A Sense of Entitlement (23 page)

After leaving Mrs. Crankshaw to her own devices, I went to the police station to find Chief Preble. As I entered, he slapped a large fish onto the newspaper he had spread across his desk. With filet knife in hand, he began cleaning the fish as we talked. Unable to stomach the bloody entrails he pulled from the fish and dropped on the newspaper, I stared down at the plank wooden floor as I told him what I’d learned about James and Mrs. Crankshaw, including how I believed neither of them had killed Lester Sibley. Silas Doubleday was another story.

“You didn’t have to send a telegram to find that out,” I said. “I’m certain Doubleday was working for Mr. Mayhew.”

“Why? Why did Gideon Mayhew have need of a Pinkerton man?”

“To rid him of Lester Sibley.” I relayed every encounter I’d had with Silas Doubleday from the incident on the boat before we arrived to the conversation I overheard between Gideon Mayhew and Silas Doubleday the morning I found Lester Sibley’s body.

“From what you tell me, Silas Doubleday is our prime suspect.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” the man himself declared as he was led into the room in front of another police officer.

“Well, Collins, this is unexpected,” Chief Preble said, speaking to his fellow officer but watching the detective. He rolled the newspaper up, fish, blood, guts, and all, and pushed it aside. “I thought you were in Providence on the Shackleton case. I’ve been waiting for Ballard to bring me back news of the man, and here you have the man himself.”

“I was as surprised as you, sir. I’d gotten your wire to keep a lookout but didn’t expect to see the man. I’d finished up that Shackleton business and was waiting for the train to come back. What luck, sir, I must say, to see Doubleday getting off the train at the time as I was getting on!”

“I didn’t kill him,” Doubleday said again as Patrolman Collins pushed down on his shoulder, forcing him to sit. “Lester Sibley was still alive when I left him. You can ask anybody at Condon’s Saloon on Long Wharf.”

“Okay, Doubleday,” Preble said. “Tell me your story. Start with the party.”

“I hauled Sibley away from Rose Mont after he interrupted the Mayhews’ ball. Some crazy woman jumped out of the bushes at us, spitting at him.”

“That would be Mrs. Crankshaw,” I said. Chief Preble nodded, remembering my version of these events.

“Yeah, well, whoever she was,” Doubleday said, “we left her at the gate, and went down Bellevue. At least two carriages drove by. One was a cab. I’m sure you could find the drivers.” I relayed the chambermaid Annie’s account of seeing Doubleday from her cab to the policemen.

“Okay,” the chief said, “and then what happened?”

“I took him to his rooms on Spring Street,” Doubleday said. “The landlady let us in. It was late and she wasn’t shy about letting us know just how late.”

“So the landlady can verify when you brought him back?”

“Yeah, the exact time too, because she kept glancing at her clock.”

“And then what?”

“We went up to his room, I watched him pack and then I escorted him to the wharf. I even gave him enough money for a one-way ticket out of Newport. I told him to be gone by morning.”

“And then you left?”

“Yes, I went straight to Condon’s for a drink or two and then to the Ale and Oyster House. They have the best oysters in town.” I cringed at the thought. The one and only time I’d eaten oysters, someone died and I’d spent an extremely unpleasant night lying on the floor next to my chamber pot. “I was there until I caught the train this morning. Ask anyone there. Lots of people saw me.”

Chief Preble motioned to one of the patrolmen. “Go speak to the landlady and then ask around at the saloon,” the chief said. “Speak to William Rife, the proprietor, if he’s there.” The patrolman nodded, snatched up his hat, and left. “And Lester Sibley, he was still alive when you left him?” Chief Preble asked Doubleday.

“Yes, of course, though before I left I did . . .” The detective suddenly hesitated. He began to whistle “Ode to Joy” under his breath.

“Before you left you did what? Break both the man’s arms?” Preble asked.

“Yeah, well, I admit to that. He had it coming, showing up at Mr. Mayhew’s house after all.”

“What else did you do, Doubleday?”

“I . . . ah. It was only talk. I was trying to frighten the guy into leaving, you know. He’d been stubborn before.”

“If it was only talk, what did you say to him, Doubleday?”

“I warned him what would happen if he didn’t get on that boat and leave.”

“What could you possibly say that would further prove your point? You’d already broken both the man’s arms.” Detective Doubleday dropped his head on his chest, refusing to speak. Preble grabbed the Pinkerton man’s chin and jerked his head upright. “So what did you tell him would happen?”

“I told him he was a dead man.”

A
fter a taxing day and a half it was a relief to sit at my typewriter, feel the comfort of the keys beneath my fingertips, and work. Mrs. Mayhew had requested an account of how I’d spent my time, as she would say, “keeping the police away from Rose Mont.” As I pulled the second sheet of paper from my typewriter, I glanced at the suspect list I’d created yesterday. Taking up my pen, I crossed out Mrs. Crankshaw and James. And then I reluctantly crossed out Detective Doubleday. Before I’d left the police station, the patrolman sent to speak to Lester Sibley’s landlady and the proprietor of the alehouse returned, verifying Doubleday’s account. That only left the Mayhews and the surviving Whitwells. I shook my head.

This can’t be. There has to be someone else.
I looked at the list again. What was I thinking? Suspecting any one of these people would not do me one bit of good. In fact, the list’s very existence put me at risk of losing my position. I had to destroy it.

Before I could question what I was doing, I pushed back from the desk, stood up, and grabbed the list of suspects. I strode over to the fireplace, retrieved a match from the mantel, and lit a candle. I placed the corner of the paper in the flame. The moment the paper caught, I threw it into the cold fireplace. The flame grew as the paper shriveled up, turned brown and then black. I jabbed the paper several times with a poker, certain to reduce it to ashes.

I returned to my desk, put another piece of paper into the typewriter, and began to make a new list of who else might have killed Lester Sibley.

1.

I sat with my fingers poised over the keys, but nothing came to my mind except the image of Jane Whitwell trying to run Lester Sibley down in the street with her son’s car and Nick Whitwell threatening Sibley at the police station and again at the ball. At least I’d never seen Eugenie threaten the man, I thought. Could the mother and son have been in it together? But why? To protect Harland Whitwell’s reputation by deflecting blame elsewhere? Or did they believe Lester Sibley and his threats of strike drove Mr. Whitwell to take his own life?

I stared at the blank list until the rattle of my doorknob startled me out of my reverie.

“Who is it?” I asked, glancing at the fireplace.

“It’s me, Hattie. I have your dinner.”

“Oh, do come in, Britta,” I said, sighing in relief. But who did I think it was?

The parlormaid, with Bonaparte at her heels, came in with a tray. Britta wasn’t in the mood for talking. She smiled as she set down the tray but left the moment I thanked her. I wasn’t much in the mood for eating. I sipped some coffee, took nibbles of the sponge cake, and absently fed Bonaparte bits of the fried codfish in sauce tartare as I stared at the ashes growing cold in the fireplace. I might have destroyed the evidence of my suspicion, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was right: Someone on that list was responsible for Lester Sibley’s death.

“I don’t need you for the rest of the morning,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “As long as you keep me informed as you have been, you may do what you will.”

I’d spent another restless night, but having fallen asleep in the early morning hours, I nearly overslept and missed Britta bringing in my breakfast. Mrs. Mayhew rang for me as I was finishing my cold coffee and toast. To my relief, we slipped into the quiet routine of her approving menus and bills to be paid and dictating responses for over three dozen invitations she’d received the day before. Miss Lucy had been right. Now that she had gained Mrs. Astor’s approval and had firsthand knowledge of a murdered man, Mrs. Mayhew was very likely the most popular guest in Newport.

I was disappointed to be dismissed. I needed the distraction. On another day I might have relished the chance to go hiking or finally visit Easton Beach and go swimming, but today my thoughts were preoccupied with ways to prove one of the Whitwells killed Lester Sibley. How I would accomplish this without the police’s help and without jeopardizing my position I had no idea. It was an insurmountable task. I decided to take a hike anyway and headed back down Ocean Avenue. An easy seaside stroll might put my mind at rest.

I made the right decision. The solitude was a boon, allowing my mind to empty of all my cares: death, secrets, and Walter’s mother. Only twice did a carriage pass by, interrupting my repose. As I strolled along, I concentrated on the gentle sounds of the wind rustling through the brush and the quiet lapping of the water. I found a large, flat stone on a tranquil sandy beach and sat there for over an hour watching the black cormorants preen and sun themselves, with outstretched wings, on the rock outcrops jutting up through the water. The reality in which one family attended balls, dinner parties, and lawn tennis tournaments while their neighbor suffered from the ill effects of gossip and suicide felt a world away.

It felt a world away, that is, until I saw Eugenie Whitwell and Cora Mayhew leaving Bailey’s Beach on my return toward Rose Mont. I couldn’t help but scan the area to see if Walter was with them. I hadn’t seen Walter since Tuesday night and couldn’t help wondering if he’d been with Eugenie again. But the girls were alone. I tried to pass unseen, but without luck.

“Miss Davish,” Cora Mayhew said, “what are you doing here?”

“Your mother gave me the morning off. I was enjoying a stroll on this beautiful day.”

“Well, you always seem to be where you shouldn’t,” Eugenie Whitwell said, picking at the black lace about her collar. “This is a private beach.”

“I was just passing,” I said, biting my tongue, trying to stay professional. What I wanted to say was, with her father dead less than a week, that it was she who had been where she shouldn’t. I resolved for a less petty reply. “And I am in the road, not on the beach.”

Eugenie rolled her eyes. “All the same,” she said.

“I’ve heard you’ve been asking around about that man who was murdered,” Cora said.

“Yes, your mother asked me to.”

“Mother? I knew she was a gossip, but honestly, Miss Davish, that’s going too far.”

“She hopes to avoid another visit from the police,” I explained.

“Oh, yes, now that sounds like Mother.”

“May I ask you a question?” I said, having no better way to broach this subject than to ask directly. “About Mr. Nicholas Whitwell?”

“Absolutely not,” his sister said.

“Eugenie,” Cora said, putting her hand on her friend’s arm. “You and I both know that Nick is not above suspicion. You were there. He threatened the man, for goodness’ sake. Miss Davish isn’t going to say or do anything that my mother doesn’t approve first. Isn’t it best that she ask the questions, rather than the police?” Eugenie shrugged. “You may ask your question, Miss Davish, though I don’t know what I could tell you.”

“Do either of you know where Mr. Whitwell went after he left the ball? Or where he was the next morning?”

“See,” Eugenie said, pointing her finger at me while looking at her friend. “She suspects Nick. First my father and now this!”

“That’s the trouble, Miss Davish,” Cora said, ignoring her friend’s outburst. “No one knows where Nick went. And he’s not talking.”

“Next you’ll want to know how he hurt himself,” Eugenie said snidely.

“Yes, it would be good to clear that up,” I said.

The loud roar of a motorcar engine rumbled a few moments before the machine was in view. Nick Whitwell drove around the bend and headed right for us, swerving and skidding to a stop on the sandy road. We all leaped several feet backward to avoid our feet being run over.

“Oh, Nick!” Cora yelled. “You frighten me every time with that thingamajig.”

“And you love it,” he said. Cora smiled. Nick pushed open the door and jumped out. The only sign of his mourning was a black band of crape around his arm and straw hat.

Astonishing,
I thought.

“We were just talking about you, Nick,” Eugenie said. She sneered when she pointed at me. “The social secretary turned policeman has a few questions for you.” Nick stomped over to me and stood far too close for my comfort. Unlike when the incident in the house took place, I didn’t have a wall behind me. I took a step back.

“What are you asking about?” he demanded.

“Everyone’s wondering where you went after the ball,” Cora said.

“Whose business is it anyway?” he said, thankfully turning away from me and confronting Cora.

“Please tell us where you were, Nick. Otherwise it makes it seem like you have something to hide,” Cora said.

“I was on the yacht, okay?” Nick said, heading back toward his car. “I was drunk and didn’t want my mother to see me. Is that a crime?”

“No, of course not,” his sister said.

“So why not just say so before?” Cora asked. He ignored her.

“Satisfied?” he said to me.

“Is the yacht anchored by the Lime Rock Lighthouse?” I asked.

“No, it’s in Brenton Cove. Why?”

“Lester Sibley was found dead in a stand of bushes in sight of the Lime Rock Lighthouse.”

“So? You think I killed him?” He stormed back toward me.

Cora stepped between us and put her hand on his arm. “It’s not just her, Nick. I heard you tried to run him down with your car.” Nick laughed. Cora frowned. “This is serious, Nick. Is it true?”

“Who told you that? Believe me, if I wanted to run him down, he would’ve been dead in the street, not hidden in some bushes.”

I knew Nick was telling the truth, at least about the incident with the car. But I’d been sworn to secrecy by his mother. Could Jane Whitwell have killed Lester Sibley? She’d been on my suspect list, but I’d never seriously considered her before. After failing to kill him with the car, did she shoot him with her husband’s gun? Had she taken revenge out on Lester Sibley, killing him the same way her husband had died? Or was Nick lying about being on his father’s yacht?

Nick walked to the car and opened the passenger side door. “Come on, ladies, Mother’s waiting.” Cora and Eugenie climbed in. “How about you?” he said, looking at me. Eugenie glared at him.

“Me?” From my brief inspection of the car, I saw several places where the paint had been scraped away and the front fender was bent. The way he drove, it was a wonder there wasn’t more damage. No, I was not about to get into a motorized carriage with a reckless driver, let alone a possible murderer.

“There’s room, so I must insist,” he said.

“That’s kind of you, but I’ll walk.”

“I insist.”

“She said no, Nick,” Eugenie said. She didn’t want me in the car any more than I did.

“I don’t care. I’ve been the gentleman and offered her a ride. She’s not going to turn me down. Are you, Miss Davish?” he said, spitting out my name like a piece of rotten fruit.

“Please get in, Miss Davish,” Cora said, rolling her eyes at the bickering siblings.

Between Nick’s veiled threat and Cora’s insistence, I had no choice. I clambered in, squeezing my way into the back with Eugenie. She glared at me but said nothing.

“By the way,” Cora said, gently touching the bandage on Nick’s cheek. “You did say you got this falling in the driveway, right?”

“Oh, you know,” Nick said, smirking.

The motor revved and we lurched forward with a jerk. The sound was so deafening as to put an end to all conversation. I grabbed ahold of my hat as Nick Whitwell took every opportunity to cut corners close or to swerve violently around carriages, startling the horses. Cora screamed in delight. Nick’s driving reminded me of Walter’s but with an ill intent. When we finally reached Glen Park, I didn’t know who was happier to get out of the car, me or Eugenie. Yet I still had to wait for everyone else to get out before I was able to extricate myself from the contraption.

I will never ride in one of these things again!

“Thank you, Mr. Whitwell,” I said, biting my tongue.
Let him assume I mean for the ride and not for my arriving in one piece.

“Sorry, but you had to know,” he said. So he had driven recklessly, endangering all of our lives, to teach me a lesson.

“Un, deux, trois,”
I counted under my breath. “Had to know what, Mr. Whitwell?” I asked when I gained control of my temper.

“That if I had wanted to run Lester Sibley down, he’d be dead.”

I already knew that!
I nearly shouted, but refrained. I clenched my fists, dangerously close to losing my temper.
And my job,
I thought. I took a deep breath.

“But he is dead, Mr. Whitwell,” I said, satisfied as the shock of either my words or the presumption of my behavior registered on everyone’s face. Eugenie gasped. “And I intend to find out who killed him,” I said before I turned on my heel and walked away.

With my head pounding and my ears still ringing from the jarring roar and racket of the motorcar’s engine, I knocked at the servants’ entrance of Glen Park again. I inquired of Mrs. Johnville, who opened the door, whether I could speak to the laundress. Without a word, Mrs. Johnville had one of the scullery maids show me the way down to the basement.

She’ll be glad to see the back of me,
I thought.

“Hey, Jesse,” the scullery girl said. “Someone’s here to see you.” Then the maid turned and ran back up the stairs. Jesse looked up from wringing out a piece of black linen.

“Good morning, Jesse,” I said as I approached the boiling vats of water. “I’m Hattie Davish, Mrs. Mayhew’s secretary.”

“Yeah?” the laundress said, putting her arm and whole shoulder into her task.

“I wondered if you’ve happened to come across beggar’stick seeds on any of the clothes from the past few days.”

“Beggar’s-what?”

“Little seeds, about this big,” I said, holding up my thumb and index finger to show her. “They stick to clothes and are bothersome to remove.”

“Yeah, I have,” she said, surprised to know what I was talking about.

My heart skipped a beat. “You have?” I tried to contain my excitement.

“Yeah, they were a bear to get out. I pricked my fingers.” She held out a finger for my inspection. It was red and raw, like her whole hand. I didn’t see any puncture marks, but I believed her. My heart was beating fast. I was about to discover who killed Lester Sibley. “Luckily there were only a few of them.”