Poor Mr. Whitwell, I thought. He’ll never smoke a Havana cigar again.
CHAPTER 12
“Is he dead?” Mrs. Johnville whispered from behind me. I hadn’t heard her approach.
“I don’t know, but I can find out,” I said. The other times I’d found a dead body, Walter had felt at the person’s wrist for a pulse. I didn’t expect to find one.
I knelt down next to Mr. Whitwell. His wife was on his other side, watching my every move. I placed two fingers on the man’s wrist like I’d seen Walter do. I couldn’t feel a pulse. I didn’t need Walter to tell me what that meant.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Whitwell,” I said.
The grieving woman pulled her bulky husband onto her lap, cradling him like a child. The white ruffle frill on the yoke of her girlish day dress touched the wound, turning the trim red.
“No, no, no,” she repeated.
Unable to comfort her, I decided the next best thing was to look about me for any indication as to who might’ve killed the man. My first thought was to look at what he clutched in his hand. I knew better than to try to pry it out of his hand but instead peered down into the crumpled paper hoping I could read something that would give me a clue.
. . . higher wages, shorter hours . . . for a day’s work was all I could read, but it was enough. This looked like a labor union propaganda pamphlet. But Lester Sibley had said he’d lost them all when the Pinkerton detective threw the trunk overboard. How had Harland Whitwell acquired one? And why was he clutching it when he died? Was he trying to tell us something?
“I called the police,” Mrs. Johnville said. I hadn’t realized that she had left.
“Johnville!” Mrs. Whitwell’s head shot up to glare at her housekeeper. Her shout startled us both, as Mrs. Whitwell had not said anything coherent in the last few minutes. “Who asked you to call the police?”
“Um . . .” Mrs. Johnville floundered for the words. “No one, ma’am, but . . .” She hesitated to state the obvious.
“If your husband’s been murdered, Mrs. Whitwell . . . ,” I started to say, not sure how I was going to convince her to involve the police.
“If ?” Mrs. Whitwell said. “Of course he’s been murdered! Poor Harland. Weeks!” she screeched for the butler. “Weeks!” She suddenly yanked her husband’s tie and pulled at the pearl buttons of his waistcoat. “We have to get him out of those bloody clothes! He’d hate for anyone to see him like this.”
I put my hand over hers. “We should wait for the police, Mrs. Whitwell,” I said, drawing her hand away. “And then you can clean him up. Mrs. Johnville, don’t you think it would be a good idea to get Mrs. Whitwell a cup of coffee or tea or something?”
“Yes, of course,” the housekeeper said, dashing away.
“Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Whitwell, and wait for your coffee?” I said, putting my arm around the grieving woman and slowly guiding her to her feet and to a chair away from the body on the floor. I looked about for something to cover the man up with so his wife didn’t have to keep looking at him but had trouble finding anything. I did notice, however, several papers with the Aquidneck National Bank letterhead. One correspondence caught my eye, the telegram that had arrived for Harland Whitwell during the garden party. The words foreclosure and bankruptcy leaped off the page. I opened several drawers in the desk. They brimmed with papers of all sorts. Receipts with the names of local merchants I recognized, memoranda on the stationery of several businesses whose names I didn’t recognize, letters from several charities, and personal correspondence. A few had ROSE MONT embossed across the top. It was all well organized into stacks with staples and large paper clips. I found what I was looking for in a bottom drawer, a stack of clean white handkerchiefs with a simple HW stitched into the middle in brown silk thread. I pulled three from the pile and laid one gently over the dead man’s face and another over the bloody wound. I gave Mrs. Whitwell the other.
Mrs. Johnville came in, followed by a footman carrying a silver coffee service. The footman immediately left, leaving Mrs. Johnville to pour the coffee. She put in three cubes of sugar and several tablespoons of milk. She handed it to Mrs. Whitwell, whose hands were trembling. She put the cup to her lips and drank the entire contents without stop. She handed the cup back and Mrs. Johnville poured more. Over the rim of the second cup, first Mrs. Whitwell looked at her husband’s dead body, blood already seeping through the handkerchief on his chest, and then her gaze found me.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” I said. “I’m Hattie Davish, Mrs. Mayhew’s secretary.”
“That’s right. I saw you at the garden party, didn’t I?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What are you doing here?”
I picked up the invitation I’d dropped on the floor at first sight of the dead man.
“I came delivering this,” I said, handing her the envelope. “It’s an invitation to tea from Mrs. Mayhew.” Even as I said them, the words sounded inane.
Jane Whitwell tried to open the envelope, but her hands were shaking too much. She handed it back to me. “Keep it. I’ve no use for it now,” she said.
We all stood in silence a moment until a knock on the door woke us from our reverie.
“The police, ma’am,” the butler announced. Two men came into the room, both wearing blue policemen’s uniforms. The two rows of brass buttons on their jackets glittered under the electric chandelier. One was young, barely in his early twenties, clean shaven with straw yellow hair. He still wore his hat, a dark blue flat cap with a visor, gold braid, and brass metal hat badge. He was too far away for me to read what it said. The second man was in his early fifties, graying hair on his head and in his long, twisted mustache, and was well over six feet tall. An imposing figure, he dwarfed everyone else in the room. He politely held his hat in his hands, a long silver fishhook jutting out through the fabric. He walked over to Mrs. Whitwell, barely looking at the dead body on the floor.
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Whitwell,” he said. “Everyone knew your husband to be a kind, hardworking, charitable man. He will be missed.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Whitwell said, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. She still stared down at her husband.
“Now, I’m Chief of Police Sam Preble and I’m going to be personally investigating this heinous crime against your husband. He was a valued member of this community and deserves nothing less.” Mrs. Whitwell nodded her approval. “That’s Sergeant Ballard,” he said, indicating the young man standing still and silent by the door. “He’s going to be assisting me. Show some respect, Ballard,” Preble said. The young officer quickly took off his hat.
“Now, I don’t want to trouble you too much, ma’am,” Chief Preble said. “I know this is a difficult time for you and your family, but I do have a few questions I have to ask you.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Whitwell said.
“Did you find your husband dead, ma’am?”
“No,” she said. “I mean yes. Oh, I don’t know.”
“Take your time, Mrs. Whitwell,” Chief Preble said.
“I mean to say that I found Harland like that on the floor.” She pointed to her dead husband. “I came by to see if he was all right.” A sob caught in her throat. She held the handkerchief up to her mouth.
“Please continue if you can, Mrs. Whitwell,” the police chief said. Mrs. Whitwell nodded. “Why did you think he was not all right, ma’am?”
“Harland usually spends a couple of hours in the morning working in here. I’d come by to see if he’d learned anything new about the fire last night. Anything that might’ve eased his mind. He’d been distraught before going to bed, pacing, mumbling to himself, wringing his hands. And there he was.”
“Dead?” the policeman said in almost a whisper.
“No, he wasn’t dead, at least not at first.”
A glint of hope shone from the policeman’s eyes. “Did Mr. Whitwell say anything to you?”
&nb
sp; “Yes, he said, ‘Sibley.’ ” Mrs. Whitwell looked up from her dead husband and regarded the police chief for the first time. “Does that mean anything to you?”
Chief Preble’s eyes widened. So did mine.
“Yes, ma’am, it does. Lester Sibley is a man with a great capacity for trouble. A labor man we’re holding on the suspicion of arson. We believe he may have been involved in the bank fires last night.”
“Chief Preble?” I said, no longer able to remain quiet.
“Yes? And you are?”
“Miss Hattie Davish, social secretary to Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew. I was here delivering an invitation to Mrs. Whitwell when the housekeeper and I came across Mrs. Whitwell here with her husband.”
“And?”
“And I think you would be interested to note what Mr. Whitwell is holding in his hand.”
Chief Preble stepped over and looked at the dead man for the first time. He lifted the handkerchief with his little finger and peeked at the man’s face for a moment before letting the handkerchief drop. He carefully removed the handkerchief covering Mr. Whitwell’s chest and examined the wound before looking at the pamphlet in the man’s hand. Unlike me, Chief Preble had no qualms about prying the paper out of the man’s grip. The chief smoothed the pamphlet out on the floor, reading.
“What is it?” Mrs. Whitwell said.
“Besides the usual rhetoric, it calls for a strike at several banks, one of which is in Newport.”
“Why would he be holding that?” Mrs. Whitwell said. “What does that have to do with anything?” With each word her voice rose in pitch to the point of hysteria.
Chief Preble showed Mrs. Whitwell the pamphlet. “Doesn’t your husband own controlling shares in all of these banks, Mrs. Whitwell?”
“Maybe; I don’t know. Harland’s a prominent banker, I know that much, but he never talked about work with me. But even if he did, what does that have to do with his murder?”
“Ma’am, this pamphlet was authored by Lester Sibley.”
“Then Harland was trying to tell me who killed him, wasn’t he?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Chief Preble said, avoiding Mrs. Whitwell’s gaze and her questions by slowly folding the pamphlet in half and then in quarters. He stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “It may seem that way but—”
“Chief Preble, I want you to arrest this Lester Sibley immediately!” Mrs. Whitwell said.
“I would, ma’am, but you see—”
“That man murdered my husband! If you don’t arrest him this instant, I’ll see that you never work again.”
“Mrs. Whitwell, I can’t arrest Lester Sibley for the murder of your husband.”
“Why not?” she demanded.
“Because he didn’t kill your husband.”
“How dare you tell me you know who did and didn’t kill Harland. Harland himself told me.”
“That may be, ma’am, but Lester Sibley couldn’t be the murderer.”
“And why not?”
“Because, Mrs. Whitwell, as I said before, we brought Lester Sibley in for questioning about the fires. The man’s been locked up since last night.”
CHAPTER 13
Preble had more questions, but as Mrs. Whitwell was growing more and more agitated, Mrs. Whitwell’s lady’s maid was summoned and escorted Mrs. Whitwell to her bedroom. The policeman then asked Mrs. Johnville to call a doctor. That left Chief Preble, Sergeant Ballard, the dead Mr. Whitwell, and me. Chief Preble began examining the dead man’s body in earnest.
Without looking up, the chief said, “Tell me who you are again?”
“Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew’s social secretary, Miss Hattie Davish.”
“And you came here, purely by coincidence, and found Mrs. Whitwell with her husband’s dead body?”
“Yes. I came to deliver an invitation to Mrs. Whitwell from Mrs. Mayhew. Mrs. Johnville, the housekeeper, and I heard a scream and traced it to Mr. Whitwell’s office. We found Mrs. Whitwell in here with her husband.”
“Do you know the Whitwells?”
“Only by sight. I’ve never spoken to either of them until today.”
“Good,” the policeman said, bending over Mr. Whitwell so close to examine the wound, he could’ve rested his chin on the dead man’s chest. The chief leaned back and looked at me. “You might be able to give me some objective insight.”
“I’ll help any way I can.”
“Good. Ballard,” he said to his sergeant, “contact the coroner’s office. We need to get an autopsy done right away. Tell him suspected close-range bullet wound. There’s stippling on the skin. Now,” he said to me, searching the surrounding area for something, “being an outsider, tell me everything you know about the Whitwells. Wait, what’s this?” He picked up a small piece of bent metal. “Ballard!” he shouted. “Found an empty cartridge case. Tell the coroner definitely gunshot wound. Okay, Miss Davish, about the Whitwells?”
“I don’t know them at all, sir,” I said, staring at the light from the chandelier above reflecting off the warped piece of metal in the policeman’s palm. It was smaller than the size of my thumb and yet the bullet from it had killed Harland Whitwell. I took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sure I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”
“Tell me anyway.”
I told him everything I knew, about the friendship and the snippets of telephone conversations I’d heard between Mrs. Mayhew and Mrs. Whitwell, about the argument I’d witnessed between Lester Sibley and Mr. Whitwell, the partial conversation I’d heard between Mr. Mayhew and Mr. Whitwell, and the argument between Mr. Whitwell and his son, Nick.
“And as you mentioned, Mr. Whitwell is somehow connected to the national bank that was involved in the fire last night,” I said. “I noticed while I was looking for something to cover the man’s face that there is a great deal of correspondence about the bank in his desk.”
Chief Preble stood and went over to the desk. He pulled out several drawers, glancing at their contents. I stood and pulled open a drawer and retrieved the telegram I’d noticed earlier and handed it to the policeman.
His eyes widened as he read. “Wow! What a coincidence. Who would’ve guessed? I better keep this as evidence. So what more can you tell me about Nick Whitwell?”
I was surprised by the chief’s line of questioning and hesitated to reveal the incident at Rose Mont when I first encountered Nick. “He’s engaged to marry Cora Mayhew. He drives a motorcar recklessly. And he stirred up quite a commotion at Mrs. Mayhew’s garden party yesterday.”
“And your impression of Nick Whitwell? Be completely honest with me, Miss Davish,” the chief said sternly. “I know you work for Mrs. Mayhew, but this is a murder investigation. I won’t be telling your employer anything, so be honest with me.”
“Nick Whitwell appears to be an unprincipled rogue,” I said.
The officer laughed. “I thought you didn’t know any of the Whitwells?”
“I don’t,” I said, sharper than I intended. I didn’t like being accused of lying.
“Then you’re perceptive, Miss Davish. That’s exactly how I’d describe the miscreant.”
“Why do you want to know about Nick Whitwell?” I asked.
“Since Lester Sibley, the most obvious suspect in the case, was under lock and key, I have to wonder who else could’ve done this. Nick Whitwell rises to the top of my list.”
“You think Nick killed his own father?” An image of Nick running away with something hidden under his waistcoat flashed through my mind. Could it have been a gun he was hiding?
“The argument you witnessed between father and son was one of many over the past few months. I’ve even been called on two occasions where they were disrupting the peace, once at the Casino and once at Bailey’s Beach. The fights must’ve been something for these rich folks to involve the police. You, in your line of work, probably know how they like to keep things among themselves.” I certainly did. “I blame it all on the son, since Harland Whitwell wa
s known as a sturdy, gracious fellow.” Truly? I wondered. I pictured the two times I’d seen Harland Whitwell. Neither time would I have described him as gracious.
“So the next question is, what were they fighting about? Money, probably. Usually is. But was it serious enough that Nick would actually kill his father for it?”
“Would he inherit?” I asked.
“Most likely. We’ll look into it. Ah, they’re here to take the body.” Accompanied by Sergeant Ballard, the butler, and Mrs. Johnville, two men carrying a stretcher between them came into the room. They lifted Mr. Whitwell onto the stretcher.
“When you’re done, I want a full report,” Chief Preble told them as the two men from the coroner’s office carried Mr. Whitwell away feetfirst.
“I have to tell you, Chief Preble,” I said after they carried the stretcher away, leaving only me, the policeman, and the housekeeper in the room, “Mrs. Johnville and I saw Nick right before we found Mrs. Whitwell and her husband in the office.”
“That’s right, Officer,” the housekeeper added as the policeman spun around to stare at me.
“Where?” he demanded.
“Right out there in the hallway,” I said. “He was running in the opposite direction.”
“Was he coming from the office?”
“I don’t know, but he did have something hidden under his waistcoat.”
I didn’t have to voice my speculation about the gun. The policeman’s face told me he knew what I was thinking. “Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“Okay, but let’s keep this to ourselves for now. Okay, Miss Davish, Mrs. Johnville?” We nodded in unison. What else was there to say? “Where is Mrs. Whitwell?” he asked the butler, who had returned.
“She’s in her bedroom. Dr. Guthridge is with her now.”
“Lead me to her,” the policeman told the butler.
A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery) Page 10