Murder at Wakehurst

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “You said both Jerome Harrington and Imogene Schuyler set off toward the house after their argument,” Nanny reminded me. “Does Detective Myers know anything about Miss Schuyler’s objections to the marriage?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I didn’t hear him question Miss Schuyler or Jerome Harrington, so I don’t know how much they admitted to him.”

  “Well,” she said, “perhaps someone should make certain he knows.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I rose early and dressed in somber colors with my black armband in place. Drab I might have appeared, but my attire felt far more appropriate to my mood than my finery of last night. I would not miss the ensemble once I returned it to Grace.

  After a light breakfast, I made my way into town. My carriage, a simple two-wheeled gig that required only one horse, needed repairs. Some were minor, such as tears in the leather seat and canvas roof, and some more extensive: the seat spring was rusting and the long wooden reaches were splintering. The threat of an accident had been weighing heavily on my mind, but thanks to Uncle Cornelius’s generosity, I could have these matters addressed right away.

  After stopping at Stevenson’s Livery on Thames Street and arranging a schedule of repairs, I left my horse and buggy there and walked across town to Marlborough Street. I carried an umbrella, as the weather was misty with a fairly dependable promise of rain, at least a sprinkle or two. The leaves were beginning to change, their deep colors enlivening the weather-beaten storefronts and warehouses along Thames Street. The scents of decaying foliage mingled with fishy brine from the bay to tickle my nose until I sneezed several times. This, in turn, prompted several passersby to give me a wider berth.

  On Marlborough Street, I hesitated, staring up at the front of a brick building that looked more like someone’s large Federal-style home than a police station. Gifford Myers wouldn’t be happy to see me, but I hadn’t come to make anyone happy. I had come to tell the man what I had witnessed the night before. I should have told him everything then, but fear of incriminating someone mistakenly had prompted me to hold my tongue. That had been wrong. As he himself had insisted, this murder was a police matter. Well, then, the police needed every shred of information available. Only then could they sort through the facts and reach a logical conclusion. With my resolve firmly in place, I mounted the steps and went inside.

  My friend Scotty Binsford happened to be manning the front desk, which renewed my hopes that I would be permitted to speak with Detective Myers. Behind Scotty, in the main station room, uniformed officers and plainclothesmen bustled back and forth. I heard voices, the ringing of telephones, and the clackety-clack of typewriters. Scotty’s sheepish expression, however, dampened my hopes immediately.

  I pretended I hadn’t noticed. “Good morning, Scotty. How are you?”

  “Fine, Emma, just fine.” Scotty was a large young man about my age, broad of chest, who had me raising my chin to look up at him, even though he occupied a stool. This made him a rather formidable police officer, at least in appearance, as long as the criminals weren’t privy to his gentle nature. Not that that prevented him from carrying out his duty. “I should be asking you, after what happened last night. I’m surprised to see you in town this early.”

  “I’m here because of last night.”

  His mouth turned downward. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I have instructions to take a statement if you showed up today and send you on your way.”

  A huff escaped my lips. “Do you, now? From whom? No, let me guess. Is it Detective Myers?”

  Poor Scotty, his cheeks flamed. “I’m sorry, Emma. If it were up to me . . .”

  I placed a hand on the counter between us. “I know that, Scotty. I certainly don’t blame you for following orders. But this is ridiculous. I have information that might be important to solving Judge Schuyler’s murder.”

  “Which is why I’m supposed to take your statement.” He dragged a clipboard onto the counter. He placed a jar of ink and a pen beside it. “If you’d like to write down anything you think is important, I’ll see that Detective Myers gets it.”

  I scowled at the writing equipment before looking back up at Scotty. When I spoke, it was in an undertone. “Tell me, what do you think of Gifford Myers?”

  Scotty’s blush rose once more. He glanced over his shoulder, through the doorway into the main room. Turning back, he whispered, “I think it’s unfair they took Jesse off homicide.”

  It surprised me to hear him use Jesse’s given name, rather than refer to him as Detective Whyte. It showed me Scotty was speaking as a fellow Newporter, and what’s more, he was talking as a neighbor, someone who had grown up on the Point. It was a neighborhood where people stuck together. I gave him a firm nod. “As do I, Scotty.”

  “I could let you see him, you know. Detective Whyte, I mean.”

  I nodded more vigorously. “Yes, please.”

  “Wait here.” Scotty slipped into the main room as I stood at the counter and fumed about Gifford Myers’s refusal to see me. How dare he assume I could have nothing useful to offer, and how dare he refuse to see any member of the public.

  Scotty returned a minute later, with Jesse following. He looked grim, and I could see reflected in his hazel eyes a flicker of the same anger coursing through my veins. He bade me good morning and came around the counter.

  “Walk with me, Emma.” Rather brusquely, he led the way to the street door and held it open for me. On the sidewalk, he offered me his arm, and with his free hand slapped his derby over his auburn hair. We walked to the corner in silence. I could sense Jesse’s tension, as well as feel it in the bend of his elbow.

  “Jesse, what’s going on? Why has this new man, this Gifford Myers, replaced you? Is it permanent?”

  “I don’t know, truth be told,” he said with a shake of his head. “Could be. I guess it depends on his performance.” At Meeting Street, we turned toward Washington Square.

  “Jesse, won’t you tell me what’s going on? Judging by what Detective Myers said last night, I’m afraid I’m to blame for this change.”

  He breathed in deeply and let it out with a sigh. “Here’s the problem. The state has gotten wind of how often you’ve helped with cases, and now Police Chief Rogers’s job is at stake.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. The cases were solved. I should think that’s a good thing.”

  “You would think so. But the chief has been accused of allowing a . . .” He flicked a glance at me and shrugged. “In their words, allowing a ‘mere woman’ to do his department’s job. So he’s replaced me as Newport’s main homicide detective with a man who will refuse to work with you.”

  I brought us to an abrupt halt, forcing other pedestrians to sidestep us. “Oh, Jesse, that’s not fair.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “But it’s the way things are.”

  “I’m so sorry. If I’d guessed something like this might happen . . .”

  He shook his head. “Don’t be sorry, Emma. The department is losing an invaluable resource.”

  “It most certainly is, but I’m sure in time they’ll come to their senses and realize no one is better at the job than you.”

  “I meant you,” he said with a pensive smile, and we started walking again. We crossed Washington Square and turned up Touro Street.

  I held the brim of my hat against the breeze. “Do you know if he has any leads yet?”

  “He’s going over the guest list now, especially those who participated in the archery. He figures the killer is something of a marksman.” Jesse gave a nod. “He would have to be, to have shot a man from the veranda in the dark.”

  “Don’t forget, the judge wore a white shirt, white cravat, and white silk vest. All of that would have caught the light from the windows and made him stand out from his surroundings.”

  “Even so.”

  “Yes, even so,” I conceded. When Touro Synagogue came
into view ahead of us, we swerved right onto Spring Street. “He specifically asked me about my participation in the archery contest,” I said uneasily.

  “He’s an idiot,” Jesse grumbled.

  I let go a laugh. “Nanny would agree. Where are we going?”

  “Max Oberlin’s Gentlemen’s Outfitters.”

  “Why there? Have you ordered a new suit of clothes?” It would certainly surprise me if he had, the shop being more expensive than a man on a detective’s salary could typically afford.

  “No, there’s been a robbery. I’ve been given the case.” I heard the disdain in his voice, the contempt. Normally, a pair of uniformed men would be sent to investigate a robbery at a clothing shop, not a seasoned detective. Waves of remorse crashed over me as I acknowledged the extent of the damage I had done to Jesse’s career.

  * * *

  Max Oberlin met us at the door to his shop and locked it behind us after letting us in. I expected to see the interior in disarray, with clothing spilling off the shelves and strewn across the floor. Instead, we were greeted by neat stacks and artfully dressed mannequins. Except for one, which stood denuded of its attire.

  Mr. Oberlin offered Jesse his broad hand to shake, and then met my gaze on an equal level, as we were of similar height. Jesse explained my presence by identifying me as a reporter for the Messenger. Mr. Oberlin nodded and bade me good morning; we knew each other vaguely.

  Jesse scanned the shop. “You were broken into, Mr. Oberlin?”

  “I was, yes.” He pronounced was as vas, with a light German accent. He waddled slightly as he crossed the shop to the unclothed mannequin. “One of my most expensive ensembles is gone.”

  Jesse remained silent a moment, his eyebrows gathering. “That’s it? That’s all that’s missing?”

  Mr. Oberlin nodded and patted the side of his grizzled hair in place. “As I said, it is very expensive. Evening clothes made from my finest fabrics. For a Mr. Arnold Jenson. I was displaying it before his final fitting. Now I have no suit and no payment to look forward to.”

  Jesse lowered his head and touched his fingertips to his brow. I could all but see him withering with dismay that he should be saddled with such a minor case. I, on the other hand, snatched eagerly at Mr. Oberlin’s news, for a reason of my own.

  “Can you describe the clothing?” This earned me a quizzical look from Jesse, but he allowed Mr. Oberlin to reply.

  “Of course I can,” he said with all the dignity of a skilled tailor. “Black trousers with satin braiding down the outer seam. Black tailcoat, well fitted for a trim waist, broader in the shoulders, black satin lapels. Silk vest in dove gray. White silk cravat. Tailored white shirt. Nothing flashy, simply the height of elegance.”

  I thought back on the details of the evening clothes worn by the man Neily had argued with. The fit—less than perfect—had caught my notice much more than the fabrics or trim, but as I pictured him in my mind, I felt sure this could be Max Oberlin’s missing ensemble.

  “A top hat as well?” I asked.

  “Yes, also a top hat.” He gestured to a shelf of them; there was an empty space where a hat should have been.

  “When was the approximate time of the break-in?” Jesse slipped his tablet and pencil from his inner coat pocket.

  “I cannot say. I close at precisely six o’clock every evening. This had to have occurred sometime between when I left the shop at six-thirty yesterday evening and this morning, when I reopened an hour ago.”

  “Do you live upstairs?” Jesse made a notation.

  “I do. But I heard nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Were you home all evening?”

  “I was. Oh, except for when I went out to purchase some bockwurst and bread for my supper. But it couldn’t have happened then. I wasn’t gone long enough, and I would have noticed something amiss when I returned. No, it must have happened after I went up to my rooms.”

  Jesse made another note. “Had you noticed any suspicious characters hanging around the area earlier yesterday?”

  The man shrugged. “Who has time to be looking out windows?”

  Jesse conceded his point with another nod. “Fair enough. Any unusual customers lately?”

  “No one I can think of.”

  “Detective Whyte,” I said, “perhaps you might interview this Mr. Jenson.”

  This clearly puzzled Mr. Oberlin, as well as troubled him. “You think my customer came and stole the clothing so he wouldn’t have to pay for it?”

  “No, no,” I hastened to assure him. “Nothing like that.”

  “Then what?” Jesse’s bafflement seemed to equal Mr. Oberlin’s.

  “I might have seen this stolen ensemble last night, at Wakehurst.” I didn’t wish to explain any more than that—at least, not yet. I gave Jesse a significant look, hoping he would understand and trust me.

  He turned back to Mr. Oberlin. “I’ll be interviewing the neighbors to see if anyone saw anything.” Jesse looked around the shop. “Where did the individual break in?”

  “This way.” Mr. Oberlin led the way into the back, past his dressing rooms, cutting and sewing rooms, and a storeroom. A narrow hallway led to a rear door. “Here. The lock has been broken.”

  Jesse crouched to examine the latch. The wood had been splintered; slivers along with a few screws lay scattered on the floor. Jesse opened the door and looked out, no doubt taking note of which neighbors to follow up with. “Looks like he used a crowbar to force the lock open. Odd you didn’t hear anything. Let’s hope someone else did.”

  He spent the next several minutes asking further questions, making notations, and surveying the store and its contents to make sure nothing else was taken.

  “What about cash from your register?” he asked.

  “I never leave cash in the register overnight,” the man said as if offended by the very idea.

  “And you have how many employees?”

  “Two, besides the woman who does some of my plain stitching. Shirts, cravats, that kind of thing. But she works from home. My two assistants leave with me each night.”

  “And where are they now?”

  “I sent them home, told them to come back later this morning. No need to be paying them to watch you do your work, Detective.”

  I felt sure they hadn’t thanked him for that. Even a couple hours’ wages could make a difference in how well a family ate in any given week. But I schooled my features not to reveal my sentiments.

  We soon bade Mr. Oberlin good day, with Jesse promising to keep him informed. To humor me, he had Mr. Oberlin give him Arnold Jenson’s address. I waited until we had walked several doors down before turning to Jesse. “We’ve got to see my cousin Neily. And then visit this Mr. Jenson.”

  “Are you going to tell me why?”

  I explained as we made our way back to the station.

  Chapter 6

  Jesse and I agreed that Arnold Jenson could wait. My main reasoning behind wishing to meet him was to compare him with my memory of the individual whom Neily had argued with at the fete. We climbed into a police carriage and rode out to Beaulieu, the Italianate villa built forty years earlier, which Neily and Grace leased each summer. Situated on Bellevue Avenue between Beechwood and Marble House, Beaulieu presented an older style of grandeur than the other cottages inhabited by the Vanderbilts in Newport. Two identical wings flanked a central tower beneath a steep mansard roof, and a charming veranda surrounded the house on three sides. That Neily loved this house said something significant about him: he valued comfort over impressing his neighbors, and didn’t care to entertain on quite as lavish a scale as many others of the Four Hundred.

  Which was not to say Neily and Grace didn’t entertain in an impressive style, nor that Beaulieu wasn’t a masterpiece of midcentury stateliness.

  We were admitted into the Grand Foyer, an extensive hall tiled in black-and-white marble, onto which the five main rooms of the first floor opened. Directly ahead, to the rear of the house, lay my favorite: an o
ctagonal parlor that overlooked the veranda and, beyond, the gardens and the sea. But it was not to this room the butler led us. A gentle click of wood upon ivory, followed by a muffled thump, rendered the butler’s assistance unnecessary. I had already guessed Neily to be in the billiard room, and no wonder. I knew it to be a habit of the Vanderbilt men to retreat to their billiard tables when they were troubled.

  Nonetheless, the butler announced us while we waited. I half wondered if Neily would guess the nature of our visit and try to put us off. If he hadn’t wished to confide in me last night, why would he today? But within a moment, he appeared and even summoned a smile, though I detected a wariness in his dark eyes.

  “Emmaline, what a treat. I’m sorry to tell you Grace isn’t here at the moment. She’s taken Corneil over to Shady Lawn to see her parents.” He gave my cheek a quick peck. Up close, I saw his features were tired and colorless, making him appear older than his twenty-six years.

  “That’s all right, we’ve come to see you. Neily, you know Detective Whyte.”

  That circumspect gleam in his eyes increased as he nodded to Jesse and, to his credit, offered his hand to shake. “Come, we’ll retire to the drawing room. Have you eaten?”

  “Please, nothing for us,” I said as we followed him.

  “I thought that other detective—Myers?—was handling Judge Schuyler’s murder.”

  “He is,” Jesse said. “This is actually about another matter.”

  “ ‘Another matter’?” Neily gestured for us to precede him into the drawing room, where the gilded trim on the paneled walls reminded me of the ballroom of its neighbor, Beechwood. The room lay in shadow, the heavy curtains along the east wall having been drawn against the morning sunlight. The butler trailed us into the room.

  “Shall I open the draperies, sir?”

  “No, thank you. I prefer it dark.”

  Jesse and I traded puzzled glances. The billiard room had been flooded with light. It seemed only in our company did Neily prefer shadows. To hide what?