A Sense of Entitlement (13 page)

“Was there other financial trouble, besides the bank?” I asked. I told Preble about my conversation with the bank manager, Mr. Niederhauser, confirming what we had known already; that the bank, Mr. Whitwell’s bank, was going bankrupt.

“In this horrible financial climate, with news every day of factories closing, banks closing, people striking, farms going under, men jumping off bridges or cutting their own throats, who knows? Could one of the richest men in America be on the brink of financial ruin? Your guess is as good as mine, Miss Davish. I’m just glad I have a job.”
Me too,
I thought.

“Could there be some connection between Whitwell’s death and the bank fires?” I asked.

“I haven’t got the full report yet, but I know the fires at the banks were intentional. Anarchists have set bombs before to make a statement. Remember the Haymarket massacre in Chicago?” he said. I did. A violent confrontation between labor demonstrators and police turned deadly when someone threw a bomb into the throng of riot police. “But I’ve never seen anything like it in Newport, though. At first it didn’t make sense. When I spoke to Sibley, he indicated that a clerk strike was imminent at several banks in town, including the two set on fire last night.”
Imminent?
That wasn’t the impression I got from the bank manager.

“Do you think someone purposely set fire to the banks to prevent a strike?”

“Or to destroy evidence of what that strike would’ve done to the financial health of those institutions.”

“Could Harland Whitwell have been having severe personal financial problems?” I said. “I would think the loss of one bank wouldn’t be that damaging to such a wealthy man. But several, all at the same time?”

Preble nodded. “Maybe. And his son’s disregard for his father’s predicament might’ve been the cause of the rows,” the chief said.

“But is it a motive for murder?” The policeman shrugged. “Can you tell me anything about a Pinkerton detective named Doubleday?” I asked, taking the policeman by surprise.

“Silas Doubleday? Why do you ask?”

I told him about seeing Doubleday push the trunk full of propaganda pamphlets overboard on the ship. I also explained how I’d seen him fighting with Lester Sibley at the scene of the fires. What I didn’t mention was the connection between the detective and my employer’s husband, Gideon Mayhew.

“Well, we actually spoke to Mr. Doubleday last night,” the chief said, “but only as a witness to the scene. I asked him what brought him to Newport, since we rarely have trouble that would involve Pinkertons. He gave me some story about keeping the labor wheels greased. I assumed he was involved in stifling the bank clerk strike.”

“Could he have set the fire?”

“Even without knowing who’s employing him, I’d bet a fire would do much more financial damage than a strike. No, I think he would’ve stopped it some other, quieter way. Like what he did with the steamer trunk.” It made sense. Whoever he was working for, most likely Gideon Mayhew, wanted life and business to run smoothly and not be violently disrupted like with the destruction of the bank.

“So you don’t know who set the fire?” I asked.

“We’ve got Lester Sibley in custody for a start, but like you, I’m continuing to investigate all the possibilities.” He smiled, his way of personally and professionally sanctioning my role in the investigation of Harland Whitwell’s murder. I felt relieved that he approved.

“Thank you so much, Chief Preble, for your help,” I said.

“Better your job than mine, Miss Davish. I’d wish you good luck, but I think you’re going to need more than that.” He was smiling as he put out his hand, but a chill ran down my spine as I shook it.

What have I gotten myself into?

W
here is Britta?
I wondered.

It wasn’t until Bonaparte’s insistent scratching and mewing at my door that I stopped typing my report for Mrs. Mayhew and realized Britta had never arrived with my dinner. The cat came at the same time every night. I looked at my watch, eight fifteen. His stomach must be set to a timepiece.

“I’m sorry, kitty,” I said, opening the door for the cat. “No scraps tonight.” Bonaparte rubbed against my leg, unconvinced.

She’d never been late before. What could’ve happened? I had to find out. I left Bonaparte to his own devices and headed downstairs. The staff was sitting down to their dinner when I arrived. Britta was among them, but her face was flush and she was pulling at her ear. Something more than forgetting my dinner was on her mind.

“You forgot Miss Davish’s dinner?” Mrs. Crankshaw scolded when I explained my presence. “Britta, you know I don’t take to well to forgetfulness.”

“She’s as bad as Mrs. Mayhew,” Annie the chambermaid said, giggling. “But with Britta it’s love, not old age.” Britta leaped up, tears in her eyes.

“Did I miss something?” I whispered to her as she darted past me. She shook her head violently.

“Yeah,” Annie said after Britta was gone. “We were teasing Britta about last night. We think she’s got a beau she ain’t telling us about.” I pictured the events of last night: the crowd at the Forty Steps, Britta dancing with lots of different men, Lester Sibley’s comments about her beauty, the confrontation between Sibley and James. In all the events of the night I couldn’t imagine how the others had surmised an attachment. Maybe I’d missed something. If I hadn’t been talking to Lester Sibley . . .

“Well, I don’t, you gossip!” Britta exclaimed as she reentered with a tray. I saw her eyes quickly dart around the table. They rested on the downturned head of James for a split second before moving back to Annie. “And I’d appreciate you not saying such things again.”

“I was just teasing,” Annie said, sounding hurt.

“You know I don’t take well to teasing, Annie,” Mrs. Crankshaw said. “What you’re saying is dangerous. Britta could lose her position if she was caught out secretly with a man.”

“Honestly?” I asked, searching Britta’s face for a reaction. Her eyes were defiant, but she was biting her lip. Was there truth to the gossip after all?

“Of course,” Miss Issacson said. “Mrs. Mayhew is particular about this.”

“No, she’s not particular. She’s like every lady of her stature,” Mrs. Crankshaw said. “Few society employers will tolerate their servants secretly courting, and you can almost forget about being a married servant. I knew a girl once, a scullery maid, who was secretly married. Before she resigned, her husband became ill and they had nothing to live on, so she needed to keep the job. The master of the house found out and summarily dismissed her without references. They both ended up in a county workhouse.” At this Britta turned on her heel, crying. She dashed out of the hall and up the stairs.

“What’s wrong with her?” Annie said.

“Can’t you see you upset her?” James said. “You and your big mouth.”

“I was just teasing,” Annie said again.

“Hush,” Mrs. Crankshaw said, silencing the room. “Britta is bringing you dinner, Miss Davish.”

“Yes,” I said, ignoring Mrs. Crankshaw’s dismissal. My dinner might get cold, but Britta needed a few moments alone and I had to find out the truth of this. “But what if you do want to step out with someone?”

“Then you get permission,” Mrs. Crankshaw said.

“Oh,” I said. I’d stepped out with Walter without asking permission. What would Sir Arthur say? Would he dismiss me summarily like the scullery maid because I was blissfully ignorant of protocol? I hadn’t seen Walter since Christmas, but we corresponded on a regular basis. Should I tell Mrs. Mayhew? Should I write Sir Arthur?

Before I could decide what to do, James made a guttural noise in his throat. “Permission,” he said, spitting the word out venomously. “It’s degrading.”

“It’s required,” Mrs. Crankshaw said matter-of-factly.

“No wonder those maids in Milwaukee went on strike. We’re not even treated like real people,” James said.

“What maids in Milwaukee?” Annie asked.

“I read about it—”

“Right! Now that’s enough. I’ll have no talk of strike at the table,” Mrs. Crankshaw said.

“Yes, please,” Mr. Davies said, “we’ve had enough disruptive conversation already tonight.”

“What’s disruptive about talking about maids in Milwaukee?” James said.

“I don’t care if they’re Mrs. Vanderbilt’s maids at Marble House,” Mrs. Crankshaw said. “We will not have strike talk at this table.”

“But, Mrs. Crankshaw, it’s not like we’re talking about
us
striking,” James said.

“Enough,” Mrs. Crankshaw said, slamming her fist into the table, rattling dishes and plates. Mr. Davies raised his eyebrows, but he said nothing. “I don’t take well to words of strike in this house. What is this world coming to?”

Everyone bent their heads over their bowls, ignoring me and focusing on finishing their meal in silence. I watched James for a few moments before I left the hall. Why had he been so angry about having to ask permission to court? And then there was the altercation at the Forty Steps. What else was he angry about? And why had he brought up the strike in Milwaukee? He and Lester Sibley were obviously not on friendly terms, but they seemed to have something in common. Was James disgruntled with his lot in life? Did he believe he deserved more free time, higher wages? Mrs. Mayhew did suspect someone in her household of strike talk. Was James a union sympathizer? If so, he might have more to do with Lester Sibley and the events of the last two days than I thought.

What a day,
I thought as a wave of depression and sadness swept over me. Murder, attempted murder, Britta’s distress, strike talk downstairs. I took a bite of the graham biscuit from the dinner I’d found waiting for me and sat down at my typewriter. With the first clack of the keys I started to feel better. The familiar scratch of Bonaparte at my door even made me laugh. Disappointed earlier, he wasn’t one to give up on his nighttime scraps. I stood up and walked over to open the door. A streak of white fur flew past me.

Now why did he do that?
I wondered. Bonaparte usually liked to linger in the doorway, rubbing against my leg. I started to close the door.

“Oh, James,” Britta’s voice said pleadingly. “What are we going to do?”

If the tone of her voice hadn’t frozen me in place, the fact that she was talking to a man right outside my room would have. I’d thought she’d left.

“Don’t worry about it, Britta,” James said. “No one is going to find out.”

“But what if they do?”

“No one will, trust me.”

“And what about that labor strike guy, what was his name, Lester?”

“What about him?”

“Well, first you’re talking to him like you’re old chums and next you’re punching him in the mouth.”

“The first was all business; you know that.”

“And the fight?”

“You know about that too.”

“Well, I’m worried, James.”

“Don’t. Sibley wants this too badly to say anything.”

“Wants what? A strike? It’s too dangerous, James. We shouldn’t even be talking about it.”

Strike?
So the rumors were true. Mrs. Mayhew and Mrs. Whitwell had both mentioned talk of the Newport servants going on strike. It would be chaos. It would be an abrupt end, at least for a while, of afternoon recitals, garden teas, costume balls, and dinner parties. But then again, maybe that was the point. But what was Britta worried Sibley would talk about?

“. . . just follow the plan and we’ll get through this Season without anyone the wiser,” James was saying. I’d missed his answer about joining the strike.

“And then?” Britta asked. Silence followed as James obviously fought to find the answer.

“Let’s get through the next few weeks first,” he said.

A moment or two later I heard receding footsteps and then all was quiet on the other side of the door. Bonaparte had already found the cutlet I’d left for him and had curled up on top of my bookcase.

Oh, to have that peace of mind!
I thought, listening to him purr. I returned to my typing, the only way I knew how to achieve peace of mind, and finished my report. But it didn’t help. I put a blank sheet of paper into my typewriter the moment I was finished. I started a list:

1. Why was James talking to Britta outside my room?
   
2. Was Annie’s gossip close to the truth? Did Britta have a beau? James, perhaps?
   
3. What was she afraid Lester Sibley would say?
   
4. What does Lester Sibley have to do with Britta and James?
   
5. Is James going to try organizing a strike at Rose Mont?
   
6. Has Lester Sibley been successful in organizing a servants’ strike throughout Newport, or is he targeting certain houses?
   
7. What is the plan James proposed he and Britta follow? Are others involved?
   
8. Does any of this have anything to do with Harland Whitwell’s death?
   

Satisfied that the last question was truly the only one that concerned me, I ripped out the paper and replaced it with a new one:

I paused. So far, I’d found little reason for anyone to kill Harland Whitwell. By most accounts, he was well liked. My list of suspects was strikingly small. Lester Sibley, although the only suspect in Mrs. Whitwell’s mind, couldn’t have done it. And even if he hadn’t been in police custody, what motive did he have? What about Nicholas Whitwell? Granted, I didn’t have a fondness for the man, but I couldn’t think why, beyond simple father-son dislike, he would kill his father. However, if Nick benefited financially from his father’s death, that might be a motive. I added to my list:

Could a member of the Glen Park staff have killed Mr. Whitwell? Mrs. Johnville had insinuated as much. And after listening to the conversation between Britta and James I knew a servant strike at Glen Park was within the realm of possibility. What if one of Mr. Whitwell’s staff had already approached him? What if that servant was dismissed? Could that be a motive for murder? I jotted down a quick list of people to speak to tomorrow, straightened the papers on my desk, put Bonaparte out to find his way back to Mrs. Mayhew, and prepared for bed. As I finally laid my head on the pillow, I tried to push all thoughts of Harland Whitwell’s murder out of my head. I let my mind wander from thoughts of Walter, to the encounter I’d had with his mother, to the dinner conversation about courtship. As I fell asleep my mind came back to the same question about Nick Whitwell again and again: Why would Cora Mayhew want to marry a man like that?