A Sense of Entitlement (12 page)

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Niederhauser,” I said as I finished the filing. “I wish you luck in getting the bank back in order.”

“Thank you for that,” he said, jutting his chin toward the desk. “As a clerk, I always hated that task.” I turned to leave. “By the way, what was the question you wanted to ask me?”

“You’ve already answered it for me, Mr. Niederhauser,” I said, and before he had a chance to realize how much he had revealed about the connection between the bank’s demise and that of Mr. Whitwell I left.

T
he police station was a two-and-a-half-story redbrick building on Market Square with tall ground-floor windows and a large outdoor clock. When I inquired after Lester Sibley, the attending police officer, the same Sergeant Ballard who had accompanied Chief Preble to the scene of Harland Whitwell’s murder, furrowed his brow.

“Popular prisoner,” the policeman said. “You’re the second person to want to see our guy in the past fifteen minutes.” As the jailhouse a few blocks up Marlborough Street incarcerated convicted long-term criminals, Lester Sibley was the only man being temporarily housed here. Before I could inquire after the other visitor the policeman said, “Follow me.”

“You won’t get away with this, labor man!” someone shouted as the officer escorted me upstairs to the holding area.

“Hey!” Sergeant Ballard, reaching the top of the stairs first, rushed out of view. “Let him go!” the policeman yelled. I hurried to follow.

A tall man in a braided straw hat with a wide black ribbon band was reaching through the bars of the holding cell, choking Lester Sibley around the neck.

“Stop!” I cried.

Sergeant Ballard yanked the man back. It was Nick Whitwell.

“Don’t touch me!” Nick said, shoving the policeman away.

“You must leave now, Mr. Whitwell,” Ballard said.

Nick, his face flush with anger and maybe something more, pointed his finger at Sibley. “Don’t think you and your kind aren’t responsible for this.”

Lester Sibley held his hands to his throat and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his voice strained and thin.

“Please, Mr. Whitwell,” Ballard said, indicating the stairwell with his raised nightstick. “I don’t want to arrest you for assault and battery.”

Nick laughed. “You can’t arrest me,” he sneered. “I’m a Whitwell.” He poked the policeman in the chest. “And you’re nobody.”

“Please leave,
sir,
” Ballard said, stressing the last word. “I will detain you if I must.”

“And then what?”

“I will have to notify Chief Preble and your mother, sir, of your misconduct.”

Nick flinched at the mention of his mother. “You won’t get away with this, Sibley,” the young man said as he turned toward the door. “You again?” he said to me as I tried to step out of his way. He grabbed my chin and stared into my eyes. “Be careful, secretary.” His breath reeked of wine. He glanced at Lester Sibley in the holding cell for a moment before returning his attentions to me. “There are some dangerous elements out there.” He chuckled under his breath before releasing me. He disappeared through the door and bounded down the stairs. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

May I never see that man again,
I thought, trying to keep my composure.

“Mr. Sibley,” I said, approaching the holding cell. Still mindful that I’d deserted the man when he’d asked for my help, I’d been dreading this interview. And now after witnessing Nick Whitwell choke the man, I questioned what I was doing here at all. Mr. Sibley was sitting on a wooden bench, with a hand around his throat, only his latest injury. A purplish bruise circled one eye, his lips were swollen, cracked, and bleeding, and his soot-covered clothes smelled of smoke, yet Lester Sibley’s eyes were clear and defiant.

Could this be my fault?
I wondered, remembering Detective Doubleday’s threats. Or had Nick confronted him earlier as well?

“Is he all right?” I asked the officer.

“Yeah, he came in a little roughed up.”
A little?
I felt sick to my stomach. If only I’d spoken up, this man might not be sitting here in this horrendous condition. He might not have been attacked by Nick Whitwell. What could I possibly say now? An apology would not be enough.

“Miss Davish, isn’t it?” Mr. Sibley’s calm but strained voice pulled me from my reflections.

“Yes, it is.”

“What are you doing here?”

“First,” I said, hesitating. “First, I would like to apologize for not speaking up on your behalf last night with Detective Doubleday. I’m truly sorry.”

To my surprise, Sibley rolled his eyes, shook his head, and dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Doubleday’s had it in for me since he got here. Nothing you could’ve said would have stopped him from doing this.” He pointed to his face. “Besides,” he said, chuckling, which sounded more like a gargle, “in my line of work, I’m used to needing thick skin. As you just saw.” He jutted his chin toward the door. “I’m not very popular.” I was astonished by his nonchalant attitude but relieved by his forgiveness. I couldn’t imagine my work requiring such risks.

“So what’s the second reason you’re here?” he asked.

“Oh, of course,” I said. Caught up with Mr. Sibley’s plight, I’d almost forgotten my official reason for visiting. “I’ve been requested by my employer to look into the death of Harland Whitwell.”

“What?” The man leaped to his feet and crossed the cell in two large steps. “Harland Whitwell is dead?”

“You didn’t know?” I asked.

“No, when did this happen?”

“This morning.”

“What did he die of? Did his horse finally get sick of its small ration of oats and kick him in the head? Did he choke on the bone of some roasted rare and expensive bird he had a fancy for?”

“The police believe he was murdered, Mr. Sibley,” I said, not refraining from expressing the distaste I had for his callous reaction. “He was shot in the chest.”

“Oh,” Sibley said, suitably chastened. “So why are you here talking to me again?”

“Because one of your labor pamphlets was clutched in the dead man’s hands.”

“You must be joking! Could it be that Harland Whitwell finally felt remorse for all the hardship he placed on his workers for no good reason?”

“Your name was on the dying man’s breath, Mr. Sibley,” I said.

“What? Why?”

“I was hoping you’d answer that.”

“Answer what?”

“Why Mr. Whitwell’s last thought was of you?”

“Oh my God, what are you implying?”

“Mrs. Whitwell believes you killed her husband.”

“So that’s why Nick Whitwell was here. He thinks I killed his father.” I nodded. “And how could I have done that? I was here all night!”

“Yes, I know. Chief Preble told Mrs. Whitwell as well. Mrs. Whitwell and her son remain unconvinced.”

“They’re trying to stop me. That’s all this is. You saw it with your own eyes. I’m getting too close to success and they know it. Well, they can choke me, kick me, knock me around, but they won’t stop me. I won’t let them intimidate me. I’ll continue with my little ‘nuisance’ campaign until every worker on this island gets what they deserve. Or at least until every rich summering ‘robber baron’ gets what he deserves.”

“Who is he, Mr. Sibley? Nick Whitwell, Harland Whitwell?”

“No, you know, all the ‘summer residents.’ All those high-society rich folks who think that it’s okay to pay their workers next to nothing for twelve to sixteen hours of work a day while squandering millions on homes they only live in six weeks out of the year. They think they can come to Newport, leave the entire laboring world behind, and play all summer. Did you know that one of Newport’s ‘summer residents’ once spent sixty-seven hundred dollars on a dress?” It didn’t surprise me now, though it would’ve shocked me only a few days ago. Having paid dozens of Mrs. Mayhew’s bills, I was all too familiar with such extravagance. “But they can’t give their maids a full day off?”

“Is that why you came here, Mr. Sibley? Instead of organizing the mills or the factories or the coal mines? You came here to disrupt people’s summer holiday?”

“Yes, in a way. The people I represent or hope to represent don’t get the choice of a summer vacation. Like you. Miss Davish, when was the last time you had more than one day of leisure? Have you ever had a proper vacation? Do you even know what it’s like?”

He was trying to make this personal. And he was right. I hadn’t had more than a full day off in years. Even the holiday I was supposed to enjoy here in Newport had been canceled. Yes, he had a point, but he was risking his health and safety to make it. Why?

“How I spend my time is irrelevant, Mr. Sibley.”

“That’s my point. You don’t have any time. It all belongs to the likes of Mrs. Mayhew.”

“Are the Mayhews on your list of ‘robber barons’ whose vacation you wish to disrupt?” I said, trying not to sound as flustered as I felt. Lester Sibley nodded.

“Yes, the Whitwells, the Vanderbilts, the Astors, the McAllisters, the Posts, the Havemeyers, the Mayhews, all of them. And you’ll thank me for it!” he declared.

I doubt it,
I thought, my sympathy for him waning. Instead I said, “Did you or did you not visit Mr. Whitwell recently, Mr. Sibley?”

“No. The last time I saw the man was outside the Casino. You were there.”

“Then how did he get one of your pamphlets?”

“I’ve been giving them out all over town, before I ran out of them, that is. I might’ve even given them to his household staff before the man arrived.”

“Might have or did?”

“I did and I’d do it again.”

“So besides the fact you were hoping to agitate his maids and footmen—”

“And bank employees,” Lester Sibley interjected.

“So it
was
you that spoke to his bank employees? The bank manager thought it might be.”

“Only the clerks, but yes, before the Season started.”

“When exactly?”

“Early June.”

“Can you think of any other reason, besides your being a nuisance, why Harland Whitwell would be thinking of you when he died?” I asked. “Why Jane and Nick Whitwell are vehement that you killed him?”

“No,” he said. Unfortunately, neither could I.

I walked downstairs hoping to speak with Chief Preble before I left. He hadn’t been there when I’d arrived earlier.

“Miss Davish, isn’t it?” he said, remembering me from this morning. I nodded. “Well, what can I do for you?” He was winding a long piece of fishing line around his hand.

“I wanted to inform you of my newest duties for Mrs. Mayhew,” I said, having no idea how the policeman would take the news of my meddling in police affairs. I’d had varying reactions from policemen in the past to my involvement in their investigations or lack thereof.

Preble tilted his head to the side and smirked. “Now why would you feel the need to do that?”

“Because it involves investigating Harland Whitwell’s death,” I said. I expected Chief Preble to leap from his chair or drop his fishing line, but he didn’t move a muscle. “Go on,” he said simply.

“Mrs. Whitwell is concerned about her place in society as rumors spread of her son, Nick, being involved. There have also been insinuations of financial trouble. Mrs. Mayhew has assigned me the task of uncovering what I can about the truth behind these rumors.” I left unspoken my impression that Mrs. Mayhew was more interested in receiving a calling card from Caroline Astor than the truth.

“So they want to circumvent us while still, supposedly, learning the truth?”

“Yes, I believe so,” I said.

“So they can either deny the truth or cover it up completely,” he said. He wasn’t posing a possibility; he knew.

I suddenly felt uncomfortable being here. If that was indeed Mrs. Mayhew and Mrs. Whitwell’s intention, then even my presence here, let alone this conversation, was a violation of Mrs. Mayhew’s trust. She hadn’t explicitly forbidden me to speak to the police, but now I realized it was implied. However, I was here, the damage was done, so I might as well get as much information from the policeman as I could. This might be our last polite conversation.

“I don’t know about covering it up,” I said, “but I do know that Mrs. Whitwell is still convinced that Lester Sibley was the culprit.”

Preble was shaking his head. “Impossible. I told her that.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve even been to speak with Mr. Sibley. He obviously couldn’t have done it and, frankly, I don’t see he had much of a motive. Killing Mr. Whitwell doesn’t help the workers’ cause any.”

“No, I agree.”

“But Nick Whitwell is a different story, isn’t he?” I asked. “He has violent tendencies and, as we said before, he often argued with his father.”

“Yes, Whitwell Junior is definitely different. We’ve been aware of his dubious activities for years. We’ve never had sufficient cause to do anything about it, though.”

“Until now?”

“No, young lady, not even now. Remember we’re talking about the Whitwells here. Unless we can prove, without a shadow of a doubt, that Nicholas Whitwell killed his father in cold blood, we can’t do anything.”

What if I could prove it?
I wondered. I’d kept secrets for my employers before and was well-known for my discretion, but I’d never been faced with such a moral dilemma in my work before. What if I did uncover the murderer but was honor bound not to tell anyone but Mrs. Mayhew? Would I be able to convince her to inform the police? I’d hope so.

“Could you tell me about these dubious activities of Nick Whitwell?” I asked.

“Sure, they’re no secret,” the chief said, slipping the ball of fishing line into his breast pocket. The hook was still there in his hat. “The kid has a penchant for pretty girls, gaming tables, and what we around here like to call ‘expensive escapades,’ like the time he took target practice at a herd of sheep outside of town. His father had to pay thousands of dollars to satisfy and silence the farmer. And with this new toy of his, you know, the motorcar, he’s run down fences, flower beds, even someone’s pet poodle.”

“Until his encounter with Mr. Sibley upstairs,” I said, “I had no idea how reckless he could be.” I shivered as I recalled my personal encounter with him. At the time I’d been frustrated and annoyed. Knowing what I did now, I should’ve been afraid. “So there was plenty of acrimony between father and son?”

“Yes, the kid had no consideration for his father’s position and Harland Whitwell was definitely someone who cared what people thought of him. He couldn’t stand that his son was so blatantly disrespectful. He only wanted Nick in Newport with them so they could contain the damage. Goodness knows what he’d get up to if left alone in New York. And then there was the money.”