by Mary Kruger
“A most distasteful task,” Winifred declaimed, sweeping down the stairs and into the hall. The staccato click of her heels on the marble floor was echoed by the clacking nails of her dogs following her. “You are ready, Brooke?”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“Good. I detest being kept waiting. No, no, my babies, you cannot come,” she crooned to the dogs, turning as she drew on her gloves. “Mommy will be back soon. Brooke?” Her voice returned to normal. “Let us go.”
The drive at Claremont was packed with carriages when the Olmsteads arrived in their victoria. It was a somber occasion, and yet in spite of that, the chatter that filled the mansion had a hectic, almost festive, air. Perhaps, Brooke reflected, standing in the receiving line with her aunt, almost as if this were any other social event, things would be different if Rosalind had been at all liked.
It shouldn’t have been that way. Rosalind had been pretty, and could be charming when she wanted to be. But her sharp tongue had made her more enemies than friends, and won her fear rather than liking. When she had first come to live with her aunt and uncle, Brooke herself had felt the sting of Rosalind’s wit. She had actively disliked her for a very long time. Once she had met Mrs. Sinclair, however, she had understood Rosalind far better. Mrs. Sinclair seemed to see her daughter as the means to social advancement and not as a person. Brooke had felt a little sorry for Rosalind, and for that reason alone, Rosalind’s dislike of her had been enormous.
“Dear Winifred.” Mrs. Sinclair sniffled as she pressed Winifred’s hand and touched a lace-trimmed handkerchief to eyes that were red and swollen, but, at the moment, dry and hard-looking. Nothing so common for her as to show emotion, Brooke thought. “So kind of you to come. Although, after last night, I would hope you would.”
“I am so sorry for your loss, Linda,” Winifred said, ignoring the reference to her party. “Such a tragedy. You remember my niece, Brooke Cassidy?”
Mrs. Sinclair looked up, and her eyes hardened even more. “Cassidy? Oh, yes. You found Rosalind, I understand?”
Brooke held on to her composure. At the best of times, Mrs. Sinclair was a trying woman, loud and aggressive and haughty. She was also, Brooke reminded herself, going through a terrible time. “Yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Sinclair said mechanically. “You are engaged to Eliot Payson, are you not?”
“We’re seeing each other, ma’am,” Brooke said politely.
“My Rosalind turned him down, you know, when he proposed to her. She could have had anyone she chose.”
“Of course,” Brooke murmured, and something Henry had said popped into her mind. Who had Rosalind been seeing when she went out in disguise? “How tragic that she was on the Cliff Walk at such an unfortunate time.”
Something flashed in Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes, something that Brooke couldn’t quite identify. “It was not her fault,” she said, “and for you to suggest otherwise shows how ill bred you are-”
“Linda.” Winifred pressed Mrs. Sinclair’s hand. “It’s all right. We understand.”
Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes filled up, and she averted her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. But it’s just so difficult.”
“I know it is,” Winifred murmured. “I lost a child myself. We all feel for you, Linda.”
She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “Thank you. I—thank you.”
“You should go rest.”
“No.” Mrs. Sinclair drew herself up, her bosom jutting forward impressively. “Rosalind would have wanted me to carry on.”
Winifred nodded, as if in approval. “But be certain to take care of yourself. And do not hesitate to call on me if I can help at all.”
“Thank you,” she said again, her lips tucked back in an effort to smile.
“We’ll leave you now. Come, Brooke.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Brooke touched Mrs. Sinclair’s hand. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Sinclair.”
“I know you are, my dear.” Mrs. Sinclair raised her head, recovering some of her poise. “Mrs. Mills,” she said, looking past Brooke and Winifred to the lady behind them. “How kind of you to come.”
Winifred and Brooke exchanged looks as they moved away from the sofa to a broad table, where tea was being served by a maid. “How did you know what she was feeling?” Brooke asked as they turned away, balancing shell-thin porcelain plates.
“Experience, child. Grief takes different people different ways. Though I must admit I was annoyed when she attacked you. As if she’s so well bred herself.” Her lips thinned. “New money, and not so much of it at that! Why, I hear they only have two million.”
“Aunt, please,” Brooke murmured. “She’s going through a very difficult time.”
Winifred glanced back at Mrs. Sinclair, and her face softened. “Yes, she is. It’s a terrible thing to lose a child. I do feel for her. Thank heavens we have you.”
“Why, thank you, Aunt.”
“Yes. I always wanted a daughter to present to society.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. Society is so important.”
“I have told you not to be snide,” Winifred said, but she smiled. “Sometimes, you remind me so of your mother. Oh, look, there is Mrs. Goelet. I must have a word with her.”
“Of course.” Brooke followed behind her aunt, absurdly touched by her aunt’s words, but thoughtful as well. If the Sinclairs knew why Rosalind had been on the Cliff Walk, they weren’t saying. Brooke suspected, however, that they didn’t know; it had been consternation and annoyance she had seen in Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes. Rosalind’s death was apparently as much of an embarrassment to her family as a bereavement, and that in itself was tragic.
“My dear Brooke,” Mrs. Stanford gushed as Brooke wandered away from the tea table. “Such a terrible ordeal as you have had. You seem to be bearing up very well.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Stanford. Emily.” Brooke nodded to the woman and her daughter. Neither was a particular favorite of hers. Mrs. Stanford, a tall woman with a large nose and a penetrating voice, considered Brooke a poor relation and ordinarily paid her only the scantest of courtesies. Emily could talk of little else but men and fashion and gossip. Her black walking suit trimmed with white twill at the lapels and cuffs was stylish, yet Emily had a woebegone look. Brooke looked at her a bit more closely. If Rosalind had had a real friend, it was Emily, who must be feeling the loss. Remembering what her aunt had just said about grief, Brooke tamped down the annoyance Mrs. Stanford usually awoke in her. “Yes, of course I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, dear.” Mrs. Stanford’s voice lowered. “I understand you saw—Rosalind.”
Ah, so that was it. Brooke had already run this particular gauntlet, last evening and this morning; she suspected she would do so for a long time to come. “Yes, I did.”
“Was it very awful?” Emily asked in a small voice.
“Of course it was, Emily! Don’t talk nonsense,” Mrs. Stanford reproved her. “What an awful thing for you to see, Brooke, dear. Tell me.” She leaned closer. “Was she really dressed as a maid?”
“Yes,” Brooke said shortly, scanning the crowd beyond, as if looking for her aunt. All the time, the question that had bothered her since yesterday nagged at her. Why had Rosalind been dressed as a maid?
“I don’t know why she’d do such a thing,” Emily said, still in that lost voice. “And just when everything was going so well for her.”
“She was a foolish girl,” Mrs. Stanford proclaimed. “Of good family, of course, but foolish.”
“She would have calmed down,” Emily said, displaying the first spark of spirit she’d shown that morning. “She would have! She was so happy, with all her plans coming true. She told me about it.”
“When was this?” Brooke asked.
“The day before—before—oh, dear.” Emily pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry. But she was so happy, talking about her marriage and how soon it would be.”
“I t
hought she and Paul had set a date for the winter.”
“Indeed, they had.” Mrs. Stanford was eyeing her daughter with a mixture of sympathy and disapproval. “Come, Emily, it doesn’t do to show one’s emotions like this.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“I know.” She patted Emily’s hand absently. “Of course, I can’t help thinking that she brought it on herself.”
Brooke frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it wouldn’t have happened had she been dressed properly. Tell me.” Mrs. Stanford leaned forward. “I heard she was—violated.”
Brooke recoiled. “Oh, surely not!”
“She was asking for it, after all, Going out alone, dressed as a maid—well, it’s just not done.”
“Please excuse me.” Brooke set her cup down on the tea table, harder than necessary. She had had enough. “I see that my aunt needs me,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips, and stalked away.
How dare they? she thought, her hands trembling with anger. How dare Mrs. Stanford and everyone else imply that not only Rosalind, but the other three girls, had somehow brought their violent fate upon themselves? Safe in their smug little world, didn’t they realize that this was more than a topic for gossip? Four girls had died, and no one seemed really to care. Someone had to do something about that. She had to do something about it.
“Miss?” a voice said, and she blinked up at the footman who had spoken to her. “Do you need anything?”
“What? Oh. No. I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”
“The reception room is that way, miss.” He pointed behind her. “This is the way to the kitchen.”
Of a sudden, Brooke made up her mind. No matter what Matt had said, no matter what her aunt would think, she had to find out the truth. Here in this house was someone who could tell it to her. “Yes, I know,” she said, and walked on, her head erect.
Mrs. Dooley, Claremont’s housekeeper, looked up from her mug of tea as Brooke walked into the kitchen, and hastily got to her feet. “Miss Cassidy. What are you doin’ here?”
“Sit down, Mrs. Dooley.” Brooke smiled as she pulled out a chair at the long deal table. In theory she wasn’t supposed to be familiar with any but the public rooms in Newport’s mansions, nor was she supposed to know the servants. In practice, though, things were different. At various times she had arranged to “borrow” staff from one or another of the houses when they were having an affair, reciprocating with Belle Mer’s staff when needed. She had come to know many, if not all, of the housekeepers and butlers and cooks of the cottages, knowledge that had stood her in good stead in the past. Beyond that, Mrs. Dooley was an old friend, a neighbor from Brooke’s childhood. She hoped the acquaintance would help her now.
Evidently the staff was taking a break. Monsieur LeClerc, Claremont’s French chef, was sitting with a porcelain cup in front of him, while farther down the table, in strict precedence, were several maids. Brooke pretended not to notice the way they glanced at her, or at each other. “What an awful thing to have happened.”
“Oh, indeed, ‘tis terrible. Did Mrs. Sinclair send you for something?”
“No. Yes, I would like tea.” Brooke smiled at the maid who handed her a porcelain cup. “I know how everyone at Belle Mer feels about what’s happening. I’ve just come to make certain everyone here is all right.”
“Thank you, miss. We’ve not lost anyone, thank the Lord, but you know that. We’ve heard you’re not letting your girls go out alone, neither.”
“No, not since the first one. I didn’t realize that Miss Sinclair was in the habit of using the Cliff Walk, too.”
Mrs. Dooley exchanged an uneasy look with the others. “Miss Sinclair’s doin’s were no business of ours, miss.”
“No, of course not. You couldn’t be expected to keep an eye on her.” She paused, and for the first time doubts about what she was doing crept in. The people at the table were eyeing her warily, making her aware again of the gulf between servants and employer. “I suspect, though, that you had a pretty good idea of what she was doing.”
“Well, that’s not for me to say. Now, girls. Finish up your tea and go along, before Mrs. S. wonders where you all are. And don’t think she doesn’t know,” Mrs. Dooley added, turning back toward Brooke as the maids scuttled out of the kitchen. “Not much gets by that one.”
“Yet, her own daughter-”
“Now, miss, what’s this all about?” The vast kitchen was nearly empty, except for Monsieur LeClerc, stirring something in a stock pot, and a kitchen maid carefully washing china. “I’ve had more people here askin’ questions, police and Mrs. S. and whatnot, and now you! I’ve told them all I know.”
Brooke propped her elbows on the table and, regarding the other woman, decided to take a chance. “I’ve heard there’s a maid’s uniform missing.”
Mrs. Dooley drew in her breath. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Rumor,” she said vaguely. “Is it true?”
The housekeeper looked away. “It’s not for me to say. Now, miss, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot to do-”
“Did it belong to Rosalind’s maid?”
Mrs. Dooley looked at her, her face somber. “They sacked Molly, she who was Miss Sinclair’s maid, last night.”
“No!” Brooke said, though she didn’t know why she was so surprised. “Did you tell the police that?”
“‘Tis sure I did. I also told them that Molly had nothing to do with it. She didn’t know a thing about what Miss Sinclair was doing.”
“Then it’s not her uniform missing?”
“Hardly, miss. She’s short and plump as a dumpling, that one, and you know what Miss Sinclair was like.”
“Yes. Willowy.”
“And a sly one, if I may say so. Got whatever she wanted, however she could.” Mrs. Dooley glanced at the others, who were pretending not to listen, and leaned forward, her voice low. “I told her just last week she should be careful.”
Brooke leaned forward, too. “About what?”
“About going out on the Walk alone.”
“What did she say?”
“She just laughed, told me I was being foolish and that he wasn’t going to hurt her.”
“‘He’?” Brooke said sharply. “Who did she mean?”
“I don’t know, miss.” Mrs. Dooley looked puzzled. “I thought she meant whoever’s doing these awful things. She’d think she was all right, her not bein’ a maid and all.”
“But she was wearing a uniform.”
Mrs. Dooley’s lips clamped shut, and she rose. “Excuse me, miss. Got a powerful lot to do today.”
“Mrs. Dooley, please.” Brooke rose as well, resting her hand on the other woman’s arm. “I’m not asking questions out of curiosity. I’m scared, too. Everything’s changed since Rosalind was killed. You know that as well as I.”
Mrs. Dooley looked at her for a long moment. “You mean the upstairs folks are goin’ to want this solved right away.”
“Yes. And that means that perhaps the wrong person will be arrested, someone who didn’t do it. I know you want to protect your people, Mrs. Dooley, but if you know anything, you have to tell.”
Mrs. Dooley looked down at the floor, and sighed. “I suppose you’re right, miss. All right. One of our maid’s uniforms went missing in New York in the spring.”
Brooke let out her breath in a rush, feeling relief and triumph. She had been right. She hadn’t known how anxious she was about that until now. “Whose was it?”
“Now, that I’m not tellin’, miss.” Mrs. Dooley’s lips set in a straight line. “It was bad enough when we found it gone. I don’t want anyone else to get the sack.”
“Mrs. Dooley.” Brooke stared at her in frustration. “All right! I won’t ask you about it anymore. But tell whoever it is to come to me. Tonight,” she rushed on, as Mrs. Dooley shook her head. “In the kitchen at Belle Mer. Tell Molly, too, for that matter. No one need know about it.”
Mrs. Dooley looked at her for
a long moment. “Why do you care, Miss Cassidy?”
Why did she care so? “Because I’m scared. Not just for myself, but for the girls at Belle Mer. Whoever’s doing this has to be stopped.”
“Leave it to the police, miss. That Detective Devlin, he seems able to take care of things.”
Detective Devlin had some surprises coming, Brooke thought, rising. “You’ve been a great help, Mrs. Dooley. Thank you.”
“Miss Cassidy.” Mrs. Dooley’s voice stopped her at the door. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Of course I do,” Brooke said, and turned away.
Her smile faded, though, as she walked toward the public part of the house, her reassurance to Mrs. Dooley sounding hollow even to her own ears, like Rosalind’s confidence in her own safety. Perhaps Rosalind had simply meant, with her inbred arrogance, that her status would keep her safe. Perhaps. But in that moment of revelation, Brooke had had another, more chilling thought. Was Annie right about the voice she had heard on the Cliff Walk? Had Rosalind known her killer? And, if that were so, did Brooke know him, too?
Matt hunched over the reins of the buggy as he drove down Bellevue Avenue. It had been a difficult, frustrating day, and it wasn’t anywhere near over. He’d spent the afternoon interviewing the cottagers, who would not speak to anyone of lesser rank, and yet had little to say to him when asked their whereabouts on Friday night. From their indignation, however, some facts had emerged. Most had been at dinners or balls or other entertainments, and could provide proof; a few of the men, such as Miles Vandenberg, admitted sheepishly that they’d been at Blanche’s, the flossiest cathouse in the city, or with a mistress. Very little of what he learned was of much help.
While Matt talked with the cottagers, other policemen again interviewed the servants. They knew more about Rosalind now, though not enough. Everyone agreed that she had been pretty, intelligent and witty. Only a few had said outright that she had also been disliked, because of her sharp tongue and the way she treated people. Just last winter, she had broken off a long-standing attachment to Eliot Payson to become engaged to Paul Radley. That doing so had meant taking Radley away from his former fiancée, Iris Gardner, seemed not to have bothered her. Rosalind had made enemies, that much was certain. The question now was whether any of those enemies had enough motive to kill her, or whether her death was the random act it appeared. Nor did anyone know why she had been on the Cliff Walk dressed as a maid. Until the Sinclairs turned over Rosalind’s diary, her secret was still safe.