A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery)

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, though I still couldn’t grasp the significance of Mrs. Astor’s calling at Rose Mont. Charlotte Mayhew was one of the richest, most influential women in the country. Why would she pine after a calling card like a disappointed schoolgirl? I wanted to ask but knew better.

  Maybe Miss Lucy will know, I thought.

  “Now I want you to go speak to Jane; even I know she’s the first person you need to speak to. Here.” She scribbled something down on the stationery with ROSE MONT embossed across the top, folded it in half, and handed it to me. “This will get Jane talking to you. Now off you go.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, and excused myself from the three ladies’ company. Miss Lucy was still pursing her lips in displeasure when I left the room. Why was she upset? I wondered. She was the one who suggested I take on this ridiculous role.

  I was opening the door to the back stairs when I heard footsteps fast approaching. Not Nick again, I thought. I held my breath, fearing the worst, but let out a sigh of relief when I turned to see Miss Lizzie, waving her arms at me. She stopped, stooped over, trying to catch her breath.

  “Lucy wanted me to . . . ,” she said, wheezing and panting between each word, “to ask you to come to tea.” I had to contain a laugh. Not at the sight of Miss Lizzie, several pounds heavier than she’d been in Eureka Springs, holding her hand to her heaving chest, but at the invitation. I should’ve known Miss Lucy had an ulterior motive. She hadn’t convinced Mrs. Mayhew to allow me to investigate for Mrs. Mayhew’s benefit or for Mrs. Whitwell. Miss Lucy had every intention of getting the gossip firsthand for herself.

  “Are you all right, Miss Lizzie?” I said, placing my hand gently on the suffering woman’s shoulder. I realized my mistake and quickly took my hand away.

  “Yes . . . thank you . . . dear. I’ll be fine . . . especially if I can bring . . . Lucy good news?”

  “Yes, of course. I can’t guarantee when I’ll be there, but I’ll come to Moffat Cottage as soon as I can.”

  Miss Lizzie smiled at my acquiescence but then quickly frowned. “Be careful, dear.”

  “Of course, Miss Lizzie.”

  “At least there aren’t any . . . stairs here,” she said in jest as she caught her breath. She smiled, squinting her eyes at me, and then slowly walked back toward the drawing room. She was referring to the incident in Eureka Springs that left me scraped, bruised, and bedridden.

  Yes, I thought ironically, there aren’t any stairs here, only cliffs that drop abruptly seventy feet down to the jagged rocks and an endless ocean below. I shuddered at the thought of how many people had found their end at the bottom of those cliffs. But Miss Lizzie needn’t worry, I thought, watching her retreating figure. Miss Lucy and Mrs. Mayhew had ensured that I wouldn’t be going anywhere near the cliffs today.

  CHAPTER 15

  “So Charlotte thinks that you can help?” Mrs. Jane

  Whitwell said.

  I didn’t know what Mrs. Mayhew had written, but her note had indeed won me a personal interview with the new widow. But Jane Whitwell’s eyelids were drooping and her words were slightly slurred. The effects of the sedative the doctor had given her still had a hold. She was lounging on a white wicker chaise longue in her orangery, dressed in a simple black crape gown, a stark contrast from the light-colored frilly, blousy dresses she preferred.

  She’s lost more than a husband today, I thought sadly.

  I took a deep breath of the sweet citric scent. Any other time I would’ve been thrilled to be invited into this sanctuary. Sun streamed through the lattice windows, at least twenty feet tall, which marked the entire southern wall of the room. Potted lemon, orange, and palmetto trees were interspersed with marble statues of Poseidon on the sandstone floor. And in the middle, a red marble fountain, accented by bronze figures of dolphins, sea nymphs, and seahorses, bubbled with water, the rhythmic echo of the splashing water soothing. No wonder why Jane Whitwell chose this haven in which to grieve.

  “Yes, since the police called off their investigation Mrs. Mayhew thinks it’s prudent that a discreet inquiry be conducted, to not only discover your husband’s killer but to exonerate anyone wrongly suspected.” I couldn’t come right out and mention her son’s name, but even through her drug-induced haze I think she took my meaning.

  “But why you? Aren’t you Charlotte’s social secretary?”

  “Yes, and as such I would be most discreet. More so than a professional detective, I can assure you.”

  “But do you have any experience with . . . ?” She couldn’t bring herself to mention the word murder.

  “Yes, I have had some experience in cases like this.” Unfortunately, I thought but didn’t say. “Do you remember the death of Mrs. Edwina Trevelyan, the temperance leader? She was murdered during the American Women’s Temperance Coalition’s annual convention in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, last fall. It was in all the national papers.”

  “Yes, I think I do remember hearing about that. I met Mother Trevelyan once at a temperance fund-raiser in New York several years ago. Quite the zealot if I remember.”

  “I was her secretary at the time of her death and aided in her murder investigation.”

  Mrs. Whitwell lifted her head off her pillow with obvious effort and stared at me. Her gaze wavered; her head bobbed slightly as if it were loosely attached. “Really?” she said finally. “That was you?” She obviously had read the exaggerated accounts of my role in a newspaper.

  “Yes, ma’am. That was me.”

  “Well, then, by all means, find that Lester Sibley and prove he killed my husband.”

  “I will do my best to find your husband’s killer, ma’am,” I said, careful not to promise anything beyond that. “To start, may I ask you a few questions?”

  “Yes,” she said, resting her head back again.

  I pulled out the notebook I’d brought with me. “I won’t ask you about how you found your husband. I was there when you explained it to the police. But could you tell me, ma’am, if your husband’s office is normally neat and organized or was the disarray not unusual?”

  “No, Harland was an exacting, orderly man. I was shocked by the condition of the room, especially his desk.”

  I nodded. I had assumed as much, since the contents of his drawers were well organized. I glanced at the first set of questions on my list:

  Why was Mr. Whitwell’s desk neat, but the office was in such disarray?

  Was someone looking for something? Did they find it?

  Did Mr. Whitwell catch them in the act?

  I wrote maybe next to question number three and read the next set of questions:

  4. Or had Harland Whitwell confronted a staff member about having Lester Sibley’s leaflets?

  5. Is that how he came to have one?

  6. Why was he holding it in his death grip? A message about his killer?

  7. Did anyone hear the gunshot?

  8. Why was Nick Whitwell running away from his father’s office? Did he kill his father?

  “To your knowledge, had your husband ever met Lester Sibley in your home?”

  “No, not that I know of. Why would he?” Her question was sharp and full of recrimination.

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out, Mrs. Whitwell,” I said softly, wishing I had answers that might bring her comfort.

  “Of course, continue,” she said, waving her handkerchief about distractedly.

  “Do you happen to know how your husband came to have the labor leaflet?”

  “No, I have no idea how that rubbish got into our house, unless Sibley brought it with him.” Mrs. Johnville’s explanation seemed most likely then. I glanced back at my list.

  “Did you hear a gunshot go off?”

  “No, I didn’t.” That didn’t surprise me. In a house this size, with the need to use call buttons and bells to summon someone, I could imagine no one hearing it. “But then again, maybe I did.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I did hear something as I wal
ked down the hall. I remember wondering why anyone would be uncorking champagne at this hour. I remember hoping . . .” She stopped and turned her head toward the pillow. She began to cry quietly. I sat with her in silence for several moments. “Harland had been upset so much lately,” she said through her tears. “I remember hoping that there was a reason to celebrate.” She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “Could that have been the gun going off?” I nodded. “Then if I’d only arrived earlier . . .” She sighed deeply, her shoulders shaking, at the thought.

  “You might have been hurt as well.”

  “Oh! I’d never thought of that.”

  I looked at my list again. “I apologize for asking this, Mrs. Whitwell, but you would know better than anyone.”

  “What?” She sighed. She was growing weary of my questions.

  “Do you know of any reason why someone would want to kill your husband?”

  “No. No,” Jane Whitwell said, tears streaming freely down her face. “Oh, Harland.”

  If only I could walk away from this now, I thought. I hated myself for prying into this poor woman’s sorrow simply to satisfy some rich lady’s thirst for gossip. Yet my job depended on it. I sat with Mrs. Whitwell in silence for a few moments while she gathered herself together again.

  “I’m sorry to intrude on your grief, ma’am,” I said, sincerely sorry to be asked to do this, “but I have one last question.” She took a deep breath, the release more like a sob than a sigh, and dabbed at her eyes again.

  “If it will help,” she said.

  “From what I’ve read about your husband, he was one of the most successful bankers in the country. He even owned the Aquidneck National Bank here in Newport.”

  “Yes, my husband is, I mean was, a prominent banker, Miss Davish. What does this have to do with his murder?”

  “Do you know of any financial trouble Mr. Whitwell was having?” I remembered the telegram I noticed on his desk. The word bankruptcy had leaped off the page.

  “No. Besides the fire last night, I don’t know of any trouble in that quarter. You must know Harland was worth millions.” Then why was one of his banks going bankrupt?

  “Ma’am, would you mind if I had a look through your husband’s desk? I may find some indication as to who did this.”

  Springing up into a sitting position, which I didn’t think she was capable of, Mrs. Whitwell issued an emphatic, “No.”

  “I can’t stand the thought of seeing that room again,” she said. “Not while I still have the image of Harland lying there, bleeding into the carpet.”

  I was about to explain that I could search the room alone when she collapsed back onto the chaise longue and burst into another fit of sobbing. I quickly thanked her for speaking to me and excused myself.

  I’d gone into this investigation because I’d been ordered to by my employer, but as I listened to the retreating wails of the grieving widow I grew more determined to find closure for this woman. No one should have to suffer a death without knowing the cause. I’d experienced that with my father. To this day I don’t know what caused my father’s death. The lack of closure has haunted me for years. The physicians attending him blamed his occupation as a hatter, but I blamed the physicians, and when my father only got worse, taking calomel and their blue pills, my conviction grew stronger. As a teenager, I was forced to watch as my beloved father went slowly mad and died under the doctors’ care. I might never know what they did to him. But as I strode from the bright, warm orangery into the dark, back servants’ stairwell I vowed that I would discover what had happened to Harland Whitwell.

  “As you can see, I’m very busy,” the bank manager said without looking up.

  On my way to the police station where I hoped Lester Sibley was still in police custody, I passed the banks that were set on fire last night. One bank was almost completely destroyed and still smoldering. The Aquidneck National Bank had fared better, and despite its being closed for business, the door was ajar. I stopped. Could someone inside be able to shed some light on Mr. Whitwell’s finances? Ideally I’d be able to contact his accountants in New York. But even if I could send a telegram, which the strike made impossible, who was I that they would respond? I decided it was worth a try, pushed the door open, and stepped into a pool of natural light; a column of sunshine filled with tiny floating ash particles was streaming straight down from a hole in the roof.

  From the outside, with its board-covered windows, the bank had appeared quiet and deserted, so I was astounded by the flurry of activity I encountered inside. Clerks, secretaries and maids alike worked together, sweeping up piles of cinder and ash, scrubbing down walls, desks, and lamps and picking up, sorting, and stacking piles and piles and piles of papers. I admired how much they’d accomplished in less than twenty-four hours. Unhindered, I made my way across the stone floor, sidestepping papers, piles of ash, and pieces of charred roofing tile. In an office marked MANAGER I’d found a man wearing spectacles and a waistcoat that didn’t button over his rotund stomach, filing envelopes into the labeled pigeonholes of a large oak office desk.

  “Sir,” I said, “I’m sorry to distract you from your task after such a calamity, but I wondered if I could speak to you for a moment?”

  “Please, can’t you see we are not open for business today!” he said. I walked over to the desk and picked up a stack of envelopes. That got his attention. “What are you doing with those?”

  “If I file these for you, will you grant me a minute of your time, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Mr. Niederhauser.”

  “Mr. Niederhauser, my name is Hattie Davish, and I am Mrs. Gideon Mayhew’s social secretary. I am on an errand for the lady and have but one question to ask you.”

  “Well, if Mrs. Mayhew sent you,” he said, reluctantly stepping aside.

  I went to my task directly. The envelopes were all labeled with names of clients. Several had singe marks. I worked quickly in silence until I came to Harland Whitwell. I turned with the envelope in my hand.

  “Have you heard the news, Mr. Niederhauser, of Harland Whitwell’s death?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, it’s horrible, isn’t it? But bad news has a way of coming in threes, doesn’t it?” I shrugged. Wasn’t that what Britta said this morning? It must be comforting to believe that after three unhappy events bad luck had run its course. Somehow I doubted it.

  “The telegraph operators’ strike was unprecedented here in Newport. Who would’ve known then that I’d now be trying to salvage what was left of my failing, burned-down bank?” Mr. Niederhauser said. “And now one of the co-founders of the bank has been murdered. It makes you think.”

  So the telegram I saw about the bank on Mr. Whitwell’s desk was true. The bank had gone or was going bankrupt. But with the country’s current financial situation I wasn’t as surprised as I should’ve been. I’d read about bank closures across the country in the newspaper every week.

  “Do you think they are connected?” I asked as I went back to the filing. The man pulled his chin hard between his thumb and finger.

  “I don’t know. Like someone had it in for the bank, maybe?”

  “Or someone had it in for Harland Whitwell?”

  “No, quite the opposite, I’d think. Mr. Whitwell was a fair employer, an honest partner, a good family man. He founded the Whitwell Charitable Foundation, for goodness’ sake. In fact, I still can’t believe someone actually murdered him.”

  “Do you know Lester Sibley?” I asked.

  “Is he a client?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think so.”

  “No, the name doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “He’s a labor organizer,” I said.

  “Is he that guy that’s been standing on his soapbox outside the Casino?”

  “Most likely,” I said, having seen him doing exactly that the day he argued with Mr. Whitwell.

  “No, a man like that wouldn’t even get through these doors. Why?”

  “Because Mr. Whitwell wa
s found clutching a labor union propaganda leaflet when he died.”

  “I don’t wonder. That Sibley guy, if that’s his name, had a whole gang of people passing those out a few weeks ago, before the Season started. I think he was trying to rile the local townspeople before the summer residents arrived. May have worked too. Some blame him for the telegraph operators’ strike. Mr. Whitwell was furious when he found out some of the leaflets targeted the bank. Sibley even had the nerve to hand one to me!”

  If Sibley was passing out pamphlets a few weeks ago, what was in the trunk the Pinkerton detective pushed overboard? Replenishment? If so, the bank manager was right; Whitwell could’ve gotten the pamphlet weeks ago.

  “Did you read it?”

  “No, just tossed it in the garbage where it belongs. Like I said, Mr. Whitwell was furious, almost fired a few of my best clerks merely for reading it. Boy, has that been a headache. I guess bad news comes in fours after all!”

  Didn’t Mr. Niederhauser realize this appalling behavior of Mr. Whitwell’s contradicted the impression he and most people had of him? Could the bank’s financial straits have soured Mr. Whitwell’s normally generous spirit? Or had the arguments with Sibley transferred to the banker’s employees? Could one of those employees have killed him?

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. Niederhauser,” I said as I finished the filing. “I wish you luck in getting the bank back in order.”

  “Thank you for that,” he said, jutting his chin toward the desk. “As a clerk, I always hated that task.” I turned to leave. “By the way, what was the question you wanted to ask me?”

  “You’ve already answered it for me, Mr. Niederhauser,” I said, and before he had a chance to realize how much he had revealed about the connection between the bank’s demise and that of Mr. Whitwell I left.

  CHAPTER 16

  The police station was a two-and-a-half-story redbrick building on Market Square with tall ground-floor windows and a large outdoor clock. When I inquired after Lester Sibley, the attending police officer, the same Sergeant Ballard who had accompanied Chief Preble to the scene of Harland Whitwell’s murder, furrowed his brow.