Chapter 12
Aunt Alva and her husband stood by the windows and pored over the photograph of my mother and Stuart Gale. Occasionally they passed the photo back and forth and made thoughtful little murmurs. Finally Aunt Alva turned back around.
“This is your brother, isn’t it?” she asked me.
“No,” I said. “That’s not Brady.”
Aunt Alva gave a harrumph. “Well, he’s very familiar.”
“Of course he’s familiar,” Mrs. Fish agreed. “That picture is of Stuart Gale from years ago. Quite a man about town, as I recall. As charming as he was boastful. Not to mention reckless.” She shot me a glance. “Got himself killed, didn’t he? Or so we all thought.”
“Ah, yes.” Mr. Belmont let the hand holding the photograph fall to his side. He squinted as if looking into the past. “I remember him. He styled himself Stuart Gale the Third, but no one ever knew if there had been a Stuart Junior.” He chuckled. “He was rather like Miss Cross here.”
I reacted to the comparison with a start. I didn’t believe I had much in common with a boastful, reckless man. Mr. Belmont apparently noticed my chagrin.
“What I mean is, he seemed equally at home among society and Newport residents. Like you, Miss Cross, he belonged to both worlds, so to speak. I raced with him, a time or two.”
I nodded. “Yacht races?”
Mr. Belmont nodded. “Horses, too, but yes, yachting. Sometimes on the same vessel, sometimes on opposing ones. He didn’t own a yacht of his own.”
“No, he wouldn’t have been able to afford one,” I said. “Do you remember the race that took his life?”
Mr. Belmont exchanged a frown with his wife and shook his head. “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you a thing about it. There have been so many over the years.”
“Yes,” I said, “but three men went into the water during that race. Surely it must stand out in your mind.”
“It’s not an unusual occurrence,” Mr. Belmont said apologetically. “Why, just two years ago, there was that race Mrs. Astor organized beyond Beechwood. A man went overboard that day, too.”
I remembered all too well. Mrs. Astor had arranged the race for the enjoyment of her guests at her season-opening lawn party, and I was there to cover the event for the Observer. Foul play had been suspected, and later, the possibility that the death had been faked. The memories of that time had the power to send chills through me, and as I attempted to subdue them, I felt half tempted to let this matter go, as well.
But I could not, and so I persisted. “Stuart Gale might have raced with foreigners that day. With Europeans.”
Aunt Alva shrugged. “There are almost always Europeans about, Emma. Unfortunately, races were more informal back then. We didn’t have a New York Yacht Club station in Newport where records could be kept. Have you tried writing to your mother? If anyone will remember, it’s she.”
“I sent a wire earlier today, actually, but I don’t know when I might hear back.” Or if, I silently acknowledged.
“But why all these questions?” Aunt Alva returned to her seat at the table. “Why are you so interested in what happened to someone all those years ago? I understand he was your half brother’s father, but still.”
“Because the man who was found dead at Spouting Rock looked so remarkably like Stuart Gale, only older, that I’m left to wonder if he really did die all those years ago.”
“That’s a rather fanciful notion, isn’t it?” Aunt Alva sounded as though I’d taken leave of my senses. “People don’t just disappear for thirty years and suddenly pop up again.”
“Not usually, no,” I conceded. “But it could have happened, especially if that person disappeared in order to escape a particularly vexing situation.”
“Such as what?” The question came from Charles Eldridge, who thus far had remained fairly quiet, yet who, I believed, had been listening intently. Perhaps he hadn’t wished to interfere in what was, essentially, a family matter.
“Such as debts, probably,” I replied. Brady’s father hadn’t been the most responsible individual when it came to finances, and he had left my mother burdened by debt. With my aunt Sadie’s help, and, later, my father’s, Mother had managed to pay them.
“That being the case,” Mr. Belmont said as he, too, resumed his seat at the table, “your real questions are whether this man”—he tapped the photograph—“had been seen recently, and whether he came to Newport with the prince.”
“Those are my questions exactly,” I said eagerly.
“I’m afraid I don’t recognize him from recent times, and while I had been acquainted with Otto, I didn’t know him well enough to be familiar with members of his retinue.” Mr. Belmont pushed the photograph across the table toward Mr. Eldridge. “Charles, any thoughts?”
The other man bent his head over the image. “I’m afraid not.”
Once again, the wind abandoned my sails.
Mrs. Fish changed the subject. “Mr. Eldridge, tell us, have you seen Katherine Pendleton since the Harvest Festival?”
He looked up from his plate, looking startled. “Miss Pendleton?”
Mrs. Fish grinned. “Don’t play coy with us, Charlie. We all saw you dancing with the young lady. She’s quite a beauty, that one, and she’ll bring some lucky fellow a tidy dowry. You could do a lot worse.” She turned to me, still grinning. “You did make note of their dancing, didn’t you?”
The tips of Mr. Eldridge’s ears glowed, yet he didn’t appear offended, merely embarrassed at becoming the center of attention. “I took notes about many of the couples who graced the dance floor,” I said demurely.
Mr. Eldridge cleared his throat. A small smile curled his lips. “Miss Pendleton is a lovely young woman and I enjoyed dancing with her very much. In fact . . .” He blinked, seeming to fight a grin that threatened to rival Mrs. Fish’s. He glanced down at his hand, the fingers long and white and unblemished, the hands of a man of leisure. “I look forward to dancing with her again in the near future.”
“She was once engaged to the prince, wasn’t she?” Mrs. Fish made this announcement so casually she might have been discussing the weather, yet the rest of us verily squirmed at her bluntness.
“Mamie,” murmured Aunt Alva in admonishment. “Be nice.”
“What? It’s true.” She appealed to me. “You knew it, didn’t you?”
So much for discretion. “I did come by that information recently,” I admitted. I had no intention of divulging what Miss Pendleton had told her brother about wishing to appear happy and carefree when the prince arrived at Crossways, and that she used Mr. Eldridge to that purpose.
“If I were you, Charles,” Mrs. Fish went on, undeterred, “I’d set my cap firmly for Katherine Pendleton and not waste any time. I’m surprised she’s still available. The prince was a fool to let a prize like that slip through his fingers. Although. . .” Her eyes twinkled, and I realized she might be about to speak of Thea Clemson.
I acted quickly, and came to my feet. “We’ve really kept you long enough. Thank you for your help, Aunt Alva, Mr. Belmont.”
“Such as it was,” the gentleman said. Everyone else stood, and Mrs. Fish and I took our leave.
* * *
After bringing Mrs. Fish to Crossways, I spent the next hour at The Breakers, visiting with Uncle Cornelius. The butler, Mr. Mason, directed me to the upper loggia, where I found Uncle Cornelius sitting up in a lounge chair with a light blanket tossed over his legs. Perhaps Aunt Alice had been right about the sea air. His color was good, and he seemed not only alert, but also to possess a bit of his old spark. His secretary sat beside him, and the two men appeared to be going over reports from the New York Central. Despite Cornelius Vanderbilt’s incapacity, he insisted on being kept up to the moment on all matters pertaining to the business.
The secretary stood and excused himself at my approach, and went inside carrying a bundle of folders. Uncle Cornelius smiled when he saw me, and lifted a shaky hand to beckon me over. I took the seat his secretary had vacated.
Uncle Cornelius reached for my hand and held it against his chest. “Emma. Good.”
Those words translated, I knew, to “Emma, so good of you to come,” or “Emma, it’s good to see you today,” or any number of like sentiments. I swallowed the small lump that grew in my throat.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt business matters,” I said. “I didn’t mean to chase off Mr. Wiles.”
He shook his head. “No. Glad.” One eyebrow quirked in a familiar, quizzical way. He wished to hear my news of the past days.
Judging murder to be too disquieting a topic—especially if Aunt Alice should happen upon us—I chatted instead about my work at the Messenger and went so far as to mention the mishaps. His forehead crinkled with concern, but it was the kind of concern that engaged his mind, rather than unsettling him. Uncle Cornelius had once told me that, had I been a man, he would have employed me at the New York Central. Whereas Aunt Alice had reacted to my taking over the running of the Messenger with mild horror, Uncle Cornelius had nodded sagely and met my gaze with a steady one of approval. Now his fingers tightened briefly around my own in a show of support.
After leaving him, I returned home and called in to the Messenger to let Jimmy Hawkins know I’d be working the rest of the day from my desk at Gull Manor. He assured me all was well, and I hung up grateful for the office manager who had followed Derrick from Providence to Newport, and then remained when I took over running the paper. I’d feared he might wish to return to Providence and his former position at the Sun, owned by the Andrews family. Surely he earned more money there. His remaining in Newport showed the strength of his loyalty to Derrick in wishing to help ensure the success of the Messenger, especially when its failure would please Derrick’s parents no end. They wanted no reason for their son to return to Newport—or to me.
In the morning, I finished up the work I had begun the night before. There had been several articles to edit, inquiries to write up for potential advertisers, and some letters to be answered from the Messenger’s small pool of investors.
Nanny, Katie, and I enjoyed an early lunch together, and then I readied myself for the ride to town. A surprise greeted me on my front drive, not far from where Maestro and my buggy sat waiting for me.
“Where to next?” Mrs. Fish waved gaily to me from the seat of a small, single-horse tilbury carriage. To my astonishment, she had apparently driven herself to Gull Manor. There wasn’t a footman in sight. “Who else is on that list of yours?”
My mouth opened but no words came out, just a few sputtered sounds.
“Is something wrong? Have you lost your tongue?” Though she frowned at me from beneath her hat brim, I nonetheless recognized her amusement.
I recovered my voice. “I’m surprised to see you, Mrs. Fish. I’m afraid I need to go to work this afternoon. I do have responsibilities.”
“You mean you’re giving up?” She had mentioned giving up yesterday, in the same disappointed tone. “Going to let a killer go free?”
“Of course not,” I replied, affronted by the very notion. “But as I said, I have other responsibilities that must be seen to first.”
“Oh, bah.” She flicked a gloved hand. “I’ll hire someone to take over for you.”
The very idea sent the flat of my hand out, as if I could halt such a plan as a police officer might halt traffic on a busy road. “That won’t be necessary, thank you. Besides, the police are investigating Prince Otto’s death. As I’ve said, I’m far more interested in identifying the Spouting Rock victim.”
“Yes, yes, Stuart Gale.” She acted as though she were dealing with a very young child. “But if the two are connected, as you seem to believe, investigating the one will lead to answers about the other.”
“Mrs. Fish . . .” I trailed off, doubting very much that I could win this argument or be rid of the determined woman’s “assistance.” She had acquired a taste for the hunt and would not be deterred. “All right, then. Whom do you suggest we question next?” I asked her with feigned patience.
“The Pendletons. Either one of them had reason to resent Otto.”
I nodded, unable to refute the fact. “Not to mention that, as a banking family, they might have been in the prince’s debt. Am I to drive, or you?”
“I rather like being in control of my own buggy.” Her eyes twinkled, and I wondered if she had a penchant for speed, and whether I would find myself holding on for dear life. But again, seeing her determination, I doubted I could change her mind.
“I’ll just need to go in and ask my maid-of-all-work to unhitch my horse and bring him back to the barn. Will you come in?”
“No, I’ll wait here. You go on, but don’t be long.”
Her answer came as a relief. I didn’t relish having members of the Four Hundred inside my comfortable but admittedly shabby home. It suited me fine, but then, I tended not to notice the bare spots, the worn fabrics, or the cracks in the paint. Not only that, but my dining room still lay in shambles after a fire not long ago. No one had been hurt and the structural damage had been minimal, but I was in the process of having woodwork and furnishings replaced. And the sharp scent of smoke had yet to fully dissipate.
Nanny and Katie expressed their relief as well—especially Katie, who had once worked at The Breakers but had been dismissed without a reference for being in the family way. Not that that had been her fault. But surely Katie had no reason to feel comfortable among members of the Four Hundred. Nanny, on the other hand, considered most of them decadent and pompous, utterly at odds with her New England prudence.
Mrs. Fish and I set out and soon arrived at the house the Pendleton siblings were leasing on Ruggles Avenue, on the ocean side of Bellevue Avenue. I hadn’t known where they were staying, so once again I had reason to be glad of Mrs. Fish’s accompaniment.
Katherine and August Pendleton’s father had died a year and a half earlier, and their mother, who hadn’t been well ever since, rarely left their Cincinnati home. That left August to escort Katherine in society, which made his behavior at the Harvest Festival all the more puzzling. Why bring his sister to Newport for the summer only to scowl at every man who showed even a passing interest in her?
Perhaps Mrs. Fish and I would find out today. If, that was, we would be received. Once again, we had come calling without prior notice.
“This way, if you please,” the middle-aged housekeeper said upon admitting us to the house. She instructed us to wait in a sunny alcove off the front hall, but Mrs. Fish wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, she followed the housekeeper, an individual obviously not used to being defied in such a way, into a library off the drawing room. I trotted along behind them.
We came upon Katherine Pendleton, dressed in a summery afternoon gown, sitting at a desk that dominated the room. A pen in hand, she appeared to be poring over an assortment of papers and ledgers. “Has that brother of mine decided to show his face?” she asked without looking up. “If so, it’s about time.”
“I’m afraid not, Miss Pendleton,” the housekeeper replied. Her thin lips pursed in disapproval. “But you do have guests.”
Miss Pendleton glanced up and regarded us in surprise. “To what do I owe the . . .” Her gaze settled on me, and she took on a wary look. “What on earth is this?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Pendleton.” The housekeeper clutched her hands at her waist. “I asked them to wait in the hall. . . .”
Miss Pendleton waved her away. “Yes, yes. It’s all right, Mrs. Jennings. You may go.”
The woman scurried away, closing the door behind her.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Miss Pendleton said coolly. “What on earth is this? Why is she here?” She meant me, of course.
“What on earth is that?” Mrs. Fish countered, and pointed to the jumble of paperwork cluttering the desktop. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone into business for yourself?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
From where I stood, I could make out what looked like columns of numbers and charts depicting percentages or the like. Mrs. Fish’s question didn’t strike me as ridiculous at all. I craned my neck to see more and even inched forward.
Miss Pendleton noticed my movement. She scooped the disarray into one neat pile, opened a drawer, and stuffed it all inside. For good measure, she produced a key from a pocket in her dress and locked the drawer. “Now then, I suppose I’d be rude if I didn’t invite you to sit down. Let’s go into the drawing room. May I offer you refreshment?”
Mrs. Fish shook her head. “No, Katherine, that’s quite all right. We won’t keep you long.”
Miss Pendleton led the way into the next room, and without casting me even the briefest glance, bade Mrs. Fish to make herself comfortable on a sofa while Miss Pendleton chose an easy chair opposite her. I stood a moment longer wondering what to do, when Mrs. Fish came to my rescue.
“Miss Cross, do sit here.” She patted the cushion beside her. “Katherine, as you know, Miss Cross is a journalist.”
“Yes, I am well aware of that.” She spoke with derision, no mistake. The night of the Harvest Festival, she had practically dragged her brother away from me as if she feared I might extract some secret information from him. What had she feared he might reveal? “I cannot imagine why you’ve brought her here.”
Mrs. Fish pulled the pin from her hat and removed the concoction of silk, ribbon, and feathers from her carefully arranged hair. “I have good reason. You see, I hired her to do a bit of whitewashing concerning my Harvest Festival. A death on my property is not the thing I wish to be remembered for. Miss Cross will see to it that we leave a much better impression in people’s minds.”
Mrs. Fish’s falsehood took me by surprise, but I schooled my features not to show it. I hadn’t expected her to lie so neatly, and believably, too, considering her tendency to view the world with a narrow focus that always held her own needs and desires at its center. Anyone who knew her well would never question that statement.
“And how can I be of help with that?” Miss Pendleton folded her hands in her lap primly and tilted her chin.
“Did you enjoy our little fête? I noticed you dancing with quite an assortment of gentlemen.” Mrs. Fish leaned forward eagerly. At the same time, she nudged me and motioned to my handbag. Taking the hint, I reached inside and drew out my notepad and pencil.
“I had a delightful time,” Miss Pendleton said, though without much enthusiasm. She shrugged. “The decorations were quite unique. I’ve never attended a harvest festival that didn’t involve real straw, hay, and the like. I much appreciated your silks and, of course, those hidden jewels for the scavenger hunt.”
“What did you find?” Mrs. Fish asked, her eyebrows raised in interest. Meanwhile, I took notes on every word Miss Pendleton uttered; at least, I pretended to. My mind had drifted, in actuality, to those papers she had whisked out of our sight. Katherine sought to hide something from us, but why lock the desk drawer? Did she fear Mrs. Fish or I might be so bold as to sneak back into the room and discover her secret?
I confess I longed to do exactly that. The two women had gone on talking, and I realized I’d merely made squiggles on my notepad. I returned my attention to them.
Mrs. Fish made a show of searching the room with her gaze. “Is your brother home? I’d love to have his opinion of the evening.”
“No.” Miss Pendleton pouted and then let out a long-suffering sigh. “He is not. I tell you, Mrs. Fish, I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. Maybe it’s what happened at Crossways. He left the house yesterday and hasn’t returned, and he’s left me terribly at loose ends.”
“Oh, you know how men are, especially the young ones.” Mrs. Fish laughed. “But I say, it’s awfully good of him to act as your escort for the summer. I suppose he wants to marry you off as soon as possible.”
I braced for Miss Pendleton to take offense at those words, but instead she gave a quick eye roll and skewed her lips. “One would think so.”
Once again I pictured August Pendleton’s scowls regarding his sister’s dance partners. What brother didn’t wish to see his gently born sister comfortably settled?
Mrs. Fish perched at the edge of the sofa and leaned closer still to Miss Pendleton. “Is your brother intent on keeping you all to himself?”
“Auggie is . . . overprotective.” The derision in her voice led me to conclude that all was not peace and harmony between brother and sister.
“Ah, I see.” Mrs. Fish paused and assumed a tragic air. “You almost married Otto, didn’t you? I suppose he hurt you very much, did he?”
Miss Pendleton’s complexion turned a harsh shade of pink. “That was a long time ago.”
“Was it? It doesn’t seem all that long ago. Oh, but poor Otto. Poor, poor Otto.” It was Mrs. Fish’s turn to let out a sigh. “You must be broken up about his death. Or . . . are you? After all, you probably consider him quite the cad. What did he do that ended the engagement?”
Miss Pendleton’s chin came up. “I truly fail to see how any of this ancient history can help Miss Cross write an article extolling your virtues as a hostess, Mrs. Fish. Otto and I broke off our engagement by mutual agreement. We decided we simply didn’t suit.” Miss Pendleton tensed as if about to gain her feet. “Really, if that’s all, I have things to do.”
Her explanation contradicted what Jesse had learned about the matter, and what I myself had witnessed in Miss Pendleton’s behavior at the Harvest Festival, but I couldn’t blame her for wishing to save face now.
Did her brother’s scowls signify a wish never to see her hurt in like manner again?
Perhaps, but I wasn’t convinced. Katherine Pendleton seemed strong and capable of taking care of herself. Surely her brother realized that. No, I was nearly certain there must be some other reason for August Pendleton’s disapproval of his sister’s dance partners, and now it struck me that perhaps the reason had to do with whatever Miss Pendleton had locked away in her desk.
She obviously didn’t care for journalists, or for some reason didn’t care for me in particular. But then, a journalist’s job was to bring hidden truths to light, and she seemed disinclined to allow that. Since she was unlikely to converse with me, I had to somehow induce Mrs. Fish to ask a pertinent question.
My opportunity came when the two women began discussing other guests at the Harvest Festival. I quickly drew a thick, dark arrow pointing toward the library, and beneath it a scribbled representation of a desk. Leaning toward Mrs. Fish, I angled my notepad so that she could see it, but Miss Pendleton could not. “Is this the name you just mentioned, Mrs. Fish?”
She stared at the page with a perplexed frown, which led me to believe my ruse had failed. Then her expression cleared and she nodded. “That’s right,” she said in an offhand manner, and turned back to Miss Pendleton. “So, what were you doing when we arrived? You simply don’t strike me as the studious type and I’m intensely curious.”
I suppressed a grin of admiration for Mrs. Fish’s skill at putting people on the spot without her motives being obvious.
Miss Pendleton shifted in her chair, compressed her lips, and for an instant looked worried. “Nothing important, really. Just. . . uh . . . planning out my fall activities. Auggie and I will be on Long Island for a month, and then we’re due to visit friends in Virginia for a bit, and then it’s back to Cincinnati for Christmas.”
“Ah, keeping busy. That’s good. Young people should keep busy, I always say. Otherwise, they get into trouble. Well, we’ve taken up enough of your time, my dear. Do give Auggie my best. Miss Cross, come along now.” Mrs. Fish got to her feet, set her hat decisively back on her head, and drove her hatpin home with practiced skill. She paused, and addressed me as if a sudden thought had come to her. “Have you got that photograph on you still?”
Of course I did. I took it from my purse and handed it to her. She held it out to Miss Pendleton. “Is this man familiar to you? He’s a . . .” Her hesitation was barely perceptible before she continued. “Friend of the prince, and we’re trying to track him down to tell him what happened to poor Otto. Except, this is an old photograph of him. He’s quite a bit older now.”
Miss Pendleton stood and took the photo. She studied it closely, and that livid color from a few minutes ago spread once more through her face. “I . . . no. I’m sorry. I don’t know him.”
“Are you sure? You seemed to recognize him just now.” Mrs. Fish went to stand beside Miss Pendleton so that she, too, could peruse the picture. “You knew the prince a number of years. Certainly you must remember some of the people who surrounded him.”
“Y-yes, now that you mention it, he does seem somewhat familiar. But the prince and I ended our acquaintance nearly two years ago. I wouldn’t know where to find this man.”
“Can you at least tell us his name?”
“Mr. Stern, I believe. Herr Stern, in German. Or something to that effect. I wouldn’t have a clue as to his given name.”
“Stern. Hmm.” Mrs. Fish took the photograph from her and handed it back to me. Then she and I left. Outside, as we settled into Mrs. Fish’s carriage, she turned to me. “Lies. All of it. I don’t think she spoke a single word of truth.”