A Lack of Temperance (18 page)
I was getting distressingly accustomed to threats but decided it was best to remain silent. Mrs. Anglewood stared at me for a moment more without blinking, then left. More than happy to get out of Cordelia Anglewood’s way, I returned to my room, typed my first report to Sir Arthur, and then set to work on the condolence responses and pledge list as Mrs. Anglewood had requested. Finally, I was able to immerse myself in a task that made sense. I fell asleep late in the night at my desk, content.
C
HAPTER
20
HAPTER
20
T
he chipping black paint on the sign read, E
LMWOOD
H
OUSE
.
he chipping black paint on the sign read, E
LMWOOD
H
OUSE
.
I was walking back to my hotel, refreshed from my morning hike exploring East Mountain and its springs, including Little Eureka Spring, said to be the best-tasting water, and Laundry Spring, where a woman with bare arms up to her elbows was rinsing linen sheets. It’d been at Onyx Spring where I’d collected sedges, now preserved in the plant press I held flung over my shoulder. Elmwood House was the residence of Mr. Joseph Mascavarti. The telegram suggested that Mr. Mascavarti had been a guest here as recently as a week ago. I dashed up the stairs.
“I’m sorry, miss,” the desk clerk said, yawning. “There’s no Joseph Mascavarti registered.” He took a sip from a cup set on a filing cabinet next to the desk.
“He was wired here this past Monday. He could’ve checked out since.” The clerk leafed through the pages of the registration book and yawned again. I peered over the desk, trying to see for myself.
His head was shaking before he replied. “Sorry.” He reached for the cup again. “No Joseph Mascavarti.”
“But the telegraph office at the Arcadia Hotel confirms that the telegram was received.”
He slurped his drink. “Why would anyone send a wire across town?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “Could you check again?”
“Well, we do get telegrams for folks staying in some of the nearby boarding houses. I could check if he picked one up.”
“Thank you, that would be helpful.” He disappeared into a back office, carrying his mug with him. The clerk reappeared moments later with a tablet under his arm. He drank from his mug as he walked. He clanked the mug down and let out a satisfied sigh.
“Nothing like the first cup of coffee in the morning.” He opened the tablet to a particular page and smoothed the paper on the desk. “Here it is, Mr. Joseph Mascavarti, Monday, the seventh.”
“Is that a record of the telegram?” I asked, barely able to contain my excitement. “Did he sign for it?” The clerk fixed a blank stare on my forehead and took another slurp of his coffee.
“As I was saying, a telegram for Mr. Joseph Mascavarti, dated Monday, the seventh of November, was signed for by . . .” He wrinkled his nose. and hesitated. “I don’t understand. Mr. Mascavarti didn’t sign this, a Mr. John Martin did.”
I staggered forward, my plant press nearly slipping off my shoulder. The implications reeling in my head, I barely had the faculty to ask what I had asked dozens of times before: “Is Mr. Martin a guest here?”
“Are you okay?” the clerk said. “You look like you got dizzy there for a minute.”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Could you look to see if John Martin is staying here?”
“Yeah, sure.” The clerk retrieved the registration book as I gripped the edge of the desk. His finger traced the entries down the page. When he stopped to take one last swig from his coffee mug, I thought I was going to scream. He turned another page.
“Well . . . ?” I said, almost losing my patience.
“Yeah, looks like Mr. John Martin has been staying with us for several weeks now. He’s staying in room 24, second floor, second door on your right.”
I thanked him and immediately bounded up the stairs. Once I found room 24, I took a few moments to catch my breath. Was I doing it again? I had confronted George Shulman at the Cavern Saloon, knowing it might not be the best course of action, and had gotten myself shoved down an alley stairwell. Now I was contemplating confronting John Martin, at this early hour, alone. I began to doubt the intelligence of even speaking to this man. I should notify the police. He might be Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer. I knocked anyway.
“Can I help you?” A man in his mid sixties answered the door. He had bushy eyebrows, a long white mustache, and a few strands of hair plastered across an otherwise bald head. He was wearing a blue silk dressing gown.
“Mr. Martin?”
“No. What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Mr. John Martin,” I said, impetuously adding, “or Mr. Joseph Mascavarti.”
The man eyed my hiking costume and plant press. “And you are?”
“I’m Miss Hattie Davish, personal secretary to Mrs. Edwina Trevelyan.”
His eyebrow raised as he peered down at me. “The temperance woman found dead in her travel trunk?”
“Yes.” It was a crude observation, but true.
“What business, may I ask, Miss Davish, do you have with John?”
“Mr. Martin contributed to Mrs. Trevelyan’s American Women’s Temperance Coalition. I would like to speak to him on related business.” I’m ashamed how easily this half truth came to me.
“Yes? Well, I’m very proud of John. The AWTC is a worthy cause. But I’m sorry, Miss Davish, John’s not here right now. I’m Colonel William Walker, John’s father-in-law. May I be of assistance?”
“Thank you, Colonel Walker, but it’s important I speak with Mr. Martin personally.”
“I believe he’s taking treatments at the baths, though I don’t know which bathhouse. However, I do know he received an invitation from President Anglewood to attend the coalition’s event at Magnetic Spring today. But then again, being the secretary, you probably already knew that. You may be able to speak to him there.”
I thanked him, apologized for disrupting his morning, and walked briskly toward the staircase.
“By the way,” the colonel said, stepping across the threshold into the hallway, “who is Joseph Mascavarti?”
When I arrived back at the hotel, brimming with my discoveries, the lobby, dining room, and ladies’ parlor were abuzz with coalition members and talk of today’s culminating rally. I was anxious to return to my typewriter so I could sort out everything I’d learned. Colonel Walker hadn’t known of Joseph Mascavarti. Yet John Martin and Joseph Mascavarti had to be one and the same. Which meant that he who had left his calling card and had contributed to the AWTC was one and the same as he who had written the threatening note and had been blackmailed by Mrs. Trevelyan. It didn’t answer the question of why. Or did it? I was weaving my way through the crowded lobby when I heard, “Davish, there you are!” shouted above the din of the women chatting. I turned and headed for the two white-headed ladies inching toward me.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Miss Lizzie exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Today’s the big day. You will accompany us to the rally tonight, won’t you, dear?”
“Of course she will, Lizzie,” her sister declared. “What else has Davish to do?” The two sisters stared at me expectantly.
“Of course I will, Miss Lizzie. I officially relinquished all of my correspondences and duties to Mrs. Anglewood before breakfast.”
“Does that mean you’re out on your ear, Davish?” Miss Lucy said.
“Oh, I hope not.” Miss Lizzie put her hand to her throat. The motion reminded me of something, but I couldn’t quite remember what. “You did hear from Arthur, didn’t you, dear?”
“Arthur?” I said.
Miss Lizzie squinted and clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Shame on him. He promised me he would take care of you. What are old friends for if not to do favors for one another ?”
“Oh, do you mean Sir Arthur Windom-Greene?” I said. Miss Lizzie bobbed her head. “You contacted Sir Arthur on my behalf, Miss Lizzie?”
“Did I do wrong, dear? I just wanted to help. I thought it best if you stayed, at least until Edwina’s murder was solved.”
“I knew it.” Miss Lucy wagged her finger at her sister. “You really must stop meddling, Lizzie. I insist. Look at what happened the last time.”
“Well, you’ll be happy to know, then . . .” I’d missed something. “What did you mean, Miss Lucy, by ‘look what happened the last time’?”
“Oh, Hattie, dear, it’s nothing.” Miss Lizzie patted my arm. I watched Miss Lucy.
“Nothing but trouble, you mean, Lizzie, or should I call you Miss Nosey Parker?”
“What are you two ladies talking about?” I asked.
“Lizzie pries into other people’s business, Davish, like the Great Blondin crossing Niagara Falls on a tightrope, that’s what I’m talking about. It’s a way of life that God never intended. She had no business petitioning Sir Arthur, on your behalf, for a job.”
“I’m sure it was kindly meant. I don’t think—”
Miss Lucy silenced me with a glare. “And was it her magnanimous nature that compelled her to call the police, enticing them to investigate with her ‘credible evidence’?”
My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t believe it. “Miss Lizzie, is this true? You’re the anonymous telephone caller?”
“Yes, dear. How else was I going to get them to probe into Edwina’s disappearance and the attack on you? They didn’t seem overly eager to do their job. When George Shulman’s name came up, I knew that what I had to tell them would spur some action.”
“What did you tell them?” I said.
“That she overheard George Shulman shouting and threatening Edwina the morning she disappeared,” Miss Lucy said. “That she heard glass breaking in Edwina’s room.”
“Miss Lizzie, you saw George Shulman here at the hotel threatening Mrs. Trevelyan?” I said. “What did he say?”
“Well, I’m not exactly certain what he said, dear.” She fiddled with her collar and blushed. “They were shouting and yelling in Edwina’s room, so I hid down the corridor.”
“And when was this?” I said. “Do you remember?”
“During breakfast, dear. Don’t you remember I excused myself for a minute? I knew that if I didn’t retrieve that book from the library that moment, I would surely forget.” Hence the food stains that Mary had mistaken for blood. A blackberry compote had been served that morning.
“Did you check on Mrs. Trevelyan after he left?” I said.
“I’d slipped into the bathroom before he could see me. I was frightened, dear, very frightened.” Her lip began to tremble. “When I felt safe to come out, Edwina was gone.” Miss Lucy, in a rare act of compassion, patted her sister’s hand.
“How did you know it was George Shulman?” I said. “Had you seen him before?”
“I didn’t know who he was, dear, at least not until I recognized him standing up to Electra Richards at the protest on Election Day.”
“Thank you for telling me this, Miss Lizzie. And thank you for contacting Sir Arthur. He has hired me again. I owe my current situation to you.”
“I’m so glad I could help, dear.” The elderly lady still fiddled with her collar. Her nervous gesture brought something else to my mind.
“Miss Lizzie, where is your mother-of-pearl bar pin?” I’d never seen her without it.
“Oh,” Miss Lizzie exclaimed, pulling her hand self-consciously away from her throat. “How nice of you to notice, dear.”
“She broke the clasp taking it off last night,” Miss Lucy said.
“I do feel strange without it; it was a gift from our brother,” Miss Lizzie said. “It’s the only thing I had of value until Lucy married Oliver Fry.”
“Davish didn’t ask for your whole history, Lizzie. Besides, the rags-to-riches story is clichéd.”
“Well, anyway, we’re taking the train to Fayetteville on Monday, dear, to have it repaired at a jeweler there. I’ve heard many of the ladies recommend him.”
“We were going anyway, to purchase a few things we can’t get here,” Miss Lucy said. “But with all this talk of my sister’s meddling and clumsiness, we forgot to tell you our news, Davish.” I held my breath in anticipation. “Cordelia Anglewood received a shock this morning.”
“Yes, dear, some very bad news,” Miss Lizzie said.
“What news?” My heart raced.
“We don’t know,” Miss Lucy said, crestfallen.
I closed my eyes and sighed, unable to hide my exasperation.
Ah, to be befriended by the coalition’s biggest gossips,
I thought. “How do you even know she received bad news, then?”
Ah, to be befriended by the coalition’s biggest gossips,
I thought. “How do you even know she received bad news, then?”
“Because we saw her, dear, at breakfast when she received the telegram,” Miss Lizzie said.
“And what a sight it was too, Davish,” Miss Lucy said, animated again. “I never suspected the woman of even having tear glands. But there she was proud as ever, with tears welling in her eyes. Of course, she acted like nothing happened.”
Cordelia Anglewood crying?
I thought. This was more than mere gossip after all.
I thought. This was more than mere gossip after all.
“Josephine tried to comfort her, of course, but was coolly rebuked,” Miss Lizzie said. “Cordelia left the dining room almost immediately. I felt horrible for her.”
What could possibly bring the proud Cordelia Anglewood to the verge of tears? My experience left me feeling little sympathy for the woman and unable to imagine such an event. I could only speculate. The news of a loved one’s death or grave illness would upset anyone. The loss of respectability or position to a woman of her ambition might upset her. But to the verge of tears?
“We’ll tell you if we find out more, dear,” Miss Lizzie said.
Several women, arms linked and wearing AWTC buttons, marched past us, singing.
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