A Sense of Entitlement (14 page)

“M
y, you are thorough, Miss Davish,” Charlotte Mayhew said after reading my report. “I knew I could rely on you.”

I had risen early, as usual, and had gone for a hike along Ocean Drive. The southernmost part of the island, less inhabited by people and “cottages,” was home to the currently quiet Spouting Rock, a large cavity in the rocks that after a storm interacts with the waves to produce a fountain of water spraying fifty feet or more in the air, as well as to calm, shallow inlets, rocky headlands, sandy beaches, and wild vegetation. Hoping to find new plant specimens to add to my collection, I brought my small plant press along. I wasn’t disappointed. In fact, it was exhilarating. I hadn’t enough time to collect and press all the new plants I saw. Species I’d only read about jutted up between rocks, sprawled across dunes, or clumped in hedge-like clusters along the road. I planned to come back soon. But Mrs. Mayhew had been expecting me the moment her coffee was delivered.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said as I finished addressing an envelope to
Commander Converse
for Mrs. Mayhew’s ball. As was protocol, each of the gentlemen invited to the ball received an envelope with the name of the lady he would be escorting in to dinner. I’d had to write and rewrite several as Mrs. Mayhew changed her mind. I’d noticed several officers from Fort Adams and the Naval War College had most recently accepted. “I regret I haven’t learned a great deal.”

“If you keep at it like this,” she said, waving the report in her hand, “I’m sure you will in time. Now when you’re finished with those, I would like you to type up a copy of this report and hand-deliver it, along with my condolence card and an invitation, to Mrs. Whitwell. After church, of course.”

“Ma’am?” I said. The idea of delivering a report that contradicted the lady’s own insinuations, while placing the possible blame for her husband’s murder on her son, was not appealing. But I wasn’t in a position to argue or even question Mrs. Mayhew’s motives.

“Yes?” Mrs. Mayhew said, her tone almost challenging me to question her.

“Would you like to include a personal note?”

“Yes, thank you, Davish,” she said, smiling and reaching out her hands for a piece of stationery and a pen. “What a good idea.”

Less than thirty minutes later, armed with a stack of gold-trimmed oversized envelopes, I stepped into the hot sun, blinking as my eyes adjusted to its brilliance. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and my hat, with its short brim, did little to shade my face. Yet I didn’t mind. I was to spend a good portion of my day “hand-delivering” invitations to Mrs. Mayhew’s ball. And after spending yesterday indoors in the presence of a dead man, his widow, and the police, I relished the excuse to stroll the streets, admiring the gardens lining the estate walls and taking in the fresh seaside air. The “cottages” I’d been living in were beyond any luxury I’d ever experienced, but I found the rooms cold and forbidding.

Mr. Davies had actually arranged a carriage for my use this afternoon, to go to Fort Adams and the Naval War College, but I was on my own this morning. So I consulted my map several times and realized that over the course of the day I would see most of Newport. My first stop was Mass at St. Mary’s, a fifty-year-old red stone church with a prominent steeple on William Street. After Mass, fortified with the peace the service brought me, I made my way back to Glen Park, the Whitwell residence, for a visit I wasn’t looking forward to. As black crape with white ribbons hung from the doorknob indicating a house in mourning, I knocked instead of ringing the bell at the servants’ entrance as I had yesterday. Had it only been a day since I’d rushed in to find Mrs. Whitwell wailing over her dead husband’s body? I looked up at the ceiling of interwoven wisteria vines; a few of the remaining purple flowers hung down. The leaves rustled in the wind and blew a few blossoms down on my head. I loved wisteria, but now the scent made me think of death.

I’m so tired of this,
I thought. Before a tear had a chance to well up in my eye, I brushed the blossoms from my hat and shoulder and knocked on the door again. A housemaid I’d never seen before answered the door.

“Is your mistress in?” I asked.

“No, she isn’t.”

“She isn’t?” I couldn’t imagine where a widow of one day would be other than secluded in her home, deep in mourning. “Did she go to church this morning?”

“I don’t know where she went. Come back later,” the maid said, closing the door.

How strange,
I thought.
Where could Mrs. Whitwell be?

I left Glen Park and strolled through Newport’s neighborhoods, often crisscrossing Bellevue Avenue, now catching a glance at the ocean, now crossing streets full of parading carriages. Continuing my role as Mrs. Mayhew’s “personal carrier,” delivering the latest round of invitations, I called at cottages with names like Angelsea, Seaview, Chateau-sur-Mer, Honeysuckle Lodge, Roselawn, Ochre Court, Belcourt, Resthaven, Chepstow, Kingscote, Stoneleigh, Cave Cliff, Cliff Lawn, Rock Cliff, and Land’s End. With my stack of golden-trimmed envelopes in hand I had an excuse to enter through gates, step beyond walls, and get a glimpse of the breathtaking grounds and gardens hidden behind them. Long stone walkways stretched away to the ocean under trellises dripping with wisteria and Virginia creeper. Fern gardens blanketed the ground beneath gigantic shade trees. Fanciful arboretums had rows of trees pruned into geometric shapes or the shapes of animals. Ponds of every shape and size were stocked with darting goldfish and adorned with giant lily pads and spouting fountains. Rainbow-colored flower beds were carefully laid out in complex geometric patterns and accented by statuary.

Only my professional discipline kept me from dallying among so many exotic plants. Three times I stepped away from a path to look more closely at a flower or plant, twice to admire a new variation of rose and once to see the finest specimen of a
Dahlia pinnata
I’d ever seen. After seeing such cultivated beauty, I was looking forward to hiking back to Ocean Drive to deliver the few remaining invitations and seeing again the wilder side of Newport’s splendor. However, that would have to wait. I had yet to deliver Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy’s invitation at Moffat Cottage and, knowing Miss Lucy, I knew I would be there awhile.

Despite the extraordinary walk through the beautiful estates, my stomach churned at the thought of calling on Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy. Not on account of them, of course, but from the likelihood of another encounter with Mrs. Grice, Walter’s mother. I dreaded having to face her again. With thoughts of humiliation and rejection running through my mind, I didn’t notice the crowd down the street until I was only a few blocks away. It was a picket line! Though fewer than a dozen picketers carried placards saying: S
OLIDARITY
and A
N INJURY TO ONE IS THE CONCERN OF ALL
, their boisterous chanting of their slogans over and over had drawn a crowd of three times that. They marched in front of the Ocean House Hotel. And among them was Lester Sibley. When had the police released him? I wondered.

“What’s going on?” I asked one of the bystanders, a woman in a stylish straw hat with a large projecting front brim, trimmed in silk orchids.

“Looks like the telegraph at Ocean House is running again. Someone must have quit the strike.”
Mrs. Mayhew and her set will be happy to hear that,
I thought.

As I drew nearer, I noticed the Pinkerton detective Silas Doubleday force Lester Sibley away from his group, pushing him to the side of the street. Suddenly a jarring engine roar came from behind me. I twisted around as a motorcar, Nick Whitwell’s motorcar, careened by me heading straight for the pair of arguing men. Did they see it? Of course no one could miss the grating sound.

“Watch out!” someone yelled.

Doubleday and Sibley jerked around and leaped out of the way moments before the car careened across the spot where they’d been standing. It swerved toward them, two wheels scraping along the sidewalk, missing their feet by inches. The crowd, no longer paying any attention to the picketers, scrambled in every direction. Many barely avoided being run down by the deadly contraption before it raced away. But one person capitalized on the commotion. The minute he’d stepped out of the line of the car, Silas Doubleday drew out a short, thick billy club and began swinging it at anyone still holding a placard. Making contact with arms and legs and heads, Doubleday single-handedly ended the picketing. Beaten and battered, the picketers, if they were able, dropped their placards and scattered, leaving their fallen comrades behind.

“And let that be the end of it!” Doubleday shouted as he casually placed his club on his belt and strode away, whistling “Ode to Joy.”

Doesn’t the man know another tune?
I thought peevishly.

Several people, myself included, hastened over to those who still lay on the ground. One man was moaning, bent over his leg, his trousers ripped where the club had connected with his shin. Another lay unconscious but without any obvious injury. When two men tried to lift him, however, he screamed in pain. Lester Sibley lay motionless on the ground. I knelt by his side and placed my hand on his wrist as I had seen Walter do so many times. I felt Sibley’s pulse and breathed a sigh of relief when he opened his eyes at the feel of my touch.

“Are you all right, Mr. Sibley?” I asked.

“I will be,” he said as he struggled to sit up. I helped him into a sitting position. “What happened?”
Oh, no,
I thought.
He’s taken a blow to his head and doesn’t remember anything.

“I believe you’ve been hit on the head,” I said. If he didn’t remember anything, I wasn’t going to be the one to bring up the Pinkerton man’s attack.

“No, I remember Doubleday hitting me,” he said, rubbing the back of his head and wincing as he touched a sensitive spot. “Bastard,” he added under his breath. “No, I was talking about that motorcar. It was out of control.” He hadn’t realized, as those of us in the crowd had, that either he or Detective Doubleday was the motorcar’s target. “I didn’t even know someone in town had one of those things.”

I didn’t tell him Nick Whitwell owned the motorcar. This time the driver was hidden under an odd combination of a mackintosh coat, yellow and green plaid woolen scarf, round-crowned rubber hat, and goggles. But whom was he kidding? Nick had already tried once to injure and maybe even kill Sibley. The disguise wasn’t fooling anyone.

“I’d never seen one before. Who would’ve guessed I’d get so close!” He chuckled.

“Could you be stirring up so much trouble and resentment that people want to kill you, Mr. Sibley?” I asked.

He stared at me in wonder. And then to my astonishment he smiled. “Well, I certainly hope so,” he said. “You saw what happened at the jail. Why?”

“Because I believe the driver was trying to hit you,” I said.

Lester nodded as if giving approval. “Then I’m doing my job, Miss Davish. I’m doing my job.”

“That may be how you feel, Mr. Sibley, but it would seem that Detective Doubleday has put an end to your work here.”

“What do you mean?” he said. How could it not be obvious to him? Maybe the blow to his head was more serious than it looked.

“Look around you, Mr. Sibley,” I said, indicating the abandoned placards and the injured men lying nearby. “No one is likely to join a picket line here or, when the word gets out, anywhere in Newport again.”

Lester Sibley struggled to his feet, brushing off my attempt to help him.

“Oh, on the contrary, Miss Davish. This incident, like the one in the jail, proves I’m getting close to success. No, a bump on the head and a threat from some out-of-control car isn’t enough to stop Lester Sibley from demanding the rights that all working people deserve!”

I was afraid he was going to say that.

“D
avish!” Miss Lucy said when the maid escorted me to the front parlor.

What a difference!
I thought. Compared to any room in Rose Mont or Glen Park, excluding the servants’ quarters, the parlor of Moffat Cottage was small. Yet here among friends, in this room with its painted cream white walls accented with green and gold fleur-de-lis, its simple walnut furniture, its plush velvet green pillows and damask drapes, I could rest on the settee or touch the simple glass bowl filled with nuts without apprehension. Here I wasn’t a talking piece of statuary.

“I don’t think I’ll be happier seeing the back of Saint Peter after walking through the pearly gates!” Miss Lucy said.

The old lady licked her lips and grinned from ear to ear. I knew Miss Lucy was fond of me, but I wasn’t kidding myself that I personally was the source of her joy. Miss Lucy knew for a fact that I came bearing news. I’d debated the ethics of telling the elderly ladies what I’d found out for Mrs. Mayhew regarding Harland Whitwell’s death. Mrs. Mayhew was under the impression that she alone was getting a report. If I told the Shaw sisters everything I’d told Mrs. Mayhew, I’d be violating her trust. Yet I knew Miss Lucy, at least, would not take no for an answer. I decided to tell them no more than they probably already knew.

“You’ve been remiss in visiting,” she said, wagging her finger playfully at me. “I thought you agreed to come for tea yesterday. I was afraid I was going to have to call on Charlotte again if we hadn’t heard from you.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Lucy,” I said. “I couldn’t get away until now. You got my note?”

“Yes, yes. At least you’re here now. Sit down, Davish.”

“Where is Miss Lizzie?” I said, sitting on the settee opposite. I didn’t dare mention Mrs. Grice.

“Here I am, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, entering the room. She was carrying a plate of brown bread and licking something orange colored off her fingers. “You missed Julia, Hattie. She went out again as soon as we returned from church. My, this marmalade is messy.” I was relieved to hear Walter’s mother was out. Suddenly Miss Lizzie clapped her hands, sticky fingers and all. “Oh, Lucy, dear, did you tell Hattie about—?”

“Lizzie!” Miss Lucy said, sharply interrupting her sister and effectively stifling the other woman’s enthusiasm.

“But shouldn’t . . . ?” Miss Lizzie said, glancing quickly back and forth between me and her sister.

“Do sit down, Lizzie, so Davish can get on with her news.” They exchanged a glance I couldn’t interpret the meaning of.

Miss Lizzie had taken a large bite of bread, but her face was red. Miss Lucy had definitely prevented her sister from telling me something. What didn’t Miss Lucy want me to know?

“Hattie, dear, do you have news?” Miss Lizzie said, her overly eager tone ringing false as she sank into the nearest chair.

“Yes, she was about to tell us what she’s learned about Harland Whitwell’s death,” Miss Lizzie’s sister said sternly.

“I was?” I said, distracted by the sisters’ odd behavior. “I simply came by at your request and of course to deliver this invitation to Mrs. Mayhew’s ball.” I handed the envelope to Miss Lucy, since Miss Lizzie’s fingers were covered in sticky jam. Miss Lucy snatched it from me and scowled.

“You know darn well, Davish, that I came up with the idea of you looking into Whitwell’s death.”

“Oh, don’t sound so annoyed, Lucy,” Miss Lizzie said, herself sounding peevish. “Maybe there’s nothing to tell. Is there, Hattie dear?” Now what had created the sudden quarrel between the two? What had I missed? I hoped I wasn’t the cause. Maybe it would lessen tensions if they heard what I had to tell them.

“Well? Is there something to tell?” Miss Lucy’s face lit up with anticipation.

“If you remember, Mrs. Mayhew was adamant that I not share what I learn with others,” I said.

“Poppycock!” Miss Lucy declared.

“Lucy!” her sister admonished. “Hattie’s just doing her job, after all. The one you arranged for her, if my memory serves me well.”

“Of course, but I never meant for her to exclude me!”

“If it makes you feel any better, Miss Lucy, there isn’t much to tell about Mr. Whitwell’s death yet,” I said.

Miss Lucy scowled again.

“Of course not, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, reaching over with her plate. “Try one, Hattie? It’s real New England brown bread.”

“Don’t distract her, Lizzie,” her sister said, hoping I might tell her something after all. “Let Davish speak. Well?”

“I can tell you Lester Sibley couldn’t have killed Harland Whitwell.”

“We knew that already, Davish!” Miss Lucy said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Could you tell me something, Miss Lucy?” I said. The lady, taken aback by my question, stared at me blinking for a moment or two.

“What?” Miss Lucy said, a mixture of annoyance and curiosity in her tone.

“Why is it so important to Mrs. Mayhew to have Mrs. Astor leave a calling card? It’s just a calling card.”

“Oh, Davish, don’t be so naïve,” Miss Lucy snorted. “There’s no such thing as ‘just a calling card.’ ”

“What Lucy is trying to say, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “is that in polite society an established matron must call on you first before you can claim an acquaintance with her. Therefore, regardless of how much money Gideon Mayhew has or how large Rose Mont is, Charlotte will never be a member of the Four Hundred until Mrs. Astor acknowledges her by leaving her calling card.”

“The Four Hundred?” I asked.

“It’s how they refer to the exclusive inner circle of high society. Some people will do anything to be a member.”

“Such as use the murder of a friend’s husband to advance their own agenda?”

“There are strict rules in society, Davish, and here in Newport, Caroline Astor makes them. Charlotte Mayhew knows that,” Miss Lucy said. “She, along with many others, has been trying for years to break into Mrs. Astor’s inner circle. Some spend tens of thousands year after year, renting cottages and giving parties, trying to climb the social ladder, only to be snubbed. Most leave Newport when either their money or their patience runs out. As they say, ‘Few are bidden and many devoured.’ If having you solve Harland Whitwell’s murder will pique Mrs. Astor’s curiosity enough to call on Charlotte, then so be it.”

“Are you members of this Four Hundred?” I asked.

Miss Lucy slapped her knee and cackled while her sister, her mouth full of bread, simply smiled and shook her head.

“No, dear, we’re too old for all that,” Miss Lizzie said. “And even if we weren’t, we aren’t nearly rich enough for the likes of Mrs. Astor. Besides, like Charlotte Mayhew, we come from humble beginnings and are considered ‘new’ money. Only ‘old’-money families dance at Beechwood.”

Charlotte Mayhew humble?
I thought but kept my doubts to myself.

“New money, indeed,” Miss Lucy said, her hand still at her chest, trying to slow her breathing down. “My husband made his fortune making bricks! Now, no more equivocating like a politician caught with his hand in the ballot box, tell us about Harland Whitwell!” I’d hoped she’d forgotten, but I should’ve known better. “So who killed him?”

“Truth is I’ve found little reason why anyone would want to kill Harland Whitwell.”

“Besides his son, you mean, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, smashing the bits of crumb on her plate with a fork.

“Yes,” her sister said. “Have you learned anything more about Nick? Everyone knows about the nasty father-and-son quarrels.”

I’d shared so much of the investigation into Mrs. Trevelyan’s death with these two ladies, I was ill at ease withholding what I knew. But how did I tell them something of what I’d learned without betraying Mrs. Mayhew’s trust? And then it occurred to me.

“Yes, actually,” I said. Miss Lucy was suddenly at the edge of her chair. Miss Lizzie set the plate on her lap. “I think I saw him try to run Lester Sibley down with his car.” As this had nothing to do with Harland Whitwell’s death, I felt free to share. I hoped it would be enough to deflect any more questions about the murder.

“Really?” Miss Lucy said. “When?”

“As I was walking here, only a few minutes ago.”

“But how can you be certain it was Nick Whitwell, dear?” Miss Lizzie asked.

“Who else has a motorcar in Newport?” Miss Lucy said. “Or anywhere else for that matter? We’ve heard about them, of course, but Nicholas Whitwell is the only one we know to actually own one.”

“True,” Miss Lizzie said, nodding.

“And we’ve all seen him driving that thing around,” Miss Lucy said. “He’s more reckless than a tornado at a picnic. Are you certain he tried to run the labor man down?”

“Either him or a Pinkerton detective named Silas Doubleday. He and Sibley were having an argument and the car aimed right for them.”

“Now why would Nick Whitwell want to kill Lester Sibley or this Doubleday fellow?” Miss Lizzie said.

“I don’t know about Doubleday,” I said. “But like his mother, Nick Whitwell may believe Lester Sibley killed his father.”

“But we all know Sibley was in jail and couldn’t have done it,” Miss Lucy said.

“Maybe the family is trying to deflect the blame,” Miss Lizzie said. Miss Lucy and I stared at Miss Lizzie. She had picked up the bowl of nuts from the table and was cracking them between her teeth.

“What are you talking about, Lizzie?” her sister asked. “And use the nutcracker, will you? You look like a giant squirrel in sea green silk.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Miss Lizzie said, reaching for the silver nutcracker on the table. “I thought maybe Jane and Nick knew something we don’t.”

“About Lester Sibley?” I asked.

“Yes, dear,” she said. “They know as well as we do, the man couldn’t have done it. So why are they clinging to the idea?”

“Could he have done something else to get on the family’s wrong side?” I said. “Something they’re taking this opportunity to punish him for?” It made sense. Sibley was stirring up discontent and thoughts of strike at Glen Park and at Whitwell’s bank. I’d witnessed an altercation between Whitwell and Sibley at the Newport Casino. Was that what this was about? Was the family trying to chastise Sibley for his harassment? “Or could they simply want to use Lester Sibley as a way to deflect blame from Whitwell’s true killer?” I said, thinking out loud.

“Now you’re talking, Davish,” Miss Lucy said. “Jane and Nick Whitwell must know who killed Harland. I’m sure of it.” Miss Lucy clambered out of her chair and indicated for me to do the same. She shooed me toward the door. “Now go find out who it was!”