Death of a Robber Baron (16 page)

A few minutes later, Lydia emerged from the room, pale-faced but erect. Pamela stayed close by her as they walked down the hall. Suddenly, Lydia began to tremble and missed a step. Pamela held her under the arm and led her into an empty parlor. “Are you all right?” she asked and sat her in a chair. Lydia was breathless and grimaced with pain in her chest. Pamela gave her a dose of laudanum from a vial she carried for such emergencies. When Lydia recovered, Pamela asked, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“I may as well tell the whole world. They will soon know. Jennings will file for divorce out of state, in Connecticut, I believe he said. He wants to be free to marry again.”

“And what will he do about his will?”

“Tomorrow, he's going to change it in favor of a distant relative. I'll no longer be his heir. I'm frankly surprised. I thought the new beneficiary would be Mrs. Allen, who would also divorce out of state, and they would marry.”

Pamela thought again of the encounter between Helen Allen and Jennings that she had witnessed in the greenhouse. Their sexual attraction was still alive. But Jennings had appeared to put some emotional distance between them. Her suggestion that he murder his wife hadn't seemed to please him. Perhaps he had tired of Helen sooner than anyone had thought possible. He might also have realized that he would surely lose much of his freedom if he were to marry her. And he probably had the young opera singer in his sights.

“The worst news,” Lydia continued, “is that he will no longer support Broadmore and will build his own cottage on the western shore of Lake Mahkeenac. It will be the largest and most costly in the Berkshires. He can afford it. He has come into a great deal of money in the last few years.”

“How will you maintain Broadmore? Would you consider putting it up for sale?”

“Losing this place is inconceivable. It's too much a part of me.” For a moment she was deeply silent. When she spoke, her voice was shrill. “I'd rather die.”

C
HAPTER
26

 

A
servant walked through the building ringing a bell. “The fireworks will begin in ten minutes,” said Pamela. She had taken Lydia to her apartment and served her an infusion with a little honey. In a few minutes, Lydia recovered her composure, though she looked hollow-eyed and haggard.

“I'll watch from a porch,” she said. Then, noticing Pamela's concern, she added, “I'll be all right. I want you to mingle with the guests and keep an eye especially on Helen Allen. She seems to have murder in her heart. If she learns of Henry's new will, she might take aim at him rather than me. Alert Mr. Prescott as well.”

Pamela moved quickly through the building. Most of the servants appeared to have left with the steward and the housekeeper to take the view from the hillside behind the cottage. However, Maggie the pantry maid was still in the kitchen with her back to the door.

“Good evening,” said Pamela. “Aren't you going to watch the fireworks?”

The woman jumped, then wheeled around, an anxious, distressed expression on her face. She shoved something into the pocket of her apron.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” Pamela said. “Would you mind showing me the thing you put into your pocket?”

The maid's face turned beet red with embarrassment. “It's just the key to the kitchen door. I'm supposed to lock up until the fireworks are over.” She showed Pamela the large, old-fashioned iron key. “In a minute, I'll join the others outside. It should be a great spectacle.”

Pamela felt uneasy about the maid, but she left her there and went out by the back door. Something moved in the nearby shrubbery, and she started. It was too dark to tell whether it was man or beast—or wind. A breeze was blowing around her, catching her gown. She walked to the farthest edge of the garden terrace, where the lawn began to drop down to Lily Pond. Most of the spectators were seated on the slope, and their excited chatter rose in waves to Pamela's ears.

Prescott sauntered across the terrace toward her. “I haven't seen Jennings or Mrs. Allen yet. They might be up to mischief. The gardener and his men are in charge of the event. Jennings is only a spectator. Nonetheless, I'd expect him to make an appearance.”

Lanterns still illuminated the garden terrace. In their light Prescott's face seemed thin and ghostly pale. Pamela grew concerned. “Are you well, Prescott?”

“I'm tired, but my spirit is good.”

“How will you cope with the fireworks? Could they trigger another spell?”

“Festive noise, even fireworks aren't like the sounds and smells of battle. The atmosphere tonight is joyful. Bursts of laughter, little shrieks of pleasure, and the hum of friendly conversation fill the air. At Antietam and Gettysburg I could smell fear and dread in the men around me. The rattle of musket fire and the cannons' blasts were sounds of anger and hate. Wounded men screamed out of desperation and pain.”

He took her hand and pressed it. “Your support is helpful, Pamela. Warn me if you see a relapse coming on.”

She gently withdrew her hand. “Of course, but you now seem strong enough to cope. You should know that Henry Jennings is going to write a new will tomorrow, disinheriting Lydia and ignoring Helen Allen. With a stroke of his pen he'll create two mortal enemies. Now I'll take another tour through the cottage and look for Jennings.” She hurried to the front door. Brenda Reilly opened it for her.

“Have you seen Mr. Jennings?” Pamela asked. At that moment, the opening volley of rockets went off with high-pitched, ear-piercing whistles. Explosions brightened the sky and shook the house.

“Not recently,” Brenda replied. “He must be out on the lawn with the crowd.”

Inside the house, the only light came from a few gas lamps and from the colorful bursts of rockets and flares outside. Pamela walked quickly through the entrance hall and peeked into the drawing room and the parlor. In the library, she glanced out a window just as a large rocket exploded, illuminating the room as if it were day. Dazed for a moment, she paused briefly to collect her wits, then checked the remaining ground-floor rooms. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

She climbed the stairs to the next floor. The rockets were now going up in rapid succession, causing deafening explosions and throwing a garish light into the cottage. Jennings had spared no expense for this spectacular display. With simmering anxiety, Pamela hurried down the hallway toward his apartment.

At the door she couldn't hear anything. So she went into an adjacent empty room. A window near Jennings's porch was open.

She could indistinctly hear Jennings and Helen Allen speaking to each other. Then suddenly Helen's voice grew loud and shrill, clearly angry. He raised his voice as well. They seemed to be having a serious quarrel.

The voices became faint and then disappeared. They must have gone inside. Pamela hurried to the door to the hallway and opened it an inch to give her a view of the exit from Jennings's apartment. Within minutes Helen stalked out and slammed the door behind her. As she walked by, her face appeared contorted with anger and grief. She began to sob convulsively into a handkerchief and was soon out of sight.

When the way seemed clear, Pamela continued her search of the upper floors of the building. A few guests were watching the fireworks from porches facing Lily Pond. Nothing seemed out of order. Recalling Maggie with the large iron key, Pamela hastened downstairs to the basement. As she neared the kitchen door, she treaded lightly. Voices were coming from inside. Through a window in the door she could see a large man in a gardener's outfit. Pamela didn't recognize him at first. His mop of gray curly hair had been trimmed, and his beard was gone. He was the tramp Ben, speaking earnestly to another man in a servant's uniform with his back to Pamela. He held a large knife in his right hand but didn't appear to be threatening the tramp.

Finally, he turned so that Pamela could see his face in profile. It was Tom the tramp. Pamela guessed that a theft might be under way. But she glanced at the tramp's knife. This wasn't the time to confront him. She quickly left the basement in search of Prescott.

 

The fireworks ended with a final blast. Bursts of color filled the sky. In their light Pamela sighted Prescott. She hurried up to him and reported the suspicious men in the kitchen. He instantly patted the pistol in his coat pocket and followed her into the house. The kitchen was empty. No sign of the tramps. After the house had been searched, there still was no sign of them. The housekeeper would check if anything was missing.

Pamela and Prescott retreated to the darkened library. Elsewhere, houseguests were going to their rooms. The steward and the housekeeper were looking after them. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Jennings were to be seen.

Prescott began. “George Allen is fretting about his wife—and apparently for good reason. She disappeared at the same time as Jennings.”

“I wonder how seriously George is concerned,” Pamela mused. “Through most of the day, Clara Brown has consoled him. They wandered off together after the dance. As for Helen Allen, I think she and Jennings have had a falling-out.” She related what she had heard of their quarrel in Jennings's apartment.

“Perhaps she will now turn against Jennings,” conjectured Prescott. “It's said there's no fury like that of a woman scorned.”

Pamela agreed. “His reckless behavior astounds me. He's also going to repudiate his wife and leave her cottage without resources while he builds a new and grander cottage for himself on Lake Mahkeenac in Stockbridge.”

Prescott grimaced. “I can imagine that Lydia will take the threat to Broadmore very hard. A short while ago, he summoned Wilson to his study, fired him, and ordered him off the property by morning. O'Boyle has taken pity on him and is moving his things to a boardinghouse in the village. His clerk, Brewer, is temporarily taking his place.”

“In a few words, Jennings is tempting fate.” Pamela felt a tremor in her heart.

Prescott nodded gravely, then glanced at his watch. “It's nearly midnight. I should return to my cabin.”

“It's too late,” said Pamela. “Let me ask the housekeeper. There should be an empty guest room for you. I'm sure Mrs. Jennings would want you to stay. We'll all feel safer with you in the house.”

He gazed gently at her and smiled. “Then I'll be your guest.”

C
HAPTER
27

 

T
he next morning Pamela joined Lydia downstairs in the breakfast room. A few houseguests were also there. Conversation was sparse and subdued though good-humored. Yesterday's celebration had pleasantly exhausted nearly everyone. Still, they all agreed that they had had a good time. The fireworks display had been a glorious finale. Henry Jennings had lived up to their expectations.

When Prescott arrived, Lydia welcomed him with a smile of surprise.

“Did you guard us last night? Had I known, I would have slept better. The fireworks jangled my nerves.”

As they were about to leave the table, Jennings's servant appeared, white in the face. In a trembling voice, he announced to Lydia, “Madam, I took breakfast to Mr. Jennings a few minutes ago. He was lying on the floor of his study and didn't appear well.” The servant bit his lip, then stammered, “In fact, he's dead.”

At first, Lydia seemed shocked into silence. Finally, she asked distractedly, “Where's John? He must go to his father.” She glanced at the servant.

“He left the house, madam, early this morning. Said he was going to the lake to swim.”

She turned to Pamela. “Would you please look into this dreadful matter? I feel too weak to move.”

Pamela nodded to Prescott, and they hastened to Jennings's apartment, together with the servant. He had left the door ajar. The study appeared undisturbed. The door to the porch overlooking the garden was open. Jennings was lying face down on the floor next to his desk, crumpled like a rag doll. Pamela stared for a moment, shivering. Unbidden, she recalled Jennings in his prime—a powerful, commanding presence—now suddenly reduced to this grotesque, inert object. What had happened to him?

Prescott knelt down and studied the body. “He's been struck at least twice with a blunt object, once on the right temple, then again on the back of the head.”

He felt the victim's jaw and determined that it was fixed. “Rigor has begun. I'd guess that he died between twelve and one.”

“Caught by surprise and from behind,” added Pamela. “There's no sign of forced entry or struggle. He must have known the killer, probably a right-handed person. And there's the lethal weapon.” She pointed to the mace lying on the floor, the one she had noticed on her first visit to Jennings. Hair and blood were visible even to the naked eye.

“It was conveniently placed on the wall,” Prescott remarked. “The killer might not have intended to kill, came here unarmed, and acted on impulse.”

With help from Jennings's servant, they searched the room but found no more clues.

When the servant was at a distance, Pamela whispered, “What do we do now? We couldn't conceal this crime even if Mrs. Jennings so wished. The servant who discovered the body must have told other servants. Within an hour the entire town will know.”

“We must call the local police,” Prescott replied. “Unfortunately, their detective is new, a former NYPD patrolman with much less experience than he claims. The local Lenox authorities hired him because his rough tactics would scare tramps away from the town and especially from the great cottages.”

“Is he at all qualified to investigate Jennings's murder?” Pamela asked.

“He is quite sure of himself, but he has never investigated a murder and has few resources.”

As they were about to leave the room, Pamela asked, “Who do you think killed him?”

“That's a hard question,” Prescott replied. “I have several potential suspects in mind.”

Before he could name them, the servant rushed to the desk and exclaimed, “Mr. Jennings's lapel pin is gone.”

Pamela and Prescott exchanged glances and said in unison, “Tom the tramp.”

 

While waiting for the police, Pamela met Mrs. Blake in the housekeeper's room. She gave Pamela a list of a dozen silver spoons, forks, and knives, as well as several small silver platters, missing since yesterday.

“Have you talked to Maggie, the pantry maid?” Pamela asked.

“Yes. She claims to have seen no suspicious persons and had locked the back door when she left to watch the fireworks. I couldn't find the missing items in her room.”

“Did any of the guests act suspiciously?” Pamela recalled her experience at Macy's. “Rich, respectable people will sometimes steal as well as the poor.”

The housekeeper shrugged helplessly. “We had about a hundred visitors running in and out of this building. I couldn't begin to keep track of them all.”

“Did you notice any strangers among the servants?”

“Yes, there were many faces I didn't recognize. Both the steward and the gardener hired extra help for the occasion.”

Pamela added, “I recognized one of them, Tom the tramp. He was in the kitchen with another stranger, also a tramp, named Ben.”

The housekeeper nodded vigorously. “There you have a pair of likely suspects.”

 

Late in the morning, the detective and a constable arrived. A medical examiner from Pittsfield would come in a few hours. Mr. Brady, the detective, was a short, burly man, a few years past forty. He had a pug nose, deep brown beady eyes, and a square face. His movements were quick and aggressive; his scowl, intimidating.

Pamela and Prescott led the police to Jennings's study. The detective studied the body and the scene of the crime—rather too quickly and inattentively, as if he had already determined the killer. He declared that the case's resolution came down to the killer's motive and his or her opportunity. The potential suspects seemed limited to the houseguests and the members of the household, plus the tramps.

The detective called the guests and the household together in the great entrance hall and warned them to remain available in the cottage until he could interview them individually. Lydia requested that Pamela and Prescott be with her for support at the interviews. Brady seemed surprised but didn't object. He was known to defer to the rich and respectable.

He moved to a table in the adjacent library. The constable called everyone in, one by one. The detective began by questioning the servant who had discovered the body and quickly moved on to Mrs. Jennings. Prescott and Pamela sat by her side.

“We had our differences,” she granted. “Mr. Jennings was often rough in his ways. But we all understood that he meant well, and we respected him for his success in business. I can't imagine that any of us would have done this terrible thing to him.”

The detective nodded and smiled, appearing to share her sentiments. He moved on to John, who had returned by this time. He largely echoed his stepmother's testimony. The detective then briefly questioned the rest of the household and the visitors, none of whom could offer any clues.

After they had dispersed, the detective turned aside to Pamela and Prescott and asked if they had anything to add. They avoided conjecture and gave a factual report. But when they mentioned the bad feeling between Jennings and his son and Jennings's intention to divorce and change his will, the detective shook his head.

“You find similar discord in every family,” he said. “It seldom leads to murder. I'll begin this investigation with the most likely culprits, the tramps Tom and Ben.” He directed the constable to organize a search.

 

Pamela went upstairs to check on Lydia. A maid opened the door. Lydia was at the piano playing Chopin's funeral march. She acknowledged Pamela with a wan smile. John lounged in a seat by an open window and waved a welcoming hand. But his mind seemed elsewhere. Pamela quietly sat off to a side, listening, watching. Lydia went on playing. As if not fully engaged in the music, she often looked up from the instrument and gazed inwardly. Finally, she broke off in midcourse with a sigh and turned to Pamela. “What can I say? Even great music fails me. I hated him; still, I miss him.”

“Do you wish to view your husband's body? It's kept in a basement room. I could bring you there.”

“No, my dear. He's gone—God knows where. The rotting corpse he left behind is repugnant to me. I want my last impression of him to be at his best—yesterday, standing tall on one of our porches, looking proud and in command.”

Pamela sensed that this tribute didn't come from the heart. Lydia's tone was matter-of-fact, and her eyes were dry. She must also be keenly aware that she would be a very wealthy woman when his will was probated.

Pamela glanced at John questioningly.

He shook his head. His expression was inscrutable.

 

Early in the afternoon, the medical examiner, a bright young doctor, came from Pittsfield. Detective Brady was away, hunting for the two suspects. So, Prescott met the doctor at the station and briefed him during the ride to Broadmore.

“Mrs. Jennings has hired me to watch over the estate,” Prescott explained. “Her husband was struck twice on the head from behind by a heavy mace. I first thought that the blows were forceful enough to kill him instantly. With hindsight I'm not so sure.”

“We'll soon see,” said the doctor. “I'm open to whatever the facts tell us.”

The study was empty, except for Pamela. Prescott had asked the others to allow the doctor to work alone. Now Prescott led him through the study, showed him the mace, and pointed to a chalk outline of the body's original position.

Then he told the doctor, “We've moved the body to a cool room in the basement. I'll take you there. I'd like my assistant, Mrs. Thompson, to attend the examination. For her benefit, would you explain the process as you go along?”

“Gladly.” The doctor looked surprised, but not opposed. “Women are often more observant than men.”

In the basement room the body was on a table, covered with a cloth. Prescott removed the cloth, and the doctor went to work. After a few minutes, he beckoned Prescott and Pamela to the table.

“The assailant's blows didn't cause death.” He glanced from Prescott to Pamela. “My preliminary verdict is that Jennings was suffocated early in the morning. Look.” He pointed to a slight bluish tinge on the lips. “The eyes are bloodshot and bulging. In the autopsy, I'll find burst capillaries and blood in the lungs.”

Prescott seemed embarrassed. “The study was dimly lighted when I examined the body. Still, I should have noticed the symptoms of suffocation.”

“No one else noticed them, either,” remarked Pamela.

The doctor went on. “The most likely scenario is that the assailant realized that the blows were insufficient. For whatever reason, he finished Jennings off by suffocation. However, it's possible that the assailant mistakenly believed the blows were sufficient. If he left in haste, he might not have taken the victim's pulse. But if he did, it might have been so weak that he didn't detect it. Later, someone else could have suffocated Jennings.”

For a few moments, the room was silent with reflection. Then Prescott asked the examiner, “Could you delay your official verdict until I test these ideas? If there were two assailants, they may not be aware of each other. That ignorance could be exploited during interrogation.”

“I see your point, sir,” replied the examiner. “I'll do as you wish.”

Prescott turned to Pamela. “We should return to Jennings's study and search again for the weapon that killed him. Since we thought that the bloody mace was obviously the murder weapon, we may not have searched the room carefully enough to find the real one.”

Back in the study, Pamela checked the drapes over the windows. They were intact and showed no sign of blood. The divan's cushions were also clean. Finally she said, “I can't find any bloodstained fabric in the room.”

“Is anything missing?” Prescott asked.

Her eyes fixed on Jennings's chair. “Where's his white linen pillow with the red rose? It's soft enough to have been used for the crime and would be bloodstained. Brenda and I will look for it.”

Prescott added, “Jennings's killer must have also smeared blood on his clothes. Search for them too.”

“
His
clothes?” she asked. “The killer might have been a woman.”