A Gilded Grave

by Shelley Freydont

“Fine, sir. This way.”

  Joe followed the old man, concentrating so as not to tread on his heels. As if he’d forgotten the way to his own library. Or was he being treated like a stranger as punishment for choosing to live with the hoi polloi? Harrison was more of a social stickler than Joe’s father or grandfather had ever been.

  His father was sitting at his desk, though he was completely hidden behind an open copy of the Tribune; his identity confirmed by the cigar smoke that curled above the edges of the paper.

  The paper came down. “You’re here. Fine. I suppose you’re hungry.”

  “Ravenous, sir.”

  He father reached back and rang the bell. “Marthe has made you a feast. I think she hopes to lure you back with her cooking.”

  Joe forced a smile. His father understood his need to invent, but he didn’t like it. Of course, his father’s father hadn’t liked it when Joe’s father had decided to “dabble” in business. They were all cut from the same cloth, the Ballard men. Joe could be looking across the desk at himself in another thirty years. And if he raised his eyes to where his grandfather’s portrait would be looking down at them, he would see the stages of his own life.

  He should turn out so well. His grandfather had lived to a spirited eighty-five years, and his father still had a full head of dark hair, intelligence in his even darker eyes, and was fit enough to keep up with much younger men on the polo field and in the boardroom.

  “I told her to serve it in here if you don’t mind. I’ve already eaten.”

  “What? Oh, luncheon. Thank you.”

  “So what tears you from your work to bring you to the city?”

  “Murder, sir.”

  His father blinked, carefully folded his paper, and stubbed out his cigar. “Open that window, will you, son? Marthe will tell on me if she smells cigar smoke.”

  Joe did as he was bid. No hustle and bustle or street noise here. It was pleasant. Comfortable.

  “Now, what’s this about murder?”

  “It started with the death of a maid. Daisy Payne, my apprentice’s sweetheart.”

  His father didn’t ask questions but waited until Joe finished telling him about the deaths of both Woodruff maids.

  “And what does this have to do with R and W?”

  “I’m not sure, but Will Hennessey is convinced that it’s linked somehow, and so am I. Plus, there are other things that Dee discovered that just add to the speculation.”

  “Deanna Randolph? George said she was staying with the Woodruffs while Jeannette has gone to Boston to have Adelaide quacked. I say they should take off that girl’s corsets and send her to the country. But what else did you find?”

  “To begin with, the Manchesters have been here almost two weeks yet only just came two days ago to seal the deal? What businessman in his right mind would wait that long when the sugar market is so volatile? For all Lord David knows, R and W could fall to the Sugar Trust, and then he’d have a useless contract and no market for his cane. Charles was meant to bring him to the warehouse to view my new condenser and bagger. They never bothered to come, and the few times I spoke with the man, he seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. Oh, I realize he just grows the cane, but I can’t believe that he doesn’t have any clue at all about the refining process.”

  “The idle rich perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Plus, you don’t like him.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Prowling around Deanna, is he?”

  “Yes.”

  His father laughed.

  “It isn’t funny. He could be a dangerous man.”

  “Indeed. He could. But this isn’t what has brought you so hurriedly to town.”

  “No. Two things specifically. I confess I did something underhanded. Dee overheard an argument between Charles and his father in the Woodruffs’ library. Charles was very upset about something related to the business, and when Mr. Woodruff left, Charles spent a long time going over ledgers”—Joe grinned; he couldn’t help himself—“trapping Dee in her hidey-hole until she fell asleep.”

  “Now, there’s a girl who will never succumb to the vapors.” His father immediately grew serious. “And what did this lead to?”

  They were interrupted by the door swinging open and two footmen carrying trays walking into the room, followed by a butterball of a woman with her sleeves rolled up, apron stretched across a vast expanse of bosom. “Monsieur Joe,” she said in a warble of French. “Mon petit chou.”

  Joe cracked a laugh. “Not so petit anymore.”

  “Skin and bones.” She gestured in the air, and the footmen unloaded plates and cups and wineglasses, then slipped quietly from the room. “Now you eat. Mon pauvre, don’t those nasty fishermen feed you?”

  Marthe had never been to Newport, and somehow in her mind she imagined fishmongers and brothels on every corner.

  “Thank you, Marthe,” Lionel Ballard said.

  “Ah, mon pauvre.”

  Joe half expected her to pinch his cheeks, but she merely broke into a string of lilting French and hurried from the room.

  “She’s going a little batty, I’m afraid,” his father said. “But she still cooks as well as any chef. Now, sit down at the table and finish your tale while you eat.”

  Joe changed seats and looked over the repast that Marthe had prepared. Cold beef, ham, and cracked partridge. Salad and petits pois and potatoes lyonnaise. He filled his plate, took a couple of bites, and savored the delicate seasoning.

  His father poured him a glass of wine and took one for himself, then perched one hip on his desk and waited.

  “So,” Joe continued after a few more bites, “during a party last night at Seacrest, I slipped off to the library and took a look for myself. And . . .” He put down his fork, reached into his inside pocket, and took out the folded papers he’d kept safely hidden there; he handed them to his father. “These aren’t the official financial records. They’re personal expenditures. As you can see, Woodruff is broke, cleaned out.”

  His father perused the pages. “I suspected as much. And these certainly substantiate my fears.”

  Joe nodded. “I thought I might need these figures as proof.”

  “Something to hold over his head, if need be?” His father’s eyes twinkled. “You’re pretty mercenary for a creative soul. You tore these right out of his ledger?”

  “Yes. I had just put them in my jacket when someone hit me over the head. Knocked me clean out.”

  “Good Lord, and you weren’t caught?”

  “No, and that’s another story. But the upshot is, while I was unconscious, someone ransacked the library. I was very neat, I assure you. Whoever hit me must have been desperately looking for something.”

  His father relit his cigar, puffed on it until the ash glowed red. “But they didn’t search you.” It was said as a statement, not as a question.

  “No.”

  “Perhaps if you tell me your second reason for coming, we can glean more of the situation.”

  Joe told his father how Herbert Stanhope had said his uncle, Henry Havemeyer, had bought a big bundle of stock in R and W.

  “We’ve been hearing those rumors, too. At first we thought they were just more of Havemeyer’s intimidation ploys.”

  “So did I,” Joe said. “But considering the state of Mr. Woodruff’s finances, he might be motivated to sell off his shares. Is that why he came to town finally?”

  His father shook his head. “No. No, Francis came to town to ask for more money, ostensibly to give to Lord David. George and I were already suspicious. I’d already sent a wire to Lord David’s bank in Barbados to see if the money had been received.”

  “And?”

  His father’s cigar had gone out and he dropped it into the ashtray.

  “It hasn’t been. Yet Francis w
ent down to Barbados with a bag of cash and a cashier’s check, at his own insistence.”

  “What happened to them?”

  His father shrugged. “The bank down there is checking its transactions, but my guess is Francis took the money and sold his shares to Havemeyer, who would willingly buy them for a lot more than they’re actually worth.”

  “I can’t believe he would betray the two of you like that.”

  “I don’t think he meant to. Francis has always had a bit of a volatile streak. He keeps up a good front. None of us had any idea just how bad his situation was until recently.” His father refilled his glass. Lifted the decanter toward Joe, who shook his head.

  “He never had a penny to fly with. Even at Yale, he’d outspend his allowance before it hit his pocket. Women, drink, gambling. Like his father before him. He would have fallen sooner if Eleanor Peabody hadn’t come along.”

  “Did you confront him yesterday?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry to say George and I laid a bit of a trap. We sent Charles and Lord David off to the refineries and presented papers to Francis to sign that ceded his stocks to the company for a little above face value.” His father perused the contents of his glass.

  “He agreed, only he couldn’t produce the stocks. He made excuses about how they were in the safe at Newport. He refused to hand over the money, insisted Lord David had it. Accused us of trying to queer the deal. But he caved in the end, admitted that he couldn’t have sold his shares to Havemeyer, because he’d already lost the stocks and the money in a card game on the way down to Barbados.”

  “How could he do that? A betrayal of his own partners.”

  “It’s like a sickness,” his father said.

  “That’s no excuse.” Joe shook his head. “Then why is Lord David here, acting like he’s committing his sugar crop to R and W? I don’t trust the guy. He’s playing deep.”

  “My guess is Francis has been putting him off the same way he’s been using us. Never trust anyone in business, son.”

  “A sad commentary on the world,” Joe said.

  “Perhaps, but it’s the way the world works. For myself, I try to stay on the moral side of the fence, though sometimes it’s necessary to straddle that fence. And sometimes . . . Look, son, I could afford to lose R and W. It’s a hefty amount, but I’d recover. But George Randolph and I go a long way back, and he’s just stubborn enough to go down with the R and W ship. It’s only a matter of time until Havemeyer beats us. He’s taken just about everything else in his path.”

  “You can’t let that happen.”

  “We can’t stop it. But we’ve taken precautions.”

  “And those would be . . . ?”

  “Last week I convinced George to dissolve R and W. We’ve sold it lock, stock, and refineries to the Eastern Sugar Company.”

  “What? Why?” After the support his father had given him for his inventions? It didn’t make sense. “I’ve never even heard of them.”

  “That’s because they just came into being. In New Jersey. On Friday.” His father smiled.

  “You?”

  “And George.”

  “So the R and W stock Woodruff sold is worthless.”

  His father nodded.

  “Can you do that? Is it legal? Could you incorporate that quickly?”

  “The answer to all three of your questions is yes, if one has the money and is willing to grease enough palms. You look shocked. Don’t be. Keeping sugar out of the hands of that greedy monopolist will benefit your struggling workers, the shippers, the store owners, and ultimately the consumers of sugar.

  “It’s always the same; Fisk, Gould, Carnegie, Vanderbilt. For a while service is convenient, prices are low, but as soon as they control the market, prices go up, wages go down.”

  “And you think this new company of yours can change that?”

  “I’m not so naïve. The Eastern Sugar Company will probably fall eventually. We’re counting on you to revolutionize the industry with that machinery of yours. You’ll hold the patents, and the Eastern Sugar Company will become the Eastern Refinery Machine Company.”

  Joe was floored. “That’s quite a responsibility.”

  “I have utmost faith in you. Just one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t tell your mother or grandmother about any of this business. They’d never let me hear the end of it.”

  Chapter

  24

  Deanna knew she couldn’t stay in her room all day. But she didn’t want to sit around the morning room trying to think of conversation, assuming either Cassie or Madeline had even left their rooms yet. There had been plans to go to the theater that evening, but Deanna thought they must have to cancel.

  Elspeth had gone to the servants quarters even though Deanna protested that it might be dangerous. Deanna didn’t really believe in voodoo or whatever Swan said was in the house, but she thought it was better to be safe than sorry.

  Not Elspeth.

  And Deanna knew if she insisted on going with Elspeth, the servants would clam up until she left again.

  She could visit Gran Gwen and see if she knew why Joe had taken off for the city, but that seemed a little like abandoning a sinking ship.

  Perhaps she would take her sketch pad out to the cliffs. That way, she wouldn’t need to bother Elspeth for a change of clothes. Her muslin shirtwaist was fine for drawing. She went into the dressing room and chose a wide-brimmed straw hat, went back to the mirror, and studied her reflection intently as she tied the silk ribbon into a bow close to her ear.

  It looked awful—one tie was longer than the other and one loop drooped. Her second attempt was better. It wouldn’t pass her mother’s or even Elspeth’s inspection, but they weren’t here and the cliff rocks wouldn’t care.

  She took her art bag into the hallway and practically ran into Cassie. So much for solitude.

  “Oh, there you are. What are you doing?”

  “I was just getting my—”

  “Maddie and Lord David are planning to leave today because of Papa’s illness. Mama has sent me up to convince them to stay. You know Mama, she’s happier surrounded by people. Even with Papa so poorly.”

  “How is your papa today?”

  “Still the same. The doctor says only time will tell.” Cassie’s eyes filled.

  Deanna gave her an impulsive hug. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. And we must keep up your mama’s spirits.”

  Cassie sniffed. “That’s why we have to convince Maddie not to leave.”

  She started down the hall, pulling Deanna with her, and Deanna was momentarily reminded of the night of the ball and Cassie pulling her across the ballroom floor to meet Lord David. So much had happened since then, and most of it hadn’t been good.

  Madeline was in her room overseeing the packing of her trunks. She was already dressed for going out in a brown-and-puce visiting dress with a bodice of accordion-pleated mousseline de soie. It was a perfect complement to her hair and complexion. Deanna felt downright clownish in her floppy straw hat.

  Cassie took Madeline’s hands. “Mama asks that you please not go. She has so many nice things planned.”

  Madeline smiled; her lips trembled a bit. Deanna wondered if she was sad at having to leave Charles. “I hate to go, but David says that we are an imposition with your papa so ill and that we should remove to a hotel to take the strain of entertaining us from your mama.”

  “Oh, pooh. Mama wants you to stay. She gets melancholy when left too long to her own thoughts.”

  “I don’t think he’ll change his mind.”

  “Oh, but he must. He will if we all insist. Deanna thinks so, too.”

  “Oh, yes,” Deanna said, attempting to look concerned but suspecting that she was not nearly as convincing as her favorite fictional detective, Kate Goelet, would have been. Part of her
wanted to see the back of the Manchesters, the sooner the better. But unlike Kate, Deanna had a real murder—two of them—on her hands, and she felt she should keep everyone here until Joe returned.

  “Indeed,” she added for good measure.

  “Is he in his room?” Cassie asked. “Come on, we’ll go on a strike, stand in front of his door, and not let him go until he relents.” Cassie turned and marched down the hall.

  For a moment Deanna and Madeline were left looking at each other, Deanna wary, Madeline with a flash of something that might be happiness, but might just as well be anger, in her eye. Then she shrugged.

  “How can anyone say no to Cassie?” Madeline took Deanna’s elbow and trundled her out of her room. The two of them walked arm in arm down the hall after Cassie.

  Madeline seemed to have recovered her good spirits, and when they caught up to Cassie outside Lord David’s door, she knocked. “Brother,” she said in a coaxing singsong. “I have two lovely ladies here who want to talk with you.” She smiled at the others and giggled. Cassie joined her. Deanna smiled but couldn’t summon much mirth.

  The door opened. Cassie gasped and stepped back into Deanna.

  Swan looked down on them. He was dressed in a normal valet suit of black with a pristine white shirt and impeccably tied tie. It was the first time Deanna had seen him in full daylight. His head was completely shaved, but he otherwise looked like a very large, very black gentleman’s gentleman, except for the gold ring in his left ear.

  His eyes narrowed slightly when he saw Deanna, then he bowed solemnly and opened the door for them to enter.

  Lord David was just shrugging into his suit jacket. “Ladies, a most charming vision,” he said coming to greet them. “I’m afraid you find me in dishabille at the moment, and my chambers rather disorganized.”

  They looked perfectly fine to Deanna except for the trunks and the carefully folded clothes neatly stacked on the dresser. A decanter sat next to the clothes and a glass was half-filled with dark liquid.

  As Deanna looked at it, Swan moved silently to re-stop the decanter and carry it and the glass away.

  “David, Mrs. Woodruff would like us to stay and keep her company for a few days until her husband is better.”