Parlor Games A Novel

CHECKMATE



FROM LONDON TO EGYPT AND NEW YORK—1910–1912



The next day, Friday, Mr. Ainsworth commenced by recalling Ernest to the witness box, perhaps in an attempt to counter my testimony. My solicitor had promised a lively questioning of Ernest, but first I had to tolerate Ainsworth’s continuing examination of him, which more closely resembled a fireside chat than a witness-box grilling. The first two hours brought no surprises, as Ainsworth merely afforded Ernest the opportunity to hammer home his suspicions about my “dalliances” and to swear before God, England, and all the specks of sand in the universe that I had borrowed the funds for the brooch and that he had never, ever threatened me.

Suddenly, as the luncheon break approached, Ainsworth’s questioning took a startling turn.

“Dr. Whidbey, did you, after the Baroness’s departure, retain any private detectives?”

“Yes, two. First I hired a Mr. Holliday here in London. It was he who discovered that the Baroness had traveled to the Continent. But he did some checking around and found this American detective who knew May—I mean, the Baroness.”

“And this detective’s name is …”

“Reed Dougherty of the Pinkerton Agency.”

Oh, Lord, I thought, not Dougherty again. Not here in London.

“And what did Mr. Dougherty say about the Baroness?”

“That he’d had multiple contacts with her.”

“Did he report on a criminal incident in the California city of San Francisco?”

“Yes.”

“Will you recount this?”

“She and another woman were charged with larceny after they drugged and robbed a man. But they broke out of jail before they could be prosecuted.”

I turned wide-eyed to Mr. Brewster.

“Can Mr. Dougherty vouch for the fact that May de Vries was the woman in question?”

“Yes. Her photo was taken by the police.”

My solicitor, taking my cue and no doubt desiring to break off this line of inquiry, rose from his seat. “Objection, my lord, this is all hearsay.”

The judge pinched his brow. “Yes, I’m inclined to agree.”

He looked to Ainsworth and then Ernest. “Mr. Ainsworth, Dr. Whidbey, have you any documents from this detective?”

“His correspondence to Mr. Holliday.”

“Any official documents?”

“No, not official,” answered Ainsworth. “But he’s in transit, and we can put him on the stand next week, Your Lordship.”

Judge Darling frowned. “I suggest we take our midday break now and consider how to proceed with this witness afterward.”

Mr. Brewster requested that we meet over the luncheon recess, and I suggested Daisy join us. The three of us retreated to his office, where he ordered his assistant to run out for some food.

Mr. Brewster got right down to business. “Who is this Reed Dougherty?”

“A Pinkerton detective who trapped me in some compromising positions.”

“And the San Francisco incident?”

“It’s a frame-up.”

“What about the photograph?”

“I’ve never seen any such photograph.”

“Can you stand your own against his testimony?”

“Yes, I believe I can.” But I doubted my own words. The prospect of being examined about Dougherty’s testimony panicked me. I knew the scoundrel would gladly empty both barrels on me.

Mr. Brewster requested an account of any and all events that Dougherty might dredge up. I provided him, as best as I could, with the outlines of Dougherty’s other potentially damaging claims—that I’d agreed to sell false stocks, tried to procure Johnny Graham’s money, and spied to win a mining deal with the Mexican government—and my denials or defenses in each instance.

Still, Mr. Brewster fretted. “This considerably complicates matters.”

Mr. Brewster’s assistant brought us piping-hot shepherd’s pies for lunch. But I hardly managed five forkfuls, so agitated was I with worries about confronting that cur Dougherty again and allowing his wild stories to ruin my reputation in London, the city where I hoped to continue to reside. I simply couldn’t permit Dougherty to take the stand.

Mr. Brewster secured a taxi after our meeting in his office, and we returned to court for the afternoon session. Upon arriving in the corridors of the court building, I excused myself and visited the ladies’ room. I took a stall at the far end, seated myself on the toilet, and removed a pin from my purse. Pulling my bottom lip away from the gums, I pierced myself four times with the pin, each time drawing blood.

I returned to the courtroom to find Brewster and Ainsworth in conference with the judge. I stood in the courtroom doorway beside Daisy and coughed. One cough led to another, until I buckled over, extracted my handkerchief, and coughed into it. I pulled the cloth away from my mouth. Crimson splotches of blood blotted it.

“My God, you’re bleeding,” said Daisy.

I swooned at the sight of my own blood.



When I came to, Daisy insisted we go straightaway to my doctor’s office, and she and Mr. Brewster helped me out to the curb, where they secured a taxi.

After examining me, the doctor evinced puzzlement. “I can’t explain the blood. There’re no other signs of tuberculosis.”

“She’s been laboring under a great deal of strain,” Daisy volunteered.

“Well,” he said, “you might want to get away if you can, perhaps to a warmer climate.”

“Yes, thank you, Doctor,” I said. “I believe I’ll do that.”

I ordered Daisy to look into travel opportunities, preferably something departing in the next several days. Once she’d returned with a report, she phoned my solicitor’s office.

“Mr. Brewster,” she said, “we’ve just returned from the doctor’s office. He has ordered the Baroness to travel to Egypt. We leave in two days.”

I heard Mr. Brewster’s baritone resounding over the phone line, but I couldn’t discern his words. Daisy nodded, scrunching her brow in concentration. She recited the name and address of my physician.

“Yes, a postponement … Three months? … That would be appreciated.”

More booming bursts came from Brewster, until Daisy concluded with, “Yes, thank you very much, Mr. Brewster.”



I should have loved Egypt in springtime—the cruise to Alexandria, the train to Cairo, the excursion to the Pyramids of Giza—but the knowledge that I could neither stay forever nor escape the threat looming in London cast a pall over it all.

On May 8, Daisy and I stood before the mighty Pyramids of Giza. Just before departing London I’d received word that a Menominee family of five had been killed in a house fire, and a gloomy wariness still gripped me: The mother of the family had been a dear acquaintance of mine. And only two days earlier, King Edward VII had died while Halley’s comet streaked the sky. Something in the world seemed to have tipped, as if all the universe’s mighty forces had gathered to declare: We and we alone control the fates.

I said to Daisy, “What incredible monuments. Built by men long gone.”

“Thousands and thousands of them.”

I squinted against the bright sun reflecting off the expansive sands. “What makes one a Cleopatra while all the others are buried by the march of time?”

Daisy, her mood as glum as mine, merely shook her head.

For several minutes I gazed quietly on the pyramids while gusts of wind buffeted my dress about my legs. When our guide called out to us, we turned away from the looming monuments, into the sandy wind, and traipsed toward him.

I took Daisy’s arm. “Ernest has won. I underestimated him.”

“What will you do?”

“I see no alternative but to crawl back to him and beg him to dismiss the suit.”



Once we landed in England, I sent a telegram to Ernest: RETURNING TO LONDON MAY 21 STOP MISS YOU STOP PLEASE DINE WITH ME ON MAY 23 STOP. I was quite certain he would accept the invitation; he had always enjoyed celebrating my birthday.

We met at Wiltons on Jermyn Street, a place with fond memories for me—Rudolph and I had twice dined there and on the second occasion he’d proposed to me. I chose it so that I might at least enjoy the glow of reminiscence while I subjugated myself to Ernest’s wishes.

Not surprisingly, after the wicked accusations hurled about the courtroom a mere two months ago, we greeted each other tentatively.

“How was your trip?” he asked when we took our seats.

“Not particularly enjoyable. But I needed it.” In the dining room’s muted candlelight, I noted a darkness around his eyes, as if he’d been ill or had slept poorly.

He tapped his fingers on the table. “And your health?”

“Much better, thank you. My physician has pronounced me cured of my mysterious ailment.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“How are things at your club?”

“The same.” He shifted in his chair. “A bit boring, actually.”

“Sometimes routine is good for us—soothing, even.” I held his gaze and summoned the memory of happier times at Bray Lodge. “I have missed ours.”

He smiled shyly. “May I order some champagne?”

I let the evening unfold: I gave the champagne time to lift my spirits—and quell Ernest’s suspicious nature; I demurely accepted his birthday wishes. Finally, I proclaimed, lacing my words with hesitancy and humility, “Ernest … I don’t want to go on any longer without you.… I wonder … might we take up where we left off at Christmas?”

He closed his eyes a moment and dropped his head. Looking up at me with watery eyes, he said, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, my darling, I am.” I swallowed and moistened my lips. “May we?”

He reached across the table. I opened my hand and he clasped it. “Yes,” he said. “How soon can you return?”

“Once we get out from under these ugly legal matters?”

“Of course, that would be best.”

“If you were to sign a paper absolving me of any indebtedness, we could start fresh.”

“Yes, we wouldn’t want any of that hanging over us.”

I immediately offered to dismiss my countersuit. He said he would withdraw his claim. We would both tell our solicitors we had reached a satisfactory agreement on our own.

It took only three days to conclude these matters. I checked with Mr. Brewster to be sure that Ernest had in fact closed the suit and then phoned him. “Darling, I’m so pleased those awful lawsuits are behind us. Can you hire a carriage to pick Daisy and me up Monday morning? We’ll have everything packed and ready to go.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll ask that the carriage arrive by ten in the morning.”

“Lovely, I’ll be home for dinner. Until then, my darling, I send you a kiss.” I smacked the air by the phone’s mouthpiece.

On Sunday morning, Daisy and I packed up our belongings and caught the train to Liverpool. A few days later we set sail for New York. And never again did I see Dr. Ernest Whidbey.



Such jarring events as I had lived through with Ernest are apt to force one to re-evaluate what matters most in life. Never before had I so misjudged a man; I even feared my powers of perception might be diminishing. And now, eyes open wide to the miscalculations I had committed about the “lowly professor,” I determined to retreat to the sanctuary of those I could hold close and confide in. I settled in an apartment on the Upper East Side of New York, with Daisy as my companion, and entertained old friends there. In 1912, when I received word that Frank Shaver had suffered the loss of her father, I extended my sympathies, full of hope that I might renew my friendship with the companionable and trustworthy Frank.





THE TRIAL

DAISY TAKES THE STAND



MENOMINEE—JANUARY 31, 1917



A snowstorm had swept in overnight, bringing with it a wicked wind that swirled the snow every which way. Come morning, the city’s workers endeavored to clear the main streets of snowdrifts, but the blizzard bested them. Thus, all of us who needed—or wished—to attend the trial were forced to trudge through two-foot-high drifts while snow needles blasted our cheeks.

Not surprisingly, only about thirty-five spectators, including the usual reporters and townspeople, braved the horrid storm. The judge announced we would carry on as long as the heat and lights held out. To the satisfaction of all, the radiators pinged bravely. Still, the blizzard’s cold seeped through the windows, and we all sat tugging our coats about us, occasionally glancing at the eddies of snow buffeting the courtroom’s narrow windows.

But I had Daisy to warm the cockles of my heart.

Mr. Powers eased into his friendly examination of Daisy. “Miss Emmett, how long have you known the Baroness?”

“Longer than she’s been a baroness,” said Daisy, her charming glance skittering over the jurors’ onlooking faces. “We met in New York in 1891.”

“And how did this meeting come about?”

“I responded to an advertisement for an assistant and companion. May hired me, and I’ve worked with her ever since, with only a few breaks here and there when she didn’t need my services.”

“And have you been pleased with your employment?”

“Oh, yes. May has been very generous with me. She even hired my brother for a while. And gave me money for my crippled mother.”

“Are you acquainted with Miss Frank Shaver?”

“Very well. I accompanied May and Frank on several trips and handled many of their mutual affairs.”

“What do you mean by mutual affairs?”

“They worked together on some projects. Like the remodeling of the Menominee home.”

“Were you present on the Lusitania crossing in early 1914?”

At the mention of this journey, I invariably recalled the shock I’d experienced upon hearing that Germany had sunk the Lusitania. Daisy, Frank, and I had enjoyed a memorable crossing in 1914, and, one short year later, these other innocents met with unspeakable horror. How fickle destiny can be.

“Yes,” Daisy replied. “We all shared a royal suite.”

“And did you manage the expenses for that?”

“Yes, I did. That was one of the things May left to me.”

“Can you explain how the expenses were paid?”

“The suite cost $1,010, and I secured an extra bathroom for us for $140. I paid the total costs of $1,150 out of May’s funds. Frank later insisted that she make some contribution. I told her it wasn’t necessary, but she wouldn’t hear anything of it and gave me $500.”

“You did not ask her for this money?”

“No, I only accepted it at her insistence.”

“Now, you mentioned that Miss Shaver and the Baroness worked together on the remodeling of the Dugas house here in town.”

“Yes, they did.”

“Can you explain how this collaboration worked?”

“It wasn’t very harmonious. May and Frank both wanted to remodel, but they couldn’t agree on details. May was worried the remodeling would cost a fortune and asked me to restrain Frank’s spending ways. But when I tried, Frank said, ‘Leave it to me. This must be a palace.’ ”

“Was the remodeling of the bathroom one such area of differing opinions?”

“Yes. Frank wanted to splurge on a fancy bathtub that cost a thousand dollars. When I told her that was outside the budget, she told me to mind my own business.”

“And did she proceed with the purchase of this costly bathtub?”

“It sits now, fancy as can be, in the upstairs bathroom.”

How I loved my dear friend Daisy. She never failed to cheer me under the most dire of circumstances.

“I believe,” said Powers, coasting along with his examination, “that you and Miss Shaver had occasion to work together on the funeral plans for Mrs. Dugas in October of 1913?”

“Yes, we bought the funeral flowers, and May didn’t know anything about it. We didn’t want to bother her while she was so broken up. The bill came to a hundred twenty-five dollars, which Frank paid.”

“And did you reimburse this expense?”

“Yes, I sent Frank a check for the flowers and she sent me a note saying, ‘Your check received. Thank you.’ ”

Mr. Powers retreated to the defendant’s table, swept up a piece of paper, and brought it to the witness box. “Is this the note you’re referring to?”

Daisy accepted the slip of paper. “Yes.”

“And it’s in Frank’s handwriting?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Powers retrieved the paper from Daisy and slipped it into the empty space in his row of papers. He ambled back to the witness box. “Now, are you aware of any occasions on which the Baroness gifted funds to Miss Shaver?”

“Yes, when we returned from London in early 1914, I remember May handing Frank a thousand dollars.”

“And how do you know this money was a gift?”

“I recall May saying, ‘Here, Frank, spend this however you want.’ ”

“Did Miss Shaver protest this gift?”

“Oh, no. She took it and stuffed it in her bag. She was even a little huffy about it. Afterward, May told me she felt unappreciated.”

“Are you personally aware of any other gifts the Baroness made to Miss Shaver?”

“Oh, there were many. On the 1914 trip—I remember it well, because May kept checking the papers for news about the Mexican revolution—May took her shopping. I went along, too. May bought two new dresses and a pair of shoes for Frank. She wore one of her dresses and the new shoes to the opera the next night. May told her she looked splendid, and Frank thanked her for the gifts.”

“Would it be fair to say that the Baroness was generous with Miss Shaver?”

“Very much so.”

“And did Miss Shaver appreciate her generosity?”

“Mostly. Sometimes I think she felt competitive and tried to outdo May with the gifts.”

“Competitive, you say?”

“Yes, I think it was a game to her. She wanted to prove to May that she had money, too.”

Sawyer, undoubtedly worried about Daisy’s continuing along these lines, pounded a fist on the table. “Objection. Motive is imputed.”

“Sustained,” said Judge Flanagan. “The jury will ignore this remark.”

Powers placed a hand on the witness box and turned to Daisy. “To your knowledge, was Miss Shaver in the habit of bestowing gifts on ladies she favored?”

“Oh, yes, Frank often boasted about girls she’d been involved with.”

“Objection,” hollered Sawyer. “This is immaterial, as well as sweeping and unsubstantiated.”

“Mr. Powers,” said the judge, “I’ll advise you to avoid such broad questioning.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Powers said, then turned back to Daisy. “Did you have occasion to conduct some business on behalf of Miss Shaver with a Miss Nell McDaniel?”

“Yes, I did. Miss Shaver told me they’d been friends for six years, that Nell was a beautiful girl, and that she’d taken her to Alaska. But then the friendship turned sour, and Frank asked me to go to her office and get some things back from her.”

“Did you do so?”

“Yes, I picked up a real-estate deed and some stock certificates from Miss McDaniel, and she told me to tell Frank she was the biggest Indian-giver she ever knew.”

“Thank you, Miss Emmett.” Powers turned from the witness box. “Your witness, Mr. Sawyer.”

Sawyer attempted varied methods to upend Daisy: implying her financial circumstances depended on my own “assets and largesse”; insinuating that she and I were partners in schemes to extricate money; and even referring to her and my brothers as my “henchmen.” (Such an ugly word; Sawyer was certainly crossing the line of civil discourse.) But Daisy handily outmaneuvered him. She smiled through her testimony, kept her hands planted on her lap, and exuded her usual calm aplomb.

Powers responded not by redirecting Daisy’s testimony but, rather, by calling Frank to answer Daisy’s charges. The flowers for my mother’s funeral? Never reimbursed, she said, though she couldn’t explain the note Daisy referred to. What about the thousand dollars I had handed over to her? She claimed it was not a gift but return of a loan, though she had no document to prove this. And the costly home remodeling? She wanted to please me and, besides, she was part owner in the house and expected the remodeling to enhance its value. She even went so far as to contend the bathtub had cost only $140. What about the gifts I had made to her? Those, she exclaimed, were mere trifles compared with the thousands of dollars’ worth of gifts she had showered on me. And in reference to the Nell McDaniel matter, Frank claimed that Nell had reneged on their understanding and that she’d never intended these items to be gifts.

Poor, poor Frank—she was on the run now.