Chapter 7

Although officers and their families enjoyed residences at the fort, I immediately saw that this newcomer was no officer’s wife. In fact, even from a distance I recognized her—from Ochre Court.

The woman in the sensible dark dress carried a basket over one arm, and as Lieutenant Norris reached her, she moved aside a colorful fabric drape. He took something from the basket—a baked good of some sort, I surmised—held it beneath his nose, and took a bite. The woman laughed, the sound barely reaching me. Arm in arm, they turned to stroll along the edge of the parade, until they blended into the shadows and commotion of the south wall.

I might not have given the matter a second thought, except the woman in question served as lady’s maid to none other than Ilsa Cooper-Smith, as well as Cleo, before she died. I had encountered her in passing several times on the day of the ball, though we had not had occasion to converse.

A lady’s maid visiting an officer of good family? Perhaps Ilsa sent her here with treats for the soldiers. That seemed unlikely, under the circumstances. Besides, they were walking arm in arm. Though common sense declared her appearance here too much of a coincidence to be connected with Cleo’s death, I reminded myself that I had waited a day to come to Fort Adams for exactly that reason.

Deciding to follow them, I hurried in their direction. True, I’d lost sight of them in the deep shadows and steady stream of soldiers, but I trusted I would come upon them shortly. I had my excuse at the ready: I had seen Miss Ilsa’s maid and wished to convey a message to her.

Except that I didn’t come upon them. When I reached the area where I believed I’d find them, they were nowhere in sight. Several doorways entered the three-story structure. I judged which of them had mostly likely been their destination and ventured inside. Cool, damp darkness closed around me. I blinked as my eyes grew accustomed to the scant light. Several corridors fanned away in different directions. Several soldiers hurried along one of them, and I appealed to one of them for assistance.

“Excuse me, I suppose I shouldn’t be here, but I’m looking for a lieutenant and a young woman.”

He looked scandalized. “You must be mistaken. There shouldn’t be any young women in this part of the fort, ma’am. Yourself included, if you’ll excuse me for saying. It’s not safe. You’d best go along now.”

“Yes, thank you. I’ll go . . .” Luckily, he breezed by me and kept going, apparently trusting me to retrace my steps. I most assuredly did not, but ventured deeper into the building, lured on by the very sort of voices I shouldn’t have been hearing, according to my helpful soldier.

They were little more than whispers, but I heard enough to identify one as male, the other as female. Were they merely the endearments of circumspect lovers? That I couldn’t say, for the actual words disintegrated as they traveled the stony corridors.

As I went, the sounds of the bustling fort began to fade, and I realized I must be in a little used area during the day, or perhaps not meant to be used except in times of siege. I remembered from my youthful foray here with my father that Fort Adams was not only the largest, but one of the most impenetrable fortresses ever built. I believed myself to be in the southeast quadrant, where a system of tunnels, bastions, ditches, and tenailles rendered invasion virtually impossible.

Led on by the whispers, I passed several doorways and forks. The seeping chill told me I was descending deeper into the bowels of the structure, and I was grateful I’d worn my somber skirt and jacket rather than a summer frock. Once again, I stopped to listen and this time heard nothing but the whoosh of air rushing through the subterranean byways and the occasional drip-drip of moisture. I had obviously gone too far and turned to make my way back. Proceeding at a confident pace, I reached a second fork. Here I hesitated. From which way had I come?

I had no inkling, and so chose the one I believed most likely correct and hoped for the best. It wasn’t long, however, before the increasing damp and cold dashed those hopes. Worse, the tunnel narrowed, the ground roughened, and the ceiling dropped until I had to hunch or risk hitting my head on the arching stonework. I turned around again, only to find myself in yet another cramped space whose walls stretched into utter darkness.

My heart began to pound in my throat and reverberate against my temples. Images of crypts formed in my mind, of being trapped beneath stone and earth, cut off from light and air. I was well and truly lost within this maze, and I had no one to blame but my own stubborn foolishness.

Or did I? It occurred to me that I might have been lured here. Had Lieutenant Norris and Ilsa’s maid seen me pursuing them? Had they led me deep beneath the fort with their whispers, only to double back themselves and leave me to wander aimlessly?

But surely, surely the way could not be so impossible. Men were sent down here, and they returned to the daylight, didn’t they? So did my common sense reassure me as I pressed my hands to my bosom to calm my erratic heart.

In an attempt to gain my bearings, I stood motionless and held my breath, for even that slight sound created deafening echoes in the confined space. And then I heard the voices again—except no, these were different. No longer did the high tones of a woman make their way to me, but instead the rumbling murmurs of two men. How could that be? I heard nothing else: no footsteps, no rustlings or other noises to suggest they were somewhere close by. Only their voices, hissing and hollow, flowing with the air that continually swept the tunnels.

As my eyes further adjusted to this more profound darkness, a hint of light formed several yards ahead of me. I went to it to discover a shaft, high on the wall where it met the arched ceiling. The light remained negligent at best, but fresh air brushed my cheeks. Such shafts must be a regular occurrence along the tunnels; hence the ever-flowing air. At least I would not suffocate.

Another memory came to me, and suddenly I realized I had stumbled down into Fort Adams’s ingenious listening tunnels, a little known defense system wherein anyone positioned here would be able to hear the enemy attempting to breach the outworks.

Still, I should not be able to hear anything as subtle as conversation, yet the voices continued to travel down the shaft. They must be directly above me, then, in the tenaille between the outer walls. Once more holding my breath, I stood on tiptoe and tilted my head to place my ear as close to the shaft as I could reach. Instinct prodded me to call out for help, but another tendency, honed by my experiences over the past three years, cautioned me to remain silent and listen. It proved the better course.

“Stop worrying, will you?” Anger punctuated the command. “You’ll . . . into trouble.”

“. . . questions . . . lead to no good.”

“She’s . . . to ask questions. Doesn’t matter.”

“Too close . . .”

I clenched my teeth in frustration. Who stood above me? What were they discussing?

“No one . . . expose the truth . . . besides . . . accident . . .” The anger had left this voice, replaced by a placating tone.

“Suppose . . . she does . . .”

“. . . Won’t, I tell you . . . promise . . . if you’ll . . . keep silent.”

The voices faded, and I heard nothing more, not even their footsteps although I assumed they had left the immediate area. Who were they? Sam Caldwell and Dorian Norris? I had visibly agitated them with my questions about Oliver Kipp’s death. Had that been what one of the voices termed an accident? At the same time, however, there had been another reference to the truth, which negates the notion of an accident.

Or could they—whoever they were—have been talking about Cleo’s death, or something else entirely? What other accidents had occurred recently? I could think of none significant enough to send two soldiers seeking the privacy of a grassy tenaille between the battlements. Had something happened here, at the fort? And about whom were they speaking when one of them mentioned a she, and questions? Me?

With such answers unlikely to appear to me out of the cool, inky dampness, I once more set my attentions on remaining calm and finding my way out. While I searched, I could not have said how much time passed. On the one hand, panic crouched inside me like a wild dog ready to spring, while on the other, the voices echoed over and over again in my mind as I tried in vain to sort out their meaning.

Forcing myself to stay calm and pay closer attention to the minute changes in the elevation of the hard-packed earth beneath my feet, I found it possible to plot a course upward and, I prayed, outward. Which is not to say frequent dips and sudden changes in direction didn’t threaten to drown me in despair. I kept on until a far-off glimmer of daylight prompted me to suck in a great gulp of air and hasten my steps.

I emerged winded, stumbling, and blinded by the sunlight. I didn’t care. Relief flowed through me like my uncle Cornelius’s finest brandy, deliciously soothing while at the same time fortifying. The grass beneath my feet might as well have been the most luxurious of carpets.

“Emma! There you are.”

I turned toward the voice, glimpsed dark hair, darker eyes deepened by concern, was swept up in the scent of shaving soap and hair tonic, and felt the breath leave me at the crush of strong arms. My legs sagged and I relished the hard cushion of Derrick’s chest against my cheek.

“Where were you? I’ve been looking for you. I was worried.”

I pointed. “In there.”

I felt rather than saw the shake of his head, sensed rather than heard his exasperation. “Why?”

“I’ll tell you, but not here. Not now.” Blinking, welcoming the return of my vision, I scanned the parade. Men continued bustling about, units drilled, officers shouted orders. Nothing had changed in my absence, except that Astor’s Battery no longer occupied the area, and Captain Caldwell and Lieutenant Norris were nowhere to be seen. I lamented an opportunity lost. If not for my attempt to follow Lieutenant Norris and the maid, I might have questioned some of the foot soldiers of Astor’s Battery about Oliver Kipp’s death. Perhaps another opportunity would present itself.

I stepped away from Derrick, forcing his arms to fall away. Perhaps I moved too brusquely, for his expression fell. Ignoring the questions in his eyes, I said, “Let’s be gone. We’ll go to Gull Manor. We can talk there.”

* * *

I silently thanked Derrick for not mentioning my subterranean foray to Nanny. The experience had drained me and I had no energy left to bear her well-meaning admonishments. I wanted only to sip her strong Irish tea and sink into the comfort of my tattered parlor sofa.

Derrick sat opposite me, Patch’s head against his knee. In quiet tones I told him what had lured me into the tunnels and what I heard while there. My frustrations once more surged at my inability to identify the voices or draw conclusions from their conversation.

Then it was Derrick’s turn. “Colonel Astor was more forthcoming than I’d expected.”

“Was he willing to speak about Oliver Kipp? Captain Caldwell and Lieutenant Norris certainly were not.”

He nodded pensively. “I could see it pained him to do so. Understandably. Oliver froze in battle, and then for some unknown reason simply stood up in the line of fire.”

“What? By all accounts he died a hero’s death.”

“Not all accounts,” he said softly. He stroked Patch’s ears.

I took in this revelation, or tried to. I considered again what those voices had said. No one . . . expose the truth . . . accident . . . If they were speaking of Oliver, they might only wish to protect his memory, to allow him his hero’s death in the minds of those who had cared about him. His mother . . . “Oh, Derrick. At the ball, Mrs. Kipp had adamantly tried to speak with the colonel, but he cut her rather bluntly.”

“I would expect so. He confided that she wants the reports to reflect his heroism with full honors, but Astor being Astor, he refuses to falsify records.”

“That poor woman.” I frowned, remembering my conversation with her. “She blames Cleo. Says she broke his heart and drove him to join up, and if not for her, Oliver would still be alive.” I sipped my tea and drew a deep breath. “She said, ‘If only that girl had died sooner, perhaps my boy would still be alive.’”

Derrick stared down at the floor. “Mothers will say things.”

“I know. But we can’t discount the comment. Not in light of what happened to Cleo.”

“Do you believe Lorraine Kipp has the know-how to rig an electrocution?”

This got my back up and I said, forcefully, “The only person involved who has true technical know-how is Dale Hanson, and I do not believe he is guilty.”

“Nor do I.” He spoke apologetically, then met my gaze. Something in his expression had turned wistful. “Emma, what happened back at the fort?”

The sudden change of subject took me aback. Part of me knew exactly what he meant, but the part of me that instinctively guarded against admissions of the heart pretended ignorance. “What do you mean? I told you what happened.”

“No. Why did you pull away from me so abruptly? Have you decided . . . ?”

“I’ve decided nothing.” The words snapped out of me. Even Patch lifted his head to stare. I closed my mouth, breathed, and continued more calmly. “That is the point. Please don’t make me repeat all my reasons for my indecision. And we were both distraught at the time.”

He shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable. “Could you not accept the concern of a friend?”

“Yes, certainly. But it was more than that and you know it. It would be wrong of us—wrong of me—to allow my fears to become an excuse for intimacy. In the past three years since we met, we have been apart for two of them, you in Italy and me in New York.”

He laughed softly. “And so once again we are to start over.”

I drained my teacup and set the cup and saucer on the table before me, perhaps with a too-loud rattle. “You needn’t do anything you don’t wish to do. I have tried to make that clear. I’m simply not ready. I’m sorry, but I am not. My career—”

“I never do anything I don’t wish to do.”

I sat back. “No, of course you don’t.”

“And neither do you,” he said with resignation. “Nor would I wish you to.”

“But . . .” I prompted.

“Pardon?”

“I believed I heard a but in your tone.”

He regarded me with his typically lopsided smile. “But I thought perhaps seeing Jesse in such dire straits might have—”

“Might have made up my mind for me? No. I won’t let extenuating circumstances force me into rash decisions. I’ll act with a cool head, thank you.”

His face unreadable, he gently disengaged from Patch, rose, and circled the table to sit beside me on the sofa. Taking my hand, warming it with both of his palms, he leaned close. “A cool head you say?”

I laughed, even as a delicious sensation crept through me, and I silently admitted he had a point. He straightened without waiting for an answer and became all business. “So then, what’s next?”

Happily, I covered my discomfiture with a ready answer. “I’ll be returning to Ochre Court. I want to speak with Cleo and Ilsa’s maid and find out what she was doing at the fort.”

Nanny soon poked her head into the parlor to announce lunch was served.

“I’ve got a nice butternut squash soup and apple crumble for dessert,” she said, and crooked her finger. “Come along, you two.”

It did my heart good to see how watching Derrick enjoy her cooking lit up Nanny’s lined face. I also relished Derrick’s enjoyment, sincere as it was, knowing full well he had grown up with the finest of Parisian chefs, yet was more than willing to sit at our kitchen table and eagerly accept seconds of Nanny’s plain New England cooking.

* * *

That afternoon when I returned to Ochre Court, I once more went to the side door. The housekeeper didn’t seem pleased by my reappearance, but she nonetheless called up to Ilsa’s maid and asked her to come belowstairs. The woman then escorted me into the upper servants’ dining room to wait. Only a few minutes later, the sandy-haired woman I had seen at the fort, and here prior to that, turned the corner into the room. “Yes? Miss Cross, is it? What can I do for you?”

She didn’t bother hiding the impatience in her questions, obviously wishing me to know she had other things to do. I understood. A lady’s maid’s duties allowed for very little free time during the day. And yet . . .

“You were at Fort Adams this morning.”

She had been fingering a loose strand of hair, but now she dropped her hand and drew herself up. She looked me up and down as quick as you please, and apparently made her judgment. “I don’t see as that’s any of your business.”

“Were you there on an errand for your employer?”

“Again, Miss Cross, I don’t see how—”

“Did you see me there? You and Lieutenant Dorian Norris? That is who you went there to see, is it not?”

“I have work to do.” She turned about, then froze in the doorway when I spoke again.

“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you a young woman is dead, Miss . . .”

She turned slowly around. Crimson stained her cheeks. I’d at least gotten her attention. “It’s Tate. Camille Tate, not that it’s any concern of yours.”

“Perhaps not, Miss Tate. I’d be happy to refer this matter to the police.”

“My being at Fort Adams has nothing to do with what happened to Miss Cleo.” Despite her obvious reluctance, she approached the table where I sat and looked down at me.

I held her gaze. “Did you see me there?”

She shook her head. “No. I never saw you.”

“Are you certain about that? You and the lieutenant disappeared awfully quick. Where did you go?”

“We didn’t go anywhere. Women aren’t allowed inside the buildings.” She angled her chin. “In your line of work, Miss Cross, you should know that.”

I decided to let the matter drop, for now. “What were you doing there, then?”

“I had the morning off while Miss Ilsa was resting. It’s no one’s business what I do on my time off, not yours nor the police’s.”

“Are you certain about that? If you’re traced to the events that led to Miss Cooper-Smith’s death, it will most assuredly be the police’s business.”

With a loud scrape, she pulled back a chair and slumped down into it. “All right, yes, I went to see Dorian. Lieutenant Norris, that is. I brought him some muffins the cook here baked. But please don’t say anything. I’ll get in trouble.”

“For taking the muffins or for visiting the lieutenant?”

She blew out a breath, floating that loose strand beside her face. “Both. You see . . .” She leaned forward, her hands clasped. “Have I your discretion, Miss Cross?”

“As far as I am able,” I replied in an admittedly imperious tone. I had her, and I knew it. Perhaps she deserved to be unnerved. I hadn’t dismissed the possibility that she and Dorian Norris purposely lured me into Fort Adams’s tunnels.

“Dorian and I . . . we’ve been courting since before the war started,” she said. “Oh, it’s not like it sounds—a maid and an officer. We intend to marry, Miss Cross. But . . .”

“Yes? Have you encountered an obstacle?” I knew quite well there would be many obstacles to such a marriage, but I wished to hear it from her.

“His parents would never approve, and since they control his allowance, we’ve had to wait and keep everything a secret. Then the war delayed our plans even more. And Cleo—Miss Cooper-Smith—she wouldn’t have approved either. Nor Miss Ilsa.” She sat back against the chair, allowing her shoulders to sag. She expelled another breath laden with resentment. “Lady’s maids aren’t supposed to have romantic interests. We’re supposed to be at our mistress’s beck and call always, for the rest of our lives or until we’re dismissed and tossed out on our ears.”

She would never have dared display such bitterness before her employers or even her fellow servants, but I couldn’t fault her for it. The wealthy set rarely stopped to think of the happiness or even the welfare of their servants; they expected a life of ease and convenience and it was the servant’s job to provide it—at whatever the cost.

I folded my hands on the table before me. “What can you tell me about Oliver Kipp’s death?”

Crimson once more spread like a red tide through her cheeks. “Nothing.”

“Come now. Surely Lieutenant Norris has confided in you about what happened.”

“Only that Mr. Kipp died in the battle.”

“Then why does everyone, yourself included, balk at the question?”

“I’m not balking. I don’t know anything.”

“So you admit there is more to know.”

“I’m not—”

It was my unfortunate luck that at that moment, one of the bells on the board right outside the door jingled. Camille jumped up and hurried over to see who had rung.

“That’s Miss Ilsa. I have to go.” With that, she scurried away.

Assuming she was lying, I went outside the room to view the board. The bell rang again. The placard beneath it read GUESTROOM 2. It very probably was Ilsa Cooper-Smith summoning her maid.

The housekeeper must have been keeping an eye out, for she approached me now with pinched lips and a disapproving expression. “Will that be all, Miss Cross?”

I hesitated. It couldn’t have been more apparent that Camille had been lying than if she wore a sign to that effect on her forehead. And yet, I had once more made note of which hand she favored—her right. Did that rule her out? Perhaps not; perhaps I’d been wrong in my assumption about the individual who wrapped the wire around Cleo’s throne.

“No,” I said, much to the housekeeper’s obvious dismay. “You know I’m here because of what happened to Mrs. Goelet’s guest?” I purposely phrased it that way—Mrs. Goelet’s guest—to appeal to the woman’s loyalties.

She nodded. “I do. Mrs. Goelet is still quite beside herself. If you’re about to ask to see her, I’m afraid I cannot allow it.”

Though I wondered about the validity of a housekeeper’s power to restrict her mistress’s visitors, I did realize she could summon any number of footmen to block my entrance to the upstairs rooms. “It’s not Mrs. Goelet I wish to see. In fact, I don’t wish to see anyone at the moment.” I lowered my voice, as much to prevent others from hearing as to invite the housekeeper into my confidence. I had a hunch this astute and no-nonsense woman would sense something in Camille that garnered her disapproval. “Would you allow me to take a look at Miss Tate’s bedroom?”

“Why? Has she done something untoward?”

A secret engagement would certainly qualify as untoward in this woman’s view, but I decided to keep Camille’s secret for now. “She tended to Miss Cleo Cooper-Smith, and I am assisting Detective Whyte with the investigation, at least until he has recovered from his injuries.”

She nodded in solemn comprehension. “Follow me.”

I admit to hesitating when I realized she headed for the elevator. However, she didn’t pause as she opened what resembled an ordinary paneled door, then slid a collapsible gate to one side and stepped in. Setting aside my trepidation of the conveyance, I hurried to catch up to her, though when she gripped the lever and set the box in motion, my fingers curled into fists until my nails bit into my palms.

She slowed the car and gradually brought it even with the third-floor threshold. The gallery here consisted of low, elaborately gilded archways that shielded much of the activity here from the floors below. But it was along a secondary hallway, one that appeared reserved for upper servants, that she briskly led me. She stopped before a door and opened it with all the authority of her position as housekeeper.

“I’ll have to remain with you, Miss Cross.”

“That’s perfectly all right.” I went into the room, which contained only one bedstead, dresser, and a washstand. With a look at the housekeeper, who gave a nod of approval, I began going through the dresser. The usual things revealed themselves to me, and I found nothing to incriminate Camille in any way. The washstand could hide nothing, as it contained no drawers or cabinets. I quickly examined the walls for any sign of an opening panel, but there were none. Then I turned to the bed.

The housekeeper surmised my intent, for she moved from the doorway to stand at the other side of the mattress. As one, we knelt and slid our hands beneath the mattress, as far as they could go. We began at the iron headboard and worked our way down. My outstretched hands came in contact with nothing but linens. But the housekeeper went still about a yard from the footboard.

“Miss Cross.”

She held a velvet drawstring bag, of a deep midnight blue color, and was working the strings open. I rose and circled the bed. Before I saw what spilled across her palm, I had already guessed what it might be.

“I knew there was something about that girl that couldn’t be trusted.” The housekeeper held out her hand to me. A platinum chain dripped diamonds across her fingers. “Mrs. Goelet and Miss Ilsa will hear of this right away. That little thief—”

“Please say nothing for now.” I reached for my handbag where I had set it on the bed, opened it, and drew out the broken setting I’d found in Cleo’s room. When I held it next to the larger piece, there could be no mistaking that they belonged together. “Look at this. I found it in Miss Cleo’s room.”

“Why, Camille not only stole it, she broke it, too. Even so, the stones must be worth a fortune.” She looked me directly in the eye. “Tell me why her treachery should not be revealed this very minute, and the brazen hussy hauled off to jail.”

“I need to discover what this means first,” I said. “If Camille stole it from her mistress, and Miss Cleo discovered the theft, it could very well have been a reason for Camille to commit murder.”

The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. “Murder?”

I made a snap decision. “Surely you’ve heard the whispers that Miss Cleo’s death was no accident.”

She hesitated before nodding. “Isn’t that all the more reason to expose Camille’s theft?”

“The only thing we know for certain about this necklace is that it cannot belong to Camille. Since I found the broken fragment in Miss Cleo’s room, we can safely assume it belonged to her. But someone could have put the necklace here in attempt to frame Camille. Or Camille might have stolen it, but it could still have nothing to do with Miss Cleo’s death. Either way, the less information that reaches the murderer’s ears the better. We don’t want to alert him or her that we have any leads.”

“Oh, yes, I do see. Then what do we do with it?” She issued a challenge with a lift of her eyebrow. Clearly she didn’t quite trust me, not entirely.

To put her mind at ease, I said, “Perhaps we should leave it where you found it, for now. Keep an eye on Camille. If she leaves the house, check to see if the necklace is still here. If it isn’t, telephone me at my home. You may leave a message if I’m not there. I live with my housekeeper and maid-of-all-work. I trust them both implicitly. Oh, and . . .”

She guessed my reason for trailing off. “I’m Mrs. Hendricks.”

“Mrs. Hendricks, please also keep a close eye on Miss Ilsa.”

She had poured the necklace back into the bag and leaned over to slide the parcel back beneath the mattress. At my words she looked up and froze. She asked no questions and I saw no need to explain. We both knew I had placed on her an onerous burden.