Murder at Wakehurst

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Another question Mr. Harrington can answer is where he’s been hiding.”

  “Has he been hiding?” Nanny asked. “Or is he merely staying with different friends to avoid having to return to his parents’ home? Not to mention staying out of the public eye. One can hardly blame him for that.”

  “Yes, that’s very true,” I said with a sigh. “I suppose if the police wished to find him, they would. Unless he’s left the island.”

  “Do you suspect him, Miss Emma?”

  “I suppose there is no reason to. Of anyone, he had the most to gain from Judge Schuyler being alive, whereas now he’s no better off than he was before. Whoever killed Judge Schuyler had to have stood to gain something significant.”

  I was about to bid Katie and Nanny good night, when a thought occurred to me, one that sent the blood draining from my face. “I just remembered something. The Harringtons sold off some mining stock recently. I wonder if Jerome was also threatened that night.”

  Nanny stood to bring our empty plates to the sink. “By Ernest Kemp?”

  “Yes, by him, but if Mr. Kemp isn’t the killer, could Jerome and his parents also be targets because of their ties to the coal industry?”

  “But you just said they sold off their stock, Miss Emma.” Katie came to her feet, too, and reached for my cup and saucer.

  I handed it to her and said, “They did, but if they were invested in that mine at the time of the accident and had helped put pressure on the mine owners, they could still be held to blame. Depending on who our killer is, they could be in danger.”

  Chapter 21

  Early the next morning, Mr. Stevenson himself, along with an assistant, delivered my newly repaired carriage to Gull Manor. With all the work he had done, it looked and rode like a new vehicle, and the coat of polish he had applied to the panels made them gleam in the sunlight. He and his assistant switched the horses and left in the small buggy I had borrowed from him.

  I had planned to visit the police station—and Jesse—first thing to convey my fears concerning Jerome Harrington and his family. But when I retrieved my handbag from the hall table, the extra weight inside reminded me once again about Mr. Van Alen’s fan.

  A stop first at Wakehurst, then. Despite the relative earliness of the hour, I hoped to find Mr. Van Alen not at home. Or perhaps still abed. That way, I could entrust the fan to one of his servants and be on my way. To that end, I wrote a note expressing my thanks, but declining the gift. The coward’s way out? Indeed.

  Would he think I believed his gift to be an attempt at flirtation? I certainly hoped he would give me more credit than that, but as I drove up the long, curving drive, I wished I had had the item sent over. Leftover fog from last night’s storm silvered Wakehurst’s façade and softened its edges, and left the trees and foliage stooped with the weight of the clinging moisture. My hopes for a speedy departure continued as I raised the knocker on the front door, and even as the butler admitted me. I tried handing him the fan and my note, but he would have none of it.

  “If you’ll be seated, miss, I’ll announce you.”

  “Really, there is no need—” I said to his back.

  He walked away as if I hadn’t spoken. With little choice but to wait, I meandered to the seating arrangement beside the fireplace in the Stair Hall. I neither saw nor heard any signs of the mastiffs, and I wondered if their encounter with the judge’s body had left its mark on them. Did animals experience trauma the way humans did? Most people wouldn’t think so, but I knew Patch had learned valuable lessons from his experiences that he passed on to me in the form of the warnings I’d learned to trust.

  Moments later, I heard a brisk stride coming in my direction down the Long Gallery. I stood and smoothed the front of my dress.

  “Good morning, Miss Cross. What brings you to Wakehurst at this hour?”

  I gaped as a figure came into view, not that of James Van Alen, but the much more youthful Jerome Harrington.

  “Mr. Harrington,” I mumbled in surprise. A good three or four seconds of silence followed as I regained my bearings. “I hadn’t expected to see you here.”

  “Nor I, you, Miss Cross.” He offered me an amused smile that reminded me of my manners.

  “I’m sorry. No, of course you didn’t. I came to return something to Mr. Van Alen. Is he here? His butler seemed to think he was.”

  “He left quite early this morning, just as the sun was rising. Something about bird-watching out on Sachuest Point with the Wetmores and the Kings, I believe.”

  “In this fog?”

  “You know how bird-watchers are. Took the dogs with him. Asked me last night if I wished to join him. I told him there was nothing I’d rather not do.” He laughed, for a moment making him appear like a mischievous little boy. Then he apparently remembered his manners. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  I was about to hand him the fan and my note and take my leave. But after yesterday’s revelations, I realized I had stumbled upon an opportunity. “I don’t wish to interrupt your breakfast, but have you a few minutes to speak with me?”

  “I’d just finished when Henslow told me you were here. Have you eaten?”

  “I have, thank you.”

  “Then come. I always enjoy a morning stroll after breakfast. Let’s go out to the garden and you can tell me what’s on your mind.” He gestured down the length of the Long Gallery, to where the dining room and library let out onto the veranda. “Funny, but we’ve both returned to the scene of the crime,” he joked, though his choice of words sent a chill through me. He must have noticed the slight stiffening of my posture; for in the next instant, he said, “Forgive me, Miss Cross, a poor attempt to be blithe. You must be wondering what I’m doing here.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking.”

  In fact, I had already guessed. He had been moving from place to place all week, staying with different friends, and, I assumed, did not wish to wear out his welcome at any one home. Smart, especially considering his homelessness could extend well into the future. I hadn’t realized he and James Van Alen were so closely acquainted. It seemed an odd pairing, considering the difference in their ages. But then I remembered Mr. Van Alen’s sympathetic kindness to Neily. No wonder he had offered Jerome Harrington a place to stay.

  “I’ll tell you, anyway. My parents have cast me out.” He delivered this news almost joyfully. The boyish nonchalance returned. “I am not to darken their doorstep until I’ve mended my ways.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure they’ll relent sooner rather than later.” At least I hoped they would, and that this young man wouldn’t find himself in the same position as my cousin.

  “No matter.” He offered the crook of his arm as we reached the steps down to the garden.

  Wisps of fog drifted lazily over the footpaths and flowerbeds, enveloping the statues and shrubbery. Purple asters, orange Helenium, pink and yellow chrysanthemums, and other autumn flowers blurred one into another like an Impressionist painting. Even in the muting haze, the garden offered a glorious riot of color I hadn’t fully appreciated the night of the fete. Now I reveled in the beauty of it, breaking into a smile of admiration. We stepped onto the main path at the garden’s center, avoiding walking on the damp grass.

  “I’m glad to have run into you, Mr. Harrington,” I began. I didn’t wish to blurt a warning all at once. And I wished to satisfy my curiosity first. I had, after all, been hoping to speak with this young man for several days now. “There are some questions about the judge that have been puzzling me. Perhaps you can answer them.”

  “Ah, yes. The reporter has questions.” He held out his free hand as an invitation for me to continue.

  “I understand Judge Schuyler ruled in a case involving miners who were striking for fair wages and working hours.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I know about that case.”

  “He ruled in the miners’ favor. That strikes me as unusual, considering the judge’s background and social position.”<
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  “It does, doesn’t it?” He pushed some strands of sun-streaked hair back from his brow. “Perhaps he had an attack of conscience. For once.”

  “Then you found him difficult, too?”

  “ ‘Too’?” He stole a sideways glance at me, his lips curling in a small smile. “To whom else have you been talking?”

  I saw no reason not to tell him. “A few of the Schuylers’ servants, and Miss Schuyler as well.”

  “Imogene?” He sounded startled. His face swiveled toward mine. “She agreed to speak with you?”

  “Actually, she came to see me. She has a theory as to who murdered her father.”

  We reached the statue at the apex of the garden, and as if by unspoken agreement, we turned smoothly to the right, to where the Shakespearean stage had stood the night of the fete.

  “Whom does she suspect?”

  I watched him carefully as I replied, “Clarice O’Shea.”

  He stumbled to a halt. “What? Has Imogene lost her mind?”

  “She believes you and Miss O’Shea have been having an affair, and that the actress might have murdered her father to prevent your marriage.”

  “That’s madness. Clarice and I . . .” He trailed off, his jaw working. “She and I had an association at one time, but that was almost two years ago. Clarice has moved on, as have I. Or . . . I believed I had.” Sadness drenched those last words in such profusion, I couldn’t help thinking of Imogene’s desperate confession regarding her feelings for him. Could it be...

  “Mr. Harrington, Imogene believes she has good reason to suspect Miss O’Shea. If you can convince her otherwise, you should do so without further delay.”

  We stopped almost directly in front of where the stage had been, and I turned momentarily to gaze back up at the house. How far away and ghostly it seemed from the emptiness of the garden. The night of the fete, when dozens had packed these pathways and decorations festooned the greenery, the property had appeared and felt much smaller. All at once, I realized what a fool I had been to ever entertain as truth Burt Covey’s claim of seeing Mr. Kemp on the veranda. At night, from this distance, even with the electric lights on, he could not have identified a man dressed essentially the same as every other man in attendance.

  Mr. Harrington stared at the ground and shook his head. “It’s too late.”

  I knew that not to be the case, but I couldn’t betray Miss Schuyler’s confidence. I could only try to persuade Mr. Harrington to find his courage. “Perhaps not. Perhaps all Miss Schuyler wanted was a reassurance that she needn’t fear the competition of another woman. Had you reassured her, Mr. Harrington?”

  He kicked at the sweet alyssum blossoms bordering a nearby bed. “No, hang it. She and I got off on the wrong foot immediately. From the first, it was a battle of wills, and there seemed nothing I could do to change it. And I refused to be perceived as a mooning puppy trotting after her.”

  Indeed. Judging by what I had overheard at the fete, he had proven as stubborn and proud as his fiancée.

  We started walking again, and he surprised me by offering an explanation. “She believed I was marrying her only for her money.”

  “Were you?” I asked him gently. “You wouldn’t be the first man to enter into marriage negotiations for that reason.”

  “I admit to needing the money, Miss Cross, but not for myself. That money would have been for Imogene herself, to continue living in the style she grew up with, until such time as I could support her properly.” He again turned his face toward mine, and the tears glistening in his eyes astonished me. “I loved her, Miss Cross. I still do, I believe.”

  “Good heavens, then you must speak to her at once. Please, Mr. Harrington, set aside all other considerations.” I meant, of course, his pride and his desire to protect his heart, but I could never utter those words outright to someone I barely knew. “Simply speak to her. You might find that . . . things have changed.”

  He searched my face, even as Imogene had done. I allowed him to read into my words what he would, but I had said my piece; decency would allow no more. We continued walking, nearing the tall hedge that separated the formal garden from the outer perimeter of the property, that wide swath of lawn where the jousting had occurred. Mr. Harrington’s argument with Miss Schuyler had also occurred there, a joust of words, and my face heated at the memory of my eavesdropping as we approached the wall of fading greenery. Droplets of condensation, formed by the mist, clung to the tips of each leaf, quivering when the wind stirred.

  “Mr. Harrington, there is something else I must say. Oh, nothing more to do with Miss Schuyler,” I quickly assured him when his gaze darted warily to my own. “No, this has to do with the mining incident, and a very real threat that might have been responsible for Judge Schuyler’s murder. There was another death—did you hear of it?”

  “Felix Mathison?” When I nodded, he nipped at his bottom lip and shook his head sadly. “Poor Mathison. I only heard about it last night when I arrived at Wakehurst. I’ve been avoiding the newspapers, as you can imagine.”

  “I can. But you see, Felix Mathison was heavily invested in coal, as is George Gould. They had shares in the mine in question. Someone tried to run Mr. Gould off the road a couple of nights ago.”

  “You don’t say? Was he hurt?”

  “No, he was lucky. But my concern now is for you and your father. I understand he has coal investments as well, as do so many of the Four Hundred.” I didn’t wish to tip my hand by admitting I knew they had sold their stock. “Please have a care.”

  “My father.” He expelled the word from his lips as if he had tasted something sour. We turned at the hedge, walking parallel to its length. Mr. Harrington’s arm tensed beneath my hand. “Yes, he was invested, and like Gould and Mathison, he had shares in that particular mine.”

  “Oh? Did he sell?” I knew perfectly well he had. A detail suddenly became clear to me. “Mr. Harrington, did your father relinquish his shares at your insistence? Is that the reason for your estrangement, at least in part?”

  A flush suffused his face. “How astute you are, Miss Cross. Yes, when I discovered what had happened to those miners, I confronted my father. I told him to sell out or suffer the consequences.” A cutting edge crept into his voice. “The notion that anyone should profit over the deaths of innocent workers is despicable.”

  “By ‘consequences,’ I assume you mean you threatened to go to the press.”

  “Among other things. You know as well as I that no matter how wealthy or powerful, the Four Hundred avoid scandal at all costs. What my father and the others did was tantamount to manslaughter, at the least.”

  “I’m glad you hold lives to be more important than money, Mr. Harrington.” It must have been ethics such as these on which both Clarice O’Shea and Imogene Schuyler had based their opinions of this young man, at least initially in Imogene’s case. Once more, he reminded me of Neily, setting principle ahead of fortune.

  “Precious few of the Four Hundred would agree,” he commented with a wry smirk.

  We passed the first two arches cut into the hedge. “Judge Schuyler put the miners’ lives first,” I reminded him.

  Another smirk. He reached out his free hand, swiping at the hedge and sending a barrage of droplets showering to the ground.

  “Why do you think he agreed to let you marry Imogene, knowing you were without fortune?” As with siding with the miners, this seemed out of character for a man like Clayton Schuyler.

  He struck the hedge again; the water hit the ground like a volley of pellets. “I gave him little choice.”

  “I don’t understand.” I almost asked what sort of leverage Mr. Harrington could have had to force the judge’s hand. But I held my tongue, seeing that he was about to continue. That wasn’t the only reason I didn’t speak. Something in his countenance had changed. I saw no sign of the boy now, only a disillusioned, angry man.

  “The good judge certainly had the last word where Imogene was concerned, didn’t he?
” He spoke with bitterness, as if I weren’t there, as if voicing his thoughts aloud in the privacy of his own company. “Still, I thought as long as the marriage went through, and I got Imogene out from under her father’s thumb, I would have the rest of my life to prove to her my feelings were genuine.”

  He still hadn’t explained. A destitute gentleman in love with the daughter of a wealthy and powerful man—sincere or not, Mr. Harrington would normally have had no chance of being accepted. Once again, what leverage had been at his disposal?

  A feeling of dread swept over me. I stopped walking and slipped my hand from his arm.

  “The miners, the ruling . . .” My hand flew to my lips as I gasped. Had Judge Schuyler not acted in the miners’ best interests? Had he somehow played a double hand—was that Jerome Harrington’s leverage? The question that had been meandering through my mind suddenly hit its answer squarely. “The ruling,” I whispered in growing horror. “It was a ruse to hurry the miners back to work, to distract them from the danger of repairs that had never been done.”

  He met my gaze, the pupils of his eyes contracting to black pinpoints. “I had every faith you’d get it eventually, Miss Cross. Clayton Schuyler knew what he was doing when he made that ruling. As did his friends, the lot of them. Including my father. The price of those stocks had been plummeting due to the union demands, and they couldn’t allow that, could they? Especially Mathison. Seems he’d made an ill-advisedly large investment in that particular mine, and his fortune could not endure having it fail. It was he who engineered the whole disgusting debacle.”

  “Good heavens.” I forced myself not to drag my gaze away from the icy conviction in his countenance, not to look desperately up at the house in hopes a footman—anyone—had come outside. How very far away the house loomed now, a distant fortress that offered me no protection.

  Mr. Harrington grasped my wrist. His tone both insisted and pleaded. “Surely, you see they deserve to be punished for their crime, don’t you, Miss Cross? The families of those dead miners will never receive compensation—at least, not enough to make a difference. Some of them will starve on the streets. Innocent women and children. They deserve some measure of justice, don’t they?”