A Sense of Entitlement (24 page)

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.”

“O
nce 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 walking 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.

“I’d noticed the time, ma’am, and thought you’d be wanting me back at Rose Mont.”

“Well, that’s conscientious of you, but I’m actually glad that you’re here.”

“Ma’am?”

“I have a task for you and I was dreading having to wait. Now you can go do it for me, posthaste.” I brushed the front of my tan-and-yellow-striped day dress and straightened my hat with matching yellow silk roses. I’d thought I looked smart this morning. Now nothing mattered. I took a deep breath, banishing thoughts of Walter and his disagreeable mother.

“Yes, what is it you’d like me to do?”

“Search Gideon’s yacht again.”

Not that again,
I thought, letting a sigh escape my lips. I looked immediately at Mrs. Mayhew to see if she noticed my reaction to her request. If she did, she didn’t comment on it. I was lucky. She might’ve taken offense.

“Ma’am? Am I looking for something new?” Why would she send me back to search an empty yacht?

“No, with Mr. Mayhew in New York, I simply want you to look again.” She obviously had her suspicions but wasn’t going to share them with me.

“For evidence that someone is staying on the yacht?”

“Yes,” she said, stopping as we both heard footsteps approaching. “I’d like you to do it right now, while I visit with Jane.”

“Of course,” I said as Nick Whitwell came into sight.

“Oh, Nick,” Mrs. Mayhew said. “I’m so sorry about your father.” Nick walked right past me without a word or glance, into Mrs. Mayhew’s outstretched arms. She patted him on the back before he stepped away. “I’m going up to see your mother. Will you escort me?”

“Of course, Charlotte,” he said.

“I’ll be back at Rose Mont in an hour or so,” Charlotte Mayhew said to me, placing her hand on Nick Whitwell’s arm.
An hour?
That would barely be enough time for me to get to the yacht and back to Rose Mont. At least it would give me something else to think about. She began climbing the stairs, talking over her shoulder as she went. “I’d like a full report by then. It needn’t be typed up. You can tell me what you found.”

“Yes, Mrs. Mayhew,” I said as Nick Whitwell looked down at me and sneered. “Be careful,” I added but left unsaid,
You may be holding the arm of a killer.

“M
ack, is that you?” I shouted.

No answer. The same boatman as before had been kind enough to row me back to Mr. Mayhew’s yacht, no questions asked. But why would he come aboard? I called again. Still no answer.

I’d been aboard the
Invictus
a few minutes and saw nothing that indicated a woman had been here. Yet Mrs. Mayhew may have been partially right; someone had been here. A man’s waistcoat and tie were tossed over a chair. An ashtray filled with the butts of several cigars, a dirty glass that smelled of port, and a pair of spectacles sat on a table in the yacht’s small library. A small set of dumbbells lay in the middle of an unmade bed. Were members of the yacht crew living aboard the ship? I wondered. From the sound of footsteps I’d heard, whoever it was may have returned.

“Hello? Who’s there?” No one answered my call. I climbed the stairs and peered around the deck. I saw no one. If a member of the yacht crew had returned, why weren’t they answering my call?

“Mack?” I called again. I stepped onto the deck and looked down to where the boatman and the dinghy should be. They were nowhere in sight. A surge of fear and panic shot through my body.

Where did he go? How was I going to get back? And if Mack was gone, then whose footsteps had I heard? I grabbed hold of the railing and yelled, “Mack! Where are you? Mack!”

I heard no reply from the boatman but instead heard the quiet tap of footsteps merely feet away. I started to look back, but suddenly two hands twisted my head, snapping my face forward. The brim of my straw hat crunched loudly as it broke, blinding me.

“Help!” I screamed.

My attacker put a hand in the middle of my back and shoved me hard. I pitched forward, losing my grip, and tumbled over the railing. My hat flew off my head, but it was too late. I didn’t see who pushed me. My hand smacked the side of the boat as I flailed in mid-air, desperate to stop my fall. And then I slammed into the water. I opened my mouth from the shock of the hit and water surged in. Gasping for breath, I forced my head above the surface, spitting water and gulping for air at the same time. I thrashed about, splashing my arms, trying to stay above the water, but the weight of my sodden dress, corset, and shoes conspired to pull me under. I went down a second time. I struggled to the surface again but could barely get my face out of the water. I gulped for air, desperate to breathe, to scream for help, but I gagged on the water filling my lungs before I slipped beneath the water again.

Splash!

The sound was muffled, but the dark blot above me, blocking the sun’s rays as they reached their tendrils toward me in the deep, confirmed something or someone else had entered the water.
Have they come to finish me?
I struggled to swim away as the darkness drew closer, but I grew tired, light-headed, and my vision began to fade as I slipped farther and farther under the waves. I closed my eyes to the approaching darkness and floated weightless with the sun’s sparkle dancing like stars around me. Suddenly I felt pressure again. I felt arms wrapping around me. I was moving upward, rushing toward the sun, toward the surface. I was forcibly propelled into the air and gasped once again.

“Walter,” I said, sputtering. The doctor had one arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me along with him as he swam toward a rowboat bobbing on the water a few yards away. “Walter,” I said again before everything went black.

“She gonna be okay?” a man said.

I came to abruptly, violently coughing up water. I rolled onto my side and then my knees. I was on the dock with Walter kneeling beside me.

“That a girl,” Walter said, placing a hand on my back. “Get it all out.”

“What happened?” I said.

“You were drowning, Hattie. Thank goodness, I got to you in time.”

“How did I get onshore?”

“I helped him pull you from the water,” the man said. “You’re undeniably a landlubber, aren’t ya, miss?”

“Mack?” I said, peering up at the boatman standing above me.

“Yup.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you both.”

Walter chuckled. “I told you I needed to chaperone you more.” Then his smile disappeared as he helped me to sit up. He leaned forward and whispered, “To tell you the truth, you had me quite worried. Try to stay still and quiet for a moment.” He pulled out his watch, placed his fingers on my wrist, and watched the hands tick. Walter dropped his hand from my wrist and then crawled behind me, placing his ear against my back. I blushed and gazed at the ground, the boatman looming over me, witness to one of the more intimate moments between me and Walter.

“Take a deep breath,” the doctor said. I did as I was told. He moved his head slightly. “And another.” He sat back on his heels. “It’s hard to be sure without my stethoscope, but your lungs sound clear.”

“I’m fine,” I said, the words sounding as hollow to me as I knew they did to him. I wasn’t fine. I’d almost drowned. Mother was right. People died on boats.

“I’ve heard that too many times from you to take your word for it, Miss Davish.” He took a plain brown wool blanket offered by Mack and draped it over my shoulders. Then he wrapped his warm arm around me. I hadn’t realized how cold I’d felt in my soaked clothes. “What happened?”

“I was on the yacht,” I said, pointing to the
Invictus.
“I can’t swim and . . .” I hesitated. My memory was a blur. I’d heard footsteps. My hat brim broke over my eyes. I remembered the feel of someone’s hands on my back. “And someone pushed me.”

“What? Someone pushed you into the water?”

I nodded. “I called for you, Mack. Where did you go?”

“I went back to the dock, remember?” In my panic, I’d forgotten we’d agreed for him to return in thirty minutes’ time. “Thought I’d be back by the time you were ready to go.”

“Yes, of course. I forgot. Did you see anyone on the yacht?”

The boatman shook his head. “No.”

“Did you, Walter?”

“No.”

“By the way, why were you here, Walter?” I said. Disappointed and confused, I spoke more harshly than I’d planned.

“I followed you. Mack and I were halfway to the yacht when we heard you scream.”

“But why?”

“I heard what my mother said to you. I didn’t want you to believe for one moment longer that our relationship means nothing to me.” I looked into his eyes and wondered how I could’ve ever doubted him. He tried to pull me toward him, but I resisted. “What’s wrong?”

“Having this conversation for a second time makes me wonder if your mother isn’t right. It will never work between us, Walter.”

“How can you say that?”

“We’re only here for the summer. Then what? I’ll get a new position and travel to who knows where and you will go back to Arkansas.”

“We’ll figure something out.” I looked at him dubiously. He took both of my hands in his and kissed them. Mack suddenly found an extreme interest in a flock of seagulls soaring over the harbor. “I love you, Hattie,” Walter whispered. “And I almost lost you just now. I can’t even bear the thought of it.”

“But—” Walter’s mouth on mine as he kissed me cut short my feeble protest.

“If they weren’t Mack’s or Dr. Grice’s footsteps you heard, who was on the yacht with you?” Chief Preble said.

“I don’t know.”

Walter had driven me back to Rose Mont to change into dry clothes and report back to Mrs. Mayhew. After the jarring ride with Nick Whitwell in the motorcar, I’d expected the swift jaunt in Walter’s rented gig to feel familiar and tame. I was wrong. I bounced and lurched about until, no longer able to control myself, I leaned over the side and choked up water still in my lungs and stomach. Walter took pity on me, offering me his handkerchief and slowing the horse down to a walk.

Mrs. Mayhew was dismayed but not surprised by my news of finding evidence that someone was staying on the yacht. She was dismissive, however, when I suggested a man, most likely a crew member, was aboard and not the mistress she suspected.

“Why would a crew member shove you into the water?” she’d said. She had a point. But whoever it was, he had wanted me off the boat in a hurry. Why?

When I told her of my near drowning, she relinquished me from all further duties for the day and encouraged me to continue working with the police. I suspect she was as hopeful of catching the phantom mistress as she was sympathetic to my plight. Walter, insisting on not leaving my side until he felt I was fully recovered, drove me, this time at a pace I could’ve kept up with had I walked.

He must care for me, indeed,
I’d thought.

“But you suspect someone?” Chief Preble asked.

“I went there on Mrs. Mayhew’s request. She had a suspicion someone was staying on the boat while Mr. Mayhew was in New York. That person may be who pushed me.”

“Mrs. Mayhew suspected a vagrant of living on the Mayhew yacht?”

“No, a mistress.”

“Ah,” the policeman said. “I see. And that’s who you think pushed you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It could be.”

“Or?” Chief Preble said, hearing my hesitation.

“Or it could’ve been Nick Whitwell.”

“Why Nick Whitwell?”

I told him of all the evidence against the man. “He said he was staying on his father’s yacht, but maybe he’s been living on the
Invictus
instead. He overheard Mrs. Mayhew instruct me about the yacht. In his motorcar he could’ve gotten there quite fast.”

“Did you see Nick Whitwell or his motorcar, Dr. Grice?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t see anyone, except the boatman. We arrived only to see Hattie go under the water.”

“Whoever it was probably hid on the yacht while Dr. Grice and the boatman rescued me.”

“And they could be long gone by now,” Chief Preble said.

“Yes, probably,” I admitted.

“So there’s nothing we can do. I’m sorry, Miss Davish.”

“At least you can do as Mrs. Mayhew wants and search the yacht?” Walter said.

“Without Mr. Mayhew’s permission? No, we can’t do that.”

“But surely there’s enough suspicion surrounding Nick Whitwell to investigate further?” Walter said.

“Never mind, Walter,” I said with a sigh. “The police chief and I have already had this conversation.”

Chief Preble glanced at me with raised eyebrows as he answered Walter’s question.

“Without concrete proof, there’s nothing more we can do.”

“Can do or will do?” Walter said.

Sam Preble shrugged. “We’re talking about the Whitwells, Dr. Grice. I’m not going to risk scandal and my job on mere speculation. Sorry.”

“You did what?” Gideon Mayhew said, again dressed in his athletic clothes and towel around his neck, but at least now he wore a bathrobe to cover him.

“Don’t deflect the blame elsewhere, Gideon. I’m the one who should be demanding answers.”

I’d taken an early morning hike as usual, staying well away from the coastline, had a short but pleasant conversation introducing myself to Mrs. Broadbank, the new housekeeper, upon my return and then a simple breakfast of coffee, toast, and jam. When the bell rang for me, I went up to Mrs. Mayhew’s drawing room, refreshed, relaxed, and eager to do something I was trained to do. Instead I was to be witness to an ambush. As soon as I arrived, Mrs. Mayhew told her husband what she had discovered, through me, about someone living on his yacht.

“Davish here can tell you,” Mrs. Mayhew said, pointing to me without looking at me. “Who is she, Gideon?”

“What is your secretary doing here anyway, Charlotte?” Mr. Mayhew said, avoiding the question. I wondered the same thing. I’d much rather be attending to the pile of mail lying unopened upon her table than acting witness to a domestic squabble.

“Leave us, Miss Davish,” Mr. Mayhew said. I turned to leave, happy to oblige. “By the way,” he said as I put my hand on the doorknob, “you’re fired.” I froze. I didn’t know how to react. I’d never been dismissed from any position before.
Can he do that?
I wondered.
I’m Mrs. Mayhew’s secretary after all.
I looked at Mrs. Mayhew for direction.

“What?” his wife screamed. “How dare you! She’s my secretary.” I felt a flicker of hope.

“Get another one. I will not have a meddler in this house.”

Meddler?
I thought. I was only doing what I was told to do.

“First Mrs. Crankshaw and now this. I’ve had enough of you interfering in the domestic affairs of this house. I run this house, not you. I say Davish stays.”

“But I pay your allowance. And I say she goes. And I’ll not hear another word about it.” He stared at me, his eyes boring into me, unblinking.

“Don’t worry, Davish,” she said, looking at me for the first time. “I won’t let you go without an excellent reference.” She glanced back at her husband. “You and I know what loyalty really means. Don’t we, Davish?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Now get out!” Gideon Mayhew said.

I promptly left the room but stayed just outside in the hall.

“I just got done hiring the new housekeeper,” Mrs. Mayhew said, sighing. “Do you have any idea what it will take for me to get another secretary? Let alone one as trustworthy and loyal as Davish.” Despite my sudden dismissal, I beamed at Mrs. Mayhew’s praise. With a good reference I shouldn’t have trouble finding a new position. But what would Sir Arthur think?

“Everyone’s replaceable, dear,” her husband said. “They’ll be lining up to work for you. I have to say promising that troublemaker a reference is more than generous. I wouldn’t have been so kind.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have discharged her in the first place.”

“Then we are both satisfied. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the club.”

I scuttled down the hall, hiding in a darkened doorway, hoping he wouldn’t catch me eavesdropping.
But what if he did?
I asked myself.
He’s already fired me.
What more could he do? A shiver went down my spine at the thought. I held my breath. I didn’t want to know the answer.

I heard him cross the threshold and step into the hall when Mrs. Mayhew said, “You never did have an answer for my accusation, Gideon.”