“May I ask you a question?” I said, having no better way to broach this subject than to ask directly. “About Mr. Nicholas Whitwell?”
“Absolutely not,” his sister said.
“Eugenie,” Cora said, putting her hand on her friend’s arm. “You and I both know that Nick is not above suspicion. You were there. He threatened the man, for goodness’ sake. Miss Davish isn’t going to say or do anything that my mother doesn’t approve first. Isn’t it best that she ask the questions, rather than the police?” Eugenie shrugged. “You may ask your question, Miss Davish, though I don’t know what I could tell you.”
“Do either of you know where Mr. Whitwell went after he left the ball? Or where he was the next morning?”
“See,” Eugenie said, pointing her finger at me while looking at her friend. “She suspects Nick. First my father and now this!”
“That’s the trouble, Miss Davish,” Cora said, ignoring her friend’s outburst. “No one knows where Nick went. And he’s not talking.”
“Next you’ll want to know how he hurt himself,” Eugenie said snidely.
“Yes, it would be good to clear that up,” I said.
The loud roar of a motorcar engine rumbled a few moments before the machine was in view. Nick Whitwell drove around the bend and headed right for us, swerving and skidding to a stop on the sandy road. We all leaped several feet backward to avoid our feet being run over.
“Oh, Nick!” Cora yelled. “You frighten me every time with that thingamajig.”
“And you love it,” he said. Cora smiled. Nick pushed open the door and jumped out. The only sign of his mourning was a black band of crape around his arm and straw hat.
Astonishing, I thought.
“We were just talking about you, Nick,” Eugenie said. She sneered when she pointed at me. “The social secretary turned policeman has a few questions for you.” Nick stomped over to me and stood far too close for my comfort. Unlike when the incident in the house took place, I didn’t have a wall behind me. I took a step back.
“What are you asking about?” he demanded.
“Everyone’s wondering where you went after the ball,” Cora said.
“Whose business is it anyway?” he said, thankfully turning away from me and confronting Cora.
“Please tell us where you were, Nick. Otherwise it makes it seem like you have something to hide,” Cora said.
“I was on the yacht, okay?” Nick said, heading back toward his car. “I was drunk and didn’t want my mother to see me. Is that a crime?”
“No, of course not,” his sister said.
“So why not just say so before?” Cora asked. He ignored her.
“Satisfied?” he said to me.
“Is the yacht anchored by the Lime Rock Lighthouse?” I asked.
“No, it’s in Brenton Cove. Why?”
“Lester Sibley was found dead in a stand of bushes in sight of the Lime Rock Lighthouse.”
“So? You think I killed him?” He stormed back toward me.
Cora stepped between us and put her hand on his arm. “It’s not just her, Nick. I heard you tried to run him down with your car.” Nick laughed. Cora frowned. “This is serious, Nick. Is it true?”
“Who told you that? Believe me, if I wanted to run him down, he would’ve been dead in the street, not hidden in some bushes.”
I knew Nick was telling the truth, at least about the incident with the car. But I’d been sworn to secrecy by his mother. Could Jane Whitwell have killed Lester Sibley? She’d been on my suspect list, but I’d never seriously considered her before. After failing to kill him with the car, did she shoot him with her husband’s gun? Had she taken revenge out on Lester Sibley, killing him the same way her husband had died? Or was Nick lying about being on his father’s yacht?
Nick walked to the car and opened the passenger side door. “Come on, ladies, Mother’s waiting.” Cora and Eugenie climbed in. “How about you?” he said, looking at me. Eugenie glared at him.
“Me?” From my brief inspection of the car, I saw several places where the paint had been scraped away and the front fender was bent. The way he drove, it was a wonder there wasn’t more damage. No, I was not about to get into a motorized carriage with a reckless driver, let alone a possible murderer.
“There’s room, so I must insist,” he said.
“That’s kind of you, but I’ll walk.”
“I insist.”
“She said no, Nick,” Eugenie said. She didn’t want me in the car any more than I did.
“I don’t care. I’ve been the gentleman and offered her a ride. She’s not going to turn me down. Are you, Miss Davish?” he said, spitting out my name like a piece of rotten fruit.
“Please get in, Miss Davish,” Cora said, rolling her eyes at the bickering siblings.
Between Nick’s veiled threat and Cora’s insistence, I had no choice. I clambered in, squeezing my way into the back with Eugenie. She glared at me but said nothing.
“By the way,” Cora said, gently touching the bandage on Nick’s cheek. “You did say you got this falling in the driveway, right?”
“Oh, you know,” Nick said, smirking.
The motor revved and we lurched forward with a jerk. The sound was so deafening as to put an end to all conversation. I grabbed ahold of my hat as Nick Whitwell took every opportunity to cut corners close or to swerve violently around carriages, startling the horses. Cora screamed in delight. Nick’s driving reminded me of Walter’s but with an ill intent. When we finally reached Glen Park, I didn’t know who was happier to get out of the car, me or Eugenie. Yet I still had to wait for everyone else to get out before I was able to extricate myself from the contraption.
I will never ride in one of these things again!
“Thank you, Mr. Whitwell,” I said, biting my tongue. Let him assume I mean for the ride and not for my arriving in one piece.
“Sorry, but you had to know,” he said. So he had driven recklessly, endangering all of our lives, to teach me a lesson.
“Un, deux, trois,” I counted under my breath. “Had to know what, Mr. Whitwell?” I asked when I gained control of my temper.
“That if I had wanted to run Lester Sibley down, he’d be dead.”
I already knew that! I nearly shouted, but refrained. I clenched my fists, dangerously close to losing my temper. And my job, I thought. I took a deep breath.
“But he is dead, Mr. Whitwell,” I said, satisfied as the shock of either my words or the presumption of my behavior registered on everyone’s face. Eugenie gasped. “And I intend to find out who killed him,” I said before I turned on my heel and walked away.
With my head pounding and my ears still ringing from the jarring roar and racket of the motorcar’s engine, I knocked at the servants’ entrance of Glen Park again. I inquired of Mrs. Johnville, who opened the door, whether I could speak to the laundress. Without a word, Mrs. Johnville had one of the scullery maids show me the way down to the basement.
She’ll be glad to see the back of me, I thought.
“Hey, Jesse,” the scullery girl said. “Someone’s here to see you.” Then the maid turned and ran back up the stairs. Jesse looked up from wringing out a piece of black linen.
“Good morning, Jesse,” I said as I approached the boiling vats of water. “I’m Hattie Davish, Mrs. Mayhew’s secretary.”
“Yeah?” the laundress said, putting her arm and whole shoulder into her task.
“I wondered if you’ve happened to come across beggar’stick seeds on any of the clothes from the past few days.”
“Beggar’s-what?”
“Little seeds, about this big,” I said, holding up my thumb and index finger to show her. “They stick to clothes and are bothersome to remove.”
“Yeah, I have,” she said, surprised to know what I was talking about.
My heart skipped a beat. “You have?” I tried to contain my excitement.
“Yeah, they were a bear to get out. I pricked my fingers.” She hel
d out a finger for my inspection. It was red and raw, like her whole hand. I didn’t see any puncture marks, but I believed her. My heart was beating fast. I was about to discover who killed Lester Sibley. “Luckily there were only a few of them.”
I frowned. A knot welled up in the pit of my stomach. Only a few? From my foray into the bushes where Lester Sibley lay dead I had over a hundred seeds stuck to my skirt. I would’ve thought the killer’s pants or skirt would be likewise thickly covered.
“Why do you want to know?” she asked.
“I’ve been given permission by Mrs. Mayhew to help the police in their investigation of Lester Sibley’s death,” I said.
“Ah, you’re the one that was asking around about old Mr. Whitwell too, aren’t ya?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Now about the beggar’s-tick seeds,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask me more about her master’s demise and delay telling me who might’ve killed Lester Sibley. “Do you remember whose clothes they were on?”
“Sure, there’s only one man in the house now,” she said sadly.
So it’s true, I thought. Nicholas Whitwell killed Lester Sibley.
“I won’t be washing shirts for Mr. Whitwell anymore.”
“Shirts?” I said. This didn’t seem right either.
“Yeah, the prickly seeds were on the collar and sleeve of Master Nicholas’s shirt.”
“And you found nothing on any of his pants?”
The laundress shook her head. “No.”
This didn’t make any sense. If Nick had waded into that patch of bushes to either shoot Lester Sibley or hide his body, he must’ve gotten more than a few seeds stuck to his shirt. Could he have plucked most of them off, including all of those from his pants, while missing a few on collar and sleeve? Nick did not strike me as the methodical type. Maybe he simply got rid of the pants in question.
“Are all Nick’s clothes accounted for?” I asked the laundress.
“Of course.”
Could I’ve gotten it wrong? Could the killer have shot Lester Sibley and walked away with only a few or none of the sticky seeds? The police had cleared James and Mrs. Crankshaw in part because their clothes were seed free. Anyone could remove a few. What was I going to tell Chief Preble? Mrs. Mayhew? I’d been so sure.
“Even the pair he wore the night of the ball?” I asked.
“Especially that pair.” The laundress snickered. “I don’t want to say anything bad about the gentleman, but the man’s a slob. I always have to clean coffee and wine stains from his pants. That pair even had grass stains on it! And now that I’m thinking about it, the shirt with the prickers had grass stains too. . . .” Jesse hesitated and squinted her eyes at me.
“What is it, Jesse?” I said.
“I didn’t think much of it at the time, because like I said Master Nick isn’t known for his kind treatment of clothes.” Or anything or anyone else for that matter, I thought.
“But?”
“But in light of why you’re here asking me these questions, I’ve got to ask myself something.”
“And what is that?”
“Why did the shirt, you know, the one with the beggar seeds on it, also have blood on it?”
“That’s a good question, Jesse,” I said, my hopes rising. “A very good question.”
CHAPTER 34
“Once again I must apologize for intruding upon your grief, Mrs. Whitwell, but I wonder if you know where your son is?”
After speaking with the laundress, I immediately tried to find Nick Whitwell. Yet despite the fact that I had left him with Cora and Eugenie by his motorcar less than fifteen minutes ago, he was nowhere to be found.
“You are intruding,” she said. “Please leave.”
“I’d like to ask him a few questions.”
“I will not ask you to leave again, Miss Davish. Now go on.”
“Ma’am, right now, your son is the prime suspect in the murder of Lester Sibley.”
“How can you possibly say that? Nick had no reason to kill that man.”
“He must’ve had a reason,” I said. “Maybe he blamed Lester Sibley, the harassment, the threat of strikes, for your husband’s suicide? Or maybe he merely wanted it to look like your husband was murdered in order to collect the insurance money and avoid scandal?”
“How dare you accuse my son based on such flimsy speculation? I will not have you disparaging my son’s good character with such lies.”
“He did lash out at Lester Sibley at the ball. And he tried to choke the man at the police station.”
“So?”
“Ma’am, the shirt your son was wearing at the ball had beggar’s-tick seeds and blood on it. And he has no true alibi.”
Mrs. Whitwell turned her head away. I thought I’d finally convinced her that her son was in serious trouble if what I suspected was true. Instead she surprised me with a dismissal. “And what if he did kill him?” she said. “Harland Whitwell, my husband and Nicholas and Eugenie’s father, is dead. No one will blame Nick for lashing out at the man responsible. That labor man was nothing but a pest.” My jaw dropped in utter astonishment. How could anyone have such a sense of superiority, a sense of living above the rules of a civilized society? Besides, we both knew Lester Sibley had nothing to do with her husband’s death. Before I could respond, though I have no idea what I would’ve said, Weeks stepped in through the open doorway.
“You have visitors, ma’am.” He held out a small tray with four calling cards, all with the bottom right corner bent, indicating a condolence call. “I told them you were in mourning. Shall I send them away?”
She glanced at the names on the cards. “No, send them up, Weeks,” she said. “Miss Davish and I are finished.” Thus the end of my interview.
“Certainly, ma’am. This way, Miss Davish,” the butler said. I followed him out the door and down the steps. Weeks disappeared into a small receiving room off the entrance hall. “Mrs. Whitwell will see you now,” Weeks said to those waiting as I passed by on my way out.
“Davish,” Miss Lucy called. I looked in as Miss Lucy, Miss Lizzie, Walter, and his mother were rising from their chairs. They were Mrs. Whitwell’s visitors. I waited for them in the hall. “What brings you here?”
“I’m conveying my condolences as you are,” I said, purposely vague. Miss Lucy frowned. Walter smiled at me. Mrs. Grice saw her son’s reaction. Her countenance was blank.
“Follow me, please,” Weeks said.
“Visit us when you can, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, patting my cheek.
“Or sooner,” her sister said. “You still have much to tell us.”
“I’ll try,” I said, not anxious to spar with Miss Lucy over gossip and news I was honor bound not to reveal. Walter pressed my hand slightly as he passed. The three followed Weeks up the stairs. I turned to leave.
“Coming, Julia, dear?” Miss Lizzie said. I looked back. Mrs. Grice hadn’t followed the group. Instead she was inspecting a hand-painted porcelain vase, displayed on a pedestal at the foot of the stairs, depicting the Greek goddess Gaia, half rising from the earth.
“Yes, I’ll be but a moment,” Julia Grice said.
“Mother?” Walter said, concerned.
“Go on, Walter. I’ll follow you shortly.”
Walter frowned but followed the elderly sisters up the stairs. I continued toward the door.
“Miss Davish, wait,” Walter’s mother said.
I knew a demand when I heard one. I turned again to see her staring at me. “Is there something I can do for you, Mrs. Grice?” I asked.
“Yes, Miss Davish, there is.” And then she smiled at me for the first time. My heart raced and my fingertips started to go numb.
I liked it better when she was scowling, I thought. “And what is that, Mrs. Grice?” I forced myself to ask. I didn’t want to know the answer.
“You can leave my son alone.”
“Ma’am?”
“I can’t say it any plainer, Miss Davish,” she said, slowly walkin
g toward me. “You will not see my son again. Is that understood?”
“Is that what Walter wants?”
“How dare you ask me that? I’m his mother. Who are you to question me?”
“I believe I’m the woman your son loves.” I finally said it. I finally voiced what my heart wanted to believe, but the moment I did I wished I hadn’t. Julia Grice’s lips curled. I thought she was going to spit on me. Instead she did something worse. She laughed. And she looked so much like Walter, unbidden tears welled up in my eyes.
“You think Walter loves you? You, a working girl? Walter doesn’t love you. He’s amusing himself with you, that’s all.” I let out a gasp and a few tears rolled down my face. “Oh, dear, you poor girl.” She stepped forward and gently put a hand on my cheek. I was so stunned, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t bring myself to shrug her hand off. She patted my face with her fingers. “I had nothing to fear from you after all, did I?”
“Why would you fear me?” I whispered.
“Because you could jeopardize everything. I have high expectations for Walter’s future, and you, or any girl like you, have no place in it. After all I’ve done to educate him and support him in his dalliances, I’m entitled to nothing less.” My shoulders shook as I fought the torrent of tears bubbling up from deep within me. I would not let this woman see how much her words hurt. “I pity you, Miss Davish. Walter has obviously been a naughty boy.” She released her hand and started up the stairs.
“Oh, and Miss Davish,” she said, turning and looking down at me. I didn’t care what else she had to say. I didn’t care if she told Mrs. Whitwell how impertinent I was. I didn’t care if Mrs. Whitwell told Mrs. Mayhew that her secretary was disrespectful to a guest. I didn’t care if she revealed that she killed Lester Sibley. I wasn’t going to hear another word from that woman’s mouth. Before she could say more, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, picked up my skirts, and ran.
And nearly ran right into Mrs. Mayhew.
“Miss Davish!” the lady exclaimed.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I said.
“Why are you in such a rush?”
I couldn’t tell her the truth, so I lied. I’ve tried repeatedly to curtail the habit but I slipped back into it too easily.
A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery) Page 26