by Mary Kruger
Charlie joined him. “Same man, though.”
Matt grunted in agreement. It was likely that this latest murder had been committed by the same person. Even if the rose hadn’t been left as a signature, the similarities between this case and the others were obvious. All the girls had been strangled, probably by a man, possibly left-handed, judging by the size of the bruises left on their throats. All had been left on the Cliff Walk; all had been maids, in the employ of the summer people, and all apparently had been alone when attacked. Other than that, they had little in common, not their appearance, not their nationalities, not even their activities before their untimely deaths. One had been returning from a secret tryst with a lover who worked at another mansion; another had visited friends; the third had gone out only for a brief walk. “We don’t know if he chose them because he knew them, or if it was at random,” Matt said. “They all struggled, but that doesn’t mean he was a stranger.”
“Not much physical evidence, either.” Charlie pointed to an area on the sketch showing the overview of the crime scene. Faint lines indicated a scuffle, and what might be a man’s footprint. A plaster cast of it had confirmed that guess; it belonged to a man wearing heavy work shoes that showed little sign of wear. It could have been any man’s footprint, but its nearness to the body was suspicious. It did not, however, belong to Tom Pierce; his shoes were larger than those that had left the print. “It’d be a job interviewing men who are five seven, five nine.”
“Anything strike you about those shoes, Charlie?”
“What?”
“They were new.”
“So? He needed new shoes.”
“Or he bought them for this purpose.”
“So we interview left-handed men who recently bought new work shoes.”
“He could have bought them in New York.”
“You do like to make things tough, Cap.” He pointed to another part of the sketch. “What about the roses?”
“What about them?” he said mildly, wondering if Charlie had noticed the same thing about the roses he had. Tripp obviously hadn’t.
“I was thinking, we should check with florists-”
“Or anyone with a hothouse.”
“But no one around here can afford hothouses except florists or the cottagers, and-” Charlie’s head whipped around. “Jeez, Cap, are you thinking it’s one of the summer people?”
“Those weren’t wild roses, Charlie. Doesn’t that make you wonder?”
“Jeez. That’s going to cause a hell of an uproar. You could lose your job if you annoy the wrong people.” Charlie let his breath out through his teeth. “You told the chief?”
“This morning.” He smiled, without mirth. “He wasn’t pleased.”
“I’d say not. It’s tough enough dealing with the summer people. How do you think they’re going to react if they find out you suspect one of them of murder?”
Matt didn’t answer right away. He had a good idea how they would react. It could cost him his job. But, still. Four girls killed. “I have a bad feeling about this. Four murders in four weeks, all unsolved. Our man must be feeling pretty well satisfied with himself. I think—I hope—he’ll get careless.”
“And kill again?”
“I hope not. No, I was thinking more on the lines of bragging, or knowing too much about the crimes. God help us if he does kill again.”
“Detective.” A patrolman stuck his head around the doorjamb. “There’s a lady here to see you. A Miss Cassidy.”
Charlie and Matt exchanged looks. “Now what the hell is she doing here?” Matt muttered. “Okay, bring her in.”
Brooke took a deep breath as she entered the small, dingy office. Though she hadn’t been in the police station since her parents’ death, it was all familiar: tired-looking detectives and patrolmen in their blue wool uniforms; the clamor of voices raised in despair or anger; smells of moldering paper, bitter coffee and human misery. Talking to Matt yesterday in the safety of Belle Mer was one thing; coming to see him at the police station was quite another.
Matt rose as she entered, shrugging into his jacket. “Miss Cassidy,” he said, not smiling. “What can I do for you?”
“Good morning, Matt. Sergeant.” She smiled at them both; only Charlie responded. “I thought we weren’t going to stand on ceremony.”
There was a long pause. “Is there something you need, Brooke?” Matt asked, finally.
“Well.” She sat down, her back very straight, her hands playing with the clasp of her handbag. She had decided to come here after attending services at Trinity Church, and had dressed accordingly. Wanting to look businesslike and serious, she had chosen her beige linen walking suit with the brown velvet collar and a matching small toque hat. Yet, in this world of men, she felt out of place. “I heard something last night I think you should know. In fact, I heard several things.”
“At your party?” he said, brows lowered.
Brooke raised her chin. “Yes. Something that could be important.”
“Something important.” Matt leaned back in his chair, bracing his head on his hands. “And just when did you hear it? During the dancing, the supper, or the circus?”
“The circus, actually,” she said, refusing to be goaded by his casual attitude, or his sarcasm. “One of the maids heard something on the Cliff Walk.”
“So?”
She gripped her small leather purse tighter. She would not lose her temper. She would not. “It was the night of one of the murders, the third one. She was on the lawn and she heard someone going by say, ‘That’s number three’.”
“Jeez,” Charlie said. “Did she see who it was?”
“No, but-”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Matt interrupted. “It could mean three waves, or three people, or-”
“Or three murders,” Brooke retorted, finally losing patience. “I don’t know why you’re so angry at me-”
“I’m not angry.”
“-or why you’re behaving this way, but I think this could mean something. Whatever is bothering you, you shouldn’t let it interfere with your investigation.”
He sat forward, the legs of his chair banging down. “Don’t lecture me,” he said, in the soft voice that more than one miscreant had learned meant danger. She met his glare with her chin up, determined not to be the first to look away. “I’ll do my job my way.”
“Really. Without letting your personal feelings get in the way?”
“My personal feelings?” His smile was ironic. “Right now I have no feelings, one way or the other.”
Brooke rose jerkily, pulling on her gloves. “I don’t know why I bothered. If this is the way you interview people, it’s no wonder you’re not getting anywhere.”
“Jeez, Cap,” Charlie said. “This is what I warned you about.”
Matt gave him the same look he’d earlier given Brooke. “I’ll handle this, sergeant.”
“Yeah?” Charlie appeared undaunted. “If Miss Cassidy has something to tell us, I think we should listen.”
“Never mind, sergeant.” Brooke smiled at him. “He’s just like his father, a bullheaded Mick.”
Matt stood as quickly as she had, and Charlie let out a burst of laughter. “You’ve got that right, miss. I-”
“Sergeant,” Matt said, in that same quiet voice, and Charlie subsided. For a moment there was tense silence in the room, and then Matt ran a hand through his hair. “All right. Sit down. You might as well tell us whatever it is.”
“How kind of you.” Brooke sank gracefully into the chair, her chin still raised. She knew what was wrong, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Matt hadn’t forgiven her for her decision five years ago, after the death of her parents, when she had chosen to live with her aunt and uncle rather than with his family. “I’d think whatever Annie heard is worth investigating. Especially since she heard the voice last night at Belle Mer. One of our guests.”
Matt’s head snapped up at that, affording her great satisfaction. �
�One of your—who?”
“She doesn’t know. She thinks she’d recognize the voice again, though.”
“Jeez,” Charlie said, looking at Matt.
“Will she talk to us?” Matt asked.
“She doesn’t want to, but, yes, I’ll see to it that she does.”
“This is the same Annie we talked to the other day?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Matt noted that down. “You said there was something else?” he went on, coolly professional now.
“Yes. One of the guests said he had seen one of the murdered girls at his house. Kathleen Shannon, I believe it was. She was keeping company with one of his footmen.”
“That’d be Vandenberg, at the Point,” Charlie said.
“I know.” Matt toyed with a pencil. “Did he say anything else? When this was, or if she was quarreling with her boyfriend?”
“No. In fact, I doubt it means anything. The point is, he said he wouldn’t talk to the police about it, or anything else.”
“So?”
“Annie said she wouldn’t talk to the police, either. But they both talked to me.”
Matt let the pencil drop. “So?” he said again.
“If they won’t talk to you, you’ll need someone who can get information.” She took a deep breath. “I could do it.”
Both men stared at her in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?” Matt said.
“I know the staff in most of the houses.” She gripped her purse more firmly, as startled by what she had said as they were. It certainly wasn’t what she had planned, but Matt’s indifference had awakened something in her. It reminded her too much of the times when she had made suggestions to her father about his cases and he had ignored her. “They’ll trust me. They’ll talk to me.”
Matt rubbed his mustache. “Let me get this straight. You’re offering to help.”
“Yes.”
Putting back his head, he let out a laugh. “What do you think of that, Charlie? A debutante detective.”
Brooke straightened her spine, angry again. She was Big Mike Cassidy’s daughter, not the social butterfly Matt thought her. “I can reach the people you can’t. I can ask them the questions you can’t. I can help, Matt.”
Matt’s laughter stopped as abruptly as it had started, and his gaze bored into her. “Thank you for the offer, Miss Cassidy, but it’s out of the question.”
“Why? I know what I’m doing. I listened to my father’s stories enough times. I know how an investigation is done. I also know you need help. This way I can do something useful, instead of writing invitations and arranging teas.”
“This is not a party, Miss Cassidy. Or have you forgotten there’s a murderer on the loose? If you’re bored, I suggest you find something else to do, rather than setting yourself up as one of his victims.”
“You think I’m suggesting this out of boredom?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.” She sat frozen. “So what I have to say is of no use at all.”
“I didn’t say that.” He shuffled through some papers until he found the one he wanted. “What you could do is tell me about Rosalind Sinclair. Who she saw, what she was like, places she went.”
“There are others who can tell you that, Matt.” She leaned forward, trying one last time to reach him. “Her family, other friends, Paul Radley—you do know who he is?”
“Yes. Her fiancé.”
“Yes. They can give you that kind of information. I can find out other things. What the servants know, for example. What the cottagers know, but won’t tell you. They’ll close ranks to protect Rosalind’s reputation, but they’ll talk to me. I’m one of them, you see. I’m also a cop’s daughter. I can help, Matt.”
Matt looked up at the ceiling before answering. “No,” he said, at last looking at her. “It’s out of the question.”
“But—“
“You just said yourself you’re a cop’s daughter. Not a cop. Leave this to us, Miss Cassidy.”
“You won’t take any help from me?”
“You can be of no help to us.”
“Oh.” Brooke rose, her back very straight. “Excuse me, then. I’m sorry I wasted your time,” she said, and turning, walked out the door.
Matt stood for a moment, hands braced on his desk, before sitting down again. Damn, Charlie and Tripp were right. He didn’t know how to handle the cottagers. But how was he supposed to react when faced with such a ridiculous offer?
Charlie pulled out a cigarette, tapped it on Matt’s desk, and then struck a match. “That was interesting,” he said.
“Mm.” Matt sorted through the reports on his desk. “Who interviewed the staff at Belle Mer?”
“Edwards and Sullivan, and no, no one told them anything about overhearing someone on the Cliff Walk. You knew that already. Seems to me Miss Cassidy just told us something important.”
“Maybe.” If nothing else, it was evidence toward his own suspicion as to who the murderer was. It was the fact that Brooke had learned it, rather than he himself, that annoyed him. “Hell, give me one of those.” Matt reached for the packet and lit a cigarette himself. “What was I supposed to do, Charlie? Tell her she could help? Think what the chief would say to that, involving a woman. A cottager, at that.”
“A cop’s daughter, Cap.”
“Doesn’t make her any more knowledgeable than any other civilian. Besides, she’d be bored in a week.”
“I don’t think so.” Charlie crushed out his cigarette. “Anyway, too late now.”
“Hell.” Matt rose and began pacing the office. “It’s out of the question, Charlie. I’m not going to endanger her like that.” He tossed the report to the desk. “I want you to go to Belle Mer and find out about this.”
“Yes, Cap. Say, do you think-”
“Hope you appreciate this.” A voice cut across his words as Dr. Chandler came in, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He had taken off his homburg, and his wispy white hair stood up in its usual peaks. “Take a look. Hot one out there,” he added, putting the papers on Matt’s desk and dropping into the chair Brooke had just vacated.
“The autopsy report already?” Matt said in surprise, picking up the papers.
“Preliminary. Considering the victim, I hurried it up.”
“Um-hum.” Matt scanned the top page. “Holy God,” he said, and looked up at Dr. Chandler. “This true?”
“Beyond a doubt.”
Charlie craned his head to see. “What?”
“This changes things.” Matt lowered the report. “Rosalind Sinclair was pregnant.”
Chapter 4
Brooke stood in the entrance hall at Belle Mer, waiting for her aunt to come down so that they could pay their condolences to the Sinclairs. Winifred was late, as usual, leaving Brooke with too much time to think. Not pleasant company, her thoughts. The responsibility she felt toward the staff was heightened now by the menace to them, and she couldn’t do a thing to help. Oh, she’d tried, going to the police station this morning to talk to Matt, but little good that had done her. The memory of the way he had dismissed her concerns still rankled. She could help, not just because she had access to people in a way he didn’t, but because she saw them differently. She was caught between two worlds, the workaday Newport of her childhood, and the glittering life of high society. What that usually made her feel was uncomfortable. She no longer fit in with her old friends, and her middle class origins kept her from fully being a part of the Four Hundred. Yet now it seemed to give her a distinct advantage. She saw both groups clearly; she also knew how to talk to each. She could help, she knew she could, and she needed to. For, underlying all her other emotions was the one image that would not go away: Rosalind, lying stiff and still in death.
Hutton, the butler, opened the front door. She turned, smiling at the man who toddled in. “Uncle Henry.”
“Hello, darlin’.” Henry Olmstead slipped his arm about her waist and placed a whiskey-scented kiss upon her cheek. “Fine day out. Why
are you dressed all in black?”
“Aunt Winifred and I are paying a condolence call on the Sinclairs.”
“Ah. Bad business, that.” His brow furrowed and his fingers reached up to toy with the red rose in his lapel, his habit when he was preoccupied. “Brookie, you don’t go out on the Cliff Walk alone the way you used to, do you?”
She laid her hand on his arm. “No, Uncle, I’m very careful, and I’ve made certain the staff is, too.”
“Good. Good. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Though you’d have more sense than the Sinclair girl.” He fingered the rose again. “Wonder who she was seeing?”
Brooke’s startled eyes met his. “Seeing? But she was engaged, Uncle Henry.”
“Yes, darlin’, I know. Just wondering why she was on the Walk at that time.” He shrugged. “No concern of ours, so long as the police do their job.”
“Unless it interferes with our socializing.”
Henry winced. “Now, I’m not proud of what I did, darlin’. But you know your aunt. There’d be no livin’ with her if she couldn’t have her precious party.”
“I suppose it’s just as well we did have it.”
Henry looked at her with eyes unexpectedly keen. “Do you really think so, Brookie girl?”
“No. But you knew that yesterday.”
“So I did, so I did.” He glanced away, his hands thrust into his pockets, his shoulders sagging. “Detective Devlin seems to be a good man.” He looked back at her. “The name sounds familiar.”
“Yes. His father and mine were partners once.”
“Ah.” His eyes twinkled, and the defeated look of a moment before vanished. “Don’t let your aunt hear of that. She’ll have conniptions. And speaking of her.” He glanced up the stairs, at the sound of Winifred’s sharp voice giving orders to her maid. “Excuse me, Brookie. Think I’ll just check on my roses.”
“Of course, Uncle Henry.” Brooke at last smiled as he ambled out in the direction of his conservatory. If she found Aunt Winifred trying, she could only imagine how gentle, scholarly Uncle Henry, more interested in his prize roses and his books than anything else, coped with her. It was no wonder if he tended to drink more than he should at the Reading Room most mornings.