A Lack of Temperance (12 page)
“What in the world are you two doing?” Miss Lucy said, suddenly standing a few feet away from our table. Neither of us had noticed the sisters’ approach.
Walter let go of my hand and rose to his feet. “Just getting more acquainted, Miss Lucy. Join us for breakfast?” He helped the old woman to a chair.
“We’re not interrupting anything, are we, dear?” Miss Lizzie said, patting Walter’s arm as he held a chair out for her, but directing her question to me.
“Ah, interrupting? Um, no, I mean . . .”
“Stop stammering, Davish,” Miss Lucy said. “Were you plying Dr. Grice with the millions of questions we have about the murder, or not?” Walter burst out laughing.
“Why are you blushing, Davish?” Miss Lucy said. “If you don’t ask him, I will.”
From behind her hand, Miss Lizzie said, “I don’t think that’s why she’s blushing, Lucy, dear.”
In answer to Miss Lucy’s quizzical expression, Walter said, “All right, ladies, I’ll answer any questions I can. Only let me eat my breakfast first. I’m famished.”
C
HAPTER
14
HAPTER
14
“T
hen how did she die?”
hen how did she die?”
I sipped my steaming black coffee and nibbled on a soda biscuit slathered with orange marmalade, anticipating the reply to Miss Lucy’s question. I was still trying to get the bitter taste of the medicine out of my mouth. Throughout breakfast, Walter, over a heaping plate of spiced pears, poached eggs on anchovy toast, broiled tomatoes, and waffles with maple syrup, had tried to answer our inquiries in vain. And I had tried in vain not to let the blood rush to my cheeks every time Walter smiled at me.
“I can’t tell you that conclusively, either,” Walter said. “A postmortem should show exactly what caused her death.”
“Why then are you sitting here with a tree’s worth of syrup running down your chin, shoveling down waffles, when you could be getting us some answers?” Miss Lucy asked.
“Miss Lucy, that’s not fair.” Walter dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “We have to wait until the next of kin give permission. Her children have been notified, but there’s been some difficulty in locating Charles Trevelyan Senior.”
“Ha, that’s not surprising,” Miss Lucy snorted.
“What’s not surprising?” I said.
“As far as we know, dear,” Miss Lizzie interjected, “Edwina hadn’t seen or spoken to her husband in years.” She reached over to take a biscuit from her sister’s plate.
“Fifteen, to be exact.” Miss Lucy swatted Lizzie’s hand away. “Stop that, Lizzie. You don’t need to eat like you’re starving anymore.” Her sister seemed duly abashed.
“Charles Trevelyan didn’t care much for the American Women’s Temperance Coalition,” Miss Lucy said.
“Well, the son should be able to do it,” Walter said. “The coroner’s tied up in Berryville. Judge Senrow is the acting coroner and has asked me to serve as medical examiner. I’ll be the one to examine the body.”
“But you said earlier that you’ve already examined her,” I said, conscious not to refer to Mrs. Trevelyan as
the body
. “Can’t you make some conclusions from that?”
the body
. “Can’t you make some conclusions from that?”
“It was only a brief, external examination. I have yet to perform a thorough, internal autopsy. Any conclusions now would be premature.”
“So all you can tell us, good doctor,” Miss Lucy said, “is that Edwina was viciously murdered and squashed into a trunk by a person or persons unknown sometime Monday morning or later?”
Walter forked the last pear on his plate and popped it into his mouth. “I’m afraid so,” he said. Miss Lucy rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation.
“That’s too bad, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, dunking a biscuit in her tea. “I’m afraid we knew all that ourselves.”
“What about a man named John Martin?” I asked. “Do any of you know of him?” Throughout breakfast, his name had been on my mind; I seized the first opportunity to broach the subject.
“John Martin?” Miss Lizzie put down her tea with a clatter, spilling some into the saucer.
“Yes, John Martin, Esq. Do you know of him?”
“Know of him? Why, Davish, do you think he killed Edwina?” Miss Lucy said.
Walter Grice looked up from his plate, his eyebrows arched. Miss Lizzie glanced at her sister. “Do you know something we don’t, Hattie?” Walter said.
“No, no. It isn’t anything like that. At least I don’t think so. You know him, then, Miss Lucy?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Neither do I, dear,” Miss Lizzie said.
“I’ve never heard of him, either,” Walter said. “Wait, the name does ring a bell. Could he have been a patient of Dr. Cantor’s?”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” I said, brushing bread crumbs off the table. “I thought one of you might’ve known him because he’s a coalition supporter and an acquaintance of Mrs. Trevelyan.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of the man,” Miss Lucy said. “Why do you want to know who he is?”
I explained that I had come across several correspondences from John Martin that didn’t fit into any obvious category. Judging by how Miss Lucy responded to my question, I refrained from describing the contents of the letters, or my true reason for asking. I didn’t want my companions jumping to any more conclusions.
“I didn’t know whether to place his letters in the personal file or the coalition business file,” I said.
“Oh, Davish, what difference does it make?”
“It does make a difference, Miss Lucy. Mrs. Trevelyan’s son, I’m sure, will want his mother’s personal letters. Josephine Piers, on behalf of the AWTC, has already requested everything pertaining to coalition business. It’s my job to make sure that John Martin’s letters go to the right person.”
“This is a murder investigation,” Walter said. “All of Mrs. Trevelyan’s possessions, including her correspondences, will be held by the police. I’d say leave all that to them.”
“I wouldn’t leave anything to them, Hattie, dear, even those silly letters,” Miss Lizzie said. “That police chief is incompetent. Consider how little they’ve investigated your attempted murder.”
“My God.” Walter knocked the table as he rose half out of his seat and rattled the china. Those breakfasting nearby turned their heads at the sound of the doctor’s distress. “What attempted murder?”
“When someone with the strength of Samson shoved Davish down the stairs, of course,” Miss Lucy said, “though Lizzie’s being dramatic. Tell Dr. Grice what they said, Davish.”
“I don’t understand, Hattie.” Walter retrieved his napkin from the floor, waved off a concerned waiter who had rushed over, and regained his chair. “Someone pushed you down the stairs? I thought it was an accident; I thought you’d fainted or tripped.”
“The police concluded that too, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “despite our efforts to convince them otherwise. That’s why we don’t think they’re very competent.”
“I had no idea,” Walter said. “What happened?” I repeated the account of my encounter with an unknown assailant in Tibbs Alley.
“The last thing I remember was a cry from below, the lantern crashing, and someone running away,” I said. “You know the rest.”
“And the police aren’t doing anything about it, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Of course, they’ll search Edwina’s room, but they won’t look for poor Hattie’s attacker.”
“That was me you heard shouting,” Walter said. He paused when he saw the startled looks on our faces. “Why are you all gaping at me like that?”
“August gentlemen of your stature, Dr. Grice, do not slink behind young ladies into dark alleyways like tawdry, bungling pickpockets,” Miss Lucy said.
“Yes, I thought you more respectable, dear,” Miss Lizzie said.
“Oh, you ladies are much too concerned about reputations and appearances.” Walter pealed with laughter.
“It’s not a laughing matter, Dr. Grice.”
“I apologize, Miss Lucy, but I’m a doctor. Hattie left the saloon pale and shaking, so of course I followed her.”
“Did you see anyone?” I said.
“Davish told us she went to speak to that saloon man,” Miss Lucy said. “What, may I ask, were you doing there, Dr. Grice?” Walter appeared on the brink of laughing again. “Get that smirk off your face, young man, I’m serious.”
“George Shulman happens to be a friend of mine, Miss Lucy,” Walter said.
“But he sells alcohol and destroys families, dear,” Miss Lizzie said.
“Yes, he’s in the saloon business, but can I help how my friends make their living?”
“I’m starting to wonder whose side you’re on, Dr. Grice,” Miss Lucy said. The conversation was heading onto dangerous ground; I had to get back to the question I wanted to ask before the topic of the saloon came up.
“Walter, you said you followed me to Tibbs Alley,” I said. “Did you see anyone? Did you see who pushed me?”
Sobriety returned to the doctor’s countenance. “No, I’m sorry, Hattie, I didn’t.”
“Did you see anyone nearby?” I said. “It might be connected to Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder.”
“Sorry, no. But why do you think it has something to do with the murder?”
“I am a stranger here,” I said. “Who else knows me but Mrs. Trevelyan’s associates and acquaintances? Which reminds me, do any of you know a Joseph Mascavarti? I met him this morning. I’d never met him before, but he said he knew who I was.” No one had heard of him either.
“Do you suspect this Joseph Mascavarti of pushing you, Hattie?” Walter said.
“No, I have no idea who it was.”
“Isn’t it obvious, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “it was that horrible saloonkeeper.” She winced at Walter’s sudden frown. “I’m sorry, Dr. Grice, but even before Hattie mentioned her encounter with him, Lucy and I thought he did it.”
“George?” Walter said. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I have to admit, Walter,” I said, “the same idea occurred to me. You saw how he reacted to my questions the other night.”
“You don’t know George like I do, shouting one minute, singing the next. You remember, he was singing when you left.”
“When I left,” I reminded him, “glass was breaking.”
“Regardless, I was a few yards behind you. I would’ve seen him.”
“The Cavern has a ground entrance on both Main and Center streets,” I said. “He could’ve arrived at the top of the staircase before me. Moreover, I smelled liquor on my assailant.”
“Yes, but you see—” Walter never finished his sentence.
“He’s a violent man, dear, violent,” Miss Lizzie said, interrupting in a burst of emotion. “Shouting vulgarities, smashing glass, and who knows what else.” She threw her fork down, sending it clattering onto her plate. “If he’s capable of those things, he’s capable of anything.” Her hands gripped the edge of the table, turning white.
“How would you know, Lizzie?” Miss Lucy said. “You weren’t even there.” She rose from her chair and grabbed her sister’s arm. “Let’s go. I’ve had enough of this. Besides, it’s time for my nap.” The elderly ladies abruptly took their leave.
“What was that about?” Walter said as he waved the waiter over. He paid the bill, pushed back his chair, and rose.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they’re still upset about you visiting the saloon.”
“Maybe. I’m sorry she has such a negative opinion of George. Has Miss Lizzie even met him?”
“I don’t think so. But Mrs. Trevelyan’s death has put everyone on edge. If only we knew more.”
“I’d better go up and check on Miss Lizzie,” Walter said. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Then, if you’re up to it, let’s go for a walk. The painkiller should be working by then.” He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “We were interrupted earlier, and there’s something I’d like you to know.”
“And you call yourself a gentleman? Walter Grice, this is blackmail.”
I swatted his arm lightly with my glove as we left the wooded hollow path and approached Grotto Spring. Created by the incessant dripping of water, Grotto Spring was carved deep out of the base of the hill on which the Arcadia Hotel was built. A rocky shelf overhanging its entrance created a natural portico and allowed a bit of light to enter.
Walter and I had strolled around the parklands of the hotel in companionable silence. I’d been content to amble beside him and listen to the rustling autumn leaves underfoot. I had stooped to gather a few fallen hackberry and tulip-tree leaves for my collection when he suggested a visit to Grotto Spring, a hotbed of lichens and liverworts.
“Please just tell me,” I said. He shook his head.
“I know you don’t like the idea of spa treatments,” Walter said, “but in all seriousness, after what you’ve been through, you’re bruised, sore, and exhausted. A hot mineral bath would do you good.”
“How can I be exhausted when all I’ve done is sleep and lie in bed? Getting back to work, now, that would do me good.”
“Hattie, to be honest, when you first arrived I would’ve guessed you hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, maybe months.” I couldn’t deny what he was saying. When I thought of it, I hadn’t been sleeping well.
“And now?” I said.
“I admit there’s a little color to your cheeks.” He raised his hand to stifle any interruption. “But only because you have been sleeping and lying in bed. Let me prescribe you a spa treatment.”
“No, thank you, Walter, spa treatments are for the sick.”
“Not always. I take spa treatments, even when I’m well. The therapies help ward off sickness. I prescribe them for all my patients.”
“I appreciate your passion and your concern, but spas are not for me. I belong in a typing pool, not a thermal pool.”
“What if I tell you all I know about Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder ?”
“Really? What more do you know?”
“A great deal more than I told the Shaw sisters at breakfast.” He had a gleam in his eye. “Can I make you an appointment at the bathhouse?”
“All right, you win.” I entered the Grotto Spring cave chuckling. “I’ll take one mineral bath.”
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