Murder at Wakehurst

by Alyssa Maxwell

  But then, Mr. Gould had taken a decidedly cavalier attitude toward his accident—if one could call it that, which I did not. He claimed his side no longer ached as much as it initially had; so, yes, the ribs probably were only bruised, and he had declared that no real harm had been done. Dr. Ashford spent nearly a half hour examining Maribelle and, to both Mr. Gould’s and my vast relief, he had confirmed an absence of broken bones and declared the animal to be in fit health.

  Nanny supplied us with a pot of strong tea and included a batch of raisin scones. Accepting the tea, but waving away the offer of food, Mr. Gould soon apparently had a change of heart and consumed nearly the entire dozen Nanny had arranged on the plate. While he ate, he speculated on why his mystery pursuer had behaved in such an uncivilized manner. A drunkard? A youth out to prove some ridiculous point or to rebel against his father’s rules? A thief who had stolen the vehicle and was desperate to get away?

  It took some persuasion on my part to finally convince him of the wisdom of summoning the police. He had dismissed my urgings until I finally reminded him that Maribelle might have been seriously injured or worse, and shouldn’t the culprit be brought to justice? Only then did he consent to my telephoning into town.

  With the police promising to be on their way, Mr. Gould remembered that he had been expected somewhere tonight. “I must tell the Wysongs not to hold up dinner for me and to let my wife know I’ve been delayed. Have you a footman you can send, Miss Cross?”

  I chuckled. “I’m afraid I don’t have any footmen, but you’re welcome to use my telephone.”

  “Ah.” He strode from the parlor into the hall, one arm holding his side. He had seen me use the device to telephone Dr. Ashford, so I needn’t direct him to the alcove beneath the stairs. When he arrived there, however, he lifted the ear trumpet and spoke into the receiver. “Hello? Hello?” I had followed him into the hall. After a moment, he turned to me. “It doesn’t appear to be working.”

  I suppressed a smile at the thought that George Jay Gould, like many leaders of American industry, did not know the proper way to operate a telephone. Whether at home or at his place of business, Mr. Gould would have a secretary perform the task of making the connections before handing the call over to his employer.

  Joining him in the alcove and making it necessary for him to step out of my way, I took the ear trumpet from him. “Let me. You see, one must first engage the operator. Like this.” I gave the crank a turn. When the night operator came on the line, I asked her to connect me to John Wysong’s cottage on Ochre Point Avenue, a Romanesque Revival villa near Wakehurst. I spoke in succession to a footman and the butler, who went to alert Mr. Wysong that he had a call.

  At a knock at the front door, I handed the earpiece back to Mr. Gould. Jesse and Scotty Binsford stood on my threshold. “Thank you for arriving so quickly. Please come in.”

  Mr. Gould used his newfound telephone skills to also call over to Beacon Rock, where he and his wife were the Morgans’ houseguests, and made arrangements for both himself and Maribelle to be conveyed there. Then he joined us in the parlor. We explained to Jesse what happened and Scotty took notes.

  As we spoke, a conviction grew in me. I studied Jesse closely, watching each nuance of his expression as the story of Mr. Gould’s wild chase unfolded. By the grim light that entered Jesse’s eyes, I guessed he and I had reached a similar conclusion.

  Jesse didn’t speak right away, but sat contemplating Mr. Gould through narrowed eyes, until the other man shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Is something wrong, Detective?” Mr. Gould demanded somewhat irritably.

  Jesse nodded. “Indeed. Sir, do you have any connection to Clayton Schuyler?”

  Mr. Gould sprang to his feet. “What are you getting at?”

  Scotty looked up from his writing tablet. His body tensed, his policeman’s instincts prompting him to readiness, should he need to intervene. But George Gould was a member of the Four Hundred, and not someone likely to become violent.

  Jesse merely held out a placating hand. “No need to take offense, Mr. Gould.”

  “It sounds as if you’re accusing me of . . .”

  “I’m not accusing you. Please sit back down and hear me out.” Jesse waited through the other man’s hesitation, his obvious qualms, and his final decision to sink slowly back into his chair. “I’m concerned the same person who struck down Judge Schuyler might now be aiming for you.”

  George Gould gave a sharp laugh. “Why on earth would anyone have anything against me?”

  I compressed my lips, tempted to list any number of reasons a wealthy, powerful man might have enemies. Managing to curb my tongue, I waited for Jesse to explain.

  “If I knew the reason someone put an arrow into the judge’s chest, I might also be able to determine why someone ran you off the road tonight.”

  “I see your point.” Mr. Gould relaxed his posture. “Clayton Schuyler and I are—were—acquaintances, but not close friends.”

  “Any mutual business interests?” Jesse asked.

  The man’s brows gathered as he considered. “We probably had stock in some of the same companies, but other than that, we have not engaged in any common business ventures.”

  “And what are your primary ventures, sir?”

  Once again, a defensiveness entered his voice. “I’m president of the Denver and Rio Grande Western Railroad, Western Pacific Railroad, and Manhattan Railway, all founded by my father.” He spoke as if to an idiot, as perhaps he now considered Jesse to be for having to ask such a question. But Jesse would ask whether he knew the answer or not, as he preferred to gather information firsthand from whomever he interviewed rather than make assumptions.

  “And was Judge Schuyler a shareholder in any of those?” Jesse now asked.

  “He certainly may have been, Mr. Whyte, but there are many investors in my companies. I cannot be expected to know the name of each and every one.”

  “Then it’s safe to say he was not a major stockholder,” I suggested.

  “Not a major one, no. Those I am aware of.” Mr. Gould toyed with the edge of the linen bandage on his left hand. “But see here. Surely, you’re not suggesting this prankster tonight wished to ‘do me in,’ as they say?”

  Jesse answered his question with another one. “Who knew you were to dine with the Wysongs tonight?”

  “The Morgans of Beacon Rock. My wife. Whomever else the Wysongs invited. My valet. I assure you, none of those people would wish to see the last of me.”

  Jesse folded his arms over his chest. “Are you certain of that, Mr. Gould?”

  Chapter 12

  After Mr. Gould and Maribelle left us that evening, Jesse, Scotty, and I discussed new possibilities. We began with what I had learned from Mamie Fish.

  “If what both Mrs. Fish and Detective Myers said is true about Clayton Schuyler ruling in favor of workers’ rights,” I said, “it makes it less likely the person who shot that arrow into him needed to steal evening attire. He could have afforded to purchase his own.”

  Jesse nodded, but Scotty looked dubious. “You believe the killer is a member of the Schuylers’ own class?”

  “They kill, too,” Jesse reminded his assistant.

  “When they have what they believe is a good enough reason,” I agreed, and added, “like anyone else.”

  Scotty remained unconvinced. “If his own people were unhappy about the ruling, why not simply use their money to influence the next election and have him removed from the bench?”

  I considered that. “It could have been a matter of seizing an unexpected opportunity, that of the archery equipment having been left on the veranda. Anyone could have seen the footmen carrying it up there. Then when the judge walked behind the house . . .” I held up my hands in reference to what happened after that.

  Nanny came through the parlor doorway and made her way to the sofa. Jesse shifted to give her more room.

  “I couldn’t help overhearing, but maybe the judge wen
t behind the house for more than a cigar.”

  I regarded her from my seat across from her. “What do you mean, Nanny?”

  “We all know what goes on at these affairs.” She pursed her lips and gave us a knowing look. “Affairs being the operative word. You believe Delphine wasn’t happy in the marriage, that she might have been planning to leave her husband. Perhaps the judge was no angel.”

  “A tryst,” I concluded, and remembered Delphine Schuyler’s accusation toward me. Wryly I said, “Yes, that did already come up.”

  Beside Nanny, Jesse was nodding. “Emma, did you see him spending time with anyone in particular that night?”

  I shook my head. “For the most part, he seemed to be enjoying the company of his gentleman friends. At one point, he attempted to rein in his daughter, but she would have none of it. It was after her argument with Jerome Harrington and she was in a high temper.”

  “What about one of the actresses?” Scotty suggested.

  Jesse sat a little forward in his chair. “The woman who played Titania. What was her name?”

  “Clarice O’Shea,” I supplied.

  “Perhaps Miss Schuyler had it wrong.” Jesse’s eyes narrowed as he thought it over. “Perhaps this O’Shea woman wasn’t carrying on with Jerome Harrington, but with Clayton Schuyler.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I saw how Miss O’Shea watched Miss Schuyler when she stormed through the garden. If Miss O’Shea and Judge Schuyler were engaged in any sort of dalliance, Miss O’Shea would have stared daggers at Mrs. Schuyler, not the daughter.”

  “It could have been another of the actresses”—Nanny smoothed a wrinkle in the skirt of her cotton dress—“or one of the wealthy ladies. But it’s something to consider, isn’t it? Because whoever that woman is, if she exists, she might have seen something, mightn’t she?”

  None of us could argue with that. Nor could the man in the ill-fitting suit be ruled out at this point. Clayton Schuyler’s judgment in favor of union workers only widened, rather than narrowed, the possibilities of who might have wished him dead.

  * * *

  “Good morning, Emma. I have news.”

  Thus did Nanny greet me the next day when I entered the morning room for breakfast. An open newspaper lay beside her plate, and I wondered what new disaster had occurred the night before. Would I have to rush off to gather the facts and write up an article for the Messenger before having even a bite to eat? For an instant, I lamented having missed the opportunity to be the first to report on the matter, and wondered whether Ed Billings, a rival reporter at the Newport Observer, had beaten me to the scoop.

  Across the table, Nanny sat facing me. Her expression held no hint of disaster. Moreover, she pushed the newspaper aside, as if it were of no consequence at all.

  I took my seat opposite her. “Am I to guess, then?”

  “Your cousins arrived late yesterday afternoon. Alfred and Reggie.” She grinned, and I remembered hearing the telephone ring about a half hour earlier. Little happened in this town that Nanny didn’t hear about from her extensive network of friends who worked in the various cottages.

  “Goodness, I hadn’t expected any of them this soon. Aunt Alice must be eager to settle The Breakers for the winter and have one less matter on her mind.”

  “You wish to talk to Alfred, don’t you? I wouldn’t wait. You don’t know how long he’ll be here.”

  “I’d like to talk to Aunt Alice, but that’s out of the question right now. So, yes, I most certainly do wish to speak with Alfred. Too bad Gertrude didn’t come as well, but I suppose she’s with her mother.” I pondered going directly to The Breakers after breakfast, before I went to the Messenger. “Nanny, would it be terribly ill-bred of me to go over this morning? I’ll, of course, offer them any help I can with the house.”

  “This is no idle matter you wish to speak with him about,” Nanny said earnestly. “A man was murdered.”

  “Yes, and a possible attempt was made on another man’s life. You’re right, Nanny. I’ll go as soon as I’ve eaten.”

  Before I left the house, a knock sounded at the front door. I opened it to behold a footman in the Wakehurst livery, a carriage parked behind him on the drive. He bade me a polite good morning and handed me a sealed note and a small roll of linen, tied closed with a ribbon.

  I carried the note and package into the kitchen, where Katie and Nanny were washing up the breakfast things. Nanny looked surprised to see me. “I thought you’d left. Didn’t I hear the front door open and close?”

  “You did. One of Mr. Van Alen’s servants brought a message.” I broke the seal and unfolded the page:

  My dear Miss Cross,

  I fear your fan has fallen prey to thievery. It has been discovered that some other items have gone missing from my dining room, presumably on the night of the fete, and I fear your fan might be among them. Though I cannot hope to replace a gift from your parents, please accept this token in its stead, along with my deepest apologies.

  Your servant always,

  James J. Van Alen

  Oh dear. Quickly I untied the ribbon and unrolled the linen to reveal a fan of silvery gray silk embroidered with gold vines, the blades of carved tortoiseshell. A wave of guilt engulfed me. “Oh, Nanny. Good heavens, I have to return this.”

  Katie, standing at the sink, craned her neck to see. “Oh, Miss Emma, that’s lovely.”

  “If you return it, you’ll have to admit you deceived him.” Nanny took the fan from my hands and held it up to the light from the window. “It surely is a beauty.”

  “It might have been his wife’s. Or his mother’s. I wish I’d never lied to him. I was afraid he might let slip to Detective Myers that I was there, and that would get Jesse in trouble again.”

  “Your heart was in the right place, my lamb.” Nanny handed the fan back to me. “Perhaps you might wait until the murderer is in custody.”

  I thought that over, but concluded it would be wrong to wait. “No, this needs to go back immediately. As soon as I have a chance to stop by Wakehurst.” I dropped the fan into my handbag, bade Nanny and Katie good-bye, and left the house.

  * * *

  When I arrived at The Breakers, I found Alfred in the library, a corner room of dark wood and rich green brocades. Most of the rest of the downstairs looked like a house of ghosts, with sheets draping the furnishings and light fixtures. A team of servants was busy packing items to be transported to the New York town house, and sorting others that would be put in storage. Only in my memory, happy voices echoed against the marble walls and soaring ceiling of the Great Hall. The servants spoke in hushed tones and the house already had an abandoned air that caused my heart to squeeze.

  Pen in hand, Alfred sat at the writing table, hunched over some papers. Mason, the family’s longtime butler, stood at Alfred’s shoulder, ready to hand him another sheaf of pages to be signed. I’d found my way to the library on my own, with no one to announce me. I knocked softly on the door frame.

  “Alfred, am I disturbing you?”

  He looked up in surprise. Then, seeing it was me, he came to his feet. “Emmaline. No, you’re not disturbing me. In fact, I could use a break from all this paperwork. Closing up the house and all.”

  Mason beamed at me. I had once helped him regain not only his position here at The Breakers, but his life as well. “Miss Cross, it’s lovely to see you. I hope you are well?”

  “I am, thank you, Mr. Mason. It’s good to see you, too.” I addressed Alfred again. “How is your mother?”

  “Holding up. You know Mother. She’s a brave soul and as strong as bedrock, when she must be.” He smiled sadly.

  I nodded. “She is that. Have you . . . spoken to Neily since the funeral?”

  “No. I know he returned to Newport about the same time you did. Have you seen him?”

  “I did. At Wakehurst a few nights ago.” As soon as I’d spoken, I wished I hadn’t.

  Alfred’s expression darkened. “A social affair? He went out t
o enjoy himself with our father only a few days in his grave?” At some unspoken signal between them, Mason bobbed his head, first to Alfred, then to me, and left the room.

  “It wasn’t like that, Alfred,” I said, but stopped. What had it been like? Grace had tried to persuade Neily to stay home that night, but he had refused. He had gone to Wakehurst intending to enjoy himself, not that I believed he found one moment’s true enjoyment at James Van Alen’s Elizabethan Fete. “Alfred, Neily was—and is—terribly upset by your father’s death. By all that’s happened in the past few years. He’s feeling ostracized by the family and very much abandoned.”

  “He’s got Grace, hasn’t he?”

  The disdain in Alfred’s voice both saddened and disappointed me. “Not you, too, Alfred. I thought you understood his position where his marriage is concerned. I thought you sympathized.”

  Alfred pushed away from the table and paced to the fireplace of carved white marble. Against the room’s dark paneling, the stone stood out like a shroud, or so it seemed to me in that moment. “Hang it, Emmaline, I am sympathetic. But you don’t know how it’s been these past years, with our father ill and our mother frightened and angry. All of it could have been avoided if . . .”

  “If Neily hadn’t married Grace,” I finished for him.

  “If he had met and married someone else, yes.” Alfred paced again, this time to the window overlooking the gardens on the south side of the house. “I do need to speak with him. He left New York so quickly, I didn’t get a chance to tell him I have every intention of restoring a good portion of his inheritance. Whatever isn’t tied up with the ownership of the New York Central. That I can’t return to him. The board of directors won’t go against Father’s wishes.”

  Suddenly whatever reason I’d had to be annoyed with Alfred vanished. “That’s wonderful of you. I know he’ll be grateful.”