A Lack of Temperance (11 page)

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Authors: Anna Loan-Wilsey

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

BOOK: A Lack of Temperance
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“Yes, that’s what she told the police. And you, Miss Lizzie, told the police you were with your sister all morning. But Mary saw you coming out of the library alone.”
“Oh, I forgot about that, dear. You’re right. I went to use the telephone and returned a book I’d borrowed on the way.”
“I think you’ve forgotten your place, Davish,” her sister said coolly, rising from the table. “You accuse Cordelia when you yourself saw Cordelia walking to the stables. And now you accuse my sister Lizzie of wrongdoing? I expect an apology.”
“I am sorry if I offended you, Miss Lucy, but a woman has been murdered. Anyone could’ve done it. And until the police find the killer, even members of the coalition are suspect.”
C
HAPTER
12
I
bolted upright. Someone was trying to open my door. After tea, the Shaw sisters had insisted that I rest again. Still suffering from last night’s fall and this morning’s shocking events, I must’ve fallen asleep. The room was pitch dark. I barely remembered getting back into bed.
“Who is it?” I rose, slipping my feet to the floor. I still wore my brown and black pinstriped wool dress.
“Just the maid, ma’am.” She jostled a tray laden with a coffeepot, mug, and several covered dishes and shoved the door open with her hip. I hastened over to help her. I pushed the button on the wall, lighting the room.
“Here, ma’am. I thought you might be hungry. You’ve missed supper.”
As I fixed myself a plate, Mary poured the coffee. Despite my hunger, little on my plate looked appetizing. I struggled to eat the dishes of meat and cheese. However, the slices of vanilla pound cake were delicious. I told Mary to help herself.
“Thank you, but no. I’m actually here to give you these.” She picked up a stack of letters from the tray. “More mail for Miss Edwina. Mr. Oxnard, the desk clerk, told me to bring them to you.”
“Thank you, Mary. I suppose I am still responsible for Mrs. Trevelyan’s correspondences.”
“I don’t know what you’re gonna do with a dead woman’s letters.”
I took the letters from Mary’s outstretched hand and glanced through them. Most were similar to those I’d already seen. However, one was from the Bank of Eureka Springs. I plucked my letter opener off the desk and slashed the envelope open. It contained a bank receipt. One thousand dollars donated to the American Women’s Temperance Coalition and deposited in an account at the Bank of Eureka Springs. The name on the receipt was John Martin. I set the letter pile down, with the bank slip at the bottom.
“I’ll go through them later. But that reminds me . . .” I wrote a brief letter of my own. I had intended to write it earlier but fell asleep before I had the chance.
“Would you mind taking this to the registration desk on your way out, Mary? I would do it myself, but . . .”
The maid, taking the letter, glanced at the address. “I can take this to Dr. Grice for you, ma’am, if you want me to.”
“Oh, no, it’s too late.”
“Don’t you worry about me.” Mary waved her hand in dismissal. “I won’t be alone, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Oh . . . Oh, I see. In that case, that would be kind of you. Are you sure you don’t want some of this food?”
Mary squinched up her face and stared at me. “You’re a queer one, if I may say so, ma’am. I rather like you.”
“Thank you, Mary.” I think that was a compliment.
She tucked the letter into the pocket of her apron, hoisted the tray off the table, and with me holding the door open, disappeared down the hall, whistling. She was long out of sight when I heard her holler, “Don’t forget to take your medicine.”
I glanced at the bank receipt again before filing it away. The receipt was dated Friday, November 4, 1892.
One mystery solved,
I thought. I had spent a somber but satisfying hour sorting, organizing, answering, and filing the newest batch of Mrs. Trevelyan’s letters. I had related the news of Mrs. Trevelyan’s death to several of her correspondents when I came across the receipt again.
It was obviously from the same man as had left his calling card for Mrs. Trevelyan. John Martin must be one of the AWTC’s many supporters here for the annual meeting.
Oh, no,
I thought.
Could he also be . . . ?
I quickly leafed through one of the piles on my desk and found what I was looking for, the threatening letter signed J.M. Could this too be the same man? I hadn’t made the connection before. I read the letter again, then put a sheet of paper in my typewriter.
 
FACTS:
1.
John Martin left his calling card.
2.
A man with the name starting with an M met with Mrs. Trevelyan on Friday afternoon.
3.
Within an hour or two of that meeting, John Martin donated $1,000 to Mrs. Trevelyan’s temperance cause.
4.
A threatening letter, alluding to blackmail, was delivered by hand on Saturday or Sunday.
5.
Mrs. Trevelyan was killed on Monday.
Could all this be a coincidence? I reread my list. I don’t believe in these kinds of coincidences. I needed to tell the police.
Someone tapped on my door.
“Back already, Mary?” I said, answering the knock.
To my surprise, Josephine Piers, poised to leave, stood in the hallway. She was dressed in black and held a blue glass bottle in one hand. Her perfume filled the room as she entered uninvited.
“I’m relieved to see you well, Miss Davish. I was on my way to our election meeting upstairs and thought I should check on you. I heard you met with a nasty accident in Tibbs Alley. Then to have found Mother Trevelyan like you did. It must’ve been horrible. Whenever I picture her lying in that trunk, dead . . .” She started to gasp for air.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Piers.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“I brought this for you.” She set the bottle down on the table. It was labeled
Basin Spring Water. Bottled by Eureka Water Bottling Co.
I poured her a glass of water.
“I’m sorry for your loss. From what I’ve heard, you and Mrs. Trevelyan were close. You must be very upset.”
“Yes, Mother Trevelyan was my mentor, my guiding light.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “To find her like that, and then to lose the proposition vote after we worked so hard. Ah, what a devastating blow.” As with the Shaw sisters, I wasn’t sure what was more devastating, the murder of Mrs. Trevelyan or the defeat of the liquor law. It was baffling. “Do the police have any leads?”
“I wouldn’t know. The police haven’t spoken to me, except in the parlor this afternoon. You were there. They didn’t give us much information.”
“What about the doctor? Have you spoken to him?”
“The doctor? No, I haven’t spoken to Dr. Grice since this morning.”
“No news I can share at the meeting, then?”
“Not that I know of. Do you have any idea who might’ve done it, Mrs. Piers?”
“She’s a martyr to the cause. You’ve seen the letters, the threats.” She hung her head. “God’s will be done.”
Mary chose that moment to enter the room with little more than a quick rap for warning. Mrs. Piers leapt from the chair, clutching her chest.
“Am I interrupting something?” the maid said.
“You should knock properly, child,” Mrs. Piers said. “What do you want?”
“I have a message for Miss Hattie from Dr. Grice.”
“Well, what is it?” Mrs. Piers said.
Mary glanced at me, a flash of concern on her face, before replying. “Dr. Grice said he can call on Miss Hattie in the morning, for breakfast.”
“Ah, if that’s all, I must be going. Do let us know what he has to say, Miss Davish.” Mrs. Piers started for the door. “By the way, Sister Cordelia has chosen me to serve as coalition secretary. As such, I’ll need all of Mother Trevelyan’s papers. It seems God wanted me to be the secretary after all.” She took my face in her hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my own feelings reflected in Mary’s cringe. “He must have other plans for you.” She released me and headed for the door.
“Mrs. Piers, I don’t think—” I said.
“I’ll be in the library after luncheon tomorrow. You can give them to me then,” she said, interrupting me, and then added with a wave of her hand, “Drink the water too. It’ll do more for your health than anything Dr. Grice can give you. It’s God’s own medicine.” And without a backwards glance, she left the room.
C
HAPTER
13
T
he scent of the shortleaf pine was intoxicating. I took a long, deep breath of the fresh air. Despite my jacket and gloves, I wrapped my arms around me as I stood in front of the small, whitewashed frame chapel. I could see my breath in the stillness. I knew now why Mary came here so often.
After an entire day cooped up in the hotel, I’d been eager to stretch my legs outdoors again. Although I’d attended mass at St. Patrick’s Church in Kansas City a few days ago, the Catholic Station of Eureka Springs seemed a decidedly appropriate destination after all that had transpired since. I’d followed directions I’d received from Mr. Oxnard, the desk clerk. As Miss Lucy had mentioned that Mary Flannagan came here regularly, I had initially asked Mary for the address. Yet for some unknown reason, she aggressively discouraged my visit and refused to assist me “on account of your health, miss.” I didn’t believe her and came anyway.
Achy but rested, I had dressed before sunrise intending to hike. But by the time I reached the bottom of the Spring Street stairs, I was limping and perturbed that my injured knee might cut my outing short. The streetcar came to my rescue. I boarded at its Crescent Spring stop. The driver touched the rim of his cap as he took my coin; I was his sole passenger. We made our way down Spring Street, past Basin Circle Park, and then onto the south section of Main Street. The slow, rhythmic pace of the mule as it drew the streetcar along was soothing. I wondered why I’d never ridden it before.
I disembarked near Tablerock Spring, the streetcar’s last stop before looping back, and found the road that led to the little church, its small steeple protruding above the pines. I had to hike straight up the hill. Carriage travel on the road, little more than a muddy ditch, would’ve been near impossible. I set a slow but steady pace. My knee was throbbing by the end, but the brisk air and hushed pine forest alone had made it worth the trip.
I unlatched the gate of the white picket fence. The path and steps leading to the chapel’s front door had been swept free of pine needles. I closed the door behind me and stood still while my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Gradually I perceived the rows of wooden pews and kneeling benches. They were all empty. Against the wall to the right, a lit candle lantern cast its glow over the small table beneath it. I was drawn to the ledger left open under the light. Upon closer inspection, it was a prayer request book, with line after line of petitions for healing, money, or both. Mary Flannagan’s name appeared several times. Mixed among them was an appeal for Father Mazaret’s safe journey and another for his safe return. I flinched at a prayer request, nonspecific and unsigned, for George Shulman. Did he have anything to do with Mrs. Trevelyan’s death?
God help him if he did,
I thought.
A prayer for temperance caught my eye. Signed by a Joseph Mascavarti, it was dated Monday, November 7, the day of Mrs. Trevelyan’s death. I’d seen that name before. But where? I walked down the narrow aisle. It was elegant and simple, a sacred retreat in the woods. The sacristy was carpeted; the railing was plastered and painted white. The altar, made of highly polished wood, was adorned with a white linen cloth, a single brass candlestick, and a porcelain vase filled with white chrysanthemums. Above the altar was a large, but simple mahogany cross. Against the right wall was a small, ornately painted statue of the Virgin Mary with her arms outstretched. Two rows of pews had been shortened in order to fit a prayer stand in front of the statue.
I approached the altar and, finding matches, lit the candle. I intended to pray for Mrs. Trevelyan’s soul, for her friends and family, and for the American Women’s Temperance Coalition, a cause close to her heart. I intended to pray for myself. Instead I sat in the front pew, watched the light flicker on the whitewashed clapboards, and reflected on what I knew about the late Mrs. Trevelyan. Although I had never actually met her, I knew that like the temperance coalition, she wasn’t all she appeared to be. Temperance crusader and friend to my patron, Sir Arthur Windom-Greene, she was a woman who was both revered and despised, both generous and demanding, who preached temperance and tolerance but resorted to violence and blackmail. She was unlike any employer I had ever had. Did Sir Arthur know what an awkward situation this would put me in? Did he know about her “saloon smashing” crusades? I couldn’t imagine that he’d suggest me for this assignment if he did.
The longer I sat there, mesmerized by the shadow play on the wall, the more disturbing the thoughts that came into my mind. Could I have prevented her death? What if I’d been more persistent in meeting with her face-to-face, would she still be alive? Would Sir Arthur think me derelict in my duties? I knew the answer to all of these questions was no, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something. Someone had killed her, but who?
The list of possible suspects was growing. Mrs. Trevelyan had received a myriad of letters threatening her, any one of whose writers could’ve followed through on their threats. The coalition itself was fractured, with only a small faction agreeing with Mrs. Trevelyan’s violent policies. The opposing majority was vocal, and almost as hostile in its dissent, if Mrs. Anglewood’s protests and threats were any indication. Even Mary Flannagan, her chambermaid, was bitter about something and was vehement that Mrs. Trevelyan should’ve been punished for the rampage at the saloon. And of course, there was the saloonkeeper.
Did he also attack me? If not, who did?
I shuddered.
How did I get mixed up in all this? I’m a shorthand and typewriter girl trying just to make a living. Now my employer’s dead.
Suddenly the door opened and the candles flickered. I leapt to my feet, jolted out of my reverie.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
I felt my way back to the altar and faced the door. A small man stood with his back against the wall, light from the candle reflecting off something metal in his breast pocket. He turned his hat in his hands.
“Hello,” I said again. The man’s silence was unnerving. His lips moved, but he didn’t reply. “It’s so quiet in here, the door startled me.”
He cracked open the door. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“That’s all right. Please come in. I don’t mind.” As I walked down the aisle toward him, sun shining through a crack shed light on his face. He had black hair and wore a thick, bushy mustache. Red blotches sprawled across his skin.
“Well, I do.” He jerked the door open wider and slipped outside.
The candle in my hand blew out, so I set it down on the table and followed him out. I discovered him, after a minute or two of searching, leaning sideways against a pine tree. His shoes and the knees of his pants were caked in mud. In the full light, the blotches on his face appeared to be due less to illness than to intoxication. He took a swig from a flask.
“Sir?” I said.
He jumped, hiding his flask in his coat.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t. I mean, what do you want?” he grumbled as he rested back against the tree.
“You can have the chapel to yourself now, if you’d like. I need to leave anyway.” For the first time he looked me in the eye. His were bloodshot. “By the way, I’m Miss Hattie Davish, Mr....?”
“I know who you are. Now leave me alone.” He pushed past me and stumbled over an unearthed tree root. “I mean it. Shut up and go away!” he shouted, staggering toward the chapel yard.
Startled, I scrambled down the hill, away from the chapel, without looking back. As before, I stayed on the dry ridge of the road but noticed a new irregular trail of boot prints in the mud. By the time I caught the streetcar on Main Street, I concluded that the man was probably the intemperate Mr. Mascavarti from the prayer request book, or someone like him.
Maybe the coalition members should hold a meeting up there,
I thought, as I boarded the streetcar. I tried to put the unsettling encounter out of my mind and focus on the more pleasant encounter to come.
But what did he mean, “I know who you are?”
 
“It’s extraordinary to see you up at this hour, Walt. And not on a house call?”
A voice boomed across the lobby of the Arcadia Hotel. The rotund gentleman to whom it belonged reposed in a wicker-backed chair to the right of the grand fireplace. With his shoes on the floor, he perched his stocking feet on the hearth of the fire. The comment was addressed to the man standing in front of the fireplace, rocking back and forth on his heels, warming his hands.
“In a way, you could call it a house call, Sam. I’m here to visit a lady.”
Sam lifted his hand in the air. “Say no more, my friend.” He turned his head in time to see my labored approach.
“Excuse me, Dr. Grice?” I said.
Dr. Walter Grice whirled around, his face flushed from the fire. The rotund gentleman chuckled under his breath.
“Miss Davish, good morning. You surprised me.” The doctor raised an eyebrow. “I expected you to be resting upstairs, not walking through the front doors.” He gestured toward his companion. “Miss Hattie Davish, I would like to introduce you to my good friend, the Honorable Judge Samuel Senrow. Sam, Miss Hattie Davish.” I took a few more steps forward. “Miss Davish, you’re limping. Here, let me help you.”
“I’m fine, thank you, Dr. Grice. My knee aches a little. That’s all.”
Judge Senrow took my hand without rising. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Davish.” He cast a sideways glance at Walter Grice. “Now I see why the good doctor was out of bed so early this morning.”
“Miss Davish is a patient, Sam.” I cringed at this appellation.
“And such a pretty ‘patient’ too.” The judge winked at me. Walter Grice studied the floor.
“Dr. Grice has been a friend to us all during this difficult time. I was Mrs. Edwina Trevelyan’s secretary. You may’ve heard of her untimely death?”
The Honorable Judge Senrow bobbed his head and puckered his lips. “Sad business, that.”
“Judge Senrow is acting coroner for this case,” the doctor said. A police officer approached and motioned for the judge to join him.
“We’ll talk later, Walt. Nice to meet you, young woman.” He slipped back into his shoes and snatched up the haircloth hat on the seat next to him. “Stay out of trouble, you two.” He excused himself and left.
 
“Thank you for meeting me,” I said.
Dr. Walter Grice sat across from me at the breakfast table. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, though from your limp, I’m not sure an early-morning stroll was a wise decision. Did you take the medicine?”
“I feel much better, Dr. Grice. You don’t need to be concerned about me.”
“Regardless, you should take it. I’ll have someone fetch it for you.”
“Please, Dr. Grice.”
“I insist.” He called over a waiter, who then sent someone to my room.
“Thank you, but I certainly didn’t ask you to meet me to discuss my health.”
His eyes twinkled, like the first time we had met. “Ah, you want to know about Mrs. Trevelyan. By the way, please, call me Walter.”
I hesitated, not knowing how to respond. Hadn’t we met but five days ago? Were Christian names appropriate? Wasn’t he my doctor, and I Mrs. Trevelyan’s secretary? Had I let my professionalism slip, just for the sake of a handsome face?
“You’re staring, Dr. Grice.”
“Do you mind?” Walter Grice regarded me, his thoughts a mystery, for several interminable moments. I dropped my eyes to the linen napkin on my lap. A profusion of honeysuckle flowers had been stitched in one corner. “Are we not friends, Miss Davish?”
“Yes,” I said. Unlike any physician of my acquaintance, he had demonstrated competence from the moment we met. He’d been gracious, patient, and kind, and had come to my aid more than once already. I pictured myself, unconscious, being carried in his strong arms from the basement of the hotel to my room. “Yes, I do hope so.”
“Then I don’t understand your hesitation. I grant that we are newly acquainted, but haven’t we already seen some adventures together? Or is it because you’re a patient? If so, let me reassure you, I keep my professional life separate from my private life.”
“That’s just it,” I said. “I don’t have the luxury of separate professional and private lives. I have a reputation to uphold, in both cases.”
“Ah.” He fell silent for several moments. “Would it make a difference if you knew that my intentions were honorable?” I stole a quick glance at his face. No smile played about his lips, no mischievous twinkle lit his eyes; he was in earnest.
My heart pounded, my hands felt hot. I pressed my palms on the cool linen tablecloth. “But,” was all the protest I could muster.
“I’d like to get to know you better, Miss Davish. I’d like to spend more time in your company.” He reached for my hand. “If this is agreeable to you, please call me Walter. All my friends do.”
What could I say? That our positions in life were vastly different? That as an orphan girl, with no dowry but what she could earn with her own hands and wit, I was no match for a gentleman doctor? That the transient nature of my work hindered my making attachments of any kind? What could I possibly say but, “And, if you’d like, Walter, my friends call me Hattie.”

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