Murder at Beechwood

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Whatever hurt and anger I’d harbored simply melted away. I grasped the hand he extended, and suddenly I was sitting on the edge of the mattress, drawn there by a single tug. Derrick’s arms went around me. I dropped my cheek to his shoulder. We stayed like that some moments before he pulled back, smiled into my eyes, and brushed his lips across mine.

  However sweet that last act, it reminded me where we were: in a public hospital, where any nurse, doctor, or visitor might walk in or pass the open door and see us defying all decorum.

  Quickly I scooted back to my chair.

  “Don’t go,” he said, reaching out to stop me.

  I swatted his hand away, then stooped to retrieve my purse, which had fallen to the floor. “All we need is for your mother to walk in. She already detests me.”

  That clearly took him aback. “What went on while I lay here oblivious to the world?”

  “Suffice it to say she doesn’t approve of your association with me. But surely you already knew that.” I glanced over my shoulder, relieved to see an empty corridor. “Derrick, since you asked, there is news to tell you. It’s about Virgil Monroe. You do know he—”

  “Drowned? Yes, my mother told me.”

  “Did she tell you the rest, about what Wyatt is saying?”

  “What is Wyatt saying?”

  Then no one had told him. “Perhaps it isn’t my place to enlighten you. . . .”

  “Emma, if there is something I should know, simply tell me. My mother has been as evasive as all get out, and Judith says little about anything when she’s here. So, please, what is Wyatt saying?”

  I drew a deep breath and let it out. “That when you jumped in after Virgil, it wasn’t to save him, but to hold him under. He’s claiming you murdered his brother for financial reasons.”

  “Oh.” His mouth closed, and he stared back at me a long moment. Then, “I see. And did he explain what those financial reasons are?”

  “Yes, he said Virgil had been buying up New York and New England newspapers and was quietly in the process of buying your father out. In addition, he had been cheating investors in his companies, your family included.”

  Derrick’s eyes grew more and more shadowed as I spoke. “And this is my motive for murder?”

  “In Wyatt’s opinion, yes.”

  “And yours?”

  “No.” I leaned forward and, decorum be damned, grasped his hand in both of mine. “Never. You needn’t even ask.” I nearly blurted the details of the night before. Surely the person who attacked Neily and me on the Vigilant was the same person responsible for Virgil’s death, and clearly it could not have been Derrick who attacked us.

  But I held my tongue. I didn’t want Derrick to think that was the only reason I believed in him. Instead, I said, “That’s why I’ve been asking questions, trying to discover what really happened. You’re not the only person with a possible motive. It seems everyone aboard the Vigilant that day had a reason to resent Virgil Monroe.”

  “And couldn’t it simply have been an accident?”

  “Neily thinks so, but I believe there are too many coincidences, including the rigging having been tampered with.”

  “The rigging?”

  “It was frayed.”

  “That’s not possible. The inspections—”

  “Yes, I know. The inspections should have revealed any defects in the lines. Has Jesse been to see you yet?”

  “No. What does he believe? Does he think I’m guilty?”

  “Don’t worry about Jesse.” My gaze drifted back to the swaying treetops, heavy and dark with summer growth. “He’s dedicated to finding the truth and seeing the right person charged for the crime.”

  “Is he? Then why can’t you meet my eye?”

  I looked back at him and compressed my lips.

  “Oh, Emma, just ask me what happened when I jumped in after Virgil.”

  I removed my hands from his and clasped them tightly over my purse. “I don’t need to ask.”

  “I think you do.”

  I swore under my breath. He was right. I hadn’t wanted to admit it, but I was curious about what occurred in those moments when both he and Virgil went overboard. “Fine. What happened in the water? Did Virgil struggle against you in his panic and disorientation? Did the waves tug him from your grip?”

  “Neither,” he said levelly. “I never found him. The waves were fierce and the water had all but turned black. I could neither see him, hear him, nor reach out to grab him. There was nothing I could do. I could hear the others shouting my name, but I dove under a few more times—I don’t know how many—kicking and reaching but never coming in contact with anything but water. The waves tossed me about and turned me every which way. The next thing I knew, I was on the deck on my back. Then I passed out and woke up here.”

  He went silent, but his unspoken question shivered in the air between us. I answered it without hesitation. “I believe you.”

  He released a breath and sank deeper into the pillows behind him.

  “Derrick,” I said, eagerly moving on from what had obviously been a painful recollection for him, “tell me about Nate Monroe. How was his relationship with his father?”

  “Like that of many second sons. Virgil was a demanding father and not the most lenient or tolerant. From what I observed, Nate constantly sought his father’s attention and approval but rarely received it. But that’s common of most second sons. I don’t think it’s a reason the boy would want his father dead—if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “I don’t know. . . . What about Nate and Lawrence? Do they get along?”

  Derrick waggled a hand back and forth. “With several years between them they don’t have much in common.”

  I thought back to the previous afternoon, when Nate and Lawrence had returned from combing the cliffs for any signs of their father. Their expressions had appeared neutral, until Daphne went running to Lawrence. It was then a sneer had darkened Nate’s young features.

  “Nate doesn’t approve of Lawrence and Daphne, does he?”

  “Come again?”

  “Lawrence and Daphne. They wish to marry, but Virgil wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Didn’t you know?” I realized the answer for myself. “Of course you didn’t. You’re too old to be Lawrence’s confidant, and Virgil certainly wouldn’t have discussed such an intimate family matter openly, especially one he had already dismissed from his own mind. But I can tell you this. Nate doesn’t approve of the match any more than his father did. I wonder why?”

  “Who knows? He’s young, still a boy. Perhaps any sign of affection between men and women annoys him.” Derrick yawned and I realized I’d kept him talking too long. But I had one more question.

  “Speaking of siblings, why don’t you and your sister get on well?”

  He stiffened as if a warning bell had sounded. “Who says we don’t?”

  “She did,” I said frankly. “At the ball, she told Virgil if he wished to bully her, he’d have to stand in line behind you. Do you know what she meant? And was there a problem between her and Virgil?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know. Virgil was probably trying to give her some fatherly advice, which he sometimes did. As for me, I admit to looking out for my sister and attempting to oversee her financial affairs since her husband’s death two years ago, but there are no ill intentions on my part. If Judith doesn’t appreciate my efforts, she’ll simply have to put up with them. I’m her older brother.” His voice had turned stern, distant. I felt him avoiding—something. But I decided not to push. The chasm that had existed between us seemed in danger of reopening, and I felt desperate to prevent that from happening.

  “I should go. You need your rest.” I gathered my purse and stood. This time he didn’t protest, but nodded faintly. “Have they told you when you might go home?”

  “Another day or two.” I could see his thoughts were drifting; the fatigue had caught up with him. I started to take my leav
e when he said, “Where are they staying, my mother and Judith? Are they at Beechwood?”

  “No, according to Grace Wilson they’re staying on your family’s steamer. Why?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Now that I’m recovering, I don’t trust her not to leave.”

  “Who?”

  He shook his head as if awakening from a daze. “Emma, would you do something for me? Would you deliver a message?”

  I readily agreed.

  “When you see my sister, would you tell her I said please not to leave Newport until I’m out of the hospital and able to speak with her privately. Will you tell her that, Emma?”

  “Certainly. Is there a reason I can convey as well?”

  “A . . . family matter. She’ll understand.” He smiled, suppressing another yawn. “Thank you. And thank you for coming to see me.”

  There it was, that distance again. Not like it had been, not tipped with ice, but still ringing of dismissal. A family matter, he had claimed. Something private he would not share with me because I was not family, or a close enough friend to be trusted. Yet hadn’t I avowed my trust in him only minutes ago? Apparently, the sentiment went one way only. I leaned to press my hand to his, wished him well, and left.

  Our encounter continued to trouble me as I walked down the street to where I’d left my horse and carriage. Barney, my aging roan hack, stared balefully up at me as I removed the feedbag that kept him contentedly occupied during my visit with Derrick. He nosed my shoulder affectionately, reminding me of little Robbie at home, what a good little fellow he was and how he liked to cuddle and be cuddled.

  It was then I realized I hadn’t told Derrick about the child, and I wondered why. Last summer I would never have kept such information from him. Had I been too focused on discussing all the possible motives that led to Virgil Monroe’s death? Or had our closeness been irreparably severed, never to exist again?

  I decided not to wait until I happened to run into Judith Kingsley to deliver Derrick’s message. Something was amiss in the Andrews family, and a niggling sensation convinced me it tied in, if not directly to Virgil’s death, at least to similar tensions festering among the Monroes.

  I hired an old friend, Angus MacPhearson, to row me out into Newport Harbor. Though not much older than Brady, Angus looked twice that at least. Years of transporting passengers back and forth on the windswept waters of Narragansett Bay had weathered his fair complexion and scored twin maps of intersecting lines at the corners of his eyes. Only his red hair, held back with a leather boot lace, still flamed with a youthful brightness.

  “Are you getting into trouble again, Emma?” he asked mildly as he cast off and steered away from his boat slip on Long Wharf.

  “Trouble, me?”

  “Last time I rowed you out into the harbor, you ended up running away from godless brigands on Rose Island in the dead of night. If anything had happened to you, Brady would’ve wrung my neck.”

  “You heard about that, did you? Either Brady needs to mind his business, or I need to stop confiding in him.”

  “Oh, now, Emma, what concerns Brady’s little sister concerns him.”

  “When you see him you can tell him I merely rowed out to visit a friend. I assure you there will be no brigands aboard Lavinia’s Sun.” I held the brim of my straw boater to keep it from flying off in the breeze. We passed a tugboat hauling a barge piled high with lumber. New construction and renovations never ceased in Newport, not even for a day.

  “So no more half-baked schemes?”

  I chose to ignore the question. “Lavinia’s Sun is coming into view. Can you row a little faster, please?”

  “Funny how those hoity-toity men name their boats after their wives. Seems like bad luck to me, considering how most of those marriages turn sour about a month after the honeymoon.” He raised and dipped the oars at no greater pace than before I’d made my request. “I suppose it keeps the old crows happy.”

  “Lavinia Andrews is hardly an old crow,” I said, not that it mattered to Angus. He only grinned, his cracked lips parting to reveal a missing tooth.

  A few minutes later we reached the side of the three-mast steamer. Angus carefully brought us alongside the ladder and then held my hand as I swung my foot onto the first step. Once I’d gotten a good grip on the railing he let me go, and I continued up to the main deck. A porter met me at the top, and I announced my errand.

  I was in luck. Mrs. Andrews was not on board, but Judith Kingsley was presently lunching in the aft saloon. He asked if I was expected. I hinted that I’d promised to call at my earliest possible convenience, and that no, I would not be staying long enough to join Mrs. Kingsley for lunch. I didn’t bother to explain that she would never extend me that courtesy.

  When I stepped down into the richly paneled saloon Judith didn’t immediately look up, perhaps assuming a servant had entered the room. She wore a high-waisted tea gown of peach taffeta with wide lace sleeves and a matching collar, and my gaze was drawn to the pattern. But no, this lace matched the gown’s color and bore no resemblance to that found with Robbie, or used on Mrs. Monroe’s fan and Daphne’s purse.

  The porter announced me, and when she glanced up the color fled her cheeks. Her eyes sparked with something approaching outrage, but to her credit, she said, quite calmly with only the barest hint of indignation in her voice, “Thank you, Henderson.”

  The man bowed and left us, and I walked farther into the room until her voice stopped me.

  “What are you doing here?” She came to her feet, her thighs knocking the little folding table in front of her and threatening to send it and its contents crashing to the floor.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Kingsley. I saw your brother this morning—”

  “How dare you? Mother forbade it.”

  “Yes, but Derrick is fully awake now and has a say in who may visit him.”

  “Perhaps he’s too polite to send you packing.”

  It was my turn to blanch. Derrick had essentially done just that—sent me packing with his sudden bout of indifference. I schooled my expression. I wouldn’t let her see how much that had hurt. “Perhaps. But he gave me a message for you.”

  “I have no interest in hearing it.” She sat back down and plucked a dainty, triangular sandwich from her gilt-edged plate.

  “I’m afraid you have no choice, unless you cover your ears. But the message is a simple one. Derrick asks that you please do not leave Newport until he is out of the hospital and can speak with you privately. That’s the whole of it.”

  “Is it? It is truly, Miss Cross?” Her sudden vehemence took me aback and I retreated an involuntary step. “I suppose you consider it no great inconvenience, this order my brother sends me.”

  “I don’t believe it was an order, Mrs. Kingsley. He did say please.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?” She sprang to her feet once more, this time seizing the edge of the table and thrusting it off its legs. Tea and soda water and tiny sandwiches went flying, the table crashed several feet away from her, and Judith Kingsley stood shaking, her skin flaming, her eyes scalpel sharp.

  I’d lurched backward another several steps, out of harm’s way. Although I didn’t want to leave her in this state, having been the cause of it cast doubts on my being at all helpful to her. A bellpull dangled behind her, where I couldn’t reach it without risking bodily harm. I held up my hands.

  “I’m sorry to have upset you—”

  “You can tell my brother this is what I think of his please and his cursed request. Tell him I’ll leave Newport whenever I wish. And he may very well stay away from me.”

  “He only seems concerned about you.”

  “He should be concerned about himself, and with what the police might discover about Virgil Monroe’s death.”

  “Surely you don’t think your brother had anything to do with that, Mrs. Kingsley. What reason could he have had to murder a family friend? And don’t tell me money was involved. I know about Virgil Monroe’s financia
l double-dealing. Derrick might have been angry, but we both know it would take more—much more—to spur your brother to such a fury.” Unlike Judith, I thought, who seemed able to fly into a rage at the slightest provocation.

  She clenched her teeth so fiercely the corners of her jaw pulsed. “Accept a bit of advice, Miss Cross. Mind your business and stay out of mine. Or you will regret it. Now leave, and do not make the mistake of returning here or ever speaking to me again.”

  With that she turned her back on me.

  Chapter 11

  That evening I sat with Robbie beside the kitchen garden and searched the night sky for answers that were not to be found. My visit with Judith had left me shaken. What happened between her and Derrick to cause such animosity? True, he had expressed a brother’s concern for her financial affairs and perhaps her personal ones as well, and Lord knew I’d resent Brady’s interference in my private matters, but beneath my annoyance I would understand his good intentions.

  Such thinking always brought me round to the same conclusion—that I perhaps simply didn’t know enough about Derrick Andrews to be forming judgments about his character. He had always seemed to be a good man—the best of men—but the truth was that I’d seen only the surface, what he had allowed me to see.

  His sister, on the other hand, had showed me her worst, and had done so unapologetically. She seemed ready to toss her brother to the wolves, as it were, by practically accusing him of Virgil Monroe’s death. Yet she’d been less eager to give a rational reason why, which suggested her claim stemmed more from hostility than any real belief in Derrick’s guilt.

  At the same time, I had learned enough about the Monroe family to begin questioning my own beliefs about who killed Virgil. I had been so certain of Wyatt Monroe’s guilt, but now I considered whether one or perhaps both of Virgil’s sons might have had a hand in his demise.

  The sons . . . and perhaps their mother as well. It made a sinister kind of sense. Virgil had been about to divorce Eudora and leave her next to penniless. The prospect of such a fate would arouse the deepest panic in a society matron used to her luxuries. Unlike me, such a woman would not know how to go out into the world and earn her own living. Now, however, she could depend on Lawrence to see to her comforts.