by Mary Kruger
The ticket collector had given him directions to the pilot house, where Matt planned to speak to the captain, but even so he got lost. There were too many staircases to climb, too many corridors to negotiate. Confused, he stopped at the entrance to the dining room, astonished again by its size; it looked as if it could hold all of the boat’s fifteen hundred passengers. White-jacketed waiters circulated through the room, laying out china and cutlery upon white linen tablecloths. He was about to stop one to ask for directions, when someone spoke behind him. “The dining room isn’t open yet, sir. If you’ll come back after we leave the wharf, we’ll be happy to serve you.”
Matt turned to see a man wearing a black dinner jacket. “I’m not here to eat. Actually, I’m lost.” He showed the man his badge. “Detective Devlin, of the Newport police.”
“Devlin.” A look of dismay passed swiftly over the man’s face. “Are you looking into Miss Farrell’s murder?”
“Yes,” Matt said, startled. “Did you know her?”
“Only as a passenger. She was a lovely woman.”
“Did she travel often?” he asked, curious as to how much the waiter had noticed.
“Perhaps once a month, but she wasn’t someone you’d forget. Very full of life, and very happy to be aboard.”
Again Matt felt a pang of sorrow for Nellie. “I don’t believe I caught your name. You are-?”
“John Harris. The head waiter, sir.”
“Mr. Harris.” Matt nodded, rapidly calculating times in his head. He needed to speak to Captain Simmons, to get permission to interview the crew, and yet Harris’s knowledge was too valuable for him to ignore. “Are you familiar with your other passengers?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I have to be, you see, it’s my job. And the people we get expect fine service.” He straightened, throwing out his chest. “I don’t hesitate to tell you, sir, we get the best of society on our boats. Astors, Vandenbergs, Belmonts, even presidents. President Cleveland travels with us regularly, you know. I believe we’ve had every president since Lincoln aboard, at one time or another.”
“Really,” Matt said, impressed in spite of himself. “Do you know Paul Radley?”
“Senior or Junior, sir? I ask, because Mr. Radley Senior doesn’t make the trip very often.”
“I’m interested in his son.”
“Paul Radley, Junior.” He looked thoughtful. “Yes. He was with us last Thursday, as always.”
“Thursday,” Matt said sharply. “I understood he came from New York on Friday nights.”
“Oh, no, no. He’s usually with us on Thursdays. Except, of course, on alternate weeks, when I presume he’s on the Puritan. Priscilla and Puritan alternate nights, you know. Now, I remember he was with us last week, because of his breakfast. Passengers may have breakfast in their rooms, so long as they ask for it the night before, but they have to come to me to collect it. Last week Mr. Radley was not at all pleased with his meal. In quite a taking, actually. The steak wasn’t done to his liking.” He leaned over, his voice lowered. “I believe, though, that he ordered it incorrectly. We rarely make such mistakes.”
Matt’s mind was whirling. If what Harris had just told him was true, it changed everything he’d thought about the case. “Mr. Radley told us he came down on a Friday night several weeks ago, in stateroom number twenty-two.”
“Number twenty-two?” Harris’s lips pursed. “That’s odd.”
“Why?”
“That stateroom is close to the boilers. Very uncomfortable, you know, with the noise and the heat, particularly in the summer. Mr. Radley usually takes an outside room.” He nodded, decisively. “Yes. I distinctly remember that last week he was in number forty-five.”
“Would you have a record of that, Mr. Harris?”
“Yes, I should have his order for breakfast.”
“Good. I’d like to see it.” He frowned. “But why-” he began, just as the boat’s horn blew. Damn. There was so much he had still to learn, and so little time left. “Are there stewards for the staterooms I mentioned?”
“Yes, but they’d be busy just now. In fact, sir, I must get back to my duties-”
“I realize that.” Matt spoke rapidly. “I need to speak to them, however. The stewards from the Puritan, too. Who could I see to arrange for them to come to the station house?”
Harris’s lips pursed again, but then he nodded. “I can take care of it for you, sir. Mind you, Captain Simmons probably won’t like it, but I’m sure he’ll want to cooperate. As I do.” He glanced away. “Miss Farrell was a lovely woman,” he said again.
“I’d appreciate it. We won’t keep them long.”
Harris nodded again. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
“Thank you,” Matt said, holding out his hand and then turning as the ship’s horn blew another blast. If he didn’t get off soon, he’d be heading for New York himself, and that wouldn’t do. Not with this new information in hand.
Grinning, he left the Priscilla and swung onto his bicycle again, heading for the station house through the gathering twilight. It looked as if they’d finally gotten a break in the case. Once he learned what he needed from Priscilla’s stewards, he could go ask Radley some pointed questions. And, with any luck, he would find the real Cliff Walk Killer.
Chapter 15
“You’re quiet this afternoon, Brooke,” Eliot commented, as he pulled on the reins and brought his team to a stop. Midafternoon, and they had, as usual, taken part in the carriage promenade along Bellevue Avenue, along with all the other fine turnouts. No matter how often Brooke saw it she was impressed: the coaches, barouches, landaus, and victorias, all spick and span, with the horses groomed and currycombed so that they looked almost artificial. Even more striking was the solemn formality of the parade, with the drivers sitting stiff as statues and the passengers, usually ladies, nodding regally as they passed each other. She and Eliot had left that behind for the moment, however, driving out onto Ocean Avenue to Brenton Point. At this rocky promontory, the waves crashed against the rocks unceasingly. As an engaged couple, they were alone in Eliot’s stylish phaeton, and no one thought anything of it. Brooke, who had agreed to the drive in spite of her promise to Matt, supposed she might as well get used to it.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, aware that she had said little because of her preoccupation during the drive. She couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation she’d had with Matt last evening. The implications of it stunned her.
“Don’t be.” Eliot sounded cheerful. “I like a woman who can stay quiet.”
Brooke eyed him in astonishment. “Eliot! What a horrid thing to say.”
“Truth.” He gave her his easy, charming smile. “You’re a very restful person, not forever clacking on like so many women. We’ll suit each other, I think.”
Brooke’s hands clenched in her lap. “Yes.”
“Fine view here, isn’t it?” He took a deep, deep breath. “And good, bracing air.”
“Yes.” Across the channel could be seen the island of Conanicut, and, farther off, mainland Rhode Island; far out to sea the silhouettes of ships were visible. It was a sparkling day, with the sun shimmering upon the cobalt sea and the freshening wind kicking up waves that beat against the shoals of rocks, sending spume high into the air. It was a fine view. It was also where her parents had met their deaths five years earlier. “Could we go?”
“Why? We just got here, Brooke.” He laid his hand on hers, smiling warmly. “And we rarely have the chance to be alone.”
“I know.” Brooke forced her fingers to relax. Eliot hadn’t noticed her tension. She didn’t know why that surprised her. There was a great deal he didn’t see. “I don’t like this place, Eliot. It’s where my parents died.”
“Oh? Oh. Then, by all means, we’ll go.” He flicked the reins, turning the horses and heading back toward town. To their left, the land side, rose the bulk of more cottages, one of granite, as if hewn from the rocks; another of Tudor design, like an English manor house. Ocea
n Avenue was becoming almost as fashionable as Bellevue. “I’d forgotten that. A carriage accident, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” She stared straight ahead. “Something made their horse run away, and they overturned onto the rocks.”
Eliot winced. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I should have remembered that.”
Indeed, he should have. Matt would have, she thought, and quickly banished the treacherous idea. “Besides, I should be home soon. We’re dining at Lindhurst tonight.”
“As am I.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Aunt Winifred wants to discuss some things with me first.”
Eliot nodded wisely. “About our wedding, I’d guess.”
“Well, yes.”
“Wise woman. There’s a lot to plan.”
“Yes.” Brooke said again, and wondered that he didn’t hear the reluctance in her voice. But then, as she’d just reminded herself, he wasn’t the most perceptive of men.
“We’ll want to have it at Grace Church,” he said. “The wedding breakfast will be at your home, of course. Have you thought about bridesmaids?”
“No.”
“You should. Very important in a wedding. You want someone who is attractive, but who won’t outshine you.”
“Thank you very much!”
He flashed her a quick smile. “Not that anyone could, of course. We’ll have to think about the guest list, too. I’m afraid I have a prodigious amount of relatives.”
“Eliot, must we talk about this now? We haven’t even set the date yet.”
“Yes, and why not?” He fixed her with a stern look. “People are asking, you know.”
“I know,” she murmured. “Aunt Winifred is talking about next May.”
“May.” He nodded, lips pursed. “A good month. Warm, but not hot. I approve.”
“You don’t wish to be married sooner?”
“Of course I do, darling.” He flashed her a brilliant smile. “But we need to plan, don’t we? This gives us the time. We are going to have a wonderful life together. Think of it, Brooke.” His eyes looked almost unfocused. “We’ll travel wherever we want. We’ll be here in the summer, of course, New York in the fall, and I was thinking perhaps Florida in the winter. Oh, and we’ll cross the pond to Europe, as often as you wish.”
“Is that really how you see our future?”
“Yes, why not? Oh.” His smile was smug. “You want a home. And children, I suppose. Well, I’m not opposed to that, so long as they don’t distract you too much.”
“From what?”
“From your real purpose in life. We are the crème de la crème,” he went on, his voice growing passionate. “We are the smart set, the top of society, and we can live any way we choose. Not just traveling, but at home, too. Think of how we’ll entertain in our own home, Brooke. We’ll go to parties, of course, but we’ll have our own, and we’ll set the styles. We’ll -”
“I can’t,” Brooke burst out.
“Can’t set the style? Of course you can, darling.” He cast a critical eye over her outfit. “I will admit that you could be more original with your ensembles, but you’ll learn. I’ll teach you. You’ll be the most stylish matron in New York.”
“I don’t want to be stylish.”
“Of course you do, darling. Everyone in our set wants to be.”
“I don’t!” She pulled her hands free from his restraining grip and stared up at the sky. “I don’t want to be stylish. I don’t want to winter in Florida, or travel to Europe, or hand my children over to a fashionable nanny. I don’t, Eliot! And I most especially do not want to spend my entire life socializing. I want more.”
Eliot’s look was blank. “What more is there?”
“What more? Oh, Eliot.”
“No, tell me. I really want to know. Why aren’t you happy about our plans?”
“Your plans, Eliot. Yours, not mine.” Frantically, she pulled at her gloves. “I thought I could do it. I thought that when everyone told me how well suited we are, they were right. Well, they weren’t, Eliot. They were wrong. Wrong. Here.” She held out the diamond ring he’d given her not so long ago. “I want you to take this back.”
He stared at her incredulously. “You’re breaking the engagement?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Eliot, but I can’t marry you.”
“Can’t—oh, I understand.” To Brooke’s surprise, he chuckled. “You’re having second thoughts. But that’s normal, darling. Once you get through this, you’ll see-”
“No.” Brooke kept her gaze and her voice steady. “I mean it, Eliot. I can’t marry you.”
Slowly Eliot reached out and took the ring, never taking his eyes from Brooke’s. “You’re serious.”
“Yes, Eliot.”
“Look, is it the drinking? Because, if it is, I’ll swear off, I promise-”
“It’s partly the drinking. You do drink too much, Eliot.” She gazed up at him, willing him to understand. “But it’s more what’s in me. I can’t do it. I’m sorry, but-”
“Damn it to hell.” Eliot threw the ring to the floor of the carriage and flicked the reins, hard, sending the horses galloping along the narrow road.
“Eliot!” Brooke cried, grabbing onto the side of the carriage as it swayed. “Slow down! We’ll crash at this rate!”
“I don’t give a damn. Dammit, Brooke!” He pulled on the reins, and the carriage slewed to a stop. “Why?” he asked, sounding bewildered.
She swallowed. She owed him honesty, if nothing else. “I don’t love you, Eliot.”
“Love? What does that have to do with it?”
“More than you realize. Here.” She reached down and scooped up the diamond from the floor, pressing it into his hand. “Give this to someone who can love you, Eliot. You deserve it.”
Eliot pushed the ring into his trouser pocket. “Is there someone else? Is that it?”
She hesitated. “Yes, there is.” For all the good that did her.
“Dammit,” he said again, and picked up the reins, driving off at a more moderate pace. “Why did you wait until after we announced it? Now we’ll have to deal with all the gossip.”
“Eliot, I’m sorry-”
“Don’t, Brooke. Don’t say it.” His gaze remained straight ahead, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Don’t say anything.”
“All right.” Brooke shrank into the corner of the phaeton, as far from Eliot as possible. She’d never seen him this way, so angry, so dark and dangerous-looking, not smiling, congenial Eliot. There were depths to him she’d never before suspected. The thought chilled her, reminding her of the warning Matt had given her yesterday. But Eliot was safe, she reminded herself. He’d been with her when Annie was attacked, and again when she was threatened at the ball. Surely he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, though they were, to all intents and purposes, alone, their only companions a carriage far ahead. He wouldn’t, would he?
It was a relief to reach more populated areas at last, near Bailey’s Beach, where other carriages passed them, their occupants waving and calling greetings. It was a relief to turn onto Bellevue Avenue, and a relief when Eliot pulled the carriage to a stop on the drive at Belle Mer. Brooke’s shoulders, held tightly during the tense, silent ride, sagged as Eliot, ever the gentleman, came around to help her down. He gave her a searching look as she descended, his hands gripping hers. “You’re sure, Brooke?”
“Yes, Eliot. I’m sure.” She pulled her hand away, relieved when he didn’t try to hold her. For now, she was safe. “I’ll talk with my aunt and uncle.”
“Yes.” He stood, one foot scuffing against another, like a little boy’s. “Well. Take care of yourself, Brooke,” he said, and climbed into the carriage.
“You, too,” Brooke whispered, but he was driving away, the wheels of his carriage grating on the gravel, so that he didn’t hear. Her vision briefly blurred by tears, Brooke watched him drive off, and then turned to go in. Poor Eliot, she thought. He was a decent man, and she was sorry she’d hurt him. Even now, though, the th
ought of living with him was something she couldn’t face. She was glad she’d finally found the courage to break the engagement, and plan her life herself.
“Miss Cassidy,” Hutton said as she came in. “There’s a matter for you to deal with.”
“Oh, no, not again!” she exclaimed. “Do you realize, Hutton, that lately every time I come in you tell me that?”
“Yes, miss.” Hutton’s face was wooden. “I’m sorry, miss.”
“Oh, bother. I’m sorry, too, Hutton. It’s not your fault. There’s simply been too much happening lately.”
“Yes, miss.” Hutton’s eyes were sympathetic. “But this shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”
Brooke yanked out the long hatpin that held her hat in place, and pulled the hat off. “Oh, very well. What is it?”
“There’s a Monsieur Pepin to see you. He’s in the morning room.” Hutton’s nose wrinkled. “He insisted.”
“That name sounds familiar,” she said, wondering at his reaction. “Do I know him?”
“He was the cook at the Point, miss, at least until today. He’s known for his temper and his cooking. I heard,” Hutton sidled over to her, “that something set him off today and he up and quit.”
For the first time since giving Eliot back his ring, Brooke felt like smiling. “Am I to assume he wants work here?”
“Yes, miss.”
“God help us. Very well. I’ll be in the morning room. Oh, and Hutton.” She turned back, smiling a little. “Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome, miss,” Hutton said, his bewildered look only intensifying her amusement. He had, quite without meaning to, reminded her that life went on, no matter what else happened. In her world there would always be a house to run, with all the problems that entailed. She was almost looking forward to meeting the mecurial Monsieur Pepin.
