Death on the Cliff Walk

by Mary Kruger

  The butler who opened the door to them told them that Mr. Olmstead was unavailable, and began to close the door. Matt grabbed it before it could close completely. “Then we’ll see Miss Cassidy. If she’s available.”

  Hutton glanced into the house, and then stepped back. “This way,” he murmured, leading them across the Italian Hall to the loggia. “Miss Cassidy, someone to see you.”

  Brooke looked up. She had been sitting in a white wicker chair on the loggia, Harper’s Weekly lying unread on her lap as she gazed across the lawn toward the sea. “Matt.” She rose, dropping the magazine. “And Sergeant Sweeney. Is there something you need?”

  “Brooke.” Matt nodded. “I need to talk to your uncle.”

  She hesitated. “I’m sorry. He’s-”

  “Indisposed. I know. Regardless, I need to see him. Will you bring him to me, or do I have to go look for him myself?”

  She frowned. “Is this official, Matt?”

  “It is.”

  “Oh.” Her hand went to her throat, and the fears that had kept her company for the past few days crowded in on her, threatening to smother her. “Very well. I’ll get him,” she said, and went into the house.

  A few moments later she was back, Henry and Winifred following. Uncle Henry looked better than he had; the swelling in his nose had gone down, but his eye was still discolored and the long scratches on his cheeks stood out against his skin. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, his voice crisp. “What is this about?”

  “That’s a nasty bruise on your eye, sir,” Matt said.

  “Yes.” Henry sat down, regarding him steadily. “What do you want?”

  “Where were you the night before last?”

  “He was with me,” Winifred declaimed. “We had dinner at my brother’s. Really, Henry, I don’t see why we have to let these men badger you like this.”

  “Brooke.” Matt turned. “Was he?”

  The sudden question caught her off-guard. “Y-yes.”

  “Then why, sir,” Matt swung back to Henry, “did you come home yesterday morning in a cab?”

  “What?” Winifred exclaimed. “He did no such thing.”

  “Where were you that night, sir?”

  Henry’s gaze remained steady. “I don’t think that’s any of your business, sir.”

  “Oh, Henry. Have you gotten yourself into another scandal?” Winifred wailed.

  “Hush, Aunt!” Brooke took her arm. “I’m sure these are just routine questions.”

  “You won’t tell us where you were, sir?” Matt said.

  “No.” Henry’s voice was clipped. “I won’t.”

  “Then I’ll tell you.” He opened his notebook. “You were at a saloon on Thames Street, where you met a woman named Nellie Farrell.” He looked up. “Sound familiar?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “No? She’s dead, Mr. Olmstead. Murdered.”

  “Henry!” Winifred wailed again.

  “I assure you, Devlin, I had nothing to do with that.”

  “No? Does this look familiar to you?” Matt held out the cuff link.

  Henry squinted at it. “Looks like one of mine.”

  “It was found at Nellie Farell’s house.” Behind him Brooke let out a gasp, but he pressed on. “Now how did it get there, Mr. Olmstead? And were you there yesterday morning?”

  Henry stared at him for a moment, and then his shoulders sagged. “I don’t know, detective. For the life of me, I don’t know where I was the night before last, or what I did.”

  “Matt, he couldn’t have done anything,” Brooke said.

  “I’m sorry.” Matt’s voice was brusque. “Mr. Olmstead, you are under arrest for the murder of Nellie Farrell.”

  “No!” Brooke cried, and Winifred fainted.

  Chapter 9

  “Brooke, my dear, I came as soon as I heard.” Eliot crossed the marble floor in the Italian Hall and took Brooke’s hands. “Is it true?”

  “That my uncle killed someone? No.” She pulled her hands free and turned away. Outside, past the loggia and the lawn, daylight was fading and the setting sun cast a pink glow onto the ocean.

  “But he was arrested-”

  “Yes.” She swung back, her eyes flashing fire. “Oh, yes, he was arrested, and if I could have five minutes alone with Matt Devlin-”

  “Whoa.” Eliot held up his hand, retreating a pace. “I’m on your side, Brooke.”

  She gazed up at him a moment and then turned away. “I’m sorry, Eliot. Of course you are. But everything’s been so upset here.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “With Uncle Henry in jail—they won’t let me see him, can you imagine that?”

  “It’s only right,” he said staunchly, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Come and sit down. A jail is no place for a lady.”

  Brooke shrugged off his arm, but she did sit. “I practically grew up at the police station. I should be there.”

  “Your uncle wouldn’t want you to see him there, Brooke,” he said gently.

  She gazed up at him, and her shoulders slumped. “You’re right. Of course he wouldn’t. And I am needed here.” She glanced away as the doorbell rang, echoing sonorously through the hall. “Aunt Winifred is quite prostrated, of course, and she calls for me every other thing. And we seem to have had a great many callers. I’m sure they’re all very concerned about my uncle’s well-being,” she added, bitterly.

  “I’m sure they are, and yours, too. I know I am.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, after a few moments, her gaze averted. “I didn’t mean to include you. Of course you’re concerned. But it does make me angry, Eliot.” She struck her knees lightly with her fists. “This is just another sensation to them, while my uncle-”

  “Brooke.” He reached over and laid a hand on hers. “Let me help you with this. Let me take care of things for you.”

  It was tempting. Very tempting, to take her problems and place them on his shoulders. Let him deal with Matt and the forces he had brought to bear against Henry. It wouldn’t ease her anger at the injustice that had been done, however. Nor could she quite imagine Eliot squaring off against Matt. In any contest between them, physical or otherwise, she suspected Matt would win. “Perhaps you could talk to the lawyers,” she said slowly. “They don’t seem to want to listen to me.”

  “Of course not.” Eliot patted her hand. “You’re only a woman.”

  “Eliot!”

  “Calm down. I meant that is the way they see you. They’re more likely to listen to a man.”

  “True,” she admitted grumpily. Matt would listen to her, she thought, or he once would have. But Matt was her enemy now. Foolish ever to think he could be otherwise.

  “What do you want me to tell them?”

  “That he didn’t do it, of course.”

  Eliot paused. “Brooke, is there a chance he did?”

  “No!” She jumped to her feet. “I know my uncle, Eliot. He has his faults, but he couldn’t have done it. Never that.”

  “Calm down, Brooke,” he said again, reaching out to clasp her wrist. She pulled away. “I had to ask. They’ll have to find a way to exonerate him, that’s all.”

  “They’ll have to find out where he was and they won’t,” she burst out. “I told them who to ask about where he really was and they just smiled at me.”

  “Who would they ask?”

  “The servants.”

  Eliot eyed her askance. “The servants? Really, Brooke-”

  “They know everything,” she insisted. “I’m willing to bet there’s someone in this town who knows exactly where my uncle was that night and can prove it.”

  “And the other nights?” Eliot said quietly.

  “What other nights?”

  “The night Rosalind was killed, for one.”

  Brooke stared at him for a moment, and then sank her face into her hands. There it was, the fear she had been trying to avoid facing. Would Henry be charged with the Cliff Walk killings as well? “I d
on’t know,” she said, admitting the unthinkable. With things as they were, he might very well be charged with the crimes, and she couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t. She raised her head, making up her mind. This was different from the bit of investigation she had done earlier. This was serious. Her uncle’s life was at stake. If no one else would question the servants, then she would. She had to.

  “Is it true she was stabbed twenty-two times?” a reporter yelled.

  “What about Olmstead?” another called out over the din of reporters milling about near the front desk at the Newport police station. “Were his clothes bloody?”

  “How did Olmstead meet her?”

  “Were they lovers for long?”

  “Is he a suspect in the Cliff Walk killings?”

  “Gentlemen.” Chief of Police Read held up his hand, and the room quieted. It had been his idea to let the press in; they had been clamoring for information since the arrest. The news that Henry Olmstead was suspected of the murder of a sometime prostitute was sensational, and every newspaper that could be represented was here, from the local Mercury to the Providence Journal and the New Bedford Standard, as well as the scandal sheet Town Topics. Tomorrow the New York newspapers would likely arrive in force. “One at a time, please.”

  “How did he meet the victim?”

  “What clues made you arrest him?”

  “What is the evidence?”

  “Is he a suspect in the Cliff Walk killings?”

  Chief Read handled each question with aplomb and dignity, but at the last one he hesitated. Matt, who had stayed silent, hands clasped behind his back, stepped forward as the chief gave him a look. “Not at the moment, no.”

  “Then he might be in future?” the reporter persisted.

  “We can’t answer that yet,” the chief put in. “Any other questions?”

  “Detective,” a patrolman hissed at Matt’s side, as the clamor increased again. “There’s someone in your office to see you.”

  Matt didn’t take his eyes off the reporters. Like sharks, they smelled blood and they wouldn’t be satisfied until they had it. “I can’t leave. Who is it?”

  “Miss Cassidy, sir.”

  Matt glanced at the patrolman in surprise, and then back to the reporters. The chief was leaning forward, hands braced on the table, and was answering questions forcefully and straightforwardly. He could handle this. No one else, however, could handle Brooke. Lips tight, he slipped through the door to his left, into the relative peace of the hallway.

  “Brooke,” he said, walking into his office. She stood in the middle of the room, hands clasping her purse. “You shouldn’t be here. We’re surrounded by reporters.”

  “He didn’t do it.” She regarded him steadily. “You know he didn’t.”

  Matt let out his breath and ran a hand over his hair. “Brooke, there’s evidence-”

  “I don’t care!” She set her hands on his desk, leaning forward. “I don’t care what the evidence is. My uncle could not have committed murder.”

  “Sit down, Brooke,” he said, his voice tired but firm, and, looking slightly surprised, she did so. “You know yourself your uncle came home the other morning in suspicious circumstances. You were there.”

  “Suspicious, yes. I’ll be the first to admit that my uncle has not lived a blameless life, as you probably know, but he could not commit murder. He simply could not.”

  Matt looked away. “I’m sorry, Brooke.”

  “Sorry. Ha.” Silence stretched between them. “Is he a suspect for the Cliff Walk killings, too?”

  That made him look back at her. She was regarding him with the same steady gaze. In spite of the circumstances, he felt a reluctant flash of admiration for her. She was Big Mike Cassidy’s daughter, all right. If she were a man, she’d make a fine police officer. “We have to consider it, Brooke,” he said finally. “There is evidence.”

  “I see.” Lips tight, she rose. “May I see him?”

  “Brooke, I don’t think that’s advisable.”

  “May I see him?”

  “Damn. All right. But only for a few moments.”

  “And only because the chief is busy elsewhere?” she inquired with exaggerated sweetness, pulling her elbow away from the hand he placed there. “I know the way, detective.”

  “I know you do,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll have to speak to the officer in charge.”

  “Thank you,” Brooke said, and swept out into the hall before him.

  The cells were in the back of the police station. Brooke’s father had rarely let her see this part of his work, preferring to protect her from it. Uncle Henry’s lawyers had explained to her that he would be staying here only temporarily. Tomorrow there would be a preliminary hearing in District Court. Since this was a murder case, it was unlikely he’d be given bail, and so would be housed in the Marlborough Street jail to await trial. Brooke was determined that that wouldn’t happen.

  The mingled odors of disinfectant and too many people crowded together assailed her nostrils as she walked down the narrow corridor, Matt by her side. Earlier, she’d wanted nothing to do with him; now she was glad of his presence, as though he could somehow protect her. She was aware of prisoners looking out at her from the cells on either side, though she resolutely ignored their muttered comments and catcalls. Her relief at reaching her uncle’s cell was brief. Ahead lay a different kind of ordeal.

  “Mr. Olmstead,” Matt said through the small barred window in the cell door.

  “Matt, couldn’t I go in?” Brooke whispered.

  “I’m afraid not. Sir, you have a visitor.”

  “I heard you, young man.” Henry frowned at them from the other side of the bars. “What did you let her in here for, Devlin?”

  “I insisted. Oh, Uncle Henry-”

  “Brookie.” A smile briefly touched Henry’s lips, never reaching his eyes, before he abruptly turned away from her. “Devlin, get her out of here.”

  “Uncle Henry,” she called, leaning forward to the bars. “You have to tell us where you were that night.”

  Henry stopped, standing still in the center of his cell. The harsh light of the gas lamp on the wall set his features in stark relief. “I told you, Brooke. I don’t remember.”

  “You must have some idea. Matt.” She turned. “Can’t you leave us alone for a few moments?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “What do you think I’m going to do?” She glared at him. “Help him escape?”

  “No.” He considered her for a moment. “All right. I’ll go to the end of the corridor. But just for a few minutes.”

  “Thank you. Uncle Henry.” Her whisper was urgent as she turned back to the door. “Please. You must talk to me.”

  Henry kept his back turned to her. “Go away, Brooke. I don’t want you involved in this.”

  “I’m already involved. Don’t you see? I’m your only chance of getting out of here.”

  He did turn, then. “I didn’t do it, Brooke.”

  “I know that. But did you know they’re thinking of charging you with killing Rosalind Sinclair?”

  Shock crossed his features. “I didn’t do it,” he repeated, at last coming over to her.

  “Of course you didn’t. But they know about the maid who sued you in New York. Uncle, listen. I know how the police work. They have to solve this case. If you fit, they may not look any further.”

  He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “I can’t tell you anything, Brooke.”

  “There is someone, isn’t there?” she pressed. “You have been meeting someone.”

  “I can’t tell you.” His smile was sad. “I gave my word.”

  “Your word!” Her mouth snapped shut in astonishment. “Uncle, your word might send you to prison.”

  “I know. But I can’t do it, Brooke.”

  “Then I’ll have to find her myself.”

  “Brooke,” Matt said, at her side.

  “Brooke, don�
��t do anything,” Henry began.

  “I love you, Uncle Henry,” she said. “We’ll get you out of this.”

  “Brooke,” Matt said again, this time touching her shoulder. “It’s time.”

  “Oh, yes, detective, it’s time.” She wheeled around, her chin up, and stalked down the corridor. It was high time something was done about this. If no one else would do it, she would.

  Belle Mer was dark and quiet when Brooke stepped out of the victoria, except for the light in the entrance hall. Mrs. Olmstead had gone to bed, Hutton informed her as she walked into the house, resting with the aid of a sleeping draught administered by the doctor. Brooke nodded, drawing off her gloves and removing her hat. With all that had happened, she was now in charge of running the house. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m going to my room, too. Oh, and Hutton.” She turned back.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Send Annie to me, please.”

  “Of course, miss.”

  In her room, Brooke stood patiently while a maid unhooked her dress and loosened her corset, and then slipped into a befrilled cotton wrapper. A cool, damp breeze blew in through the window, and she glanced out, to see a quarter moon rising over the sea. A lovely night. If only the day’s events hadn’t been so dreadful.

  “Miss?” Annie said, knocking on the door. “You want to see me?”

  Brooke turned back. “Yes, Annie. Come in.” She nodded at the other maid, dismissing her, and then gestured Annie to a chair. Annie sat on the edge of it, looking distinctly uncomfortable, while Brooke took the blue velvet wing chair across from her. “You know everything that goes on in this house, don’t you?”