Chapter 11
“She never should have broken it off with Oliver,” Ilsa continued. I let go the breath I’d been holding, having been almost certain I’d been about to hear a confession. “Cleo did him an ill turn, Emma, and he didn’t deserve it. Perhaps he’d be alive now if only Cleo hadn’t spurned his affections.”
Hearing her echo Mrs. Kipp’s sentiments, it took me a moment to recover from my astonishment and find my voice. “Surely there must have been a good reason for her actions. Perhaps they argued, or they merely didn’t suit.”
“Oliver would never have argued with my sister. He was a gentleman, always.”
“Could he have been the one to break it off?” I asked, remembering what Dorian Norris had said about the matter.
“Oliver? Never. He loved my sister, I know he did. And believe me, they suited better than Cleo and that awful Mr. Griggson.”
On that I couldn’t have agreed more. But if Oliver hadn’t broken it off, as Dorian claimed, there had to be some logical reason for Cleo’s actions. Oliver was a gentleman in the social sense, an officer—or would have been if he hadn’t dropped out of West Point—and though his family fortune came nowhere close to that of my relatives or the Goelets, he was wealthy enough. A young woman like Cleo Cooper-Smith, with a limited dowry, wouldn’t squander a marriage opportunity like that without good cause. I simply couldn’t shake the notion of her affections having strayed from Oliver to someone else.
“Ilsa, could Robert Goelet have won your sister’s affections?”
“Robert?” She let out a laugh. “Oh, Robert is nice enough and will be wildly wealthy when he comes of age, but no. First of all, he was too young for my sister. Secondly, he barely noticed Cleo, or me for that matter.”
“Are you sure?” I didn’t want to betray Miss Goelet’s confidence, so I didn’t allude to where I’d gotten the notion.
“Completely. Cleo certainly never mentioned him, not in that way.”
Miss Goelet must have been mistaken, or perhaps had allowed her imagination to run away with her. I didn’t doubt, given that she hadn’t held Cleo in the highest regard, that she might have been overprotective of her brother’s interests.
If not Robert or Dorian Norris, then who . . . ?
Patrick Floyd, the family friend? Jesse had suggested perhaps both sisters were in love with him, had fought over him. Mr. Floyd might have led them both on. Meanwhile, his own wife might have committed suicide after discovering her husband’s unfaithfulness.
I put the question to Ilsa.
“Patrick?” Her breath caught in her throat and her complexion burned hotter than a candle flame. She pushed unsteadily to her feet and stumbled, prompting me to jump up from my seat and offer my hand to her. She found her balance without my help and limped again to the window. “No, indeed not. Cleo and Patrick? What a silly notion.”
I followed her to the window, where she stood with one hand pressed to the mullioned panes, the other clutching the neckline of her dress. At the ball, I had seen her adoring looks at Patrick, the depth of feeling in her eyes. At the time I had believed that affection to be all on her side, with Patrick feeling for her only the regard of a brother. Her reaction to my question now brought on a new theory and I placed a hand on her misaligned shoulder. “Ilsa, I do believe one of the Cooper-Smith sisters has been involved with Mr. Floyd, but I no longer think it was Cleo.”
She said nothing for a long moment, but I felt her trembling beneath my hand. And then she turned and was suddenly in my arms, sobbing wildly.
“Oh, Miss Cross. Oh, Emma. I’ve been wicked, so very wicked. I never meant to harm Matilda. Never meant for her to . . .”
Harm her how? Jesse had also wondered if Ilsa had been at the Floyd home the night Matilda died—the night the gas line had been left open with no flame. Could Ilsa have done such a thing to rid herself of her rival for Patrick’s heart?
Her tears flowed unhindered, and with her in such a state I could do nothing but stroke her back and murmur soothing phrases. But good heavens, she had had an affair with a married man? Even though I had guessed as much, hearing her admit it shocked me to my core. When her distress began to subside, I led her back to our chairs, pulling mine closer so I could hold her hand.
“How long?”
She sniffed and wiped the backs of her hands across her eyes. “Since about two months before Matilda . . . before she . . .”
“Died,” I said gently.
“Yes, but we never did anything You must believe me. I mean, we went for walks, we read books together, we held hands . . . nothing more.”
I wished to believe her. I found nothing worldly or fallen in her manner, nothing but an innocent woman-child who was desperate to be loved and valued. She proved that with her next words.
“No one before Patrick had ever cared for me. And he does, Emma. He still does, though since Matilda’s passing he has kept a distance, out of respect. He didn’t wish ill on her either. It’s just that they married young and had nothing in common. He tried but he could not make her happy. She had become erratic and melancholy.”
“Did he make you promises back then, while his wife still lived?”
“No, not then. But more recently. Someday soon, he and I will be together.”
I wagered he had promised her that, and more. I wondered what game he played at. The fact that he hadn’t yet taken Ilsa’s virtue did little to endear him to me. In my opinion, turning his affections to one woman while married to another made a mockery of both of them.
Had he used Ilsa to be rid of a wife who had grown burdensome? Perhaps, but even that despicable action suggested no reason why he would have murdered Cleo. I only wished I could say the same about Ilsa.
Once more composed, she went into the bathroom to wash her face. I used the opportunity to ring for tea. It arrived quickly, almost as if it had been ready and waiting—had Grace predicted the necessity for it? Meanwhile, I considered everything she had said so far, and compared it to what I remembered from her sister’s ball. A thing or two puzzled me. I waited until Ilsa had drunk about half of her cup of tea, speaking of light matters until I deemed her restored enough to continue with my questions. If the previous ones had been difficult for her, these promised to leave her distraught.
But they had to be asked.
“Ilsa,” I ventured slowly, “I couldn’t help but notice, during the ball, that your sister wasn’t always kind to you.”
She looked up at me in surprise. “What do you mean?”
Was she deliberately playing the innocent, hoping to disconcert me? “I’m thinking specifically of the incident with Mrs. Russell.”
“Mrs. Russell?” Her chin tilted, but then righted as she took on a look of comprehension. “She was not very kind to me.”
“I certainly agree with you. She was most unkind. But your sister, forgive me for saying, did not exactly come to your defense.”
“Well . . .” I watched closely as she groped for a response. She crossed her feet, then quickly uncrossed them and set them flat on the floor. “Sisters often argue. Do you have a sister, Emma?”
“No, only a brother.”
“But surely you know that when siblings argue, nothing very serious is meant by it.”
“True, in most cases. But . . .” I chose my words carefully. “You and Cleo weren’t arguing that I saw. Mrs. Russell’s thoughtlessness hurt you, and your sister compounded the offense by making light of the situation.”
I braced, expecting a fresh round of tears. However, Ilsa merely stared down at her lap. “My sister was right. I should not allow the words of others, however hurtful, to daunt me.”
“But you were daunted.” I thought back to the incident, and made a realization. “You didn’t walk off in tears because of what Mrs. Russell said. It was what your sister said that sent you from the ballroom.”
She had begun shaking her head before I’d quite finished the comment. “No, it had nothing to do with Cleo. It was Mrs. Russell.”
“Ilsa, had you and Cleo argued that day? Had she been unkind to you earlier?”
“No, never. She was always so good to me.”
“Was she? Or did she apportion her kindness out of obligation, as one does to a relative for whom one feels little true affinity?”
“What a terrible thing to say.” She placed her cup and saucer on the table beside us and pushed to her feet.
Knowing she was about to demand I leave, I hurried to make my point. “Someone argued with your sister that morning, loud enough to be overheard through the walls.”
“Who says we argued? Was it Camille? Cleo yelled at her that morning. I heard them.”
“Never mind about your lady’s maid. Did you and your sister argue?”
“Are you accusing me . . .” She trailed off and gulped, and sank back into her chair. Her head drooped, and then moved up and down several times. “We did, Emma. We argued frightfully that morning. It was because I was feeling so drained, and I told her I might not be able to be present through all the festivities ahead of us.” She looked up at me, her eyes once more awash. “You can’t understand how exhausting it is, having my condition. Simply standing, holding myself as straight as I can, is as taxing as a hard day’s labor.”
I nodded my sympathy, if not my understanding, for she was correct. Having always enjoyed robust health, I could not fully appreciate her plight.
“She told me I was being selfish, that I should wear my brace as my physician recommended. That I was just making excuses. Oh, but Emma, the brace hurts. It makes things worse. Cleo said I was being difficult and called me a martyr that morning, and when she said it again that night . . .”
I reached over and patted her hand. “Ilsa, tell me again what you were doing in the drawing room that afternoon, when Mrs. Goelet gave specific orders that no one be allowed into the room.”
“I told you.” Her gaze wandered from mine. “I wanted to make certain everything was ready.”
“Is that really all?”
Her breathing became more rapid, and she shrank down into her chair. “I . . .” Her brow creased. “Oh, all right. Perhaps it was petty of me, but I wanted to know what it would be like.”
“Being up on the dais that evening,” I guessed.
She nodded. “Having all the attention, feeling like a queen. Like Cleopatra. But I’m no queen, am I? Just as Cleo’s name suggests ancient Egyptian royalty, mine suggests exactly what I am. Ilsa—ill. How apt, as if my parents had glimpsed the future and seen what I would become.”
Was I finally learning the truth about the sisters’ relationship? “No, Ilsa. Your name is lovely. You mustn’t think that. But it upset you, didn’t it, Cleo always having all the attention?”
“It wasn’t just the attention.” She sounded like a plaintive child. “It was all the expectations that went along with it. Everyone predicted a glorious future for her. Mother asked Mrs. Goelet to see to Cleo’s marriage, but she made no such request for me. ‘Poor Ilsa, she’ll need to be taken care of for the rest of her life.’ First Father, then Cleo. Yes, it was expected that I’d spend my life in some corner of Cleo’s home like a poor, maidenly aunt. Only, Cleo’s not here anymore to take me in, is she?”
“It angered you to be seen that way, didn’t it?” I asked quietly, and with as much sympathy as I could muster. And I was sympathetic. But I was also very nearly holding my breath again as I waited to discover just how angry Ilsa had been with her sister.
She didn’t hold back. “Yes, I was angry. At times, furious. Before this happened to me”—she indicated her torso with a brusque flourish of her hand—“I was the prettier child. The more charming child. Everyone said so. I had the attention, Emma.”
“I was struck by your beauty the first time we met,” I told her truthfully. She blinked and darted her glance away again. “What did you do before I found you in the ballroom?”
She shrugged. “I walked up onto the dais, sat on Cleo’s throne, pretended”—she swallowed—“pretended I was her, gazing out on a room full of admirers.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“I couldn’t help touching a thing or two. The throne, the flowers.” Her gaze caught mine sharply. “What are you implying? That I . . . ? That’s absurd. I wouldn’t have the first notion of how to rig the wires. None whatsoever.”
While on the surface that seemed true, how could I know how much of the electrical work Ilsa might have witnessed? Had the drawing room been kept locked at all times during the preparations? Surely the doors must have been open—from the hall, from the terrace—to allow the equipment and decorations to be brought in. No, I guessed it wasn’t until all had been made ready that Mrs. Goelet had sealed off the rooms to preserve them in their perfect state for the evening’s entertainments.
And then I realized she hadn’t denied the possibility based on her love for her sister, but rather on her lack of technical knowledge needed to devise such a murder. I took my leave of her soon after, resolving to stop at the hospital as soon as possible and check in on Dale. Perhaps, if he was awake and able to speak, he could tell me who passed in and out of the drawing room before the ball. If not, I would have to track down his assistants.
Before leaving, I said good-bye to Grace and went belowstairs to seek out the housekeeper, Mrs. Hendricks, and ask her if she had any news about Camille. She invited me into her parlor and closed the door to ensure our privacy.
“I’ve kept a close watch on her, Miss Cross. So much so, she’s taken to giving me quelling looks and trying to dodge me at every turn.” The woman crossed her arms over her black worsted bodice. “Little good it does her. There’s not a soul in this house that I don’t know where he or she is.”
“But the necklace, Mrs. Hendricks. Is it still where we found it?”
“It is. I still think the police should be informed. I do not suffer a thief in my house, Miss Cross, and if Mrs. Goelet found out—well, I shudder to think.”
This gave me pause. “I don’t want you to get into any trouble over this. Perhaps I should speak with Mrs. Goelet and—”
“Don’t you dare disturb the mistress. She’s been through enough, losing her dear friend’s daughter and feeling partly responsible.”
“Yes, and I’m sorry to hear she feels culpable. I’ll leave it be for now, but if you do run into difficulty because of me, I’ll take the blame.”
She didn’t reply, but I detected a glint of relief in her eyes.
* * *
After collecting Maestro and my carriage, I headed back into town. Along the way I reviewed everything I had learned at The Breakers and Ochre Court that morning. Max Brentworth must be feeling threatened by this new onslaught of electricity, or why would my questions have prompted him to order me from his carriage? I entertained little doubt that he was behind this new rash of protests involving his workers from the Newport Gas Light Company. I didn’t believe he would go so far as to murder a young woman intentionally, but perhaps he only meant to deliver a shock, thus frightening the Four Hundred away from electrical power.
I could much more easily envision Mr. Brentworth at the root of Cleo’s death than Ilsa. Today I believed I had seen the real Ilsa, rather than the one she wished to project to the world. Not the sweet-tempered, proper young woman who was content to live in the shadow of her beloved sister, but the Ilsa who had suffered both injury and insult at the hands of others—including her sister—and who understandably harbored bitter resentment at the unfairness of her situation. She admitted to arguing with Cleo that morning, and suffered yet another offense from her sister that evening. Had her resentment pushed her too far?
Finally, I considered what Camille intended doing with the broken diamond necklace. Presumably, she would sell it. She and Dorian Norris were forced to keep their courtship a secret because his family would never approve. They would probably cut him off, leaving him next to destitute. But if the couple found their own source of money, they would be free to marry. Did Camille act alone in stealing the necklace, or had Dorian encouraged her? Camille might be waiting to leave Newport before attempting to sell the piece, especially if Cleo had discovered the theft before she died and threatened to have her arrested. If all this proved true, the question remained whether Camille or Dorian, or both, arranged for Cleo to die.
These revelations didn’t rule out other suspects, such as Silas Griggson, a man with much to conceal. I couldn’t shake the notion that perhaps Cleo discovered something to incriminate Mr. Griggson in the New York tenement collapse. Then again, Lorraine Kipp blamed Cleo for her son’s death, and might have seized the opportunity at Ochre Court to take her revenge.
While I planned to visit the hospital and speak to Dale Hanson, I nonetheless turned my carriage onto Spring Street and came to a stop outside a two-story clapboard building that housed several small businesses downstairs and apartments upstairs. I walked to the corner and opened the door beneath the sign that read THE NEWPORT MESSENGER.
Unlike the Observer’s offices, this small establishment boasted no anteroom. A clerk occupied a desk at one side of the rectangular room, facing the window onto the street. In the other corner, sat Derrick Andrews.
He came to his feet after glancing up and seeing it was me. “Emma! What brings you here?”
“I’m honestly not sure,” I replied, feeling foolish. What had prompted me to take this detour?
“Whatever the reason, it’s good to see you.” The clerk cast a quizzical glance at us, and Derrick made the introductions. “Jimmy Hawkins, this is Miss Emmaline Cross.” I winced slightly at his use of my full name, which I considered altogether too fussy for a sensible woman like myself.
Mr. Hawkins, a man of perhaps my own age if not a year or two younger, came over to shake my hand.
Derrick explained, “Jimmy worked for my father for a while but came down from Providence to be my clerk here. He’s been quite a godsend. Nobody’s better organized.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Hawkins.”
The telephone rang, summoning the young man back to his desk. Derrick gestured toward a closed door through which the muffled sounds of the workday could be heard. “Would you like to see the place? We’ve done quite a lot since you were here last summer. I’ve added a new press.”
Derrick’s pride in showing off his presses and his newsroom staff of three was infectious, and I couldn’t help envisioning being the proprietress of a similar operation. However, any thought I might have had of Derrick selling me the Messenger were dashed by his enthusiasm. I had been correct in assuming, a year ago, that being disinherited by his father and cast out of the family newspaper business, the Providence Sun, would only rouse his creativity and ambition to make a success on his own. True, beside the Sun, the Messenger paled in terms of scope and subscriptions, but I didn’t doubt that in time, the two businesses would rival each other.
He led me back through to the front office and to the street door. “I thought you might wish to talk,” he said as he ushered me outside. “We’ll have more privacy than in the office.”
As we set off along the sun-drenched sidewalk, I told him about my morning and what I had learned since our sojourn to Fort Adams, including Miss Goelet’s claim that Cleo might have wished to marry her brother. “I tend to discount that as particularly important,” I told him. “Robert is only eighteen, and I believe Miss Goelet might have been speaking out of resentment of Cleo’s hold on her mother.”
“You’re probably right about that,” he said. “Even if it’s true, it’s hardly a reason for anyone to commit murder. My money is on Griggson. It sounds most feasible that Miss Cooper-Smith learned something about him she shouldn’t have and he needed her out of the way.”
“You think it’s linked to the tenement collapse?”
His hand went to the small of my back to guide me past a deliveryman and his handcart. “I’d wager the collapse is likely one of many instances of shoddy and dangerous construction. And of skimming funds off such projects.”
“I think so, too. What do you know of Silas Griggson? He seems to me to have sprung up from almost nowhere, a wealthy, powerful man with little or no background.”
Derrick chuckled. “Oh, he has a background, you can be sure of that.”
“Yes, but nothing that suggested he would become a leader in the construction industry, with buildings in almost every New York neighborhood. I couldn’t trace the source of the money that allowed him to buy his way in.”
“That alone tells us he’s a dangerous man.” Derrick’s voice took on an ominous note. “And that his position was ill gained.”
“Griggson is the obvious choice in Cleo’s death, assuming she learned something she shouldn’t have. What about the others?”
We came to Trinity Church and entered the churchyard, strolling beneath the trees and the shadow of the soaring steeple.
“Such as the sister?” he asked.
“Or Mrs. Kipp, for instance. And Max Brentworth.”
Derrick shook his head. “Possible, but doubtful. Consider what each had to gain from Cleo’s death.”
“Revenge. Satisfaction based on jealousy. A return to gas lighting in new homes.” I ticked them off on my fingers.
“Revenge wouldn’t bring back Mrs. Kipp’s son. Nor would satisfaction restore Ilsa’s health. And you say she believes herself to be in love, with marriage prospects.”
“Does a murderer always think in logical terms?” I challenged.
He leaned with his hands against the rounded edge of tombstone marked from the previous century and stared at the backs of the buildings blocking our view of the harbor. “Sometimes they do. A strange, twisted sort of logic. Something tells me this matter is more twisted than most.”
“In that case, we certainly can’t rule out Max Brentworth, for twisted logic might have convinced him sacrificing a young woman would benefit his business.” I stood beside him, breathing in the scents of grass and loam and the faint brine carried from the bay. The sensations steadied me, as they always did. “I can’t rule out anyone until I learn more. I need to speak with Dale Hanson,” I said, remembering my initial reason for coming to town. “If someone had observed his work in the drawing room, he or she might have gained enough understanding to wrap stripped wire around the throne’s metal legs. Even an infirm young woman.”
“You’re right,” he conceded with a nod.
“Not that I wish to believe it of her. I truly don’t.” I gave a soft laugh. “I liked her immediately. She captured my sympathy, but more than that, she charmed me. Ilsa is childlike and ingenuous, but she’s no fool. And her feelings run deep.” I remembered I had something else to tell him. “Silas Griggson offered to buy Gull Manor.”
He straightened abruptly. “You’re joking. What did you say?”
“I told him no, of course. He persisted, even vaguely threatened me. Finally, I ordered him out.” I frowned as I relayed more of the conversation. A shiver rippled across my shoulders. “Do you think he’ll be back?”
He reached for my hands, turning me to face him and all but wrapping me in his palpable concern. “Have you mentioned this to Jesse?”
I shook my head as apprehension churned inside me. For the most part, I had put the incident behind me, but Derrick raised new fears of a powerful man intent on having his way.
“I think you should,” he said, emphatic. “I don’t like this. I don’t like that he insisted, and that he said your relatives wouldn’t be able to help you. Talk to the police, Emma. If you don’t, I will.”