Jesse’s countenance took on an eager look. “Do you have it?”
“Mrs. Peake does. She wishes to return it and apologize to Olivia for doubting her word about it.”
“I’d like to get it from her and hang on to it for now, until matters are cleared up.”
“Then you do suspect Olivia?”
“I don’t not suspect her. Or Philip or the coachman.”
I blinked in surprise. “John Donavan? Isn’t he in jail?” Jesse’s mouth twisted with irritation. “Not anymore. Seems we didn’t have enough evidence to hold him, and with the crowds that kept gathering outside the station, the chief feared there could be a riot. He ordered Donavan released a couple of hours ago. Says Philip is still our primary suspect, although Chief Rogers has gone back to calling it an accident.”
“What?” Outrage coursed through me. “The autopsy ruled out an accident.”
Jesse lifted his shoulders in another shrug. “I can’t explain it. Maybe this”—he gestured at the ambulance—“will change his mind.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. It’s as if . . .” I trailed off.
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s as if someone is applying pressure to stop the investigation. Political or monetary pressure. Like when Brady stood accused.”
In the summer of ninety-five, my half brother had been accused of murder. No one had needed to convince me of his innocence, but not only did circumstances point to his being guilty, but my own relatives attempted to influence police procedures. Uncle Cornelius had feared one of his own sons might be accused instead, and had temporarily put pressure on the police to finish their investigation as quickly as possible. It might sound unforgivable, but I’d realized Cornelius Vanderbilt feared for his sons as dearly as I’d feared for my brother. I’d been willing to move heaven and earth to exonerate him, even to the point of suspecting my two Vanderbilt cousins, Neily and Reggie. Could I blame Uncle Cornelius for feeling the same?
But who would be using their power to influence this investigation? Surely not the family of a coachman or of a maid. My thoughts drifted to two suspects who might have the resources to sway the proceedings: Eugenia Ross and Francis Crane. Eugenia Ross had a solid alibi for Clarence’s murder. But what about Francis?
“Does anyone know where John Donavan is now?” I asked Jesse.
“No. Once we release a man, it’s his business where he goes. He’s not anywhere on the property. That much we’ve determined. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t here earlier.” I’m sure it was the look on my face that prompted him to add, “Don’t worry. We’re already looking for him.”
The coroner, finished with his inquiries, climbed up onto the driver’s box of the ambulance with one of Jesse’s uniformed men. The horses were set in motion. It was on my tongue to suggest Jesse also search out Francis Crane when another carriage passed the ambulance and swept along the wide arc of the driveway. I recognized the driver, as well as the two passengers beside him. Francis Crane guided his pair closer to the front door before coming to a stop and setting the brake.
“Dear heavens, what’s happened now?” Gwendolen King swung down from the leather seat without waiting for Francis’s assistance. Maude Wetmore slid out after her.
Her linen tennis dress fluttering around her ankles, Miss King ran over to Jesse and me. “Please don’t tell me . . .” Her expression pleaded for news that would contradict the scene she had arrived home to. Then horror filled her eyes. “Not Mother or Philip or . . .”
“It’s Clarence, your footman,” I said as gently as I could. I placed a hand on her wrist. “I’m so sorry, Miss King. He’s been murdered.”
With a cry, she turned away and reached for Maude Wetmore. They caught each other up in an embrace, Miss King close to tears. Miss Wetmore, however, stared at Jesse and me over her friend’s shoulder, her expression grim and speculative.
After several moments, Miss King straightened and dabbed the back of her hand at her damp cheeks. “Where is my mother?”
“She’s upstairs in her room,” I told her. “Mrs. Peake is with her. Your brother is still in his room. Safe,” I added.
Nodding, the young woman appealed to her friend again, and together they hurried into the house.
“I have to finish up here, and then I’ll speak with Mrs. King and her daughter. You’ll stay for that?” I nodded, and Jesse patted my shoulder before walking away. Francis Crane took his place at my side.
“Again, Miss Cross? What in Sam Hill is happening here at Kingscote?”
“I wish I could tell you, Mr. Crane. I was in town with Mrs. Peake this afternoon on an errand for Mrs. King. We arrived to this chaos a little while ago.” I indicated the policemen now congregating around their carriages.
“I heard you say it was one of the footmen?”
“Clarence, yes. The young man with the dark hair.”
“This is terrible business. I only hope I can be of help to Mrs. King and Gwendolen.”
I stole a glance at him. So it was Gwendolen now, not Miss King. Had she thawed toward his overtures? “I see you were with Miss King and Miss Wetmore. Playing tennis, by the way they were dressed. You too, Mr. Crane?” Only now did I take a moment to survey his attire. He wore a typical summer suit in a light beige color, his silk vest striped in brown, and a straw boater sat at an angle atop his light brown hair. His feet were not clad in rubber-soled tennis oxfords, but rather lace-up ankle boots.
I studied them for traces of mud; they were clean, obviously polished just that morning.
“No tennis for you today,” I concluded.
“I merely watched,” he confirmed with a smile. Would he have had time to clean and polish his boots after murdering Clarence and be at the Casino to watch Miss King and Miss Wetmore play their match? I didn’t think so. “Has anyone told Philip yet?”
“I did.”
“Poor Philip, locked away like a madman.” He shook his head. “Perhaps this will finally exonerate him.”
“It might. Except that somehow Philip managed to smuggle alcohol to his room. Remember? And no one admitted to bringing it to him.” I paused to gauge his reaction to that. He made none whatsoever, not even the slightest tinge of guilty pink. He merely waited for me to complete my thought. “The detective has little choice but to suspect Mr. King has devised some way to sneak out of his room.”
“The devil you say.” Francis Crane pushed out a breath and shook his head. “Poor Philip,” he said again. “He just can’t seem to claw his way out of this mess.”
“If he’s innocent, Detective Whyte will exonerate him. If not, then he deserves the mess he’s in, doesn’t he?”
Mr. Crane regarded me with an ironic slant to his mouth that might have been agreement, though I couldn’t be certain. Then he nodded at me and set off into the house.
With no reason to remain, I lingered nonetheless. Two murders, both committed outside. Fog had obscured the night on which Baldwin had been hit by the automobile. Clarence had somehow been lured into the laundry yard, hidden from general view of the house and the rest of the grounds by tall hedges. This suggested neither murder had been spur of the moment, that the culprit had awaited the most advantageous circumstances at just the right moment.
Today’s incident certainly ruled out Mrs. Ross, for she could not have traveled to Kingscote after Mrs. Peake and I left her and arrived here ahead of us by half an hour. Francis had an alibi, although not an unquestionable one, for he’d only been a couple of minutes away at the Casino. Where had John Donavan gone after being released from jail? Did he have family in town? Friends? Anyone who could vouch for him? Or had he returned to Kingscote, murdered Clarence, and then gotten away?
Clarence must have known something significant about Baldwin’s death. Perhaps he had realized who murdered the butler, or had discovered a clue that could lead to identifying the killer. I wondered if Clarence had visited Donavan in jail. Perhaps he had, and confronted Donavan about what he knew, never expecting
Donavan would be released. But then, why hadn’t Clarence also shared his information with the police? Had it been another case of blackmail?
As I pondered these questions, I strode across the lawn and found myself near the weeping beech where the Hartley Steamer had pinned Baldwin. As I had done before, I tripped over one of the tree’s sprawling roots hidden in the grass. My toes throbbed through my boot, but I kept walking, using my arm to sweep the trailing branches out of my way. The cool interior of the tree surrounded me, the moist air like kisses along my skin.
I made my way to the trunk at the center of the canopy. No traces showed where Baldwin had been nearly severed in two by the Hartley’s front end. His body, it seemed, had protected the bark from the automobile’s steel panel. But the ruts from the tires showed faintly in the dirt and fallen leaves. For no particular reason, I bent lower to inspect one of them. What conclusion could I hope to draw? I followed the ruts back to the outer edge of the branches, where a few pebbles from the gravel driveway had been dragged along by the car’s tires. They glowed white in the shadows . . .
One glowed too brightly, and nestled unnaturally round in the dirt. Crouching down, I scooped it up into my palm. Upon pushing my way back out from beneath the tree, I studied the object in the sunlight.
It was no pebble, I immediately confirmed. I had found a pearl.
* * *
Jesse gathered the women—Mrs. King, her daughter, Miss Wetmore, and Mrs. Peake—in the south drawing room and showed them the pearl I had found. Miss King and her friend had changed from their tennis clothes into afternoon gowns of pastel muslin. Mr. Crane, after hesitating no doubt in hopes of receiving an invitation to stay and hear what Jesse had to say, took his leave.
While I looked on, the four passed the pearl from one to another, Miss King rising from the sofa to hand it to her mother where she sat in a damask armchair. They regarded Jesse with blank expressions. Ella King rolled the pearl from one palm to the other. “Are we supposed to recognize this, Detective?”
He stood in front of the fireplace, which was filled with a colorful assortment of hothouse flowers. “Have any of you broken a necklace recently? Or could it have fallen off a dress or other item of clothing?”
Gwendolen and Miss Wetmore exchanged a glance and shook their heads no. Mrs. Peake did likewise. Mrs. King shrugged. “Not that any of us are aware of, apparently. Was this the only one you found?”
Jesse looked to me for a reply. I nodded. “I even got down on my hands and knees to search. I didn’t find any others.”
“I can’t imagine where it came from,” Miss King commented.
“Then perhaps I can.” I went to Ella King and reached for the pearl. It was no small specimen, as pearls went, but nearly a quarter inch in diameter. The warm, golden tint and satin luster spoke of its fine quality. Such strands of pearls were no uncommon sight here in Newport, at least not in the summer. My own aunt Alice owned many pearl necklaces, some as long as my arm, secured by diamond-studded clasps.
But Aunt Alice would have no reason to have been at Kingscote recently. Nor Aunt Alva, nor any other society lady that I could think of except for Mrs. Wetmore, who’d had dinner here that night after the auto parade. Even if another woman had visited Kingscote, why would she have strayed off the driveway to the beech tree?
A society lady would not have. A pearl necklace, conjured by a memory, dangled in my mind’s eye. The day of the parade. Mrs. Ross.
“I asked Detective Whyte to rule out all of you.” I held the pearl up to the light. “Now, can any of you remember Mrs. Ross wearing a pearl necklace on any of the occasions you’ve seen her?”
Mrs. King eyed me shrewdly. “I’m assuming you can, Miss Cross.”
“Yes. At the automobile parade. But my word alone isn’t enough.”
Gwendolen King leaned forward. “Then you’re saying she was here the night Baldwin was struck? That possibly she and Baldwin struggled, and her necklace broke?”
“Yes, I’m saying it’s possible. Although, she could not have returned today to attack Clarence. Mrs. Peake and I left her at her home after Olivia Riley discovered the body and the police had been telephoned.”
“She might have hired someone to do her dirty work.” With a disgusted look, Mrs. Peake folded her arms. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“Nor would I,” Mrs. King readily agreed. “But Miss Cross is correct. Without some corroboration on whether or not Mrs. Ross owns such a pearl necklace, a single pearl will not incriminate her.”
“That’s correct,” I said. “So all of you, please think hard. Can you remember Mrs. Ross wearing a pearl necklace at any time during your acquaintance with her?”
“Acquaintance.” Miss King wrinkled her nose. “As if such a cordial term could be used to describe our experiences with that contemptible creature.”
“Gwendolen,” her mother gently chastised.
“I’m only speaking the truth, Mother.” She gazed up at Jessie. “Shouldn’t Philip be part of this conversation? He’s as acquainted with Mrs. Ross as the rest of us.” She said this last with blatant sarcasm. “We should bring him downstairs.”
Jesse hesitated, drawing Mrs. King’s attention to him. She studied him a moment before saying, “The detective isn’t quite ready to exonerate your brother, Gwennie. He’s afraid Philip might merely pretend to recognize this pearl as being from a necklace owned by Mrs. Ross. Isn’t that right, Detective?”
“I’m afraid, ma’am, that your son’s word on the matter won’t carry much weight,” he admitted with a doleful nod.
Gwendolen King surged to her feet. “Then perhaps it’s time you left this house, Detective Whyte.”
“Gwennie!” Her mother, too, rose to her feet.
From her place on the sofa, Maude Wetmore reached out a hand to touch the back of her friend’s arm. Just a gentle gesture, but one that caught Miss King’s attention and brought a contrite look to her face. “I’m sorry. This is all so very upsetting.”
“I understand, Miss King.” Jesse offered her a deferential nod. “As soon as we’re done here I’ll go upstairs, show Mr. King the pearl, and see what he has to say. In the meantime, can any of you picture such a necklace on Mrs. Ross?”
They all made an effort to concentrate. Their winkled brows attested to that. But I saw, too, their frustration. Both Gwendolen and her mother had resumed their seats. Now Mrs. King tossed up her hands. “Pearls are so common, one barely notices them anymore.”
I suppressed a sardonic chuckle at that, and forewent mentioning that for the vast majority of people, here in Newport and elsewhere, pearl necklaces, indeed necklaces of any kind, were neither common nor inconspicuous.
“That’s very true, Mother,” her daughter agreed. “And in the case of Mrs. Ross, I try not to look at her too closely. I’m merely anxious for her to go away. She has been a most unpleasant fixture in our lives these many years, since before Father died.”
“What about the day she showed up on your doorstep, after Baldwin died?” I tried again to jog Mrs. King’s memory. “When she informed you of the hearing set for September?”
She shook her head. “I don’t remember her wearing any such necklace.”
“Which could mean she wasn’t,” I pointed out. I turned to Jesse and spoke of Ethan under his assumed name. “Mr. Merrin opened the door to her. We should ask him as well.”
He nodded, then appealed to Mrs. Peake. “Ma’am? Any recollections?”
“Only that she wasn’t wearing pearls today. Was she, Miss Cross?”
“She was not.” I thought back on my prior visit to Eugenia Ross. “Nor was she wearing the necklace the last time I called on her. But that, too, proves little. We saw her in her home. She might only wear that particular necklace when she’s out.” I gasped at a new thought. “The jeweler.”
Jesse frowned in puzzlement. “Who?”
Mrs. Peake pointed a finger at me. “You’re right, Miss Cross. She might have been wearing the necklace
when she bought Olivia’s brooch from the jeweler in town. He would certainly have noticed it.” She turned to Jesse. “Charles Wilmont, Esquire, on Bellevue.”
“I know the shop,” he said. “I’ll stop in on the way back to the station.”
“Detective Whyte?”
We all turned our attention to the voice coming from the Stair Hall. A moment later a uniformed officer came into the parlor, though he ventured no farther than a couple of steps in, avoiding the area rug and looking apologetic for intruding. In one hand he held his cap, while in the other, an envelope, muddied and damp, its flap unsealed. “We found something new out in the laundry yard.”
“I thought that area was combed when we first arrived,” Jesse said brusquely enough that the policeman winced.
“It was, sir, but this was half hidden beneath the hedge behind the barrel.”
Jesse held out his hand. “Give it here.” Holding the soiled envelope in his palm, he peered into it, then reached in with his first and second fingers to slide an object out. I spied a thick, square piece of paper in an off-white color but yellowed with age, and, from its sojourn in the laundry yard, damp and stained. Red lettering blazed across what was visible of one side. Jesse studied the print. “It’s an admission ticket to a boxing match.”
“To the club in Middletown?” I spoke without much enthusiasm, doubting this item would yield any insights other than that the men of Kingscote enjoyed gambling on boxing matches. But Jesse shook his head.
“No. To a fight that took place nine years ago, in 1890. At the Delphi Athletic Club in Providence.” He held the ticket out to me.
I could read the bold print announcing the fighters’ names. A memory tumbled to the forefront of my thoughts. Grasping the ticket by its edges, I gasped. “The Midnight Hawk. Harry Ainsley called himself the Hawk. Are they the same?”
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