“Myers, we’ve already been over this,” Jesse began, but the other detective cut him off.
“So, then, no invitation? And stolen clothes. And a man is dead, murdered in Wakehurst’s garden. And then there are these three, attempting to keep everything among themselves. It’s obvious, isn’t it?” He beckoned the policeman standing guard. “Handcuff this man. He’s being charged with murder.”
“Now wait a minute, Myers.” Jesse stepped into the uniformed officer’s path. “I’m arresting him for breaking and entering, and holding him on suspicion of murder. There’s not enough evidence at this point to charge him.”
Detective Myers smirked. “You obviously take me for a fool, Whyte. You’re going to regret that. And as for her—” That forefinger of his shot out again like the muzzle of a pistol, nearly prompting me to duck.
Derrick reached the detective in two strides, took hold of his wrist, and forced his arm to his side. “I’ll thank you not to refer to Miss Cross as ‘her.’ You’d better learn to mind your manners, or you will have a problem. A serious one.”
“I could have you arrested for assaulting an officer of the law.” Gifford Myers looked Derrick up and down, his lip curling ever so lightly.
Derrick released him, but his expression remained stony. Detective Myers stared back at him and swallowed, before addressing the policeman. “You heard me. Cuff him and book him on first-degree murder.”
The uniformed man grasped Mr. Kemp’s arm and hauled him out of his chair. “Come along.”
Mr. Kemp dragged his feet. “I’m telling you, I didn’t kill anyone. I was never on that veranda, and I’ve never shot an arrow in my life.”
Detective Myers waved him off, and we could hear Mr. Kemp’s protests fading down the corridor. The detective didn’t follow; he hadn’t finished with us yet. “I warned you before not to interfere with police business, Miss Cross.”
Jesse started to defend me, but I spoke up for myself. “I am here only as a witness to Mr. Kemp wearing the stolen clothes. That is all.”
He shook his head at me. “Why am I having the utmost trouble believing you?” He shifted his gaze to Derrick, looked about to speak, but apparently changed his mind. He addressed Jesse instead. “Chief Rogers is going to hear about this. And I don’t think he’ll take it lightly.”
“As you will” was all Jesse had to say before gesturing to Derrick and me and leading us out of the room.
Chapter 17
The house known as Castle Hill sat at the base of a high, broad peninsula overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and the mouth of Narragansett Bay. Its Queen Anne design featured a peaked and latticed portico, a turret with a bell-shaped roof to the left, and, to the right of the front door, a wing that bowed gently out from the front of the house. Like Kingscote and Chateau-sur-Mer, Castle Hill was no imposing stone palace, but a graceful home designed with warmth and coziness in mind, a haven where one felt sheltered from the vagaries of the nearby sea.
Having learned never to compete with the ladies of the Four Hundred, I had dressed simply, but not inelegantly, in a day dress of slate blue muslin, and I wore my armband to signify my mourning. Grace wore no sign of mourning at all, but I could not find it within me to judge her for the omission. She, as always, looked a vision in layers of crisp off-white organdy detailed in exquisite lacework. With her coral sash and matching hat, shoes, and handbag, she very nearly vanquished all notion of summer’s official end being but days away. The weather had cooperated as well, bestowing on us a June-like day, neither too hot nor too cool, with a calm ocean undulating below the peninsula and lazily drifting clouds occasionally bringing relief from a brilliant sun.
Grace and I entered through the double front doors, which had been thrown wide for the occasion. We were directed through a bright vestibule and into the coolness of a wide central hall, my impressions being of hardwood floors, paneling, and beams stained in a lovely golden brown, while crisp white ceilings brought a sense of airiness. The butler ushered us past a fireplace and seating area decorated with art from the Orient, and to the conservatory. A semi-oval room, with solid banks of windows all the way around, the conservatory embraced dazzling views of lawn, sea, and sky.
Most of the furniture had been removed. Guests mingled as they drifted through the room, some of them spilling out through another set of doors onto a flagstone terrace. I noticed many of the usual faces, both men and women; many of them had been at Wakehurst a week ago. There were unfamiliar faces as well, who, I assumed, were Dr. Agassiz’s fellow academics. Tables lined the room beneath the windows, and the guests proceeded from one to the next, bending slightly and holding up monocles and lorgnettes to view a variety of scientific displays. I spotted Alexander Agassiz, Castle Hill’s owner, standing proudly at the center of the space. Though in his midsixties, the balding, grizzled Swiss native seemed in no shortage of energy or enthusiasm as he greeted his guests and answered their questions.
“Mrs. Vanderbilt,” he boomed as Grace and I approached him. His plain American accent revealed no trace of a childhood spent in Europe.
“Dr. Agassiz, how lovely to see you.” Grace held out her hand; he grasped it and raised it to his lips. “May I introduce Miss Emmaline Cross.”
“Ah, yes, I know you by reputation, Miss Cross.” He shook my hand politely. “I fear I spend so much time traveling the world, and so little time attending Newport’s social functions, that we have never crossed paths before this.”
“Dr. Agassiz only just returned from several months at sea on the Pacific,” Grace told me, her admiration evident, “exploring the formation of coral reefs.”
“It must have been fascinating,” I said in earnest, thinking about the difficulties and deprivations of being so long at sea. “And quite an adventure.”
“Indeed it was, and if you’d like to hear about some of those adventures for your newspaper, I’d be happy to oblige you. I do hope you’ll write about today’s gathering. The Harvard Museum could use all the publicity, and donations, it can garner.”
I promised him I would. But then another thought struck me and I almost blurted out that it would behoove Dr. Agassiz to exercise the utmost caution until Judge Schuyler’s murder had been solved. For I had suddenly remembered that, before dedicating his life to science full-time, Alexander Agassiz had made a fortune in mining, first coal and then copper. Technically, he still served as president of the copper mines, though he had long since sold his controlling shares of coal stock. But did our killer know that?
Realizing this was no time to issue such warnings, Grace and I moved off to explore the exhibition. At the sight of so many specimens from Dr. Agassiz’s world travels, I drew an excited breath. Cases filled with preserved insects, arthropods, exotic birds, small mammals, and sea creatures drew murmurs of appreciation and, in some cases, astonishment. There were also glittering geodes, amber, and other semiprecious gemstones, as well as the bones and imprinted fossils of creatures that lived eons ago. Photographs and placards revealed the sites where many of the specimens had been found, explaining that Dr. Agassiz himself had held the camera. It seemed our host could add photographer to his list of accomplishments.
My fascination aroused, I wished to fully explore these displays, yet my purpose in having come to Castle Hill held only one objective. “Grace, do you see Miss Denholm?”
Grace’s lovely long neck craned as she searched the conservatory. An array of colorful hats made identification difficult, until one moved into closer range. We did just that, greeting others as we passed them. I noticed that, here, I tended to be more accepted than I had been at Wakehurst. Perhaps the spirit of the occasion—that of exploration and education, and the assumption that I’d come as a journalist—prompted them to look more kindly upon me. At any rate, I was asked to give my opinion on several occasions, as well as regaled with a few adventure stories from recent travels.
Suddenly Grace tapped my hand and gestured with her chin. “There,” she whispered, indicating
a young woman—a girl, really—who couldn’t have been out of short skirts more than a couple of years or so. That night at Wakehurst, at the archery run, I hadn’t gotten as good a look at her as now, with the sunlight streaming in through the myriad windows.
With plain features many might have considered unfortunate in a wealthy young miss, Eliza Denholm wore spectacles, a sign she gave little thought to her appearance. Her chocolate-brown hair formed a bun at her nape, with no effort to produce curls, and she bore the typical English complexion of pale skin and pink, almost ruddy, cheeks. She looked as though she had just come in from the cold. Apparently, she did not subscribe to the use of powders or lotions to even out those dueling tones.
All of this, coupled with her having renounced her English title upon her arrival in America, persuaded me to like her immediately.
Grace called out, “Eliza, dear. How are you? Is your mother here?”
Miss Denholm turned away from the tray of arachnid species she had been studying. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Vanderbilt. Yes, Mother is here, somewhere.” She spoke the Queen’s English in a firm, clear voice. Her gaze searched the room, but lit on no one in particular. “Perhaps she’s gone outside.”
“That’s all right, I’m sure I’ll find her.” Grace gave her head a friendly toss. “Tell me how you are.”
“Quite well, thank you, Mrs. Vanderbilt, all things considered.”
“Oh yes.” Grace flashed her a sympathetic look. “Forgive me, I’d forgotten how close you and Imogene Schuyler are. She must be inconsolable. Her mother, too.”
Miss Denholm’s hesitation spoke volumes. “Yes. They are. I’d be with Imogene now, except she insisted I come here today. She understands how interested I am in the sciences.”
A bluestocking, as Grace had told me. My opinion of her rose yet more.
“That was very brave of her.” Grace elegantly turned to draw me into their conversation. “Miss Denholm, do allow me to introduce my very good friend and cousin by marriage, Miss Emmaline Cross. Or have you met?”
“No, we haven’t had the pleasure.” Miss Denholm extended a lace-gloved hand, and I was taken with her poise, for one so young. And yet, a wariness entered her expression, explained by her next words. “Imogene has mentioned your name to me, Miss Cross. She said it was you who found her father that night.”
“Yes, regrettably. I feel keenly for your friend, Miss Denholm. To think of the upset to her life. I understand she was to be married soon. The delay must only compound her distress.”
Having witnessed firsthand Imogene’s sentiments toward her affianced, and understanding Miss Denholm to be Imogene’s close friend, I hadn’t expected her to agree enthusiastically with my comment. She took me utterly aback, however, when a crimson tide engulfed her face and her eyes glittered with ire.
“If something good has come of all this, it’s that Imogene will no longer have to marry that man. Her mother won’t force her.” Miss Denholm turned on her sensible bootheel and stalked away, exiting through the open doors to the terrace. There she halted and stared out at the water, her back straight and her shoulders rivaling the flagstones in stiffness.
A couple of women, society matrons by the looks of them, promptly attempted to engage her. At first, she seemed oblivious of their efforts. Then she turned to one of them, and I could only guess at the expression on her face, for it prompted the women to laugh awkwardly and ease away from her.
Perhaps someone else would have let matters lie, but I was not someone else, and not to be put off. I followed her outside, where the coolness of the ocean breeze mingled with the warm sun and the fragrance of the Bourbon roses climbing up the trellises between the conservatory windows. A refreshment table beneath a gold-fringed mossy-green awning stretched the width of the terrace at the far end.
Coming up beside her, I said, “Miss Denholm, forgive me for upsetting you. It was not my intention. I believed Miss Schuyler to be happy in the match, but I see now that I was wrong. I’m glad for her, then, at least in this one matter.”
“I should not have said what I did, Miss Cross. I’m sorry for my lack of control.” Miss Denholm kept her profile to me as she replied, and I noticed that while from head on, she appeared rather plain, she did, in fact, possess a high, intelligent forehead, a gently curving nose, and a firm yet pleasantly sculpted chin. With a sudden start, she turned and said, as though accusing me, “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but I promise you won’t see your words plastered across any pages in the Messenger tomorrow.” As I gazed back at her, I became struck with the earnestness I detected in her countenance, the honesty. Sunlight lent brightness to her eyes as she regarded me, bringing out gold specks in the blue. Yes, she should learn to be more circumspect, and not say such things in front of people she had only just met, but I suspected that the older Miss Eliza Denholm got, the more she would speak her mind without fretting about the consequences.
I decided to take a chance with her. “Miss Denholm, perhaps you know that upon occasion, I have aided the police in certain circumstances?”
“I do, indeed, Miss Cross. I have heard your name from more than Imogene mentioning it.”
“Then perhaps you’ve already guessed that I would like to discover who murdered her father.”
Miss Denholm nodded, a wary look persisting.
“In the spirit of seeking justice, may I ask you some questions?”
She hesitated only a moment. “If I may answer them without bringing any harm upon my friend.”
I marveled that such fervent loyalty should exist between two very different young women. Miss Denholm was not at all what I would have expected of any friend of Miss Schuyler’s.
“I have no wish to harm your friend,” I said, “or her mother.” Unless one of them a hand in the judge’s death, I added silently. I glanced about the terrace. There were about a dozen people mingling there, some of them hovering near the refreshment table, while several others were strolling on the lawn, ladies with parasols leaning on the arms of men in top hats. The rest were still in the conservatory. “Perhaps we might walk a bit?” I suggested.
She nodded and we set off down onto the lawn at a sedate pace. “Miss Denholm, I have heard . . . whispers . . . that the Schuylers weren’t happy in their marriage. Was Mrs. Schuyler planning to leave her husband?”
That hesitation, again, as ponderous as a summer storm cloud. Then she said, “Could you blame her if she had been? Ruling his courtroom had gone to her husband’s head. He wished to rule at home in similar manner, and Mrs. Schuyler didn’t appreciate it. What woman would?”
I couldn’t help a quiet laugh. “Certainly not my aunt Alva. Nor even my aunt Alice. For all they are very different women, each rules over her household in her own style. It seems to me society men are happy to allow their wives full rein when it comes to matters of the home. It’s a kind of unspoken bargain. The men rule business, earning buckets of money, and the women rule the nest, spending those very same buckets of money to show off their husbands’ successes. But I assume something went awry with the Schuylers’ bargain.”
“It did, Miss Cross. But Mrs. Schuyler is no timid mouse, and not one to be cowed. No, it was Imogene I worried about. Her father expected a kind of perfection in her no individual can maintain for long. It was eating away at her spirit.”
I thought immediately of her cold, spartan bedroom—spartan, at least, when it came to anything personal. There were no sentimental items crowding the shelves, no books left lying on tables, no framed photographs to remind her of loved ones and happy times. Had this been her response to her father’s overbearing insistence on perfection? To strip away anything that reflected her inner self and leave only the outer shell of a debutante—flawlessly beautiful, impeccably dressed, thoroughly poised?
“The engagement,” I said, “he insisted upon it, didn’t he?”
We had turned away from the water’s edge, where a rim of cliff face and strewn boulders marked the
boundary between land and sea. Walking closely together, we continued parallel to the shoreline, past the house and the driveway. Miss Denholm nodded, frowning. “How did you know that?”
It was my turn to hesitate, before answering vaguely, “I’d overheard something. Do you know why he wished Imogene to marry Jerome Harrington?”
She stopped walking suddenly, and after taking another step, I halted and turned to regard her.
“He believed she was becoming defiant. Rebellious. He said he feared she would do something to embarrass the family. It was either marry, or he’d keep her under lock and key.”
“Rebellious in what way?”
Miss Denholm shook her head disparagingly. “Speaking her mind in mixed company, eluding her chaperone, having friends outside her parents’ social circle. Even her friendship with me. Things he never would have minded if Imogene had been a man.”
I considered this and wondered if perhaps I had judged Imogene Schuyler unfairly. “But why Jerome Harrington specifically?” I asked. “I realize he is of good family, but why not someone more . . . established in his own right?”
“If you mean, why did he saddle his daughter with a man who possesses no fortune of his own?” She frowned again and tilted her head at me. “How do you know that? No one else does. The Harringtons are well-heeled. It’s only Jerome himself with a shortage of ready funds.”
“I have my ways, Miss Denholm,” I said cryptically, and started walking again. She caught up and resumed her place at my side. Taking it as a good sign that she hadn’t cut our tête-à-tête short and returned to the house, I hurried along with my questions. “I understand why Mr. Harrington would wish to enter into the marriage, but what motivation did Judge Schuyler have?”
“That I cannot tell you, Miss Cross. I didn’t understand it, and neither did Imogene.”
We entered a tree-lined path that hugged the contours of the steep shoreline. The leaves were trimmed with gold and the beginnings of russet, as if nature couldn’t decide to cling to summer or burst into full, glorious autumn. From this vantage point, I could see the very tip of the Castle Hill Lighthouse, short in stature but vital in guiding vessels into the mouth of Newport Harbor. Mr. Agassiz had sold the plot of land it sat upon to the United States government for the specific purpose of building this lighthouse, but with the stipulation that he must not be able to see it from his house or lawns.
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