After collecting Maestro and my carriage, I set out from Ochre Court and headed south on Bellevue Avenue, toward home. I made a stop along the way, however, one that unsettled me the moment the peaked roofline came into view. I routinely passed this house, but for the past three years I did so while averting my gaze and hurrying Barney along as much as he could be hurried.
Redwing Cottage hadn’t changed much since my last visit here in the summer of 1895. The weeping beech had grown, sweeping a greater portion of lawn, while the Japanese maples provided deeper shade than they had then. The house itself, a traditional New England shingle style with a turret and wraparound veranda, had not changed at all, except perhaps for a fresh coat of paint. I shivered as I brought Maestro to a stop near the front door, and hesitated before stepping to the ground.
A voice that bordered on the edge of hysteria shrieked in my mind as the details of that day flickered and flashed like the sunlight sifting through the trees. A murder at my Vanderbilt cousins’ nearby home, The Breakers, had eventually led me here that summer afternoon, a day much like this one with high, dazzling clouds racing across a silken sky, while bracing breezes skipped across Aquidneck Island from the Atlantic Ocean to Narragansett Bay. That day had forced me to accept an unpalatable truth about human nature and robbed me of whatever innocence had followed me into adulthood.
A deep breath helped banish the voice and the memories. Redwing Cottage no longer housed the dangers present then. The owners never returned to Newport nowadays, but instead rented the property to a different tenant each summer. Steadfastly, I walked up the steps and used the knocker to announce my presence. The door opened upon a footman in livery who seemed unimpressed as he looked me up and down.
“Yes?” His tone implied he considered ordering me around to the servants’ entrance.
“I am Emma Cross, here to see Mrs. Kipp, please.”
“Is she expecting you?”
“No. The tragic business at Ochre Court last night has sent me here.”
He didn’t pretend not to understand my reference. “Then you will understand that Mrs. Kipp is indisposed and not receiving.”
I met the closing door with the flat of my hand. “Announce me anyway. I might be able to save Mrs. Kipp from an interview with the police.” At his dubious look, I explained, “I am not here in any official capacity. I merely have some questions for her about the victim. I believe they were acquainted.”
He stepped aside to allow me to enter. After a brief absence, he returned to lead me up the stairs to an all-too-familiar room—a room where I had once made myself comfortable and enjoyed a light lunch with an old friend. The furnishings then had been of white wicker and bright florals, making this space resemble a conservatory with its airy views of the ocean beyond the cliffs. The décor had been replaced with darker colors, heavier pieces. Despite the more somber atmosphere, I breathed easier.
The woman I’d come to visit sat near the open windows, her thick gray hair piled high on her head and held there by a wide scarf. Though not wearing mourning crepe, she nonetheless presented a dreary aspect in an ill-fitting tea gown of dark, nondescript colors. She turned weary eyes in my direction.
“Good morning, Mrs. Kipp. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Did I have a choice?”
I didn’t answer that directly, but said, “It’s important, or I would not have disturbed you.”
“I know you by reputation, Miss Cross.” The fingers of her right hand plucked absently at her gown. Yes, I had made a point of noticing: her right hand, while the left draped the arm of her chair. “Have you come to learn some sordid fact about me to splash across the pages of the Herald?”
I’d heard such accusations before, but for some reason this time it stung. Such was not the renown I aspired to. “Not at all, Mrs. Kipp. I am . . .” I thought a moment, and settled on the truth. “I am assisting the local law enforcement with Cleo Cooper-Smith’s death.”
“I thought it was an accident.”
“Evidence suggested it might not have been.”
“And you think I killed her?” The passionless question took me aback. She didn’t seem to care either way.
“I merely wish to ask you some questions about Miss Cooper-Smith and your son.”
Ruddy color suffused her face and a tick above her right eye surged to life. So changed was she from her apathy of a moment ago, I feared she might order me out. Before she could, I swept closer and began to lower myself into the chair opposite her. “May I sit?”
She turned to stare out the window. “If it’ll help facilitate your errand and send you on your way, then yes.”
This inhospitable reply sufficed, and I sat. “I understand your son and Miss Cooper-Smith were all but engaged last spring. Is that true?”
“What difference does it make, Miss Cross? My son is dead.”
“It might make a good deal of difference, ma’am. Don’t you find it a bit too much of a coincidence that both Oliver and Cleo are deceased, only a couple of weeks apart?”
A slight shrug of one shoulder formed her answer.
“Please, did they have intentions toward each other?”
“I thought so at one time, until that witch ended it.” The tick pulsed, drawing her right eyebrow down sharply over her eye. “She didn’t deserve him, and she doesn’t deserve to be mourned, Miss Cross. Cleo Cooper-Smith killed my son, just as surely as if she had pulled the trigger at point-blank range.”
I didn’t understand, and perhaps unwisely said, “He died serving his country. How can that be Miss Cooper-Smith’s fault?”
“She drove him to that battlefield.” Her voice rose with each word. She continued more quietly, but no less vehemently. “She led Oliver on, only to then tell him he would never be wealthy enough or important enough for her. He was going to make a fine officer—he was at the top of his class at West Point. He was studying law as well. And his inheritance, though not as vast as some, was nothing to sniff at. But that greedy trollop broke his heart. He dropped out of the academy, signed on with Colonel Astor, and rushed off to war. Now he’s dead, and the fault lies squarely at Cleo’s feet. It’s time the world knew what kind of despicable person she was.”
But if wealth constituted Cleo’s first priority in marriage, then why did she appear to snub Silas Griggson? Even if he repulsed her, wouldn’t she have dangled him along until and unless someone equally as rich but more appealing came along?
Another question from last night continued to nag. “Mrs. Kipp, I noticed you trying to speak with Colonel Astor at the ball, but he seemed to cut you off short.”
“That’s none of your business, Miss Cross. It’s got nothing to do with Cleo.”
I didn’t believe her. After all, not only did she claim Cleo sent Oliver off to war and to his death, but whatever demands Mrs. Kipp attempted to make of Colonel Astor were urgent enough to send her, a woman in deep mourning, to a social event held in honor of the very woman she claimed to despise.
“Mrs. Kipp, is there anything else you can tell me about Miss Cooper-Smith and her acquaintance with your son?”
“Such as what?”
“What first drew them together? What did they have in common?”
“In common?” Her lips turned down. “Nothing, other than they were two young people with mutual acquaintances. They attended the same functions, were thrown together frequently enough that they noticed each other. Isn’t that how matches are made, Miss Cross? No one worries about commonality. Goodness, if that were a concern, who would ever marry?”
Her cynicism rankled, yet I had heard it all before from my own wealthy aunts, often in the context of finding me a husband. “In that case, in the days and weeks leading up to their parting, did you notice a difference in your son’s demeanor, something that might have been a clue that all was not well between them?”
“No. Cleo’s rejection was quite sudden. One day they seemed happily attached, and the next he was running off to war. I’ve no
doubt his state of mind—his broken heart—made him an even greater target during battle. If only . . .” Her hand—again, her right hand—fisted and her voice plunged to a whisper. “If only that girl had died sooner, perhaps my boy would still be alive.”
* * *
At home that evening, I completed my article for the Herald. Or I should say I finished my first article for the Herald. This would be no simple description of a noteworthy social event, but an ongoing story. I would give my employer so much more than he asked of me, and more than my readers would expect. In the past, when I worked for the Newport Observer, I’d fallen into the habit of tempering my articles. Mr. Millford, the editor-in-chief, had hired me to be a social columnist and any time I had tried to step beyond the boundary he set for me, I’d receive a pat on the head and an admonishment to leave the more distressing news to fellow reporter Ed Billings.
Humph. Ed Billings’s articles contained far more fiction than fact, but that hadn’t mattered to Mr. Millford. Perhaps I should have heeded his warnings, but stubbornness and yes, ambition, had prevailed. When I finally strayed too far off the proper path, deliberately disregarding my suitable place as a woman, he summarily fired me.
That is what had sent me to New York, only to discover James Gordon Bennett, owner of the Herald, wanted a more sensationalized version of the same role I had played at the Observer. Well and good, but no more. What had I to lose? In my view, nothing of significance. True, I needed funds to run my household, to keep us clothed and fed, and to help do the same for the orphans of St. Nicholas Orphanage in Providence, but I would find a way. We would not starve. But neither would I continue to compromise my principles.
As I sat at my desk before the window that overlooked a rocky Atlantic coastline, my resolve hardened. No longer would I hold back. My articles would contain the facts—all of them. As new details came to light about what happened to Cleo Cooper-Smith and why, I would write subsequent articles until this story reached its natural conclusion—with justice and an arrest.
When I finally went to bed, it was with a new sense of satisfaction. Still, I didn’t sleep well. Mrs. Kipp’s parting words ran through my dreams, turning them into a series of repetitive, obsessive reckonings to which I found no solutions. If only that girl had died sooner, perhaps my boy would still be alive.
More than ever, Oliver Kipp’s death seemed intricately linked to Cleo’s. But how? What happened between them? What happened two weeks ago in Cuba? While Lorraine Kipp might have been able to answer the former question, I doubted that bitter woman could provide much insight into the latter. No, for that I needed to speak with someone who had been there. A fellow soldier. Colonel Astor. Sam Caldwell. But would either agree to speak with me? Would Colonel Astor shrug me off as he had done Mrs. Kipp at the ball?
I wouldn’t give him the chance. In the morning, early, I made a telephone call to the offices of the Newport Messenger and asked to speak with the owner.
“Andrews here.”
“Derrick, it’s Emma.”
Before I could explain the purpose of my call, he blurted a series of questions at me. “What is it? Are you all right? Is everyone out at Gull Manor all right? It’s not about Jesse, is it? Or your friend’s brother?”
“I haven’t heard an update on Jesse or Dale, and the rest of us are fine. I need a favor today, if you can leave the office for a time.”
I heard a soft laugh. “I own the place. Of course I can leave. Where are we going?”
“Beechwood. I have some questions for Colonel Astor, but I’m afraid he might not be forthcoming with me. I thought if you came along and pretended to interview him about his battalion’s experiences in the war, I might get the answers I need.”
“About what, may I ask?”
“What happened to Oliver Kipp in Santiago two weeks ago.”
“He was a casualty. The Messenger ran his obituary.”
“So did the Herald. But I fear neither of us knows the true story. I’m convinced there’s more, and that it’s somehow connected to Cleo Cooper-Smith.”
“I don’t see how that can be, but I’ll help you. Not at Beechwood, though. I have it on good authority that Colonel Astor took up residence at Fort Adams with the rest of his men that are in Newport. I could meet you out there in . . . shall we say an hour?”
“Thank you. That would be perfect. Oh, and Derrick? Thank you for Maestro. It’s very sweet of you, but it’s only temporary. As soon as this investigation is over, I’ll return him to you.”
“You needn’t.”
“Yes, I do. You know I do.”
Grumbling made its way over the wire. And then he said, “Well, if you must know the truth, the creature has no liking for me. Whenever I go near him, he takes a chunk out of my sleeve. He’s costing me a fortune in coats. One of these days he’ll chew off half my arm. You’ll be doing me a great favor in keeping him.”
* * *
Dressed once more in the dark, businesslike garb of a reporter, I drew Maestro up at the outer gatehouse of Fort Adams, at the southwestern tip of Aquidneck Island. On a peninsula that jutted into Narragansett Bay, the fort commanded wide-open views of Newport Harbor, the west coast of Aquidneck Island, Conanicut Island across the way, and the brisk channels where the Atlantic fed into the bay.
As I stepped down from my carriage to speak with the guard who came out to greet me, a unit of infantrymen marched past, disappearing into the fort’s shadowed entryway. Built decades ago to protect our deep water harbor and the naval gateway to both Providence and Boston, Fort Adams ironically had never seen a moment’s action. Not a shell, not a bullet, not even an implied threat. The place had been heavily fortified during the War Between the States, but in my lifetime only minimal forces had been stationed here.
I had visited with my father a time or two, my hand firmly in his, my eyes wide with wonderment as I’d taken in the sheer size and scope of the sprawling battlements. I’d felt impossibly small in the middle of the grassy parade, and filled with fear that, should my father’s hand suddenly release mine, I’d become irretrievably lost. I had held on so tightly my fingers had ached.
In the comings and goings of carts, buggies, and men on horseback, a familiar face caught my eye. Derrick pulled up behind my own carriage and alighted in a bound. His features held an expression I’d seen on him often in the past, a combination of eagerness for adventure tempered by concern for my well-being.
“What are you getting up to now?” he asked in lieu of a proper greeting.
“Good morning to you.” I touched the brim of my hat, stiffly and staunchly resisting the tug of the wind that seemed never to cease here. I turned back to the guard. I had already introduced myself as a reporter for the Herald, a circumstance that had seemed to impress him, for he had pulled himself up taller and puffed out his chest. “This is my associate, Mr. Derrick Andrews of the Messenger,” I told him now. “We are each working on stories about the Astor Battery. May we have entry to speak with the colonel?”
“I can’t guarantee he’ll see you, but you can go on in.”
I had thought as much. Once again, Fort Adams had passed through a war without direct threat, and security would be relaxed. Derrick and I left our carriages by the guardhouse and proceeded on foot inside.
The sunlight dazzled my eyes as we emerged from the entry tunnel onto the parade, larger than any enclosed space I’d ever seen or could imagine. My fingers curled, and I only just stopped myself from reaching for Derrick’s hand. Directly before us, the unit I’d seen marching into the fort now moved in formation, hoisting their weapons one minute, dropping them to their sides the next in time to a drill sergeant’s rhythmic commands. Farther along the field, other battalions drilled, while men streamed in and out of countless doorways along the tall inner walls.
“Goodness,” I murmured, feeling out of breath, “where do we start?”
“We ask someone.”
“Who?”
Derrick grinned and rather t
han answer me, raised a hand and said, in his most authoritative tone, “You there. I need assistance.”
A young private with pale blue eyes and a sunburned nose stopped in his tracks, changed course, and approached us. He could not be more than seventeen, and I found myself relieved he was here and not on the battlefields of Santiago. “Yes, sir?”
I bit back a smile. I’d forgotten that men of Derrick’s class possessed the natural skill of commanding men whether they wore a uniform or not. From their earliest days in the schoolroom, they were instructed on the subtleties of cultivating authority of tone, posture, and expression. Taught to dominate with a mere lift of an eyebrow. The young private wasted no time in escorting us to the officers’ lodgings along the northwest wall. Through the overlooking windows, I spied parlors one might have found in any of Newport’s finer homes, albeit smaller. At one window, a small face surrounded by a cloud of golden hair pressed itself close to the glass, peeking out. I waved and was rewarded with a chubby hand waving in kind, accompanied by a little burst of laughter.
After knocking on a door, the private announced us to the servant who answered, who in turn announced us to her employer. Colonel John Jacob Astor IV, only son of The Mrs. Astor, was a classically handsome man whom one could just as easily imagine holding court in the drawing rooms of European nobility as here in these military surroundings.
He seemed happy to see Derrick—they were of course acquainted—and shook his hand. He seemed rather less appreciative of my presence, if familiar with my identity. He did not call his wife to the door, which brought to mind their tiff at the ball. Neither did he invite us to come in and sit, but rather stepped outside, asking if we would mind very much walking with him as we asked our questions. He seemed all too happy to discuss the Astor Battalion, and before long his pride in his men became apparent. In reply to Derrick’s questions, he discussed the circumstances and strategy that led to the Battle of Santiago. He even spoke about the casualties and the men he lost, but when Derrick finally broached the subject of Oliver Kipp, Colonel Astor hesitated.
Murder at Ochre Court Page 9