by Mary Kruger
“Oh, sir, I couldn’t never forget that voice, long as I live. To hear him calling my name like that.” She shuddered. “It’s lucky I was that cop came along when he did. Even if he did think I was a streetwalker.”
“Did you get a good look at the man who attacked you?”
“No, sir. It all happened so fast and it was dark in the alley. I—ow.” She put her hand to her throat. “It hurts.”
“Here, drink this.” Mrs. Smith bustled over, a glass of honey and lemon mixed with water in her hand. “It will help.”
“Thanks.” Annie grimaced as she sipped at the mixture.
“Let me see your bruises, Annie,” Matt said.
Mrs. Smith glared at him. “Can’t you leave the poor girl alone?”
“Mrs. Smith.” Brooke rose, going over to the housekeeper and putting a hand on her arm. “Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll see to Annie.”
“And leave you alone with these—men?” Her sniff told exactly what she thought of Matt and Charlie. “I don’t think so, miss.”
“Mrs. Smith.” Brooke fixed her with a stern look. “Go to bed.”
To everyone’s surprise, Mrs. Smith turned and walked out of the kitchen without a word of protest. “Well,” Brooke said, bemused, “that’s the first time she’s ever listened to me.”
“You sounded like Mrs. Olmstead, miss,” Annie said.
“What? Good heavens. Well, never mind.” She sat down. “Matt, what do we do now? Should I notify Detective Tripp?
“No,” Matt and Charlie said at once, making the women look at them in surprise. “No,” Matt went on. “How do you think our culprit found out about Annie?”
Brooke’s eyes widened. “Do you mean Mr. Tripp-”
“He’s been going around talking with all the cottagers, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, but how do you know that?”
“I know that we didn’t tell anyone outside the department that Annie heard anything. But, Tripp.” He snorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s told a lot more than he should.”
“But that’s terrible! It could have gotten Annie killed.”
“It nearly did. Remember, though, he doesn’t think a cottager did it. Now.” Matt leaned forward. “Let me see those bruises, Annie.” Annie unwrapped the towels and he studied her neck. “Hm. A little darker on this side.” He pointed at the left side of her neck, and she flinched. “Sorry. When he grabbed you, where was he? In front or behind?”
Annie closed her eyes, as if trying to remember. “In front at first, because I looked down and saw his feet. But once he grabbed me, he was behind me.”
“So his hands were around your neck like this.” Matt demonstrated on his own throat, and Annie shuddered. “And the left side is darker.”
“Does that matter?” Brooke asked.
“Yes. I wish we could have Dr. Chandler look at these, but—what do you think, Charlie?”
“They look the same,” Charlie said. His voice was even, but his face was red with anger. “Dammit, if I could catch him I’d-”
“Now, Charlie,” Matt said mildly. “We’ll get him. Looks like you’re right, Annie. It was the Cliff Walk killer.”
“Dear God,” Brooke said. “If he knows about her, then he knows where she lives. She can’t stay here. She’ll be in danger.”
“But, miss, where would I go?” Annie protested.
“My parents would take you in,” Matt said. “Unless...”
“Unless what?” Brooke prompted.
“You’re the only witness we have, Annie.” He faced her directly. “The only one who can identify the Cliff Walk killer.”
“So she has to be kept safe.”
“Yes. Except that all she knows of him is his voice. If she stayed here...”
“Matt, you’re not suggesting giving the killer another chance!”
“No,” Charlie said at the same moment. “We’re supposed to protect civilians, not put them in danger.”
“Dammit, Charlie, it’s all we have. If she can identify him-”
“I won’t put her in danger. If you go on with this, detective, I’ll have to tell the chief.”
The two men glared at each other. “Doesn’t anybody care what I think?” Annie said, her voice small in the tense silence. “I think Mr. Devlin’s right.”
“No,” Charlie barked at her. “You could be killed. I won’t let that happen.”
Annie tossed her head and then winced. “Well, it’s my life, isn’t it, sergeant?”
“Annie, you don’t mean that you’d want to stay here,” Brooke said. “Not when the killer knows where you are.”
“Oh, miss. It scares me to death. But,” her chin was outthrust, “he’s got to be stopped. If I can help, I want to.”
“Matt, you can’t do this. You’re not even on the force anymore.”
“I’m still a cop.” Matt’s face was grim. “I’m not walking away from this. Look, Charlie.” He leaned forward. “The man is getting desperate if he’d follow Annie and attack her in a crowd.”
“I don’t like it.” Charlie’s face was stony. “If he’d do that, what’s to stop him from coming to Belle Mer?”
“He probably has,” Brooke said. “If he’s a cottager, he’s been here.”
“That’s a good point. He couldn’t do anything here, not if he’s well known.”
“It’s a big estate,” Charlie argued. “Plenty of places he could go without being seen. He’ll come after her.”
“And then she can tell us who he is. She’s our only chance-”
“No. She can’t stay here. I won’t let her.”
“It’s not your decision, sergeant,” Annie said, her raspy voice startling them. “Mr. Devlin’s right. If I’m the only one who can identify him, then I have to do it.”
Charlie leaned forward. “I don’t want you to be hurt, Annie.”
Annie’s gaze softened. “I’ll be fine, sergeant. I’ll stay inside where he can’t get me.”
“The place is guarded,” Matt put in, “and you could arrange for more protection, Charlie.”
“Dammit.” Charlie glared at him. “Yeah, I could, but I don’t like it.” He looked back at Annie. “You sure?”
“Yes.” Annie rose. “If no one minds, I think I’ll go to bed now.”
“No, do go, Annie,” Brooke said, walking with her to the door. “You must be exhausted. I’ll talk to Mrs. Smith about letting you take it easy for a few days.”
“Oh, no, miss. I’ll carry on as usual.” She looked back into the room. “Good night, miss. Mr. Devlin, sergeant.”
“Good night, Annie.” Charlie remained standing, gazing after Annie. “She’s a brave woman.”
Matt’s eyebrows rose at that, and Brooke, sitting down again, frowned. “Yes. I hope you know what you’re doing, Matt.”
“So do I.” Charlie’s gaze sharpened. “If she’s hurt, detective, it’ll be on your head.”
“She won’t be, Charlie,” Matt said, his voice surprisingly mild. “Thanks for letting me know about this. We might solve this thing yet.”
“Yeah. Well.” Charlie picked up his helmet. “I’d better get back to the station before they start wondering where I am.”
“Charlie,” Matt called after him. “Not a word to Tripp about this.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Charlie said, and went out.
Silence fell in the kitchen in the wake of his departure. “Heavens, what a night,” Brooke murmured.
“Yes.” Matt rose. “I’d better go, too. The fewer people who know I’ve been here, the better.”
Brooke accompanied him to the door. “What will happen if you’re found out?”
“God knows. Dismissal from the force, at any rate. But I can’t let this go.”
“I know. Neither can I.”
“Brooke.” His voice was abrupt. “I’m sorry about what happened with your uncle. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes. I know you did what you thought was right.”
“What is this?” Matt caught her hand and stared at it, his gaze sharp now.
“Matt-”
“A diamond ring.” He looked up at her. “I gather congratulations are in order?”
“I—yes.” She pulled her hand free. “It just happened tonight.”
“Payson?”
“Yes.”
“Dammit, he’s a suspect, Brooke.”
“He was on a yacht in the harbor tonight, with me,” she retorted. “Or do you think I’d lie to protect him?”
“No.” He turned away. “No, of course not. My best wishes, Brooke.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice stiff.
“I’ll be in touch with you about Annie.”
“Of course.”
“Well.” He hesitated, as if about to say something, and then reached for the door. “Good night, then.”
“Good night,” Brooke replied, and closed the door after him, utterly weary, utterly dispirited. The long night was over, she thought as she headed for her room. God only knew what tomorrow would bring.
Detective Tripp breezed into the servants’ sitting room at Claremont, the Sinclair’s cottage, and the people who had gathered there for midmorning tea or coffee looked up in surprise and suspicion, cups arrested halfway to their lips, conversations halted in mid-breath. “Well.” Tripp beamed at them, hands clasped behind his back as he rose up on the balls of his feet and then settled back, again and again. Behind him stood a tall, burly patrolman, and Claremont’s guard, looking as concerned as the staff. “So here you all are.”
Graves, the butler, recovered first. “Is there something we can do for you, sir?” he asked, rising, his demeanor as unruffled as the tails of his morning coat.
“Sit down.” Tripp’s voice was sharp. “I shall ask the questions. Now.” Hands still behind his back, he prowled about the room. “I’ve had my eye on you all a long time. You.” He spun around and pointed to a maid. “What’s your name?”
“M-me, sir?”
“Yes, you. Stand up. Are you deaf? Stand up.”
“That would be Rachel, Mr. Tripp,” Mrs. Dooley, the housekeeper, said. “There’s no need to go bullying her.”
“When I want your opinion I shall ask for it. Now, Rachel. Was it your uniform Miss Sinclair wore?”
Rachel’s head was up, her eyes defiant. If she were remembering a similar interview several weeks earlier at Belle Mer, she gave no sign. “No.”
“No?” He gave her a piercing look, which she met steadily. “I think you’re lying, but I’m not here for that. Not today.” He let the silence stretch out before he turned. “Which one of you is Thomas Pierce?”
An uneasy silence fell over the room, and from the back there was a shuffling sound as Tom rose. “That’s me.”
“Is it? Slacking off, are you?”
“No, sir.” Tom’s gaze was stolid, though he twisted his cap in his hands. “I always come in for coffee at this time.”
“That’s right.” Tripp paced back and forth in front of him. “I knew that, see? I know everything about you.”
Tom swallowed. “Sir?”
“You’re a gardener, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Know something about roses, do you?”
“Roses? Well, yes, I guess I do.”
Tripp wheeled around, stopping directly before Tom, and though Tripp was shorter, he didn’t seem at all intimidated. “Of course you do. What is this?”
Thomas pulled his head back to look at the withered flower Tripp held up. “Looks like a rose, sir.”
“Looks like a rose, does it? Of course it’s a rose, you idiot.”
Thomas reared back again, this time from the scorn and menace in Tripp’s voice. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, Mr. Tripp,” Graves said from the other side of the room. “What’s this about?”
“Be quiet,” Tripp barked. “I am conducting an interrogation. Unless you want me to take you in for obstructing justice? No? I didn’t think so. Now. You, Pierce, were keeping company with Maureen Quick.”
Thomas’s face grew even more stolid. “Yes, sir.”
“And you cannot account for your movements the night of her death.”
“I was here, sir.”
“Were you?” Tripp sneered. “No one remembers seeing you.”
“I was here.”
“What about the others, eh? The other maids.” He paused for what seemed like a very long time. “Miss Sinclair.”
“Mr. Tripp, I must insist,” Graves began.
“Be quiet! Now. I didn’t come here today to chat. I came to make an arrest.”
Gasps went up around the room, and conversation broke out in anxious whispers. “An arrest, sir?” Graves said.
“Yes,” Tripp said, and spun around. “Thomas Pierce, I am arresting you for the killings on the Cliff Walk.”
Chapter 13
Annie burst into Brooke’s room as Brooke was finishing dressing for luncheon at Beechwood, with Mrs. Astor. “Oh, miss, did you hear? There’s been an arrest!”
Brooke turned from the mirror, scattering combs and hairpins about. “What? Who?”
“Tom Pierce, miss, him that’s gardener at Claremont.”
“A gardener! But why?”
“For the Cliff Walk killings, miss.” Annie put a hand to her throat. The bruises there were nearly covered by her starched uniform collar, but those that showed had turned a rainbow of colors. “He was keeping company with one of the girls who got killed, see, and I guess with that and working at Claremont-”
“But he didn’t do it.”
“I know. Oh, miss, what do we do?”
“I don’t know.” Brooke sank down on her dressing table stool. “Oh, this is terrible. That poor man.” She looked up. “Where did you hear this?”
“Everyone knows it, miss. I-”
“Have you heard the good news, Brooke?” Winifred sailed into the room, her chihuahuas tumbling behind her, barking. “They’ve finally arrested the Cliff Walk Killer.”
“Yes, Annie was just telling me.”
“Imagine, a common gardener! And that Devlin person had the nerve to arrest your uncle.”
“Aunt, what if Thomas Pierce didn’t do it?”
“Didn’t do it? Of course he did. Pray don’t talk nonsense, Brooke. Now. Are you nearly ready to go?”
“Yes. Just let me do my hair.”
“If you would let a maid do that, it would get done faster. And neater.” Brooke, her mouth filled with hairpins, couldn’t reply, and so Winifred went on. “Well! Now we can be assured that our ball will be a success.”
Brooke started. The ball. With all the excitement she had forgotten about their upcoming ball, and what it was to celebrate. The ring on her finger was a visible reminder. She had a sudden urge to pull it from her finger and throw it across the room. “Yes. Aunt, I don’t think-”
“Good. Don’t think. It will make you late. I shall wait for you downstairs,” Winifred said, and sailed majestically out of the room.
Brooke stared after her, torn between amusement, exasperation and annoyance, all underlaid by unease. An ordinary gardener couldn’t have done the killings on the Cliff Walk. He couldn’t have. He certainly wouldn’t have been the man Rosalind had met in disguise. Brooke caught Annie’s gaze, reflected in the mirror, and her unease grew. This wasn’t over.
The Cliff Walk killer had been found! Newspaper headlines blared the news, but even before that the story flew across the city. He’d been caught and put in jail, and everyone in town breathed in relief. No longer would decent citizens have to fear for their safety. And of course, the cottagers assured each other, they’d known al
l along he had to be a servant of some sort, since only someone from the lower classes would commit such a crime. Thank heavens that was over. Life could go on as before.
The police station was besieged by reporters demanding to know the details of the arrest. Detective Tripp, twirling the ends of his mustache, was happy to oblige. He was equally happy to stand up in court the following day when Thomas Pierce was arraigned, in front of a crowd even larger than the one which had come to see Henry Olmstead. Chief of Police Read, relieved that an arrest had been made and that his job was safe, received the congratulations of the mayor and of local politicians. And, quietly and without any publicity, Matt Devlin returned to his job at the police station.
His office had a musty air, even though he’d only been gone just over a week. The charts he had so painstakingly constructed to keep track of the Cliff Walk killings suspects still hung on the wall, but his desk was free of its usual litter of papers. That would change soon enough, once he got back into the rhythm of the work. It was good to be back, he thought, looking about the small, square room. He only wished the circumstances were better.
An odor of pipe tobacco warned him of who was coming. “Well.” Tripp stood in the doorway, hands on hips, pipe clenched between his teeth. “Heard you were back.”
Matt leaned back in his chair. He was not going to let Tripp annoy him, no matter what he said. “As you see.”
Tripp went to stand in front of the charts, studying them with his hands clasped behind his back. “You won’t be needing these any longer.”
Matt picked up a pencil and then let it drop, once, twice. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He looked over his shoulder at Matt. “Didn’t you hear, old man? I solved the case.”
“Maybe,” Matt said again, still toying with the pencil.
“No maybe about it. Solid police work, that’s what I used. Found out all I could about Pierce—you did know he has a record for assault, didn’t you? —and he fit what I was looking for to a T. None of your guesswork for me. Nosiree. Solid police work, as I said.”
“Except that you arrested the wrong man.”
Some of the glow went out of Tripp’s grin, but he put his head back and laughed, anyway. “The wrong man! That’s rich, coming from you. Ha, ha, the wrong man. Well, the chief doesn’t seem to think so, and neither does the attorney general. We’ve got our man, Devlin, the right man.”
