by Mary Kruger
Death on the Cliff Walk
by Mary Kruger
©
Copyright 2012 Mary Kruger
Cover copyright 2012 Princess Pages
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any people or events, with the exception of historical characters, is unintentional.
As always, for Sam
Prologue
Newport, Rhode Island, 1895
She snatched the starched white cap from her head, letting her hair tumble down her back, and laughed to the night sky. She had done it! All the hours of planning, all the calculated risk, had finally paid off. There’d be some scandal, and likely they’d have to live abroad, but that only added to the deliciousness of it. She had won. She would have, at last, freedom to be herself, and, of course, enough money to ensure that freedom. Soon she would be Mrs.—well, she’d best keep that a secret for a while, even from the crickets chirping in the rambling roses growing wild to her left, or the booming surf to her right. Who knew who else might be about on Newport’s famed Cliff Walk on such a glorious summer night? Doubtless there were maids and menservants, returning, like her, from their secret trysts. After all, that was what the Cliff Walk was for, wasn’t it? For servants, and sometimes their employers, to go from one cottage to another. It could be a tricky stretch of walking, with several dark, delightfully frightening tunnels, and, far below, the sea pounding on jagged rocks left by some long-ago glacier. But she wasn’t afraid. She’d traveled this way many times before, on her way to meet him.
He’d always fascinated her, though she’d known he shouldn’t. But then, the forbidden had always thrilled her, so circumscribed was her life. Somewhere along the way, what had started as a thrill had turned into something more. She supposed some people would call it love, doubtful though she was that such an emotion even existed. Whatever it was, it had made her toss caution to the winds. Now she would finally have the life she’d always wanted.
A tiny sound behind her made her turn, and for the first time unease crept into her triumph. No one was there. Oh, perhaps a gull, landing with its meal of crab or something else, but no person. Only shadows. Nothing was going to happen to her, not on this night of nights, and again she threw back her head and laughed. Anyone seeing her would, at first glance, take her for a maid in her black dress and crisp white apron, but he knew better. He knew she could ruin him if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to, and tonight he had agreed, surprisingly easily, to all her demands. Her parents would be horrified, but what choice would they have? She had, at long last, won.
Clouds ghosted across the moon, momentarily dimming her view, and behind her there was another sound, as of a rock falling, falling to the restless waves below. Again she whirled, shock surging through her. “Who’s there?” Again, there was no one. Was there? Didn’t that shadow look like someone—oh, nonsense! But her skin tingled and her back tightened as she hurried on, no longer exulting, wishing she had brought a lantern to light her way. It was late, high time for her to be home. There she could rejoice, there she could celebrate-
It was unmistakable this time, a footfall, measured and deliberate. Following her. She made a noise, a small cry, and broke into a run, hampered by her petticoats and the heavy serge skirt, no longer trying to avoid any stray rocks in her path. She was careful only to stay far from the cliff edge and the sheer drop to the sea. Home, and safety, and—yes, more footsteps, running, pursuing her. Too late she remembered the events of the past month, too late she recalled the gruesome fate met by other young maids walking alone on the Cliff Walk, late at night. But I’m not a maid, she thought, and whirled to face her pursuer.
The breath went out of her in a great woosh! of relief. “Oh!” She put her hand to her heart. “You gave me such a start! Do you know, for a moment there I thought you were—what are you doing? No, don’t-”
One black-gloved hand shoved at her mouth, suffocating her, pushing her back against the cliff wall. Stones scattered everywhere as she struggled, her feet shuffling and kicking, and nearby some nocturnal creature, disturbed by the noise, rustled in the bushes. Another gloved hand caught her throat, and there was an odd sound, a gurgle that might only have been the tide rushing out of some hidden cave far below. A whisper of sound, starched cotton crinkling, a thump of something falling, and then silence.
And, far below, the surf crashed on the rocks.
Chapter 1
Detective Matthew Devlin felt tired. In the bright morning sun he looked down at the crumpled form lying on the dirt path, and resisted the urge to rub his hand over his face. Another one. The fourth maid strangled in less than a month, and no one cared. Except him.
His face a still mask, he crouched beside the body, not touching it, studying it for clues. Rigor mortis had set in, indicating that she had been dead for some time, while the bruises on her throat gave him a clear idea of how she had died. Behind him the police artist carefully sketched the scene so that they would have a record of it later. Other police were at work as well, one talking to the sobbing girl who had had the misfortune to find the body, while the retired patrolman who guarded the nearby estate kept the reporters and the curious at bay past the hastily erected rope barricades. All respected both the detective’s silent scrutiny and his anger. Matt Devlin’s Irish temper was legendary among the Newport police.
Poor little girl, he thought, studying the victim’s hand impassively. Matt was good at hiding his feelings; he had to be. Studying a crime scene was part of his job. The rage and sorrow he felt, however, was real: overwhelming sorrow for the victim, overwhelming rage at whoever had caused her death. She’d fought her attacker, judging by her fingernails, which were broken, torn and tinged blue by asphyxiation. Those that weren’t, though, were perfect ovals, with a shine that could have come only from long hours of patient attention. Matt grunted in surprise, the first emotion he’d shown all day. A maid with long nails? He touched the small, cold hand. Slender, shapely, soft and white. Not a working hand. Not at all the hand of a maid.
The thought chilled him. He glanced away, absently watching the uniformed patrolmen at their tasks. He wouldn’t be one of them again, wearing heavy blue wool buttoned to the throat in this heat, he thought irrelevantly, before forcibly reminding himself of what he had to do. Rubbing a finger across his mustache, he studied the body again. It sprawled in the indignity of death, the head, propped up by the cliff wall, lolling forward, the skirts of the uniform rucked up to reveal heavy black wool stockings and high laced shoes. Lying nearby was the one piece of evidence that conclusively linked this murder to the others, the one clue. A single red rose. One had been found carefully placed by each of the bodies. What it meant was anybody’s guess, although Matt had a sinking feeling he knew. For it was not a rambling rose, plucked from one of the bushes that grew in abundance along the Cliff Walk. It was, instead, full-blown and perfect, deep blood red. A hothouse rose, beyond the means of most people. A rich person’s rose. It was an important clue, and yet the girl’s fingernails, mute testimony to her futile struggle for life, jarred him more. He had a feeling that the case had just taken a drastic change.
Abruptly, he rose. Though all the bodies had been found on the Cliff Walk, none had been at the same place. Here the Walk dipped several feet below the level of the property it passed, though the small rise didn’t block his view. Across a broad, velvety swath of lawn, he could see a cottage. Cottage. Ha. Newport had been a summer resort for many years, but it was only recently that the wealthy had discovered the town and had descended upon it in droves. Vanderbilts, Astors, Lorillards—all these and more found it stylish to spend the summer here. Along Bellevue Avenue and Ocean Avenue, at Ochre Point and Brenton Point, fabulous houses were being bui
lt, each outrivaling the other with their lavish use of marble, gilt and antiques. Not Matt’s idea of a cottage.
Using the eraser of his pencil, he turned the page of his notebook, and then looked up at the house. Belle Mer, this “cottage” was called, and its construction had been the talk of Newport for the past two years, the largest house the town had yet seen. Massive and solid, an interpretation of an Italian palazzo, with colonnades and loggias looking out over the sea, it looked out of place on this rocky stretch of the New England coast. It was common knowledge that Belle Mer had over seventy rooms, its own generator for electricity, and more staff than a person could count. Because the murder had taken place nearby, everyone inside, staff and owners alike, would have to be interviewed. Not that they’d tell him much. So far the wealthy people who had employed the murdered girls hadn’t been cooperative. Apparently it was beneath their dignity to talk to a common policeman.
The girl who had found the body looked up, her eyes red with weeping, when he crouched before her. Like the murder victim, she, too wore the black dress and crisp white apron of a maid. “I’m Detective Devlin,” he said. “I understand you found the body, Miss-?”
“Machado,” the girl said, her voice lightly accented with the rhythms of her native Portugal. “Teresa Machado.”
Matt nodded; her name and address would already have been noted by one of his team. “You’re local?”
“Yes, sir. Fall River. I wish I was there now.”
Matt let a smile appear briefly on his face. With witnesses it didn’t hurt to let up a little, especially if they were female. It tended to make them open up more, tell what they knew more easily. Matt was well aware of the effect his Black Irish looks had on people and was not averse to using them. “I don’t blame you. I won’t keep you long, Miss Machado, and then you can go.”
“Thank you, sir.” The girl let out a shaky breath. “The mistress’ll probably sack me after this. I was supposed to be back a long time ago.”
“You work at-?”
“Seacliff. I told this to that man already.”
“Yes, I know, and I’ll read his report. But, humor me, Miss Machado.” He smiled, and was glad to see her smile back, if uncertainly. “You were on an errand?”
“Yes. I’m a parlormaid. Mrs. Madison, she’s the housekeeper, sent me to The Beeches for something, and of course I took the Walk. We always do.”
“Of course.” Matt nodded encouragingly. The Cliff Walk had been used by the citizens of Newport long before the wealthy had made it their playground; it would be used long after they were gone. “You didn’t hear anything? Any screams?”
“Yes,” she said, surprising him; the girl had been dead long before Teresa Machado had come along. “But it was only a gull. I seen the gulls before I saw her. Thought it was a bundle of rags, at first.” Her voice trailed off, and she buried her head in her hands. Matt leaned back, waiting. “It was only when I got closer that I seen...”
“Easy.” He laid a hand on her arm. Her eyes squeezed shut and he thought his sympathy would be her undoing, but then she seemed to shake herself.
“It was awful. The gulls, they was all around her. I chased ‘em away, and then I ran up there”—she indicated Belle Mer with a jerk of her thumb—“to get help. But I knew she was dead, the way her eyes popped out.” She looked up at him, her throat working. “Is it the same man? Is he going to go on killing maids until no one’s left? Why don’t you stop him?”
“We will.” His face grim, Matt rose, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded. Four weeks, four dead girls. A month since New York’s wealthy had arrived for the summer. He didn’t like the conclusion that was forming in his mind. The chief would like it even less. “One more thing, Miss Machado, and then you can go. Do you know her?”
“The dead girl? Never seen her before in my life. If she’s a maid, she’s one of them New York ones.”
“‘If’?” he said sharply. “You think she isn’t?”
The girl gaped at him. “Don’t know, sir. Don’t know what made me say that. The way she’s dressed, of course she’s a maid.”
Matt nodded, to signal to the patrolman on guard that Teresa Machado could leave. So something about the dead girl had aroused her suspicions as well. He didn’t like this situation at all. “Let me know when Dr. Chandler gets here. I’m going up there,” he said, jerking his head toward Belle Mer. “Charlie, come with me.”
“Yes, Cap.” Charlie Sweeney, red-haired, freckle-faced, deceptively young-looking, fell into step beside Matt as they walked the narrow path past the barricade. Where the Cliff Walk intersected with the street, filled now with police carriages and the horse-drawn police ambulance, was an impressive set of wrought iron and brass gates, leading to Belle Mer. “Need a chaperon?”
Matt gave him a look. “I need you to take notes,” he said, as if this weren’t a routine they’d perfected over the past few weeks. “And don’t call me ‘Cap’. I’m not the captain yet.”
“Yes, Cap. I mean, sir. Plus you want someone with a face that won’t scare people off.”
“Sometimes people deserve to be scared.” Matt’s tone was mild as they crossed the lawn, heading toward the house.
“Well, don’t scare these people, Cap. Remember what happened last time, when you interviewed the last one’s boss. Mrs. Belmont, remember?”
Matt frowned. “Only trying to do my job.”
“Uh-huh. And the Belmonts complained to the chief, and he chewed you out, and you chewed me out. Rather not get one of your lectures again.” They walked along in silence for a moment. “How long do you think the chief will keep you on this case, if you keep getting these people mad?”
“I don’t care what they do,” Matt said sharply. “Even if they have money, they have to talk to us.”
“Well, it’s your funeral, Cap.”
Silence fell again. “What did Mr.-” Matt looked down at his notes, “do to earn his money?”
“Olmstead. Nothing. He-”
“Olmstead?”
“Yeah.” Charlie looked up at him. “What about it?”
“Nothing. Go on. How did he make his money?”
“He didn’t. It’s an old Knickerbocker family. The fortune comes from land first, and then the China trade. Henry Olmstead spends most of his time in the Reading Room. He likes his whiskey. I hear—Jeez!”
“What?”
“Look at that, will you.” Charlie pointed toward the house. On the terrace a man catapulted off a slanting board, turned a somersault in midair, and landed on his feet, his arms upraised. Another man turned a cartwheel, while still another vaulted off the board and onto the shoulders of the first man. Then all three stopped and stood together, pointing toward the board and arguing. Past them, on the lawn, small brightly colored tents had been set up in two orderly rows, with equally colorful flags strung between them, and workmen were busy erecting lightpoles and signs. The atmosphere was unmistakably, and incongruously, that of a carnival.
Matt and Charlie exchanged looks. “I thought I’d seen everything,” Charlie said. “This should be interesting.”
“Or insane.” Matt eyed the tents with eyebrows lowered as they passed by. “God save me from the rich.”
“You’re a Newport cop, Cap. Means you’re going to have to come up against them from time to time.”
“Yes, but I don’t have to like it.” They had reached the house now. Going down a few steps, below ground level, he knocked on the door. “Might be we’ll find some answers here.”
“You don’t think someone here did it? One of the staff?”
“I doubt it. I think we have something a lot more serious on our hands, Charlie.”
Charlie made a noise of surprise, but was stopped from answering when the door was opened by a short, stout woman. “Yes, what is it now—oh, it’s you. Cops.”
Matt nodded as he stepped inside, taking off his bowler hat. Before him was a short hallway, and beyond that an enormous kitchen. He stopped,
surveying the room. Never knew what might be important in a murder case, especially if the girl had come from here. Five huge iron stoves took up most of one wall, with flues leading upward, while against another wall a counter covered in zinc awaited dishes that would need to be kept hot or cold, until it was time to serve them. Above, copper pots hung from racks suspended from the tin ceiling. The people who had been at work, a maid arranging flowers at the soapstone sink, a man in shirtsleeves and striped vest polishing silver, a woman rolling out pastry at a long table topped with marble, had stopped what they were doing and were staring. “We’d like to see the owners of the house. You are-?”
“Aggie Smith, the housekeeper. That’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Olmstead. Mr. Olmstead’s out, and her ladyship never gets up this time of morning.” Her eyes were avid with curiosity. “Should I wake her and tell her what you want?”
“I’ll take them, Mrs. Smith.” The man who had been polishing silver came toward them, shrugging into a frock coat. “I am Hutton, the butler. Is this about the body?”
Matt nodded. “Yes.”
“Then you’ll want to speak with Miss Cassidy. She is in the Italian Hall. If you’11 follow me, please.”
“Do you suppose there’s a French hall, or an English one?” Sweeney whispered. Matt gestured him to silence with his hand. “Miss Cassidy is the niece,” he added under his breath.
“I know,” Matt said. His smile was ironic. “I think we’re in for our first piece of luck.”
“How so, Cap?” Charlie asked as they followed Hutton from the kitchen up a narrow flight of iron stairs, into the main part of the house. Here the floor was of highly polished parquet, and on it a huge porcelain urn was placed almost casually against the wall. To the side and above him rose the bulk of a broad, freestanding marble staircase, with, of all things, a working fountain tucked in the sloping space underneath. “I think—Jeez, will you look at that?” Just ahead was an enormous room, set off from the corridor by a row of columns. The ceiling soared high above, a good two stories. Running around the walls halfway up were galleries, hung with garlands of flowers and, of all things, clown masks. Charlie’s mouth fell open. “Fifteen generations of my ancestors in Ireland could live in that room. And that vase. Do you suppose it’s real gold?”
