A Lack of Temperance (13 page)
“Good.” Walter scooped up water from the spring with his hands and drank. He sat on the long stone bench that had been built out of the cavern wall. In a hushed voice, he said, “Take a seat, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Asphyxiation? Are you sure?” I followed Walter’s example and whispered.
Walter had accompanied the police when they had removed the trunk and Mrs. Trevelyan’s remains to the police station. There, in the presence of Chief Jackson and Judge Senrow, he had completed a thorough external examination of the dead woman’s body and had learned more than he had led us to believe. Mrs. Trevelyan had been killed at least two days ago, though the precise day and time were too difficult to tell; her body had already begun to decompose. He found a gash in her head and tiny pieces of glass embedded in her scalp. Dried blood had clotted in her hair and dripped on the same side of her face and neck. The blood on her clothes could’ve come from the gash on her head, but Walter wasn’t positive. But the blue tints he found around her lips and fingernails, he explained, were signs of suffocation. Walter reiterated that a postmortem examination might lead to more definite conclusions.
“It could’ve been massive head trauma, but I don’t think so.” Walter used the same calm but firm tone he reverted to when discussing professional matters. “The gash on her head, although producing a lot of blood, didn’t appear significant enough to have killed her.”
“Did someone hit her with a looking glass?” I told him how the police had found a shattered mirror hidden beneath the dresser.
“No, the cuts were too deep. I’d say she was hit over the head with something larger, maybe a water bottle, like the ones you saw in her room.” I recalled the large glass fragment the police found on Mrs. Trevelyan’s carpet.
“And then they suffocated her?” I said.
“Perhaps, though the clothes in the trunk would’ve been sufficient to do the job; I didn’t see anything under her fingers to suggest a struggle.”
“Could she have been knocked senseless first?”
“Now, that’s a real possibility,” Walter said. “It would’ve been simple to suffocate her before she regained consciousness.”
“It could’ve been a man or a woman then, couldn’t it?” I said.
“I think a man most likely. They would’ve had to carry or drag her body to the trunk. Mrs. Trevelyan was petite, but unconscious she would’ve been more difficult to lift.”
“But there weren’t any bloodstains apparent on the carpet.” I watched the water trickle down the stone and drip into the spring pool. “Could it have been an accident? Could someone have hit her, seen the blood, and thought she was already dead?”
“And then inadvertently killed her by stuffing her in her trunk?” Walter said, finishing my thought. He stroked his mustache. “It’s possible. Air supply would be limited inside a locked trunk.”
“And if Mrs. Trevelyan never regained consciousness, never yelled out for help?” I said.
“Or if she did, being down in the storage room, no one heard?” Walter added.
“Hello there!”
Walter and I jumped as two young boys who had been clambering on the hill above us dropped down over the rocky overhang at the mouth of the cave. They each had two large tin pails, which they filled after some time with the slow-moving spring water and then hoisted onto their shoulders. Walter and I said hello to them but waited to speak to each other until the boys started their ascent up the hill and their boisterous voices could no longer be heard. In those few minutes of silence, the full reality of Mrs. Trevelyan’s plight hit me.
“How horrid,” I said. Walter slid his hand toward me. I grasped it. “We must find out who did this, Walter.”
“We? Hattie, I’m flattered, but we don’t know the first thing about being detectives. With all due respect to the Shaw sisters, the police are the best ones to handle this.”
I let his hand go. “How can we trust they’ll investigate this? They’re not even looking for the man who attacked me.”
“And I’m sorry for that. But this is a murder case. Let’s leave it to the police to find Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer.”
“Did Chief Jackson or Officer Burke tell you what brought them to the Arcadia Hotel in the first place? My appeal fell on deaf ears. At the time, Chief Jackson was unwilling to follow up on Mrs. Trevelyan’s disappearance.”
“They didn’t tell me anything about that.”
“I’m curious,” I said, turning to face him directly. “Why didn’t you tell me what you’d learned before, at breakfast?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure the Shaw sisters need to know any of this.” He felt about the autopsy as I had about the elusive John Martin. We were both protecting the old ladies from distress and any premature details from the rumor mill. A smile crept across Walter’s face.
“And . . . ,” I said, squinting my eyes in suspicion.
“And until the police release this information, I’m relying on your discretion, again.”
“I’m famous for my discretion, Dr. Grice. You keep your patients’ secrets, and I keep my employers’.”
“Rightly so.”
“And . . .”
“And . . .” He chuckled under his breath. “And I got you to promise to take a mineral bath, didn’t I?”
C
HAPTER
15
HAPTER
15
“D
r. Grice must be late again.”
r. Grice must be late again.”
The doorman, wearing a gray top hat, chuckled as Walter’s carriage careered down the drive. “Or else he’s showing off that new imported spider phaeton. Only doctor in town that doesn’t drive a Goddard wagon. Only doctor in town that risks breaking his neck too.”
What more did the doorman know about Walter? I suppressed my curiosity and instead quizzed him on Mrs. Trevelyan and the temperance women. He didn’t know much, commenting that “one old lady looks like the next.” Once in my room, I fulfilled my last official duty as Mrs. Trevelyan’s secretary, collecting all of her papers for Mrs. Piers. Then, free from obligation, I rushed to my typewriter to record everything Walter had said.
In danger of becoming disorganized, I constructed updated lists of questions and facts. When I’d thoroughly considered all points, I sat back and examined my work. The list of questions was far longer than that of the facts, too long; I didn’t know where to begin. I began prioritizing the questions and kept coming back to the trunk. I started a separate list.
1.Who did Mrs. Trevelyan speak to about the trunk? And when?
2.When was the trunk moved to the basement?
3.Were other trunks or cases moved to or from Mrs. Trevelyan’s room that day?
4.Had the trunk been moved within Mrs. Trevelyan’s room that day?
5.Was there a lock on the trunk when it was moved? Before it was moved?
I continued on in this way, grouping questions from the master list into smaller, more manageable new lists. The questions that didn’t belong to any other list, I marked
Miscellaneous
. Satisfied, I gathered my packet for Mrs. Piers, selected a couple of lists to work on, and set out to find the young bellboy.
Miscellaneous
. Satisfied, I gathered my packet for Mrs. Piers, selected a couple of lists to work on, and set out to find the young bellboy.
Owen was coming out of a suite on the fourth floor, pushing an overloaded luggage cart. “Sorry, miss, but I’ve got to get this luggage downstairs. These folks are fixin’ to catch a train.”
“I only have a few questions.”
“Oh, all right, but you’ll have to be quick.”
I walked beside him. “Did Mrs. Trevelyan speak to you about moving the steamer trunk?”
“Ah, miss, I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
“Please, Owen. Could you tell me what you told them?”
He stopped and pushed the call button for the elevator. “As I told the police, I never spoke to or saw Mrs. Trevelyan.”
“Do you know who she did speak to?”
“No.”
“Well, do you know when the trunk was picked up from her room?”
“Yeah, around eleven
A.M.
on Monday. I saw to it myself.”
A.M.
on Monday. I saw to it myself.”
“If you didn’t speak to her about it or know who did, then how did you know Mrs. Trevelyan wanted it sent back to storage? The trunk was meant for a charity.”
“I had my instructions. As I told the police, the lady had sent her new instructions to the desk.”
“New instructions?”
“Sure, her trunk was supposed to go to the depot on Tuesday. Like you said, for a charity. She must’ve changed her mind.”
The elevator arrived. With the help of the elevator attendant, Owen maneuvered the cart inside. “Sorry, miss,” the attendant said, “you’ll have to wait for the next one.”
“Owen, who gave you those instructions?”
“Mr. Oxnard, he was the clerk on duty.” As the doors slid closed, he said, “Sorry, gotta go.”
I glanced at my list. There were still a few questions I needed to ask. I bounded down the stairs, my knee no longer paining me after taking Walter’s tincture at breakfast. I had to admit that my whole body felt better. Owen was outside, loading the luggage onto a wagon. He laughed when he saw me.
“Don’t give up, do you?” he said.
“I’ve got a few more questions, if that’s all right.”
“Go ahead,” he said, turning back to his work.
“Do you remember a lock on the trunk?”
“Sure. I heard the police had to break it to get the lady out.”
“Did you move anything else that day for Mrs. Trevelyan?”
“No, just the trunk.”
“Do you happen to remember when you got the new instructions?”
“It must’ve been just before we moved the trunk. She wanted it done right away.”
“Any idea why?” I asked.
“Sorry, that’s all I know.” He scrambled up next to the driver. “Hope that’s it. We gotta go.”
“One last question. Where in the room was the trunk when you picked it up?”
Owen scrunched his eyebrows together and frowned. “That’s a new one. I hadn’t thought about it before.”
He bit his lip as both the driver and I waited. The two horses bobbed their heads and snorted.
“That’s funny,” he said. “It was by the tea table. Some of the chairs had been moved back, out of the way, kinda. Usually guests store the luggage out of the way, next to a wall, at the foot of the bed, that sort of thing. Guess Mary thought it easier to pack it from there. Oh well, if that’s all, ma’am. Let’s go,” the lad said to the driver, who whipped the horses into motion.
I too was spurred into action. I hurried to the ladies’ parlor and snatched up a pen. I leaned over an end table and jotted down the answers Owen had given me. I also added several new items to my questions list.
6.Did Mary move the trunk near the tea table?
7.If not, who did? Why?
8.Why did Mrs. Trevelyan change her mind about shipping the trunk?
9.When did she change her mind?
10.Did she change her mind?
I stood up and noticed three women, needlework on their laps, with their mouths gaping open on the other side of the room. I tipped my head, then scurried out to the registration desk.
The same stoic clerk, Mr. Oxnard, who’d registered me on Sunday worked behind the desk. I asked if he would answer a few questions.
“I’m sorry about your boss, but I’ve already told everything I know to the police.”
“Would you mind answering a few of my questions? I won’t take much of your time.” He dropped his elbows on the desk, propping up his chin in his hands, and sighed. “Did you speak with Mrs. Trevelyan about having her trunk moved?”
“No.”
“But Owen said that you instructed him to do so.”
“I said that I didn’t speak to Mrs. Trevelyan.”
“Then you did receive the request to have her trunk moved?”
“When did she make it?”
“I don’t know exactly,” I said. “That’s what I’m hoping to determine, when and why. Owen thinks the new instructions came sometime late Monday morning.”
“If something was requested on Monday, I would’ve gotten it,” he said. “As you know, I was working on Monday.”
“Then you do remember getting the request?”
“No.”
“What about the request to deliver the trunk to the depot?”
“I wouldn’t know without seeing the specific instructions.”
“Then you keep requests on file?”
“No.”
“But Mrs. Trevelyan’s was a written request? Could she have brought it down herself?”
“Never. If she needed something, someone else, usually her secretary or one of the maids, would deliver the request to the desk.”
“So who delivered this one?”
“I have no idea.”
“Mr. Oxnard, do you remember anything about Mrs. Trevelyan’s request to have her trunk moved on Monday, either to the storage room or the train depot?”
“No,” the clerk said. At this moment, a man in a black poplin hat arrived and waited to be served. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more service. You could speak to the manager.”
“Would he know about Mrs. Trevelyan’s request?”
“No, he wasn’t working on Monday. I was.”
“Well then, no, thank you, that won’t be necessary.” I stepped aside, but not quickly enough, as the new guest knocked into me as he approached the desk. I nearly dropped the packet of Mrs. Trevelyan’s papers.
“Actually, I do have one more question.” The new arrival began tapping his foot. “Among Mrs. Trevelyan’s papers, there was a letter marked
Give to secretary.
Do you know anything about that, Mr. Oxnard?” To my surprise, he did.
Give to secretary.
Do you know anything about that, Mr. Oxnard?” To my surprise, he did.
“I addressed them myself after they were found by a cleaning maid, slipped under Mrs. Trevelyan’s door.”
“Them?” I said. “There was more than one?”
“Of course, there’s been a couple. Last one was found Monday morning. I had it sent up immediately.”
“To me?”
“Aren’t you the woman’s secretary?” He turned to the new guest. “Didn’t know she was dead then, did we?”
I tried to occupy myself while I waited for Mrs. Piers in the library. Mahogany wood shelves stretched from the floor to the ceiling on all four walls; the entry door and two French doors facing east were the only breaks in their continuity. Overstuffed leather chairs were scattered about the room, a few with matching ottomans. End tables, each with a lamp, were stacked with variously sized piles of books. I browsed the shelves and found an old edition of
Gray’s School and Field Book of Botany
. I flipped through its pages but had difficulty concentrating. I didn’t remember the letter the clerk said he sent me. In all of my years of service, I had never mislaid a letter. But then I’d never had an engagement like this one. Regardless, it was inexcusable. I’d succumbed to distractions and put my livelihood in jeopardy. Yet where could it be?
Gray’s School and Field Book of Botany
. I flipped through its pages but had difficulty concentrating. I didn’t remember the letter the clerk said he sent me. In all of my years of service, I had never mislaid a letter. But then I’d never had an engagement like this one. Regardless, it was inexcusable. I’d succumbed to distractions and put my livelihood in jeopardy. Yet where could it be?
I put the book back and picked up a copy of today’s newspaper lying on the table nearest me. I had read a report analyzing Proposition 203’s defeat and was finishing an article on Mrs. Trevelyan’s death when I heard Mrs. Piers step into the library.
“Ah, Miss Davish. Any news?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” I lied. I was bursting with news, but Walter’s request for discretion tied my hands. “That’s everything.” I handed her the packet. She accepted it and thumbed through the stack.
“Yes, everything seems to be in order. Thank you, Miss Davish. You’ve been most accommodating.” She glided toward the door.
“I was wondering, Mrs. Piers, if I could ask you a few questions?”
“Of course. How can I help you, Miss Davish?” She settled in the nearest chair and motioned for me to join her.
“I wonder, since you knew so much of Mrs. Trevelyan’s affairs, if you know anything about the request to move Mrs. Trevelyan’s trunk back to storage?”
“Isn’t that a matter for the police, Miss Davish?”
“Yes, technically, but they haven’t confided in me, and the hotel staff can’t recall anything definite. It’s a puzzle, don’t you think?”
She didn’t answer me. She picked up the newspaper, which was still opened to the article I’d been reading.
“We’ve arranged a lovely service for Mother Trevelyan,” Mrs. Piers said. She stared at the paper and then gazed out the window. “Sister Cordelia wanted to have it at the Presbyterian church, but I rented the Opera House instead. The Baptists used to hold services there, before they built their church. It has plenty of room, and everyone knows Edwina wasn’t a Presbyterian.”
“Why not hold it in her church, then?”
Josephine Piers regarded me with an unreadable expression in her eyes. “She was a woman of God, Miss Davish, not one of any church. Her mission was to reach Christian people of all faiths. We should follow her example. The Opera House can welcome all people under one roof. You’re expected to pay your respects, Miss Davish.”
“Of course.” I reminded her of my question: Mrs. Trevelyan’s trunk?
“The one they found her in?” she said.
“Yes, the one in the basement.”
She thought a moment. “Mother Trevelyan was preoccupied with writing a sermon for the saloon smashing. She mentioned several times that she wanted the trunk put into storage. I volunteered to write up the directive and did so before we went into town Sunday, the night before she died.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. I felt sorry for her. She had lost someone very important, someone I’d never known.
“Do you know who delivered the message?”
“I did,” she said. “But it’s God’s message we must deliver now, to continue the good work Mother Trevelyan started.”
“Yes, that may be, but her trunk was originally scheduled to go to the train depot Tuesday. When she spoke to you about it, did she mention why she changed her mind? It was half-packed with old clothes destined for a charity.”
“I don’t know anything more about that dreadful trunk,” she said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with yellow lilies. “As always, I’d simply done as she asked. Now,” she said, rising from her chair, “I’ve indulged in this exercise long enough. I must return to my duties. The work is endless, but the cause is just.” She laid her hand on my shoulder. “You still look peaked, I’m afraid. You should take better care of yourself.”
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