Whispers of Warning

by Jessica Estevao

  “Osmond Cheswick, isn’t it?” Yancey asked. “George Cheswick’s brother?” Osmond stiffly turned to face him. Yancey had difficulty wrapping his mind around the idea that the man on the other end of the bench and George were brothers. The family resemblance was there, physically at least. But there the likeness ended. Where George was slightly befuddled and affable in the extreme, Osmond sat bolt upright and alert, his sharp eyes boring into Yancey’s.

  “Do I know you, Officer?”

  “We haven’t yet been introduced but my mother is great friends with George and when I saw you sitting here I thought I’d introduce myself.” Yancey couldn’t say for sure but he thought Osmond’s posture relaxed slightly. “I understood from George that you and your wife are here because of the pier opening.”

  “That’s right.” Osmond lifted his chin toward the pier. “Quite a feat isn’t it?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure yet. I’m going to reserve judgment until the whole thing’s survived a few nor’easters,” Yancey said.

  “Come now, the most modern techniques were used. Surely there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I don’t happen to believe that modernity conveys special protections.”

  “You’re not one of those traditionalist young men who think the world would be better off if we had never invented the telephone or the automobile, are you?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s more my experiences as a police officer. If modernity could be counted on to protect I don’t suppose a forward-thinking woman like Miss Foster Eldridge would be dead.” Yancey shifted on the bench to look at Osmond rather than the pier.

  “I can’t see how the stability of the pier and Miss Foster Eldridge’s lack of mental stability have anything to do with each other.” Osmond took a giant bite of his fish then dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his pocket square.

  “Do you think Miss Foster Eldridge was mentally unstable?” Yancey asked.

  “She must have been. Anyone who drowned themselves would have to be.”

  “You must have known her well to be acquainted with her state of mind.”

  “Not at all. I barely knew the woman. It’s just that her ideas and opinions made her sound quite unbalanced.” Osmond’s tone chilled.

  “I thought perhaps you had interacted with her at the Belden. After all, one would need to go out of one’s way to avoid other guests at a hotel as small as that one.”

  “I see. I was, of course, in her company from time to time at the hotel. It would be, as you say, impossible not to encounter her,” Osmond said. “But civility in the public spaces of a hotel does not imply any real connection.”

  “George said it was the second time all of you had been in the same hotel.”

  “I don’t recall.” Osmond looked pointedly at his food instead of at Yancey.

  “That’s strange since George remembered the occasion quite clearly.”

  “It may have escaped your notice, Officer, but my brother and I are not alike in the least.” Osmond Cheswick clearly was not the sort of man accustomed to being asked to explain himself.

  “I had most definitely marked the dissimilarities between the two of you. For instance, I doubt very much George would ever relentlessly pursue a woman when he was married to another.” The flock of gulls swooped closer and their cries threatened to drown out his words. Yancey leaned closer to Osmond. “I would be at least as surprised to find he hid his unwanted attentions from scrutiny by blaming them on his brother.”

  “What are you implying, young man?” Osmond asked.

  “Nothing at all, sir. I’m just making an observation.”

  “It sounded to me as though you were suggesting I am a man of poor character.” Osmond crumpled the wrapper from his fish and threw it to the ground. The wind buffeted it down the boardwalk and the gulls reeled and fell upon it with zeal. “If you persist in making such insulting allegations I shall be forced to speak to my friend Chief Hurley about your suitability for the position you hold.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Cheswick?”

  “Call it what you like. But if I were you I would stop making such discourteous remarks to me if you value your job with the police force.”

  “I thought I was being courteous. After all, it would have been much easier for me to question your wife about what George told me regarding your interest in other women, your drinking, and the small matter of the five thousand dollars.” Yancey stood. “I’ll just head back to the Belden and pay a call on her.” Osmond fiddled with his watch chain and looked out over the water.

  “Why would my wife believe you instead of me?” Osmond asked. “All you have is my brother’s word against mine. My wife has always found my brother to be a particular thorn in her side. Especially after foolishly burning down his own house. I very much doubt I have anything to fear by telling you to suit yourself in this matter.” Osmond stood himself and took off at a leisurely pace along the beach in the opposite direction of the Hotel Belden.

  Yancey stood looking after him not sure whether to feel anger or grudging respect. Either way, he might as well find a way to ask Mrs. Cheswick about the victim. For all he knew, Mrs. Cheswick was well aware of her husband’s behavior and maybe had taken care of Miss Foster Eldridge herself. He headed back to the station hoping Miss Proulx had been faring better with the investigation than he had. She could hardly be doing worse.

  Chapter Forty-six

  All the way back to the hotel I pondered the situation Mr. Lydale would face if his past were to be exposed. I was lost in thought as I entered the Belden and passed along the hallway with the intention of finding a quiet place to think things through. I was so absorbed in the problem that I almost didn’t notice Millie as I stepped into the formal parlor for a moment of privacy.

  Millie was not the furtive type. Decidedly she was not. Her face, with its honey-colored eyes, pert nose, and smattering of freckles suggested an illustration for a popular brand of dairy foods. It did not lend itself to the keeping of secrets. I thought it likely I had scared a year’s worth of life out of her when I entered the room and saw her smoothing a sheet of crumpled paper on a tabletop.

  “What have you got there?” I asked. My question did not put her at ease. She looked at me and then down at the paper and then back at me once more.

  “Private correspondence.” She bit her lower lip until I spotted a dot of blood.

  “Why are you so distressed? It looks like it had been discarded.”

  “It was crumpled up in the wastepaper basket. I often bring home a sheet or two from the hotel to use as spills for my parents’ house. Honoria doesn’t mind.” I understood the practice myself. Father was never in favor of using any extra money for little luxuries like matches when he could spend it on drink instead. I had used spills to light one lamp from another for as long as I was old enough to be trusted with fire. It was a common practice and hardly one to be worried over.

  “Then why do you look so distressed?” I asked. “There is nothing wrong with what you’ve done.”

  “I was practicing my reading. I joined the Working Women’s Educational Institute.” Millie looked at the floor and then glanced back up at me.

  “That sounds interesting,” I said. “Is the institute some sort of a school?”

  “It’s a new venture by some ladies in Biddeford who have decided to offer classes to women and girls who have not been able to pursue much in the way of schooling,” Millie said. “The ladies there say I’m a quick study but I think they’re just being kind.”

  “You seem like an eager student to me,” I said, pointing to the paper in her still-trembling hand. “I doubt they would need to give you false encouragement. I always think of you as having a curious mind. That still doesn’t explain why you would be worried.”

  “Mother always tells me curiosity killed the cat.” Millie handed me the crinkled
sheet. “I’m afraid my curiosity may have gotten me in trouble this time. Please tell me I am not reading it correctly.”

  I took the paper and began to read. As my eyes made sense of the words on the crumpled page I felt betrayed. The only one who seemed likely to have written it was Sophronia. How could she have done something so terrible? My own experience with a blackmailer in June came back to me in vivid detail. How could I not have seen what sort of person she really could be? Mrs. Doyle had tried to warn me. I swallowed dryly and noticed my own hand trembling as I read the note aloud.

  “‘You were warned at the march. If you don’t wish the public to read about your exploits leave five thousand dollars behind the fireplace screen in the library by five o’clock tomorrow evening.’” I held my breath hoping my disappointment in Sophronia would pass. I exhaled deeply but found I still felt betrayed. I felt small and clammy and foolish. I was surprised to feel tears pricking my eyes. I wasn’t sure if they were tears of sadness or those created by the embarrassment of being taken in like a bumpkin at a medicine show. Either way, I was determined not to let them spill over in front of Millie. I forced myself to listen to what she was saying rather than my own thoughts.

  “That’s what I thought it said. I almost fainted dead away when I read the sum.”

  “It is an enormous fortune.” My voice caught in my throat at the very thought of it.

  “What could possibly be worth such an amount?” Millie’s eyes were round in her freckled face. With a father and sisters who worked in the woolen mills in Biddeford and a mother who took in washing, it was no wonder Millie did not trust her eyes when she read the note. Her family would likely never see such a sum even if they pooled their lifetime earnings.

  “A secret someone is desperate to keep hidden,” I said. “From the looks of this I would venture a guess that whatever is in Sophronia’s missing manuscript is worth a great deal to the people whose secrets it divulges.”

  “Do you know who has something to hide?” Millie gripped the edge of the dresser so tightly it whitened her knuckles.

  “The note is in this room for a reason,” I said. “It had to have been sent to someone who is a guest or someone accompanying a guest to the hotel.” I felt queasy when I thought about the possibility of a murderer calmly sitting down to dinner at the Belden every night. Then I had another thought.

  “Did you check the library to see if the money was there?”

  “I only just found the note.” Millie’s face blanched. “Besides, I wouldn’t dare.”

  “I think I’d better go take a look myself, then. Do you mind if I take this with me?” I asked.

  “I would feel much better if you did.” Millie wiped her hands on her apron and shuddered. “Do you think we are in any danger since we read the note?” Millie looked like she would burst into tears. I stepped closer and put my hand on her shoulder. She was right to be frightened. I was myself. But even more than that I was angry. Angry at Sophronia and at whoever had killed her.

  Ever since my arrival, I had thought of the Belden as a sanctuary. Even though people associated with the hotel had died, it had simply not occurred to me that there could be danger associated with the Belden itself. I felt foolish and childlike as a lump rose in my throat and I became aware that something had been stolen from me. Never before had I felt so safe, so much at home. I wasn’t about to give it up without a fight.

  As soon as I checked for the money I would take the letter to Yancey as further proof that murder, rather than suicide, had claimed Sophronia’s life. Maybe it would convince his boss to reopen the investigation and would allow him to continue his inquiries out in the open.

  “I think that whoever killed Sophronia is feeling very much at ease now that the police have ruled her death a suicide. But to be on the safe side, please don’t mention this to anyone else.”

  “Not even Mrs. Doyle?” I thought about how much Mrs. Doyle had expressed a dislike for Sophronia and the lengths she had gone to in order to get me out of the platform reading. I answered with a heavy heart.

  “No, Millie, not even her.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  I reminded myself not to break into a run as I traversed the stairs and then the length of the corridor down to the library. My favorite room in the hotel took on an ominous feel as I stepped through the door and headed straight for the fireplace.

  It was an ingenious place to hide something at this time of year. The wide, decorative screen needed no maintenance and virtually filled the entire fireplace, making it unlikely anyone would have reason or opportunity to see anything hidden behind it. I made sure I was alone in the room and upon ascertaining that was the case, I bent over the fan and peered behind it. The only things in the cold dark space were a pair of highly polished brass andirons and a single log awaiting a match.

  My disappointment was such that I felt weak at the knees and reached for the nearest chair. I wasn’t sure if I had hoped to find that the money was still there or that it had gone. It was such a vast sum I would not have had any idea what to do with it had I found it in the fireplace.

  I knew the money was not there but I didn’t know if it ever had been. There was every possibility that the killer had murdered Sophronia in order to get out of paying in the first place. There was also the possibility that someone else had retrieved the money from behind the fan after the blackmail victim placed it there. I looked around the room. Heavy curtains hung in generous folds at the windows. It was conceivable someone could go unnoticed hiding behind them. It would even be possible for someone to duck behind one of the wingback chairs and remain out of sight for at least a moment or two.

  It was also possible that Sophronia had collected the money before she died but I hadn’t seen any unexplained amounts of cash in her room when Officer Yancey and I checked it after her body was found. I decided to let myself into Sophronia’s room for a second look.

  • • •

  Sophronia’s room was shrouded in shadows and the air smelled musty and close. I considered opening a window to allow some fresh sea air to billow in and clear up the stagnant atmosphere but decided against it. I had no desire for anyone to realize the room was occupied. I locked the door behind me, left the drapes pulled across the long windows, and depressed the wall switch for the overhead light.

  I commenced my search for the money with the same degree of thoroughness Officer Yancey and I had exerted when we looked for a suicide note. I opened drawers and the closet. I crouched on the needlepoint rug beside the bed and peered beneath, garnering nothing for my trouble other than the confirmation that Millie had dusted below the bed.

  I stood and crossed the room. I searched the pigeonholes of the drop-front desk and even felt around for a secret drawer. I thought of Dewitt Fredericks and how he would likely say I had only thought to look for such a thing because of the sensational novels I so loved to read. Most likely he was right, especially as I witnessed my disappointment in not finding such a drawer.

  I pulled out the skirted vanity bench and sat looking at the surface of the table. During my time on the medicine show a large part of my success was dependent on my ability to observe those things others took no notice of and to make accurate assumptions of the person before me based upon them.

  I used many of the same skills at the Belden in my tarot readings and my mediumship sessions. The voice played an important role in what I had to say to querents but it could not be relied upon to come through every time I needed to please a client.

  On the vanity sat a few scattered items. I picked up and examined a small silk evening bag, a spool of jet-black thread, a plain wooden brush, a pair of embroidery scissors, and a small jewel case. I pressed the catch on the case and looked inside. Only a single pair of earbobs, a slim gold ring set with a small opal, and a pair of ivory hair combs were tucked inside. I pulled apart the bedding and looked in the classic hiding space below
the mattress. Nothing.

  The vanity drawers held the expected gloves, handkerchiefs, and fans any lady would be expected to have in her possession. I pulled out each of the drawers of the vanity and turned their contents out onto the bed. Again nothing and nothing attached to the bottom of any of the drawers, either. I was ready to give up when I thought of the underside of the seat upon which I sat. I lifted the skirting fabric and peered beneath. There was no sign of the missing manuscript, or the money.

  As I bent down to straighten the fabric skirting the bench I noticed two stray bits of thread clinging to it. I reached out and plucked them up. The color of one was an exact match for the jet-black spool of thread sitting on the vanity. The other was a smaller length of black. What were they doing there? Sophronia had not seemed the sort to pursue needlework as a pleasurable pastime as so many women did.

  I had difficulty imagining her even taking the time to perform necessary repairs to her clothing. She seemed more the sort to ask a maid or even a seamstress to do such things for her. What could explain the spool of thread? Why two colors? A repair seemed the only answer. I walked to the mirror-fronted wardrobe and opened it once more. Much of Sophronia’s clothing was the same dark navy as the smaller piece of thread. I lifted the gowns and bicycling costumes and lay them on the bed one at a time.

  I looked for buttons, hooks, hems, or sleeves mended with black thread instead of blue. I turned on the lamp at the side of the bed to assist me as my eyes began to water with the strain of searching for two such similar colors. Still, I found nothing to explain the threads.

  I asked myself if there was any way the threads meant nothing. After all, wasn’t it possible the last occupant of the room was the one who conducted the repairs and the thread had nothing whatsoever to do with Sophronia? Still, after seeing the cleanliness under the bed it seemed unlikely that Millie would have missed anything between the last occupant and Sophronia.