Murder at Kingscote

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Jesse directed his gaze in a silent question at Derrick, who laid a hand against his chest with an air of innocence. “I wasn’t here to witness what was said. I’d gone into town to wire funds for Miss Riley’s aunt to be able to call a doctor for her daughter. Poor child’s been sick, so we hear.”

  Jesse next turned to Nanny. “Mrs. O’Neal? What do you know?”

  “Derrick’s right, that poor child needs a doctor.”

  “I don’t mean about that, Mrs. O’Neal.”

  “Oh . . . well, Katie and I were in the kitchen for most of the evening. Would you care for some tea?”

  Jesse pivoted back toward me. “You and I are going to have a long talk tomorrow.”

  Derrick came to stand beside me in solidarity. The back of his hand touched mine. Whatever I faced, I knew he would face it with me. I nodded at Jesse, thinking tomorrow would give Miss Riley ample time to put many miles between herself and Newport. Would it be enough? Would Jesse press matters and issue an interstate search for her?

  I had faith he would agree that Miss Riley didn’t deserve to be treated like a criminal. Her momentary lapse in judgment had been simply that, and she had stopped herself just short of committing murder. She hadn’t been at all complicit, either, for by the time Donavan had taken over pushing the Hartley, Miss Riley had fled the scene. Yes, she’d fled believing she had murdered Baldwin, and yes, it had been wrong of her to allow Philip King to take the blame—and perhaps for that she did deserve some form of punishment. But hadn’t she already been punished, before the fact? Not to mention the weight of the guilt she would bear for the rest of her life.

  But it hadn’t merely been Miss Riley I’d helped to escape. It was her daughter as well, a third generation struggling to outrun the past. I prayed my diamonds and Derrick’s money would help Fiona Rose escape a legacy she didn’t deserve, the result of the actions of a dishonorable man she would never have to know. If any good could come of this, it would be in the person of Fiona Riley—Fiona Ainsley, really—when she grew up to be a healthy, happy young woman.

  * * *

  After an exhausted, dreamless sleep that night, the next afternoon saw me back at Kingscote. Mrs. King had sent an invitation and her carriage for me, driven by her trusted groom, Brian Farrell.

  I arrived to find Derrick and Jesse already there. Mrs. King brought us into her beautiful dining room with its exotic blend of designs, where a luncheon had been laid out. Gwendolen and her brother, Philip, finally released from his room, awaited us there.

  “Please, do sit,” Mrs. King commanded in her genteel way. As we all found places around the table, she remained standing. She appeared to be waiting for something—or someone, as it turned out. Moments later Ethan strolled in, his butler’s garb replaced by a summer suit of ivory seersucker. Mrs. King gestured for him to sit as well. Then she folded her hands at her waist. “I asked you all here today to thank you for what you did for my son and for this family. You put yourselves to considerable trouble and endangered yourselves, and for that you’ll have our eternal gratitude.”

  “It’s merely my job, ma’am.” Jesse shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with Mrs. King’s praise.

  She raised her chin a fraction as she peered down at him. “Perhaps, Detective. But I know you were under pressure to close the case and declare it an accident caused by my son. A lesser man would have done so.”

  “And let a killer go free? No, indeed.” A blush crept across Jesse’s face despite the gruffness of his tone.

  Mrs. King only smiled at him, then turned her attention to another. “And you, Mr. . . . Merriman, I believe it is.”

  Ethan inclined his head.

  “You disrupted your entire life to help us. And Miss Cross and Mr. Andrews, you both went to great lengths on our behalf. Miss Cross, I want you to know I will become your most generous contributor to St. Nicholas Orphanage in Providence.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. King. That’s most appreciated.” Dared I enlist her help for Fiona? Would she ask questions about the child’s origins, or would she be willing to foster her from afar? I decided I would approach her, in time. I frowned and turned to Philip. “I do have one question for you, if I might.”

  Philip King raised his teacup to me as if in a toast. “Go right ahead, Miss Cross.”

  “How did you become acquainted with Harry Ainsley?”

  “Harry Ainsley?” Mrs. King took her seat at the table and flicked her napkin to her lap. Her eyes widened as she turned to me. “The boxer you spoke of when that ticket was found in the laundry yard?”

  Philip’s gaze hadn’t left me, as if he contemplated the wisdom of discussing the matter. Finally, and with a show of reluctance, he said, “Yes, the very same, Mother. After Baldwin maimed him in that fight, Harry ended up at Butler—with Uncle William. They were friends . . . of sorts.”

  Tight ridges formed above his mother’s nose. “Uncle William? Philip, I don’t understand. Were you—”

  “Visiting Uncle William before he died? Yes, Mother, I did. Every spring when we returned from Europe.”

  “Why did you never say anything?”

  Philip shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought the whole matter would upset you. There were so many hard feelings between him and the family. But he was always happy to see me. He didn’t blame me for his being there and . . . I could identify with him. Being the black sheep and all.”

  “Philip,” his mother exclaimed, “you are not a black sheep.”

  “Aren’t I, Mother? Haven’t you, in all of this, doubted me just a little?”

  “I . . .” She had no answer for him, a fact that brought her considerable discomfiture, if her tight expression gave any indication.

  “Oh, come now, everyone.” Gwendolen reached for a platter of roasted squab, and then the silver bowl of shallots and mushrooms in wine sauce and began the task of passing them around. “We’re here to thank our friends, not make them uncomfortable. Philip has been exonerated and the danger is over. Let’s all be grateful.”

  “Hear, hear,” Philip agreed. A mischievous gleam entered his eyes. “But where is Francis, Gwennie? Aren’t you grateful to him for helping you through such a trying time?”

  “You’re incorrigible.” She made a gesture as if to slap his hand, though he sat across the table from her. “For your information, Francis was a help, and he’s rather a dear, but I’ve had to be firm with him.”

  “What does that mean, darling?” her mother asked.

  “It means there is no future for us, however much he might want it.” Her cheeks pinked modestly. “He was always simply showing up places, uninvited. Like the other day—the day poor Clarence died—when he drove up in front of the Casino as Maude and I were leaving and insisted he drive us home, though we live such a short walk away.”

  I had just cut into my squab, but the morsel remained forgotten on the end of my fork. “Then Mr. Crane wasn’t at the Casino that day watching you play tennis?”

  “No. He actually seemed to be waiting outside for us.”

  “It’s a good thing we didn’t know that then,” I said to Jesse and Derrick, “or poor Mr. Crane would have gone right back to the top of our list of suspects.” Somewhat chagrined, I explained to the others, “You see, we did have reason to suspect Francis Crane. Mrs. Ross as well.”

  “A boy like Francis couldn’t hurt a fly,” Mrs. King said dismissively. Apparently she had forgotten her own insinuations against him. “But Mrs. Ross on the other hand . . .” She shuddered. “I’m sure that woman isn’t finished making trouble for us.”

  “I have a feeling she won’t be plaguing us for much longer, Mother,” Gwendolen said. “Eventually a judge is going to dismiss her claims once and for all and she’ll disappear. Probably to find herself another financial victim.”

  “One can only hope,” her brother put in in a murmur. Martin, Kingscote’s remaining footman, entered the room to inquire if anything more was needed. To this, Philip said wryly, “Yes. A butle
r. Mr. Merriman, I don’t suppose we could persuade you to stay on, at least until we’ve found yet another replacement?”

  Ethan colored with embarrassment and laughed. “I don’t suppose I’ve done the best job. I’m sorry, Mrs. King, but think I should return to the Messenger. It’s where I belong.”

  Mrs. King sighed. “Butler, footman, coachman, and now my housemaid. What has become of Olivia?”

  “Um . . .” I looked to Derrick for help. He shrugged.

  Jesse came to the rescue. “It seems Miss Riley has a daughter who lives with an aunt, and the child is ill. She has gone home to care for her.”

  Thank you, I mouthed at him.

  “Goodness, why didn’t I know about this?” The woman appeared genuinely aggrieved by the news.

  “She was afraid to come to you, ma’am,” I said. “Most employers wouldn’t approve of their housemaid having a child and . . .” I trailed off, realizing I’d wandered onto an indelicate subject, especially for the luncheon table.

  “I would not have condemned her for it,” Mrs. King declared with no uncertainty. “I do wish she had come to me for help. Miss Cross, if you hear from her—”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll convey the message.” I darted a glance at Jesse, who watched me closely. “But I don’t think it will be possible for her to return.”

  * * *

  The following morning, I returned to the Messenger to discover an unhappy surprise: a resignation letter from Jacob Stodges. In it he explained his frustrations at being set aside, supplanted by Ethan and overshadowed by me. As I sank into my desk chair in front of the window overlooking Spring Street, several undeniable truths wended their way through me, and through my resolve to make a great success of my position as editor-in-chief.

  I had not made a success of it. And I had not made a success of myself. This letter proved it. Jacob spoke truly. I had thrust him aside and ignored his professional needs in favor of my own. And my own simply did not include sitting here at this desk, running things, overseeing operations, and making decisions that affected the rest of the staff. My needs—my one need—was so much simpler.

  When Derrick had first asked me to run his fledging newspaper, I had jumped at the chance to prove myself in a capacity typically reserved for men. I’d wished to prove to myself, to him, and to the world, that I, a woman, could perform as well as any man. But I had overlooked one very vital point: reporting, for me, had never been about proving anything to anyone. It had been about the search for truth and the ability to convey those truths in a way that allowed readers to draw their own conclusions. The fact of my being a woman had only become significant when men refused to take me seriously, and refused to allow me to put my talents and enthusiasm to good use. I had wished only to report, not to prove anything other than that I had the ability to do the job.

  I still wished to report. Somehow, reporting had gotten into my blood, became part of who I was, and now the greatest obstacle to my goals was not the men who stood in my way, but myself, because I’d come to see my goals as a competition.

  They were not a competition. I need not compete at all, except with other reporters to see who could break the story first—who could unearth the most intimate details, analyze them, and present them in the clearest and most unbiased way. That was my passion and my calling. Not sitting at a desk and directing from behind the scenes.

  Outside my window, a trolley rumbled by, raising clouds of dust behind it. Pedestrians ducked their heads and shielded their faces with their arms. As the swirls settled, the patrician features of a familiar face took shape. Derrick hurried across the street, sidestepping a vegetable cart and a pile of manure the street sweeper hadn’t yet attended to. The bell jangled as he opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Good morning,” he said with an enthusiasm I didn’t feel. How could I, when I had a disagreeable task before me? The light in his eyes didn’t fade even though he lowered his voice when he spoke again. “I don’t suppose you’ve had word from . . .”

  “No, not yet. But I didn’t expect to this soon. She’ll contact me when she’s ready, I’m sure.”

  “And Jesse hasn’t pressed you for more details about what happened at Gull Manor that night?”

  “We’ve talked, and he trusts me. He believes Miss Riley is innocent.”

  Derrick nodded and glanced around the small office. “It’s quiet here this morning.” Not entirely true, as we could hear the printing press rumbling from the rear of the building. “Has Ethan been in yet? I’ll bet he’s eager to get back to the typewriter.”

  “Ethan’s at Mrs. King’s equestrian outing and picnic, in the capacity of society columnist. He’s very happy about it.” The event, spoken of that first night at Kingscote after the auto parade, had been put off, of course, during the investigation. Now, all the Kings could enjoy the day without apprehension, including Philip. Especially Philip, who no longer faced either murder charges or the ruin of his reputation for taking a man’s life due to a drunken accident.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  Derrick pointed to the paper in my hand, and I realized I had held on to Jacob’s letter the entire time I’d been contemplating my future. I handed it to him. “Jacob is leaving us.”

  He read the missive and frowned. Then he let out a hmm. “I’m sorry about this. But I’ve been thinking . . .”

  When he hesitated, I came to my feet. Had he been having second thoughts about my running his newspaper? Did he see it from Jacob’s perspective, that I was really no good at being in charge? After all, first I’d had to fire our office manager, Jimmy Hawkins, for attempting to sabotage our operations; and now my news reporter had quit. None of this spoke well of my abilities to keep order. No, and I decided to make this easy on Derrick.

  I drew in a deep breath. “Derrick, I think it’s time we both admitted—”

  “Emma, you’re fired.”

  I gasped in shock, but my startlement quickly abated and was replaced by a cascade of relief. Whatever happened now, wherever I went, I would go as a reporter and nothing else. “Thank goodness,” I whispered.

  He slapped Jacob’s letter onto the desktop and reached for me, drawing me close for a moment. When he pulled away, holding me at arm’s length, he smiled down at me. “You’re a reporter, Emma. I truly saw that these past days. You’re at your best when you’re investigating. I asked you to do something that isn’t in your nature, and I apologize for that.”

  “Don’t. When you asked me to fill this position, I jumped at the chance. I simply didn’t realize what it would mean. And I’m afraid I’ve made a hash of it—”

  “No, you haven’t, not that at all. But . . . I will need to replace you.”

  I nodded, and had a thought that might rectify matters. “Perhaps Jacob.”

  “I don’t think he’s ready, not yet. I do have a couple of notions, though. But in the meantime . . .”

  “Yes, of course I’ll stay on until you can replace me.” And then I would do what? Go where?

  “Thank you,” he said with a bob of his head, “I appreciate that. But there is still the matter of needing to replace my news reporter. I understand how poor Mrs. King is feeling, having to replace her house staff. Good people are so hard to find.” He cocked his head at me and grinned. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas as to who might like to fill the position of news reporter here at the Messenger?” His hand left my shoulder and cupped my chin, raising my face as he lowered his and kissed me.

  I smiled all through that kiss, and the rest of the day, and that evening when I told Nanny and Katie that at long last, I was going to be what I’d always wished: a hard-news reporter, right here in Newport.

  Author’s Note

  Kingscote, one of the oldest homes on Bellevue Avenue, is also one of its smallest, yet loveliest, gems. Having toured the house, I’d already developed a fondness for its remarkable blend of architecture and interior design styles, but writing this book has greatly increased my
appreciation of the house and its history, along with that of the family who owned it. Having made his fortune in the China export business, William Henry King purchased Kingscote from its original owner, George Noble Jones, a Southerner who left Newport for good at the start of the Civil War. Soon after, William King retired and set about enjoying his wealth.

  As I have it in the story, his relatives became so alarmed at his excessive lifestyle and penchant for globe-trotting that they had him declared insane. He was committed, first at the McLean Asylum in Massachusetts, and then the Butler Hospital in Providence, Rhode Island, where he eventually died. Meanwhile, Kingscote was taken over by William’s nephew, David King Jr., and his wife, Ella Rives King. Had William King taken leave of his senses? Was his fate the result of genuine familial concern, or greed? Unfortunately, those are questions I cannot answer. However, I do believe Mrs. King and her children were blameless in these events.

  Nor can I fully explain what drove Eugenia Webster Ross—a real-life figure—in her pursuit of William King and his fortune. Newspaper articles from the time document her relentless campaign to prove herself his heir. Did she misguidedly believe her assertions, or was she merely a con artist hoping for an easy buck? If the latter, she was to be disappointed, as there was nothing easy about her quest to gain the inheritance. She labored through the legal system for many years and in the end received nothing. The final court hearing was the one mentioned in this story, which took place in September of 1899. The judge dismissed the case, and I could find no further information about Mrs. Ross.

  Mrs. Ella King, widowed in 1894, did eventually buy all shares of Kingscote from William’s heirs and settled there happily for the rest of her life. As in the story, she loved Newport, loved horseback riding (a case of her medals hangs in the carriage house) and outdoor activities, and enjoyed an active social life with her family and a relatively small circle of close friends, preferring this to the ostentatious lifestyles of other members of the Four Hundred. She was active in community affairs and a committed philanthropist. Her daughter, likewise, was athletic and involved with her community, and adopted the more modern style of dress that emerged in the early twentieth century as women in general took on more expanded roles in society. She married Edward Maitland Armstrong, whose father, David Maitland Armstrong, was a member of the Hudson River School of artists. A number of his paintings hang in Kingscote today. Gwendolen was widowed in 1916 and spent most of the rest of her life at Kingscote.