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Authors: Anna Loan-Wilsey

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BOOK: A Lack of Temperance
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He pointed to his bandaged head. “Is this a disruption? Those women cracked open my skull and almost burned down in one night what I’ve spent my whole life building.” As he let go of the door, someone from inside pushed a chair against it, propping it open. The room beyond was dim, but I could see outlines of men gathering near the open doorway.
He advanced toward me. “You say she’s missing? Do you think I care if she’s missing? You have no idea what that woman has cost me.”
“Good riddance, huh, George,” a voice from inside shouted.
“Have you seen her since Sunday, Mr. Shulman?” I said, ignoring the taunt.
“I don’t know what you’re implying, miss. But I was here all day; I’m here every day.”
“Unless you’re out campaigning,” another voice from inside shouted. “Shulman for city council!”
Someone else chanted, “Vote No on 203, Vote No on 203,” his feet stomping on the wooden floor, mimicking the marchers. Several men laughed.
George Shulman, ignoring the ruckus behind him, stopped within inches of my face. “I hope I never lay eyes on that woman again. I could kill her for what she’s done to me.”
He stomped back into the saloon, shoving the chair away and slamming the door behind him.
“Kill her?”
Did I hear him right?
“Miss Davish?” My ears were ringing and someone was calling my name. “Miss Davish? Are you all right?” Walter Grice, grasping me by the wrist, glanced at his pocket watch. Taking a few deep breaths, I extricated my wrist from the gentleman’s grip.
“You’ll have to forgive George, Miss Davish. His behavior is inexcusable.”
I straightened my hat. “It’s a relief to know he’s not always like this.”
“No, the Cavern is known as much for its hospitality as it is for its brawls; its proprietor is very popular. George Shulman may even be our new city councilman. No, he’s not all bad, Miss Davish. He didn’t mean what he said, I assure you.”
We stood in silence for a moment or two. A beautiful tenor voice began singing somewhere inside the saloon. The song, met with rowdy applause, was jovial, but I couldn’t understand the words.
“You see,” Walter Grice said, tilting his head toward the source of the music, “that’s typical George; he’s already forgotten about your row.”
I knew I wouldn’t soon forget. “It was nice to make your acquaintance, again, Mr. Grice, but I must be going.” I turned to leave.
“Let me walk you to your hotel, Miss Davish, if that’s where you’re going. It will be dark soon. Let me escort you back.”
“That’s very kind of you, but . . .”
“It’s the least I can do.”
Mr. Grice did seem charming, and an escort would be prudent given that night was fast approaching. But the exchange with George Shulman had left my ears ringing and my hands shaking. I needed the solitary walk back to the Arcadia to calm my nerves.
“Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”
The song in the saloon stopped short, and then we heard shouting and the sound of shattering glass. Before Walter Grice could comment, I hurried away.
 
It
was
getting late. And I was full of self-reproach before I even reached the Tibbs Alley stairwell. The once-crowded street was quiet of wagon traffic. The horses were all stabled and the marble players were gone. Only the men loitering outside saloons remained. The farmers and the shopkeepers were safely sitting by their firesides, not wandering past saloons, which were blazing with light and full to capacity with questionable characters. The warm glow of the gas street lamps on the faces of the people I passed only reminded me of my foolishness. What was I thinking? The saloonkeeper had threatened to kill Mrs. Trevelyan. Was he in earnest or merely making a boisterous, but harmless claim? Either way, I should never have gone to the saloon. Wanting the quickest route back to the hotel, I began climbing the alley stairs.
With buildings towering up on either side three and four stories high, the only patch of light came from a single lamp, about a third of the way up, illuminating a fragment of an advertisement painted on the wall,
& Sons, Furnishers, Guaranteed
. Music and laughter coming from nearby establishments were swallowed up in the stillness around me as I reached the dim glow of the lantern. I paused in the circle of its light and peered down at the street below. A young couple, arm in arm, strolled by, the streetlight reflecting off the white heron feathers on the girl’s hat. Their lighthearted banter persisted as they passed out of sight. I adjusted my bonnet, imagining the wares in Mrs. Cunningham’s window and, hesitating only slightly when I turned to face the darkness above, continued climbing with renewed vigor.
When did I become so skittish?
Two flights of stairs from the top, the alley was pitch dark and I had to use the rail to guide me. I barely missed kicking an empty bottle sitting on the landing. A waft of liquor drifted from an unlit doorway. As I bent to move it, a figure lurched out directly in front of me. In the darkness, I could only make out the outlines of a cloak and hat. I stood up and stepped back, losing my balance. Two hands reached out and seized my shoulders. But instead of attempting to steady me, they shook me frantically.
“You.” The voice seethed with rage.
“Let me go,” I said.
“Why couldn’t you leave it alone?”
“Let me go.”
“Why couldn’t you keep your stupid mouth shut?”
“Let me go!”
I kicked out and struck a blow with the heel of my boot. The figure yelped, releasing me from his grip. Futilely grasping for a hold, I screamed, powerless to stop my backwards fall. For a few heartbeats, I was airborne. I tried to brace my fall with my hands but my knee hit first, tossing me hard onto my back farther down the stairs. I gasped for breath. Something wet dripped down my face and I could taste blood in my mouth. Cold air pierced the exposed skin on my shoulders and legs; my stockings were in shreds. My right foot was tangled in the torn hem of my dress. My knee throbbed and the palms of my hands stung. I could feel what was left of my bonnet crumpled beneath me, the ribbon band still attached to the hatpin in my hair. But thank goodness, I’d stopped falling.
A man shouted from the street below. Glass shattered as the single lantern crashed against the wall, plunging the alley into complete darkness. I attempted to get up. The sound of advancing footsteps echoed in my ears as the sliver of sky between the buildings momentarily cleared to reveal a brilliant field of stars. Then everything went black.
C
HAPTER
8
“W
ake up, Miss Davish.” A soft, warm hand lightly tapped my cheek. “Come on, now, wake up.”
Go away,
I thought, groaning at the disruption of my sleep.
“That a girl. Now open your eyes.” Sunlight flooded the room as Walter Grice’s concerned face hovered above me. I bolted upright, holding the sheet to my chin. He took a step back.
“Mr. Grice, what are you doing here?”
My bandaged hands stung and blood rushed to my head. I was in my bed at the Arcadia Hotel. The memory of the night before flooded back as I sank into the pillows. I gingerly touched my ribs. I felt a bandage on my forehead and knew I’d find similar ones on my shoulder and knee. My head pounded. My whole body ached.
“Everything’s all right, dear.” Miss Lizzie patted my hand from the other side of the bed. I hadn’t noticed her before. Miss Lucy and Mary Flannagan stood behind her. “You’re in good hands with Dr. Grice.”
“Dr. Grice?” I said. “You didn’t tell me you were a physician.”
“Have you two already met?” Miss Lucy asked.
“Yes, twice,” the doctor said, grinning.
“But you could say we weren’t properly introduced,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Miss Davish,” the doctor said. “Under Sunday’s circumstances, I thought it was obvious and didn’t need mentioning. You don’t have anything against the medical profession, do you?” He laughed as he held my wrist and glanced at his watch.
I said nothing, but tried to pull my hand away.
Dr. Grice raised his head, his smile gone. “Not crazy about physicians, eh, Miss Davish?” I bit back my reply.
“You’ve suffered several lesions and abrasions, not to mention a possible concussion or broken rib. I recommend a complete examination, but . . .”
“But if I’m merely suffering from cuts and bruises, then there’s no need,” I said, inching to the other side of the bed. My skin felt clammy and cold.
“Hattie, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “Dr. Grice is an excellent physician. There’s no need to worry. You’re in good hands.”
I sat up, slower this time, and faced Miss Lizzie, my back to the doctor and his expression of concern.
“Oh, I’m sure he is. But I don’t need a physician.” I removed the bandage from my head. “See? I’m quite all right now.” To avoid witnessing Mary Flannagan dispose of the bloody bandage, I focused on the fresh pile of correspondences on the desk. “And I have work to do.”
“Oh, your work can wait, Davish,” Miss Lucy said.
“Don’t be afraid, dear. Lucy and I have known Dr. Grice for years. He’s our physician whenever we’re in town.” I began to shake. “He attends most of our friends as well.”
“Did you know that if it wasn’t for Dr. Grice, Davish, you might still be lying in Tibbs Alley?” Miss Lucy said.
“It’s a blessing, dear, that he was so close at hand.”
“Dr. Grice heard you scream,” Mary Flannagan said. “You were bleeding all over.” She held up the bloody bandage as proof. The room began to spin as waves of dizziness washed over me. “You’ve been unconscious all night.”
“Davish, the way you’re acting, you’d think the man pushed you down the stairs,” Miss Lucy grumbled. “Now sit up and let him examine you.”
I glanced at Walter Grice’s face, but couldn’t read his expression.
“Must you?” I closed my eyes and clutched the sheet to my chin.
“It’s all right, Miss Davish. I’ve seen enough for today.” I dropped back into the pillows, relieved. “Promise me, though, that you’ll get plenty of rest. I’ve left an elixir with the maid. It’s to be taken for the pain twice a day.”
I eyed the bottle on the nightstand, nodded, and was grateful to watch him pack up his medical bag. He left instructions with the maid and said good-bye to the elderly sisters. My heart pounded in my chest when he approached my bed again and leaned in close. Was it from the gleam in his eye or the fact that I might not have averted the examination after all? I wasn’t sure.
“I’ll be in your debt, Miss Davish, if you don’t mention where we met.” He glanced over his shoulder at the Shaw sisters and then winked at me. “I’m not sure they would approve.” I closed my eyes and inhaled the sweet scent of his shaving cologne.
“Rest now. I’ll be back to check on you later.” To my surprise, I almost looked forward to it.
“What were you doing in Tibbs Alley, Davish? And at night?” Miss Lucy said the moment the doctor shut the door behind him. “You may excel at what you do, but you certainly don’t know what you’re doing. No common sense whatsoever.”
“I wanted to speak with George Shulman, the man who owns the bar.”
“You went into a saloon?” Miss Lucy said, flabbergasted. “I’m extremely disappointed in you, Davish. I think we’ve misjudged you. We thought you were respectable and knew your place.”
“But Lucy, dear, Sir Arthur knows Hattie and is an excellent judge of character. He wouldn’t have recommended her to Edwina if she was ‘that kind of girl.’ There must be some kind of mistake.”
“There has been a mistake,” I said. “I never entered the bar. I would never do that. I simply went there to speak to the owner, George Shulman.”
“And,” Miss Lucy said, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
“I spoke to him for less than five minutes, saw that it was getting dark, and left.”
“Well then, everything is all right, dear. Isn’t it, Lucy?” Miss Lizzie giggled, her eyes darting back and forth between me and Miss Lucy.
“I suppose. What did the barman say?” Miss Lucy said, her anger submitting to her curiosity.
“That he hadn’t seen Mrs. Trevelyan since Sunday night. He was quite upset that I would even ask.”
“Yes, I suppose he would. He’s a devil, that one,” Miss Lucy said. “We haven’t heard yet about yesterday’s vote, but if it fails, he’s the one to blame. Well, was it worth it?”
I touched my tender ribs and considered the question. I’d been attacked, but I had also gleaned a valuable impression of George Shulman, of which Mrs. Trevelyan must be told. And I’d met Walter Grice again.
“Yes, I think maybe it was.”
“Well, I hope so, Davish. If you rode down the middle of the road like Lady Godiva, you couldn’t have gotten yourself into a worse predicament. You’re lucky the doctor was considerate enough not to leave you there. Despite his respectability, people will still talk, you know.”
“You do take chances, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “A woman at night, alone.”
“Whatever were you thinking?” Miss Lucy chided. “It was dark. You should’ve been more careful and watched where you were going. Maybe you wouldn’t have tripped.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have been out after dark. But I didn’t do it on purpose, Miss Lucy. Someone deliberately pushed me down the stairs.”
“Oh, dear.” Miss Lizzie patted my hand again. “I had no idea. We had no idea, did we, Lucy? We all thought you tripped. Who could’ve done such a thing?”
“I don’t know. It was too dark; I couldn’t see who it was. He grabbed me by the shoulders and jerked me around. I tried to break free, then he pushed me and I lost my balance.”
“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, her hand at her throat. “You could’ve been killed. Why would anyone want to harm you?”
“I think it has something to do with Mrs. Trevelyan,” I said.
“Edwina? Why would you think that?” Miss Lucy asked.
“Because someone wants me to stop asking questions.”
I told them what my assailant said. I described the confrontation with George Shulman a few minutes before the attack. As he requested, I left out that Dr. Grice had introduced us.
“It could’ve been George Shulman; it could’ve been someone else from the bar who overheard us,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“George Shulman is a violent man. You should go to the police, dear.”
“The police weren’t too cooperative yesterday, Miss Lizzie,” I said. “I don’t think today will be any different.”
“But your fall? An assault on a respectable young woman. . .”
“Won’t change a thing, Lizzie,” her sister said. “You know as well as I do the police are not sympathetic to the coalition or its cause. Besides, what do you know about George Shulman?”
“But there must be something we can do, Lucy, dear.”
“No, Lizzie, now let’s go. Davish needs her sleep. I’ve seen mothers of newborn triplets look more rested.”
“And Mrs. Trevelyan?” I asked.
“Still inexplicably absent, I’m afraid,” Miss Lizzie said.
The sisters rose simultaneously, and admonishing me again to rest, closed the door behind them. I obliged and drifted into a dreamless sleep until the door burst open, striking the wall. With the door’s crash reverberating in my aching head, Mary Flannagan stormed into the room.
“It’s the police, miss. If you’re up to it, you might want to get over there. Those lousy coppers are at it again.”
I fumbled with my sheets, struggled into my robe, and stumbled out of bed, pausing long enough for my nausea to settle down. I followed Mary as fast as my bandaged knee would allow. The police were searching Mrs. Trevelyan’s room. Three men rummaged through drawers, the wardrobe, the bed linen and mattress as Miss Lizzie watched from the doorway. Upon seeing me, she shooed away the maid and tried to persuade me to go back to bed. I recognized the tall, black-haired man in charge. He was wiping dust from the sword fern’s leaves.
“Chief Jackson, has something happened?” I asked.
The policeman turned and his face flushed.
“Please excuse her attire, Officer,” Miss Lizzie said. “Miss Davish has been recovering next door due to a terrible fall last night. As you can see, she’s been quite rattled and doesn’t quite know what’s she’s doing.” I’d forgotten I was standing there in my dressing gown and robe. “You’ll be able to talk with her after she’s had more rest.”
“Well, ma’am, miss, there isn’t much to talk about.”
“There most certainly is something to talk about,” Miss Lizzie admonished. “Officer, this young woman was viciously assaulted. Someone pushed her down the Tibbs Alley stairwell.”
“Ma’am, if you’ve got a complaint to file, do it at the precinct. We’ve got important work to do here.”
“But, Officer, Miss Davish could’ve been killed. Isn’t that important enough for you?”
“Ma’am, this town was built into the side of mountains and has thousands of stairs. People fall down them every day. Invalids and women should know better than to be walking around this town alone at night. Now, as I said, I’ve got work to do.” He turned his back on us.
“You’re officially investigating Mrs. Trevelyan’s disappearance, aren’t you?” I said.
Chief Jackson glanced back at me.
“Miss Davish, is it?” I nodded. “Miss Davish, Mrs. Trevelyan is wanted for assault and destruction of property. So, yes, we’re trying to determine the suspect’s whereabouts.”
“Sir?” One of the other officers held up a silver-plated hand mirror. It had been shattered. “Found it under the dresser.”
“Good job, Norris. Now look for glass.” The officer dropped to his knees and searched the carpet. “Good day, ladies.” The chief dismissed us with a wave of his hand.
“But why are you searching her room now?” I watched as the policeman on the floor gathered up tiny pieces of glass. “Yesterday you said . . .”
“Yesterday I didn’t have, ah, certain facts. Now,” he said, escorting us to the door, “if y’all don’t mind.”
Behind him one of the other officers flipped a suitcase upside down on the bed. It was empty. Another dumped hatboxes on the floor, with no regard to their contents’ delicate embellishments. Broken flowers, feathers, and bits of straw were scattered across the carpet.
“You should be more careful with those,” I said.
“Keep at it, Thompson,” Chief Jackson said, pushing us through the doorway.
“But Miss Davish was attacked,” Miss Lizzie said. “If I had known how uncooperative you’d be—”
“Like I said, ma’am, file a complaint. As you can see, I’m busy right now. I don’t have time to indulge the whim of every woman who demands my attention.”
“Sir, I found some more. But this didn’t come from the mirror.” The officer on the floor held up a large piece of clear, thick glass.
“You can be assured, I will most definitely be filing a complaint,” Miss Lizzie said.
“Fine. Now good day to you, ladies. Let’s have a look at that, Norris,” Chief Jackson said, herding us out of the room and closing the door. “Burke, is that all the luggage?”
BOOK: A Lack of Temperance
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