Murder at Wakehurst

by Alyssa Maxwell

  At the bottom of the smaller, secondary staircase the family used on an everyday basis, I pointed upward, and Derrick and I started the climb. Perhaps both of my cousins were still abed. After all, by the standards of the Four Hundred, it was early, still an uncivilized hour. If so, they would be tucked safely in their bedrooms on the third floor. Unless Alfred had decided to take the master bedroom, which I highly doubted this soon after his father’s death.

  At the top of the stairs, I spotted them directly across the open expanse of the upper portion of the Great Hall. My heart stopped, then catapulted into my throat. They were outside on the second-story loggia. Alfred had his back to one of the pillars that support the arches. I could see his face—though from this distance, not his expression. Jerome Harrington’s back was to me. His hand was raised. He held an object in it.

  “What is it?” Derrick murmured. He craned his neck and strained to see. “A pistol? It’s too dim out there to see.”

  “I don’t think so. Look at how he’s holding it, the angle of his arm, the bend in his elbow.” I studied Mr. Harrington’s position another few seconds. “It looks like he’s threatening to strike Alfred with whatever it is.”

  Derrick nodded. He glanced up and down the gallery and along the two sides that ran perpendicular to us, overlooking the Great Hall and ending at bedrooms. Again I didn’t hear any voices. The Breakers, this great house that had known the echoes of happy occasions for far too short a time, felt like a forgotten tomb.

  Derrick caught my gaze. “What now?”

  What, indeed! “Do you think Jesse and his men have spotted them?”

  “They might hear their voices, but unless they’re backed up halfway across the lawn, perhaps not. Alfred is behind the pillar, and Jerome is standing in the shadow of the roof. We’d better go back outside and let them know.

  I shook my head.

  “Emma, we have to go.” He took my hand and gave a tug.

  “There might not be time. Jerome could decide to attack Alfred at any moment.”

  Derrick blew out a breath. “You’re right.” He turned to me, taking both of my hands. “Emma. Go down. Tell Jesse to send his officers up. I’ll try to distract Jerome.”

  I shook my head again. “No, Derrick—”

  “What did you have in mind? That you’ll distract him? That isn’t going to happen.” His chin came up, and he sent a fiery look at me, a glare that forestalled any argument I might have offered. “Go,” he ordered in a way that, in any other circumstance, would have filled me with indignant fury.

  But there was no time for pride or anger or arguments. A life was at stake. “You’ll need a weapon,” I said.

  “I’ll look for one on my way.” He kissed my hands and quietly hurried away, down the gallery past Uncle Cornelius’s and Aunt Alice’s bedrooms, to the short corridor that led either into Gertrude’s bedroom or out onto the upper loggia. He reached the outer door and turned back to gaze at me across the distance. I saw no improvised weapon in his hand and yearned to call him back. I didn’t dare alert Jerome to our presence. Derrick nodded once and clutched the door latch. With a heart filled with misgivings, I turned and raced down the stairs.

  * * *

  Downstairs, I let myself out the front door. There were two policemen on either side of the porte cochere, keeping watch. I approached one of them.

  “Where is Detective Whyte?”

  “Around back still, I think, miss.”

  I started on my way and he darted a whisper at me. “Miss! You don’t want to be seen through the windows.”

  “It’s all right, I know where they are,” I whispered back, and kept going.

  I found Jesse on the terrace just beyond the ground-floor loggia, along with several officers. Their weapons were in their hands, and they were all gazing upward, yet staying close enough to the house that Jerome wouldn’t be able to see them unless he stood at the railing and looked directly down. I climbed the steps and tiptoed to Jesse to prevent my boots from making any sound on the pavement. When I reached him, he pointed to the second-floor loggia. I nodded.

  “Derrick is just inside the door, on this side,” I whispered, and pointed up at Gertrude’s window.

  “What in the blazes is he planning to do?” At the same time he shot his question at me, Jesse made a hand gesture, beckoning three of the uniformed men over to him. When they came within whispering range, he gave them their orders.

  From above us came a shout. I recognized Derrick’s voice calling out Jerome’s name. Footsteps pounded on the loggia tiling, and then Alfred moved away from the pillar, into view beneath one of the arches. Jesse and the remaining officers moved to the far edge of the terrace, where they had a better view. Jesse frantically waved up at Alfred.

  “Mr. Vanderbilt, move out of the way.”

  Alfred scrambled to the far side of the loggia. Now Derrick and Jerome Harrington came into view. They were struggling, each with a hold on the other. Jerome was swinging his weapon, trying to strike Derrick. My breath froze as the two men stumbled closer to the stone balustrade, first one seeming to have the upper hand, then the other. The object swung back and forth.

  The pounding of my heart made me dizzy and weak. Suddenly Jerome shoved at Derrick, who staggered and bent backward over the balustrade. I watched helplessly while the terror of his imminent fall spiraled through me. Alfred darted back into view. He came up behind Jerome and attempted to grab his arms. Jerome must have felt his presence. He swung out behind him, striking my cousin with the object gripped in his hand.

  Derrick aimed a kick into Jerome’s midsection, forceful enough to send him scrambling backward. Derrick then launched himself off the balustrade and into Jerome. I could no longer see them clearly, could see little more than their shadows, but seconds later, Jerome’s weapon came flying over the balustrade and landed on the terrace with a crash that sent stone chips flying.

  Their struggle continued. Jesse, at the center of the terrace, raised his arms and pointed his gun, clutched in both hands, at the loggia. I very nearly screamed that he mustn’t take the chance, for he could too easily miss and hit Derrick or Alfred. Jesse shouted Jerome’s name and fired the pistol. At the last moment, he had jerked his arms higher and aimed over the roof.

  The report sent me to my knees on the pavement, my hands over my ears. The echo ricocheted out over the water and seemed to double back against the house. It seemed the world stopped, and then rushed headlong at frightening speed. I lifted my face to find Jesse standing over me, reaching down to help me up. Shouts once again poured from the loggia, several at once.

  “It’s all right, my men have him.”

  “Derrick?”

  “I’m all right, Emma.” Derrick leaned over the balustrade above me. Though he panted to regain his breath, a grin spread across his face. Tears streamed down mine. I took Jesse’s offered hand and came to my feet.

  My boots crunched on chipped stone, and I bent to retrieve the object that had fallen from the upper loggia. A iron doorstop in the shape of a locomotive engine weighed heavily in my hands and would surely have proven deadly had Alfred—or Derrick—been struck on the head with it.

  But Alfred had been hit. I shouted his name. An instant later, he appeared beside Derrick, massaging his own shoulder, but otherwise appearing unharmed.

  Jerome Harrington shouted his objections to being restrained by the three officers who had charged him and were now cuffing his hands behind his back. Moments later, Reggie, in his house robe and looking sleep-tousled, shuffled out onto the loggia. He took in the scene around him, glanced down at me and the others, and appealed to his older brother.

  “What the devil is going on, Alfred? I could hear you all the way upstairs. You woke me from a sound sleep, and I don’t particularly appreciate it.”

  * * *

  “Once again, you put yourselves in harm’s way and were both nearly killed.” Nanny clucked her tongue at Derrick and me even as she set tea and sandwiches on the ta
ble before us. We had gathered in the morning room, its large window looking out on the still-foggy landscape and a choppy ocean.

  To my eyes, though, it had turned into a beautiful day. Alfred was safe; his shoulder sore, but neither fractured nor dislocated. Reggie, too, for that matter, not that he’d had an inkling of the danger that had arrived at The Breakers until it was over.

  After leaving The Breakers, Jesse had brought us back to Wakehurst, where I finally returned Mr. Van Alen’s fan—with a humble apology—and retrieved my carriage. Derrick’s and my ride here had been a quietly emotional one, the two of us pressed up against each other’s sides, he driving one-handed and holding my hand with the other.

  “ ‘All’s well that ends well,’ Nanny,” I said, considerably calmer for tea and home and the warm, cheery fire in the fireplace. The remark earned me a stern look of admonishment, but Nanny’s expression cleared quickly enough. “Let’s not forget,” I continued after a bite of my chopped chicken and walnut sandwich, “that Jesse will receive the credit for Jerome Harrington’s arrest, not Gifford Myers. I only hope it’s enough to earn Jesse back his position as chief homicide detective.”

  “Hear, hear.” Derrick clinked his teacup against mine.

  “Truly, Miss Emma, I think it’s you and Mr. Andrews who deserve the credit.” Katie blushed at having spoken in front of Derrick, but I was glad to see her learning to overcome her timidity. “But why were you at the police station at the time, sir?”

  “My goodness, yes.” I had forgotten all about it. “Why were you there?”

  “A telegram came from Providence,” he explained, “from one of the Sun’s reporters doing a little snooping for me. He came across a tiny article buried in an obscure Scranton newspaper that suggested Judge Schuyler had ruled, not in favor of the miners, but the investors. Later, there had been a retraction and an apology. And it appears no one else made similar insinuations. But it was enough to send me to Jesse about it. At that point, we still hadn’t guessed at Jerome’s guilt, but I suggested we talk to him to see what he might know.” He put his teacup on its saucer and bit into his own sandwich, then conveyed his appreciation to Nanny in the form of a long, satisfied mmm.

  * * *

  No one considered it a good idea when I announced my intention of going into town to the Messenger. As I could have predicted, Nanny insisted I needed rest and the news could wait until tomorrow. Katie asked if I didn’t think I’d done enough for one day. Only Derrick shook his head in disapproval, but forewent arguing with me. I accommodated Derrick’s wishes far enough to allow him to take Maestro’s reins while I relaxed against the leather seat.

  Just as I had done days ago, when we arrived at the Messenger, we walked straight into a confrontation—with Derrick’s mother. Lavinia Andrews was dressed for travel in a dark suit, with fitted sleeves and a waistline that hugged her trim figure to perfection. The addition of a small feathered hat, which fit close to her coiffed hair, lent a prim dignity that suggested she had come prepared for a fight. So did her expression.

  Her mouth a tight pucker, her chin squared, and her nostrils slightly flared, she ignored me and spoke to Derrick. “I’m returning to Providence. I’d like you to escort me, please.”

  “Good morning, Mother.” Derrick removed his hat and set it on the unoccupied desk. Our editor-in-chief’s desk sat unoccupied as well. I could only imagine the sight of Mrs. Andrews had sent Mr. Sheppard scurrying for cover at the rear of the building, perhaps behind the printing press. One finger at a time, Derrick removed his driving gloves and calmly set them beside his hat. “You’re looking well today.”

  “Did you hear me? I’m returning to Providence, and I’d like you to come with me.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t simply drop everything at a moment’s notice and run up to Providence. Surely, you’re not traveling alone. Isn’t your maid accompanying you?”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “Mother, you haven’t said good morning to Emma.”

  Just as I was beginning to think I should slip into the back rooms, Derrick came to my side. Though he didn’t take my hand or otherwise make physical contact with me, I felt his presence, like a gentle bulwark, shielding me from his mother’s scorn, even as he challenged her to be civil.

  Her gaze darted to meet mine. “Good morning, Miss Cross.”

  “Mrs. Andrews.” I didn’t extend my hand. Her greeting would suffice and I saw no reason to vex her further.

  She dismissed me with a flick of her head, which set the black feathers on her cap quivering. “Derrick, is it really too much to ask you to spend a day or two at home? Your father could use your help at the Sun.”

  “Are you forgetting I was there only two weeks ago?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’m sorry you wasted your time coming here, Mother, although I am glad to see you before you leave. You must realize my life is here now. I have a newspaper to run.”

  “This little . . .” She trailed off without the criticism she had surely been about to utter, but the disdain showed clearly on her face.

  “Yes, this little rag is fast becoming a respected local establishment, and I’m proud of the work we have done with it.” He applied emphasis to the word we, and then his hand did curl around mine.

  His mother saw it, pinched her lips, and shook her head. “I don’t understand you.”

  “Perhaps not, but you’ll always know where I am, should you wish to be part of my life. But that life includes Emma, and until you accept that, I’m afraid we’ll remain at odds.”

  She left without good-byes, and despite his firm words, I knew her departure left Derrick hurting. He watched her retreating back until she stepped up into her carriage and the vehicle pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish . . .” It didn’t help to make wishes, I knew, but I couldn’t quash a lingering optimism despite Lavinia Andrews making her position plain.

  He remained staring out the window a moment longer, making me wonder if he regretted the entire matter. Regretted me. But then he turned to me so suddenly, I started. He raised my hand in his. “Was I correct in what I said? Does my life include you?”

  Good heavens, he looked worried. I didn’t keep him in suspense. “Of course it does. Why would you even need to ask?”

  Countless emotions flitted across his face, until I, too, began to worry. Just as I was about to ask what was wrong, he reached into his inner coat pocket and drew out a velvet pouch. He brought my hand to his lips and then released me. With a little tug, he loosened the strings and opened the pouch, upended it, and caught the shiny object that tumbled out in his palm.

  He took it between two fingers and held it up to me. It was a filigreed band of yellow gold, set with a round diamond, surrounded by smaller stones. “Emma . . . my darling Emma . . . would you—will you—make me the happiest man alive by agreeing to be my wife?”

  Of the many replies I might have given, the overwhelming joy I might have expressed, the first words that staggered from my dumbfounded brain were: “Where on earth did you get that?”

  A frown creased his brow. “In Providence, before I knew your uncle Cornelius had died.”

  “You mean, you planned this all those days ago?”

  “I’m not sure you could call it a plan. I’d hoped. Yes.”

  I grinned like an idiot. He grinned back and opened his arms. The next moments were a blur of impropriety before the plate glass window that overlooked Spring Street. Did people stare in at us, shocked and dismayed by our behavior? Perhaps, but if they did, I didn’t notice, and I’m quite sure Derrick didn’t, either.

  “I certainly didn’t mean to ask you here,” he said, breaking a kiss with a breathy laugh. “I wanted someplace much more romantic. What an oaf I am.”

  “No. Here is the perfect place. At the business we’ve built up together. Ours.” Like the life we would build together.

  But then something he had said moments ago came hu
rtling back at me, along with the reality of my situation. I eased out of his arms and turned away.

  “Emma, what’s wrong?”

  “I can’t accept that ring. Not now.”

  “Why can’t you? Emma, are you still not sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” I turned back to him, hoping he could see the truth of my feelings in my eyes. “But . . . Uncle Cornelius. Derrick, the entire family is in mourning. I can’t think about a wedding, couldn’t even begin to plan for one. Or flaunt this ring and our engagement. It would be too disrespectful, too hurtful.”

  “Is that all?” His grin returned. When I nodded, he grinned all the more. “It’s but a small obstacle, and time will erase it. For now”—he drew me back to him, took my hand, and slipped the ring on my finger—“it’ll be our secret. Ours, Emma.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, and right before his lips touched mine again, I repeated, “ours.”

  Author’s Note

  James J. Van Alen was the son of James Henry and Mary Van Alen, who made their full-time home at an estate called The Grange on Ochre Point Avenue in Newport. The Van Alens’ comparatively modest fortune had been made in real estate. When James Van Alen proposed to Emily Astor, the eldest daughter of William Backhouse and Caroline Astor, the bride’s father objected and challenged Van Alen to duel. James Van Alen accepted, but, luckily, both backed down and the marriage took place without further ado.

  James and Emily had three children, but shortly after the birth of the third, and after only five years of marriage, Mary died. It’s said James was so inconsolable his father gifted him with a parcel of land from The Grange on which to build a new house. This house was Wakehurst, located between Leroy and Shepard Avenues. When James H. died a few years later, son James had The Grange pulled down in order to extend his gardens off the south side of the house.

  James Van Alen certainly was an eccentric who loved all things English and Elizabethan. As in the story, he enjoyed sprinkling his conversation with Elizabethan jargon. Wakehurst is almost an exact replica of Wakehurst Place in England, and many of its furnishings—entire rooms’ worth—were brought over from great estates in Europe. While I was able to find ample pictures of the interior, I did use my imagination to expand upon the details of his Elizabethan gardens, as well as inventing the Elizabethan Fete. Although, it was no stretch of the imagination to envision James Van Alen hosting just such an occasion. My description of the smaller garden behind the house, which is bordered by Lawrence Avenue, is also my invention. Like Ochre Court, Wakehurst is now part of Salve Regina University and is not open for tours.