by Mary Kruger
“Don’t know, miss.” Annie’s eyes wouldn’t meet Brooke’s. “I’m done here, miss. Can I go back to the kitchen now?”
“I—yes. No, wait.” There was one logical place where Rosalind could have gotten the uniform. Her own home. “Did she get it from one of the maids at Claremont?”
Annie’s eyes flickered. “Dunno, miss. Can I go now?”
Brooke gazed at her a moment. Annie’s eyes were guileless, but something about the way she held herself, with her arms crossed, told a different story. Clearly Annie knew something. Just as clearly, she wasn’t going to say what it was. “You’ll have to tell the police what you heard.”
“Me? Not on your life! I mean, beggin’ your pardon, miss, no.”
“Why not?”
“You think they’ll believe me? Me, a maid, accusing someone wealthy?”
“I think Detective Devlin would.”
“No, miss. I don’t think anyone would. Anyway, it’s better not to get mixed up with cops.”
“Annie-”
“I gotta go, miss,” Annie said, and practically ran from the dining room, leaving Brooke to stare after her in frustration. Two people she had talked to tonight knew something that might help the investigation, and neither would talk to the police. In a strange way, she understood their reluctance: Annie’s conviction that she wouldn’t be believed; Miles, with the self-assurance of the wealthy, believing the investigation was beneath him. He wasn’t the only cottager who felt that way; from what she had heard tonight in conversation, she doubted that any had cooperated fully with the police. Earlier that wouldn’t have mattered, but now, hearing what Annie knew...
Shuddering, Brooke turned away and walked, almost in a trance, into the Italian Hall, her arms crossed and her hands chafing her skin, as if for warmth. People were beginning to drift into the Hall, their voices echoing against the high ceiling, but she hardly noticed. If Annie were right, the murderer could be a cottager. It was hard to believe, almost impossible, and yet- And yet her father hadn’t tried to protect her from human nature, and she had grown up knowing that the wealthy were as capable of wrongdoing as anyone else. She’d certainly seen evidence of that herself, though never anything this serious. It would be futile to press Annie to tell her story. That meant that Brooke, the only other person with the information, would have to do so.
She stopped dead. “Brooke?” a voice said, and she looked up to see Eliot. “Are you all right?”
“What? Yes.” Of course she had to go to the police. It was what her father would have expected her to do. In fact, had he lived and had she been a boy, she’d probably be on the force herself by now, making him proud of her at last.
“Brooke,” Eliot said again.
“What?” She blinked, and he came into focus. “Yes, Eliot, what is it?”
“I asked if you’re all right. You’re pale.”
“Am I?” She put a hand to her cheek. “It’s rather chilly, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think so. Well, never mind, so long as you’re all right. Once everyone’s inside your aunt wants us to start the dancing.”
“Yes, of course.” She placed her hand on his arm, letting him lead her deeper into the Hall. Tonight she had to go through with this farce of a ball. Tomorrow, however, was another story. She would go to Matt with what she knew, and she didn’t care what her aunt, or anyone else, would say. She rather thought her father would have been proud of her.
The Newport police station was located on an unpaved street near the waterfront, down Market Square from City Hall and the custom house, facing the old Trinity Church. Though it wasn’t far from Bellevue Avenue and its mansions, this area of town was another world. True, nearby was the harbor where the trials for the prestigious America’s Cup race were held, as well as the wharves for the great steamers of the Fall River Line, with their wealthy passengers from New York. There were also, however, the piers of the fishing fleet; the landing for the ferry from Jamestown, on Conanicut, the island across the bay; and, farther down, the Torpedo Station and the docks belonging to the Navy. Newport’s lifeline had always been the sea. It always would be.
In the winter the town was generally quiet, except for the occasional barroom brawl on Thames Street. None of your high-class folk there; this was the Newport of the townies, the men who went fishing in all kinds of weather, the tradesmen who charged exorbitant prices in the summer and then saw their business fall off come autumn. This Newport had survived invasion by the British during the Revolution, and lustily fought the rival city of Providence for the honor of being capital of Rhode Island. This city had its own concerns. In the winter, Newport slept, both dreading and anticipating the return of the summer residents.
In the summer, though, in the summer things were very different. The narrow, dusty streets leading down to the harbor and the wide paved avenues near the mansions were filled with traffic of all descriptions: drays, barouches, victorias, even the rare electric motor car, driven with magnificent disdain by liveried coachmen. No one knew when the tension that was always present between the summer folk and the townies would break out. By and large each group kept apart, but there was the occasional clash between wealthy young men out on the town, and local residents. There were also times when the wilder, or more eccentric, of the summer residents would do something outrageous, such as the time one man rode his horse onto the piazza of the Reading Room, that staid and exclusive bastion of Newport gentlemen escaping from their females. Accidents were common, and so was theft. During those hectic two months in the summer, the Newport police were often hard-pressed to keep up with their duties. Too often those duties included mollifying the summer residents, who had the wealth, and the power, to demand special treatment. No one on the force liked it; no one was pleased that the two worlds had collided again.
In his small, cluttered office in the station house, Matt leaned back in his creaking wooden chair, rubbing a finger across his mustache. It was Sunday morning, a time of rest for most people, but in the station house it mostly meant that those who had been arrested the night before for disorderliness or other minor infractions were being released. “All right, Tom,” Matt said, his voice genial. “Let’s go over it again.”
Tom Pierce, the man sitting across the desk from Matt, hunched his shoulders and turned his cap around in his hands again. “Don’t know nothin’,” he muttered.
“I don’t believe that. You know where you were the night before last, don’t you?”
“Told you. I was in my room.”
“Mm-hm.” Pierce not only had been keeping company with Maureen Quick, the first girl murdered, but also was employed at Claremont as a gardener, placing him high on the list of suspects. He could have done it, too, Matt thought, sizing him up. He was a big man, almost hulking, with broad shoulders and strong hands that could easily choke the life out of a small woman. Matt could well believe that he was the culprit, except for two things: the almost delicate way his long fingers held his cap, and the look of misery in his eyes whenever Maureen was mentioned. “Did anyone see you there?”
“I was alone. Told you that before, too.”
“But no one saw you go in your room, Tom.” Matt’s voice was soft. “We asked. No one. Not only that, someone knocked on your door at 12:30, and there was no answer.” He paused. “Want to tell us where you really were?”
“In my room.”
“You’re lying.” Matt’s voice hardened, causing Pierce to shift uneasily in his chair. “Do you know where I think you were? I think you were on the Cliff Walk.”
“No.”
“I can understand what happened with Maureen. You had an argument. Maybe she told you she wanted to see someone else and you lost your temper. It wouldn’t be the first time a man has strangled a woman for that reason.”
Pierce looked wildly about the room at the accusation, as if seeking escape. “I would never have hurt Maureen! Ask anyone. Ask her friends.”
“Oh, we did.” Matt bared his
teeth in a smile. “They say you got jealous when you saw her flirting with someone else and you hit her.”
“She deserved it,” Pierce said sullenly.
“Did she, now? Did she deserve choking, Tom?” Matt leaned forward. “What was it like, putting your hands around her neck, squeezing, squeezing-”
“I didn’t!” Pierce jumped to his feet. “I swear I didn’t.”
“-and then finding you’d gone too far,” Matt went on. “Must have been a shock, eh? Maybe unhinged you a little bit. So whenever you go on the Cliff Walk and see a maid-”
“No. No.” Pierce shook his head violently from side to side.
“-you remember Maureen and what you did. Isn’t that how it happened, Tom, night before last?”
“No!” Pierce shouted. “I swear to you I wasn’t there!”
“Then where were you?” Charlie put in, quietly. He had been in the room throughout the interrogation, but only now did he speak, prompted by a quick look from Matt.
“I was in my room. I swear.”
“Come on, Tom. We know different,” Matt said, rising as well. He wasn’t as tall as Pierce, but somehow the other man appeared diminished next to Matt’s air of authority. “If you were in your room, why didn’t you answer when someone knocked?”
“Because I was crying!” Pierce shouted, and dropped into the chair, his hands over his face. “I was crying.”
“Crying. Huh. Tough man like you. Do you expect us to believe that?” Matt’s tone was scornful, but over Pierce’s bent head he sent Charlie a look that mingled surprise with resignation. The admission had the ring of truth to it.
“I was.” Pierce looked up, his gaze defiant and sheepish at the same time. “Losing Maureen—well, it was about the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Think I wanted anyone to see me? Oh, I heard him—Lawton, it was, the head gardener. Don’t know why he needed me so late, but he called me a lazy son of a bitch and then went away. I tell you”—Tom raised his head and looked at Matt—“if he called me that at any other time I’d have gone for him. But not then.” Tom’s face was not without dignity. “I was missing Maureen.”
Matt kept his face impassive, in spite of his frustration. Pierce was at last telling them the truth. Not just because Lawton had indeed called him such a name and had proudly said so when Matt interviewed him; but because of what Pierce had claimed to be doing. A man like him wouldn’t easily admit to any weakness. “Take him away,” he said, feeling tired. They weren’t going to accomplish anything more today.
Pierce’s hands bunched into fists. “I’m not letting you arrest me.”
“We’re not arresting you yet.” Matt stared steadily at Pierce. “But don’t go anywhere. We’ll want to talk to you again. Now, get him out of here, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. Come on.” Charlie took Pierce’s arm, and the two men left the room.
Left alone, Matt leaned back for a moment and then rose, crossing the room to study the charts hanging on the wall. Carefully constructed, they listed the movements and whereabouts of every suspect in the case, no matter how unlikely. Matt took a pencil, scribbled something next to Pierce’s name, and then turned away. He didn’t think Pierce was the killer. He wasn’t sure he ever had.
Next to the charts, he had tacked up sketches and photographs, taken by the press, of the four victims. Hands tucked into his pockets, Matt studied them, paying particular attention to the most recent ones. Rosalind Sinclair, as first she had been found; the marks around her neck that indicated strangulation; a larger view showing the entire scene of the crime. Not that Matt was likely to forget any of it, ever, but looking at the sketches might jog his memory, or inspire a line of investigation. This time, however, not even the photographs, which he usually found useful, showed anything he hadn’t yet followed up.
A noise at the door made him turn. “See anything?” William Tripp asked, pulling on his pipe and studying the sketches.
“Some things,” Matt said shortly. In contrast to Tripp’s natty appearance in tweed jacket, with his hair pomaded, Matt was in shirtsleeves and suspenders and already looked rumpled. But then, Matt had never known Tripp to do anything that required hard work.
“I see there was another rose found by the body.” Tripp indicated a sketch with the stem of his pipe. “I assume the bushes nearby were checked to see if any were missing.”
Matt snorted. Of course everything near the crime scene had been thoroughly studied. “Even if one was, it wouldn’t mean anything. The Cliff Walk’s a public way.”
“It would tell us if the murderer came prepared, or picked something handy.” Hands behind his back, Tripp rocked up on his toes and then back down. “It could mean the difference between premeditation, or a crime committed on the spur of the moment. A good detective looks for these things.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Are you? I wouldn’t have let Pierce go. He’s our man.”
“Where’s the evidence?”
“You have to look for it. Mark my words, Devlin, he did it. He had motive, the ability and no alibi.”
“Is there something you want?” Matt said, cutting across his words. “I’m busy.”
“Thought I’d offer my help.”
“Oh?” Matt sat behind the desk. “The chief tell you to?”
“After yesterday, I should think you’d want the benefit of my expertise. Considering how everyone reacted when they found out who the victim was.” He shook his head. “Bad form, letting one of the summer people see the body. You know we try to shield them from things like that.”
“Did Chief Read tell you to help?” Matt repeated.
“No, but he will.” Tripp perched on the edge of Matt’s desk, one leg swinging back and forth. “After all, I did solve that series of burglaries last year.”
Matt snorted again. That had been his case, until Tripp had taken over. Both knew quite well who had really solved it, even if Tripp had taken the credit. Matt’s gaze was steady, and after a moment, Tripp looked away. “I’m busy,” Matt repeated.
“Think about it, Devlin. We both know how you are with the summer people. Ordering the Olmsteads to cancel their party, and those questions you asked Mr. Sinclair about his daughter. You made the girl sound like a common streetwalker. Not well done, Devlin.” Tripp shook his head as he lighted another match, touching it to his pipe. “I heard the chief’s not too pleased with the way you’re handling things.”
“This is my case,” Matt said through gritted teeth. “You’re not going to take it away from me.”
“I wouldn’t think of such a thing. Have you forgotten, though, that we are supposed to work together? You’re not a one-man police force, Devlin.”
“I never claimed to be.” Matt pulled some papers toward him. “I’m busy,” he said, yet again.
Tripp rose at last. “Just remember, if you want my help, I’m available.”
“More reports, Cap,” Sweeney said, breezing in and slapping a sheaf of papers down onto Matt’s scarred desk, already littered with papers. “Morning, Detective Tripp. This is some case. You’re going to make your name with it, Cap.”
“Huh,” Tripp said, and stalked out.
Charlie stared after him. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.” Matt grinned for the first time that day. “You reminded him that he’s not the one getting publicity out of this.”
“Oh.” Charlie grinned back, pulling over a chair and straddling it. “He trying to take over again?”
“As usual.” Matt pulled the reports toward him. “What have we got?”
“Not much. Reports from three of the mansions. Nobody saw nothin’, or so they say.”
“I’m not surprised.” Since yesterday afternoon, teams of patrolmen had been going to all the mansions to interview people, with Charlie supervising.
“What do you think about Pierce, Cap?”
Matt scanned the first report. “I think he was telling the truth.”
“Yeah. So do I.
Doesn’t mean he’s innocent, though.”
“I realize that. Still, I don’t think—these reports are only about the servants,” he said sharply, raising his head and glaring at Charlie. “I thought I said the summer people were to be interviewed, as well.”
“We’ve got problems there, Cap. None of them want to talk to an ordinary patrolman. Some demanded to see the chief.”
“That’s all we need. All right, maybe they’ll talk to me.” He tossed the report back with the others. “I’ll look at that later. What do you think, Charlie?”
“About the cottagers? I think they’re pulling in, Cap. It was different when it was all maids getting killed. Now that it’s one of their own, they’re scared. Getting anything out of them is going to be hard.” Charlie paused. “You’re not going to like this, but I think Tripp’s right about one thing. You don’t handle the cottagers too well. Even I wouldn’t have asked Mr. Sinclair anything when he came to identify the body.”
Matt looked at him and then, reluctantly, nodded. “All right, so maybe that wasn’t the time for that. But they have to cooperate, like everyone else.”
“Yeah, but Cap, they have money, and they’re ruthless. If they don’t like how you handle things, they’ll get the chief to take you off the case.”
“And replace me with who? Tripp? Ha. He wouldn’t have a job if he wasn’t related to an alderman.”
“Same could be said for all of us, Cap. Anyway, he knows how to talk to the cottagers. You want to get anything out of them, you’ll have to be careful.”
“I will be.” He pushed the papers away. “So all we know so far is that Miss Sinclair somehow managed to get herself killed, and no one saw it. No one knows why she was on the Cliff Walk, and no one knows why she was in a maid’s uniform.” He frowned. “Something funny about that.”
“Something funny about all of it. When’s the autopsy report coming in?”
“Chandler said he might have something for us today. At least we know how she died.” He rose, crossing to the sketches and studying them. “It’s about all the victims have in common, except for being maids. Or appearing to be a maid.”
