Murder at Ochre Court

by Alyssa Maxwell

  * * *

  At the sound of a groan, I whirled. My heart thumped wildly. Silas Griggson couldn’t be alive. No one could survive a bullet to the head....

  A second groan traveled, not from the dining room, but from a room on the other side of the entry hall. I peered through an open doorway into a room lined with bookshelves. A library. A dragging step somewhere inside sent me backing up against the front door. My first thought was to flee, and I wrapped my hand around the door handle.

  “Who’s there?” a man’s voice called weakly. The voice broke into coughing. My fingers tightened, ready to press the latch.

  The voice called out again, “Please, help me. . . .”

  Recognition washed through me. It was Dorian Norris. I moved to the doorway, seeing nothing but bookshelves, sofas, a table, and chairs. “Lieutenant?”

  “Who—who’s there?” More dragging footsteps drew my gaze to the far corner of the room, where a figure came into view. He leaned heavily on the frame of a sofa, hunching over, his head hanging. He seemed unable to focus at first, but stared blankly across the room, leaning, struggling to remain upright. Then, his vision narrowed on me. “Miss Cross?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.” I rushed into the room. When I reached him I slipped an arm around him and dragged one of his across my shoulders. “Can you walk? You can sit here.”

  He hesitated before shaking his head. “Please help me out of here.”

  Once back in the front hall, he swayed precariously. I helped him onto the bottom step. I remained standing, gazing down on him.

  “What happened? How did you come to be here?”

  After breathing out audibly, he raised his face to me. “Where is Sam Caldwell?”

  My pulse lurched. “Was he here? I saw him hurrying toward Ochre Court.”

  “I followed him here.” He lowered his chin again, propping his elbows on his knees and allowing his forehead to fall into his hands. “He’s been acting so strangely and . . . this friendship he’d struck up with Griggson. It didn’t make sense. Griggson’s a dangerous man.”

  I nodded my understanding. “Then they did know each other?”

  He nodded. “Rather too well, I’m afraid.”

  “So you followed him here today.”

  “I hoped to help him out of a difficulty. I thought perhaps Sam owed Griggson money or something of that nature.”

  “What happened when you got here? Was Sam here?”

  The lieutenant nodded. “I found the door unlocked, so I came in. As I did, I heard a noise, caught a flashing glimpse of Sam, and then . . .” He shook his head.

  “And then what?” I pressed him.

  “Then I heard someone out here in the hall. It was you.”

  I stood back a moment, considering. Dorian had said Griggson was a dangerous man, but Griggson was dead. Sam had been here, and apparently he had knocked Dorian unconscious. “Did you hear a gun go off?”

  “A gun?” He looked alarmed and shook his head.

  With a sigh I sat beside him on the step. “Silas Griggson is dead.” With my chin I indicated the doorway into the parlor. “He’s through there, in the dining room.”

  I let this sink in, and then continued. “Lieutenant, have you ever heard of the Five Points Gang?”

  “I’ve heard of them, yes. They’ve a terrible reputation. Why? Oh, you don’t think Griggson—” He broke off, his mouth open. “But then Sam . . . Wait. If Griggson is dead, and Sam was here and . . . and probably knocked me unconscious. . . does that mean Sam . . .” He didn’t complete the thought, but I understood and nodded.

  “We can’t be certain, but it does look that way. The police are on their way now. They’ll sort this out.”

  “Wait a minute.” He turned to face me more fully. “Did you say you saw Sam rushing to Ochre Court?”

  “It appeared so. He was headed in that direction, and walking fast.”

  His eyes sparked with fright. Grabbing the newel post beside him, he struggled to his feet, wobbled a moment, then took a couple of steps. “I have to go,” he murmured.

  “Lieutenant, you’re not fit to go anywhere just now. We should wait for the police. Detective Whyte is already on his way to Ochre Court.”

  He pinned me with a determined, feverish stare. “You don’t understand. I must go. Everything I care about is there. Camille.” He stumbled his way to the front door and threw it open. I came to my feet, protesting but knowing I would not be able to stop him. Only his physical state had the power to do that now. But with each step his determination shored him up, and by the time he reached the driveway, his stride became firm, fleet. He loved Camille Tate. He needed to protect her.

  And then I thought of Grace, of Ilsa, of Mrs. Goelet’s daughter, May. Jesse was only one man, and Ochre Court was huge. He would need help, and the police still hadn’t arrived. Quickly, I drew out the notepad and pencil I always carried in my handbag. I scribbled directions, tore out the page, folded it, and secured it beneath the door knocker. The policemen would know where to go.

  I hurried after Lieutenant Norris.

  Chapter 17

  When the lieutenant and I reached Ochre Court, I spotted Jesse’s buggy on the service driveway. With relief, I followed Dorian to the front door. He pounded on it with his fists, nearly striking the butler when he opened the door. Both men scowled at each other, and then Dorian pushed past him.

  “What the . . . ?” The butler turned to pursue the trespasser, but I stepped over the threshold and into his path.

  “It’s all right. That gentleman is with me, and there’s good reason for his haste.” I saw that the butler recognized me; his posture relaxed. “I promise you, he means no harm.”

  “This is highly irregular behavior.”

  “These are highly irregular circumstances. Can you tell me where Detective Whyte is?”

  “Detective Whyte, of the Newport Police?” When I nodded, the man sniffed and his eyebrows went up. “He isn’t here, I’m sure.”

  A feeling of apprehension gathered in the pit of my stomach. “But that’s his carriage on the service driveway.”

  “He hasn’t come this way. Perhaps you should check with Mrs. Hendricks.”

  “Did an army officer come by? A captain? He has blond hair and is about my age, perhaps a couple of years older.”

  “Miss Cross, are you feeling unwell? There is no one here but the family and their guest, Miss Cooper-Smith. And of course, that rude young man who arrived with you.” He stepped aside. “Mrs. Goelet still isn’t receiving, but I suppose you had better come in.”

  I entered the vestibule. Though concern for Jesse made me want to search for him, I reminded myself of his policeman’s skills and ability to take care of himself.

  He’s still recovering from his injury, a small voice inside me murmured. But if danger had come to Ochre Court, my first responsibility was to warn the family and Ilsa.

  “I’m going upstairs,” I announced, and, without waiting for permission, circled round to the main staircase. Lifting my hems, I ran up, feeling as though the many dolphins and cherubim carved into each stone baluster urged me on.

  Something was indeed odd at Ochre Court today. Despite the butler’s assurances that no one but the family—and now Dorian—occupied the house, I discovered Ilsa once more ensconced in the upstairs sitting room with Patrick Floyd. This time, however, they were not alone. Miss Goelet sat with them, the three of them seeming to be deep in discussion as I entered the room.

  “Miss Cross,” Ilsa exclaimed upon seeing me. “What brings you back?” Her expression changed from mildly curious to concerned. “Has something happened?”

  I answered with a question of my own. “Have any of you seen Captain Caldwell? He would have arrived only about a half hour ago.”

  Both Miss Goelet and Ilsa shrugged with mystified expressions. Patrick Floyd scrutinized me, and his even features tightened. “Is there some problem with Captain Caldwell?”

  I heard the faintest urgenc
y in his question, as though he struggled to conceal his apprehension. Meeting his gaze, I once again replied with another question. “How did you come to be in the house without the butler knowing about it?”

  He visibly bristled. “Is this some kind of accusation, Miss Cross?”

  Beside him, Ilsa darted a gaze from Patrick to me and sat up straighter. “I can answer that. Patrick came in through the terrace. I admitted him. The butler was belowstairs—or somewhere—at the time.”

  “I wasn’t accusing,” I said truthfully. “What I wished to learn was how someone might be in the house without the staff knowing. Now I know.” And the knowledge didn’t sit well with me. With a murder having taken place here, it might behoove the residents and the staff to take extra precautions in securing doors and windows, and keeping a sharp eye out for anyone approaching the house from across the property. “Did you lock the terrace doors after coming inside?”

  This time Ilsa traded glances with Miss Goelet and replied, “No, I don’t believe we did.”

  Miss Goelet expressed her concurrence. “We’re so unused to worrying about such things here, Miss Cross.”

  “What are you getting at, Miss Cross?” Mr. Floyd came to his feet and gave a firm tug at his coat to straighten it. “Is there some danger?”

  “Yes, Mr. Floyd. At least, there might be. I think you should find Miss Goelet’s brother and all of you retire to Mrs. Goelet’s suite and stay there. You see . . .” I trailed off, loathing to speak what I must. But in order to ensure the safety of Ilsa and the other women, I had to make them understand. “There has been another murder. Silas Griggson is dead, and Sam Caldwell might be involved. The last I saw of him, he was hurrying down Webster Street in this direction.”

  The two young women gained their feet in an instant. Their morning dresses swept the floor as they drew together. “We have to warn Robert and Mama,” Miss Goelet cried.

  “Yes,” I agreed wholeheartedly. Mr. Floyd maintained a tight silence, his gaze piercing and steady. “Tell them Detective Whyte is here, somewhere, and more policemen should arrive shortly. But do go to your mother’s suite and lock yourselves in. Mr. Floyd, I think you should accompany them.”

  His shoulders seemed to grow wider. “I will, Miss Cross. And you—”

  “I’ll be all right,” I assured them with more conviction than I felt. Jesse’s failure to materialize worried me no end, but also instilled in me a greater sense of responsibility to prevent anyone else from coming to harm. “I need to warn Camille as well.”

  “What has Camille to do with any of this?”

  “I haven’t time to explain now. Please, all of you go.” I left them to do as I had advised and hurried up to the third floor. A hallway led off the gallery and to several smaller corridors off which some of the upper servants’ quarters were located. Even had I not known which room Camille occupied, I’d have followed the voices—two male voices, subdued in volume but filled with anger.

  “You murdered Silas,” Dorian accused. “I think you’re responsible for Cleo, too.”

  “Liar. I didn’t kill anyone and you know it, Dorian.”

  My breath suspended, I pressed myself to the wall outside the room. Both men were claiming innocence and accusing the other. But how can Sam accuse Dorian, when the latter had been unconscious in Silas Griggson’s library? Camille couldn’t know that, I realized, and Sam obviously sought to deceive her. I edged toward the doorway, peeking in through the gap between the door hinges and the frame. I searched both men’s hands for weapons and saw none. That didn’t mean there weren’t any. Camille huddled in a corner of the room, her arms around herself. The arguing escalated, their accusations repeated and denied countless times. Then something changed; the tension in the room thickened, and suddenly Dorian lunged at Sam. He slammed his fist into Sam’s jaw. Sam cried out, wobbled, and went down like a felled tree. Dorian swung back a foot in preparation of delivering a kick to Sam’s side.

  “He’s down, Dorian.” Camille tugged at his arm. “Stop it. Stop it now. You’ll kill him.”

  He made some reply, but I didn’t hear it. I was still thinking about that punch, envisioning it. Dorian had landed that punch . . .

  With his left hand.

  But no, after Cleo’s murder the police had tested everyone, had them sign their names.

  And yet, some people, a rare few, possessed equal use of both hands. Could Dorian Norris be one of them?

  Had he murdered Cleo? Silas Griggson? Oliver Kipp, in faraway Santiago? My mind whirled as the fragments came hurtling together to form the whole. He had been present at each incident. But why? What induced a young man of good family to turn killer? What link existed between him and Silas Griggson? Surely Dorian Norris couldn’t be a member of the Five Points Gang.

  “We have to do something for him,” Camille pleaded.

  “Leave him. Let’s get out of here.” I heard a yelp as Dorian gripped Camille’s hand. “We have to go.”

  “I don’t understand. . . .”

  “He killed Cleo, you idiot.” Camille seemed not to notice Dorian’s insult; she made no comment as he continued. “He came here to kill you as well.”

  “But why . . . ?”

  They would exit the room any moment. I searched my surroundings for a weapon. The bare hallway seemed to mock me. This being servants’ quarters, there were no vases, no figurines, nothing to snatch off a table and use to knock a man out.

  I slid along the wall with little hope of darting around the corner before Camille and Dorian spotted me. Thank goodness for Camille’s stubborn insistence that they couldn’t simply leave Sam lying on her bedroom floor. I could still hear her arguing the point. Still, I knew Dorian would win out, would drag Camille along if need be.

  “Ah, Miss Cross.” Too late. The pair rounded the doorway and stopped short when they saw me. Camille looked frightened and uncertain, and I’d have wagered even she entertained doubts about the man she proclaimed to love. Meanwhile, Dorian attempted to smile at me, an effort that fell short and chilled me. “I’ve apprehended Sam. He’s inside, unconscious. Thank goodness we arrived here in time, or he might have killed Camille. Everything is all right now.”

  “But why would Sam Caldwell want to kill me?” Camille’s disbelief might very well result in her death, I suspected, but not at Captain Caldwell’s hands. For her sake, I decided I’d better play along and make a believable show of it.

  “Thank goodness, Lieutenant.” I feigned vast relief. “Camille, Sam isn’t in his right mind. We don’t yet know why he murdered Miss Cooper-Smith, or Mr. Griggson, but whatever induced him, he must believe you to have been in your mistress’s confidence, that you have information that could incriminate him.”

  “Let’s go, before he wakes up.” Dorian started Camille walking, and as they closed the distance between us, I struggled to devise a way to detain him in this house until the police arrived. And then my prayers were answered.

  * * *

  Urgent voices echoed from the vestibule two stories below. I swept along the hallway to the main gallery, supported by low arches rendered in carved, gilded wood, each spandrel column capped by a mythological character gazing down on the Great Hall. When I reached the nearest archway, I hung far over the wide balustrade. When the tops of four heads came into view, three covered by police helmets and one dark-haired, I realized Jesse was not among them. I processed the fact even as I waved my arms wildly. “Up here! Come quickly.”

  A shove from behind nearly sent me tumbling head over heels. My arms wrapped themselves around the railing, the thickly carved woodwork digging in to my flesh. I shouted down again. Faces turned up to me. Among them I recognized Scotty Binsford and Derrick—the dark-haired one. All four men turned onto the main staircase and raced up.

  Hands closed viselike around my upper arms, and I felt my hold on the railing slipping. Dorian was tugging me, attempting to pull me free.

  Behind him, Camille protested. “Dorian, what are you doing?”r />
  “I’m attempting to help her, to prevent her from falling.”

  The lie triggered a protest of my own. “He’ll throw me over!”

  “Dorian, stop!” Camille came closer, her shout somewhere near my ear. Behind me I felt Dorian’s grip wavering as she apparently caught hold of him and tugged. A string of curses flew from his lips and skipped across the biblical mural that stretched across the ceiling.

  Dorian released me so abruptly I fell forward, sending my heart to thud wildly in my throat. My chin hit the balustrade, but I instantly swung around and pushed away, attempting to put distance between myself and the open plunge to the Great Hall. In that moment Dorian’s arm swung upward, his fist pummeling into Camille’s face. Her head snapped backward but no sound came from her. Her legs buckled and she fell, her back slapping the carpeted floor.

  “Damn you, Dorian.” Sam Caldwell leaned half a moment in the entrance of the hallway before launching himself unsteadily into the gallery.

  Dorian met him halfway with blows that rained down on Sam’s face and torso. Sam fought back, but it was obvious he wouldn’t last long. The pounding of footsteps echoed from the stairs. The sound became louder, closer, and then Derrick and the policemen burst onto the landing.

  With clubs drawn, the officers surrounded the two scuffling men and demanded they cease. Derrick darted past them and came to me. I had fallen to Camille’s side, was tapping the back of her hand and calling her name.

  Derrick crouched beside me; his own hand descended on mine. “Are you all right?”

  I blew out a shaky breath. “You came just in time.”

  “What was happening here? Why were Caldwell and Norris fighting?”

  I looked over to where the policemen were subduing Dorian and Sam, restraining them with handcuffs. Each continued his accusations against the other, and as conflicting charges filled the air, even I became confused. Who was innocent? Who was guilty? I tried to blink away my bewilderment. “I’m not entirely sure. I thought Sam killed Silas Griggson. But it wasn’t Sam trying to push me over the railing just now. That was Dorian.” I shook my head as I tried in vain to recall each sequence of events. In my mind, the images flashed in disarray.