A Lack of Temperance (24 page)
“All that matters now is that she’s dead,” Mary said. “And they’re going to hang you for her murder.”
“What about that secretary lady? Or Doc Grice? They said they were going to help.”
“I don’t know,” Mary said. “I think they’re trying, but the coppers aren’t listening.” George rested his head on the bars, all the spark gone from his eyes.
“Well, let’s hope they start listening,” he said.
Mary jumped to her feet, brandishing her fist. “I’m not going to let them hang you. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll say I killed her, if I have to. I’ll fight those coppers with my last breath.”
“No! I’ll let them hang me before I let them get their hands on you, love. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”
“You’ll never lose me, George Shulman. Never.”
“Then promise me you won’t do anything foolish, Mary. And that you’ll marry me the day I get out of here.”
“Ah, you’re a fool, George Shulman.” My heart broke as I watched Mary slump to her knees, her body shaking as she cried.
Walter held the door for an older couple as I mounted the hotel portico steps. He had arrived early for our dinner date.
“What are you doing coming from out there? It’s going to rain any minute,” he said, peering over my shoulder at the darkening sky. “I thought you had work to do.”
“I did,” I said, breathing hard from my brisk walk back to the hotel, during which I’d promised myself that I’d help Mary any way I could. “Walter, George Shulman’s innocent. We have to do something to prove it.”
“I’ve always thought so. But, Hattie, what convinced you?” I wasn’t prepared to tell him everything just yet.
“Is there somewhere in town we can grab a quick bite to eat?” I said.
“Sure, we can get a nice broiled steak at Fletcher’s Grillroom in twenty minutes. Why?”
“Let me get something from my room and then I’ll tell you all about it on the way.”
Still not used to Walter’s reckless driving, I clung to my hat with one hand, the railing of the phaeton with the other, and squeezed the bag I had retrieved from my room tightly between my knees as I relayed everything I’d overheard between Mary Flannagan and George Shulman. Large raindrops splashed onto the top of the phaeton.
“What incredible news,” Walter exclaimed, oblivious to the declining weather. “The hotel chambermaid and George Shulman courting? Many eligible ladies have attempted to snag George Shulman. But wouldn’t you know it would be Mary Flannagan of all people he takes to.” A peculiar expression grew on his face but was quickly replaced by a wide grin. “Cupid works in mysterious ways.” Then he noticed the bag clutched between my knees. “What do you have in the bag?”
“Evidence for the police,” I said.
Walter raised his eyebrows. “I take it that’s where we’re going after dinner?”
“Walter, I think we’re here.”
I pointed to a building, which we were rapidly approaching. He glanced up at the sign, and we suddenly skidded to a halt in front of Fletcher’s Grillroom on Armstrong Street. True to Walter’s boast, we ordered, were served, had eaten a hearty steak dinner, and were on our way to the police station in less than an hour.
We rode in silence for several blocks, both of us most likely thinking about the importance of our meeting with the police. If we failed to convince Chief Jackson that George Shulman was innocent, the policeman would take him to the sheriff in Berryville in the morning. We couldn’t help George Shulman in Berryville. But despite Chief Jackson’s earlier dismissals, I was feeling more confident with each block. I glanced at the bag on my lap again.
The rain pelted down now and the streets were thick with mud. We rumbled over a wooden bridge that spanned a ravine and crossed over to the usually busy thoroughfare of Main Street, though its nickname, Mud Street, was more appropriate today. The wheels slid on the mud, but Walter didn’t slow his pace until we reached Montgomery Street and nearly tipped over making the turn. The one fully lit building on the dark street, the police station was a beacon in the rain. Nonetheless, when we entered, shaking the rain from the umbrella, it was as still as one would expect late on a Sunday evening. A lonely clerk, holding a broadsheet between his hands, peered over the newspaper at us.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, we’d like to speak to Chief Jackson,” Walter said.
“Can’t this wait until morning?”
“What now?” Chief Jackson had seen our approach.
“We’ve found out a few things you need to know,” Walter said.
“Doc, it’s been a long day. It’s late. It’s Sunday and the missus has already telephoned twice. I should’ve been home with my slippers on hours ago.” Walter sat down on the bench, folded his legs, and set his hat in his lap. “Oh, all right. If you’re going to be that way, let’s go into my office.”
He led us to a cluttered room, filled with a desk, three chairs, a sofa, and numerous bookcases. One barred window revealed a view of the livery down the street. Every bookcase, the floor, the sofa, and two of the three chairs were stacked with piles of tablets and typewritten paper. And where there wasn’t paper, there were ferns: maidenhair, holly, sword, Boston, and several varieties I didn’t recognize. They were bushy, beautiful, and in the way. The chaos explained much about the policeman. How he got anything done was beyond me. With no curtains, carpets, or paintings, the room’s only other adornments consisted of two dirty coffee mugs, the tin watering can I had seen before, a framed photograph of twin towheaded boys and a petite woman wearing a black straw braid bonnet, a Wardian case containing an African violet with purple flowers, and a Crandall typewriter on the desk.
“I’ll get us some coffee,” Jackson said, leaving us alone in the room. Walter was clearing a space for us to sit and I was admiring his Crandall when he returned, carrying three steaming mugs.
“Hattie’s a gardener too, Ben,” Walter said, indicating the Boston fern he had placed on the floor at our feet.
“Really?” He sounded enthusiastic for the first time since I’d met him.
“I’m actually more of a specimen collector,” I said. “I don’t have much luck with live plants. But I wish I had; your ferns are lovely.” It was difficult to watch the exuberance drain from his face and any respect I might’ve gained disappear.
“What was it you wanted again?” he said.
I told him about the conversation I’d overheard between Mary and George.
“I’ll have someone secure that jail cell window tomorrow,” he said. “Letter openers, huh?”
“And if you need to speak with Cordelia Anglewood,” I said, “you should know that she’s no longer staying at the Arcadia. She moved to the Hotel Byron late last night.”
“You came down here this late to tell me a lady changed addresses and my prisoner refused a letter opener?” I ignored the policeman’s sardonic tone. After what I had endured this past week, it would take more than that to discourage me.
“Colonel Walker, John Martin’s father-in-law, left this morning,” I said, “and he gave me this. I thought you should see it.” I pulled the envelope out of my bag and told Jackson about its contents. He scowled, then read through the articles, shaking his head.
Several times he muttered something under his breath, “dead woman’s daughter,” “Mascavarti,” “alias,” and then, pushing it all aside, stared out the window.
“I read your report,” Jackson offered after we had sat for several minutes in awkward silence, sipping our coffee. “If nothing else, Miss Davish, I have to admit you’re thorough. What type of plants do you collect?”
I was taken aback by the question, but answered happily enough. “Everything I can find and collect personally. With my new specimens from Eureka Springs, I now have 1,854 plants pressed and identified.”
“Impressive.”
“Thank you.” I hesitated before getting back to the matter at hand. “There was something not in my report that I want to show you.” I reached into my bag and pulled out the gin-soaked handkerchief I’d found in Mrs. Trevelyan’s room.
“A handkerchief?” Chief Jackson said, reaching across his desk and taking it from my hand. “What do I want with a handkerchief?”
“Give it a whiff,” Walter suggested.
“The scent’s very faint,” I said. “I can’t smell it anymore, but Walter said he could.”
“You sure about this, Doc?” The policeman held it to his nose. “I don’t smell anything.” He crinkled the fabric between his fingers. “Hold on, do I smell . . . gin? Where did you get this?”
“In Mrs. Trevelyan’s room,” I said.
“When?”
“The day she died. It was tucked into a nightstand drawer. There’s more.” I retrieved the gin bottle from the bag.
Walter whistled. Chief Jackson furrowed his eyebrows. “So you did find concrete evidence,” Walter said.
“A gin bottle, evidence?” the policeman said.
“This bottle was hidden behind towels and handkerchiefs like this one, in Mrs. Trevelyan’s washroom. I found it this afternoon.”
“Ben, you should compare this bottle with the pieces I extracted from the dead woman’s scalp and with those found in the trunk,” Walter said. “It’s probably from the same case.” Chief Jackson examined the bottle. “You treated her the night before she died, Doc. Did the temperance woman smell of gin?”
“Of course, gin and smoke and whiskey and ale. She had, after all, been smashing kegs and bottles with her ax and trying to burn down a barroom.”
The policeman was silent for a moment or two. “You had no right searching the victim’s rooms and tampering with evidence, Miss Davish. But I have to admit . . .”
“That it’s worth investigating other possible suspects? John Martin had the strongest motive,” I suggested. Chief Jackson sighed.
“If you think you’re better than trained professionals, Miss Davish, maybe you can solve a little mystery of my own.” He pulled a glass container with filmy brown splotches covering one side from a drawer in his desk. “We found this in the Grotto Spring cave.”
“My specimen jar,” I exclaimed, reaching for the jar. “I left it in the cave this morning.” I looked closely at the splotches, surprised that mold or some other form of life had already started to colonize the jar. I blanched when I realized what they were.
“Blood, Miss Davish. It must’ve gotten on the glass when you dropped it near the body. Well, that’s one mystery solved. But what about this?” He tossed a folded piece of paper across his desk. “What can you tell me about it?”
A simple sheet of white paper.
Give to secretary
was scrawled across the front. I unfolded the note.
I may be a drunk, but I’m no killer
was handwritten inside. It was signed
J.M.
Give to secretary
was scrawled across the front. I unfolded the note.
I may be a drunk, but I’m no killer
was handwritten inside. It was signed
J.M.
I was stunned. “I’ve never seen this before. Where did you find it?” I asked.
“Just like your jar. In the Grotto Spring cave, when we were investigating John Martin’s death. It was in a pile of leaves with some other trash. Any ideas how it got there?”
“None, though John Martin was most certainly its author,” I said.
“So you can’t help me, then, with this simple mystery? The note’s even addressed to you.” The policeman sat back, folded his arms across his chest, and smirked. “I think I’ve proven my point. Time to go back to your typewriter, Miss Davish, and leave the murders to us.”
C
HAPTER
26
HAPTER
26
W
ith few words between us, Walter escorted me back to the lobby. What was left to say? We had given Chief Jackson every reason to continue investigating Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder, and he had rebuked us again. As Walter retrieved the umbrella he’d forgotten in Chief Jackson’s office, I braced myself against the frame of the open door and closed my eyes. It’d been a long day. Was it only this morning that I’d found John Martin’s dead body? I felt numb.
ith few words between us, Walter escorted me back to the lobby. What was left to say? We had given Chief Jackson every reason to continue investigating Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder, and he had rebuked us again. As Walter retrieved the umbrella he’d forgotten in Chief Jackson’s office, I braced myself against the frame of the open door and closed my eyes. It’d been a long day. Was it only this morning that I’d found John Martin’s dead body? I felt numb.
At first I’d been baffled when the policeman waved the scrap of paper in front of me. How could I have misplaced it? I’d never done anything so careless in my life. But then where had the note come from? How did it get to Grotto Spring? Had someone stolen it from my room? Or maybe John Martin had never even sent the note. Maybe he never got the chance? I had mentioned this to Chief Jackson, but he had responded by reminding me, to my humiliation, that it was obviously addressed to me. I knew it wasn’t addressed to me but to Mrs. Trevelyan, like John Martin’s other message, but it didn’t matter. They were both dead.
Now, leaning against the door frame, listening to the patter of the rain, I felt only resignation and defeat. Increasingly loud splashes and the whinnying of a horse jarred me out of my thoughts of self-pity. A rider stopped right in front of me. He leapt off his horse, flipped the reins onto the wooden rail, and scurried through the door.
“Hank,” I exclaimed, “what are you doing here?” Officer Norris and Walter joined me.
“What’s going on?” the officer said.
“Miss Hattie,” the telegraph operator said, doubling over, hands on his hips. He was soaking wet.
“Hank, what’s wrong?”
“This came for you.” He panted as he pulled an envelope from inside his raincoat and held it out to me. My heart sank. Only bad news came this quickly by telegram.
“Oh my goodness, Hank,” I said, with false bravado, “you didn’t have to come out in this rain. Whatever it is, it could’ve waited.”
“But you had marked it urgent.”
“I had marked it urgent?”
Then it dawned on me. It was the response I’d been waiting for. I had forgotten all about it. The dread I’d felt a moment ago was instantly replaced by anxious excitement.
“Thank you, Hank. Thank you.” I ripped open the envelope and quickly scanned the contents. My heart leapt in my chest. I’d been right about my suspicions about Cordelia Anglewood.
“What is it, Hattie?” Walter said.
“It’s the response from Fayetteville,” I said.
“It arrived earlier, but I’ve had a devil of a time tracking you down.” Hank wrung his dripping hat on the threshold. “I wanted to deliver it personally.”
“Thank you again, Hank.” I waved the slip in my hand. “Walter, I need to show this to Chief Jackson.”
“Sorry, Hattie, he’s gone home for the night, slipped out the back door. Which is where we need to go—home. Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.” Walter was right; I was exhausted.
“And, Mr. Floyd, if you’d like to ride back to the hotel, I’m sure Mr. Kimberling’s stables could accommodate your horse for the night,” Walter said. Hank eagerly agreed. “They have a telephone. Would you call for us, Norris? I’d like to get Miss Davish back as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Dr. Grice.”
The ride back was circuitous, though uneventful. Several roads flowed with mud or were too steep to be attempted in the rain. Walter deftly avoided getting stuck, most likely by traveling so fast. The wheels barely touched the ground. When we finally alighted before the Arcadia Hotel, the rain had stopped, the sky had begun to clear, and moonlight streamed between breaks in the clouds. It was a relief to be back. Hank bid us a good night, wide-eyed and slightly shaking. Although he was appreciative, I couldn’t imagine him riding with Walter again. We watched him head for a cluster of cottages on the edge of the hotel grounds. We turned when the rattle of carriage wheels alerted us to a departing carriage.
“Busy night.” Walter laughed, escorting me toward the hotel’s front doors. “So what was in the telegram?”
I turned to reply when I caught a glimpse of a woman in the carriage. She ducked out of sight when she saw me. Another woman leaned over her to peer out.
“Cordelia Anglewood!” I said. “And Mrs. Piers is with her.”
“Where?”
“In the Rockaway.”
“What on earth?”
“Walter,” I said, gripping his arm, “we have to follow them.”
As if it heard me, the Rockaway carriage picked up speed and disappeared down the ravine. I ran toward his phaeton, without wondering if Walter followed me. Without a question, he waved off the stable hand holding the reins of his horse, bounded in beside me, and sped after Cordelia Anglewood’s carriage. For the first time, I was grateful for Walter’s characteristic driving. Although I was shouting,
Faster, Faster,
in my head, I don’t think we could’ve. We caught up and kept them in sight until they reached the train depot. We skidded to a halt beside the Rockaway as porters were unloading Cordelia Anglewood’s trunks.
Faster, Faster,
in my head, I don’t think we could’ve. We caught up and kept them in sight until they reached the train depot. We skidded to a halt beside the Rockaway as porters were unloading Cordelia Anglewood’s trunks.
“Are you going somewhere, Mrs. Anglewood?” I said. Both women swirled around at my question.
“You,” Cordelia Anglewood hissed. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you, Mrs. Anglewood, Mrs. Piers.”
“Ah, Miss Davish,” the other woman said, “Sister Cordelia and I are going home. We’re catching the 10:14 train.”
“Oh, Josephine, the meeting is over,” Cordelia said. “Stop calling me that.”
“But I thought you planned to stay the winter?” I said.
“I don’t have to answer to you, secretary. Come, Josephine.” Cordelia moved away, down the deserted platform. I took a step toward her.
“Sister Cordelia has suffered.” Mrs. Piers put her hand on my arm, stopping me. “Please let her go in peace.”
“But you were specifically told by the police that no temperance club member was to leave town until the investigation was concluded,” Walter said.
“The police have arrested the man from the saloon, Dr. Grice. We are no longer obligated to stay.”
“What about the temperance cause, Mrs. Piers?” I said. “What about the coalition?”
“As Sister Cordelia explained, the meeting is over, Miss Davish. Most members of the coalition are leaving or have already left. Not everyone winters here. We’ll do our good works from our respective homes now.” She too began to move away.
“Hattie.” Walter dropped his voice to a whisper. “What’s this all about?”
“What about your fallen leader? What about John Martin?” I shouted after the retreating women. “I know who killed Mrs. Trevelyan.” Both women stopped as if stunned, then turned and rushed at me. Walter stepped in, blocking their approach.
“How dare you. I didn’t kill anyone.” Cordelia Anglewood tried to strike me with her handbag. Walter snatched it away in midair.
“Then why did you threaten Mrs. Trevelyan that morning?” I said.
“You don’t have to tell them anything, Sister Cordelia,” Josephine Piers said.
“You needed money, didn’t you?” I said.
“You had no right to inquire into my private affairs,” Cordelia said.
“Don’t you know how rich Commodore Anglewood is, Miss Davish?” Mrs. Piers said.
“Yes, but I believe he’s cut his wife off from that wealth,” I said.
“That’s outlandish, Miss Davish. Why would the commodore do such a thing?” Mrs. Piers said.
“I can only speculate as to why,” I said. “But if you had access to your husband’s riches, why the need to ask your friends for money or to sell your jewelry? Why, Mrs. Anglewood?” Cordelia Anglewood stared silently at the ground, refusing to meet my eyes. “That was a final refusal from your husband, wasn’t it, that telegram that caused you visible distress at breakfast yesterday morning? Why else would you move to a budget hotel in the middle of the night, or leave Eureka Springs prematurely?”
“It’s not possible, Miss Davish,” Josephine said. “The commodore is a stanch supporter of our cause. Tell them, Sister . . . I mean, Cordelia. Tell them that Brother Gerald is our biggest contributor.” She sounded slightly panicked. “What would we do without his support? Surely he would never deny our cause its due?”
“No, Josephine, it’s true,” Cordelia said, flashing me an angry glance. “Gerald cut off my allowance. My husband, a stanch Cleveland supporter, as you know, disapproved of my increased involvement with the AWTC. He thought I was an embarrassment. He wired me, after Cleveland was elected, that I was to come home immediately. When I refused, he cut off my allowance, as well as his promised support of the coalition. I was going to have to spend everything I had to pay for the rally. I was so relieved when Mr. Martin’s unsolicited donation came through. A gift sent from God.”
Walter and I looked at one another and then back at the two women.
“You didn’t know it was blackmail money?” Walter said. “Paid to Mrs. Trevelyan to keep her silent about his involvement in her daughter’s death?”
Cordelia’s jaw tightened, her face reddened, and recognizing the expression on her countenance, both Josephine and I took a step back. “No,” she seethed.
“And that he was a known alcoholic?” Walter said.
“That I knew.” Her head snapped to one side in disgust. “I couldn’t believe it.”
“You found out at the rally, didn’t you?” I said. “I saw you arguing.”
“What a fool I must’ve looked.” Cordelia threw clenched fists into the air. “He was a disgrace, staggering about the rally for all to see. And I had praised that drunkard, in front of the entire coalition, at Magnetic Spring, of all places. I thought at least the money was his penance. And now you tell me he’s a blackmailer and a killer? It’s bad enough I have to go groveling back to Gerald. Now I’ll be the laughingstock. I’ll lose my position. I’ll . . .”
She wheeled around and slammed her fists into a pile of stacked luggage. The top two suitcases clattered to the platform floor. A porter approached but scurried away after one glaring look from Cordelia.
“Take solace that justice was done, Cordelia,” Josephine said. “It was no accident that the man slipped and hit his head on that bench. John Martin was drunk, and God’s will was at work.”
“I don’t ever want to hear that name again. For that matter, I don’t want anything more to do with this godforsaken town either,” Cordelia said. “We’re holding the annual meeting in Hot Springs next year, Josephine.”
“But Hot Springs is a town of gamblers and thieves. It’s an ideal destination for saloon smashing, I grant you, but—”
“Shut up, Josephine. Let’s go.”
“Money is a strong motive for murder, Mrs. Anglewood,” Walter said.
“I didn’t kill Edwina,” she said through clenched teeth.
“No, Mrs. Anglewood, your only crimes were ambition and pride.” I pulled out the telegram that Hank had valiantly delivered. “This was wired from your jeweler today, confirming that you were in Fayetteville secretly selling your jewelry at the time Mrs. Trevelyan was killed.”
The high-pitched whistle of steam releasing and a rush of wind ruffling our coats and hats heralded the 10:14 train.
“Then who did kill her?” Walter said.
Josephine Piers sprang around and ran.
“Catch her!” I cried.
For a brief moment, Cordelia and Walter stood there stunned, gaping after the fleeing figure. I lifted my skirts and sprinted down the platform. Walter, spurred by my action, outpaced me and caught Josephine by the wrist as she attempted to board the train. He shouted for a porter to telephone the police station. He was securing her wrists with his cravat when I reached them. Cordelia Anglewood, panting and breathless, had followed.
“Tell this girl she’s wrong, tell her . . . Josephine, how could you?” Cordelia said.
“Oh, Cordelia, I didn’t plan to,” Josephine Piers said, her shoulders drooping. “It just happened.”
“Nothing just happens.”
“Cordelia, you don’t understand. I went to speak with Mother Trevelyan that morning, to pray with her, to relish our shared victory, to celebrate our triumphant fight against the devil’s rum and . . .” Her whole body trembled.
“And you saw her, drunk,” I said.
“Yes, the woman I’d proudly stood by the night before was partaking of the very evil we fought against.”
“You lie!” Cordelia sprang at the woman, trying to slap her face. Walter jumped between the two women, taking the first blow. Several porters rushed to his aid, one man restraining Josephine, three restraining Cordelia.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Anglewood,” I said. “It’s true. I found the evidence myself. That’s why she laughed off your threat to whip her. She’d already had some gin in her morning coffee.”
Her body slackened and she shook off her restrainers. She looked at Josephine Piers and then took a long glaring look at me, her countenance full of recrimination. Without another word, she stomped away and boarded the train.
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