Murder at Wakehurst

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Derrick set down his fountain pen. “I can’t find a thing to indicate they’re having difficulties. They did sell off some shares in a coal-mining company recently, but there’s nothing unusual about that.”

  “Perhaps they sold out because they needed the cash,” I suggested.

  “It looks as though they reinvested in real estate in North Carolina.”

  “Really. Hmm . . .” I had been about to ask whether they might also have sold off some of their property—again for cash—but if they were buying real estate, it wasn’t likely they were short of ready money. Then another thought struck me. “Coal. This isn’t the first time that commodity entered a recent conversation.”

  Derrick looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “There was trouble only yesterday in Illinois, in a town called Carterville.”

  “On our front page today,” Derrick and Mr. Sheppard said almost simultaneously, and Mr. Sheppard continued with, “union against nonunion workers. Good job picking up on that one, Miss Cross.”

  I nodded. “I spoke to Stuyvesant Fish about it yesterday afternoon, because when the shooting broke out—”

  “It occurred at a terminal of his Illinois Central Railroad.” Mr. Sheppard made an impatient gesture. “We read your story. What are you getting at?”

  “It’s rather coincidental, don’t you think?”

  “Hardly.” Mr. Sheppard made another gesture of impatience, accompanied by a scowl, neither of which I took personally. “Coal is the life’s blood of our society. Most people of means are invested in it, to one extent or another. It runs our railroads, our industries, and our homes. Why, the Ber-winds are building that newest monstrosity up on Bellevue with coal money, and they plan to run the whole house on electricity generated by their coal. What of it?”

  “If coal is so lucrative, why did the Harringtons sell their stock?”

  “Because some mountains in North Carolina tickled their fancy and they decided to free up some cash in order to purchase the land,” he said.

  “Well, I also talked with Mrs. Fish yesterday, and she confirmed what Detective Myers knew about Clayton Schuyler recently ruling in favor of union workers. Which means he might have angered more than a few wealthy investors and industry owners. I’m wondering if those workers were miners.”

  A shrug and a thoughtful hmph was Mr. Sheppard’s only reaction.

  “Not only that,” I continued, “George Gould’s carriage was run off Ocean Avenue last night by an automobile. He might have been killed. I believe he may have been targeted by the killer.”

  “There’s many a reckless driver on this island,” Mr. Sheppard reminded me with a shrug. “Damned vehicles. Dangerous thing in the hands of the wrong person. Don’t go reading more into this without firm evidence.”

  Perhaps he and I had reached a bit of an impasse. But just as I had learned not to discount the warning barks of dogs, I had also learned not to ignore my distrust of coincidences. The connection might be minuscule, but experience had taught me that the most gossamer threads could lead to a killer.

  “Well, I have work to do,” I said. “I’ll let you two get back to business.”

  “Miss Cross!” Mr. Sheppard called to me as I was about to leave them. When he saw that he had my attention, he said briskly, “Continue exploring.”

  “Yes, sir.” With a grin, I pushed through the door leading to the back rooms. Footsteps behind me brought me to a halt before I reached the office Ethan and I shared. I turned to see Derrick filling the narrow corridor.

  When he reached me, he grasped my hands. “Is he always like that? Have I made a mistake bringing him on?”

  The question, and the earnestness with which Derrick asked it, truly puzzled me. “Mr. Sheppard?”

  “Yes. Emma, perhaps I should have spoken up more, but I thought I’d discuss it with you privately first. I didn’t like the way Sheppard spoke to you. Not at all.”

  “Don’t be a goose. Mr. Sheppard didn’t do or say anything wrong. It’s just his way.”

  “I don’t understand. He’s brusque and rude and talks to you as though you were some kind of underling, and he’s done nothing wrong?”

  “If anything, he treats me like a real reporter.”

  “You are a real reporter.”

  “Yes, and Mr. Sheppard knows it.” I found myself enjoying Derrick’s concern as much as I enjoyed the warmth of his hands around mine. I gave our joined hands a playful swing. “He plays devil’s advocate and I have no problem with that. Keeps me on my toes. I have no need of mollycoddling.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “I’m positive.” After a quick glance to make sure there was no one else in the hallway, I reached up and pressed a bold kiss to his lips. “Now, we’ve both got work to do, don’t we, Mr. Andrews?”

  “Indeed we do, Miss Cross.”

  I felt his gaze—no, I felt his smile on my back as I turned away and entered my office. I never made it to my desk; the wall telephone summoned me with its impatient ringing.

  “Newsroom,” I answered succinctly.

  “Emma, it’s Jesse. I thought you might be interested to know an automobile was reported stolen last night. Belongs to a local family, very well-to-do.”

  My eyes opened wide. “Do you think it could be the vehicle that ran George Gould off the road last night?” I blew out a breath. “I wish I’d gotten a better look at it so I could identify it.”

  “That’s all right, I’m fairly certain this is the one. Our men found it on the side of the road near Forty Steps. No clue yet as to who had been driving it.” He paused, then said, “I have more. There’s been another incident.”

  “Not Mr. Gould?” My hand went to my throat, and I pressed the neat linen tie that held my collar closed.

  “No, nothing like that. A break-in. Max Oberlin’s Gentlemen’s Outfitters. Again.”

  * * *

  “It is the strangest thing,” Max Oberlin said after unlocking the shop door for Jesse and me. “The clothes and hat have been returned, and with them, payment. Three dollars. Oh, that’s not nearly what they are worth—good heavens, no. But I can have them cleaned and resell them. I do not believe Mr. Jenson will want them, now that someone else has worn them, but some gentleman will, surely.”

  This speech amazed us both. Mr. Oberlin led the way to his main counter, where the garments lay draped; beside them, the small pile of coins winked up at us in the light.

  “He paid for use of the clothing.” I reached out and fingered the white dress shirt. What it lacked in frills, it made up for in the quality of the fabric and the expertise in tailoring.

  “It appears we have an honest thief,” Mr. Oberlin agreed.

  “How did he get in this time?” Jesse asked him.

  “Same as last time, through the back entrance. Broke the new lock I had installed only the other day. Perhaps part of the money he left is to replace the lock again.”

  “And do you know if anyone saw anything?” Jesse took out his tablet and pencil.

  Max Oberlin shook his head. “I called the station as soon as I opened this morning and saw this.” He gestured at the clothing. “I have had no time to speak with my neighbors.”

  “All right, I’ll take care of that,” Jesse said.

  “The thought of someone breaking in.” Mr. Oberlin gave shudder. “It distressed me. Very much. I did not like to be here before the other shops were open and the streets filled with activity.” His expression eased and he almost smiled. “But now, this has happened—the return of the clothes, the payment. I think it is not so dangerous to be here now.”

  Jesse and I exchanged glances, and I said, “I believe Mr. Oberlin is correct that he has nothing to fear from his thief. I’ve never heard of one who made restitution, and so quickly.”

  “Nor have I.” Jesse didn’t seem pleased by the prospect, however. Something about the scenario clearly bothered him, as it did me, to be honest. Yes, for Max Oberlin, I believed the incident h
ad ended agreeably enough, and he no longer needed to fear his intruder returning. But the thief himself? I wondered if his business in Newport had concluded, or if he remained here to attend to other matters.

  Or other murders. Had he shot that arrow into Judge Schuyler’s chest? Had he run George Gould off the road? Who might be next?

  I left Jesse to examine the rear door of the shop—again—and finish questioning Mr. Oberlin. Spring Street ran parallel to Thames Street and was lined with private homes, shops, and businesses. Many of the buildings hailed from the previous century, some well before the Revolution. It didn’t surprise me that our thief had had an easy time breaking into Oberlin’s shop.

  I headed south but didn’t have far to go to reach my destination. A bell jingled when I entered a dress shop several doors down. The front room presented a scene very much like Oberlin’s, but instead of dark serge, checks, and stripes, colorful silks, muslins, and linens, along with ribbons and lace, met my gaze. The main room was empty, but a voice called from somewhere in the back.

  “Coming.” A few seconds later, the proprietress, Molly Sayers, parted the curtains separating the shop from the back corridor and stepped through. “Emma, what a delight to see you.”

  “Hello, Molly. How are you? How has business been?” I felt slightly guilty for not having stopped in on Molly for some time now. This shop had been a favorite of my mother’s when she lived in Newport, but it wasn’t often I spent money for an entirely new dress. Mostly, I wore older garments freshened by Nanny’s sewing talents, taking trim off this frock and the buttons off that, and combining them on yet a third to create an entirely new look. Perhaps, though, with my newfound wealth, I might bring both Nanny and Katie here for a special treat. They both deserved it.

  “Business has been rather brisk this season,” Molly said in answer to my question, setting my conscience to rest. “I’ve had steady orders all summer, and already our local women are thinking about their holiday outfits.” She spoke to me from across the counter. Now she leaned over on her elbows, stretching closer. “I was sorry to hear about Mr. Vanderbilt, Emma.”

  “Thank you, Molly.” I could think of nothing more to say to that.

  She brightened. “How are your parents?”

  “Very well, thank you. They spent the summer in Marseille.”

  “Oh, how splendid.”

  “They’re back in Montmartre for now, but are thinking of wintering in the South of France, in Avignon. My father wishes to paint a series of scenes from throughout the city.”

  “Ah, the bohemian life. Sometimes I envy them.” With a wistful look, Molly straightened. “But what can I do for you today? Time for something new?”

  “Not today, but soon.” I glanced over my shoulder at the street door. Seeing no one about to enter the shop, I turned back to Molly. “Have you heard about the break-in at Oberlin’s?”

  “Of course. All of us along this stretch are afraid we’ll be next.”

  “I don’t think you will be. Did Jesse Whyte speak to you after the first break-in?”

  Molly’s eyes went wide. “You mean there’s been another?”

  “Yes, but it’s not what you think. The thief returned the clothing—with payment.”

  “How very odd. So he only wished to borrow them, then. Or rent them, I suppose one could say.”

  “Exactly. Have you seen anyone lurking about? He would be large. Not overly tall, about average height, but muscular and a bit stocky. A strong-looking man.”

  “Jesse asked me that question the day after the first break-in, and I hadn’t seen anything—or anyone—significant.”

  “Think, Molly. He’s been back again. What time did you arrive at your shop this morning?”

  “About two hours ago.”

  “And can you picture the people you passed on the street? Were they known to you? Was there anyone who fit the description I just gave you?”

  “I’m afraid that description fits many of our townsmen, Emma. Especially the workingmen.”

  I thought back to the individual I’d seen at Wakehurst, and I hit upon a detail that might make him stand out. “His nose had obviously been broken. Perhaps more than once. It made him look very much like a fighter. A boxer.” I had become familiar with men who engaged in the sport earlier that summer, and now, when I thought about it, Neily’s nemesis at the fete might have spent time in the ring. If not, he almost certainly kept rough company and engaged in fisticuffs from time to time.

  “I’m afraid not,” Molly said.

  “Keep your eyes open for him. Please.”

  “I most certainly will. It’s so odd, though,” she said again, shaking her head in mystification. “Why would someone steal something and return it? Why not simply keep the clothing, or dispose of them somewhere? Why take such a chance on returning them when he might have been caught?”

  “I can’t answer that. But if you do see him, contact Jesse or me right away. Don’t approach him. Don’t speak to him.”

  Molly studied me with a puzzled frown. “Why do I suddenly have the feeling this man did more than steal clothes from Max Oberlin?”

  “No one is sure of anything at this point, but he might be dangerous.”

  Her frown persisted. “There was a murder in Newport only days ago, at Wakehurst . . .”

  I nodded. “Yes, there was. And this man we’re looking for was there that night. That’s all I can say, but it’s enough to warrant the utmost caution.”

  “Good heavens, Emma. Perhaps for once, you should leave things well enough alone.”

  We both knew I wouldn’t.

  * * *

  After leaving Molly, I decided not to return to the Messenger right away, and went in the opposite direction, to Washington Square. I entered the Opera House, hoping to find Clarice O’Shea.

  Even in the lobby, the walls shook from the music booming from the theater proper. Brass, woodwinds, and drums pulsated up from the floor to fill the air around me. Above my head, the crystals hanging from the chandeliers clinked against each other.

  There was no one in the lobby to stop me, so I pushed my way through the swinging doors into the main part of the theater. Gaslight and conical reflectors illuminated an elaborate set meant to portray a mythical kingdom from the past, the backdrop extending as high as the gold-painted proscenium arch that framed the stage. A full orchestra occupied the pit. This being only a rehearsal, the actors wore their everyday clothes, but performed their stage directions and used the fullness of their voices as though a paying audience packed the seats.

  I scanned the stage, looking for the woman who had played Titania at Wakehurst. But there were too many actors and too much activity to distinguish one woman from another. She did not appear to be playing the lead part, at any rate, for the woman presently standing near the edge of the stage, and singing as though her life depended on it, was noticeably stouter than the actress I sought. I also realized that I had seen Titania that night in full theatrical makeup and most likely a wig. That would certainly make picking her out of a crowd much more difficult.

  Several people occupied seats in the fourth or fifth row, watching the progress of the rehearsal. I noticed one making notes. No one spotted me, so I slipped into the shadows of the very last row. It wasn’t long before I became caught up in the storyline of the piece, which apparently involved an arranged marriage and an uncooperative daughter who wished to wed another man.

  How apropos, I thought. But what about our hero? Did he have feelings for his young betrothed, or did he have eyes only for her fortune? The music swelled, crested, and crashed with an emphasis only John Philip Sousa could achieve with such excitement and gaiety. It brought a broad smile to my face. My feet tapped against the floor.

  Suddenly the music and voices ceased with an abruptness that left my ears ringing. One of the men observing from the orchestra seats stood up and clapped his hands several times, calling for attention. He wore a vest and shirtsleeves, the latter rolled up to the elbo
ws. I assumed he must be the director.

  The conductor in the pit turned around to face him, and the next several minutes were spent in giving directions, asking questions, and yelling at a few select individuals on the stage. I had always heard anyone engaged in a career in the arts needed a thick skin, and I could certainly see why.

  “And just what do you think you’re doing here?” I gasped at the cross voice just off to my left and whipped my head around to face the aisle. A man stood at the end of my row with his hands on his hips and a frown that matched his curt tone. “You’re not supposed to be in here. No one is, unless you’re with the show.” His eyes narrowed and he craned forward, scrutinizing me. “And I’ll wager you’re not with the show.”

  “I’m sorry, there was no one in the lobby and I thought it would be all right to slip inside.”

  “Oh, you did, did you? Can’t a man answer the call of nature without someone taking advantage? Thought you’d see a free show, did you?”

  “That’s not why I’m here. I—”

  “What’s going on back there?” The man I had assumed to be the director had turned full around. The others in the row beside him came to their feet as well. The actors onstage squinted and shaded their eyes from the stage lights to see what the commotion was about.

  “We’ve got us a stowaway, Mr. Comstock,” the man near me said.

  “A what?” The director, apparently named Mr. Comstock, scowled.

  I came to my feet. “I’m terribly sorry. I’m not a ‘stowaway, ’ as this man puts it. I came to speak with one of your cast members.”

  “I know you.” A stocky man came forward from among the actors. “Mr. Comstock, she’s a reporter for a local paper.”

  “Come to review our musical, have you?” The director’s scowl didn’t ease. If anything, it grew blacker. “Well, you can get out. We’re not ready. Obviously.” He gestured behind him.

  “I’m not here to review anything. I wish to speak with—”

  “We’ve already spoken, Miss Cross, and I said all I have to say.” Burt Covey’s voice echoed against the theater’s walls.