Murder at Ochre Court

by Alyssa Maxwell

  I grew more and more puzzled as Reggie contradicted what I’d learned about Oliver Kipp. “In your opinion, was he the kind of man whose broken heart would induce him to drop out of West Point and rush off to war?”

  “Em, haven’t you been listening to me? Ollie thought about things, weighed the pros and cons, the benefits and disadvantages. He never rushed into anything.”

  Oliver Kipp, a budding lawyer and officer who approached life with careful consideration, versus a West Point dropout who enlisted in the army to forget the woman who broke his heart. Which one had been real? If the former, what events set him on a collision course with fate, and why?

  More than ever, the link between Cleo and Oliver, both alive and in death, seemed key in discovering who had murdered her—or perhaps both of them, whether directly or indirectly.

  Reggie and I played another few rounds. Finally, Mr. Brentworth came to take his leave, informing Reggie that he and Mr. Mason had settled on a date for the work to be done. I placed my billiard cue into the rack on the wall and retrieved my hat.

  “Mr. Brentworth, I walked here,” I lied, seizing yet another opportunity. “I wonder if you would mind giving me a ride into town?”

  Before he could answer, Reggie said, “I’ll order one of our carriages to take you, Em.”

  “That’s all right, Reggie. No need to bother. If Mr. Brentworth is agreeable, I’ll arrange for a ride home later.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Reggie murmured.

  Mr. Brentworth bobbed his head to me. “I’d be happy to oblige, Miss Cross.”

  “Lovely. Along the way perhaps you could advise me on how often I should have my gas lines inspected.”

  Minutes later, as I settled onto the carriage seat, I slid closer to Mr. Brentworth by a couple of inches that might or might not have given a certain impression. If Mr. Brentworth believed me to be subtly flirting with him, all the better, though I didn’t sit so close as to confirm his suspicions. We chatted about the lovely summer weather, my uncle Cornelius, the grand house we had just left. This gave me an opportunity to bring up another sumptuous mansion, Ochre Court.

  “I saw that you attended Mrs. Goelet’s ball the other night,” I said sadly.

  “Yes, that’s right. You were covering the event for your newspaper, weren’t you? Which one is it?”

  “The New York Herald. Never did I suspect I’d be reporting on such a tragic event.”

  “No, indeed.” He guided us along Bellevue Avenue, each of us nodding at the acquaintances we passed.

  When he didn’t seem about to add anything to the subject, I ventured an opinion. “Electricity is perhaps too new to be trusted. Would you say so, Mr. Brentworth?”

  “Electricity is nothing new, Miss Cross. Its current uses are new, and therein, perhaps, lies the problem.”

  “Then you believe more work is needed.”

  “As with any innovation.”

  He was being rather evasive. I tried to trigger more of a reaction. “You’re not against it, then?”

  “Why should I be?”

  “You are the owner of a gas company.”

  “Gas isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”

  He had just echoed my own thoughts. Was he truly this confident in his business prospects? “But not everyone feels the same, sir. Yesterday, I witnessed men protesting outside the Newport Illuminating Company. And I heard that just this morning at The Elms—”

  Mr. Brentworth tugged the reins and brought the carriage to a jarring halt. My hand flew to my breastbone as I lurched forward, then flopped backward against the back of the seat. Mr. Brentworth turned angry features toward me. “I’ll thank you to leave this carriage at once, Miss Cross.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Down from my carriage.” Within his glowering gaze and the tightness of his fists around the reins, I sensed a growing fury that made me fear for my safety. “I’ll not move another inch until I am rid of you. So unless you wish to sit here indefinitely, you’ll go.”

  “But . . . what did I say?”

  “Now, Miss Cross.” The order came through clenched jaws, convincing me to step down. I had no sooner done so than Mr. Brentworth set the horse to a brisk trot that raised a dusty draft around my hems.

  What had I done? I thought back over the last few statements I had made. I’d spoken of Cleo Cooper-Smith’s death at Ochre Court, and then the Newport Illuminating Company. Yes, and his demeanor had instantly changed. Yet, that wasn’t entirely true. During the whole conversation, he had been reticent, agreeing or disagreeing with me in brief snippets that revealed little of his true thoughts.

  But talk of the protest outside Newport’s electrical company had sent him into a kettle of rage. Presumably, the protesters, or most of them, had been Mr. Brentworth’s own workers, and the same could surely be said about this morning’s ruckus at The Elms, where gas workers opposed the building of a house powered solely by electricity.

  Had Max Brentworth sent them? Or instigated their unrest with threats that they would all soon lose their jobs?

  Perhaps he, or one of his workers, had somehow rigged the tableau and caused Cleo’s death. Mr. Brentworth’s behavior today certainly didn’t clear him of suspicion. Yet, from the grave, Oliver Kipp whispered to me that if Max Brentworth had a hand in Cleo’s death, it had nothing to do with emerging technologies.

  * * *

  Mr. Brentworth might have ordered me from his carriage, but he hadn’t left me stranded in the middle of nowhere. I stood on Bellevue Avenue several streets up from Ochre Point. A short walk would bring me back to my carriage at The Breakers. I retreated along the way, but turned in sooner than I might have and raised the heavy knocker at Ochre Court. The time had come for me to have a talk with Ilsa Cooper-Smith. I could no longer avoid it, though her sister had died only two days ago.

  A heavy stillness continued to pervade the house. Swaths of black crepe covered mirrors and draped the mantels, while closed doors sealed the entrance to the drawing room. The butler informed me Mrs. Goelet was not receiving, but nonetheless showed me onto the rear terrace, where I found Grace and Mrs. Goelet’s sister-in-law, Mrs. Robert Goelet. Of Ilsa Cooper-Smith, I saw no sign.

  They occupied a garden table beneath the shade of the arched loggia, with their respective children, baby Corneil and the beautiful little Beatrice. The child seemed unaffected by the trauma of Cleo’s death, was just then playing with the abundance of lilacs spilling over the wide rim of a bronze urn. She turned around, a spray in her hand, no doubt hoping for her mother’s appreciation, and spotted me coming out from the Great Hall.

  “Mama, who’s that?”

  Grace, cooing and teasing Corneil’s rosebud lips with a fingertip, looked up. “Emma, how lovely. Do come sit with us. Harriette, have you met Miss Emma Cross? She’s Neily’s cousin.”

  Harriette Goelet was as blond as her daughter, and possessed a similar ethereal beauty, as if she had just stepped out from a Renaissance painting. The expression she showed me, however, was less than angelic. Clearly, she shared the opinion of most of her peers, that someone of my station had no business intruding on her lovely summer day. For Grace’s sake, I pretended not to notice and took a seat at the table with them.

  Grace immediately transferred Corneil into my arms. “Here you are. What do you think of my son?”

  “Oh, Grace, he’s lovely.” A pain stabbed deeply and sharply at my heart, and as I instinctively cradled the baby close to my bosom and lowered my face to inhale his lovely baby scent, Grace exclaimed at what a natural mother I’d make.

  “It’s as if you had experience.” Her hand flew quickly to her lips. “Oh, I’d forgotten. I’m sorry, Emma.”

  “No, it’s quite all right, don’t worry.”

  “How is Robbie? Do you hear much news of him?”

  She spoke of the newborn we had sheltered at Gull Manor during the summer of ninety-six. How instantly the child had burrowed into our hearts, mine and Nanny�
�s and Katie’s. He had left us too quickly, gone as if he had never arrived, leaving us with empty arms and a too, too quiet house. Corneil reminded me of that time, and of how I had realized then how very much I might be giving up if I decided never to marry.

  My mouth curved in a small, bittersweet smile. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you, Grace?” I accused her without rancor. Grace had made it abundantly clear she would like to see me married to Derrick.

  She had been raised on the notion that every woman should marry, that every woman should wish to. My indecision baffled her, for to her it seemed a clear choice, as it would have been to Nellie Bly. Marry a rich man. Derrick Andrews was certainly that. Yet I had known women who chose not to marry, or at least put marriage off until they felt confident it was the right decision. My own aunt Sadie had remained single her entire life, choosing independence and self-sufficiency over the security of having a man see to her needs. And last summer, I had seen with my own eyes the spirited determination of Senator George Wetmore’s two adult daughters, each of whom had turned down numerous suitors because they would not marry without love, or allow themselves to be valued for their inheritances alone.

  I therefore stood in good company with my unwomanly stubbornness, as many would term it, but as with all of life’s decisions, there were compromises to be made and sacrifices to suffer.

  The baby whimpered and I jostled him gently. When his dimpled little hand closed around my hat ribbon, I let him tug the bow loose. I regarded Grace and Harriette. “How is Mrs. Goelet? And Ilsa?”

  “Still understandably upset, as are we all.” Harriette’s manner remained stiff, though not rude. “That is why we’re here, to be on hand should my sister-in-law need us.”

  I regarded her daughter, busily collecting lilac blossoms. She ran to her mother and deposited her little handfuls of purple petals into Harriette’s lap. I nodded at the child as she once more toddled to the balustrade. “And Beatrice?”

  “She hasn’t mentioned a word about what happened,” Harriette replied. “Other than that she wished she could have her red rosebud back.”

  “Her rosebud?” Grace lightly frowned in question.

  “Yes. Do you remember the posy she handed to Cleo during the tableau? The flowers were supposed to have all been white. Beatrice had slipped in a single red rosebud. I don’t even know where she came by it.” Harriette’s gaze scanned our surroundings, as if she were searching for the rosebush. There were numerous varieties growing on the property, and probably on her own property next door.

  “Perhaps during a walk with her nurse,” I suggested.

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “I’m glad to see you, Emma, but what brings you here today?” Grace asked.

  “I’m hoping to speak with Miss Ilsa,” I replied, deciding for now not to mention that I also hoped to speak with Mrs. Hendricks, the housekeeper.

  Harriette looked perplexed. “Why would you need to speak with Ilsa?”

  “I have a couple of questions concerning her sister’s passing.”

  “Such as what? What business—”

  Grace reached over and pressed a hand to Harriette’s wrist. “It’s all right. Emma has experience with such things. She can help find the answers to what happened to Cleo.”

  Harriette searched Grace’s gaze for a long moment before she nodded and turned her attention back to her daughter. I followed her line of sight, and saw, beyond the terrace, a young woman with a parasol strolling on the lawn. She stepped up to the raised gardens and approached a stone railing, where she stopped to look out over the Cliff Walk and the ocean beyond.

  “Is that Miss Goelet?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s May,” Grace replied. “She’s been unsettled by all that’s happened, too.”

  “I’d think she would be more than unsettled, and yet I remember you telling me, Grace, that she and Miss Cooper-Smith weren’t especially good friends, for all they were close in age.”

  Grace and Harriette exchanged glances, and Grace said, “They got on well enough, but their interests were rather different.”

  How different could the interests of two debutantes be? I rose from the table. “If it’s all right, I’d like to have a word with her.”

  I didn’t wait for permission, but neither Grace nor Harriette protested as I started down the terrace steps. Behind me, little Beatrice cried out, “May I go, too, Mama?”

  Harriette obviously demurred, for I heard no footsteps pattering to catch up with me. I purposely walked with an audible stride so as not to startle Miss Goelet with my approach. She turned as I reached her, her expression becoming puzzled, and perhaps a bit wary.

  “You’re Miss Cross, the reporter. I remember you from the tea party and the ball.”

  “That’s right.” I smiled, hoping to put her at ease. “I wondered if I might ask you some questions about Miss Cooper-Smith. You see, I’m assisting the police in discovering what happened to her.”

  “Why you?” She sounded merely curious.

  “It’s something I do from time to time. My occupation puts me in a position to be useful.”

  “I see.” She played with the bow on the handle of her parasol. “Well, I don’t know anything about what happened to Cleo.”

  “No, I didn’t suppose you did, but you knew her.”

  “Not well, I’m afraid.” She frowned. “That is to say, I’d known her for many years, but I cannot say we were good friends. Not as our mothers were.”

  “Then she didn’t tend to confide in you?”

  “Rarely.” She folded her parasol and leaned it against the railing, then turned to peer out over the ocean again. “This has been dreadful on my mother. First my father a year ago, now this.” She placed a hand on the stone rail and smoothed it back and forth where two sections met to form a wide angle. “Do you see how this balustrade is shaped? It’s like the bow of a ship. Mama has always loved to set sail. She loves traveling overseas, but often Papa would have preferred to stay here. So he had this upper garden shaped like the bow of a ship so she could stand here and pretend. He thought, perhaps that way, she might be more willing to stay home.” She laughed sadly. “It didn’t work, and we sailed to England last year. That’s where Papa died, you know.”

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

  “Thank you.” She bowed her head, hiding for a moment beneath her hat brim. When she reemerged, the wary look had returned. “I don’t mind you asking me questions, Miss Cross, but please leave my mother be. She’s taking this very hard.”

  “I can understand.”

  “Can you? You see, she blames herself for my father’s passing. She regrets having gone to England last summer, and thinks perhaps if we had stayed home Father would still be alive.” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t believe so, and I’ve tried to dissuade her of the notion. And now, she blames herself for Cleo. She thinks if only she hadn’t thought of installing the Edison bulbs, Cleo might still be alive.”

  “I sincerely hope in time your mother will come to feel differently.” I didn’t add that this, too, made me determined to find the truth. No one should have to bear the unnecessary guilt of another person’s death.

  “Thank you, Miss Cross. But you didn’t wish to ask me about such things. You want to know about Cleo.”

  “Yes. Miss Goelet, were you aware of who her beaux were?”

  The question startled her. She compressed her lips before replying. “I believe she had many hopefuls. Many of them attended the ball. Cleo had a way of attracting male attention.”

  I didn’t doubt that. “Was Oliver Kipp among them?”

  “Oliver?” She shrugged, unperturbed by the name. “I suppose for a time. At least I’d seen them together last spring. But more recently she had her eye on someone else.” I heard a faint derision in her voice. She tapped her fingers against the railing, perhaps unconsciously. Finally, she murmured, “Robert.”

  “Your brother? But he’s—”

 
“Younger than Cleo was, yes. But he is also going to be a very wealthy man someday rather soon. And I think . . .” She turned to face me again, careful not to brush her skirts against the stone balustrade. “I doubt very much Cleo loved Robert, but I believe she saw our family as a haven where she could be safe.”

  “Safe from what?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. But lately, she seemed nervous, jittery. Oh, it might have been because of the ball. Every girl has an attack of nerves before her coming-out. But I did notice her paying much more attention to Robert these past several days than ever before.”

  “Do you think he returned her regard?”

  “Miss Cross, you know how boys are.” She sighed. “He was flattered and followed her about like a pup when he thought no one was looking, especially Mama. He left her alone at the ball, of course.”

  I found this especially interesting. “You mother would not have approved of them marrying?”

  Miss Goelet shrugged. “Heaven only knows. I doubt very much Mama was aware of Cleo setting her cap for Robert, if indeed that is what she had done. She might only have been trifling with him while waiting to see who would offer for her.”

  I decided to subtly change tack. “The tableau was the most elaborate I’d ever seen or heard of. Was your coming-out similar?” I knew very well that Miss Goelet’s coming-out had been a much more dignified affair. Did Miss Goelet feel any jealousy toward Cleo, that perhaps her mother had done more for a friend’s daughter than her own?

  “Good gracious, no.” A chuckle accompanied this assertion. “Oh, my parents spared no expense for me. It was wonderful and sumptuous and I felt like a princess. But I didn’t feel any need to dress the part of an ancient queen and put on such a display.”

  I perceived no prevarication in her answer. I believed her sincere. “Then why do you think your mother planned such extravagance for Miss Cleo?”