Chapter 19
Nanny had a surprise for me when I arrived home that afternoon. I found her in the kitchen, preparing supper. Through the window above the sink I saw Katie in the laundry yard, hanging up the wash. Patch ran back and forth between her basket and the clotheslines, as if directing her activities while narrowly missing tripping her at every turn. They seemed to have a rhythm, though, and Katie never lost her footing or appeared cross with our pup.
Setting the potatoes aside, Nanny filled the kettle and set it to boil. “Sit. I have some interesting news for you.” She wouldn’t tell me until our tea had brewed properly and a few of her maple biscuits sat on a plate between us. “Were you able to speak with Isabel Clemson today?”
“I was. She admitted to having had an affair with Otto’s father, and that Otto and Thea were half siblings.” For an instant I thought of my own half sibling, struggling to come to terms with a father who had abandoned him, whether figuratively or literally, before Brady had grown old enough to remember him.
Nanny nodded as she took this in. “How horrible if those two children had gone any further in their regard for each other. Or did they?”
It was unlike Nanny to voice such conjectures out loud. I set her mind at ease. “Thea is an innocent. I believe her that nothing untoward occurred between them. Now . . .” I took a sip of tea, savoring the rejuvenating effects of the strong, dark brew. “What do you have to tell me?”
She, too, sipped her tea before replying. “I’ve been doing some checking for you, as I usually do.” She referred to Newport’s network of servants who enjoyed trading news and anecdotes with one another. They would meet at the market, on the trolleys, in the delivery hallways of the cottages, with their heads together, their voices low, their eyes alight with shared secrets. Barely a thing happened among the Four Hundred that their servants didn’t witness, and soon those details made the rounds of the servants’ network. “Did you know that Isabel Clemson’s mother volunteered as a nurse during our Civil War?”
I stared at Nanny blankly.
“Emma, don’t you understand? The woman had medical knowledge, which she might have passed on to her daughter.”
Slowly I raised my teacup to my lips and sipped, then cradled the cup between my palms. “Do you know where, and how long, she served?”
“According to Susan Hicks, who is Tessie Oelrichs’s lady’s maid and who heard this from Mrs. Clews’s housekeeper, who had it from the very woman who used to cook for Mrs. Clemson’s parents, she—Mrs. Sturgis, that is—moved around to the various field hospitals and . . .” She leaned forward to stress her point. “She assisted in surgery.”
I frowned. “Would a nurse have enough knowledge of anatomy to be able to pass the information on to her daughter, who would then be able to put it into practice in the act of murder?”
Nanny’s silver eyebrows peaked above the rims of her half-moon spectacles. “You’ve been looking for someone able to pierce the ribs in just the right place to strike the heart. Do you know of anyone else with a medical background who also happened to have a motive to kill Prince Otto and the others?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean another such a person doesn’t exist.” I blew out a breath. “I suppose this should be brought to Jesse’s attention.”
“You suppose? I may have just solved this case for you.”
I plucked another maple biscuit from the plate. “You may have at that.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I can’t help feeling sorry for Thea. She’s already suffering a great deal, and I can only imagine what it will do to her if her mother is guilty. I had hoped it might be one of our other suspects. Not August Pendleton, though.” I shook my head. “I believe he’s another innocent, caught up in something, but not murder. Then there’s Harry Forge—now he’s a man whose morals aren’t what they should be. He’ll stoop low to get what he wants.”
“Low enough to commit murder?” Nanny placed her fingers beneath my chin, lifting it slightly. “A parent will go to great lengths for the good of their child, with little thought as to the consequences to themselves. Don’t forget that.”
“Back to Mrs. Clemson.”
“Or Mr. Clemson.”
“I feel sorry for him, as well,” I admitted. “He’s had to overcome quite a lot in his lifetime to be where he is today.” Would he risk everything to protect his daughter’s reputation?
“His criminal past,” Nanny said with a sage nod.
“You know about that?”
“Of course.” Her eyes twinkled behind her spectacles. “The servants always know.”
* * *
A telephone call at the Messenger the next day sent me over to the police station. Jesse had a request for me.
“I’d like you to talk to August Pendleton,” he said when I arrived. “We have a theory that might actually help prove his innocence.” He sat me down beside his desk and explained. “We’ve had a financial secretary from the Bank of Newport examining the documents found in Katherine’s desk. There doesn’t seem to be anything illegal going on, no reason for Katherine to have suspected her brother of any wrongdoing, nor he of her.”
“Then why all the locking of drawers, and why did August refuse to talk to us?”
Jesse explained his hypothesis, and then escorted me to the small interviewing room where I’d first spoken with August Pendleton. A few minutes later a uniformed officer brought that young gentleman in.
August looked weary and frightened, in some disarray, but otherwise none the worse for wear, which assured me he was being well treated. Jesse and the officer went to stand outside the closed door.
Mr. Pendleton gazed at me from beneath a shock of hair that draped his forehead. “What is this all about?”
“That is what I’d like to ask you,” I said as amicably as I could. I had no reason to challenge him or put him on his guard. Jesse wished me to question him because August would not respond to police inquiries, stating only that they were trying to trick him or trap him or otherwise establish his guilt—which was not the case at all. “Why won’t you speak with Detective Whyte? He’s a good man; I can vouch for that. And if the truth be told, sir, he has come round to believing in your innocence.”
“Is that why he sent you in here? He thought a female, and a pleasant-looking one at that, will loosen my tongue?”
Rather than reply, I took a new tack. “Don’t you wish to walk free, Mr. Pendleton? And prove to society that you didn’t murder your sister? Surely you loved her very much. What reason could you possibly have had to harm her?”
Turning pale, he slumped inward, his face hovering above the table as though he might be ill. “I didn’t. I could never.”
“Then what have you been hiding from the police? What was Katherine trying to hide when Mrs. Fish and I visited her? The police have found nothing incriminating in the documents.” A possibility came to me with such sudden clarity, I nearly gasped. I took a moment to compose myself. “Mr. Pendleton . . . Auggie . . .” I reached across to him to place my hand over his wrist. “It was Katherine, wasn’t it, overseeing your banking business. She kept track of the figures and the investments, didn’t she?”
Still refusing to look at me, he was shaking his head. His arm slid out from under my palm. In a voice that barely carried across the table, he said, “I’ll be ruined if people find out. I’ll lose everything, especially now that she’s gone. Our customers, our investors, will lose all faith in me and the bank will close. Or it will remain in business, but I’ll be voted out by the board members. What am I going to do?”
“Then I’m right.” That I had guessed correctly startled me, as did the conclusion that followed. “This is why you didn’t like the idea of her marrying. If Katherine had a husband, he might have stepped in and taken over at the bank.”
He nodded grimly. “I couldn’t manage it. I never could. Katherine was far more clever than I. But no one could ever know that. I’m Father’s heir, and I’m supposed to be in charge. What would people think if they knew my sister has been covering for me?”
“They’ll never need to know. You’ll hire someone to help you, Auggie.”
“Father never did. Oh, he had accountants and financial assistants aplenty, but he oversaw everything.” He glanced up at me briefly. “He insisted upon it. Just as Katherine did.” His head fell into his hands. “I’m a complete failure.”
“Mr. Pendleton, please look at me.” I reverted to his surname to help boost his confidence. When he looked up warily, I continued. “You will not be a failure. You will hire discreet people to help you and you will learn how to oversee your business.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“The alternative is hanging for a crime you didn’t commit. Now, I see no reason why anyone other than the police must know what you’ve just told me. But you must tell them, Mr. Pendleton. Don’t you see, this gives you a reason for having needed your sister alive. It makes no sense that you would have murdered her when you needed her so badly.”
His hands came away from his face and he sat up straighter. “That’s true. But you’re a reporter, aren’t you? That’s why Katherine didn’t want me talking to you at the Harvest Festival. She was afraid you’d ask too many questions and I’d end up telling you something I shouldn’t.” How like a child he sounded, how desperate and naïve.
“I am a reporter, true, but not an unprincipled one. I assure you, I have no desire to see your bank close and all your employees put out of work.” I noticed Jesse peeking in through the small window in the door. “Now, you think about what we’ve discussed, Mr. Pendleton, and when Detective Whyte speaks with you again, you’re to tell him the truth. Think of Katherine. She would want you to go free, wouldn’t she?”
I left him nodding at my question and looking a good deal less frightened than when I’d arrived. Jesse and I returned to the main section of the police station. Along the way, he pointed out to me that while I might have prevented August from being formally charged in the death of his sister, he might still be implicated in the deaths of Otto and Gabriel Sturm.
* * *
“I suppose I’ll have to have a few words with Mrs. Clemson and see if she has a verifiable alibi for when Katherine Pendleton was murdered,” Jesse said when I’d explained everything I’d learned the day before, including what Nanny had told me. “I agree with you that her mother having volunteered as a nurse doesn’t make Isabel Clemson guilty by default. Then again, this is our only lead that might explain the killer’s finesse with a knife. So far, there is no other evidence of a medical nature. Not to mention that Mrs. Clemson has a pretty strong motive for wanting the prince out of the way.”
“The strongest we’ve come across so far,” I agreed, looking up at him where he perched at the corner of his desk. “Even stronger than August Pendleton wanting revenge for the way Otto treated his sister.”
“And unless Eugene Clemson knew of his wife’s infidelity, I can’t see a good reason for him to have dispatched the prince.” He tapped the back of his foot against a leg of the desk. “As for Mrs. Clemson, one might suppose this Gabriel Sturm, and perhaps even Katherine Pendleton, knew the truth and had to be gotten rid of as well.”
“At one time, they were all part of the same circle,” I added. “Katherine, Sturm, the prince, and the Clemsons. Anyone spending enough time with Thea Clemson would likely see the resemblance between Otto and her.”
Jesse slid to his feet. “Which makes me highly uncomfortable. Who else might have realized the truth?”
My eyes widening at his intimation, I came to my feet as well. “Who might be next, you mean.”
He nodded, his features tightening.
An impending dread spread through me at the thought the killer might not be finished. “What about August Pendleton? What are you going to do about him?”
“I’d still like to hold on to him, but in light of what you’ve told me, I should probably release him—for now. I just hope we can trust him not to flee Newport.”
“He won’t. Where would he go? He’s too recognizable and would be apprehended before he made it out of Rhode Island.”
“You can be sure I’ll alert the wharves and the train depot to watch for him.”
“Jesse, I said this to Nanny, and I’m going to repeat it now. I don’t know what the motive might be, but don’t discount Harry Forge in all of this. I don’t trust him. He’s not a good man.”
“No, he isn’t.” A dangerous glint entered Jesse’s eye. Reluctantly he said, “But would Forge know how to knife someone in the heart the way our killer did? Somehow, I don’t believe so. He doesn’t strike me as the sort who’s proficient in anything besides womanizing and enjoying himself.”
“Yet he argued with Sturm, and he was part of Otto’s circle of close acquaintances.” Did I want Harry Forge to be the guilty party? Yes, part of me did. I would certainly shed no tears for him if he were. “And he shares their penchant for cocaine. A motive might well have stemmed from that.”
“It feels as though this case will never be solved.”
I placed a hand on his shoulder. “But it will be. One way or another.”
* * *
From the police station I returned to the Messenger, where I once again tried to focus on business. While I hadn’t ignored my responsibilities these past several days, I feared I hadn’t attended to details with as much attention as I should. With good reason, true, but Derrick had put his faith in me. I’d be a fool to squander his trust, while at the same time proving the skeptics correct that neither I nor any woman could fill such a role. So yes, my self-respect and my determination to vindicate myself spurred me on.
Within the pile of paperwork cluttering my desk, I came across a requisition for printing supplies, including newsprint. This surprised me, as we had accepted several deliveries not long ago. And while extra runs, such as our afternoon editions, could potentially deplete our resources, there hadn’t been enough of them lately to have done so. Jimmy had initialed the purchase order in a hurried script, as he’d apparently taken Dan Carter’s word that the pressroom would be stilled without the new supplies. I couldn’t fault Jimmy for that; Dan had been with the Messenger for years under its previous owner, and had worked in the printing trade a decade before that. We all presumed he knew what he was doing.
Jimmy had left the office on errands, so I vacated my desk to make my way back to the supply rooms and to find Dan. The presses were quiet this afternoon, as all the imperative news had made it into our regular morning edition. I walked through the pressroom, where Dan’s assistants were cleaning the plates and the lines that ran from the steam-powered engine to the machinery. Good; we didn’t need another dead press on our hands. I didn’t bother asking them about the requisition. They’d only shrug and refer me to Dan. Nodding my approval of their activities, I passed through into the main, and largest, supply room, where the rolls of newsprint were kept.
A frown formed on my brow as I surveyed the deep shelves and the gaping spaces where rolls of paper should have been. How could we have gone through so much newsprint in so short a time? We were on a monthly delivery schedule, and I remembered the last one well enough. Over my shoulder, I called into the pressroom.
“Do either of you know where Dan is?” I heard a reply that he would be found directly. In the meantime, I noticed that on the top row of wooden shelving, some rolls had been turned differently than usual. Typically, they were placed end out, but these were turned with the paper facing out, the long way. Were there more rolls behind that front row, making it seem as though we were low on paper?
I reached up, but not to attempt to remove a roll. They were much too large and heavy for me to manage. Even the men teamed up to heft the paper into the next room and slide it onto the spindle on the press. Rather, I merely meant to nudge a roll aside and peek behind it to see if there were more. I couldn’t quite reach, and set my foot on the edge of the bottom shelf to boost myself higher.
I heard a creak and then a splintering. Before I could identify the source, the entire shelving apparatus sagged to one side. Quickly I stepped down, but as I did the newsprint began rolling. Those on the top shelf, facing outward, came at me like boulders rolling down a steep incline. I didn’t even have time to cry out. I bounded backward, out of the way of the collapsing shelves, but the rolls gained momentum on their downward journey and flew out toward me. I ducked my head, turned aside, and held up my arms to ward off the blows. My right arm, shoulder, and then my hip took one, two, three great wallops in rapid succession that left me staggering in both pain and fear of broken bones.
The pain radiating through me wrung tears from my eyes and stole the breath from my lungs. How I remained standing, I’ll never know. I found myself up against the wall opposite the shelves, half leaning, half sagging, cradling my throbbing arm with my other hand, terrified to move at all lest I worsen my injuries.
Slowly I became aware of voices and activity around me. Dan Carter’s voice rang out, shouting commands to his assistants to restore order. There were other voices as well: those of the printer and his assistant, then Ethan’s and Jacob’s, and finally Jimmy’s. Someone kept repeating my name . . .
Blinking away my bewilderment and forcing myself to focus through the pain, I raised my chin and made eye contact with Dan, who stood over me with a frightened expression. I had rarely ever seen anyone look so alarmed, and as I took in the scene of fallen shelves and scattered rolls, I realized I was lucky to be standing; possibly lucky to be alive. Had I not moved far enough out of the way, who knows? A broken back? A broken neck?
Death?
Despite my fierce protestations, I soon found myself riding beside Ethan on his pony cart to Newport Hospital. A good portion of my aches had begun to subside, as had my trembling as the shock of the incident wore off. Only my arm continued to concern me, and with each jolt of the wagon over the road, my fears of a broken arm grew.
“Who would have stacked the newsprint like that, Ethan?” I mused aloud. “Everyone at the Messenger knows better.” As we left Spring Street and headed onto Broadway, I cradled my arm in my good hand and held my breath.
“Maybe it wasn’t one of us.”
I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain radiating from my shoulder to my fingertips. If it hadn’t been one of the Messenger’s employees, the alternative was equally unsettling, for it meant whoever murdered the three victims, and perhaps tried to warn me off with a dart, was now coming after me.
Yet, as unpalatable as that might be, I would not be put off until the individual had been brought to justice.
“What about the deliverymen, Miss Cross? Might they have stacked the newsprint the wrong way?”
“If so, Dan and his assistants would have seen it and made it right.”
“Perhaps they did see it but didn’t take the time to rearrange, and don’t like admitting to it.” He shifted the reins to one hand and made an adjustment to his derby.
I squinted as sunlight hit me full in the face. At the same time, I took in what Ethan had suggested. If Dan and his assistants knew the newsprint had been stacked incorrectly, but had said nothing, had they also known about the spilled ink that shut down our main press for hours, but hadn’t wished to admit to it? Were my employees taking advantage of me?
I shook my head. “The incorrect stacking wasn’t the only cause of the accident. All I did was attempt to nudge one of the rolls aside. Those shelves should have held up, but it was as if someone had loosened the brackets.”
Surely no one at the Messenger would have done that. But then, who? And how did they gain entrance to that part of the building?
Would they invade my home as well? And what about Mrs. Fish? Was she in danger? If so, the blame lay solely with me. I might have put my foot down and refused to involve her, but her connections and influence had been convenient for me, and so I had held my tongue. I regretted that now, and resolved to have an earnest discussion with Mrs. Fish at the first opportunity—such as the next time she appeared on my front drive, eager to track down a murderer.
In front of our tiny hospital, Ethan helped me down from the cart and walked me inside. I was immediately taken into an examination room on the first floor. Ethan put up a bit of a fuss when I suggested he return to work, but I assured him I would be in good hands and would check in at the office as soon as I knew the extent of my injuries. Even without a doctor’s expertise, I could attest to being of sound limb, except for my arm. That appendage continued to throb, and I treated it tenderly as I waited to be seen.
Hannah Hanson was the first to come hurrying into the room. “Emma, what happened? I was told you were brought in with a possible broken arm?”
I tried to smile in a cavalier fashion, but a twinge caused me to reveal the truth with a grimace. “It hurts a bit,” I told her, and proceeded to explain what happened.
“You poor dear.” Slowly and carefully, she helped me out of my carriage jacket with a minimum of discomfort. Hannah was not only a skilled nurse, she had had practice in the past tending my injuries. She knew my pain threshold as well as my tendency to downplay such matters.
The doctor arrived and spent a good quarter of an hour moving my arm, bending it at the elbow, and prodding with his fingertips. Despite the resultant shooting pains, he declared my arm badly sprained, with stress to the tendons in my shoulder, and a bruised collarbone. After hearing about my accident, he pronounced me lucky.
“You really must be more careful, Emma,” Hannah chastised me after the doctor had left us alone. She helped me on with my jacket, and then slipped a sling over my arm and around my neck.
I chuckled. “And how do you propose I do that?”
She showed me a rueful expression, and then joined me in chuckling. “I haven’t the faintest idea. You and I are not ones to sit quietly at home, are we? No, we’re professional women, and that means enduring a few bumps here and there. Literally and figuratively.”
Now that I’d calmed down, been assured I hadn’t suffered a break, and was experiencing less pain since my arm had been immobilized, I used the opportunity to raise another matter. “Hannah, have you seen Brady lately?”
“You mean you haven’t?”
“He doesn’t wish to speak to me.” The reality of that sent a wave of sadness through me. Brady and I had always been close, even during his years of recklessness and irresponsibility. That he had effectively shut me out of his life hurt more than my injuries. “So, how is he?”
She hesitated before admitting, “I haven’t seen much of him either, and when I have . . .” She let out a sigh. “I don’t relish telling you this, but each time I’ve seen him he’d been drinking. I’m worried about him, Emma. And . . .” She looked away.
“Yes?”
When she looked back, there were tears gathering in her eyes. “I understand the possibility that his father has been hiding all these years is eating away at him—at his soul. But I cannot be a witness to his self-destruction. I’m sorry, Emma, but I can’t.”
I gripped her hand. “You have no need to be sorry. Brady alone is responsible for his actions. Not me, not you, not even his father.” I spoke brave words, but my heart was breaking for my brother.
“Do you think, perhaps, if you and I were to speak with him together,” she said softly, “that he might listen?”
She sounded so forlorn, I wished nothing more than to encourage the notion. But in truth, I didn’t know how to reach Brady without being able to answer his questions about his father. Thus far, no firm answers about Gabriel Sturm had been forthcoming. I knew only that he had been part of Prince Otto’s retinue, and that, according to Harry Forge, he had been a grasping and negligent influence on the prince.
“I never know where he is anymore,” I replied honestly.
“I might. He’d asked me to join him today at the Casino. There is more tennis, and afterward a musicale at the theater. Please, Emma, come with me. It might be worth a try.”
“When is your shift over?”
“In about an hour. And I always keep extra clothing in the nurses’ dormitory, so I needn’t stop at home first. We can take the trolley.” She smiled gratefully. “Oh, I hope we find him there.”
“So do I, Hannah.” I smiled back, but privately I feared what we might find at the Casino. Would Brady be drunk? Angry? Deaf to all reason? For Hannah’s sake, for Brady’s, as well as for my own, I said a silent prayer.