Murder at Kingscote

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “What happened?” Derrick demanded of the nearest individual, a townsman in a battered derby and ill-fitting flannels.

  “Don’t exactly know. One minute they were going around that trolley over there”—he pointed at a painted, miniature version of the electric trolleys that ran through town—“and the next they’d plowed right into a nanny pushing a pram.”

  “Good heavens,” exclaimed a woman who had just come up beside me, “are they terribly hurt?”

  “They don’t look hurt,” I assured her, judging each member of the King family to be a bit shaken, but not injured.

  “But that poor baby,” the woman persisted. “The pram is lying on its side, half under the motorcar. Someone must do something. We must summon an ambulance.”

  I quickly took in her silver hair, crepey skin, and frail, diminutive stature. It was Mrs. Jenson, a friend of my housekeeper’s, who had once run a bakery in town along with her husband. I placed my hand gently on her forearm. “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Jenson. The pram and the nanny aren’t real. They were part of the obstacle course meant to challenge the drivers.”

  “Oh, I see.” Her rheumy gaze wandered back to the scene of the mishap. “Well, it seems the challenge proved too much, didn’t it?”

  Indeed it had, especially for a young man in his cups.

  “Let’s go make sure they’re all right.” Derrick reclaimed my arm. When we reached the Hartley, several men were working to clear the wooden victims away, not an easy task as the front wheel had rolled over part of the “nanny’s” body. The task was made more difficult by Philip snapping orders and getting in the way. Derrick and I stopped beside the motorcar. He set a hand on the seat back and leaned in. “Are either of you hurt?”

  Mrs. King, intent on watching the activity at the front of the car, gave a startled cry at Derrick’s question. Her hand found its way back to her bosom and she exhaled with relief. “Derrick Andrews. You gave me a fright.”

  “Sorry about that. Are you and Miss King all right?”

  “I believe I’m fine. Just rather astonished at this turn of events.” Mrs. King twisted around to view her daughter. “Gwendolen?”

  “As I’ve already said, Mother, I’m quite all right. But I’ve no intention of continuing this ride. Hello, Mr. Andrews. Would you help me down, please?” She extended a gloved hand to Derrick, and he assisted her to the ground. As I watched the elegant Miss King, a thought dashed through my mind that Gwendolen King would make a far more suitable wife for him than I ever could. His family would welcome her with open arms, and she would surely be a favorite among Providence society.

  Yet, once on the ground, Miss King issued a polite thank-you and proceeded to study the efforts of the men attempting to clear away the rubble. Derrick’s attention lingered not a second longer than necessary before he turned back to her mother. “Mrs. King?”

  “Yes, me too, please.” Once on solid ground, Mrs. King raised her skirts and sauntered to the front of the Hartley. “Gwendolen and I have had quite enough, Philip. If you continue, you continue alone.”

  “Oh, don’t be that way, Mother. You and Gwennie did the decorations. Don’t you want to be there when they hand out the awards? The car is fine, by the way. Barely a scratch on her.” He stared down at the crumpled nanny and pram. “Which is more than I can say for them, but luckily no one will miss them.”

  “What happened?” I asked Gwendolen while her mother took her son to task. “The brakes didn’t fail, did they?”

  “No. I suppose he thought it might be fun to swerve a bit. He made some joke about it being like steering a boat, and then he lost control and couldn’t straighten us out before hitting the obstacle.” Miss King shook her head in obvious disgust.

  Anger burst to life inside me. Here was Philip King joking, when his mother and sister could have been seriously hurt. Had he been traveling at a greater speed, one or both of them might have been thrown from their seats. Or he might have struck another vehicle, or even one or several spectators. Philip had been nothing short of irresponsible and inconsiderate in his behavior today, and to see him chuckling about it raised my gorge. So typical of many young men of the Four Hundred. I found myself grumbling under my breath, until a light touch on my arm from Derrick snapped me out of my broodings and reminded that there were just as many honorable, generous men among the wealthy set.

  Shaking her head, Mrs. King turned away from her son and rejoined us. She offered Derrick her hand as if this were a chance encounter and the past several minutes hadn’t happened. “It’s lovely to see you. How are you? Is your mother in Newport with you?”

  “It’s good to see you as well, Mrs. King, and yes, my mother is here.”

  “Oh, good. You must both come to dinner tonight. I’m giving a small party, a quiet affair, nothing fancy.”

  “I’m afraid my mother already has an engagement tonight.”

  “Oh, that’s a pity. But you must come anyway.” Her gaze swerved to me. “And you as well, Miss Cross. The Wetmores will be there, and I know you’re quite well-acquainted with them.”

  The invitation surprised me—startled me, really—and the first thought that popped into my head was, What would I wear? It wasn’t often I dined with members of the Four Hundred, not even the Wetmores, although I had done them a good turn two summers ago and they had been more than cordial to me ever since.

  But invitations to dinner? I tended to receive those only from my Vanderbilt relatives, and they didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t wear the latest fashions from Paris. In fact, on formal occasions I typically donned castoffs from my cousin Gertrude, after they were hemmed and tailored to fit me. But Gertrude was married now and traveling much of the year. I didn’t see her often, and her hand-me-downs reached me less and less frequently.

  “Please say you’ll come, both of you.” Mrs. King’s tone offered no debate on the matter, and Derrick and I accepted her invitation to dine at Kingscote later that evening.

  The parade resumed soon after, but neither Philip nor Mrs. King received any awards at its conclusion. Mrs. Hermann Oelrichs, the former Theresa Fair, won first place for the best-decorated vehicle, her prize being a large sterling-silver box of bonbons, which evidently delighted her. I was certain her inclusion of doves among the hydrangeas, wisteria, and cascading satin ribbons decorating her automobile had much to do with her victory. And I, I’m happy to say, was equally delighted with the donation handed to me for St. Nicholas Orphanage in Providence.

  * * *

  “Mrs. King said nothing fancy, but you know what that means,” I said later to my housekeeper, former nanny, and the closest thing I’d had to a grandmother in many years. Mary O’Neal had cared for me as a child, and when my great aunt Sadie, my mother’s aunt, left her property to me several years ago, dearest Nanny, a widow by then, had eagerly agreed to move in with me. Ostensibly, she held the position of housekeeper, but I wouldn’t see her aged hands at any labors harder than rubbing a roasting hen with herbs, or rolling out a ball of dough for one of her delectable pies.

  Nanny perched on the edge of my bed, the mattress depressed under her rounded bulk, and watched as I rummaged through the armoire. I’d worn all of my dresses several times over, and even though Nanny’s deft needle made frequent alterations—new pin tucks here, fresh lace there—there was no hiding the staleness of my mostly second-hand wardrobe.

  “Are you fussing over the opinions of the Kings and the Wetmores,” she asked in that ever-so-soft way of hers, “or over what Derrick will think of you?”

  My hands went still and dropped to my sides as I turned to face her. I drew in a breath and let it out heavily. “You’re quite right, of course. As you usually are.”

  “Usually?” Her eyes gleamed knowingly at me from behind her half-moon spectacles.

  “It’s been so long since we’ve been together, I just want to . . .”

  “He won’t care a whit about what you’re wearing, I promise you that.”

  I
swept across the small space between us and sat beside her. With my arms around her, I gave her a hearty squeeze. “Darling Nanny. Yes, you’re right again—I hope.” We both chuckled as I returned to the armoire, this time barely hesitating before whisking a jade silk gown by Raudnitz and Co. from its hanger. It had the tiniest of cap sleeves, a sweetly rounded neckline in front and back, and vines rendered in silver thread down the skirt. “It’s at least four years out of date and I’ve worn it several times to the Casino and to Neily and Grace’s house, and Derrick has seen me in it before, but . . .”

  “I especially like that one on you, Emma.” Nanny struggled to come to her feet; I hurried back to her to offer her a hand. “Wear that one. And stop being so nervous. It’s only dinner.”

  I breathed another sigh. “I’ll be fine once I have the dress on and you’ve done up my hair for me.”

  “Once you’ve donned your armor,” she said with a shrewd look.

  Yes, Nanny was right again. In my dark blues, I wore the armor of a journalist and felt enabled to tread anywhere, ask any questions, and demand my answers. Gowns like this one, on the other hand, allowed me to sit at the dining table of someone far above my social reach—who could not understand what it was to have to work, to count one’s pennies, to go without—and converse and laugh and pretend I hadn’t a care in the world. People often credited me with more courage than I possessed. What I had in abundance, what I’d cultivated through the years, was a great ability to pretend when I needed to, and to tell myself I’d take the time to be frightened later, after the fact, as soon as I’d completed whatever task needed doing. But perhaps that’s all courage really was.

  My armor served me well that night. Nanny had positioned a lovely pair of filigreed tortoise-shell combs in my hair and I wore Aunt Sadie’s cameo brooch along with the tiny teardrop diamond earrings that had been a gift from my parents after my father had sold one of his paintings. A pair of elbow-length satin gloves, a bit yellowed with age, completed my attire.

  Derrick arrived at Gull Manor, my home on a craggy headland along Ocean Avenue, sharply at eight thirty. Dinner parties among the Four Hundred rarely occurred earlier than nine o’clock. He kissed my cheek in greeting and told me I looked beautiful, and I was glad for the shadows that hid my blush of pleasure. The weather had stayed fair, and as we traveled eastward along Ocean Avenue in his two-seater gig, we caught glimpses of a calm sea awash in the deepening blues of dusk wherever the twisting, rocky coastline permitted. We passed Crossways, the grand Neo-Colonial mansion on its hill overlooking the water. Like one night nearly a year ago, electric light spilled from the windows and carriages choked the front drive. Despite my affection for the irrepressible Mrs. Mamie Fish, I was glad Crossways was not our destination that night. I’d had enough of crowds earlier that day at the parade. And after that dreadful night last summer, I’d had enough of Mamie Fish’s parties to last a lifetime.

  “You’re quiet,” Derrick observed as we traveled a short distance along Coggeshall Avenue before turning onto Bellevue.

  “I’m enjoying the ride.” I didn’t tell him a large part of that enjoyment stemmed from the sensation of his shoulder jostling against mine. We passed the gates of Rough Point and I wondered who had leased the house for the summer. My relatives Frederick and Louise Vanderbilt no longer cared for Newport and rarely visited here anymore, preferring the pastoral tranquility of Hyde Park instead. I imagined someday soon they’d sell the estate. I turned to Derrick, thankful of the deepening twilight as I couldn’t help adding, “I’m enjoying being with you again.”

  There had been a time I would never have uttered such a thing—never have made myself so vulnerable. But Derrick and I had been through so very much together, had nearly died together—and apart—too many times to allow pretense and reticence to come between us now. That kind of armor, that of social niceties, I would not wear, not with him. Nor did I have to.

  He held the reins in one hand and laid his other, clad in kidskin, over my satin-gloved one where it lay against my thigh. I breathed in the scents of the night—the freshness of the ocean, the sweetness of the gardens, the strength of the man beside me. For, yes, he smelled of confidence and authority—it was in his shaving soap, the starch of his collar, the superfine of his jet-black evening coat. But to balance the role he’d been born to, that of a master of business and profit, he possessed unending generosity and a keen sense of fair play. Otherwise, I would not have been sitting beside him in his carriage.

  And I couldn’t help but wonder . . .

  “Does your mother know who you’re spending the evening with?”

  His hand tightened ever so slightly around mine. Before replying, he waited until several carriages filled with party-goers passed us on the avenue. Then, “She does.” A tiny muscle moved in his cheek, the only sign my question had struck a nerve. “I’m not about to lie or hide anything from anyone.”

  I smiled. “She was angry.”

  “Does it matter?”

  I studied his firm, patrician profile before turning to face straight ahead again. “It matters very much, to her. And to your father. And perhaps, someday, it will matter to you and me again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that right now, you are obligated to be in Providence, while I am tied to Newport. And because of that, your parents’ objections won’t change very much. But in time . . .”

  “Their objections will change nothing, not now, not six months from now.” He spoke harshly. “Not ever.”

  I didn’t know why I was pressing the issue, why his parents’ dislike of me—or rather, the idea of me—should intrude upon such a beautiful, temperate evening. When I was not with Derrick, which was most of the time, I hardly gave the matter a thought. Now, when we should be reveling in our time together, treasuring every second, I seemed bent on tossing a pall over the evening.

  “Let it go,” he whispered as if reading my mind, which at times I was most certain he could. He raised my hand and pressed it to his lips in a lingering kiss that swept all thoughts of his parents from my mind, leaving only him and me and the intermittent moonlight falling through the leafy canopy above Bellevue Avenue. And then we were turning on to Bowery Street, and onto a driveway bordered by beech and elm and Japanese maples. A sprawling, irregular house of steeply pitched gables with towers on the east and west wings; crenelated trim and diamond pane windows stood silhouetted by the last traces of the sunset. We had arrived at Kingscote.

  * * *

  My first indication that Derrick’s and my joint arrival surprised Mrs. King came as the butler ushered us in from the vestibule, through the Gothic archway between a pair of quatrefoil columns and into the Stair Hall. Elaborate woodwork surrounded us, from the painstaking design of the herringbone floor, to the heavily paneled wainscoting and ceiling. The only relief from all that wood came in the wallpaper above the wainscoting, but its dark reds imitated heavy brocade and maintained a somber aspect.

  Mrs. King stepped out from a doorway to our right and extended her hand. She paused suddenly, and her eyebrow twitched, nothing more, but that was enough to express . . . What? Curiosity? Surprise? Disapproval? It struck me that she had fully expected us to arrive separately. True enough, she had invited Derrick to dinner, and she had invited me as well, but it now became glaringly apparent that she hadn’t dreamed we might make the journey here together. In her mind, this implied something significant, something she hadn’t known before. Something, perhaps, about me, of which she had no choice but to disapprove. Her breeding won out quickly enough, however, and with an amiable smile she continued toward us, first taking my hand, and then Derrick’s, and offering a hearty welcome.

  She led us into the adjoining drawing room, or double drawing room, as two richly yet comfortably appointed rooms opened onto each other and occupied the entire east wing of the house. Here, the dark paneling and Gothic accents continued around doors and over windows, while wide, mossy-green stripes alternating wit
h lighter jade ones in luxurious silk covered the walls, complementing green velvet draperies. Rose-colored upholsteries provided a lovely contrast, and a quick glance into the rear drawing room revealed a similar motif, except the colors of the walls and the Louis XVI furnishings had been reversed. Adding to the charm of the parlor we inhabited, the first floor of the north tower provided a polygonal bay with double casement windows looking out over the front garden. Along the room’s east wall, floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a covered piazza.

  A pair of gentlemen stood as we entered the room. I recognized George Wetmore, the U.S. Senator representing Rhode Island, and, to my delight, my own cousin Neily—my uncle Cornelius Vanderbilt’s eldest son, though no longer his heir. The reason for his disinheritance occupied the larger of the tufted settees; Neily’s wife, Grace, came to her feet and hurried over to embrace me while Derrick greeted the others. She wore emerald-green silk, which brought out the green in her eyes and fire in her auburn hair. The waistline, I noticed, had been loosened and raised, with a cascade of black lace down the front to help conceal the swell of her belly.

  “Emma, darling, this is a wonderful surprise.” Grace turned a playfully accusing look on Mrs. King. “And you never said a word, you sly thing, you.”

  Mrs. King folded her hands at her waist and returned Grace’s surprise with a mischievous grin. “It was Neily’s idea to surprise you both. I see our little plan worked.”

  “It has indeed,” I exclaimed. After greeting the others, I sat beside Grace, our hands entwined. “How long are you and Neily in town for?”

  “I’m afraid it’s a quick visit this time, and tomorrow we’re heading back to New York, where I’ll begin my confinement.” Grace swept a hand over her tummy and then gave my hand an apologetic squeeze. “That’s why running into you tonight is especially delightful. I’d fretted over not seeing you this trip.”