Murder on Mount Monadnock

By J S Winter

When the 20-year old daughter of Vaudeville star Lily Langtreet turns up dead at the foot of Mount Monadnock in the summer of 1910, the local police call it an accident. But residents of the Halfway House hotel, where she was staying, are certain she was murdered and call on retired Boston Police detective Robert de la Tour to help solve the mystery. Robert's journalist brother, Eugene, helps interview the guests, including, Mark Twain, Robert Frost, Red Sox pitcher Smoky Joe Wood, prizefighter Jack Johnson, mystery writer Mary Rinehart and a young Franklin Roosevelt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Surry Cottage Books
• Release date: Oct 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452413723

Book preview

Murder on Mount Monadock

By J.S. Winter

Copyright 2011 by J.S. Winter

Published by Surry Cottage Books at Smashwords

This book is available in a print edition from national publishers or from

Surry Cottage Books

800 Park Avenue Suite 111A

Keene NH 03431

www.surrycottagebooks.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

Monday Morning

We were just finishing our breakfast that morning at the Halfway House Hotel on Mount Monadnock, when Mrs. Blair, the hotel manager, rang the little brass bell hanging on the wall just inside the door that led from the dining room to the kitchen. My brother Robert and I had been finishing our breakfast of blueberry pancakes and at first we didn’t realize that anything was amiss. The bell ringing was part of the usual routine at the hotel and was usually followed by a listing of the available events that would be taking place on the mountain that day. During the past two days, these brief missives had been made to announce guided butterfly identification hikes or the arrival of special guests, and that was what we expected, but this morning we were to discover that it was about a much graver topic.

May I have your attention, everyone? Mrs. Blair asked in a firm, strong voice.

One could hear the sound of forks and knives being set down against the plates after a last bite of pancakes or sip of morning coffee before the the room began to quiet down.

I am afraid we will have to ask everyone to interrupt your normal activities this morning so you can perform an important service. We have a guest who did not return home last night and we need as many of you as possible to form a search party to look for her. It’s young Miss Marie Langtry!

There was a rumble of conversation for a moment. Robert and I were familiar with young Miss Langtry and had spoken to her briefly several times since our arrival. She was a strikingly attractive young woman of about 20 with a diaphanous cloud of fine flaxen hair streaming down her back in a mass of ringlets. She had been staying at the hotel with her mother, the famous vaudeville singer Lillie Langtry, and we had been chatting with her on the porch outside the hotel just two evenings ago. We recalled that she had seemed very knowledgeable about the mountain and had spoken about it in a reverent tone, as one who knew it well, not as someone who was likely to get lost on it.

She hardly seemed to me the kind of person who would lose her way, mused young Franklin Roosevelt, who was seated at our table that morning. He had arrived about a week before us and said he had already participated in a similar search the day after he arrived. There were rumblings of similar conversations throughout the dining room until Mrs. Blair rang the bell again and called our attention to the large map of the mountain at the front of the room.

Normally this map was used to plan out the organized hikes for visitors who weren’t comfortable wandering the mountain on their own. It showed all the major trails stretched out from Dublin in the north to Jaffrey in the south and included many of the less explored and less visited trails that led to places like Pulpit Rock, Paradise Valley, Point Surprise, Hello Rock, the Spring of Eternal Youth and Monte Rosa, the nearby peak with a metal weather vane on its summit, visible from the hotel porch.

The more people we have looking for her, the sooner we will find her, said Mrs. Blair, a somewhat matronly-looking woman of about forty-five with dark hair done up in a tight bun. She had been running the hotel on her own since the death of her husband two years earlier and had proven herself to be efficient and confident if sometimes overwhelmed by the task of running the hotel by herself with only a small staff to help her.

This happens quite often up here at the Halfway House, she explained. With so many trails to choose from that stretch over a wide area, it’s common that newcomers sometimes get turned around in the woods and wander off, unable to find their way back. It’s usually a simple matter of calling out and escorting them back and they are none the worse for wear. But usually it’s someone who doesn’t know the mountain well. But in this case, I’m afraid we have to be prepared for the possibility that Miss Langtry has fallen and injured herself. If that is the case, remember to call for help. You should not try to move her until we can get a stretcher to her. What we’ll do this morning is organize the guests into a number of groups and that way we can cover the entire mountain in just an hour or two.

Again there was the hum of conversation throughout the room, accentuated by the low ceiling, as the guests discussed among themselves whether or not they would participate in the search. This continued until Mrs. Blair rang the bell yet again to ask how many of the guests would be able to join the search party. The three of us at our table immediately put up our hands and Mrs. Blair counted all the raised arms in the room.

Twenty-four, she announced. That should be plenty. We have already divided the mountain into ten search zones, so we will have at least two in each party and three in some. So please choose a partner. The sooner we get started the sooner everyone can return to their previously planned activities. The normally planned hikes will all start three hours late this morning so no one will miss anything. All you have to do is follow your assigned trail and keep your eye out for anything unusual. Then we’ll all meet back here. If you see anything, we will issue each party one of these.

She held up a silver whistle about the size of a person’s thumb, similar to the ones used to start athletic events. There were a dozen of them in a box on the table under the map.

If you hear this, she said, blowing a short sharp blast from the whistle, you can stop searching and come to help the person who made the signal. Each group should choose a leader who should take a whistle and be assigned a search route.

Robert and Franklin looked at me and we nodded, agreeing that we would act as a team. Franklin went up and accepted a whistle and a piece of paper that described the search that was assigned to us. Mrs. Blair rang the bell a final time so she could provide a short description of young Miss Langtry so the search parties could know who to look for.

Although many of you may probably already know our Miss Langtry, Mrs. Blair announced, it’s important for recently arrived guests participating in the search to know that young Marie is a very athletic, though slim, young woman of 20 who has vacationed here each summer since she was a child. She often wears her pale blond hair in a long braid and favors colorful clothing, especially of a light violet color. When she was last seen, she was wearing a cotton summer dress of that color and a wide-brimmed straw hat of the same color. She possesses the continental beauty of her mother, the famous international stage actress and vaudeville performer, Lillie Langtry. Madame Langtry wanted to be here to talk with all of you but she has been overcome with grief and asked me to relay her regrets, but she told me she appreciates your help in locating her daughter.

"Well, mon cher Eugene, said Robert as he looked at me, I didn’t expect to use my tracking skills on this trip, but this sounds like a call to duty. I agree with Mrs. Blair that it seems unlikely that one who knew the mountain so well would get lost on it."

So it’s unlikely that she got lost then, I replied. Perhaps she merely wandered off with a friend and neglected to tell anyone. That is pretty common for someone her age. There was a full moon last night and it was very clear. Before I came inside for bed, I was standing just below the porch steps and felt as though I was in an alpine field, bathed in daylight.

Having concluded her official duties, Mrs. Blair wandered over to our table and overheard part of our conversation.

I didn’t want to say it in front of everyone, said Mrs. Blair in a hushed voice, but yes, I doubt that she is lost. That’s for newcomers. What I fear is that she might have fallen and injured herself. Either way the search procedure is the same. Usually we find someone right away.

Do you know what she was doing out there at night, Madame? I asked her.

Not exactly, Mr. de La Tour, but it wasn’t unusual for her to wander over the mountain at night, especially when there was a full moon. You have to understand that our mountain is quite popular, day and night and in all seasons of the year. There are always people on the summit on nights like that and she loved to talk with hikers. I assume that was where she went, but no one saw her leave and it’s impossible to know which trail she may have taken. She’s a very sociable and outgoing person and she may have met a group of hikers on the summit and gone off with them. There’s no way to tell.

It sounds to me like she takes after her mother a bit in that regard, remarked Robert.

We knew from reading the newspapers that her mother was notorious for collecting rich and famous men and had attracted much attention at the Halfway House with her elaborate and revealing Edwardian costumes and her seemingly endless flirtations with everyone, even the women. I had learned after conversing with her in French for just a short while at tea the previous afternoon that she had been born Emilie Charlotte le Breton on the Isle of Jersey off the coast of France in the English Channel. From the exuberant anecdotes she shared with me while dropping the names of celebrities such as Oscar Wilde and Sarah Bernhardt, it was clear that she had enjoyed the attention and favor of many aristocratic continentals. She was well known as an actress and singer in London twenty years ago, and later found enormous success onstage in American vaudeville theatres. It was impossible to guess her age. I assumed she was in her early 50s, but Robert insisted she was probably younger.

Mrs. Blair went over the map with us, which was called Search Area Number Seven. It started from the hotel on the Thoreau Trail out to Bald Rock and back over the Amphitheatre trail to the Sidefoot Trail, a path which paralleled the main trail back to the hotel.

Robert, Franklin and I returned to our rooms to change into appropriate hiking gear that included our rubber-soled boots and oversize socks, which we pulled up over our trouser legs to keep out the mud and ward off the notorious New Hampshire monster-sized mosquitoes and black flies. Robert wore a corduroy jacket over his blouse while I wore a red wool sweater that I could take off if the day grew hotter. Franklin, as always, was impeccably dressed in a tweed suit and leather boots. The three of us filled our rucksacks with the cold sandwiches Mrs. Blair had provided and stopped at Moses Spring to fill up our canteens with icy cold water that gushed out of the rock. There was always a dipper hanging beside the spring and a funnel that proved useful for the filling operation.

The search parties gathered outside on the lawn beside the three-story Halfway House, with its white clapboards and dark green shutters. We had been introduced to most of the other guests and we chatted with each other as we prepared to depart. It was a foggy morning and we could barely see the little weather vane on the top of Monte Rosa, but we knew from experience that the mist would soon blow off and it would be another warm day.

After some final instructions from Mrs. Blair, each party set off on its assigned route. We began by climbing up a wooden stair case at the back of the hotel that led to a trail junction that included the trails to Hello Rock and the Cliff Walk. We chose the path that led to the Thoreau Trail. Ours was one of the longer search routes, but one of the most scenic. Robert and I had taken the Cliff Walk to Bald Rock the day we arrived and spent some time looking up at the summit through my binoculars, where we had seen many hikers perched on the ledge. Robert was able to look only briefly before his vertigo began to act up and he quickly handed the binoculars back to me before sitting down to catch his breath. Beads of perspiration were dripping off his forehead and his face had turned a pale, wan color.

Although there was still a touch of morning mist, we enjoyed our walk through the lovely red spruce forest filled with the scent of damp evergreen boughs. There was no breeze blowing at all, but dew drops were still sparkling on the grass, catching bits of morning sun, as the trail led away into the woods. Franklin led the way while I stayed in the middle and Robert lagged behind. After we walked up the wooden staircase just outside the hotel, the path became quite steep and, after just a few minutes, Robert indicated that he needed to take a break. Up ahead I noticed a little bench and suggested we stop there. It was a rustic affair, made of logs, much carved with previous hikers’ names. Robert took out his canteen and slowly sipped a long drink. When he was finished, he took out his bandana and mopped his brow and his mouth.

I’ll bet you ten dollars that woman isn’t lost at all! he exclaimed. Dollars to donuts she’s with some old goat sleeping off her wild evening.

Yes, agreed Franklin. She seemed that type to me.

That type of young seductress walks into a room and every eye in the place follows her. Everyone stopped eating when she entered the dining room the last two evenings. Did you notice that? Robert asked.

Yes I agreed. Including you!

"Ça, c’est différent, Robert smiled. I’m a detective. It’s my job to make observations. You never know when what you discover will come in handy."

"You used to be a detective, I reminded him. Remember you are now officially unemployed and nothing but a civilian."

"Nonsense, c’est ridicule! he said. Once you are a detective, you can never go back. It’s like the day you lose your virginity. Once you have that investigative spirit in your mind and in your bones, you are a different kind of person. It’s like being ordained into the priesthood. I may not have an employer at present, but I cannot change what I am. You know that about me from the past, n’est-ce pas?"

"Mais oui, cher frère! So it’s your opinion that she won’t be found, that we are out here chasing a wild goose?"

I would say more of a chicken than a goose, he said. "She’ll probably return with her hair all a mess and full of twigs, and her shirtwaist pulled out of her skirt. She’ll waltz into the dining room as though nothing unusual had happened, and ask what’s for lunch. She’ll be genuinely amused that anyone even missed her. J’en suis sûr!"

I suppose you’re right, I agreed, after a moment’s reflection. But we should carry on. We have a lot of ground to cover.

I’m sure someone will find her, said Franklin. We should not waste this fine morning and enjoy the wonderful scenery. We also need to remember to listen for the whistle. If we are chatting too much we could miss it.

I had known Franklin for about three years. We met when he was editor of the Harvard Crimson. The newspaper staff had invited me to speak to them about the world of journalism and Franklin had impressed me with his sharp intellect and friendly personality. We had stayed in touch since his graduation. Since then, he had taken the New York Bar Exam and had been elected to the New York State Senate. He told me he was visiting Mount Monadnock for a rather short vacation from his duties in Albany. He lived on a large estate in Hyde Park on the Hudson River and was married to a woman named Eleanor, who happened to be a distant cousin, and they currently had two small children. The day I had met him, back in Boston, I had offhandedly asked if he was related to the president, who shared the same last name. To my astonishment, he said he was the president’s cousin! Quelle surprise!

While Franklin usually spent his summers at the family’s summer estate on Campobello Island off the coast of Maine, he told me he had come to Monadnock this summer because he had read the famous poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson and had been told that the mountain was a pleasant spot for its varied trails and ascents. He was an athletic man who scrambled up the mountain every morning and evening, and Robert and I had some trouble keeping up with him this morning. Now, he stopped every once in a while to allow us to catch up while he called out Marie’s name.

The Thoreau Trail was entirely uphill. Robert needed to stop a few more times and Franklin, who was leading our group, had to circle back toward us, but he said he didn’t mind. The trail ended at the Cliff Walk, the route we had taken the first day. There was a sign nearby that identified Thoreau’s Seat, and Franklin and I scrambled out onto it and sat there for a moment, enjoying the view out over what Scott Smith, our guide the first day, had told us was Mount Wachusett, in Massachusetts. We had seen this mountain closer up on our train ride from Boston. Because of his vertigo attacks, Robert declined our offer to join us on the rock and preferred to stand on the trail nearby.

Did you know, said Franklin, that there is absolutely no reason to suspect that Thoreau ever sat on this rock?

But it’s called Thoreau’s Seat, I protested.

Well, I asked Mr. Smith about that and he reluctantly admitted that it was true, said Franklin. It seems that the name is rather an honorary one. The story is that it received its name not because of any association with Thoreau. It was named in his honor. The same goes for Emerson’s seat. The first day I was here, I joyously proclaimed at dinner that I had spent the afternoon sitting where Emerson had sat. After dinner Mr. Smith came up to me and whispered the truth and asked me not to tell anyone! Can you imagine! It turned out Emerson was here only once, in 1866, and never visited this part of the mountain at all. I felt like I should ask for some of my money back!

Well, I don’t really see what difference it makes, said Robert. "Vraiment, a seat is a seat. Maybe someday they’ll rename the rock you are sitting on now ‘Roosevelt’s Seat.’ Everyone would think that Teddy had sat there, not his cher cousin!"

I doubt that very many people in this country would care to sit in a seat named after me, he said with a chuckle. It wouldn’t do much to attract tourists to a place like this. Who would care?

Franklin had a bright, broad smile that made him immediately likable and both of us had taken an immediate interest in him. We had read in the newspapers that although he was a Democrat, he had made it a main focus of his activities in Albany to break the hold of the Boss Tweed machine in New York City. Since Robert and I both considered ourselves crusaders against political corruption, Robert as former chief detective in Boston, and I as journalist for the Boston Evening Transcript and aspiring author, we felt that we shared this idealism with him. He obviously had an aristocratic background and came from a wealthy family.

After a few more minutes of fairly steep climbing we arrived at Bald Rock, or as Mr. Smith had called it on our tour, Pulpit Rock, from the flat rock ledge that leaned out over the valley. From here there was a clear view over to Monte Rosa, the peak with the weather vane on it, and north to the summit, where we could see another search party through my binoculars moving across the rocks. We only stayed a minute until Robert had caught his breath and we were back on the trail towards the Four Spots, a trail junction where four trails met, near the Coffee Pot camp and the trail to Inspiration Point. There were quite a number of deep crevices in the rocks here and each of us took turns looking down into them. We didn’t have to say what we were looking for down there. We didn’t want to imagine seeing Marie’s body. Instead we imagined attempting to navigate this trail in the dark, as Marie might have done. We then took the Amphitheater Trail over to the Sidefoot Trail, which was a steep downhill section that led back to the hotel.

We stopped frequently to listen for a whistle, but all we ever heard were hikers’ conversations from some of the adjacent trails. We had kept a sharp eye out on each side of the trail and often stopped when Robert, who had a keen eye for details, thought he had found something important, but it always turned out to be a bit of birch bark or an unusually shaped rock.

When we were about halfway down the trail, Robert called a halt and went off into the woods, without telling us what he was after. He returned a minute later holding a broad-brimmed purple straw hat. After examining it we discussed whether or not to blow our whistle. The hat was certainly Marie’s but we didn’t want the other hikers to stop their search since we had not actually found her. We decided to spread out from that spot and search the woods carefully for any other trace of her.

After a half hour we gave up and set off down the trail to the hotel. We passed by the Noble Trail and the Hedgehog Trail, which were being searched by other parties and finally ended up in the front yard of the hotel.

As we stepped out from under the trees into the clearing we noticed that the sun was now hidden behind some dark clouds and it might not turn out to be such a fine day after all. We left our sturdy hiking sticks at the usual spot against the porch at the bottom of the stairs and went through the front door into the little office.

This was the center of operations at the hotel and had a fancy cast iron wood stove in the center and a glass-covered display case against one wall that contained autographed books from all the famous authors and other notables who had stayed here, as well as a number of souvenirs such as a pair of boots that once belonged to President Ulysses S. Grant and a signed note card from Edward Everett Hale, the author of The Man Without a Country. But the most prized artifact, hanging on the wall above the case, was an autographed photo of Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Mrs. Blair was at her desk on the other side of the room, surrounded by racks of picture post cards of the mountain and the hotel and pennants bearing the mountain’s name and the hotel name on them. From the dejected look on her face, it was clear that no one had found Miss Langtry.

Robert placed the straw hat on the counter and Mrs. Blair picked it up and examined it.

Yes this is hers. Where did you find it?

Robert explained the origin of the hat and told her that we had searched the area around it extensively.

What I think is that she lost it coming up or down that trail, he said. It’s somewhat unusual for a person to lose her or his hat without being aware of it. It could happen if she was running for some reason or if there was a strong wind that blew it off. It could also have been that she was being chased by someone and didn’t bother to retrieve it.

All but one of the groups is back, she stated. We’ve heard from all except the group that went over the summit to the Pumpelly Trail, and now it looks like it is going to storm, so we may not be able to go out again this afternoon.

I looked out the window and surely enough, there were large black thunder clouds moving in from the west.

It’s possible that, if she has been injured, she may not be on the trails, but farther back hiding under the trees for protection, said Robert. "It’s going to take longer, je pense."

I think that will have to be the next step, she said. But it may have to wait until tomorrow. As much as I hate the idea of that poor girl out there in the rain, I have to think about the other guests. Many of them are inexperienced hikers and, please believe me, the rocks can get very slippery here when it rains. We don’t want to add to our troubles.

Has anyone thought to check if she was staying with someone else, someone in town perhaps? She may have neglected to leave a note or tell anyone. Has her mother suggested any friends nearby?

Her mother has checked on that, using the telephone in town to call her friends, she said. "Mrs. Elizabeth Timlow, Marie’s former private school headmistress, just happens to be here and she gave Mrs. Langtry a list of friends