by Mary Kruger
“Much you care,” Rachel muttered.
Molly looked down, sniffling. “No, mum.”
“Then I’ll see what I can do here.”
“Oh, mum.” Molly raised her face, hope at last creeping into her pale, frightened eyes. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes. I’ll speak with the housekeeper and see what we can do. What happened to you was unfair.”
“Oh, it was, mum, and I didn’t do nothing.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“They sacked me, mum.”
“Yes, I know. How long were you Miss Sinclair’s maid?”
“About a year, mum.”
“And was she easy to work for?”
“No, mum.” Molly looked at Rachel, who nodded. “Terrible hard to work for, she was, especially these last months. She was poorly in the mornings, you know, and if something wasn’t just right, she let you know. Many’s the time I caught the sharp side of her tongue! But she could be sweet as honey when she wanted something. Like when she wanted me to say she had a headache.”
“Did she do that often? Why?” When Molly didn’t answer, Brooke leaned forward. “That was when she would go out alone, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, mum, I told Mrs. Sinclair I didn’t know nothing about it! If she finds out I did-”
“I promise, she won’t. How often did Miss Sinclair do that?”
“‘Bout once a week. Maybe more.”
“In New York, too? Or just here?”
“New York, too, mum, but not that often.”
“And you had no idea where she went.”
“Oh no, mum, she wouldn’t tell me that. But I wondered...”
“Yes?” Brooke prompted, when she didn’t go on.
“If she wasn’t seeing someone. A man,” Molly added, darkly.
“Why do you say that, Molly?”
“Dunno, mum. Something about the way she looked, sometimes, like a cat’s got into the cream. But, like I said, she never told me nothing.”
“No, she wouldn’t. And when did you notice your uniform missing, Rachel?” Brooke asked, casually.
“First I noticed was March—who said my uniform is missing?” Rachel glared at her. “I’m wearing it, aren’t I?”
“But it’s a new one, isn’t it?” Brooke said gently.
Rachel rose so fast that her chair fell back. “Come on, Molly. We don’t have to stay for any of this.”
“Rachel.” The smaller girl stood her ground. “I think we should tell her.”
“Molly, are you insane? She’s one of them.”
“We can trust her. Rachel’s uniform did go missing, mum, and a deal of trouble that made for her.” Molly faced Brooke squarely. “It was after that I noticed Miss Rosalind having more headaches. If you know what I mean.”
“Yes.” Brooke nodded. Pleading a headache was a common lady’s ploy to get out of doing something she didn’t want to do. She had done the same this very evening, so that she could be here. “Did you see her with the uniform?”
“No, mum. But it must have been the one, don’t you think? I mean, the way she was found, and all.”
“I’m not taking the blame for that!” Rachel said.
“No one’s asking you to,” Brooke said.
Rachel glared at her again. “You think I don’t know how your kind thinks?”
“Rachel-”
“It’s not my fault, but I’ll be blamed, anyhow.”
“I’m not blaming you for anything, Rachel,” Brooke said quietly.
Rachel glared at her for a moment. Something flickered in her eyes, the need to trust, perhaps, and then she turned sharply away, to the door. “Come on, Molly. We’re leaving.”
“Rachel!” Molly ran after her as she stalked out, and then stopped at the door. “Oh, mum, I’m sorry, but she gets like this sometimes.”
“It’s all right, Molly.” Brooke hoped her smile was reassuring. “Come see me tomorrow. I’ll let you know what we’ve decided.”
Molly smiled, her plump face transformed into prettiness. “Oh, thank you, mum, I’m ever so grateful. Rachel will be, too, when she gets over her temper.”
“I hope so. Good night, and be careful.” Brooke stood for a moment as the door closed behind the two girls, and then turned away, her smile fading. “Well. I appear to have made an enemy there.”
Matt ambled out from the butler’s pantry, scribbling furiously in his notebook. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it does, Matt. No one likes having someone dislike them.”
“Even servants?
“Ooh!” Brooke braced her hands on the back of a chair and gazed up at the ceiling. “Why do you persist in thinking the worst of me?”
Matt looked down at his notebook. “Sorry. But you’ve changed, Brooke.”
“Not that much.” Her eyes searched his face. “Why won’t you admit I can help?”
Matt’s face hardened. “It’s not your place. Thanks for this.” He closed his notebook and shoved it into his pocket. “It was a help. But no more, Brooke. Is that clear?”
She stared at him in frustration. “Matt-”
“Well, well. And what have we here?” Henry Olmstead beamed at them from the doorway, and they looked at him, startled. “Entertaining friends, Brookie?”
“Uncle Henry.” Brooke stepped away from Matt, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. “I thought you’d gone out with Aunt Winifred.”
He winked at her and leaned against the table. “Tell you the truth, darlin’, I didn’t want to go to the musicale, either. Evenin’, Devlin.”
“Good evening, sir.” Matt nodded at him. “I had some questions for Miss Cassidy about the staff here.”
“Ah.” Henry nodded. “I thought maybe you two were catching up on old times.”
“Uncle Henry, it’s nothing like that,” Brooke protested. “Detective Devlin and I are acquaintances.”
“Now, darlin’, did I say different?” Taking an apple from the wooden bowl on the table in his right hand, he proceded to peel it, using a silver-bladed knife. He wasn’t wearing the cufflinks she’d given him last Christmas, she noticed irrelevantly. “Understand your father and Brooke’s were partners.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said politely. “Maybe you could help me with something, sir.”
Henry arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”
“Yes. I’ve been invited to dinner next week, by the chief. I’m not used to dressing up, and I was wondering. Should I wear a rose like yours in my lapel?”
Henry’s face brightened. “Do you like roses, detective?”
Matt shrugged. “What I know of them. That one is a...”
“This?” He touched the tightly-furled bud, light red in color, in his lapel. “Rosa Gallica Aurelianesis. La Duchesse D’Orleans. You won’t find this at any florist. An old French rose. Not fashionable, but I like it.” Henry reached up and pulled it from his lapel, handing it to Matt. “Here. Take it, my boy. Has a fine fragrance, has it not?”
“Yes.” Matt handed it back. “I thought it was an American Beauty rose.”
“No, no, that would be too big for a boutennière. Come with me, Devlin.” He set the apple down onto the table. “Let’s go to the conservatory and I’ll show you my roses.”
“If it’s not imposing...”
“No, no, though you might think I’m imposing on you. I like to talk about my roses, don’t I, Brookie?” He winked at her.
“Yes,” Brooke said, looking from one to the other. “He’ll talk your ear off if you let him, detective.”
“No matter. Thank you for your help, Miss Cassidy.”
“I’m glad I could be of assistance, detective,” Brooke said, and watched as the two men walked out. Now why was Matt interested in roses, of all things?
In the conservatory Henry pressed a switch on the wall, instantly flooding the room with light. “Nice,” Matt commented, looking around. “We still use kerosene lamps at home.”
“Look into getting el
ectricity, my boy.” Henry led the way into the room. “The way of the future. Had this built to my specifications. Got one in New York just like it.” He waved his hand to indicate the room, which was large and semi-circular in shape, constructed of cast iron painted white, with huge windows reflecting their own images back at them. The scent of roses hung heavy in the air: dozens of them, hundreds of them, of all hues and sizes. Matt hadn’t known there were so many roses in the world.
“My little hobby, you know,” Henry went on, thus dismissing in a few words something Matt suspected would cost several policemen’s salaries to maintain. “Some people think a conservatory should be on the south side of a house, but I prefer the north. Steadier light, you know.”
“How many types of roses would you say you have?” Matt asked, standing still and trying hard not to be dazzled by the wealth of color.
“Don’t know, my boy, I lost count a long time ago. Now, these, here, are the old-fashioned roses, the damasks.” He led Matt down an aisle lined with tubs of flowers. “Notice how open they are, compared to the tea roses. Sweet fragrance, though. The teas are over here, and the hybrid teas.”
“Hm.” Matt nodded as if he understood the difference. “Is the American Beauty a tea rose?”
Henry chuckled. “You’re fond of the American Beauty, detective? Well, can’t say I blame you, she’s rather special. All my roses are ladies,” he added, leading Matt to the center of the conservatory, where rose bushes grew in profusion. From here radiated aisles into other parts of the room, like spokes in a wheel. In the very center of the bushes was one spectacular bloom, huge and blood red in color. “There’s your American Beauty, detective, though I think they’re all beauties.”
“It’s amazing,” Matt said, after a moment. “I didn’t know roses grew that big.”
“It’s an art, my boy. Have to cut off the early buds so that one will bloom like this.”
“Oh?” Matt looked up, sharply. “Then the bush produces more than just the one bloom?”
“It would produce many if I allowed it, but one must sacrifice something to beauty. It’s called disbudding. All the plant’s energy goes into producing the one bloom. I’m something of an expert at it, you know.” He beamed as he led Matt to another bush. “This is a plant I’m allowing to grow without disbudding. Still fine flowers, though.” He pulled out his pearl-handled knife and cut the offending bloom from the bush. “Here, detective. Your very own American Beauty.”
“Thank you.” Matt took the rose, aware of something subtly mocking in the other man’s voice. “I see what you mean. Even this one is too large for a lapel.”
“So it is. Well. These are my roses, detective. I could talk about them all night, but I suspect you have other things you should be doing.”
Matt turned to walk with him down the aisle, toward the main part of the house. “As it happens, I still have reports to look over before I can go home.”
“Ah. Then I won’t keep you. Just one thing, detective.”
Matt turned. Henry’s usual genial, slightly befuddled look had been replaced by a sharp gaze. “Yes?”
“I don’t want my niece involved in this. I don’t know what you were doing here tonight, and no, I don’t want to know. But I repeat. I don’t want my niece involved in your investigation.”
Matt paused. “I don’t intend to involve her, sir.”
“No?” Henry peered up at him, and then nodded. “Good. See to it.” He crossed to the door and opened it. “Because if you do, I’ll have to do something about it. Good night, detective.”
“Good night,” Matt said, and stepped outside, into the sea-scented darkness, lips pursed in surprise. He knew a threat when he heard one. He suspected he had just met the real Henry Olmstead, and he was not what Matt had thought.
Thoughtful, he climbed onto the safety bicycle he preferred to use when alone and rode off, down the tree-lined drive, gas lights flickering on either side, through the cast-iron, lacy gates that rose at least thirty feet high, to the street. The rose, wrapped now in his handkerchief, was in his pocket. It had been an interesting evening. He knew at last where Rosalind had obtained the maid’s uniform she’d been wearing; he knew, as well, that she had planned her evening excursions as long ago as the spring, and as far away as New York. Which could mean that her death had been planned that long ago, as well. The implications of that disturbed him, even if they did go to bolster his theory as to the culprit. And the rose. That was the most disturbing of all.
Still deep in thought, he pulled up before the police station, brightly lighted, though it was late at night. Something nagged at him as he went inside, the feeling that he’d seen something significant tonight at Belle Mer. Try though he might he couldn’t remember what it was. It would come. This had happened to him before, when he was deeply involved in a case. He would just have to trust his memory.
The station house was only marginally quieter at night than in the day. Those the patrolmen arrested tended to be somewhat the worse for drink, and thus loud and disorderly. Matt skirted a group of young men in evening wear, one sporting a bruise high on his cheek and all arguing at once, stepped over a man who had decided to sleep it off on the floor, and headed for his office. With the door closed, it was relatively peaceful. Matt switched on the light and sat down. Check into getting electricity, indeed. Easy to say, when people could afford their own generator, as the Olmsteads did. Until the city could supply electricity to all its residents, and out to the country, where his parents lived, most people would made do with gas or lamp oil. Smiling grimly at Henry’s ignorance, he settled down to read Rosalind’s diary, which he had at last obtained from the Sinclairs late that afternoon.
A long time later, his hair rumpled and his suit coat long ago discarded, Matt tossed the diary onto his desk. Lord, he was tired. He leaned back, supporting his head on his hands and contemplating the peeling plaster ceiling. He knew a great deal more about Rosalind, who had been remarkably frank in her diary about some things, and reticent about others. He knew she hadn’t liked her life, that she yearned for her parents’ approval, and that she was baffled that people didn’t like her. He also knew she’d been highly critical of people, which probably explained the lack of friends. Most importantly, he at last had confirmation that she had been slipping out to meet a man, while wearing a maid’s uniform. Reading between the lines, Matt could almost pity her. Her lover had not only provided her with excitement and illicit thrills, but he had promised her love. Rosalind had been certain that any complications could be solved. After all, she had a plan, and she had written that she was going to put it into effect the following night. What the plan was, she didn’t say. Nor did she once identify her lover, not by name or initials or even a pet name. Rosalind had taken that secret to the grave.
Matt flipped the pages back, and his mouth tightened. The last entry was dated the day before Rosalind’s death. Poor little girl, he thought, as he had when he’d first seen her body. All she’d wanted was love. Well, he couldn’t do anything about that, but he could, and would, do everything possible to catch her killer. That was a promise.
It was late. Rising, he stretched, and was reaching for his coat when his memory returned, with such clarity that he dropped into his chair again. He knew now what he had seen in the kitchen at Belle Mer. Henry Olmstead had peeled an apple with his left hand. Hunching his shoulders, Matt opened his desk drawer and withdrew from it a withered rose. An American Beauty rose, similar in size and hue to the one Henry had given him, and that troubled him. For the first time he had seen this particular rose had been yesterday morning. It had been lying by Rosalind Sinclair’s body.
She knew something, she did. Something that no one else in Newport did. Something that might be important. She was not particularly honest and under other circumstances might not have noticed, or cared, that he’d asked her to lie for him. Said, if anyone, meaning the cops, came asking, he’d been with her that night, Friday night. That, and the other three nigh
ts when those maids had been killed. Not that she thought he’d killed them. No, she was no one’s fool, and she wouldn’t let a killer into her bed. He wouldn’t have been with her all four nights, anyway. She’d had her monthly two weeks ago, and so what good would she have been to him?
Still, it made a body wonder, why he wanted her to lie. Course, he’d paid her well, better than if he had been with her. Ordinarily she didn’t question such luck, but this time, it got her to thinking. Man like him, he could afford more if he wanted to, and maybe she could convince him that he did want to. After all, she wasn’t getting any younger. Sooner or later he’d move on, and she didn’t fool herself thinking she’d get another like him. She was on the downhill side of twenty-five, and rich protectors were few and far between. Time for her to start thinking of her future. She wasn’t going to end up on the streets, no, not her.
She’d ask him, then, she thought, stretching voluptuous legs on the unmade bed and regarding her feet. He’d come tonight, since he’d missed Friday, and then she’d ask him. And he’d pay. He’d have to, if he wanted her to stay silent. After all, she thought, smiling like a cat, a girl had to look after herself. Who else would do it?
Chapter 6
“Out!” a voice called from the tennis court, and the couple sitting on tall stools on the upstairs piazza at the Newport Casino glanced idly out.
“Iris is cheating again,” Eliot Payson commented. “That ball looked in to me.”
“She’s a good player,” Brooke said, sipping at her lemonade and trying to relax. She wasn’t particularly fond of lawn tennis, but this excursion to the Casino with Eliot was exactly what she had needed, two days after the condolence call on the Sinclairs, two mornings after the meeting in Belle Mer’s kitchen. It was the place to be on a late summer’s morning, and had been since it had been built, an enormous, shingled building that contained, in addition to tennis courts, a theater, a ballroom and a restaurant. On the Horseshoe Piazza Mullaly’s String Orchestra played softly, Offenbach’s La Belle Hélène, in counterpoint to the slap of racquet strings hitting balls and the chattering voices of the cottagers. To Brooke it was all blissfully normal, a relief from tragedy and a reminder that life went on. She would forget about suspicion, about death. Most of all, she would forget about a certain policeman. That Matt would never approve of her seemed clear.