Death on the Cliff Walk (The Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1)

by Mary Kruger

  “I thought you might. I need to ask you some questions.”

  Julia stayed behind the bar, her face sullen. “I didn’t do nothing.”

  “No? I could take you in right now for running a house of ill repute. In fact, I’d say that’d be grounds for taking away your license to sell liquor, wouldn’t you, Charlie?”

  “Yeah, I’d think it’s a good reason.”

  “Oh, hell.” She came out from behind the bar, a short woman running to fat, her apron none too clean. “Sit down. I’ll talk to you. But I want you to know I had nothing to do with what happened upstairs. I run a clean house.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Matt said, with no trace of irony in his voice. “Who was she?”

  “Dunno. I don’t, I swear,” she went on, when Matt looked at her. “Gave her name as Nellie, that’s all I know.”

  “Then she wasn’t one of your regulars.”

  She shrugged. “Once a month, maybe.”

  Matt looked up, his pencil poised over his notebook. “Even in the winter?”

  “No, not in winter. She told me that after last night she might not be back.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Well, I dunno. She was awful mysterious about it. But she said she’d never have to worry about being poor again. Said she was gonna get what was comin’ to her.” Her face screwed up in what might have been a smile. “Guess she did.”

  “Huh.” What she had coming to her. Money, by the sound of it. Matt rubbed a finger over his mustache. What would her client be paying her for, besides her services? “Who was her client, Julie?”

  “Now that, I don’t know. Never laid eyes on him.”

  Matt sat back, one arm flung carelessly over the back of his chair. “That’s a thumper, Julie,” he said. “Don’t lie. Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t look just once?”

  “She came when it was busy,” Julie argued. “Couldn’t leave the bar, could I? But I remember once.”

  “What?”

  “Seems like a while back, it was.” Julia’s face screwed up in concentration. Like the body upstairs, she, too, had once been pretty, in a superficial way. Her face was hard now, though, raddled with wrinkles and the rigors of her life, and there was no warmth in her narrow, shrewd eyes. “She did tell me he was a gent.”

  Matt and Charlie both sat up straighter. “What else did she say, Julie?”

  “Not much. Said he liked to come here once in a while, liked to feel he was living dangerous.”

  “And you never saw him.”

  “Well... I might’ve, once. Had to go out one night, get one of my customers into a cab. He sure weren’t in no shape to walk home. That’s when I seen him.”

  Matt leaned forward. “What did he took like?”

  “Well, it was dark, you gotta understand that. And I only seen him for a minute, going in. But Nellie was right, he was a gent. I noticed ‘cause you don’t usually see his type around here. Dressed all in black, and his coat had tails on it. Had on a top hat, too.”

  “Was he tall? Short? Dark?”

  She considered for a moment. “Medium, I’d say. As to what he looked like.” She shrugged. “He was going up the stairs. I looked, but I couldn’t tell. Tell you the truth, he might not have been Nellie’s at all. He could’ve been seeing one of the other girls-”

  Matt let that pass by. Julia was cooperating with him, so he wouldn’t charge her with prostitution. Not this time. “Could you tell how he got here?”

  “No.” She pursed her lips. “Now I think on it, though, I got the impression he come in the same cab I put my customer in. Don’t know why I thought that. I remember once, though. Nellie came downstairs with a rose in her hair. Said he gave it to her.”

  Matt’s head jerked up. “What kind of a rose?”

  “Dunno. Red, I think. Smelled nice, I remember that.”

  A gent with a red rose. Matt made himself concentrate on his notes, so that he wouldn’t give away his reaction to that bit of news. “All right.” He rose. “That’s all we need right now. Keep yourself out of trouble, Julie.”

  “I’m not the one causing trouble!” She glared at them, hands balled into fists on her hips. “And who’s going to clean up upstairs, that’s what I want to know?”

  Matt shrugged. “I guess you will,” he said, and went out. Her shriek of outrage followed them out to the street.

  “Whew!” Charlie said. “She’s a shrew. Want me to check for any violations, Cap?”

  “Not this time.” He glanced at the door that led upstairs as they passed it. “We need to find the cab driver who brought Nellie’s gent here. Get someone started on that.”

  “Right. How about finding out who Nellie is?”

  “We’ll ask around. If that doesn’t work, we’ll just hope someone reports her missing. If she’s local, she might have family.” He climbed up into the buggy. “I’m more interested in who her gentleman friend was.”

  “If he was a gent. Strange place for them to meet, don’t you think?”

  “Mm. Also, find out where Henry Olmstead and Eliot Payson were last night. Also Paul Radley.”

  Charlie let out a whistle between his teeth. “So you think it’s connected to the Cliff Walk killings?”

  “Don’t you? Sounds to me like Nellie was blackmailing someone. And a gent with a red rose is a little too much of a coincidence for my taste.”

  “The chief’s not going to like it.”

  Matt pulled the buggy up before the police station and jumped down. “He’ll like it even less if someone else gets killed. Get on it, Charlie.”

  “Right, Cap,” Charlie said, and they went in, Charlie to begin implementing Matt’s instructions, Matt to talk to the chief. He had a bad feeling about this. He very much feared they hadn’t seen an end to the killing yet.

  The death of a prostitute in a waterfront saloon made no stir in New York; neither the New York Times nor Joseph Pulitzer’s more sensational World chose to print a story about it. In quiet, placid Newport, however, it caused a furor. In a town that prided itself on its low murder rate, even the killing of a prostitute was too much. Editorials blared the outrage, and the mayor held meetings with concerned citizens’ groups and the chief of police. Something had to be done, and quickly, to restore a sense of safety to the town.

  Matt sat at his desk, rubbing his eyes. On his desk were re- ports, and more reports: on the possible murder weapon, which had not been found; on bloodstained clothes found in an alley several blocks from the scene of the crime, a rough overcoat and corduroy trousers; on interviews with cab drivers; on women reported missing in the area and the subsequent efforts to locate the dead woman’s family and learn her identity. All important, but the words blurred together before his tired eyes. Lord, it felt as if this investigation had been going on forever. He could hardly remember what the inside of his room at Mrs. O’Malley’s boardinghouse looked like, so long had it been since he’d slept there, and he sometimes felt he would kill for a home-cooked meal. The last few nights he had spent on a cot in the dormitory in the back of the station house, grabbing what sleep he could; meals consisted of sandwiches, hastily eaten and as quickly forgotten. Yet while the murderer—or murderers—remained at large, he couldn’t rest. He had to solve the case, and soon.

  “Mr. Devlin.” A large, raw-boned man stood in the doorway. “They told me you’re the one I should see.”

  Matt stood up. “Yes? And you are?”

  “William Farrell.” He held out a large, work-hardened hand. “From Providence. I think it’s my daughter you found yesterday.”

  “Do you. What makes you think that, sir?”

  Mr. Farrell shook his head. “The name and the description. Our Ellen, she has a head of red hair like her mother’s. We ain’t heard from her in a while, but we know she’s in Newport. Leastwise, she was last we heard.”

  “When was that?”

  “Some months back.” He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Is there—do I have t
o see her?”

  “We need someone to make an identification.” Matt pulled on his jacket. “I’m afraid the body is in the morgue at the hospital. I warn you, it’s not a nice sight.”

  Mr. Farrell stood up. “Guess I can stand it if you can.”

  “All right, then. Come with me.”

  A while later, the two men sat in Matt’s office again, Matt holding a cup of strong, bitter coffee, Mr. Farrell with a tumbler of whiskey clutched in his shaking hands. His face was ashen, and his large frame seemed shrunken. But then, Matt thought, not without compassion, it had to be hard seeing your daughter laid out on a slab in a morgue.

  “I don’t know where we went wrong,” Mr. Farrell said, suddenly. “We tried to bring her up right. Didn’t spare the rod, no sir, not like some other people. Read the Bible every day, our Nellie did, and went to church on Sundays. We did right by her.” His eyes were bewildered. “She always was a wild one, though, couldn’t do a thing with her once she got to a certain age, but to see her end up like—this.” He took a deep gulp of the whiskey. “There are those who’ll say she deserved it, but I don’t agree. No, sir. Not my Nellie. No matter what she did, she didn’t deserve that.”

  Matt nodded. No one deserved what had happened to Nellie Farrell in that bare room above the Bell and Anchor. “Do you know who she was seeing, sir?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Nellie never told us that. Knew we wouldn’t approve. She told her sister, though.” His voice was tinged with bitterness and anger. “Said she’d caught herself a live one. Those were her exact words. A live one. A real, live gent, she said.”

  Matt’s pen poised over his notebook. “When was this?”

  “Let’s see. I disremember—last October? Or was it November? Yes. November.”

  Matt looked up in surprise. “November? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I remember thinking we didn’t have much to be thankful for, with our youngest living in sin.”

  November. Matt stared blankly down at his notebook, which now contained the scanty details of Nellie Farrell’s life. She’d left home at sixteen, a sometime prostitute who eventually found better things. But, November? It didn’t fit. Not with the cottagers gone back to New York by that time. “She gave you no idea who it was?”

  “No. Wanted to tell Josie, that’s her sister, but Josie’s a God-fearing woman and would have none of it.” Mr. Farrell stood, putting his hat on his head. “I have to get home. Have to tell my wife. She’s going to take it powerful hard, even though Nellie’s been dead to us for years. Our Nellie.” His eyes suddenly grew shiny, and he looked away, clamping his mouth into a straight line. “You’ve been kind, Mr. Devlin. I’ll remember you in my prayers for the evil you see each day.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Matt said seriously, and walked the man to the door. Evil was not too strong a word for what was happening in Newport, and at the moment he felt powerless to stop it. Someone had to, though. It looked like he was the only person who could.

  “Charlie,” he called, pulling on his jacket.

  Charlie appeared in the doorway. “Yeah, Cap?”

  “Get a buggy for us. We’re going to go find out where Nellie Farrell lived.”

  Matt stood in the cluttered parlor of a small Gothic Revival cottage tucked away on a quiet side street, making note of everything he saw, touching nothing. Nellie Farrell’s house, an odd dwelling in this neighborhood of neat colonial homes. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected. The parlor looked as if it belonged in any proper, middle-class home, with its piano covered by a silk paisley shawl, the top littered with silver-framed photographs; the heavy, burgundy-colored horsehair furniture; the whatnot in the corner, crammed with geegaws and curios and souvenirs; the velvet drapes with lace curtains beneath. It was spotlessly clean, with not a speck of dust to be found, and, in spite of the clutter, every object had its place. Nellie had apparently been house-proud.

  Other police were in the house, searching the kitchen, the sitting room, the bedrooms upstairs. If there were any clue as to who Nellie’s lover had been, they’d find it, but Matt doubted there was. A quick glance at the bedroom had shown that someone had been there before them. The signs were slight, and yet jarred with the fastidiousness of Nellie’s housekeeping: a table drawer not quite closed, a frock slipped from a hanger in the wardrobe to lie crumpled upon the floor, underwear in a jumble in the bureau. Someone was going to great lengths to protect himself.

  “She bought the house in August last year,” Charlie said, reading from his notebook and squinting against the rays of the early evening sun streaming into the room. A search at the Registry of Deeds had turned up Nellie’s ownership of the house, and the agent who had helped her purchase it. “Free and clear, one thousand dollars cash. No going to a building and loan association for our Nellie. The agent remembers because it was so unusual.”

  Matt nodded, remembering what they had learned that afternoon from the agent. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. “And where would a girl like Nellie get so much money?”

  “From a man, Cap,” Charlie said, though Matt’s question had been rhetorical. “Where else? Only thing is, she never told anybody which man.”

  “No. But, August. That means she probably was seeing him for some time.” Hands in pockets, he turned. “Certainly before November, when she told her sister about him.”

  “You really do think it’s one of the summer people, don’t you, Cap?”

  “Yes. Don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said after a moment. “Eliot Payson was at a musicale last night, but he left early. Said he was going to a ball at Beechwood, but no one remembers seeing him.”

  “What about Radley?”

  “At home, stayed in his room reading, but again no one saw him most of the night. He could have snuck out.”

  “And Mr. Olmstead?”

  “Also claims he was home. At least, his butler did. Mr. Olmstead apparently is sick.” He frowned. “Funny thing about that, though, Cap. I got the impression the butler was nervous about something.”

  “Excuse me, detective.” A patrolman walked into the room.

  Matt turned. “Yes?”

  “We’re finished upstairs, sir.”

  Matt walked toward him. “Find anything?”

  “Not much, sir. No diary, no address book. There’s a photograph album with some pictures missing, looks like they were just torn out, and these.”

  Matt took the scraps of paper the patrolman handed him. “Ticket stubs for the New York steamer.”

  “Yes, sir. Looks like she traveled to New York a few times.”

  “Mm.” Last October, December, and April, to be precise. Another fact to bolster his theory. “Anything else?”

  “Just this, sir. Found it under the bed. It looks like it rolled there.”

  “Huh.” Matt took the object from the patrolman. “Well, what do you know.”

  “What is it, Cap?” Charlie said, crossing to him.

  “A cuff link.” He held it up so that Charlie could see it, a man’s heavy cuff link of gold and onyx. Embossed on the onyx were the letters H and O.

  “Jeez. That looks like-”

  “Yes.” Henry Olmstead’s. “I think we have to ask Mr. Olmstead a few questions.”

  “Jeez,” Charlie said again. “Splinters’ll fly when the chief hears that.”

  “I know.” The chief of police wouldn’t be the only one upset about such questioning, Matt thought grimly, and looked once more around the room, hoping against hope to find evidence of someone else’s involvement. His gaze settled on the whatnot. Dresden shepherdesses competed for space with more photographs, and a china plate with the Statue of Liberty painted on it. And on the top shelf- Matt’s gaze sharpened. On the top shelf was a vase holding a drooping red rose.

  “Detective,” a voice called from the hallway.

  “Just a minute.” He crossed the room. The vase was silver, etched in a distinctive scrolled design of vines and grapes, reminding him of som
ething he’d seen recently; the rose was, as he’d feared, an American Beauty. It didn’t have to mean anything, but he very much feared it did.

  “Detective,” the voice said again, and this time Matt turned.

  “What is it?” he asked the patrolman who came into the room, a paper in his hand.

  “Thought you should see this, sir.” He handed over the paper. “I’ve been talking to cab drivers.”

  Matt looked up. “You found the one who brought a fare to the Bell and Anchor?”

  “No, sir. This is something else. One of the drivers brought a man home.”

  “This morning,” Matt muttered. He scanned the report, and then sucked in his breath. “Dammit.”

  “What now, Cap?” Charlie asked.

  “The man had a black eye, scratches on his face, and a bloodied shirt.”

  “Could be our man.”

  “When the cab driver asked what had happened, the man said he’d been in a fight. It goes on to say that the passenger was a gentleman, probably a summer resident.”

  “Jeez, Cap. Who is it?”

  “It doesn’t say.” Matt looked up, his face bleak. “But the cabbie brought him to Belle Mer.”

  Chief Read did lose his temper when Matt talked to him the next day, but after listening to Matt’s reasoning and the evidence he had found, he agreed there was probable cause to make an arrest. “But you’d better be right about this, detective,” he warned, as Matt rose to leave the office. “It’s your neck on the line for this, not mine.”

  Matt stared back at him, his face expressionless. That the chief wouldn’t support him should the arrest prove to be false was disappointing, but not surprising. The chief held his job through political connections. If he angered those connections, he’d be out. “I’m certain of it, sir,” Matt said, and went out. Oh, he was certain of his facts, and of his case. He only wished he weren’t.

  As he turned the buggy into the drive at Belle Mer, Charlie by his side, Matt reviewed his case yet again, marshaling together the facts that had been collected since Nellie’s body had been found. Henry Olmstead had returned home yesterday morning, his face scratched and bloodied; they knew Nellie had probably scratched her killer. Olmstead had been in Newport several times this past winter, without his wife, supervising the building of his mansion, and discreet inquiries at the Muenchinger-King Cottage showed that, while he had stayed there, he had come and gone as he pleased and no one had taken any notice. He could easily have spent time with a mistress. There was the fact that Nellie had intended to blackmail someone, as well as too many other things that tied Henry to the Cliff Walk killings. Red roses, his left-handedness, his obvious preference for maids, all added up to make Matt suspicious. Nor could Olmstead account satisfactorily for his whereabouts at the times of the murders. Most damaging of all was the cuff link found under Nellie’s bed. His facts were right, Matt thought. He was probably about to make an arrest that would solve five murders, and there was no joy in it.