A Sense of Entitlement (15 page)

A
s I passed Glen Park on my way to Ocean Avenue to deliver the last of the invitations, I took the opportunity to call on Mrs. Whitwell again, hoping this time she’d be home. When I rang the bell, the housemaid who’d answered before opened the door. This time I introduced myself and inquired after the housekeeper. Mrs. Johnville and most of the staff had yet to return from church, the maid said. I was disappointed and expected the door to close on me for a second time. I turned to leave.

“You still want to talk to Mrs. Whitwell?” the maid asked.

“Yes, of course, but—” I said, shrugging.

“Madam’s in. Follow me.”

What luck. The maid led me upstairs to a tall, gilded chair in the hall and asked me to wait while she spoke to Mrs. Whitwell. I stared at the swathe of black crape that hung from what I knew was a four-foot-wide gilded mirror opposite me. I was only a few steps from Mr. Whitwell’s office. I lamented that no one had properly searched the room. When I’d been in there, I’d noticed a few correspondences, including the one about the bank, but hadn’t had time or the inclination to do a thorough search. As someone whose livelihood depended in part on the vast amount of correspondence my employers received, I knew I could learn more from the dead man’s papers. Did I dare?

Tick, tick, tick.
I glanced around me. The hall was empty. The gentle ticking of a grandfather clock about halfway down reverberating off the marble walls was the only sound. I stood hesitantly, still questioning what I was about to do, and then tiptoed toward the office.
Tap, tap, tick, tick, tap.
The sound of my footsteps echoed loud in my ears. Given the miles I had to travel today, I’d worn my walking boots, but now I wished I’d worn my slippers. I heard another noise, the far-off closing of a door perhaps, and halted, still on my tiptoes. My heart was beating fast and my breath was shallow. I listened intently, but all was still again. I waited another moment or two before proceeding. I put my hand on the brass doorknob and felt the embossed
W
press against my sweaty palm. Why was I sneaking about like a thief? Before I could question my actions again, I opened the office door and slipped inside. I looked around the room and thought of the last time I’d seen it. Images flashed through my mind: the crumpled pamphlet clenched in the dead man’s hand, the loose curl that hung down the nape of Mrs. Whitwell’s neck as she rocked over the dead body of her husband, the pink peony hand-painted on the china coffee cup, the blood speckles on everything, the cigar, the carpet, the desk.

“What am I doing?” I said out loud.

I had absolutely no excuse for my presence in this room, none. If I was found here, I would be expelled from the house or worse. I could lose my position, my reputation. Whatever possessed me to come in here in the first place? What did I expect to find? No evidence I found in this room would shield me from the repercussions of unauthorized prying into Harland Whitwell’s personal papers. I heard footsteps above me on the stairwell and immediately turned my back on the room, closed the door behind me, and returned to my chair as fast as I could. The maid appeared in the hall just as I sat down.

“Mrs. Whitwell will see you now,” the maid said when she approached me, her eyebrow cocked in question. She glanced down the hall and then back at me. “What you doing, miss?” she said. She’d seen or heard me leave my chair.

“Those columns are made of solid marble, aren’t they?” I said, pointing to the architectural wonder at the base of the stairs.

The maid smiled, satisfied. “If you think that’s something, you should see the Gold Room. It ain’t called that for nothing,” she said. “Now if you’ll follow me.”

Jane Whitwell looked up from staring at the floor when we entered. I was shocked by the change in her. When I’d left her yesterday, she’d been composed, almost resolved. Now the woman before me looked wretched. She barely raised her head. Her eyes were puffy and red. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. Her hair was tousled, long strands of hair fell loose from her bun, and spots of something dark and dry blemished her sleeve. Was that mud maybe or dried blood? She lifted a handkerchief to her face as her shoulders shook with a stifled sob. I wondered, if she was so indisposed and upset, why would she agree to see me?

“Mrs. Mayhew’s secretary, ma’am,” the maid announced.

“I am terribly sorry to intrude on your grief, Mrs. Whitwell,” I said, watching the maid exit the room. “Maybe I should go and return another time.”

“He didn’t do it, did he?” she said.

“Who didn’t do what, ma’am?”

“That labor man, Sibley.”

“No, ma’am. Lester Sibley was in the custody of the police when . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to finish.

“I tried to kill him, you know,” she said. My immediate thought was that she meant her husband. But why would she confess to me? I shook my head, knowing that made little sense.

“Whom did you try to kill, ma’am?” I said as gently as possible.

“Sibley, who else?” she snapped.

“You were driving Mr. Nicholas’s car?” I was stunned. The thought had never entered my mind that the mother, and not the son, was driving the car.

“Of course,” she said. “Who do you think . . . ?” Her voice trailed away as her eyes opened wide. “Oh my God!”

She flung herself across the back of the settee and wept hysterically. I stood there completely at a loss as to what to do.
Should I say something assuring? Should I leave? How do I spare us both the embarrassment?
I reminded myself why I was here. I hoped that if I acted in as professional a manner as possible she would forgive my witnessing her breakdown.

“Ma’am, I know you are grieving the loss of your husband, and I’m truly sorry. You had a right to suspect Lester Sibley, as that was the easiest conclusion based on the evidence before us. But we all know Lester Sibley didn’t kill your husband.”

“I tried to run the man down in the street,” she said without looking up. “And now everyone will think that Nick . . .”

“Yes, but no one was harmed. . . .” I hesitated, hoping she was listening. “So no one need know that the incident was anything but a new driver letting the motorcar get away from him or . . . her.”

She lifted her head and looked at me. “An accident, you mean?” I nodded. She took a deep breath. “But Nick?”

“Is well-known for his”—I had to think of the right word—“adventuresome driving. No one will think it was anything more than that, assuming they recognized Mr. Whitwell’s motorcar in the first place.”

She nodded, appeased with my scenario. She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Why are you here, Miss Davish?” she said, regaining her composure and some of her haughtiness. I was reassured that she was again herself and I could proceed with my intentions.

“As you know, I was instructed by Mrs. Mayhew to find the truth about the death of your husband.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I have done so in good faith but have found little to suggest who might’ve killed him.”

“What have you found?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her son was my, and the police’s, number one suspect. “All that I’ve uncovered so far is in this report.” I handed it to her. “It is an exact duplicate to the one I gave Mrs. Mayhew. She instructed me to keep you well informed.”

“That is kind of Charlotte,” Mrs. Whitwell said, setting the report down next to her on the settee. “Will that be all, Miss Davish?” Her dismissal frustrated me. I hadn’t had an opportunity to ask her what I’d come here to ask.

“To be honest, ma’am, no. I would ask a favor.”

“Yes?”

“May I speak to Mr. Whitwell’s secretary? I assume he is still in his employ?”

“Nelson? Why would you wish to speak to him? You think Harland’s business had something to do with his murder?”

“Possibly, yes,” I said.

“Well, it won’t do speaking with Nelson. He’s in New York. Harland keeps him there to keep an eye on things while he’s in Newport. You can’t wire him with the telegraph operators still striking.” She didn’t offer the use of her telephone, so I didn’t ask.

“I believe the Ocean House telegraph is available again,” I said.

“It’s about time! Is that why those people were picketing?” I nodded. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t do contacting Nelson. Besides, I can’t imagine what you’d learn from Nelson that a good look at what’s in Harland’s office wouldn’t tell you.”

A thrill ran through me. This was more than I’d hoped for. I had to keep the enthusiasm out of my voice. “Would you permit me to look through Mr. Whitwell’s papers?” I held my breath.

Mrs. Whitwell sighed heavily and shook her head. I was prepared for a denial. “If Charlotte can trust you to be discreet, I guess so can I.” It took everything I had not to smile in triumph. “But,” she said, pointing her finger at me, “anything you learn, you must keep between us.” My hopes deflated as I knew I couldn’t keep her promise. My first loyalty was to Mrs. Mayhew. “No police,” Jane Whitwell said. “And don’t expect me to step one foot into that room. As soon as you’re done, it’s to be locked forever.”

I allowed my hopes to rise again. “And Mrs. Mayhew? May I share anything we learn with her?”

“Oh, of course, that was implied. Charlotte hired you to help me after all.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll go straight to it, if that’s all right with you?” She nodded and I turned toward the door.

“Miss Davish?” she said, causing me to face her again. “You will be discreet about the motorcar incident?”

What was one more secret to keep?
I thought.

“Of course, ma’am.”

She nodded and dismissed me with a wave as she turned to push the call button for the maid. I opened the door and nearly ran to Harland Whitwell’s office.

“W
hat are you doing?”

I looked up from the letter I was reading and found the Whitwells’ butler standing in the doorway, his hand still on the knob. I glanced back at the letter in my hand and then nearly smiled when I looked down at Mr. Whitwell’s desk, covered with tidy piles. I’d unconsciously organized the documents I’d perused.

It had to be done eventually, I thought. To the butler I said, “I’m sorting through Mr. Whitwell’s papers per Mrs. Whitwell’s request.”

“Oh, you’re the secretary from yesterday,” he said.

I nodded. “Yes, we haven’t been introduced. I’m Miss Hattie Davish, Mr. . . . ?”

“It’s Weeks, Miss Davish. Aren’t you Mrs. Mayhew’s secretary?”

“Yes, I’ve been requested by Mrs. Mayhew to assist Mrs. Whitwell in this since she doesn’t have her own secretary and Mr. Nelson is in New York.”

The butler let go of the doorknob and his frown lessened a bit. “Might I assist?”

“Thank you, but I’m almost finished.”

Sadly, it was true. I’d entered the office over an hour ago with such high expectations. Ignoring the image I had of Mrs. Whitwell cradling the dead body of her husband on the rug beneath my feet, I picked up all the papers scattered on the floor, including three with blood splatters on them, and went to work. Using my long years of practice ascertaining the most pertinent information from a document with a mere glance, I scanned every piece of paper, every ledger, every book, in the room for some clue as to why this man was killed. Besides the labor union pamphlet that the police now had, I’d found several pieces of correspondence to Mr. Whitwell from Lester Sibley, all along the same vein, demanding certain rights for those who were in Mr. Whitwell’s employ. I also found a few letters from several prominent Newport residents, including Mr. Gideon Mayhew, discussing Lester Sibley. From those letters I surmised Lester Sibley was nothing more than a nuisance to these businessmen, albeit one they wished to get rid of. I’d known all along that the hand of Lester Sibley couldn’t have held the gun that killed Whitwell, but Sibley could’ve been involved in some other way. Yet I’d found nothing that would suggest Lester Sibley was in any way connected with Harland Whitwell’s death. I wasn’t surprised, but I was still disappointed. I’d also found nothing more connecting Nick to his father’s death. True, I had found a stack of unpaid, overdue bills, amounting to a staggering sum of $19,322. Almost all related to some expense or expenditure incurred by the younger Whitwell, but I’d already known that money was a source of contention between them.

Could Nick have killed his father for the money?
I wondered.

What I had found, however, was evidence that not only was the Aquidneck National Bank going bankrupt, but so too were several other banks in New York and New England that Mr. Whitwell owned. As these banks failed, so dwindled the Whitwell fortune. I’d read articles in the paper almost daily discussing the current financial situation of the country, especially concerning the possible repeal of the Sherman Silver Purchase Act. And below in the same column had been announcements of bank closures and factory strikes. Could Harland Whitwell have been a victim of the country’s dire financial stress? The news was shocking and I had to read the string of letters he’d received recently from his attorneys in full to be sure. Harland Whitwell, one of the richest men in America, was on the verge of complete financial ruin! Did Mrs. Whitwell know? She said her husband didn’t speak to her about business. Did Nick know? If Harland didn’t tell his son, it would explain why he fought so bitterly over funds he didn’t have. I’d heard of men making poor investments and ending up in a poorhouse. I never thought that could happen to someone like Harland Whitwell. Who would be next, J. P. Morgan? The absurdity of the idea made the reality all the more disturbing. What would the family do now? Unfortunately, despite everything I’d uncovered about Harland’s financial state, none of it had anything to do with his death.

Or did it?

“Mr. Weeks,” I said. “Maybe you can help. I’m wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

“If I can,” he said.

“Is this safe always left open?” I pointed to a small decorative combination safe, lined with satin, sitting on the desk.

“Usually, yes.”

“Why? What’s the point of a safe if it’s left open?”

“Mr. Whitwell rarely kept anything of value in this room.”

“But Mrs. Whitwell said he kept a gun in the safe.”

“No, his shotgun is locked in a cabinet in the stables.”

“What about his token derringer? The one from his shooting club?”

“Oh, he kept that locked up in the safe in the basement.”

“There’s a safe downstairs?”

“Two in fact, for the silver. The everyday pieces are kept in the safe in the butler’s pantry. In the basement is where we keep the large and seldom-used silver. That’s the one Mr. Whitwell preferred. It’s located in the wine cellar, which”—the butler smiled to himself and rolled on the balls of his feet—“itself is extremely secure.”

“Can you show it to me?”

After three flights down the back stairs, we walked across the large empty laundry room, quiet on this Sunday, to a small door unobtrusively tucked away in a dark alcove in the corner.

“By the way,” I said. “I didn’t see any ashtrays in Mr. Whitwell’s office. Did he smoke his cigars somewhere else?”

“No, Miss Davish, the master didn’t smoke.”

“But—”

“I know; there were cigars in his pocket when . . . He simply liked to give them away. He always kept a few on hand.” Mr. Weeks sighed. “Who would do such a thing to such a man?”

I had no answer for him. “I wish I knew, Mr. Weeks. I wish I knew.”

Mr. Weeks pulled out his keys and opened the door for me. I stepped by him into complete darkness. After the lingering damp that never left the laundry room, the coolness in this room raised bumps on my skin. The smell of dust mingled with a slight sweet scent of Madeira.

Where am I?
I wondered.
The Whitwell family’s wine cellar?
Mr. Weeks confirmed my suspicion when he turned up the lamp bracketed to the wall above the open door of an empty dumbwaiter. The dull light glinted off of hundreds of bottles, of every shape and color, poking out from their racks.

“Over here,” the butler said, pointing to a large unmarked steel door mounted into the wall.

“Can you open it for me?”

Mr. Weeks looked dubious.

“What are you looking for: the gun?”

“I’m looking for something that might help me figure out who killed Mr. Whitwell,” I said.

“As far as I know, there’s nothing but silver in there right now. I don’t think the master’s been down here yet this Season.”

“Then where is Mr. Whitwell’s gun? Please, Mr. Weeks.”

The butler shrugged his shoulders and then began spinning the lock. “Step back if you would, Miss Davish,” he said as he cracked open the safe. It opened with a loud click and he pulled the large door back.

“What are those?” I asked, immediately stepping forward again. Surrounded by black cases containing the family’s silver, three white envelopes, in stark contrast, nearly glowed in the dim lighting. There was no sign of the gun.

“I have no idea,” Mr. Weeks said. “They weren’t there yesterday morning when I came to get some grapefruit spoons for breakfast.”

“May I?” I asked even as I reached for the envelopes.

Two were addressed, in typed print, to
Mr. Harland Whitwell, Fifth Avenue, New York, New York
. The third was handwritten and addressed to
My dear Jane.
Why would these letters be locked in the safe? What could they possibly say that warranted being locked away? And who put them there? Certainly not Mr. Whitwell; they weren’t there until after his death. Mrs. Whitwell then?

I opened the first envelope and pulled out a three-page document, an insurance policy. I scanned the contents. Harland Whitwell had taken out insurance on his own life for $1 million less than three months ago. Mr. Whitwell’s well-timed, foresighted measure protected his family from ruin. They might never again live at the standards they were accustomed to, but they certainly wouldn’t have to face the poorhouse.

I opened the second typed letter. It held several documents: more insurance policies, but for the Aquidneck National Bank, including one signed by James H. Barney Jr. & Co., Fire Insurance agents, a firm located on Thames Street, here in Newport.

“How convenient,” I said, a hint of suspicion forming in my mind. “I wonder . . .”

“What is convenient, Miss Davish?” the butler asked. I flinched at his question. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken out loud and I certainly didn’t want to voice my growing suspicion. Instead I ignored his question and held out the handwritten letter addressed to the lady of the house.

“Mr. Weeks, is this Mr. Whitwell’s hand?” The butler nodded. “Could Mrs. Whitwell have put this in here?”

“Yes, of course. The mistress knew the combination, but I haven’t known Mrs. Whitwell to ever visit the wine cellar, let alone go into the safe.”

“Who else knows the combination?”

“Besides myself and Mrs. Whitwell, Mr. Whitwell and of course, Mr.—” He stopped, taking a sudden sharp inhale of breath.

“What is it, Mr. Weeks?”

“Master Nicholas. He was down here yesterday. I didn’t know it at the time, but it must’ve been about when we found Mr. Whitwell, well . . . found him dead. Why would—?”

I cut him off. “How do you know when anyone comes in here? I’m assuming members of the Whitwell family have a key?”

The butler took a few steps and with the wave of two fingers beckoned me to follow him out of the wine cellar. When we were back in the laundry, he closed the door and pointed to the wall at what looked like a small push button. “No one knows of this, not even the family, except the master. It’s our little secret,” he said, whispering.

I nodded.

“Whenever anyone enters the wine cellar, this sends a signal to me in the butler’s pantry. It’s to prevent unauthorized pilfering of the wine. Too many people have keys for my taste.”

“So you came down here yesterday morning to find Nick Whitwell in your wine cellar, after his father’s death, not before?”

“Yes. He didn’t give any explanation of course, though he was extremely jumpy and irritated to be found there by me. I thought it strange that he grabbed a bottle of whiskey on the way out, but I didn’t give it another thought. Master Nicholas is well acquainted with the contents of the cellar, if you know what I mean.”

I nodded. “Why was it strange that he took a bottle of whiskey with him then?”

“Because Master Nicholas never drinks whiskey, only wine.”