Death of a Robber Baron (23 page)

C
HAPTER
35

 

P
amela slept later than she had planned. Rays of sunlight were streaming into her room, and birds had ended their morning serenade. While waiting for breakfast, she dressed in a simple, white muslin summer frock. Brenda came with a tray of tea and toast, butter, and preserves, set it on a table by the window, and handed Pamela a message. “Mr. Prescott sent this a few minutes ago.”

Pamela stopped eating in mid-bite as she read: “A fisherman has just found Wilson's satchel in Lily Pond. I'll meet you at the cottage entrance in fifteen minutes. Wear stout shoes. I'll give you the details while we walk to the pond.”

The news came as a shock, though she had been expecting Wilson to meet a violent end. An extortionist, he had tried to outwit desperate, ruthless men and women. She put aside her tea, changed shoes, and rushed downstairs to the entrance. Prescott was waiting there.

As they hurried to the pond, he explained, “The fisherman snagged the satchel in ten feet of clear, calm water. Its shape was visible on the bottom. A young man dove down, attached a rope to it, and pulled it up. The fisherman, who had worked at Broadmore, recognized the satchel as Wilson's and informed me.”

“Where is the satchel now?”

“It's in the icehouse. Let's look at its contents.”

A small stone replica of a Greek temple, the icehouse stood in a shady grove near the pond. During winter, ice was cut from the pond, hauled up a narrow, smooth stone roadway, and stored under a thick layer of straw in a brick-lined storage pit.

Pamela lit a gas lamp in the antechamber. The wet leather satchel lay on a wooden table. Sawdust lightly covered the floor. A thick oak door to the ice room was closed. Still, even the antechamber was cool enough to make Pamela shiver. “Let's be quick about it, or I'll get a summer cold.”

Prescott opened the satchel and asked Pamela, “Is it Wilson's?”

“Yes, I'll check the contents. A rough hand has been here.” The sodden clothing was topsy-turvy. The file box had been opened, and its papers were scattered, ink-smeared, and illegible. She searched through to the bottom and reported that the pistol and the Twain book were gone.

Prescott nodded. “You said earlier that Wilson had marked and commented in the book's margins. The murderer may have kept the book, thinking that those observations are in a strange code. By the way, what's distinctive about this copy?”

“It's entitled
The American Claimant
and appeared last year. Wilson's name is written in ink on the flyleaf.”

Prescott glanced around the room. “We're not likely to find Wilson alive. His body is probably in the pond. We'll engage divers to look for him.”

“Wait. I'm curious,” said Pamela, studying the floor. She gathered her dress, squatted, and rubbed her finger in a dark spot, then in another. She followed the thin trail of blood to the ice pit's door. “Shall we have a look inside?”

Prescott opened the door and peered into the dark, windowless chamber. Pamela handed him a gas lamp. He aimed a beam of light over the pile of straw on the ice.

Pamela seized a rake and began pulling the straw away. “I see the toe of a boot,” she exclaimed. Then a booted foot appeared. The rest of Wilson's body lay partially hidden from view in a deep depression in the ice.

Two servants, charged with maintaining the icehouse, were summoned to crawl over the ice and retrieve the dead man. They found his pistol nearby. Frozen stiff, he was laid on the table and covered with a tarpaulin.

Prescott leaned over the table and lifted an edge of the cover. “He's been stabbed. If you're game for it, I'll show you.”

“I've seen dead men—one of them was my husband. You were there.”

“Sorry,” he murmured. He pointed to frozen blood on the man's chest. “The wound is small, like a stiletto's.”

One of the two servants spoke up. “Sir, an ice pick is missing. We'll search the pond.”

“That must have been the murder weapon,” observed Prescott. “The killer apparently came here unarmed without intending to kill Wilson.”

“Did he die instantly?” asked Pamela. “Or was he placed still alive in the ice and froze to death?”

“I don't know,” Prescott replied. “I'll call the medical examiner in Pittsfield today. He'll determine the cause and time of death. We'll keep the body in the icehouse.”

Pamela examined the pistol. “It hasn't been fired.” She handed it to Prescott.

He nodded. “Perhaps Wilson took it from his pocket but was struck before he could fire.”

They left the building, locking it behind them. Pamela remarked, “We can't blame Tom Parker.”

“True,” Prescott agreed. “Any one of our other suspects in Henry Jennings's death might have killed Wilson.”

While divers searched for the pick, Pamela and Prescott looked for clues at the edge of the pond. Unfortunately, the ground was trodden too much to yield any useful footprints.

As they walked back toward the cottage, Prescott said, “We must find out what John Jennings was doing last night and then question George and Helen Allen.”

 

When Prescott left to telephone the medical examiner in Pittsfield, Pamela visited Lydia. She was in her apartment by the window reading a book. A tray with the remains of a late breakfast lay on a nearby table.

“Sit down, my dear,” she said gently and set the book aside. “By the look on your face, you have something to tell me.”

“Mr. Wilson is dead. His body was found in the icehouse near Lily Pond.”

Lydia turned pale. “A suicide?”

“No, a murder. The Pittsfield medical examiner will determine the precise cause.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Mr. Prescott and I observed a wound to the chest.”

“What could possibly be the motive?”

“Wilson hinted that he had observed your husband's death. The killer might have decided to protect himself by eliminating the only witness to his crime. Other explanations are possible.”

Lydia was now gasping and appeared about to faint. Pamela brought smelling salts from the medicine cabinet and a glass of water, then fanned her face. She regained a measure of calm and said, “The troubles of the past few days are too much for my heart. I need to rest. Please take away the breakfast tray.”

 

Pamela carried the tray to the basement. Maggie and Patrick O'Boyle should be drinking midmorning tea in the servants' hall. Other servants might have given them useful information.

This morning Maggie and O'Boyle were alone and in an earnest discussion.

“May I join you?” Pamela asked.

“Of course you may,” the coachman said in his rich, friendly Irish voice. He pulled out a chair for her. Maggie came with tea and offered sugar and milk.

“Is it true that old Wilson was drowned in the pond?” Maggie asked.

“Not exactly, Maggie,” Pamela replied. “He died in the icehouse. We don't know how he came to be there or who killed him.”

“We got the word at breakfast,” volunteered O'Boyle. “One of the servants claimed to have seen Wilson near the icehouse late last night.”

“I'd like to speak to that servant, if I may.”

“He's a coach-boy. I'll fetch him.”

A few minutes later, O'Boyle returned with a bright-looking, handsome young man, near twenty, and introduced him as Edgar Smith.

Pamela smiled. “Sit down, Edgar, and tell me what you saw.” She spoke calmly to put the young man at ease.

He spoke haltingly at first. “It was a little past midnight. I was going for a swim from the pier near the icehouse. I had taken off my clothes when I heard someone approach. I was naked.” He averted his gaze from Pamela. “So I hid behind a bush. Mr. Wilson walked by, carrying a small satchel. I recognized him in the light of his lantern. He seemed nervous, looked left and right, and went into the icehouse. A few minutes later, another person also came with a lantern and went inside. He was wearing a long, flowing cloak and a deerstalker hat that shaded his face. I can't tell you for sure whether it was a man or a woman.”

“Describe his or her walk.”

The young man thought for a moment. “I'd say that he strode like a man, but I've seen a few women do that.”

“What did you do then?”

“I picked up my clothes and ran as fast as I could away from the icehouse. When I felt safe, I dressed and went to my room upstairs in the coach barn.”

“By the way, did you see John Jennings last night?”

“No, ma'am.” But he nervously averted his eyes from her.

Pamela thanked him and sent him back to the barn. Maggie came with a fresh pot of tea. As she filled their cups, she asked Pamela, “Will they now set Tom free? The person who killed Wilson must have earlier killed Henry Jennings.”

“The authorities might come to the same conclusion,” she replied. “But it's still uncertain until we catch Wilson's killer.”

Pamela finished her tea, then hesitated and looked over her shoulder. “Have either of you seen John Jennings lately?”

O'Boyle and Maggie exchanged glances. “No,” replied Maggie. “Do you suspect him?”

“But I saw him,” interjected O'Boyle. “I was outside the stable in the dark, enjoying the cool, late night air when someone walked by in the direction of the coach barn. He stepped into a beam of light coming from inside, and I saw his face. It was John Jennings. Ordinarily, I'd have said a friendly word. But there was an intense look on his face that stopped my mouth.”

“Tell me, is he a particular friend of young Edgar?” asked Pamela.

“I don't know what goes on between them,” O'Boyle replied. “As long as Edgar is respectful and does his job, I don't pry into his personal affairs.”

“They're friends,” said Maggie, and added pointedly, “They often swim together in the pond.”

From the servants' hall Pamela went up to her parlor. Prescott was waiting there. “I‘ve contacted the medical examiner in Pittsfield. He'll be here this afternoon.”

Pamela reported on what O'Boyle, Edgar, and Maggie had told her. “I believe that John Jennings spent the night in Edgar's room. If pressed, the young man would give Jennings an alibi. To probe any deeper might cause scandal and especially harm Edgar.”

“Nonetheless, we should question Jennings. Let's find him.”

He was alone in his room, having tea. His hair was damp. “I've been swimming in Lake Mahkeenac. The water's perfect. I recommend it.”

“Another time,” Prescott said. “Have you heard of Wilson's death?”

Jennings nodded. “The news is all over Broadmore. Dreadful thing!”

“I have to ask, were you in the icehouse with Wilson last night?”

“No. I was alone in my room.”

“But late in the night you were seen outside walking near the coach barn.”

Caught in a lie, Jennings flushed. “I'm ashamed that I tried to deceive you. In fact, I was in the coach barn visiting a friend, Edgar Smith.”

“All night?”

“Until dawn.” He hesitated. “I may as well explain. Early in the evening, Wilson sent a message, attempting to extort money from me in return for his silence and certain incriminating papers. I should meet him in the icehouse. He claimed to have observed me kill my father. I knew he had made up the story, so I refused to go.”

“We have his diary written in code,” Prescott said sharply. Jennings's face filled with confusion. Prescott went on. “We should soon learn if it's authentic and trustworthy.”

“I'll challenge the diary,” Jennings sputtered. “It's a malicious work of fiction.”

“That's for a court to decide,” said Prescott. “In the meantime, you must remain in Lenox for further questioning.” Prescott signaled Pamela that it was time to go.

As they left the room, Pamela glanced over her shoulder. Jennings had a troubled look on his face.

 

Pamela and Prescott returned to her rooms and discussed what they had heard from John Jennings. There was a knock on the door. Pamela opened it and an anxious Brenda Reilly slipped inside. Pamela had asked her friend to spy on John Jennings and, in particular, to search through his trash.

She acknowledged Prescott with a nod and said breathlessly, “Early this morning, I cleaned young Jennings's apartment and found something to show you.” She handed Pamela an envelope. “He left in a hurry to go swimming. These papers were in his trash basket. I recognized your name and took the liberty to read on. What I found has troubled me.”