Murder at Ochre Court

by Alyssa Maxwell

  My insides buzzed with anticipation. “What do you have in mind, sir?”

  “I know I can’t entirely compete with the Herald. I simply don’t have those kinds of resources. And I would hope you’d be willing to travel a bit from time to time.”

  “Travel?”

  “Not far. To Providence, Boston, the occasional trip to New York.”

  My eyes widened. Was he asking me to be a traveling correspondent to our neighboring cities?

  “You see, I don’t want to limit you to Newport. I think you can certainly handle a wider scope.”

  It was all I could do not to laugh and clap my hands. “I can, Mr. Millford. I certainly can. Travel is no object, as long as I can base myself here in Newport.”

  “Yes, yes, surely. You’ll be here full-time during the summer weeks, of course. But once the cottagers move on, I would want you hot on their trails.”

  A portion of my excitement ebbed. “Hot on their trails? You mean . . .”

  “Yes, Emma. I want you to do what you’ve been doing for the Herald, but the Observer won’t bury your columns somewhere in the middle of the paper. Oh no. You’ll be right inside, page two, with a teaser on the front page. And in your own name, no more initials, if that’s what you want. I intend to make you the biggest society gossip columnist in the Northeast. What do you say?”

  * * *

  Without giving Mr. Millford an answer, I left the Observer and walked. Or perhaps strode was the correct term, for my long paces propelled me along the sidewalk half-blindly. Other pedestrians stepped hastily out of my way as I passed. My heart ached. If only I hadn’t brought such great hopes to my meeting with Mr. Millford. I hadn’t even realized how lofty those hopes had soared until faced with the truth.

  A society reporter. A gossip columnist. That was all I’d ever be. Perhaps Nellie Bly had been right; I didn’t want it badly enough and wasn’t willing to do whatever it took to achieve my dream.

  No, she hadn’t exactly said that to me. She had asked me how far I would willingly go, and then she had counseled me to marry a rich man. As I passed the bustle of Commercial Wharf, a potential answer came to me. The most obvious answer. Not only did I know a rich man willing to marry me, he owned a newspaper as well. How easy it would be to change my life.

  Easy, if I had been willing to compromise my integrity, my convictions. My stomach sank, taking with it the shreds of my fortitude. There it was then, the answer to Nellie Bly’s question, and the line I had drawn for myself, which I would not cross. Could not.

  Could I? The question came as a faint murmur from a place deep down inside me, where there were no convictions or resolutions born of experience, but rather those naked, undeniable longings that defied logic or wisdom or patience. A place easily silenced or at least ignored when one felt in control of one’s destiny, but not now, not when faced with the utter repudiation of all I had been working for and based my life upon. I was a woman; therefore I must be relegated to something less, something secondary, than the goals I had set for myself.

  Why, then, shouldn’t I do the expected thing, the womanly thing, and marry for advantage? Nellie Bly had, and she claimed happiness in her decision. I could, in all likelihood, make a success of such a marriage. I could make Derrick Andrews happy.

  But there would always be that admonishment inside me reminding me of what I had done. Always that deep place inside me I would grow to despise.

  Doubling back, I collected Maestro and my carriage and went on my way.

  Chapter 9

  “Yes, I’d like to see Mr. Randall Cooper-Smith please, if he’s in.”

  The upstairs desk clerk at the Newport Casino raised his eyebrows as if I had made a lewd suggestion. However, he sent an assistant down a hallway to knock at Mr. Cooper-Smith’s door. In addition to the second-floor reading rooms, card rooms, and billiard rooms, the Casino also offered accommodations to single men. Not for the first time, I wondered why Mr. Cooper-Smith had chosen to stay here rather than with his daughters at Ochre Court. Perhaps he simply enjoyed a quieter and less feminine environment. In light of what happened, however, it made no sense for him to maintain this distance from his grieving daughter.

  He appeared moments later and I asked him to take a turn with me outside in the courtyard. Beyond the horseshoe pavilion, a tennis match was under way. The restaurant’s outdoor porch bustled with lunchtime activity.

  Mr. Cooper-Smith walked with his hands clasped behind his back. “What may I do for you, Miss Cross?”

  He sounded impatient to be elsewhere. He had been brusque with me at the ball, warning me not to spread rumors when I brought up a potential engagement between Cleo and Silas Griggson. I had further questions about that, certainly, but I also wanted to know more about her relationship with Oliver Kipp. I knew I must proceed carefully if I were to learn anything from him.

  “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, sir.”

  His brow creased. “Yes, thank you.”

  “She was a lovely young woman, so full of potential.”

  He let go a sigh. “Miss Cross, if you have come merely to offer your condolences, you might have saved them for the funeral. Whenever that takes place,” he added in a tight murmur, referring to the fact that the police had not yet released her body.

  “Sir, I want justice for your daughter—”

  “Justice? They have the man responsible for her death. That imbecile electrician.”

  “He may not have caused . . . what happened,” I said, trying to use diplomatic phrasing. Did Randall Cooper-Smith have no idea his daughter might have been deliberately murdered? “I—”

  “I don’t understand what this all means to you, Miss Cross.”

  “Mr. Cooper-Smith, I am in a position to help the police with the investigation.”

  “You? A woman? What can a woman possibly do to help the police? The very idea.” He gave a half snort, half snigger. He seemed determined to be difficult. Was it grief making him so, or something else, perhaps a disinclination to reveal—what?

  “Be that as it may, sir, I do have a couple of questions that could help the police. Did your daughter have enemies?”

  “Enemies? Don’t be absurd. She was a beautiful, vivacious young woman. Barely more than a girl.”

  “Beautiful young women often, through no fault of their own, inspire jealousy.”

  “That may be so, but I never heard anyone speak an unkind word about Cleo.”

  “Then can you think of anyone who might stand to gain from her death?” This was the question I had most wished to ask; the two previous ones had been merely to get me to this point. I hadn’t been able to shake the image of all those lovely gowns in Cleo’s bedroom, yet with a stark lack of jewelry other than that broken piece of necklace.

  “Stand to gain?” What little patience he had shown thus far began to wane. I knew my time with him was limited. “How?”

  “Had she an inheritance, for instance? Something another relative might inherit in your daughter’s stead?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “She had no inheritance at all, then?”

  “I didn’t say that. But nothing to prompt anyone to commit murder. Anything she might have had will go to her sister.”

  An interesting choice of words. Anything she might have had . . . As if he spoke only theoretically, but that his daughter in fact had possessed nothing of great value. What about the necklace? I didn’t know if it had actually belonged to Cleo, or how she had come to possess it. I might have asked him, except that doing so would certainly spur Mr. Cooper-Smith to action. He’d claim the necklace and no doubt have Camille arrested for the theft. I preferred keeping that secret for now, with the prospect of Mrs. Hendricks catching Camille attempting to dispose of the piece.

  But I was fairly convinced the Cooper-Smiths had no fortune to boast of. If they had, why wouldn’t Mr. Cooper-Smith have rented a house or at least a spacious apartment in town rather than take a bachelor’s room here at the
Casino? And wouldn’t he have covered the expenses for his daughter’s coming-out, rather than allow Mrs. Goelet to do so?

  No, it made more sense to me that the family struggled to meet its expenses, and Cleo’s costly gowns were meant to distract from that reality long enough for her to catch a man either old enough and rich enough not to care, or one who was too young and naïve to figure out the truth until it was too late.

  “Is that all, Miss Cross?”

  I blinked away my speculations. “Almost, sir. Can you tell me about your daughter and Oliver Kipp. Were they—”

  “Oliver?” He sputtered and coughed. “What’s he got to do with what happened to my daughter?”

  “Sir, please, I don’t mean to upset you. But it’s come to my attention that they were practically engaged before the war started, and that they suddenly parted ways.”

  He looked as though he might deny it, then thought better of it. He most likely realized I had my information from people who had known them both. “They were little more than children, Miss Cross. Children often make rash decisions. Once they realized they were not suited, they agreed to part.”

  So this made yet a third version of the story. According to Mrs. Kipp, Cleo had broken things off. Lieutenant Norris and Captain Caldwell claimed Oliver had ended things. Where did the truth rest, and had Silas Griggson played any part in what happened?

  That last question startled me. Could Silas Griggson have had a hand in parting a pair of young lovers? As far as I knew, he had played no role in the war, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t influenced the young couple to separate.

  I chose my words, not to avoid upsetting Mr. Cooper-Smith, but rather to elicit a response. Had he been more forthcoming, I would not have resorted to such harsh tactics, but I felt he left me no choice. “Yet so soon after ending things with Oliver, she was to be engaged to Mr. Griggson.”

  His face turned fiery. “I don’t know where you got such an outlandish idea. Silas Griggson is decades older than my daughter.”

  “That is not so unusual, and I got the idea from Mr. Griggson himself. He told me he and your daughter would have been engaged by the end of the evening, had fate not intervened.” I said this last as gently as I could. I wanted answers, but I had no desire to torture a grieving man.

  “Wishful thinking on Silas’s part. Miss Cross, I’d advise you to stop digging up trouble. I know how you society reporters are, full of your own self-importance and eager to profit from the suffering of others. My daughter’s death was due to the callous disregard of a drunken electrician, nothing more. If you wish to be of use, convince the police to release her body so she may have a decent burial, and I can return to New York.”

  He walked off, leaving me to stare after him. The tips of my ears burned; the pit of my stomach felt as though it churned with molten lead. In terms of my career, he hadn’t said anything I hadn’t already agonized over. But to have my very sentiments hurled back in my face, as hot as a branding iron, felt as though my conscience had disengaged from the rest of my being to cast its scorching judgment on me.

  But I had already changed my future. I would not return to the Herald, nor would I occupy the same position at the Observer. And whether Mr. Cooper-Smith wished it or not, I would not rest until I’d achieved justice for his daughter. Even if that meant exposing whatever he seemed determined to hide.

  * * *

  One person I wished to question remained elusive. I had not seen or heard any word of him since the ball, and it seemed as if he had disappeared from the island. That was, until he knocked on my front door later that afternoon. Katie answered it and came to find me in the kitchen, where I was helping Nanny shell peas for dinner.

  “A gentleman to see you, Miss Emma. A Mr. Griggson.”

  I tossed down a handful of pods, removed my apron, and hurried to the front of the house. Silas Griggson stood near the front parlor windows, his back to me. He turned around when he heard me, and the look on his face had the odd effect of making me feel as though I were the visitor and he was graciously receiving me.

  “Ah, Miss Cross. I hope you’ll forgive my sudden intrusion. Perhaps I should have sent my card first.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Griggson. Have you come about Miss Cooper-Smith?”

  “Ilsa?”

  I shook my head, puzzled that he would name the elder sister. Surely he knew by now that I had been assisting in the investigation. “No, Cleo. Do you have some information that might be helpful to the police?”

  “About an accidental death? Or, rather, a death brought on by the negligence of a workman, I should say.”

  So, like his business associate, Randall Cooper-Smith, he was going to play that game. But unlike Cleo’s father, Mr. Griggson seemed unperturbed to speak of her death, especially for a man who claimed they would have been engaged. I gestured for him to sit. I took a seat across from him and waited for him to go on.

  “I am here about quite another matter.” He held up a hand—his right. “This house.”

  “Gull Manor? What about it?”

  “I’ve come to make you an offer on the place.”

  “You want to buy my house?” I couldn’t quite absorb what he was saying. The conversation made no sense to me. Of all the houses in Newport a man like Griggson could buy, why this one? He could afford to build another Ochre Court if he wished. “My property is small by most standards, Mr. Griggson, and the house is really quite ordinary.”

  He smiled, a stretch of his lips that did little to reassure me. “Oh, I don’t intend to live here, Miss Cross. A client of mine is interested in property across the road. He’d like me to build him a tidy little cottage on the rise.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “I’m going to knock this place down. I can’t have this sprawling monstrosity blocking my client’s view of the ocean.”

  “Monstrosity?” Could this day possibly become any worse? Fury raged through my very veins, through every fiber of my being until Griggson’s features wavered and blurred. “My house is not for sale,” I said through clenched teeth.

  He had the audacity to laugh. “Everything is for sale, Miss Cross. One has only to make the right offer.”

  “You’ve wasted your time. There is no offer that could induce me to sell.” I stood. “And tell me, Mr. Griggson, do you plan to build this new showplace with the same substandard construction as your New York tenement buildings? The one that collapsed, for instance?”

  The change in his smug expression was like watching water turn to ice. When he spoke, his voice cut like the whisper of the sharpest steel. “That tragedy was hardly my fault, Miss Cross. If you must know, Randall Cooper-Smith is to blame. His calculations were faulty, his blueprints flawed. Yes, I allowed a foreman to take the blame rather than destroy the family of the woman I wished to marry. I’m beginning to regret that decision. Perhaps it’s time I told the authorities the truth.”

  The truth. Could this be what Mr. Cooper-Smith feared being revealed? Or had Mr. Griggson threatened Mr. Cooper-Smith and his daughter? I certainly couldn’t take this man’s word for anything.

  “Perhaps it is time for the truth, Mr. Griggson, about a number of things. You claimed you and Miss Cooper-Smith were to be engaged. But I wonder if perhaps she snubbed you that night. I can’t imagine you would have appreciated that very much.”

  “Snubbed me?” He attempted to stare me down, but I glared right back. He shook his head. “Hardly. Not that our Cleo was a stranger to the notion.”

  “Are you talking about Oliver Kipp?”

  “No, indeed, Miss Cross. Whatever happened between Oliver and Cleo was over with months ago. No, it’s Norris she threw over recently.”

  A jolt of surprise went through me. “Lieutenant Dorian Norris?” Griggson merely nodded. Was he lying, attempting to throw suspicion onto another man? I didn’t doubt he would try, if he felt cornered.

  But what about the maid, Camille Tate? If Griggson spoke the truth, Dorian Norris would have
been dallying with two women at once. Which could mean either Dorian or Camille might have wanted revenge against Cleo.

  As these thoughts filtered through my mind, Griggson watched me closely. “What does any of it matter now? Come now, Miss Cross. Don’t let your pride stand in the way of a windfall. I’m prepared to make you a generous offer. What does a single woman like you need with a house this size?”

  “You know nothing about me or my needs, Mr. Griggson.”

  “I know you’re a stubborn woman. That’s for sure.” His laugh set my teeth on edge. “Or perhaps you like to strike a hard bargain. Is that it? You want to make me squirm a bit. All right. Name your price.”

  My spine stiffened. “Mr. Griggson, you will never own this house. Never. What’s more, I intend to discover exactly who and what caused the tenement collapse.”

  “As you wish, Miss Cross.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “But you have no idea who you are dealing with.” He held up a hand when I started to protest. “I know all about your illustrious relatives and how fond they are of you. I also happen to know that old man Vanderbilt has been reduced to a dribbling idiot. He can’t be of any help to you.”

  If I were capable of breathing tongues of flame, I would have. “My uncle Cornelius is more of a man in his present condition than you will ever be, Mr. Griggson.”

  He waved dismissive fingers at me. “Whatever you care to believe, Miss Cross. But you cannot begin to imagine the kinds of connections I have. Believe me when I tell you I will own this property. This house will not stand much longer.”

  His prediction sent chills down my back, until I remembered that I, too, had connections even beyond my Vanderbilt relatives. I had a United States senator in my debt, and I felt certain George Wetmore would be more than happy to intercede on my behalf. “Please leave my home, Mr. Griggson. Now.”

  He lurched into motion, closing the space between us with such speed, I recoiled. His hand shot out toward me and I feared he would strike. In that instant, his cuff shot upward on his wrist, his right one, and a tiny tattoo, a star rendered in bold black ink, peeked out from just above his pulse point.