Derrick returned to Gull Manor as dusk fell, and not a moment too soon. That storm I had sensed earlier broke as he drove his carriage into my barn, and a pelting rain chased him through the kitchen door, sending Katie for the mop. He and I sat together in the parlor, while Nanny put the finishing touches on dinner and Katie set the table in our little-used dining room. I told him what I had learned from Imogene Schuyler.
“She has no reason to wrongly implicate Burt Covey,” I said, raising my voice slightly to be heard over the rain striking the windows, “not when she believes Clarice O’Shea shot that arrow. Burt Covey, on the other hand, deliberately implicated Ernest Kemp, never making mention of his own jaunt up to the veranda. That’s highly suspicious.”
Derrick stood up from the sofa and grabbed the fire poker to enliven the flames in the fireplace. The night had turned chilly. “Why would Burt Covey murder Judge Schuyler?”
I heard by his tone that he wasn’t challenging my theory; he was helping me reason it out. “We don’t know very much about him,” I pointed out. “He could be from Pennsylvania and once stood before the judge in the courtroom. Because of Clayton Schuyler, he might have spent time in prison. He certainly doesn’t strike me as the most upstanding citizen I’ve ever met.”
“He did go to great lengths to avoid you.” Derrick leaned the poker in its stand and returned to the sofa. As he sat, he wrapped his hand around mine. “And let’s face it, theater life is no picnic. The uncertainties, the roving lifestyle, the disappointing performances. Many resort to thieving just to keep food in their mouths.”
I thought it over, frowning. “That doesn’t seem enough of a motive for murder.”
“Being sent to prison?”
“His sentence would have to have been extreme to prompt him to take such measures.”
“Not necessarily. Not if he had people depending on him who suffered while he served his sentence.”
“That’s true. Unless he had some other reason for being on that veranda, one he felt compelled not to reveal when he and I spoke.”
Wind spiraled in the chimney, a whistling sound that made me shiver. Derrick reached an arm across my shoulders and pulled me close. “Miss Schuyler came back outside just before the joust began, and that’s when she saw Burt Covey on the veranda.”
“Yes.”
“And you saw the judge alive before she went into the house.”
“Right before. And before the altercation between Neily and Mr. Kemp. Burt Covey helped break up the argument, but after that, I didn’t see where he went. Nor did I see what became of Mr. Kemp. Or Jerome Harrington.”
“Or Imogene or her mother,” Derrick reminded me. “You only have Imogene’s word for their whereabouts.”
“That’s true.” A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes as I tried to make sense of it all. “The judge died after Imogene went into the house, and before I became aware of the barking dogs. Not a lot of time, a matter of ten minutes or so. To think the judge might still be alive if he hadn’t wished to smoke that cigar, or if he had been rude enough to smoke it around the other guests.”
“Egads,” Derrick said with a mock shudder. “I’m glad I’ve never taken up smoking.”
Chapter 20
Wednesday passed uneventfully, except that upon awakening, I experienced a marked stiffness in my right hip, which had taken the brunt of my fall at Castle Hill. I gritted my teeth and bore it as I prepared for my day, and found that by the time I climbed into my carriage for the drive into town, I was feeling considerably more limber.
That evening, Derrick and I decided to attend the theater. More specifically, we planned to enter the building, but the drama that would unfold would be far different than the musical marriage farce written by John Philip Sousa.
Tonight was to be the dress rehearsal for The Bride Elect, so we had little doubt Burt Covey would be there. When we reached the Opera House, a small line extended from the front door along the sidewalk, a drizzle keeping people close to the building front. These would be friends of the crew and actors, invited to give the players a feel for how the audience would react on opening night. We took our places at the end of the line, our heads bowed against the misting rain; we shuffled along with the rest as they filed through the entrance, and we tried to look as though we belonged.
“Name,” a doorman with a clipboard asked as we reached him.
Derrick didn’t answer, and when the man looked up from his list with a quizzical expression, Derrick held out two folded dollar notes. The man’s eyebrows went up, and Derrick said, “We’re leaving in the morning, and the missus here had her heart set on seeing the show. Surely, you can see your way to letting us in . . .” He held the money beneath the man’s nose.
The doorman looked us up and down. Apparently, we passed muster, for the money disappeared into a pocket in his uniform and he waved us in. We hurried through the lobby, but didn’t take our seats among the others. Instead, we slipped through a door and into a corridor that skirted the main part of the theater and brought us backstage.
Here we met with a flurry of activity, the actors and stagehands too busy to pay us much mind. When someone did challenge us, Derrick said in his most authoritative voice, “Newport Messenger, here for exclusive interviews with several of the cast.”
“Don’t get in the way.”
A woman stepped into our path and simpered. “I’m Lily Carmichael, and you can interview me as soon as we’re done with rehearsal.”
Derrick nodded. “Carmichael, Lily. Very good. We’ll find you.”
I didn’t know exactly what part Burt Covey would be playing, but he had told me he was part of the chorus, and what we heard now coming from the stage didn’t sound like a rousing vocal number. Those were yet to come. We hurried along to the dressing room, me leading the way, since I had been backstage only days earlier to see Clarice O’Shea. I looked for her, half hoping I wouldn’t see her and not have to offer an explanation.
As it turned out, we ran into Burt Covey quite by accident. He came hurrying in through the stage door, out of breath as if he were late and had run all the way here. He saw us and halted, his gazing shifting from me to Derrick and back to me. Actors and stagehands passed between us, but as if no one else existed, Burt Covey’s gaze never left us. He was poised on the balls of his feet, making me believe he might do an about-face and bolt.
I shook my head and spoke so as not to be overheard. “Don’t, Mr. Covey. We only wish to speak with you.”
“I have no wish to speak to you.” His gaze shifted back and forth again. “Either of you.”
“I’m afraid you have no choice.” In a swift motion, Derrick moved forward and grasped his arm. “When do you go on?”
He seemed to debate whether or not to reply, but said, “In a little while. After the first act. But I need to change and get on my makeup.”
“Not to worry. We should have ample time for what we’ve come to discuss.” Derrick gestured with his chin toward the stage door, which led out behind the theater. “Outside, unless you want witnesses to hear what we have to say.”
“Look, I don’t even know who you are,” the erstwhile jester protested.
“Derrick Andrews, Newport Messenger. I believe you’re already acquainted with my associate Miss Cross.”
His mouth slanted with disdain. “Yeah, I remember her.”
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Covey.” I smiled my most cordial smile and pointed to the door, where two more cast members had just entered. “Shall we?”
We walked out to a square lot between the theater and the businesses along the south side of Washington Square and those facing Thames Street. Tall trees lining the perimeter provided us with some shelter from the drizzle. Several carriages and a couple of wagons also provided a measure of privacy from anyone going in or out of the stage door. From the streets around us came the sounds of evening traffic: horses, carriages, even a motorcar or two.
Burt Covey shuffled his feet and thrust his h
ands into his pockets. “What do you want?”
“What we want, Mr. Covey, is for you to come clean about whether or not you truly saw Ernest Kemp on the veranda of Wakehurst the night of Judge Schuyler’s murder.” Although I matched the quietness of his voice, I spoke forcefully.
“Who?”
Derrick stepped closer to him, effectively pinning him against the side of the wagon at his back. “The man you claimed to have seen climb the steps of the veranda that night. His name is Ernest Kemp. Don’t play games. You know very well Miss Cross means the man she described to you when you spoke together at the Topside Tavern.”
“All right, yes, I saw him on the veranda.”
“Really, Mr. Covey?” Again I smiled. “Because someone else saw you on the veranda, right about the time Judge Schuyler was killed.”
“What? Who said that?” Fear skittered across Mr. Covey’s features. “They’re lying.”
“I doubt that very much,” I said. “This person has absolutely no reason to incriminate you. In fact, it was mentioned only in passing, without any insinuation that you might be guilty. And yet you lied.”
“I did not lie. You . . . you never asked if I was on the veranda.”
While I clenched my teeth in frustration, Derrick said in a threatening tone, “You lied by omission. Why? What were you hiding?”
Before he could answer, I found my voice. “You must have seen where the footmen stowed the archery equipment. Is that what sent you up there, an unforeseen opportunity to murder an adversary?”
“ ‘An adversary’? And, no, I had no idea the archery equipment was on the veranda. I told you, I was too busy helping to pack up the stage.”
“So, then, if we ask every member of the cast that was there,” I pressed, “they’ll all corroborate your story?”
Mr. Covey hesitated, panic flickering in his eyes. “All right, I might have walked up there. Just to look out over the garden to where the jousting was. I wanted to see it.”
“Are you from Pennsylvania, Mr. Covey?” Derrick stepped closer to the man, prompting him to press tighter to the side of the wagon. “Did you come before the judge in his courtroom?”
“Yes, Mr. Covey,” I joined in, “have you harbored a grudge that you decided to satisfy that night?”
“No! Look, everyone was distracted, so I ran up, not to the veranda, to the house. All right? I snuck into the dining room and . . . and I took a few things. Nothing much, trifles. Nothing anyone would miss. Have you ever known hunger, either of you? Ever slept outside for nights on end because you couldn’t afford a room? Look, I’m sorry, I’ll give it all back. But I didn’t murder anyone. I swear. I never even heard of Judge Schuyler until he turned up dead. I had no reason to kill anyone.” He left off, close to tears. An act? Possibly, considering we were dealing with an actor.
“What about Mr. Kemp?” I challenged him yet again. “Did you actually see him on the veranda, or were you trying to set someone else up to be blamed for your thievery—and whatever else you may have done?”
“There was nothing else, I swear. And, no, I never saw this Kemp fellow. When you came asking questions, I thought at first it was about what I took. When you made it clear it was about the judge’s murder, I thought if someone remembers me up there, they’ll think I killed him. But I didn’t. I remembered Kemp from when you were trying to break apart those two men. I told you I saw him on the veranda to put suspicion on someone else.”
“You were willing to let another man be wrongfully accused of murder in order to protect yourself from a theft charge?” Derrick grabbed a fistful of Burt Covey’s coat front. “Why, I should—”
“That’s enough, Mr. Andrews.” Jesse stepped out from behind the carriage parked to our right. Scotty Binsford followed him. Derrick released Burt Covey and dropped his hand to his side.
The actor took in this latest development with horror dawning on his features. “What is this?” His gaze connected with mine, his expression one of disbelief. “You set me up.”
“That’s right, we did, Mr. Covey,” I said “You see, no one likes a liar. Obviously, you are a thief. For that alone, you must answer to the law. As to the rest, time will tell, won’t it?”
“How many times do I have to say it?” He took on a pleading tone, but I detected the anger beneath it. “I didn’t murder the judge. I don’t know who did.”
“As Miss Cross said, ‘Time will tell.’” Jesse signaled to Scotty, who came forward with a pair of handcuffs.
“You can’t arrest me.” Mr. Covey attempted to slip away between Derrick and the wagon. Derrick reached out and gripped the man’s arm and helped Scotty wrestle both hands behind his back. The cuffs locked into place. “I have a show to perform in.”
“Not tonight, Mr. Covey.” Jesse again signaled to Scotty, who walked the actor out to the street. To Derrick and me, Jesse said, “He’ll be booked on theft, thanks to you two, and Myers won’t be able to accuse me of overstepping my bounds. That should give us enough time to check into Covey’s background and see if he has any connections to the judge, as well as the coal industry. If so, it could go very badly for him.”
“And if not,” I said, “at least we’ve brought a petty thief to justice.”
“Considering he stole from James Van Alen,” Derrick said, “it’s probably going to add up to more than mere petty theft, no matter the size of the items he stole. Jimmy only collects the best.”
* * *
Later that evening, Nanny, Katie, and I sat at the kitchen table, enjoying a pot of tea and the honey oatmeal bread Nanny had made earlier that day. The warm kitchen still held the savory aromas of the simple roast chicken and root vegetables we’d had for dinner before I left for the Opera House. I was still in my evening dress, while they were much more comfortable in their cotton nightdresses and warm flannel robes. Katie’s long russet braid draped over her shoulder and caught the light from the overhead fixture.
“I tell you both, all that talk of theft tonight has left me feeling terribly guilty about this fan Mr. Van Alen sent me.” I circled the rim of my teacup with my forefinger. The fan sat open beside it, the silvery silk and gold embroidery looking impossibly out of place on our scarred pine table. “I’ve decided to go by Wakehurst tomorrow and return it.”
“I think you’re being silly.” Nanny bit into her slice of oat bread, enjoyment plain on her face as she chewed. “What’s a fan to a man of his means? If he didn’t want you to have it, he wouldn’t have sent it.”
“Mrs. O’Neal is right, Miss Emma. Besides, you did do Mr. Van Alen a service, helping to capture the man who robbed his house.” Katie’s freckled features took on an indignant look. “You do realize one of the footmen might have been blamed and given the sack.”
Dear Katie, always championing others in service. She knew what it was like to be wrongfully accused and dismissed from employment. “I’m very glad that didn’t happen,” I told her. “But Mr. Van Alen sent that fan under false circumstances. I’d fibbed to him and I certainly don’t deserve a reward for that.”
“But you fibbed for a good reason, Miss Emma.”
Where I half expected Nanny to take up Katie’s argument, she smiled benevolently across the table at me. “It’s like Mr. Vanderbilt leaving you all that money, isn’t it? It simply doesn’t sit right with you, and that’s that. Return the fan, then, and have done with it.”
“I intend to.”
“Miss Emma, do you really think this Burt Covey character murdered Judge Schuyler and that other man? And ran that nice Mr. Gould off the road?”
I wondered about Katie’s description of Mr. Gould. He wasn’t particularly known for fairness toward his workers, or those with whom he did business. It was George Gould’s terms, or no terms. But her question had no easy answer.
“No matter how one looks at it,” I said, “there are contradictory circumstances with both current suspects. Ernest Kemp says he wants restitution for the families of the miners who died in that cave-i
n. He might certainly have wished revenge against George Gould and Felix Mathison, who were both investors in the mine. He also entered the fete at Wakehurst under false and incriminating circumstances. Yet, if Judge Schuyler ruled in favor of miners’ rights, why would Ernest Kemp have killed him?”
“And this Burt Covey?” Nanny prompted me.
“He might have held a grudge against Clayton Schuyler. He’s proven by his actions that he is a criminal type. If he’d been sentenced to prison by the judge, Burt Covey might have wanted revenge. But unless we can find a connection between him and the miners, it makes no sense for him to have gone after the other two men.”
Katie, seeing I had emptied my plate, passed the platter of bread to me. “Just because you don’t know of any connection now, it doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“No, that’s true.” I took the platter from her. Despite my already having had two slices, I took another and absently broke off a piece of it. Before I popped it in my mouth, I said, “One thing has been bothering me. And that’s why Judge Schuyler ruled in favor of the miners. After what his daughter and others had to say about him, I’m having trouble reconciling the fair-minded judge with the despotic husband and father.”
“Everyone has their redeeming qualities,” Nanny suggested with an offhand shrug. She lifted the pot to refill her tea and offered more to Katie and me. Katie accepted. I waved her off, still preoccupied with my quandary.
“By all accounts, Clayton Schuyler was a tyrant to his wife and daughter, unable to maintain his temper or a sense of fairness. How on earth can he have played the champion for complete strangers whose interests conflicted with those of his peers?”
“Familiarity breeds contempt?” Katie offered.
Again, I let the comment pass as I continued reflecting. “I also don’t understand why he insisted his daughter marry Jerome Harrington, a man who had everything to gain from the match, but little to offer. His daughter has no idea why.”
“It would seem only the judge and Jerome Harrington can answer that question,” Nanny said, and Katie nodded her agreement.
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