A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery)

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  And yet I, like everyone else spellbound by the scene, stayed, wondering what caused the fire. Was it a gas leak? Or electric wires that got too hot? Or a faulty furnace with the coals left burning? But what about the explosion? Fires were an all too common occurrence; explosions were not.

  With the infusion of water came clouds of blinding smoke and then the signs etched above the doors of the burning buildings gradually became legible: NEWPORT SAVINGS BANK and AQUIDNECK NATIONAL BANK.

  Thank goodness! They weren’t homes where the residents had moments ago been peacefully sleeping in their beds or sipping sherry in their parlors as I feared. Most likely the banks were empty and no one was hurt. From the exterior, the savings bank appeared to have suffered the more extensive damage: Part of a wall had collapsed, the windows were all blown out, and the roof had collapsed and was still aflame inside. The national bank had lost some of its windows and had partial damage to its roof. The explosion had obviously originated in the former building and had spread to the latter. A fireman wearing a black rubber coat, tall rubber boots, and a leather fire helmet walked past. He pushed the helmet back from his forehead with his forearm, leaving a long smear of black ash across his brow.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Don’t know yet, but we think it was intentional.” Before I could ask more, he was gone.

  Intentional, I thought. Who would do such a thing? Then I saw Mr. Doubleday, the Pinkerton detective, standing among the crowd several yards away. I couldn’t hear him, but his lips were puckered as if whistling. What was he doing here? He was probably a curious bystander, but something in his stance made me uneasy. And then out of the smoke Lester Sibley, holding a bloody handkerchief to his nose, walked past the detective. Mr. Doubleday grabbed ahold of the labor man’s collar and nearly yanked the smaller man off his feet. Sibley shouted and with his free hand attempted to free himself, but to no avail. The detective was both taller and stronger. I maneuvered closer, careful to keep several people between us but close enough to hear what Sibley and Doubleday were saying.

  “I told you it would get ugly if you didn’t shut your mouth and leave Newport,” Doubleday said.

  “What are you talking about?” Lester Sibley said.

  The bigger man gestured toward the burning buildings with his chin.

  “What? I didn’t have anything to do with this!” Sibley proclaimed. “I’m not an anarchist. I simply want fair treatment for workers. Why would I burn down a bank?”

  “I don’t know. It seems like something a radical like you would do.”

  “I’m telling you I didn’t have anything to do with this!”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, Mr. Sibley, that if you don’t stop your inflammatory talk and leave Newport on the next boat or train, you may find yourself in a load of trouble.” Doubleday snatched Sibley’s hat off his head and threw it to the ground. With one deliberate stomp of his foot the detective flattened the stiff-crowned hat. “A load of trouble!”

  “You can’t threaten me. I know my rights. I was nowhere near this place when the explosion happened.” Suddenly Lester Sibley caught sight of me. “Ask her. She can tell you where I was tonight.” Mortified that both men were looking at me, one with pleading eyes, the other with a suspicious stare, I turned my back on both of them and walked as fast as I could through the crowd and away from the grim scene. I didn’t look back.

  I couldn’t sleep. I normally didn’t sleep well, but tonight I couldn’t think of anything besides Lester Sibley. My thoughts bounced back and forth between the unanswered questions surrounding the man and self-reprimands for my cowardice toward him. Why did I fail to come to the man’s aid when I could’ve vouched for his whereabouts? Doubleday was threatening Mr. Sibley and I did nothing to help. I was ashamed of myself. I hadn’t even had the guts to write Walter as I’d planned. I was restless, with a growing pang of guilt in the pit of my stomach. Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow I would track down the labor man as soon as I had a moment free to make amends.

  But to get through tonight, I typed up the list of questions in my head:

  What had caused the explosion?

  Was it intentional? If so, why?

  Why did Detective Doubleday think Lester Sibley was responsible?

  Why did Detective Doubleday threaten Lester Sibley?

  What was Doubleday to gain if the labor man left?

  Why had a simple dance resulted in blows between James and Lester Sibley?

  What will Walter’s mother tell him about our meeting this afternoon?

  Then I laid out my new plant and seed specimens on the desk in my sitting room. I studied their details under my hand lens and using James L. Bennett’s Plants of Rhode Island, which I’d borrowed from Mrs. Mayhew’s library, identified the species names for the newest additions to my collection. One by one I preserved my specimens in my plant press. Normally the task filled me with joy and satisfaction, but tonight I felt empty. I’d let someone down. For some reason my thoughts returned to Walter and my meeting with his mother.

  Had I let him down as well? His mother didn’t approve of me, but Walter never minded the gap between us. Or did he? Was I blinded by my fondness for him? I’d once explained to Walter that I could never be more than what I was. It didn’t seem to bother him. So why was I suddenly doubting his affections? Because his mother was unimpressed? If Walter no longer had faith in me, would I still have faith in myself? And Sir Arthur? What if he no longer valued me? Was I worthless because someone like Julia Grice said so?

  “No,” I said out loud to the empty room. When had I stopped looking to myself for strength and pride? When had I let the opinion of others dictate my worth? I admitted I’d wronged Lester Sibley by not staying and corroborating his story, and tomorrow I would right that wrong. But that was no reason to let my mind spiral out of control, into a state of depression and doubt.

  “Buck up, Davish,” I told myself. “You’ve got work to do.”

  I settled down in front of my typewriter, slipped in a blank sheet of paper, and, feeling the cool touch of the keys beneath my fingertips, began on another page of Sir Arthur’s manuscript. I hadn’t typed half the page before my eyelids drooped and I staggered off to bed.

  I didn’t rise early enough for a hike. And when I did awaken, my courage from the night before was dimmed by sunlight. A sense of loneliness almost overwhelmed me.

  “Good morning, Britta,” I said overenthusiastically when she arrived with my breakfast, I was so grateful to see her. She smiled halfheartedly, her normally cheerful countenance clouded, as she placed the tray on the table and sat opposite me.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked, pouring us coffee. She sighed but didn’t answer my question.

  “You missed a lively discussion downstairs this morning.”

  “Was it about the incidence at the Forty Steps?” I asked. She took a quick gulp of her coffee and tugged at her left ear. I knew I’d said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry if I’m prying.”

  “No, Hattie. It’s okay. Actually, all the fuss this morning was about the fire last night. Only a few of us saw it and the rest of the staff were jealous. Someone had a comment or question about everything.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, everything, like, ‘Did they say what caused the fire?’ ‘Mrs. Post’s chambermaid said a bomb exploded!’ ‘Was anyone hurt?’ ‘How many buildings burned down?’ ‘I’m glad my money’s not in either one of those banks.’ ‘I can’t believe I went back along the Cliff Walk and missed everything!’ ”

  Britta and I both laughed at her imitation of the younger maids.

  “Of course, even though we were there, none of us know much about what happened either,” she said, shrugging. I nodded, picturing Detective Doubleday yanking Lester Sibley by the collar. What was that about?

  “You’re right,” I said, remembering what the fireman had told me. “We probably don’t k
now the half of it.”

  “I glanced at the papers before Miss Issacson brought them up to Mrs. Mayhew. They didn’t seem to know much more than we do,” she said, piling the dishes of my half-eaten breakfast onto a tray without comment. Britta was already used to my eating habits. I’d finished the broiled tomatoes and brandy peaches but couldn’t face the poached egg on anchovy toast. “Hope it’s not true about bad things happening in threes.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “Well, first the telegraph operators went on strike and then this fire. Hope nothing else happens.”

  I’d never been superstitious and rejected the rule of three outright, but Britta’s comment put me in a pensive mood. Yesterday I would’ve thought that the travel trunk incident was the first in a string of unfortunate events, the strike, the altercation at the Forty Steps, the fire, my meeting with Walter’s mother, my abandonment of Lester Sibley, but I now knew better. And yet?

  “I hope so too, Britta. I hope so too.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Mrs. Mayhew called for me after breakfast and I spent several hours working, updating Mrs. Mayhew’s calendar, sorting letters, invitations, and calling cards, and creating a seating chart for the supper at Mrs. Mayhew’s upcoming ball. Her lavish garden party had ended only yesterday afternoon and yet she had scheduled another lavish entertainment in just three days’ time. Astounding! I thought. With so many parties, luncheons, concerts, and lectures to plan and attend, how can they call these weeks in Newport a holiday? I’d be exhausted.

  As I made suggested changes to the guest list, Mrs. Mayhew, lounging on her chaise longue and stroking a serene and contented Bonaparte, pored through dozens of invitation samples that had arrived from the stationery store this morning.

  “What do you think of this one?” she asked, holding up a plain white card with a simple green border. Before I could respond, she held up another with an elaborate floral design. “Or this one?” Again she didn’t wait for a response.

  “You were at the fire last night, weren’t you?” she said, without looking up. Her question surprised me. Was that recrimination in her voice or was she merely trying to confirm a fact?

  “Yes, ma’am, I was.”

  “There are rumors about it already, but I don’t know what to believe.” I waited, my pen drying as I stopped my writing, giving her my full attention. “I heard mention of a bomb.”

  How did that rumor get started? And how had Mrs. Mayhew heard of it so soon? Britta said the newspaper hadn’t provided any details. Although many thought the telephone was a poor substitute for a personal visit, I knew Mrs. Mayhew didn’t always share that opinion. The telephone was a lightning-quick lifeline of gossip. Had she already had at least one telephone conversation this morning?

  “I wouldn’t know, ma’am,” I said.

  “I heard you could feel the ground shake a mile away.” Yes, because she rarely, if ever, interacted with the staff who witnessed the blaze, she had definitely been on her telephone.

  “Some of the housemaids and I did feel something when we were walking back from the Forty Steps.”

  “That’s more than a mile. Jane was right then. It could’ve been a bomb. What with all the strike talk and now this, one would think that anarchists have made it to Newport. This is a disaster. What will become of the Season with this chaos and destruction? What will they do next? Dig up the greens at the Country Club? Ransack the Casino? Pour tar on Bailey’s Beach? Appear unannounced at my ball?”

  I didn’t want to contradict her, but her equating bombing a bank, doing thousands of dollars in damage, disrupting commerce, and potentially endangering human lives with someone arriving uninvited at her party was a grotesque line of thinking. Besides, she was getting herself worked up for nothing.

  “It could’ve been a gas leak or an old boiler exploding,” I said.

  “Of course, you are right. I knew I could rely on your levelheadedness, Davish. Oh, thank goodness. I hate to think that Mrs. Post might postpone her luncheon because of this. What does it have to do with us, anyway?” She smiled and began flipping through the invitation samples again. “Are you finished with the guest list?”

  After the conversation with Mrs. Mayhew, I was relieved to get away from Rose Mont, even just to deliver another letter, this time a spontaneous invitation to tea to Mrs. Harland Whitwell. I had no doubt Mrs. Mayhew intended to interrogate her friend about the fire. I’d learned from Britta at breakfast that Jane’s husband, Harland Whitwell, was a co-founder of the Aquidneck National Bank. Fortunately, that building had only suffered minor structural damages and was rumored to be ready to open for business in a few days, again something I learned thirdhand from Britta.

  The invitation had to be delivered immediately, never mind that Mrs. Mayhew had promised me another carriage ride that didn’t materialize or that she gave me no indication as to where Jane Whitwell lived. My job was to know these things, and after days of reading the Newport books I was now prepared. A few days ago I confused the Reading Room, the exclusive all-gentlemen’s club, with a physical room somewhere in the vastness of Rose Mont. Now I not only knew where the round stone tower called the Old Stone Mill was (in Touro Park at the top of Mill Street), but I also could quote its history and the varied theories as to who constructed it and why. I favored the one that claimed the tower was a windmill built by Benedict Arnold, the first governor of Rhode Island and great-grandfather to the famous Revolutionary War general. I felt confident, and admittedly a bit proud, that I could easily find my way around Newport, with or without a carriage. Ironically, my efforts were unnecessary in this case, as Mrs. Whitwell lived in a “cottage” named Glen Park less than half a mile straight down Bellevue Avenue. I hoped future deliveries or tasks would be more of a challenge.

  And so I found myself walking around to the back of Glen Park and under an umbrella of wisteria vines meant to hide the servants’ entrance from the windows above. A kitchen maid let me in.

  “What do you want?” Mrs. Whitwell’s housekeeper asked after I’d been left standing in the kitchen for several minutes.

  “I have an invitation for Mrs. Whitwell,” I said. “I’m Mrs. Mayhew’s social secretary.”

  “Well, give it to me then, and I’ll see that she gets it.”

  “I’m afraid, Mrs. . . . ?” I said.

  “Johnville,” the housekeeper said.

  “I’m afraid, Mrs. Johnville, that Mrs. Mayhew requested I deliver it personally and return with a response.” I shrugged my shoulders to indicate that I knew this was a breach in protocol.

  “Oh, all right. Follow me.” She led me up the back stairs and pushed through a door into a hall. Stretching away into the distance, the hall, like a sketch I’d once seen in Harper’s of a gallery in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, was lined with a plush red carpet and dozens of portraits, landscapes, and still-life paintings in elaborately carved gold-leaf frames hung from red silk ropes on the walls. Rose Mont wasn’t the only extravagant home in Newport, I thought as I glanced at each painting as we passed. Mrs. Johnville looked straight ahead, not giving the paintings a single glance.

  Halfway down the hall, we approached one of several closed doors with open etched-glass transoms. The housekeeper was poised to knock when a shriek pierced the silence of the hallway. Mrs. Johnville forced open the door, but the room was empty. She looked back at me.

  “Where did that—?” Before she could finish, someone screamed.

  “Haaarlaaaand!”

  I followed Mrs. Johnville as she dashed down the hall and was confronted by Nick Whitwell rushing toward us. He didn’t stop.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Johnville said, smacking her elbow against the wall attempting to get out of the young man’s way.

  Nick Whitwell said nothing as he raced by, but for one brief moment our eyes met. I dropped my eyes, trying to avoid his piercing gaze, and noticed a conspicuous bulge under his waistcoat. Before I had time to consider why he was running in his own house or where he
was going or what he could be hiding, someone screamed again.

  “Noooooooo!”

  Mrs. Johnville ran and stopped abruptly in an open doorway a few yards down the hall. I hesitated a moment, watching the retreating figure of Nick Whitwell before I joined her.

  Oh God, not again!

  Mahogany bookshelves, their leather-bound books sticking out spine down or tipped over like dominoes, lined the walls and an enormous oak desk stood prominently in the middle of the room. The door of a small metal safe hung open, nothing but a gold cigar box labeled Partagás left inside. Overturned books, ledgers, and papers littered the desk while many more were strewn about on the floor. And sprawled amidst them on a well-worn Persian carpet of red, green, and gold was Harland Whitwell, his wife kneeling at his side, blocking most of the view of the man with her body.

  “Harland, Harland, Harland,” she repeated over and over as she rocked back and forth over her husband.

  She clutched one of his hands to her chest. Her husband held something, a letter, pamphlet, or leaflet, in the fist of his other hand. I stepped closer and nearly tripped on Mr. Whitwell’s cane, lying abandoned on the floor. I tiptoed over the cane and peered over the distressed woman’s shoulder.

  Oh God, has it happened again?

  I turned away, cursing my curiosity, my ill luck, Mrs. Mayhew’s penchant for gossip, and anything else I could think of to blame for bringing me here at this moment. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes tightly. It was too late. His bright starched white shirt and waistcoat flashed before my closed eyelids. And there in the middle of his chest, like a rose on the white field of a family crest, was a blossom of splattered red blood. I opened my eyes and gazed down at the man again. A cigar, identical to the one I’d seen him offer Mr. Mayhew at the Casino, jutted from Mr. Whitwell’s waistcoat pocket. Speckles of blood clung to the shiny gold wrapper.