Murder at Beechwood (12 page)

“There was the other thing I said, too,” Neily reminded me. “That Virgil Monroe's death might merely have been an accident and all the rest nothing but coincidence.”

“No.” I shook my head again. “There have been too many coincidences, and too many deaths. Jesse, consider the possibility that Virgil might have fathered Robbie and Wyatt found out.”

Grace gasped at this, but I went on.

“This might be what the two were arguing about the night of Mrs. Astor's ball. Perhaps Virgil killed the coachman after he delivered Robbie to Gull Manor, to forever prevent him from telling anyone the whereabouts of the child. Then perhaps he planned to kill Wyatt to silence him as well . . . or”—I hopped down from the examining table—“perhaps Wyatt planned to kill Virgil to avenge Robbie's mother, who had been wronged, and Virgil, suspecting as much, changed the crew positions. . . .”

Jesse crossed his arms, yet he didn't mock my theories when I expected him to. “I'll admit circumstantial evidence points in the brother's direction.”

“And clears Derrick Andrews of suspicion. He could not have attacked Neily and me tonight. He's still here, in a room upstairs.”

“All possibilities need looking into,” was all he conceded.

“Thank goodness,” Grace said brightly, an obvious tactic to end the subject. “Now that that's settled, Emma, are you ready to go home?”

“Not quite. I'd like to check on Mr. Andrews first.”

My legs still weak, I held the banister tightly as I made my way up to the second floor. Along the corridor, there were two wards that each held six beds. I bypassed these. The door I sought stood ajar and I poked my head inside.

To my disappointment, Judith Kingsley sat at the bedside. She saw me and launched herself out of the chair like a charging bull. Her momentum sent me backward to the middle of the hallway. She stopped a few feet away.

“What on earth happened to you? You look as if you crawled out of the bay.”

I had forgotten about my appearance. Though I no longer trailed water with each step, my clothes were still sodden and hung limply around my frame. Despite Grace's efforts to secure my hair into a twist at my nape, I could already feel tendrils slipping loose. “I had a bit of a mishap,” I began, but Mrs. Kingsley cut me off.

“My brother is sleeping and cannot be disturbed, Miss Cross. Why did the staff let you up here?”

I regarded her dark green walking suit, her meticulously coiffed hair, and the enmity simmering in her dark eyes. What had I done to incur such animosity, other than hail from the unfashionable side of the island? “I'm here on another matter,” I said, “and wished to check on your brother. How is he?”

“He is not well, Miss Cross, as one might expect of someone who went through what he did.”

“Has he spoken at all about the race? The accident?”

“Accident?” She pursed her lips. “No. What can one expect him to say? He has not yet been told he's a suspect. Until his doctor releases him and our attorney can be present, the police must wait.”

“Don't worry, Mrs. Kingsley. Plenty of people know Derrick would never do such a thing.”

“I suppose that is for the police to determine.”

The statement shocked me and I winced. “What do you mean? Your brother is innocent.”

“I mean . . .” She moved closer, bearing down on me with an almost threatening air. “My brother had as much reason as anyone to see Virgil Monroe dead.”

“You can't believe—”

She shrugged, her head tilting to an imperious angle. “As I said, I believe the police should handle it, Miss Cross. It is none of my business who killed Virgil Monroe. And if my brother is responsible—well, the law is the law, is it not?”

My mouth opened, but no words came out. A buzzing filled my ears and the corridor spun slowly in my vision.

“Judith, what on earth are you doing? Have you left your brother unattended?” Mrs. Andrews appeared on the upper landing, huffing slightly from the effort of the climb. She held her skirts and proceeded down the hallway at a brisk stride.

“Sorry, Mama. I was preventing Miss Cross from disturbing him.”

“I was only checking on him,” I was quick to say.

“Yes, well.” The older woman looked me up and down. “Judith, wait for me inside.”

Mrs. Kingsley turned on her heel and swept back into Derrick's room.

“Miss Cross—”

Breathing deeply to regain my equilibrium, I held up a hand. “I had no intentions of interfering. I merely wished to see if Derrick was recovering.”

“I understand.” Her words were civil, but her expression remained shrouded. “I also understand you've been asking a good deal of questions. Oh, yes, Mrs. Astor mentioned it to me when she visited here this evening. Did you think she wouldn't notice the actions of someone in her home?”

My chin went up. “I have good reasons for asking questions, Mrs. Andrews, none of which I care to explain now.”

“Is one of your reasons the desire to see my son exonerated of all suspicion in the matter of Virgil Monroe's death?” Here her voice wavered and her aristocratic beauty slipped to allow a glimpse of a haggard, anxious mother. In that moment, my heart went out to her.

“Yes, Mrs. Andrews. I don't for an instant believe Derrick would cause another person harm.”
Unless it was to protect someone he cared about,
a voice inside me whispered.

“Then look to Lawrence Monroe,” she said.

“Lawrence?” I had thought she was about to implicate Wyatt. “You mean because his father wouldn't allow him to marry Daphne?”

The woman nodded. Apparently, Lawrence and Daphne's relationship was fairly common knowledge.

“I understand Lawrence would be disappointed, but surely not enough to commit patricide.”

“A broken heart is as much a reason to commit murder as greed or revenge or the need to silence a dangerous secret, Miss Cross. But I wasn't referring to the situation with Miss Gordon, although that might be relevant as well. I happen to know Virgil Monroe was planning to divorce his wife.”

If she expected to shock me with this information, I disappointed her. “This doesn't come as a surprise to me, Mrs. Andrews. I understand divorce is a scandalous notion in most families, but I still can't picture Lawrence Monroe murdering his father for it.”

Her jaw tightened and her delicate nostrils flared. “No? Even when Virgil Monroe planned to leave her with next to nothing—less than she brought into the marriage? Now that he's dead, of course, she keeps her dower's share and her sons will no doubt allow her to continue in the style to which she has become accustomed. Everyone wins. Especially Lawrence, who loves his mother, and who is now head of the family and controls the better part of the fortune.”

She didn't wait for a response from me, but turned and entered her son's room, shutting the door behind her. I wanted to call after her, to demand to know how she came by this information. Somehow, though, I didn't doubt the validity of her claims. There were few secrets among their set, and Lavinia Andrews didn't strike me as a woman who would resort to lies.

Or would she, to save her son?

I
received a telephone call from Grace early the next morning.

“Emma, my mother just heard from Lavinia Andrews. Her son is doing much better, and she and her daughter will be spending most of today on their steamer out in the harbor for some much-needed rest.” She paused, then continued in a sheepish tone. “I thought you might be interested to know.”

“Thank you, Grace.” Could she hear my vast relief across the distance? “What about his father? I'd been told Lionel Andrews was on his way to Newport, but I didn't see him at the hospital last night.”

“Mama said he's already come and gone.” She released a mirthless chuckle. “He stayed long enough to assure himself his son would recover nicely and caught the next train back to Providence.”

“How cold.” Lavinia Andrews might not be the warmest individual, at least not to me, but no one could accuse her of indifference toward her son.

“Don't linger on the phone with me, Emma,” Grace said eagerly. “Go. Despite what my mother said, you never know when Mrs. Andrews or Mrs. Kingsley might return to the hospital. Do not squander your opportunity.”

“You're right. Thank you, Grace.”

“I'll see you soon?”

“Yes, I'd like that. Very much.” As I exited the alcove, I heard Nanny's heavy footfalls descending to the hall, along with Stella's lighter ones. Stella carried Robbie down the stairs, for which I was grateful. I often worried about Nanny overburdening herself.

When they reached the hall Stella placed the baby in Nanny's waiting arms. “I'll go help Katie with the laundry,” she said. “Oh, good morning, Miss Cross.”

“Good morning, Stella, Nanny.” I reached out to touch Robbie's round chin. A little hand came up to grip my finger. “How is our young man this morning?”

“He drank his bottle in record time,” Nanny said. “I'm going to walk him in the yard, where I can keep an eye on the girls in the laundry yard.” She winked.

I had a sudden qualm. “Nanny, I've been so busy, and that's meant Robbie's care has fallen mainly to you. I'm sorry about that. I was going out today to see Derrick Andrews at the hospital. But now I think I'll stay home—”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Nanny all but whisked Robbie out of my reach. “My darling boy and I are getting on just fine. There is no reason for you to worry about me, or to stay home when we both know a certain hospital room is where you wish to be. Now, go get ready.”

“You're quite certain . . . ?”

“Emma Cross, do I have to tell you more than once?”

“No, Nanny, you don't. As long as you understand that he isn't
your
darling boy. We can't keep this child, not permanently.”

“What if you never find his mother or any other relatives? Are you telling me you'd drop him off at St. Nicholas's? Really, Emma?”

She moved closer, holding Robbie practically against me, bringing his soft, baby scent to waft beneath my nose. He stared up at me with that wise, wistful gaze of his, one that gently penetrated straight to one's heart. My arms came up and Nanny transferred him to me, so that his legs dangled in their blanket from the crook of my elbow and his cheek, noticeably chubbier than mere days ago, nestled against my bosom.

My heart turned over and my throat tightened.

“Well?” Nanny arced an eyebrow over the rim of her spectacles.

“You're an evil one, you know that, don't you?”

She smiled all-too-sweetly.

“I don't know what I'll do if I can't find where he belongs. I . . .” I raised him up and kissed his forehead. “I just don't know.”

Nanny moved to take him back. “There now. You go and get ready, and give Mr. Andrews my best when you see him.”

 

I didn't know what to expect from Derrick. The last time we had seen each other had been at Mrs. Astor's ball, when he couldn't have made it plainer that he no longer had time for me. Since then the Derrick Andrews revealed to me assumed a form I no longer recognized. A man who bullied his sister, and who resented his father's business associate—enough to want revenge?

My feet dragged as I reached the upper landing. The sharp, antiseptic smells worked their way to the pit of my stomach and increased my anxiety. What if his mother and sister had returned? What if he didn't wish to see me? What if he treated me with the same cool indifference as at the ball?

His door was closed. I knocked softly.

“Come in.”

The rumble of his voice sent a shivery sensation through me. With a fortifying breath that stung of bleach and lye soap, I turned the knob and stepped inside.

“Emma!” Despite the surprise with which he spoke my name, his voice sounded raspy and breathless, as if he'd been running. The effect, I realized, of his having swallowed so much seawater.

“I'm sorry,” I said rather stiffly. Here, face-to-face with him, I felt my resolve drain away, leaving me uncertain and ill at ease. “Am I disturbing you?”

“Of course not. Come in. Sit.” He gestured to the chair beside the bed. I pulled it away from the wall and positioned it where he could see me easily without shifting his position.

I settled and dropped my purse in my lap. “How are you?” Even to myself, I sounded unnaturally formal, almost cold. It wasn't how I wished to sound, but I found I couldn't shake the hurt of our previous encounter. My gaze fell on the blanket covering him to mid-chest, the flowers on the table across the room, the treetops visible through the window.

“I'm better. Especially now.”

Something in his voice drew my eyes to his, and I saw . . .

I saw what I'd been missing these many months, since long before Mrs. Astor's ball, when he disappeared from Newport without a word. Yet the emotion simmering in his dark eyes only confused me further. Was this some sort of game to him, bestowing and withdrawing his regard, only to bestow it again at his convenience?

A sudden pang reminded me I had treated him in similar fashion. But my uncertainty stemmed from very real misgivings concerning our differing backgrounds, misgivings he claimed not to share. Was he giving me a taste of my own medicine, then?

Had coming here been a mistake?

“And you, Emma? Are you well? It's been a long while—”

“Yes, it has.”

“Emma . . .”

I shook my head, gathering my purse into my hands. “I just wanted to be sure you were well. I really must go. . . .”

“Emma, don't leave.” He lifted a hand from the mattress. “I'm sorry. I was a cad at the ball. I know that. I wanted to speak with you, but—”

“You don't owe me any explanations, Derrick. I am glad to see that you're recovering. I've worried about you, of course.”

The corners of his mouth lifted, though not quite in what one would call a smile. “As you'd worry about any poor soul. You're always looking after people, aren't you? Tell me, have you rescued anyone lately?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Her name is Stella.” For some reason his question had made me defensive. “Do you think it's a game?”

“No, no, I don't. I think it's magnificent. I think you're the most generous person I've ever known.” He struggled upright until he was sitting propped against his pillows. He reached out again. “Are you generous enough to forgive me for my unpardonable behavior?”

Whatever hurt and anger I'd harbored simply melted away. I grasped the hand he extended, and suddenly I was sitting on the edge of the mattress, drawn there by a single tug. Derrick's arms went around me. I dropped my cheek to his shoulder. We stayed like that some moments before he pulled back, smiled into my eyes, and brushed his lips across mine.

However sweet that last act, it reminded me where we were: in a public hospital, where any nurse, doctor, or visitor might walk in or pass the open door and see us defying all decorum.

Quickly I scooted back to my chair.

“Don't go,” he said, reaching out to stop me.

I swatted his hand away, then stooped to retrieve my purse, which had fallen to the floor. “All we need is for your mother to walk in. She already detests me.”

That clearly took him aback. “What went on while I lay here oblivious to the world?”

“Suffice it to say she doesn't approve of your association with me. But surely you already knew that.” I glanced over my shoulder, relieved to see an empty corridor. “Derrick, since you asked, there is news to tell you. It's about Virgil Monroe. You do know he—”

“Drowned? Yes, my mother told me.”

“Did she tell you the rest, about what Wyatt is saying?”

“What is Wyatt saying?”

Then no one had told him. “Perhaps it isn't my place to enlighten you. . . .”

“Emma, if there is something I should know, simply tell me. My mother has been as evasive as all get out, and Judith says little about anything when she's here. So, please, what is Wyatt saying?”

I drew a deep breath and let it out. “That when you jumped in after Virgil, it wasn't to save him, but to hold him under. He's claiming you murdered his brother for financial reasons.”

“Oh.” His mouth closed, and he stared back at me a long moment. Then, “I see. And did he explain what those financial reasons are?”

“Yes, he said Virgil had been buying up New York and New England newspapers and was quietly in the process of buying your father out. In addition, he had been cheating investors in his companies, your family included.”

Derrick's eyes grew more and more shadowed as I spoke. “And this is my motive for murder?”

“In Wyatt's opinion, yes.”

“And yours?”

“No.” I leaned forward and, decorum be damned, grasped his hand in both of mine. “Never. You needn't even ask.” I nearly blurted the details of the night before. Surely the person who attacked Neily and me on the
Vigilant
was the same person responsible for Virgil's death, and clearly it could not have been Derrick who attacked us.

But I held my tongue. I didn't want Derrick to think that was the only reason I believed in him. Instead, I said, “That's why I've been asking questions, trying to discover what really happened. You're not the only person with a possible motive. It seems everyone aboard the
Vigilant
that day had a reason to resent Virgil Monroe.”

“And couldn't it simply have been an accident?”

“Neily thinks so, but I believe there are too many coincidences, including the rigging having been tampered with.”

“The rigging?”

“It was frayed.”

“That's not possible. The inspections—”

“Yes, I know. The inspections should have revealed any defects in the lines. Has Jesse been to see you yet?”

“No. What does he believe? Does he think I'm guilty?”

“Don't worry about Jesse.” My gaze drifted back to the swaying treetops, heavy and dark with summer growth. “He's dedicated to finding the truth and seeing the right person charged for the crime.”

“Is he? Then why can't you meet my eye?”

I looked back at him and compressed my lips.

“Oh, Emma, just ask me what happened when I jumped in after Virgil.”

I removed my hands from his and clasped them tightly over my purse. “I don't need to ask.”

“I think you do.”

I swore under my breath. He was right. I hadn't wanted to admit it, but I
was
curious about what occurred in those moments when both he and Virgil went overboard. “Fine. What happened in the water? Did Virgil struggle against you in his panic and disorientation? Did the waves tug him from your grip?”

“Neither,” he said levelly. “I never found him. The waves were fierce and the water had all but turned black. I could neither see him, hear him, nor reach out to grab him. There was nothing I could do. I could hear the others shouting my name, but I dove under a few more times—I don't know how many—kicking and reaching but never coming in contact with anything but water. The waves tossed me about and turned me every which way. The next thing I knew, I was on the deck on my back. Then I passed out and woke up here.”

He went silent, but his unspoken question shivered in the air between us. I answered it without hesitation. “I believe you.”

He released a breath and sank deeper into the pillows behind him.

“Derrick,” I said, eagerly moving on from what had obviously been a painful recollection for him, “tell me about Nate Monroe. How was his relationship with his father?”

“Like that of many second sons. Virgil was a demanding father and not the most lenient or tolerant. From what I observed, Nate constantly sought his father's attention and approval but rarely received it. But that's common of most second sons. I don't think it's a reason the boy would want his father dead—if that's what you were thinking.”

“I don't know. . . . What about Nate and Lawrence? Do they get along?”

Derrick waggled a hand back and forth. “With several years between them they don't have much in common.”

I thought back to the previous afternoon, when Nate and Lawrence had returned from combing the cliffs for any signs of their father. Their expressions had appeared neutral, until Daphne went running to Lawrence. It was then a sneer had darkened Nate's young features.

“Nate doesn't approve of Lawrence and Daphne, does he?”

“Come again?”

“Lawrence and Daphne. They wish to marry, but Virgil wouldn't allow it.”