Murder at the Breakers

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Abandoning my tea and plate of barely touched biscuits, I snatched up the paper.

  Lifelong Newport resident Stuart Braden Gale IV was arrested at The Breakers early Thursday morning on charges of brutally beating Alvin Goddard, financial secretary to Cornelius Vanderbilt II, and pushing the defenseless man to his death from a balcony poised some twenty feet in the air. Though Mr. Gale denies the charges, all evidence points in his direction. . . .

  With a cry of disgust I slapped the paper to my lap. I didn’t need to read the byline; I knew who wrote the sensationalist piece: Ed Billings, my fellow reporter at the Observer, a man possessing few scruples when it came to getting “the scoop.”

  “He wasn’t anywhere near The Breakers that night. Mr. Shipley, the gatekeeper, would not have let him in,” I complained bitterly, remembering the much more accurate and tempered article I’d written. The one Mr. Millford had turned down with a proverbial pat on my head.

  “Who wasn’t at The Breakers that night, Emma?”

  “My nemesis, Ed Billings. It doesn’t take many powers of observation to see he got his information secondhand or even thirdhand and then exaggerated, embellished, and dramatized the facts.”

  “I’d say thirdhand,” Mr. Parsons said. “No one at the ball would have deigned to speak to a reporter, unless it was one of the servants.”

  “And that’s hardly likely after Mr. Mason’s dismissal. They all must be terrified for their jobs.”

  “So what are you doing here, Emma?”

  A lie very nearly sprang from my tongue, something about being out walking and happening upon Mr. Mason. But perhaps Aunt Sadie gave me a nudge from beyond, because I remembered her courage and my own vow to take the direct approach.

  “I came to see you,” I said evenly. “Brady told me you’d leased a house on Lakeview, so I decided to try my luck in finding you. Mr. Mason happened to be outside as I rounded the corner.”

  “Fortunate. What can I do for you?” Concern entered his expression. “Do you need money? For Brady’s case?”

  “No, nothing like that,” I said quickly and dismissively. “Although this does have to do with Brady. Mr. Parsons—”

  “Emma,” he interrupted with a flick of his hand, “you’re all grown up and I’m an old family friend. Don’t you think it’s time you started calling me Jack?”

  “Oh, I . . .” His deep brown eyes held mine, and something in their dark depths flustered me and made me stumble over my reply. Suddenly his chiseled, patrician features held me immobile while the mingled scents of hair tonic and shaving soap burrowed like fine brandy inside me.

  Apparently, certain elements of that old schoolgirl fascination lingered to muddle my senses. I clasped my hands, bit down on the insides of my cheeks, and refused to succumb another moment to Mr. Parson’s—Jack’s—charms.

  Good heavens, a man old enough to be my father.

  “All right, if you insist. Jack . . .” The sound of it on my lips sent heat to prickle my cheeks, but I plowed on. “Brady tells me you’re an investor in the New Haven-Hartford-Providence line Uncle Cornelius has been secretly planning to purchase.”

  Jack’s sensual charisma drained away as his gaze flared with surprise. “So much for secrets, not with you around. Does your uncle know you’re aware of his business dealings?”

  “What my uncle knows isn’t the point. It’s who else knew, and did that person set my brother up?”

  “How so?”

  “Jack,” I said more easily this time, “I know Brady went to you with the idea of stealing Uncle Cornelius’s plans for the line and attempting to outbuy his buyout.”

  “And you think what, Emma?” His voice had hardened to that of a stranger’s. “I told Brady it was a lousy idea.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything.” Yet, I refused to back down. “You met with Uncle Cornelius and Mr. Goddard during the ball.”

  “Your uncle often mixes business with pleasure. There was a small group of us who met in his office that night. So what?”

  “Did tempers flare at that meeting?”

  “Not that I remember. But we weren’t there to discuss the New Haven-Hartford-Providence line—” He broke off, frowning.

  “What? Do you remember something that might be significant?”

  He compressed his lips a moment. Then, “I’m not sure if it’s significant, but Halstock was fuming about something. Wasn’t about the buyout, though. I think it had to do with his Hudson shipping routes.”

  “What about them?”

  “He and Cornelius were arguing in whispers when I entered the office. I could only make out a few words and I could be wrong, but it seemed Halstock was accusing Cornelius of stirring up competition among the smaller, local shippers. Maybe they’ve been cutting into Halstock Industries’ revenues.”

  For an instant I seized upon the notion of another suspect. Then I remembered Rupert Halstock’s condition. “Or it could be that Mr. Halstock is confused,” I said sadly, “and doesn’t realize what he’s saying.”

  “Could be . . . although that night he seemed more himself than he’d been in weeks.”

  Had he? Or did Jack want me to believe it? A wave of mistrust washed over me as I considered that Jack might be attempting to cast suspicion onto Rupert Halstock . . . and away from himself.

  “Can I ask you one more question?” When he showed me a half smile of consent, I drew a breath and dove in. “Uncle Cornelius is in possession of a pocket watch etched with the initial P. A very costly watch. Is it yours?”

  “Why on earth would Cornelius Vanderbilt have a watch that belonged to me?”

  Answering a question with a question usually signified evasion. I leaned forward. “Many reasons. It might be collateral on a loan or an out-and-out payment for . . . who knows?”

  “You are a suspicious one, Emma,” he said with a laugh. Reaching into his vest pocket, he withdrew a timepiece every bit as expensive looking as the one in Uncle Cornelius’s safe. “As you can see, my own watch is right here. I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at, but really, Emma, if it weren’t Brady’s life at stake here, I’d be deeply hurt by the implications of these questions. But if I can do anything to help you or Brady, I’m only too willing.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack. But as you say, it’s my brother’s life at stake.” I came to my feet. “I’ll be going now. Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for understanding.”

  He walked me to the door, bending to deposit a kiss on my cheek before bidding me a good day. It was only as I made my way back to Adelaide’s house to collect Barney and the rig that I realized he’d never answered my question of whether the watch belonged to him.

  Chapter 9

  Adelaide must have been watching out her windows for me, because when I returned to collect my buggy, she came scurrying out to meet me on the drive.

  Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her eyes agleam. “Well?”

  Not for the first time, I tried to hide my impatience with her. “Well what?”

  “Was your mission a success? Did you learn anything useful?”

  “Really, Adelaide, you’ve got to stop reading those adventure stories.”

  She took hold of my arm. “Come inside. Stay for supper.”

  “Thank you, but no. I really should be getting home. Nanny might worry what’s become of me, and since you don’t have a telephone here . . .”

  “Oh, bother Nanny. Surely you don’t answer to your servants, Emma.”

  I slid my arm free and dug in my heels. “Nanny is much more than a servant. She’s like a grandmother to me and—”

  “Oh, forgive me, do. But I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll just send one of the footmen over to Gull Manor with a message to let her know.” She reclaimed my arm, linking her elbow through mine and steering me toward the front door. “Now tell me as much as you can, without divulging the most secret details, of course. . . .”

  I spent the remainder of the afternoon and early evening w
ith my old friend. Her questions about my investigation continued, making me sorely regret ever confiding in her. Not that I could blame her, really. Her chatter and her short, nervous motions as we sat down together for an early supper—without her husband—were all too telling when it came to Adelaide’s emotional state. I sensed her balancing on a narrow and fragile precipice, and securing my company for supper had been her attempt to latch on to security and steadiness, if only temporarily.

  Dusk was settling over Bellevue Avenue by the time I drove Barney out through the gates of Redwing Cottage. With the long shadows of the mansions and the overhead branches plunging the road into an artificial twilight, I was glad I’d lit my carriage lanterns, and glad, too, that Barney never hurried above a walk even on the brightest afternoon, much less in the growing darkness where he might miss his footing and stumble. I didn’t take any shortcuts along less inhabited and darker streets, but kept to Bellevue Avenue until it ended and Ocean Avenue curved along the sea.

  By now Bailey’s Beach was deserted, the tide dragging ribbons of foam high onto the sand, the windows of the bath houses shuttered. Just past Hazard Road I heard the grind of a carriage pulling up behind me. I thought little of it until the approaching rumble built to a rolling thunder accompanied by the staccato beat of hooves. Someone was certainly in a hurry, and I attempted to hug the roadside as closely as possible to let them pass.

  They didn’t pass, but instead pulled up until their horse practically nudged my rear bumper. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder, and through the opening between my canvas roof and the back of my seat I saw that the animal wore blinders. Of the driver I saw little; he sat deep beneath his own canvas roof, bundled in a hooded cloak.

  That struck me as odd on a night as balmy as that one, but maybe the individual sought to keep the briny air from settling into his hair and clothes. I turned around again and tried to signal him, but Barney stumbled and I swung around to face front. My fists tightened around the reins and my arms stiffened with the strain of holding him steady. Ocean Avenue twisted and turned, its surface pitted and scarred from the constant bombardment of storms. The drive required my utmost attention, especially now.

  Jarred by movement to my right, I jumped in my seat. The other horse had inched up between my buggy and the swale along the roadside. Was the driver drunk? My heart pounded at the thought, and then the front of other carriage smacked my rear right panel, sending me skidding sideways. Barney stumbled again and let go a whinny. My heart now in my throat, I tightened my fingers around the reins until they ached, and attempted to keep Barney on the road.

  My pursuer came relentlessly along my right side, forcing me farther and farther to the left. Into the middle of the road I swerved . . . then into the left lane. If anyone came now from the opposite direction, we’d hit head-on. My carriage lanterns swung wildly, making the road appear to toss and buck around me. We reached a bend, the other carriage beside me now, and though I could look over directly at the driver, all I could make out were his silhouette and the edges of his hood.

  But this much I could surmise: He was not drunk. Even in my brief glimpse I saw that he sat too steadily and drove his horse in too determined a manner.

  No, definitely not drunk.

  “Why are you doing this?” I shouted as my left wheels struck the rocks separating the road from a drop of about four or five yards, and then more rocks, jagged and spiky, that met the ocean waves. The jolt shook my bones and rattled my teeth together. Barney felt the impact and neighed, a high-pitched screech nearly drowned out by the grinding wheels and the thrashing ocean that was close now . . . too close.

  The other vehicle hit mine again and the shove sent me sliding across the seat. Reaching up, I caught myself on the spokes that supported the canvas roof and stopped my momentum before I might have tumbled out. The offending carriage fell slightly behind and then struck again . . . and again. My arms were shaking now, my hands throbbing, my lungs burning and ragged. My buggy shuddered and skidded; a splintering crack rent the air. Both carriage lanterns flew off their hooks and shattered on the road. In the sudden darkness the world seemed to teeter. Ocean and sky and boulders tumbled in my vision. I sucked in a breath and waited for the impact, thinking of poor, loyal Barney, who might be fatally injured, who didn’t deserve such a fate.

  And then . . .

  Everything stopped. My buggy came to a tilted halt. I was wedged in the corner of the seat, and to my left I could see nothing but the coal gray gleam of the darkening ocean. All that separated me from the water were the sharp boulders and a narrow spit of sand. I didn’t move, didn’t dare for fear the carriage would continue tipping, falling onto those rocks, taking me and dear Barney along with it.

  In my shock I’d nearly forgotten we weren’t alone. The stamp of a pair of boots hitting the ground sent my fears to clog my throat again. What did this person want? I’d never carried a weapon before, but how I wished I’d stored Aunt Sadie’s revolver beneath the seat, as she used to do. Through the gathering twilight the individual strode toward me. Frantically, I looked about for anything I could use as a weapon. If I reached out of the carriage, could I grasp a rock from the ground without sending us over the brink? Holding my breath, fingers shaking violently, I stretched out my arm.

  To my dumbfounded astonishment, my pursuer suddenly about-faced and scampered back to his carriage. Only then did I become aware of a new set of carriage wheels approaching from behind. Narrowing my eyes, I tried to make out what I could of the carriage that had run me off the road. I saw plain black panels with no distinguishing marks except . . . there, on the left rear corner, were numbers stenciled in white. I struggled to make them out. . . .

  The vehicle was well out of sight around the next bend by the time the police wagon pulled up beside me, its lanterns illuminating the road and my lopsided buggy. A familiar voice hailed.

  “Emma? Good God, are you all right?”

  “Jesse . . .” My voice came out as reedy and frail as a newborn kitten’s.

  “Don’t move or you could tip the balance. I’ll get you dislodged from those rocks.”

  “I think my left wheel is broken,” I offered unnecessarily, for the damage to the leaning rig must have been obvious. “See to Barney first, please . . .”

  I needn’t have bothered. Jesse Whyte already had a hand wrapped around Barney’s harness and was making soothing sounds in the animal’s ear.

  “It’s all right, now. There’s a good boy.”

  “Is he hurt?” I called out.

  “I can’t tell for sure until we get more light on him, but he seems calm enough. Are you hurt, Emma?”

  I took a quick survey. Twinges in my neck and shoulder promised to ache in earnest come tomorrow, but there didn’t seem to be anything wrong that wouldn’t heal. “I don’t think so. Can you get us back upright?”

  His answer was to coax Barney into taking a few careful steps. The carriage creaked in resistance before it lurched and rolled a foot or two forward. I held my breath and clenched my teeth. The damaged left wheel wobbled beneath me as it cleared the rocks, but luckily held beneath the rig’s weight. I was back on solid, flat ground, and damned happy about it.

  “Go after him, Jesse,” I urged. “He tried to run me off the road!” I bit back one of Aunt Sadie’s favorite swear words, then let out a sigh. “He’s gotten away, hasn’t he? While you were helping me, he put enough distance between us—”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. He had his hood up and in the dusk . . .”

  “Did you see where he came from?”

  I struggled with my thoughts a moment, then remembered. “Yes! He turned on from Hazard Road. Which means he might have cut over from Bellevue. Jesse, I was just on Bellevue. Whoever it was might have been following me for the past . . . who knows how long.” The notion sent chills up and down my back. “If only you could have followed him.”

  “It’s not like I would have left you hanging half out over the o
cean. If I hadn’t come along when I did—” He broke off with a shudder. “A lucky thing I happened by.”

  “What are you doing all the way out here? Were you coming to see me at home?”

  “I was. I had a few more questions for your uncle and—”

  “Was it about the dent in his balcony doorway? Have you learned something new?”

  “It was just a couple of questions concerning the guests, Emma, nothing more.

  “Oh . . .”

  “Anyway, I thought I’d swing by and check in on you on my way back to town.”

  I reached across the buggy seat to touch his shoulder. “Thank you, Jesse. That was very kind of you. Not to mention providential. Good heavens, when I think what might have happened.” I glanced over at the edge of the road and the ocean beyond.

  He offered his hand to help me down. “If you’re sure you’re all right, we’ll get your rig onto the other side of the road, and then I’ll unhitch your horse and tie him behind my wagon. Once I get you both home, you can tell me exactly what happened.”

  “It all went by in a blur. I’m not even sure what I remember.” I sighed again as my feet touched the road. “I guess the buggy stays here tonight?”

  “It’ll have to wait until morning, I’m afraid. I’ll send the wheelwright out first thing.”

  Need I describe how Nanny fussed over me when I arrived home and explained what had happened? I’d almost rather have kept my brush with the Atlantic Ocean to myself, but how else to explain not only my lack of buggy, but my police escort and the fact that Barney was tied to the back of his wagon? There was nothing for it but to grit my teeth and accept blanket, pillows, footstool, hot-water bottle, and a strong cup of tea—with a wee splash of brandy.

  To be honest, Nanny’s attentions helped sooth away my remaining jitters. Anger soon replaced fear, and determination outweighed any temptation to stay safely at home from now on. As I related each terrifying moment to both Jesse and Nanny, my gumption grew.