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

by Mary Kruger

  “Good for you, boyo. I can help.”

  “Da-”

  “Told you, I hear things, didn’t I? I’ll find out what’s going on.”

  He would, at that, Matt thought, and with Charlie’s help Matt would likely know everything that was going on in the investigation. There was also someone else who could help, someone who’d already proved her worth as a detective. Brooke. After the events of the last few days, though, she’d likely want nothing to do with him. “It could work.”

  “It could. Somethin’ else you need to think on, boyo,” Sean said as they stopped in front of the Devlin cottage. “Big Mike’s daughter might be in danger.”

  Matt looked up as he leaned his bicycle against the wall. “Why do you say that?”

  “If what you think is true, she thwarted someone’s plans. Better watch out for her.”

  Matt looked hard at his father. There was a twinkle in Sean’s eyes that he immediately mistrusted. He didn’t think Brooke was in any danger. Not really. “I’ll do what I can, Da. The sooner this is settled, the better.”

  “Good lad.” Sean clapped Matt on the shoulder. “Come on inside, now. We’ll talk about what you should do over supper.”

  “We must have a party,” Winifred declared, setting down her teacup on the white and gold table in the morning room.

  Brooke looked up in surprise. “A party? But Aunt, we just had one-”

  “That was different. We cannot stay in hiding any longer.”

  Brooke sipped at her tea to cover her expression. “I wasn’t aware that we were,” she murmured, glancing out the window. The morning room was one of the most comfortable rooms in the house, situated so that it caught the rays of the sun as it rose over the ocean, and furnished with antique chairs upholstered in pink or crimson brocade. Here Brooke and Winifred met most afternoons to discuss their plans for the evening. This, however, was one of the most outrageous ideas Winifred had ever had.

  Several days had passed since Uncle Henry had been set free, and life was returning to normal. The disclosures in court had caused a scandal, as Brooke had expected, and gossip still swirled around them. Yet every day Henry went to the Reading Room or attended meetings of the Clambake Club; every morning Brooke and Winifred could be seen at the Casino or Bailey’s Beach, and every afternoon they joined the coaching promenade on Bellevue Avenue. It was not what she considered being in hiding.

  “A party,” Winifred went on, as if Brooke hadn’t spoken. “It is the only way. Why, look at Alva Vanderbilt.”

  “She’s divorced,” Brooke said, remembering the scandal that had ensued the previous spring when the William K. Vanderbilts had divorced.

  “Precisely. But wasn’t she at church on Sunday? And hasn’t she opened Marble House again? And,” she added, her tone smug, “I hear she’s planning a ball for her daughter at the end of the month. She is not in hiding. The only way to face scandal is to brazen it out.”

  Resignedly, Brooke picked up her notebook, which she carried with her always when around her aunt. Perhaps a party wasn’t such a bad idea. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Let me see.” Winifred tapped her check with a fingertip. “The first thing to do is to make certain that we choose the right date. It would be disastrous if someone else was having an affair the same evening.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  “Naturally. Then we must think of a theme. Let’s see, what hasn’t been done lately? We need something spectacular. It wouldn’t do to have people thinking we’re moping about.”

  “Not at all,” Brooke murmured.

  Winifred ignored her. “Of course, you could do something to ensure the party is a success.”

  Brooke looked up from the notebook. “What?”

  “You could announce your engagement to Eliot.”

  The notebook fell to the floor with a clatter. “My engagement!”

  “Why, yes.” Winifred beamed at her. “You are going to marry him, of course. It’s only a matter of time. Yes.” She leaned back. “If we could announce your engagement, everyone would know that we have risen above our circumstances.”

  Brooke bent to pick up her notebook. “Aunt, I’m not sure I want to marry him. “

  “Don’t be silly. He is eminently suitable for you.”

  “But-”

  “You are not getting any younger, Brooke. You are twenty-three years old, and every year girls are being presented who might just catch his eye. You cannot afford to miss this chance.”

  “Am I so unappealing that I’ll never have another chance?” Brooke retorted.

  “Of course not. You are a Low, after all. But that means you must choose someone special.”

  “I’m not sure that Eliot’s so special, Aunt.”

  “Why, of course he is. A most charming young man-”

  “But what does he actually do? Nothing,” she rushed on before her aunt could answer. “Oh. I know. He plays tennis. He’s excellent at polo. He’s the perfect extra gentleman, and he was made to wear a dinner jacket.”

  “Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “No. But has he ever done anything else? Has he ever done anything useful in his life? And he drinks too much,” she added.

  Winifred peered at her over the top of her reading glasses. “I told your mother it was a mistake to raise you middle class.”

  “You were raised middle class.”

  “Yes, but I overcame it. Here you are, Brooke, with all the advantages, and a man who can support you. What more do you want?”

  “I don’t love him,” Brooke said, voicing aloud for the first time her real objection to the match. “Don’t tell me that love doesn’t matter, because it does. I saw what my parents had.”

  Winifred’s lips thinned. “And in the end it killed your mother. If she hadn’t been with him the day his carriage went off the road-”

  “It’s past. But I would like what they had, Aunt.”

  Winifred slowly removed her glasses and fixed Brooke with a piercing gaze. “We’re talking about that Devlin person, are we not? Are you seriously telling me you would choose him over someone like Eliot Payson?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Hutton said from the doorway of the morning room, saving Brooke from answering. “There is a, er, gentleman here to see you.”

  Winifred glared at Brooke a moment longer before turning. “Who is it, Hutton?”

  “His card, ma’am.”

  Winifred took the small pasteboard square and frowned at it. “William Tripp? Do we know him?”

  “Detective Tripp,” Brooke said in surprise. “It must be.”

  “From the police? No.” She thrust the card back at Hutton. “We are not at home.”

  “He requests only a few moments, ma’am. He says it’s important.”

  “I think we should see him, Aunt,” Brooke put in.

  “Well, I do not! We are done talking with the police.”

  “Ahem.” Hutton cleared his throat. “He told me, ma’am, that he wishes to reassure you about the investigation.”

  “Reassure me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That it won’t inconvenience you any further.”

  Brooke’s gaze caught Hutton’s at that. “Inconvenience?” she queried. “A strange way to put it.”

  “But true. Very well, Hutton,” Winifred said. “We shall see him. But only for five minutes, mind.”

  “Very good, ma’am,” Hutton said, and withdrew.

  “Another policeman.” Winifred frowned. “I thought we’d seen the last of them.”

  “I’m glad he’s called,” Brooke said. “I hope he can tell us what’s been happening.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” Winifred glared at her again. “Don’t think this ends our discussion, Brooke, because it doesn’t. If you think I’ll allow my niece to marry a common policeman-”

  “Mr. Tripp, ma’am,” Hutton said at that moment, to Brooke’s immense relief. She looked up to see a man of medium height bounce into the room. Her f
irst impression of him was that he was too dapper and jaunty to be a policeman. It wasn’t just his clothes: the tweed jacket, fine wool trousers, and felt derby; they were carefully tailored, but not of the very first quality. Nor was it the malacca walking stick, or the carefully waxed ends of his ginger-colored mustache. It was something in the way he held himself, something about his shallow blue eyes. They didn’t immediately survey the room, its furnishing and occupants, as her father’s would have, as Matt’s would have. Nor did he have that look in his eyes of having seen more than his share of the world’s pain. He was not, in short, like most policemen she’d known.

  “Ladies.” He executed a faultless bow. “Forgive me for intruding on you like this. I am Detective Tripp.” He held out his wallet to Winifred. “My credentials, madam.”

  Winifred barely glanced at the badge. “Good afternoon, detective. Is there something we can do for you?”

  “No. I hope, however, I can do something for you. May I sit?”

  “Please.” Winifred gestured him toward a pink brocade chair. He sat down, looking not at all out of place, as Matt would have in such feminine surroundings. “Hutton, bring a cup for Mr. Tripp, and more tea.”

  “Have you any news of the investigation?” Brooke asked as Hutton withdrew.

  “Nothing to worry you, Miss Cassidy.” He smiled at her, a toothy grin that was not at all comforting. “I understand you’ve had a dreadful time of it. Devlin didn’t handle matters well at all.”

  Brooke set her lips to hold back her protest. “Detective Devlin was doing his job.”

  “Oh, no, no, to involve someone such as yourself in the investigation? Not well done of him at all.”

  “As I have said, Brooke,” Winifred said. She was eyeing Tripp with distinctly more approval than she had shown a moment ago. “Mr. Tripp is obviously a gentleman.”

  Tripp took a sip of his tea and then set the cup down. “Ah. Lapsang souchong?”

  “Why, yes.” Winifred’s expression thawed even more. “You know your tea, sir.”

  “The only civilized drink.” He took another sip and then turned to them, his face more serious. “With your indulgence, madam, why I’ve come is to apologize for any pain my colleague might have caused you.”

  “Thank you.” Winifred nodded graciously. “It was a dreadful thing to endure.”

  “I’m sure it was. Rest assured, something like that will not happen again, now that I’m on the case.”

  “Thank goodness. It was ridiculous to think that one of us could ever have been involved in such sordid crimes.”

  “Have you any ideas on the murders, detective?” Brooke asked, finally setting her cup down.

  He smiled at her. “Many, I assure you.”

  Brooke leaned forward. “Do you think you’re close to making an arrest?”

  His smile broadened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “As it happens—I trust I have your confidence, ladies?”

  Winifred leaned forward, too. “Oh, yes. We won’t breathe a word, will we, Brooke?”

  “Well.” He sat back, brushing at the ends of his mustache. “This must be kept absolutely quiet, but at this very moment a suspect is being investigated.”

  “Who?” Brooke burst out.

  “Now that, dear ladies, I cannot tell you. Suffice it to say I think you’ll be pleased at the results.”

  “It’s not one of us then, sir?” Winifred asked.

  “No, madam. It is definitely not a cottager.”

  “But...” Brooke’s brow furrowed into a frown. “Surely there’s evidence that it was.”

  “Faulty.” Tripp dismissed the evidence Matt had struggled so hard to garner with a wave of his hand. “These crimes could not have been committed except by someone of the lower class.”

  “He was heard, and his voice was definitely upper class.”

  “Was he?” Tripp’s face went blank, and then he nodded. “Ah, yes. One of your maids, I believe? She mistook what she heard.”

  “But-”

  “Brooke, pray don’t pester the man so,” Winifred put in, frowning. “I am sure he knows his business.”

  “I do. Rest assured, ladies, I will do all I can to bring the villain to justice. In the meantime, Miss Cassidy, don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

  Brooke stared at him. “I beg your pardon!”

  “Leave it to me.” Reaching over, he patted her hand. In that moment Brooke conceived an intense dislike of dapper, red-haired men. “I will see to it that all is settled, and you may enjoy your season as before.”

  “But-”

  “I have taken up enough of your time, ladies.” He rose and bowed. “I hope I have set your minds at ease.”

  “But I still think-”

  “Yes, you have,” Winifred said at the same time, shooting Brooke a look. “Thank you for coming to us.”

  “The least I can do, madam. In fact, I will be speaking to all the cottagers as soon as I can.” He executed another bow. “Good day, madam. Miss Cassidy,” he said, and, turning, left the room.

  Brooke remained on her feet, her hands clenched. “I didn’t know anyone talked like that outside of books,” she muttered.

  “Sit down, Brooke,” Winifred said sharply. “I am mortified at your behavior. Mr. Tripp was a perfect gentleman.”

  “Gentlemen don’t solve crimes,” Brooke shot back. “He patronized me, Aunt.”

  “Did he? I’m sure he didn’t mean to. Brooke, dear, ring for Hutton. This tea has gone quite cold.”

  Brooke’s face wore a mutinous look, but she pressed the button that was set into the wall molding, signaling for the butler. “He’ll never solve the case.”

  “That is hardly our concern. Now, as to our party,” she said, and Brooke stared at her. It was hopeless. There was no one in this house who took what had happened as seriously as she did, no one she knew. Except Matt. And oh, how she missed him now.

  Annie hurried through the remainder of her chores and then clattered up the back stairs to her attic bedroom. Tonight was the night she’d looked forward to for weeks, and she didn’t want to waste a moment. Pulling off her starched maid’s cap and apron, she hastily splashed water on her face and then dressed, buttoning the white cotton shirtwaist with fingers made clumsy by excitement. The blue serge skirt and matching jacket followed. Looked just fine, she did, she thought, studying herself in the mirror. The walking suit couldn’t touch the outfits Miss Cassidy wore, it coming from Mr. Sears’s catalog and all, but it was as close as Annie could manage. Styling her hair in a topknot looser than she usually wore, she carefully set a feather-bedecked hat upon her head, skewering it in place with a large hatpin. There. Done up all proper, she was, and ready to enjoy tonight’s Grand Illumination.

  Fog drifted in from the sea as she hurried away from Bellevue Avenue, down the narrow side streets that led to the waterfront. She cast an anxious look toward the sky. Couldn’t rain tonight, could it? Not when there’d been so much planning and so much excited speculation about tonight’s events. The Illumination had been planned to welcome the return of the New York Yacht Club, an annual event that always caused excitement, though never quite this much. On Thames Street and Washington Square people were decorating, with Chinese and Japanese lanterns, or more grandiosely, with incandescent lights. Shopkeepers and homeowners alike vied to outdo each other, while on the harbor there was to be a parade of all kinds of crafts, all illuminated. Except for the awful events on the Cliff Walk, the Illumination was all anyone had talked about for a week. Annie was overjoyed that it was happening on her evening free.

  Behind her a rock clattered, as if it had been thrown. Startled, Annie turned to look behind. Nothing, ‘cept a buggy driving the other direction. Horse must have kicked up a rock, she thought, turning to go on her way. Though the sun had not yet set, the fog made everything dim, and this section of Coggeshall Avenue, near the new Vanderbilt stables, was lonely. She wasn’t certain if she’d seen someone behind her or not, but, if so, it was nothi
ng to worry about. Likely he was heading for the waterfront, like herself. Annie’s spine tightened and spasmed, and she hunched her shoulders against it. Silly, she scolded herself as a trolley clanged past her. This wasn’t the Cliff Walk, after all, lonely and deserted in the fog. This was a busy city street, with neat, tiny dwellings pressing together and people about. She was perfectly safe.

  The fog didn’t seem to hamper anyone’s enthusiasm, Annie noted when she at last reached Thames Street. Forgetting her momentary scare, she plunged into the crowd of sightseers, good-natured and jostling. Newport was crowded for this event; there’d been special trains bringing excursionists from Fall River all day, and she’d heard there wasn’t lodging to be found anywhere. She could understand it. Mouth agape, she wandered down the street, staring at the displays that would soon be lighted, feeling excitement rise within her. And, glory be, the fog was lifting. It was going to be a clear night, after all.

  The clock in the Trinity Church tower clanged the time. It was as if a starting gun had been fired, for, suddenly, electric lights blazed out, gas jets flamed, and shopkeepers scurried about, lighting the candles in their lanterns. Annie let out a gasp of sheer delight. The Grand Illumination had begun.

  He stalked her like a panther, through a jungle of arms and legs and vinelike strings of electric lights. Not ten feet ahead of him her hat with its jaunty feathered plume bobbed up and down, and yet she wasn’t aware of him. He’d thought she’d spotted him back there on Coggeshall Avenue, when, intent on his pursuit, he’d stumbled on a stone, but apparently she hadn’t. Nor would she spot him now. He looked entirely unremarkable, in rough trousers and shirt that were an affront to his dignity, and the heavy work boots he found so clumsy, but oh, so useful. No one knew who he was. Only she did.

  Not for the last time, he cursed the bad luck that had put her near the Cliff Walk when he’d been there, and the breeze that must have carried his voice to her. Not for the last time, he raged, inwardly, against that cop, Devlin, who had kept such crucial information to himself. Thank God Tripp was a different sort altogether, amenable to sharing details of his investigation with a willing listener. Foolish, but useful. Because of Tripp, he knew he had one more obstacle to overcome, before he could be free.