“And you didn’t kill him either,” I said, interrupting her.
The door flew open. I gasped. The room behind the former housekeeper, simply furnished with a single iron bed, a walnut dresser with a thin white lace runner, a small side table, and a chair, was dark and in shambles. The curtains were pulled shut, the counterpane was crumpled at the end of the bed, the table was covered with dirty coffee cups, plates of partially eaten food, and a bottle of whiskey more than half-empty, and pages of a newspaper were scattered across the floor. But that didn’t compare to the state of the woman before me. Her eyes were bloodshot, most of her hair had fallen from its bun and lay haphazard about her shoulders, and she was still wearing her housekeeper’s uniform, now wrinkled and covered with dark stains. From the scent emanating from her, both the uniform and the woman had not been washed in days.
“Who says I did?” Mrs. Crankshaw demanded.
“You were seen threatening him.”
She nodded. “Yes, I cursed him and spit on him, but I didn’t kill that idiot Lester, rest his soul. Plenty of enough others wanted to see that done. My poor sister will miss him, of course, but I think in the end she might be better off. Lester wasn’t much of a provider and he was always making trouble. No, I didn’t wish him well, but I certainly didn’t kill him. James, on the other hand, that was my fault. I did get James discharged. That was wrong of me. I see that now.”
“And James already has a new, respectable position,” I said, taking advantage of her pause for breath. Astounding, I thought. Even in her condition Mrs. Crankshaw was wont to talk interminably. “You need not fret on his account.”
“He has?” she said with a slight sense of hope in her voice.
“Yes. May I come in?”
“You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
“I need your help in solving your brother-in-law’s murder.”
“You?” She started to laugh, a strangled cackle deep in her throat.
Her reaction alarmed me. I’d never heard Mrs. Crankshaw laugh before. Was she intoxicated? Was she of sound mind? Was she truly as hopeless as she seemed?
“Yes.”
“But why you?”
“Mrs. Mayhew has charged me with assisting the police,” I said.
Mrs. Crankshaw turned to stare at the drawn drapes as if she could see the view. “Because the truth may be too close to Rose Mont?” she said cryptically.
“Yes, something like that,” I said.
“How can I help?” The former housekeeper held up a hand to stop me from saying anything. “Before you ask, I’m only answering your questions because I don’t want anyone to think I killed Lester. I wouldn’t take well to people gossiping about me and saying I killed him when I didn’t. Lester was a troublemaker, stirring up a hornet’s nest for no good reason, but I can’t say he got what he deserved. His heart was in the right place. But he went about it the wrong way. And my sister would be alone in the world now without me and of course I couldn’t give satisfaction to those who think ill of me already.”
“When was the last time you saw your brother-in-law?”
“After that fool disrupted Mrs. Mayhew’s ball,” she said, shaking her head. “What did she do without linen, by the way?”
“She borrowed some from Mrs. Whitwell.”
Mrs. Crankshaw nodded in approval. “Right! Good thinking. That lady won’t be using it for months. I’m surprised Mrs. Mayhew thought of it, though.” I didn’t enlighten her of the truth. She sighed. “I let my temper get the best of me there.”
“Yes, you could say that,” I said.
“What? Are you implying something?” My attempt to lighten the mood was ineffective. Mrs. Crankshaw was defensive and unpredictable. I returned to my task of getting answers.
“No, Mrs. Crankshaw. I was simply agreeing with you. Could you tell me where you were the night and morning after your brother-in-law was killed?” I asked.
“I was here,” she said absentmindedly.
“Alone? Or can someone corroborate your whereabouts?” She didn’t seem to hear me.
“I’ve always wanted to be a housekeeper,” she said. “You should be able to understand, if you’re as good at your job as they say.” I nearly blushed hearing this unexpected compliment. “I wanted to be the best. And I was. I worked for one of the richest, most powerful families in America. I ran two households, never complaining, never demanding anything more than loyalty, respect, and a hard day’s work from my girls. And now . . .” Her voice trailed off as she stared at the door. “And now I’m branded a troublemaker, an anarchist, when the truth is that I don’t take well to rule breakers and troublemakers.”
“I don’t know about those labels, Mrs. Crankshaw, but I may be able to eliminate ‘killer’ from the list, if you’ll let me.” She looked at me. “Will you answer a few more questions?”
“Right,” she said, focusing once again. “I didn’t kill him.”
“I believe you,” I said, not knowing why I did, but I did. “Were you here alone?”
She chuckled. “If I had had a man in my bed, I wouldn’t have to worry where my next meal is going to come from.”
I blushed again. “I didn’t mean to imply . . .” She smiled for the first time. I was relieved, even if it was at my expense. “Did anyone see you?”
“No, I haven’t left the room since I saw Lester after the ball.”
“Would you mind if I inspected your clothes?” I said, indicating her housekeeper’s dress, a separate skirt and bodice of plain black cotton. She frowned.
“Why?”
“Please?”
She looked down at herself. “I haven’t had a chance to launder it yet,” she said quietly.
“That’s a good thing,” I said, stepping closer. I walked around her, inspecting the dress as she watched me with suspicion.
“What are you looking for?”
“Evidence that will convict Lester’s killer,” I said.
“And?”
“And I didn’t find anything.”
“Right! Now what?”
“Maybe now you can find a way back to your sister in Queens and start over? She needs you now as much as you need her.” The former housekeeper nodded and then burst into tears. I was speechless.
“Get out of here,” she said, suddenly shooing me away from the door with her hands. “I don’t take well to people who gawk at those less fortunate. You’ll not get satisfaction from pitying me.” Her comment stung. We were two workingwomen who could relate to each other’s plight. I thought we had made a connection. Somehow I had expected more.
“Good-bye, Mrs. Crankshaw,” I said cheerlessly. “I wish you the best of luck.”
“Right!” she said, slamming the door in my face.
“He’s no longer in Newport. I sent a wire to the Pinkerton detective agency. I’m waiting for the reply. Maybe then we’ll know whom he’s working for and why he was in Newport.”
After leaving Mrs. Crankshaw to her own devices, I went to the police station to find Chief Preble. As I entered, he slapped a large fish onto the newspaper he had spread across his desk. With filet knife in hand, he began cleaning the fish as we talked. Unable to stomach the bloody entrails he pulled from the fish and dropped on the newspaper, I stared down at the plank wooden floor as I told him what I’d learned about James and Mrs. Crankshaw, including how I believed neither of them had killed Lester Sibley. Silas Doubleday was another story.
“You didn’t have to send a telegram to find that out,” I said. “I’m certain Doubleday was working for Mr. Mayhew.”
“Why? Why did Gideon Mayhew have need of a Pinkerton man?”
“To rid him of Lester Sibley.” I relayed every encounter I’d had with Silas Doubleday from the incident on the boat before we arrived to the conversation I overheard between Gideon Mayhew and Silas Doubleday the morning I found Lester Sibley’s body.
“From what you tell me, Silas Doubleday is our prime suspect.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” the man himself declared as he was led into the room in front of another police officer.
“Well, Collins, this is unexpected,” Chief Preble said, speaking to his fellow officer but watching the detective. He rolled the newspaper up, fish, blood, guts, and all, and pushed it aside. “I thought you were in Providence on the Shackleton case. I’ve been waiting for Ballard to bring me back news of the man, and here you have the man himself.”
“I was as surprised as you, sir. I’d gotten your wire to keep a lookout but didn’t expect to see the man. I’d finished up that Shackleton business and was waiting for the train to come back. What luck, sir, I must say, to see Doubleday getting off the train at the time as I was getting on!”
“I didn’t kill him,” Doubleday said again as Patrolman Collins pushed down on his shoulder, forcing him to sit. “Lester Sibley was still alive when I left him. You can ask anybody at Condon’s Saloon on Long Wharf.”
“Okay, Doubleday,” Preble said. “Tell me your story. Start with the party.”
“I hauled Sibley away from Rose Mont after he interrupted the Mayhews’ ball. Some crazy woman jumped out of the bushes at us, spitting at him.”
“That would be Mrs. Crankshaw,” I said. Chief Preble nodded, remembering my version of these events.
“Yeah, well, whoever she was,” Doubleday said, “we left her at the gate, and went down Bellevue. At least two carriages drove by. One was a cab. I’m sure you could find the drivers.” I relayed the chambermaid Annie’s account of seeing Doubleday from her cab to the policemen.
“Okay,” the chief said, “and then what happened?”
“I took him to his rooms on Spring Street,” Doubleday said. “The landlady let us in. It was late and she wasn’t shy about letting us know just how late.”
“So the landlady can verify when you brought him back?”
“Yeah, the exact time too, because she kept glancing at her clock.”
“And then what?”
“We went up to his room, I watched him pack and then I escorted him to the wharf. I even gave him enough money for a one-way ticket out of Newport. I told him to be gone by morning.”
“And then you left?”
“Yes, I went straight to Condon’s for a drink or two and then to the Ale and Oyster House. They have the best oysters in town.” I cringed at the thought. The one and only time I’d eaten oysters, someone died and I’d spent an extremely unpleasant night lying on the floor next to my chamber pot. “I was there until I caught the train this morning. Ask anyone there. Lots of people saw me.”
Chief Preble motioned to one of the patrolmen. “Go speak to the landlady and then ask around at the saloon,” the chief said. “Speak to William Rife, the proprietor, if he’s there.” The patrolman nodded, snatched up his hat, and left. “And Lester Sibley, he was still alive when you left him?” Chief Preble asked Doubleday.
“Yes, of course, though before I left I did . . .” The detective suddenly hesitated. He began to whistle “Ode to Joy” under his breath.
“Before you left you did what? Break both the man’s arms?” Preble asked.
“Yeah, well, I admit to that. He had it coming, showing up at Mr. Mayhew’s house after all.”
“What else did you do, Doubleday?”
“I . . . ah. It was only talk. I was trying to frighten the guy into leaving, you know. He’d been stubborn before.”
“If it was only talk, what did you say to him, Doubleday?”
“I warned him what would happen if he didn’t get on that boat and leave.”
“What could you possibly say that would further prove your point? You’d already broken both the man’s arms.” Detective Doubleday dropped his head on his chest, refusing to speak. Preble grabbed the Pinkerton man’s chin and jerked his head upright. “So what did you tell him would happen?”
“I told him he was a dead man.”
CHAPTER 33
After a taxing day and a half it was a relief to sit at my typewriter, feel the comfort of the keys beneath my fingertips, and work. Mrs. Mayhew had requested an account of how I’d spent my time, as she would say, “keeping the police away from Rose Mont.” As I pulled the second sheet of paper from my typewriter, I glanced at the suspect list I’d created yesterday. Taking up my pen, I crossed out Mrs. Crankshaw and James. And then I reluctantly crossed out Detective Doubleday. Before I’d left the police station, the patrolman sent to speak to Lester Sibley’s landlady and the proprietor of the alehouse returned, verifying Doubleday’s account. That only left the Mayhews and the surviving Whitwells. I shook my head.
This can’t be. There has to be someone else. I looked at the list again. What was I thinking? Suspecting any one of these people would not do me one bit of good. In fact, the list’s very existence put me at risk of losing my position. I had to destroy it.
Before I could question what I was doing, I pushed back from the desk, stood up, and grabbed the list of suspects. I strode over to the fireplace, retrieved a match from the mantel, and lit a candle. I placed the corner of the paper in the flame. The moment the paper caught, I threw it into the cold fireplace. The flame grew as the paper shriveled up, turned brown and then black. I jabbed the paper several times with a poker, certain to reduce it to ashes.
I returned to my desk, put another piece of paper into the typewriter, and began to make a new list of who else might have killed Lester Sibley.
1.
I sat with my fingers poised over the keys, but nothing came to my mind except the image of Jane Whitwell trying to run Lester Sibley down in the street with her son’s car and Nick Whitwell threatening Sibley at the police station and again at the ball. At least I’d never seen Eugenie threaten the man, I thought. Could the mother and son have been in it together? But why? To protect Harland Whitwell’s reputation by deflecting blame elsewhere? Or did they believe Lester Sibley and his threats of strike drove Mr. Whitwell to take his own life?
I stared at the blank list until the rattle of my doorknob startled me out of my reverie.
“Who is it?” I asked, glancing at the fireplace.
“It’s me, Hattie. I have your dinner.”
“Oh, do come in, Britta,” I said, sighing in relief. But who did I think it was?
The parlormaid, with Bonaparte at her heels, came in with a tray. Britta wasn’t in the mood for talking. She smiled as she set down the tray but left the moment I thanked her. I wasn’t much in the mood for eating. I sipped some coffee, took nibbles of the sponge cake, and absently fed Bonaparte bits of the fried codfish in sauce tartare as I stared at the ashes growing cold in the fireplace. I might have destroyed the evidence of my suspicion, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was right: Someone on that list was responsible for Lester Sibley’s death.
“I don’t need you for the rest of the morning,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “As long as you keep me informed as you have been, you may do what you will.”
I’d spent another restless night, but having fallen asleep in the early morning hours, I nearly overslept and missed Britta bringing in my breakfast. Mrs. Mayhew rang for me as I was finishing my cold coffee and toast. To my relief, we slipped into the quiet routine of her approving menus and bills to be paid and dictating responses for over three dozen invitations she’d received the day before. Miss Lucy had been right. Now that she had gained Mrs. Astor’s approval and had firsthand knowledge of a murdered man, Mrs. Mayhew was very likely the most popular guest in Newport.
I was disappointed to be dismissed. I needed the distraction. On another day I might have relished the chance to go hiking or finally visit Easton Beach and go swimming, but today my thoughts were preoccupied with ways to prove one of the Whitwells killed Lester Sibley. How I would accomplish this without the police’s help and without jeopardizing my position I had no idea. It was an insurmountable task. I decided to take a hike anyway and headed back down Ocean Avenue. An easy seaside stroll might put my mind at rest.
I made the r
ight decision. The solitude was a boon, allowing my mind to empty of all my cares: death, secrets, and Walter’s mother. Only twice did a carriage pass by, interrupting my repose. As I strolled along, I concentrated on the gentle sounds of the wind rustling through the brush and the quiet lapping of the water. I found a large, flat stone on a tranquil sandy beach and sat there for over an hour watching the black cormorants preen and sun themselves, with outstretched wings, on the rock outcrops jutting up through the water. The reality in which one family attended balls, dinner parties, and lawn tennis tournaments while their neighbor suffered from the ill effects of gossip and suicide felt a world away.
It felt a world away, that is, until I saw Eugenie Whitwell and Cora Mayhew leaving Bailey’s Beach on my return toward Rose Mont. I couldn’t help but scan the area to see if Walter was with them. I hadn’t seen Walter since Tuesday night and couldn’t help wondering if he’d been with Eugenie again. But the girls were alone. I tried to pass unseen, but without luck.
“Miss Davish,” Cora Mayhew said, “what are you doing here?”
“Your mother gave me the morning off. I was enjoying a stroll on this beautiful day.”
“Well, you always seem to be where you shouldn’t,” Eugenie Whitwell said, picking at the black lace about her collar. “This is a private beach.”
“I was just passing,” I said, biting my tongue, trying to stay professional. What I wanted to say was, with her father dead less than a week, that it was she who had been where she shouldn’t. I resolved for a less petty reply. “And I am in the road, not on the beach.”
Eugenie rolled her eyes. “All the same,” she said.
“I’ve heard you’ve been asking around about that man who was murdered,” Cora said.
“Yes, your mother asked me to.”
“Mother? I knew she was a gossip, but honestly, Miss Davish, that’s going too far.”
“She hopes to avoid another visit from the police,” I explained.
“Oh, yes, now that sounds like Mother.”
A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery) Page 25