Murder at the Elms

Book 11: Gilded Newport Mystery

by Alyssa Maxwell

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Private Investigators

Synopsis

1901: Back from their honeymoon in Italy, Emma and Derrick are adapting to married life as they return to their duties at their jointly owned newspaper, the Newport Messenger. The Elms, coal baron Edward Berwind's newly completed Bellevue Avenue estate, is newsworthy for two reasons: A modern mansion for the new century, it is one of the first homes in America to be wired for electricity with no backup power system, generated by coal from Berwind's own mines. And their servants—with a single exception—have all gone on strike to protest their working conditions. Summarily dismissing and replacing his staff with cool and callous efficiency, Berwind throws a grand party to showcase the marvels of his new "cottage."



Emma and Derrick are invited to the fete, which culminates not only in a fabulous musicale but an unforeseen tragedy—a chambermaid is found dead in the coal tunnel. In short order, it is also discovered that a guest's diamond necklace is missing and a laborer has disappeared.



Detective Jessie Whyte entreats Emma and Derrick to help with the investigation and determine if the murdered maid and stolen necklace are connected. As the dark deeds cast a shadow over the blazing mansion, it's up to Emma to shine a light on the culprit . . .

Release date: August 22, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Newport, RI, 1901

The aromas of ink and newsprint. The rumble of the presses emanating from the rear of our little building on Spring Street. The murmur of voices and the tap-tapping of my colleague working away on his latest article, his shoulders hunched and his dark hair flopped over his brow as he hunted and pecked faster than most people typed using all ten fingers.

Home. The word filled me with overwhelming satisfaction and a sense of peace. After weeks away, I was back where I belonged. Where I felt most myself. Where I presided over the news stories that would inhabit the pages of the Newport Messenger, the small but growing paper owned by my husband and myself. I was now officially the news reporter, but that distinction, of course, was tempered by my being the only news reporter on staff. My colleague, Ethan Merriman, currently engaged in capturing the tastes and textures of the latest to-dos along Bellevue Avenue, was our society columnist.

Wait. Did I say husband? Yes, indeed I did, for I was now Mrs. Derrick Andrews, although here, in these offices and in the byline that accompanied the articles I wrote, I continued to be Emma Cross.

We were married in October of the previous year in a quiet, heartfelt ceremony at St. Paul’s Church in town, attended by close friends and family, followed by a luncheon in the meeting hall below the sanctuary. My parents had been unable to travel here from France, so my half-brother, Brady, had walked me down the aisle, and my longtime friend Hannah, who was also Brady’s sweetheart, had served as my bridesmaid. At Derrick’s request, darling Nanny, my housekeeper, friend, and surrogate grandmother, had made her special apple ginger cake in several layers and iced it with snowy cream frosting. My aunt Alice Vanderbilt had attended, as had her daughters Gertrude and Gladys, and sons Alfred and Reggie. In their jewels and finery, they’d appeared the teensiest bit out of place against St. Paul’s plain surroundings, but they had done their admirable best to pretend otherwise. Alice’s eldest son, Neily, and his wife, Grace—dearest Neily and Grace—had stayed away so that the other family members would come, but the schism in the Vanderbilt family is another story altogether.

Derrick’s parents had vowed to boycott our wedding, a threat that his mother had made good on but that his father, in the end, had not. It had been our first meeting, and I found him distinguished if a trifle austere, gracious if somewhat melancholy. He had kissed my hand and wished us well and gifted us with a lovely set of china that had belonged to his mother.

At the suggestion of a friend, a trek to the beautiful, rugged Adirondacks had served as our wedding trip. Then, when spring came, we boarded ship and ventured across the sea to Italy. The voyage had been touch and go for me, but Derrick had plied me with chamomile tea and oyster crackers to settle my stomach, and somehow I made the crossing without an excess of misery.

We disembarked in France and spent time with my parents, who were overjoyed to see us. Tuscany, our eventual destination, was glorious, as was visiting with Derrick’s sister, Judith, and reuniting with a small friend from several years ago, her precious five-year-old son, Robbie. Upon learning that, as an infant, he had spent time at my home, Gull Manor, he had professed to remember me, but I knew that to be impossible at his tender age.

Now, on my first day back at the paper, I stepped into Ethan’s and my cramped office, made even smaller by the two desks, chairs, and typewriter table. His index fingers went still on the keys. With a swoop of his head to flip the hair back from his brow, he glanced up and broke into a beaming grin. “Miss Cross. Um, that is, Mrs. Andrews. You’re back.”

“Yes, I am. And it’s wonderful to see you. But really, Ethan, Emma will do.”

His eyes filled with mild alarm. “Oh, now, that wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t.”

No, we had established that some months ago and Ethan was nothing if not consistent.

“Why, you’re the boss’s wife,” he went on, still enumerating the reasons we must avoid undue familiarity. His agitation widened a grin of my own. “And I’m . . . I’m just . . .”

“Just the best society columnist Newport has ever seen.” I included myself in that assessment. I’d once held the very position he did, except at a different publication. But where I had bristled at assignments covering the antics and excesses of the Four Hundred, Ethan relished them and put all his energy into recording every detail. “Tell me, how did it go for you covering hard news while I was away?” A sudden qualm gave me pause. “Will you miss it terribly, do you think?”

“Not a speck. It’s all yours, Miss Cross.” He caught himself at the last minute. “Mrs. Andrews. Anyways, speaking of hard news, there’s something already here for you. Mr. Sheppard brought it in a few minutes ago.” He waved a hand toward my desk and the torn piece of paper that sat square in the middle. “Seems there’s trouble brewing down the avenue.”

He meant Bellevue Avenue, of course, that long, straight thoroughfare that traveled the southeastern portion of Aquidneck Island overlooking the cliffs and the Atlantic Ocean. Once mere farmland, one by one the families of the Four Hundred had built their summer cottages—palaces, really—and transformed the area into their exclusive playground for eight to twelve weeks each year.

I picked up the paper and read the terse message in our editor-in-chief’s sharp, tilting handwriting. An instant later I slapped it back down on the desk. I’d already slid the pin from my straw boater. Now I slid it back through, securing it to my coiffure, and headed out of the office. “Ethan, we’ll catch up later.”

At the front of the building, in the room that served as both our administrative office and lobby, I stopped long enough to tell Derrick where I was off to. I started to explain the situation, but he stopped me as he rose from the desk that faced out over Spring Street. “Stan told me. He stepped out for a minute. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve got your own work to do.” I took advantage of having the front office to ourselves, albeit with the risk that passersby might swing their gazes in our direction, and gave Derrick a quick peck on the lips. “I’ll see you after. Now I’m off for my first-ever look inside The Elms.”

“You probably won’t get farther than the kitchen, but good luck.” He grasped my arm as I started toward the door. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” I replied, and ignored his grunt of skepticism.

The weather being fine and clear, Spring Street teemed with activity. The sidewalks were jammed with pedestrians while the street juggled carriages, wagons, and the oncoming streetcar. I almost left my buggy where it was along the curbstone, thinking it might be quicker for me to walk the block up to Bellevue and then head south on foot.

One look at the heat waves shimmering from the dusty road convinced me to take the buggy rather than arrive at The Elms covered in a sheen of perspiration and my skirt and shirtwaist a study in wrinkles.

Its construction only recently completed, The Elms sat along the upper portion of Bellevue Avenue only a few blocks from town. Once I drove past the Casino with its row of shops, the trees, mostly elm, closed overhead to offer sweet, reviving shade and a cooling breeze. Kingscote, a neo-Gothic structure with an almost fairy-tale aspect, stood to my right. I wondered if the Kings were back in town after spending the winter and spring in Europe. I thought about leaving my calling card but decided I’d best be about the business that had brought me to this part of town.

The Elms came soon after. Designed by Horace Trumbauer in the style of an eighteenth-century chateau, the house comprised a columned center section flanked by long, recessed wings on either side. The façade revealed only two stories, but a limestone balustrade along the roofline concealed a third story that housed the servants.

It wasn’t to one of the three front doors framed in columned arches that I went, but instead I turned down Bellevue Court, a side street that skirted the north side of the property. I parked my buggy and entered the property at the service driveway. Approaching the delivery entrance was like venturing into another world entirely from the one the owners, Edward and Herminie Berwind, inhabited. Gone were the statues, the exotic trees, and the carefully designed flower beds that graced the elegant lawns. Here, it seemed the sun ducked behind thick clouds. That was only an illusion. Dense and tangled vines of wisteria grew like a roof above a circular drive, shielding the delivery carts and wagons from the view of anyone gazing down from the first- or second-story windows. Likewise, coal deliveries were made at the mouth of a tunnel that opened onto Dixon Street beyond the stone wall on the south side of the house. As far as the family or any of their guests were concerned, The Elms ran as if by magic.

Yet it wasn’t magic that had brought me there that morning. As soon as I passed through the delivery hall and into the cold-preparation kitchen, the tension wrapped like tentacles around me. The house had been open a mere few weeks, but even so, by now the staff should have fallen into a seamless rhythm as they went about their tasks. I felt no such rhythm, no harmony of a well-tuned orchestra.

Footmen, maids, kitchen staff—even the butler and housekeeper, judging by their clothing—stood gathered two and three deep around the long, zinc-covered table used for the preparation of cold dishes. A quick glance through the wide windows looking into the main kitchen—normally the heart of any great house—revealed a stillness I found astonishing, especially at that time of day. Only one man hovered over the cast-iron range with its many burners and oven doors. His white tunic and tall hat identified him as the Berwinds’ chef. No assistants chopped vegetables or mixed ingredients at the worktable, no scullery maids collected used pots and pans to scrub at the long sink.

If I hadn’t known better, I’d have ventured to guess that nearly all the servants, over forty of them, were planning to . . .

“That’s it, then,” the butler said with a sigh and a yank at his necktie. “We are going to strike.”

I swallowed a gasp.

“Do you think that’ll get through to ’em, Mr. Boreman?” someone asked.

“Yeah, what if it doesn’t?” another challenged.

“It has to.” The assertion came from somewhere in the middle of the crush. “Where will they find enough servants to replace all of us on such short notice?”

Despite the butler’s assertion that “this was it,” the debate raged on around the table while I watched, listened, and took notes. I tried to be discreet, keeping well to the back of the assembly, but it wasn’t long before a housemaid spotted me.

“You’re Miss Cross from the Messenger, ain’t you, ma’am?” At that, the room fell silent.

“Aren’t,” the housekeeper corrected, then turned her sights on me. “Do you intend running this story in your newspaper?”

“I . . . uh . . .” Suddenly feeling cornered, I took a half step backward. My shoulder blades came up against the cold surface of the rectangular white tiles that lined the walls.

“I certainly hope so,” the butler said with a sniff. “It’s the reason I telephoned your office. Come closer, Miss Cross. Or . . . did I hear you’d married recently?”

“Miss Cross will do.” The crowd parted and I stepped up to the edge of the table. “You’re truly planning to strike? You know it’s never been done before. Not by house servants here in Newport.”

“We have as much right to air our grievances as any longshoreman or rail worker or coal miner,” a liveried footman said.

I couldn’t help frowning as I remembered the violent results of a miner’s strike only last September. I set my notebook and pencil on the table in front of me. “I was led to understand that your wages here are among the highest in Newport. And that many of you enjoy rooms to yourselves, and two full bathrooms with hot and cold running water at your disposal. Forgive me if I inquire what it is you’re asking for.”

“A little time off, is all.” This angry retort shot at me from a young woman in black serge sporting a crisp white pinafore and frill-edged cap.

“You’re a housemaid?” I took up my writing implements once again.

“Head parlor maid,” she said with an Irish lilt. Her chin lifted proudly.

“And the Berwinds allow you little time off?” I queried.

“Little? How about none?” Fiery color swept her porcelain complexion from chin to hairline.

My pencil went still. Had I understood correctly? “None? As in . . .”

“Never,” the housekeeper clarified. She was a stout woman with severely swept-back hair, round spectacles, and a dignified air. “When we are not sleeping or eating, we are working. Seven days a week, with time off only for meals and church Sunday morning.”

“I worked eighteen hours yesterday,” the head parlor maid supplied. “As I do most days.”

Murmurs of agreement rose in volume, echoing off the tiled walls.

“We’ve had about as much as we can take, Miss Cross,” said a handsome young footman. “A fella needs some time to himself once in a while.”

“And to herself,” the parlor maid added.

“I certainly agree.” I addressed my next question to the butler: “Have you talked to the Berwinds, tried to reason with them?”

“On more than one occasion.” Mr. Boreman shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid my words have fallen on deaf ears.”

“There’s nothin’ left to be done but walk out.” The parlor maid spoke as if ready to lead the charge out through the service entrance doors. “We’ll see how they get on without us.”

“You do realize that once you leave, there’s no guarantee you’ll ever enter this house again.” While my sympathies lay entirely with them, my hopes for their success were rather less enthusiastic. Call me a realist. I hated to see anyone put out of work.

While they continued their planning, working out exactly when and how they would walk off their jobs, I noticed one young woman backed off into a corner by the electrical circuit box. Her frightened eyes darted from one colleague to the next, and her hands fisted around her cotton apron. I went to stand with her.

“You don’t look particularly confident about this plan.”

She shook her head rapidly and spoke with an accent I recognized as Portuguese; there were many families from Portugal, or of Portuguese descent, living on Aquidneck Island. Her dark hair and eyes spoke of her southern European origins. “Only ill can come of it, ma’am.”

“And you don’t wish to follow their lead,” I guessed.

“No, ma’am. No trouble. I wish only to work.”

“You’re from Portugal?”

“I am, ma’am.”

“You’re far from home. I understand your trepidation. Have you family here?”

“No, ma’am. No family. No one. Only me. I am Ines.”

“I’m Emma Cross.” I almost corrected myself, until I remembered that since I’d come here in a professional capacity, my maiden name would do. “I’m pleased to meet you, Ines. Your English is quite good for someone who hasn’t been here long.” I stopped myself from adding that her language skills would help in securing another position, should it come to that.

Her eyes grew large with fear, as if I’d accused her of something. She backed up until she came up against the glass case that housed the circuits. “There was a wealthy Englishwoman in my village. My parents worked for her. She taught English to many of the children on the propriedade.” She shook her head again, then translated, “On the estate.”

“I see. That must have made things easier once you arrived in this country.”

“Yes. But now . . .” She shook her head. “Miss Cross, I do not wish to strike. I am afraid. I don’t want trouble,” she repeated. She was shorter than me by several inches. She tipped her oval face up at me, the cheeks wide and smooth, the chin gently pointed, mouth bowed pleasantly. An exotic beauty, by American standards. Behind a thick fringe of lashes, her eyes reddened and she blinked away tears.

I reached for her hand. “You can’t be forced to strike, Ines. They are doing what they believe is right. You must do the same, even if it is to remain behind when the others leave.”

She returned the pressure of my hand, holding on tightly. Almost desperately. “May I truly?”

“Ines, you are free to make your own decisions.”

“What’s this? What are you tellin’ her?”

The cross voice startled us both, and we glanced up to see the parlor maid standing close, her features taut with anger. Ines pressed herself farther into the corner and half behind me. I let her use me as a shield as I stared the housemaid down. “I’m simply confirming that she has choices, just as the rest of you do.”

The maid held up a fist. “It’s all for one and one for all. Everyone must agree to strike. If one of us backs out, the rest of us will fail.” Her Irish accent thickened as she spoke.

“That’s not fair,” I told her calmly but firmly. “Ines has no family in this country and nowhere to go should she lose her position. Are you prepared to help her if you’re all fired from The Elms?”

“We won’t be fired if we stand together,” she insisted. I noticed that several servants were watching us. She half turned and spoke to them. “Isn’t that right?”

Heads nodded, but I shook my own. “That’s not how it works. The Berwinds might accede to your requests or they might send you all packing, as they see fit. It won’t matter to them if one or all of you decide to strike.”

Yet, even as I spoke, I again recalled the miners’ strike of last autumn. Those men were quickly replaced by nonunion workers. An easy solution for the mining company—one that ended tragically when the union miners opened fire on their replacements at a terminal of the Illinois Central Railroad.

Was I helping to put Ines in a similar position, with her coworkers so resenting her that they would take out their anger and frustrations on her?

I pointed into the main kitchen. “What about the chef? He doesn’t appear to be interested in striking either.”

“Monsieur Baudelaire is an exception,” the maid informed me in a tone that implied I was something of an idiot. Her lips flattened in disapproval. “He has time off whenever he isn’t cooking, and he’s never considered himself one of us.”

I turned back to the Portuguese woman. “Ines, if you should lose this position, you can come to me for help. You’re to go to Gull Manor on Ocean Avenue and tell whoever answers the door that Miss Cross sent you. Do you understand?”

She nodded vigorously. “Thank you, Miss Cross. But I hope it will not be necessary.”

“I hope not too.”

“Traitor.” Scowling, the housemaid started to move away, but I placed a hand on her shoulder.

“The same goes for you. For any of the women here who might find themselves in need of shelter. They’ll be welcome at Gull Manor.”

The maid pressed her face close to mine. Her complexion turned so red I fancied I could feel the heat wafting off it. “No one here needs your charity. Not them, not me, and not her.” Her finger shot out as if to pin Ines to the wall. “We’re willin’ to work for our livelihood, and work hard. All we want is a bit o’ respect and working hours that wouldn’t kill a donkey.”

“I’m only saying that you’d be welcome, if you needed,” I tried again, but she cut me off.

“Besides, I’ve a family on the island, and family sticks together. Just as everyone here is a family, or should be.” She aimed another spiteful look at Ines, who cowered with her chin to her chest.

“Bridget,” the handsome footman called over, “leave Ines alone and come over here if you want in on this vote.”

“Did I hear something about a vote?” A man in street clothes pushed his way in through the delivery entrance and stood poised with a notebook and pencil. He wore a brown tweed coat with patches at the elbows and a battered derby, his pale blond hair in such need of cutting it stuck out in tufts all around the brim.

“Hello, Mr. Brown,” I said with a sinking feeling. Orville Brown owned—and almost single-handedly staffed—the Aquidneck Island Advocate, a newspaper I had found to be of more sensationalism than substance. If Mr. Brown didn’t believe a story had what it took to sell newspapers, he had no qualms when it came to exaggeration, embellishment, and, I had seen with my own eyes, downright fabrication.

“What have we here, hmm? I hear tell there’s worker discontent here at The Elms.” His weaselly gaze took in the room. “It seems everyone is here. So, who is going to give me tomorrow morning’s front-page story?”

I wished the little man would go away. Behind him, other reporters filed inside, among them a journalist from the Newport Daily News, one from the Mercury, and Ed Billings, my former coworker and, to put it honestly, my nemesis at the Newport Observer. I put Ed Billings in the same category as Orville Brown, but with rather less creativity.

Ed walked in my direction. “Emma,” he said in terse greeting. “Always the first on hand, aren’t you?” He spoke with his typical resentment, prompting me to shrug.

“Sorry, Ed. Can I help it if I got the scoop earlier than you? From what I understand, the staff here called me in specifically. How did you find out about this?”

He looked me up and down. “I see marriage hasn’t improved your manners.” I didn’t rise to the bait but stood waiting for his next comment, a faint smile on my lips. He harrumphed. “Word always gets around.”

Yes, that was Newport. I couldn’t have expected to keep a story like this all to myself, as nothing stayed confidential for long. Tell one person, and you’ve told everyone. I gestured to the group around the table. “Would you like to listen to them, Ed, or do you want me to fill you in later?”

It was a subtle poke at how he had often taken credit for stories I’d fleshed out when I worked for the Observer. His excuse had always been that he held the Observer’s official news reporter position, while I was merely the society columnist.

He scoffed and moved away. I set my pencil to paper, ready to record what happened next.

The butler held up his hands for silence. “All in favor of going to Mr. Berwind this very day and presenting him with our demands and ultimatum, raise your hands.”

“One moment.” The French chef leaned in from the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest. In his thickly accented English, he asked in a mocking tone, “Do the women get to vote, too?”

“I say no,” a footman said.

“Oh, you do, do you?” The housekeeper challenged him with a heft of an eyebrow.

“Well . . .” The young man compressed his lips and seemed to deflate. In the next moment, he regained his bravado. “Women aren’t allowed to vote, generally.”

The housemaid, Bridget, raised her fist once again. I didn’t doubt she’d use it if she felt the circumstances warranted it. “We’re in this as much as any of you men.”

Mr. Boreman raised his hands again to halt the debate. “That will be quite enough. Mrs. Sherman and I are still in charge here. Everyone will vote.” At the titters of disagreement this roused, his eyes blazed. “Everyone or no one. Is that clear?”

Once again titters filled the air, but these were a slightly more agreeable kind.

“All right, then,” Mr. Boreman said loudly. “All in favor of carrying on with our plans today, raise your hands.”

Everyone did. Except Ines, who had remained in her corner, not exactly cowering, but not with conviction, either.

“Well, I’d say the ayes have it.” Mr. Boreman sighed deeply and clasped his hands behind him. “There’s no sense in putting it off. I’ll go up now.”

He started for the service staircase but stopped when a small voice cried out his name. “Mr. Boreman, may I come, too?”

He turned, searching for the source of the voice. His gaze lit on Ines. “You, Ines? Why?”

Her arms hugging her middle, she stepped forward timidly. “I wish to tell the Berwinds that I do not strike, sir.”

“Why, I should . . .” Her fist again curling, Bridget whirled on the Portuguese maid. I stepped between them.

“That’s enough threats from you.” I held out the flat of my hand. Anger rose in several of the faces around me, and I braced for their outbursts. None came. They turned away and gathered among the. . .