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

by Mary Kruger

  He disliked killing. He really did. It was messy and disgusting, and he regretted the necessity of it. Not that he was sorry. Oh, no. Rosalind had had to go. It was a pity about Nellie, though. He’d rather liked her. But she had been foolish, threatening to tell what she knew about him. Smart of him to put her off, suggesting meeting the next night at that saloon, rather than at her house. There was nothing to tie him to her death. Nor would there be anything to tie him to this one.

  Electric lights blazed above him at that moment, making him blink. Temporarily blinded, he squinted, enraged at the thought of losing his quarry. Had he—no, there she was, staring with open-mouthed wonder at the display stretching across the front of a building and making him hastily turn away, lest she see him. He had to be careful. In eliminating one loose end he didn’t want to start any others.

  Her pace had slowed as she stopped to look at each display. It made his blood drum in his head, made his fingers itch with impatience. Get it done and get out, he thought. Do it. Carefully, keeping his eye on her and standing well back in the crowd, he edged around her. Ahead was an alleyway, dark and narrow, where even the lights of the Illumination didn’t reach. Perfect. He’d make his move there, and then he’d be free.

  The Illumination was stunning. Annie drifted down Thames Street, gawking at everything. Flags were hung along the multi-armed telegraph poles, and there were garlands of Japanese lanterns strung across storefronts and homes alike. There were gas jets arranged to form special displays, or to spell out words. There was even a model sailboat, decorated with lanterns and suspended across the street, from one building to another. The electric light displays, however, were the ones that drew her eyes. Alternating red and white lights were twined maypole fashion around the flagpole at the Daily News, while, not to be outdone, the Herald had put together a display reading “Welcome Yachtsmen 1895” that stretched across the street. She wished Sam was here, he who she kept company with, but he worked at Beaulieu and couldn’t get tonight free. It was her one regret about this magical night, that she had to experience it alone.

  “Annie,” a voice whispered, and her head jerked around. Who was calling her? In all this vast crowd of people she could see no one she knew. Either she’d imagined it, or someone had called to another woman named Annie. It was a common enough name. Still... Her spine contracted as it had back on Coggeshall Avenue, when she’d thought she was being followed. Ridiculous. She was safe here.

  “Annie.” There it was again, stronger now, and somehow familiar. Again she glanced around, uneasy, alone in a crowd of strangers. It almost sounded as if it had come from the alley opposite her, but that was silly, wasn’t it? Besides, she knew better than to go looking into some dark alley. Better to get away from here. She stepped back, bumping into a man who let out a yelp and then doffed his hat, as if in apology. It distracted her for a moment and made her fears seem foolish. Until, looking down, she saw the toe of a sturdy work boot protruding from the alley.

  “Annie,” the voice said, still a whisper, and it came together in her mind, that voice, and where she’d heard it before. She knew who it was, and she had to get away, had to escape.

  But before she could run, before she could even scream, the Cliff Walk Killer had grabbed her and dragged her into the alley.

  Chapter 12

  The fog had cleared. Brooke, leaning on the varnished rail of the Burnhams’ yacht, sipped from the crystal flute of champagne in her hand. Thank heavens. Perhaps the evening would be bearable, after all. Even as she had the thought, she was aware of the irony of it. Wearing an evening gown from Worth, the Paris couturier, drinking champagne and nibbling at goose liver pâté spread on toast, she was one of the privileged who was seeing the Illumination from a yacht in the harbor. With her were the best of society, her aunt and uncle, of course, and Eliot Payson, the eminently suitable young man who wanted to marry her. What girl wouldn’t want to change places with her? Yet, at the moment, she thought of Annie McKenna, who had chattered about this event for days and even now was probably having a grand time, seeing all the sights in perfect freedom. She envied Annie that.

  Eliot came up behind her, setting a hand on her shoulder. “The fog’s lifted,” he remarked, and though Brooke had had the same thought a moment ago, she felt irritated at its banality.

  “It will be a fine night,” she replied, smiling at him a little more cordially than she had planned, to make up for her annoyance.

  “Very fine.” His hand slipped from her shoulder to her waist. She would have stepped away, except that she stood between him and the yacht’s rail. There was nowhere to go. “Dashed romantic, this.” His upward glance indicated the gaudily colored lanterns hanging from masts and along the deck house. “Clever of Burnham to rig electricity to them.”

  “Safer, too, I’d think, than candles,” she agreed. The scene was magical. Every craft in the harbor was decorated, from the smallest dinghy to the majestic boats of the Fall River Line, twinkling with rows of electric lights. The Goelets’ launch Beatrice even had red fire in her smokestack, reflecting eerily against the low, overhanging clouds. Not to be outdone, the ships of the Navy were decorated at masts and yardarms with lanterns and flags; Fort Adams was ablaze with lights; and the Torpedo Station stood out in a brilliant display. Faintly across the water the music of the Newport Band, on a lighter near the Torpedo Station, reached them, playing waltzes and marches. It was a magical night. Brooke only wished she had someone to share it with.

  “Even better being out on the harbor,” Eliot said, and she started. She wasn’t alone, though she felt as if she were.

  “Yes.” Her voice sounded rusty, so she cleared her throat. “I wish the buildings didn’t block the land displays, though. All we can see is the Ocean House.”

  “Never mind. We have our own illumination here.” His hand curled around her waist, and Brooke glanced hastily around. Eliot’s voice was steady, his eyes clear, and yet she knew him well enough to know that he’d already had too much to drink. In this state, he’d be difficult to deal with. Fortunately, no one was paying them any attention, though a great many people had been invited aboard the yacht. White-jacketed waiters with trays holding champagne or canapés circulated among the guests, who were dressed in evening jackets or fine gowns. Everyone was either talking to someone, or, as she and Eliot were doing, looking at the decorations. Still, it wouldn’t do to allow him to take such liberties. Pushing back from the railing, she slipped away from him.

  “Brooke.” He was right behind her as she headed forward, sounding hurt. “What was that for?”

  “You should be more discreet, Eliot, don’t you think?” she said, without turning.

  “No one’s paying us any attention. Besides,” his breath was warm on her neck, “everyone knows we’re engaged.”

  That made her turn, so quickly she would have lost her balance if he hadn’t caught her by her arms. “Everyone knows—Eliot, we’re not!”

  “As good as,” he said matter-of-factly. “Don’t pretend, Brooke. You know it as well as I.”

  “I do not.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Maybe.” His smile was crooked. “But I’m right about this. Why else have we been together so much this summer? Or this spring, for that matter? I almost proposed to you in New York. You know that, don’t you?”

  Brooke didn’t answer. Oh, yes, she knew it. She remembered the moment well, when they had slipped out of a ball for some air, and her frustration when her aunt had followed them as a chaperon. Because, if Eliot had indeed proposed at that time, she would have agreed. “That was then.”

  “Nothing has changed, Brooke.”

  Oh, but everything had changed, couldn’t he see that? Or, had it? She suddenly had the sensation that she was standing a great distance away, watching them talk and seeing herself objectively. She was the one who had changed, the one who had been horrified enough by the deaths on the Cliff Walk to do
something about them. In so doing, she had found a sense of purpose. Only one man appreciated that, and it wasn’t Eliot. “I’ve changed, Eliot,” she said quietly.

  “No, you haven’t. Not really. I think what happened,” he went on, as she started to protest, “is that old memories came back to you, of when you used to live here. But those days are gone, Brooke.” His voice wasn’t without sympathy as he laid his hand on her shoulder. “You can’t bring them back.”

  “I’m not sure I want to,” she said, struggling with an idea that was new to her, foreign. For if her life had changed in the past five years, she had changed, too. The girl she had once been was long gone. And yet... “I don’t know-”

  “This is your life now, Brooke.” He placed his hand on her other shoulder, and though his grip was gentle, she felt imprisoned. “We belong together. Surely you know that? We care about each other.”

  “Yes,” she said, because it was true. She did like Eliot. She just wasn’t sure it was enough.

  “Plenty of marriages in our set have started with less. We’ll be happy, Brooke. You’ll see. And your aunt and uncle will be pleased.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that a ‘yes, they’ll be pleased’, or a ‘yes, you’ll marry me’?”

  “You haven’t asked,” she said, and then wanted to kick herself.

  “Well, I’m asking now. Will you marry me, Brooke?”

  “Oh, Eliot. I just don’t know-”

  “What will you do otherwise?” he interrupted her. “Marry the man who arrested your uncle?”

  Her spine stiffened. Eliot was right. Knowing her, knowing how she would feel, still Matt had gone ahead and put her uncle in jail. If she’d ever had a chance of a future with him, it was gone now. “Yes, Eliot,” she said, turning, her shoulders squared with resolve. “I’ll marry you.”

  In the alley the noise of the crowd was lessened and the light was dim, alerting the senses to other stimuli, the smell of garbage and the scuttling of rats. Annie was aware only of the hard pressure of a hand over her mouth and the metallic taste of fear. Oh, sweet Jesus, if she could only get away, but his grip was strong and her petticoats hampered her efforts to kick her attacker. A hand was at her throat, squeezing, squeezing, the thumb pressing hard. Stars danced at the edge of her vision, and in one panicky moment she knew what that meant. With a mighty effort she threw her arm up, roughly dislodging the hand from her mouth. Her attacker grunted, in surprise or pain, and the pressure on her throat lessened, just long enough for her to draw a deep breath. “Help!” she shrieked, her voice raspy and shrill. “Help! Murder!”

  He didn’t waste time telling her to be quiet; he simply slammed his hand over her face again. This time she couldn’t breathe, and though she continued to struggle she could feel her limbs growing weaker. Oh, sweet Jesus, she was going to die in the alley like all those other poor girls...

  “Here, what’s going on?” a gruff voice said, and a light shone into the alley. As abruptly as she had been seized, she was released, flung away to land against the brick wall of a building. Her legs too limp to support her, she slumped to the ground, vaguely aware of footsteps running away. Her attacker was escaping. She didn’t care. She was, thank God, alive.

  “Now, what’s all this, then?” A light shone in her face, and she looked up, squinting, into a lantern. Instinctively her hand went up, shielding her eyes, and she made out a burly shape beyond the light, dressed in blue, with a shiny helmet. A cop. Oh, thank God.

  “The Cliff Walk killer.” It came out as a croak. “He tried to—he ran that way—aren’t you going after him?”

  “The Cliff Walk killer, is it?” The cop sounded amused as he reached down and pulled her to her feet with a beefy hand under her arm. “Now that’s a new one. What are you doing workin’ the streets on a night like this?”

  Working-!” Leaning against the building for support, she stared at him. “You think I’m a-”

  “Prostitute. Haven’t seen you on my beat before, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? Come along, now.” He strode out of the alley, and she stumbled behind, unable to resist the strength of his hand.

  “But I’m a good girl,” she protested as he pulled her through the crowds to a side street. “I am!”

  “Yeah? Well, tell that to the sergeant. In with you.” Before she could protest further he shoved her up a narrow step and into cavernous darkness. She stumbled, falling into something soft, and then tumbled to the floor.

  “Hey, watch what you’re doing!” a voice said above her, and the cop outside chuckled.

  “Behave yourself,” he admonished Annie, as she pushed herself to her knees. “And keep quiet.”

  “But-” She scrambled to her feet, banging on the door as it slammed shut. “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “Ah, shaddup,” a voice called out of the darkness, making her jump.

  “You see that? Fell right on me, but does she apologize? No,” another voice said.

  “You might as well get up off the floor, honey.” This was a woman’s voice, whiskey sultry and world-weary. “They’re not being too good to us working girls tonight.”

  Dazed, Annie turned, trying to see the people around her in this small, dark space. “Where are we?”

  “Oh, honey, you are green, aren’t you? Haven’t you been in a black maria before?”

  A black maria. Annie’s knees went weak, and she sank down onto the bench at her side, feeling the other occupants shift to make room for her. She may have been rescued from the killer, but her troubles were far from over. Sweet Jesus, she had been arrested. “But I didn’t do anything,” she said, bewildered. It was too much. Overcome by the night’s events, she lowered her head and broke down into sobs.

  “Who’ve we got this time?” Charlie Sweeney asked, coming out of the station house just as the doors of the paddy wagon opened and the human detritus it held tumbled out.

  “The usual,” Officer Eccleston said. “Mostly drunks, but we caught us a pickpocket this time and a couple of whores.”

  “Watch your language,” the whiskey-voiced woman said as she stepped down.

  Eccleston grinned at her. “All right, Jewel. Streetwalker, if you prefer.”

  “Streetwalkers, my foot. That little girl in there isn’t on the streets.”

  “Little girl?” Charlie said.

  “Get inside, Jewel. Yeah, this is a new one. Claims her client was the Cliff Walk Killer.”

  “The Cliff Walk-” Charlie turned back to the wagon in time to meet the frightened eyes of Annie McKenna. “Annie?”

  “Oh, Sergeant Sweeney!” She tumbled down the step. “I didn’t do nothin’, I swear!”

  “Annie? What the hell?” He looked down at her in the flickering gaslight, taking in her disheveled clothes and the bruises around her throat, and his face grew hard. “What happened to you?”

  “Oh, Sergeant Sweeney!” She threw herself into his arms, to the vast amusement of Jewel and Eccleston. “It was him! The Cliff Walk killer.”

  “Jeez!” Awkwardly, he held her away. “You sure?”

  “Yes,” she sniffled. “Heard him clear as I hear you. It was him.”

  “Jeez.” He looked at Eccleston. “Is Tripp around?”

  “Upstairs sleeping, I think. You’re not taking this seriously, sarge?”

  “Damn right, I am. This girl’s no streetwalker.”

  “Sarge, I caught her in the act-”

  “Release her.”

  “But-”

  “Anyone gives you any guff, you tell them to come to me.”

  “All right,” Eccleston said after a moment, clearly reluctant. “But it’s your funeral.”

  “I’ll worry about that myself. Come on, Annie.” He took her arm in a far gentler grip than Eccleston had. “I’ll see you home.”

  “You’re not arresting me?” she sniffled.

  “Nah. You didn’t do anything. Now, keep quiet like a good girl. You can tell me everything at home
.”

  “Hutton told me there’s a problem—Annie!” Brooke gasped, coming to a dead stop just inside the kitchen doorway at Belle Mer, later that evening. “Oh, no, what happened to you?”

  “I’m sorry to cause such trouble, miss,” Annie said, her voice a croak.

  “Oh, Annie, your neck—oh, no, you weren’t on the Cliff Walk, were you?” Brooke sank into the chair next to Annie, whose throat was wrapped with cold towels. Gone were her jaunty hat and neat appearance; her jacket was dusty and torn at the shoulder, and the bruises on her face stood out in stark relief against her pallor. Brooke stared at her in horror for a moment and then looked up, somehow unsurprised to see Charlie Sweeney here. “Sergeant?”

  “Not the Cliff Walk, no,” he said, his voice grave, his hand resting reassuringly on Annie’s shoulder.

  “I went down to the Illumination, miss,” Annie began, and at that moment there was a knock on the kitchen door.

  Brooke’s head jerked up. “Who in the world could that be, at this hour?”

  “I’ll get it.” Charlie pushed past the housekeeper to open the door, and Matt Devlin stepped in.

  Brooke’s breath caught in her throat, though one part of her wondered why she was so surprised. It seemed inevitable that he would be here. “Matt?” she said.

  “I sent for him, Miss Cassidy,” Charlie said, almost apologetically.

  “Oh.” She didn’t ask why Detective Tripp hadn’t been notified, as well; she was just as glad he wasn’t here. “I don’t understand.”

  “I heard him again, miss,” Annie rasped.

  “Who?”

  “The Cliff Walk killer.”

  Brooke gasped, and Matt pulled out a chair. “Tell me about it, Annie,” he commanded.

  “Oh, sir, it was awful,” Annie said, and went on to relate the events of the evening. And to think, Brooke thought irrelevantly as she listened, that for a time tonight she had envied Annie her freedom.