“You’re not going to win any favors for doing that, Dr. Grice,” I said.
“With Miss Whitwell or with my mother?” Walter said.
“Either.”
“I only went out tonight to appease Mother, but it seems one wrong step and the evening’s good has been undone.”
“It would seem so,” I said.
“That’s what I love about you, Hattie,” Walter said, reaching for my hand. “You’re so . . .”
I took a step back and shook my head. “Please, don’t do this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This,” I said, pointing back and forth from him to me. “I once told you we didn’t live in the same world. The past two nights only prove it. I’m a girl who works for a living, Walter. You’re a gentleman who would hire the likes of me, not court her.”
“Hattie,” Walter said, concern rising in his voice. “What are you saying? I told you I escorted Miss Whitwell to please my mother, that’s all.”
“But your mother objects to you even consorting with me, let alone . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to voice my previous hopes for the future. I could see that it didn’t matter now, maybe it never did. “Don’t you see you could never escort me to Bailey’s Beach or to the Casino, even if your mother didn’t object?” I understood the logic, but my heart objected to every word I said. “Good night, Dr. Grice.”
I meant to run across the lawn fleeing Walter Grice’s presence as Eugenie Whitwell had, though for very different reasons, but even as I stepped away Walter grabbed my hand and pulled me to him. His arms encircled and restrained me.
“You’re not getting away that easy,” he whispered in my ear as tears streaked down my cheeks. “Oh, Hattie, don’t cry,” he said, looking down into my eyes. “I love you.”
I buried my face into his chest, desperately wanting to believe him and stay in his arms forever but unable to face his ardent gaze or the truth that I couldn’t do either.
“And did you see the bandage on his face?” Leonard, the newly promoted footman, said, busy polishing a spoon.
I peeked into the Servants’ Hall before putting the lantern away. The table was laid with at least fifty pieces of silver: forks, spoons, knives, trays, teapots, sugar bowls, creamers, waste bowls, pitchers, urns, and candlesticks. Several others, including Miss Issacson and Monsieur Valbois, were drinking coffee and loitering about gossiping.
This would never have happened if Mrs. Crankshaw were still here, I thought.
After Walter escorted me back to the house, his arm around my waist and kissing me good night, I’d slept better than I had in weeks, but I’d forgotten to return the lantern. The first thought in my head upon waking this morning was the exact question I heard as I approached the Servants’ Hall after breakfast. Why was Nick Whitwell wearing a bandage? I’d seen him at the ball. He was uninjured then. I hadn’t thought to ask Walter last night if Nick had explained it. What had happened between the ball and the time he arrived to escort Miss Cora last night?
Lester Sibley was murdered, I thought.
“How did you see that?” Annie the chambermaid was asking as I passed the Hall again. I slowed down to listen.
“I answered the door when he came to escort Miss Mayhew,” Leonard said.
“Did Miss Cora ask him about it?” Miss Issacson said.
“Of course she did.”
“What did he say?” Annie said.
“Said he fell down after the ball, scraped his cheek on the driveway,” Leonard said, laughing.
“Ha! Right he did,” Annie said. “And Miss Cora believed him?” Did the chambermaid know something? I would have to talk to her alone later.
“Yeah,” the footman said. “She’s going to marry him, isn’t she?”
“Good morning, Miss Davish,” Davies, the butler, said as he passed by me.
“Good morning, Mr. Davies.” Did he know I was listening at the door? I hoped not. I took a few steps down the hallway. As soon as he disappeared into the Servants’ Hall, I backed up again. The conversation had come to an abrupt end.
“Who’s going to marry whom?” I heard Davies ask.
“No one, Mr. Davies,” Leonard said.
“All right then, everybody, get back to your work.”
“Any news on a housekeeper, Mr. Davies?” Valbois asked.
“Yes, the missus hired one yesterday. She will be joining us sometime this morning.”
“Bon,” Valbois said loudly, then lowered his voice. “Any news on Mrs. Crankshaw?” I stepped closer to the open doorway to hear. I peeked in again to see the butler shake his head. The cook shrugged his shoulders, set his cup down, and stood. He disappeared into the kitchen.
“Any news on James, Mr. Davies?” Leonard said. I saw Britta coming down the hall carrying a tray. She half smiled to me in greeting. I decided to follow behind her.
“Yes, actually,” Mr. Davies said as Britta and I entered the Hall. Mr. Davies looked right at me. “Rumor has it James has been hired by those two old sisters, Mrs. Fry and Miss Shaw, at Moffat Cottage.”
“What’s this, Mr. Davies?” Britta said. “What did you say about James?”
I realized I hadn’t had a chance to tell her the good news yesterday. I’d returned late and had been preoccupied with organizing and updating Mrs. Mayhew’s calendar. Britta must not have visited James last night or he would’ve told her. That Mr. Davies already knew was proof again that Newport’s rumor mill was the swiftest I’d ever experienced.
The butler repeated himself. Britta followed Mr. Davies’s gaze to look at me. “Is this true?”
I looked for permission from Mr. Davies to answer. He nodded.
“Yes, I was there when the Shaw sisters made the decision.”
“We all know that Mr. Grady has enlisted in the navy,” Davies said. “The elderly sisters were in need of a good manservant.”
“But Mr. Mayhew discharged him without a reference, didn’t he?” Leonard said.
“Yeah, and what about the police?” Annie said. “Don’t they think James killed that labor man?”
Clank, clank, clank. The silver tray clattered when Britta dumped it onto the table. “Oh, Annie, you’re awful,” she said, and then fled the room, crying.
“What’s gotten into her?” Leonard said.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Davies said, looking at the door where Britta had disappeared. “She’s normally such a steady, reliable worker.”
“All the more reason we need a new housekeeper,” Mrs. Mayhew’s lady’s maid said.
“Yes, Miss Issacson, I couldn’t agree with you more,” Mr. Davies said, shaking his head as he strolled to his pantry. “Now off with you all,” he said without turning around.
I stopped Annie in the hallway as we both left the Hall. “Do you have a minute?” I asked.
“Sure, Miss Davish, what is it?”
“I happened to overhear you talking about Mr. Whitwell’s bandaged face.”
She nodded. “Yeah, isn’t that something?”
“Yes, it is, but what makes you think so?”
The maid furrowed her brow and frowned at me. “Isn’t it obvious? He’s lying. He didn’t get that by falling down in the driveway.”
“And how do you think he got it?”
“I think that Lester Sibley clipped him one before he was killed,” she said. I was astonished. How did she know about the connection between the two men, let alone make the ready assumption that Nick Whitwell killed Lester Sibley? She must’ve heard what happened at the ball.
“And why do you think Mr. Whitwell killed Lester Sibley?”
“Because I saw them.”
“Wh-h-hat?” I said, stammering. This wasn’t the response I’d expected. “When? Where?”
“Since I wasn’t needed during the ball the other night, Mrs. Mayhew gave me permission to spend the evening with my folks. They live on Extension Street.”
“And you saw Mr. Whitwell and Mr. Sibley when?”
; “Well after dark. My father gave me money for cab fare. We were driving down Bellevue and I saw them. Mr. Whitwell had Lester Sibley’s arm behind him, pushing him along.” I realized that she might have mistaken who actually was with Lester Sibley.
“How do you know it was Mr. Whitwell? Did you get a good look at his face?”
“No, didn’t have to. I heard how he threatened him at the ball, and then Sibley ends up dead and Mr. Whitwell has a bandage on his cheek. Isn’t it obvious? Mr. Whitwell was dragging the union man to his death.”
“Thank you, Annie.”
“Sure,” she said, turning away. She turned back again. “You’re the one who found the guy, huh?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” I said.
She nodded. “He was shot, like Mr. Whitwell, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“I’m glad we know Mr. Whitwell did it,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because if he’s going around shooting people, at least I know I won’t be next.”
“And why’s that, Annie?” I couldn’t follow her logic at all.
“Because I’m nobody but a chambermaid. He doesn’t have cause to kill me. Gotta go,” she said, running up the stairs.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that if it had been the murderer she’d seen and they found out, she would indeed be next on the list. As Annie disappeared upstairs, I glanced down to see the laundress climbing up the stairs toward me.
“Delia,” I said. “What luck to cross your path.”
“Lucky for me or for you?”
“For me. I wondered if you’ve come across any beggar’stick seeds on the laundry sent down yesterday, after the ball?”
“What are they?” she said, scowling.
“Prickly seeds that stick to everything. I went hiking the other day and spent half my evening picking them out of my skirt.”
“Lord help me if I did then,” Delia said. “I wouldn’t have the time.” She began to walk away.
“So you haven’t seen any then? Not even a few on a sleeve or a collar?”
“No,” she said, “now if you’ll excuse me, I’m running late already.”
“Of course,” I said, amazed that the woman hadn’t even asked why I wanted to know. “I heard there’s a new housekeeper coming today!” I shouted at her back congenially.
“Now that’s music to my ears,” Delia called back.
Now to find the old one, I told myself, and bounded upstairs to change.
CHAPTER 32
After meeting with Mrs. Mayhew, updated calendar in hand, and seeing her off to Mrs. Edith Wharton’s breakfast party, I began my search for Mrs. Crankshaw. As an unemployed housekeeper, she would be anxious for similar work. I pored over the Situation Wanted advertisements in the local newspapers from the past two days. I read one for a “competent chambermaid, the best Newport and New York references,” “a young man as coachman; first-class city and country reference, disengaged on account of family going to Europe,” several for first-class French cooks, and even one for “an experienced Englishman: expert at silver, salads, etc., thorough valet, competent as butler, luncheons and dinners attended. Good references,” but no one who fit Mrs. Crankshaw’s situation. With no luck from the newspapers, I headed out to visit the employment agencies.
I visited two of the agencies with no luck. The plate next to this second-story office door read: Peck’s Employment Agency for Governesses & Domestic Servants. I hoped I’d find a trail of her here. There was only one agency left. I entered the plain, whitewashed office and approached the woman reading behind the only desk. She was tall, thin, with a thick bun of pale yellow hair piled on top of her head. She wore a simple white shirtwaist with puffy sleeves and a plain navy blue, three-pleat skirt. Spectacles stood on the end of her nose as she chewed the end of her pencil.
“Good morning!” the woman said, smiling. She pushed up the spectacles, took the pencil out of her mouth, and began tapping it on her cheek. “My, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
“Good morning,” I said, surprised by her exuberant greeting. “Mrs. Peck?” I made a guess.
“Oh, yes,” she said, pushing herself back from the desk and standing. She examined me from head to toe as she rounded the desk. “Well groomed, intelligent countenance, respectful manner. Yes, I can find an excellent position for you.” She clapped her hands together. “Too bad the Mayhews already hired Mrs. Ethel Broadbank. I think you’d make them an excellent housekeeper.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m—”
“Not a housekeeper,” Mrs. Peck said, interrupting me. “No, I should’ve guessed you were more cultured than that. A governess, then?” I shook my head. “A lady’s maid?”
“I’m not here looking for work.”
“Oh, you’re not?”
“No, in fact, I already have a position in the Mayhew household. I’m Mrs. Mayhew’s social secretary.”
“I knew it,” Mrs. Peck said. “I can always spot a professional girl when I see one.”
“Thank you,” I said, quite flattered.
“Too bad, though, I would’ve made a substantial commission. Well, what can I do for you, eh . . . I didn’t get your name.”
“Hattie Davish.”
“Yes, well, Miss Davish, since you aren’t here to hire my services, and are therefore obviously here on behalf of Mrs. Mayhew, what can I do for you?” I didn’t correct Mrs. Peck. In some ways I was working on Mrs. Mayhew’s behalf. The more I discovered, the less likely the police would interview anyone at Rose Mont again.
“I’m here to inquire about Mrs. Mayhew’s former housekeeper, Mrs. Crankshaw,” I said.
“Ah, Thelma Crankshaw, yes, well . . . actually, if you’d been here an hour ago . . .”
“She was here?”
“Yes, the delirious creature came in thinking I could help her.”
“But you couldn’t?”
“Oh, dear me, no,” Mrs. Peck said, shaking her head.
“Do you at least know where I can find her?”
“Yes, let me get her file.” She walked across the room to a row of black metal cabinets and bent down to retrieve a file from the bottom drawer of the last one. The drawer was marked Hopeless. “Yes, here it is. She’s staying at the Perry House Hotel, room three-seventeen.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Peck,” I said. “May I ask a question?”
“Of course,” the employment woman said, slipping the file back into the drawer and closing it with her foot.
“Why is that drawer labeled Hopeless?”
“Because, Miss Davish, there are certain individuals I cannot and will never be able to find employment for.”
“And Mrs. Crankshaw is such a person?” I was shocked. “I grant you she’s gruff and strict with her staff, but she must’ve been an excellent housekeeper. She worked for the Mayhews for seven years.”
“Yes, all of that is true,” Mrs. Peck said, sitting back down behind her desk. “But Mrs. Crankshaw is as well-known for her temper as she is for her work. Now she’s been tainted by her association with strikers and was dismissed without a reference from her employer of seven years. And this time, from what I hear, her temper got the best of her. She burned her bridges, or should I say sliced up her lady’s linen, when she left. No potential employer is going to risk taking a vengeful troublemaker such as Thelma Crankshaw on. I told her that in no uncertain terms when she came in. I do think she was quite upset by it, but it’s the truth. How could I tell her otherwise?”
I pitied Mrs. Crankshaw and shuddered at the thought of being in her position. Without the possibility of employment, what would she do? Where would she go? How could this woman sit there with so little compassion? Didn’t she know that single women with little or no family, women like Mrs. Crankshaw, women like me, might be destitute without work?
“So as I say, Miss Davish,” she said, pointing to the filing drawer, “she’s hopeless.” Mrs. Peck suddenly smiled broa
dly. Her odd reaction, after proclaiming the tragic end to someone’s life in service, startled me. “But you, on the other hand—”
“Thank you for your help, Mrs. Peck,” I said, having the urge to distance myself from this woman.
“Please tell Mrs. Mayhew how helpful I was.”
“Of course,” I said, putting my hand on the doorknob.
“And Miss Davish,” she said, still grinning, as I opened the door to leave, “if you are ever in need of a position, my door’s always open for you, my dear.” I nodded but fled her office as fast as I could. God help me if I was ever in need of going through her door again!
The address Mrs. Peck had given me, the Perry House Hotel, was a respectable four-story stone building with second- and third-story balconies and a predominant square cupola, attached to the Opera House on Washington Square. I inquired at the desk and was directed to a room on the hotel’s top floor. I knocked. I waited a few moments and knocked again. No answer. I pressed my ear to the door and heard movement inside.
“Mrs. Crankshaw, it’s Hattie Davish. May I speak to you?”
No response. “Please, Mrs. Crankshaw. I need to speak to you.” I was poised to knock again when the door opened slightly.
“What’s all the fuss?” the housekeeper hissed through the crack in the door. “I don’t take well to someone pounding on my door.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Crankshaw,” I said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“What are you doing here?”
“May I come in?”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve done nothing more terrible than slice up some linen,” I said. “Please.”
“You’re right,” she said. “I never spoke of striking. As you know, I don’t take well to people who complain, especially when there’s nothing to complain about. We earned a good, respectable living working for the Mayhews. Not one of my staff had reason to mutter the word strike. Mr. Mayhew was wrong to dismiss me. I never encouraged Lester to come here. That was all his doing. I told Lester—”
A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery) Page 24