A Lack of Temperance (15 page)
I wasn’t the only one. The room was silent. Reverend Little squirmed in his chair. Mrs. Piers stared, without expression, at the back of Mrs. Anglewood’s head. Cordelia Anglewood faced the audience with an expression simultaneously challenging and triumphant. The minister stood, after this pronouncement, in hopes of giving a parting benediction, but President Anglewood again ignored him.
“May God keep the old and bless the new leader of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition,” she said.
“May the devil curse you, Cordelia!” a voice shouted. A woman in a sky-blue taffeta gown and wide-brimmed hat several rows in front of me leapt to her feet. The crowd around her screamed as the woman brandished a hatchet in the air. “You don’t deserve to wipe Mother Trevelyan’s boots!”
“I’m president now, Selina,” Cordelia declared, “and I represent the cause. You will not wave your hatchet at me! Now sit down.”
Selina dropped back into her seat, subdued. The crowd murmured with excitement.
“I will not tolerate dissent,” President Anglewood said, “not from anyone. For to fight for sobriety and the sanctity of the family, we must be strong, we must be steadfast, we must be united as one!” A cheer rose from the crowd. “God bless the AWTC.”
The altercation was revealing. In that moment, Cordelia Anglewood had taken complete, unquestionable control of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition. Regardless of what the Shaw sisters thought, could this be a motive for murder? In light of her duplicity, her demonstrated violence, and now her blatant ambition, I was beginning to wonder if the police had arrested the wrong person.
With a wave of her hand, President Anglewood dismissed us all.
A moment or two of confusion followed before everyone realized the service was over. I leapt from my seat and tried to avoid the crush. I succeeded in making my way to the Shaw sisters but missed any opportunity of speaking with Walter.
“I’m in no mood for gossiping over punch and cookies,” Miss Lucy snapped as her sister and I stopped in the lobby to sample the delicious cake. “Lead us straight to the coach, Davish.”
C
HAPTER
17
HAPTER
17
D
espite Miss Lucy’s admonishment, the conversation in the carriage returning from the memorial service was nothing but gossip. The elderly sisters and I were accompanied by two other coalition members, Diana Halbert and another woman introduced to me as Miss Pole. The four temperance women talked nonstop from the moment we entered the carriage until we bid each other good night in the hotel lobby. I expected some discussion of George Shulman’s arrest but, to my surprise, and gratification, the sole topic of conversation was Cordelia Anglewood. Her blatant use of power, her disregard for tradition, even her choice of jewelry were called into question.
espite Miss Lucy’s admonishment, the conversation in the carriage returning from the memorial service was nothing but gossip. The elderly sisters and I were accompanied by two other coalition members, Diana Halbert and another woman introduced to me as Miss Pole. The four temperance women talked nonstop from the moment we entered the carriage until we bid each other good night in the hotel lobby. I expected some discussion of George Shulman’s arrest but, to my surprise, and gratification, the sole topic of conversation was Cordelia Anglewood. Her blatant use of power, her disregard for tradition, even her choice of jewelry were called into question.
“And was that a brooch she was wearing,” Miss Pole said, “or one of those new bottle caps pinned to her neck? At least the steel would shine up a bit. It’s such a pity. Mrs. Anglewood used to have such good taste. Thank goodness she only wore the brooch and earrings.”
“Yes, dear,” Miss Lizzie agreed. “I’ve often thought Cordelia wears too much jewelry. Though I don’t know why she didn’t wear her emerald brooch. It would’ve complemented her dress better.”
“Who cares what brooch she was wearing,” Miss Lucy chided. “Who wears a green dress to a memorial service?” It continued in this vein for some time.
“Was Mrs. Trevelyan a good leader?” I said. The conversation had turned to the previous night’s elections and Selina’s objections.
“Granted, she wasn’t perfect, dear, using hatchets and all, but no one could say Edwina Trevelyan wasn’t an excellent president.”
“I agree with you, Miss Lizzie,” Miss Pole said, “though I don’t think wrecking a few bars is a bad thing. The coalition thrived under Mrs. Trevelyan.”
“Yes, Edwina Trevelyan was a superb fund-raiser, a devoted crusader of the cause, and bought us unprecedented political support,” Diana Halbert said. “She had correspondences from Mrs. Harrison herself.”
“Of course, not everyone agreed with her new plan of action,” Miss Pole said. “But overall, she fostered a general spirituality and mutual respect among the members. Only time will tell if Cordelia can do the same.” The other women agreed. “She certainly didn’t do her best for Edwina’s service.” A barrage of criticisms about the service, everything from the use of Griswold’s prayer as a benediction to the flower arrangements on stage, followed.
“If you don’t think Mrs. Anglewood’s capable of leading, then why elect her president?” I asked.
“Oh, she’ll be an excellent leader, Miss Davish,” Miss Pole said. “In this troubled time, the coalition needs a heavy hand.”
“It’s such a difficult task,” Miss Lizzie said, “keeping all of us ladies happy. I often wonder why anyone would want to be president.”
“It’s an honor to lead, Miss Lizzie,” Diana Halbert said. She had been voted vice president.
“Besides the honor, are there any other advantages to being president of the coalition?” I said.
“Are you asking if the president gets paid, Davish?” Miss Lucy said, as painfully blunt as ever.
“Among other things, yes,” I said.
“The stipend’s a trifling hundred dollars a month and an all-expenses-paid trip to the annual meeting of the Temperance Union in London. But money has nothing to do with it, Davish. Edwina became president because she felt it was her calling. Cordelia’s in it for the power. She certainly doesn’t need the money. Commodore Anglewood, Cordelia’s husband, could finance the entire temperance movement single-handedly if he had a mind to. From what I hear, J. P. Morgan himself once asked him for a loan.”
“Yes, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Commodore has been the coalition’s biggest single contributor for years. He’s a great supporter of temperance.”
Miss Lucy had the last word on the matter as the carriage approached the hotel.
“Well, if you want my opinion, his donations are more about keeping Cordelia away from Chicago than anything to do with our cause.”
“Want me to saddle a horse for you, miss?”
The stable boy couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. His dark skin glistened with sweat as his back bent over the weight of the bucket he carried. He had the aspect of one well into his workday despite the early hour.
“No, thank you,” I said. “But I am seeking someone I could ask a few questions.”
“I’m in charge here. Though if it’s about after-hours business, you’ll have to ask Theo.”
“No, you’re the one I need to talk to.”
I’d had difficulty sleeping after the memorial service. I’d tried all night to convince myself that the monetary gain of being the AWTC president (though far more than I could earn in a month) was not enough to murder someone over. I’d tried to assure myself that my assumptions about Cordelia Anglewood being a suspect for the murder were wrong. I reminded myself over and over that the police had already arrested the killer and that I needed to start focusing on my own future. After my hike this morning, I’d intended to begin in earnest securing my next position. Nevertheless, I had been recapitulating the events of the past few days in my head when I passed the stables on the way in to breakfast. I still suspected Cordelia Anglewood. The conversation in the carriage hadn’t quelled my suspicions. I hoped the little stable boy before me might be able to put my doubts to rest.
“What do you want to know?” he said, setting the bucket down with a splash.
“I’m Hattie Davish, by the way.”
“Nate.” We shook hands.
“Do you work here every day, Nate?”
“Yup, though I get Sunday mornings off for church.”
“So you were working here last Monday, then?”
“Yup.”
“Do you know Mrs. Cordelia Anglewood?”
“Big, mean lady with black hair, rides the feisty chestnut every day?”
“That’s her.” I chuckled at the apt description. “Now this is very important, Nate. I want you to think about it before you answer. Did Mrs. Anglewood go riding Monday, at any time?”
Without hesitation, he answered, “Nope.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yup.”
“But I myself saw her heading for the stables,” I said. “Could she have come without you seeing her? Could one of the other boys have saddled her horse?”
“Nope.” He slapped his hands against his thighs, sending dust billowing through the air. “I was here from sunup to sundown, and I never saw her. She’s come every day for weeks, but not Monday. I haven’t seen her today yet either.”
I gestured to the stalls that lined the walls. “You must saddle dozens of horses a day. How can you be so sure?”
He jerked back his collar and showed me fresh lacerations on his shoulder and neck. “I remember. Like I said, miss, she’s a mean lady. Monday was the best day in weeks.”
“Why, Miss Davish, what a surprise.” Walter appeared, wearing a long, starched white coat and a stethoscope around his neck. “You’re early for your bathhouse appointment.”
I was standing in the doorway of his office. I’d come early, eager to tell Walter about Cordelia Anglewood’s lack of an alibi. However, when it came to entering, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I shuddered, recalling the last time I’d visited a doctor’s office.
“Did you come early to have a chat with me?” Walter Grice said, his face beaming.
“Yes. I wanted to tell you something I learned this morning. It’s related to the murder.”
Walter’s smile disappeared. “Let’s go inside where we can talk,” he said.
Walter held the door open with one hand and guided me inside with the other. As we passed through the unoccupied examination room, with its gleaming metal objects and smell of iodine, the room began to spin a bit. Walter’s firm grip on my elbow and hand on my back was all that kept me on my feet. I clamped my eyes shut until he helped me onto a settee in his office. I’d been holding my breath. He wheeled his desk chair across from me, sat down, and leaned forward. He kept his gaze on my face while he took my hands in his. He wasn’t being amorous, but was yet again inconspicuously taking my pulse. Although my instinct was to pull away, I felt comforted by his soft, strong hands.
“You’ve had a bad experience, haven’t you,” he said, in a low, imperturbable voice, “with other doctors?” I nodded, tears welling up in my eyes. I was grateful he didn’t inquire further. “I’m sorry, Hattie.” He gave my hands a gentle squeeze and then glanced over his shoulder as the postman entered the examination room to deliver the mail. “I’d close the door but I wouldn’t want to show any impropriety.”
Embarrassed, I extricated my hands and wiped away the tears. “Thank you. I’m fine now.” I smiled at him in answer to his questioning countenance.
“Good morning, Jacob,” Walter said to the postman. “You can just leave it there on the table.”
“Good morning, Doc, ma’am,” the postman said as he left.
“I apologize for the interruption,” Walter said. “Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
He relaxed back into his chair, grinning. “Good. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, spring water?”
“A cup of coffee would be nice, thank you.”
He rose from his chair and pushed a buzzer on the wall. A thin man with patches of gray hair about the ears appeared in the doorway. He was impeccably dressed, with razor sharp creases down his trouser legs, a starched bow tie, and bleached white gloves.
“Sir?” He spoke with a British accent.
“Theakston, could you arrange for coffee for Miss Davish and me. Use the Kona.” Walter, addressing me, said, “My mother sent some wonderful coffee straight from the Sandwich Islands. Would you like something to eat? Knowing you, you didn’t eat enough breakfast.”
“You don’t need to make a fuss on my account, Dr. Grice. Plain coffee is fine. And I don’t need anything to eat.”
“And bring some of the cake Mrs. Norton brought yesterday,” Walter said, addressing his valet again. “Thank you, Theakston.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler took two steps backward and then disappeared through the doorway. When he was gone, I broached the subject that was the purpose of my visit.
“I’m sorry to hear that George Shulman was arrested. I know you and he are friends.”
All the animation vanished from Walter’s face. “Yes, thank you.” His head drooped. “I never thought it would come to this, Hattie. He’s innocent. I know he’s innocent.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Walter appeared expectant but didn’t interrupt. “I’ve seen his violent temper, Walter, and I know he had a very good reason to hate Mrs. Trevelyan. You and I were even witness to his threats. But unless the police have more evidence against him than his motive, I know of at least one, maybe two other possible suspects.”
“Hattie!” Relief and hope washed over Walter’s face. “That’s marvelous. Who are these other suspects?”
Theakston’s return, with a tray laden with a silver coffee service and several slices of scrumptious-looking cake, cut off further discussion. The butler set the tray on a nearby table and proceeded without comment to pour the coffee. He offered me a cup, black as I like it, and then served the doctor a cup brimming with cream and sugar.
“Will that be all, sir?” he said, setting a cloth napkin on Walter’s lap.
“Yes, thank you, Theakston,” Walter said. The butler retreated as I took my first sip of coffee. “How do you like it?”
“It’s fine, thank you,” I said.
Walter wrinkled up his face. “Isn’t it the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The coffee is very good.”
“Very good? I’ll have you know this is some of the finest coffee in the world. Never mind. How about this?” He reached for the cake plate. “Could I tempt you? One of my patients brought this yesterday. She’s a very good cook.”
Without hesitation, I helped myself to a slice and took a bite, and then another and another until it was gone. Walter watched me over his coffee cup as I reached for a second slice and burst out laughing, almost spilling his drink.
“Now I know the secret to getting Miss Hattie Davish to eat—let her eat cake!”
Despite myself I had to laugh. He was right. I hadn’t tasted a cake yet that I didn’t like. I finished my third piece as Walter poured himself a second cup of coffee.
“Now, Hattie, tell me all you know about these other possible suspects. Who are they?”
“One is Mrs. Cordelia Anglewood,” I said.
“Do I know her?”
“Yes, she’s the new president of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition, the one who conducted the memorial service last night.”
“Ah. What would be her reason, to become the coalition’s new president? Doesn’t seem like much of a motive to me. She’s ambitious, but do you think her capable of murder?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible. She might’ve had other reasons as well.”
I recounted everything I knew about Cordelia Anglewood, about the threats she hurled at Mrs. Trevelyan’s closed door the first time I’d met her, how she was witnessed almost striking Mrs. Trevelyan, how she almost struck me. She was a woman with a temper. I repeated what Miss Lizzie had told me of the disagreements between Mrs. Trevelyan and Cordelia. I told him about her ambitions and how she had lied about her whereabouts.
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