Murder at Wakehurst

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “What can I do for you, then?” he asked, and I heard the reluctance in his tone.

  “There’s been a robbery in town,” Jesse said, leaning forward in his chair. “At Max Oberlin’s Gentlemen’s Outfitters.”

  Neily frowned. “I know the place, but I can’t say I’ve ever purchased anything there. My clothes are gotten mostly in New York. I don’t see how I could possibly help you.”

  “You may yet be able to,” I said. “You see, I believe a suit of evening clothes stolen from the shop turned up at Wakehurst last night, worn by an uninvited guest.”

  Neily shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone intruded on a party, especially one held out of doors.”

  “That man you argued with . . .” I trailed off when Neily surged to his feet. He paced in front of us, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I told you, Emmaline, he was no one. I was . . . you know . . . a bit swizzled by then, wasn’t I? Not my finest moment, I’ll admit.”

  “We’re not here to cast judgment.” I came to my feet as well, prompting Jesse to do the same.

  “We’d merely like to know his identity,” Jesse said.

  “I’m sorry, I have no idea who he is. Never saw him before in my life.”

  “What did he say that made you so angry?” I persisted.

  Neily shook his head, his mouth a slash of irritation. “I don’t recall. I’m sorry, but I have nothing more to say on the matter.”

  I was certain he remembered much more than he was admitting, but he left me no choice but to drop the matter. “Can I ask you about something else?”

  “I’d really rather you didn’t.” Nonetheless, he held out his hand to allow me to continue.

  “Last night, Detective Myers mentioned a conflict existing between Judge Schuyler and the New York Central. And that the judge ruled in favor of union workers. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Emmaline, you know I’m not part of that end of the business any longer. I’m a mechanical engineer. You’ll have to speak with Alfred or Uncle William if you wish to know more about the matter.”

  “All right, then, Neily. I suppose I’m finished annoying you for one day. But if you should recall anything . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, nodding, but I heard his continued annoyance, his impatience to have us gone. “I’ll let you know immediately. Detective Whyte, I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you.”

  Couldn’t, or wouldn’t, I thought.

  “I understand, Mr. Vanderbilt.” Jesse studied Neily’s expression as he spoke, leading me to suspect he didn’t believe Neily, either. “My deepest condolences on the passing of your father.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Neily shook Jesse’s hand again and walked us through the Grand Hall to the front door. “Emmaline, I’ll tell Grace you were here. She’ll be sorry to have missed you. But you’ll come another time, won’t you?”

  “Of course, Neily.” I took his hand and deposited a kiss on his cheek, his beard tickling my nose. He spoke as if this had been a social call, so eager was he to dismiss our questions, and ourselves.

  Once back in the police carriage, I turned to Jesse. “Well?”

  “He’s hiding something, all right. What I can’t figure out is why. Who could this mystery antagonist be, and is your cousin trying to protect him, or avoid being implicated himself?”

  “Implication in what, though?” I mused aloud as apprehension gathered in the pit of my stomach.

  Jesse took up the reins and gave them a light flap above the horse’s back. The carriage rocked into motion. “That may be for Gifford Myers to discover.”

  “Will it?” I adjusted my straw sun hat, unpinning and pinning it back in place to meet the changing angle of the sun. “We’ll see about that.”

  * * *

  Our second stop brought us just off Bellevue Avenue, to the home of Arnold Jenson. Situated on Berkeley Avenue, the house was a dignified Federal manse nestled in sculpted evergreens, Japanese maples, and towering elms. A housekeeper admitted us and had us wait in a parlor furnished in burled walnut and brocades that complemented the floral wallpaper. I sat on the deep-seated tufted sofa, while Jesse remained standing near the fireplace.

  Mr. Jenson’s appearance in the doorway startled me, as for an instant I believed him to be the very man I had seen with Neily the previous night. His height, the breadth of his shoulders, the tapering of his torso . . . yet I immediately perceived the difference, the refinement lacking in the other man, the confidence rather than defiance. This man’s attire fit him as it had been meant to, as though it had been designed for him, as it assuredly had been. Besides, where the other man’s nose had obviously suffered a break or two, this man, I felt certain, had never been at the receiving end of a punch.

  What I also learned was that if the man from Wakehurst wore this man’s clothing, he would, indeed, strain the fabric ever so slightly.

  “I am Arnold Jenson.” He extended his hand to Jesse first. “What may I do for you?” Jesse explained our purpose, and the solicitous light faded from Mr. Jenson’s pale blue eyes. “That suit is for my daughter’s wedding next month. I do hope Mr. Oberlin can make another, unless we’re so lucky as to have the original turn up. Any hope of that?”

  “I can’t say,” Jesse admitted, “but we have a couple of questions.” Though our original intention had been only to compare Mr. Jenson to the man from last night, we had realized ahead of time the necessity of making our visit appear to be legitimate police business.

  “Wait.” Mr. Jenson held up a hand and appeared to scrutinize me. “Forgive me, but why are you here, Miss . . . ?”

  “Cross.”

  “Hmm. Emmaline Cross, the Vanderbilt cousin.”

  I nodded.

  “Surely, you’re not a police officer,” he said with a dubious look and a mirthless chuckle.

  “No, I’m a reporter for the Newport Messenger.”

  Concern replaced his doubt. “I’d prefer not to have my name in the newspapers, thank you, Miss Cross.”

  “It needn’t be. I’m merely gathering some facts for a basic story of local interest. How long have you done business with Mr. Oberlin?”

  “Ever since we’ve been in Newport. About two years now, on and off.”

  Jesse took over the questioning. “Never had a problem at the shop before?”

  “Never. Oberlin delivers quality goods and does so on time.” He shook his head and exhaled as though a weight sat on his shoulders. “This is most inconvenient, I’ll have you know. I don’t see how he’ll have a new set of clothes ready for me in two weeks, when we leave for New York. Not with the quality of the first set. And to think, I would have had a final fitting this afternoon, and by tomorrow morning, the suit would have been delivered. I suppose I’ll just have to find something in the City.”

  “Mr. Jenson,” I ventured, hoping Jesse wouldn’t object to what I was about to say, “I might have seen your clothing last night, at the fete at Wakehurst.”

  “Wakehurst? How the blazes would my evening clothes have gotten to Wakehurst?”

  Jesse shot me a glare from beneath his brows, but I remained focused on Mr. Jenson. “On another man, perhaps our thief.”

  Mr. Jenson gave an indignant sniff. “It was certainly our thief, if he wore my clothes.” He left off, his mouth falling open. “Hold up a moment. I remember . . . several days ago, when I went to Oberlin’s for a fitting, I was standing on the platform in front of the mirrors in the fitting room. Oberlin left me for a moment, and since I stood fully dressed, he left the curtain gaping. A fellow entered the shop, looked around. Seemed frightfully interested in evening clothes. I noticed him checking the pricing board behind the counter. And then he saw me.”

  Jesse and I exchanged startled glances. Jesse asked, “Did he speak to you?”

  “He only wished me a good afternoon. But I noticed him sizing me up, or rather my attire, as I supposed at the time. I thought nothing of it, other than that the fellow
wished to form an opinion of Oberlin’s talents. Say, do you think this same bounder came back and stole my evening clothes?”

  “It’s possible.” Jesse took out his tablet and pencil. “Can you tell us what he looked like?”

  “Hmm . . .” Mr. Jenson rubbed a palm beneath his clean-shaven chin, then scratched absently at a muttonchop sideburn that showed no signs of going gray. “Come to think of it, he was about my size, which is probably why he seemed so interested in me. Takes a skilled tailor to cut a coat to the right proportions.” He said this with a smattering of pride, indicating his awareness of his trim physique.

  “What else? Hair color and length? Facial hair?” I asked, trying to tamp down my eagerness to hear more. I yearned to mention the man’s profile, yet didn’t wish to put words into Mr. Jenson’s mouth.

  “Let me see . . . he was clean shaven. I believe his hair was dark. Couldn’t begin to guess the color of his eyes.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Jesse wrote on his pad. “Anything else? Did Mr. Oberlin see him?”

  “No, he left before Oberlin returned.” Mr. Jenson gave a shrug. “But now that I consider it, the fellow gave me the impression of being a fighter. Had a rough look about him.”

  “That’s it,” I murmured to Jesse. “That’s our man. It’s got to be.”

  * * *

  Jesse planned to spend the rest of the afternoon questioning Max Oberlin’s neighbors on Spring Street. Meanwhile, I walked to the Messenger’s offices and wrote up my preliminary story on the murder at Wakehurst. I also penned a short article on the tailor shop robbery for our new editor-in-chief to review. All the while, I wondered where Ethan was, and whether he had organized his notes from last night for his society column.

  Derrick had brought in a man named Stanley Sheppard to replace me as editor-in-chief. I found him in the front office of our tiny establishment, hunched over the same tasks I had rejected only weeks ago. Two desks occupied the room overlooking Spring Street, one for the editor-in-chief and the other for an office manager. The latter chair had remained empty for the past year, except when Derrick occupied it. I had come to hope Derrick would occupy it permanently, instead of dividing his time between Newport and Providence, as he had been doing for several years now.

  Mr. Sheppard glanced up when I came through the door separating the front office from the actual workings of the Messenger: news, typesetting, printing, assembly, bundling, and storage. The scent of pipe tobacco hung on the air, as it never had when I occupied this space. Not that Stanley Sheppard would ever smoke in a building filled with paper. For that, he slipped outside, but his pipe stood on its stand in a corner of his desk, always ready should he desire to run out for a quick few puffs.

  I held out the two sheets of paper in my hand.

  “Any breakthroughs yet on the Wakehurst matter,” he asked, dispensing with the usual greeting. Mr. Sheppard was like that. Why waste words when in the newspaper business every moment mattered? He skimmed my article even as he asked the question, another of his time-saving habits. Mr. Sheppard hailed from New Hampshire originally, giving him a stronger New England drawl than the one typically heard on the streets of Newport. At about forty, he was young enough to be energetic and resourceful, yet old enough to know when to weigh his options and proceed with caution. Unremarkable in appearance—average height and build, with crow’s-feet around the eyes, and appropriately silvered at the temples—he had a sharp mind and a keen sense of fair play.

  “Not yet,” I replied, “but here’s the thing.” I moved beside his desk, which faced the street, so we could talk without him having to turn around. “I think the murder and the break-in at the tailor shop might be related.”

  He had just moved on to the tailor shop story. A hmm emanated from his gravelly voice. “Why?”

  “Because I saw someone last night who might have been wearing the attire stolen from Oberlin’s.”

  “Interesting.” He looked up and met my eye. “All right, find out. Make sure Ethan has his eyes and ears open everywhere he goes as well. What people won’t tell you, they might utter in a society writer’s presence. Hell, half the time, they barely know he’s there.”

  I was nodding, a faint smile on my lips. “My thoughts exactly. But where is Ethan? I’d hoped to compare notes with him this morning.”

  “He ran out. Wouldn’t tell me where.”

  This, too, indicated Mr. Sheppard’s faith in his staff. He knew as well as I did that if Ethan left the building, he had a good reason. “I need to find a way into the Schuylers’ cottage, and soon,” I said. “I’d like to find out more about Mrs. Schuyler and her daughter.”

  “Won’t be easy, getting in. Not now, with them in mourning.” He studied me, his brown eyes deepening with thought. “You’re onto something else besides this possible tailor shop connection.”

  “I witnessed a few things last night that have me wondering.”

  “You think the wife and daughter are implicated?”

  “Let’s just say it’s an avenue worth exploring.”

  “All right, Miss Cross. Explore.” He turned back to the ledgers and correspondence strewn across his desk. I watched him another moment, taking note of how contented he seemed in the performance of such tasks. With a sense of gratitude, I also acknowledged my own contentment with how matters at the Messenger had, at long last, been resolved. When Derrick had announced my replacement, I’d had my doubts. Another man, and nearly two decades my senior? I had assumed that, with a pat on the head, I would once more be consigned to trivial matters. How wrong I’d been. I genuinely liked Stanley Sheppard, with his rough voice and his terse economy of words and his apparent trust in me and my abilities.

  I went back to the cramped newsroom and was gathering my things, when Ethan, breathless, came barreling down the hallway. “Miss Cross. I’m glad you’re here.”

  About to pin my hat in place, I hesitated, arms in the air in readiness. “Where have you been? I was hoping to confer with you about last night.”

  “I know. But I needed to follow up on a lead.”

  “About last night?”

  “Of course about last night. Miss Cross, who at the fete would have been even more invisible than me?”

  “Me?”

  He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “The jester.”

  “Don’t you think he was more of a spectacle with his many colors and his bells?”

  “On one level, perhaps. But, historically, jesters could venture into places denied most ordinary individuals, even managing to sit in a dark corner of the privy chamber as kings discussed momentous matters with their nobles.”

  “What are you getting at, Ethan?”

  “Jesters were allowed entrée where others weren’t because they were never to be taken seriously. They were part of the scenery, or, as was the case last night, part of the decorations. Jesters play the fool, so people believe them to be foolhardy and let down their guard.”

  “Yes, I see.” My heart began to beat a little faster. Could this jester, who would pop up from the shadows ringing his bells when least expected, have seen something important to do with Clayton Schuyler’s murder, perhaps without even realizing it? “Then we need to find this jester, don’t we?”

  Ethan smiled widely. “Already done, Miss Cross. That’s where I’ve been. Finding out where this jester makes his home. His name is Burt Covey, by the way.”

  “How on earth did you manage to track him so quickly? Did you question Mr. Van Alen?”

  “I didn’t have to. I went directly to the source of jesters, Miss Cross.”

  This cryptic explanation left me shaking my head.

  “I went to the theater. The Opera House. Burt Covey joined the in-house troupe at the beginning of the summer, and supplements his income by hiring himself out to private parties in a variety of roles.”

  “Hmph. Mrs. Fish could have used him last year to play the role of Prince Otto, rather than that poor little chimp,” I dryly observed, remember
ing last summer’s fiasco at the Fishes’ cottage, Crossways. Prince Otto, nephew of the Austro-Hungarian emperor, was supposed to have been the Fishes’ guest of honor at their Harvest Festival last summer, and when he’d failed to materialize, Mrs. Fish had decided to turn his disappearance into a grand joke rather than face humiliation in front of her peers. A telephone call had procured a substitute from a nearby menagerie, and to everyone’s delighted surprise, in walked a chimpanzee wearing a velvet cape and holding a scepter. Unfortunately for Prince Otto, the night had not turned out so happily.

  “I suppose you missed my story earlier this summer, then,” Ethan said. “Mrs. Fish did hire him, but to play a butler who fumbled his every move, yet managed never to spill a drop. He had the guests falling down with laughter.”

  “As I can well imagine. Leave it to Mrs. Fish. But were you able to find out where this Mr. Covey lives?”

  Ethan answered with another smile, or grin, I should say. Within minutes, he and I made our way outside, with a promise to Mr. Sheppard that we’d be back soon.

  Chapter 7

  Ethan’s and my trek out to a small cottage overlooking Easton Bay proved fruitless, as we found Burt Covey not at home. Before leaving the Opera House earlier, Ethan had inquired whether the actors were expected for a rehearsal that morning, and had been told they would not be returning to the building until the next day. Great was our disappointment, then, when one of his housemates, of whom there appeared to be several living in the ramshackle house, informed us Mr. Covey had gone out and left no word where he might be found.

  But I remembered something else. Or someone else, I should say. The actress who played Titania on the Shakespearean stage might well be the woman who, according to Imogene Schuyler, drew the attention of Jerome Harrington the night of the fete. Her name remained a mystery to me, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to find her, provided she also plied her trade at the Opera House. I added Titania to the list of individuals with whom I wished to speak.