CHAPTER 17
Where is Britta? I wondered.
It wasn’t until Bonaparte’s insistent scratching and mewing at my door that I stopped typing my report for Mrs. Mayhew and realized Britta had never arrived with my dinner. The cat came at the same time every night. I looked at my watch, eight fifteen. His stomach must be set to a timepiece.
“I’m sorry, kitty,” I said, opening the door for the cat. “No scraps tonight.” Bonaparte rubbed against my leg, unconvinced.
She’d never been late before. What could’ve happened? I had to find out. I left Bonaparte to his own devices and headed downstairs. The staff was sitting down to their dinner when I arrived. Britta was among them, but her face was flush and she was pulling at her ear. Something more than forgetting my dinner was on her mind.
“You forgot Miss Davish’s dinner?” Mrs. Crankshaw scolded when I explained my presence. “Britta, you know I don’t take to well to forgetfulness.”
“She’s as bad as Mrs. Mayhew,” Annie the chambermaid said, giggling. “But with Britta it’s love, not old age.” Britta leaped up, tears in her eyes.
“Did I miss something?” I whispered to her as she darted past me. She shook her head violently.
“Yeah,” Annie said after Britta was gone. “We were teasing Britta about last night. We think she’s got a beau she ain’t telling us about.” I pictured the events of last night: the crowd at the Forty Steps, Britta dancing with lots of different men, Lester Sibley’s comments about her beauty, the confrontation between Sibley and James. In all the events of the night I couldn’t imagine how the others had surmised an attachment. Maybe I’d missed something. If I hadn’t been talking to Lester Sibley . . .
“Well, I don’t, you gossip!” Britta exclaimed as she reentered with a tray. I saw her eyes quickly dart around the table. They rested on the downturned head of James for a split second before moving back to Annie. “And I’d appreciate you not saying such things again.”
“I was just teasing,” Annie said, sounding hurt.
“You know I don’t take well to teasing, Annie,” Mrs. Crankshaw said. “What you’re saying is dangerous. Britta could lose her position if she was caught out secretly with a man.”
“Honestly?” I asked, searching Britta’s face for a reaction. Her eyes were defiant, but she was biting her lip. Was there truth to the gossip after all?
“Of course,” Miss Issacson said. “Mrs. Mayhew is particular about this.”
“No, she’s not particular. She’s like every lady of her stature,” Mrs. Crankshaw said. “Few society employers will tolerate their servants secretly courting, and you can almost forget about being a married servant. I knew a girl once, a scullery maid, who was secretly married. Before she resigned, her husband became ill and they had nothing to live on, so she needed to keep the job. The master of the house found out and summarily dismissed her without references. They both ended up in a county workhouse.” At this Britta turned on her heel, crying. She dashed out of the hall and up the stairs.
“What’s wrong with her?” Annie said.
“Can’t you see you upset her?” James said. “You and your big mouth.”
“I was just teasing,” Annie said again.
“Hush,” Mrs. Crankshaw said, silencing the room. “Britta is bringing you dinner, Miss Davish.”
“Yes,” I said, ignoring Mrs. Crankshaw’s dismissal. My dinner might get cold, but Britta needed a few moments alone and I had to find out the truth of this. “But what if you do want to step out with someone?”
“Then you get permission,” Mrs. Crankshaw said.
“Oh,” I said. I’d stepped out with Walter without asking permission. What would Sir Arthur say? Would he dismiss me summarily like the scullery maid because I was blissfully ignorant of protocol? I hadn’t seen Walter since Christmas, but we corresponded on a regular basis. Should I tell Mrs. Mayhew? Should I write Sir Arthur?
Before I could decide what to do, James made a guttural noise in his throat. “Permission,” he said, spitting the word out venomously. “It’s degrading.”
“It’s required,” Mrs. Crankshaw said matter-of-factly.
“No wonder those maids in Milwaukee went on strike. We’re not even treated like real people,” James said.
“What maids in Milwaukee?” Annie asked.
“I read about it—”
“Right! Now that’s enough. I’ll have no talk of strike at the table,” Mrs. Crankshaw said.
“Yes, please,” Mr. Davies said, “we’ve had enough disruptive conversation already tonight.”
“What’s disruptive about talking about maids in Milwaukee?” James said.
“I don’t care if they’re Mrs. Vanderbilt’s maids at Marble House,” Mrs. Crankshaw said. “We will not have strike talk at this table.”
“But, Mrs. Crankshaw, it’s not like we’re talking about us striking,” James said.
“Enough,” Mrs. Crankshaw said, slamming her fist into the table, rattling dishes and plates. Mr. Davies raised his eyebrows, but he said nothing. “I don’t take well to words of strike in this house. What is this world coming to?”
Everyone bent their heads over their bowls, ignoring me and focusing on finishing their meal in silence. I watched James for a few moments before I left the hall. Why had he been so angry about having to ask permission to court? And then there was the altercation at the Forty Steps. What else was he angry about? And why had he brought up the strike in Milwaukee? He and Lester Sibley were obviously not on friendly terms, but they seemed to have something in common. Was James disgruntled with his lot in life? Did he believe he deserved more free time, higher wages? Mrs. Mayhew did suspect someone in her household of strike talk. Was James a union sympathizer? If so, he might have more to do with Lester Sibley and the events of the last two days than I thought.
What a day, I thought as a wave of depression and sadness swept over me. Murder, attempted murder, Britta’s distress, strike talk downstairs. I took a bite of the graham biscuit from the dinner I’d found waiting for me and sat down at my typewriter. With the first clack of the keys I started to feel better. The familiar scratch of Bonaparte at my door even made me laugh. Disappointed earlier, he wasn’t one to give up on his nighttime scraps. I stood up and walked over to open the door. A streak of white fur flew past me.
Now why did he do that? I wondered. Bonaparte usually liked to linger in the doorway, rubbing against my leg. I started to close the door.
“Oh, James,” Britta’s voice said pleadingly. “What are we going to do?”
If the tone of her voice hadn’t frozen me in place, the fact that she was talking to a man right outside my room would have. I’d thought she’d left.
“Don’t worry about it, Britta,” James said. “No one is going to find out.”
“But what if they do?”
“No one will, trust me.”
“And what about that labor strike guy, what was his name, Lester?”
“What about him?”
“Well, first you’re talking to him like you’re old chums and next you’re punching him in the mouth.”
“The first was all business; you know that.”
“And the fight?”
“You know about that too.”
“Well, I’m worried, James.”
“Don’t. Sibley wants this too badly to say anything.”
“Wants what? A strike? It’s too dangerous, James. We shouldn’t even be talking about it.”
Strike? So the rumors were true. Mrs. Mayhew and Mrs. Whitwell had both mentioned talk of the Newport servants going on strike. It would be chaos. It would be an abrupt end, at least for a while, of afternoon recitals, garden teas, costume balls, and dinner parties. But then again, maybe that was the point. But what was Britta worried Sibley would talk about?
“. . . just follow the plan and we’ll get through this Season without anyone the wiser,” James was saying. I’d missed his answer about joining the strike.
“And then?” Britta asked. Silence followed as James obviously fought to find the answer.
“Let’s get through the next few weeks first,” he said.
A moment or two later I heard receding footsteps and then all was quiet on the other side of the door. Bonaparte had already found the cutlet I’d left for him and had curled up on top of my bookcase.
Oh, to have that peace of mind! I thought, listening to him purr. I returned to my typing, the only way I knew how to achieve peace of mind, and finished my report. But it didn’t help. I put a blank sheet of paper into my typewriter the moment I was finished. I started a list:
Why was James talking to Britta outside my room?
Was Annie’s gossip close to the truth? Did Britta have a beau? James, perhaps?
What was she afraid Lester Sibley would say?
What does Lester Sibley have to do with Britta and James?
Is James going to try organizing a strike at Rose Mont?
Has Lester Sibley been successful in organizing a servants’ strike throughout Newport, or is he targeting certain houses?
What is the plan James proposed he and Britta follow? Are others involved?
Does any of this have anything to do with Harland Whitwell’s death?
Satisfied that the last question was truly the only one that concerned me, I ripped out the paper and replaced it with a new one:
1. Who killed Harland Whitwell?
I paused. So far, I’d found little reason for anyone to kill Harland Whitwell. By most accounts, he was well liked. My list of suspects was strikingly small. Lester Sibley, although the only suspect in Mrs. Whitwell’s mind, couldn’t have done it. And even if he hadn’t been in police custody, what motive did he have? What about Nicholas Whitwell? Granted, I didn’t have a fondness for the man, but I couldn’t think why, beyond simple father-son dislike, he would kill his father. However, if Nick benefited financially from his father’s death, that might be a motive. I added to my list:
2. Who benefited from Harland Whitwell’s death? Nick? Jane Whitwell? Eugenie Whitwell? Bank partners?
3. Who are Harland Whitwell’s bank partners?
4. Was the burning of the bank related to Whitwell’s death? If so, how?
5. Could a disgruntled bank employee have burned the bank or killed Whitwell, or both?
6. Could a disgruntled servant have done either or both?
Could a member of the Glen Park staff have killed Mr. Whitwell? Mrs. Johnville had insinuated as much. And after listening to the conversation between Britta and James I knew a servant strike at Glen Park was within the realm of possibility. What if one of Mr. Whitwell’s staff had already approached him? What if that servant was dismissed? Could that be a motive for murder? I jotted down a quick list of people to speak to tomorrow, straightened the papers on my desk, put Bonaparte out to find his way back to Mrs. Mayhew, and prepared for bed. As I finally laid my head on the pillow, I tried to push all thoughts of Harland Whitwell’s murder out of my head. I let my mind wander from thoughts of Walter, to the encounter I’d had with his mother, to the dinner conversation about courtship. As I fell asleep my mind came back to the same question about Nick Whitwell again and again: Why would Cora Mayhew want to marry a man like that?
CHAPTER 18
“My, you are thorough, Miss Davish,” Charlotte Mayhew said after reading my report. “I knew I could rely on you.”
I had risen early, as usual, and had gone for a hike along Ocean Drive. The southernmost part of the island, less inhabited by people and “cottages,” was home to the currently quiet Spouting Rock, a large cavity in the rocks that after a storm interacts with the waves to produce a fountain of water spraying fifty feet or more in the air, as well as to calm, shallow inlets, rocky headlands, sandy beaches, and wild vegetation. Hoping to find new plant specimens to add to my collection, I brought my small plant press along. I wasn’t disappointed. In fact, it was exhilarating. I hadn’t enough time to collect and press all the new plants I saw. Species I’d only read about jutted up between rocks, sprawled across dunes, or clumped in hedge-like clusters along the road. I planned to come back soon. But Mrs. Mayhew had been expecting me the moment her coffee was delivered.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said as I finished addressing an envelope to Commander Converse for Mrs. Mayhew’s ball. As was protocol, each of the gentlemen invited to the ball received an envelope with the name of the lady he would be escorting in to dinner. I’d had to write and rewrite several as Mrs. Mayhew changed her mind. I’d noticed several officers from Fort Adams and the Naval War College had most recently accepted. “I regret I haven’t learned a great deal.”
“If you keep at it like this,” she said, waving the report in her hand, “I’m sure you will in time. Now when you’re finished with those, I would like you to type up a copy of this report and hand-deliver it, along with my condolence card and an invitation, to Mrs. Whitwell. After church, of course.”
“Ma’am?” I said. The idea of delivering a report that contradicted the lady’s own insinuations, while placing the possible blame for her husband’s murder on her son, was not appealing. But I wasn’t in a position to argue or even question Mrs. Mayhew’s motives.
“Yes?” Mrs. Mayhew said, her tone almost challenging me to question her.
“Would you like to include a personal note?”
“Yes, thank you, Davish,” she said, smiling and reaching out her hands for a piece of stationery and a pen. “What a good idea.”
Less than thirty minutes later, armed with a stack of gold-trimmed oversized envelopes, I stepped into the hot sun, blinking as my eyes adjusted to its brilliance. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and my hat, with its short brim, did little to shade my face. Yet I didn’t mind. I was to spend a good portion of my day “hand-delivering” invitations to Mrs. Mayhew’s ball. And after spending yesterday indoors in the presence of a dead man, his widow, and the police, I relished the excuse to stroll the streets, admiring the gardens lining the estate walls and taking in the fresh seaside air. The “cottages” I’d been living in were beyond any luxury I’d ever experienced, but I found the rooms cold and forbidding.
Mr. Davies had actually arranged a carriage for my use this afternoon, to go to Fort Adams and the Naval War College, but I was on my own this morning. So I consulted my map several times and realized that over the course of the day I would see most of Newport. My first stop was Mass at St. Mary’s, a fifty-year-old red stone church with a prominent steeple on William Street. After Mass, fortified with the peace the service brought me, I made my way back to Glen Park, the Whitwell residence, for a visit I wasn’t looking forward to. As black crape with white ribbons hung from the doorknob indicating a house in mourning, I knocked instead of ringing the bell at the servants’ entrance as I had yesterday. Had it only been a day since I’d rushed in to find Mrs. Whitwell wailing over her dead husband’s body? I looked up at the ceiling of interwoven wisteria vines; a few of the remaining purple flowers hung down. The leaves rustled in the wind and blew a few blossoms down on my head. I loved wisteria, but now the scent made me think of death.
I’m so tired of this, I thought. Before a tear had a chance to well up in my eye, I brushed the blossoms from my hat and shoulder and knocked on the door again. A housemaid I’d never seen before answered the door.
“Is your mistress in?” I asked.
“No, she isn’t.”
“She isn’t?” I couldn’t imagine where a widow of one day would be other than secluded in her home, deep in mourning. “Did she go to church this morning?”
“I don’t know where she went. Come back later,” the maid said, closing the door.
How strange, I thought. Where could Mrs. Whitwell be?
I left Glen Park and strolled through Newport’s neighborhoods, often crisscrossing Bellevue Avenue, now catching a glance at the ocean, now crossing streets full of parading carriages. Continuing my role as Mrs. Mayhew’s “personal carrier,” delivering the
latest round of invitations, I called at cottages with names like Angelsea, Seaview, Chateau-sur-Mer, Honeysuckle Lodge, Roselawn, Ochre Court, Belcourt, Resthaven, Chepstow, Kingscote, Stoneleigh, Cave Cliff, Cliff Lawn, Rock Cliff, and Land’s End. With my stack of golden-trimmed envelopes in hand I had an excuse to enter through gates, step beyond walls, and get a glimpse of the breathtaking grounds and gardens hidden behind them. Long stone walkways stretched away to the ocean under trellises dripping with wisteria and Virginia creeper. Fern gardens blanketed the ground beneath gigantic shade trees. Fanciful arboretums had rows of trees pruned into geometric shapes or the shapes of animals. Ponds of every shape and size were stocked with darting goldfish and adorned with giant lily pads and spouting fountains. Rainbow-colored flower beds were carefully laid out in complex geometric patterns and accented by statuary.
Only my professional discipline kept me from dallying among so many exotic plants. Three times I stepped away from a path to look more closely at a flower or plant, twice to admire a new variation of rose and once to see the finest specimen of a Dahlia pinnata I’d ever seen. After seeing such cultivated beauty, I was looking forward to hiking back to Ocean Drive to deliver the few remaining invitations and seeing again the wilder side of Newport’s splendor. However, that would have to wait. I had yet to deliver Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy’s invitation at Moffat Cottage and, knowing Miss Lucy, I knew I would be there awhile.
Despite the extraordinary walk through the beautiful estates, my stomach churned at the thought of calling on Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy. Not on account of them, of course, but from the likelihood of another encounter with Mrs. Grice, Walter’s mother. I dreaded having to face her again. With thoughts of humiliation and rejection running through my mind, I didn’t notice the crowd down the street until I was only a few blocks away. It was a picket line! Though fewer than a dozen picketers carried placards saying: SOLIDARITY and AN INJURY TO ONE IS THE CONCERN OF ALL, their boisterous chanting of their slogans over and over had drawn a crowd of three times that. They marched in front of the Ocean House Hotel. And among them was Lester Sibley. When had the police released him? I wondered.
A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery) Page 14