Death on the Cliff Walk

by Mary Kruger

  Matt abruptly pulled on the reins, and the buggy turned on one wheel into a drive fronting a substantial cottage. “Jeez, Cap.” Charlie grabbed the edge of his seat. “Slow down.”

  “Sorry,” Matt said absently. The interview ahead promised to be as difficult as any, if potentially more rewarding. Matt was about to talk to Paul Radley, Rosalind’s erstwhile fiancée.

  “Not bad,” Charlie commented as they climbed down from the buggy, surveying the massive, turreted building. It was one of the oldest cottages on Bellevue Avenue, having been built when Newport was a summer place for Southern families, before the Civil War. It enjoyed the name of “Hôtel Soleil,” though it was shaded by massive copper beeches and towering elms. “I’d take it.”

  Matt grunted, looping the reins of the buggy over the horse’s head and climbing the stairs of the house. “Where does the Radley money come from?”

  Charlie consulted his notebook. “A little of everything. Railroads, oil, different things. Radley Senior is on the board of a dozen companies. Junior is on Wall Street.”

  Matt grunted again, his face expressionless. He knew about Paul Radley’s work, and the fact that he came to Newport only on weekends, on one of the luxurious steamships of the Fall River line. This week he had taken the Priscilla on Friday night, which meant he had been en route at the time of Rosalind’s death and could not possibly have killed her. Alibi or no, if he turned out to be the father of Rosalind’s baby, Matt was going to look at him a lot closer.

  The entrance hall was of dark oak wainscoting and willow-patterned wallpaper, a stained-glass window throwing jewel colors onto the wall. Overhead the ceiling was painted in a design of flower garlands. The butler led them up a few stairs and showed them into a small, square room off the hall, a library, judging by the bookshelves lining the paneled walls. Also apparently not well used; Matt pulled down a book at random and opened it, finding that its pages were uncut. He was just replacing it on the shelf when the door opened and a young man stalked in. “I’m Paul Radley,” he said abruptly. “You Devlin?”

  Matt turned slowly, sizing up the other man. College boy, he thought. Harvard, by the sound of his accent. Tall and blond and arrogant, thinking he owned the earth. Matt’s hackles rose, and it was only by great effort that he calmed himself. Nothing would be served if he let his own feelings get in the way of the investigation. “Detective Devlin,” he said, keeping his voice neutral and holding out his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to us.”

  “Did I have a choice?” Radley threw himself into a leather armchair, his fingers drumming impatiently on the arm. “Ask your questions and be done. I haven’t got all day.”

  “All right.” Matt hitched up his trouser legs and sat across from Radley, slowly and deliberately. So Mr. Radley wanted to be rid of the police. Interesting, if not particularly revealing. No one wanted to talk to the police about this case. “Mr. Radley, how long were you-”

  “Have you caught him yet?” Paul demanded.

  “Who?”

  “The madman who’s doing this. Rosalind—my God, I would think even you townies could find who it is.”

  “We’re working on it.” Matt licked a finger and turned a page of his notebook slowly, aware of Charlie’s questioning look. Ordinarily he conducted interviews quickly, giving a suspect little time to think. This time was different. Let Radley think he was controlling the interview. Matt had a question or two that would likely stun him into cooperation. “How long were you and Miss Sinclair engaged?”

  “Since Christmas. Is that what you needed to ask me? Anyone could have told you that.”

  “Christmas.” Matt noted that down. “Did she often disguise herself as a maid?”

  Paul waved his hand in dismissal. “A prank,” he said. “It had to be. Anyone who knows—knew—Rosalind knows she enjoyed pranks.”

  “Except that this prank killed her, Mr. Radley.”

  “I say-”

  “Was it something she was in the habit of doing?”

  “I say, what are you implying?”

  “If Rosalind often dressed as a maid, who would know of it? If not you.”

  “Rosalind never did such a thing.”

  “You sound positive of that, Mr. Radley.”

  “Of course I am. She is—was—my fiancée.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “No one knew her better than I.”

  “I see.” Matt appeared to consult his notebook, though in reality his mind was racing ahead, contemplating the outcome of his next question. It was time to bring Radley back to earth. “Then tell me. Were you the father of her child?”

  Chapter 5

  “I—what? Damn you!” Paul jumped to his feet, knocking his chair back and assuming the classic boxer’s stance. “I should take you out for that.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Radley.” Matt sat still, unimpressed, and this time there was steel in his voice. Looking slightly surprised, Radley sat. “Rosalind Sinclair was three months pregnant. I ask you again. Were you her baby’s father?”

  “I don’t believe it.” Paul glared at him for a moment longer and then sagged, putting his hands to his face. “God. I don’t believe she’d do such a thing.”

  In spite of himself, Matt began to feel sorry for the man. “Were you the child’s father, sir?”

  “No. I wouldn’t so dishonor Rosalind. But-”

  “But someone did. I’m sorry, Mr. Radley. I realize you’re upset, but those are the facts.”

  “There was someone else.” Paul sounded stunned. “She was seeing someone else.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “I—yes. She wouldn’t let me—I was going to marry her, for God’s sake!”

  Matt’s sympathy for him strengthened. It was a betrayal, and he well remembered what that felt like. “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. “Sweeney.” Matt kept his gaze on Radley. “See if the butler will bring Mr. Radley something to drink.”

  Charlie rose. “Yes, sir.”

  “God.” Paul walked shakily over to the window. “First to learn she’s gone, and now—this.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Radley,” Matt said, not unkindly. “I need to ask you some questions, and the sooner, the better. But if you’d rather wait, I can return at some other time.”

  Charlie, coming in just then with a crystal tumbler filled with an amber fluid, looked at Matt with eyebrows raised in surprise. “Here you are, Mr. Radley.”

  “Thank you.” Paul drained the contents of the glass in one long gulp, and then set it down on the table next to him with a thump. There was a little more color in his face now, and his eyes had lost the glazed look of shock. “Will these questions help find her murderer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then ask them. I want to catch the bastard-”

  “Thank you. Do you have any idea who she was seeing?”

  “No. She wasn’t that kind of girl. At least, I didn’t think she was.” His eyes were unfocused as he sat, hunched forward. “I can think of men she flirted with—I can’t think of any she didn’t flirt with—but to do this!”

  “Is it possible she could have been friendly with someone on the staff?”

  “I doubt it.” Paul sat up straighter, more in command of himself. “It’s not done to have an affair with a servant. Rosalind had too much pride in herself for that.”

  Matt nodded; that was his opinion, too. “You do realize what you’re saying, don’t you? About who the killer might be.”

  “One of us, you mean,” he said flatly.

  “One of the cottagers, yes.” He paused. “You don’t seem shocked by the idea.”

  “When you’ve seen some of the things so-called gentlemen do on Wall Street—God!” Paul passed a shaky hand over his forehead. “Underhanded tactics, and sometimes outright fraud—there are times I think some of them could commit murder.”

  “You’re sure you can’t think of who she might have been seeing.”

  “No. Unless...”

  “Unless?” Matt pro
mpted, when Radley stopped.

  “No, I don’t think he’d do such a thing. But you might want to talk to Eliot Payson.

  Matt noted the name, as if he had never heard it before. “Who is he?”

  “They saw each other for a while last fall. He was more serious about her than she was about him. Though I doubt it was him. He’s been seeing Miss Cassidy lately. Of Belle Mer, you know.”

  Matt’s head snapped up in surprise. “Oh?” Who the hell was Eliot Payson? “We’ll talk to him, anyway.”

  “Good. My God, this is inconceivable.”

  “If you don’t know who she was seeing, can you think of someone who could tell us more about Rosalind?”

  “No.” He looked up, his eyes clear. “I loved Rosalind, but I wasn’t blind to her faults. She could be difficult. And she didn’t have any friends. Just acquaintances.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Partly because they were jealous. She is—was—very beautiful, you know. But also—well, she could be difficult. Sarcastic. She had a sharp tongue, and I don’t think she realized it kept people away.”

  “I see. The gentlemen, too?”

  “No. Not the gentlemen, though I can’t think of anyone she favored recently. But there was someone.” His hands clenched. “When I find out who it was I’ll-” He stopped, and the madness in his eyes eased.

  “You’ll what, Mr. Radley?” Matt waited for an answer. “Kill him?”

  “Of course not.” Radley leaned back in his chair. “My temper got the better of me. Can’t blame a man for getting mad, can you?”

  “No,” Matt said after a moment. “Can you think of anything else we should know?”

  “No.” He looked up, his eyes bewildered. “I never really knew her, did I?”

  “I’m sorry.” Matt and Charlie rose, and Radley followed them, that bewildered look still on his face. “If you think of anything, call me.”

  “I will. Catch the bastard, Mr. Devlin.”

  “We will. Oh, and Mr. Radley.” Matt turned at the door. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone what we discussed.”

  “Do you think I want to look like a total fool?” Radley snapped, and slammed the door behind them.

  “Well.” Charlie pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “I’d say we just got our walking papers, Cap.”

  “Yes.” Matt frowned as he climbed into the buggy.

  “Think he’s the father?”

  “I don’t know.” In his mind there remained a question mark next to Radley’s name. He had a temper, that Matt had seen for himself, and a powerful motive. If he learned that Rosalind was betraying him with another man, how might he react? “If he was lying, he’s a damn good actor. But find out more about him, Charlie. I wonder...”

  “He has an alibi, Cap.”

  “I know. Check it.”

  “If you say so. Better hope he keeps quiet about what you told him, Cap.”

  “He will. His reputation’s on the line.” Matt turned the buggy onto a narrow unpaved street. Ahead lay the waterfront, bustling with people and traffic, and the police station. “We know he’s not the baby’s father, but that’s about all we do know. Dammit, if we could just find out more about Rosalind-”

  “Maybe you could ask Miss Cassidy again, Cap.”

  “Ha.” Matt pulled the buggy to a stop in front of the police station, letting the horse dip his head into the stone watering trough. After this morning, Brooke likely wouldn’t give him the time of day. And just who was Eliot Payson? “We’ll have to find someone else,” he said, walking inside.

  “Cap,” the desk sergeant called, and Matt turned. “Miss Cassidy’s waiting for you in your office.”

  Matt stopped, and then turned, striding down the corridor. “Thanks,” he called back, and entered his office. “Brooke. What do you want?”

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Brooke smiled sweetly up at them. She was sitting in the chair facing his desk, a mug cradled in her hands, and she appeared not at all annoyed at his question. She wore black this afternoon, a dress of some shiny stuff, and a ridiculous hat with several feathers perched upon her head. That’s right, the condolence call on the Sinclairs, Matt reminded himself, pulling his mind back to essentials. “It’s more what I can do for you, Matt.”

  Matt paused in the act of sitting at his desk, looking at her warily. “Oh? What have you been up to, Brooke?”

  “Nothing very much.” In contrast to her reserved demeanor of this morning, now she sat forward, her shoulders braced and chin up, the very picture of confidence, and something else. Triumph, Matt decided after a moment. “I paid a condolence call on the Sinclairs today.”

  Matt waited. There was more to this than that. “And?”

  “Have you found out yet where Rosalind got the maid’s uniform?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Oh, I see. Working on it.”

  Her tone grated on him. “We’d be able to get more done without all these interruptions.”

  “Oh? In that case, then, I’ll leave.” She paused at the door. “I don’t suppose you’d care to know...”

  “What?” Matt said, when she didn’t go on.

  “That there’s a uniform missing from Claremont. The girl who owned it will be at Belle Mer tonight.” She beamed at him. “I just thought you’d like to know,” she said, and walked out.

  Matt reared to his feet. “Dammit, Brooke, get back here!”

  Brooke turned in the doorway, biting back a smile. “Excuse me?”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He came around the desk toward her. “I told you not to get involved.”

  “I am involved.” She raised her chin. “When my staff is threatened, when a girl I know is killed—I’m involved, whether I like it or not.”

  He stared at her for a moment. “Dammit, Brooke-”

  “Please stop swearing at me, detective.”

  “Dammit—all right.” He turned away, pulling out a

  crumpled packet of cigarettes. “Sit down,” he added, indicating the chair across from his desk.

  “Very well.” Brooke sat gingerly in the chair, eyeing his already overflowing tin ashtray. “Must you smoke?”

  “Yes. I must.” Matt lighted the cigarette with quick, practiced motions. “Now, what have you been up to?”

  “Nothing so very much.” Brooke settled back, forcing herself to relax. He had a right to be angry, she admitted to herself. She’d interfered in police business. Yet, even now, she couldn’t imagine doing things differently. “I decided to talk with Mrs. Dooley, the housekeeper at Claremont,” she began, and went on to relate what she had learned.

  “So the uniform was missing in New York,” Matt said, when she had finished.

  “Yes. Is that important?”

  “It might be.” He stood up, suddenly brisk. “What time tonight?”

  Brooke rose, too. “Around nine, in the kitchen. If you stand in the butler’s pantry, no one will know you’re there.”

  “Good.” He held his office door open for her. “I’ll see you then.”

  “Very well,” Brooke said, and at last moved away, compressing her lips in anger. Here she was, finding out information for him, and not a word of thanks had he given her, not a sign to show that she had helped in any way. Not that she should be surprised. Matt always had been stubborn. Pigheaded, she corrected herself, climbing into the Olmsteads’ victoria. He hadn’t accepted her decision to live with her aunt and uncle after her parents’ death all those years ago; he didn’t accept now that she might be of help. Why was she bothering? she fumed, looking out the carriage window without seeing anything. Heaven knew she had enough to do without playing detective. Debutante detective. Hours later, that still rankled. Very well, then. She’d do as he asked, no, demanded, and leave solving the murders to the police. And it would be a long time before she helped Matt Devlin again.

  “Come in. You’re Molly?” Brooke said, holding the kitchen door of Bel
le Mer open that evening, to see two girls, both dressed in the black serge dresses and crisp white aprons of maids.

  “Yes, mum.” Molly, short and plump, came in, the other girl following reluctantly. One look at her tall, slender figure, and Brooke knew whose uniform Rosalind had worn.

  “I’m glad you came.” Brooke smiled reassuringly. “Come, sit down. I hope you didn’t come alone.”

  “Mrs. Dooley sent a footman with us,” the taller girl said, sitting down and surveying Brooke coolly. She had the unmistakable accents of Rhode Island, the broad, flat a’s and the non-existent r’s. She’d be more difficult to handle than Molly, who was looking around the kitchen anxiously, and yet what she had to say was important. “We didn’t want to come.”

  “I understand. I promise you, no one at Claremont will hear of this from me.” What Matt, listening in the pantry, would do with the information was another matter. “Molly, Mrs. Dooley told me you were Miss Sinclair’s maid.”

  “I didn’t have nothing to do with it!” Molly burst out. “Miss Sinclair, she did what she wanted, and I couldn’t stop her.”

  “No one could stop her,” the other girl said, glaring at Brooke.

  “It’s all right, Molly.” Brooke reached over and laid her hand on Molly’s arm. “I’m not accusing you of anything. Or you, either—what is your name?”

  The girl stared defiantly at her for a moment. “Rachel.”

  “Rachel.” Brooke nodded. “Molly, I’m sorry you lost your job over this. Do you have a chance at another?”

  “Much you care,” Rachel muttered.

  Molly looked down, sniffling. “No, mum.”

  “Then I’ll see what I can do here.”