But staring up at me was also that third name, Owen Darville. Had the servant himself needed a carriage—which seemed unlikely—or had my cousin sent him to obtain transportation that would be unrecognizable to anyone who knew him? Maybe to visit Grace Wilson without setting her neighbors’ tongues wagging. Or maybe to send me a not-very-subtle message last night—to mind my own business and stop investigating.
I restored the pages to their original positions and hurried back outside. Aunt Alice and Gladys were just then stepping out from the stables, the former looking none too happy.
“Really, Gladys, that’s no way for a lady to behave. I should lock you in your room when we get home.”
“Oh, I just wanted to see the horses, Mama. I wanted to see if they were happy or not.”
Her mother waved a dismissive hand in the air. “What a ridiculous notion. Horses happy! What nonsense have you been reading lately?”
“Neily told me that most hacks lead unhappy lives, and that our horses are very lucky to be privately owned and taken such good care of.” The girl looked back at the stables over her shoulder. “But these horses didn’t look terribly miserable. I suppose Mr. Stevenson is nice to them.”
“Oh, hurry along, child. Emmaline? Emmaline, where are you?” Alice’s voice rose an octave as she singsonged my name. “Now where did that girl disappear to?”
A few feet outside the shack, I halted and stood with my hands clasped behind my back as though idly biding my time for Mr. Stevenson’s return. “Here I am, Aunt. Still waiting to discover if my wheel is ready.”
At that moment the proprietor came loping into the stable yard. “Hank says your wheel won’t be ready till tomorrow, Miss Cross. Said he told you that this morning.”
Indeed, he had, but I pretended surprise. “Dear me, I must have misunderstood. Tomorrow you say?”
“Sorry, but it’s been a busy week here. Lots of repairs lately. I hope you understand.”
I started to assure him I did, but Aunt Alice spoke over me. “We most certainly do not. However, if it can’t be helped, tell us what we owe you and have the wheel sent out to my niece’s residence tomorrow the very moment it is ready.” She started to open her purse.
“Oh, Aunt Alice, that isn’t necessary. I can—”
“Bah, Emmaline. You’re as poor as a church mouse; don’t try telling me you’re not. If you won’t let me supplement your income, at least allow me to lift the occasional unexpected financial burden from your shoulders.” She raised an eyebrow and pinned Mr. Stevenson with a sharp gaze. “Well, sir, how much?”
“Oh, er, that’s very kind of you, Aunt Alice. Thank you. . . .” She briskly waved away my gratitude. Gladys and I left them to settle the bill, and I fervently hoped Aunt Alice wouldn’t bargain the man down so low he couldn’t make a profit. As we climbed back into the carriage Gladys began telling me about the horses she’d seen, but my mind drifted to what I’d learned and what I needed to do next, if only I could manage a few hours without Aunt Alice chaperoning my every move.
Since I couldn’t count on a second miracle in the same day, for my next stop I wagered on what I knew about Aunt Alice. Through the little window that slid open to allow the passengers to speak to the driver, I told the man where to head next. Aunt Alice’s lips thinned with distaste as the carriage came to a stop outside the Harbor Hill Boarding House.
“Good heavens, Emmaline, what are we doing here?”
“Who lives here?” Gladys interjected merrily, straining to see past her mother and me.
“This won’t take but a moment.” I opened the door and started to slide out. From the rear of the vehicle the footman hopped down, ran to my side, and held out a hand to help me down.
Aunt Alice, only inches away in her effort to follow me, deepened her frown. “This isn’t the sort of place folk like us typically visit, Emmaline.”
“Well, it’s the sort of place folk like me visit, Aunt Alice.” My hand secure in the footman’s, I paused to explain, “I’m a Cross, don’t forget, and a Newporter to boot. And I’m here to deliver a message from Nanny O’Neal—you remember Nanny—to Theodore Mason. They’re old friends, you know.”
“Theodore Mason!” She slid back to the middle of the seat, drawing upright against the squabs. “That thief!”
Beside her, Gladys let out a nervous giggle. I caught the gleam in her eye; the child probably hadn’t had this much fun on an outing with her mother in . . . forever.
“I know circumstances shed a certain amount of guilt on Mr. Mason, but he may not be the culprit you think he is. Besides, I promised Nanny I’d stop by.”
“Couldn’t she call on the telephone?” Aunt Alice mumbled between clenched teeth, but I’d already stepped down from the carriage and was marching up the front pathway to the front door.
A disheveled young boy answered my knock, and before I could get a word out he about-faced and shouted into the depths of the hallway behind him. The German lady I’d met previously came shuffling in from a doorway off to the side.
“Yah? Ah, it’s you again. Have you not found Herr Mason?”
“As a matter of fact, I have, but I have a question I’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Depends upon the question.”
“Do you know what happened at The Breakers the other night?”
“Yah, everybody knows. A man died.”
“That’s right. And I believe Mr. Mason was still living here at the time.”
“Yah, he was.”
“Would you happen to remember if he went out that night?” My heart pounded at the magnitude of my boldness. For Brady, I reminded myself.
A lengthy pause ensued. Just when I thought she’d decided to slam the door in my face, she tilted her head. “I think I don’t like to answer that question. Herr Mason is my tenant. He pays me to keep his room even when he is not living here. You do not.”
She’d called my bluff. Or had she? I drew myself up as tall as I could and arranged my features in my best imitation of Aunt Alice’s scowl—which I’d perfected after years of practice. “Do you know who I am?”
The woman shrugged as if to say she didn’t care.
“I am Emmaline Vanderbilt Cross. Do you see that carriage waiting for me?” I gestured behind me without taking my eyes off her. “Do you see the V on the crest?”
“Yah . . .” She seemed less certain of herself than a moment ago.
“Do you know who is inside that carriage?”
She shook her head almost imperceptibly, a smidgeon of fear flashing in her eyes.
“That is Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt II. Mr. Mason’s employer.” All right, so I stretched the truth a little, since the family no longer employed Theodore Mason. The landlady drew a gasp, and I decided to stretch even more. “These questions I’m asking are on Mrs. Vanderbilt’s behalf. And believe you me, when she wants answers, she does not relent until she has them.”
Yes, when it suited me, I knew good and well how to be a Vanderbilt.
“Ah, well . . . that . . . that is another story. Why did you not say so?” The woman’s eyes were wide, and she tried to glimpse the figures inside the carriage from over my shoulder. “Herr Mason . . . ah . . .” Her eyebrows knitting tight, she paused and thought a moment. “Yah, he went out. I remember he had his supper and went out the back door.”
“What time?”
“I . . . er . . .” I noticed she’d balled the edges of her apron in her fists, much like Katie had done when I’d asked her questions she didn’t want to answer. To speed things along, I glanced at the locket watch hanging around my neck. She released the next bits of information in a torrent. “It was late. He had a late supper . . . nine, ten? I don’t remember exactly. He often eats late. A lot of my boarders do. They work long hours,” she added rather defensively.
I didn’t bother asking her if she knew where Mr. Mason had gone that night, for I could think of no good reason why he would have told her and then
lied to me about going out at all. I thanked her and made my way back to the carriage, to Aunt Alice’s disapproving looks and Gladys’s bubbly desire to know what the lady and I had talked about.
“Never you mind,” her mother chastised.
Whatever other tensions played out between mother and daughter were lost on me; I was too busy thinking about what I’d seen in that ledger book and what Mason’s landlady had told me—troubling revelations all—and once again figuring out what to do next.
Sometimes Aunt Alice was entirely predictable, and that morning I managed to use it to my advantage. But at other times she surprised me . . . and made me love her all the more.
“Aunt Alice,” I said as we entered town once more, “why don’t you and Gladys go and have lunch at the Casino or the country club while I visit with Brady.”
“Don’t be silly. We’ll all go.”
“All of us?” I stole a peek over at Gladys, who was practically bouncing up and down on the seat. “Aunt Alice, you didn’t want Gladys going into the livery stables.”
“We’re going to the jailhouse?” my young cousin squealed.
Her mother briefly took on a pained expression. “Gladys, hush.” She turned back to me. “Yes, we are going to visit Brady. Horses are one thing, but family is quite another.” Raising a fist, she rapped on the ceiling and, without waiting for the coachman to open his little window, called out, “The police station next, please.”
“But what will Uncle Cornelius say?” I fretted.
“Leave that to me.”
When we arrived, she insisted Gladys and I wait in the carriage while she disappeared into the building, accompanied by the footman. My stomach twisted into knots of impatience and a fear akin to that of a child caught breaking a particularly hard and fast rule. I couldn’t imagine Uncle Cornelius being amenable to our visit here, not by any stretch.
And then a thought I hadn’t considered struck me an even more fearsome blow. What if Jesse was there and happened to mention last night’s incident to Aunt Alice? If she found out from him, the shock of my almost being run off the road would be compounded by my having concealed it from her. And then I wouldn’t have a moment’s peace, or a moment’s independence, for the rest of the summer at least, if not well beyond that.
“I can’t believe I’m going inside a jail,” Gladys happily chatted, craning her neck for glimpses of the white building with its peaked roof and columned front porch. While the structure didn’t exactly inspire fear or foreboding, Gladys apparently had other ideas.
“I’ll wager the cells are pitch-black,” she said half-breathlessly, “with only slim shafts of light coming through the bars high up on the windows. Do you think the walls are covered in moss and dripping with gook, and . . . oh!” She turned a scandalized gaze on me. “Will there be rats scurrying about?”
“What?” I shook my worries away as her words registered. “Gladys Vanderbilt, don’t let your mother hear you talk like that or you won’t be leaving the house for the rest of the summer.” I twisted the strings of my purse in tight little nooses around my fingers. What was Aunt Alice doing? Dared I hope Jesse wasn’t here? I turned back to Gladys. “And it’s no to all of your questions, by the way. Brady is being held in a jail, not a dungeon.” Though it might as well be the latter, I silently admitted, remembering the forlorn look on his face the last time I’d seen him.
Some fifteen minutes later, I heard the clatter of high-heeled footsteps ricocheting down the walkway. I sucked in a breath. The footman swung my door open and Aunt Alice leaned in, one hand on the wide brim of her silk-flowered chapeau. “It’s all arranged. Come along, both of you.”
When she didn’t shoot me a reproving stare, I breathed a sigh of relief. Inside, we were led through a door marked Captain Edward Rogers, Chief of Police. The man was nowhere in sight, but Jesse stood beside the desk, one hand resting on the holster of his sidearm; seated to his left was Brady. At the sight of us he came to his feet, all smiles.
Gladys launched herself into his arms, and I found myself blinking away a tear or two as he lifted her off her feet and she planted a big kiss on his cheek. I noticed even Jesse shuffling his feet and staring hard down at the floor. I tried to catch his eye. When he finally glanced up, I nodded toward Aunt Alice and mouthed, Please don’t tell.
I didn’t have to elaborate. He set my fears to rest with a reluctant nod. I let go a breath.
Brady placed Gladys back on her feet and leaned over her to right her bonnet, which had slipped askew. “Good to see you, cupcake.”
“I don’t believe a word they’re saying about you, Brady,” she declared in a stage whisper. “I know they’ll have to free you soon. And then will you take me for a trolley ride down to Easton’s Beach and buy me an ice cream?”
“You can count on it, sweetie pie.” He chucked her chin. Coming up behind Gladys, Aunt Alice nudged the girl aside and tipped her cheek for Brady to kiss, which he did a good deal more sedately than he’d kissed her daughter, but with no less of a smile. “Thanks, Auntie. This sure is a nice break from the back rooms.”
By back rooms I knew he meant the jail cells. My turn came next, and as Brady’s arms went around me I realized this was the first time I’d been able to hug my brother since this nightmare had begun, and since even before that. Tightening my hold on him, I silently vowed to hug him each and every day once he was free.
“You’ve only got ten minutes,” Jesse informed us. “Then Captain Rogers wants his office back. I’ll wait outside.” He flicked a glance at Brady. “Right outside the door, so don’t get any stupid ideas.”
“Excuse me one moment,” I said quickly, and before Aunt Alice or Brady could ask me any questions, I slipped out behind Jesse.
Grasping his arm, I walked him a few paces away from the door. He glared at me suspiciously, prompting me to roll my eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to distract you while Aunt Alice and Gladys spring Brady. I just don’t want them to overhear what I have to say.”
He chuckled at that and gestured for me to continue.
“I remembered something about last night that might be important.”
“Can you identify the driver of the other carriage?”
“No, but it was definitely a leased carriage. There were numbers stenciled on the rear bumper.”
“And what were they?”
“Well, it was too dark to see them clearly . . .”
“Then I fail to see how that will help, Emma.”
“I went down to Stevenson’s livery today and had a peek at his registration ledger.”
“Emma!” Though whispered, the admonishment made me flinch nonetheless. “How many times do I have to tell you to leave the investigation to the police? This isn’t a game. It’s dangerous, and last night should have taught you—”
“I know, I know. But what harm could come of peeking into a ledger. Besides, there were a couple of names that might be of interest. Jack Parsons and Owen Darville—who happens to be Neily Vanderbilt’s new valet. He might have leased the vehicle for Neily and—”
“Emma, are you telling me you think Jack Parsons or Neily Vanderbilt might have run you off the road last night? And possibly killed Alvin Goddard?” His voice held a note of alarm.
The wind immediately left my sails. Was I truly ready to incriminate Neily or Jack without more evidence? “No,” I said to the floor at my feet. “It’s just . . .”
His arm went around my shoulders. “I know. It’s Brady, and you want to see him exonerated. But I need more than the fact that Mr. Parsons and your cousin’s valet leased vehicles. For all you know, Emma, the carriage that followed you last night might have been leased in Middletown or Portsmouth.”
“I hadn’t thought of that . . .” I blew out a breath laden with defeat.
“I’ll look into it, though,” he assured me in that kindly tone I’d heard from him numerous times since this nightmare had begun. “It could be a lead, however small.”
“Thank y
ou,” I said, and went back into the office.
Brady and Aunt Alice cast me curious looks but didn’t ask questions. Gladys did most of the talking, and Brady seemed more than content to sit back and listen to her banter about a book she was reading and other small matters that tend to occupy a thirteen-year-old girl’s mind. I stole the opportunity to observe him closely. He looked tired and drawn, the shadows beneath his eyes a worrying shade of blue. I noticed his fingertips trembled when they weren’t clutching the arms of his chair. I wished I could have offered him a sip of brandy, because he looked like he could dearly use it.
Finally, a soft knock at the door and then Jesse sticking his head into the room signaled it was time to leave. As we headed back out to the carriage, I let Gladys skip a few paces ahead before leaning closer to Aunt Alice. “Do you believe in Brady’s innocence?”
She didn’t hesitate a beat. “I believe in innocent until proven guilty, and I’ll let the police determine the matter.”
“But Uncle Cornelius seemed so . . .” So convinced of Brady’s guilt, or at least convinced Brady must take the fall for Alvin Goddard’s murder. But I couldn’t bring myself to utter either possibility.
“Cornelius tends to see things in black and white. And granted, he’s correct about a lot of things, but he’s wrong about a lot of things, too.” With that, Aunt Alice continued on to the carriage, imperiously holding out a hand for the footman to assist her inside.
On the way to the sprawling lawns and stately proportions of the Newport Country Club, I saw something that made me want to order the driver to an immediate halt. Of course, I couldn’t; I had to clench my teeth and continue on to a four-course luncheon that seemed interminable. But as Gladys exclaimed over the family of foraging rabbits visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows and Aunt Alice attempted to fill me in on the impending nuptials of Consuelo, another Vanderbilt cousin, I could think of nothing else but the sight that had caught my eye as we’d driven past Waite’s Wharf. It might not have anything to do with Brady’s case, but it occupied my mind nonetheless.
Murder at the Breakers Page 15