Murder at the Breakers

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “I’ll . . . uh . . . I’ll try, miss, when I have some time off. Do you want Parker to walk you out with the umbrella?”

  I turned my collar up. “No, thanks. I’ll just make a dash.”

  Nanny fussed over me when I arrived home, scolding me halfheartedly for traipsing about in the rain. I only half listened to her lecture while I considered all I had learned on my travels.

  “Theodore Mason had as much or more reason as Brady to want Alvin Goddard dead,” I said as Nanny removed the pins from my hair and tossed a towel over my head.

  “I’ve known Teddy Mason for forty years,” she said mildly. “He didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Oh, I believe you. But the point is that he could have just as easily as Brady. The evidence against both men is purely coincidental . . . or what do they call it? Oh, yes. Circumstantial.” But the last word became gibberish as Nanny moved behind my chair and rubbed my hair with the towel none too gently, wobbling my head this way and that.

  “Circum-who?” She released the towel so that it flopped over my face, and stooped to pick up my dripping half boots from the floor beside me.

  “Circumstantial, Nanny.” I peeked out from a corner of the damp fabric. “I’ll wager you can find him—find where Mason has gone. Couldn’t you, Nanny? I didn’t want to ask anyone at The Breakers. Too obvious.”

  She set my boots before the drawing room fire. “I suppose I could inquire with a friend or two.”

  “Humph. Word spreads along the servants’ gossip route faster than a speeding locomotive, and no one is better connected than you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you discovered who killed Alvin Goddard before suppertime.”

  “Well, if I do, you’ll be the first to know. In the meantime, I’ll make some honey cakes to take to Brady tomorrow.”

  The next morning brought clear skies, and Nanny and I set out together to the Point, to Brady’s third-floor flat in the colonial that had been our childhood home. My parents still owned the house, but rented out the two lower stories to a retired sailor and a pair of widowed sisters, respectively. In Brady’s untidy digs, Nanny and I collected clothes, toiletries, and a few magazines. I hesitated over Brady’s tobacco pouch and papers, but left them where they lay. The police wouldn’t let him have them, though I didn’t doubt Jesse provided Brady with the occasional discreet puff.

  His eyes lit up at the sight of Nanny’s honey cakes. I asked him if he had remembered anything new, and when he merely shrugged with a mouthful of crumbs, I left Nanny to chat with him for a few minutes and headed into the main station searching for Jesse.

  I found him at his desk, hunched over a stack of familiar documents.

  “The New Haven-Hartford-Providence Line,” I said in way of greeting.

  He flinched and glanced up. “Emma, I didn’t see you come in.”

  “No, you were engrossed in those railroad plans. I hadn’t known my uncle delivered them to you.”

  To my frustration, he tucked the papers into the leather folder I’d seen yesterday and set them aside. “A bit reluctantly.”

  “I can imagine. You must have had to threaten him.”

  Jesse extended a hand to give my gloved one a shake. Then he gestured me into the chair facing his desk. “What brings you back today? I mean, besides seeing Brady.” Did a glimmer of resignation enter his eye? I believe it did, and I couldn’t blame him. He must have thought I’d come to plead Brady’s case again.

  Which, of course, I had. But this time I left my emotions at the door. I glanced longingly at that closed folder, wondering what revelations the documents might contain, then calmly met Jesse’s gaze. “I discovered something of significance yesterday at my uncle’s house.”

  He folded his hands over the documents in that pensive way he had. “Now, Emma, don’t you think this investigation is best left to the professionals?”

  From anyone else the question would have been condescending . . . and infuriating. From Jesse Whyte, it was fraught with sympathy. I shook my head. “I can’t sit by and watch my brother wrongly accused. And surely you can’t sit by and ignore pertinent evidence.”

  Without a word, he leaned back in his hard-backed swivel chair and raised his palm, cuing me to continue.

  “You might not have noticed the other night, but there is a dent in the balcony door frame. I went back yesterday to inspect this dent and realized it’s highly unlikely the candelabrum found next to Brady could have caused it.”

  “How do you know that dent wasn’t caused by the carpenters when they rebuilt the house?”

  “Jesse, you’ve met my aunt Alice, yes?”

  Looking puzzled, he nodded.

  “She was involved in every stage of the rebuilding. She inspected every detail down to the nails used in the paneling. Do you truly believe she would not have noticed such an imperfection in her husband’s bedroom, or that she wouldn’t have demanded it be fixed immediately?”

  “I see what you mean. Still, one of the cleaning maids could have done it, or . . .”

  “Jesse, all I ask is that you return to the house with the candelabrum and compare it to the indentation in the molding. It might just prove that another object caused the bruises on poor Mr. Goddard’s body and on the back of Brady’s head. As a professional,” I said, throwing his own word back at him, “you must at least entertain the possibility.”

  His gaze bored into me. “Is this like the bourbon?”

  “Jesse, please, I am not grasping at straws. You know me better than that.” Indeed, he did. Jesse’s parents, and now he, owned a house on the Point only a few doors down from my childhood home. He had often joined us for supper, had sat in our back garden and talked long into the night with both my father and Brady. I leaned closer to him across the desk. “The bourbon, that dent—these are clues that don’t quite add up to the picture of Brady as a murderer. If there’s a chance in hell of clearing his name, then I’ll ride into hell and back. Who will help him if you and I don’t?”

  He thought for a moment, teeth working at a corner of his lips. “Tell me this. How would someone manage to bring a weapon into the house and then sneak it back out?”

  “Easy,” I replied with a snap of my fingers. “Every guest that night brought a valise at the very least. Some of the ladies brought small trunks carrying their dancing slippers, ribbons, extra petticoats, hair accessories . . . you name it. They all wished to be flawless for the ball, and wrinkles from riding in a coach would not have been acceptable. As the guests arrived they were ushered directly upstairs with their valets and maids to perfect their appearance before being announced in the ballroom. So you see, anyone might have secreted a weapon in their baggage and gotten it out of the house in the same manner.”

  “All right. All right, I’ll go look at this dent of yours.” He blew out a lengthy breath that told me he’d decided to humor me, though he still had his reservations. “But I’ll have to use the candelabrum’s measurements. The real thing has been entered into evidence and can’t be removed from the station yet.”

  I rewarded him with my brightest, widest smile and came to my feet. “Thank you. In the meantime—”

  “In the meantime, Emma, you should return to your normal routine. If anything else occurs to you, by all means bring it to my attention. Until then, visit friends, help plan the Vanderbilts’ next soirée, write your articles. I’ll take care of Brady.”

  That was advice I didn’t plan to follow, but he did remind me of another stop I needed to make. After collecting Nanny and bidding Brady good-bye until tomorrow, I drove the rig to lower Thames Street, stopping in front of the offices of the Newport Observer. I had three typewritten pages in the portfolio I’d brought from home. It was time to see which ones I’d end up delivering.

  “These are fine work, Emma, just fine.” Mr. Millford, owner and editor-in-chief of the Observer, held two of the articles, one in each hand, and scanned them for a second time. “Yes, indeed, fine work,” he repeated, but in a tone that sent my hopes dr
ifting downward like leaves falling from a tree. He sealed my fate by placing one of the articles back in my hand. “I’ll take the article on the ball, and, of course, your write-up on Mrs. Astor’s new rose garden. It’ll make a nice addition to the Fancies and Fashions page.”

  “But, Mr. Millford . . .” I rattled the paper he’d handed back to me. “This is an exact account of what happened the night of Alvin Goddard’s death. I was an eyewitness.” I didn’t add that my article gave a fair description of the facts without condemning my brother. That much was obvious. “I’d have had it for you yesterday, but . . .”

  “Yes, Emma, I know you had enough on your mind yesterday. And this is a fine account.” I wished he’d stop using that word. “But the article on Goddard’s death has already been written up and approved for Sunday’s edition.”

  “But . . . written up by whom?” My back went ramrod straight and my chin shot up. The image of the man I’d seen in the police station yesterday sprang to mind. A reporter, hired without my knowing about it? Not that Mr. Millford needed my approval for new employees. But . . .

  “Ed.”

  Flames might have shot out of my mouth, I was so instantly angry. Ed Billings. I might have known. Ed covered all the significant news stories, not because he was an ace reporter, but because he was a man. And I was a woman, which relegated me to parties and fashion and wedding announcements. I gritted my teeth.

  “Ed wasn’t there that night. I was.” Fury added a tremor to my voice. “I’d have had the story to you yesterday, but . . . well . . . I had one or two other concerns, as you can well imagine. Can’t you un-approve his article and approve mine?”

  My employer was already shaking his head. “First off, you’re too close to the incident. You know you are, Emma, and it’s likely to compromise your objectivity. Second, why would you want to dirty your hands in such sordid details? Why, your account of who attended the ball and what all the ladies wore is charming. First-rate. Just what our female subscribers love to read when they sit down to their afternoon tea.” He tapped the article with the backs of his fingers. “You’re darned good at what you do, Emma. Don’t try to change.”

  My article stuffed back inside my portfolio, I dragged myself outside. Nanny sighed the moment she glimpsed my expression.

  “He didn’t take it, eh?”

  I climbed up beside her. “Ed beat me to it.”

  “Well, you had a lot on your mind yesterday.” She patted my arm.

  “It wouldn’t have made a difference if I’d been quicker. I’d still have been patted on the head and put in my place.” I flapped the reins. “Giddup, Barney. Let’s go home.”

  “Don’t be discouraged, sweetie. You helped Brady today. Jesse will be going back to The Breakers to look at that dent.”

  “Yes, but will he go with an open mind?”

  I dropped Nanny at home, changed into a fresh day gown, and climbed back into the buggy. I’d forgotten all about an invitation for luncheon yesterday; understandable, of course, but an oversight all the same. Adelaide didn’t have a telephone as her husband didn’t believe in them. I decided to drive over there, apologize, and see if she was free today. Just as Nanny had her connections among Newport’s servants, so did Adelaide have her close ties with Newport’s wealthiest summer citizens. I hoped she might have heard, oh, anything, some wisp of rumor or scandal that might help Brady’s case.

  The Halstocks’ summer home, Redwing Cottage, faced Bellevue Avenue on the ocean side of the street. The house was in the Queen Anne style with a wraparound veranda, turret, oriel windows, and copious amounts of gingerbread dripping from the eaves. Despite the quaint design, the house was no cottage, but a three-story mansion not far from The Breakers, with a similar cliff-top ocean view.

  When I turned onto the circular drive, I had to stop Barney a dozen yards shy of the entryway. A freight wagon stood in front of the house, and two men I recognized were just then loading a crate into the bed.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Manuel and Mr. Manuel,” I hailed as I climbed to the ground. The brothers set down the crate.

  “Well, if it isn’t Miss Cross.” They settled their burden in the wagon and Edwin, the elder and taller of the two, tipped his hat at me. Like Jesse Whyte, the Manuel family had lived near us on the Point. The brothers, along with members of their extended family, ran the island’s main moving company. “Here to visit Miss Peabody?”

  “It’s Mrs. Halstock now and, yes, if she’s home.”

  “It’s hard to get used to that,” Elton, the shorter and stockier brother, said with a laugh. He gestured for me to go inside. “But she’s here.”

  I lingered, considering the contents of the wagon. There were a number of crates, assorted furnishings, and, leaning against the side of the wagon, several flattish items draped in cloth and secured with twine that must have been paintings. “The Halstocks aren’t moving out, are they?”

  Edwin shrugged. “We’re paid to move it, not to know why.”

  I bid them a pleasant afternoon and wandered inside. When no footman or maid met me, I simply called out, “Adelaide?”

  My voice echoed through the central foyer, bouncing against the high, carved ceiling and reverberating down the mahogany-paneled walls. A broad archway opened to my left, and through it I glimpsed the curve of a grand piano. Straight ahead, another doorway framed a dining room dominated by a marble-topped table surrounded by a dozen or so shield-back chairs. To my right, a wide staircase marched away to the upper story, the wide half landing bathed in a rainbow of light from a stained-glass window.

  As I wondered which way to turn, the red velvet curtains draping an alcove just beyond the bottom of the stairs fluttered. An elderly man shuffled out, his shoulders hunched, head down, his balding pate aimed toward me. He was dressed in country attire of linen trousers, striped frockcoat, and a loosely tied ascot. The clothes hung limply on his frame as though fashioned for a much larger man.

  I took a step toward him. “Excuse me?”

  With a gasp, he drew back, one frail hand arcing to his chest, palm pressing his heart. For a moment all he did was stare across the way at me as if attempting to make sense of an apparition that had appeared out of thin air. Though I recognized him from two nights ago, the change in him took me aback.

  “Mr. Halstock. Good afternoon, sir. I’m Emmaline Cross. I hope I’m not intruding, but I’ve come to visit your wife. She and I were good friends as children.” Well, that might have been overstating the case. Adelaide and I had been friends in the way children are when they live near each other, attend the same schools and church, and know all the same people. We had always been convenient friends, if not especially close ones.

  His brow rumpled, bringing attention to discolorations in his skin, those tiny brown spots that come with age, as well as a mottled hue that suggested shock or surprise or unease. “Adelaide . . . ?” He lifted the hand from his heart and raised it to his temple. “The young one . . . She’s upstairs, I think . . .”

  I walked closer to him. “Sir, I think you had better sit down.” He stiffened at my approach, but let me grasp his arm lightly and lead him to a brocade side chair set against the wall. “Is there someone I can call? Your valet?”

  Nodding, he stared down at his knees. “Suzanne. You can call Suzanne. She’ll come.”

  “Who’s Suzanne?” I crouched lower to hear his feeble whisper. “A maid? Your housekeeper?”

  “Mr. Halstock is referring to Mrs. Rockport, his sister in Providence.”

  I straightened as a second man stepped out from the alcove, this one in the formalwear of a butler or valet. In contrast to his employer, he stood straight and tall, and walked with confidence. His keen blue eyes angled from me to the man sitting beside me.

  “Are you all right, sir? You should have waited for me,” he gently admonished. “I’d only gone into the kitchen to check on your lunch. I did say I’d be back momentarily.”

  “Yes, yes . . . I came out for something. . .
. Can’t remember what it was.” A whine entered Rupert Halstock’s unsteady voice. He began looking about him in obvious distress.

  “It’s all right, sir. Why don’t we return to the morning room now. You’ll have your lunch, and then you’ll remember what it was you wanted.”

  “A capital idea, that.” Mr. Halstock leaned heavily on my arm as he struggled to his feet. His manservant came to his other side, but the old gentleman refused any help but mine. I might have found that amusing if it hadn’t occurred to me that Rupert Halstock wasn’t nearly as old as he appeared. In fact, he and Uncle Cornelius were close in age, but where the heartiness had yet to abandon the latter, the former seemed prematurely poised just this side of the grave.

  He managed to straighten just as faltering footsteps echoed in the vestibule.

  “Careful now, don’t bang it into the corner. . . .”

  The Manuel brothers made their way into the hall half carrying, half dragging a crate that stood nearly as tall as a man. “We’re ready to pack the spinet and take it out, Mr. Halstock,” Edwin said. “The rest is loaded.”

  “Take the spinet? The hell you will.” The sudden strength in Rupert’s voice surprised me. His fingers trembled violently around my forearm. “It belongs to my wife, a wedding present from me! She plays it every evening after supper. Do you think I’d let you take Gloria’s beloved spinet? Get out! Get out of my house this instant! Aimes, show these insolent fools to the door!”

  The brothers exchanged astonished looks, then looked to the servant for help. Aimes shook his head slightly and made a subtle gesture with his fingers that sent them backing out of the hall and out of the house.

  “They’re gone, Mr. Halstock. Why don’t we go have that lunch now, sir?” The servant held out the crook of his arm.

  Rupert Halstock nodded and docilely leaned on the other man’s sturdy forearm. Before they could take a step, the elder man turned back to me. His frown returned. “He’s taking the train, miss.”