Murder at Ochre Court

by Alyssa Maxwell

  I wanted to go to her, to stand beside her in a show of camaraderie. After all, no one would be asking me to dance tonight either. But I had a job to perform, and another member of the Cooper-Smith family beckoned, though he had yet to realize it.

  “Mr. Cooper-Smith, I’m Emma Cross with the New York Herald.” I held up my notepad and pencil as he turned from the circle of acquaintances with whom he had been speaking.

  He eyed me warily. “Yes?”

  “I’m here covering your daughter’s ball, sir.” I drew breath in preparation of asking him whether he and Mr. Griggson would be doing business here in Newport. While Richard Morris Hunt designed Ochre Court and many of the other mansions lining Bellevue Avenue, other architects had left their mark on Newport as well. My question for him was innocent enough, and indeed I had nothing against Randall Cooper-Smith. It was Silas Griggson I despised for his unconscionable actions. “If I may, sir, I’d like to ask you whether you are considering undertaking any projects in Newport—”

  “That is hardly society news, Miss Cross. If you are here to cover my daughter’s coming-out, then please do so. Excuse me.”

  “Mr. Cooper-Smith, another moment, please. My next question does pertain to your daughter. Word has it Silas Griggson is among her most favored suitors. Is that true, sir?”

  He had already begun moving away. Now he slowly turned pinched features toward me, his eyes blazing. “Do not spread rumors, Miss Cross. It is a risky endeavor, especially in your line of business.”

  He didn’t excuse himself this time, but turned on his heel and strode away, rather more rudely than Colonel Astor had been in escaping Mrs. Kipp.

  Had he threatened me? Did he oppose his daughter’s potential marriage to Silas Griggson? Why would he, if the two men were business associates? It set me wondering if Randall Cooper-Smith willingly took part in Mr. Griggson’s projects. Did he, too, suspect Griggson had caused the collapse of a tenement on New York’s Lower East Side? Or, worse, did he fear being discovered as blameworthy in the tragedy?

  If he thought his evasiveness would put me off, he would soon learn differently. But I hoped Randall Cooper-Smith had played no role in Mr. Griggson’s perfidy, for Ilsa’s sake if nothing else.

  I spotted her again, and felt inexplicably relieved to see her smiling up at a dark-haired man of about thirty. His features were patrician, his nose long and slightly aquiline, his chin square and firm. He was unknown to me personally, but on the receiving line I had learned his name was Patrick Floyd. I noticed his smile made only rare appearances as Ilsa chatted away, and when his lips did curl in amusement, there seemed something almost painful in the gesture, though I didn’t believe he wished to be away from her. On the contrary, he seemed quite settled at her side; one might even say protective in his stance beside her.

  Knowing full well Ilsa was not my assignment tonight, I nonetheless drifted closer while continuing to take notes on those present and what they wore.

  “If you would like to dance, Patrick, really, I wouldn’t mind,” I heard Ilsa saying. “Ask Cleo. I’d enjoy watching you.”

  He was a friend of the Cooper-Smith family, I surmised, or Ilsa would not have used his given name. My heart clenched at her encouraging him to dance with someone else, a clear reference to her own inability to do so.

  “Nonsense, Ilsa. I have no desire to dance tonight. I’m barely out of mourning, after all.”

  Perhaps that explained those pained looks of his; a ball could only be a grim reminder of a lost loved one.

  “You’re very kind to remain here with me,” she replied. “It’s been more than a year since your wife left us, and while I understand you miss Matilda very much, no one would think the less of you for rejoining society in all its many facets. Including dancing. Really, Patrick, you needn’t play the gallant for me. I am quite used to not dancing.”

  I wondered if his throat tightened the way mine did. Perhaps so. With a somber expression he turned his face to hers. “I play at nothing, Ilsa. I am perfectly content where I am.”

  She beamed up at him, and in that moment I perceived the unfortunate imbalance of their regard for each other. Did he realize her feelings approached love, were no less, certainly, than adoration, while his appeared those of a kindly uncle or older brother?

  Assured, at least, that she would be well looked after for the time being, I moved away. My compassion dissipated as I did so, for Silas Griggson moved within my sights. His attire once again fit him like a second skin, his evening clothes of the finest materials and tailoring. Apparently, he countenanced only the best when it came to his own creature comforts.

  I pulled up short. He stood with two other men, both much younger than himself and in military uniform. One of them was Sam Caldwell, whom I had met coming off the ferry yesterday. The other was Dorian Norris, whom I did not know personally, but by reputation only. He and Sam hailed from two of New York’s oldest, if not wealthiest, families. I hoped they were only trading the usual pleasantries with Griggson. The Four Hundred tolerated men like him only because they found him useful. As a real estate developer, he had influence on the course of their investments, and that allowed him entrée into their drawing rooms and ballrooms.

  But there were no drawing rooms or ballrooms in the tenement that collapsed last month. A half-dozen residents killed, dozens more injured, and the man held responsible—the construction foreman—dead.

  Like every other New York newspaper, the Herald reported that the project foreman had ordered shoddy materials and pocketed the cash he saved. He denied it, vehemently. Griggson himself had posted the bail. Only days before his first court hearing, a tugboat captain found the foreman floating in the East River.

  And yet here was Griggson, laughing with a pair of officers home from the war. . . .

  My attention sharpened as the music ended and Mr. Griggson broke away from his young companions. He walked purposefully onto the dance floor, his target obviously Cleo Cooper-Smith. His cool smile exuded the hope—no, the knowledge—that he would partner her for the next dance. When he was within several feet of her he extended his hand. Another man had moved to Miss Cooper-Smith’s side, his name undoubtedly written on her dance card, but at Griggson’s approach he backed away. It would appear Silas Griggson wielded the same influence at balls as he did in Tammany Hall. Or did he? For as he came within reach of Miss Cooper-Smith, her expression showed distaste. She raised her hems and scrambled in the opposite direction.

  Chapter 3

  “What on earth just happened?” Miss Cooper-Smith might as well have shot Silas Griggson point-blank, for the look of horror that crossed Mrs. Goelet’s face. She came up behind me, her voice so sharp I flinched. “Do something, quickly.”

  Startled, I whirled to regard her. “Me, ma’am? What can I do?”

  Her gaze slid past my shoulder, and then she brushed by me to where Grace and my cousin, Cornelius Vanderbilt III, stood ready for the next dance. Mrs. Goelet rudely stepped between them. “Grace, I need you to speak with Cleo. She just openly snubbed Mr. Griggson. What can she be thinking?”

  Grace was no more keen on intervening than I. “I barely know the child, May. She won’t listen to me. You should speak with her. You’re her patroness.”

  “She has grown weary of hearing my advice, Grace. She needs a fresh perspective to convince her of her best opportunities. Young girls can be so headstrong. . . .”

  As they debated the issue, Mrs. Goelet on the verge of panic and Grace firmly uncooperative, I sidled over to my cousin. Poor Neily looked uncertain and thoroughly out of his element, caught as he was in the machinations of women. Relief flooded his face as he caught sight of me.

  “Can I get you anything, Emmaline? Punch? A bite to eat?”

  I couldn’t help smiling at his eager tone. “I don’t think Grace would thank me for taking you away from her. Especially not now, with her sister attempting to enlist her help with Miss Cooper-Smith.” Despite my words, I slipped my arm through his
and drew him a few feet off the dance floor. “Tell me, what do you know about her? Does she wish to marry?”

  “Doesn’t every young woman wish to marry?”

  I’d been studying Grace and her sister, and alternately, Cleo Cooper-Smith, who had joined her sister across the room. At Neily’s observation, my gaze darted to his face. His question was a sincere one, as I could see by his bemused expression. “Most, Neily, but not all. And many of those who do wish a husband and children only do so because they’ve been told all their lives they should want such things.”

  “Not every woman is like you, Emmaline. Most can’t take care of themselves the way you can.”

  My sights once more landed on the Misses Cooper-Smith, and I noted how very differently each young woman carried herself—not just physically but with a quality that spoke of confidence, or the lack of it. To Neily I said, “You’d be surprised what women are capable of when they make up their minds. I’m going to go talk to her.”

  “To whom? Cleo?” Neily asked to my back, but I continued walking, my notebook and pencil once more primed for note-taking.

  “Miss Cooper-Smith, may I ask you another few questions?” I had interviewed her earlier during the afternoon tea. The young woman couldn’t hold a candle to her sister Ilsa in terms of attractiveness. Despite her affliction, Ilsa’s natural, effortless beauty had immediately struck me when I met her. There seemed nothing effortless about Cleo; on the contrary, every tilt of her head suggested she had spent time in front a mirror practicing to her best advantage. Yet it was an artificial brand of confidence that would fool many people, and I guessed most men, if asked, would have considered Cleo far more beautiful than her sister.

  She offered me a just such a head tilt designed to impress. “What would you like to know now, Miss . . . uh?”

  “Cross.” I found it difficult to believe she had forgotten my name in the ensuing hours. Another affectation? “First, I see you are wearing Worth tonight, yes?” I hadn’t really needed to ask. The pale, frothy confection of chiffon, tulle, and lace could have come from no other designer.

  She inclined her head. “Of course.”

  “Then I assume you spent at least part of the spring in France, choosing gowns and being fitted?”

  “Oh . . . uh . . . no.” She colored slightly. I had inadvertently hit a bit of a nerve and she couldn’t lie. Whether or not she had been in Paris this spring would be too easy to verify. “I was able to place my orders from New York.”

  “I see.” What I saw, in actuality, was her discomfiture. Her answer struck me as odd, for nearly every debutante visited the Paris fashion salons for her coming-out wardrobe. But I changed the subject. Earlier she had told me she had been to Newport only once before, several years ago before her mother died. “What do you think of our city? Will you come back to visit?”

  “I should like to.” Her smile appeared genuine. “New York is so stuffy and dreary in the summer. Perhaps, if Mrs. Goelet is kind enough to invite me, I shall spend my summers here in the future.”

  Odd that a young woman on the marriage mart would assume dependence on a family friend for future visits. It made me wonder if Miss Cooper-Smith wished to marry at all. “It’s wonderful of Mrs. Goelet to serve in your mother’s stead tonight. You must be very grateful.”

  “Aunt May promised Mama she’d see me married.” She gave a little head toss that made her glossy curls bounce. But she hadn’t answered my question about gratitude. Perhaps she felt none, or considered tonight’s festivities a matter of course.

  Once again, the dissimilarities between the Cooper-Smith sisters struck me, for even with what little I knew of Ilsa, I felt assured she would have expressed her appreciation for Mrs. Goelet’s kindness in no uncertain terms, and to all who would listen.

  I turned to include Ilsa and the man beside her in the conversation. Before I could speak, however, an elegant blonde approached us, her smile haughty as she raised an eyebrow to Cleo. “Such a spectacular fuss over you tonight, Miss Cooper-Smith. You must be terribly flattered by it all.” The young wife of a banker, Lucinda Russell didn’t sound as if she approved of Mrs. Goelet’s efforts, though I suspected envy colored her sentiments. Before Miss Cleo could respond, Mrs. Russell’s attention shifted to her sister. She swept Ilsa with an appraising glance. “One would imagine your turn is next, my dear. Though, you really should have been first, shouldn’t you? I do believe you’re older than your sister, no?”

  Ilsa blushed fiercely and stammered out an unintelligible reply, making me squirm on Mrs. Russell’s behalf. Surely she knew of Ilsa’s infirmity—the evidence of it was plain enough. And while I certainly hoped the young woman would someday marry if she wished, I could easily surmise that hers would be a quiet, private courtship free of the conjecture of others as to whether she could manage the running of a household, bear children, and take her place in society. Mrs. Russell’s comments seemed deliberately engineered to wound, to point out Ilsa’s physical and social shortcomings. Why such cruelty? Was there a history there I didn’t know about? A feud, perhaps, between the families?

  In a protective gesture, Patrick Floyd lifted a hand to cover Ilsa’s where it rested in the crook of his arm. Her complexion began to cool.

  But Mrs. Russell persisted. “Oh, but then a ball such as this wouldn’t be quite the thing for you, would it?” She tsked, giving a sad shake of her head that renewed the fire in Ilsa’s cheeks. My own blood turned hot, and I longed to utter a bitter reprimand.

  The sight of Cleo’s scowl made me brace for a swift chastisement, the thorough tongue lashing Mrs. Russell deserved. She delivered one, but not to Mrs. Russell. “Oh, Ilsa, don’t be so tragic. You’ll marry someday and we’ll have a great to-do, so you needn’t play the martyr. Isn’t she wearisome, Patrick?”

  The breath left me, and Mr. Floyd as well, for his chest heaved and his eyes flashed with ire. Mrs. Russell merely tittered in amusement, blind or perhaps indifferent to the tears that gathered in Ilsa’s eyes and turned them to deep wells of sadness. She slipped her arm from Mr. Floyd’s and limped away from us, and became lost within the crush. Another few strained seconds passed, and then Mr. Floyd tersely excused himself and strode off after her.

  “Goodness, what did I say?” Mrs. Russell absently fingered the diamond bracelet encircling her gloved wrist. “Why, I certainly didn’t mean to . . . Ah, well.” To my utter astonishment, she drifted away without another word.

  “Oh, Miss Cooper-Smith,” I whispered, “do you think your sister is all right? I do hope—”

  “Never mind,” Cleo cut me off. “No one expects my sister to marry, but Mrs. Russell can’t have realized it.”

  I rather doubted that, for the amusement in Mrs. Russell’s voice during the encounter suggested she knew exactly what she was saying, and that she had purposely baited the hapless Ilsa. Why, I could not begin to imagine.

  “You see,” Miss Cooper-Smith went on, oblivious to my suspicions, “Ilsa suffers from extreme curvature of the spine and nothing the doctors could do, not even the braces they made her wear, made a difference.” She lowered her voice. “It’s so bad she’ll never be able to have children, I’m afraid. So you see, there really is no point in her marrying.”

  “Yes, I . . . I see.” But I didn’t. I didn’t see why she should never marry, or why she should be made to suffer insults without anyone coming to her defense. Waves of misery on Ilsa’s behalf poured through me.

  “It’s grand of Patrick to keep her company, isn’t it?” Something in Miss Cooper-Smith’s voice suggested she wasn’t as pleased as her words implied.

  “Very gentlemanly of him,” I agreed for want of something better to say. I shouldn’t have asked my next question, but I couldn’t help myself. “Is there some ill will between Mrs. Russell and your sister?”

  Miss Cleo shrugged. “None that I know of. Lucinda Russell is a busybody and a shrew, and everyone knows it. Ilsa certainly knows it, which is why it vexed me to see her take the woman�
��s teasing to heart. Now then, have you any other questions for me?” She spoke so brightly, so enthusiastically, I could only surmise she’d dismissed her sister from her mind.

  I entertained no qualms, then, in posing my next query. “I understand your father and Mr. Silas Griggson often do business together, with your father designing many of the edifices Mr. Griggson’s company builds.”

  “That’s true, but what has that got to do with me?” She pushed out her plump lower lip. “You are here tonight because of me, aren’t you?”

  “Indeed, I am, Miss Cooper-Smith.” I steeled myself to play the role of gossip columnist to the fullest. “But seeing the business relationship between your father and Mr. Griggson, would it not be an exceedingly advantageous match for you, Miss Cooper-Smith? Would not the union of your families create something of a construction dynasty in New York? And Mr. Griggson is here tonight, after all. One can only assume that he is among your many suitors.”

  “No—I—that is, you misunderstand . . .”

  As if I had called across the room to the man, Silas Griggson came up from behind me. “You might certainly say that. Miss Cooper-Smith, I must insist the next dance be mine. And I am a man who is used to getting what he wants.” As if to soften the claim, his lips pulled back from his teeth, yet his smile produced the opposite effect by revealing a pair of long, pointy incisors and reminding me of the mongrels that prowled the wharves in town. His very presence raised wary goose bumps across my shoulders, just as those half-wild dogs did.