Murder at Wakehurst

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Patch reached us after taking a circuitous route across the garden, diverting first to chase something through the long grasses, then over to a stunted crabapple tree to conduct his business, and finally to pause on the rocky bank of the property to bark at the incoming surf. Only after attending to these matters did he trot over to us, happy and panting, to urge us to follow him back to the house.

  I started to go, but Derrick grasped my arm and stopped me. The setting sun had cleared the clouds, emerging as a bright copper disc that lit the water and framed his profile, and I blinked from the dazzle of it all. Words formed on his lips, and I found myself bracing with anticipation, longing to hear whatever it was he wished to say. By his very hesitation, I sensed the importance of those words, a matter of great consequence, and I barely drew a breath as I waited. But he smiled once more, delivered a brief kiss to my lips, and started us walking again.

  * * *

  Before Derrick left that evening, I asked a favor.

  “How much do you know about the Harringtons?” I began by inquiring.

  “Made their fortune in banking. Large mansion on Fifth Avenue, an estate on Long Island, and another one in Hyde Park. What else is there to know?”

  “Whether or not they’re in financial straits, that’s what. Can you find out?”

  At this, he showed me the lopsided grin that had initially endeared him to me. “What do you think?”

  I grinned, too, as his arms went around me and he kissed me good night. “Let me know what you learn.”

  The next day at the Messenger, I received a telephone call from the wife of the pastor at Trinity Church. Mrs. Lowrie was a good friend of Nanny’s, which explained why she thought to notify me about an event that would take place tomorrow at the church.

  “A memorial service for Judge Schuyler,” she said, “at ten in the morning. They plan to take his body home to Philadelphia, once the police have released it, but seeing as there are so many of the judge’s acquaintances currently here in Newport, it was decided something should be done here as well.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lowrie. I appreciate your letting me know.”

  “Yes, well, I thought the Messenger might want to report on it.” She paused, yet I sensed her gathering her thoughts to say more. She proved me right. “Do you know if they’ve discovered anything more about his death?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I answered truthfully, not that I would have been free to reveal any details about the case.

  “Such an awful thing, murder, and in such a way as happened to the poor man. Can you imagine?”

  I could, actually. I’d been there and found the body, after all. Had the judge been found lying near an archery target, one might have allowed for the possibility of a novice’s arrow having gone tragically astray. But my discovering him among the rhododendrons and hydrangeas beyond the confines of the fete precluded any scenario but murder.

  A new plan formed in my mind as I hung up with Mrs. Lowrie, and I cranked the telephone to once more summon the operator. “Gayla,” I said when she came on the line, “connect me with Ochre Court, please.”

  “Goodness, Ochre Court? Got an invitation to tea, did you, Emma?”

  “No, Gayla. It’s not Mrs. Goelet I wish to speak with, as if she would even come to the telephone. I’m calling belowstairs.” Mrs. Goelet, Grace Wilson’s older sister, would consider herself far too grand and refined to do anything as vulgar as speaking into a trumpet-shaped mouthpiece.

  “Oh, I see. I don’t suppose this has anything to do with what happened at Wakehurst the other night, does it?” Gayla Prescott kept Newporters well connected via the wires that crisscrossed their way across town, but she was also the nosiest individual I had ever encountered. Through the years, I’d learned one might as well satisfy her curiosity at the outset, or one’s call might never be put through.

  “What would make you think that?” I crossed my fingers in my lap and prepared to lie. “If it had to do with Judge Schuyler’s death, why would I be calling over to Ochre Court?”

  “Oh, true. That wouldn’t make sense, would it?”

  “Rest assured, I’m only checking on a friend who works there, Gayla.”

  Having appeased Gayla’s insatiable quest for town gossip by assuring her I had none to offer, she put my call through. The butler at Ochre Court answered, and moments later, the person I wished to speak with came on the line, one of the maids who worked in the house

  “Miss Cross? Nora Taylor here.” A brogue stronger than Katie’s filtered across the distance, accompanied by crackles and a low electrical buzz.

  “Hello, Nora, and, please, it’s Emma.” We traded pleasantries, asking after each other and our network of close acquaintances. Nora had been out to Gull Manor on several occasions in the past year and got on quite well with both Nanny and Katie. “Nora, I’m calling to find out whether your chef there is preparing food to send over to the Schuylers’ house. You know who they are, don’t you?”

  “Blessed Mary, all of Newport knows who the Schuylers are, after what happened the other night. Oh, do forgive me, Emma, I nearly forgot you’re the one who found the poor man. Such a shock it must have been. You poor dear, are you all right?” I could all but see Nora pressing a hand over her heart.

  “It was a shock, to be sure, Nora, but I’m fine. About that food . . .”

  “Oh yes. Mrs. Goelet did instruct Monsieur Geroux to prepare some of his specialties for the Schuylers and their servants. She says the house staff must be as upset as the family, and what’s more, there’s going to be a memorial and they should be allowed to attend and not be stuck in the kitchen preparing food all day.”

  “I’d hoped as much. I’m wondering, Nora, if you could facilitate a favor for me.”

  “‘Facilitate’? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Do you have some free time later?”

  “Around five o’clock, yes.”

  “Perfect. I’ll come by the service entrance then.”

  * * *

  Ethan reappeared after a short absence around lunchtime. “I’ve been back to the Opera House. The actors were rehearsing. All except our Mr. Covey. Appears he’s ill today.”

  My eyes narrowed at this news. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say our jolly jester doesn’t wish to be found.”

  “His housemates must have told him we were at their cottage inquiring yesterday.”

  “Yes, they must have . . . but why would he avoid us?”

  “He’s got something to hide?” Ethan suggested.

  “Hmm. What about Titania? Did you look for her?”

  “I did. She warmed to the idea of speaking to me, once I’d told her I was with the Messenger. I started off complimenting her performances at Wakehurst and asking about her career. Where she’s from, how she started acting. Her training. All of that. But as soon as I brought up Mr. Harrington’s name, she issued me the cut direct and stalked off.”

  “Goodness. Perhaps Imogene Schuyler was right.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Cross. I suppose I wasn’t very discreet. Perhaps you should try.”

  “Don’t worry, I will. You did get her name, didn’t you?”

  “Clarice O’Shea.”

  “A stage name, no doubt. Not that it matters.” I gave a decisive nod. “Clarice O’Shea and I shall meet soon.”

  Before leaving town that afternoon, I once again used the telephone, this time to ring up Jesse. It took several minutes for the desk officer to track him down in the building, and when he came on the line, he sounded harried.

  “I won’t keep you but a minute, Jesse. I just thought it only fair to let you know what I’m planning, and with whom.”

  “Why don’t I like the sound of that?”

  “It’s nothing dangerous. But it involves Nora.”

  A long pause followed this disclosure. Jesse and Nora had met the previous year and had enjoyed a light courtship ever since. Jesse cleared his throat. “Must it involve Nora?”

  “I
’m afraid so.” I explained my plan. When he finally agreed that it didn’t sound overly dangerous, I changed the subject. “Anything new in the Oberlin case?”

  “Not much. I’m no closer to learning the identity of the man you believe you saw wearing the stolen clothing. Not a single one of Oberlin’s Spring Street neighbors remembers hearing or seeing anything unusual between when Oberlin closed the shop and the fete at Wakehurst began.”

  I thought about that a moment. “Once darkness fell, it would have been difficult for anyone to have seen anything behind the shop. There isn’t much lighting back there.”

  “I’ll keep inquiring.”

  I told him of Ethan’s theory about the jester, relaying the man’s name, Burt Covey, and where he lived. “Ethan tried at the Opera House, and we went out to his cottage near the beach, but he wasn’t there either.”

  “Interesting. Have you had another chance to check the Opera House?”

  “Ethan did, this afternoon. Seems Mr. Covey wasn’t well today, so he didn’t come in. But Ethan took the opportunity to speak with another of the actors. Or actress, in this case. A Clarice O’Shea. She played Titania at Wakehurst.”

  “Do you think she might have seen something?”

  “Perhaps,” I replied, “but I’m much more interested in why Miss Schuyler accused Mr. Harrington of flirting with this woman. She might be able to shed some insight into the state of the couple’s relationship, not to mention Jerome’s finances.”

  “When are you planning to approach her?”

  “Sometime after tomorrow. In the meantime . . .”

  “In the meantime,” he continued when I paused, “I’ll check our records and see what I can find out about our jester and our actress. Possibly nothing, especially if those are both stage names. But you never know.”

  “It sounds to me as if Burt Covey is deliberately making himself scarce. But I can’t think of a reason why, unless he simply doesn’t wish to be involved in a murder case.”

  “Perhaps he’s our murderer.”

  The idea jolted me. Could a small-time actor have a connection to Judge Schuyler, one that could prompt him to commit murder? “When you look into his past, see if he’s left any trail in Pennsylvania.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find out.” With that, Jesse rang off, and I left the Messenger.

  The repairs on my buggy hadn’t been completed yet, but I had borrowed a small trap from Stevenson’s Livery, and my horse, Maestro, seemed only too happy to be pulling less weight. I drove out to Ochre Court, explained my idea to Nora, and arranged to meet her there again the following morning.

  * * *

  With Nanny’s help the next day, I prepared to carry out my plan. She and I rose extra early, and she fitted me into one of my great-aunt Sadie’s dresses, a simple, dark gray muslin day dress with a homemade lace collar. The garment hailed from a good decade ago, but that didn’t matter. Over this, I pinned an apron, Nanny securing the ties around my waist. My flat walking boots completed the outfit. I climbed into my borrowed trap and drove over to Ochre Court to collect Nora.

  “You certainly look the part, don’t you?” Her Irish brogue asserted itself as she surveyed the effects of my disguise. “But here, you’ll need this.”

  She handed me a starched linen cap and a couple of hairpins. Only weeks earlier, I had sent Ethan Merriman to Kingscote disguised as a butler. Now here I was, about to steal into the Schuylers’ leased summer cottage as a maid. The family and much of the staff would be leaving about midmorning for the memorial. Before they went, I hoped to be able to strike up conversations with some of them, because I knew from experience that servants, from the highest to the lowliest, could provide insight into their employers’ lives, provided they were willing to chat. I also hoped for an opportunity to do a bit of snooping upstairs.

  Nora hefted a large covered basket onto the seat between us. “For the Schuyler ladies and the servants,” she said. “Both sweets and savories. I hope it brings them some comfort.”

  “I’m sure it will.” I had known that families up and down Bellevue Avenue would be sending gifts meant to console the Schuyler household today. Neighboring servants might even offer their services temporarily to allow more of the Schuylers’ staff to attend the memorial. This gave me the perfect excuse for arriving at their home, as I couldn’t very well have knocked on the front door and expected to be admitted. Especially not when I planned to ask questions. I only hoped none of the servants hailed from Newport, or if some did, they’d be willing to play along with me and not expose my ruse.

  The house sat on the landward side of Bellevue Avenue, a short walk south of my aunt Alva’s Marble House. Set at the end of a curving driveway and surrounded by a sweeping front lawn, it was a large Queen Anne–style house with a turret on one side, a square tower toward the rear, and a wide veranda out front. We drove around to the service entrance and I helped Nora down with the basket.

  “Now, if it looks as though I’ll be here a good while, take the buggy and return to Ochre Court,” I told her. “I don’t want you getting in trouble with Mrs. Goelet. Can you manage the horse, do you think?”

  “Your Maestro is spirited, to be sure, but he’s a good lad as long as one keeps a fair and gentle hand on him.” Since Nora had become a regular visitor to Gull Manor, she and Maestro, as well as Patch and my aging roan hack, Barney, had become fast friends.

  “Good.” I glanced up at the house, smoothing Aunt Sadie’s dress and making sure my cap hadn’t slipped askew. “I hope they don’t balk at there being two of us. I realize they might find it unusual for a pair of maids to deliver one basket.”

  Nora shrugged. “If we walk in as if nothing is odd, no one should question us. We’ll head straight for the kitchen, as though we both belong there.”

  “You head for the kitchen,” I said. “I’ll start asking around.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Of course not. First I’ll ask if there’s anything I can do for them. You know, one maid concerned about another. They’re bound to be shocked by their employer’s death, and some of them might be sincerely grief stricken. I’ll lend them a sympathetic ear.” Did I feel a twinge of guilt about that? Yes, I surely did, but I reminded myself it was all part of finding justice for Clayton Schuyler.

  Nora conceded my point with a nod. “It’s possible some of them might be genuinely sorry about his passing. I’ve never had much more than a quick word with any of them, so I don’t know how the staff here felt about Judge Schuyler, or any of the Schuylers, for that matter.”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.” I pointed to the entrance. “Shall we?”

  Chapter 8

  The housekeeper admitted us with no sign that she found the pair of us at all unusual. Nor was she anyone I recognized; I therefore assumed she had traveled from Philadelphia with her employers. “Thank you for coming. The kitchen is through there.” She pointed the way with a thin, bony finger.

  Nora started ahead, but I lingered. “I’m very sorry about the judge.”

  The housekeeper, who had also started to walk away, stopped and turned. “Thank you. It’s come as quite a shock to us all. I’m afraid it isn’t business as usual around here. Far from it.”

  “I can stay to help out, if you need me to. My mistress said it would be all right.”

  “Perhaps you might fill in for one of our kitchen girls during the memorial. We need a few servants to remain behind to ready things for when Mrs. and Miss Schuyler return with the guests who attend the service.”

  “I would be happy to.”

  She started to turn away again.

  “Did you know him well?”

  Once more, she stopped and turned. “Who? The judge? He and I spoke little through the years. I report directly to Mrs. Schuyler.” I perceived a slight defensiveness in her manner. Perhaps she believed I was hinting at some sort of impropriety.

  “Yes, of course. I only thought . . . well, a housekeeper’s position
is a sought-after one. Most remain with the same family for ever so long.” I found myself using turns of phrases I often heard from Katie, except without her melodic brogue.

  “Oh yes, that’s true. I’ve been with the Schuylers a dozen years now.” She compressed her lips and cast her gaze at her feet. When she looked back up, her eyes glistened. “While I cannot say I knew the judge well, he was a good employer and I’ve made my home with the family.”

  “Mrs. Schuyler and her daughter must be distraught.”

  She hesitated, a shadow of uncertainty crossing her face. “Yes . . . they certainly are.”

  “If there’s anything I can do for them, please say so . . .”

  “I don’t see what you could do for the mistress and her daughter. But thank you for offering. Now, if you wish to help out, please see Mrs. Keston, in the kitchen. Through there.” She pointed again.

  Her brisk steps dismissed me. She reached a doorway and turned in, entering her parlor, I assumed. What had her hesitancy meant? That she wasn’t sure Mrs. Schuyler and her daughter were distraught? Or that she shouldn’t be speaking of such matters with a stranger?

  I moved on to the kitchen. Here I found Nora standing at a work counter unloading her basket. Her offerings were not the only sign of well-meaning neighbors. It looked as though entire cooked meals had been brought over as well, along with fruits, vegetables, and anything else the household might need to create meals with a minimum of fuss. Several kitchen maids were busy sorting and finding room in the larders and cupboards for this extra bounty. None of them were familiar to me. They wore their typical garb, but with black armbands, just as I had taken to wearing. Today, however, I had omitted it from my wardrobe.

  “Let me help you.” I approached a girl, still in her teens, who was hefting a crate filled with apples and pears. I moved beside her and took hold of one side of the crate.

  “Thank you,” she said a little breathlessly. “I’ve got to bring it down to the cold storeroom, through there.” She pointed with her chin at a doorway across the kitchen. “Have you brought food from your employers, too?”