A Sense of Entitlement (26 page)

“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.”

“W
hat 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.

“And why would you ask that, Miss Davish?” he said, the tone of his voice steady. Too steady.

“Because Delia, the laundress, found hundreds of beggar’stick seeds on your clothes. Either you’ve developed an overnight penchant for wading through bushes or you killed Lester Sibley.”

Gideon Mayhew stared at me for a moment, a moment too long. I took another step back.

“Get out of here, girl. You’re trespassing.” He turned his back on me.

Relief flooded through me as he walked back toward his desk. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I’d underestimated the physical danger I was putting myself in. But with every step that put distance between us my courage rallied.

“Or what, Mr. Mayhew? Will you shoot me as you did Lester Sibley?”

He turned, more annoyance than rage on his countenance. “If you continue to annoy me as he did, yes,” he said.
There! He said it. He confessed.

“So you did kill Lester Sibley?”

He raised his arm, pointing to the door. “Get out!” he shouted. His command spurred me toward the door, but it opened before I had a chance to reach it.

“Did you, Gideon?” Mrs. Mayhew said, standing in the doorway.

“Did I what, Charlotte?”

“Did you kill that labor man?”

“Have you been listening at the door? I always knew you had a penchant for gossip, but you’ve sunk to a new low if you feel you must eavesdrop on your own husband.”

Mrs. Mayhew ignored him. “Answer my question, Gideon. Did you kill that man?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?” his wife demanded.

“The man was a pest, a nuisance. What he preached was stirring up unrest and that’s bad for business. You know what I’m talking about, Charlotte. Even you lost a good housekeeper to the opiate that man was peddling.” I didn’t remind him Mrs. Crankshaw never professed to believe her brother-in-law’s message of better pay and shorter hours. I knew that even her family relation to the labor man would’ve been enough to get her discharged, whether she was innocent of believing his message or not.

“So you killed him?” Charlotte Mayhew asked.

“I tried to get rid of him many times. I had Doubleday dump his propaganda into the bay. I had Sibley implicated in the bank fires.”

“You set the bank fire?” I said, astonished. I’d known about the trunk full of propaganda pamphlets, but I’d never discovered who’d started the fire.

“Doubleday did,” he said casually. “The bank was failing anyway. Whitwell suggested it. Unfortunately the savings bank burned more than the Aquidneck National did. I can tell you because we won’t be getting the insurance anyway.”

“And Lester Sibley?” his wife insisted.

“The police arrested him for the fire, but when that didn’t deter him I ordered Doubleday to beat some sense into the man. Nothing worked, Charlotte. Sibley refused to desist.”

“So you killed him?” his wife repeated.

“What was I supposed to do? The man invaded my home. He had the audacity to step foot into my house and preach his message in front of my guests. He gave me no choice. He had to go.”

“You encountered him on your way to your yacht, didn’t you?” I said. “You said you didn’t sleep in your own bed that night.” Both Mayhews glared at me.

“How did you know that?” Mrs. Mayhew asked.

I ignored her.
Let that be my secret,
I thought.

“Lester Sibley hadn’t heeded Doubleday’s threat after all, had he, Mr. Mayhew? You encountered him walking from the depot. He had no intention of leaving. In fact, he was heading back toward Rose Mont, wasn’t he? So you killed him.” Mayhew glared at me. The hatred in his eyes told me I was right. “Do you keep your derringer on the yacht, Mr. Mayhew, or do you walk around with it in your pocket?”

“Are you still here?” he said. “I thought I told you to get out.”

“Is that why the clothes, the books, and the other things were on your yacht? You were staying there?” his wife said, again ignoring his comments to me. “But you said you were in New York?”

“On occasion I stay on the yacht instead. But how did you know about that?”

“I thought you had a mistress, Gideon. You haven’t been acting quite right. I suspected something was going on.”

“So you spied on me?”

“All I did was have someone take a look around the yacht.”

“You were snooping. Admit it.”

“Yes, but—”

“Obviously, I’ve been too indulgent. Charlotte, I forbid you from indulging in this disgraceful behavior again. You got what you wanted—Mrs. Astor at the ball. Now it’s got to stop. You’ll have everyone talking about me and I won’t stand for it.” I was aghast that the man, who had confessed to killing someone, was admonishing his wife for snooping.

“So you don’t have a mistress?” his wife said, again ignoring his commands.

“No, Charlotte. I don’t have a mistress.”

“Then why all the extra sessions in the gymnasium?”

“Fit body, fit mind, Charlotte,” he said, shaking his head. “You should try it sometime.” I looked at his round, plump wife and felt sorry for her. She was married to a horrible man. “Now let this be an end to this.”

But then his wife smiled. How could she smile? Granted it must be a relief to know your husband wasn’t committing adultery, but the man had admitted to committing murder. Wasn’t that worse?

“You pushed me into the bay,” I said, now knowing that no one else could’ve done it. “Why? Because I was working with the police?”

“You were trespassing,” Mr. Mayhew said, looking back down at his ledger. “Now, Charlotte, get this woman out of here.”

“I can’t swim,” I said. He ignored me, reading his ledger as if I’d already left. “I almost drowned!” I declared, shocked by his indifference.

Charlotte Mayhew grabbed my arm. Seeing my last chance slip away, I said, “Don’t you worry the police will arrest you?”

“With what evidence? On whose say-so?” Gideon Mayhew said bluntly as his wife pulled me out of the open doorway.

“Be gone now, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Mayhew said.

“But Mrs. Mayhew, you must go to the police. Your husband confessed to murdering a man.”

“I’m surprised at you, Miss Davish. I thought you were a girl with a head on her shoulders. Didn’t you hear what he said? My husband wasn’t confessing to murder. He was talking about business. And you know we women aren’t much for business.”

I stared at her in shock, disappointment. My scheme had failed. Mrs. Mayhew had heard the same thing I had and she wasn’t going to tell the police. I’d gotten someone of Mr. Mayhew’s stature to witness his confession, someone I thought I could trust. But that had been my mistake. Gideon and Charlotte Mayhew were more alike than I ever would’ve thought. Her husband had insulted her, cheated on her, meddled in her running of the household, confessed to murdering a man, and she had still taken his side.

Only proves I should stick to what I was trained to do,
I thought.

I was eager to leave Rose Mont and everything having to do with the Mayhews behind. Yet I’d never felt so powerless. Gideon Mayhew was going to get away with murder and I could do nothing about it. Or could I? If my time with Mrs. Mayhew had taught me anything it was that knowledge was power, and for once I wasn’t obligated to keep her secret.

“I’m relying on you not to say a word of this, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Mayhew said.

I cringed at her familiar phrase. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mayhew,” I said, “but I don’t work for you anymore. And I know where your true loyalties lie. I came here on my own time and I will do what I will with what I heard today.”

“How dare you!” she shouted at my back as I turned from her and descended the grand staircase and, for the first and only time, walked out the front door.

I
can’t let him get away with this!

I left the Mayhews and Rose Mont almost physically ill knowing that Gideon Mayhew had committed a murder he would not be prosecuted for, at least not in a court of law. However, during the walk back to my hotel I recalled how many times the Mayhews and others in Newport’s high society had mentioned not wanting to have that same society disparage them. In fact, even as he was admitting a crime Gideon Mayhew was admonishing his wife for making him look bad with her snooping. Public opinion mattered. The Mayhews understood, more than almost anyone in this resort town, that gossip and rumor could be as damaging as a police arrest.

But Mr. Mayhew wasn’t concerned about confessing to me because he didn’t see me as a threat. And rightfully so; word from me would be ignored by his peers and by the police. But what he didn’t count on, and which Mrs. Mayhew was well aware of, was that I had connections. Connections whose insinuations would be listened to. That’s why she insisted I stay silent. Her recently won acceptance into the highest levels of Newport society depended upon it.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Mayhew,
I thought.
Not this time.

As soon as I arrived at my hotel, I wrote a note to Miss Lucy and Miss Lizzy, suggesting I had some news to share and hoping to come for tea. While I waited for their reply, I typed up all I knew about Lester Sibley’s death that I could tell the elderly Shaw sisters. I wanted to clarify in my mind what I could reveal and what I could not. I’d promised to keep several secrets in the past few days and wouldn’t want to inadvertently go back on my word. When the time came their reply was swift, and when I arrived at Moffat Cottage I was surprised to see Lady Phillippa there already sipping her tea. Was I late? I glanced at the pendant watch pinned to my dress. No, I was here at the exact time Miss Lizzie indicated. So why was Lady Phillippa here?

“Ah, Miss Davish,” Lady Phillippa said before Miss Lizzie or Miss Lucy could greet me. “Mrs. Fry said you’d be here.” I looked to Miss Lucy.

“We saw Lady Phillippa at the Casino earlier, dear,” Miss Lizzie answered instead. “We told her you were coming to tea with news.”

“As I had news for you, I invited myself to tea,” Lady Phillippa said.

“Yes, yes,” Miss Lucy said, “everyone has news, but no one is saying a thing. On with it, I say. Sit down, Davish. You’re making me antsy.” I tried to hide my smile as I complied. My standing had nothing to do with Miss Lucy’s restlessness.

Miss Lizzie handed me a cup of tea. “Milk, sugar?” she asked.

“No, thank you. This is fine,” I said.

“Will you two stop talking about tea and tell me what the news is!” Miss Lucy’s face was red.

“Well, Miss Lucy, if you are so eager,” Lady Phillippa said, “and as I must get ready for dinner at Mrs. Ogden Goelet’s, I will speak first.” She set her cup down.

“Finally,” Miss Lucy said, under her breath but loud enough for all to hear. I wondered if her hearing was failing. Lady Phillippa looked askance at her for a moment before turning to look at me.

“I’ve had a letter from Arthur.”

I stopped drinking my tea mid-sip and placed it back on the saucer. Before I heard another word, I set the teacup and saucer on the table. I didn’t trust myself not to spill it.

“He has arrived safely at his ancestral home and his father has recovered quite remarkably from his illness.”

“That’s good news,” I said, wondering what it had to do with me. I glanced at Miss Lucy. From the glower on her face, she was wondering the same thing.

“Yes, it is. It means Arthur will be able to return to Newport before the end of the Season. He will be here for the horse show in September.”

“I’m glad for you,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. Sir Arthur’s early return did nothing to solve my current predicament as I’d hoped. Unless he sought to engage my services again, I was still unemployed.

“It is well for you too, Miss Davish, as he has requested that I secure your services again.”

Thank you again, Sir Arthur,
I thought. I recounted the numerous times Sir Arthur had procured me employment, working either for him or for one of his many distinguished acquaintances. Only once had his recommendation gone terribly wrong. I shuddered to remember Mrs. Trevelyan.

“Apparently Arthur and this American colonel spent the entire voyage to England discussing this new project.” I’d missed some of what Lady Phillippa had said. It didn’t matter. I’d soon find out all about it from Sir Arthur. “Knowing you are currently at leisure, I presume that you accept?”

It didn’t surprise me that my dismissal from the Mayhew household had already reached Lady Phillippa’s ears. It did surprise me that, knowing this, she would still engage me, even at Sir Arthur’s request.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “But is Sir Arthur aware of my dismissal?”

“No, not yet, but knowing Arthur, it won’t matter. Mrs. Mayhew gave you an excellent reference, didn’t she?” Again I was taken aback by the speed with which news spread over the grapevine.

“Yes, she did.”

“Then it’s settled. You can stay at Fairview. Where are you staying now?”

“The Ocean House.”

“Hattie, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “You didn’t have to do that. You should’ve come and stayed with us.”

“Yes,” Miss Lucy said, her arms folded under her sagging bosom. “Then we wouldn’t have had to wait until now to hear your news. That is, if you ever get around to it.”

“Oh, Lucy. That’s not the only reason we enjoy Hattie’s company.”

“No, but right now it’s the most important one,” her sister said.

Lady Phillippa rose. I rose as well, but the elderly sisters stayed where they were.

“Well, I must be off. I’ll arrange to have your belongings brought to Fairview tonight.”

“Thank you, Lady Phillippa,” I said. Mrs. Peck at the employment agency would be disappointed, but I couldn’t be more relieved. To continue to work for Sir Arthur and not have to leave Newport, and Walter, so soon was more than I could’ve hoped for. My only concern now was earning my keep. “May I ask, ma’am, what I’ll do while we wait for Sir Arthur’s return?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? A parcel, addressed to you, arrived with the letter. From the size of it, you should be kept quite busy indeed. Good day, ladies.”

“Good day,” Miss Lizzie said. Miss Lucy merely grunted.

“Good day, Lady Phillippa,” Walter said as he passed Sir Arthur’s wife leaving the room. “Miss Davish,” he added, smiling as he walked toward me. His mother was a few steps behind him.

“Oh, bother,” Miss Lucy sighed. “Now we’ll never get to the good part.”

“Lucy,” Miss Lizzie hissed. “Be patient.”

I leaned over to the old woman as Walter and his mother took their seats and Miss Lizzie poured them tea.

“Don’t worry, Miss Lucy; the wait will be worth it.” I smiled at her and she licked her lips in anticipation.

“Oh, very well,” she grumbled, but I could see she was appeased.

“What will be worth the wait?” Walter asked.

“Walter,” his mother admonished. “Prying is a most unbecoming habit.” I noticed she still didn’t look at me or acknowledge my presence. At least she hadn’t objected to my being there. And fortunately so, for I think if Julia Grice had made an issue of it Miss Lucy would’ve breached all protocol and sided with me. She was desperate to hear my news.

“The news, Dr. Grice,” Miss Lucy said, ignoring her houseguest’s ironic comment, “that Davish has come to tell us. I think she knows who killed Harland Whitwell and Lester Sibley.”

“Oh?” Julia Grice said, looking at me for the first time.

“Is this true, Miss Davish?” Walter said. “Have you solved another murder?”

“I haven’t read any such thing in the papers,” Mrs. Grice said.

“And you won’t,” I said.

“Why, dear?” Miss Lizzie said, slathering her crumpet with butter.

“Because Harland Whitwell’s death will remain a mystery.” I saw Miss Lucy’s shoulders sag. “And the police won’t prosecute who killed Lester Sibley.”

Miss Lucy perked up immediately, sitting on the edge of her chair. “Why not?” she said.

“Because Gideon Mayhew did it.”

Everyone gasped.

“Davish!” Miss Lucy said, clapping her hands. She was almost giggling. “Do you actually think Gideon Mayhew killed that labor man?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How could you say such a thing?” Mrs. Grice demanded. “Without proof you are disparaging one of the most important, influential men in America and you’re nothing but a secretary. If the police won’t prosecute him, who are you to make such scandalous claims?”

“Because I have proof,” I said. “He confessed to his wife, in my presence.”

I glanced over to Miss Lucy. She’d closed her eyes. Her face was pale and her body had gone rigid. I thought she was going to faint. Instead a wide grin spread across her face. “By God, Davish, you were right,” she said, opening her eyes wide. “Like the first dance at your debutante ball or the melted butter on your mother’s biscuits after churning all day, it was worth the wait. Every agonizing minute! Now tell us everything he said.”

Which I did. When I finished the room was silent for several moments as my revelation settled in.

“So he’s going to get away with murder,” Miss Lizzie said, aghast. “How horrible.”

“Yes, horrible,” Miss Lucy said. I could see in her eyes she was already tallying a list of her friends she was going to call on as soon as I left.

“Some people think they are better than everyone else,” Mrs. Grice said, shaking her head. I looked at Walter to see if he caught the irony of his mother’s words. He shrugged his shoulders slightly and smiled.

“You’re right, Julia, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Some people think the world is only here for their amusement and that they can get away with anything, even murder.”

“I never did like Gideon Mayhew,” Miss Lucy said.

“Me either,” her sister agreed.

“Mrs. Mayhew seemed nice,” Julia Grice conceded. “But I’m glad we didn’t socialize much with the husband.”

“Now, Miss Lucy, I must beg a favor.”

“What is it, Davish?”

“I must ask everyone actually, if I may. If you decide to repeat what I’ve told you, please be so kind as to not use my name. As Mrs. Grice so kindly pointed out, I do work for my living and must maintain a certain level of integrity. Besides, I wouldn’t want to embarrass Sir Arthur before he even returns.”

“Yes, good thinking, Davish,” Miss Lucy said, nodding her head vigorously. We both knew full well that the source of the rumor never mattered, only the probability that it could be true.

“Of course, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “You have our word.” Walter and his mother nodded in agreement as well.

“Thank you,” I said.

James, the footman turned butler, arrived then, bringing a fresh pot of tea. He caught my eye as he bent down to set it on the tea tray. A slight smile flitted across his lips. His eyes sparkled. I was glad to see him happy.

“Oh, Chase, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “would you bring more butter?”

“Of course, Miss Shaw,” James said, a consummate professional again. We waited for him to leave before discussing Gideon Mayhew again.

“I guess that explains why I saw Gideon Mayhew’s yacht sail out of the harbor a little while ago,” Walter said. I wasn’t surprised. Mrs. Mayhew must’ve convinced him to leave before the rumors spread. “He’ll go back to New York, or even to Europe, until someone else’s name is clouded in scandal.”

“You did?” Miss Lucy said.

“Yes, I quite enjoyed getting out on the water yesterday,” Walter said, winking at me. “So I decided to rent a skiff to get a better look around seaside. I saw him heading out to sea as I was docking.”

“Well, that’s what I would do too if I’d killed a man,” Mrs. Grice said in disgust.

“The Sibley man was killed with a gun, wasn’t he?” Miss Lucy asked. “One of those little pocket pistols?”

“Yes,” I said, worried what she might say next.

“Then maybe Gideon killed Harland as well? They never did find Harland’s gun.”

“Oh, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Do you think so?”

“Not necessarily,” I said, knowing the full truth of Mr. Whitwell’s tragic death. “Any one of the derringers the Newport Shooting Club members receive as a symbol of membership could’ve been used. Besides, Mr. Mayhew was in New York at the time.”

“Either way, I’m disappointed in you, Davish,” Miss Lucy said.

“Why, dear?” her sister asked before I could.

“She should’ve solved that murder too.”

“Miss Davish is a secretary and not a policeman, Miss Lucy,” Walter said, coming to my defense.

“I know that,” Miss Lucy said peevishly. “But I wanted to know who did it!”

“Maybe his son did it? He’s quite the disreputable young man,” Julia Grice said, curiously joining the conjecture. Maybe knowing I was no threat to her plans, she was relaxing in my presence. “Like you said, that gun was never found.”

“Yes, maybe Nick did it,” Miss Lucy said hopefully.

I felt frustrated and helpless. I’d done my job; I’d uncovered the truth about Harland Whitwell’s death. Yet I couldn’t stop everyone from wondering. Nor could I stop whatever rumors they might spread about Nick Whitwell’s involvement in his father’s death. Maybe the gossip would force Jane Whitwell to reveal the truth. I could only hope so.

“That reminds me, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “I heard yesterday that Cora Mayhew called off the engagement.”

“Well, that’s not surprising,” Miss Lucy said. “I should’ve known when Lady Phillippa mentioned her son escorted Cora to the polo match.”

“Supposedly the name of one Miss Electra Culver, a young girl of seventeen, has been connected with him. From what I heard,” Miss Lizzie said, “the two were spotted au naturel at Bailey’s Beach.”

Mrs. Grice gasped. Miss Lucy frowned.

“Lizzie, how long have you known this? And how did you know and I didn’t?”

As the two sisters continued to argue, Walter said, “With all your investigating, have you had a chance to collect any plants?” His mother scowled as Walter turned from me to her. “Miss Davish here is an excellent amateur botanist.”