Murder at Beechwood

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “That’s quite all right, Miss Gordon. In times like these, it helps to unburden oneself.”

  “Thank you, Miss Cross. I—” She broke off once again, then pointed toward the cliffs. “Here they come now!”

  “Who?” But I needn’t have asked. Two figures in masculine clothing stepped through the gate in the hedge that separated the property from the Cliff Walk. Daphne raised her hand to wave, and one of the figures waved back and quickened his step.

  “Come say hello, Miss Cross,” she said, before circling me and hastening down the veranda steps to the lawn. She began to run and then apparently remembered herself, for she lurched to a more sedate pace. Nonetheless, she continued as if on tightly wound coils that could bounce out of control at any moment.

  Not about to miss an opportunity, I followed her more slowly so as not to attract undo attention from Eudora or the other ladies. Their voices droned on, indicating their focus was still on their card game.

  Daphne reached Lawrence and for an instant I thought she was going to throw herself into his arms. They both stopped short with several feet between them, but even so I had the unshakable impression of their being wrapped in an invisible embrace. I saw it in the tilt of Lawrence’s smile, in the rise and fall of Daphne’s shoulders. Nate had fallen behind his brother and only now caught up, but when he should have stopped to greet Daphne he continued on. I bid him good afternoon as he passed me. He scowled and grunted in return.

  “Nate seems upset,” I said when I joined the other two. I searched Lawrence’s face for signs he and his brother had argued. Where his mother’s eyes were midnight dark, his were a lighter brown with golden flecks that presently flared. Anger? I couldn’t be sure.

  “I had agreed to walk the cliffs with him, searching for any evidence of my father. Nate is hoping . . .” He swallowed. “We didn’t find anything.”

  “I told Miss Cross Nate is having trouble accepting what has happened,” Daphne said, her voice a soft caress that had an immediate effect on Lawrence. His eyes cleared of their turbulent emotion, leaving him as serene as I’d first found Daphne.

  “This must all seem rather bizarre to you, Miss Cross,” he said. “Bridge games, being out walking—our family never did do things in the usual way. I hope you won’t judge us too harshly, but as long as the police insist we remain in Newport—until Father’s death is resolved—we must get on as best we can. For a Monroe, that means staying occupied.”

  “I explained that to Miss Cross as well,” Daphne said. “She’s been wonderfully accommodating.”

  I waved away her praise, and asked Lawrence, “How is your uncle? Is he here?”

  Lawrence shook his head. “Since the sloop is no longer habitable, he has been staying here, but I haven’t seen him yet today. It’s not like him to sleep in.”

  “He must have gone into town,” Daphne said. “Probably to supervise the inspection of the sloop. You know how he is about that boat. Heaven forbid someone touches something in the wrong way . . .” She rolled her eyes.

  Lawrence voiced his agreement. To me it sounded as if Wyatt Monroe was more concerned about his boat than his brother. But then, so far the entire family seemed less than disturbed by Virgil Monroe’s drowning.

  Had anyone cared about the man while he lived?

  I knew I’d earned my keep about an hour later when Mrs. Astor caught my gaze and gave me a nod. Acknowledging me with even that small gesture meant she apparently approved of how I had engaged Daphne and Lawrence in strolling about the gardens and, later, enjoying an impromptu picnic on the lawn in the growing shadow of the house. One of the worst fates in the eyes of a woman like Caroline Astor was to have any of her guests at loose ends.

  The bridge game ended. Mrs. Monroe came to her feet and with the back of her hand pressed to her forehead declared herself worn out. Instinct sent me to my feet as well. I could follow her into the house, offer to escort her up to her room to see to her comfort, and attempt to strike up a conversation. Yet as I climbed the loggia steps I saw very real smudges of weariness beneath her eyes. If I had any doubts, they ended when she swayed and Grace’s mother moved swiftly beside her and slipped an arm about Eudora’s waist. Even if I had offered my assistance, I could not in good conscience have probed the woman with questions about her husband, not then. I would have to return to Beechwood another time.

  Carrie decided to stay on, but Grace and I left soon after. If I had lost an opportunity with Eudora Monroe, I gained one now in being alone with Grace.

  “This afternoon was not what I expected,” I said as the carriage swung out onto Bellevue Avenue.

  I didn’t need to explain. Grace nodded. “The Monroes are a complex family. Had my father been lost, you would have found all of us in blackest black and weeping on each other’s shoulders. But then, my father and Virgil Monroe are two very different men.”

  I reached under my chin to untie my hat ribbon, removed the simple straw and silk-lined boater, and leaned my slightly aching head back against the velvet squabs. I thought about my own parents and my sense of their having both abandoned and betrayed me by moving to Paris and selling the house I grew up in. Yet in my heart I knew if anything happened to them, I would react with anything but indifference. “It’s sad to think his family might not have held him in the highest regard. Perhaps they simply register their grief differently than most people.”

  “He was a difficult man to like,” she replied candidly. She pulled her lace gloves from her fingers, and I caught myself examining the pattern, half expecting to see the gold-threaded design brought back from Brussels by Virgil Monroe. It was not the same, of course, and I shook my head at my fancies.

  “Daphne told me he often belittled the family’s requests,” I said. “If that’s true, it seems rather cruel of him.”

  “Daphne has good reason to say that. It’s not commonly known, but she and Lawrence wish to marry.”

  “I hadn’t known that, but it doesn’t surprise me after seeing them together. I take it Mr. Monroe disapproved?”

  “‘Disapproved’ is an understatement. From what I understand he downright refused to allow it and ordered them to never speak of it again.”

  “But why? Was it because she spent the last several years in their household, almost like a sibling?” Before Grace answered I remembered what Daphne had said. “I mistakenly referred to Lawrence and Nate as her brothers, and she nearly bit my head off.”

  “Yes, I imagine such a reference would be a sore point for her. But from what I’ve heard—and mind you this came from my mother’s personal maid, who had it from Mrs. Monroe’s maid—Virgil didn’t deem Daphne’s inheritance significant enough for his son.”

  “Won’t she inherit her father’s fortune?”

  “She will, indeed. But after her parents died without male heirs, their lumber companies were sold off. I believe your uncle Cornelius bought one of them, to supply his railroads with ties.”

  “Did he?” I hadn’t known that, but it made sense since Uncle Cornelius never let an opportunity pass him by.

  “Daphne’s inheritance is a fixed amount,” Grace went on, “without company stocks or prospects of increasing in any substantial way. Apparently Virgil wished to expand his own interests with his sons’ marriages in order to create a family dynasty. Much like your own relatives established through the generations.”

  True, I was no stranger to the ambitions of parents. Consuelo hadn’t wanted to marry the Duke of Marlborough, but she hadn’t been able to withstand the pressure from her mother, who was intent on elevating her branch of the family to European nobility. There was another example much closer to home these days—sitting right beside me, in fact. Neily’s parents didn’t deem Grace, or her family, good enough for their son. They wanted someone with an older pedigree, without the slight taint of scandal fueled by rumors that Grace’s father had profiteered during the Civil War.

  “This explains the grievances Daphne expressed at the ball,” I said. “I k
now how she felt about Virgil’s interference, but what about Lawrence?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve exhausted the extent of my knowledge.” Grace gazed out the window into the lengthening shadows. We had just passed the gated entrance to Rough Point and were turning onto Ocean Avenue. Light traffic passed us in the opposite direction; a carriage ahead of us turned into Bailey’s Beach, where late-day swimmers splashed about in the shallows or sipped cool drinks beneath the awnings near the pavilion. “I’m afraid I’m not a confidant of either Daphne or Lawrence.” She sat back and turned to me again, her eyes narrowing. “You don’t think Lawrence . . . ?”

  I shook my head quickly. “No, please understand that I tend to think aloud. It’s my way of organizing the nonsense floating around in my brain. I certainly don’t mean to accuse anyone of anything, especially a young man who just lost his father.”

  “A possibly angry young man,” Grace whispered. I could practically see the churning of her thoughts, because the look on her face was an all-too-familiar one. Surely it was the same look of concentration I assumed when I was piecing together evidence.

  It was one thing for me to play investigator. It was quite another for the daughter of a member of the Four Hundred. Grace had been sheltered and pampered her entire life, and to someone like her, Virgil Monroe’s death might seem a great, mysterious adventure. I knew better. I had learned all too well how quickly an ordinary situation could turn lethal. I had experience in fighting back—in fighting for my life. Grace did not.

  “A lot of young men become angry with their fathers at one time or another. Take Neily, for example.” I didn’t finish, but let the obvious hang in the air between us. Grace’s next words surprised me.

  “Speaking of Neily . . . I telephoned him from Beechwood before we left. I . . . ah . . .” She looked away, nipped at her bottom lip, and played with the tasseled cords of her purse. “Would you mind terribly if he were to meet us at Gull Manor when we arrived?”

  I placed a hand over hers. “Not at all.”

  “It’s become difficult finding time together, you see. His parents have been keeping a close eye on him, and when he has come to see me they’ve had terrible rows about it. It could place you in an arduous position, so I really shouldn’t ask—”

  “Grace, truly, it’s all right. While I have no desire to argue with my relatives, neither will I stand down from something I believe to be right. Besides, with a brother like mine, I’ve had to stand up to Uncle Cornelius and Aunt Alice more times than I can count. I’m happy to report that so far there have been no permanent rifts.”

  Neily was in fact sitting in the parlor with Nanny when Grace and I arrived home. My heart squeezed at finding him holding Robbie and looking down at him with something approaching awe. He came to his feet immediately upon seeing us, offered me a look of mixed guilt and apology, and then showed Grace a broad grin.

  “Oh, Neily,” she said before he could speak. She crossed the room to him and cupped her hand over Robbie’s head. “He’s darling. And how darling to see him in your arms. Why . . .” She raised the same hand to dab at the corner of her eye. Was she imagining a similar family scene, but in a home shared by Neily and herself?

  She surely looked out of place in my home, like a flower among a garden of weeds. Shame crept hot along my neck as I regarded my lumpy settee with its faded pillows, my scuffed area rugs, and the faint paths of soot that traveled up the walls from my oil lamps and the old gas sconces.

  Then I glanced at Grace again and realized she hadn’t noticed any of this, or if she had, she didn’t care. All that mattered to her in that moment was Neily and the promise of their future. If any doubt lingered in my mind, Grace banished it by turning to me, her eyes filled with gratitude, and mouthing a silent thank you.

  We gave them a few minutes to fawn over the baby, after which Nanny smoothly reclaimed him. She and I slipped out and went to the kitchen, leaving Grace and Neily alone. We fed and changed Robbie, but my thoughts kept me distracted. An idea had formed, and I was waiting for the right moment to put it into action.

  Chapter 9

  At the sounds of Neily and Grace preparing to go their separate ways, I hurried back into the main part of the house. “Neily, I’m wondering if you might do me a favor.”

  “Of course, Emma. Anything at all.” It was Grace who had spoken. She addressed her next comment to my cousin. “After how good she has been to us, can there be any other answer?”

  With a fond expression that tugged at my heart, Neily raised her hand to his lips. Then he turned to me. “What may I do for you, Emmaline?”

  “I wish to take a look at the Monroes’ sloop. Can you escort me into the Yacht Club? Tonight?” Like all the Vanderbilts, indeed virtually the entire Four Hundred, Neily was a member of the New York Yacht Club, and its station here in Newport. I was not, and neither were my parents. Even if they had been in the country and were able to afford the exorbitant membership dues, they would not have joined. Mother’s first husband, my half brother Brady’s father, had gone down with a yacht and she swore she would never have anything more do with sporting boats—or men who sailed.

  “We’re going sleuthing, are we?”

  Grace’s question came all too eagerly and I realized my mistake. “No, Grace. I want to go after dark, and I think it would be better if Neily and I went alone—”

  “Don’t be silly.” She tossed her head, rustling the ribbons and silk flowers adorning her hat. “Dark or daylight, Neily and I are both members. What better diversion than three friends wishing to view the yachts moored along the pier. Even if we’re seen inspecting the sloop, other members will simply assume we’re curious.” She wrinkled her nose and tilted her head. “But why do you need to bother? Weren’t the police going to check for tampering?”

  “They already have, but it’s not exactly signs of tampering I’m looking for,” I clarified. “I’m more curious about who was positioned where on the boat, and what their role was as part of the crew.”

  “That doesn’t sound very dangerous.”

  “Grace, please, I just think—”

  “If you believe it could be dangerous,” Neily broke in, “then I don’t think I should bring you, either, Emmaline.”

  Somehow I managed to convince him, just as Grace convinced me to let her accompany us. A few minutes later Neily climbed into his curricle while Grace and I boarded her carriage. Her driver brought us to Shady Lawn Manor, her parents’ mansion just off of Bellevue. Neily followed, though he took a roundabout way there. Last summer his father’s financial secretary, Alvin Goddard, put tails on Neily at Cornelius’s request. Mr. Goddard no longer occupied this earth, but that wouldn’t have thwarted Uncle Cornelius’s plan to spy on Neily and keep him under his thumb.

  We dined informally on the veranda at Shady Lawn and waited until dark, whereupon we squeezed into the curricle and drove into town. We had no trouble entering the Yacht Club. As Grace’s and Neily’s guest, no one questioned my presence there.

  The New York Yacht Club station Number Six comprised a two-story, boxy building with upper and lower porches in front and a cupola used for spotting incoming yachts. In back, a pier extended into the harbor.

  “Where to first?” Neily asked as he held the door open for Grace and me.

  “Are there any records kept on informal races?”

  “Of course. Everything is recorded,” he replied with a note of exasperation, as if my question were a ridiculous one. “This way.”

  The large main room consisted of tables and chairs, a fireplace, and a service bar where incoming yachters could find coffee and light refreshments. There was also a telephone for arranging transportation to the various summer cottages and accommodations in town, or for summoning the Life-Saving Service in the event of an emergency.

  A few people milled about or sat at tables, the women in summer-weight fabrics emboldened with vibrant stripes and military tailoring, the men in sporty linen suits. A man with thinning white ha
ir and a mustache fashionably turned up at the corners moved through the assemblage asking questions and jotting down replies. I assumed he was a Yacht Club official recording these newest arrivals. Activity bustled beyond the rear-facing windows as steamer trunks were unloaded onto the pier and yacht captains prepared to cast off and anchor their vessels farther out in the harbor.

  Neily led us through the main room and into a smaller corner office. Mahogany shelves lined two of the walls, stuffed with books, ledgers, and periodicals. A formidable oak desk sat beneath the main window, its surface gouged and pitted from years of use.

  “This is the administration room and records library,” he said. A counter ran along a third wall, where another telephone was mounted. Neily lifted a ledger book from the counter and flipped through, holding the page he sought with a finger and waving me over. “This is what you’re looking for, I should think.”

  I took the volume from him and set it back on the counter. Neily moved a kerosene lamp closer. Columns that spanned the two open pages before me recorded the details of each vessel registered for the race the day of Mrs. Astor’s lawn party. Each column bore a heading: Displacement, Length, Beam, Draft, and Sail Area.

  “What do these designations mean, and remember you’re speaking to a landlubber.”

  Neily obliged, but other than the correlations between the size and power of each ship, the technicalities meant little to me. A notation stated that Wyatt and a Yacht Club official had inspected the vessel the day before the race; no issues were recorded.

  A faint discoloration on the page caught my eye, one I easily could have missed. Ordinarily I would have disregarded it, but I had come here searching for any clue, however miniscule. “Neily, pull the lamp closer.”