Burt Covey leaned slightly forward, as if to drive his point home, and repeated his concern. “I don’t want trouble.”
“I don’t mean to give you any,” I replied a second time. “But a man was killed at Wakehurst, and we all need to do our part to see justice done for him.”
“Why?” He raised his pewter mug to his lips and peered at me as I groped for a reply.
“Because that’s what honest people do, Mr. Covey.”
“Honest people mind their business, Miss Cross. I’m an actor, and not a well-off one. I certainly don’t need my name showing up in the newspapers for the wrong reasons. You want to review one of my performances? You go right ahead. Other than that, I want to be left alone.”
I crossed my arms in front of me. “For a jester, you certainly can be surly.”
“I’m not a jester. I’m an actor who was paid to play a jester. If you like, you can pay me to play the part of an eager witness.”
“Mr. Covey, what harm could it do you to tell me whether or not you saw something suspicious that night?”
“I could tell you I didn’t, and whether I did or didn’t, you’d have to take my word for it, wouldn’t you?”
Stubborn man. He was leading me in circles, and he knew it. I narrowed my eyes at him and realized I should have expected to be bested by a man who utilized words to make his living. As a reporter, I did as well, but I used words to relay facts and tell the truth. Burt Covey used them to create illusions and entrance his audience.
Tamping down my frustration, I inhaled a deep breath and started again. “Mr. Covey, let’s start with the argument you helped me break up near the stage.”
He frowned and shook his head. “What argument?”
“It was between my cousin, Cornelius Vanderbilt the younger, and a tall, rather rough-looking man in a suit of clothes that fit him a bit too tightly. I was attempting to draw my cousin away before things took a violent turn, and when he wouldn’t budge, you suddenly appeared and distracted him. After that, I was able to extricate him from the situation.”
“Oh, that argument.” He waved his cup in the air, a signal to the barkeep to bring a refill.
“Did you happen to notice where that man went immediately afterward?”
“Your cousin?”
“Mr. Covey, please—”
He laughed and leaned over the table on his crossed arms. “All right, Miss Cross. Let me think . . .” His exaggerated show of considering the matter sorely taxed my patience. I was about to give up and storm out, when he frowned slightly and opened his mouth to speak. “As a matter of fact, I did notice him again—the gent whose clothes didn’t rightly fit him. It was while the rest of the guests were hurrying over to see the joust. He seemed to be going in the wrong direction. At the time, I didn’t think much of it.” His gaze suddenly sharpened. “Come to think of it, I also saw you moving in the wrong direction. Where were you going?”
His tone did more than insinuate, it accused. But again, I realized he sought to bait me and undermine my confidence. It wouldn’t work. “I didn’t wish to see the joust,” I told him. “The idea of putting animals at such a risk is appalling to me. But tell me more about what this man did, and where he went.”
“I saw him climb the steps to the veranda.”
My pulse quickened at this news. “When? Was it before or after the joust began?”
“Before, I’d say. When everyone was still heading to the other side of the hedge.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“By the stage, talking to the other actors and taking down the set.”
“Did you see how long he stayed up there?”
“Sorry, no. Never noticed him again. Maybe he left. Maybe he made himself invisible.”
“Very funny.” I sat back and thought. The man in the ill-fitting suit had attended the fete under suspicious circumstances. Why had he gone up to the veranda? To leave the fete by exiting through the house? My guess was, he hadn’t come through the house upon his arrival, but instead had sneaked in somewhere along the perimeter of the grounds. It only seemed logical that he would leave by the same means.
That brought me back to his reason for being there. To commit murder? Even a killer could not have imagined the coming together of events to provide such an opportunity. First the archery equipment was stowed on the veranda. Then Judge Schuyler went behind the house to smoke his cigar . . .
Then again, who gave the judge that cigar? The murderer, most likely, someone who knew his wife wouldn’t have approved and that he would have to smoke it in secret. Perhaps it hadn’t been divine providence at work that night, but a clever killer who had learned of Mr. Van Alen’s plans and took full advantage of them.
“You’re certain it was the same individual who argued with my cousin?” I asked Mr. Covey.
“Reasonably certain. It was dark near the veranda.”
“Hmm, true.” I decided to change the subject, for the moment. “How well do you know Miss O’Shea?”
“Clarice O’Shea?”
“Yes, the actress who was dressed like Titania that night.”
“Is she a suspect?”
“No, Mr. Covey, she is not.” I said this with absolutely certainty—in my voice. However, if Clarice O’Shea had been carrying on with Jerome Harrington, she could not be ruled out as a suspect. She might have seen dispensing with the judge as the only sure way of stopping Jerome’s marriage to Imogene. “Do you know if she has been seeing a young man named Jerome Harrington?”
“‘Seeing’?” He scowled. “Is that your polite way of asking if she’s been sleeping with him? That’s what most of you upright citizens think of actors, isn’t it?”
“I don’t mean that at all.” At least, not necessarily, I acknowledged to myself. “I merely wish to know if she and Mr. Harrington are friendly.”
He smirked. “You’ll have to ask her.”
“Fair enough.” I had little doubt Mr. Covey would warn his theater mate to expect me soon. I could only hope I would find her in a cooperative mood. “Did you see anyone else walking away from the joust to another part of the gardens?”
“Come to think of it, there was that young fellow, the one who looked like he walked into a door.” He placed his palm against his cheek.
Jerome Harrington, who had been struck by Imogene Schuyler only moments earlier. “And where did he go?”
“Couldn’t say for sure. Toward the house, at least that end of the garden, but I didn’t pay attention after he passed the stage.”
“Anyone else?” When he shook his head no, I switched back to the subject of my initial queries. “About that man who, you say, climbed the veranda steps. Did you happen to notice him at other times during the evening? Did he seem to have issues with anyone else?”
“Not that I saw. But he certainly didn’t seem to think highly of Mr. Vanderbilt.”
“No, he didn’t. Are you sure you didn’t see him approach Judge Schuyler?”
“Not that I saw, no.” He studied his ale, then sighed. “What a medieval way to go.” He pantomimed holding a bow and shooting an arrow. “But fitting, considering the night’s theme.”
“Yes, I suppose whoever murdered Judge Schuyler possesses a keen sense of the dramatic.” Someone like an actor, I couldn’t help thinking. I came to my feet. “Thank you, Mr. Covey, I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.”
“Did I have any other choice?”
I smiled down at him. “Good luck at the performance next week. I understand it’s a rousing musical. You are to perform in it, yes?”
“As an extra. Why don’t you come?”
“Hmm. Perhaps I will, if there are any tickets left.”
Before I took a step to leave, he stood. “You going to give my name to the police?”
“No, Mr. Covey. The police have made it quite clear they don’t need or want my advice on whom they should interview.”
His smirk reappeared. “If that’s what they think, t
hey’re fools.”
* * *
Questioning Clarice O’Shea would have to wait. A stack of Associated Press articles delivered from the telegraph office kept me busy during the remaining afternoon hours. The day before, there had been a riot in Carterville, Illinois, involving union and nonunion miners, that had ended in several deaths. Besides many of our summer cottagers being heavily invested in coal, what made this of special interest to Newporters was the connection to Mr. Stuyvesant Fish of Crossways. Mr. Fish served as president of the Illinois Central Railroad, and it seemed the shooting had occurred in the Carterville terminal of the Illinois Central.
The very word union resonated inside me. Judge Schuyler had pronounced judgment in favor of union demands, to the detriment of business owners and investors. Perhaps this incident yesterday had no connection to that judgment, but the coincidence nudged at my instincts.
After gathering and writing up the facts that came in from several sources, I collected Maestro and my borrowed trap and set out for Ocean Avenue, as Crossways sat not far from my own Gull Manor. I took Bellevue Avenue south and made the turn onto Ocean Avenue, near the tip of the island. Beachmound, a white mansion that gazed down on Bailey’s Beach from a high perch, looked so like Crossways, with its grand portico and wide columns, that visitors often mistook one for the other and arrived for balls at the wrong house. I passed Beachmound and soon arrived at the long driveway of Crossways.
Mr. and Mrs. Fish were expecting me, as I had telephoned ahead and spoken with the butler. Had I been anyone else, I doubt they would have seen me, but Mrs. Fish and I had forged a kind of friendship the previous summer. I supposed she persuaded her husband I wouldn’t take up too much of his time.
I was shown into the enclosed porch at the west side of the house. The windows stood open to the ocean breezes, and the scents of late flowers drifted in from the adjoining garden—the same garden where a body had been found last summer. Mr. and Mrs. Fish joined me a few minutes later; Mrs. Fish wore a diaphanous afternoon dress of autumnal oranges and golds trimmed with lace. She sat across from me, while Mr. Fish, looking weary and solemn, took the seat beside mine.
“What can I do for you, Miss Cross? I suppose you’d like a quote about the Carterville incident?”
I regarded the signs of sleeplessness in his shadowed eyes and nodded apologetically. “I’m sorry to bother you now—”
“No, it’s your job, and it was my railroad where the executions took place.”
I flinched at the word he used to describe the deaths. “Is that how you see it?”
“These union disputes in Illinois have been going on for a long while, but especially the past year,” Mrs. Fish put in. She sounded angry. “No one has done anything to defuse the situation.”
“Yes, but ‘execution’?”
Mr. Fish cleared his throat loudly, but Mrs. Fish waved a hand at him. “Perhaps the information you saw didn’t mention this, but the union and nonunion miners were divided according to race. Only white workers were members of the union. Only Negro men were killed.”
This disclosure struck me like a slap to the face. “No, what I read didn’t include that.”
“Well, it should have.” Mrs. Fish harrumphed.
That certainly explained Mr. Fish’s pained expression.
“Sir, would you like to add anything? I understand the Illinois Central isn’t at fault in this matter, but will the company be taking any precautions to make sure nothing like this ever happens again at one of its facilities?”
“I’m afraid there’s not much we can do.” He stared down at his feet before meeting my gaze. “But there is something I can do personally. I own stock in the Carterville mine, and a lot of other mines around the country.”
I nodded. Most of the Four Hundred owned stock in all types of mining.
“As an investor, I can put pressure on shareholders and management to address union issues.” He shook his head as if disgusted by the matter. “I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but any fool should be able to see a mine can’t turn a good profit if its workers are shooting each other.”
“Do you think they should stop hiring the nonunion-ists?” I asked him bluntly. I waited in some apprehension for his answer. If the circumstances had caused racial tensions, weren’t union policies in not extending membership to Negro workers to blame? It seemed to me the problem ran deeper than simple mine management and extended further afield than the mining industry.
Could matters of race have played into Judge Schuyler’s decision as well?
“What I think, Miss Cross, is that men—all men—should attend to business and leave personal biases at home. And you can quote me on that.”
That didn’t come close to answering my question, but when he pushed to his feet, I knew I wouldn’t get more out of Stuyvesant Fish. “I have letters to write and telegrams to dictate that need to be sent before the end of the day, Miss Cross. Unless you have any other pressing questions . . .”
“Actually, sir, I do. It has to do with Clayton Schuyler’s murder.”
Mr. Fish let out a long, billowing breath and resumed his seat. “A good man, Schuyler.”
“Indeed he was,” Mamie Fish agreed. She grinned rather wickedly. “And a darned good dancer, too.”
“Do you know about a recent court decision he made concerning union rights?” I asked.
“I’m sure there have been many over the years,” said Mr. Fish.
“But this would have been recent, and apparently it involved the New York Central and other companies like it. Perhaps your own Illinois Central?”
Mr. Fish threaded his fingers together as he thought. “There was nothing directly affecting the Illinois Central that I know of. Not in recent months. Anything else?”
“No, sir.” I tried not to show my disappointment. “Thank you for your time.”
“He’s terribly upset by this,” Mrs. Fish said, once her husband’s footsteps faded across the house. “Stuyvie doesn’t hold with violence of any sort. And he was already upset—we both are—about Clayton.” She heaved a loud sigh. “Poor man. I understand you found him.”
“That’s true.”
“And now you’re trying to find out what happened, aren’t you?”
I hesitated in answering. Last summer when I had become involved in solving a crime, I had found myself with an unexpected partner: Mamie Fish herself. That time, the death had occurred right here at Crossways, and I understood Mrs. Fish’s desire to learn the truth. But she couldn’t hide the fact that she had had fun doing it, and I didn’t wish to encourage her to take up investigating now.
As if she read my mind, or perhaps my expression, she hooted with laughter. “Don’t worry, girl, I’m not about to become your Dr. Watson again. But I hope to high heaven someone, either you or the police, I don’t rightly care which, finds justice for poor Clayton. As Stuyvie said, he was a good man. He didn’t deserve this.”
Although her assessment of the judge conflicted with that of his own servants, I couldn’t discount that the man had some good in him. Still . . . “It’s unusual for someone of Judge Schuyler’s background to side with workers, isn’t it?”
At this, she frowned at me. “Are you implying wealthy men of good family are apt to side against their inferiors, no matter the circumstances?”
I cringed at her use of the word inferiors, but admitted, “I suppose I am. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t generalize like that.”
“You’re not sorry, my girl, and in most cases, you’re right. We of the Four Hundred like to circle our wagons, truth be told.” She let go a laugh. “I do like to tease, though, so you mustn’t always take me so seriously. But it’s true. Clay Schuyler was a fair-minded man who wasn’t afraid to speak up for the more unfortunate members of our society and rule in their favor if their cause was just.” She shook her head. “Why anyone would want to end such a man’s life is beyond me.”
And yet, someone had. And his wife, apparently, hadn’t found hi
m such a fair man, or the couple would not have argued so loudly that they could be heard belowstairs. Somewhere in Judge Schuyler’s past—whether distant or recent—he had angered someone enough to commit murder. Could it have been a member of his own family? A friend or acquaintance? Or, perhaps, a leader of industry, who hadn’t appreciated the judge’s ruling that favored the workers over profit? And that included just about every gentlemen of the Four Hundred.
Chapter 11
I left Crossways feeling listless and unsettled, and wondering why, when the wealthy and poor mixed in any way, the poor always suffered to one degree or another. Yes, the wealthy put the poor to work and supplied them with the means of earning a wage, but too often the problems accompanying that employment were ignored until something terrible happened.
Something like seven men lying dead of gunshot wounds.
When I arrived home, Katie came out to help me unhitch the trap and settle Maestro with a cooling sponge bath, a thorough brushing, and a hearty meal of oats and hay. We spent some time with Barney as well. Poor Barney, too old and frail now to pull a carriage, but still my sweet boy. I had refused to “put him out to pasture,” as the polite euphemism put it, but for a time, I had also fretted over the expense of keeping an animal that no longer served a practical purpose. Nanny had helped me settle the matter.
“Emma,” she asked me bluntly one day last spring, “do you love that horse?”
“I do, Nanny. He’s been a loyal companion to me, and to Aunt Sadie before me.”
“Then he serves a purpose, doesn’t he?”
I had contemplated her lined face; her steel-gray hair, which she still bothered to set in rags every night so it would curl; and her kindly, if near-sighted, eyes. Whenever I looked at Nanny—really looked at her and acknowledged how much she had aged in recent years—my heart would ache. Yes, whether horse or human, my old friends were precious to me and I would do everything in my power to see that they were happy and well cared for.
Thanks to Uncle Cornelius, keeping Barney would no longer be cause for financial concern.
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