A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery)

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “What’s going on?” I asked one of the bystanders, a woman in a stylish straw hat with a large projecting front brim, trimmed in silk orchids.

  “Looks like the telegraph at Ocean House is running again. Someone must have quit the strike.” Mrs. Mayhew and her set will be happy to hear that, I thought.

  As I drew nearer, I noticed the Pinkerton detective Silas Doubleday force Lester Sibley away from his group, pushing him to the side of the street. Suddenly a jarring engine roar came from behind me. I twisted around as a motorcar, Nick Whitwell’s motorcar, careened by me heading straight for the pair of arguing men. Did they see it? Of course no one could miss the grating sound.

  “Watch out!” someone yelled.

  Doubleday and Sibley jerked around and leaped out of the way moments before the car careened across the spot where they’d been standing. It swerved toward them, two wheels scraping along the sidewalk, missing their feet by inches. The crowd, no longer paying any attention to the picketers, scrambled in every direction. Many barely avoided being run down by the deadly contraption before it raced away. But one person capitalized on the commotion. The minute he’d stepped out of the line of the car, Silas Doubleday drew out a short, thick billy club and began swinging it at anyone still holding a placard. Making contact with arms and legs and heads, Doubleday single-handedly ended the picketing. Beaten and battered, the picketers, if they were able, dropped their placards and scattered, leaving their fallen comrades behind.

  “And let that be the end of it!” Doubleday shouted as he casually placed his club on his belt and strode away, whistling “Ode to Joy.”

  Doesn’t the man know another tune? I thought peevishly.

  Several people, myself included, hastened over to those who still lay on the ground. One man was moaning, bent over his leg, his trousers ripped where the club had connected with his shin. Another lay unconscious but without any obvious injury. When two men tried to lift him, however, he screamed in pain. Lester Sibley lay motionless on the ground. I knelt by his side and placed my hand on his wrist as I had seen Walter do so many times. I felt Sibley’s pulse and breathed a sigh of relief when he opened his eyes at the feel of my touch.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Sibley?” I asked.

  “I will be,” he said as he struggled to sit up. I helped him into a sitting position. “What happened?” Oh, no, I thought. He’s taken a blow to his head and doesn’t remember anything.

  “I believe you’ve been hit on the head,” I said. If he didn’t remember anything, I wasn’t going to be the one to bring up the Pinkerton man’s attack.

  “No, I remember Doubleday hitting me,” he said, rubbing the back of his head and wincing as he touched a sensitive spot. “Bastard,” he added under his breath. “No, I was talking about that motorcar. It was out of control.” He hadn’t realized, as those of us in the crowd had, that either he or Detective Doubleday was the motorcar’s target. “I didn’t even know someone in town had one of those things.”

  I didn’t tell him Nick Whitwell owned the motorcar. This time the driver was hidden under an odd combination of a mackintosh coat, yellow and green plaid woolen scarf, round-crowned rubber hat, and goggles. But whom was he kidding? Nick had already tried once to injure and maybe even kill Sibley. The disguise wasn’t fooling anyone.

  “I’d never seen one before. Who would’ve guessed I’d get so close!” He chuckled.

  “Could you be stirring up so much trouble and resentment that people want to kill you, Mr. Sibley?” I asked.

  He stared at me in wonder. And then to my astonishment he smiled. “Well, I certainly hope so,” he said. “You saw what happened at the jail. Why?”

  “Because I believe the driver was trying to hit you,” I said.

  Lester nodded as if giving approval. “Then I’m doing my job, Miss Davish. I’m doing my job.”

  “That may be how you feel, Mr. Sibley, but it would seem that Detective Doubleday has put an end to your work here.”

  “What do you mean?” he said. How could it not be obvious to him? Maybe the blow to his head was more serious than it looked.

  “Look around you, Mr. Sibley,” I said, indicating the abandoned placards and the injured men lying nearby. “No one is likely to join a picket line here or, when the word gets out, anywhere in Newport again.”

  Lester Sibley struggled to his feet, brushing off my attempt to help him.

  “Oh, on the contrary, Miss Davish. This incident, like the one in the jail, proves I’m getting close to success. No, a bump on the head and a threat from some out-of-control car isn’t enough to stop Lester Sibley from demanding the rights that all working people deserve!”

  I was afraid he was going to say that.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Davish!” Miss Lucy said when the maid escorted me to the front parlor.

  What a difference! I thought. Compared to any room in Rose Mont or Glen Park, excluding the servants’ quarters, the parlor of Moffat Cottage was small. Yet here among friends, in this room with its painted cream white walls accented with green and gold fleur-de-lis, its simple walnut furniture, its plush velvet green pillows and damask drapes, I could rest on the settee or touch the simple glass bowl filled with nuts without apprehension. Here I wasn’t a talking piece of statuary.

  “I don’t think I’ll be happier seeing the back of Saint Peter after walking through the pearly gates!” Miss Lucy said.

  The old lady licked her lips and grinned from ear to ear. I knew Miss Lucy was fond of me, but I wasn’t kidding myself that I personally was the source of her joy. Miss Lucy knew for a fact that I came bearing news. I’d debated the ethics of telling the elderly ladies what I’d found out for Mrs. Mayhew regarding Harland Whitwell’s death. Mrs. Mayhew was under the impression that she alone was getting a report. If I told the Shaw sisters everything I’d told Mrs. Mayhew, I’d be violating her trust. Yet I knew Miss Lucy, at least, would not take no for an answer. I decided to tell them no more than they probably already knew.

  “You’ve been remiss in visiting,” she said, wagging her finger playfully at me. “I thought you agreed to come for tea yesterday. I was afraid I was going to have to call on Charlotte again if we hadn’t heard from you.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Lucy,” I said. “I couldn’t get away until now. You got my note?”

  “Yes, yes. At least you’re here now. Sit down, Davish.”

  “Where is Miss Lizzie?” I said, sitting on the settee opposite. I didn’t dare mention Mrs. Grice.

  “Here I am, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, entering the room. She was carrying a plate of brown bread and licking something orange colored off her fingers. “You missed Julia, Hattie. She went out again as soon as we returned from church. My, this marmalade is messy.” I was relieved to hear Walter’s mother was out. Suddenly Miss Lizzie clapped her hands, sticky fingers and all. “Oh, Lucy, dear, did you tell Hattie about—?”

  “Lizzie!” Miss Lucy said, sharply interrupting her sister and effectively stifling the other woman’s enthusiasm.

  “But shouldn’t . . . ?” Miss Lizzie said, glancing quickly back and forth between me and her sister.

  “Do sit down, Lizzie, so Davish can get on with her news.” They exchanged a glance I couldn’t interpret the meaning of.

  Miss Lizzie had taken a large bite of bread, but her face was red. Miss Lucy had definitely prevented her sister from telling me something. What didn’t Miss Lucy want me to know?

  “Hattie, dear, do you have news?” Miss Lizzie said, her overly eager tone ringing false as she sank into the nearest chair.

  “Yes, she was about to tell us what she’s learned about Harland Whitwell’s death,” Miss Lizzie’s sister said sternly.

  “I was?” I said, distracted by the sisters’ odd behavior. “I simply came by at your request and of course to deliver this invitation to Mrs. Mayhew’s ball.” I handed the envelope to Miss Lucy, since Miss Lizzie’s fingers were covered in sticky jam. Miss Lucy snatched it from me and
scowled.

  “You know darn well, Davish, that I came up with the idea of you looking into Whitwell’s death.”

  “Oh, don’t sound so annoyed, Lucy,” Miss Lizzie said, herself sounding peevish. “Maybe there’s nothing to tell. Is there, Hattie dear?” Now what had created the sudden quarrel between the two? What had I missed? I hoped I wasn’t the cause. Maybe it would lessen tensions if they heard what I had to tell them.

  “Well? Is there something to tell?” Miss Lucy’s face lit up with anticipation.

  “If you remember, Mrs. Mayhew was adamant that I not share what I learn with others,” I said.

  “Poppycock!” Miss Lucy declared.

  “Lucy!” her sister admonished. “Hattie’s just doing her job, after all. The one you arranged for her, if my memory serves me well.”

  “Of course, but I never meant for her to exclude me!”

  “If it makes you feel any better, Miss Lucy, there isn’t much to tell about Mr. Whitwell’s death yet,” I said.

  Miss Lucy scowled again.

  “Of course not, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, reaching over with her plate. “Try one, Hattie? It’s real New England brown bread.”

  “Don’t distract her, Lizzie,” her sister said, hoping I might tell her something after all. “Let Davish speak. Well?”

  “I can tell you Lester Sibley couldn’t have killed Harland Whitwell.”

  “We knew that already, Davish!” Miss Lucy said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Could you tell me something, Miss Lucy?” I said. The lady, taken aback by my question, stared at me blinking for a moment or two.

  “What?” Miss Lucy said, a mixture of annoyance and curiosity in her tone.

  “Why is it so important to Mrs. Mayhew to have Mrs. Astor leave a calling card? It’s just a calling card.”

  “Oh, Davish, don’t be so naïve,” Miss Lucy snorted. “There’s no such thing as ‘just a calling card.’ ”

  “What Lucy is trying to say, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “is that in polite society an established matron must call on you first before you can claim an acquaintance with her. Therefore, regardless of how much money Gideon Mayhew has or how large Rose Mont is, Charlotte will never be a member of the Four Hundred until Mrs. Astor acknowledges her by leaving her calling card.”

  “The Four Hundred?” I asked.

  “It’s how they refer to the exclusive inner circle of high society. Some people will do anything to be a member.”

  “Such as use the murder of a friend’s husband to advance their own agenda?”

  “There are strict rules in society, Davish, and here in Newport, Caroline Astor makes them. Charlotte Mayhew knows that,” Miss Lucy said. “She, along with many others, has been trying for years to break into Mrs. Astor’s inner circle. Some spend tens of thousands year after year, renting cottages and giving parties, trying to climb the social ladder, only to be snubbed. Most leave Newport when either their money or their patience runs out. As they say, ‘Few are bidden and many devoured.’ If having you solve Harland Whitwell’s murder will pique Mrs. Astor’s curiosity enough to call on Charlotte, then so be it.”

  “Are you members of this Four Hundred?” I asked.

  Miss Lucy slapped her knee and cackled while her sister, her mouth full of bread, simply smiled and shook her head.

  “No, dear, we’re too old for all that,” Miss Lizzie said. “And even if we weren’t, we aren’t nearly rich enough for the likes of Mrs. Astor. Besides, like Charlotte Mayhew, we come from humble beginnings and are considered ‘new’ money. Only ‘old’-money families dance at Beechwood.”

  Charlotte Mayhew humble? I thought but kept my doubts to myself.

  “New money, indeed,” Miss Lucy said, her hand still at her chest, trying to slow her breathing down. “My husband made his fortune making bricks! Now, no more equivocating like a politician caught with his hand in the ballot box, tell us about Harland Whitwell!” I’d hoped she’d forgotten, but I should’ve known better. “So who killed him?”

  “Truth is I’ve found little reason why anyone would want to kill Harland Whitwell.”

  “Besides his son, you mean, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, smashing the bits of crumb on her plate with a fork.

  “Yes,” her sister said. “Have you learned anything more about Nick? Everyone knows about the nasty father-and-son quarrels.”

  I’d shared so much of the investigation into Mrs. Trevelyan’s death with these two ladies, I was ill at ease withholding what I knew. But how did I tell them something of what I’d learned without betraying Mrs. Mayhew’s trust? And then it occurred to me.

  “Yes, actually,” I said. Miss Lucy was suddenly at the edge of her chair. Miss Lizzie set the plate on her lap. “I think I saw him try to run Lester Sibley down with his car.” As this had nothing to do with Harland Whitwell’s death, I felt free to share. I hoped it would be enough to deflect any more questions about the murder.

  “Really?” Miss Lucy said. “When?”

  “As I was walking here, only a few minutes ago.”

  “But how can you be certain it was Nick Whitwell, dear?” Miss Lizzie asked.

  “Who else has a motorcar in Newport?” Miss Lucy said. “Or anywhere else for that matter? We’ve heard about them, of course, but Nicholas Whitwell is the only one we know to actually own one.”

  “True,” Miss Lizzie said, nodding.

  “And we’ve all seen him driving that thing around,” Miss Lucy said. “He’s more reckless than a tornado at a picnic. Are you certain he tried to run the labor man down?”

  “Either him or a Pinkerton detective named Silas Doubleday. He and Sibley were having an argument and the car aimed right for them.”

  “Now why would Nick Whitwell want to kill Lester Sibley or this Doubleday fellow?” Miss Lizzie said.

  “I don’t know about Doubleday,” I said. “But like his mother, Nick Whitwell may believe Lester Sibley killed his father.”

  “But we all know Sibley was in jail and couldn’t have done it,” Miss Lucy said.

  “Maybe the family is trying to deflect the blame,” Miss Lizzie said. Miss Lucy and I stared at Miss Lizzie. She had picked up the bowl of nuts from the table and was cracking them between her teeth.

  “What are you talking about, Lizzie?” her sister asked. “And use the nutcracker, will you? You look like a giant squirrel in sea green silk.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Miss Lizzie said, reaching for the silver nutcracker on the table. “I thought maybe Jane and Nick knew something we don’t.”

  “About Lester Sibley?” I asked.

  “Yes, dear,” she said. “They know as well as we do, the man couldn’t have done it. So why are they clinging to the idea?”

  “Could he have done something else to get on the family’s wrong side?” I said. “Something they’re taking this opportunity to punish him for?” It made sense. Sibley was stirring up discontent and thoughts of strike at Glen Park and at Whitwell’s bank. I’d witnessed an altercation between Whitwell and Sibley at the Newport Casino. Was that what this was about? Was the family trying to chastise Sibley for his harassment? “Or could they simply want to use Lester Sibley as a way to deflect blame from Whitwell’s true killer?” I said, thinking out loud.

  “Now you’re talking, Davish,” Miss Lucy said. “Jane and Nick Whitwell must know who killed Harland. I’m sure of it.” Miss Lucy clambered out of her chair and indicated for me to do the same. She shooed me toward the door. “Now go find out who it was!”

  CHAPTER 20

  As I passed Glen Park on my way to Ocean Avenue to deliver the last of the invitations, I took the opportunity to call on Mrs. Whitwell again, hoping this time she’d be home. When I rang the bell, the housemaid who’d answered before opened the door. This time I introduced myself and inquired after the housekeeper. Mrs. Johnville and most of the staff had yet to return from church, the maid said. I was disappointed and expected the
door to close on me for a second time. I turned to leave.

  “You still want to talk to Mrs. Whitwell?” the maid asked.

  “Yes, of course, but—” I said, shrugging.

  “Madam’s in. Follow me.”

  What luck. The maid led me upstairs to a tall, gilded chair in the hall and asked me to wait while she spoke to Mrs. Whitwell. I stared at the swathe of black crape that hung from what I knew was a four-foot-wide gilded mirror opposite me. I was only a few steps from Mr. Whitwell’s office. I lamented that no one had properly searched the room. When I’d been in there, I’d noticed a few correspondences, including the one about the bank, but hadn’t had time or the inclination to do a thorough search. As someone whose livelihood depended in part on the vast amount of correspondence my employers received, I knew I could learn more from the dead man’s papers. Did I dare?

  Tick, tick, tick. I glanced around me. The hall was empty. The gentle ticking of a grandfather clock about halfway down reverberating off the marble walls was the only sound. I stood hesitantly, still questioning what I was about to do, and then tiptoed toward the office. Tap, tap, tick, tick, tap. The sound of my footsteps echoed loud in my ears. Given the miles I had to travel today, I’d worn my walking boots, but now I wished I’d worn my slippers. I heard another noise, the far-off closing of a door perhaps, and halted, still on my tiptoes. My heart was beating fast and my breath was shallow. I listened intently, but all was still again. I waited another moment or two before proceeding. I put my hand on the brass doorknob and felt the embossed W press against my sweaty palm. Why was I sneaking about like a thief? Before I could question my actions again, I opened the office door and slipped inside. I looked around the room and thought of the last time I’d seen it. Images flashed through my mind: the crumpled pamphlet clenched in the dead man’s hand, the loose curl that hung down the nape of Mrs. Whitwell’s neck as she rocked over the dead body of her husband, the pink peony hand-painted on the china coffee cup, the blood speckles on everything, the cigar, the carpet, the desk.