Death on the Cliff Walk (The Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1)

by Mary Kruger

Miles was quiet for a long moment. “It’s possible, I suppose,” he said finally. “Why would you think that?”

  “Why would she go out in disguise unless she had something to hide?”

  “I thought it was a lark.” Miles spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “Sort of thing she would do, you know.”

  “Yes, it was, but—I think she was meeting someone, and it had to be someone her parents would object to,” she said. It was a relief to voice her thoughts aloud at last, and to the one person who so far was taking them seriously. “Not Paul, obviously, he wasn’t here. Not Eliot, either, I don’t think. He was too angry with her.”

  “It gives him a motive, though.”

  “But surely not to kill three other girls!”

  “That’s the problem with your theory, Brooke. Who in our circle could have killed them?”

  She shuddered. “I don’t know. When you put it like that, it does sound like a madman.”

  “So it does. What does your policeman friend say?” he asked again.

  “Very little, but then, I don’t expect him to. My father certainly wouldn’t have discussed a case with people he investigated.”

  “So he is investigating us, then.”

  “He has to. With Rosalind’s death, we’re involved.”

  “And you’re doing some investigating of your own.”

  “No,” she said quickly, wondering why she was denying it when she had done just that. “But I can’t help being curious.”

  “I suppose not.” They turned in at Belle Mer’s gates and continued walking down the immaculate gravel drive. “I’ve enjoyed talking with you, Brooke. You must tell me if you find out anything.”

  She looked up at him as they reached the front door of the great mansion. “Why?”

  “Life gets boring, you know. I find this fascinating. Terrible, of course, but fascinating. And who else would you talk to?”

  Brooke opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again. Who, indeed? None of her friends took her concerns seriously, and Matt had made it quite clear he didn’t want her help. It was gratifying to have someone listen to her. “Thank you, Miles. I’ll do that. Perhaps we can figure this out ourselves.”

  “Perhaps we can.” He held her hand for a moment longer than she thought necessary. “I’ll be looking forward to it,” he said, and then turned, striding away down the drive. Brooke watched him for a moment before turning to go in. She felt oddly flat, and uneasy. Now that she had told her fears to someone, she wondered if she should have. Her father wouldn’t have approved; nor, she suspected, would Matt. Yet what had she actually said? Nothing that other people couldn’t figure out for themselves. She was worrying for nothing, she decided, and went inside, pushing the uneasy feeling away.

  “Miss Cassidy,” Hutton said in an urgent whisper as Brooke walked into the entrance hall. “Thank God you’re home.”

  Brooke looked up from pulling off her gloves. “What is it, Hutton? Dear heavens.” She grasped the edge of the marble-topped table. “Not another-”

  “Dear me, no!” Hutton exclaimed, his narrow features pinched with shock. “No, not another murder. But there will be if Mrs. O. finds out.”

  Brooke frowned in a mixture of perplexity, concern and amusement. For Hutton to speak so informally of his employer meant that he was rattled, indeed. “We can’t have that,” she said briskly. “Very well, Hutton. What is the problem?”

  “In here, miss.” Hutton opened a door set to the side of the entrance hall, leading to the library. Ordinarily this room was used as a receiving room for male guests, while the sitting room on the other side of the hall was used for ladies. Brooke gave Hutton an inquiring look as she walked past him into the room, and then let out a gasp. Sprawled in an armchair, his head flung back, was her uncle Henry, covered with blood and as still as death.

  Chapter 7

  “Uncle Henry!” Brooke ran into the room and fell to her knees beside the armchair. Close up, her uncle looked even worse, though he was, to her relief, breathing. One eye was blackened and swollen, several scratches ran down his cheeks, and his nose was encrusted with dark, dried blood. More blood stained his once-immaculate shirtfront, and his dinner jacket was torn at one shoulder. The same clothes he had worn last evening, Brooke realized, when he’d gone out with her and Aunt Winifred to dinner at Seaside, the cottage belonging to Octavius Low, Winifred’s brother. “Dear heavens, what happened to you?”

  “Hello, Brookie.” Henry raised a hand to her hair and then let it drop, as if even that were too much of an effort. “You shouldn’t be here, darlin’. This is something you shouldn’t see.”

  Brooke looked up at Hutton. “What happened?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know, miss. He came in not half an hour ago like this.”

  “Half an hour—Uncle Henry, were you out all night?”

  Henry raised his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I suppose I was, darlin’.”

  “Oh, Uncle Henry.” She sat back on her heels. “And after what happened in New York! Aunt Winifred will be furious.”

  Gingerly Henry touched his nose, and winced. “I was hopin’, darlin’-”

  “What?” She frowned. “That I’d distract her?”

  “If you would.”

  “It would be for the best, miss,” Hutton put in.

  “I’m not so sure of that,” Brooke muttered.

  “I’ve put your aunt through enough, darlin’. She doesn’t have to know about this.”

  Brooke looked from him to Hutton. Both men were regarding her hopefully. “I shouldn’t, you know,” she said. “I should let events take their course and let you pay for this.”

  Henry winced again. “Please, darlin’, I’ve already paid. I’m not up to a scene with her.”

  “What did happen, Uncle?”

  “I don’t know, Brooke, and that’s the truth.” He gave her a sheepish smile. “Had a mite too much to drink, if you want to know.”

  “I’m not surprised. Well.” Brooke rose. “I’ll help you this time, Uncle, but not again. This has to stop.”

  “I know.” He put his hand to his head. “Believe me, Brookie, the way I feel now, I don’t want to feel again.”

  “I should hope not. You’ll see him to his room?” she said to Hutton.

  “Yes, miss, and see that his valet takes care of him.”

  “Good. We’ll tell my aunt that Mr. Olmstead is out for the day.”

  “I already have, miss.” His face was dour. “She wasn’t pleased.”

  “No doubt. I’ll go to her now. Is she in her room?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Brookie.” Henry caught at her hand. “Thank you, darlin’.”

  “Yes, well, just don’t do it again, Uncle Henry,” she said, and went out to distract her aunt while the staff got Henry to safety. The uneasy feeling she had had upon arriving home had intensified, as if some doom were hanging over her. On the outside Belle Mer presented an impressive, powerful front. Inside, however, was different. What else, Brooke wondered, climbing the stairs, was going to happen this summer?

  Eliot Payson led Matt down the corridor from the piazza at the Casino and opened a door at random. “Good, it’s empty. No one should disturb us here.”

  Matt ambled in, taking in everything, though his face showed nothing. The room Payson had chosen had obviously been set up for private conversation among men. Pairs of green leather chairs were grouped here and there on an Oriental carpet that enhanced the gloss of the floor, with ashtrays and spittoons of highly-polished brass placed strategically about the room. Though the floor length burgundy drapes were open, letting in the sun, the effect was comfortably dark and discreet, and very expensive. It was what Matt had always imagined a gentleman’s club would look like. One thing about this case, he thought, choosing a chair at random. He certainly was seeing another side of life.

  From his pocket he withdrew his battered pack of Richmond Straight Cut cigarettes, and tapped one on the mahogany side table. “Ca
re for one?” he asked, holding the pack out.

  “No, thank you.” Eliot’s lips pursed in distaste as he reached into his own pocket and pulled out a silver cigar case, his initials engraved on the front within a border of vines and leaves. From it he took out what Matt recognized as a fine Cuban cigar. “I have my own.” He held out the case.

  Matt shook his head. “Do you come here often?”

  “Yes.” Eliot lounged back, one leg crossed carelessly over the other. “Everybody does, you know.”

  “Even though you have invitations elsewhere?”

  Eliot gazed at him through a cloud of smoke, his eyes calculating enough to belie his pose of foolish amiability. “Of course, one has invitations,” he said, waving his hand languidly. The smoke, disturbed, swirled and eddied about.

  “One does, does one?”

  “Yes.” His gaze narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  “You are a hard man to track down, Mr. Payson.”

  “I wasn’t aware you were trying to find me.”

  “Oh, yes.” Matt took out his notebook and turned the pages slowly, deliberately. “This season you are staying at Wayside, with the Dyers.”

  “But of course. Where else would I be?”

  “With the Lelands, maybe, like last year? Or the Kernochans, like two years ago?”

  “So boring.” Eliot waved his hand again. “To stay with the same people too often. One doesn’t want to impose.”

  “Especially when one doesn’t have a fortune of one’s own.”

  Eliot contemplated the tip of his cigar. “If you weren’t a cop, I’d say you were mocking me.”

  “Would you.” Matt made it a statement, not a question. “So you have no fixed address then, Mr. Payson?”

  “Not in Newport, no. Hardly a crime,” he added, swiftly. “You’ll find many others who are merely guests here.”

  “And the rest of the year?” Matt asked, though he knew the answer.

  “I have bachelor digs in New York.”

  “With no visible means of supporting them.”

  Eliot blew out another cloud of smoke, looking perfectly unconcerned, except for the narrowing of his eyes. “If you knew all this already, why did you need to see me?”

  “You were engaged to Rosalind Sinclair.”

  “Not quite. We decided it wouldn’t work before it got to that point.”

  “After her father found out about you and the Leland girl.”

  Eliot’s eyes widened, but, again, that was his only reaction. “You have been busy, haven’t you,” he stated, reaching over to crush out his cigar in a crystal ashtray. Matt noted it wasn’t quite half-smoked. “But that was ancient history. Rosalind knew about poor Miss Leland and her unfortunate attraction to me.” He sighed. “Poor girl, I let her down as easy as I could.”

  “Did Rosalind also know her father offered you money to leave her alone?”

  “I didn’t accept,” Eliot said, his voice clipped. “I’m not that much of a cad. In any event, it was Rosalind who broke off our attachment, not me.” His eyes narrowed. “How did you find out all this?”

  “I asked questions.” Matt flipped another page of his notebook, looking down to hide his amused triumph. Over the past two days, he had kept the telegraph lines to New York busy, requesting information about the few suspects he had so far. He hadn’t known, however, that Sinclair had tried to buy Payson off, not until this moment. Since that had been the rumor about Payson’s attachment to the Leland girl, it had seemed a good guess, but only a guess. Until Payson himself confirmed it.

  “You were born in Cleveland, Ohio,” he recited, glancing only occasionally at his notebook. “Not exactly the social center of the world. After leaving high school you decided to make your fortune, first in Philadelphia, then in New York. Did okay on the stock market, but got out before the market crashed in ‘93. With, as it happens, your money intact.” He looked up. “Wonder how you knew the crash was coming.”

  Eliot returned the stare unblinkingly, as if unaware of the rumors about him concerning insider trading. “Luck.”

  “Huh. By then, however, you’d discovered society, and society discovered you. You’re a popular man, Mr. Payson.” Matt slapped the notebook shut. “Tailors pay you to wear their clothes, and Delmonico’s always keeps a table open for you, as long as you keep bringing people there. You know all the right people, and you get invited to the right parties. Am I correct so far?”

  Eliot reached for his cigar, glared at the tip of it as if just now realizing what he had done, and dropped it into the ashtray again. “What of it?” He shrugged. “It’s not a crime.”

  “Where were you last Saturday morning between midnight and six A.M.?” Matt asked, in the same casual tones he’d used in reciting Eliot’s past.

  “I was-” Eliot began, and then stopped. Slowly he pulled another cigar from his pocket, snipping off the end with silver clippers attached to his watch chain. He lighted the cigar with the same deliberate movements. Matt let him do so in silence, even though he knew Eliot’s mind was racing ahead to the consequences of answering the question. Eliot Payson wasn’t quite what he seemed. But then, Matt wondered, was anybody in this case?

  “That was the night Rosalind was killed,” Eliot said finally. Matt didn’t answer, and Eliot looked at him sharply. “So. Am I a suspect, then?”

  Again Matt let the silence spin out. Let it go on too long, and the person being interviewed would talk. He’d learned long ago it was almost inevitable. “Am I a suspect?” Eliot demanded, his voice rising. “Because, damn it, I didn’t do it.”

  “I’m not saying you did, Mr. Payson,” Matt said, and Eliot’s mouth snapped shut. “Where were you?”

  “Friday night.” Eliot leaned back, recovering some of his poise, though he was still pale. “There was a party at the McCormacks’. Dreadfully dull affair. They’re parvenus, you know. From Dorchester, of all places. Trying to buy their way into society. I don’t believe I stayed much after two.”

  “How late do you stay for a good party?” Matt muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. After that, Mr. Payson?”

  “After that I was in my bed. The Dyers’ butler can vouch for me coming in.”

  Matt grunted, noting down Eliot’s words. No doubt the butler would verify Eliot’s story. That didn’t mean, however, that Eliot had stayed in the house after that time. “Why did you and Rosalind quarrel?”

  Eliot drew on his cigar, very cool, very poised. “Who says we did?”

  Matt stubbed out his cigarette with the same deliberation Eliot had shown earlier. “It’s common knowledge. You and Rosalind quarreled last winter. The way I heard it, she broke it off, and you didn’t agree. Can’t say I blame you.” Matt contemplated the end of the fresh cigarette he’d taken from the pack. “Must have been tough, seeing all that money slip out of your hands.”

  “You think you know everything, don’t you?” Eliot said, his voice contemptuous. “For your information, I cared a lot about Rosalind.”

  “All the more reason to be angry with her.”

  “Oh, I was angry with her,” he agreed, and then, as if realizing what he had said, glanced away.

  “Why?” Matt pressed. “Because you need the money. Because you did care about her. Because she laughed at you, and-”

  “She was seeing someone else, damn it!” Eliot threw down his cigar and rose, pacing toward a window. “She was seeing someone else.”

  Matt let the silence lengthen. This time, the trick didn’t work. “Who?” he asked, finally.

  “Radley. Who else?”

  “Huh.” Interesting. Paul Radley had named Eliot as a possible suspect; Eliot had returned the favor. “Why do you think that?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? They became engaged not long after. I suggest,” he said, turning, “you ask him where he was last Friday night.”

  Matt picked up his notebook. “On July 6 you claimed to be attending a party at By-The-Sea. On July 13
, another party, this one here at the Casino. And on July 19, there’s no account of your activities at all.”

  Eliot stared at him. “So?”

  “Those dates don’t mean anything to you?”

  “Should they?”

  “Three other women have been found dead beside Rosalind, Mr. Payson. Maybe they were only maids, but that doesn’t make what happened to them any less wrong. Those dates are the days they were killed.”

  “My God.” Eliot stared at him. “You think I’m the Cliff Walk Killer.” Matt stayed silent, and after a moment, Eliot let out a disbelieving laugh. “This is unbelievable. How even you could think such a thing. Well, I’m not the killer, Devlin. I’m not.”

  “Can you account for your whereabouts during those times?”

  “I’ve no idea. I can look in my diary, of course, and my valet can probably verify where I was. Look, Devlin.” He leaned forward. “If I were guilty, don’t you think I’d have covered myself? Give me credit for some intelligence.”

  Matt shrugged. “Or you could count on looking innocent simply because you have no alibi.”

  “I say!” Eliot said, staring at him. “So now I am guilty because I look innocent?”

  “I didn’t say that, Mr. Payson.”

  “It sounded like that.” Eliot rose. “Are we through? I have a luncheon appointment I’d rather not miss.”

  Matt regarded Eliot for a few moments, and had the satisfaction of seeing his face twitch. So the calm Mr. Payson wasn’t so calm, after all. “All right. You can go. But, Mr. Payson,” he said as Eliot turned away. “Don’t leave town.”

  “Leave Newport in summer? Of course not, old man,” Eliot said, and sauntered out, looking not one bit the worse for the encounter.

  Matt quickly made some notes about the interview and then went out himself, far less jauntily. Payson was a possibility. He could have murdered Rosalind; he’d been angry enough for it. How that fit in with the deaths of the other girls, Matt wasn’t yet certain. Killing in anger was one thing; killing in cold blood quite another. He was beginning to think there was a cold mind behind the deaths. But then, no one was quite who he seemed in this case. Eliot Payson would bear watching.