Murder at Beechwood (16 page)

“About an hour earlier, I'm told. Have you heard from him?”

“No, why?”

He didn't answer and I didn't like the look on his face.

“Jesse, what are you thinking? Surely not that Derrick—”

“The coroner estimated the time of death to be within one to two hours before he examined the body. Derrick Andrews was the last person in the room.”

“That's ridiculous! What about the nurses and doctors? Hadn't someone come to clean the room and change the linens?”

Jesse gave a grim shake of his head, took me by the hand, and led me downstairs. He brought me into the lobby, now empty, where we took seats close together in the corner. “As you could see when you entered the room, the bedclothes had been left at the foot of the bed, as if someone had hastily vacated. Derrick's things were gone, but with the distraction of your uncle being here, no one remembers exactly what time he left the premises, or if he left alone or accompanied.”

“And that means what?” When he again didn't answer, I held out my hands. “Anyone could have followed Wyatt Monroe here and into that room.”

“Then where is your friend?” His question held a note of accusation, so much so I almost blurted that Derrick was not my friend.

In truth, I didn't know anymore whether he was or wasn't.

“He could be anywhere,” I said. “At home.”

“He isn't. We checked.”

“On his family's steamer, then.”

“We checked there, too. No.”

“To whom did your men speak, his sister?” My tone dripped sarcasm.

“I believe they spoke to the steward. Would he lie?”

I ignored the question. “Then tell me, Jesse, what is your theory?”

He sat back in his chair. “This isn't a theory, mind you, but a possibility. We both know Wyatt Monroe implicated Derrick in Virgil's death. Now that Derrick has recovered and was allowed visitors, Wyatt might have come to confront him with some sort of proof, and was murdered for his efforts. As I said, not a theory, but a possibility that needs to be investigated.”

I leaned forward, crowding him where he sat. “Impossible.”

“How so?”

“If Derrick is a murderer, who tried to strangle me and pushed me off the
Vigilant
? It couldn't have been Derrick. He was here that night, not yet well enough to go anywhere.”

I raised my brows; he pulled his low. “I don't know. Perhaps what's throwing off this investigation is that there are two guilty parties.”

“Do you
want
Derrick Andrews to be guilty?” I scowled.

“You know I would never allow personal feelings to interfere with a case, Emma. At least I hope you do.” He searched my features. “Good grief, I hope so.”

 

“Where have you been, Emma, and what on earth has been going on in this hospital? We heard a scream, and men tramping about like soldiers on the march. Mama is ready to lodge a complaint.”

After Jesse left to continue his investigation, I made my way back upstairs to where I should have stayed earlier, with my relatives outside Uncle Cornelius's room. How I wished I hadn't been the one to find Wyatt Monroe. How I wished his death had nothing to do with me.

Wearily I grasped Cousin Gertrude's hand. “You don't want to know, not now. How is your father?”

“He's resting comfortably, the doctors say, but how can one know for certain? Oh, Emma . . .” Her features crumpled. In the next instant I was holding up a distraught Gertrude, our arms around each other, her chin on my shoulder.

“He's strong, Gertrude. The strongest of men.”

“He isn't really, though. He's not young anymore.”

“I mean in spirit. No one has a tougher spirit than your father.” I pulled back to look at her. “If he wishes to be well, then he
will
be well.”

That brought a ghost of a smile to Gertrude's face, but a fleeting one. “That was once true, not so very long ago. But the situation with Neily is taxing him terribly. Mother told me what happened. How dreadful! Gladys doesn't know,” she added quickly with a glance over her shoulder, but her sister wasn't in the corridor. “Oh, Emma, this is all Neily's fault.”

“Do not do that, Gertrude. Don't lay blame. Neily is your brother and he needs you just as much as your father does. They're both stubborn, but they're both good men.”

This time her smile lingered, sad though it was. “Dear Emma, you're always on everyone's side. Don't you find it exhausting?”

“No, I'm grateful for all of you.”

She examined me up and down. “Yet I think you
are
exhausted. You're looking thin. Come home with us later. We'll see that a good meal goes into you.”

I shook my head. Someone waited for me at Gull Manor, and I very badly craved the sensation of a warm, soft cheek against my own. “I need to go home. But I'll check in tomorrow to see how your father is faring. If there is any change in the meantime, please let me know.”

I bid the rest of the family good-bye, kissed Aunt Alice, and made my way outside. Uncle William escorted me, and a lucky thing, too. The gathering dusk did little to conceal the line of reporters stretched along the street, and a barrage of questions hit us the moment we were recognized. Was Cornelius Vanderbilt dead, most wanted to know. Others shouted for confirmation about the rumor of a murder at the hospital. There must have been men from as far away as Tiverton, New Bedford, and by now even Providence. I also spotted my nemesis from the Newport
Observer,
Ed Billings, among them. In fact, Ed was the first to call out our names, alerting the others. I stared at the ground and refused to meet any of their gazes. Uncle William wrapped a protective arm around me, put his head down, and charged us clear of the line to his waiting phaeton. He instructed his driver to bring me home.

 

I arrived at Gull Manor to a sound that sent my anxiety spiking yet again and propelled me down the corridor into the kitchen. It was a sound we'd rarely heard around here in the past week, which frightened me all the more.

Baby Robbie's face was a shocking crimson, and his lips shook around piercing howls that proved he possessed a formidable set of lungs. He kicked and flailed in Nanny's arms. She had been pacing and bouncing him, but stopped when she saw me in the doorway. She accurately read the alarm on my features, for she immediately smiled, and said, “He's fine. Just a bit of colic.”

“He sounds like someone is poking him with a hot iron.”

“Yes, well, babies always want to make sure we know when they're uncomfortable. That's their job. Ours is to fix whatever ails them.”

“Where are Katie and Stella?”

“They weeded the garden today
and
cleaned the big rug in the front parlor. It needed it, after Robbie's afternoon bottle came back up. I gave them an early supper and sent them to bed.”

I walked to the kitchen counter and leaned for support. “Should we call Dr. Kennison?”

“For a bout of colic?” Nanny flashed me a condescending look. “You won't remember, but you were quite a colicky baby yourself.”

Robbie's howls had subsided slightly when I'd entered the room, but now they continued with renewed vigor. My instinct was to run away to somewhere quiet, but I held out my arms instead.

“I'm glad I don't remember that. Here, I'll take him for a bit.” She passed him to me so that his little torso faced mine, his head and trumpeting mouth beside my ear.

“How is your uncle?” she asked as she settled into a chair at the kitchen table.

The day's events tumbled back like loose boulders, and I marveled that those few minutes of worrying over the baby had provided a brief respite. “Out of danger, but not well. The doctors predict a long recovery, and he might never regain his full health again. Oh, but, Nanny, that's not even the worst of what happened today.” I lowered my voice as if to keep the truth from reaching Robbie's ears. “Wyatt Monroe is dead. And it happened right there in the hospital.”

“Dear Lord, Emma, what happened?” She hopped up from her chair and filled the tea kettle. A sense of relief flowed through me. I truly needed one of Nanny's strong cups of tea.

“I found him in Derrick Andrews's room. He'd been murdered, apparently with some sort of dagger.”

“Someone stabbed him? A vigorous man like that?”

“Someone obviously overpowered him. Perhaps snuck up on him. I don't know.”

“Tell me what you
do
know, sweetie.”

Robbie's cries increased. I rocked him more vigorously and raised my voice to be heard. “Believe me, Nanny, you don't want the image of it in your mind. I wish to heavens it wasn't burned into mine.”

She lit the stove. “You needn't coddle me, you know. And while you might think you don't wish to discuss it, I always say it's better to talk than to bottle everything up until the cork pops.”

“His throat was slit.”

The kettle landed on the burner with a clang. She returned to the table. “Someone was angry with that man.”

The irony of that statement forced a laugh from me. “Aren't murderers always angry with the person they kill?”

“No, they aren't always. People murder for lots of reasons. To hide a crime or a secret. Out of revenge for a wrongdoing. But this—this is
rage,
Emma. Pure, crazed, blind rage.”

“I hadn't thought of it that way, but I believe you're right. Which only convinces me further that—” I broke off, realizing I hadn't yet told her everything. Robbie's little fingers found one of my own and curled tightly around it. He yanked, as if to prompt me to go on. “What makes this even worse is that the police are suspicious of Derrick. He'd been released from the hospital, but the last I heard he was nowhere to be found. That, combined with Wyatt's accusations that Derrick jumped in after Virgil to drown him rather than save him, has put him at the top of the police's list of people with motives.”

“Derrick would never—”

“Of course he wouldn't. He doesn't have that sort of rage in him. I'd know if he did.”

Would I? Hadn't I realized in recent days how little I knew Derrick Andrews? But I had more substantial evidence in support of his innocence. “If Derrick Andrews is a killer, then who attacked me at the Yacht Club while he lay in his hospital bed?” I shook my head. “I was so certain it was Wyatt who attacked me, and Wyatt who sent Virgil into the sea.”

Nanny remained silent for a long moment. Too long.

“What are you thinking?” Robbie was finally quietening, and I spoke in a murmur.

She did likewise, yet her low tone didn't rob her words of their impact. “Emma, what if the police agree with you that Wyatt killed Virgil and attacked you? And what if they suspect Derrick knew this and murdered Wyatt to protect you?”

“Jesse didn't say that. He never implied . . .” But then he hadn't implied much, only that Derrick had been the last person in the room before Wyatt arrived, and that his subsequent disappearance warranted asking him questions. And he had speculated there might be two killers.... “Oh, Nanny.”

“I don't believe it for a minute, of course.” The kettle began to steam and she got up to put the strainer and tea leaves in the porcelain teapot. She took two mugs down from the cupboard above the counter.

“No,” I said. “I'd never believe it either.”

Nanny brought mugs, spoons, and the sugar bowl to the table. “He does think the world of you, Derrick does. He risked his life for you more than once last summer.”

“What are you saying?” I shifted Robbie to the other shoulder. I could sense him tiring. His body lay limp against mine, his whimpers halfhearted at best. “Risking his life for me is one thing. Killing for me is quite another. Besides . . .” I stared down at the table. “His affections for me have somewhat diminished over the past year.”

“I doubt that very much, Emma.” She seemed about to go on, but a knock on the garden door startled us both. Through the window, my cousin Neily stared in at us, his face a study in shadows. Nanny blew out a breath and went to the door. “Goodness, Mr. Neily! You scared us half to death.”

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. O'Neal. The front of the house was dark, so I walked around. I was hoping for news of my father. I'll go if—”

“Don't be silly,” I called softly to him. “Come in. Nanny's just brewing tea.”

He shuffled in, his hat in his hands, his head bowed. “Emmaline, I also wanted to apologize for today. You shouldn't have had to witness that.”

“Neily, for better or worse, you are all my family. I want you to know I'd never take sides.”

He reached out to press his palm to Robbie's head. “Is it possible not to take sides?”

Nanny took another cup from the cupboard. I said, “I believe it is. I believe you and Grace truly care for one another and that your parents are wrong to want to keep you apart. I won't turn my back on you, Neily, but I'd never turn my back on them either.”

“And if they asked you—no,
demanded
that you take sides—then what?”

I grinned and gestured for him to sit as Nanny returned to the table with the teapot. “Haven't you learned by now that the surest way to ensure I
not
do something is to demand I do it?” I sobered. “Now, about your father, and other things that happened today . . .”

I
stayed up late that night writing an article that brought me no satisfaction. It wasn't a very long piece, only a couple of paragraphs, but contained facts I certainly wouldn't allow Ed Billings to distort. Sometime around one o'clock in the morning I tossed down my pen and quickly reviewed the details of Uncle Cornelius's apoplexy, having made no mention of the distressing events that led to the attack. My heart weighed heavily for him, for Neily, for the entire family. Tears stained my pillow when I finally crawled into bed.

I found little respite in dreams, but woke frequently, each time certain I had heard the telephone jangling with terrible news. I feared for Uncle Cornelius's life, for the future, and yes, for my own sense of security, for these Vanderbilt relatives of mine helped fill the large gap left when my parents moved away to Paris.

After only a few hours' sleep I drove into town and delivered my account to Mr. Millford.

“Ed also wrote something up last night,” he told me, pointing to a typed article on his desk. While my blood pressure surged, he placed my handwritten page beside Ed's, scanned both, and regarded me with a sad expression. “I'll run yours, Emma. It seems only right.”

“Thank you,” I murmured. I felt no triumph in having won out over my rival.

From the
Observer
office I went to the hospital, parking my carriage a couple of streets away and running along the sidewalk to dodge the reporters who continued to mill outside the entrance. Those who recognized me shouted questions, but I kept my head down and pushed on past. I didn't see Ed among them. Perhaps after turning in his article last night he had moved on to another story.

“Aunt Alice, have you been here all night?” I exclaimed upon finding her sitting at Uncle Cornelius's bedside, holding his hand. Her haggard appearance certainly suggested she hadn't slept much, if at all.

She waved away my concern. “I'm fine. One of the nurses brought me a bit of breakfast a little while ago.”

“Where are the others?”

“I sent the children home. Willie and Frederick were here most of the night, but I sent them home at dawn. They didn't want to go, but I insisted.”

I went to the bedside and gazed down at Uncle Cornelius. One eye drooped lower than the other, and the corner of his mouth sagged. My throat constricted and I gripped the back of Aunt Alice's chair for support.

“He's going to be all right, Emmaline.” Her bluntness sounded more like a command that I believe her, rather than a simple reassurance. I felt compelled to obey.

“Yes, Aunt Alice, I'm sure he'll be just fine. But you need to keep up your strength, too, and not overtax yourself.”

This, too, she dismissed with a wave. “Bah. I'm strong enough for the two of us.” She leaned farther forward. “Do you hear me, Cornelius? I'll pull us both through this. You follow my lead, you stubborn old goat, and all will be well.”

Without relinquishing his hand, she sat back and looked up at me. “I'm sure you have better things to do than stand here watching him sleep. I'll make certain you're notified if there's any change.”

“I don't want to leave you alone. . . .”

“I'm not alone, dear. I'm with Cornelius.” She smiled. That brave gesture, and the softening of her voice when she called me
dear,
as if it were me needing to be comforted, brought on a stinging threat of tears. I bent down and kissed her, and promised to return that evening.

I repeated my duck-and-run tactic outside and soon the voices faded into the background as I trekked the short distance back to Barney and my carriage. I cannot say what made me stop before turning onto the side street and look around me. A noise? A sense of being watched?

I saw only the reporters, their figures grown smaller in the distance. A few carriages rumbled by. The wind stirred. I started walking again, but a distinct rustle in the shrubbery beside the corner house made me stop again.

“Derrick?”

I immediately felt foolish. Why would Derrick be skulking around in the bushes? He had no reason to hide from me. Then it struck me that I didn't yet know if he had been found and questioned about Wyatt's death.

Not death. Murder.

Another rustle carried on the breeze, but instead of craning my neck to discover the source, instinct sent me hurrying to my rig. Whoever did kill Wyatt was still at large, perhaps watching, waiting. My final steps were running ones and I practically leaped onto the seat and then fumbled to release the brake. “Come on, Barney. Please go faster,” I added when he assumed his typical leisurely pace.

He didn't, but then neither did anyone jump out at us from the side of the road. Had those noises been my imagination? My lack of a decent night's sleep? Perhaps, but that didn't negate the danger of a murderer on the loose. One who might be well aware that I had been asking questions.

Wyatt had known—he had said as much to me—but now he was dead. Of my list of suspects, that left Virgil Monroe's two sons. I refused to entertain the notion that Derrick could have transformed into a crazed murderer. What if Lawrence and Nate had alibis? Then who?

I craned my neck to glance behind me several times. There were carriages following me, but why wouldn't there have been? The reins trembled in my hands as I thought over every detail I could remember about the day Virgil Monroe had fallen overboard, and everything I had learned in the aftermath. Several people might have wanted him out of the way, and I had no doubt the feeling might have been mutual—

I pulled on the reins so hard Barney stopped with a lurch and whinnied in protest.

“I'm so sorry, Barney! Forgive me.”

Carriages swerved around us, a couple of them sending unkind words in my direction, admonishments about women making poor drivers. I barely heard them. Was barely aware of anything but the thought that had brought me up sharp.

What if Virgil Monroe hadn't died that day at Beechwood?

That could be why Derrick never found him—because Virgil swam away beneath the waves. It could be why his body still hadn't been found. It could be why evidence pointed to sabotage of the
Vigilant,
but with Wyatt, not Virgil, as the intended victim.

A possible scenario took shape in my mind. Virgil planned to “accidentally” knock his brother overboard, but the unexpected storm posed new dangers. Perhaps Virgil's going over the side
was
accidental, but instead of dying he saved himself, and murdered his brother yesterday.

Could he have slipped into the hospital unseen? The answer came instantly: Of course he could have. In the distraction of Uncle Cornelius being brought in, all he would have needed was a coat with an upturned collar, perhaps a hat pulled low—techniques I myself had used in the past to disguise my identity.

And now . . . Virgil might even now be planning to “wash up ashore,” miraculously alive.

Much more gently than I had stopped him, I set Barney in motion. Our next stop would be the police station. Jesse might pooh-pooh my newest theory, but he would at least hear me out. I wouldn't leave until he had.

 

By the time I turned onto Marlborough Street, I'd begun to feel foolish again. Virgil Monroe having faked his own death? Then sneaking into the hospital to murder his brother in cold blood? I shook my head. Still, I drove my buggy into the lot behind St. Paul's Church, handed Barney over to Mr. Weatherby, the sexton, and crossed the street to the police station. What would I say to Jesse?

It wasn't Jesse's face that drew my immediate attention inside, it was Derrick's. He stood in the main room with his derby in his hands. A moment later a uniformed policeman addressed him and the two started in my direction.

I identified the moment he spotted me by the resigned reluctance that entered his eyes, as though he would rather have turned around and gone in the opposite direction. That look almost made me want to do the same. I almost didn't want to know what had occurred before my arrival, or why he was being escorted by an officer. I futilely wished the rain had started much earlier that day at Beechwood, and that vile race that had so altered our lives had never occurred.

“Derrick,” was all I could think to say when he reached me. Voicing any other thought running through my mind would have been prying, and he had already made it clear that he had no intentions of confiding in me anymore.

“How is your uncle?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Holding his own, I think.” I fought against it, but I couldn't prevent casting a questioning glance at the officer.

“It seems I am under house arrest.” Derrick smiled apologetically. “This gentleman is to ensure I arrive home, and then he and others will stand watch to make sure I stay put.”

“Oh, Derrick. I know you didn't do anything wrong. Soon the police will know it as well.”

“Time to go.” The policeman nudged Derrick's arm.

“Please excuse me, Emma.” Derrick tipped a bow; then he and the officer moved past me.

Deciding to be more angry than upset, I continued into the main room. I walked right up to Jesse's desk and leaned with both hands braced on the edge.

“Just what do you think you're doing?”

“Good morning, Emma.” His smile said he was glad to see me. The look in his eyes said he would rather have avoided this confrontation. “What can I do for you?”

“House arrest? With what evidence?”

Jesse gestured for me to sit in the chair facing his desk. I hesitated, not feeling particularly cooperative. However, realizing I'd soon attract attention, I complied. But not without a good huff.

Jesse leaned forward. “Look, Emma. This wasn't my idea. Don't look at me that way, I'm telling you the truth. Mr. Andrews was found at home late last night. Very late.”

“He must have been with his family on their steamer.”

“He wasn't. We posted someone there. But that's not all. He came down here voluntarily this morning, but refused to produce any real alibi for his whereabouts at the time of Wyatt Monroe's murder. He claimed he was merely ‘out walking.' ”

“Walking? Where?”

“He won't be specific. Around town, places he'd never been before. Tell me, Emma, why would a man recently released from the hospital go for a lengthy walk around town, rather than go home to bed?”

“Because he was sick and tired of being cooped up?”

He released a breath and shook his head. “Doubtful.”

“He didn't murder Wyatt Monroe.”

Jesse took a long time in replying, his scrutiny hot on my face. “I hope not, Emma, for your sake.”

“For Derrick's sake,” I corrected him. “I care about justice and he is an innocent man.”

Jesse nodded without looking as though he agreed with me.

“Oh, but I came down here for a reason,” I said, suddenly remembering my original errand. “I came from the hospital, and before I got back in my carriage, I could have sworn someone was following me, hiding behind the bushes near a house.”

“Did you see anyone?” He leaned forward again and spoke with a new urgency. “Emma, until this is resolved, I'd feel much better if you didn't go out alone. At least bring Katie with you—”

“Yes, yes, I'll be careful. No, I didn't see who it was, but I was certain someone was there.” Had I been, or was I convincing myself after the fact to suit my purposes? My next words lent credence to that notion. “We both know it couldn't have been Derrick, since he was here.”

Jesse picked up a pencil and began rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. “Who do you think it might have been, then?”

“You'll say I'm crazy.”

“Probably.” He dropped the pencil and gestured for me to continue.

“Jesse, what if Virgil Monroe didn't die when he fell overboard?”

“That's crazy.” His expression turned sheepish. “I'm sorry, but the man went over the side and—”

“And maybe swam to shore.”

“In those high seas?”

“It isn't impossible. Do we know how good a swimmer he was? Or is?”

“No, I suppose we don't.”

“It bears looking into, doesn't it?”

Jesse didn't answer. He just sat there with a corner of his mouth quirked. I stood, preparing to bid him good day. Before I did, he said, “You may visit him, you know. I could give my consent for it.”

“Visit . . . Derrick?”

He nodded.

“Thank you, Jesse.” I suddenly wanted to run around the desk and hug him, but I didn't. Just as well, considering what he said next.

“See if you can find out where he went after leaving the hospital. He might be willing to confide in you.” I could see by the tight knotting of his brows that he took no pleasure in the thought of Derrick trusting me.

I decided to relieve his discomfiture by telling him the simple truth. “I doubt it. Derrick Andrews doesn't consider me a confidant. Not anymore.”

 

When I left Jesse I had no intention of visiting Derrick. None. With my chin set to a determined angle, I climbed into my carriage and coaxed Barney to a walk, but when I should have headed south toward home, at the last minute I turned northwest instead. Minutes later I entered the Point.

A uniformed patrolman stood outside my erstwhile childhood home, which my parents had eventually divided into three flats, one on each level, and—most notable of all—sold a year ago to the man I had come to visit.

The policeman straightened to attention as I stopped Barney in front of the house, then relaxed and waved when he recognized me. “Good morning, Emma.”