Murder at Wakehurst

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Yes, if he’ll ever agree to see me.” He gave a quiet laugh and turned to face me. “Is there something I can do for you, Emmaline?”

  “Yes, actually, there is.” Before I went on, I became aware of the murmurs of the servants working in the other rooms and decided I didn’t wish what I had to say to become fodder for gossip. “Can you take a brief walk with me?”

  “I can think of nothing I’d rather do at the moment.” He smiled. “Anything is better than signing all of these legal documents concerning the house and everyone who is employed here.”

  “I do hope you aren’t letting any of them go,” I said as Alfred and I traversed the Great Hall toward the loggia doors.

  “Dear Emmaline, always concerned with the less fortunate.” I heard the good-natured teasing in his voice. “No, you may rest easy. We’re transferring most of them to the other houses and are retiring a few on pensions that should keep them comfortable in their later years.”

  “I’m grateful for that. Your father would be happy, too.”

  Alfred opened one of the doors and we stepped out onto the mosaic floor of the loggia, then down the wide steps to the lawn. The ocean stretched in deep blues and greens beyond the cliffs, forming an unbroken line against a cloudless horizon. The air had turned crisp and fall-like, the kind of weather that turns colors brighter and increases visibility for miles. The sails of several pleasure yachts flashed in the sun.

  We walked in silence toward the hedges that lined the property along the Cliff Walk. The cries of the gulls echoed against the cliffs, and far below us, the waves made that distinctive clapping sound as they broke against innumerable layers of pebbles. I stopped and faced my cousin. “Alfred, have you heard about the murder of Judge Schuyler?”

  “It was in the papers, yes. Quite a shock. Mother didn’t wish to discuss it, but I know it upset her. More than she already is, I mean.”

  “How well did your parents know the Schuylers?”

  “They socialized occasionally. As I’m sure you know, the Schuylers are from Philadelphia. But they came to New York fairly often, and, likewise, my parents sometimes traveled to Philadelphia. They had many acquaintances in common, I believe.”

  “And did they ever speak about the Schuylers’ marriage?”

  “Their marriage? Emmaline, what are you getting at?”

  “I’ve heard rumors that they hadn’t been getting along well, that they did a fair amount of arguing. And that . . .” I halted, pondering the wisdom of revealing what I’d learned when I nosed through Mrs. Schuyler’s bedroom. But if I wanted to learn the truth of her intentions regarding her husband, I couldn’t shy away from difficult questions. “I have reason to believe Mrs. Schuyler was planning a trip to Europe next month, and that she might not have wished her husband to know about it.”

  Alfred held me in his gaze, his eyes narrowing. “And just how did you find this out?” He put up a hand. “Never mind. Yes, there had been talk previously, according to Mother, that trouble was brewing between the judge and his wife.”

  “Could he have been having an affair?”

  “No!” After blurting out the denial, Alfred pinched his lips together and shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “Perhaps. I honestly don’t know. But even if he had been, it doesn’t mean his wife murdered him, Emmaline.”

  “I didn’t say she did.”

  “No, but you’re implying it. What do the police say?” Alfred raised his eyebrows, and I knew his question had been meant to make a point, being that I should leave matters alone.

  It was not advice I intended to heed. “The police have taken all such investigations out of the hands of Detective Whyte and given them to a new detective, who knows nothing about Newport or its citizens.”

  “Perhaps they feel a new perspective would be beneficial.”

  I chose to ignore that comment. “Alfred, has there ever been any hint of another man in Mrs. Schuyler’s life? Especially in recent months.”

  “A dalliance on her part?” Alfred sounded scandalized by the very notion. “Emmaline, what sorts of novels have you been reading?”

  “Really, Alfred, just because your parents doted on each other doesn’t mean the rest of society is behaving itself. Not everyone enjoys the marital bliss your parents shared.”

  “No, you’re quite right there.” He smiled, again sadly. “What a shame they didn’t have many more years together. It’s very unfair, Emmaline.”

  “Yes, it is. But, Alfred, if you can shed light on anything to do with the Schuylers, it could help. Think about it. If they were unhappy, and Mrs. Schuyler did entertain the affections of another man, that man might have devised a way for them to be together sooner rather than later. And remember, unlike our aunt Alva, Delphine Schuyler does not consider divorce an option.” As long as the other lived, they were each trapped in the marriage.

  Another thought occurred to me. The man in the ill-fitting suit—could he be Delphine Schuyler’s lover? A man driven to murder, not because of a social injustice, but out of passion? It seemed unlikely that a woman such as Mrs. Schuyler would take any interest in a man not of her social standing. But then again, who better than someone utterly unknown to her circle of acquaintances?

  I had obviously given Alfred reason to consider as well; for now, he said, “I believe there had been talk of the Schuylers being estranged in recent months, of essentially living separate lives. My mother might know more, but—” He gave me a warning look.

  “Don’t worry, I have no intention of worrying her with any of this. But I do have another couple of questions.” The beginnings of reluctance clouded his face, but I pressed on. “There was a man at Wakehurst that night with whom Neily argued. When I asked him about it, Neily became terribly evasive.”

  “And? I assume my brother had been drinking and forgot to mind his manners. The other fellow as well. It wouldn’t be the first time young men argued.”

  “This was different. I feared they’d come to blows and went to intervene. Even the jester recognized the need to separate them.”

  Alfred blinked. “‘The jester’?”

  “Never mind. The point is, I don’t think the other man belonged at the fete. I believe he came in uninvited.” I went on to explain the break-in at Max Oberlin’s and the missing suit of evening clothes.

  “I’ll admit this is all very curious.” Alfred lifted his face to the ocean breeze, frowning into the morning sunlight. “But I cannot imagine who this fellow is.”

  “Are you quite certain there haven’t been any threats against the family? Any accusations?”

  He turned his gaze back to mine. “There are always threats and accusations, Emmaline. The Vanderbilt family members are well-known public figures. The New York Central employs thousands. We’re investors in countless other companies and institutions. Someone, somewhere, is always bound to take some issue with one or all of us.”

  “The New York Central . . .” I murmured. “George Gould is a railroad man as well . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Emmaline. What was that?”

  “Apparently, your father and Clayton Schuyler landed at opposite sides of a labor dispute not long ago. The judge apparently ruled in favor of the workers, and your father, among others, was not happy about it. Were you aware of a recent rift between them?”

  “I really couldn’t say. Father never mentioned it. And if you’re asking me about specifics to do with the dispute, I can’t help you, not off the top of my head. I’d need to look into the records. But, undoubtedly, it had to do with companies being compelled to honor union agreements in terms of pay and work hours. Nothing unusual.”

  “Would your father have objected to such an agreement?” The idea of Uncle Cornelius attempting to circumvent his obligations saddened me and made me more resolute than ever not to use my inheritance for frivolous purposes.

  “No, Father would not have, but don’t forget, there are shareholders and board members, and beneath them, department managers, overseers, fore
men . . . you understand. Company policy is not always carried out as it should be. Sometimes it takes a legal jolt to set matters on the proper course again.”

  Alfred’s explanation seemed awfully pat to me, a way to brush off the guilt of shirking one’s responsibilities. Was Alfred like that? Had Uncle Cornelius been? Was I terribly naïve to hope my relatives held themselves to a higher standard than most businessmen of their stature?

  The answer, I acknowledged, was yes.

  “Just one more question, and I’ll leave you to your work.” I paused, and Alfred nodded his consent. “Can you think of anything George Gould and Judge Schuyler had in common? Something that might make them both targets of the same killer?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I started back toward the house, and Alfred kept pace beside me. “This isn’t common knowledge yet, but last night someone in an automobile ran George Gould off Ocean Avenue. His carriage tipped over onto the sand. Somehow, neither he nor his horse was seriously injured. Although, had the tide been in, he might have drowned and been washed out to sea.”

  “Gad! Do you think the two incidents are related?”

  “I hope not, Alfred, but it’s certainly possible. Especially if there is something that connects Mr. Gould and Judge Schuyler.”

  “If so, then Mrs. Schuyler could have had nothing to do with it. Whether her marriage was happy or not, she could not have a reason to make an attempt on George Gould’s life.”

  * * *

  Other than verifying claims that the Schuylers hadn’t enjoyed a happy marriage, I left Alfred, having learned little else. I did come away feeling happier on Neily’s account, with renewed hopes that he and his siblings would soon reconcile.

  Rather than climb back into my borrowed carriage and continue my trek into town immediately, I decided to amble over the grounds, gazing at the house from the outside. I had happy memories of The Breakers, where I had been invited during the summer months to visit with my cousins when we were young. But it hadn’t been this Breakers. Not this monolithic structure of stone and marble that mimicked the Italian palazzos of Renaissance Genoa. No, I had played in the shadow of an older Breakers built in 1878, a turreted, peak-roofed house in the Queen Anne style.

  Indulging in my memories, I wandered around the house and down the service driveway, where the children’s playhouse stood nestled in trees and shrubbery kept every bit as sculpted as that of the main house. I smiled at the figures carved into the posts holding up the overhang as I walked up the porch steps. Peering in through the wide front window, I was surprised to see Reggie Vanderbilt sitting inside.

  He must have heard my tread on the porch, for he gazed out at me through the window and came to his feet. A moment later, he met me outside. “Hello, Em. Want to come in?”

  I shook my head. “What are you doing in there, Reggie? Something you shouldn’t?” I was thinking back to a time several years ago when I’d found him in the playhouse, drinking some of his father’s whiskey on the sly. He had been a youth in his teens then. He was twenty now, all grown up. Or so I hoped. Certainly, he stood taller than me and had filled out from his former youthful slenderness. I detected the beginnings of a mustache as well. If Neily and Alfred favored their father in looks, I saw more of their mother in the fullness of Reggie’s face and the shape of his eyes.

  “Just sitting and thinking,” he said. “It’s such chaos up at the house right now.” Despite his implied denial, I smelled the liquor on his breath, but I said nothing about it. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see Alfred about a matter. Judge Schuyler’s murder.”

  “Same old Em. In it again, aren’t you?”

  “I can’t seem to help it, Reggie. You see, I found the body that night.”

  His features tightened, as though he felt a sudden pain. “Rotten luck. But why did you need to speak to Alfred about it? We weren’t even in Newport when it happened.”

  “Let’s walk,” I said, and slipped my hand into his offered arm. I couldn’t help smiling at the gentlemanly gesture. I was so used to thinking of Reggie as a child, but he was a man now and would soon look to marry. “It’s good to see you away from New York, Reggie. Away from . . . well . . . you know.”

  “Mother’s grief. Yes, I feel I can breathe again here, whereas I seemed to be stifling in Manhattan. I do wish Mother had come with us, though. The ocean air would have done her a world of good, I think. But she wouldn’t have it.”

  “No, I don’t suppose she would.”

  “Now, tell me what you spoke about with Alfred.”

  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have shared those thoughts with Reggie, or with anyone I considered too young or innocent to be involved in such matters. But I once again reminded myself that Reggie had grown up, was certainly no innocent, and what was more, he had a way of finding out other people’s secrets. He always had.

  Still, I kept my reply vague. “I was curious about the Schuylers. I wanted to see if Alfred knew anything about them.”

  Reggie studied me, a grin playing about his lips. “You suppose Mrs. Schuyler did the old boy in?”

  It was on my tongue to deny it. But I said, “I don’t know. As I said, I’m curious about them. All of them.”

  “Even Imogene?”

  “She’s about your age. Do you know her well?”

  Reggie gave a half shrug. “I’ll tell you this. I was surprised when I heard she intended hitching herself to Harrington.”

  “Why? Do you think the Harringtons aren’t good enough for the Schuylers? Her father seemed to believe they were.”

  “It isn’t that. I’d been under the impression Imogene had set her cap for someone already.”

  This information, the first I’d heard of it, made my pulse jump. “Who?”

  “Don’t know exactly. But last spring in Paris, it certainly seemed the case. Mutual friends were all speculating. And Imogene would only smile slyly when asked.”

  I compressed my lips as I turned my head to regard him. “Think, Reggie. You must have seen her with someone. Or heard a name mentioned.”

  “You can be assured she was as discreet as can be. And I don’t believe I heard any names, only that Miss Imogene Schuyler had attached her hopes to some mystery man. Her friend Eliza Denholm would probably know. But, really, you can’t think Imogene had anything to do with her father’s demise. That would be absurd.”

  Would it? Women committed murder, perhaps not with the same frequency as men, but with the same passionate determination. There were still three people involved in that night with whom I had not yet spoken. Imogene Schuyler, her mother, and Jerome Harrington. The former two might be inaccessible for the moment, but I considered the latter fair game. And now I added another name to my list of persons I wished to meet: Eliza Denholm.

  Leaving The Breakers, I realized Wakehurst was but a short distance down Ochre Point Avenue. I could stop and return the fan. Oddly, Maestro didn’t heed my frail attempt to turn in at the gates and we continued into town.

  Chapter 13

  When I entered the Messenger’s front office, I found Derrick and Stanley Sheppard with their heads together discussing business. For an instant, I experienced a stab of regret. Had I not resigned from the editor-in-chief position, it would have been me sitting closely beside Derrick, planning strategies for the well-being of our growing enterprise. Had I been a fool to give up such an opportunity? Didn’t I owe it to the other members of my sex to make the most of such prospects?

  Or did my remorse stem simply from not being the individual who, at this moment, shared Derrick’s goals, as well as his proximity?

  The two men looked up as I came in, then briefly came to their feet. Derrick smiled. Mr. Sheppard frowned.

  “You’re late, Miss Cross.”

  Derrick looked rather taken aback at the editor-in-chief’s bluntness, but he didn’t intervene.

  “I know, Mr. Sheppard. I stopped at The Breakers to speak to my cousin Alfred about Clayton Schu
yler. I thought he might know if the judge had received any threats. Alfred’s parents are—were—acquainted with the Schuylers.”

  “And did he?”

  “Unfortunately, no. But he had heard about the Schuylers’ recent estrangement. All was not well in their marriage.”

  Mr. Sheppard scrutinized me with his keen gaze “Is this what you meant when you said the Schuyler women were ‘an avenue worth exploring’?”

  I nodded.

  “Be careful with that line of thinking.” His New Hampshire pronunciations sharpened. “We don’t want to stray into the realm of yellow journalism.”

  It was Derrick’s turn to scowl, his indignation evident. “Sheppard, I don’t think that’s at all what Miss Cross has in mind.”

  “It’s all right,” I said, raising my hands. “I agree, Mr. Sheppard, and I shall proceed with the utmost caution. I discovered something else interesting as well, from my younger cousin Reggie. Apparently, Miss Imogene might already have had an understanding with another young man when her parents arranged her marriage with Jerome Harrington.”

  With a glance first at Derrick, Mr. Sheppard rubbed a hand beneath his chin. “Reggie Vanderbilt isn’t the most reliable source, though, is he?”

  “That may be true,” I replied with a chuckle, “but this has a slight ring of truth to it. It bears further inquiry, I should think.”

  Mr. Sheppard conceded this point by inclining his head. “Did you find out anything about that mysterious man who might have broken into the tailor shop?”

  “The man in the ill-fitting suit, as I’ve come to think of him.” I let out a sigh. “Not yet. I haven’t been able to find him or discover who he is.”

  “Keep trying.” Mr. Sheppard raised a forefinger in the air. “My money is on him. If he stole those clothes in order to attend the fete, it’s likely he killed Judge Schuyler. The only question is why.”

  “That’s if the tailor shop thief and the man I encountered at the fete are one and the same.” I turned my attention to Derrick. “What about the Harringtons? Have you been able to check into their financial situation?”