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

by Mary Kruger

  Brooke turned back. “Yes, Annie. Come in.” She nodded at the other maid, dismissing her, and then gestured Annie to a chair. Annie sat on the edge of it, looking distinctly uncomfortable, while Brooke took the blue velvet wing chair across from her. “You know everything that goes on in this house, don’t you?”

  “Pretty much. Is there somethin’ wrong, miss? Somethin’ else, I mean.”

  “No. You’re not in any sort of trouble, if that’s what you mean. Annie.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees and her hands clasped. “I need to know who my uncle was seeing.”

  “What? I mean, I don’t know what you mean, miss.”

  “I think you do.” Brooke’s voice was soft. “We both know my uncle has a mistress. He always has had one. We also both know she’s probably a maid somewhere, because that’s what he prefers.”

  Annie squirmed. “I’m sure I don’t know, miss.”

  “Don’t you?” Brooke sat back, watching her, letting the silence spin out. She’d noticed Matt doing that when he’d come to the Casino, and that Eliot had spoken first, just to end the silence.

  “No, miss, why would I?” Annie said, after a moment. “I have to get up early tomorrow. Can’t I go?”

  Brooke leaned forward again. “Who is it, Annie? You have to tell me,” she went on, as Annie opened her mouth and then closed it again. “The time has passed for protecting anyone. My uncle has been charged with a murder he did not commit and he’ll likely be charged with the Cliff Walk killings, too.”

  “Oh, no, miss! They can’t do that.”

  “They can and they will, unless I find out where he really was.”

  Annie’s hands twisted together. “Oh, miss, I don’t know-”

  “I do. Tell me.”

  “I don’t know for certain that he was there, but...”

  “Yes?”

  “Her name’s Nora Kelly,” Annie said in a rush. “She works at Belcourt Castle.”

  “Good heavens. For the Belmonts?”

  “Yes, miss. Oh, miss, she’ll be in dreadful trouble for this.”

  “She already is,” Brooke said, her tone grim, as she rose. “She may as well come forward. Thank you, Annie.”

  “Yes, miss. I hope I did the right thing.”

  “You did.” Brooke nodded. “Go, now. I’ve some thinking to do.” She sat for a few moments after Annie had gone out, closing the door behind her, and then rose, leaving the room and slipping down the back stairs. In the back hallway she hesitated for a moment at the wall telephone, the only telephone in the house. This had gone beyond what she could handle herself. With her uncle due to appear in court tomorrow, she had to share what she knew with his lawyers. Who did the actual questioning didn’t matter, as long as her uncle was set free. Squaring her shoulders, she lifted the receiver of the telephone.

  “All rise,” the clerk called, as the black-robed judge swept into the courtroom, and Brooke rose along with everyone else. Beside her stood Winifred, her face pale and stony and a handkerchief clutched in her hand. Before them was a table where Henry now stood with his lawyers; behind them were reporters and the curious, cramming the room. More were gathered outside the State House, where court was held. Pushing through them to get inside this morning had been an ordeal she didn’t want to face again.

  “Be seated,” Judge Baker rumbled, picking up a paper on the bench and peering over his reading glasses at his courtroom. “This is a preliminary hearing into the death of one Ellen Farrell. Counsel, please rise and identify yourselves.”

  Brooke’s hands clutched her purse so tightly that her knuckles showed white. This hearing might be the only way to free her uncle, but it was frightening. She watched as the lawyers rose, Mr. Putnam representing Henry; Colonel Sheffield, the city solicitor, for the state of Rhode Island. “We’ve entertained Colonel Sheffield at Belle Mer,” Winifred hissed in Brooke’s ear. “Such ingratitude!”

  Brooke quickly placed a hand on Winifred’s arm. “Hush, aunt. It will be all right.”

  “At this time, your honor,” Jonathan Putnam was saying, “I would like to move that all charges against my client be dismissed.”

  A buzz of whispers and conversation broke out in the courtroom, and the judge banged his gavel sharply. “Quiet! On what grounds, Mr. Putnam?”

  “Your honor,” Colonel Sheffield broke in, “the case against Mr. Olmstead is quite clear. We have proof that two nights ago he did deliberately and with malice aforethought stab to death one Ellen Farrell.”

  “We have a witness, your honor, who will definitively state that Mr. Olmstead was elsewhere at the time he supposedly committed such an act,” Mr. Putnam put in, shooting an annoyed glance at Sheffield.

  “Your honor, I must object,” Sheffield said. “We have no knowledge of such a witness.”

  “Her identity became known to us only last night. There was no time to inform our esteemed colleague. Your honor, if you would-”

  “Quiet!” The judge held up his hand. “Very well. This is a preliminary hearing, Colonel, and we will hear all the witnesses, including those you don’t know about. Mr. Putnam, call your witness.”

  “Thank you, your honor.” Without the least hint of triumph he turned to the bailiff. “Call Nora Kelly to the stand,” he said, and Henry suddenly sat up straighter. To Brooke it was the first indication that he actually was involved with the girl. She watched him closely as Nora, a slim, dark-haired girl dressed in a plain navy blue frock, took the stand. She looked remarkably poised as she was sworn in, in spite of the seriousness and ceremony of the proceedings, in spite of the reporters scribbling furiously in their notebooks and the newspaper artist quickly sketching her features, to appear in the next edition of every paper in the area. Brooke doubted she herself would be so composed under such circumstances.

  “Now, Miss Kelly,” Mr. Putnam said, approaching the stand. “I have just a few questions to ask you.”

  “Who is she?” Winifred whispered, clutching at Brooke’s arm. “Is she Henry’s mistress?”

  Brooke placed her hand on top of Winifred’s. No matter what happened, this was going to be an ordeal for her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered back.

  “Where were you on the night of July 29, Miss Kelly? Three nights ago.”

  “Yes, sir, I know when that was.” Nora sat very straight and very still. “I had an unexpected night off, sir. Usually I have Friday nights, but this week the Belmonts are giving a dinner on Friday and I’ll be needed. I had Monday night instead.”

  “And did you stay at the Belmonts’?”

  “No, sir. I was at a lodging house on Spring Street.”

  “Alone, Miss Kelly?”

  “No, sir.” She faced him steadily. “I was with a friend.”

  “Is that friend in this room?”

  “Yes, sir. It was him,” she said, and pointed at Henry.

  To Brooke it seemed as if the courtroom erupted with amazed speculation. “Quiet!” the judge shouted over the din, banging his gavel. “One more outburst like that and I’ll have this room cleared. Is that clear? Good. Proceed, Mr. Putnam.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” Putnam said smoothly. “Let the record show that the witness pointed out Henry Olmstead. Now, Miss Kelly, I realize this is difficult for you, but can you tell the court what you were doing there?”

  “Yes, sir.” Nora took a deep breath, the first sign of any agitation, and began. “Mr. Olmstead and I would meet there, sir. We were lovers. We have been since last summer.”

  “Were you together all night?”

  “Most of it, sir. I arrived at ten o’clock and he came in around eleven.”

  “Very good. May I remind the court that Ellen Farrell didn’t arrive at the Bell and Anchor saloon until close to midnight?”

  “Yes, yes.” Judge Baker waved a hand. “Get on with it.”

  “Yes, your honor. What happened next, Nora?”

  “Well, we—went to bed. Do I have to say?” she asked, suddenly appealing to the judge.
r />   “You say you were lovers, Miss Kelly?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And it was with that purpose that you went to that room?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I believe we can infer what happened next. Continue, counselor.”

  “Thank you, your honor. Nora, will you tell the court, in your own words, what happened that evening?”

  “Yes, sir.” Nora kept her eyes fixed on him, her hands folded in her lap. “We went to sleep. Sometime later, I don’t know what time it was, someone knocked on the door. It was my brother Patrick.” She swallowed, hard. “He had told me that if he ever heard of me doing such a thing with a man, that he’d do something about it.”

  “What did your brother do, Miss Kelly?”

  “He began hitting Mr. Olmstead. I yelled at him to stop, but he wouldn’t.”

  “Where did your brother hit Mr. Olmstead?”

  “Everywhere, sir, but mostly in the face, in the eyes and the nose. He gave Mr. Olmstead a bloody nose.”

  “Thus accounting for the blood on his shirt.”

  “Objection!” Sheffield called.

  “Withdrawn. What did you do, Miss Kelly?”

  “Well, I couldn’t let Patrick do that, so I tried to stop him. I took his arm, and then I tried to scratch him. But he moved, and I scratched Mr. Olmstead instead. Then the landlady came up, and she made Patrick leave. She wanted us to leave, too, but Mr. Olmstead was hurt. She let us stay.”

  “For how long?”

  “All night.”

  “All night,” Mr. Putnam said musingly. “What did you do in the morning, Miss Kelly?”

  “I helped Mr. Olmstead get cleaned up, sir, and then I found a cab for him. Then I returned to Belcourt Castle.”

  “Good. One last question, Miss Kelly. You say you usually have Fridays free. What do you do on those nights?”

  For the first time, Nora ducked her head. “I meet with Mr. Olmstead.”

  “Every Friday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Miss Kelly, that will be all. Your witness,” he added to Sheffield, as he sat down next to Henry.

  “I cannot believe it!” Winifred hissed. “How he could embarrass me by going with that common—girl!”

  “Shh!” Brooke said urgently. “The judge is talking.”

  “Colonel Sheffield. Do you have any eyewitnesses that place Mr. Olmstead at the scene of the crime?”

  “No, your honor, but at the victim’s house was found-”

  “And do you have anyone who saw the victim and the accused together?”

  Colonel Sheffield swallowed. “No, your honor.”

  “We are prepared to call Patrick Kelly to corroborate Miss Kelly’s story, and the landlady,” Mr. Putnam put in.

  “That won’t be necessary. In fact, I need to hear no more witnesses. I am ready to rule on your motion, Mr. Putnam.” Judge Baker removed his glasses again. “I find that the case against Henry Olmstead has no basis and therefore I am dismissing it. Mr. Olmstead, you are free to go.”

  Pandemonium broke out in the room. Even the judge’s banging his gavel couldn’t stop the rush of reporters out of the room to get their stories in, or the press of people forward to congratulate Henry. The ordeal was over. Brooke, relaxing for the first time in what felt like years, released herself from her uncle’s embrace and turned, smiling, to encounter Matt’s gaze.

  Instantly her smile faded. He stood across the courtroom behind the prosecution’s table, his face grim. The noise in the courtroom seemed to fade as his eyes held hers, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. It wasn’t over. Uncle Henry was free, but nothing else had been settled. The Cliff Walk Killer was still at large.

  Chapter 10

  “The best I can do for you is suspension,” Chief Read said, not rising from behind his desk. “I warned you about this, detective.”

  Matt stood before the desk, stiff and still, at attention. “Yes, sir. You did.”

  “It was poor police work. I’m surprised that you, of all people, made such a mistake.”

  Matt stared straight ahead. “The evidence was there, sir.”

  “But not enough of it, apparently. Now-”

  “I would still like to know how Olmstead’s cuff link ended up in Nellie’s bedroom.”

  “You’re lucky Olmstead decided not to press charges against you for false arrest,” the chief retorted. “Now I suggest you go out of town for a while. Let this die down. In the fall, when the cottagers are gone, you can come back. Maybe.” The chief’s face was grim. “If I still have my job by then.”

  “I hope so, sir.” Matt continued to stare ahead. The political uproar caused by Henry Olmstead’s arrest had yet to subside. Bad enough that an innocent man had been arrested, the editorials blared; worse when he was someone such as Henry Olmstead. The cottagers might be capable of excesses, but murder surely wasn’t among them. That was a lower-class crime. Already the mayor had received more than one demand from state lawmakers to name a new chief of police. The mayor’s refusal to do so said more about the conflict between the Democratic city government and the Republican legislature than it did about his faith in Chief Read. Someone had to be sacrificed to appease the protesters, though. That someone, it appeared, was Matt. “Who will be taking on the case, sir?”

  “You’ll hand your files on the Cliff Walk killings and on Nellie Farrell over to Tripp before you leave.”

  “Tripp!” Matt’s eyes blazed, and he slammed his hands down on the desk, leaning forward. “The man’s a bloody incompetent. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Nevertheless, he’ll be taking charge of the case. He’s the only detective we have left. You’ll cooperate with him, Devlin, or maybe there won’t be a place for you here in the fall. You follow?”

  “Tripp.” Pushing his fingers into his hair, Matt paced the room. “You’ll never see either case solved. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “I don’t expect him to make another false arrest.”

  “Not of a cottager,” Matt shot back. “But of some poor worker who doesn’t have political friends to call on, yes, that he’d do. I’m willing to swear that Nellie Farrell was being kept by a wealthy man.”

  “If that’s the case, Tripp will handle it. He deals better with the cottagers than you do, and that’s the truth.”

  “He licks their boots,” Matt muttered.

  “You’ve no choice in this, detective,” Chief Read said sharply. “If you want any chance of coming back you’d better play along. You follow?”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said, after a moment.

  “Good. I’m sorry about this, Matt.” The chief came around the desk, clapping a meaty hand on Matt’s shoulder. “You’re a good cop. But this is the way things have to be right now.”

  “I know.”

  “Now go and give those files to Tripp. And don’t show your face around here for a while. You’ll be told when to come back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said, and went out, striding toward his office. Patrolmen walking toward him opened their mouths to speak, only to be stopped by the sight of his grim face. The atmosphere in the station house was uneasy. Most of the patrolmen liked Matt, thought he was a good cop. Most also owed their jobs to patronage, in one way or another, and didn’t want to jeopardize their own positions. On the other hand, none of them looked forward to taking orders from Detective Tripp.

  Matt smelled the distinctive aroma of pipe tobacco even before he reached the door of his office, but it still didn’t prepare him for what he would find there. Tripp was perched on the edge of his desk, studying the wall chart that Matt had put up to keep track of the various suspects. Matt detoured around him to sit down. “What are you doing here?”

  “Seems to me you missed several suspects,” Tripp said mildly, indicating the chart with the stem of his pipe. “First thing I plan to do is take them in for questioning.”

  “This isn’t your office, Tripp,” Matt said thro
ugh gritted teeth.

  “No, but it is my case.” Tripp bared his teeth in what Matt supposed was a smile. “As it should have been all along. I want the files.”

  Matt glared at him. He had always disliked Tripp, but never more than now. Smug and arrogant though the other man was, Matt had no choice. Opening a desk drawer, he took out a thick stack of paper and tossed it onto the desktop. “There. I’d wish you luck, but we both know you’re not up to this.”

  “And you were? I’m not the one who arrested the wrong man.” Tripp rose, hefting the papers. “Think I’ll get started on these. Oh, and Devlin.” He stopped in the doorway. “I’d wish you luck, too, but we both know you deserved this.”

  Matt surged up from his chair, knocking it over, but Tripp was gone, only the smell of his tobacco remaining. Damn him! Matt righted the chair and sat down, aware of a vein throbbing insistently in his forehead. The hell of it was, Tripp was right. By rushing to make an arrest, Matt had brought his fate upon himself.

  This wasn’t doing any good. If he had to go, then he had to go. Rising, he grabbed his hat from the rack and stalked out, looking neither to right nor left, discouraging any conversation. Better to make a clean break, even if he were leaving a place that had been his second home for as long as he could remember. But he would be back. He had to hold onto that belief. This was only temporary.

  “Matt,” Charlie called, as Matt swung onto his bicycle and started to ride away from the station. “Wait.”

  Matt stopped, one foot still on the pedal and the other on the ground. “Aren’t you afraid of being seen with me, Charlie? God knows what they’ll do to you.”

  “They’ve already done it. They’ve got me guarding prisoners. Jeez! Do you believe it? I’d rather be pounding a beat.”

  For the first time that day Matt felt like smiling. “So would I, Charlie.”

  “What are you going to do, Cap?”

  “God knows.” Matt glanced down the street toward the harbor, though he hardly saw anything. “Probably go to my father’s. Maybe take up fishing. Maybe...”

  “You’re not giving up, are you?” Charlie demanded, and Matt’s gaze came back into focus.