Murder at Beechwood (13 page)

“Is that so?”

“Didn't you know?” I realized the answer for myself. “Of course you didn't. You're too old to be Lawrence's confidant, and Virgil certainly wouldn't have discussed such an intimate family matter openly, especially one he had already dismissed from his own mind. But I can tell you this. Nate doesn't approve of the match any more than his father did. I wonder why?”

“Who knows? He's young, still a boy. Perhaps any sign of affection between men and women annoys him.” Derrick yawned and I realized I'd kept him talking too long. But I had one more question.

“Speaking of siblings, why don't you and your sister get on well?”

He stiffened as if a warning bell had sounded. “Who says we don't?”

“She did,” I said frankly. “At the ball, she told Virgil if he wished to bully her, he'd have to stand in line behind you. Do you know what she meant? And was there a problem between her and Virgil?”

“I'm sorry, I don't know. Virgil was probably trying to give her some fatherly advice, which he sometimes did. As for me, I admit to looking out for my sister and attempting to oversee her financial affairs since her husband's death two years ago, but there are no ill intentions on my part. If Judith doesn't appreciate my efforts, she'll simply have to put up with them. I'm her older brother.” His voice had turned stern, distant. I felt him avoiding—something. But I decided not to push. The chasm that had existed between us seemed in danger of reopening, and I felt desperate to prevent that from happening.

“I should go. You need your rest.” I gathered my purse and stood. This time he didn't protest, but nodded faintly. “Have they told you when you might go home?”

“Another day or two.” I could see his thoughts were drifting; the fatigue had caught up with him. I started to take my leave when he said, “Where are they staying, my mother and Judith? Are they at Beechwood?”

“No, according to Grace Wilson they're staying on your family's steamer. Why?”

His eyes narrowed. “Now that I'm recovering, I don't trust her not to leave.”

“Who?”

He shook his head as if awakening from a daze. “Emma, would you do something for me? Would you deliver a message?”

I readily agreed.

“When you see my sister, would you tell her I said please not to leave Newport until I'm out of the hospital and able to speak with her privately. Will you tell her that, Emma?”

“Certainly. Is there a reason I can convey as well?”

“A . . . family matter. She'll understand.” He smiled, suppressing another yawn. “Thank you. And thank you for coming to see me.”

There it was, that distance again. Not like it had been, not tipped with ice, but still ringing of dismissal.
A family matter,
he had claimed. Something private he would not share with me because I was not family, or a close enough friend to be trusted. Yet hadn't I avowed my trust in him only minutes ago? Apparently, the sentiment went one way only. I leaned to press my hand to his, wished him well, and left.

Our encounter continued to trouble me as I walked down the street to where I'd left my horse and carriage. Barney, my aging roan hack, stared balefully up at me as I removed the feedbag that kept him contentedly occupied during my visit with Derrick. He nosed my shoulder affectionately, reminding me of little Robbie at home, what a good little fellow he was and how he liked to cuddle and be cuddled.

It was then I realized I hadn't told Derrick about the child, and I wondered why. Last summer I would never have kept such information from him. Had I been too focused on discussing all the possible motives that led to Virgil Monroe's death? Or had our closeness been irreparably severed, never to exist again?

 

I decided not to wait until I happened to run into Judith Kingsley to deliver Derrick's message. Something was amiss in the Andrews family, and a niggling sensation convinced me it tied in, if not directly to Virgil's death, at least to similar tensions festering among the Monroes.

I hired an old friend, Angus MacPhearson, to row me out into Newport Harbor. Though not much older than Brady, Angus looked twice that at least. Years of transporting passengers back and forth on the windswept waters of Narragansett Bay had weathered his fair complexion and scored twin maps of intersecting lines at the corners of his eyes. Only his red hair, held back with a leather boot lace, still flamed with a youthful brightness.

“Are you getting into trouble again, Emma?” he asked mildly as he cast off and steered away from his boat slip on Long Wharf.

“Trouble, me?”

“Last time I rowed you out into the harbor, you ended up running away from godless brigands on Rose Island in the dead of night. If anything had happened to you, Brady would've wrung my neck.”

“You heard about that, did you? Either Brady needs to mind his business, or I need to stop confiding in him.”

“Oh, now, Emma, what concerns Brady's little sister concerns him.”

“When you see him you can tell him I merely rowed out to visit a friend. I assure you there will be no brigands aboard
Lavinia's Sun.
” I held the brim of my straw boater to keep it from flying off in the breeze. We passed a tugboat hauling a barge piled high with lumber. New construction and renovations never ceased in Newport, not even for a day.

“So no more half-baked schemes?”

I chose to ignore the question. “
Lavinia
's
Sun
is coming into view. Can you row a little faster, please?”

“Funny how those hoity-toity men name their boats after their wives. Seems like bad luck to me, considering how most of those marriages turn sour about a month after the honeymoon.” He raised and dipped the oars at no greater pace than before I'd made my request. “I suppose it keeps the old crows happy.”

“Lavinia Andrews is hardly an old crow,” I said, not that it mattered to Angus. He only grinned, his cracked lips parting to reveal a missing tooth.

A few minutes later we reached the side of the three-mast steamer. Angus carefully brought us alongside the ladder and then held my hand as I swung my foot onto the first step. Once I'd gotten a good grip on the railing he let me go, and I continued up to the main deck. A porter met me at the top, and I announced my errand.

I was in luck. Mrs. Andrews was not on board, but Judith Kingsley was presently lunching in the aft saloon. He asked if I was expected. I hinted that I'd promised to call at my earliest possible convenience, and that no, I would not be staying long enough to join Mrs. Kingsley for lunch. I didn't bother to explain that she would never extend me that courtesy.

When I stepped down into the richly paneled saloon Judith didn't immediately look up, perhaps assuming a servant had entered the room. She wore a high-waisted tea gown of peach taffeta with wide lace sleeves and a matching collar, and my gaze was drawn to the pattern. But no, this lace matched the gown's color and bore no resemblance to that found with Robbie, or used on Mrs. Monroe's fan and Daphne's purse.

The porter announced me, and when she glanced up the color fled her cheeks. Her eyes sparked with something approaching outrage, but to her credit, she said, quite calmly with only the barest hint of indignation in her voice, “Thank you, Henderson.”

The man bowed and left us, and I walked farther into the room until her voice stopped me.

“What are you doing here?” She came to her feet, her thighs knocking the little folding table in front of her and threatening to send it and its contents crashing to the floor.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Kingsley. I saw your brother this morning—”

“How dare you? Mother forbade it.”

“Yes, but Derrick is fully awake now and has a say in who may visit him.”

“Perhaps he's too polite to send you packing.”

It was my turn to blanch. Derrick had essentially done just that—sent me packing with his sudden bout of indifference. I schooled my expression. I wouldn't let her see how much that had hurt. “Perhaps. But he gave me a message for you.”

“I have no interest in hearing it.” She sat back down and plucked a dainty, triangular sandwich from her gilt-edged plate.

“I'm afraid you have no choice, unless you cover your ears. But the message is a simple one. Derrick asks that you please do not leave Newport until he is out of the hospital and can speak with you privately. That's the whole of it.”

“Is it? It is truly, Miss Cross?” Her sudden vehemence took me aback and I retreated an involuntary step. “I suppose you consider it no great inconvenience, this order my brother sends me.”

“I don't believe it was an order, Mrs. Kingsley. He did say please.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” She sprang to her feet once more, this time seizing the edge of the table and thrusting it off its legs. Tea and soda water and tiny sandwiches went flying, the table crashed several feet away from her, and Judith Kingsley stood shaking, her skin flaming, her eyes scalpel sharp.

I'd lurched backward another several steps, out of harm's way. Although I didn't want to leave her in this state, having been the cause of it cast doubts on my being at all helpful to her. A bellpull dangled behind her, where I couldn't reach it without risking bodily harm. I held up my hands.

“I'm sorry to have upset you—”

“You can tell my brother this is what I think of his
please
and his cursed request. Tell him I'll leave Newport whenever I wish. And he may very well stay away from me.”

“He only seems concerned about you.”

“He should be concerned about himself, and with what the police might discover about Virgil Monroe's death.”

“Surely you don't think your brother had anything to do with that, Mrs. Kingsley. What reason could he have had to murder a family friend? And don't tell me money was involved. I know about Virgil Monroe's financial double-dealing. Derrick might have been angry, but we both know it would take more—much more—to spur your brother to such a fury.” Unlike Judith, I thought, who seemed able to fly into a rage at the slightest provocation.

She clenched her teeth so fiercely the corners of her jaw pulsed. “Accept a bit of advice, Miss Cross. Mind your business and stay out of mine. Or you
will
regret it. Now leave, and do not make the mistake of returning here or ever speaking to me again.”

With that she turned her back on me.

T
hat evening I sat with Robbie beside the kitchen garden and searched the night sky for answers that were not to be found. My visit with Judith had left me shaken. What happened between her and Derrick to cause such animosity? True, he had expressed a brother's concern for her financial affairs and perhaps her personal ones as well, and Lord knew I'd resent Brady's interference in my private matters, but beneath my annoyance I would understand his good intentions.

Such thinking always brought me round to the same conclusion—that I perhaps simply didn't know enough about Derrick Andrews to be forming judgments about his character. He had always seemed to be a good man—the best of men—but the truth was that I'd seen only the surface, what he had allowed me to see.

His sister, on the other hand, had showed me her worst, and had done so unapologetically. She seemed ready to toss her brother to the wolves, as it were, by practically accusing him of Virgil Monroe's death. Yet she'd been less eager to give a rational reason why, which suggested her claim stemmed more from hostility than any real belief in Derrick's guilt.

At the same time, I had learned enough about the Monroe family to begin questioning my own beliefs about who killed Virgil. I had been so certain of Wyatt Monroe's guilt, but now I considered whether one or perhaps both of Virgil's sons might have had a hand in his demise.

The sons . . . and perhaps their mother as well. It made a sinister kind of sense. Virgil had been about to divorce Eudora and leave her next to penniless. The prospect of such a fate would arouse the deepest panic in a society matron used to her luxuries. Unlike me, such a woman would not know how to go out into the world and earn her own living. Now, however, she could depend on Lawrence to see to her comforts.

Then there was Nate, who had vied for his father's approval and rarely received it. Eudora might have appealed to him as well. Perhaps she doted on the boy—I hadn't thought to question Derrick about their relationship. If that were the case, persuading him to do her bidding might not have been a difficult task. Had the brothers worked together under their mother's guidance?

Robbie's little arm came up and he indulged in his favorite game—that of tangling his fingers in my hair. It didn't matter how I wore it, he always managed to get a grip. The tug he gave jolted me, even as my last thought brought me up short. I was all but accusing Eudora Monroe, if not of murdering her husband, then planning his death and setting the events in motion.

Robbie clung with a determination that foiled my attempts to free myself. I lifted him higher on my shoulder to lessen the tension of his tugs. My thoughts drifted to Daphne. Had it truly been her lack of fortune that prompted Virgil to disregard her as a potential daughter-in-law? A chill slithered up my spine and I could hardly bear to follow the train of my thoughts. A notion hovered, a cold, creeping abomination I could not dismiss.

I gazed down at Robbie and sighed. “If only you could tell me who your mother is,” I whispered, trying to picture Daphne's features in my mind as I traced those soft baby ones with my gaze. “Is it Daphne Gordon? And was Virgil Monroe your father?”

With another determined yank, a sharp pain seared my scalp. I reached again for Robbie's hand. He tugged and tugged and I yelped and jumped to my feet. His eyes popped wide with surprise, and then alarm. He let out a whimper, and then another.

“Oh, I'm sorry! Please don't cry. Don't cry!” I swayed and bounced in a gentle dance to soothe him. He didn't cry, but instead loosened his grip. I rocked him a few more times and then resumed my seat on the wooden bench. His bottle sat balanced on one of the slats. I raised it to his lips and he latched on.

“You're such a good little boy,” I said in a singsong voice. “You hardly ever cry and you're no trouble at all to anyone. Yet the moment I mentioned Daphne's name, you pulled my hair, just as if you were trying to tell me something.” I dipped my forehead and pressed it to his. “But were you telling me I'm right? Or that I'm wrong?”

I simply couldn't see Daphne Gordon plotting murder, no matter the circumstances. Yes, I'd been wrong before. I knew women were as capable of murder as men. But Daphne wore her heart on her sleeve; she seemed so guileless.

But what if I was right about Robbie's origins and Eudora had discovered the truth? How could she not, with Daphne living under her roof? Motives for wanting her husband out of her life seemed to be piling up.

 

“Thank you for staying behind to watch Robbie,” I said to Stella on Sunday morning. Nanny stood before the hall mirror pinning her very best hat into place, a flattish, black felt number with an upward curve to the back, blue and green plumes, and a smart satin bow. Katie, in her sky blue frock that matched her eyes, waited outside on the drive with the carriage.

“It's my pleasure, Miss Emma,” Stella said. “Besides, the congregation of your church doesn't want me there.”

My heart went out to her, and I gave her hand a squeeze. Part of me wished to contradict her, for I knew the congregation of St. Paul's to be a tolerant and forgiving one. But no assurances would convince Stella until she had forgiven herself first.

Until she came to me one day a few weeks ago, she had made her living, shall we say,
entertaining
Newport's wealthy men while their wives directed their ongoing social activities. In wintertime, when the elite abandoned our island, she had turned to a less illustrious clientele, mostly sailors and other brief sojourners. She never shared the details of her experiences with me, except to say that in many instances, her poorer customers were kinder than the rich. The fresh bruises on her arms and beneath her eye the day she arrived at Gull Manor attested to the fact.

Today I saw no sign of that desperate woman, but for the ghosts of regret and shame that continually haunted her eyes. She had piled her ebony curls loosely and allowed tendrils to fall charmingly around her face, and wore one of my cousin Gertrude's castoff morning gowns. I had to admit the rose-striped muslin complemented her coloring to better advantage than it did mine, and she might have been any respectable young woman enjoying a Sunday morning by the sea.

But if Stella were ever to live a normal life, she must leave Newport and make a fresh start where no one would recognize her, and where the judgment of others, whether real or perceived, would cease to trample her spirit.

Nanny declared herself ready to go. In the parlor, Robbie stirred and let go a few soft cries from the cradle Katie had found for him in town the other day. Stella hurried in to him, and Nanny and I, along with Katie, squeezed into the carriage for the trip to town.

Just the sight of St. Paul's white steeple grazing the sky calmed nerves I hadn't realized were jittering inside me. The simplicity of the sanctuary with its soothing, whitewashed walls and unassuming oak woodwork brought me a further sense of peace. I settled into the pew beside Nanny, her shoulder warm against mine, and closed my eyes as the first notes of the organ, soon joined by the choir, rose to fill the room and reverberate inside my heart. I let out a long breath and with it released the tensions and uncertainties that had plagued each day of the preceding week.

Would the new week, dawning here amid music and prayer, bring answers and resolution?

Two young acolytes, dressed in the cassocks Nanny had sewed for the church, stepped out from behind the altar screen to set the candles aflame. The sight of their youthful faces sent my thoughts drifting back to Robbie, and I suddenly wished we had brought him. There were other infants present, along with children who would soon be tramping downstairs for Sunday school. How sweet to be holding his bundled little body in my arms, taking turns with Nanny and Katie, of course, and introducing him to the serenity to be found in our forthright Methodist service. But we could not have brought him without being inundated with a barrage of questions we would be unable to answer.

Still, I wondered . . . had he been christened yet? My instincts told me no. Had either of his parents attended church? This church? If I was at all correct about his origins, Trinity Church would be the more likely choice for wealthy summer residents.

Had Virgil Monroe been a believer? Or any of the Monroes, for that matter? And what of Judith Kingsley. Could that troubled woman find solace, as I did, in hymns and liturgy and simple, straightforward sermons?

During the prayer requests, I found myself raising silent hopes for her, for her brother, for all of the Monroes, and for our sweet Robbie.

 

Grace and I returned to Beechwood the following afternoon. This time I received no disapproving looks from Mrs. Astor when we were announced. If anything she appeared relieved to see us.

She received us in the morning room, but quickly led us upstairs. She knocked on a door, which was promptly opened by a lady's maid in a sensible black ensemble.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Is she feeling any better?” Mrs. Astor asked.

“Uh . . . no, ma'am. The same.”

“Have you gotten her to stop . . . ?”

The woman in black pursed her lips and shook her head.

“Then take it away from her, you fool.”

The maid looked about to retort in kind, but then turned about and went back into the room. Grace and I exchanged puzzled glances, which we cut short when Mrs. Astor turned around to speak to us.

“I don't know what to do,” she said in a hissing whisper. “She seemed fine until yesterday. You both saw her the other day. But now—this!”

“What's wrong with her?” Grace craned her neck to see into the room. “Is she ill? Have you telephoned for a doctor?”

“A doctor won't be of use in this instance.” Mrs. Astor took on a pained expression. “Grace, I don't mean to upset you with this. But I thought . . .” Her gaze shifted to me. “Miss Cross, I thought you might be able to talk to her. Reason with her.”

“Me?” I traded another glance with Grace. “But I hardly know Mrs. Monroe. What about Daphne, or her sons? And what exactly ails her?”

Mrs. Astor looked scandalized. “Daphne? I couldn't very well send a young girl like Daphne in there, could I? The very idea. Besides, Mrs. Monroe has asked for you specifically.”

“Me?” I repeated. Not my most eloquent return, but I could think of no reason why Eudora Monroe would wish to see me. “I . . .”

“Please, Miss Cross.” It was more a demand than a plea. I once again sought Grace's support.

She took my hand. “We'll see her, if you really think it will help, Mrs. Astor.”

The older woman's brows converged. “Oh, not you, Grace. Only Miss Cross.” She drew Grace from me and led her back down the corridor. Over her shoulder she said to me, “I'll have coffee sent up presently.”

“Coffee?”

Thoroughly puzzled, I entered the room. Mrs. Monroe sat—or slumped, I should say—in a floral chintz overstuffed chair beneath a tall window. Bright sunlight haloed her hair, accenting tufts that had come loose from their pins. Unlike when I'd seen her wearing half mourning the other day, today she wore black bombazine buttoned up to her chin, as if she had only just accepted that she had reason to grieve.

She didn't see me at first. On a low oval table beside her a coffeepot sat, a cup and saucer beside it. Strong-looking black liquid filled the cup, but no steam rose, as if the coffee had been poured some time ago but had not been touched. The maid stood in front of Mrs. Monroe's chair looking down at her with what appeared to be resigned disapproval, her back straight, her hands clasped at her waist. Quiet but strained tones signaled some sort of disagreement.

A lady's maid who dared disagree with her employer?

“I said give it here, Prewitt. You've no right to take it away.”

Those were the words I deciphered. However, to my ears they sounded more like, “ ‘V'no right t' 'ake it 'way.”

Mrs. Monroe started to struggle to her feet but fell back into the chair, her head hitting the fortunately upholstered frame.

“Now, ma'am, I'm only doing what's best for you, and on Mrs. Astor's orders. You'll thank me later, I promise you that.”

“You impertinent girl!” Again, the words were slurry and half formed. “You've no right!”

Miss Prewitt gave no response. Her back remained as straight as ever, her hands still clasped in a show of patience.

“I'll send you packing. You'll never work again.”

“Mrs. Monroe, good morning,” I said, pasting on a cheerful smile. “That will be all, Miss Prewitt. I'll take over from here.”

“Good luck,” she murmured as she crossed to the other side of the room.

Just what I would do, I had yet to figure out. I'd taken care of my brother under such circumstances more times than I could count, but an inebriated man was easy. You removed his shoes, tie, and coat; stretched him out on the nearest flat surface where he would least likely injure himself; and chastised him in the morning over cups of strong coffee.

Well, the coffee Mrs. Astor promised hadn't yet arrived, and the old pot had obviously gone cold. And I couldn't very well chastise a woman I hardly knew.

But I could listen.

“Prewitt, bring Miss Cross a chair!”

The maid hastened to comply, and after mouthing to me,
I'll be nearby,
she slipped out of the room.

I stood behind the chair and leaned, placing my hands on the gold leaf frame. “Mrs. Monroe, I see you're feeling a bit—”

“Where did she put it?”

I didn't have to ask what she meant. “I'm afraid I don't know. I didn't see. But I agree with Miss Prewitt. It's for the best.”