A Sense of Entitlement

Book 3: Hattie Davish Mystery

by Clara McKenna

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Traveling secretary and dilettante detective Hattie Davish is bringing her talents to a small New England town whose wealthy residents have more secrets than they do money. . .

When Hattie Davish's job takes her to Newport, Rhode Island, she welcomes the opportunity for a semi-vacation, and perhaps even a summer romance. But her hopes for relaxation are dashed when she learns that members of the local labor unions are at odds with Newport's gentry. Amidst flaring tensions, an explosion rocks the wharf. In the ensuing turmoil, Mr. Harland Whitwell, one of Newport's most eminent citizens, is found stabbed to death, his hands clutching a strike pamphlet. All signs point to a vengeful union member bent on taking down the aristocracy, but Hattie starts digging and finds a few skeletons in the closets of the impeccable Whitwell mansion. As she strikes down the whispers spilling out of Newport's rumor mill, she'll uncover a truth more scandalous than anyone imagined--and a killer with a rapacious sense of entitlement. . .

Praise For A Lack Of Temperance

"Delightful. . .cozy fans will eagerly await Hattie's next adventure." --Publishers Weekly

"This historical cozy debut showcases the author's superb research. Readers will be fascinated. . .this is a warm beginning." --Library Journal

Release date: June 24, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

I was the only one on deck, or so I thought. Water dripped from the brim of my straw hat as rain splattered against my umbrella. My knuckles turned white as I clung desperately to the slippery railing. The boat lurched beneath my feet and I thanked Providence yet again that I’d forgone eating supper. Only someone as ill at ease as me would be out in this weather. As I glanced about me, the satin ribbon on my hat fluttered for a moment in the wind and then stuck to my damp cheek. I peeled it away as I took another peek beneath my umbrella. I saw no one.

“Un, deux, trois . . .” I began counting in French to calm my nerves.

Why had I let Sir Arthur talk me into this?

Looking back I realized, as always, I hadn’t had much of a choice. But I had erroneously thought that I would enjoy myself. Six weeks in Newport, the “Queen of Resorts,” with a plethora of new plant species to collect, miles of hiking along seaside cliffs, and only some light typing duties. It would be like a vacation. At least that’s what Sir Arthur said. He and his wife, Lady Phillippa, had rented a cottage in Newport for the summer Season, and having a few loose ends to finish up with his manuscript, Sir Arthur suggested that I accompany them. I grew up in the Middle West. To me an ocean was a static black and white image I saw through the lens of my mother’s stereoscope. I leaped at the chance to witness the vast, churning blue sea for myself. But Sir Arthur never mentioned a boat ride.

I’d never been on a boat before and had never planned to be on one. People die on boats. At least that’s what my mother told me over and over when I was a child. If I ever questioned her she would remind me that her brother burned to death on the Sultana and my father’s uncle drowned after falling out of his fishing boat on Oneida Lake in New York. I grew to know she was right. One can rarely pick up a newspaper these days without finding some tragedy that is linked to the sinking or explosion of a ship. So why in heaven’s name did I have to board this vessel? Sir Arthur, of course. When Sir Arthur insists on something, it’s not my place to question him. In this case, I may have if a young woman in a white Gainsborough hat hadn’t impatiently prodded me twice in the back of the knees with her baby carriage, thus propelling me into the crowd and toward the gangplank. Before I could voice any protest, I was aboard and following the steward to my room. My stomach churned, either from a slight case of seasickness or from swallowing the terror I felt but couldn’t show, from the moment the ship pulled away from the dock. And the trip would take almost twelve hours!

Fresh air on deck didn’t help. Staying belowdecks in my berth that I shared with Miss Kyler, Lady Phillippa’s lady’s maid, didn’t help. Strolling the length of the ornate Grand Saloon, admiring the high gilded ceilings and intricate panel carvings, didn’t help. Listening to the afternoon concert on the hurricane deck didn’t help. I kept my seat through the march, the schottische, and the overture, but when the orchestra struck up Faust’s waltz, “Golden Wedding,” I felt my stomach lurch and spent the next twenty minutes clutching a water basin in the public washroom. I skipped attending the evening concert altogether. Entering the dining room for dinner, with its scents of freshly baked bread, smoked meat, and butter, certainly didn’t help. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. Even listening to Miss Kyler’s cheerful banter as she described past summers in Newport with Sir Arthur and Lady Phillippa in the Gallery Saloon sipping ginger ale didn’t help. Regardless of the fact that to all ostensive purposes, the Providence was a floating palace for all to enjoy, nothing helped. And nothing would alleviate my fears and settle my stomach until I had my feet planted firmly on dry land.

Eventually Miss Kyler bid me good night. As sleep was out of the question, I thought I would try fresh air again. So despite the late hour and the rain, which started an hour into our journey, I sought solace out on deck. I didn’t find it.

“. . . quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix . . .” I continued counting.

Slam!

I jumped at the sound of the door and clenched even tighter to the railing. Before I could reproach myself for reacting so violently to the closing of the door, I heard it, over the sound of the rain spattering against the deck and the waves crashing against the sides of the boat—an audible scraping noise. I looked toward the sound to see a broad-shouldered man in a raincoat and round-crowned rubber hat, his back to me, pushing a steamer trunk along the deck. What was he doing? I wondered. Why would he have his travel trunk up on deck in the rain? Trunks were not rainproof and I visualized the effects that the rain was having on its contents: books ruined, shirts stained, hats limp and misshapen. He pushed his burden toward a gap in the railing and stopped. Why would anyone be so reckless? Surely he knew he could fall?

“Sir!” I yelled out. “Please take care!” He stepped closer to the edge. “Watch out!” I screamed to no avail. With the sound of the waves, the rain, and the distance between us, I don’t think he heard me.

The boat lurched again beneath my feet. I wrapped the crook of my arm around the railing, securing myself even more as the man swayed slightly but didn’t retreat from his post. Now all I could do was watch.

To my relief he gained his balance. He looked about him, as if to check for witnesses to his folly. He spotted me. We locked eyes for a moment and he scowled. Water dripped from the ends of his long, thin black mustache. A shiver went down my back that had nothing to do with the cold wind at my back. I turned my face away, appearing to gaze back out over the ocean, but watched him out of the corner of my eye. He shook his head and dismissed me with a wave of his hand as he turned back to the trunk. He crouched down and with one swift push shoved the trunk overboard. I leaned slightly over the railing, nearly losing my umbrella to the wind, and watched the trunk fall through the air and disappear into the darkness. I heard it land with a splash and imagined it bobbing up and down in the waves for a few moments before upending itself and sinking straight into the water.

What was in that trunk? I wondered. Why would anyone want to throw it overboard? My mind raced and the same thought came back to me again and again: a dead body. After finding one of my employers in one, I’d never been able to look at travel trunks the same way again. And now one was sinking down to the bottom of the ocean right below me. The fear of the boat, seasickness, and the anxiety from watching what might have been the disposal of yet another dead body were too much. I couldn’t take it anymore. I retched over the side of the railing. With my stomach now empty, I wiped my mouth with a handkerchief, already damp from the rain, staggered back from the railing, and felt for the wall behind me. I inched along the wall. As I approached a door, it flung open, the light from within flooding the deck. A short, brawny man in his early fifties with a partially bald head, a graying dark brown mustache, deep-set eyes, and a dimpled chin stood in the hall. He was hatless yet otherwise impeccably dressed in formal evening attire and he looked vaguely familiar.

Where have I seen him before? I wondered. He recoiled as I dashed by him out of the rain.

“Excuse me,” I said, but the gentleman was already preoccupied with the man from the deck, who had joined him from outside. I stepped around the corner. I stopped to catch my breath, not yet trusting my wobbly legs to carry me back to my room. Someone began to whistle Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.”

“Who was that?” one of the men said, extremely vexed. I distinctly heard the sound of a hand brushing with the grain of a coat sleeve. “And stop doing that.” The whistling stopped.

“Nobody, just some seasick lady who was out on deck,” was the other’s reply. “She’s nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing? The damn woman got me wet!” the first man said.

“Sorry, boss. I can find her for you.” I held my breath. Little did they know how easily I was to be found. And what then? I wondered.

“Forget it.” I let my breath out. “I want a report, man. Did you do it? Is it gone?”

“Yeah, it’s gone. And trust me, no one will ever find it either.”

“Good. Now let’s hope that put an end to it.”

“They won’t be able to mistake the message, boss.”

“Good, for I will not have my Season disrupted, Doubleday. Whatever it takes, do it.”

“Yes, sir,” the man called Doubleday said. “At least that little gnat won’t be bothering you again.” Little gnat? Were they talking about me or someone else?

“Let’s hope no one bothers me again,” the gentleman said. “Understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Let’s hope so. Now get out of here. I don’t want anyone seeing us together.” The whistling started again.

That was my cue. Before the men turned the corner to find me eavesdropping, I tucked my umbrella under one arm, put my handkerchief to my mouth just in case I got queasy again, picked up my skirts, and ran.

“Bloody hell!” Sir Arthur said, handing the telegram to his wife, Lady Phillippa. She pursed her lips and pouted. “Apologies for my language, dear.” Only Lady Phillippa could solicit an apology from Sir Arthur. She nodded her head in response and then turned her attention to the telegram. She scanned the contents.

I had met up with them and their other staff as soon as the boat docked in the Newport harbor. I hadn’t slept at all and was still feeling shaky and nauseous, whether it was from the boat crossing the water or the shock I’d received from witnessing a man throw a trunk overboard I didn’t know. I’d spent the last leg of the journey curled up against the wall in my berth. I regretted missing the sunrise that Miss Kyler assured me had been spectacular, but having dry land beneath my feet again made up for my disappointment. I was thrilled to be off the boat. Our entourage had just disembarked when a telegraph operator came through the crowd shouting, “Sir Arthur Windom-Greene! Urgent telegram for passenger, Sir Arthur Windom-Greene!”

“Oh, Arthur, this is terrible,” Lady Phillippa said, handing back the telegram. “When will you have to leave?”

“Immediately.”

“Are you saying you’re simply going to turn around and go back to New York?”

“It’s unavoidable, I’m afraid. Though I plan to take the express to Boston, not New York. I may be able to get a boat to Southampton tomorrow morning.”

“But Arthur, we just got here!” If Lady Phillippa had been a child, she would’ve stomped her foot. “As it is, you’ll be gone for two or three months. Can’t you wait a few days?”

“The Viscount is ill, Phillippa. I have to go now. You could come with me?” Sir Arthur said, knowing full well what his wife’s response would be.

“And miss the Season? Now you’re being ridiculous. Besides, your father has a constitution like a warhorse.”

“You’re lucky you even got the telegram,” a voice from nearby said. We all turned to see a lanky middle-aged man wearing the latest style of stiff-crowned hat the color of his brown hair and a well-tailored single-breasted square-cut suit. His clothes were incongruous with his unkempt, shaggy hair, untrimmed mustache, and purplish bruise on his left cheek.

“Excuse me?” Sir Arthur said, not even trying to hide his annoyance at being eavesdropped on. The man was oblivious to Sir Arthur’s tone.

“Mark my words, the telegraph operators are going on strike this morning at eight o’clock sharp. You’re lucky you arrived when you did or you wouldn’t have gotten it in the first place.”

“Strike?” Lady Phillippa said. “You must be mistaken, sir. This is July in Newport. There are no strikes in Newport and certainly not during the Season.” The man simply shrugged.

“I guess even workers in Newport want better pay and fewer hours. Something to think about, eh, lady?” the man said, tipping his hat. As he stepped into the crowd, an elderly man in a top hat purposely tripped him with a cane, sending him stumbling into several passersby.

Why would someone do that? I wondered as the man with the cane disappeared into the crowd.

“Hey, watch where you’re going,” one passerby said.

“Pardon me,” the shaggy-haired man said before he too mixed in with the crowd.

“Well, I never,” Lady Phillippa said, completely flustered and oblivious to the intentional tripping.

“Don’t worry, dear. The locals know better than to do anything to disturb the Season. Well,” Sir Arthur said, gesturing to his valet to retrieve his trunks from the wagon the poor man had loaded only moments ago, “I’m off.”

His wife presented a cheek, which he duly pecked with the slightest of kisses. “Say hello to your papa for me.” And that was it for good-byes. Sir Arthur motioned to his valet and started to walk away.

“Sir?” I said, flabbergasted by this sudden turn in events. If Sir Arthur was to be gone for two or three months, what was to become of me? He wasn’t even going to say good-bye.

“Ah, Hattie! Blast it! I’d forgotten all about you,” Sir Arthur said.

Lady Phillippa eyed me. “Isn’t she going with you?” his wife said.

A sudden horror struck me. My heart started pounding and I broke out in a cold sweat at the thought of accompanying Sir Arthur. If I had had trouble crossing from New York City to Newport, I couldn’t imagine how I’d manage an ocean voyage.

“No,” Sir Arthur said, to my utmost relief. “As much as your skills would be most helpful, Hattie, this is a private family matter. I’ll have to attend to the details myself.”

“Yes, I can see that is most appropriate, Arthur,” his wife said, tending to speak in my presence as if I weren’t there. “But what of the girl, then?”

I first met Lady Phillippa briefly two days after I’d been in Sir Arthur’s employ. She had accompanied him to Kansas City, the first and only time she had joined him on one of his research trips. She had been civil when Sir Arthur introduced me but little else. In the intervening years since then, I had worked many times for Sir Arthur at his home in Virginia, including this spring as I helped him finish his latest manuscript, and had interacted with Lady Phillippa on several occasions. As when we first met, she was always civil but withdrawn. She was a loving mother and a renowned hostess, but unlike her husband, who treated me like a trusted confidante, I was nothing but a “typewriter” to her. Hence she was more than a little surprised when Sir Arthur insisted I accompany them to Newport and, “as we were almost finished with the work,” have a well-earned holiday. I had always admired Sir Arthur’s generosity, but this sounded too good to be true. As I’d never seen the sea before and only heard rumors of the glorious “Queen of Resorts,” I jumped at the chance. Lady Phillippa was not thrilled, but as I stayed out of her way and gave no cause for her to regret my presence, she did nothing to prevent me from going. Of course, what Sir Arthur wants, Sir Arthur gets....

“You still have the manuscript to finish typing,” Sir Arthur said to me in response to his wife’s question. “That will take a week or two.” I nodded. “And I trust you can submit it to my publisher and make any copy edits on my behalf without having to consult me?”

“Of course,” I said.

“You can wire any major changes I may need to consider.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So that gives you about three weeks of work.”

“But that only puts her into August, Arthur,” Lady Phillippa said.

“We’ll call it an even month then. I’ll have your wages arranged to be wired when I get to New York. And of course you can stay at the cottage during that time.”

“What shall I do for the last week or so, sir?” I asked.

“Take that holiday I mentioned.”

“Arthur,” Lady Phillippa said. “Isn’t that being a bit too generous?”

Sir Arthur ignored his wife. “And after that time has expired, I grant you permission to write your own recommendation letter and sign my name.”

“Arthur!” Lady Phillippa objected. “That’s absurd. I know she’s been helpful to you, but you can’t trust—”

“Phillippa,” Sir Arthur said sternly. His wife blushed at the rebuke. I’d only heard Sir Arthur speak to his wife that way once. I was mortified to be the cause of his sharp tone again. “Hattie can be trusted. You’d be wise to remember that while I’m gone.” Lady Phillippa glanced at me, but I couldn’t read her expression.

“Sir?” Logsdon, Sir Arthur’s valet, said as he approached. “Everything’s ready, sir.” Sir Arthur looked at his watch. A whistle blew.

“That’ll be the train. Good-bye, dear,” Sir Arthur said, kissing his wife on her forehead. Drawn by a sudden cacophony of cries, calls, and squawks, I stepped away, in an effort to give the couple a moment of privacy, enthralled by a flock of gulls swooping over refuse dumped from a fishing vessel. One large dark-headed bird, pecking and flapping its wings at any others that came close, was rewarded with a fish head larger than its mouth. As it soared away with its prize, I turned back. Sir Arthur had disappeared into the crowd.

“The luggage is secured and our carriage is waiting, ma’am,” Kyler said.

“Thank you, Kyler,” Lady Phillippa said. Then she turned to me. “If I can trust you, Miss Davish, as my husband says, then I will have you ride with the luggage and ensure its safe arrival.” Before I could respond, she turned on her heel and alighted into the carriage. Miss Kyler sent me a sympathizing glance and then pointed to the wagon where the luggage was loaded.

So much for a vacation, I thought as I watched Lady Phillippa’s Rockaway drive away. I picked up my typewriter and made my way to the wagon. A man, wearing a wide-rimmed, high-crowned, drab-colored soft fur hat, pushing his way forcefully through the crowd, in his determination to get through jabbed his elbow into my shoulder, sending pain through my arm and nearly knocking me down. If my reflexes weren’t to tighten my grip on my typewriter case, I surely would’ve dropped it. Instead, his coat had been open, and as I bent forward to gain my balance one of his brass buttons snagged on the satin trim around my sleeve.

“Oh, pardon me,” he said absentmindedly as he yanked the button free. In that moment I noticed a silver shield-shaped badge on his breast pocket. It read: “Pinkerton National Detective Agency.”

What was a Pinkerton detective doing in Newport? I wondered. Unless he was here for a summer holiday, I couldn’t help remembering the man who had hinted about the telegraph operator strike. Could there be truth to the scruffy-haired man’s rumors? Could the arrival of a Pinkerton detective hours before a rumored strike be mere coincidence? I doubted it. With the deadly conflict at the Homestead steel plant in Pennsylvania between striking workers and Pinkerton detectives a year ago, animosity between the two sides had only increased. The Pinkertons were as anti-strike as ever. Yet at the moment none of that mattered to me. I was already out of sorts after a sleepless, ill-spent night, Sir Arthur’s abrupt departure, and my loss of a stable position, let alone Lady Phillippa’s cool reception to the idea of my remaining in Sir Arthur’s employ and thus in her household for another month. This man’s rude behavior pushed me to my limit. Pinkerton detective or no, his behavior had been inexcusable.

“No, I will not pardon you, sir,” I said. “You—” I looked the man in the eye, fully prepared to chastise him and take my frustrations out on him, when the man began to whistle. I stopped short, my mouth still open. It was him! The man who had thrown the trunk into the ocean. Suddenly the need to distance myself from him outweighed my desire to put him in his place.

“Hey, don’t I know you?” he said.

“No, you must be mistaken,” I said, looking away and waving to the driver of the wagon. The detective shrugged, began whistling “Ode to Joy” again, and continued on down the dock. I straightened my bonnet, brushed my dress, and let out a sigh of relief, but a moment too soon. The Pinkerton man turned around and looked back at me with a puzzled expression on his face. Before he could place me as his witness on the boat, I grabbed my typewriter, stepped quickly to the wagon, and climbed in next to the driver.

“Let’s go,” I said, watching for the man in the crowd. “Lady Phillippa wouldn’t appreciate her luggage being late.”

As the sun began to rise over the gray roofs, green trees, and white church steeples of the town, I looked about me for the first time. Our wagon plodded along, finding its way slowly down Long Wharf past the boatbuilders’ shops, tenement houses, run-down saloons, and sailboat moorings while navigating the heaps of discarded crates, lumber, broken oars, coils of weathered rope, and chunks of metal lying here and there on the wharf. The strong scent of decaying fish and salt water filled the air. As we joined the multitude of wagons, carriages, and carts driving back and forth to accommodate the nearly one thousand passengers who had arrived on our ship, fishermen, sailors, dockworkers, and boatbuilders walked the streets, filled the shops, and plied their trades, calling to one another over the din of seagulls cawing, carriages rattling, and boat whistles blaring. I was overwhelmed and had lost sight of Lady Phillippa’s Rockaway long ago.

We then left the wharf and turned down a main thoroughfare, Thames Street. On one side, the harbor opened up revealing a shining calm blue sea punctuated by docks, wharfs, and slips. And there were boats everywhere. Steamboats, ferryboats, and fishing boats glided back and forth while rowboats and catboats wove their way through the watery alleys between colorful lobster buoys and dozens of anchored yachts with tall white sails reflecting the morning sun. It looked nothing like the choppy dark water I had crossed to get here. Across the street stretched a diversity of buildings of wood shingle, brick, and stone. Butcher shops, hardware and dry goods stores, banks, jewelers, milliners, and fish markets shared the street with homes, some a century old. Here the shades in the shop windows were still drawn, the awnings not yet unfurled. We passed market squares and parks, including one built next to a stately brick building pre-dating the founding of our country.

Eventually we left the shops and clusters of old homes and turned into a neighborhood of wide, well-manicured tree-lined streets and unseen dwellings hidden behind high, thick stone walls. It was quiet—the only sounds I heard were birds chirping, the clomping of horses, and the warm breeze rustling through the leaves. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of the fresh, salty air, and relished the quiet, slow ride. This was more what I had anticipated thinking about visiting the “Queen of Resorts.” I couldn’t rid myself of the anxiety that the sudden shift in my situation created, but here, away from the bustle of town, I could try. With only Sir Arthur’s manuscript to finish and submit, I’d have plenty of time to consider the events of the night and act later.

When we finally turned down Ruggles Avenue, I caught my first glimpse of the cottage Lady Phillippa and Sir Arthur had rented for the Season. Unlike the homes on Bellevue, Narragansett, and the other residential avenues that were hidden behind walls, the grounds of the Windom-Greenes’ summer cottage were surrounded by a short wrought-iron fence and a well-trimmed hedge that allowed a full view of the house. I gasped at what I saw.

They call this a cottage?

An eclectic mix of stone blocks on the first story and wooden shingles on the second, the “cottage” was a sprawling two-and-a-half-story mansion with multiple chimneys, balconies, verandas, and alcoves under a massive gabled roof punctuated with dormer windows. As we approached the house, we passed Lady Phillippa’s hired Rockaway heading back to the stables. The coachman tipped his hat to the wagon driver, who returned the favor. We passed the main entrance, a recessed porch ornamented by a rainbow of colorful gladiolus, and drove to the back entrance, where we were greeted by a footman, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. He and the driver unloaded the carriage as I stood there uncertain what to do next.

“You Sir Arthur’s secretary?” the footman finally said, without stopping what he was doing.

“Yes,” I said.

“Welcome to Fairview. We’ve been expecting you. Kaarina’s inside. She’ll show you to your room.”

“Thank you . . . ?”

“The name’s Johnny.”

“Johnny? Not John?”

“No, why?”

Should I tell him John might be more appropriate in the presence of Lady Phillippa? That in Virginia Lady Phillippa managed the house in the traditional English way? No “Johnnys” or “Jimmys” allowed. No, I thought. Who was I to say? Maybe Lady Phillippa would be less formal in Newport. I hoped so.

“Never mind,” I said. “Thank you, Johnny.”

The footman shrugged, picking up as many suitcases as he could carry. “Sure.”

“And thank you,” I said to the wagon driver. He tipped his hat and clambered back up onto the wagon and drove away. I picked up my typewriter and as many of my hat boxes as I could carry and went in. A maid, no more than fifteen years old, with a wide smile, despite a chipped front tooth, and wisps of bright red hair escaping from beneath her cap, helped me with my boxes.

“If you’ll follow me, miss,” she said.

She led me up three flights of uncarpeted wooden stairs that were smooth and slippery beneath my shoes. Once I left the brightness of the day outside, my eyes took a few moments to adjust to the darkness of the stairwell. With no windows, the only light to guide us came from a lamp positioned on each landing that reflected off the highly polished white tile walls. It’s not as if I’m wearing sli. . .