Death of a Robber Baron (9 page)

C
HAPTER
14

 

W
hen Pamela rose the next morning, Dennis Reilly's threat had given way to a new concern. At breakfast, she received an invitation to Lydia's study to meet John Jennings, the family's black sheep. He had arrived at Broadmore Hall late the night before. She needed to know more about him. He might be a source of Lydia's anxiety.

While eating, she recalled what she knew about John. This much was fact. He was thirty years old, the only child from Henry Jennings's first marriage. Lydia got on well with him and was his chief financial support. By all accounts, he was handsome, charming, and an outstanding sportsman.

Over the past few days Pamela had gathered other impressions of the young man. Servants and townspeople often dismissed him as a playboy. She had also picked up a few veiled references to Jennings's displeasure with his son's perverse sexual inclination. If true, it could cause serious tension in the family. Henry Jennings was apparently neither an understanding nor a forgiving parent.

Now, before the meeting with Lydia, Pamela felt she needed advice from a detached observer. Patrick O'Boyle was a fair-minded, perceptive judge of men and knew the family well. She would talk to him.

She finished breakfast and walked to the exercise track. Patrick was leaning on the fence, watching a pair of pure black coach horses at play. He smiled as she approached.

“Want a ride, ma'am?”

“I'd love it, Patrick, another time. Is this a good place for a few questions . . . about John Jennings?”

His eyes grew a bit cautious. “Sure, fire away. I trust the horses to mind their own business.”

Pamela lowered her voice. “I've heard there's bad blood between John and his father. Is sex at the root of it?”

“You're frank, ma'am. So I'll be the same. In a nutshell, John Jennings has what's called an unnatural inclination toward young men. As long as he doesn't hurt anyone, I say that's his own business. But his father hates him for it.”

“Could you be more specific?”

He grimaced with distaste. For a moment he focused on the horses. Then with a nod he explained that the issue had surfaced in John's adolescence. When Henry Jennings had first heard of his son's “sick” behavior with other boys, he had beaten him. As John grew up, he became too big and strong to be beaten. So instead, his father had showered him with verbal abuse, calling him a sneaky sodomite. A year or two ago, Henry Jennings had disowned John and struck him from his will.

“How does Mrs. Jennings deal with this conflict in the family?”

“It's a big bone of contention between her and her husband. She welcomes John to Broadmore and puts him up in an apartment next to hers. They enjoy playing the piano together. He comes often, usually when his father is away.”

“But if they should meet, what happens?”

“They ignore each other. Mrs. Jennings tries in vain to reconcile them.”

 

As Pamela entered Lydia's study, John was lounging at a side table with his stepmother, drinking coffee. For a moment, his expression was critical, then it quickly turned friendly.

“Pamela, I want you to meet my stepson, John,” said Lydia with obvious pleasure.

He was a smiling man with wavy blond hair, a trim mustache, and bright blue eyes. His features were almost too perfect, and he had an athlete's splendid body. His conversation was cultivated and good-humored. Within minutes, Pamela felt comfortable with him.

“Have you been to the lake yet?” he asked her.

Pamela admitted that she had not.

“Then, may I take you out in my boat?”

She thought for a moment, while searching his eyes. John seemed to have more in mind than a boat ride. It probably wasn't about sex. But he might want to unburden himself. That could throw light on relationships in the Jennings family.

“A morning hour on the lake would be delightful,” she replied.

During the short coach ride to Lake Mahkeenac, she learned that John's hobby was building small boats. “My father claims it's a waste of time. I say it's more meaningful than anything he does. He just moves money around and takes a generous cut for himself. That doesn't make him a better man.”

“Is your hobby rewarding?” Pamela asked.

“I enjoy transforming raw wood into beautifully shaped objects. No two of my boats are alike. One of them, a canoe, is in the Mahkeenac boathouse.”

The brown shingled, two-story rustic building was built on rocky ground that sloped steeply down to the lake. From the road Pamela and John entered the upper story. Inside was a spacious, rustic hall with wooden chairs and tables. They walked out onto a long porch for a magnificent view over the lake to October Mountain in the distance.

The boat room was down a flight of stairs. The custodian couldn't be found, so Pamela helped John lift his canoe off a rack and into the water. Long and sleek, it was artfully constructed in an alternating pattern of light and dark wood. They set out into the lake, she on a seat facing him. He paddled effortlessly to the middle and let the canoe drift.

The air was fresh, cool, and nearly still, the water limpid. For a few minutes they silently enjoyed the gentle, green-crested hills to the east and to the west. Across the lake on a knoll stood Broadmore Hall. Pamela pulled field glasses from her bag and scanned the building. On one of the lakeside porches was a tiny figure waving at her and John. Mrs. Jennings, no doubt.

After a few minutes, Pamela sensed that John was eager to speak. She encouraged him with a tilt of her head and an expectant smile.

He began hesitantly. “You may have heard that my father and I have been estranged this year. I've come to Broadmore only for my stepmother's sake.” He paused. “Well, not solely. I enjoy the swimming and boating in this place. It's really only my father that I cannot bear. Of course, the feeling is mutual.” His expression had turned bitter.

“Is this too hard for you to discuss?” she asked. “We could speak about less painful things.”

He shook his head. “I need to talk to an intelligent, empathetic stranger, someone who is not caught up in our family's conflicts. Lydia recommended you.”

“I'm willing to listen. Tell me about your father.”

For a long moment, he studied her. Then he began to speak in a lighthearted tone as if the conflict with his father pained him too much to treat seriously.

“My father has never cared for me. As a child, my health was delicate. I found pleasure in reading history and fiction, in drawing and music. Father was too absorbed in his business career to pay much attention to me. At age ten, when my mother died, I was developing into a shy, retiring, and dreamy child.

“Displeased that the heir to his fortune was becoming a good-for-nothing, Father tried to ‘make a man' out of me. He dragged me to sporting events and on hunting and fishing trips and forced me to shoot and to box. When I failed or protested, he cursed and occasionally beat me. My physical health improved, and I grew to be rather sturdy. He couldn't beat me anymore.

“When it came time for college, Father insisted that I go to Yale. ‘That's where a young man must make useful connections for business,' he claimed. I knew that he hadn't gone to Yale. He began as an orphan in the Berkshires, worked his way up from clerk to partner in a mining company, made a small fortune in the war, and has since enriched himself many times over. His career in business certainly hasn't suffered from lack of connections.

“I spent an unhappy year at Yale, then transferred to Williams College, where I was only an hour from Lenox and Lydia by train. I did well in things I liked—literature, art, and music—but I failed science and mathematics. Didn't join a Greek society, lived alone, and had few friends. Father was very angry and called me a lazy coward.

“After a year, I dropped out and spent much time at Broadmore with Lydia. Kind and understanding, she has been my best friend since childhood. We enjoy the piano and play duets. When she married my father, she became my stepmother and my strongest support.

“Father insisted that I do something useful with my life, like go into business. I tried a few jobs in New York without success. That has moved Father to disown and disinherit me. Well, now you know my story. You might wish it were happier. Perhaps better days lie ahead.”

He gave her a wry smile and added, “The family will gather at Broadmore over the Independence Day holiday. That should be jolly.” His smile faded. His lips quivered. He seemed on the verge of tears.

She felt an urge to hug him, but thought better of it. He had left unsaid the most painful issue, his sexual inclination. Couldn't he bear to bring it up?

 

On the way back to the boathouse, they met a small sailboat coming slowly toward them. Clara Brown was at the helm in a trim white dress and a jaunty sailor's cap. A portly, middle-aged woman accompanied her. Pamela and John waved. Clara returned the greeting. The companion frowned.

“Poor Clara!” exclaimed John. “Her companion's frown is perpetual.”

Pamela asked, “Must Clara have a guardian?”

“Yes,” John replied. “Her parents are grooming her for a marriage to a rich man and a place in high society. She detests the idea and has said so. Therefore, her parents have shackled her to this woman while they travel abroad.”

“How has she reacted to this parental tyranny?”

“In public she seems to conform to her parents' rules.”

“Does she behave differently when her minder isn't watching?”

“Would she be human if she didn't?”

Pamela asked John to explain, but he replied, “You'll find out soon enough.”

C
HAPTER
15

 

E
arly Sunday morning, Pamela called out to Brenda, “Your coach is ready, princess.” The young woman promptly appeared in a simple, light blue muslin gown. Her smile was radiant. Life was good, Pamela thought, and waved her off, marveling at how far Monica's poor little Irish girl had come.

The day before, Brenda had expressed a wish to attend St. Ann's Roman Catholic Church on Main Street, a wooden frame building in the Gothic style, a modest church compared to Trinity. The O'Boyle family had invited her to attend Mass with them, followed by dinner at their home. Brenda was finding friends among the servants and feeling more secure outside the estate. Still, to her distress, her father often appeared in the distance, staring at her.

Though Brenda had been baptized, she rarely attended church. Her father wouldn't allow it in the family. Brenda's new interest in religion had surprised Pamela, but she didn't probe. The coachman's warm, generous nature might have filled the young woman's need for a father she could respect. She was also attracted to his son Peter, a wholesome as well as handsome young man.

After Brenda's departure, Pamela met Lydia in the breakfast room. It offered a splendid view toward Lily Pond and Lake Mahkeenac. Lydia had invited her stepson, John, to join them, but he had declined without offering a reason. Lydia was obviously disappointed. After breakfast the two women set off in a coach for Trinity Church. During the ride, Pamela asked about John's refusal to attend.

“It pains me to think about it,” Lydia replied. “He used to enjoy the worship at Trinity. It's such a beautiful and uplifting experience. But recently it's been whispered about that he has ‘unnatural' inclinations. He feels that the church doesn't welcome him anymore. I don't think that's the case, but there you are.”

Lydia fell into a profound silence. When she roused herself, she commented on the imposing stone church in the distance, remarkable for the high quality of its design. “Romanesque,” she noted, as they approached the building. Behind it stood the new stone and shingle rectory. “It's a gift from Mr. John Parsons, a lawyer from New York.” She added, “He's one of the most generous of the summer residents.”

As the service got underway, Pamela noticed that many of the congregants were fashionably dressed, cultivated residents who lived year-round or, like Lydia, most of the year in Lenox. They greeted her with the fond respect owed to a pillar of the church. Other members of the congregation appeared to be common folk, like Maggie Rice, who worked on the great estates.

After the service, there was tea in the rectory. Lydia introduced Pamela to a few friends as her new companion. They gazed at her with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Pamela wondered if her role as a private investigator might no longer be secret.

From Prescott's earlier description, Pamela had recognized Helen Allen in the church. She was tall and shapely, with a graceful bearing and a youthful appearance. Her hair was thick and black; her eyes black, tinted with gold; her complexion, smooth and creamy. She wore a fashionable, light golden silk gown. At thirty, she was half Henry Jennings's age.

During the tea, Pamela stood apart, observing the crowd. Mrs. Allen walked up to her. “Mrs. Thompson? You must be Mrs. Jennings's new companion. I'm so pleased to meet you. Your arrival has set Lenox society abuzz with curiosity.”

“And I presume you are Mrs. Allen. I've admired your gown,” Pamela said honestly. “Have you come to Lenox for the season?”

“I think so,” she replied, acknowledging the compliment with a smile. “For now, I'm at the Curtis Hotel. My husband will soon arrive to search for a house to rent in Lenox. If he's successful, we'll stay until autumn.” She went on about the beauty of the Berkshires and the grandeur of the cottages, gradually warming up to Pamela. After a few minutes, she asked, “Would you mind if we used our Christian names? I'm Helen.”

“And I'm called Pamela.”

“If you're free later this afternoon, Pamela, we could walk to Ventfort Hall, the new Morgan mansion. It's virtually finished. The family will move in this month.”

Pamela showed interest. “I caught a glimpse of it as I rode into Lenox. I've heard that it's the grandest cottage in the Berkshires.”

Helen agreed and then added, “It's private, of course, so we can't go inside. But we could admire the exterior. The weather is perfect. We could become better acquainted.”

Pamela noted that Helen had taken the initiative in their meeting. Was she scouting a potential obstacle to her pursuit of Henry Jennings? Her present proposal was intriguing. Yet, one should deal with her cautiously. She had intelligence and determination of a very high order. Pamela could imagine how Jennings might fall helplessly into her clutches.

Still, knowing her better could prove useful in protecting Lydia's interests. A walk together would incur no obligations.

Pamela nodded. “Shall we meet at four o'clock on the hotel veranda?”

“Agreed,” Helen replied with a smile, perhaps more cunning than sincere.

At that moment, Lydia came by, giving Helen a polite nod. Pamela wondered how much Lydia knew about her husband's affair. For her part, Helen appeared unembarrassed.

 

Promptly at four, Pamela climbed the steps to the hotel's veranda. At the same moment, Helen walked out the front entrance. For a few minutes they stood on the veranda planning their walk.

Finally, Helen sighed, then asked doubtfully, “I'd love to see Ventfort from the inside. Do you think the porter would let us in?”

“I believe he would,” Pamela replied, “thanks to Mrs. Jennings. She knows him well from Trinity Church. Her friend, Mrs. Morgan, has invited her to observe the building's progress.” Pamela pulled a note from her bag. “Mrs. Jennings has requested that the porter show us through the ground floor and gave me money to pay him. She would have joined us, but she's indisposed. I'm supposed to give her a full report.” Helen seemed relieved.

On the way to Ventfort, Helen spoke with mounting enthusiasm about her visits to the great houses of rich families in New York and in their favorite resorts—Bar Harbor, Newport, and Lenox. To vacation in such places, Pamela surmised, Helen and her husband must have a great deal of money or large debts.

After a ten-minute walk, the imposing brick mass of Ventfort Hall loomed up before them. They stopped to take in its grand three-story exterior, especially the tall, curved gables and the elegant porte-cochere at the entrance.

They moved on to Ventfort's Walker Street gatehouse, a charming brick building in an early seventeenth-century style. A porter appeared at the door. When they asked to visit the mansion, he frowned and shook his head vigorously. But after reading Lydia's note, he agreed. “Please don't tell the world that Ventfort is open to the public. I would lose my position here.”

He led them into an enclosure of greenhouses, fruit trees, and gardens, protected from the cool wind by a high brick wall. Helen looked around, eyes wide, like a child in a candy store.

“Who takes care of all this, as well as the trees and the lawn?” She waved a hand at the greenhouses.

The porter smiled. “Mr. Huss, a Swiss master gardener, directs dozens of skilled men.”

A few steps farther on, they reached the mansion's entrance under the porte-cochere. The porter unlocked the door and led them into the great central hall that extended through the building's width. Helen's lips parted in awe.

“The hall's paneling and ceiling beams are made of carved oak,” he remarked and then called their attention to a minstrel's gallery overlooking the hall. Next, he gestured to the right. “There you have a library and a salon.” Both rooms had richly ornamented plaster ceilings.

“And to the left,” he continued, “is the dining room. The ceiling and wainscoting are of Cuban mahogany. We expect to have sumptuous dinners here. Mrs. Morgan is known to entertain in grand style. Ventfort Hall has fifteen bedrooms and can accommodate many guests.”

The porter next led them through a long gallery extending from the central hall to a huge billiards room at the far end of the building. Off the gallery were a writing room and a morning room.

He remarked with a touch of pride, “Ventfort has gas and electric lights, an elevator, and central heating. And Mrs. Morgan installed a bowling alley under the long, covered back porch.”

They entered the empty billiards room. “It spans the width of the house,” the porter pointed out. “There will soon be several billiards tables here for Mr. Morgan and his guests.”

“What grandeur!” Helen exclaimed, waving her arms dramatically. “This is truly a palace, hardly a cottage.”

“I hope you've enjoyed the tour,” said the porter and bowed to the two ladies. “I must get back to my duties.”

As they retreated to the front entrance, Pamela discreetly handed him an envelope with a stipend for his services.

He pocketed the money and softly thanked her. “Before you leave, you should visit the flower beds. The Morgans also have Japanese evergreens and many other exotic trees. Mr. Morgan is an avid horticulturist. His flowers have won prizes.” Tipping his cap, he left them under the porte cochere.

Pamela and Helen had the entire estate to themselves on this Sunday afternoon. The gardener and his crew were off for the day. The two women strolled on paths through blooming spring flowers. Helen knew many of their Latin botanical names. A brisk wind was blowing, but the tall brick wall shielded the two women as well as the plants. They found a bench facing the flower beds and silently enjoyed the view.

Finally, Pamela asked, “When did you acquire your taste for great houses like Ventfort?”

“For as far back as I can remember, I've always enjoyed large, well-designed mansions and gardens. I grew up in the porter's house of one of the Newport mansions.”

Pamela gently asked, “Would you like to own a great house and garden?”

Her companion's eyes grew hooded. She hesitated, then spoke brightly. “I hope that one day a great fortune might fall into my lap. I would then build a mansion even grander than Ventfort. That's unlikely to happen anytime soon.”

“Why not?” Helen only needed to snare Henry Jennings.

“At present, my husband can barely find the money for our train fare to Lenox.” She chuckled. “I jest, of course. Still, in the world as it is, only a privileged few can afford anything comparable to Ventfort.”

Helen tilted her head in a probing gesture. “And what are your hopes and dreams, beyond helping a rich, sick old lady?”

Pamela felt a brief, sharp pang of sorrow. “It's been a while since I've had any grand hopes or dreams. For the moment, I'm happy to assist Mrs. Jennings. I don't know if she's truly rich. She's not really old, certainly not in spirit. But she's unwell and needs a companion.”

“How do you assist her, precisely?” Helen's tone was becoming sharply inquisitive. “Rumors are flying about that you've worked at Macy's as a private detective, a remarkable occupation for a woman, especially one of your standing. Does Mrs. Jennings need protection from theft or violence?”

Pamela grew cautious. She shouldn't admit that her chief duty was to investigate wrongdoing at Broadmore Hall. In fact, theft was likely and violence was possible. She didn't trust Helen and couldn't confide in her. So she evaded the question. “I read to Mrs. Jennings, deal with her correspondence and appointments, and help her look after the estate. I tell her if I notice anything that she should attend to.”

Helen wrinkled her brow. “Have you discovered anything out of order?”

“Nothing that I may discuss publicly.”

“Well, to judge from the authority that you've received from Mrs. Jennings, you must enjoy her trust and use it prudently.”

“Of course, we all want the estate to function well.”

With that, the conversation returned to Ventfort's remarkable flowers and trees. Helen's true purpose for this visit remained obscure and worrisome.