Death on the Cliff Walk

by Mary Kruger

  “Well, it wouldn’t have been if I’d waited until Miles left to try to call you.”

  “You took about ten years off my life.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and though she never again wanted to experience such terror as she had just felt, already it was fading. With it went the images that had haunted her since Rosalind’s body had been found. “I think we make a good team, don’t you?”

  “Definitely.” Matt grinned down at her. “Come on, partner. Let’s go get this thing settled.”

  Epilogue

  In the months that followed, many articles pertaining to the case of the Cliff Walk killings and the people who had been involved in it appeared in various newspapers.

  From the Newport Daily News, September 2, 1895:

  “POLICE NOTES.

  “Detective Matthew Devlin resigned his position with the Newport police force today. Detective Devlin’s arrest of Miles Vandenberg for the Cliff Walk killings caused upheaval among the force, though Mr. Vandenberg has confessed to the killings. Detective Devlin’s resignation was expected and was accepted by Chief of Police Read.

  “Mr. Devlin will be removing to New York City, where he has been offered a position as detective of the police force there.”

  From the New York Times, December 11, 1895.

  “Miles Vandenberg, of Newport, Rhode Island, was found guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree in Newport yesterday. Mr. Vandenberg was convicted of murdering five women there last summer, Maureen Quick, Kathleen Shannon, Mary Manning, Rosalind Sinclair, and Ellen Farrell. The death of Miss Sinclair, late daughter of Mr. and Mrs. George Sinclair of New York, shocked everyone and brought a large number of spectators to the courtroom to hear the trial. When the verdict was read Mr. Vandenberg showed no emotion, but Mrs. Vandenberg, an invalid, became hysterical and had to be carried from the courtroom. Judge Baker thanked the jury for their time and then lectured Mr. Vandenberg as to the seriousness of his crimes. Mr. Vandenberg was returned to the Marlborough Street Jail to await sentencing on January fourth. He is expected to receive life imprisonment...”

  From the Newport Daily News, December 22, 1895.

  “Miss Brooke Cassidy of New York and Mr. Matthew Devlin, formerly of Newport, were married yesterday at the home of the bride’s uncle, Mr. Henry Olmstead, in New York City. The bride was given in marriage by her uncle. She wore a French gown of ivory satin with a train embroidered with seed pearls and lace. Her veil of Alençon lace is a family heirloom. The bride also carried an ivory fan and a bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath, supplied by Mr. Olmstead from his greenhouse, and wore a pearl choker given her by her aunt. Her maid of honor, Miss Iris Gardner, wore a gown of blue silk and also carried a bouquet of white roses. The parlor where the wedding was held was decorated with white roses and narcissus.

  “The bride is the daughter of the late Michael and Katherine Cassidy of Newport.

  “Mr. Devlin, a detective with the New York police, was attended by Charles Sweeney. After the ceremony a wedding breakfast was held. Guests included Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt II, Mr. and Mrs. Herman Oelrichs, and Mr. and Mrs. Octavius Low. The groom’s parents, Sean and Mary Devlin of Middletown, were present, as was his sister, Mrs. Reilly of Boston.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Devlin plan to take a bridal trip to Europe aboard the American Line ship New York. Upon their return, they will reside in New York.”

  None of the articles mentioned that the new Mrs. Devlin had taken up amateur detecting. That was something New York society would learn soon enough.

  Author’s Note

  One sultry summer afternoon, I paused on the Cliff Walk to gaze across a velvety lawn at one of Newport’s fabulous mansions. As I always did, I imagined myself living in that house. I could see myself gracefully descending a broad marble staircase, wearing a gown of pink silk—and then reality intervened. You’re middle-class, I thought. If you’d lived back then, you probably would have been a maid.

  With my bubble burst, I turned away and began walking again with my friends. But I also remembered stories one of my teachers had told, about people falling off the Cliff Walk and dying. Off in the distance, too, I could see a rather ominous looking house silhouetted against the sky, all gables and chimneys, just the place where a villain would live. Hm. Maids getting killed on the Cliff Walk. Maybe I could do something with that.

  I love Newport, and writing about it was fun. While the book is obviously fiction, I did include some real people. They are Chief of Police Harwood Read, Judge Baker, Colonel Sheffield, Senator Burdick, Captain A. G. Simmons of the Fall River Line, and some of the members of the Four Hundred. Everyone else is fictional.

  Belle Mer is based on an actual house, the Breakers. For purposes of the story, I have made some changes to the layout of the house. I later had the privilege of meeting the late Countess Sylvia Szapáry , great-great-granddaughter of Cornelius Vanderbilt, and, at the time, resident of the private apartments the Vanderbilt family keeps in the mansion. Somewhat flustered, and afraid she’d think me presumptuous for using her house, I told her that I’d changed some things. She looked up at me with sharp, bright eyes, and demanded, “What’s wrong with my house?” Maybe my being a maid all those years ago would have been a good thing. Better that than a parvenu.

  The prototype for the Point is Rough Point, built for Frederick W. Vanderbilt, and later owned by Doris Duke; this is the mansion which loomed so dark against the sky that day in Newport. (I did not meet Doris Duke). Both mansions, as well as many others, are beautifully maintained by the Newport Preservation Society and are open to the public. Anyone visiting the area should make it a point to tour at least one of the mansions, to get a glimpse of a bygone era. And don’t forget to stroll on the Cliff Walk. It really isn’t as frightening as I portrayed it.

  For anyone wishing to learn more about Newport and the society of the time, I recommend reading The Last Resorts, by Cleveland Amory, The Golden Summers, by Richard O’Connor, and The Glitter and the Gold, by Consuelo Vanderbilt Balsan.

  In writing this book, I had help from a great many people. As always, my mother, Madelyn Sweeney Kruger, provided terrific moral support, and was a great help in reading and in proofreading. In research, I had help from Detective Robert Eccleston, New Bedford Police Department, retired; Michael McKenna, Public Affairs Officer, Newport Police Department; Officer Joseph Subin of the Newport Police Department; John Gosson, curator of the Marine Museum at Fall River, MA; and the staffs of the Newport Public Library and the New Bedford Free Public Library. Any mistakes in this book are mine, not theirs.

  I’d also like to thank all my relatives and friends who so kindly allowed me to use their names and, in some cases, to kill them off. I love you all.

  Don’t miss the next chapter in the Gilded Age mystery series, No Honeymoon for Death, coming soon. Read on for an excerpt.

  No Honeymoon for Death

  Prologue

  New York City, 1896

  This damned voyage to Europe was going to ruin everything. Everything. It had taken a lot of work, and a lot of thought, to make plans, to work everything out to the last detail. How did one get rid of someone without becoming a suspect? There were so many problems involved, from the actual deed, to disposing of the body. And then there was the acting. It would be necessary to put up a certain front before others; not just the police, but friends and acquaintances. The police should never be underestimated, either. Corrupt they were, certainly, ignoring all sorts of crimes, as the recent Lexow commission investigations had shown, but smart, too. It meant being careful in every reaction, appearing bewildered, perhaps even a little guilty, as innocent people so often did, but not grief-stricken. Never that. Too much was known about the real state of affairs for that to be plausible.

  And so the plans had proceeded, until this damnable voyage had been proposed. No way to get out of it, either, without looking suspicious, not when one had mentioned so often the desire to go to Europe. The plans would
have to be postponed - but wait. There was one unanticipated piece of luck, and a circumstance that would actually make things easier. It should be possible to think of a way around the problems this voyage posed, for its one major advantage. How much simpler it would be to dispose of a body at sea.

  It would happen aboard the ship, then. The person who had plotted so long, so carefully, sat back, smiling. Yes. The enemy would meet his fate aboard the ship.

  Chapter One

  New York, April 15, 1896

  Matt and Brooke Devlin had the first major quarrel of their married life as they were about to embark on their honeymoon.

  It began, of all things, over Matt’s clothes. Not that he looked shabby. In the months since his marriage he’d acquired a wardrobe that startled him, including a suit from Brooks Brothers and an honest-to-God dinner jacket. He was proudest, however, of the dress blue uniform of a detective sergeant in the New York police department that hung in his closet. Not bad for an Irish boy from Newport’s Fifth Ward. When that Irish lad married a girl from the highest reaches of society, however, his life was bound to change, and that was part of the problem. Sometimes he didn’t feel like himself. Sometimes the privileges of his new life made him uneasy.

  Take this honeymoon, for example. Looking out the window of the hansom cab as it drove along Fifth Avenue to the North River pier where they would board the Atlantic liner New York, Matt frowned. On the face of it, it seemed a reasonable idea: to take time for him and Brooke to be alone, just the two of them, and what more romantic setting than a ship at sea? However, when they were traveling not just first class, but in a suite deluxe, and when the honeymoon was expected to last some three months, it was too much. He had been on the police force only a short time, and now he was taking an extended holiday. If that caused raised eyebrows at headquarters, it was nothing compared to his inner turmoil. He loved his work. He also loved his wife, and marrying her had meant making changes to his life. This change, however, made him feel guilty and uneasy.

  And so, when Brooke had made the perfectly innocent remark that, since she intended to visit the Paris couturiers Matt should look in at a Savile Row tailor, he’d exploded. He was a cop, by God, and an honest one, and that was something hard-come-by in these days, when everyone was routinely on the take. How did she think it looked for him to be away from the job for so long, and he only on the force for seven months? If he wasn’t good enough for her, he concluded bitterly, maybe she shouldn’t have married him.

  Brooke’s stunned silence at this unexpected attack lasted only a moment, and before long they had a proper row going. Now they were settled in opposite corners of the hansom cab, looking out the windows at the congestion caused by traffic at the intersection with Broadway, and fuming. It was a fine, warm day, if not so humid as the day before, and the signs of spring in New York were everywhere: nursery maids in the parks pushing prams; gaily striped awnings on shops; burgeoning flowers in window boxes. Neither noticed. The three months loomed before them like a prison sentence.

  Matt recovered first, as always. His temper was quick to flare up, and just as quick to die down. “I’m sorry,” he said into the strained silence, turning to look at her. “What I said—it was out of line.”

  Brooke stared fixedly out the window. He had learned, to his cost, that she could hold onto her anger as long as she wished. “I was a cop’s daughter,” she said finally, without turning.

  “I know.” Of course he knew. Her father and his had been partners together on the Newport police force, and he and Brooke had grown up together.

  “Have I ever put on airs with you, Matt? Have I?”

  Matt relaxed as the hansom cab moved at last. Good, so they wouldn’t be late. Traffic was bad this morning, the streets crowded with cabs and carts and wagons, and if they got held up any longer they’d miss the ship. “You don’t mean to.”

  That made her turn. “What?” She leaned forward, her chin jutting out, and if she’d been standing her hands would have been on her hips. “When have I ever acted like that, Matt? When?”

  “Well...” He let the silence spin out, interrupted only by the clamor of iron-covered wheels on pavement, clopping hooves, and the clanging of the Broadway cable cars. “Sometimes you do sound like your aunt.”

  It took a moment, but then the corners of her mouth twitched, as he’d hoped they would. Then she was smiling, if a trifle ruefully, for they both agreed that her Aunt Winifred, while meaning well, tended to be too concerned with society and position. And, while Brooke and Matt were honeymooning, Winifred would be decorating their new apartment at the Dakota. The thought made Matt shudder. “Heaven forbid. If I become like her, Matt, I expect you to tell me.”

  “Oh, I will.” He smiled back at her, and then the smile faded. “It’s just a hard time to be leaving. Here I am, new on the force. Came in as a detective and not a patrolman, and that’s enough to make them resent me.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Matt, you’ve been a policeman long enough, and you’ve certainly proven yourself.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He stretched out his hand, and, after a moment, she took it. “Plus, I’m married to a rich woman—no, I’m not saying that to upset you,” he said, as she opened her mouth to protest. “You know, and I know, that that doesn’t matter to me. But others don’t see it that way. Especially,” his face darkened, “when I take a three-month honeymoon.”

  “Aunt Winifred meant well,” she said apologetically, for the honeymoon was a wedding gift from her aunt and uncle.

  “I know.” The truth was, he knew Brooke wanted it, too. In the old days, before her parents’ death, before she’d gone to live with her wealthy relatives, had she longed after such things? Or had she been as down to earth as he remembered? “I’m leaving behind a lot of work. There’s that body that turned up yesterday. Looks like a robbery gone wrong, and God knows that’s a lot of work. And the fraud case I was working on, he comes up for trial next week, and—”

  “Matt.” She put her finger to his lips. “Someone will handle it all.”

  “I know,” he said, sounding not the least convinced.

  “It’s not as if you’re not going to be away forever. If you give it a chance, you might even like it.”

  His smile was wry. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “And you’re not the only cop in New York.”

  “True.” Hard to admit, though. Maybe he did need to get away for a time, away from random violence and enforcing nonsensical laws, away from the crime-ridden world that sometimes felt like it was the only reality. “Maybe I’ll even like a life of leisure,” he said, with self-mockery that held just a hint of truth in it. Maybe he would, and that was part of the problem.

  The cab came to a stop again. Washington Square, with the new white arch, and more traffic. But then they were turning, driving down Christopher Street through the heart of Greenwich Village. “We’re nearly there.”

  Brooke leaned over to look out his window. “Oh, good.” She straightened her hat, some silly affair of straw and feathers that somehow looked good on her. “Thank heaven we sent the trunks ahead. And the maid.” She made a face. Like everything else, the maid was Aunt Winifred’s idea, to help Brooke dress. Essential, considering the clothes she’d brought—and why women needed so much he didn’t know—but something Brooke nevertheless disliked. So did he. “We’re here in good time. Sailing day is always so confusing.”

  Matt held out his hand, a peace offering, accepting at last this part of his life. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

  Her smile lit her eyes. “So am I,” she said, just as the hansom jolted onto rough cobblestones, sending them swaying, and then coming to an abrupt stop.

  The door opened, and the driver stuck his head in. “This’s as far as I can go. Crowded here, this morning.”

  Matt nodded. “Thank you,” he said. Handing the driver the fare, he rose and stepped out. In the act of turning to help Brooke down, he stopped, staring. “Holy—�
��

  Brooke glanced up as she emerged from the cab. “What is it—oh, the ship.”

  “That’s our ship?”

  She cast him a glance as she stepped to the ground. “Yes, Matt.”

  “Holy—it’s big.”

  “Well, what did you expect?” Brooke took his arm as they joined the throngs of people, all straining to reach the ship. Matt continued to stare. From this far back on the pier he couldn’t see much; just the sharp clipper bow of the liner, and three tall black smokestacks banded in white, all in a line. The stern of the ship was lost in the distance, seemingly halfway across the Hudson to New Jersey. A huge ship, a floating city, and for a man from a small, insular town, who hadn’t yet become accustomed to New York’s crowding and chaos, it was both daunting and exciting.

  Beside Matt, her arm tucked through his as they made their way across the pier, Brooke smiled. It wasn’t often she saw him flustered, but certain things seemed to stun him: Aunt Winifred’s extravagances, for example, and now this ship. Not that she blamed him. Brooke had made the Atlantic crossing twice before, but she found the prospect thrilling, too. Especially on a ship as large and luxurious as the New York.

  The pier was chaotic. Around them milled people and carriages and conveyances; cabin class passengers, like them, in their finery, the men’s top hats glistening in the sun, the women sweltering in their furs on this unseasonably warm spring morning. Hansom cabs moved nimbly through the crowd, disgorging their passengers, while heavy drays filled with produce trundled across the cobblestones towards the sharply slanted ramp where their goods would be loaded aboard. There were well-wishers and curiosity seekers and passengers, all raising a cacophony of sound that almost overwhelmed the rumble of the ship’s engines and the sharp cries of the gulls wheeling overhead. Almost, but not quite. The chaos of sailing day meant one thing. She would be at sea again, and after being pent up in the city for what felt like ages, Brooke found the prospect exciting.