Murder at Kingscote

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “He’s still there,” I assured him. “Despite his being attacked by Donavan.”

  “Have him ask the servants if Baldwin and Miss Riley seemed more familiar with each other than the rest of them. Remind him to be discreet. We don’t want to give Miss Riley a reason to run.”

  “She already might think there’s a reason,” Derrick said. “We gave her aunt a false excuse for showing up at her door, but I’ve no doubt that as soon as she has a chance, she’ll alert her niece to the two strangers who appeared only minutes after she left the apartment.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” I agreed, “but what other choice did we have? We needed to find out what she was hiding in Fall River. Besides, now that the truth is known, perhaps she should be confronted with it.” I didn’t need to point out that the child, if Baldwin’s, gave Miss Riley a strong motive for murder. I turned back to Jesse. “Are you thinking Donavan and Olivia Riley acted together in Baldwin’s murder?”

  “Exactly that,” he said. “As I said, it’s too much of a coincidence that all three worked for the Kings. It sounds like they coordinated, doesn’t it? Emma, see if you can’t find out from Mrs. King exactly when each was hired. Was it all at once, or did one recommend another?”

  Derrick shifted his long legs in front of him. “You do realize we might be wrong about Miss Riley. For certain she’s been hiding a child, but the little girl might not be Baldwin’s.”

  “Another coincidence,” I said. “Like Jesse, I don’t believe in them, not generally speaking. I’ve found that whenever a link appears to exist, there is one. But perhaps someone should persuade Miss Riley to acknowledge her secret in Fall River and see whether she has more to confess.” Even as I spoke, guilt stabbed sharply. Fiona’s beautiful features would haunt me, would steal into my dreams at night, should she be deprived of her mother due to my interference in the case. But what else to do? Ignore evidence and allow a murderer to walk free?

  “Then again, there are still Eugenia Ross and Francis Crane, both of whom might have had reasons to commit murder. Both certainly have reasons to begrudge the Kings,” I reminded Jesse.

  “I haven’t forgotten. But these two—Donavan and Olivia Riley—have a more direct link to Baldwin. Or so it appears.”

  I sighed. “In what’s left of the afternoon, I should spend some time at the Messenger, or I could find myself out of a job.”

  “Never.” Derrick started to reach across the space between our chairs to grasp my hand, but with a glance at Jesse, he let his own drop. Jesse angled his own gaze away with an ironic smile hovering over his lips, one that reminded me he had a secret of his own.

  Her name, he had confided to me last fall, was Nora Taylor, and she worked as a maid at Ochre Court. She and Jesse had met a year ago during a police investigation. Their courtship had progressed slowly, and I wondered when they might openly acknowledge their affections for each other. But then, who was I to judge—I who couldn’t make up my mind from one moment to the next if I even wished to be courted?

  * * *

  The late afternoon proved more productive at the Messenger than I had anticipated. I edited several articles that came over the wires for the next morning’s edition, and I’d been pleased to discover several new businesses on the island inquiring about advertising space. All this left me with a deep sense of satisfaction on my way home that evening. Nanny had a sumptuous meal of pot roast and root vegetables waiting for me, plus a surprise, one not only she had kept, but Derrick as well. He greeted me in the front hall and helped me remove my carriage jacket and hat.

  “I hope you don’t mind. There was a message waiting for me when I arrived home earlier, an invitation from Mrs. O’Neal. I should have telephoned you at the Messenger to let you know . . .”

  “There she goes again, playing matchmaker. I hope you don’t mind.”

  He grinned, bent over me, and pressed a kiss to my lips. “That answer your question?”

  He left me light-headed and a little breathless. Shuffling footsteps coming from the kitchen prompted me to give him a playful swat and step out from under his hovering, smiling features. “Nanny, this is a surprise,” I exclaimed when she appeared in the corridor. “And everything smells delightful.”

  “My lamb has had a long day.” She embraced me and stepped back. “That employer of yours works you too hard.”

  Derrick pressed a hand to his chest. “You have my deepest apologies, Mrs. O’Neal, and I shall mend my ways. Emma, take tomorrow off.”

  “That I shall not, or my employer will begin to think I’m not indispensable. And then where will I be?”

  We spent a homey evening together, enjoying the delicious meal Nanny had prepared with Katie’s help. Though she, Katie, and I normally ate informally at the kitchen table, tonight we sat in the dining room, finally restored after a fire had damaged the room last summer. The calm, unhurried evening contrasted sharply with the frantic pace I had maintained these several days since Baldwin’s murder, and reminded me to acknowledge my blessings and savor my good fortune.

  It proved a much needed respite, though a short-lived one. Mrs. King sent a footman to Gull Manor in the morning, asking me to stop at Kingscote on my way into town.

  Chapter 15

  “Detective Whyte gave us permission to go through Baldwin’s things and pack them up,” Mrs. King explained as she led me into the library off the Stair Hall. “Mrs. Peake and Clarence have been carefully sifting through.”

  “Have you found the brooch Miss Riley claims he took from her?” I stopped short upon entering the library. Mrs. Peake stood near the hearth, a slip of paper in her hand.

  “No,” Mrs. King replied. “But we have something that might prove enlightening. Show her,” she said to the housekeeper.

  Mrs. Peake held out the paper to me. I skimmed it and glanced up in surprise. “A receipt for a brooch, from a jewelry store in town. It doesn’t appear to have been very valuable, given what the jeweler paid for it.” Or, had Baldwin been willing to part with it for a small sum? Perhaps only the jeweler could answer that question. I started to hand it back, but Mrs. King intercepted it.

  “It was found among Baldwin’s clothing,” she informed me, “shoved into a pocket of a pair of trousers. I’m surprised Miss Riley didn’t find it when she searched the room.”

  “She would have, if Mr. Merrin hadn’t caught her before she had a chance.” Mrs. Peake spoke so sternly I feared that, even if Miss Riley proved innocent of all misdeeds, she might be dismissed nonetheless. Would I be able to intercede on her behalf? “As it is, I’d been going through his possessions for well over an hour before I stumbled upon this.”

  “Did you find anything else of interest?” I asked her.

  Mrs. Peake pursed her lips and traded a disapproving glance with her employer. “Seems he was quite a gambling man. Horses, dogs, even chickens, for heaven’s sake. And boxing, of course.” She gave an indignant shudder. When I thought she’d voice a self-righteous admonishment against gambling straight from a Protestant Sunday sermon, she surprised me. “To think, a man prospering, or trying to prosper, from the pain and suffering of others. Innocent animals, no less. And young men whose desperate circumstances lead them to put themselves at bodily risk.” She again slid a glance to Mrs. King, then dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m speaking out of turn. It’s just that . . .”

  “I happen to agree with you wholeheartedly, Louise.” Mrs. King bestowed a benevolent smile on her housekeeper. “So you needn’t apologize. However . . .” She turned back to me. “We wanted you to know about this, especially since this brooch only came to light because of your man’s skillful snooping.” She referred, of course, to Ethan, and I hid a smile at how she termed his efforts. “Louise and I intend to go down to this jewelry shop and inquire about the brooch. See if we can’t buy it back. It could be evidence, after all. And if it proves not to be, I’m sure Olivia will wish to have it returned to her.”

  “It may not be as costly as
we initially thought, but I’d still like to know what a girl in her position is doing with a brooch of any kind.” The housekeeper assumed her disapproving air once again. “Where on earth would she ever wear it?”

  “Olivia explained how she came by it, Louise.” It was Mrs. King’s turn to be disapproving, but not toward the housemaid. “Even the best of families can fall on hard times. We mustn’t fault them for it or expect them to part with their heirlooms, valuable or otherwise.”

  I could have thrown my arms around her for her sense of fairness. But I saw something else in her countenance. Fear? Misgiving? Did thoughts of her own son falling on hard times someday, due to his irresponsibility, keep her awake at night? I didn’t doubt it.

  I hadn’t forgotten the question Jesse had asked me to put to Mrs. King. “I understand you hired John Donavan, Olivia Riley, and Mr. Baldwin in New York. All three of them. Is that correct?”

  The question seemed to surprise her. “Why, yes. I always hire a new staff when I arrive back in New York from our European travels. That way they can come up to Newport ahead of the rest of us and ready everything we’ll need while we visit friends in the city and on Long Island.”

  “Did you find them separately?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Did you place ads for each position, and receive inquiries from each of them separately,” I clarified, “or did one recommend the others?”

  “Oh, I understand. Louise placed the ads and carried out the initial interviews.” She turned to her housekeeper. “Louise, can you answer Miss Cross’s question?”

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Peake frowned, thinking. “Miss Riley came on her own, but now that I think back, I do remember John Donavan mentioning he knew of a capable butler needing a position after the family he worked for relocated.”

  “Did this family provide a reference?”

  “Of course they did.” She stiffened indignantly. “I would not have considered sending him to interview with Mrs. King otherwise.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would,” I said in an apologetic tone meant to appease her offended sensibilities. “But having a reference isn’t the same as having an unblemished past. We’ve discovered that Baldwin and Donavan worked for the same family in Bristol before heading down to New York. Donavan admitted that Baldwin was blackmailing him over a carriage accident that occurred when both men worked for the family in Bristol.”

  “Donavan admitted . . .” Mrs. King looked mystified.

  “Yes.” I drew a breath. Mrs. King could remain ignorant of her coachman’s actions no longer. “You see, the ruckus you heard outside last night was no drunkard from town who wandered onto your property. It was John Donavan. He’d been drinking and began ranting about the accident that killed his former employer’s daughter.”

  “How horrible.” Mrs. King’s hands rose to her lips. Slowly, she lowered them back to her lap. “Why wasn’t I told about this? Louise, did you know?”

  “I . . . uh . . .”

  “They kept silent at Detective Whyte’s request,” I said hurriedly. “No one meant to lie to you, Mrs. King. They were merely following orders.”

  “Well.” She said it with a huff. “I suppose now I must hire a new coachman as well as a butler.”

  “Ma’am, perhaps you might hold off on that, for now.”

  “Why ever should I? You can’t expect me to have Donavan back after his drunkenness, not to mention being responsible for someone’s death.”

  I held out my hand in an appeal. “That death was deemed an accident, but Donavan has been living under the threat of never working again because of it. And as for his drunkenness, the guilt of that poor girl’s death, which any man would naturally feel, drove him to it. But doesn’t he have the right to exonerate himself?”

  “Unless, of course, he murdered Baldwin to silence him about the past.” Mrs. Peake spoke with deadly calm. “To end the blackmail.”

  * * *

  Mrs. King announced her intention of going to the jeweler in town with the receipt found in Baldwin’s pocket. I convinced her to let me go instead. She agreed only on the condition that Louise Peake accompany me.

  Despite the housekeeper’s often stern exterior, I found myself both respecting and liking her. I believed her to be more than dedicated to her employer, but rather a true friend, albeit a paid one. I therefore took no offense that our trip into town was conducted for the most part in silence. I’d left my horse and carriage at Kingscote, allowing us to walk the short distance into town on Bellevue Avenue. Along the way, Mrs. Peake gave me the impression that words, for her, served a purpose and were not to be wasted merely to fill a hush.

  We found the jeweler, Charles Wilmont, Esquire, in a row of shops across from the Redwood Library. The gold lettering on the street window, and the glittering objects behind it, beckoned in the morning sunlight. I had been aware of the shop prior to this, but I had never gone inside. I’d had no reason to. Such a store, in its posh location, could sell nothing I could afford, nor would I have need of anything so costly as the wares to be found inside.

  Indeed, the clerk’s eager look, inspired as the bell above the door jangled to herald our entrance, faded as soon as his gaze traveled our lengths up and down and back again. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said correctly but without a shred of enthusiasm. “How may I help you?” The little sniff he gave impressed upon me his doubts that he could help us with anything.

  Nonetheless, Mrs. Peake strode determinedly to the counter behind which he stood and thrust the receipt under his nose. “We believe a gentleman sold you a brooch recently. Here is the receipt. What can you tell us about the piece? Is it still here?”

  “Hmm . . . let me see.” He squinted down at the paper. While he did, I studied the trays of rings, bracelets, and necklaces in the glass case in front of him, all bearing a fortune’s worth of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. “It says here it was a cameo . . . with pearls . . . hmm.”

  “Yes, yes. Is it here?” Mrs. Peake allowed her impatience to show.

  “May I inquire why the gentleman himself didn’t come to make the inquiry? Does he wish to buy it back? We are not a pawnbroker.”

  “The gentleman is deceased,” I said bluntly, sending a wave of crimson to engulf his features. “Or hadn’t you heard about the butler at Kingscote? Isaiah Baldwin? It’s been in all the newspapers.”

  “Oh, dear me, yes. Yes, indeed. I hadn’t realized . . .” Perplexed, the man scratched at his balding pate. His flush subsided.

  “Well, now you know.” Mrs. Peake allowed the clerk to take the receipt from her hand. He turned away behind him to another counter littered with tools of the jewelry trade and retrieved a pair of spectacles. He turned back to us and studied the receipt again.

  “I believe this has already sold.”

  “Sold?” Mrs. Peake sounded outraged. “To whom?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if I should say.”

  “Why not?” I placed my hands on the counter and leaned toward him. If he found that slightly threatening, so be it.

  “It isn’t my place. I’m not the shop’s owner, merely a clerk. I’ll have to wait until I can speak with Mr. Wilmont.”

  “Have you a telephone here?” I asked him.

  He nodded.

  “Then speak with Mr. Wilmont.” I smiled. “We’ll wait.” When he hesitated, clearly not liking the idea of telephoning his employer at home, I thought of a way that might persuade him. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have bothered you. We’ll bring the receipt to Detective Whyte at the police station and let him come and make inquiries. He won’t be happy about it, as he’s terribly busy trying to discover who murdered Isaiah Baldwin, and we believed we could take care of this one little errand for him. But if not—”

  Behind his spectacles, the man’s eyes flashed with alarm. I’d known good and well he would not want the police entering this establishment, nor would Charles Wilmont, Esquire relish that kind of publicity for his business.
Perhaps a store on Thames Street or even Spring Street might enjoy the notoriety, but a jeweler on Bellevue who catered to the summering Four Hundred? Good heavens, neither Mrs. Astor nor Edith Wetmore, nor my aunt Alice Vanderbilt would ever again set foot in an establishment that bore the taint of scandal.

  Now, women like my aunt Alva Belmont or Mamie Fish were another matter altogether, but this gentleman didn’t need to know that.

  “Perhaps I can take a look in our book,” he said, and hurried through a curtain into a back room. When he returned, he held a second piece of paper in his hand. He handed it to me, along with the receipt. “Here. The item was sold to this lady. I’ll probably get into a good deal of trouble because of this, but if you’ll go and not come back . . .”

  “Thank you, and we won’t,” I assured him. “And if Mr. Wilmont is angry, simply refer him to Detective Whyte.”

  Outside, I read what the clerk had scribbled on the scrap of paper he’d handed me. Grinning, I met Mrs. Peake’s curious gaze. “Do you have time for another stop?”

  * * *

  We caught the uptown trolley and alighted at Rhode Island Avenue. A short walk brought us to the green clapboard house with white trim and a semicircular front porch. I had been here before, and the woman who opened the door to us showed little surprise at our appearance. “Ah, yes, I remember you.” She opened the door wider and invited us in. “You’re in luck. Mrs. Ross is in. Wait here, please. I’ll just go up and see if she’s receiving.”