Murder at Beechwood (21 page)

Finally, I came to another door. I tried turning the knob, but it moved only slightly before clicking to a stop. Locked, which meant someone must be inside. From around the ship the bell continued clanging. Below me, on the lower decks, came the sounds of voices, tramping feet, and fists knocking on doors. I heard no indication of rising panic, merely an ordered procession as the staff and crew prepared to disembark if the need arose. Perhaps they were assisting Jesse in the search for fire. From this side of the ship I could no longer see the shore, but search beams skimmed the waves out beyond both stem and stern. Other U.S. Life-Saving Service vessels must be arriving. And a good thing, too. The smell of smoke was stronger here, and I thought I detected sooty tendrils rising out over the water from somewhere below me.

I pounded on the door. “Open up! There's an emergency! You must leave the ship!”

The door opened immediately, and Mrs. Andrews stood in a dressing gown buttoned to her chin. “What on earth is all that clanking about? Is there a fire?” Her beautiful features were taut with alarm, but then alarm melted into anger. “Miss Cross, is it? Is this your idea of a joke?”

“Mrs. Andrews, you must come at once. There may indeed be a fire on board.”

“Where is my ship's captain? My lady's maid? Why haven't they come to assist me?” She pressed her hands over her ears. “Make them silence that infernal bell. Oh, if you don't go away at once I'll scream for help.”

“Scream all you want, but you must come with me now.” With the greatest difficulty I tamped down my growing impatience. “Mrs. Andrews, can you conceive of a single reason why I would have rowed out to this yacht at what by now must be near the middle of the night merely to vex you?”

After a hesitation she stepped out onto the deck and sniffed the air. “Good heavens, you aren't lying! Where is it coming from?”

“I don't know. Please, Mrs. Andrews, you must come with me. There are boats waiting to take you away from here.”

“I need to dress first. I'll ring for my maid. . . .”

I bit back a roar of frustration. “Mrs. Andrews, with any luck your maid has already left the ship.”

“Without me?”

“Detective Whyte of the Newport Police would have insisted she, and all the other staff, leave at once. As you must do.”

To forestall any further argument, I put aside all pretense of deference and seized her wrist. “We are going. Now.”

Her cries filled my ears, but I didn't listen as I half dragged, half pulled her back around the aft saloon to the starboard side of the vessel. The bell clanged louder here, but once again I noted the air on this side seemed fresher, lighter. I no longer doubted the presence of fire, or that it originated on the port side. But how much longer would it be contained there?

Below us, staff members were swinging themselves from the lower decks onto the outer steps that led down to the water, where three Life-Saving Service cutters were slowly filling with individuals, some in their various uniforms, others in wrappers and nightshirts. Mrs. Andrews and I had nearly reached the steps when she tugged for all she was worth, surprising me with her strength and yanking free of my hold.

She backed away, her beautiful features twisted and bordering on feral. “Have you not heard a word I've said?”

In truth, I hadn't.

“I'm not going anywhere without my daughter. She's on the deck below us.” With that, she turned toward the inner staircase.

I bolted forward and headed her off. “Mrs. Andrews, please go down to the rescue boats. I'll find your daughter.” She was shaking her head at me, so I added, “I can move faster than you.”

The staircase vibrated with footsteps, and a moment later Jesse emerged from the darkness below. “Emma, Mrs. Andrews, come. I believe we've almost got everyone off.”

“Did you find Mrs. Kingsley?” I asked at the same time Mrs. Andrews shouted her daughter's name. She reached out to press a hand to the wall behind her.

“She hasn't been found yet. I'll keep looking.”

“Oh, my daughter . . .” Mrs. Andrews's knees gave way beneath her and she slid down the wall to the deck.

“Jesse, take her—get her off the boat. I'll find Judith.”

“No, Emma—”

“Please, just do it,” I shouted. “I can't help her down the steps, I'm not strong enough to support her and we could both end up falling.” I crouched and brought my face close to the sobbing woman's. “Mrs. Andrews, which cabin is Judith's?”

“Judith . . .” She fell into a fit of coughing, brought on more by her agitation, I judged, than by the presence of smoke. Just as I was about to take my chances and blindly search for her daughter, she recovered. “Port side, just below mine. Hurry. Please.”

I bounded down the staircase. At the next level down I made for the stern and hurried around. Unlike the entirely open walkway of the mezzanine deck, the stern here was an enclosed, curving corridor, only open at its two ends. Smoke drifted in gauzy clouds, barely visible, yet my eyes and throat began to sting. I slowed long enough to struggle out of my carriage jacket and use it to cover my nose and mouth. Moments later I passed through a doorway and emerged to the open walkway on the port side and the relief of the harbor breeze.

Flickering radiance poured from the windows of the first cabin I came to. Instinctively I swerved to the railing, as far away from the glass as possible. In intense heat the panes would shatter. Yet I tried to peer in through gaps in the smoldering curtains. Was Judith inside? Was this her cabin? The door stood slightly ajar, the frame splintered as if it had been kicked in. Whirling smoke streamed through, pooling at my feet. Fearfully, I move closer to the door.

“Mrs. Kingsley? Are you in there?”

A scream from another cabin farther on carried on the breeze to dissipate over the water. I broke into a run.

I
came to the cabin directly below Mrs. Andrews's. Another scream echoed inside. Was Judith trapped by flames? Did her room connect to the one I had passed? Before moving to the door, I peered at the windows, covered by heavy curtains. Some kind of light emanated from within. Lamplight? Or flames?

I dropped my carriage jacket and gingerly reached for the door, tapping the knob with my fingertips first to test the metal. Still cool. Holding my breath, I gripped it thoroughly, and to my great relief the door offered no resistance. I shoved inward and crossed the threshold.

Two things registered in my mind immediately. Plumes of smoke spiraled toward the ceiling, and Judith stood pressed into the far corner of the cabin, wedged in by the wall on one side and her bed on the other. Small flames, newly set by the looks of them, leaped over the bedclothes, curling the edges and sizzling against the satin. In the few seconds I watched, licks of flame spiked up the walls above the draped headboard, quickly spreading to consume costly carved woodwork. I shouted to Judith, but her gaze didn't find me. Her sights remained riveted on a spot directly in front of her, off to my left.

A man stood within the foggy vapors that swirled like a silver cape around him. He stretched out an arm to aim an accusing finger at Judith while his lips hurled obscenities at her.

My heart pounded violently.
Virgil.

In his other hand, a lighted torch emitted streams of curling black soot. The odor of kerosene warred with charring wood and fabrics. I searched for a weapon, anything to knock Virgil down and allow Judith a path to the door. He stood between me and the hearth, where I might have snatched up the long-handled shovel or tongs. Then I saw it—an old-fashioned bed warmer, ornate silver with a long ebony handle, hanging on the wall behind him. I inched toward it.

In that instant, my movement must have caught Judith's attention. Her eyes opened wider, but somehow she had the presence of mind not to give me away. Vigil was still shouting at her, still swearing and accusing. His exact words eluded me as the flames leaped to an area rug and then a tablecloth. It didn't matter. What mattered was Virgil's impassioned rage keeping him distracted one more moment.

My fingers closed around the ebony and silver inlaid handle, but the object didn't simply lift away from the wall. Whoever had hung it had seen fit to secure it snugly. I had to tug, tug again, while the growing heat and smoke began to threaten my consciousness. I heard Judith coughing, but a quick look revealed her holding a trailing sleeve over her nose and mouth. Virgil waved his torch in front of her, his laughter and curses coming in shrieks like nails on a chalkboard.

I gave another heave, putting all my strength into it. The bed warmer ripped away from the wall, taking bits of paneling with it. Splinters flew like spittle into the air. One bounced against Virgil's shoulder. He flinched and turned to find the source of the tiny assailant. I saw his face at the same time I swung the pan of the warmer into the side of his head. His knees buckled and he fell. It was then I had my first good look at him.

No lines marred the smoothness of youthful features. It wasn't Virgil. It was Nate.

I had not a second to ponder this revelation. Instinct guided me over the sprawled body, a wide stride that almost compromised my balance and sent me stumbling into the flaming bed. By some miracle I remained upright and kept going until I was able to grasp Judith's outstretched hand.

The contact seemed to spark her into action, for I didn't have to coax her to move as I'd done with her mother. Hand in hand we picked our way to the door, sidestepping a burning chair, smoldering pillows . . . and Nate Monroe's prone form. The flames crept perilously close to him, and I looked back to see the edge of his coat ignite, victim of the torch he had used to start the fire.

Judith remained my first priority. She was coughing uncontrollably, nearly doubling over, and I could discern from the way she tightened her grip that she could no longer see where we were going. I took over. As we reached the door I wrapped an arm across her shoulders and, bent at the waist, we lunged for the railing. Here, at least, there was air to breathe, though smoke poured through the doorway after us. With a shove I started us moving again, following the railing down the length of the ship. Along the way we passed another smoldering cabin. Nate must have taken no chances. He had wished to send
Lavinia's Sun
to a fiery hell, and Judith with it.

“Are there port-side steps leading down?” I shouted. Even if those steps led us to the water and nothing more, I deemed the harbor safer than the burning ship and I daren't take the time to circle back to the starboard side.

Judith nodded and pointed. “That way.”

At the same time, a cry came from below. I peered down, searching the waves. “Oh, thank heavens.”

A cutter sat far below us, directing its searchlight at the port-side steps and guiding our way. Not far from it, a small skiff bobbed, dark and lonely in the waves. Nate's transportation here? Farther out, a fireboat—a steam tug equipped with pumps and hoses—cut a wide berth as it turned to approach
Lavinia's Sun
.

A figure made his way up the steps toward us, crablike in the darkness.

“Come,” I said. “Let's start down.”

Judith didn't need further coaxing. We opened the gate at the railing and more nimbly than I would have expected, she swung herself onto the top step and grabbed hold of the hemp banisters on either side. She didn't hesitate in starting down, or in gathering her voice past her raw throat and calling hoarsely to the man climbing up to meet her. He shouted a reassurance in return. He carried a blanket, no doubt dampened with seawater, over his shoulder. In the event sparks began spewing from the boat, this would prevent us from being singed.

I, however, did hesitate, and when Judith realized I wasn't behind her she stopped and looked up at me.

“Miss Cross, what are you doing? Why aren't you coming?” Half of her words were swept away by the wafting breaths of the fire, but I understood her well enough. Even so, I couldn't set my feet on the steps. Not yet.

“I have to try!” I shouted back, my only further explanation conveyed by my actions. I moved away from the railing and retreated toward her cabin. She screamed at me. I heard the sound of my name—my first name. But I couldn't turn back. I had to try. . . .

I had only been gone a couple of minutes, yet flames all but consumed the cabin now. The heat pushed at me like a furnace blast. The sensation terrified me and called upon all my instincts to run to safety. But a path still existed from the doorway to the young man lying on the floor. Gathering my skirts close around me, I drew a deep breath, held it, and pressed through the smoke. I sensed rather than saw when I'd reached Nate, and in that moment I realized he had awakened. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes blazing as intensely as the flames nipping at his cloak and outer clothing. His trousers—his legs. The odor of burning flesh nearly sickened me, but I bit back my nausea and screamed out his name.

His face twitched, his eyelids fluttered, but otherwise he gave no sign of hearing or understanding. Certainly he made no move to escape the inferno. Desperately I looked about for something to smother the fire. Little remained of the bed. I remembered my carriage jacket, dropped in a heap outside the door, but it would be no match for the spreading flames. Turning to the window, I grabbed an edge of the damask curtain and tugged until the rod came tumbling down. I fell on my knees beside Nate and beat the balled-up fabric at his legs, his right arm.

This all passed within seconds. He made no move to help me or to save himself. If I remained in the cabin any longer, we'd both die. The heat of the flames assured me of that. With one last effort, I seized his arm—the one that had not been burned—and put my weight into dragging him across the floor. He half lay on an area rug and this made my task easier. But he was nearly full grown, and his weight far outdid my strength, or should have. How I managed I would never fully understand, but somehow I hauled him clear of the doorway and along the deck toward the outer steps.

Like a phantom rising from the grave, he suddenly came alive. The strength I had harnessed now failed me. His wrist pulled violently out of my hand and he rolled, coming up on all fours and struggling to his feet. His legs swayed and wobbled. Pain contorted his features. His watering, reddened eyes continued to burn as brightly as the fire.

“Nate, please, come with me. We've got to get off the ship.”

His gaze searched the skies over the harbor. His cheeks were soot blackened, and what skin showed through was scarlet and blistered. “Father, I tried my best.”

“Nate! Listen to me!” I bounded forward, but he was too quick and lurched out of reach, at the same time holding up his charred arm to shield himself as if from attack. From down the deck, at the stop of the steps, came a shout. My name. An entreaty to move.

Jesse.

I glanced over my shoulder for the briefest instant, and in that moment Nate darted back to Judith's cabin.

“Nate, no!” My shout tore painfully from my smoke-roughened throat. I felt shredded inside, burned and half-dead.

Nate paused in the doorway, the angry orange glow inside framing him as though he were a demon at the gates of hell. “I continued his work,” he shouted in a voice that grated like steel claws. “He can see me. He approves of me now. They betrayed him, and I've made it right. All of them. They got what they deserved.”

“No, Nate. Please.” I started forward, but arms locked around me from behind, pulling me away.

“The fireboat can't start spraying until you're out of the way,” Jesse pleaded in my ear. He forcefully turned me about. In my last glimpse of Nate, he turned as calmly as a man without a care in the world and walked into the flames.

 

Blind instinct must have taken over then, for I can conjure no memory of descending to the waiting cutter. I have only Jesse's assurance that I did so by the power of my own two legs, and that my resilience made him proud.

Once ensconced in the safety of the rescue boat, someone tucked a blanket around my shoulders. I'd lost my carriage jacket somewhere back on the ship, and I'd been shivering beneath my cotton blouse. I found myself pressed up against Judith's side. Her mother sat at Judith's other side along the built-in wooden bench, and she reached over to cover our clasped hands with her own. This newfound affection served to heighten my disorientation and my sense of bewilderment. Were they not the very same women who had scoffed at me these many days?

I didn't have the energy—or the heart—to be angry with them or even skeptical of their present motives. It was enough that we were alive. The rest could be sorted out later.

Jesse asked us a few questions about what we had witnessed on the yacht.

“It was Nate Monroe,” I said numbly. “Nate all along.”

Arrow-like, Jesse's brows drew inward. “He admitted this to you?”

“In so many words, yes. I don't understand it all yet.... I don't know why, but Nate said he did it for his father.”

“For Virgil? Then who killed Virgil? Wyatt?” Jesse, crouched on the floor before me, sat back on his heels. “I thought we'd have our answer. Instead, we have more questions.”

Again, I decided we would sort it out later. Judith had fallen silent during Jesse's questions, letting me do the talking for her. An odd tremor passed from her side into mine, one that suggested she perhaps knew something the rest of us didn't.

“Don't argue with me once we return to town,” Jesse said when we put into Long Wharf. He leaped onto the pier before the crewmen had a chance to extend the gangway. Once they did, Jesse extended a hand to help me across, then did the same for Mrs. Andrews and Judith.

A well-meaning swarm immediately surrounded us—officials, Life-Saving Service personnel, residents of the nearby Point neighborhood, even tipsy sailors and fishermen from the harborside taverns. Though I welcomed their collective concern, the myriad faces and voices assailed my senses like the whirling chaos of a carnival. Even Judith shrank from the attention. Her mother scowled, though she voiced no complaints.

Jesse herded us through the crowd to waiting vehicles. It was there I finally replied to his earlier command that we not argue with him.

“Honestly, I don't have the wherewithal, but why would we disagree?”

“Because you are all three going to the hospital.”

“I'm fine, Jesse—”

“There you go. Arguing. Well, be advised it won't do you a lick of good.” He turned to mother and daughter. “Help me convince Miss Cross she has no choice but to accompany us to the hospital.”

“Oh, Mother,” Judith said in a weary voice, “is that necessary?”

“I believe so, dear.” With a sob, Mrs. Andrews pulled her daughter into her embrace. “Besides,” she said in a choked voice, “where else do we have to go?”

“We could go to Derrick's house, couldn't we?”

Mrs. Andrews pulled back to regard her daughter, her eyes magnified by tears. “Why, yes, darling. We could go to Derrick's.” Her gaze darted to me, and I saw the deep significance of what had just passed between them. This morning, or even an hour ago, Judith would not have suggested any scenario that included her brother. Had her anger dissipated into smoke and flame?

Jesse stepped closer to them, and I have no doubt his drum-like, reverberating footfalls against the planks were no accident. He wanted our attention and our compliance. “No one is going anywhere until they've been seen by a doctor.”