“What is that contraption you’re carrying? And why do you leave the house so early in the morning? I heard you’re not from New York or Newport. Where do you live? Where did you get that smart-looking hat? Why are you carrying rubber overshoes? Do you plan to go down on the rocks? I heard that you found a dead body.”
With that last comment, the entire company halted in their tracks and stared at Sena.
“Sena!” Britta said.
“Hush, girl,” the groomsman said.
“What?” Sena said. “I overheard some ladies talking today at the party and they said that Hattie had found a dead body. I only wanted to know if it was true.”
“It’s not polite to ask so many questions, Sena,” James, the footman, said.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I think by now even Mrs. Mayhew knows.” As everyone seemed to know about Mrs. Trevelyan, being the public figure that she was, I told a simple version of my misadventures in Eureka Springs. To Sena’s delight, I retold how I found my murdered employer in a trunk and became involved in investigating the death of the late hatchet-wielding temperance leader, as we walked toward the Forty Steps. However, I kept the other incidences to myself. No one needed to know, and I didn’t want reminding, that Mrs. Trevelyan was the first of three dead bodies I’d found.
And then we were there, the Forty Steps, a broad section of the Cliff Walk at the end of Narragansett Avenue from which a steep wooden staircase jutted out from the cliff and descended exactly forty steps down to the crashing waves and rocks below. We heard the conviviality before we saw the dozens of others we joined in the fresh evening air. Someone was strumming a banjo and voices were raised in laughter and the occasional song. Judging by the older, simpler style of hats and dresses, the crowd consisted mostly of servants on their night off. The conversations I overheard as I parted from Britta and the others and wove my way toward the steps confirmed it.
“Your missus does what?” one woman in her thirties asked her younger companion.
“She dons an apron, snaps on white gloves, and follows me around all day.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of such a thing. I can’t imagine what Mrs. Flagg must say to that?”
“Oh, she’s quite put out. The missus acts like we don’t even have a housekeeper.”
“Well, if I were Mrs. Flagg, I wouldn’t stay there. They’re not the only high-society family in Newport.”
“Mrs. Flagg nothing,” the younger girl said. “Us maids have had our fill too. It ain’t right, a rich lady like that checking floors and mantelpieces with her gloved finger.” I wondered who the controlling mistress was but moved on.
“Ah, Mr. Whitwell’s all right,” a footman, judging by his height and handsome face, was saying to a group of maids. “He even offered me one of those Cuban cigars when my sister’s boy was born. But the missus, what’s with the flouncy collars?” The maids giggled.
“I think Mrs. Whitwell is trying to stay young,” one of the maids suggested. “But she does look rather silly.”
“I like her dresses,” the youngest of the group said.
“You would, Biddy. You’re only fifteen.”
“She’s certainly rich enough to wear whatever she wants,” another said. All heads nodded in agreement.
“Did you hear about Nick Whitwell?” the footman said, whispering behind his hand. The girls leaned forward. “I heard from Clara, our kitchen maid, who has a brother who works there, that Mr. Nick got expelled from the Reading Room.”
“Really?” one of the maids said. “Why?”
The footman took a few steps toward the girls, so that I could barely hear him. “Because he was caught, eh . . . taking a bit of fresh air, if you catch my meaning, and aiming it right off the porch!” The girls squealed with delight at this shocking bit of gossip.
I smiled at their innocence and waved when I saw Miss Kyler, Lady Phillippa’s maid, near the top of the steps. Maybe she can tell me something about Sir Arthur, I thought, making my way toward her. Before I reached her, someone shouted above the din of the waves mixed with the music, the call of seagulls, and the hum of dozens of voices.
“We will uphold the dignity of labor! We will uphold the dignity of labor!”
The music stopped. The crowd hushed as I turned to see who had called out. There, in the middle of the merrymakers, standing on a small boulder, was Sibley, the man I’d seen standing outside the Newport Casino arguing with Mr. Whitwell some days before. Sibley was now addressing his fellow workers.
“Listen, fellow laborers. Remember ‘an injury to one is the concern of all!’ ” he said. “It’s us or them and if it were up to them I wouldn’t even be talking to you.”
“Then shut up!” someone yelled.
“Then they would win. No, sir, I won’t rest until you have your rights.”
“Then don’t. But the rest of us would all like to relax right now.” We all looked to see who had shouted back. It was James, familiarly putting his arm around Britta’s shoulders. She was smiling and relaxed into his embrace. “I’ll agree we work too much. But do we have to talk about how we work too much as well?”
“That’s my point,” Sibley said. “Talking about working too much isn’t enough. We must join together and do something about it.”
“And what would that be?” another man asked.
“Strike!” Sibley said, smashing his fist into the palm of his other hand. Several people laughed or dismissed him with a wave of their hands. Most turned their backs and went back to talking with their friends. The banjo player began another tune. But a few people, including Sena, the groomsman, and several others, stayed listening.
“Like the telegraph operators?” a young woman asked.
“Exactly,” Sibley said.
“But they’re striking against a company, not a family,” Sena said. “Isn’t it disloyal and ungrateful for household staff to even think about striking? Working for the Mayhews is a desirable position. I’m the envy of many a maid. Why would I put my position and future at risk for a few extra hours off a week?”
“It’s not disloyal to want a full day off a week. It’s immoral of your ‘family’ to deny you. But you’re right. You work for some of the richest people in this country. You do have a prestigious position. So think of the message you would be sending to other maids if you demanded your rights! You could do so much good for your fellow workers. If you stood up to your ‘family’ it would give courage to the more unfortunate to do the same.”
From the number of people who’d turned their backs on him, Sibley’s impassioned speech was falling mostly on deaf ears. But then why had Mrs. Mayhew asked me about discontent in her own staff? What had prompted the rumors? Perhaps more people were listening and sympathetic to his cause than was apparent. Certainly the maid with the controlling mistress had voiced grievances.
“No, thank you, sir,” Sena said. “I worked hard to get where I am and I’m not about to jeopardize my position.” With that she spun away, pulling the two other maids and the groomsman with her. Someone had brought out an accordion and now joined the banjo player. Before long, everyone had moved away from the labor man but me. I wondered why I was still there. I too started to walk away.
“I’ve seen you before,” he said, stopping my retreat, “at the Newport Casino a few days ago.”
I was startled that he remembered. “Yes, you and Mr. Whitwell were having words.”
The man laughed. “That’s one way of putting it.” He shoved out his hand. “Lester Sibley, at your service.”
“Hattie Davish,” I said, taking his hand before realizing it might not be a good idea to be seen fraternizing with him.
“I like you, Hattie Davish.”
“You just met me, Mr. Sibley,” I said, now suspicious of his intent.
“Doesn’t matter. I can tell an honest laborer when I see one. What line of work are you in, Hattie Davish?”
“I’m Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew’s social secretary.”
“So are you treated fairly, Hattie Davish? Or do you work at all hours, always at the beck and call of Mrs. Mayhew?”
“Long and unusual hours are the nature of the job, Mr. Sibley,” I said.
“Are cramped, cold, dreary living quarters part of the nature of the job too?”
“I have a spacious suite of rooms, Mr. Sibley.”
“And what about your private life, Hattie Davish? Can you do as you like, even in the little time you do have off?”
“Yes, I believe I can.” I was tiring of this line of questioning. Like Sena, I had worked hard to attain my position. I was respected, well treated, and enjoyed challenging, satisfying work. What more could I ask for? I was content. Why shouldn’t he be? But Mr. Sibley wasn’t about to give up.
“Did you know that one dinner party at Marble House or Rose Mont costs over a thousand dollars? One dinner party. What do you make in a year, Hattie Davish?”
“That, Mr. Sibley, is none of your concern,” I said, doing nothing to hide my irritation. “I understand there are people in need of a voice such as yours, but I am not one of them.”
“Whether you know it or not, Hattie Davish, you are one of them. My voice, my message, my cause, is fair rights for all, and that includes maids, butlers, clerks, and social secretaries.”
“I’m grateful for my position, Mr. Sibley. I have been poor and I have been lonely.”
After my father died, I was an orphan with no siblings, no close living relatives, and less than twenty dollars at my disposal. The doctors who attended, though I would say “killed,” my father had taken almost all we had. I was no longer able to live in my childhood home, and all I could afford was a tiny basement room at Mrs. Coombs’ Boardinghouse that flooded during spring rainstorms. Luckily, my father had paid my tuition at Mrs. Chaplin’s school in full. I never wanted to imagine where I would be now if not for my typewriter, my training, and the opportunities given to me by the likes of Sir Arthur and Mrs. Mayhew.
“So,” I said, “despite the limitations or demands placed upon me, I prefer my current full and interesting life. Once I could never have imagined standing on the top of a cliff, looking out over the ocean, listening to banjo and accordion music while discussing labor strife with a man such as yourself.”
Lester Sibley nodded his head. “If only I could persuade you that you could have even more. Here, at least take this.” He reached into his pocket. “Damn, I forgot.”
“Forgot what, Mr. Sibley?”
“Excuse my language, but I forgot that all my pamphlets are lying on the bottom of the ocean. Don’t you see, Hattie Davish, that they don’t want you to realize you deserve more? And they’ll stop at nothing to prevent it.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but his comments about his pamphlets called up the image of the steamer trunk bobbing in the water before it disappeared beneath the waves.
“Were you in a shipwreck, sir?” I asked.
“No, no, kind lady,” Lester Sibley said, smiling crookedly. “No, on the trip over from New York my travel trunk, containing all of my literature, was stolen from my room. As it was nowhere to be found when we arrived, I can only assume someone sent it overboard. Like I said, ‘they’ will stop at nothing to keep me from spreading the word. Did I say something funny?”
I had involuntarily laughed out loud in my relief and embarrassment. Here I had been imagining the worst, a trunk hiding a dead body, whereas the only thing Mr. Mayhew and the Pinkerton detective were guilty of was ridding the world of more labor propaganda pamphlets. Although I still didn’t approve of Mr. Mayhew stooping to theft in the night, I felt foolish for assigning to him such evil doings. But how did I explain my reaction to the poor man’s misfortune? I looked about me quickly. People were dancing, laughing, drinking from bottles and flasks, tapping their toes, and clapping their hands to the rapid beat of the music. The accordion player had a monkey on his shoulder clapping tiny cymbals together. The animal even wore a little fez.
“No, no, I apologize, Mr. Sibley. I merely caught a glimpse of the monkey. He’s quite amusing.”
“Yes, of course,” Sibley said, not appearing to understand at all. “Back to what I was saying, Miss Davish. Our movement seeks to—” The last thing I wanted was for him to return to the previous conversation.
“It’s been interesting talking to you, Mr. Sibley, but if you’ll excuse me, I haven’t been down the steps yet.” I took several steps away, hoping he wouldn’t follow me.
“Of course,” he said, realizing I wasn’t going to be swayed to his cause tonight. I gratefully headed toward the cliff-side staircase as he headed to a group of people congregated around the accordion player.
Relieved to be free of the labor man’s attention, I grabbed the railing at the top of the stairs and walked several steps down. And then I froze. I’d made the mistake of looking down through the empty space between the steps. Beneath my feet, at least twenty feet below, was nothing but slimy, black rock and swirling water.
I don’t think I can go down there, I thought, my palms sweating as I imagined myself losing my balance and slipping into the turbulent waves below.
I dropped to a sitting position, my heart racing, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off the water. I began to inch my way backward up to the top. But then, as I nearly reached the top, the waves slipped away from the rocks for a moment, revealing several red algae plants, their fronds gently flowing with the current. As the waves crashed again, I heard giggling above me. I glanced up at two young girls, probably maids, waiting at the top of the steps. In my seated position, my skirts were blocking their way. And they were giggling at me.
Rightfully so, I thought, suddenly feeling ridiculous. I’d been down staircases before. Why was this one so different? I stood up, let the girls pass, and watched as they held on to their straw bonnets while carelessly skipping down the steps. I peered down again to watch the algae beckoning me from below. If young girls could do it, so could I, I thought. Besides, I had to have that plant. I secured my hat against the breeze, took a deep breath, and grabbed the rail once again.
“Let her go!”
I spun my head around at the second shout of the night. Instantly the music stopped and the only sounds were those of the waves crashing below and the clattering cymbals of the monkey, who didn’t know to stop. I followed the stares of the hushed crowd toward the cause of the commotion. I should’ve known. It was Lester Sibley! His hat had fallen off and he held Britta in his arms. She was squirming in his embrace, trying to release herself, but the labor man was reluctant to let her go.
“Can’t you see she was dancing with me, footman?” Sibley said as James hovered nearby.
“She wants to dance with me now,” James said. James tried to pull Britta away, but Sibley would not let go of Britta’s arm. She began to cry. I could see from where I stood the red welt already rising on her arm.
“Let her go now!” James shouted.
“I’m sorry,” Lester Sibley said, releasing Britta, who fumbled into a group of gaping girls. “I didn’t mean—” Without allowing the labor man to finish his apology, James yanked his fist back and swung at the man, landing a hard blow right in Lester Sibley’s face. Sibley staggered back, holding his hand to his nose as blood streamed down his chin and dripped onto his white shirt. James lunged for the man again. Britta and a few other girls nearby screamed. Several men snatched the footman’s raised arm and pulled him in the opposite direction.
“No fair, Chase,” one of the men told James as he resisted the hold on his arms. “You’ve got a foot on the man.”
“Serves him right for preaching about unions and strikes when we’re all trying to have a good time,” someone added.
“He’s only trying to help us,” another said.
The accordion player began a jaunty tune, but no one was listening. Instead voices rose above the song as arguments about Sibley and his cause broke out among the previously merry group.
Our group from Rose Mont had closed ranks around B
ritta. Sena put her arm around Britta and, followed by the other girls and the groomsman, led her away up Narragansett Avenue. Britta glanced back once, her eyes as red as the welt on her arm, just as James jerked free of the men restraining him and stormed away down the Cliff Walk. He quickly disappeared around the bend.
What was that all about? Mr. Sibley sure has a knack for stirring up trouble wherever he goes, I thought, looking about for the cause of the commotion. Mr. Sibley was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER 10
Boom!
“What was that?” Sena exclaimed. I’d caught up with Britta, Sena, and the others from Rose Mont. We’d just turned onto Bellevue when the explosion went off.
“Look at that!” Britta exclaimed, pointing north toward Touro Park. Over the trees, thick lines of smoke curled up into the night sky, blurring the stars.
With unspoken assent, we picked up our skirts and ran. Others quickly joined us, their eyes captivated by the eerie glow ahead. We were all destined for the site of the explosion, two similarly squat brick buildings, on opposite corners of Green Street.
A grotesque tableau of Dante’s hell, I thought, watching transfixed by the walls of red flame flashing against the dark sky.
From the relative safety of the sidewalk across the street I could feel the blistering heat press against my skin. Massive columns of black smoke billowed above the buildings, with small tendrils drifting into the street, weaving their way through the crowd. And rising above it all was the cacophony of chaos, pounding in my head. The fire roared like wind during a storm on the Plains. Police and firemen, who had arrived before us, shouted at one another over the clanging of bells. Panes of windows, already partially broken by the blast, shattered to the ground. One large piece landed a few feet away, the gold-stenciled letters LOAN still intact. Skittish horses bucked and neighed as carriages arrived on the scene. And then came a rumble and crash as a roof collapsed and the sound of gushing water spraying from the hose carriages onto the flames. I wanted nothing more than to hold my hands over my ears, but instead I shielded my eyes from the blaze with one hand and held a handkerchief over my mouth with the other; the metallic taste and smell of the smoke had begun to fill my mouth and lungs.
A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery) Page 8