Murder at Wakehurst

by Alyssa Maxwell

  On Spring Street, I experienced a moment of panic when I saw no sign of him. Had I lost him among the foot traffic? Had he turned in at a doorway? I strained my eyes, still burning from the smoke, which drifted in fine clouds even here. Then—there he was, about a block away, striding north. I set off, but despite an urge to run after him, I forced my feet to maintain a steady but sedate pace, keeping the man’s back in view at all times.

  Once, he appeared to look over his shoulder, and I quickly sidestepped behind a pair of ladies in large hats. Counting off a second or two, I moved out from behind them and once again spotted my target up ahead. Though I had focused mainly on his face back on Mill Street, my impression of his clothing had been of sturdy, store-bought quality. Nothing fancy, nothing expensive. Not what Derrick would have worn, but Jesse—yes. A workingman, then, but perhaps not a laborer. At least, not someone who lived hand to mouth. Unless he had also stolen the clothing he wore today.

  At Mary Street, he turned east. I hurried to catch up before I lost him. When I reached the corner, I hugged tight to the building and peered around. Would he keep going to Touro? Was he aware of my tailing him and leading me in circles? Perhaps he planned to double back all the way to Mill Street; perhaps he had been lodging at the burning hotel.

  Soon, however, he crossed over and stopped before a house on the corner of Mary and High Streets. He gazed back the way he had come, prompting me to press flat against the brick wall beside me. I lamented the dirt and coal soot finding a new home on my snowy shirtwaist and in the folds of my skirt, but didn’t dare move. Did he see me? He searched the distance for another moment, then turned and ran up the couple of steps to the front door.

  Marlborough Street became my destination, and I wasted no time in crossing Washington Square and making my way over to the police station. Once inside, I asked for Jesse and had only moments to wait before he came to the front counter to escort me back to his desk.

  “I have information, but I must be quick about it,” I told him in a breathless rush, “or Derrick will worry about where I’ve gone.” I experienced a sharp doubt concerning the wisdom of having come here before returning to find Derrick at Mill Street, but what I had to tell Jesse had seemed too important to wait. “I know where he’s staying. At least I believe I do.” Another doubt struck me. I hadn’t waited long enough to make certain the man remained at the house on Mary Street, nor could I be sure he hadn’t simply gone there to visit someone.

  “Catch your breath, Emma,” Jesse urged me. He left me a moment and returned with a cup of water. “Here, drink this before you keel over and fall out of that chair. Now, who are you talking about?”

  Surprised to discover that I still held my notebook and pencil, I set them down and accepted the cup from Jesse. I took a couple of sips and set it, too, on his desk. “That man at Wakehurst who argued with Neily. Who might have broken into Max Oberlin’s shop.”

  Jesse’s eyes sparked with interest and he snatched up a fountain pen. “Where did you see him?”

  “At the fire on Mill Street.” I knew I needn’t explain about the fire, as Jesse would already have heard. “Our gazes connected briefly, and then he immediately left the scene. He must have recognized me. As he made his escape along Spring Street, he looked back a couple of times. I don’t think he saw me, though. I’m hoping that while he might have recognized me from Wakehurst, he doesn’t believe I recognized him. Not in any significant way, at any rate.”

  “Where did you follow him to?” Here Jesse set his pen to a scrap of paper.

  “Mary and High Streets. Southeast corner, the large Colonial with green shutters.”

  He nodded as he wrote this down. “I know the house. Owner takes in lodgers.”

  I retrieved my tablet and pencil and came to my feet. “Then you’ll go soon?”

  “Right away.”

  “I wish I could accompany you.”

  “Derrick must be frantic by now. Go find him and come back here. I might need you to identify him and the clothing from Oberlin’s.”

  That sent me on my way, as did the realization that involving myself in apprehending the man in the ill-fitting suit would reflect badly on Jesse. While I wouldn’t say Derrick had grown frantic by the time I returned to him, he looked distinctly concerned, and then vastly relieved to see me. He had stayed on Mill Street, surmising I would be back eventually. I apologized for not waiting for him before following our mystery man, but he understood, especially when I explained the circumstances. Then we boarded the northbound trolley, alighting once more near the police station.

  * * *

  Like good citizens, ones who did not interfere in police business, Derrick and I waited in the station lobby until Jesse escorted us to the interrogation room. On the way there, he informed us of what he had learned so far.

  “Precious little,” he said with a sardonic slant to his lips. “He says his name is Ernest Kemp and he’s simply visiting Newport. Claims to have a keen interest in Early American architecture.”

  Jesse gave a snort. We reached the interrogation room, guarded by a uniformed officer, who opened the door for us and closed it after we stepped inside. Derrick took up position against the wall beside the door, conveying his intention to merely observe—and perhaps to ensure my safety. He hadn’t been at Wakehurst that night, nor had he been to Oberlin’s, so he could have little to add. Still, I was glad of his presence, now that I stood in such close proximity to the muscular Mr. Kemp.

  His eyebrows twitched at the sight of me; his eyes lit up with recognition. Yet, he said nothing. I immediately noticed the coat he wore—the very same from the night of the Wakehurst fete. There could be no mistake, as it fit him in exactly the same manner: a bit too tight through the shoulders and upper arms.

  I questioned Jesse with a look and he nodded. “I had a man run over to Oberlin’s for the coat that was stolen and returned. Is it the same one you saw at Wakehurst? And is this the same man wearing it?”

  “Most definitely yes to the second question.” I frowned, attempting to study the garment to make absolutely certain, while ignoring the disparaging looks Mr. Kemp was sending me. Finally I met his gaze. “May I ask you why you seemed so hostile toward my cousin that night, Mr. Kemp?”

  “Your cousin? And who might that be?” His voice was gruff, his pronunciations not those of a schooled gentleman, yet still firm and confident. A man used to giving orders, perhaps.

  “Cornelius Vanderbilt,” I replied.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “I’m speaking of Cornelius the younger. And, yes, his father recently passed away.”

  The man shifted his gaze to Jesse. “Is she allowed to ask me questions?”

  “You may remove the coat now,” Jesse informed him rather than answer the question. While Mr. Kemp stood to strip the coat from his arms, Jesse regarded him, his lips skewed to one side. “What did you and Cornelius Vanderbilt argue about the night of the Wakehurst fete? You see, you do have to answer my questions, Kemp.”

  The man grunted, clearly not amused. “Restitution. For miners’ families. I’m a foreman at the Clearwater Mining Operations, outside of Scranton, Pennsylvania.”

  Jesse and I exchanged startled looks. Jesse’s eyes narrowed as he tossed the coat over an extra chair. “Restitution for what?”

  “For the deaths of twenty-five men who went down a shaft one day and never came out.”

  I neither doubted his word nor meant to challenge his assertion. I simply didn’t understand what he was getting at. “How was that Mr. Vanderbilt’s fault?”

  “Not his fault alone. The New York Central is just one of several companies that banded together to keep operations running—despite needed repairs.”

  “You said you’re a foreman,” I pointed out, not unkindly. “Could you not have stopped those men from going down?”

  “I spoke my mind, a bunch of us foremen did. The supports were aging and we recommended an inspection and full repairs. The union shut u
s up and overrode our concerns.” He crossed his arms over his chest, huddling into himself. “Said those men had to make a living, and by not working, they risked being fired. They’d just won a major victory that ended a strike. But now, they were acting under pressure from investors.”

  I gasped. “Is this the case I’ve heard about? Did Judge Schuyler make the ruling in favor of the workers?”

  “He did. There was a dispute over wages and long hours. Judge Schuyler ruled the men had to be paid for those extra hours, and that the wage asked for by the union was a fair one. The investors didn’t like it. They applied pressure to make sure operations resumed immediately. So down those men went.”

  “And the shaft collapsed.” A lump of sorrow lodged in my throat.

  Mr. Kemp nodded. “Your bigwigs didn’t want Clearwater to take the time away from production for the repairs to be made.”

  “Isn’t the union equally at fault?” Jesse pointed out. “They chose to follow the wishes of the investors, not the foremen.”

  “Only because they feared losing the small victory they’d gained.” His mouth curled downward at the corners. “And I believe cash changed hands.”

  Jesse unbuttoned his coat and leaned forward toward the other man, hands on his hips. “What exactly did you mean by restitution?”

  “The miners’ families need a settlement to survive now. How’s a widow supposed to feed her children? Men like Vanderbilt have everything. Their families lack for nothing. Their wives and daughters parade around in silks and jewels. They can darned well provide financial relief to the people who need it, to the people they wronged.”

  “Mr. Kemp, you spoke to the wrong Vanderbilt that night.” I offered him a sympathetic look. “Cornelius Vanderbilt is no longer a decision maker at the New York Central.”

  “He’s his father’s heir, isn’t he?”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. His brother Alfred is.”

  Ernest Kemp swore, which brought Jesse surging to his feet.

  “I’ll thank you to watch your language, Kemp.” His gaze shifted to me.

  So did Mr. Kemp’s. “Sorry. Just seems if I hadn’t made that mistake, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

  “Did you threaten anyone else that night?” I asked him quietly.

  “I didn’t ‘threaten.’” His face darkened, and he looked away again. “All right, perhaps I threatened a little, but they deserve to have the fear of God put into them.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I said.

  “A few others. Man named Gould.”

  My heart thudded. “Who else?”

  “John Astor. Felix Mathison. Edward Berwind. A few others.”

  Good heavens, I thought. Other than his run-in with Neily, I hadn’t witnessed any of this. My focus that night had been too narrow to notice much of anything other than my cousin’s behavior. Beyond that, and overhearing the tiff between Imogene Schuyler and Jerome Harrington, I had moved about in a daze of grief and disbelief. My body was there, but unaccompanied by either my heart or my mind. For the first time in my adult life, I had been rendered incapable of summoning my reporter’s instincts.

  How had those other men reacted to Mr. Kemp’s charges and demands? Had they, like Neily, bickered in return, perhaps making counterthreats? Or had they ignored Mr. Kemp and walked away?

  “None of them had you thrown out.” My query was more of a musing, as I already knew the answer. They’d been too ashamed to bring Ernest Kemp’s accusations to light, just as Neily had been. I believed that, in Neily’s case, his combined anger and grief over his father’s death rendered him both unwilling and unable to discuss the matter, even with me. For the rest . . . they knew Mr. Kemp spoke the truth, and if word of it reached the newspapers, their interests would suffer. There would be a public outcry, a demand for a reckoning, worker rebellion, falling stock prices . . .

  “Mr. Kemp.” Jesse resumed his seat and leaned forward again. “Did you murder Clayton Schuyler?”

  “No!” The man nearly shouted the denial. “Why on earth would I? He ruled in favor of the workers. It was those soulless investors that robbed them of their lives.”

  My gaze met Jesse’s again. Mr. Kemp’s story seemed logical, at least to me. If anything, Judge Schuyler had proven a friend to the miners, defending their cause against those who would take advantage of them. Men like my uncle Cornelius, and now my cousin Alfred; men like George Gould and John Astor, and countless others known for their coldhearted business policies and callous treatment of workers who complained.

  I had also toyed, briefly, with the notion that this man and Delphine Schuyler had been lovers. Now the notion struck me as absurd. If Delphine Schuyler had wished to be free of her husband, it would not have been because of Ernest Kemp. But a question still needed to be asked.

  “Mr. Kemp,” I began, “were you on the veranda at Wakehurst at any point that night?”

  “No, I was not. I came in through . . .” He hesitated, obviously debating his answer. “I forced my way in through the hedges on the side of the property.”

  “Because you had no invitation,” I pointed out unnecessarily.

  The man hmphed, slinking lower in his chair.

  “And you stole the clothes from Oberlin’s in order to fit in,” Jesse added.

  Mr. Kemp raised his eyebrows. “I also returned them, with a very generous payment for their use.”

  “That’s beside the point.” Jesse shook his head. “So you dressed the part and gained access to a private party for the sole purpose of confronting men you believed responsible for a mining accident.”

  “A mining disaster!” Kemp blurted.

  “All right, yes.” Jesse nodded his agreement, then shook his head. “Do you expect me to believe that’s all you were after?”

  Mr. Kemp’s eyes narrowed, transforming his face into a mask of fury I would fear to encounter on a dark street. “What do you mean?”

  I interjected with another question. “Mr. Kemp, where were you two nights ago?”

  His lips flattened into a tight line of defiance; he crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Stubborn.” Jesse regarded him with a mixture of irritation and respect. “I’ll repeat the question, and you had better answer me. Where were you the night before last, around sundown?”

  “Down at some pub on Thames Street, near Long Wharf. Having supper.”

  “Which pub?” Jesse pressed.

  “The Rusty Wheel.”

  “Anyone see you there?”

  Mr. Kemp held up his hands. “Of course people saw me there. I wasn’t the only one in the place.”

  “They’d better be able to vouch that you were there at dusk. Not before, and not later,” Jesse warned him. “In the meantime, you aren’t going anywhere until we’ve sorted this out.” Jesse stood and went to the door, opening it to admit the officer, still standing guard outside. When Jesse turned to us again, his face was grim. “Mr. Kemp, you’re under arrest for the burglary of Max Oberlin’s Gentlemen’s Outfitters.”

  “I borrowed, I didn’t steal.”

  “You broke in and took something without the proprietor’s permission. It’s for a judge to decide if you’re guilty of a crime or not. You’re also under suspicion for the theft of an automobile, reckless driving and endangering the life of George Gould, and for the murder of Judge Clayton Schuyler.”

  “I didn’t do any of that. You have the wrong man. And I certainly had no reason to kill Judge Schuyler.”

  If everything he had told us had been the truth, I saw no reason for him to have murdered Judge Schuyler, either. Yet, he had incriminated himself by stealing, no matter what he called it; by entering Wakehurst under false pretenses and threatening Neily and the others; and by attempting to evade me this afternoon. Not that the last one was a crime, but he had seemed awfully determined to avoid me.

  “What’s this? Who is this man? And who did he kill?”

  At the sound of this new voice, Jesse and I
turned to find Gifford Myers framed in the doorway. He nudged the officer aside and stepped into the room. “I asked a question, Whyte. Who is this man?” His gaze lit on me. “And what is she doing here?”

  “Miss Cross is here as a witness,” Jesse said; his effort to remain calm was visible, at least to me.

  “Witness to what?” the detective demanded.

  “The break-in at Oberlin’s,” Jesse replied. “Indirectly. Miss Cross saw Mr. Kemp here wearing the stolen clothing at Wakehurst the night of Van Alen’s fete.”

  “ ‘Indirectly,’ my foot.” Detective Myers came closer, forcing both Jesse and me to step out of his way as he approached Ernest Kemp. He glared at Mr. Kemp, but continued speaking to Jesse and me. “You’ve been withholding information, the two of you.”

  “That’s a serious charge, Myers, and you’d better think twice before you make it.” Derrick’s throaty warning startled me. I had all but forgotten his presence in the room.

  The detective whirled about to face him. “You again? I think your mother was right about her.” To clarify the identity of her, he thrust his finger in my direction.

  “Don’t you dare speak of Miss Cross that way,” Derrick warned in a low growl.

  The detective dismissed the admonishment with a shrug, and demanded of Jesse, “You allowed a newspaper owner in here? Have you taken leave of your senses? It’s bad enough she’s here.”

  “The break-in is my case, Myers.” Jesse’s chin came up. “I’ll conduct my investigation as I see fit.”

  “If Miss Cross”—he pronounced my name with sizzling disdain—“saw this man at Wakehurst, it becomes part of my case. I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark, especially when it was done on purpose. Thought you’d cheat me out of the arrest and take your job back, did you?”

  I wanted to tell him that was exactly what we’d had in mind, but I wisely kept silent.

  Detective Myers turned his attention back to Ernest Kemp. “You wore stolen clothes to attend an affair held by one of the cottagers. I assume you had no invitation?”