Murder at Beechwood

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Then there was Nate, who had vied for his father’s approval and rarely received it. Eudora might have appealed to him as well. Perhaps she doted on the boy—I hadn’t thought to question Derrick about their relationship. If that were the case, persuading him to do her bidding might not have been a difficult task. Had the brothers worked together under their mother’s guidance?

  Robbie’s little arm came up and he indulged in his favorite game—that of tangling his fingers in my hair. It didn’t matter how I wore it, he always managed to get a grip. The tug he gave jolted me, even as my last thought brought me up short. I was all but accusing Eudora Monroe, if not of murdering her husband, then planning his death and setting the events in motion.

  Robbie clung with a determination that foiled my attempts to free myself. I lifted him higher on my shoulder to lessen the tension of his tugs. My thoughts drifted to Daphne. Had it truly been her lack of fortune that prompted Virgil to disregard her as a potential daughter-in-law? A chill slithered up my spine and I could hardly bear to follow the train of my thoughts. A notion hovered, a cold, creeping abomination I could not dismiss.

  I gazed down at Robbie and sighed. “If only you could tell me who your mother is,” I whispered, trying to picture Daphne’s features in my mind as I traced those soft baby ones with my gaze. “Is it Daphne Gordon? And was Virgil Monroe your father?”

  With another determined yank, a sharp pain seared my scalp. I reached again for Robbie’s hand. He tugged and tugged and I yelped and jumped to my feet. His eyes popped wide with surprise, and then alarm. He let out a whimper, and then another.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! Please don’t cry. Don’t cry!” I swayed and bounced in a gentle dance to soothe him. He didn’t cry, but instead loosened his grip. I rocked him a few more times and then resumed my seat on the wooden bench. His bottle sat balanced on one of the slats. I raised it to his lips and he latched on.

  “You’re such a good little boy,” I said in a singsong voice. “You hardly ever cry and you’re no trouble at all to anyone. Yet the moment I mentioned Daphne’s name, you pulled my hair, just as if you were trying to tell me something.” I dipped my forehead and pressed it to his. “But were you telling me I’m right? Or that I’m wrong?”

  I simply couldn’t see Daphne Gordon plotting murder, no matter the circumstances. Yes, I’d been wrong before. I knew women were as capable of murder as men. But Daphne wore her heart on her sleeve; she seemed so guileless.

  But what if I was right about Robbie’s origins and Eudora had discovered the truth? How could she not, with Daphne living under her roof? Motives for wanting her husband out of her life seemed to be piling up.

  “Thank you for staying behind to watch Robbie,” I said to Stella on Sunday morning. Nanny stood before the hall mirror pinning her very best hat into place, a flattish, black felt number with an upward curve to the back, blue and green plumes, and a smart satin bow. Katie, in her sky blue frock that matched her eyes, waited outside on the drive with the carriage.

  “It’s my pleasure, Miss Emma,” Stella said. “Besides, the congregation of your church doesn’t want me there.”

  My heart went out to her, and I gave her hand a squeeze. Part of me wished to contradict her, for I knew the congregation of St. Paul’s to be a tolerant and forgiving one. But no assurances would convince Stella until she had forgiven herself first.

  Until she came to me one day a few weeks ago, she had made her living, shall we say, entertaining Newport’s wealthy men while their wives directed their ongoing social activities. In wintertime, when the elite abandoned our island, she had turned to a less illustrious clientele, mostly sailors and other brief sojourners. She never shared the details of her experiences with me, except to say that in many instances, her poorer customers were kinder than the rich. The fresh bruises on her arms and beneath her eye the day she arrived at Gull Manor attested to the fact.

  Today I saw no sign of that desperate woman, but for the ghosts of regret and shame that continually haunted her eyes. She had piled her ebony curls loosely and allowed tendrils to fall charmingly around her face, and wore one of my cousin Gertrude’s castoff morning gowns. I had to admit the rose-striped muslin complemented her coloring to better advantage than it did mine, and she might have been any respectable young woman enjoying a Sunday morning by the sea.

  But if Stella were ever to live a normal life, she must leave Newport and make a fresh start where no one would recognize her, and where the judgment of others, whether real or perceived, would cease to trample her spirit.

  Nanny declared herself ready to go. In the parlor, Robbie stirred and let go a few soft cries from the cradle Katie had found for him in town the other day. Stella hurried in to him, and Nanny and I, along with Katie, squeezed into the carriage for the trip to town.

  Just the sight of St. Paul’s white steeple grazing the sky calmed nerves I hadn’t realized were jittering inside me. The simplicity of the sanctuary with its soothing, whitewashed walls and unassuming oak woodwork brought me a further sense of peace. I settled into the pew beside Nanny, her shoulder warm against mine, and closed my eyes as the first notes of the organ, soon joined by the choir, rose to fill the room and reverberate inside my heart. I let out a long breath and with it released the tensions and uncertainties that had plagued each day of the preceding week.

  Would the new week, dawning here amid music and prayer, bring answers and resolution?

  Two young acolytes, dressed in the cassocks Nanny had sewed for the church, stepped out from behind the altar screen to set the candles aflame. The sight of their youthful faces sent my thoughts drifting back to Robbie, and I suddenly wished we had brought him. There were other infants present, along with children who would soon be tramping downstairs for Sunday school. How sweet to be holding his bundled little body in my arms, taking turns with Nanny and Katie, of course, and introducing him to the serenity to be found in our forthright Methodist service. But we could not have brought him without being inundated with a barrage of questions we would be unable to answer.

  Still, I wondered . . . had he been christened yet? My instincts told me no. Had either of his parents attended church? This church? If I was at all correct about his origins, Trinity Church would be the more likely choice for wealthy summer residents.

  Had Virgil Monroe been a believer? Or any of the Monroes, for that matter? And what of Judith Kingsley. Could that troubled woman find solace, as I did, in hymns and liturgy and simple, straightforward sermons?

  During the prayer requests, I found myself raising silent hopes for her, for her brother, for all of the Monroes, and for our sweet Robbie.

  Grace and I returned to Beechwood the following afternoon. This time I received no disapproving looks from Mrs. Astor when we were announced. If anything she appeared relieved to see us.

  She received us in the morning room, but quickly led us upstairs. She knocked on a door, which was promptly opened by a lady’s maid in a sensible black ensemble.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Is she feeling any better?” Mrs. Astor asked.

  “Uh . . . no, ma’am. The same.”

  “Have you gotten her to stop . . . ?”

  The woman in black pursed her lips and shook her head.

  “Then take it away from her, you fool.”

  The maid looked about to retort in kind, but then turned about and went back into the room. Grace and I exchanged puzzled glances, which we cut short when Mrs. Astor turned around to speak to us.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said in a hissing whisper. “She seemed fine until yesterday. You both saw her the other day. But now—this!”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Grace craned her neck to see into the room. “Is she ill? Have you telephoned for a doctor?”

  “A doctor won’t be of use in this instance.” Mrs. Astor took on a pained expression. “Grace, I don’t mean to upset you with this. But I thought . . .” Her gaze shifted to me. “Miss Cross, I thought you might be
able to talk to her. Reason with her.”

  “Me?” I traded another glance with Grace. “But I hardly know Mrs. Monroe. What about Daphne, or her sons? And what exactly ails her?”

  Mrs. Astor looked scandalized. “Daphne? I couldn’t very well send a young girl like Daphne in there, could I? The very idea. Besides, Mrs. Monroe has asked for you specifically.”

  “Me?” I repeated. Not my most eloquent return, but I could think of no reason why Eudora Monroe would wish to see me. “I . . .”

  “Please, Miss Cross.” It was more a demand than a plea. I once again sought Grace’s support.

  She took my hand. “We’ll see her, if you really think it will help, Mrs. Astor.”

  The older woman’s brows converged. “Oh, not you, Grace. Only Miss Cross.” She drew Grace from me and led her back down the corridor. Over her shoulder she said to me, “I’ll have coffee sent up presently.”

  “Coffee?”

  Thoroughly puzzled, I entered the room. Mrs. Monroe sat—or slumped, I should say—in a floral chintz overstuffed chair beneath a tall window. Bright sunlight haloed her hair, accenting tufts that had come loose from their pins. Unlike when I’d seen her wearing half mourning the other day, today she wore black bombazine buttoned up to her chin, as if she had only just accepted that she had reason to grieve.

  She didn’t see me at first. On a low oval table beside her a coffeepot sat, a cup and saucer beside it. Strong-looking black liquid filled the cup, but no steam rose, as if the coffee had been poured some time ago but had not been touched. The maid stood in front of Mrs. Monroe’s chair looking down at her with what appeared to be resigned disapproval, her back straight, her hands clasped at her waist. Quiet but strained tones signaled some sort of disagreement.

  A lady’s maid who dared disagree with her employer?

  “I said give it here, Prewitt. You’ve no right to take it away.”

  Those were the words I deciphered. However, to my ears they sounded more like, “ ‘V’no right t’ ’ake it ’way.”

  Mrs. Monroe started to struggle to her feet but fell back into the chair, her head hitting the fortunately upholstered frame.

  “Now, ma’am, I’m only doing what’s best for you, and on Mrs. Astor’s orders. You’ll thank me later, I promise you that.”

  “You impertinent girl!” Again, the words were slurry and half formed. “You’ve no right!”

  Miss Prewitt gave no response. Her back remained as straight as ever, her hands still clasped in a show of patience.

  “I’ll send you packing. You’ll never work again.”

  “Mrs. Monroe, good morning,” I said, pasting on a cheerful smile. “That will be all, Miss Prewitt. I’ll take over from here.”

  “Good luck,” she murmured as she crossed to the other side of the room.

  Just what I would do, I had yet to figure out. I’d taken care of my brother under such circumstances more times than I could count, but an inebriated man was easy. You removed his shoes, tie, and coat; stretched him out on the nearest flat surface where he would least likely injure himself; and chastised him in the morning over cups of strong coffee.

  Well, the coffee Mrs. Astor promised hadn’t yet arrived, and the old pot had obviously gone cold. And I couldn’t very well chastise a woman I hardly knew.

  But I could listen.

  “Prewitt, bring Miss Cross a chair!”

  The maid hastened to comply, and after mouthing to me, I’ll be nearby, she slipped out of the room.

  I stood behind the chair and leaned, placing my hands on the gold leaf frame. “Mrs. Monroe, I see you’re feeling a bit—”

  “Where did she put it?”

  I didn’t have to ask what she meant. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I didn’t see. But I agree with Miss Prewitt. It’s for the best.”

  She scowled, or tried to. Mostly her lips fell open and one eye closed, leaving the other glaring vaguely somewhere over my shoulder. I braced for her demand that I find her more alcohol from somewhere in the house.

  “Oh, Miss Cross, it’s my fault. All of it.”

  Startled, I circled the chair and sat. “What’s your fault, Mrs. Monroe?”

  She waved a hand in the air and then let it flop to her lap. “Virgil. He’s dead because of me.”

  I stifled a gasp and struggled to appear calm. “What makes you say that, ma’am?”

  She clutched the chair’s arms and leaned forward. I leaned, too, until our faces were mere inches apart. The sweet, fiery scent of brandy threatened to make me sneeze, but I wrinkled my nose and stifled that as well.

  “I wished it on him,” she said, and fell back against her chair like a tossed rag doll.

  I blew out a breath. Very gently, as if speaking to Robbie, I said, “Mrs. Monroe, one cannot cause someone’s death by wishing.”

  “Oh, yes, one can.” To me it sounded like “Oooh, ’essun can.” She tapped her bosom twice. “I did.”

  “No, Mrs. Monroe. I’m happy to say you are innocent of blame.” Was she? I was less than confident of that assertion, and now that I had her talking I intended to take advantage of the fact. Coaxing information out of a tipsy widow might not have been my most honorable act, but when it came to investigating murder, no methods were off-limits. Besides, for some reason she had asked to speak to me. “Surely you never truly meant to wish your husband ill.”

  “Oh, but I did. Trust me. Scoundrel. Thought he was clever, but I knew what he was up to. Knew all along.”

  “And that was?” I believed I already knew the answer: the divorce and her resulting poverty if he had gotten his way.

  “Unfaithful lout. Been cheating—for years. ’Course, they all cheat. But this time . . . ah, this time . . .” She lifted her hand, pointing a shaky forefinger in the air. “That’s why he was leaving me, for this one. With all the rest, I never worried. I knew he’d come back to me. But this one . . .” Her face reddened and she trembled, not in fear or from cold, but pure rage, as Judith Kingsley had trembled yesterday.

  I reached over to pat her hand and said some calming words to soothe her. Then I asked, “Who was she?”

  Instead of answering, she said, “He’d been meeting with her right here on the island. Thought I didn’t know. Why else had he arrived before me? Weeks before. He didn’t stay here, oh, no. He stayed . . . I don’t know where. Somewhere secluded, I’d wager. Somewhere even his closest friends didn’t know about. Carrying on like the junkyard mongrel he is. Was.”

  “Are you certain he arrived on the island weeks ago?”

  “What?” She seemed to have drifted off, and my question startled her awake. “Oh. Where else would he have been?”

  So she wasn’t certain. She was merely guessing. Still, it sounded like an educated guess to me. “Think, Mrs. Monroe. Who could this woman have been?”

  “How should I know? I searched through his things . . . couldn’t find anything. Oh, so clever, that one. Always so discreet.” She spat that last word like a blasphemy.

  I needed to pose my next question carefully. “What about your children? Were they with you while your husband was away?”

  “Nate was at school. Where else would a boy of sixteen be? Lawrence . . . where was Lawrence?” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, yes. Europe. With him.”

  She was losing focus, confusing one period of time with another. “Yes, but after that, when you believed your husband was in Newport.”

  She dismissed the question with a shrug, and I began to wonder if her present condition was not so much a result of recent events but . . . well . . . habitual. Especially considering how unhappy her marriage had been.

  “What about Daphne, then? Was she in New York with you all spring?”

  “Daphne . . .” She frowned as though struggling to remember her own ward. “Oh, yes, she is the reason I wished to see you, Miss Cross. She needs a friend, someone her own age. . . .”

  “Yes, I’d be happy to be Daphne’s friend, Mrs. Monroe. But returning to the events of
last spring. Was Daphne in New York with you the entire time prior to your trip to Newport?”

  “No, she left to visit other relatives.” Her features became pinched and she slumped deeper into her chair. “Virgil insisted she go, but I didn’t approve. They all fought over her when her parents died. Wasn’t about the child, though. No, indeed. It was about her father’s money—all that lumber money—and who got to control it. Greedy vipers. That’s why the court gave her to us. . . .”

  Her slurring words continued, but my mind had seized on one thought: Daphne had gone away last spring, and Lawrence had traveled to Europe. A new scenario formed in my mind, and I marveled that I hadn’t considered it before. Perhaps Virgil hadn’t violated his ward. Perhaps Daphne and Lawrence had succumbed to the temptation to which so many of their age secretly fell prey, especially when forces were at work to keep them apart. Oh, it happened more often than anyone would admit, and families “took care” of the matter just as discreetly as it occurred.

  Daphne had been miserable at the ball, and bitterly resentful of the control the Monroes held over her life. She indicated they were eager to marry her off—thus forever preventing a liaison between her and Lawrence. Could it be their child even now cuddled in Nanny’s protective embrace at Gull Manor?

  I had one more question for Mrs. Monroe. “When did Daphne arrive in Newport?”

  Her gaze narrowed and she wriggled to a more upright position. “You’re asking an awful lot of questions, Miss Cross.”

  “Am I? I’m sorry. I thought it might help to talk and, well, I suppose it’s in my nature to be curious.” I gave a weak chuckle, at the same time lamenting my poor luck that Mrs. Monroe would choose that moment, when I was so close to finding out pertinent information about Daphne, to become lucid enough to recognize my snooping for what it was.

  “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?” She said reporter as she might scullery maid or laundress.