Chapter 13
Jesse and I left our buggies on Bellevue Court, a side street off the main avenue beside The Elms’ property. Before we’d gone very far the unrest here became apparent. Men were shouting and foul language permeated the air. Several other reporters had arrived before us. I recognized one young man Derrick had introduced me to at the Messenger. And Ed Billings, my onetime fellow reporter at the Observer, stood safely beneath the shelter of a weeping elm. He saw me and nodded in what seemed more of a challenging gesture than a friendly one. Ed and I had locked horns frequently when I worked for the Observer. I’d discovered early on he would rather read over my shoulder than track down the facts of a story for himself, but it was almost always his articles that ran because Mr. Millford didn’t believe people wished to read serious news written by a woman. The unseemliness of it offended the sensibilities of the populace, or so he told me on numerous occasions.
I ignored Ed and focused on my longtime acquaintance on the police force, Scotty Binsford, pushing his way through a throng of workers converged beside the massive, rectangular cavity that would be the basement and cellars of the completed house. Several other policemen were attempting to restore order, but their demands and pleas went unheeded.
Jesse flashed me an incredulous look along with a terse order to venture no closer to the ruckus before he himself charged in, badge in his outthrust hand. I immediately saw the wisdom of remaining where I was, especially as tensions intensified and a roar went up. I clamped my teeth in worry for Jesse and the other officers and craned my neck to follow their actions.
Soon, two sets of men began to take shape in my sights: ones in woolen flat caps, shirtsleeves, and corduroy trousers, versus others in shabby street clothes wearing dented derbies and battered straw boaters. It didn’t take me long to understand that the construction crew, and specifically the electrical workers, were warding off a confrontation by disgruntled gas workers from town.
The chaos seemed to expand and I backed away, putting more distance between me and the mounting anger. I lost track of my fellow reporters, Ed included, as more than a few fists waved in the air, some making contact with jaws or shoulders or chests. Were there enough policemen present to quell the unrest? I was beginning to think not, to think perhaps I should rush over the nearest property and beg the use of a telephone to call Chief Rogers at the police station. Then a familiar face and baritone caught my attention.
Max Brentworth, taller and broader than the more wiry workmen, moved through the unruly tangle. I watched as he grabbed shirtfronts, suspenders, and coat lapels, and roughly shoved men aside. I couldn’t distinguish his exact words, but his scowls conveyed his growing anger. Had he instigated this?
I whisked out my pencil and notepad and began making notes. If anyone was seriously injured, I wanted to keep an accurate record. Suddenly, two scuffling men went tumbling over the flimsy fence erected around the gaping chasm and plummeted some twenty feet down.
The shoving and fighting ceased, but a new outcry went up. With the fate of the two workers now my foremost concern, I circumvented the activity and hurried along to the front of the property, where I could get closer to the fenced-off perimeter. Below me sprawled the bowels of what would be Newport’s next great house. Gazing down at the web of pipes, ductwork, and cables made me dizzy. Ladders descended at intervals from ground level. They swarmed now with men hurrying down and converging on the two prone workers. Not far from them stood the great coal furnaces that, I’d been told, would burn day and night to generate electricity for the house.
A pair of stretchers appeared—I assumed they were kept on hand for just such emergencies—and were lowered into the pit. The injured men were carefully rolled onto them, and then ropes were attached for the arduous task of raising the stretchers back to ground level. The reality of two hurt individuals, their fate still unknown to those above, had done what the police could not: restore a modicum of order. At any rate, the anger seemed to have diminished as all of the men peered down at the rescue efforts. Perhaps they were remembering that they were all Newporters. Max Brentworth continued circulating through the crowd, but he, too, seemed far more composed than previously.
The immediate danger over for now, I made my way back over to the others. When I got there, I chose a man at random, and was gratified to realize he and I were acquainted, fellow longtime residents of the Point. He was not one of the Elms crew, I realized at once, for his clothing matched that of the men who had come here from town.
“George, what happened?”
“Emma, is that you?” He was large and brawny, with unruly dark hair and a wide nose. We hadn’t seen each other in a good long time, but I knew he didn’t mean the question literally, for he recognized me as surely as I did him. Still, I nodded, and he went on. “Honestly, I don’t know why I’m here. I work for Brentworth, and I’ve been hearing a lot of talk lately about how we’re all going to lose our jobs. So, when the others decided to come out here, I tagged along.”
“Could have gotten yourself hurt,” I admonished him. “And then where would Louise and the children be?”
He belatedly whisked off his derby and ducked his head. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be here.” He glanced about warily.
“Why don’t you go,” I whispered, “before the police start making arrests?”
His face filled with alarm. “Do you suppose they will?”
“I don’t know, but if I were you I wouldn’t wait to find out.”
With another cautious look about him, George Riley slipped away. One of the stretchers had been raised to ground level, and was now being maneuvered onto solid ground by several men. It seemed everyone involved had decided to put their differences aside and work together. One of the men being rescued raised a hand in the air to signal that he was conscious and, I hoped, not in terrible pain. I breathed a sigh of relief for him.
“Making trouble, Miss Cross?”
My sigh became a gasp. Max Brentworth stood at my shoulder, and as I turned to gaze up at him, his scowl forced me back a step. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Miss Cross, that your being here reeks of foul play. How dare you?”
“How dare I what?” From the corner of my eye I searched for Jesse or Scotty but saw no sign of either of them.
“How dare you stir up trouble to sell newspapers.”
“Oh? One might accuse you of the same thing, Mr. Brentworth, except that rather than selling newspapers, you’re trying to save your business.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you think no one realizes how reporters like you manipulate events and orchestrate trouble to create stories where none would have existed otherwise? It’s no coincidence your reappearance in this city coincided with the rising of tensions.”
“You’ve greatly overestimated my influence if you think I’m capable of orchestrating this.” I wanted to laugh, except that I found nothing funny about being in such close proximity to a man of his size and apparent strength. I very much supposed he began his career like much of his workforce, as a laborer, and through constant toil, sharp wits, and yes, perhaps a bit of intimidation here and there, worked his way to the position he currently held.
I refused to let him intimidate me, or at least, let him see that he intimidated me. “If anything, it would be you inciting your workers to protest the use of electricity in the new houses being built. Admit it. You feel threatened by it, don’t you, Mr. Brentworth?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve invested in the development of electricity. I might own a gas company, but I’m neither stupid nor blind to the future.”
“Oh,” I said rather lamely. This unexpected turn robbed me of much of my bravado.
“Besides, do you think I would put men’s lives and livelihood at risk in pointless displays of civil disobedience?” He moved closer to me, his bulk blocking out all else. A ripple of fear went through me, yet I could not believe he would harm me in so public a setting. “Are you that foolish, Miss Cross?”
“Are you? Do you think I would put lives at risk to sell a story? I grew up here. I know many of these men. If I wished to oppose the use of electricity over gas, I could certainly think of many safer yet more efficient means of doing so. At the same time, when I see a story unfolding, yes, it is my job to report on it. Not to create it, Mr. Brentworth, but merely to relay the facts.”
We stared each other down for several seconds. Then, almost imperceptibly, his stance relaxed. The knot in my stomach eased.
“It seems we’ve reached an impasse, Mr. Brentworth.”
“Perhaps we have,” he said, begrudgingly. He took my measure, as I took his. Could I have been wrong about him?
“Why are you here?” I asked in perhaps too demanding a voice.
He took my tone in stride. “To keep my men out of jail by persuading them to maintain some semblance of order. You can go around and ask them if you like.”
“Well, then . . . I’m here to cover an ongoing story, one that seemed to begin with Cleo Cooper-Smith’s death. And no other reason.” I emphasized that last, still indignant at being accused of manipulating events to my own advantage. Then I relented. “Perhaps I misjudged you, Mr. Brentworth.”
“Perhaps I misjudged you, Miss Cross.” He didn’t look at all happy about this admission. I supposed Max Brentworth did not like being proven wrong.
I frowned, but no longer in anger. “So then, this is why you ordered me out of your carriage. Because you thought I was trying instigate unrest among your workers.”
“Well . . .” He lifted his chin and sniffed. “Yes.”
“Your doing so only made me suspect you all the more.”
His scowl returned. “Of murdering Miss Cooper-Smith?”
It was a question I didn’t care to answer, so I said, “Can you vouch for your men, that one of them wasn’t involved?”
“I believe I can.” His mouth slanted ruefully. “I apologize for ordering you out of my carriage.”
“I apologize for suspecting you of murder.” We stood in momentary, awkward silence. I compressed my lips. He shuffled his feet. Finally, I said, “If you learn of anything that might be significant about the night of the ball, will you please tell Detective Whyte?”
“I will.” His brusque manner persisted, but his hostility was gone.
* * *
Jesse insisted I go home following the incident at The Elms. “Have Nanny make you some of her potent tea, and for a little while at least don’t worry about any of this. I’m back to work now. Let me handle things.”
Standing beneath the trees lining Bellevue Court, I regarded the concern on his earnest features, his half-Irish complexion lightly freckled by the summer sun. My instinct was to protest, to tell him he was the one who should go home. He had left the hospital only yesterday. He needed more rest, more time for his hands to heal.
But he wouldn’t wish to hear it. And he certainly wouldn’t be willing to accept the notion of my putting myself in danger while he went home and put his feet up. His next words proved me correct.
“You shouldn’t have come with me to The Elms. You so easily could have been hurt among all those enraged men. Things are getting out of control, Emma, and it’s got me worried. Not just as relates to this case or even this particular occurrence. But when I see Newporter against Newporter, I know something is terribly wrong.”
I plucked a fallen leaf from the brim of my hat. “Times are changing.”
“They’ve always been changing, and I’ve seen festering resentments before, but somehow this is different. Sometimes I’m afraid Newport doesn’t belong to us anymore—to those of us who were born here and live every day of our lives here. This city’s become the property of . . .” He stopped short with a sheepish look.
“Of people like my relatives.”
He nodded. “People like the Vanderbilts do a lot of good. Progress, charities, universities. But those are general things. They seem blind when it comes to the daily lives of ordinary people. They came sweeping into Newport twenty years ago and began reshaping it to suit their desires, and I don’t see that we’re any the better for it.”
I touched his forearm. “I don’t think we can blame my relatives and their friends for today’s events. Can they be faulted for wanting what is new and innovative?”
“The best money can buy,” Jesse said with a touch of bitterness. It wasn’t like him, this blanket condemnation of an entire group of people. He knew as well as I that money or no, there were good people and bad people and every type of character in between. He was tired, I reasoned. Tired and still worried about his physical recovery.
I could not help him with that, but I could prevent him from worrying about me; that much I could and would do for him. “I’ll go home. You’re right. I could use some of Nanny’s strong tea. Would you like to join me?”
“I have work to do.” He gestured to where the uniformed policemen were gathering up those protesters who had resorted to violence. I nodded, having already known he wouldn’t be sipping tea with me at Gull Manor. Keeping busy at his profession would be the best medicine for him. “We’ll be letting most of them go,” he assured me. “But a few hours at the station house might persuade them to mind their manners next time.”
* * *
When Mrs. Hendricks telephoned, I considered alerting Jesse at the police station and letting him handle this new matter. I even told Nanny that that was my intention. She chuckled, and coaxed me to finish my tea before I returned to Ochre Court.
“I just said I’d let Jesse see to the matter,” I pointed out with an indignant huff.
“I know you all too well, Emma. When a call comes, you answer it.”
I pushed my teacup aside on the kitchen table, where we often had tea in the afternoons, rather than bring our light repast to the front rooms of the house. It was easier, and in our informal household, there was no one to raise an eyebrow at our lack of decorum. “You’re right, Nanny. Mrs. Hendricks said Camille has left the house and the necklace is gone. I need to go.”
She pushed my cup and saucer back toward me. “But not before you drink up and finish your sandwich.” Nanny had made her delicious chicken salad with the leftovers from last night’s roast.
“Perhaps I should go with you, Miss Emma.” Katie drained her own cup and stood to bring her dishes to the kitchen sink. Patch, lying on the mat by the garden door, stirred and lifted his head, no doubt hoping for a falling crumb or two.
“You know, Emma, that might not be a bad idea.” Nanny refilled her cup from the old earthenware teapot—the one guests never saw. “Maybe what this Camille won’t admit to you, she’ll say to Katie.”
Katie turned around from the sink, a dripping washrag suspended in one hand. “Or do you suppose a lady’s maid would turn up her nose at a maid-of-all-work?”
“Camille might balk at talking to me, but I can guarantee you Mrs. Hendricks will know the truth before too long. Camille left the house, and the necklace she stashed under her mattress is gone—the necklace that matches the broken section Grace and I found in Cleo’s bedroom. There can only be so many explanations for this, and it shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out which of them is the truth.”
“Poor Camille.” Katie sighed and took the cup and saucer I handed her.
Nanny scoffed. “Poor Camille? That’s not what you said the other day. You said someone should remind her of her place.”
“And so they should.” Katie added more washing soda to the dishwater. “Still, I can’t help feeling sorry for her. Stealin’ from her employer like that? She’ll likely go to jail, won’t she?” Katie shuddered. “It’ll be awful for her, and maybe she did it for her family. Maybe someone’s sick like, and they’re needin’ the money.”
I hadn’t the heart to contradict my kindhearted maid. Camille might indeed need money, but it was to facilitate her marriage to Dorian Norris, and not out of any desire to help anyone else. Perhaps she would go to prison for her crime. I only hoped that crime didn’t include murder.
A short time later, I drove up Ochre Court’s service drive and was discreetly admitted by the housekeeper. She hadn’t told me much on the telephone, and I didn’t quite know what to expect. What if Camille had taken the diamond necklace and left the island? Had it been a foolish decision on my part not to confront her immediately?
Mrs. Hendricks’s satisfied expression piqued my curiosity further as she led me to her private parlor and closed the door. In a high-backed, uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, Camille sat stiffly upright, her eyes glittering shards of anger. A young footman stood at attention a few feet from her.
“The moment I realized she’d left the premises, I sent Edgar after her. He followed her into town and intercepted her outside Herrmann’s Jewelers on Thames Street.”
“I know the place.” I regarded Camille’s defiant expression. “What can you have been thinking?”
“I can tell you that.” Mrs. Hendricks spoke with the brisk efficiency of someone who was no one’s fool. “She intended selling the piece and boarding the first ship, skiff, or wherry to the mainland.”
“That’s not true,” Camille snapped.
“Didn’t you realize the jeweler would question where you got the necklace?” My incredulity quelled any outrage I might have expressed. Her actions left me truly baffled. “You wouldn’t have made it to Jamestown before he sent the police after you.”
“I wasn’t trying to steal anything,” the young woman insisted. Her obstinacy also puzzled me. I would have thought she’d show an ounce of contrition to win our sympathies.
Mrs. Hendricks addressed Edgar. “Tell us exactly what happened.”
He took a step forward, almost like a child’s tin soldier put into play. “It didn’t take me long to catch up to her, although I stayed far enough back that she never noticed me. She went straight to Herrmann’s. No detours. Walked like she had a purpose.”
“Of course I had a purpose,” Camille interrupted, nearly spitting the last word.
Mrs. Hendricks made a slashing gesture at the air. “Go on, Edgar.”
“When she reached the shop she just stood staring through the window, not like she was admiring the trinkets on display, but like she was steeling herself to do something. Then she nodded, like she made a decision, and went inside. I went in right after her. I told Mr. Herrmann what she was up to and what my errand was, and I told Miss Tate if she didn’t come back to Ochre Court with me she’d be having a visit to the police station instead. Mr. Herrmann offered to telephone the station, but I told him no, we would handle it here.”
“Thank you, Edgar.” Mrs. Hendricks lifted her eyebrows as if all questions had been answered and Camille found guilty as charged. Yet, I wondered . . . “That will be all, Edgar. You may go.”
The young man frowned, clearly wishing to remain and see how matters progressed. I suspected theft at Ochre Court rarely if ever happened, especially under the sharp watch of Mrs. Hendricks. Other than the horrendous occurrence the night of the ball, this incident had probably constituted the single most exciting day of Edgar’s career. With no choice but to resume his regular duties, he dragged his feet as he crossed the room.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Camille leaped up from her chair and rushed to where I stood. “This is all a misunderstanding. I would never steal from Miss Ilsa. I was only trying to make things right before she found out . . .”
“Be silent, girl, and sit back down. No one told you to get up.” The housekeeper said more calmly to me, “I had her brought back here only because of your request, Miss Cross. But I believe it’s time we called in the police.”
I thought Camille might speak up against that idea, but she merely dragged herself back to her chair, plunked herself down into it, crossed her arms, and assumed an insolent slouch. I had no argument for the housekeeper’s suggestion either. Despite Camille’s protests, she had been caught in the act, both of having stolen merchandise hidden beneath her bed, and of attempting to dispose of it. If the theft also connected Camille to Cleo’s murder, the police needed to know. But would a few more minutes make a difference?
“May I ask her a few questions first, Mrs. Hendricks?”
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt. She’s certainly not going anywhere now.”
“Where is the necklace?” I asked. The housekeeper retrieved the familiar velvet bag from her desk and handed it to me. I opened the drawstrings and poured the strand of diamonds into my palm. They glittered innocently in the glare of the room’s electric lamps, as though I held a handful of stars.
Perhaps it had not been fair of me to forgo questioning Camille when we first discovered the necklace in her possession. My thinking had been to watch her, to find out what her next move would be, and whether she would somehow implicate herself in Cleo’s death. But assuming she had nothing to do with the murder, had I allowed her to further incriminate herself by falling prey to temptation?
I had known desperate women before, aplenty. They had performed desperate, and some would say immoral acts, but through understanding their plight I had declined to judge them and had found ways to help them. Instead of approaching Camille’s situation with understanding, however, I had assumed the worst of her from the start. Perhaps I had done so because of the aggrieved way she had spoken of being in service, or had it been because of her secret courtship with Dorian Norris? Had I judged her because of it?
Perhaps I had allowed society’s unfairness to color my own thinking, so that I had, without quite realizing it, found fault with the notion of a maid marrying a member of the Four Hundred. I cringed to consider it and became determined to help her if I could. I didn’t know if I could protect Camille from the law, but perhaps I could help her explain her actions to the police, and thereby help her face the coming ordeal.
I brought a side chair closer to her and sat. She pulled away as though trying to distance herself from me. Pretending not to notice, I spoke kindly but firmly. “Camille, tell us why you took the necklace. Was it an act of revenge against what you perceived to be unfair treatment by Miss Cleo? Or did you steal it as a means of being able to marry Dorian Norris? You must tell us exactly what happened if we are to help you.”
In any other circumstances I would have expected a humble, beseeching reply. Not from Camille. Instead, she once more vacated her seat and swept by me, going to the far wall to peer up through the high-set window. She stood there for several seconds, her chest heaving, her breath as audible as if she had just finished an arduous race. The housekeeper and I traded mystified looks. When Camille whirled to face us, it was not with meekness or shame, but with brazen hostility.
“I did no such thing, but at least someone has finally asked me what happened. I’ll thank you for that, Miss Cross, if not for your suspicions. I never stole that necklace. It was given to me.”
“By whom?” Mrs. Hendricks demanded.
“By Miss Cleo. She’s the one who stole it, from Miss Ilsa.”