A Sense of Entitlement (10 page)

P
reble had more questions, but as Mrs. Whitwell was growing more and more agitated, Mrs. Whitwell’s lady’s maid was summoned and escorted Mrs. Whitwell to her bedroom. The policeman then asked Mrs. Johnville to call a doctor. That left Chief Preble, Sergeant Ballard, the dead Mr. Whitwell, and me. Chief Preble began examining the dead man’s body in earnest.

Without looking up, the chief said, “Tell me who you are again?”

“Mrs. Charlotte Mayhew’s social secretary, Miss Hattie Davish.”

“And you came here, purely by coincidence, and found Mrs. Whitwell with her husband’s dead body?”

“Yes. I came to deliver an invitation to Mrs. Whitwell from Mrs. Mayhew. Mrs. Johnville, the housekeeper, and I heard a scream and traced it to Mr. Whitwell’s office. We found Mrs. Whitwell in here with her husband.”

“Do you know the Whitwells?”

“Only by sight. I’ve never spoken to either of them until today.”

“Good,” the policeman said, bending over Mr. Whitwell so close to examine the wound, he could’ve rested his chin on the dead man’s chest. The chief leaned back and looked at me. “You might be able to give me some objective insight.”

“I’ll help any way I can.”

“Good. Ballard,” he said to his sergeant, “contact the coroner’s office. We need to get an autopsy done right away. Tell him suspected close-range bullet wound. There’s stippling on the skin. Now,” he said to me, searching the surrounding area for something, “being an outsider, tell me everything you know about the Whitwells. Wait, what’s this?” He picked up a small piece of bent metal. “Ballard!” he shouted. “Found an empty cartridge case. Tell the coroner definitely gunshot wound. Okay, Miss Davish, about the Whitwells?”

“I don’t know them at all, sir,” I said, staring at the light from the chandelier above reflecting off the warped piece of metal in the policeman’s palm. It was smaller than the size of my thumb and yet the bullet from it had killed Harland Whitwell. I took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m sure I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

I told him everything I knew, about the friendship and the snippets of telephone conversations I’d heard between Mrs. Mayhew and Mrs. Whitwell, about the argument I’d witnessed between Lester Sibley and Mr. Whitwell, the partial conversation I’d heard between Mr. Mayhew and Mr. Whitwell, and the argument between Mr. Whitwell and his son, Nick.

“And as you mentioned, Mr. Whitwell is somehow connected to the national bank that was involved in the fire last night,” I said. “I noticed while I was looking for something to cover the man’s face that there is a great deal of correspondence about the bank in his desk.”

Chief Preble stood and went over to the desk. He pulled out several drawers, glancing at their contents. I stood and pulled open a drawer and retrieved the telegram I’d noticed earlier and handed it to the policeman.

His eyes widened as he read. “Wow! What a coincidence. Who would’ve guessed? I better keep this as evidence. So what more can you tell me about Nick Whitwell?”

I was surprised by the chief’s line of questioning and hesitated to reveal the incident at Rose Mont when I first encountered Nick. “He’s engaged to marry Cora Mayhew. He drives a motorcar recklessly. And he stirred up quite a commotion at Mrs. Mayhew’s garden party yesterday.”

“And your impression of Nick Whitwell? Be completely honest with me, Miss Davish,” the chief said sternly. “I know you work for Mrs. Mayhew, but this is a murder investigation. I won’t be telling your employer anything, so be honest with me.”

“Nick Whitwell appears to be an unprincipled rogue,” I said.

The officer laughed. “I thought you didn’t know any of the Whitwells?”

“I don’t,” I said, sharper than I intended. I didn’t like being accused of lying.

“Then you’re perceptive, Miss Davish. That’s exactly how I’d describe the miscreant.”

“Why do you want to know about Nick Whitwell?” I asked.

“Since Lester Sibley, the most obvious suspect in the case, was under lock and key, I have to wonder who else could’ve done this. Nick Whitwell rises to the top of my list.”

“You think Nick killed his own father?” An image of Nick running away with something hidden under his waistcoat flashed through my mind. Could it have been a gun he was hiding?

“The argument you witnessed between father and son was one of many over the past few months. I’ve even been called on two occasions where they were disrupting the peace, once at the Casino and once at Bailey’s Beach. The fights must’ve been something for these rich folks to involve the police. You, in your line of work, probably know how they like to keep things among themselves.” I certainly did. “I blame it all on the son, since Harland Whitwell was known as a sturdy, gracious fellow
.
”
Truly?
I wondered. I pictured the two times I’d seen Harland Whitwell. Neither time would I have described him as gracious.

“So the next question is, what were they fighting about? Money, probably. Usually is. But was it serious enough that Nick would actually kill his father for it?”

“Would he inherit?” I asked.

“Most likely. We’ll look into it. Ah, they’re here to take the body.” Accompanied by Sergeant Ballard, the butler, and Mrs. Johnville, two men carrying a stretcher between them came into the room. They lifted Mr. Whitwell onto the stretcher.

“When you’re done, I want a full report,” Chief Preble told them as the two men from the coroner’s office carried Mr. Whitwell away feetfirst.

“I have to tell you, Chief Preble,” I said after they carried the stretcher away, leaving only me, the policeman, and the housekeeper in the room, “Mrs. Johnville and I saw Nick right before we found Mrs. Whitwell and her husband in the office.”

“That’s right, Officer,” the housekeeper added as the policeman spun around to stare at me.

“Where?” he demanded.

“Right out there in the hallway,” I said. “He was running in the opposite direction.”

“Was he coming from the office?”

“I don’t know, but he did have something hidden under his waistcoat.”

I didn’t have to voice my speculation about the gun. The policeman’s face told me he knew what I was thinking. “Are you sure?”

I nodded.

“Okay, but let’s keep this to ourselves for now. Okay, Miss Davish, Mrs. Johnville?” We nodded in unison. What else was there to say? “Where is Mrs. Whitwell?” he asked the butler, who had returned.

“She’s in her bedroom. Dr. Guthridge is with her now.”

“Lead me to her,” the policeman told the butler.

After the two men left the room, Mrs. Johnville hesitated, staring down at the bloodstained carpet.

“Who would do such a thing?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said, answering her rhetorical question.

“He was such a decent man, a reasonable employer. I can’t imagine who could’ve done this.”

“He had no obvious enemies then? No one he might’ve wronged? No one he might’ve argued with over business or politics or . . . ?”

The housekeeper shook her head. “No, nothing, except of course the usual quarrels with . . .”

“With his son?” I said, finishing her thought. I remembered the argument between the two I’d seen just yesterday. She frowned but nodded slightly. I waited, but she said no more about it.

“And then there’s the pamphlet,” she said cryptically.

“What about it?” I asked.

“I know how Mr. Whitwell came to have it,” she whispered.

“You do?”

“That man they were talking about has been passing out those pamphlets at all the cottages in town. I don’t know why. He is not not going to get any of us to strike. So why bother?”

“And he came by Glen Park when?”

“A few weeks ago. Only me and a few others were in the house at the time, getting it ready for the Whitwells’ arrival. I couldn’t get him out of my doorway. The man wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I took some pamphlets, to make him leave. As soon as he was gone, I threw them away.”

“If you threw them away, then why do you think you know how Mr. Whitwell got one?”

“Because I saw one of the pamphlets on the table after breakfast the next day. When I threw it in the trash, I noticed that the stack the man gave me was gone. Someone had taken them out of the bin. I’d wondered why anyone would want to do that. I think now someone gave them to Mr. Whitwell or”—she hesitated—“he found out who had them.”
And he’s dead now because of it?
I wondered. From the look on her face, Mrs. Johnville held the same thought.

“I must be going,” the housekeeper said abruptly.

I was torn. What was I to do now? I should follow Mrs. Johnville downstairs and return to Rose Mont. But what I wanted to do was go with Chief Preble to Mrs. Whitwell’s bedroom. Would he implicate her son in the crime? Or would the chief refrain from mentioning his suspicions? Either way, I knew my duty was to Mrs. Mayhew. My curiosity was not to be satisfied today.

As I followed the housekeeper down the hall toward the servants’ door, the butler and policemen had paused to speak to two housemaids, with red puffy eyes, draping crape over a mirror on the wall. The two men began climbing the grand staircase, hand-carved from sandstone and marble with a balustrade supported by dolphins and mermaids, when Chief Preble called, “Miss Davish?”

“Yes,” I said, turning to face the man on the stairs.

“Did you deliver your invitation?”

“No, she didn’t want it,” I said.
Why would that be any concern of his?
I wondered. The invitation to tea was moot now with everything that had happened.

“Do you want to face Mrs. Mayhew with less than what she expects?” I chuckled to myself. Chief Preble was giving me an excuse to accompany him. He obviously knew Mrs. Mayhew’s invitation was prompted by her desire for gossip about last night’s fires. My employer, knowing I’d been witness to this tragedy, would want nothing less than a full, titillating report.

“Thank you, Chief,” I said, excusing myself from the housekeeper and quickly joining the men as they ascended the stairs. “I wouldn’t want to be remiss in my duty.” The butler scowled at me but said nothing.

When we entered Mrs. Whitwell’s bedroom, a soothing mix of white furniture and blue fabrics, silks on the bed, damask on the wall, her lady’s maid, a housemaid, a nurse, and Dr. Guthridge were in attendance. I purposely avoided looking at the medical kit, with its shiny metal instruments the physician had laid out on a dressing table. I couldn’t look at the doctor either as he attended to Mrs. Whitwell, lying on her bed, propped up with almost a dozen white lace-covered pillows. Despite knowing Walter, I still held deep resentment and fear toward physicians. In my mind, they killed my father. Instead I stood quietly out of the way and focused on the back of Chief Preble’s head.

“Can I talk to her?” the policeman asked the doctor.

“I’ve given her a sedative, but she’s awake,” the doctor said, stepping back from the bed.

“Mrs. Whitwell?” the policeman said.

“What do you want?” she sighed, her eyes closed. “Have you arrested that Sibley man yet?”

“No, ma’am. But I do have a few questions. Did your husband own a handgun?”

“He belonged to the shooting club,” she said vaguely. “Clay birds or something.”

“Yes, ma’am. But I’m asking about a handgun, possibly a derringer, not a shotgun.”

“You mean like the small silver, pearl-handled one he had?”

“Yes, can you tell me about it?”

“Everyone in the shooting club has one. It’s just a token, engraved with their name on it when they join. But why do you ask? That little thing couldn’t kill my husband.”

“At very close range, I’m afraid it can be very deadly. Where does he keep it, ma’am?”

“What?” Mrs. Whitwell said drowsily.

“The gun, ma’am. Where did your husband keep the gun?”

“In the safe. Is that all?”

But the safe was empty, I thought. Could that have been what Nick was hiding under his waistcoat? If so, where was it now? Did Nicholas Whitwell kill his father?

As if the policeman had read my thoughts, he said, “Almost, but I need to ask you about your son, Nicholas.” Jane Whitwell’s eyes shot open and she lunged up from the bed.

“Oh my God, is Nick okay? Where’s my son?” The doctor rushed over and quickly injected something into her arm. The sight of the long needle sent my head reeling. Nausea rose in my throat as I groped for the back of a chair to keep myself steady.

The doctor and nurse eased Mrs. Whitwell back to her pillows.

“I’m sure your son is fine, Mrs. Whitwell, but we don’t know where he is. I was hoping you might know.”

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Half-past ten, ma’am,” Mrs. Whitwell’s lady’s maid said, consulting the clock on the marble mantel.

“Then he and Eugenie are at the Casino playing tennis or on their way to Bailey’s Beach.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Whitwell. We’ll leave you in peace now.”

“Why do you want to know where Nick is?” she asked almost as an afterthought.

“We would just like to ask him some questions.” The policeman tipped his hat. “Good day, Mrs. Whitwell.” He turned to leave, with me following closely behind. Without the policeman there, I didn’t want to have to explain my presence.

“No,” Mrs. Whitwell said from her bed.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” the policeman said, stopping in the doorway.

“I said no.”

“No, to what, ma’am?”

“You will not ask my son any questions.”

“But—”

“No!” Mrs. Whitwell said, cutting the policeman off.

“You must rest now, Mrs. Whitwell,” the doctor said. “You mustn’t tax yourself.” His patient ignored him.

“You’re to arrest Lester Sibley, Chief Preble. And do nothing else. Do you understand me? You are not to question my son, my daughter, my servants, my friends, Harland’s business associates, no one. This investigation ends now.”

The room fell silent. I’ve known people who expected their directives to be taken as law, but Chief Preble was the law. How could Mrs. Whitwell speak to him like that? And what did she expect him to do, arrest a man who was innocent of the crime? Chief Preble had already explained to her that Lester Sibley couldn’t have killed her husband. Someone else had. To find the killer, the chief had to investigate.