Chapter 5
“What are you doing here?” I asked after Derrick steadied me and his hands came away from my shoulders, leaving traces of warmth where they had rested.
“I came to see how Jesse’s doing.” He bent his head to me, his dark hair and eyes seeming to fill my vision. “And to see you.”
“How did you know . . . ?” I hadn’t given him notice of my returning to Newport, and he hadn’t been at Ochre Court earlier. Movement behind Derrick caught my eye. “Brady.”
“Hello, Em.” His hat in his hands, Brady leaned around Derrick’s shoulder and grinned.
Derrick smiled. “When were you going to let me know you were home?”
“All in good time,” I said, with a prick at my conscience. “There was no rush, you see. I’m planning to stay.”
“Permanently?” The eagerness in both his voice and his expression prevented me from trusting my voice in that moment. I nodded.
Any reason for reticence about my decision had passed. If Brady, Hannah, Nanny, and Grace all knew I’d decided to move back to Newport, then all of Newport probably knew by now as well. A disconcerting notion struck me. James Bennett, owner of the Herald and the man who directly hired me on, was also currently in Newport. He hadn’t attended Mrs. Goelet’s ball either, but how soon before my decision reached his ears? I preferred to tell him of my plans myself and resolved to call at his summer cottage, Stone Villa, tomorrow. “It was good of you to come to check on Jesse.”
“Yes, well, he and I have settled some of our differences in the past year.”
“Only some?”
“I’m afraid there are some matters on which we’ll never see eye to eye.” A lift of his eyebrows indicated that one of those matters stood before him now.
I silently thanked Brady when he changed the subject. “How are Dale and Jesse doing?”
“Hannah says the doctor thinks Jesse will be all right in time. Dale’s fate isn’t clear. His life isn’t in danger,” I hastened to add, “but only time will tell how much damage was done to his hands.”
“Can we see them?” Brady asked.
“Dale was sleeping when I left, and I’m not sure if Hannah will allow Jesse any more visitors tonight. Brady, go up and talk to her. She’s putting up a good front, but she’s terribly upset about what happened.” I lowered my voice. “Dale is being blamed. Even framed, I fear.”
“Then what happened wasn’t an accident,” Derrick said rather than asked.
I regarded him. “Are you asking as a newspaperman, or as a friend?”
Another waggle of those dark eyebrows. “Both.”
Before I could respond, Brady spoke. “I’ve been called back to New York, Em. I’ve got to head back in the morning.”
“Oh, Brady. I’ve only just got home.”
“I know. But you know how things are with the old man being ill.”
He referred to my uncle, Cornelius Vanderbilt II, who had suffered a stroke two years ago and showed few signs of recovering. As head of the Vanderbilt family and the New York Central Railroad, his incapacity created a large, exceedingly hard-to-fill gap in the daily running of the family’s affairs.
“Then you had better go up and see Hannah.” I gave him a little nudge, and he headed for the stairs.
Derrick offered his arm to me. “Can I drive you home? You can tell me what happened on the way.”
“I have my carriage here.”
“You’re going to make poor Barney walk all the way back to Gull Manor at this late hour? Leave him. I’ll bring you home, and meanwhile have my valet collect your gig and bring it over to my house.”
“You mean my house,” I murmured. I still hadn’t quite forgiven him for purchasing my childhood home on the Point when my parents quietly put it up for sale three years ago. Had I known, I would have bought the property myself. Somehow. Although with what funds, I had never precisely determined. And I suppose my parents had realized that. My father, an artist, came into money sporadically, and that summer they’d fallen short. They hadn’t had the time to wait for me to devise a plan; besides, I already owned Gull Manor. I understood their decision, yet my heart still ached when I thought about it.
Derrick replied with a lopsided grin. I sighed and decided my roan hack, Barney, deserved a good night’s sleep. I would also reach home eons sooner than if Barney, who knew only one slow speed, brought me. “Thank you.”
“We’ll bring your horse and carriage home in the morning. Come.”
Though it was well after midnight, Newport’s streets were alive with summer residents coming and going from parties and events. Carriages lined Bellevue Avenue outside the Casino and choked driveways inside the gates of the grand cottages farther along. I was thankful not to have to pass by Ochre Court, which sat on Ochre Point Avenue to the east of Bellevue. Along the way I explained to Derrick what happened. He listened with very little comment, his profile tense in the moonlight.
At the wide turn where Coggeshall Avenue joined Ocean Avenue, the horse seemed to know where to go without Derrick prompting him. That made me curious. “Do you come out here often?”
“A bit.” Did I detect a note of evasiveness?
“To swim?” I gestured toward the dark outlines of the pavilion and cabanas of Bailey’s Beach, hunched against the ocean.
“Actually,” he said, “Nanny sometimes invites me to dinner.”
“She does? She never told me that.” I didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. Clearly, Nanny had wished to keep Derrick firmly entrenched in her—and by association, my—life, while I was away. “She knew I’d be coming back, didn’t she?”
“Either that or she hoped I’d follow you to New York.” He paused to adjust the reins. “Or one of us would. I hear tell she invites Jesse to dinner, too. Just not on the nights she invites me.”
But for a single lantern in the parlor window, the house was dark when we arrived. Dear Nanny always provided a light to guide me inside. Derrick stopped the carriage close to the front door. An awkwardness suddenly came over me as I prepared to leave him.
“Well, thank you.”
“I’ll see you soon, yes?”
“You’ll see me in the morning, remember? You and your valet will bring Barney home.”
“Ah, yes. Have you thought of replacing him?”
“Barney? I can’t afford to keep two horses, and I couldn’t possibly part with him. What would become of him? Why, someone might . . .” I shuddered to think of the fate that befell aging horses that were no longer of any use to anyone. Why, it would be akin to sending Nanny packing someday, when she was no longer able to cook her wonderful meals or offer her sage advice. Nanny would always have a home at Gull Manor, and Barney would always enjoy a warm stall here as well. I adamantly shook my head. “I’m content to travel as slowly as Barney could wish.”
Derrick gave a soft laugh. “All right. Good night, Emma.”
“Good night.” I started to step down, but he caught my arm, leaned in, and grazed my lips with his.
* * *
Contrary to my observation that Derrick would see me in the morning, I awoke to rather different circumstances.
“Have you seen your surprise yet?” Nanny asked when I padded into the morning room for breakfast. At my blank look, she gestured for me to turn around and retrace my steps to the front hall. “You’ll want to see this.”
As I might have expected, my carriage, with its faded canvas roof and crinkling leather seat, sat on my driveway in front of the house. Derrick and his valet had apparently gotten a very early start, had been here and gone again. What I had not expected to see hitched to my old vehicle, however, was the handsome dark bay carriage horse. They made a most unlikely match. A note sat on the seat, held in place by a rock the size of my palm. It said, simply, “His name is Maestro.”
Once the initial surprise subsided, I experienced a spark of alarm. “But where is Barney?” Without waiting for anyone to answer me, I circled the house, my dressing gown flapping out behind me. Upon reaching the small barn in my rear garden, I flung open the door and stopped short, once more held motionless in surprise.
Dear Barney raised his head above the wall of his stall to peer at me as he continued chewing a mouthful of fresh hay. Had Katie been out to feed him already? Perhaps, but it seemed Barney’s fairy godmother had visited him as well. Or his fairy godfather, I should say. Bales of hay that hadn’t been there yesterday had been stacked along one wall, along with sacks of oats and another of apples I knew hadn’t been charged to my household account.
I had told Derrick I couldn’t afford to keep two carriage horses, and he had solved my problem for me. Not sure how I felt about that, I stood for some moments taking in the scene while weighing the expense of his gesture against what monies I knew were available for such extravagance. Barney stamped a foot and snorted, breaking the spell of uncertainty that held me. Not the uncertainty itself, mind you, but, roused from my immobile state, I went to Barney and scratched behind his ears.
I didn’t turn at the sound of the soft, slippered tread or the squeaking board. Nanny came up behind me and slipped an arm about my shoulders. “Such a lovely thing to do. Wouldn’t you agree, Emma?”
I stifled a sigh. It was a lovely gesture. However much I valued and fervently protected my independence, I couldn’t deny that.
“Please don’t say you’re going to return it all—the horse, the supplies. Derrick’s kindness.” At the gentle admonishment in her tone, I turned to her and shook my head.
“No. To do so would be foolish and self-defeating. I made a promise I’d find the person who killed Cleo Cooper-Smith and framed Dale Hanson. Derrick has made that task so much easier.”
“A pity he didn’t include a new carriage.”
“Nanny!”
“I’m only saying.”
“Maestro goes back to Derrick as soon as I’ve completed my errands. With my sincere thanks, of course.” Barney nudged my shoulder, prompting me to pivot once again and stroke his neck. “Don’t you worry, old friend. No one will forget you. We’ll need Katie to exercise him every day so he doesn’t grow bored and . . . well . . . sad. It doesn’t do to deprive an individual of his occupation.”
“I can do that,” Nanny said. “He’s such a gentle soul. He and I move at the same unhurried pace nowadays. Don’t we, boy?”
My throat tightened. I could not envision my world lacking either Nanny or my loyal horse. I placed an arm around her and laid my cheek against her shoulder, wide, cushioned by her plumpness, and still the bastion of comfort it had been all my life.
* * *
After telephoning over, I returned to Ochre Court shortly after breakfast. This time I went to the front door, and Grace let me in, having spent the night to comfort her sister. She must have been watching for me, for I saw no sign of the butler upon stepping inside.
“May is in bed,” she told me. “And likely to stay there all day today.”
“How are her son and daughter?” I removed my hat and driving gloves and handed them to a footman who appeared from seemingly out of nowhere.
“They’re holding up remarkably well. Neither were particularly close with Cleo. Not even young May, oddly enough. She and Cleo were the same age.”
“That is odd, considering the friendship between their mothers. I wonder why that was.”
“I really couldn’t say.” I heard something in her voice, a bit of reluctance perhaps, to reveal too much. I considered pressing her, but then remembered her relation to the Goelets. She might be my friend and sincere in her desire to be of help, but her first loyalties would lie with family.
“And little Beatrice? Have you heard anything about how this affected her?”
Here Grace smiled. “Her mother telephoned a little while ago to say Beatrice is happily playing with her dolls and has made no mention of last night other than to congratulate herself once again on a job well done. Three-year-olds are remarkably resilient, I understand, and terribly pleased with themselves at the slightest accomplishment. But tell me, where to first?”
I had explained on the telephone the purpose of my visit, including the accusations made against Dale Hanson. Through Brady, Grace had a passing acquaintance with his sister, Hannah. While she maintained that Brady would do better to set his sights on some less-well-to-do heiress, she tolerated Hannah as “a girl with a good head on her shoulders.”
At my request she took me into the ballroom and through into the drawing room. Everything looked as it had yesterday—the artificial garden, the dais, the Egyptian stage setting. And the throne, of course, its gilded finish charred and pitted.
I took a magnifying glass from my handbag, but first looked about me with my naked eyes. The silken clover no longer retained its spring beneath my boots, as it had been quite trampled last night. So many people had traipsed through the room that I couldn’t hope to find anything as identifying as a footprint.
I climbed the dais steps and knelt beside the throne. Before I touched anything, I listened for the telltale humming of active circuitry. It had been turned off last night, but I couldn’t dislodge from my mind the image of Jesse and Dale touching the throne and nearly being electrocuted.
Reassured at hearing only my own breathing and Grace’s occasional steps brushing through the clover, I reached out a tentative fingertip and touched the wiring wrapped around one of the front legs of the throne. I noticed two things immediately. The first had already been noted by the police, that the rubber insulation had been stripped from the wiring where it came in contact with the throne’s metal leg.
As far as I knew, the second hadn’t yet been noted, but this wire appeared thicker than those connected to the surrounding Edison bulbs. I got to my feet and went to the side of the dais to examine those wires, and yes, they did appear thinner, which meant the current running through the throne would have been stronger than that needed for the bulbs.
Someone had indeed known what they were doing. I returned to the throne.
Crouching low, I held my magnifying glass over the stripped wire. It appeared some kind of blade had been used to cut away the rubber, leaving jagged edges. The job appeared hurried, perhaps slightly frantic. That suggested whoever had done this feared discovery, and wished to be done and away as soon as possible.
The cut marks providing me with little other information, I searched around each leg, hoping for some clue—a thread, a button, anything the culprit might have dropped. I found nothing.
And then an idea sent me crawling from leg to leg, examining the direction in which the wire had been wrapped each time. I discovered a counterclockwise motion had been utilized. I pretended I held a length of wire in my right hand, the one I favored. My instinct was to wrap in a clockwise direction.
Did that mean a left-handed person had rigged the wiring?
I sat up.
“Did you find something?” At Grace’s question, I started. I’d been so intent on my examination I’d forgotten she was still in the room watching me.
“I’m not certain. I need to review everyone who had access to this room yesterday.” I contemplated the wiring again. Having been camouflaged by the vividly woven rugs covering the dais, it had been easy to miss. Dale Hanson and his assistant had installed the Edison bulbs three days ago. Most of the decorating had already been completed by then. Could this errant wire have been wrapped around the throne legs when I came here yesterday afternoon? Or had the deed been accomplished after that, perhaps even during the ball itself?
That meant the individual could have been a workman, servant, or any of the guests, male or female. I sat back on my haunches and thought about that. Something seemed off, and then it occurred to me that the vast majority of both workmen and footmen were right-handed. In the case of workmen, right-handedness was a matter of safety, as most tools, fine tools in particular, were made for right-handed men. In the case of footmen, uniformity when serving at the table dictated they be right-handed as well. Could I safely rule out both categories of men? Perhaps not entirely, but this potentially narrowed down the field considerably. Dale, I knew, was right-handed.
What about women? I had learned that women are hardly immune from the passions that prompt an individual to commit murder. Mrs. Goelet’s tea yesterday had been attended by some of Newport’s most respected doyennes and their daughters. It seemed unlikely one of them could be guilty, but I had been fooled before.
A name escaped my lips before I could stop it. “Ilsa.”
“What’s that, Emma?” Grace came closer to the dais. “Did you say Ilsa? What about her?” When I didn’t answer, Grace set her hands on her hips. “Surely you don’t think she had anything to do with her sister’s death.”
I wished I could call back my ill-advised utterance. “Of course not,” I assured her. In truth, I didn’t . . . and yet, on what basis could I rule her out? “She was in here yesterday afternoon, when no one was supposed to be. I found her in the ballroom while making notes on the decorations. I startled her, and she knocked over a vase. It was odd,” I added weakly.
“Did she give you a reason for being here?”
“She said she wished to ensure everything was perfect for her sister.”
“There you are then. They are—were—quite close from what I understand. I never knew either of them very well, I’m afraid. Their mother was May’s friend and nearly twenty years older than I. She and I enjoyed only a passing acquaintance.”
Ilsa’s presence in the ballroom could have been innocent enough. Before I accused anyone, I needed to learn more about Cleo—her habits, her interests, her goals. Silas Griggson claimed they were practically engaged, but that seemed dubious at best. Did she love someone else? Or, like me, did she long for independence?
“Grace, do you know if Cleo kept a diary?”
“I couldn’t say. Ilsa might know. They were both staying here for the festivities, though their father is staying in town. I believe Ilsa’s upstairs in her room, or with May, perhaps. Would you like me to check?”
“No, please don’t disturb either of them. Rather, would you show me to Cleo’s room?”
“May probably wouldn’t like that,” she said and then winked. “So we’ll go quietly. Follow me.”
She led me up the main staircase to the open gallery that looked down upon the Great Hall. We hurried along a section of it, and then down an enclosed hallway that branched off to a separate wing. Grace tried a knob and to our luck discovered the door unlocked. We slipped inside and closed the door.
“I believe Ilsa’s room is right next door, so we must be as discreet as possible unless you want her here asking questions.”
I shook my head. “No, indeed. At least, not yet.”
“What are we looking for?” Grace asked brightly, obviously warming to the task. Grace always did enjoy a bout of intrigue, as long as it didn’t come accompanied by any true danger.
I went to the dressing table and began opening drawers. The very act sent me spiraling back to last summer, when another death had necessitated rummaging through the victim’s private effects. “As I said, a diary,” I replied, “should we be so fortunate. Or anything, really, that sheds a bit of insight into who Cleo Cooper-Smith was.”
A small leather case yielded facial powders, rouge, tinted lip balm, and even a tiny bottle filled with some blackish liquid. Thickened elderberry juice, I surmised, which could be brushed on the eyelashes to darken them. “It seems Cleo was not opposed to enhancing her appearance.”
Grace came to peer over my shoulder. “She was rather young for that,” she observed. “One would suppose she used them on the sly.” She touched her fingertips to her own cheek. If Grace used cosmetics, as I guessed she did, she applied them artfully and subtly.
I continued my perusal of the dressing table, finding nothing of particular interest. I moved next to one of the two dressers and asked Grace to search through the other.
“It feels wrong to be doing this,” she said with a little trill in her voice. “And yet exciting at the same time.”
“We’re doing nothing but seeking justice for Cleo. As for excitement, Grace, let’s hope we don’t encounter too much of that.” Having exhausted the dresser without finding anything but the usual trappings of a young lady, I threw open the armoire. Dresses and gowns of the very latest designs met my eye. Most spoke of House of Worth, though I believed I detected creations by Redfern and perhaps Rouff as well. I carefully thumbed through as I would the pages of an ancient and precious book. Something struck me as not quite right. My hand stilled as I continued to contemplate Cleo’s wardrobe.
Grace came up beside me. “What is it?”
“These gowns . . .” I turned around and returned to the dresser I’d just rifled through. Sliding open the top drawer, I once again viewed underclothing, gloves, and handkerchiefs. Much of it was no better than my own. “The gowns don’t match the rest,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“The quality. Her gowns are the finest, yet nothing else boasts the same superiority.” I turned to face her. “We haven’t found any jewelry. At least, nothing of value. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“Now that you mention it.”
“Do you know anything about the Cooper-Smiths’ finances? Are they as wealthy as these dresses would imply?”
“I always believed them to be, at least fairly so. They are a Four Hundred family, an old one.”
“Her father works as an architect,” I pointed out. And as I had learned, “old money” did not always mean current money.
“Emma, unlike our counterparts in, say, England, American gentlemen work. I know another architect, Mr. Phelps Stokes. He designs buildings for the love of it rather than for money. His inheritance is sufficient to allow him to pursue such interests.”
“Still, this lack of jewelry could be significant. These fine dresses could be an attempt to hide the fact that the family finances are not what they should be.” Could this be why Mrs. Goelet had set her sights on Silas Griggson for Cleo? A self-made man such as he would not resent a bride’s lack of fortune the way members of the Four Hundred would.
Across the room, the end tables on either side of the bed beckoned. “Let’s check these,” I said, gesturing. I opened the drawer above, sifted through, and then opened the cupboard below. As I reached in, Grace stopped me.
“Emma, come here.” Grace backed away from the gaping drawer in the cabinet across from me. She held a small wooden box and stared down at something in her other hand. “See what I’ve found!”
I quickly circled the bed.
“I think these are diamonds.” Narrowing her eyes, she held the small setting of several stones up to an electric wall sconce. “Yes, most definitely diamonds. They were in this box and shoved into a corner. But the setting is broken. See how the links at either end have been pulled open. This appears to be part of a larger piece, most likely a necklace. Here, you look.”
She poured the glittering segment into my palm. Several diamonds dangled from what I judged to be a platinum chain. I agreed with Grace; this did seem to be part of a larger piece of jewelry. So where was the rest?
We went through the room again, and into the bathroom that adjoined Ilsa’s bedroom on the other side. We found nothing that helped solve the mystery of the diamond setting.
“Perhaps you’re correct about the Cooper-Smiths’ finances.” Grace perched at the edge of the bed. “In truth, I’ve seen it before, where the family of a young woman on the marriage mart will spend their last pennies on her trousseau to hide their penury. It’s even possible May paid for Cleo’s wardrobe. She loved Cleo’s mother that much. Should I ask her?”
“Do, but be discreet. We don’t want to distress your sister any more than necessary.”
Grace smiled. “Leave it to me. I know just how to go about it.”
My thoughts drifted back to Ilsa. “Can you tell me about Ilsa’s affliction? I know she suffers from curvature of the spine.”
“Yes. She was normal enough as a young girl. The twisting of her spine began as she entered her teen years. Her parents tried back braces and hot springs, but nothing helped.”
I suppressed a shudder at the thought of back braces. My cousin Consuelo Vanderbilt had been required to wear a brace of sorts, a metal rod attached to a belt at her waist and a strap around her head, whenever she sat at her lessons as a child. She had suffered from no such affliction as Ilsa Cooper-Smith, however. Her mother, my aunt Alva, had simply wished for her to develop perfect posture. Consuelo had, along with a simmering resentment toward her mother.
“Has Ilsa ever displayed any bitterness?” I asked.
Grace considered a moment. “Not bitterness, no. I’d say resignation. Sadness, most assuredly.”
“What was she like as a younger girl? Do you know?”
“Thoughtful.” Grace smiled. “Studious. She loved to read.”
“And Cleo?”
“Humph.” Grace’s eyebrows twitched; her mouth took on an ironic slant. “Not studious. Cleo was the more adventurous one. She seemed to crave excitement and loved to be around people.”
“The center of attention,” I suggested.
“Positively. But that’s obvious in the kind of coming-out ball my sister planned for her. Had it been for Ilsa, May would have devised a much more sedate, intimate event.”
I thought back to the ball, and how Ilsa remained off to the side, an observer rather than a participant, despite being the sister of the guest of honor. “There was a man at the ball who stayed beside Ilsa—”
“Patrick Floyd. He’s a family friend of theirs.”
“He seemed rather devoted to Ilsa. Is there an understanding between them?”
“Between Patrick and Ilsa? Heavens no. Ilsa isn’t expected to ever marry. Her condition precludes her ever having children. She’s been told it could kill her, poor dear.”
“I know, and I’m sorry about that. She seemed rather enamored of him, but perhaps I misread the situation. He happened to mention being in mourning.”
“Patrick was widowed only a year ago. His wife, Matilda, died quite suddenly. There were rumors at the time . . .” She trailed off, her lips compressing. “But I shouldn’t repeat rumors.”
“Actually, Grace, perhaps you should. Anything you know about the guests last night could help reveal the truth about what happened.”
Grace seemed to debate this inwardly before nodding. “Some people insinuated that Matilda Floyd might have taken her own life.”
I gasped; I hadn’t expected any such thing. “How did she die?”
“It was a gas leak in her bedroom. Her husband was away at the time. Apparently, she went to bed one night and never woke up again. The gas line was found open with no flame.”
“Was anyone else in the house with her at the time?”
“Only the servants, as far as I heard.”
“An accident, or a deliberate act,” I said more to myself than to Grace. “Do you have any idea why she might have committed suicide?”
“I’m truly loath to say, Emma. I never believed the whispers. He seems to be a perfectly lovely gentleman. You saw how he rescued Ilsa from the ignominy of being a wallflower.”
“It was gallant of him, to be sure.” I remember Ilsa saying just that—that Patrick needn’t play the gallant for her. “But you mentioned whispers. Given what his wife might have done, I can only assume those whispers involved stains on Mr. Floyd’s character. Am I correct?”
With a great show of reluctance, Grace nodded. “Some people believed—wrongly, I’m quite sure—that Patrick might have been dallying with another woman. That he had gone away that week to be with his paramour. But please don’t repeat this to anyone.”
I answered her with silence, for it was a promise I couldn’t make, not if I found a link between Patrick Floyd and Cleo Cooper-Smith’s death. I had learned in recent years that murder rarely occurred as an isolated incident. Rather, death seemed to follow death in a chain of violence, and this news about Mr. Floyd’s wife felt too coincidental given the circumstances.
“Grace,” I said, speaking slowly as thoughts took shape in my mind, “the woman Patrick might have been dallying with . . . Could it have been Cleo?”
“Good gracious, no.” The idea not only took Grace aback, she seemed angered by the suggestion. I realized my logic had perhaps taken a sizable leap and started to apologize, but she had more to add. “I don’t suppose you would know, but Cleo was practically engaged in the spring. His name was Oliver Kipp—perhaps you’ve heard of the family?”
“I have, and I know Oliver Kipp recently died in the war.” The image of the young man’s mother, Lorraine, trailing after John Astor last night and making mysterious demands of him flashed in my mind. “He and Cleo were engaged?”
“Not quite, but society assumed they had intentions toward each other. They had formed an attachment the previous year, before Matilda Floyd died.”
While I conceded Grace’s point that it was unlikely Cleo would have been involved with Mr. Floyd, I also acknowledged a third death linked to Cleo Cooper-Smith. True, Oliver Kipp had died far away on a battlefield in Cuba, but the coincidence made it impossible for me to dismiss it as irrelevant.
I had learned a lot here in a short time, information that would require a return to Ochre Court, but which would also send me in other directions. Willing or not, Colonel Astor, Mrs. Kipp, and Patrick Floyd might provide information I needed.
“Would it be all right if I kept this for now?” I indicated the broken setting. Where was the better part of the piece, and to whom did it belong? Had Cleo come to possess it by less than honest means? Perhaps a trip to one of our local jewelers would set me on the trail to the answers. “I’ll be sure to return it.”
“Of course.”
I left her after that, making my way down the service staircase. A woman waited for me at the bottom. She wore the black dress and starched linen apron and cap of a housemaid.
“Miss Cross, might I have a word?”
Like my own housemaid, Katie, this woman spoke with a pleasing Irish cadence. She was about my age, with raven black hair and vivid green eyes that darted side to side as she beckoned to me.
I nodded, and she introduced herself. “I’m Nora Taylor, miss, and I’ve a bit of information that might interest you concernin’ Miss Cleo.”
I, too, scanned the immediate vicinity to see if we might be overheard. Detecting no one close by, I said, “Yes, go ahead.”
“I heard arguin’ comin’ from her bedroom yesterday mornin’.” She fidgeted with the pins on her apron. “I don’t know who she was havin’ words with, but from the sounds of it, either her sister or her maid. The missus would never raise her voice like that, especially not to a guest, and I cannot think of another soul it could have been.”
“Are you certain they were arguing? Could they have merely been excited about the ball?”
“The voices sounded riled up to me, miss.”
“Can you be sure it wasn’t Mrs. Goelet’s daughter?”
“Oh, no, miss. Like her mam, Miss May wouldn’t treat a guest so ill. I’ve been servin’ the family for three years now, since I first landed in New York, and I’ve never heard an unkind word from Miss May’s lips. She’s a kindly girl, that one.”
“And had you heard Miss Cleo arguing with anyone else since she’s been here?”
“That I have not, miss. That’s why it struck me as odd.”
My hand went instinctively to my handbag. The broken piece of jewelry lay nestled within. Could it have provoked the argument Nora overheard? “Did you hear anything specific?”
“Well, no, not exactly, miss. The walls and doors are thick in this house. The words were muffled and all.”
This information made me wish to climb back up the stairs and question Miss Ilsa and her sister’s lady’s maid. But I couldn’t bring myself to do so, not this soon while their grief remained so fresh. Besides, what young woman didn’t sometimes argue with her sister, or her maid? I’d overheard my cousin, Gertrude Vanderbilt, scolding her own maid countless times at The Breakers. Never had it led to murder or anything more than a quiet sulk for either of them.
“I know that electrician fellow’s being blamed for Miss Cleo’s death.” Nora’s eyes narrowed.
“You don’t believe it?”
“I don’t know what to believe, miss. He’s an agreeable fellow. And people like him, and like me—we take the blame for most things, don’t we?”
“Yes, Nora, I’m sorry to say you’re right about that.”
“I believe you want to do somethin’ about it, don’t you, miss?” With a sheepish look, Nora lowered her chin and peeked out at me from beneath her lashes. “I heard about what you did last summer, miss, helpin’ catch that wicked murderer and all. If I can help you now, I will.”
“Thank you, Nora. If you think of anything else, please telephone me. Tell the operator you wish to be connected to Gull Manor.”
“I will, miss. You can be sure of that.”
* * *
Before I left Ochre Court, I used the telephone. Then I left Maestro and my carriage on the property in favor of walking over to Spring Street and taking the trolley into town. The street rail brought me to Broadway, where I alighted outside the hospital on Friendship Street.
My telephone call had established that Jesse hadn’t been released yet, and I must admit to a sense of relief that my visit would not take place in the intimacy of his home. He and I had never been alone in such a way, never unchaperoned by family and friends, or his fellow officers at the police station, or pedestrians on the street. Seeing Derrick and experiencing my reaction to him assured me now was not the time to encourage an understanding with Jesse.
The nurse manning the front desk waved me through and I went upstairs to the men’s ward. I found Hannah sitting at Dale’s bedside. His bandaged hand lay on top of the sheet. He appeared to be sleeping.
“How is he this morning?”
“In a lot of pain. The doctors are keeping him sedated.” She reached up to finger the edge of her starched linen nurse’s cap, then clutched her hands together in her lap. “We’re still not certain about the extent of the damage. Only time will tell.”
Fearing any assurances would sound hollow, I pressed her shoulder before moving down the aisle to Jesse’s bed. The grin he flashed at my approach faded as he correctly read my expression. He sat up, the covers drawn to his waist, a dressing gown secured over his nightshirt. Once I settled on the stool beside his bed, he asked me what I’d learned since last night.
One by one I reviewed each name Grace and I had discussed, along with their relationship to Cleo Cooper-Smith. He seemed particularly keen on learning more about Patrick Floyd, although not for the reason I might have thought.
“His wife died a year ago,” he mused aloud. “And he is well acquainted with both Cooper-Smith sisters.”
“Yes, a family friend. He stayed by Ilsa’s side during the ball because she isn’t able to dance.”
“Did he dance with Cleo?”
“Not that I saw, although Ilsa urged him to. She said she would enjoy watching him. She seemed rather enamored of him.”
Jesse’s chin tilted. “And he of her?”
“No, not that I observed. Kind and affectionate in a brotherly way, but I would not venture to say he returned her feelings, if indeed I read them correctly. Ilsa suffers from extreme curvature of the spine and can never have children. This makes marriage an unlikely prospect for her.”
“One never knows. Someday she might meet that rare man who either doesn’t wish to have children, or who has children from a first marriage.”
“I hope so. A guest last night, a Mrs. Lucinda Russell, made a comment that Ilsa’s coming-out ball should be next. This distressed Ilsa greatly, but it was what her sister said that drew tears. Cleo told Ilsa not to be tragic, not to be a martyr. Then she turned to Mr. Floyd with a comment about how wearisome Ilsa can be.”
“That’s hardly sisterly accord.”
“Yet Grace Wilson said they were close.” I frowned, trying to reconcile loving sisters with the cruel words Cleo had uttered. “I suppose sisters are apt to argue sometimes.”
“Especially when a man stands between them.”
My gaze, which had wandered to the window beside Jesse’s bed, darted back to his face. I saw nothing facetious or ironic in his expression. He had meant what he said.
I, however, couldn’t fathom such a thing. “Are you implying Ilsa killed her sister over Patrick Floyd?”
“It surely wouldn’t be the first time jealousy led to murder.”
“Oh, but—” My intended protest died unspoken. Ilsa had been in the drawing room yesterday afternoon, and had admitted to gaining entry on the sly. Cleo’s unkindness at the ball had driven Ilsa away—perhaps to be sure her plan to electrify the throne would work? I didn’t like having to do it, but I told Jesse what I had witnessed.
“And here I was thinking Patrick Floyd might have some connection to Cleo’s death,” I concluded, leaving the rest unspoken.
“And so he might, through Ilsa. And his wife . . . perhaps Ilsa wanted her gone as well. How did she die?”
“Gas inhalation. The flame on an open sconce had gone out sometime after she went to bed that night.”
“Or had been extinguished deliberately. I don’t suppose Miss Ilsa was in the Floyds’ house that night?”
“Not according to Grace. She told me some people suspected suicide, that Mrs. Floyd had caught her husband in a dalliance.” I told him about the argument Nora Taylor had overheard the morning before the ball.
“The net tightens,” he replied. When I cast him a quizzical glance, he explained, “Around Miss Ilsa.”
“We can’t assume Cleo’s argument was with her sister. As Nora pointed out, it might have been with her maid. She couldn’t hear clearly enough to make a positive identification, other than that Cleo argued with another woman. And then there is this.” I snapped open my bag and drew out the diamonds Grace had discovered in Cleo’s nightstand. I explained how this broken piece comprised the only bit of valuable jewelry she appeared to own.
He held it in his palm. “We’ll need to find the rest. It’s certainly possible this argument had to do with this.”
“Yes, but I can’t question Ilsa, not yet.”
“Give her a day or two. But no more. If she’s guilty, I want to keep her off her guard.”
The edge in his voice drew my scrutiny to his profile. The boyish features I’d become so familiar with and found so endearing were set and stony, almost cruel. I wondered why. This couldn’t be the first time he’d been wounded in the line of duty.
Perhaps not, I realized, but never before had he sustained an injury with the potential to end his career. A police detective without full use of his hands.... A seeping dread turned my insides cold. What if I could no longer ply my trade, and I lost not only my ability to earn the funds I needed to survive, not only my independence, but a thing I loved. Though I had not yet achieved my dream of reporting on hard news as Nellie Bly had done, journalism ran in my very veins, a vital part of who I was.
What and who would I be if that were taken from me? What and who would Jesse be?
I reached out and ever so gently placed my hand over his. He flinched convulsively, startling me, before visibly forcing himself to relax. He even attempted a smile, albeit an empty one. The hollow reassurances I hadn’t allowed myself to convey to Hannah now sprang from my lips. “You’ll be fine, Jesse. This is temporary. I’m sure the doctors—”
“The doctors can do nothing but wait,” he snapped. It was my turn to flinch. Remorse immediately softened his expression. His eyes darted down the ward to where Dale lay in his numbed torpor; to where Hannah sat staring adamantly down at him, willing him to heal. He lifted the hand I had touched, the fingers weak and trembling as they beckoned to me. “I’m sorry, Emma.”
My fingers closed lightly around his, and for the briefest moment, their shaking stilled. “Don’t be.”
“Find out all you can about the sisters,” he said, the vulnerability of a moment ago gone, or at least hidden beneath his policeman’s exterior. I promised him I would, and promised to visit him again soon.