Murder at the Breakers

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Oh, but not Jack Parsons. He was one of my father’s oldest friends, had often taken my family sailing on his yacht, had sent yearly birthday gifts for Brady and me, and taken me on the front of his saddle when I was small and urged his horse to a careful canter, much to my delight. Besides, if someone were angry enough to murder over Uncle Cornelius’s planned buyout of the New Haven-Hartford-Providence line, wouldn’t they have gone, not after the administrator, but the mastermind of the project?

  Uncle Cornelius. For the first time I wondered if the murderer hadn’t made a mistake in that dark room. . . .

  “Stop it, Em.”

  I snapped out of my reverie to be confronted by Brady’s scowl.

  “This is exactly why I didn’t mention Jack in the first place. I can all but smell the smoke coming off your brain as the wheels grind. As much as I want out of here, I’m not about to incriminate an innocent man.”

  “Neither am I,” I promised. “But Jack may know something. He may have heard something significant, even without realizing it. We should at least speak with him.” I purposely used we, hoping to distract Brady from the fact that I alone would continue the investigation. “Where is he staying?”

  His expression told me I hadn’t fooled him. “He leased a house on Lakeview Avenue.”

  “Good. That’s not far from The Breakers.”

  Leaving Brady with strict orders to enjoy his leftovers and not to worry—too much—Nanny and I returned to Gull Manor. I needed to think, and the lull of the waves and the bracing scents of the sea always helped steady my mind.

  I discovered an unexpected visitor waiting for me at home.

  A clearly nervous Katie ran out from the kitchen as I pulled the carriage round back. “Mr. Neily is here, miss. He arrived about a quarter hour ago. I offered him tea, but he wasn’t wantin’ any.”

  “Thank you, Katie. Where is he?”

  “Right here.” Looking impossibly tall in our kitchen doorway, he stepped out to the yard. Something in his expression prompted me to steel my nerves with a deep breath before leading him back into the house and to the sunroom that stretched alongside the kitchen garden, forming an L with the main part of the house. Battered sofas and worn tabletops vied for space with potted plants, oriental vases, and a bronze statue of some Tibetan garden goddess whose name I didn’t know. Aunt Sadie had had a taste for all things exotic. Beyond the wide bay windows overlooking the ocean, whitecaps and wispy clouds mirrored each other. Closer to the house, Katie climbed into the carriage and steered Barney into the barn.

  “This is a surprise, Neily,” I said with a breeziness I didn’t feel. “What brings you here? Oh, have you seen your parents yet? They’ve been worried. Wondering where you’ve been.”

  “I can handle my parents.” He moved past me to the center of the room and stopped, removed his hat, planted his feet, and blatantly ignored my gesture that he take a seat. “What are you doing, Emmaline?”

  To pretend I didn’t know what he meant would have been to insult his intelligence. “Miss Wilson and I ran into each other at the dressmaker’s shop. Afterward, we had tea together.”

  “And discussed the murder, and me.”

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “Brady is innocent, Neily, and I intend to get to the bottom of things.”

  “By frightening my fiancée?”

  I sucked in a quick breath. “You’re engaged? She didn’t mention that. Only that your parents didn’t approve of her.”

  “Unofficially engaged, and, no, they don’t. Not that it matters.”

  “Doesn’t it? She told me they’d hinted at cutting you off, and that your father put Mr. Goddard in charge of having you watched.”

  Neily snorted. “Do you think either would stop me?”

  I walked to the windows, then turned back around to face him. Now, with the light behind me and shining directly on him, I could read his features more clearly. “If you’re disinherited . . . how will you live?” He opened his mouth, but I held up a hand. “Don’t tell me Grace’s dowry is enough. I know you, Neily, and I can’t imagine you living off your wife’s money.”

  “I can work, Emmaline. I was practically raised in Father’s offices. I know the railroad business inside and out, and if I have to go looking for employment, I will. Someone would hire me, if only to stick it to Father.”

  “Then you weren’t furious with Alvin Goddard?”

  A muscle worked in his cheek. “Furious? Yes. But not with Goddard. He is—was—only Father’s lackey.”

  Goose bumps erupted on my arms as those words brought back my earlier question. Had Uncle Cornelius and not Mr. Goddard been the intended victim? I schooled my features. “Then you won’t mind answering a question about that night.”

  He held out his hands, waiting.

  “After Mr. Goddard fell—or was pushed—I went running back to the ballroom. Yours was one of the faces I searched for, but I didn’t see you anywhere even though the rest of the family was toasting Gertrude. Where were you?”

  “Below stairs.”

  That’s what Miss Wilson had told me. “Alone?”

  His eyes sparked. “No.”

  “Neily . . .”

  “I can’t believe you’re accusing me of murder, Emmaline. You’ve known me all your life.”

  Yes, but when I finally found Neily that night, he’d come up behind me, not from the service stairs, but from the direction of one of the Great Hall’s two staircases, both of which led to the second floor. Or had he come up the service stairs, entered from the service hallway, and made a circuit of the room first, swept up in the tide of guests streaming into the dining room? Just then I had no way of knowing.

  “I’m trying to get at the truth,” I said. “I’ve known Brady all my life, too, and I know he didn’t commit the murder either.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” He slapped his hat back on his head, a gesture of finality. Helplessness filled me as I watched him stride to the doorway. In all honesty, I couldn’t believe he was any more guilty than Brady, but at the same time I felt him withholding . . . something. An idea suddenly occurred to me. “Neily, wait.”

  He stopped and turned, his expression setting strict limits on how much time he’d allow me.

  “There is something you can do to help. Can you open your father’s safe?”

  His expression sharpened. When he started to shake his head, I plowed on. “If Brady didn’t do it, and you didn’t, then it might have been one of the investors in the New Haven-Hartford-Providence line.”

  “The police have those documents.”

  “Yes, as evidence against Brady. But are you going to tell me there aren’t copies?” His silence gave me my answer. “I’ll also need to see the guest list for Gertrude’s ball so I can compare the two.”

  “Emmaline, don’t you think the police have already done that?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. They believe Brady’s guilty. Even Jesse Whyte has his doubts; I can see it in his eyes. Any further investigating is for appearance’s sake only.” I pinned him with my sternest gaze. “You know as well as I that Brady makes a convenient scapegoat for a social circle that protects its own.”

  “Surely you don’t believe men like my father would try to protect a murderer.”

  I went on staring; it was my turn to let the silence speak for itself. Men of my uncle’s caliber protected each other for the simple reason that they each harbored secrets not even their families could imagine. Release even the slightest hint of one of those secrets, and the whole of their carefully erected empires could come crashing down. So, yes, to safeguard those empires, I believed they’d even protect a murderer.

  The murmur of the waves and the cries of the gulls, present all along, seemed to fill the room with their oppressive echoes. Neily dropped his gaze, contemplating the floor tiles. Slowly, he nodded and very softly said, “You’re right. And if the Four Hundred have decided Brady must go down for this crime, then down Brady will go.”

  M
y heart thumped a painful beat. “Then you’ll help me?”

  Neily didn’t answer. He simply turned and left, leaving me to stew for the rest of the afternoon. At about ten o’clock the next morning my telephone jangled, nearly causing me to spill coffee down the front of my dress. My nerves buzzing, I ran to the alcove beneath the stairs to pick up.

  “Father’s playing golf at the country club,” Neily said in a rush that was barely audible through the ear trumpet. “Mother and Gladys have gone down to Bailey’s Beach, and Gertrude is in town shopping with Esther Hunt. I’d say you have at least an hour and a half before anyone returns home.”

  “What about Reggie and Alfred?” I whispered into the mouthpiece. I didn’t want Nanny to overhear that I was about to cross a line with my investigation, and with my conscience.

  “Alfred left about ten minutes ago. He was dressed for tennis.” An apologetic note worked its way through the staticky wires. “It’s not that they’re taking the murder and Brady’s arrest lightly, Emmaline. It’s just that no one really has the stomach to hang about this house right now. Not all day, at any rate.”

  “I don’t blame them. What about Reggie?”

  “He’s somewhere on the property, but don’t worry about him. He’s been sulking lately, keeping to himself.”

  I immediately thought of Reggie on the night of the ball. He hadn’t been sulking then . . . but he had been drinking, secretly. Concern prickled across my shoulders. Reggie had always been a mischievous child, but also an engaging one. The thought of him drinking on the sly and withdrawing from his family was a troubling one, and I wondered if I could manage both to search Uncle Cornelius’s safe and have a word with my younger cousin before the family returned home.

  Neily snapped me back to priorities with a terse, “Hurry, Emmaline. I won’t be extending this offer again.”

  I was calling for Katie before I’d even replaced the ear trumpet to its cradle. We harnessed Barney in record time and, without bothering to change into a suitable carriage gown, I set out. From Ocean Avenue I turned onto Hazard Road to avoid driving past Bailey’s Beach, where Aunt Alice and cousin Gladys might happen to see me. From Hazard I headed east on Ruggles Avenue, which cut over to The Breakers. As I was about to cross Bellevue, however, a carriage traversed my path and a voice called my name.

  The open curricle stopped directly in front of me, blocking my way across the avenue. From the passenger seat behind the driver, Adelaide smiled and waved. “Good morning, Emma. Visiting the relatives?”

  Oh, dear. What if she happened to run into Gertrude and her friend Esther in town? Would she mention she’d seen me on my way to “visit family” in an almost empty house? I’d much rather no one but Neily knew of my errand today.

  “I . . . uh . . .” I couldn’t come up with anything believable, so I said, “How is your husband feeling today?”

  “Noticeably better, thank you.” Despite the optimistic words, she looked decidedly uneasy as she darted a gaze over her shoulder. Then she turned back to me. “If you’re not visiting family today, why not come into town with me? You could leave your rig at Redwing Cottage.”

  Sighing, I clucked to Barney and steered him onto Bellevue so that my carriage came up alongside Adelaide’s, albeit on the wrong side of the street, so now we were blocking the street in both directions. This was my old friend, after all, and we local Newport girls stuck together. “Can you keep a secret?” I whispered as I leaned out across the space between us. She nodded eagerly, and I continued. “I have an errand today, one that has to do with Brady, and I need to get to The Breakers as soon as possible.”

  She cast a quick glance up at her driver’s straight back. “A secret errand?”

  “It is. And that’s why I must ask you not to mention that you saw me here. Can you do that for me, Adelaide? For old time’s sake?”

  “Of course, Emma.” She reached over and clasped my gloved hand, giving a firm squeeze. “You can always depend on me. If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

  “Just that. Mum’s the word, yes?”

  She released my hand and raised her own to her mouth, making a motion as if securing a button. We bid each other good-bye and she moved on. I continued down Ruggles. Soon I was passing through the vast iron gates and up the curving drive. Conveniently, Shipley, the gatekeeper, was nowhere in sight, and I could only guess that Neily had given him a task somewhere else on the grounds.

  Neily met me outside. “Hurry. There’s no one upstairs right now. The bedrooms have already been tidied and the maids are occupied below stairs.”

  Taking me by the hand, he hurried me inside and up the closest set of stairs to the upper gallery. As this overlooked the Great Hall, we dashed across the landing and ducked quickly into his father’s suite. There he released me, shut the door, and wasted no time crossing the room. The safe, I saw, had already been unlocked: He swung it open and gestured me over.

  “I’ve already looked through,” he murmured, “and I didn’t find any copies of the investor list. He probably left the original in New York. But I knew you’d want to see for yourself, so go ahead. I’ll go listen at the bedroom door. If I hear anyone coming, we’ll slip outside onto the balcony.”

  The notion sent a chill up my back when I considered what had transpired between the last two people to set foot on that balcony. I shook the notion off. I was here with Neily. I was safe.

  Right?

  Another thought struck me. Had Neily removed anything from the safe before I arrived?

  Chapter 7

  With both hands I began sifting through the papers in the safe. There were two shelves inside plus the floor of the safe, though the bottom section was taken up by some half-dozen small boxes, some wood, others covered in leather or velvet. To satisfy my curiosity, I opened each one and peeked inside at items such as jewelry, both Uncle Cornelius’s and Aunt Alice’s, keys, and several gadgets and gages whose use eluded me, but which I assumed were train related.

  Quickly, I turned my attention to the upper shelves, pulling out binders, ledgers, and sheaves of paper. The notebooks contained little besides numbers—schedules, mileage, timetables. The papers included stock statistics, real-estate records, and references to the various lines of Uncle Cornelius’s New York Central. But I found nothing mentioning the New Haven-Hartford-Providence Line or its investors.

  Just as Neily had told me.

  “Are you finished?” he hissed from across the room.

  Over my shoulder I gazed up at him, pinned him really, with a look of suspicion.

  “What?”

  “You looked through before I got here,” I said evenly.

  “And?” He paused as his expression went from puzzled to defensive to outraged. “Come now. Surely you don’t believe I’d invite you over here if I intended to hide anything from you. I could have just refused to open the safe.”

  I supposed that made sense. I stared at him another moment, thinking about the Neily I’d known all my life: the Neily who possessed little guile, who tended to wear his heart on his sleeve. “Sorry,” I said, and turned back to the safe.

  “You’d better finish up, Emmaline.”

  “One more minute.” For a good portion of that minute I sat back on my heels and stared into the blackened innards of the safe. I returned my focus to the jewelry cases as the image of an etched letter formed in my mind, something I’d seen while opening the boxes but paid no heed to. . . .

  I pulled a case from the middle of the stack and opened it. There, at the very top of the glittering pile sat a pocket watch with the letter P engraved at the center of a medallion on its cover. By the thickness of the chain, and the weight and warmth of the metal against my palm, I judged the piece to be solid gold, probably twenty-four karat.

  My heart raced as I pondered whom that P could belong to. Not Cornelius Vanderbilt, nor his father, William Henry, nor his father, the first Cornelius. I thought of Aunt Alice’s side of the family, but her father’s name was A
braham Gwynne. I could think of no relative with the initial P.

  What would Uncle Cornelius be doing with a valuable watch that obviously wasn’t his? The answer seemed simple: Someone had given it to him. But not as a present. A present wouldn’t bear the wrong initial. This had to be collateral on a loan, or the payment of a debt—from someone whose name, either first or last, began with P.

  My mind snatched at a possibility: Parsons.

  Jack Parsons.

  “I found something.” I held up the pocket watch for Neily to see. He left his position at the door and came closer. “Have you ever seen this before?”

  He bent over me, frowning as he regarded the design. “No, never.”

  “See the initial?”

  “P. So?”

  “So why would your father have such an item locked in his safe?”

  “I couldn’t say. Put it back and let’s get out of here.”

  Twisting, I glanced up at him. “I don’t suppose I could—”

  “Have you gone mad? Of course you can’t. Put it back now.”

  “It might be a clue.”

  “Look here, Emmaline.” He straightened and set his hands on his hips. “You came for a list of investors. You didn’t find it, so let’s go.”

  I’d never heard him sound so much like his father before. Reluctantly, I set the watch in with the rest of the jewelry and slipped the case back into its rightful place between the others. As I stood, the sound of carriage wheels crunched on the drive. Neily grabbed my arm.

  “Come on!”

  Knowing it would be futile to outrace whoever had just arrived home, we made no attempt to run down to the library or one of the parlors, but instead headed out onto the second-floor loggia. I threw myself onto a chaise lounge and tucked my skirts neatly around my legs. Neily took up position at the balustrade, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other shoulder leaning against one of the pillars that supported the loggia’s six impressive arches.

  “Act natural,” he ordered. “Talk about something.” His face was flushed, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. I hadn’t realized how unsettled he’d been while I conducted my search.