“I can’t help but think this has something to do with Brady and your going around asking questions,” Jesse said when I’d finished.
“I think that’s fairly obvious.”
Standing behind me, Nanny nudged the back of my shoulder. “Don’t get sassy.”
“Still, I haven’t questioned very many people at all,” I pointed out. “And when I think of who I have questioned, I can’t believe any one of them would try to silence me like this.”
“Whom have you spoken to?” Jesse held up his empty teacup as Katie approached with the teapot. She filled it and slipped quietly away.
“No one who would try to kill me, I’m sure of it.” When he scowled his impatience, I began ticking off names, beginning with the most recent. “Jack Parsons, Theodore Mason, my cousin Neily, Grace Wilson—”
“Who?”
Oops. There was no good reason to drag Miss Wilson into this; all I would accomplish would be to possibly shed guilt on Neily and further aggravate the tension between him and his parents. But Jesse would not be deterred.
“Did you say Grace Wilson?”
“You’ve heard of her?” I asked evasively. “Stunning, isn’t she?”
“I’ve heard of her family. What does she have to do with any of this?”
“Oh, well . . . she’s a friend of the family . . .”
He was already shaking his head. “I doubt that very much, based on what I know about Alice Vanderbilt’s standards when it comes to whom she allows into her social circle. The Wilsons may be swimming in it, but they aren’t ‘old money’ like the Vanderbilts or the Astors. So what’s her connection?”
“She’s, uh, a friend of Neily’s,” I tried.
Again, he shook his head. “The heirs of great fortunes do not have female friends, Emma. They have debutants determined to marry them.”
Nanny came around and resumed her seat on the sofa. Her eyes narrowing to crescents, she smirked at me. Obviously I had greatly underestimated Jesse Whyte’s powers of observation. “All right,” I conceded, “she’s more than a friend. But the matter is a personal one and I really don’t think—”
“Everything to do with your family right now holds significance in Brady’s case.”
My pulse thumped. “Are you saying you believe Brady’s innocent?”
He hesitated, looking as though he regretted what he’d just all but admitted. He exchanged a glance with Nanny, who was still smirking like she knew a secret, and sighed. “I took a good look at that dent in the frame of Mr. Vanderbilt’s balcony door. I think you’re right, the candelabrum couldn’t have made a depression of that size. That doesn’t absolve Brady, mind you, and the prosecutor would be easily dissuaded. However . . .”
“Yes?” My teacup rattled in its saucer.
“I just can’t make myself believe Brady Gale could actually commit murder.” He shook his head, the lamplight playing on his hair. “Not good old Brady.”
In all the danger and upset that night, I forgot to give Jesse one vital piece of information. I’d seen a number stenciled on the rear bumper of the carriage that tried to run me off the road. I wasn’t able to make out the exact digits, but the fact of its being there constituted what could prove a valuable detail in discovering the driver’s identity.
That morning I awakened with a stiff neck and a bruise on my shoulder that prevented me from being able to reach around and button up the back of my dress. Katie helped me, dressed my hair, and even worked a bit of magic across my nape with a light-fingered massage. I’d just finished a breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs when noises from the driveway sent me to the front of the house. From the parlor window I recognized Hank Davis, the wheelwright from Stevenson’s Livery in town, driving his mule and work cart toward the house while towing my buggy behind. I went out to meet him on the drive.
“Good morning, Mr. Davis. How bad is the damage?” I also wondered with no small trepidation at how much it would cost.
“Axel was busted. I replaced it with a new one and stuck on a temporary wheel to get the thing home, but don’t recommend driving on it.” The man tipped his hat, then jumped down from the seat. He hitched up his overalls once his feet hit the ground. “I should have a new wheel for you by tomorrow afternoon.”
“No sooner, I guess?”
“Sorry. If I coulda fixed the old wheel, I woulda, but it’s just too bent, Miss Cross. You don’t want to be shimmying around on the road, now, do ya?”
After what I’d experienced last night, the answer to that was a resounding no. “Thanks for bringing the rig home, Mr. Davis.”
“No trouble a ’tall. How ’bout I tow it ’round back and put her in your barn?”
“I’d appreciate that, thank you.” He climbed back onto his cart, but before he set the mule in motion, I placed a hand on the traces. “Mr. Davis, would you know if anyone . . . peculiar . . . leased a carriage last night?”
He frowned and tugged at his hat brim. “Peculiar how, Miss Cross?”
“Well . . . either peculiar in that they might not normally need to lease a vehicle, say, one of the quality here for the summer who already has a carriage house filled with vehicles. Or may be someone who didn’t seem to want to be . . . recognized?” Realizing how ridiculous that sounded, I wanted to cringe.
“Now, that’s a funny notion, especially in a town the size of Newport. But you’d have to ask Stevenson about that. I don’t take much notice of the folks leasing carriages.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” I mumbled. Well, then, I’d just have to go into town and ask Mr. Stevenson myself. No, I amended, I’d tell Jesse about the numbers, and he would speak with Mr. Stevenson. Yes, that was safer and made more sense. But then again, when did I ever listen to my better sense?
I had another reason to go into town today anyway. I wanted to question the landlady at Theodore Mason’s boardinghouse. He’d claimed to be in his room during the night of the ball, reading. I hoped the landlady might be able to corroborate his alibi, at least enough to confirm that she never saw him go out.
The question was, how would I get to town? How would I get anywhere in the next day and a half?
A plan presented itself to my mind, but it wasn’t one I relished. If I asked my relatives for the use of one of their carriages, they would inevitably ask questions. Aunt Alice would be more than happy to supply me with a buggy and driver—after I explained why I couldn’t use my own . . . and after I told her what I intended doing in town. Not to mention after she insisted on accompanying me.
It was either borrow a carriage or wait. I didn’t dare call Jesse on the telephone to tell him about the leasing numbers because one never knew who might be on the line, just listening. . . . Besides, my baser instincts were getting the better of me. I wanted to snoop around the livery and see what I could find out for myself. Ducking into the alcove beneath the stairs, I lifted the telephone’s ear trumpet from its cradle and cranked the call box.
“Morning, Gayla,” I said when the operator came on the line after a jangle and a few electrical pops.
“That you, Emma? How you doing today? How’s your brother?” I heard the sympathy in her voice even over the static in my ear. Like Adelaide, Gayla had been a longtime school friend of mine.
“He’s holding up, thanks for asking.”
“Are your parents coming home?” This time a clear note of censure laced her tone.
“I wired them the other day. Still waiting to hear back. Listen, Gayla, could you connect me to The Breakers?”
“Sure thing, dearie. One sec.”
I heard a series of clicks, and then Bateman, the acting head butler at The Breakers, bid me good morning.
“Hello, Bateman, it’s Miss Emma. I wonder if you might do me a favor.” Would I be so lucky as to bypass having to speak with my aunt or uncle and have Bateman grant my wish? “My buggy needs repairs and I need a vehicle today—”
“Please hold, Miss Emmaline.”
My stomach sank. A moment later, a second
voice came keening over the line. “Emmaline? Good morning, dear!”
I jerked the ear trumpet away from my head. Aunt Alice never did quite get the hang of speaking on the telephone. She seemed to think one needed to shout as if across a great distance. Gingerly, I brought the trumpet back up to my ear and spoke—much more quietly—into the mouthpiece. “Hello, Aunt Alice. I don’t mean to disturb your morning. I just wondered if I might borrow one of the smaller buggies. I don’t need a driver . . . just going into town . . .”
“Gladys and I can be along to collect you in half an hour. Will that do?”
“Oh, but . . .” My protest died on my tongue. I knew better than to argue. It would only waste time and in the end the results would be the same. Instead, I agreed, hung up, and raced upstairs to smarten up my appearance. I’d dressed in a rather plain brown carriage outfit that morning, but now I switched it for the sapphire blue with the velvet braid and jet buttons. As I smoothed the jacket’s flounced peplum and straightened the collar, I was once again grateful for Nanny’s talents in keeping my wardrobe presentable. I’d neither shame my wealthy relatives nor prompt Aunt Alice to feel obligated to purchase new clothing for me—or send over Gertrude’s castoffs. While I valued my cousins’ kinship, I never wanted their charity. We Crosses—and Gales—took care of ourselves.
And each other. That last thought sent me down the stairs at a run, just in time to see the black victoria carriage with the swooping V’s emblazoned in its sides rolling up the driveway. I yelled my good-byes to Nanny and Katie, and bounded out the door.
“My goodness, you’re in a hurry this morning,” Aunt Alice called from inside the posh vehicle. Her window was open and Gladys leaned over her mother to peer out.
My frustration in having unwanted company for my errand was immediately tempered by the excitement shining in the girl’s eyes. I saw she had dressed her hair with extra care that morning, eschewing her usual spiraling curls for a more subdued—and grown-up—coif that left only a few tendrils to dance beneath her wide, beribboned hat.
“Goodness, Gladys, don’t you look mature,” I exclaimed as the footman handed me into the carriage. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were eighteen at the least.”
Aunt Alice harrumphed her disapproval, leading me to imagine the debate that had preceded Gladys’s new hairstyle. But Gladys herself could not have looked more pleased.
“Don’t you remember, May Goelet wore her hair this way at the luncheon on the afternoon before her coming-out ball. I was allowed to go to the luncheon,” she added with a proud lift of her chin.
Aunt Alice rolled her eyes and harrumphed again. “I wasn’t at the luncheon,” I gently reminded Gladys. “It was in New York, and I was here.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Well, I’ve wanted to wear my hair this way ever since.”
“And very becoming on you, it is,” I said enthusiastically. To my great surprise, Aunt Alice didn’t ask me any questions, not even about why I needed transportation that day. My cousin continued to chatter on, though I noticed she avoided any references to the most recent social event—her sister’s coming-out ball. I wondered how much had been explained to her. Once I caught Aunt Alice’s eye over the bobbing flowers on Gladys’s hat. Her eyebrows twitched closer and she gave a slight shrug. And as the girl’s voice continued to fill the vehicle, I found myself longing to be her age again . . . to be free of all responsibilities. Suddenly the weight of seeing Brady exonerated seemed impossible to bear. I wanted to shrink beneath the burden, simply let my knees give way and allow the cards to fall where they may.
“We’re almost to town,” Aunt Alice said with a glance out the open window. “Where to, Emmaline?”
In the echo of her no-nonsense voice, I knew I had to answer her. I had to make a plan. I had to save my brother. There would be no sinking beneath any burden, no matter how weighty. No challenge was too great for a Vanderbilt, and I was a Vanderbilt, after all.
“The livery first,” I said decisively. “Then the police station.”
“Oh. Yes, yes, of course.” Aunt Alice’s lips turned down as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. I can’t imagine that she had ever tread in either sort of place. “I suppose it can’t be helped. But why the livery?”
I raised my eyebrows in innocence. “One of my buggy’s wheels went wobbly on my way home last night, which is why I needed a vehicle today. I need to . . . check with Mr. Davis if the new one is ready yet and pay him.” I knew very well the new wheel wouldn’t be ready yet, and beneath a fold of my skirt I crossed my fingers as children do to ward off the transgression of a lie.
“Mr. Davis?”
“The wheelwright, Aunt Alice.”
“Ah. You know, Emmaline, this is one more reason you shouldn’t be driving your own buggy. You might have swerved off the road and gone straight into the ocean.”
She didn’t know the half of it.
Aunt Alice rapped on the roof, and when her driver opened the trap to peer in at her, she said, “Take us to the livery, please. . . .” She paused and looked over at me. “Is there more than one in town?”
I clarified which establishment I needed to visit and minutes later we arrived, my relatives looking puzzled but vaguely interested in the workings of such a mundane business. I wondered what to do next, how I might evade their curiosity for a few minutes at least. Then an unexpected miracle occurred.
“Great thundering Zeus, is that who I think it is?” the owner, Percy Stevenson, exclaimed from inside the shack that housed his office. I heard a chair scrape, something solid, like a book, hit the floor, and through the window I saw Mr. Stevenson scrambling to button his coat, slick his hair down, and cover it with his derby. In another moment he came hurrying outside. “Mrs. Vanderbilt! A pleasure, madam. A very great pleasure, indeed. And such an honor. What . . . what can I do for you on this lovely morning?” His expression turning to horror, he reached up and snatched the hat he’d just placed on his head. He whisked it to his side, nervously patted his thinning hair, and sputtered something about excusing his manners.
“We’re here on behalf of my niece,” my venerable aunt all but barked, her lips curving downward. The footman helped us out. As we arrived Aunt Alice had told Gladys to wait in the carriage, but now the girl climbed out anyway. She peered all around her, looking like a cheerful flower amid the dust and clutter of the stable yard.
“Is that a forge?” she asked, pointing into the shadows of a lean-to. “Is that where the horses are shod?”
“It is, Miss Vanderbilt.” Mr. Stevenson tipped a bow. “Would you like to see?”
“She most certainly would not.” Aunt Alice clasped her hands together, her purse dangling from between them. “We’re here about a new wheel for my niece’s buggy. Is it ready?”
“Oh, I . . . I’ll have to check . . .” The proprietor scratched at his chin and looked uncertain as to what he should do next.
“Then I suggest you do just that.”
Aunt Alice’s terse command set his feet in motion. He disappeared between the farrier’s lean-to and the shed that housed the carriages for lease.
“I want to see the horses,” Gladys announced, and without pausing scurried through the stables’ open doors.
“Gladys! Gladys, come back here this instant!” Aunt Alice bustled after her, her high-heeled boots raising a small cloud at her hems that the laundry maid would have a terrible time with later. “They aren’t like our horses at home,” she called after her daughter. “These are dirty creatures. . . .”
Did I mention a miracle? It occurred in that moment, for I suddenly found myself all alone. Wasting no time, I strode into the shack and slipped behind the counter where Stevenson did business. There were several ledger books resting on the rough oaken surface, along with a padlocked cashbox that appeared bolted to the counter itself. My attention went to the largest leather-bound book; it sat open with a pen resting in the crease of its pages.
My fingers trembling, I cast a gl
ance out the window, then through the open door. I listened, hearing voices that were too far-off to herald anyone’s imminent approach. Looking down at the page, I began scanning the entries scribbled along each printed line. Names, followed by dates and carriage numbers. Quickly enough I saw that there hadn’t been any rentals so far that morning. I flipped the page to yesterday’s entries but saw no familiar names, nothing that struck a warning bell. My gaze swept to the left, to the page from two days ago. My heart began to pound.
Chapter 10
Jack Parsons’s name wavered in my vision as my temple began to throb. Then my eye landed on another that caused me to suck in a breath: Derrick Anderson. I went utterly still, my gaze darting back and forth between the two. And then a third name caught my eye, vaguely familiar . . . In the next instant recognition leaped from the page to virtually grab me around the throat.
It was not a name I would have known even a few short weeks ago, but at the beginning of the summer, Neily had hired a new valet—a man named Owen Darville. His signature stared up at me from the page.
There were other familiar names, of course, some belonging to summer visitors who moved in my relatives’ social circle. Leasing vehicles wasn’t unusual. Newport was part of Aquidneck Island, and since most of the quality arrived by steamer, the expense of bringing a carriage along for a mere week or two often outweighed the benefits, even for wealthy individuals.
Yet, the coincidences in this case were piling up too high to be innocuous. All right, Jack Parsons had every reason in the world to lease rather than bring his own carriage; after all, he was also renting the house he was staying in and had no permanent ties to Newport. The same could be said about Derrick Anderson, who claimed to be here researching an article about powerful businessmen. Although when I’d met him outside Adelaide’s house the other day, he’d been on foot.
Could he have leased a carriage for one specific purpose . . . say, to run me off the road? Far-fetched? Perhaps, but despite his denial, I still felt he’d been following me that day, for reasons that somehow had to do with the charges against Brady.
Murder at the Breakers Page 14