Murder at Marble House

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  He looked at me doubtfully. “I’d hoped a good night’s rest might help you see reason.”

  “Derrick, if anything, the hours between our talk yesterday and today only strengthened my resolve. Those men on Rose Island tried to kill us. Don’t you want to know who is ultimately responsible for that?”

  “Emma, those men might have wanted to kill us, but I’m fairly certain they didn’t get a good look at us. That means they don’t know who we are any more than we know who they are. If you ask me, the safest course is to leave it be.”

  “And I say there is greater safety in knowledge.” I raised my eyebrows in a silent dare to contest my assertion.

  He only moved to open the door for me. “By the way, you look very pretty today,” he murmured as I preceded him inside.

  “Thank you.” I broke into a grin, one I was glad he couldn’t see.

  After bidding Donald Larimer good morning we strode past his desk and continued down the corridor leading to the Observer ’s workrooms. We went into the office I shared with Ed Billings, one I rarely used as I preferred to write at home. Ed must have been out scouting news, for I saw no coat over the back of his chair, nor papers strewn across his desk, nor any other sign that he might be in the building. The typical drone of a workday filtered in from the newsroom and, farther back still, the presses. Derrick waited while I uncovered the typewriter. This was my reason for coming here: the use of the machine that would help conceal my identity. We conferred on wording, and then I tapped away at the keys. Some twenty minutes later we were back on the street, looking up and down the sidewalk for the opportunity we sought. Derrick spotted it, or should I say him, and let out a shrill whistle.

  “Boy! Over here. Would you like a job?”

  Instantly, the passing bicycle stopped, then turned about. Its rider wore navy blue trousers, a matching coat emblazoned with bright brass buttons that caught the sun, and the stiff, flat-topped cap of a Western Union messenger boy. “You got something you need delivered, sir?”

  Officially, boys like this one delivered packages for Western Union for paltry weekly wages, and it wasn’t unusual for them to earn extra cash by fitting a few private deliveries into their daily schedules. Derrick held out the two envelopes we’d addressed inside. “Can you deliver these for us by this afternoon?”

  “Sooner than that, sir.” The boy peered at the addresses. “Cost you a nickel each.”

  Derrick fished a coin out of his trouser pocket. We might have hired one of the Observer’s young newsies or office boys for the errand, but we had reasons for wanting to remain anonymous. “Here’s fifty cents if you don’t tell either addressee anything about who hired you.”

  The young man, a bit of dirt on his chin, grinned and made a gesture against his lips as if locking them. He pushed away from the sidewalk and rode off down busy Thames Street.

  I found myself glad I’d worn Gertrude’s lovely outfit later that evening when Derrick took me to dine at the White Horse Tavern, a quaint yet elegant eatery established long before the Revolution. While I’ll admit nothing quite exceeds Nanny’s plain but savory fare, I enjoyed my roast duck, rosemary potatoes, and glazed carrots immensely. Yet once again, the simple act of sharing a meal with Derrick brought to mind all the other things he’d invited me to share in his life, and if I laughed a bit too shrilly or talked rather too quickly, it was my feeble attempt to appear confident in the decision I’d made not to accept his offer of marriage.

  From there we made our way to Bellevue Avenue and Mill Street, where dignified clapboard houses faced a grassy, tree-shaded square called Touro Park. At the park’s center, the Old Mill Tower rose up against the evening sky, its unmortared stones forming several arches in a circular design nearly thirty feet in height. Some speculated Vikings had built it hundreds of years before Columbus set sail to this hemisphere; others held it to be nothing more exotic than the remains of a seventeenth-century windmill. For me, that night, the very sight of it made my breath hitch in anticipation.

  We kept to the edges of the park and took up position under the shelter of some trees, pressed tight to the trunk of the largest among them. We didn’t have long to wait. Other than the occasional muffled voice from one of the houses behind us, silence reigned in the neighborhood until footsteps alerted us to the arrival of the first of our quarry. Though the darkness as well as a broad-brimmed beaver hat concealed his features, the approaching man revealed himself as one of our target by striding to the tower and passing through the closest of its arches.

  Soon carriage wheels echoed off the fronts of the houses directly across the park from us. The hansom cab stopped and a man alighted. Again we could not make out his face clearly, but after a quick look about and a word to the driver, this man, too, made his way inside the tower.

  The carriage drove off, and Derrick and I used its rumble to conceal our steps as we moved closer, careful to stay close to trees and hedges and not daring to speak a word. Once again I applauded my choice in wearing my restored gown; being meant for walking, the petticoats were of the softest muslin that remained virtually silent when I moved.

  We crept as close as we dared to the tower. Hushed voices drifted from inside.

  “Have you lost your wits, summoning me here like this?”

  “Me? You’re the one gone daft. I told you the other morning when you intruded upon my breakfast that I didn’t want anything more to do with you. I did what you asked. Now fulfill your side of the bargain and leave me alone.”

  The first voice was that of a stranger to me. The second voice—oh, that one I knew well enough. I caught Derrick’s eye and silently moved my lips.

  Winty.

  A quivering realization went through me. This other man was the reason Winty hadn’t allowed me to search his house for Consuelo the morning I’d visited him. Another visitor had gotten there before me, and Winty hadn’t wanted me to discover him.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” that man said now, his voice deeper, gruffer than Winty’s, suggesting he was older. “What do you want? Make it quick.”

  The individual I had already guessed to be Hope Stanford’s husband stepped into view through one of the arches. His rotund figure filled the space, though his head fell far short of the arch’s zenith. With an impatient gesture he swept his beaver hat off his head, revealing a balding pate wreathed by tight, closely cropped curls that shimmered silver in the moonlight.

  “What do I want?” It was Winty speaking this time. “You sent for me, remember?”

  Pebbles crunched and suddenly both men were framed by the archway. Winty poked a finger at Stanford’s frock coat. “I played your little game, but I swear, Stanford, if you drag me down any further I’ll go to my father. We might not have quite the fortune we once did, but Father’s still got his connections. He’ll see you put out of business—any and all business.”

  “You wouldn’t dare besmirch your own name, much less run confessing to your papa. Just think how disappointed he’d be to discover his dear Winthrop putting in with smugglers.”

  Derrick and I shot each other another glance.

  “Damn you, Stanford. Look, let’s just get this over with before someone spots us together. What do you want? If it’s to help you again, you can forget it.”

  “Why do you insist on asking me what I want?” A rustle of paper disturbed the quiet. “You summoned me.” Calvin Stanford thrust a piece of paper toward Winty. Winty stared at it dumbly before reaching inside his coat and pulling out a similar sheaf.

  This time Derrick and I exchanged knowing—and yes, amused—looks; we knew good and well where those notes had originated.

  “What the . . . ?” Mr. Stanford swiped the paper from Winty’s hand and held it up beside his own. He squinted to make out the words. Then he snapped both pages to his side and began looking about, neck craning as he searched the shadowy park. “Damn it, we’ve been set up.”

/>   Derrick took my hand and together we stepped out from behind the concealing foliage. “Yes, you have.”

  Stanford drew himself up, his corpulent stomach a protruding mound beneath his coat. “What is the meaning of this? Who are you?”

  Beside him, Winty stared like a frightened rabbit, his face gone as pale as the moon hanging above us. “M-Miss Cross . . .”

  “You know these people?” A sneer grew on Stanford’s face as he looked me up and down.

  “I know her,” was Winty’s unsteady answer.

  “And I know you, Mr. Rutherfurd, and all I can say is shame on you. Shame on you both.” I shifted my attention to the other man. “What would your wife say, Mr. Stanford?”

  “Who in the hell are you two?” the man demanded. “I won’t ask what you want. The answer is obvious: blackmail.”

  I smiled. “There you are wrong, Mr. Stanford. Mr. Andrews and I have no interest in blackmailing either of you. We brought you both here tonight on a hunch that has proved correct. And now we have some questions we’d like answered.”

  “Well . . .” The man released a mirthless laugh that shook the loose skin bulging from his collar. “I’ve no intention of answering them. You, miss, should be home with your family, where a young lady belongs. And you, sir . . .” He trailed off, his gaze narrowing and his lips drooping at the corners. “I know you . . .”

  “Do you indeed?” Derrick tilted his head as if in polite interest. “I’m sorry to say that if we’ve met I don’t remember. However, I do seem to be learning quite a bit about you tonight. About both of you. Mr. Rutherfurd, I’ve heard a lot about you from Miss Cross.”

  Winty stuttered something unintelligible and I began to fear the shock of our little ruse might threaten his health.

  “You’re the Andrews heir,” Stanford said slowly. “Of the Providence Sun. I’ve seen your picture. . . .”

  Derrick gave a little bow. “At your service, sir.”

  At that moment Winty apparently found his tongue. “Miss Cross, what is this all about?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Rutherfurd. Despite what they say they’re here to blackmail us.” Stanford regarded Derrick and me with a resigned air. “How much?”

  “Honestly, Mr. Stanford, that is not our intent. Not that I condone illegal activities, mind you, and Mr. Rutherfurd, I’m astonished at you.” I paused to show them my best imitation of one of Nanny’s chastising pouts. “But you can distill illegal rum until the cows come home for all I care.”

  It was Winty’s and Stanford’s turn to exchange surprised looks. I then garnered an admiring if begrudging one from Stanford.

  “What we want to know . . . what we demand to know,” I said, “is where you both were on the night before last. When the smugglers on Rose Island tried to kill us.”

  “What?” Winty’s exclamation came out as a strangled gasp. The type-written notes fluttered from Stanford’s hand to land in the dirt at his feet. “I was nowhere near Rose Island the other night. I swear it.”

  “But men in your employ were,” Derrick said.

  Stanford scrambled to retrieve the missives before the wind took them, then straightened with an indignant snort. “What proof do you have—”

  “They spoke your name, Mr. Stanford.” I raised my chin at him, daring him to contradict what Derrick and I had heard with our own ears. “And just so you’re aware, I’ve left a signed statement in my desk at the Newport Observer detailing everything that happened that night. If anything should happen to Derrick or me, rest assured that statement will be found.”

  I could feel Derrick frowning at me, though I didn’t dare glance his way. I’d left no such statement and he knew it. But I resolved to do so at the very first opportunity.

  “Now, then,” I went on, “we’d very much like an answer. Or perhaps you’d care to take this to the police station. My very good friend Detective Whyte would be happy to take over the task of questioning you.”

  “She’s telling the truth about that,” Winty said to Stanford out of the side of his mouth. “She and that detective are friends.” He turned his attention to me. “Miss Cross, as God is my witness, all I did was agree to drop a marker in the water at the edge of Rose Island, designating where a delivery was to be dropped off, and then retrieved by another vessel. That is the extent of my involvement.”

  “Yes, I saw you, Mr. Rutherfurd, and let me say that you are not cut out for a life of subterfuge.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I am. But Stanford here agreed to pay off a couple of debts for me . . .” Winty stared at the ground.

  Derrick cleared his throat. “So what’s your story, Stanford?”

  “I don’t see why I have to tell you anything.”

  I raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Because if you don’t, I’ll go to your wife with what I know. Your temperance-leader wife.”

  “See here, Hope has her diversions and I have mine. If you would refrain from sticking your nose in other people’s business, you won’t need to worry about men trying to kill you. Which I had nothing to do with, I might add.” He mirrored my own yes-I’ve-got-you-trumped smile. “How did they try to do you in, if I might ask?”

  “They rammed their steamer into our rowboat.” The memory sent a shudder through me. “We jumped overboard at the last minute.”

  The man had the audacity to laugh—to wrap both arms around his stomach, lean over, and let go a belly laugh that resounded against the houses and made the rest of us cringe. “My dear Miss Cross, that was nothing more than a warning. If those vagabonds had wanted you dead, you’d not now be standing here speaking to me.”

  Derrick shot by me in a blur of overcoat and outstretched arms. Before anyone could react, his hands wrapped around Stanford’s throat, and with the force of his stride he slammed the man up against the side of an arch and pinned him in place.

  “No more games, Stanford. Did you or did you not give the order to have witnesses murdered?”

  Winty let out a whimper.

  His hands coming up to grip Derrick’s wrists, Stanford rasped and sputtered. Derrick loosened his hold a fraction. The older man worked his head from side to side and dragged in a breath before speaking. “Of course . . . I didn’t . . . you madman. I’m out to make money, and the quickest way to attract the police is to leave a trail of bodies in one’s wake.”

  “He does have a point,” I said. But then I strode to them and set my hands on my hips. “What about three days ago? Where were you the afternoon Madame Devereaux died?”

  When Stanford didn’t answer immediately, Derrick gave him a shove, his fists still knotted around the man’s coat collar. “Answer the lady.”

  “I was at the Newport Casino . . . with several of your town councilmen.” Stanford’s thick lips pulled back in a self-satisfied sneer. “I’d be happy to give you their names if you require proof.”

  “I might at that, Mr. Stanford,” I said.

  Slowly Derrick’s grip slackened and his hands fell to his sides. “I believe you. I’m not sure why, but I do.” He stepped away from Stanford, his lips in a shrewd slant. “It occurs to me that if your wife gets her way, you’ll make your money—plenty of it.”

  Stanford brushed at his lapels and smirked.

  During the exchange Winty had stood as stiff as a pillar. Now his body sagged as he visibly relaxed. “Miss Cross, what were you doing on Rose Island?”

  I shot a look at Stanford, then pulled Winty outside the tower. “Looking for Consuelo,” I whispered once we’d moved several yards away. “When I saw you drop the marker into the water that afternoon, I thought perhaps it might have something to do with her. That maybe you were marking a rendezvous point to take her out of Newport.”

  “I told you I hadn’t seen her. That still holds true.”

  “Yes, but it occurred to me you might be lying. You were behaving strangely the morning I came to see you.” I flicked a glance at Stanford through the archway. “Now I know why. He was somewhere in your house, wasn’t h
e?”

  “Upstairs. And no, it would not have been a good idea for you to see him, not that it matters now.” Winty frowned. “Do you mean to say you still haven’t found Miss Vanderbilt?”

  “No, I haven’t. But I’ve got Detective Whyte involved in the search now.” I briefly touched the back of Winty’s hand. “We’ll find her soon, I’m sure of it.”

  “Damn that mother of hers. . . .”

  “Now, Mr. Rutherfurd—”

  “No!” His eyes sparked fire, and his vehemence sent me back a step. I’d never seen him so impassioned. “If anything has happened . . . or happens . . . to Consuelo, it’ll be Alva’s fault. I wasn’t good enough for her . . . Consuelo herself was never good enough for her. She drove her daughter away as surely as if she’d pushed her out the door.”

  I couldn’t argue with him, but neither did I agree. I didn’t feel it would be prudent to discuss family matters with him any more than I already had. That being the case, we had little more to say to each other.

  We walked back into the tower. It seemed everything that could be said had been, and the four of us engaged in a kind of glaring standoff for several long moments.

  It was Derrick who ended it. “Just remember that we know who you are and what you’re doing. We’ll be watching the two of you.”

  Winty opened his mouth as if to protest his innocence once more, but in the end he clamped his lips together and nodded. Stanford seethed through eyes gone narrow within pockets of sagging flesh. Obviously he was a man who didn’t like being bested or not knowing exactly where he stood. Unfortunately for him neither Derrick nor I was about to offer any reassurances. Better to keep the man wondering what we might do with the information we had.

  We parted ways with terse wishes for a good evening. Winty and Stanford walked together to the edge of the park, where they separated and went in opposite directions on Bellevue Avenue.

  Beside me, Derrick let out a labored breath. “Well, that was interesting. Not sure we learned much, though.”