She put her hand to the side of the bonnet and stroked the plumes. “Yes, I got it at a Parisian shop at the World’s Fair. I arrived back a few days ago.”
“I also couldn’t help noticing that you have a beggar’s-tick seed stuck to the brim.”
“A what?” She sounded quite alarmed.
“May I?” I said as I reached to remove the offending seed. She nodded and I plucked off the seed, showing her.
“What is that?” she said, leaning over to get a closer look. Suddenly she scowled. “Nick!” she muttered, shaking her head. “I thought I got rid of all of those nasty things.”
“Excuse me?” I said, shocked at her utterance.
“Oh, it’s just that I had an incident that left me covered in these nasty, prickly things. My maid swore she’d removed them all.”
“An incident?” I said, well aware I was being nosy. “You’re not a plant collector or hiker then?”
She laughed. Instead of questioning my motives, she was clearly enjoying our conversation. “Me, a hiker, a plant collector? My word, no. I’m not one for the outdoors at all, actually. Only the thrill of it got me to go to Bailey’s Beach in the first place.” I raised my eyebrows at her. Going to Bailey’s Beach wasn’t what I would consider thrilling. She glanced around to see if anyone else was listening. “At midnight,” she said from behind her hand.
“Oh!” I said.
She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a corner of the lobby and set me down next to her on a settee. “Shocking, isn’t it?” she said, smiling.
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, what if I told you that we didn’t have bathing clothes with us?” She stared at me with wide-eyed anticipation, waiting for me to grasp her implication. She giggled and clapped her hands when my face betrayed my shock. “Needless to say, my wine that night wasn’t watered down.”
“Of course,” I said. “Now I see how a simple excursion to Bailey’s Beach could be quite a thrill of a lifetime.”
“Yes, quite,” she said, squealing with delight. Suddenly her smile disappeared. “And I thought the ride in his motorcar would be too.”
Motorcar? I knew of only one person in Newport with such a conveyance.
“You were with Nicholas Whitwell?” I said.
“Yes, can you believe it?” she said. “My mother would swoon knowing I was out at night alone with a Whitwell.”
“What happened in his motorcar?” I asked, remembering my experience in the contraption.
She scowled and started playing with the feather plumes on her hat. “It was dreadful, simply dreadful. We were having such fun, driving down sidewalks, spooking horses, stirring up birds, taking curves on Ocean Drive, and then he had to go and crash into the bushes. Tipped it right over! We had to walk all the way back.” I tried not to smile at her distaste for one of my favorite pastimes. “Dawn was breaking when I snuck into my room. Luckily Aunt Sarah is a deep sleeper.” I could only imagine what “Aunt Sarah” would say if she knew her niece was cavorting alone with a man in the early morning hours. Fortunately, Miss Culver’s impetuous and risky behavior and her aunt’s reaction wasn’t my concern. Her alibi for Nick Whitwell, on the other hand, was.
“And that’s how you encountered the beggar’s-tick seeds?”
“You can’t imagine how simply awful it was.” She shuddered. “My dress was dirty, my hands were scratched”—she showed me her hands, but any scratches were hidden by her gloves—“and I was covered with those nasty seeds, in my dress, my hair, and, as you noticed, my new bonnet.”
“And Mr. Whitwell?” I asked, remembering the bandage on his cheek.
“Oh, besides a scrape on his face, he wasn’t much worse for wear. He didn’t fall into those bushes like I did.”
“So you can say you were with Mr. Whitwell from around midnight until almost dawn?”
She frowned. The deep furrows between her brows weren’t becoming on her youthful face. She probably was no more than sixteen or seventeen years old. “Yes, why?” Before I could answer, she said, “By the way, I don’t think you introduced yourself, Miss . . . ?”
“Miss Davish,” I said. “Hattie Davish.”
“So why are you asking me all these questions, Miss Davish?”
Now you ask? I thought. She had already told me far too much. “I’m an acquaintance of the Whitwell family,” I said.
“You are?” she said, slightly surprised.
I nodded. That’s stretching the truth, I thought to myself. Shame on you, Hattie.
But Miss Culver took reassurance from it. “Then you know what a scoundrel Nick can be.” Her beaming countenance belied her words. She didn’t mind this scoundrel at all.
“What I know, Miss Culver, is that you have been a good friend to Mr. Whitwell today.” Now I understood why Nick had been reticent about his injury and his whereabouts when Lester Sibley was killed. Nick hadn’t killed the labor man but had compromised his engagement to Cora Mayhew. If word of his escapades with Miss Culver became common knowledge, it might put his relationship with Cora, his social status, and his future in jeopardy.
“Why do you say that, Miss Davish?” the young woman said.
“Because you’ve given him an alibi for murder.” Her eyes widened and her hand flew to cover her gaping mouth. “But I would keep your midnight adventure to yourself. Rumors run rampant in Newport. You wouldn’t want your aunt to find out.”
She nodded. “No, I wouldn’t. She’d ship me back to Newark, and Mother, without blinking an eye!” She stood and looked around the lobby. An extremely rotund older woman in a black floppy straw hat too large for her head waddled toward us. Miss Culver’s reaction to seeing the old woman told me the woman’s identity before she called her by name.
“Aunt Sarah, over here.”
“Electra, where have you been? We’ll be late for the concert at the Casino. We must be seen. You’ll never marry well if you aren’t seen.”
“Oh, Aunt, you don’t have to worry about me being seen. It’s more a matter of who sees what.” Electra Culver turned and winked at me. I blushed. But despite our differences and her scandalous behavior, I couldn’t help but like her. I smiled back.
Her aunt glanced at me, squinting her eyes. She didn’t understand Miss Culver’s meaning and she didn’t know who I was. She hadn’t even asked. “Well, let’s go,” Aunt Sarah said.
“By all means,” Electra Culver said. She watched her aunt waddle toward the door. “I can rely on your discretion, Miss Davish?” she said, lowering her voice.
“Of course,” I said.
She smiled, stroked the plumes on her bonnet again, and followed her aunt out the door. I stared after her until a flash of gold in the street outside caught my attention.
If only I could sell the secrets I know, I thought as I watched Gideon Mayhew’s trap, the family crest painted on the side in blazing gold leaf, go by. I’d be as rich as Gideon Mayhew.
Dismissing that thought, I returned to the registration desk to get a room for the night.
After unpacking a few things, I typed up a quick note to Chief Preble, informing him of what I’d learned from Electra Culver. Knowing the police weren’t seriously considering Nick Whitwell as a suspect, I felt justified in not revealing that young lady’s name. Let it be enough that Mr. Preble might have a clear conscience, knowing Nick Whitwell was innocent. I dropped the note into the hotel’s mailbox. That done, I fruitlessly knocked on the door of Walter’s room, two floors above mine. I longed for a sympathetic ear. His absence was fortunate. Instead of uselessly complaining to Walter, I focused on what I needed to do—get a new position. I returned to Peck’s Employment Agency, much to Mrs. Peck’s delight. With the inquiry made, I had nothing left to do but wait. I took advantage of the afternoon sunshine, returning to my room for a few specimen jars and heading back to the beach across from Gooseberry Island where I’d seen seabeach amaranth growing. After a couple of hours, and several plant specimens richer, I returned to the Ocean House Hotel
via the harbor, drawn to the spot where Lester Sibley was killed. I looked around and noticed nothing new. Then I walked up the lane and found the path down to the water’s edge. I found a large, flat boulder with a view of the harbor, Fort Adams in the distance to the west, the Lime Rock Lighthouse and the Invictus, Mr. Mayhew’s yacht, just across. Without setting out to do so, I was in a prime location to notice who, if anyone, boarded the vessel.
Would I see the person who pushed me? I wondered. I set my bag of jars down, pulled out a pad and a pencil, and sat down.
Despite the leisure time, or maybe due to it, I felt restless. My abrupt departure from Rose Mont and my uncertain future were in part to blame. With Mrs. Mayhew’s reference and thus no black spot on my record I felt certain I would secure a decent position soon. Yet I couldn’t help wondering whether that position would take me away from Newport and Walter. And how would Sir Arthur react when he returned from England to learn the circumstances of my dismissal? But my restlessness was also in part due to the loose ends, the unanswered questions I still had. I made a list:
Who pushed me? Mr. Mayhew’s possible mistress? A crew member? Why?
Who set fire to the bank? Why?
Who killed Lester Sibley?
Where will I be this time tomorrow?
What am I going to tell Walter?
What am I going to tell Sir Arthur?
When I looked up, I noticed a rowboat tied up beside Mr. Mayhew’s yacht. Who was that? I wondered as I watched a person clamber over the side of the yacht, awkwardly carrying a large satchel tossed over their shoulder. And what was in the satchel?
I collected my things and sat watching and waiting as the dinghy made its slow progress toward the dock. I stood up as the person disembarked from the docked rowboat and lumbered closer.
It was Delia, the Mayhews’ laundress.
Was she Mr. Mayhew’s mistress? Could she have been the one who pushed me overboard? Impossible, I thought. Yet what was she doing here?
“Delia,” I called out to her.
“Hattie,” she said, smiling. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you,” I said.
She pointed to the load on her back. “What else, laundry.”
“Of course,” I said, relieved. “But do you always collect laundry from the yacht?”
“No,” she said, laughing, “Mrs. Mayhew insisted I gather up anything that needed washing. We all know how Mrs. Mayhew’s been lately about her husband, if you get my meaning.”
“I certainly do. She insisted I take a look around twice.”
“Well, at least it wasn’t a completely wasted trip.” Delia indicated the laundry bag over her shoulder.
“So you don’t think he has a mistress?”
The laundress shook her head. “Maybe you saw signs of a woman being onboard, but I certainly didn’t.” I had to admit I hadn’t seen anything suspicious either. Except of course that someone had recently been aboard. It must’ve been a crew member returning early after all. But why would he push me overboard? I remembered Mack’s jokes about me being a landlubber. The crew member would have no way of knowing I couldn’t swim. Could it all have been a joke? If so, I wasn’t laughing.
“All I know is that the clothes I have in here are all Mr. Mayhew’s,” Delia said.
Mayhew’s?
“Why would Mr. Mayhew’s clothes be there? He’s in New York,” I wondered out loud.
Delia shrugged. “From the stink of these gym clothes, they may have been there for days.” But I hadn’t seen any dirty clothes onboard the first time. Where had they come from? And when? “Well, I better get these back,” she said.
“Before you go, may I ask a favor?”
“Sure, what?”
“Remember when I asked you about the beggar’s-tick seeds? If you had seen any on anyone’s clothes?”
She nodded and then her eyes widened. She threw the laundry satchel to the ground and ripped it open. She yanked out a jacket, waistcoat, and pants. They were covered in beggar’s-tick seeds. “Like this?”
“Yes, like that,” I said.
“Then maybe you know why these were crumpled up in the linen closet? I found them when I was retrieving the laundry satchel.” I nodded. “What does it all mean then?”
I was speechless. The evidence before me was clear. Yet how did I tell Delia that the little sticky seeds implicated no one less than Gideon Mayhew, robber baron and one of the wealthiest men in the country, in the killing of Lester Sibley?
“Hattie,” Delia said anxiously. “What does it mean?”
“Trouble.”
CHAPTER 37
“What do you expect me to do?” Chief Preble said when I found him. Sergeant Ballard at the station had said the chief was “out on the dock.” That wasn’t very helpful. Newport has dozens of wharfs and docks stretching out into the bay. After following as close to the water as possible, hoping to catch a glimpse of the policeman among the boatmen, dockworkers, and commercial fishermen, I found him in the same place I’d found him before. He had several small fish on the dock at his feet. “Because the man had some seeds stuck to his pant leg? It’s not enough to accuse him of murder.”
“But why else would he have the seeds on him? He must’ve killed Lester Sibley.” The policeman shook his head. “But he’s a member of the same Newport shooting club as Harland Whitwell,” I said, remembering seeing the directory for the club on the yacht. “Even if he never had access to Mr. Whitwell’s gun, he must have one of his own.”
“That may be, but we’re talking about Gideon Mayhew here. Without absolute proof, I’m not about to risk everything by accusing one of the most powerful men in America of murder. And seeds are not proof.”
“What would be?”
“A witness, maybe.”
“What about a confession?”
“Of course, but Gideon Mayhew isn’t about to walk into my station and offer up a confession.”
“He might confess to someone.”
“Like who?”
“Like me.”
Chief Preble laughed. “That’s ludicrous. And here I thought you had a logical mind, Miss Davish.”
“It is not ridiculous,” I said, bristling at his derision. The policeman could see it on my face.
“Okay, Miss Davish. Tell me why he would do such a thing?”
“For the same reason you aren’t taking me seriously. I’m a servant and he believes servants don’t count. So he might confess to me because he’ll assume he won’t be prosecuted.”
“And he’d be right. If he made a confession to you and you alone, I still wouldn’t be able to arrest him.”
I balled up my fists in frustration. “Un, deux, trois,” I started counting under my breath to control my anger. “You’re telling me, Chief Preble, that you’ll only consider arresting Gideon Mayhew if he confesses to you directly or to someone of his own stature?”
“If he’s actually guilty of what you accuse him of? Yes, basically.”
“Then that’s what he’ll have to do.” I left the dock with Sam Preble snagging a fish and shaking his head.
As I nervously stood at the back entrance of Rose Mont, waiting for the bell to be answered, I glanced up at the second-floor window of Mr. Mayhew’s office. How had I missed noticing how much the gargoyles carved below the sill resembled the man himself? Can I do this? I wondered. Before I had a chance to reconsider, Mrs. Broadbank opened the door and welcomed me in. She sent word of my visit to my former employer.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Mayhew,” I said when she called me up. She was dressed to go out.
“I received your note and am most curious. So you think my husband does have something to confess?”
“Yes, ma’am. I do.”
“And you are willing to confront him in my stead?” I nodded. “All right then, he’s in his study, but I don’t know for how much longer. Let’s go now.”
I followed Mrs. Mayhew down the corridor. I passed
Britta in the hall. Mrs. Mayhew ignored her presence, but Britta and I locked eyes. I couldn’t stop and answer the question in her gaze. I hoped I’d be able to later. My former employer and I stopped in front of Mr. Mayhew’s study.
“Remember,” Mrs. Mayhew whispered, “I will be listening at the door. I’ll hear everything he and you say. If he doesn’t confess to having a mistress, I will deny playing any part in this scheme.”
It was only fair. I’d already been discharged from my position, and with a reference in hand I had nothing to lose. Mrs. Mayhew had to live with this man. I suddenly felt guilty misleading Mrs. Mayhew about her husband’s possible confession. Her life might forever be altered by the news.
And oh, how the rumor mill will run rampant after this day, I thought.
But would Mrs. Mayhew suffer from it? I wondered. No. Somehow, she would twist it to her benefit. I didn’t have to worry about Mrs. Mayhew. She would be fine. Mrs. Mayhew, mistaking my reverie for hesitation, knocked.
“Come,” a male voice from within said. Mrs. Mayhew opened the door, careful to stay behind it, and nearly pushed me into the room.
Gideon Mayhew was standing at his desk, looking down at a ledger he held in his hands. He looked up when I entered. “You?” he said. I expected anger, insults, or accusations, but instead he laughed. “You have brass coming here, I’ll give you that. What do you want?”
I took a deep breath, straightened my hat, pushed my shoulders back, and took a step forward. “I’ve come to ask you a question, Mr. Mayhew.”
“Yes?” He looked down at his ledger again.
“Did you kill Lester Sibley?”
His head snapped up from his reading. I heard a gasp come from the other side of the door. Mrs. Mayhew now knew what confession I hoped to draw from her husband. I took it as a good sign that she didn’t charge into the room to stop me.
Gideon Mayhew remained silent. No denial, no shouting, no slamming his ledger down. Instead what he did was even more frightening. He slowly set the ledger down and walked around his desk toward me. Instinctually I took a step back.
A Sense of Entitlement (A Hattie Davish Mystery) Page 28