Death of a Robber Baron (6 page)

C
HAPTER
9

 

S
unday morning was cool and wet. Pamela went as usual to worship at the Church of the Ascension. Located within sight of her former town house on West Tenth Street, the church could have served as a depressing reminder of how much she had lost. Instead, it was a beacon of hope, largely due to Mr. La Farge's magnificent mural painting of Christ's ascension into Heaven.

On this occasion, Brenda joined Pamela. Usually the young woman stayed home on Sundays and studied. Today she had asked to come along. One of her teachers had stirred up in her an interest in La Farge's art.

During the organ prelude, Pamela became aware of someone staring at her. She drew a mirror from her bag and scanned the nearby pews behind her.

The curious person was a woman about fifty, sitting off to the right in a fashionable mauve silk dress with a high neckline and a collar of pearls. The upper sleeves were full, while the lower clung tightly to the arms, making them look like canoe paddles. From Peter Yates's description almost two months ago, Pamela recognized Gloria Prescott's strong chin, long thin nose, and regal posture. Her companion, a bearded, portly gentleman in a dark gray suit, was Mr. Fisher, the president of Jack's bank and Pamela's nemesis.

Neither Gloria nor Fisher had ever attended this church. So Pamela assumed that they had come to observe her. Today, she was wearing a simple, red silk gown from Macy's and had washed her hair. Brenda had put it up into an attractive knot at the nape of the neck. Fisher's spies might have noticed the recent improvement in Pamela's appearance. A sign of suspicious affluence, it probably strengthened his belief that she had hidden away some of the bank's money.

The couple remained for the service without participating in it. After the postlude they conspicuously arranged to confront Pamela in the vestibule.

Fisher tipped his hat. “You look very well today, Mrs. Thompson. Yes, quite chic, as the French would say.” He studied her with cold, searching eyes. “I understand that you have found employment at Macy's. I see that they pay very well. When they asked for a recommendation, I was happy to give it to them.”

From the ironic tone of his voice Pamela understood that he had told Macy's she was untrustworthy and most likely criminal. How had Prescott managed to defend her? She stared at Fisher unapologetically until he appeared uneasy.

“Mr. Prescott and Macy's seem pleased with my work,” she said serenely.

Then she turned toward Gloria. She must be curious about her husband's new female assistant, a novelty that might have attracted the public's notice—and her envy.

The expression on Gloria's face was difficult to read. Her eyes spoke of bitter resentment, of perceived injustice, and possibly of a sad remembrance of a lost husband. Her face was still beautiful, but crow's-feet had begun to appear at her eyes and betrayed her age. Still, she carried herself erect, chin high. It would be folly to trifle with her.

Gloria glanced dismissively at Brenda standing off to the side. “Is this one of the waifs you have rescued?”

Pamela put an arm around the girl's shoulder. “She's Brenda Reilly, my ward and best friend. Now we must be going. Mrs. Henry Jennings is expecting us at her home.” Pamela guided Brenda to the door.

Pamela's parting shot seemed to momentarily disconcert Gloria and her banker. They stared wordlessly at each other.

Out on the street, Brenda asked in a whisper, “Do they mean to cause us harm?”

“Yes,” replied Pamela. “They're trying to figure out how to do it. But they won't succeed.”

 

The rain had stopped but the sky was still gray as Pamela and Brenda arrived for afternoon tea at the Jenningses' mansion on Fifth Avenue near Fortieth Street. In the early 1880s, Henry Jennings had bought the three-story, mansard-roofed brick house to serve as a symbol of his success. Brenda stared at it wide-eyed.

Pamela had asked Mrs. Jennings if she would hire the young woman for the season as a maid. Mrs. Jennings had agreed to consider the suggestion. “Bring her with you to tea, and I'll take a look at her.”

A servant in livery received them. In a corner of the entrance hall a great, stuffed brown bear reared up on his hind legs. Brenda walked past him at a safe distance. The head of a mountain goat and other hunting trophies hung on the wall.

A hint of ironic amusement brushed the servant's lips. “Mr. Jennings is an ardent hunter of wild game. He's fond of saying that hunting is a metaphor for mankind's evolution and its basic law—survival of the fittest.” The servant added, “Mrs. Jennings will meet you in her study. Follow me.”

He led Pamela and Brenda up the stairs and to the back of the house. He knocked lightly and opened the door. Mrs. Jennings sat at a window overlooking a garden. A low fire burned in the hearth. She rose and welcomed them. “My garden is mostly dormant now. I haven't the time or energy to tend to it. In the past, it would soon have turned into a bright, colorful tapestry, matching anything you have in Macy's.”

They moved to a tea table set by the fire. The tea service was silver. Fine linen covered the table. A maid served tea and pastries and withdrew. Mrs. Jennings opened the conversation. “I've played the detective, Mrs. Thompson, and have carefully investigated your background. Macy's has given you a favorable recommendation. I also know about your husband's disgrace and suicide.”

Pamela began to feel apprehensive.

“But that shouldn't be a problem,” Mrs. Jennings added. “You weren't involved in his business. Indeed, that dreadful experience seems to have strengthened your character.” She turned to Brenda. “Your teachers say that you are trustworthy and an excellent pupil. Mrs. Thompson also speaks well of you. As a maid, you will assist her and Broadmore's housekeeper.”

The conversation shifted to accommodations at Broadmore. Pamela would have her own rooms adjacent to her mistress and would eat sometimes with her mistress, sometimes with the servants—as appropriate. She would also have free room and board, a generous stipend, and a day off once a week. Brenda would live with Pamela. That business finished, a maid took Brenda on a tour of the house.

When they were alone, Mrs. Jennings said, “You will help me with my medications. I take laudanum and digitalis for a sick heart. At Broadmore, I'll show you where I keep them and how to give them to me.”

“I'm familiar with heart problems. My father had them. I should be able to assist you.”

Lydia mustered a wan smile. “Last but not least, I'd like you to find out from whom this note came and what it implies.” She drew a note from her bag and gave it to Pamela.

An anonymous hand had crudely printed a message on cheap, unlined paper: “Beware, mistress, before it's too late. Someone near you is false.”

“Could this be a prank or a joke?” Pamela asked doubtfully.

“Possibly,” Mrs. Jennings replied. “But I can't imagine who would send it. In any case, it upsets me. I almost constantly sense evil around me.”

“Have you shown it to your husband?”

“No, he's away on business. I don't expect to see him until the beginning of June.” She hesitated. “No one but you has seen the note.”

So, Pamela thought, the author of the cryptic note could be anyone from the husband to a scullery maid. At the very least, Mrs. Jennings's secrecy about the note showed a lack of trust between her and her spouse. Did they even correspond?

Pamela began to sense that this mission could become more serious than a summer's lark in the Berkshires. She glanced at her companion's hands. Mrs. Jennings was gripping her teacup as if her life depended on it. Pamela's skin tingled with excitement.

“I welcome the challenge and will join you in Lenox,” Pamela said. “Be assured, I'll keep you informed and do whatever I can to give you peace of mind.”

 

The next morning, Pamela hastened to Prescott's office. He had asked her to report on the meeting with Mrs. Jennings.

“It went well,” Pamela said, and related the arrangements for her and Brenda. “But something unexpected has come up,” she added. “Mrs. Jennings showed me an anonymous, threatening note she had received. She wants me to investigate it.”

Prescott sat up, alert. “Tell me about it.”

“The note declared that someone was betraying her. She's very upset.” Pamela described the note in detail down to the paper and ink.

“This may be serious. The note might relate to developments in New York as well as Lenox. Here at the office we'll keep our eyes open.”

C
HAPTER
10

 

T
he following days passed quickly for Pamela and Brenda. They packed a trunk with clothes, toiletries, Brenda's books, and other necessities, closed their rooms near Macy's, and caught an early morning train to Lenox. Once underway, the two women glanced at each other and breathed a sigh of relief. With every mile they were leaving Dennis Reilly and his threats farther behind.

They soon were enjoying the light green flora of the Berkshire countryside. As they approached Lenox, however, an uneasy feeling seeped into Pamela's mind. That anonymous note seemed to taint virtually everyone at Broadmore Hall. How could she investigate them all? She would need to find someone she could trust.

The train arrived at the station at about noon. They climbed down to the platform and searched for a welcoming face.

“You must be Mrs. Thompson and Miss Reilly,” said a burly, ruddy-faced, middle-aged Irishman in a coachman's top hat, long coat, and boots. “I'm Patrick O'Boyle and the one to bring you to the Jenningses' estate.” He loaded their trunk onto a cart. “Follow me,” he said cheerfully. They edged through the milling crowd to the coach.

O'Boyle gestured to a robust young man. “My son, Peter, home from college.” He leaped from his seat and helped his father stow the trunk on the rear rack. A maid was waiting inside the coach and lent Pamela a hand as she climbed in. Brenda managed by herself. The coachman gave a command to the horses, and the coach lurched forward.

“How far do we have to go?” Pamela asked, settling into a comfortable cushioned seat, Brenda at her side. The maid sat facing her.

She was a neat, intelligent-looking woman, approaching thirty. Her face was comely, her eyes bright and observant. Pamela detected a regional accent, perhaps Midwestern. Her speech was better educated than one might expect from a maid. Could she have written the note? Possibly. The woman smiled politely—someone had trained her in good manners.

“In ten minutes,” she said, “we'll be in the village. Broadmore Hall lies another few minutes to the southwest.”

The coach rolled through a green countryside. The air was fresh, the temperature mild, and the gentle Berkshire Hills welcoming in the distance. “I could live here,” Pamela said to herself.

“Shall we exchange names?” she asked the maid. “As you may know, I'm Pamela Thompson.”

Her young companion added, “I'm Brenda Reilly.”

“And I'm Margaret Rice, the pantry maid. They call me Maggie. The housekeeper told me to point out the sights on our way to Broadmore Hall.”

During this exchange, Maggie fixed a searching, skeptical gaze on Pamela as if attempting to figure out why Pamela had come.

They soon entered the village. On Walker Street they drove past a large, handsome brick mansion. The coachman shouted, “That's Ventfort Hall, built this year. Mr. J. P. Morgan's sister will soon live there.”

Pamela admired the building's tall, curved gables and its palatial appearance. It was hard to think of it as merely a summer home.

A minute later, they came to a great stone church, as beautiful as any Pamela had seen in New York. She queried the maid.

“Trinity Church,” she replied. “President Chester Arthur dedicated it a few years ago. Mrs. Jennings and many of the rich summer people go there on Sundays.”

“And you, Maggie, where do you go?”

“It's also my church,” the maid replied. “I live in Broadmore Hall all year long.”

An unusually cultivated pantry maid, thought Pamela. The young woman was perhaps being groomed for a higher post in the household.

In the center of the village stood a large inn. “The Curtis Hotel,” the maid volunteered. Several expensive coaches were parked in front. Men and women lounged in casual dress on the wide veranda. At the livery stable across the street O'Boyle watered the horses. Then he drove south out of Lenox less than a mile and turned right at a gatehouse. The porter waved him into a shaded avenue of tall elm trees that ended when a large building came into view.

“That's Broadmore Hall,” the maid offered. “They call it a cottage.”

The stone and shingled residence stood sprawling on top of a high, grassy knoll. From its many porches and the ground floor veranda the view would be breathtaking.

In a low voice the maid remarked confidentially, “Mr. Jennings pays for the upkeep of Broadmore Hall, but Mrs. Jennings built it and still owns it.”

At the main entrance, the newcomers met the steward, Mr. Bernard Wilson, a middle-aged man with thinning silver hair and a gracious demeanor. He looked them over with a skeptical eye, then took them upstairs to their apartment on the first floor. The parlor was pleasant, roomy, and tastefully furnished with a desk, chairs, bookshelves, and a table. A fireplace heated the room. The walls were white and left unadorned. There were also two small bedrooms and closets.

A maid unpacked for them while they freshened up. An hour later, Wilson returned with the housekeeper, Mrs. Blake, who addressed Brenda. “Come, my dear. I'll show you around.”

The steward led Pamela to Mrs. Jennings's apartment next door. Music could be heard from within. They entered a large drawing room, furnished with early American chairs and a cherrywood table. Landscape paintings and portraits hung on the off-white walls.

Mrs. Jennings sat near a grand piano. A young woman was playing a Mozart piano sonata. Her performance was labored but certainly acceptable from a student. When she finished, she turned around, and Pamela recognized her.

“This is Miss Clara Brown, a neighbor,” Mrs. Jennings remarked, then introduced Pamela.

“We know each other from church in New York,” Pamela said. “A few years ago, I led a group of young people, including Clara, in an effort to help the homeless.” The young woman's parents had disapproved of the program and withdrawn her. They would give money to the poor but not their daughter. She was being groomed for a marriage in high society.

“I'm happy to meet you again, Mrs. Thompson.” Clara seemed to mean it.

Mrs. Jennings said, “I'm giving Clara lessons. She'll be an accomplished pianist one of these days.”

Miss Brown's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I'm really just a beginner. Mrs. Jennings is very patient with me.” For a moment, Pamela studied Miss Brown. She had grown up to become a most attractive young woman. Her auburn hair was thick and lustrous; her green eyes, beguiling. She had a clear, creamy complexion and a shapely body. The best education that money could buy had given her a graceful manner and a melodious, well-trained voice. On closer inspection, Pamela found in her eyes a certain naïveté; in her mouth, a contrary, petulant attitude. She wasn't altogether a happy young woman.

The lesson was soon over. Miss Brown received an assignment for the next session in a week. As she left, she said to Pamela, “I hope to meet you again when we can chat.” Her tone was earnest.

When they were alone, Mrs. Jennings said to Pamela, “I noticed that you appreciate Miss Brown's beauty. Men can't keep their eyes off her. That, of course, can be a curse. Her parents are anxiously protective. This summer, they are traveling in Europe, but they've entrusted her to a guardian. These piano lessons are among the few occasions when she can go out on her own.”

“She has my sympathy.” Pamela wondered how the young woman was coping.

“How was your trip?” Mrs. Jennings asked.

“Warm and uneventful. I especially enjoyed the beauty of the countryside.”

“Then let me give you a glimpse of the beauty of our estate.” She led Pamela through the apartment onto a balcony, one of many on the house—they were its most remarkable feature. The view was spectacular. Mrs. Jennings lovingly identified its features. A long, grassy lawn sloped down to Lily Pond. In the distance shimmered the surface of Lake Mahkeenac, also called the Stockbridge Bowl. On the horizon gently rose the Taconic Range. Its highest points appeared to be over two thousand feet.

Back in the drawing room, Mrs. Jennings hesitated briefly, then asked, “In private, may I call you Pamela and you call me Lydia?”

“I would be honored.” Pamela was pleased that her mistress took a reasonable view of social conventions.

Lydia briefly turned their conversation to the great Columbian Exposition in Chicago. “My husband has gone there for the transportation and mining exhibits. He wants to keep abreast of the latest machines and production methods and find clever men to work for him. ‘No grass grows under my feet,' he likes to say.” There was a hint of admiration in her voice.

Meanwhile, a maid served tea and sweet biscuits. Mrs. Jennings hardly noticed the servant and didn't touch the food. Pamela was hungry but followed her mistress's lead.

As they finished the tea, Lydia said to Pamela, “I urge you to become familiar with the staff and the estate as soon as possible. You know how anxious I feel. Wilson will assist you.”

She rang for him. He received his orders with a compliant bow. As he and Pamela stepped out into the hallway, she asked, “When Mr. Jennings visits Broadmore Hall, where does he reside?”

Wilson nodded toward a door at the far end of the hallway. “His apartment is the mirror image of his wife's, except that it has a separate stairwell and exit in the rear of the house. He can come and go as he pleases, unobserved.” For a moment, the steward gazed at Pamela with hooded eyes, concealing whatever he thought of the Jenningses' living arrangements and Pamela's question.

Then he resumed his usual dignified expression. “Please follow me.” He led Pamela through the building, introducing her to the domestic staff as the mistress's new secretary and companion. Next, he took her to the chief gardener, who gestured toward a small heated greenhouse in front of a berry patch on the edge of a wooded area. Pamela expressed interest, so the gardener took her inside and pointed out several small palm trees and other exotic plants. “The mistress keeps her favorites here. Across Old Stockbridge Road, near the estate, are more greenhouses for flowers and a modern working farm that sends eggs and milk, fruit and vegetables up to the big house, with some extra to sell in the village. You can see all that on another day.”

Wilson handed her over to Patrick O'Boyle, who showed her the coach barn and the stables, both of them designed in the same Shingle Style as the main building. Large, two-story structures, side by side, they were built of rough-cut gray stones at the ground level. Brown shingles covered the upper level. A young coachman had a room upstairs in the barn. Grooms and stable boys lived on the stable's second floor. The coachman, his son Peter, and the stable master had homes in the village.

During this tour, Pamela came to appreciate Lydia's remarkable spirit of enterprise. Twelve years ago, she had designed this vast, complicated estate and had seen to its construction. Thereafter, she had managed it, and it was as dear to her as any child of her own.

At the evening meal, Pamela and Brenda ate in the household servants' dining room, where the steward presided. Pamela quickly sensed trouble. Certain members of the staff averted their eyes or turned their backs. Chief among them were the steward and his clerk, Amos Brewer. Wilson's antipathy probably came from having to yield privileged status to Pamela. He most likely viewed her as a competitor for the mistress's favor. He might also have something to hide.

 

It was late when Pamela and Brenda returned to their rooms and examined them more closely. A maid had pulled drapes over the windows and had set a low fire against the chilly spring night air. Pamela carefully checked the rooms for peepholes while Brenda tapped the walls in search of hidden doors. They found nothing suspicious, and Brenda retired weary to her room.

Pamela sat at her desk and reflected. For a start, she would aim her investigation at the author of the anonymous note. Wilson was a likely culprit. As steward at Broadmore, he was well placed to know of cheating by members of the family as well as the staff. He could have faked the note's crudity to deflect suspicion away from himself. Even he might fear retaliation if he were to expose the cheater, especially if that were Mr. Jennings.

Facing resistance, Pamela had to find allies on the staff. Brenda could help keep her informed. The coachman appeared friendly. He also seemed to resent the steward's superior airs. The housekeeper had frowned unawares when the steward's name had been mentioned. Maggie Rice, the pantry maid, might also be useful if her trust could be won. But none of these servants would dare to speak critically of the steward. Though perhaps disliked, he was also likely feared, for he had power over those beneath him. Pamela sensed that he would gladly use it to serve his own interests.