Murder at Wakehurst

by Alyssa Maxwell

  As we descended the sloping path, I stepped carefully over the uneven terrain, at the same time ducking beneath low-hanging branches. I had worn my second-best boots today, the tan leather ones with French heels and contrasting toecaps in a rich, nutty brown. Stylish, but impractical for a stroll along rutted pathways among trees and rocks. “Getting back to Mrs. Schuyler, then you do believe she planned to leave the judge?”

  “I don’t know for certain, but Imogene believed her mother planned to formally separate from her husband after the wedding. You see, she planned a trip to Europe next month, and Imogene suspected it was her way of putting symbolic, as well as actual, distance between them. The judge knew nothing about it. Mrs. Schuyler swore Imogene to secrecy.”

  Then I had been correct about that. But did Mrs. Schuyler’s planned trip in any way incriminate her in the death of her husband? She considered divorce out of the question, a social humiliation, but that could account for her planned departure to Europe, where she could remain technically married, but beyond her husband’s reach.

  What about Mr. Gould’s “accident”? It was a far stretch to believe Mrs. Schuyler had driven the motorcar that ran him off the road. Or were the murder and the “accident” two separate incidents with no connection? Despite my aversion to coincidences, I had to admit it was possible.

  “Miss Cross, all this is rather a moot point, now that the judge is no longer with us. I don’t see how any of it could pertain to his murder. Certainly, you aren’t implying that either Imogene or her mother had anything to do with it.” Miss Denholm stopped and studied me intently. Her earlier anger reemerged as she apparently read the truth in my expression. I tried to deny that truth, or, at least, tried to temper its importance.

  “I am only exploring all possibilities, Miss Denholm.” Though I hadn’t ruled out either woman, I spoke the truth. “Neither Mrs. nor Miss Schuyler have anything to fear if they are innocent.”

  By the outrage in her eyes, I saw that I had failed to mollify her. “ ‘If’? How dare you invite my confidence, only to use it against my friend?”

  “I’m doing no such thing. I’m only trying to paint a clear picture—”

  “You reporters are all the same. Shifty, selfish, and ruthless. You don’t care whom you injure, so long as you have your story.”

  Before I could protest to the contrary, she whirled away and stomped down the path toward the lighthouse. I knew better than to follow. I was sorry to have upset her to such an extent, and regretful to have made an enemy of someone who had so quickly gained my admiration.

  At least I had confirmed the conclusion I’d reached at the Schuylers’ residence concerning Mrs. Schuyler’s plans. I only wished I had been able to learn why Judge Schuyler had wanted to marry his daughter to an impoverished gentleman, as well as how that gentleman had become that way.

  I started the climb back toward the house, wondering how I might be able to question Jerome Harrington. He had been keeping himself well hidden since the incident at Wakehurst, so the chances of simply running into him were slim. A direct approach might become necessary. Jesse couldn’t do it, not unless he could concoct some excuse to link Mr. Harrington to the break-ins at Oberlin’s, even if only as a witness. Detective Myers wasn’t likely to take the initiative, as he believed he had already found his man—or his man had been found for him—in the person of Ernest Kemp.

  A sudden scream brought me up short. It was a woman’s voice. She screamed again, and I realized the sound came from the lighthouse. I wheeled around and took the downward slope at a run, risking going over headfirst. Where the trees gave way to stunted ground cover, I broke through the foliage and onto the boulders that tumbled down to the water’s edge.

  I skidded onto the first boulder, my footing made unsure by tiny pebbles and loose dirt cast there by the tides and weather. My feet flew out from under me and I came down hard on my rump. As the pain reverberated up my spine and down my legs, my eyes teared, stinging yet more from the salty spray hitting the rocks. Even so, I looked all about me, seeing no one. The lighthouse stood nestled between two outcroppings on its stone block foundation. The waves lapped against the rocks in their timeworn pattern, while gulls swooped and dived in their quest for lunch. No lightkeeper’s cottage stood here, as it had been set a few hundred feet away, near Castle Hill Cove. And the keeper, Frank Parmele, would have no reason to be here during the day, except to perform maintenance. Apparently, that was not the case today.

  Had I mistaken the direction of the scream?

  “Miss Denholm!” I cried out. Even if I had been wrong about the scream, she should be here. Good heavens, had she fallen into the water? Ignoring the sharp frissons of pain ebbing through me, I hobbled to my feet and craned my neck to peer out over the waves. I saw no sign of a disturbance, only the endless waves caressing the shoreline. I tried again. “Miss Denholm?”

  “Miss Cross! Over here! Please come! Oh!”

  My head snapped in the direction of her shouts. Apparently, she had not come down to the lighthouse, but had kept to the path and ventured farther afield. With short, sharp bursts of discomfort as my constant companions, I clambered back up the boulders, over the channels dug into the hill by cascading rains, past the stunted foliage, and onto the path. Saplings and low, wispy branches slapped at my person as I forced my way through, climbing as the path wound upward and then negotiating a sudden drop where the path again dipped. When I emerged into a rocky clearing known as Ragged Point, I saw her, her back to me, standing frozen and staring down at something on the ground beyond her.

  “Miss Denholm?”

  She turned, her features gripped with horror. “Miss Cross,” she whispered, and ran to me. As if her anger toward me had never existed, she threw herself into my arms. Her body heaved in silent sobs against my own. Then she pulled away, half turned, and raised her arm to point. “There.”

  It was then I became aware of an incessant buzzing. I dreaded to look where she pointed, yet I had no choice. First steadying her with two hands on her shoulders, I eased away and ventured several steps, stopped, ventured several more, into the shade of a small stand of pine trees. The flies hovered thick and black, nauseating in their sheer numbers and prompting me to pick up the nearest stick and wave it in the air in front of me as I advanced toward the object of their frenzied interest.

  Lying on a carpet of ferns was a man, facedown, the hair on the back of his head crusted over with a rusty substance. Not far from him lay a rock bearing the same discoloration. A good deal of it. I spied a battered straw boater, its striped grosgrain band stained with dirt. Farther beyond, the splintered parts of a camera lay scattered among the weeds and shrubbery.

  I looked back once at Miss Denholm, her face as white as the lace gloves she wore. Her eyes were large and glazed, but also trusting, as if she expected me to . . . fix what had happened, undo it, make it go away. I turned back to the body half hidden by the graceful fronds stirring slightly on their stems.

  Barely feeling the pain of my fall now, I knelt beside the body, removed one of my own gloves, swatted the flies away, and forced myself to reach out and place two fingers at the side of the throat. Just to be certain, not that I had any doubts. Up close, I saw how this man’s skull had been bashed in. Death could not have been long in coming.

  Where I expected stiffness, the body moved at my touch, letting me know that this poor fellow had lain here for at least two days. Without realizing it, I had approached the body holding my breath, and now, when necessity forced me to inhale, the stench of death nearly overcame me. With a retch, I started to rise and back away, only to stop myself, grip the shoulder closest to me, and roll the corpse over.

  This took a good deal more effort than when I had turned Judge Schuyler at Wakehurst. He had been lying on his side, but this man lay on his stomach. I heaved, and the body flopped over with the sickening motion of a fish out of water, ending with the hideous thud of a deadweight hitting the ground.

  “Dear heav
ens,” Miss Denholm said in a tight, small voice. “I think I’ll be ill.”

  “Then look away,” I told her. But I myself had to look. The features were bloated from death, and from lying facedown against the damp earth. Who was he? The clothing—tailored daywear—told me he was a gentleman. My gaze again went to the camera, a handheld box model that had been smashed, perhaps against the tree trunk beside which its pieces lay. “He’d come down to the lighthouse to take pictures,” I murmured. “A pleasant morning or afternoon excursion. Or perhaps he came to capture the sunset.” Castle Hill was a popular place for photography.

  “What’s that, Miss Cross?” Miss Denholm’s voice shook.

  I didn’t repeat my comment. What did it matter now?

  “Can you tell who it is?”

  Every instinct urged me to turn away, to push to my feet and rush off to find help. I looked, nonetheless, and soon those distorted features began to take shape. A name, heard only yesterday at the police station, echoed in my brain. Felix Mathison, whom Ernest Kemp had admitted to threatening that night at Wakehurst, a man he held partly accountable for the deaths of twenty-five miners.

  Given when this man must have died, Ernest Kemp had not yet been in jail.

  Chapter 18

  Detective Gifford Myers agreed with my assessment that, taking into consideration the timing, Ernest Kemp could have committed this latest murder. Not that he asked for my opinion, nor had I given it. He reached his conclusion on his own. Whereas I allowed for the possibility that such circumstantial evidence could be misleading, Detective Myers believed he had his case all sewn up.

  I had experienced a moment of fear when, after the detective first arrived at Castle Hill, he had turned his razor-edged gaze on me and murmured, “Well, Miss Cross, it seems you have a knack for finding dead bodies. It makes one wonder if there is a reason for that.”

  He had then berated me upon learning I had touched the body. I had disturbed evidence, he had said; though, really, I couldn’t see what difference I had made. That Felix Mathison had been killed by a blow to the head with a rock was obvious. It was also obvious by the way he lay, head wound facing up, that he had not fallen on that rock accidentally. Other than rolling him over, I had disturbed nothing. I had touched neither the rock nor the camera—nor anything else on Mr. Mathison’s person, but the side of his neck and edge of his shoulder.

  All this fell on deaf ears. The man sorely tested my patience, and I felt half inclined to give vent to my nausea, which had lodged like a rolling tide in my stomach since I had encountered the body, all over the front of the good detective’s coat.

  Instead, I irritated him further by asking a question. Mr. Agassiz hadn’t known that Felix Mathison had come to take photographs. Because the scientist no longer owned the land immediately around the lighthouse, people could enter the area from several different footpaths without needing his permission or knowledge. But surely, someone had noticed Mr. Mathison’s absence over the past day or so.

  “Has he been reported missing by friends or family members?” I asked.

  Detective Myers gritted his teeth and then replied, “His wife is off island, has been for several days. We’re attempting to contact her. Now, if that will be all, my dear Miss Cross, I have work to do.”

  Once he retired behind the closed doors of the large parlor to conduct his business, I hurried to where Grace and some of the other guests had gathered in the central hall, the large, airy space open to the Stair Hall. I heard others in the adjoining conservatory. Grace came to her feet and met me partway. Before she could utter a word, I said, “Grace, go home, please.”

  She took my hands and squeezed them, as if loath to let go. “Can you come with me?”

  “I wish to stay awhile longer and see if I can learn anything.” I spoke quietly, well aware of the curious stares.

  “After what that odious man said to you, do you really think he’s going to tell you anything he learns?”

  “No. But the other officers might.” I had been relieved to see Scotty Binsford enter the house on Detective Myers’s heels. Scotty had acknowledged me with the slightest of nods and afterward spared me not so much as a glance, which was smart of him. This way, Detective Myers would have no reason to admonish him not to speak to me.

  I had another reason for staying. I needed to speak with Dr. Agassiz. Earlier, I’d remembered his connection to the coal-mining business, but I hadn’t wished to cast such a shadow on his zoology event. But after finding Felix Mathison, another possibility had occurred to me. The camera. Dr. Agassiz was also a photography buff, as his displays proved. Could the culprit have followed Felix Mathison, believing him to be the scientist?

  After a bit more persuasion, Grace took her leave. The results of the spill I’d taken had receded to a dull ache in my right hip, but even so, I couldn’t sit. Instead, I paced the room, wearing a path back and forth from the vestibule to the conservatory. Before I found an opportunity to approach Dr. Agassiz, a young woman, halfway between Eliza’s age and my own, sidled up to me, where I had paused at the double windows beside the fireplace, and simpered as if she were flirting with a potential beau.

  “It’s too horrible, Miss Cross, is it not?”

  I regarded her flaxen curls and obviously rouged lips. She knew my name and must surely know of my profession. What did she want? “It most certainly is,” I replied, at a loss for anything further to say. What more could one add?

  “Eliza Denholm was with you, wasn’t she?”

  “She was.”

  “I heard you arguing with her earlier.” She smiled in a manner that made her unattractive, despite her careful efforts to make herself beautiful. Her name came to me—Penelope Benscoter. Her great-grandfather had made his fortune in shipbuilding. Her family had taken her abroad last spring for her first European Season, and she had returned home still single. For a young woman of her social standing, it had to have stung not to be able to boast of an engagement to an earl or duke or prince.

  “Were you following us?” I asked, taken aback, not that she had eavesdropped, but that she had admitted as much to me.

  “A little. Are you sweet on her?”

  I visibly flinched and my face heated. “What?”

  “You heard me. If you are, you’ll have a difficult time of it. Miss Denholm’s affections are already engaged.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, nor is it any of my business.” Usually, I avoided being this blunt with members of the Four Hundred, but just then, I didn’t care what she thought of me.

  “Ever heard of a Boston marriage, Miss Cross?”

  My mouth gaped briefly before I pinched my lips shut. Yes, I had heard of such things. I had once heard the term whispered in relation to my cousin Gertrude and her dearest friend, Esther Hunt—daughter of Richard Morris Hunt, who had designed so many of Newport’s cottages. Even my aunt Alice had fallen prey to the gossip, fearing the girls’ close friendship might lead to a ruination of her daughter’s reputation, and she had doubled her efforts to see Gertrude married as soon as possible. Gertrude herself had silenced the rumors with her marriage to Harry Whitney, a love match if ever there had been one. They were wildly happy together and everyone knew it; Gertrude had blossomed into a vibrant and artistic young woman in the few short years of her marriage.

  But Imogene? And yet . . . perhaps it explained her vehemence in rejecting Jerome Harrington, not to mention Miss Denholm’s keen loyalty and protectiveness toward her friend. But could I trust the word of Penelope Benscoter?

  “It isn’t nice to spread gossip,” I said. It was Miss Benscoter’s turn to stand openmouthed as I walked away.

  Yet, despite my admonishment, I couldn’t completely discount her insinuations. I thought of Eliza Denholm’s anger when she thought I suspected Imogene and her mother of ill doing. Eliza had been at Wakehurst that night, too. Modest and quiet, she hadn’t attracted the attention of others. Which meant she could have gone up to the veranda at any time
. Had Miss Denholm wished to be rid of the judge to prevent her friend from marrying?

  “Emma, there you are.”

  At the familiar baritone, I hurried toward the vestibule. Derrick held his arms out to me, but as it wouldn’t do to put on such a display with so many others still present, I slowed to a sedate walk and allowed him to take my hand in both of his and raise it to his lips.

  “Jesse called the Messenger and told us what happened.” He didn’t ask me if I was all right. Anyone could plainly see I was not. How could I be? “Are you allowed to leave?”

  “I suppose I am. I’ve already given my statement. Scotty is here, though, and I’m hoping he might be able to tell me something.”

  “You can catch up with him later, when Detective Myers won’t overhear.”

  Derrick had a point, but I said, “That’s not my only reason for lingering.”

  Taking his arm, I guided us across the house away from the others. We passed the staircase and found the empty study. Here I explained my conversation with Miss Denholm, Miss Benscoter’s assertions, and the scenario that had taken shape in my mind.

  He scowled. “I know our dear Miss Benscoter. She’s a harpy in silk petticoats. I wouldn’t put stock in anything that comes out of her mouth.”

  Chapter 19

  Derrick felt less inclined to dismiss out of hand my concerns about Dr. Agassiz, his connection to the mining industry, and the coincidence of him and Mr. Mathison both dabbling in photography.

  “Do you think it’s possible the killer came here looking for Dr. Agassiz, saw Mr. Mathison strolling down the path with his camera, and mistook him for the former?” I stood facing Derrick, gazing into the steadiness of his dark eyes as he considered.