Murder at Wakehurst Read online

  So then, matters were not well with Jerome Harrington and Imogene Schuyler, for all they had initially seemed the perfect young couple. In fact, Ethan had termed them thus in his society column earlier this summer, when the engagement had been announced. Two well-established, wealthy families—both their fathers respected and powerful, their mothers grandes dames of impeccable taste. Jerome and Imogene made an exceedingly attractive couple: He with his youthful version of his father’s distinguished looks; his hair light brown and streaked with gold, his eyes amber, and his features smooth and congenial. And she, a blue-eyed golden-haired beauty; tall, lithe, graceful; her nose possessed of the perfect aristocratic tilt. And yet . . .

  Imogene believed she held the upper hand—the wealth. I wondered how many people knew of the Harringtons’ financial difficulties. Or were they merely Jerome’s difficulties? Had he, like Neily, had a falling-out with his family? If so, they had kept it a tightly held secret. Either way, my guess was that not a soul, other than Imogene and her parents—perhaps—knew the truth. Surely, they knew, and I wondered why Judge Schuyler had insisted on the marriage regardless.

  Interesting. One might almost believe the reason to be an indiscretion on Imogene’s part, but, no, not with a wedding announced more than a month ago and planned for next month. If Imogene was with child, the wedding would have been scheduled immediately, and she would not have attended tonight’s fete.

  I glanced back at Titania on the stage. She appeared once more absorbed in her role, but her temporary lapse as she’d gazed after Imogene Schuyler lent credence to the latter woman’s charge that Jerome had been flirting with one of the actresses.

  A shift in the garden scattered my thoughts. James Van Alen advanced across the main walkway, clapping his hands and calling for attention. The actors on the stage fell silent, though it took Neily another couple of lines before he noticed their silence and closed his mouth. Guests gathered around Mr. Van Alen, who led them as a procession to the hedge and through the arches to the other side. His tremendous dogs followed, trotting and dodging in and out of people’s way. Grace hurried toward me, her striking auburn hair fiery in the electric glare, her jewels ablaze.

  “Emma, do come!” Her cheeks glowed with excitement. “Do you know what’s about to happen? Where’s Neily?” She glanced around and spotted him before I replied. “Neily, come here. You’ll never guess what Jimmy has planned for us. Neily!” Her husband didn’t look over, and no wonder, for at least a dozen yards separated him from us and he could not have heard her over the commotion. A frown creased Grace’s brow. “What is he up to?”

  Neily had turned away from the stage and stood now in profile to us. He faced a man I didn’t recognize, standing practically toe-to-toe with him. A wariness came over me, for even at that distance, I detected tension between them. The man’s attire caught my notice for not quite meeting the standards of a gentleman of the Four Hundred. It would not have been noticeable previously, but now beneath the electric lights, I saw that while the quality of his evening attire appeared up to snuff, something about the way the trousers and tailcoat fit him did not. The trousers hit at the ankle with a crease, while the tailcoat strained at the shoulders, almost as if the garments had been made for another man, someone an inch or so taller, but with a bit less girth around the waist and shoulders.

  He was older than Neily by perhaps a decade, placing him in his midthirties. His top hat sat balanced atop a head of dark brown hair cut short and slicked severely back, and by the uneven line of his nose, I guessed it had seen a break or two in its day. No beard or mustache helped balance out the misshapenness.

  A man this rough around the edges had probably worked his way up the social ladder, perhaps even from its lowest rungs, and had not yet learned all the rules. His wealth, however, would buy him a certain amount of tolerance, which would explain his presence here tonight.

  Whatever he and Neily were saying to each other, it wasn’t cordial; their expressions and body language revealed that much. Had this individual bumped into Neily? Or the other way around? I knew it didn’t take much to set off a man in his cups, and that tempers could easily flare. When Neily fisted his hands and craned his neck toward his adversary, I hurried in their direction.

  “Neily, I believe your wife needs you,” I said when I reached them. Neither man turned to regard me. I tried again, this time wrapping a hand around Neily’s upper arm and speaking more insistently. “Neily, Grace has been asking for you.”

  Once more, he seemed not to hear me. But with a jingling of bells, an ally appeared at my side. “ ‘Thou sodden-witted lords! Thou hast no more brains than I have in mine elbow!’ Come, then, good fellows, forget thy quarrel and attend the joust!” The court jester shook his scepter in their faces, ringing its bells to rouse them from their standoff. Then, with a quick nod to me, he scampered away, likely fearing a box to his ears from either man.

  Neily blinked and turned his face to me. “What did you say? Is Grace all right? She isn’t ill, is she?”

  “No, she’s fine. She’s right over there.” I pointed to where Grace stood watching us, the frown still etched between her red-gold eyebrows. “Surely, you don’t wish to keep her waiting.”

  “Go on,” the other man said in a deep growl of a voice. “See to your woman.”

  I gasped. Here, among these people, referring to Grace Wilson Vanderbilt as “your woman” constituted as much of an insult as if he had used a profane term to describe her. Neily stiffened, his hands clenching again. Truly fearing a brawl, I resorted to tugging, and finally managed to ease him away. Once we’d gone a few steps, the rigid anger drained from his limbs. I burned to ask who that man was, but didn’t dare risk renewing Neily’s ire, out of fear he might decide to turn back and confront his foe. Still, I continued to wonder about him, about his ill-fitting clothes and his less-than-impeccable manners. Undoubtedly, he hailed from new money and had not yet learned the ins and outs of high society. Unless he proved a quick study, he’d soon find himself shut out by the Four Hundred, even the more tolerant ones.

  What had he and Neily argued about? Perhaps, after all, it had been a simple matter of short tempers and excessive wine. As we traversed the garden, Neily’s stride became loose, slightly wobbly. Grace took possession of his arm when I delivered him to her, and she mouthed “Thank you” in my direction. I walked at Neily’s other side as the three of us moved along with the guests surging toward the hedge. Grace and Neily went through, but I lingered in one of the archways, astonished by what I saw.

  If I’d considered Mr. Van Alen’s mastiffs uncommonly large for their species, the two horses that came into view astounded me with their height and breadth, each one standing some eighteen hands high. Like opposing chess pieces, one gleamed ebony, while the other glowed ivory beneath the electric lights. More astonishing still, on the back of each horse, in a saddle with a low cantle and a high square pommel, sat an honest-to-goodness knight. They were wearing armor, I might add, beneath bright, flowing surcoats, one crimson and the other azure. Each knight held a lance a good ten feet long.

  Had I passed through the arch earlier, I would have seen the posts that had been erected down the length of the lawn, connected by lengths of green ribbon, except for at the center, where an opening allowed the guests to walk through. Wooden stands had been erected on the far side, the seats upholstered in gold. Amid giggles, cries of delight, and bellowing anticipation, Mr. Van Alen’s guests took their seats in the stands.

  I, however, did not. After waving to Ethan, who was making his way with the others to find a seat, I turned and reentered the garden. A joust—I had no wish to gaze upon such a spectacle. Yes, perhaps every precaution would be taken. Perhaps, like the swordplay, this would be an exhibition with no real force. And, yes, I had attended countless polo matches that put horses and riders in some amount of danger. But polo ponies underwent years of training; running toward each other at top speed, while the men on their backs aimed their mallets at
each other, was not part of the game.

  As a form of entertainment, this seemed unnecessarily perilous.

  More than anything, I wished to leave the fete. I had served my purpose in keeping Neily from falling to fisticuffs with that other man. His carriage stood somewhere on the drive, or along Ochre Point Avenue. A footman would find it for me, and the driver would certainly oblige me by taking me home.

  Behind me came the sound of hooves galloping across turf. I tensed, waiting for the crash of wood against armor. It didn’t come, and the crowd expressed its disappointment with jeers and a collective groan. Like the Roman populace at the Colosseum, they had quickly developed a craving for blood, it seemed. Perhaps not literally in this case, but surely a few of them shared my concern for life and limb.

  Once more, the galloping hoofbeats drummed against the lawn, this time followed by a crescendo and the delighted cheers of the spectators. I kept walking, only to become aware of another sound: the barking of dogs. Continuous, insistent barking. While their distress over the spectacle on the other side of the hedge wouldn’t have surprised me, the ruckus didn’t seem to be coming from that direction. They must have run off again to a different part of the grounds. I thought to dismiss it, as I had dismissed the joust, for I could do little about either. Yet . . . something about the strained quality of those barks stopped me cold. I’d heard that kind of barking before, neither playful nor defensive, but urgent and distraught.

  My own dog, Patch, had vocalized just such sentiments on several occasions, and dismissing his efforts to gain my attention had always proven a mistake. This was no attention-seeking scheme on the part of these dogs, either. Changing direction, I now headed toward the rear of the sprawling house. As I left the glare of the electric lanterns, the shadows fell heavily around me. Before me loomed a ghostly grove of young elms surrounded by stands of hydrangeas and rhododendrons, all reduced to shades of charcoal. The barking became louder here, and then I heard the sort of growling that dogs make when they close their teeth around something and attempt to pull and tug.

  As I progressed, I came to the kitchen windows at ground level, the light from inside spilling across the grass and casting long shadows from the foliage. I circled a stand of hydrangeas—and pulled up short.

  A man lay on his side on the ground. His top hat had tumbled a couple of feet away. A pungent odor drew my attention to a smoldering cigar inches from his unmoving hand. The dogs had sunk their teeth in the back of his coat and were attempting to drag him, perhaps to bring him where he might be helped. I called to them, and as if startled, they loosened their jaws and sprang toward me. One yipped, a higher-pitched sound than I would have expected from so large an animal. The other whined deep in his throat. Without needing to bend, I placed a hand on the back of each furry neck. For another several seconds, I stared down at the prone figure, as if by the force of my will alone I could change whatever ill fortune had occurred here.

  For you see, I had dealt with death numerous times in the past, and my thoughts leaped immediately to foul play. But with a jolt, I remembered Uncle Cornelius, also gone, but not by the hand of another. That jolt sent me the necessary few steps closer to the man in hopes he could still be helped. I sank to my knees, placed a hand on a motionless shoulder, and gave a shake. “Sir? Sir, are you all right?”

  That little shake sent him rolling toward me, onto his back. The bearded face, the lion’s mane of silver hair, the nose with its aristocratic tilt, in a masculine version of his daughter’s, were all familiar to me. A small cluster of scarlet feathers quivered slightly above him, like a tiny bird hovering in the air. And then I perceived the arrow protruding from Judge Clayton Schuyler’s chest, and the blood saturating his evening coat.

  * * *

  With the image of Clayton Schuyler, prone and bloodied, flashing in my mind, I made my way to the main garden, a dog collar gripped in each hand. I couldn’t simply leave the mastiffs to continue barking at the body and attract others to the scene. I handed them off to the first footman I came upon, told him to take them inside, and ignored his quizzical looks.

  The glare of the garden lights dazzled my eyes as I half blindly retraced my path to the joust. My heart throbbing in my temples, the blood rushing in my ears, I stumbled into flowerbeds and shrubbery. Thorns tore at my hems, but I kept going in a desperate hurry to reach Mr. Van Alen. Suddenly the hedge towered over me and I stumbled through the nearest archway.

  A shout went up—then a chorus of shouts.

  I stood at the edge of the jousting course. The mounted knights had already begun their stampede toward each other, fast closing in on me. Their hooves pounded like bass drums in my brain and yet I found myself unable to move. Did they see me? Perhaps not, with their visors down. I couldn’t think fast enough, couldn’t move in obedience to the orders being shouted at me from across the course, where the stands loomed some ten rows high.

  Hands clamped my shoulders from behind. I was jerked roughly backward and I stumbled. My legs tangled with another pair and then we both went down, hitting the ground in a painful knot of limbs. I felt the jarring impact, but heard nothing, saw nothing, for several dizzying seconds. Then, slowly, I realized the horses now stood at opposite ends of the course, panting and stomping, but unharmed. There had been no impact; the riders must have seen me at the last instant, and through their training, they were able to avert the attack and pass each other—and me—harmlessly.

  Beneath my rumpled skirts, I saw a man’s trousers, and then his arms, which had gone around my waist as we fell. I tried to find purchase to lift myself off my savior, but to no avail. My bones were like water. Then a hand reached down from in front of me.

  “Emmaline, are you all right?” Neily sounded stone-cold sober and filled with concern. He crouched to my level. His fingers closed around mine and gently he drew me, not up to my feet, but forward, until I sat on the grass beside him. The person who had saved me from certain death was able to negotiate a more upright position as well.

  “Are you all right, Miss Cross?”

  I turned, astounded to discover my guardian angel had been none other than Jerome Harrington. “Yes, I . . . Mr. Harrington, are you all right? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be so foolish. It’s just that . . .”

  Just that a man lay dead on the other side of the property, and no one here yet knew, and someone must be told, only not like this, not so bluntly. Many of the spectators had abandoned the stands and gawked down at the man and woman sitting in so undignified a manner on the ground.

  Isn’t that Emmaline Cross? Is she drunk, to wander so carelessly into the path of a joust? Ruined the evening for the rest of us, she did . . .

  “Emma! Oh, Emma.” Grace pushed her way through the others and sank beside me in a pool of burgundy velvet. Her arms went around me and she pressed her cheek to mine. “What happened? Why would you ever do such a foolhardy thing?”

  Yet, I heard no real admonishment in her voice, only the kind of fear that comes after the fact, when one counts one’s blessings and is grateful that what might have been had not, in fact, come to pass. Without relinquishing her hold on me, she pulled away to regard me. Her eyes narrowed in their scrutiny, and then understanding flashed. “Emma, what is it? You aren’t foolhardy. Something has happened.” She spoke in a whisper only Neily could hear, and perhaps Mr. Harrington, who had remained seated on the ground close by, his legs outstretched, his hands propped on the ground behind him.

  I nodded beneath a wave of gratitude. Leave it to Grace to read me correctly.

  “Neily,” she said, “help me get Emmaline up.” Between the two of them, I came shakily to my feet. The first face I saw was Mr. Van Alen’s. He looked . . . annoyed.

  “I’m glad to see you’re unharmed, Miss Cross. Now, would you care to explain yourself?” His Elizabethan jargon had disappeared. My near accident had truly left him shaken.

  “Yes, I would, Mr. Van Alen.” Like Grace, I also spoke in whispers. “But not here.
Somewhere private.”

  His mustache twitched. “Very well.” He inquired after Jerome Harrington’s condition, and then, putting on a brave face, he called out in his habitual way, “Prithee, carry on, one and all. ’Tis naught to fret about. ‘All’s well that ends well.’ ”

  His assurance brought on a collective release of breath. Many of those who had left their seats turned back to resume them. Others drifted back through the arches into the garden, in search of refreshments. That made up my mind for me. Already I had begun to think more clearly. I couldn’t simply lead James Van Alen to where Judge Schuyler lay, or others might follow out of curiosity. That could cause a panic.

  “Miss Cross, Miss Cross.” The next face that filled my vision was Ethan’s. He looked distraught, close to tears. Before he could get out another word, I offered reassurances.

  “A close call, Ethan, nothing more. I’m fine.” I reached out, clasped his hand, and drew him closer. Lowering my voice again, I said, “I hope you’ve been observant and took good notes tonight. We may particularly need your insights tomorrow.”

  He nodded vaguely, his mystification clear. However, he asked no questions and allowed me to be led away by Neily and Grace, the pair of them supporting me. Together we made our way, with Mr. Van Alen, to the house. I didn’t realize Mr. Harrington had also come along until we’d climbed the veranda steps and entered the library. Of all the downstairs rooms in Wakehurst, the library alone lacked the dark paneling so prevalent elsewhere. The pearly white walls made the room a brighter, less solemn environment, albeit carvings and moldings embellished nearly every surface.

  Apparently, seeing how I could now balance on my own two feet, Grace and Neily released me. I was about to choose a seat—dare I sit on the settee purported to have once belonged to Napoleon?—when Van Alen held up a hand. “Not here, where others might come in from the garden. If you wish privacy, follow me.” He spared significant glances for Neily and Grace, but when I didn’t protest their presence, he gestured for all of us to follow him.