Murder at Ochre Court

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Miss Ilsa Cooper-Smith?” Dale glanced at us both in astonishment. “You suspect that kind lady?”

  I nodded, somewhat ashamedly.

  “She arranged for refreshments to be brought to my two workers and me,” he told us with no small measure of indignation.

  “We had reason to suspect her, Dale.” Jesse circled the space until he stood opposite me across the bed. “But Emma’s conclusion makes sense. It’s highly doubtful Ilsa would have had the knowledge to commit the act. Or Mrs. Kipp, for that matter,” he added, glancing at me for agreement.

  “No, nor a lady’s maid or an army officer who hails from the Four Hundred. But a construction mogul and the owner of a gas company surely might.” I stood up from my chair. “I believe we have narrowed down our suspects.”

  Jesse and I said our good-byes to Dale and prepared to leave, when footsteps alerted us to a new arrival on the ward. We expected a doctor to enter, and were surprised when Patrick Floyd appeared in the doorway. He stopped short, looking as surprised as we were. Recovering quickly, he continued until he stood beside Dale’s bed.

  Dale gazed up at him without a trace of recognition, but an expression filled with apprehension. “Yes? Have you come to see me, sir?”

  Realizing Dale must believe Mr. Floyd to be an official representing the law, I hastened to reassure him. “Dale, this is Mr. Patrick Floyd. He’s a friend of the Cooper-Smith family.”

  My efforts fell flat, as Dale’s wariness only intensified. “I want you to know, sir, how very sorry I am—”

  “That’s not why I’ve come,” Mr. Floyd interrupted, but not unkindly. “I see the detective is here. Has he been asking you questions? Are you in need of a lawyer?”

  “Our questions were general ones,” Jesse said, “and not intended to incriminate anyone.”

  Mr. Floyd’s scrutiny descended on me. “You’re that reporter from the Herald. Are you intending to drag this man’s good name through the mud?”

  “Most assuredly not.” My chin came up. “Dale is an old friend, as is his sister. I’m here to help him, not hurt him.”

  Mr. Floyd nodded, some of the hostility fading from his handsome features. “I’m glad to hear that. And I’m here, Mr. Hanson, to offer assistance with your case. I’ve asked a few questions of my own around this city, and I have come to believe you are blameless in Miss Cleo’s death. If you need funds for proper legal counsel, I would be happy to provide them.”

  Part of me wished to rejoice at this boon. Only a couple of short hours ago I felt ill-disposed toward Patrick Floyd for having treated his wife and Ilsa wrongly, for leading on an innocent young woman while being married to another. But this act of generosity toward Dale certainly restored him in my estimate, for the most part. And yet . . .

  Another part of me, where suspicions lurked, found this sudden good fortune rather questionable. Patrick Floyd claimed he had asked questions on Dale’s behalf. Why? What did he know or care about Dale or any Newporter? Why this altruism on his part?

  Had he something to gain by it?

  “There is no case against Dale, Mr. Floyd,” Jesse pointed out. “No charges have been filed. At least not yet.”

  Patrick Floyd assessed Jesse from down the length of his slightly aquiline nose. “I’m sorry, but I’ve come to speak with the patient and offer him my assistance. It’s inappropriate for a member of the police force to be here while we discuss the legalities he might be facing. Likewise, a reporter. If you both wouldn’t mind.”

  I silently questioned Dale with a look. He nodded. “I’d very much like to hear what Mr. Floyd has to say. I’m very grateful to him.”

  Minutes later, Jesse and I exited the hospital. I offered him a ride to his home on the Point, but he insisted on going directly to the police station. Along the way, I told him about Silas Griggson’s determination to purchase and destroy Gull Manor.

  * * *

  I made one more stop before heading for home. I had considered putting off this next encounter, but my conscience dictated otherwise. Maneuvering onto Bellevue Avenue in town, I stopped across the street from the Casino, at Stone Villa. A pair of masonry owls, the familiar symbol of the New York Herald, eyed me sternly as I passed through the gateposts at the end of the short driveway.

  My feet dragged a bit as I approached the three-story Greek revival mansion, and I took my time climbing the steps to the columned veranda that stretched the length of the main portion of the house. I half hoped James Bennett would not be at home, or that he would be otherwise occupied and unable to see me on such short notice.

  But no, the butler showed me into the receiving room and went to announce me to his master. Unlike the last time I visited this house, Mr. Bennett did not come down to the Spartan receiving room to speak with me in these rather uncomfortable surroundings. The butler escorted me up the stairs to a study that faced the street and afforded a view of the Casino’s facade and entrance. Mr. Bennett, a man with a long straight nose, a stern profile, and a piercing gaze, awaited me on his feet and stretched out a hand in greeting.

  “It’s good to see you, Miss Cross. I assume you’re here to discuss the Ochre Court incident.”

  I nearly winced at his bluntness, but held my reaction in check. Calmly, I shook his hand. “No, sir. I’ll have that story for you shortly—”

  “Yes, we’ll want to run it as soon as possible, but we want all the facts, don’t we? This turned out to be no ordinary society affair, didn’t it?” He gave a laugh I found most inappropriate for the circumstances and gestured for me to take a seat. He took his own in a great wingback chair opposite me. “By George, you’ve got your hard news story after all. I won’t stop you from pestering everyone involved, but be warned. If something unfortunate should befall you in the course of events, I’ll have to deny ever giving you permission to report on anything other than frocks and decorations.”

  I suddenly wanted to rise from my seat and slam the door on my way out. Instead I breathed myself back into a state of calm. “Mr. Bennett, did the New York World shy away from allowing Nellie Bly to investigate an insane asylum? Or travel around the world unaccompanied? Do you think they said, ‘If anything happens to you, Miss Bly, we’ll have to disavow all prior knowledge of your endeavors’?”

  Mr. Bennett didn’t attempt an answer, but mutely regarded me as if I’d taken leave of my senses.

  “No,” I replied to my own question. “They did not. They celebrated her achievements in the most public way.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Cross, but what is your point?”

  “My point, sir, is that Nellie Bly—and others, including Elizabeth Bisland—set a precedent for female journalists. I don’t see why I must scratch a path that has already been well worn.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Bly, Bisland—that was nothing but sensationalism. And anyway, neither is as young as you, Miss Cross. Your desire to report on hard news is not only dangerous, but improper.”

  “When you hired me, Mr. Bennett, you led me to believe that was exactly what you wished from me.”

  “I’m sorry if I ever gave you that impression. The truth is, and I believe you already know this, I hired you because of your associations with the members of the Four Hundred.” He leaned forward, lips curling in a smile that oozed condescension and set my pulse pounding with ire. “And hasn’t it paid off? Your columns are very popular. You should be proud of your work.”

  “I am ashamed of my work for the Herald, Mr. Bennett.” He pulled back, looking stricken. I plowed on. “I will complete this final article, but immediately following that I will be resigning from the Herald news staff.”

  “You don’t mean it.”

  I stood to assure him that yes, I most certainly did. “I thank you, Mr. Bennett, for the opportunity you’ve afforded me. It would seem our objectives are no longer compatible. I wish you all the best.”

  “Miss Cross . . .”

  With my heart pounding in my ears and my face flaming, I half-blindly m
ade my way downstairs and out to my carriage. I didn’t take a full breath until I’d gone quite a ways down Bellevue Avenue, past Marble House at least. There was no turning back now. I had burned a bridge and now I must live with the consequences. At Stone Villa, I had talked of having to forge an already well-worn path. But now I must create an entirely new path for my future, and travel it for good or ill.

  * * *

  “Jesse, I think it’s time to question Randall Cooper-Smith again,” I said on the telephone the next morning.

  I had once more gone over everything I had learned, this time with Nanny. We had discussed and considered and theorized until the mantel clock struck the half hour after midnight. One man stood at the center of everything—Cleo’s death, the tenement collapse in New York, Cleo and Oliver Kipp parting ways, and now, threats to my own way of life. Determined to hold him responsible for his misdeeds, I had followed him to Newport, and would have done so independently of Cleo’s coming-out ball.

  “I pried precious little out of him when we last spoke,” I said, “but I believe Mr. Cooper-Smith has vital information about Silas Griggson.”

  “And you’re convinced Silas Griggson murdered Miss Cooper-Smith.”

  “I’m almost positive of it. Or, if not him personally, someone in his hire. But Mr. Cooper-Smith seems to have little respect for women, and none at all for society reporters. I fear he’ll shirk my questions. It would be better if we go together.”

  Jesse’s ironic response took me aback. “I’m doing well, thank you for asking.”

  I placed my hand on the wall beside the telephone and leaned my forehead against the call box. “I’m sorry. I should have asked. I’m just so . . .” I trailed off, unsure exactly what it was I felt. A desire to see justice for Cleo, yes. But frustration, too. I had formally resigned from the Herald yesterday and as soon I completed this last article, I would be without employment. Uncertainty about the future had kept me tossing last night as much as my questions about Cleo’s death.

  But neither consideration gave me a reason to barrel along at full speed with my plans while ignoring my friend’s health. “How are you doing this morning, Jesse?”

  “I’m all right, but still a bit shaky. I’m beginning to fear . . .” He cleared his throat. “To fear that I won’t be able to handle a weapon with any degree of accuracy.”

  “You mustn’t think that. You only want for the proper time to heal, you’ll see.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” He paused, his silence transmitting his lack of certainty across the wire. “Now, about Cooper-Smith. I agree it’s time to question him more fully.”

  “He’s staying at the Casino.”

  “Odd he’s not with his daughter now.”

  “I think so, too. They’re both grieving. One would think they would need each other.”

  “You don’t think the problem is Mrs. Goelet, do you? That for some reason she won’t allow him to stay at Ochre Court?”

  The notion took me by surprise. “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “Perhaps we should.”

  * * *

  Jesse and I met outside the Casino an hour later. It being only midmorning, we believed our chances of finding Mr. Cooper-Smith in were good, and we were correct. But he wasn’t alone.

  I waited by the desk clerk’s station while Jesse went and knocked at Mr. Cooper-Smith’s door. The clerk, a bespectacled youth sporting slicked-back hair and a waxed but fledgling mustache, had glared daggers at Jesse’s refusal to allow him to announce us to Mr. Cooper-Smith. It was most indecorous, he had protested. But Jesse had wished to catch Mr. Cooper-Smith off guard. What better way than to have a police detective pound on his door?

  The clerk continued to eye me with disapproval. The presence of a woman on the Casino’s second floor obviously made him ill at ease. I ignored him, hoping Jesse would return soon enough with Randall Cooper-Smith in tow.

  But it was two voices, not one, that emanated from the guest room as the door opened. I recognized the visitor’s voice at once. It belonged to Silas Griggson. I wondered what Jesse would do. Under normal circumstances, it might have been fortuitous to be able to question them at the same time, but these circumstances were anything but normal and I feared Mr. Griggson’s presence would stifle any degree of honesty Mr. Cooper-Smith might have been inclined to show us.

  Mr. Griggson himself solved the dilemma by striding from the room, forcing Jesse to step out of his way. “We’ll conclude our business at another time, Randall,” he said as he traversed the hallway. When he came upon me he stopped short. He didn’t bother to hide his sneer. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Cross. Have you given my offer any further consideration?”

  Did my legs tremble slightly as he glared his disregard at me? Yes, they did a bit, but thank goodness for the skirts and petticoats that hid the evidence of it. “No, Mr. Griggson, I have not. In fact, I had quite put it out of my mind.”

  “Humph.” His mouth twitched. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  He walked off and didn’t look back.

  “What was that all about?” the clerk asked. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “I don’t like the looks of him and I can’t have any trouble here. Mr. Bennett and the board of directors will not abide trouble.”

  I shook my head. “It was nothing. Nothing at all.” But my legs were still trembling.

  * * *

  We further dismayed the desk clerk with Jesse’s request—put more as a demand, really—that we be allowed to use one of the card rooms, empty at this time of day. The clerk once more scrutinized me. “Her, too?”

  Jesse didn’t dignify the question with a reply, refraining from pointing out that if he hadn’t wished me to be present for the discussion, he and Mr. Cooper-Smith might have talked in Mr. Cooper-Smith’s room. He merely gestured for the clerk to unlock the door to the nearest card room. Randall Cooper-Smith stood by shuffling his feet and looking none too pleased, especially with me. I seemed to be incurring the wrath of numerous men this morning.

  Jesse and I had discussed our line of questioning before entering the building, and I had informed him of Silas Griggson’s accusation concerning Randall Cooper-Smith and the tenement collapse. I placed my notebook on the baize-covered card table and readied my pencil. As we had agreed, I let Jesse begin the interview. “I know this is a very difficult time for you, Mr. Cooper-Smith, and I’ll make this as easy as possible. Now, please explain the nature of your business with Silas Griggson.”

  Mr. Cooper-Smith started, clearly unnerved by the question. I didn’t doubt that Mr. Griggson’s visit had left him unsettled. “What has that got to do with my daughter? And why is she here?” He jerked his chin in my direction.

  “Miss Cross is assisting me,” Jesse said calmly. “She’ll be taking notes. Perhaps you hadn’t realized, but I was injured during the initial investigation at Ochre Court.”

  The man’s obvious displeasure didn’t fade, but neither did he react with anything approaching guilt at what Jesse told him. “Yes, but why her specifically?”

  “Because there is no reason to expend more manpower from the police force for a simple questioning. And because, as a reporter, Miss Cross is a skilled note taker.”

  I suppressed a chuckle and sat at attention, my pencil poised above my notebook.

  “And as for how this relates to your daughter, sir,” Jesse continued, “all background information about those who knew her is relevant. Now then, Mr. Cooper-Smith, please tell me about your business with Mr. Griggson.”

  “I’m an architect,” he said defensively. He raised his hands, palms up. “Griggson is a developer.”

  Jesse nodded as I jotted down this unhelpful information. “And do you work with other developers?”

  “Of course I do. Griggson is merely one of many.”

  “It’s my understanding that you and Mr. Griggson share more than a business relationship. That you are also friends.” Jesse’s gaze met Mr. Cooper-Smith’s.

  The
man blinked and broke eye contact. “We’ve a good working association. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “Mr. Cooper-Smith, are you aware that one of Silas Griggson’s projects failed recently, resulting in the collapse of a building? Several residents died and numerous others were injured.”

  “Of course I’m aware of it.”

  “Did you design that building?”

  Mr. Cooper-Smith sputtered and pulled back in his chair. “I . . . yes, I did. But my design was sound. It’s already been established that the foreman was skimming funds from the project. He purchased shoddy materials and pocketed the difference.”

  “Did you find it at all suspicious that only hours after the man was bailed out of jail—by Silas Griggson—he was found floating in the East River?”

  “What? Why you . . .” The blood drained from Mr. Cooper-Smith’s face. He pushed to his feet. “I don’t have to be subjected to this. It has nothing to do with my daughter.”

  “Sit down, sir,” Jesse ordered, though his voice remained calm. “If you’ll bear with me, you’ll soon see that this very much relates to your daughter. Now then. Did you find this at all suspicious?”

  The man hovered for another few seconds, his posture stiff, his face as white as the whitest marble. Then, slowly, he sank back into his chair. “It seemed . . . irregular. Yes. But suspicious? I don’t know. Perhaps the guilt got to him.”

  “Or perhaps someone put him in the river.” Jesse raised an eyebrow. Mr. Cooper-Smith’s hands fisted on the tabletop. He looked frightened, unnerved. I scribbled away in my notebook for appearance’s sake, but none of this was important, was nothing new—not even the man’s reaction to Jesse’s implication that Silas Griggson was responsible for the foreman’s death. Jesse was leading him down a carefully planned path. He suddenly changed tacks. “How well did Mr. Griggson know your daughter?”

  “What?” Clearly thrown off balance again, Mr. Cooper-Smith procured a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at his brow. “Not well. They, that is . . . they were as acquainted as any of my business associates with my daughters. He had been to the house for dinner upon occasion. Afterward he and I would retire to my study to consult on mutual projects.”