and have a look at the crime scene. To that end, I came to my feet to face Jesse. “Any bruising on the body? Are there signs of a struggle?”
“None that we can see.” His expression confirmed that he realized I was comparing this murder to that of the Spouting Rock victim. “Death appears to have come quickly, taking the prince by surprise.”
“And the stab wound?” I asked him quietly.
He nodded. “Appears like the other. Clean and direct. But we’ll learn more once the body’s been examined by the coroner.”
“A pity,” Mrs. Fish commented. When Jesse and I regarded her with incredulous expressions, she clarified her meaning. “Bruises might help identify the culprit, no?”
Jesse relaxed. “That’s true. But it appears whoever did this gave little or no warning. He simply struck.”
“Or she struck,” I murmured, well aware that violence was not restricted to the members of either sex.
“True enough,” Mrs. Fish agreed with a shrug. “What happens now? How long before I have my house back?”
“It won’t be long, ma’am.” Despite Jesse’s assurance, his voice rang with frustration.
“I’m going outside to see what’s happening.” Mrs. Fish rose and breezed past us, leaving us alone in the dining room.
“Good grief.” He scanned the table. “I don’t suppose there’s any more of that coffee left.”
I picked up my cup and held it out to him. “Here, I haven’t touched mine.”
He drained it in a few gulps. As he set it back on the table, I noticed how his hands trembled slightly, a lingering symptom of his near electrocution earlier in the month. I pretended I hadn’t noticed.
“I suppose I should go back out, too,” he said. “It’s early yet, but if you ask me, it’s highly likely the same person killed both the prince and our Spouting Rock victim.”
“My thought exactly. The knife wound is the same?”
“It appears very similar. We’ll know more after a thorough examination of the body and a direct comparison of the two wounds.”
“If the deaths are connected, it probably means the prince and the other victim knew each other.”
“Most likely, yes, although we can’t make any assumptions.”
I was about to say more when Mrs. Fish came striding back to the room. She stopped in the doorway and held out a hand. “Well, Miss Cross? Aren’t you coming? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Jesse and I followed her across the house, out through the eastern loggia, and into the crime scene.