Murder at Chateau sur Mer

by Alyssa Maxwell

  About halfway down I froze. From here I had a full, unobstructed view of the grounds, including the shaded paddock. The horses used during the first chukker were unsaddled, and grooms set about brushing them down. Meanwhile, two fresh sets of horses were saddled and readied for the next chukker. Suddenly I realized what might have sent James Bennett and Dominic Ellsworth to the wharf last night.

  Chapter 15

  The second chukker proceeded without controversy, and I detected nothing suspicious about the horses or the match itself. When the chukker ended, the stomping of the divots commenced, a privilege reserved for those on the grandstand. Beyond the field, the players gathered beneath two tents beside the paddock, one for each team. Tired, perspiring horses were led to the shaded side of the enclosed circle, while those that would play next were saddled and walked by their grooms. To my untrained eye, the animals all looked very much the same. To the riders, grooms, and Competition Committee, the differences would be evident, but only upon close scrutiny.

  I watched as Derrick made his way down to the grass and headed in his direction. After the shade of the grandstand, he squinted in the more direct sunlight. He removed his top hat when he reached me. “Brady told me about his conversation with Robert Clarkson.”

  “Never mind that for the moment.” I glanced about, ensuring we would not be overheard. I needn’t have worried. The activity on the field proved far too entertaining for anyone to be concerned with a pair strolling and talking.

  “Mr. Bennett and Mr. Ellsworth may have conspired to cheat in today’s match. I believe that wagon last night contained what Brady would call a ‘ringer.’” At Derrick’s blank expression, I clarified, “Like bringing in a highly skilled player but not revealing the extent of his talents.”

  “Yes, I know what a ringer is. But—” His mouth opened on an O, and he nodded slowly. “A horse brought in to replace one of either James Bennett’s or Dominic Ellsworth’s.”

  “No one will be expecting an animal of greater power or agility than they had seen previously. Is it against the rules to do so?”

  “It’s certainly against the rules of gentlemanly fair play. But yes, a replacement horse, unannounced, would skew the odds wildly in favor of those betting on Westchester, assuming the team won. The Meadowview losses would be considerable.”

  “No wonder they picked up the horse in secret. If indeed it was a horse.”

  A bell sounded, and the stomping of the divots ceased. The people on the field shook their feet to dislodge any remaining bit of earth on their costly shoes and boots, and began filing back onto the grandstand. An eager roar went up from Morton Hill. Players, refreshed from their quarter-hour intermission, exited the tents. In the distance Dominic Ellsworth hoisted himself onto the paddock rail and swung himself over. James Bennett entered with the others through the main gate. Which one of them would ride the unauthorized horse?

  “Derrick, George Wetmore is on the Competition Committee. Do you suppose Mr. Bennett and Mr. Ellsworth wanted him out of the way so they could carry out their deception?”

  “While that part seems feasible, murdering Lilah is rather extreme, don’t you think?”

  I saw his point, but I didn’t quite nod in agreement. “Perhaps not, considering the amount of the wagers that could be at stake. And if Lilah overheard something . . .” My heart pattered. Is this what Lilah overheard at the wharf, and wished to warn Mr. Wetmore about? Did she lose her life over a sporting event?

  * * *

  Derrick and I were about to make our way to the paddocks to see what we could learn, when the shadow of a plumed hat fell across our path. Derrick lurched to a halt and stepped partway in front of me, as if to shield me from impending harm.

  “Hello, Mother. What are you doing back in Newport?”

  Lavinia Andrews expelled a harsh breath and swept closer. “Yes, I am back in Newport. Why didn’t you tell me about this ridiculous decision of your father’s? I was caught entirely unawares when I went home. Why, I could barely form a coherent argument about why your father must immediately rescind this change to his will. The very idea—you’re his son. His only son.”

  “Would it be more palatable if you and Father had another son with which to replace me?” Derrick spoke in a kindly tone; I don’t believe he meant to upset his mother further, but his jest was ill-timed.

  Mrs. Andrews shuddered, and the dignified beauty I’d come to associate with her hardened to a cold, crystalline hostility that found its mark—with me. “My son should be at home, proving to his father that he is a loyal member of this family. But no. He lingers here, and why does he do so, Miss Cross?”

  “Mother . . .” Derrick’s tone took on a subtle warning. I stood frozen, locked within Mrs. Andrews’s anger, both shocked and appalled to have become her target. Yes, I had been the recipient of her censure in the past, on more than one occasion. Yet for all the world, I could not have defended myself just then. I was too bewildered by this latest onslaught—by this woman’s utter loss of self-possession.

  Her nose flared until two sharp white lines stood out on either side. Her lips were pinched, her eyes small and narrow within their lashes. Loathing poured from her person. “He remains because of you. Because you have ensnared him in your web of lies and deceptions . . .”

  Derrick stepped fully in front of me, effectively placing himself between me and his mother’s wrath. “Mother, you don’t know what you’re saying. I am here of my own volition and no one else’s—not even Emma’s. Just as I went to Italy last summer of my own free will. I went because it was the right thing to do, just as being here now is the right thing to do. I’m sorry you can’t accept that, but when you think about it, you’ll see that you’re being as stubborn as Father. That is your right, of course, just as it’s Father’s right to bar me from the family business and cut me from his will. I assure you, neither circumstance will have the slightest bearing on my actions.”

  As I watched over Derrick’s shoulder, his mother gaped in obvious horror. I derived no pleasure from the sight. She was his mother, and she believed her argument to be in her son’s best interests. I didn’t have to like her, but I couldn’t fault her for her fiercely protective instincts.

  I stepped out from behind her son and lightly touched his forearm. “Derrick, please, this isn’t right,” I whispered. His mother’s gaze slid to me, and her mouth jerked open.

  Derrick didn’t give her the chance to speak. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I cannot allow you to continue speaking unkindly to Miss Cross. If you’ll excuse us—”

  I was about to protest when from the field came a frenzied whinny and a shout, taken up by others. Dominic Ellsworth’s horse danced wildly on its hind legs. It came down hard on all fours, kicked up with its back legs, came down again, and circled sharply. Cries came from the grandstand, and shouts of “Help him!” The animal shied away from the other horses and repeatedly kicked out with his hind legs while Mr. Ellsworth struggled to bring him under control. I waited for the referees to call a halt to the chukker, but neither did. The Westchester team might have been playing with only three men, for all the good Mr. Ellsworth was doing them now. Was this horse the cargo delivered last night?

  Another jarring kick sent Mr. Ellsworth tumbling headfirst over the horse’s withers and landing with a teeth-shaking thud on his back on the grass. He tried to roll out of the way but the horse, in its agitation, bucked forward. A hoof struck Mr. Ellsworth in the ribs. He curled onto his side, drew up his knees, and tucked his head to shield himself as much as possible.

  This all happened in a matter of seconds. Then Mr. Bennett and two other players, one from the Meadowview team, sprang from their saddles and closed in around the frantic animal. Their movements were not rushed, but steady and decisive. Mr. Bennett appeared to be speaking to the horse. I couldn’t hear the words but I saw his lips moving in a calm oration meant to soothe and reassure.

  The grandstand seemed to be holding its combined breath. Even Morton Hill
had gone silent but for a low murmur of speculation. Mrs. Andrews had moved away from us to view the activity, one hand pressed to her breastbone. Young girls and matrons alike stood craning their necks with hands pressed to their lips or clutching one another’s hands for support.

  James Bennett’s equine skills proved invaluable. The horse came to a tense standstill, its flanks twitching, watching with one wide-open eye as the human crept closer. A groom walked out as well, but Mr. Bennett signaled with one hand without taking his gaze off the horse. Finally, he came up beside the animal, reached out slowly, and grasped the reins. He signaled again for the groom, who proceeded with similar caution and relieved Mr. Bennett of the horse.

  Dr. Kennison, a local physician who tended to my family and many others here in town, hurried onto the field. By now the rest of the players had dismounted. I saw no movement from Mr. Ellsworth and, fearing the worst, I found myself mouthing a silent prayer for his well-being.

  Derrick, who had gone to stand beside his mother, glanced back at me. I nodded and gestured for him to escort Mrs. Andrews back to the grandstand or wherever she wished to go. With another destination in mind, I hurried around the rear of the grandstand. My intention was to circle to the paddock, wait for the groom to return with his recalcitrant charge, and attempt to discover whether this was indeed a replacement horse. If so, Dominic Ellsworth’s plan had backfired badly. Polo ponies must be trained gradually and carefully. This one had obviously been rushed onto the playing field.

  Curiosity drove me. Perhaps this had nothing to do with Lilah Buford’s death . . . but perhaps it did.

  The back of the grandstand formed a wall that soared high above my head. The paddocks were just coming into view when I reached a stand of beech trees whose trailing branches swept the ground. Without warning an arm reached out to part the foliage, revealing silver hair slicked back beneath a top hat. A man’s voice said, “About time you—” Mr. Hartwell Senior left off abruptly. He leaned on his cane, blinking at me, clearly startled. The surprise faded from his features, replaced by an almost feral anger. “You again. Why do you follow me? Why do you plague my family?”

  “I’m not, sir. I didn’t know you were—” It was my turn to break off as a suspicion took root. What was he doing out here, hidden by the grandstand and the giant beech? Had he just come from the paddocks? “Did you have something to do with Dominic Ellsworth’s horse running wild just now? Have you done something to it?”

  “You foolish girl.” He waved his cane before my face and came toward me. I attempted to retreat, but my back came up against the grandstand wall. With nowhere to escape, I shut my eyes and braced for the blow.

  “You there. Leave her be.” The distinctive Providence intonations identified Jonas even before he rushed through the branches, appearing like an avenging angel from the shadows beneath the tree. From behind he gripped Mr. Hartwell’s shoulder and spun him about, then pried the cane from the elderly man’s fingers. Jonas brandished it at him in the same threatening manner Mr. Hartwell had taken with me. “Go on with you, old man. You’ll do no mischief here. I’ve a mind to raise the alarm and hand you over to the police.”

  Pale and shaken, Mr. Hartwell turned back around and seized my wrist, tugging as if attempting to drag me along with him. Before I could so much as cry out, I heard a clunk and glimpsed a flash of silver beside the man’s head. His top hat tumbled to the ground, followed by Mr. Hartwell himself. He crumpled to a heap at my feet. I stood over him, my heart pounding in my throat, my hands trembling.

  “Good heavens” was all I could manage.

  “I didn’t want to do that. He forced my hand.” Jonas shook his head sadly. “Poor, deranged man.”

  I exhaled a long, tremulous breath and attempted to calm my racing heart. “Where could he have intended to take me?”

  “I can’t say, miss.” Still holding the cane, he looked me up and down. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “Quite all right, thanks to you.” I gazed down at the unconscious man lying in the dirt. He’d plainly shown violent tendencies, not once but several times now. Could he have killed Lilah? Had he noticed her interest in his family and, wishing to maintain whatever secret they harbored, snapped her neck to silence her? “He’s hurt. We’ll need to get help.”

  Jonas moved beside me. “He doesn’t deserve your kindness.”

  “You ought not to have struck him.” I crouched beside Mr. Hartwell, feeling the side of his head for a lump. “He’s an old man, he could be seriously injured.”

  “What choice did I have?”

  “Go and get help. I’ll stay with him.”

  “I can’t leave you alone with him, miss.”

  “Jonas, please.” I came to my feet. “Oh, very well. I’ll go.”

  An uneasy sensation held me in place. I studied Jonas a moment, taking in his work clothes, his hands that were permanently blackened beneath the nails from shoveling coal, his bright blue eyes. The last time I had seen him, he was up on Morton Hill engaged in a card game with another dockworker, drinking, singing lurid songs, and paying little attention to the activity on and around the field. “What brought you down here, Jonas, and at such an opportune moment?”

  He prodded the cane into the dirt as he spoke. “I saw the old man out here, and then I saw you coming along. I feared you might come to some harm, miss.”

  “But . . . you couldn’t have seen me here from Morton Hill. Nor Mr. Hartwell.” I didn’t like the doubt creeping over me. This man had intervened on my behalf twice before, but it seemed to me that his presence, at this precise moment, suggested he had some prior business here that had nothing to do with me. Could he have come to meet Mr. Hartwell by some prearranged agreement? But then . . .

  I gazed into his eyes, so clear and blue . . . except for an unusual flaw in one of them, an odd streak of amber that splashed across the iris of the left eye. I had seen that before . . . once before.

  My mouth dropped open. “Lilah,” I exclaimed, and then pain exploded inside my head and everything went black.

  * * *

  I woke to an incessant tapping at my cheeks and voices calling my name. I wanted it to stop, wanted to be left alone. My head pounded and I could feel my arms and legs akimbo in a most uncomfortable manner. I turned my face from side to side in hopes of avoiding whatever kept pattering against my cheeks. My efforts were in vain.

  My eyes fluttered open. When daylight hit them I shut them again. The voices became louder.

  “Emma, stay with us now.”

  “You must wake up, Emma. We’re here, and you’re safe.”

  The summons echoed like a hail from a dream, and I shook my head to clear it of a lingering fog. I forced my eyes open despite the sharpness of the light angling through the branches above my head. Derrick’s and Jesse’s worried faces hovered above me.

  I struggled to sit up. One of them, I could not say which, slipped an arm beneath me to help me upright. Dizziness swarmed my brain and roiled in my stomach. I took deep breaths and focused on my lap to stop the world from spinning.

  “What happened?” I managed breathlessly. I braved a glance around me. We were between a trailing beech and a high wall. “Where—where am I?”

  “We’re at the polo grounds,” Derrick said. “Do you remember anything?”

  “Polo? How . . .” I pressed a hand to the top of my head, which throbbed against my palm. “How did you find me?”

  “Lucky for you, your maid, Katie, found you and alerted us,” Jesse said.

  At first that made no sense. “Katie?”

  “I’m here, Miss Emma,” my maid called from a short distance away. She stood hugging herself tightly beside the sweeping beech branches. She wore her best summer dress, and her straw sunhat had fallen off and hung from its ribbons down her back. Katie, enjoying a day off. At the polo grounds, watching from Morton Hill. Watching . . . as I had asked her to do . . .

  My memory came hurtling back. “Mr. Hartwell, Jonas . . . they were he
re . . . and—” I pushed myself up higher, craning my neck. “Where is Mr. Hartwell? Jonas struck him. And he . . . he struck me.”

  It wasn’t until I cast a look behind me that I saw the blanket—someone’s ordinary picnic blanket from Morton Hill—covering what could only have been a body beneath. A pair of leather-clad feet stuck out from the bottom edge. Jesse placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “Mr. Hartwell is dead,” he said gently.

  My hand went to my lips to catch my horrified gasp. “He was trying to help me. I thought he’d gone mad, thought he was trying to hurt me, that he even murdered Lilah, but—” I broke off, aghast, and met Jesse’s and then Derrick’s gazes. “It was Jonas. He’s Lilah’s brother. I’m sure of it. Madam Heidi thought he had died as a child, but he didn’t. He couldn’t have. And the missing photographs are of—”

  “Slow down,” Derrick said, pressing his hand to mine. “Missing photos?”

  “From Lilah’s album. It’s her family photograph album, of her, her parents, her brother—and some are missing. I think there was another sibling. I think it was—is—Nanette Hartwell. Her grandfather was trying to protect her.”

  “This is crazy,” Derrick murmured.

  At that moment, two policemen came down along the grandstand wall carrying yet another blanket. Jesse gestured toward the body, then turned back to me. “It isn’t crazy,” he said. “It makes a darned lot of sense. Tell us exactly what happened, everything you can remember.”

  “If you can remember, that is,” Derrick put in.

  “I remember it all,” I said evenly, and told them everything from my encounter with Mr. Hartwell, to Jonas appearing, to my sudden awareness of his relation to Lilah. Then I called to Katie. She hurried over and sank beside me. Tenderly she placed a palm against my cheek. “How did you come to find me here?” I asked her.