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Authors: Anna Loan-Wilsey

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

A Lack of Temperance (16 page)

BOOK: A Lack of Temperance
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“She could’ve lashed out at Mrs. Trevelyan in a rage,” I said.
“Maybe.” He sounded skeptical. “But you said the chambermaid saw Cordelia Anglewood leave early Monday morning when Mrs. Trevelyan was still alive and well.”
“She could’ve returned after Mary left.”
“You don’t like this woman, do you?” Walter teased.
“Dr. Grice, I’m being perfectly objective about this,” I said, offended, in part because I was afraid that he was right. “It’s what I was trained to do. It’s all about organization, summation, and an eye to detail.” He grimaced as he finished his coffee. “You didn’t see the whip lashing she gave that little stable boy.”
“You’re right, Hattie. She’s a legitimate subject.” He offered me another slice of cake. “And the other possible suspect?”
“His name is John Martin.”
I hadn’t told anyone of my suspicions of John Martin: that the money, deposited in the AWTC’s bank account in his name, might have been extortion money, that he might have been in Mrs. Trevelyan’s room, that he might have been the author of the threatening note, that he might have killed Mrs. Trevelyan. It was too much supposition. I also hadn’t told anyone of my search for him and my failure to find him. I’d asked around and no one had recognized the name. He was a mystery, and until now, I alone knew it. So why was I telling Walter?
“Or at least I think it is,” I said.
“He’s the man you asked about at breakfast yesterday morning, something about an ambiguous letter?”
“I’m sorry, Walter. I lied about that, in a way. I needed to know if anyone recognized the name.”
“Why, who is he?”
“That’s just it; I don’t know.” I told him everything, about the note, the calling card, the bank receipt, my futile search, everything. “I’m not sure he has anything to do with Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder, but you have to admit how suspicious it looks.”
“I agree. I think we ought to go to the police.” Walter looked at his pocket watch and then rose from his chair. “We have time before your appointment.” He reached out his hand, urging me to rise, but with the mention of the police, my enthusiasm waned. I began to have doubts again.
“The police don’t hold me in high regard,” I said. “And to tell you the truth, Walter, I’m beginning to wonder why I’m still involved in this.” Walter knitted his brow and sat down again. “Instead of thinking about Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder, I should be spending my time procuring a new situation. I’m a working typist, a secretary after all, and my current wages will only take me so far. My official obligations to Mrs. Trevelyan end tomorrow.”
I stood and studied a painting on the wall. “And except for a few new acquaintances I would miss, I’ve often longed to be away from here.”
I glanced back to regard the impact my speech had had on the doctor. Walter reached up and took my hands, drawing me back to my chair. “If you left, you would be dearly missed.”
Abashed by his revelation, I studied the titles of books stacked up on the desk next to me:
Anatomy: descriptive and surgical, Uses of Water in Modern Medicine, Materia Medica and Therapeutics: for physicians and students, Practitioner’s Ready Reference Book: a handy guide in office and bedside practice.
Walter touched my chin and gently compelled me to face him.
“George needs my help. The temperance group is against him, the evidence is against him, and even those who voted him into office are turning against him. And I need help if I’m going to prove he’s innocent,” he whispered as he brushed a stray curl from my forehead. “Please stay and help me.” How could I refuse?
C
HAPTER
18
“M
ay I help you, sir?” The clerk at the police station addressed Walter as we approached the desk.
“Yes, Miss Davish and I would like a word with the chief. Please tell him Dr. Walter Grice is inquiring. We’re acquainted.”
“What’s this about?” the clerk asked.
“It’s regarding the arrest of George Shulman for the murder of Edwina Trevelyan.”
At the mention of Mrs. Trevelyan’s name, the clerk scrutinized me but continued to address Walter. “I’ll see if he’s around. Please take a seat, Doctor.”
Walter and I had hardly sat down when Chief Jackson emerged from the back room with a watering can in his hand.
“Too bad about George Shulman, eh, Doc? Guess he won’t be on the council now. I voted for the man too.” The two men shook hands.
“That’s what we’ve come to talk to you about, Ben.”
“Let’s talk in there then, Doc,” Jackson said, pointing to a door on the right.
“Miss Davish needs to be there as well,” Walter said. “She has information that might help your investigation.”
The policeman rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of exasperation. “Very well,” he said, “follow me.”
The room was bare except for a long wooden table and four chairs. Wrought-iron bars crisscrossed the window. I had expected to see some greenery, considering the profusion of plants in the lobby; the light was perfect for ferns. With an indication for us to sit down, the policeman closed the door, sat down across from us, and put up his hand.
“Before you say anything, Doc, Miss Davish, I want you to know that we have our man. George Shulman killed that temperance woman. We’ve got him dead to rights.”
“What’s your evidence against him?” Walter said.
Chief Jackson counted out with his fingers. “He had means, motive, and opportunity. With your help, Doc, we determined the victim was killed by asphyxiation sometime last Monday. As you are also aware, we have evidence that she was hit over the head first with a glass bottle. We found shards of glass in the trunk and embedded in the carpet in her room. We asked the hotel staff and all of the water bottles in the victim’s room are accounted for. Then Burke found the remnants of part of a gin bottle wrapped up among the bloody clothes. Shulman probably hid it there.”
“But anyone could’ve hit her with a gin bottle,” Walter said.
“Doc, we’re talking about a lady temperance leader. Who else would bring a gin bottle around this woman but the man who held a grudge against her for burning his saloon? It’s almost poetic.”
“But he says he was at the Cavern all day,” Walter said. “Surely someone can corroborate his claim.”
“Yes, but not for the whole day,” Chief Jackson said. “There are unexplained gaps, a half hour here, twenty minutes there, in which no one knew where he was. But we do.”
“How? Where was he?” Walter asked.
“George Shulman was at the Arcadia Hotel, despite his claims to the contrary. He was overheard threatening Mrs. Trevelyan in her room at the hotel Monday morning. And the witness heard the sound of breaking glass.” The chief folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “There’s no doubt. He killed her.”
Walter and I stared at him, stunned. Mary had told me about the altercation with Cordelia Anglewood, but this was the first time I’d heard anything about George Shulman clashing with Mrs. Trevelyan that morning.
“That’s what prompted you to start investigating her disappearance,” I blurted out. “Who overheard the threats? What time did they say they heard him?”
Chief Jackson looked at me out of the corner of his eye before his head followed his gaze. “We received an anonymous telephone call,” he said. “Handy device, the telephone. We installed it a few months ago. And yes, we received this information the morning we discovered her in the basement.”
“So it was George Shulman who pushed me down the stairs?” I said.
“The two are quite unrelated.” He turned to Walter. “It’s unfortunate, Doc, but as you see, the evidence is convincing against him.”
“But who else could it’ve been?” I said.
“Even if George Shulman did push you down some stairs, what difference does it make now?” Jackson asked.
“None now, but if you had heeded my concerns, you might’ve prevented me a lot of aches and pains.” I clenched my hands into fists in my lap. “I approached you the day before the telephone tip.”
“We don’t know for sure that it was even George that pushed you,” Walter said, enveloping my fists with his hands under the table. “Isn’t that right, Chief?”
“Something like that,” the policeman conceded. “Now, if there’s nothing more.”
“Do you know for certain that George confronted Mrs. Trevelyan?” Walter said. “I’m not certain that you should believe an anonymous telephone caller.”
“Actually, yes,” the policeman said. “Although we never discovered where the anonymous tip came from, the information is true enough. The registration desk clerk on duty at the time saw the saloonkeeper bound up the stairs toward Mrs. Trevelyan’s room that morning. He couldn’t remember the time, but was certain he’d overheard George Shulman all the way from the second floor, shouting something about justice and hypocrisy. We’ve confirmed this with several others who overheard part of the exchange.”
“Sounds like George, all right,” Walter said. “It seems idiotic, though, threatening her where all can hear and then killing her. He would be immediately suspected.”
“It’s a tactic that’s been used before. She could’ve been already dead, for all we knew at the time, and he was covering it up by creating a scene.” He rose from his chair.
“Ben,” Walter said, “Miss Davish has some information about a few other possible suspects you might want to hear.”
“Unless it has to do with George Shulman, it’s no use to me.”
“But I would think Cordelia Anglewood is as much of a suspect as Mr. Shulman,” I said. “She lied about her whereabouts. She said she was out riding all day, but the stable boy I spoke to said—”
“Wait, stop, right there,” Jackson said. “What are you doing questioning anyone about alibis? This is a police investigation, Miss Davish, and I won’t have you interfering. Now,” he said, his face flushed with anger, “this interview is over.”
The bathing room gleamed in the early-afternoon sun. White tiles reflected the light flooding in through the high windows encircling the room. The room was silent except for the occasional sound of water lapping as someone readjusted in their tub.
I was relishing the warmth of my final soak when I heard Nellie hiss, “The miss was almost done, Fred. What did you go and do that for?”
When I’d first arrived at Basin Spring Bathhouse, I’d been shown into a changing room where I’d exchanged my navy and white striped tailor-made dress and a sailor hat for a black knee-length woolen bathing costume, black stockings, bathing slippers, and cap. When I’d emerged thus attired, Nellie, the bath attendant, intimidating in a starched white cap, dress, and apron, had been waiting for me. It was her responsibility to attend to me throughout the series of baths that Dr. Grice had prescribed. Although she jested and tried in vain to assuage my apprehensions, she took her responsibility seriously. The doctor had put me in capable yet unyielding hands.
The first place she led me was a large, white-tiled room with silver showerheads spaced every five feet. A large copper drain stood in the middle of the room. She switched on the water, adjusted the temperature, and then steered me beneath one of the showerheads. Once I was sufficiently rinsed, she conducted me to a room full of long, rectangular enamel bathtubs. Three women bathers and an attendant were already in the room. It was bright; the sun reflected off the sterile white tiles and, despite towering ceilings, the air was warm. Nellie indicated a bathtub and helped me climb into it. Despite the attendant’s encouragement, I had difficulty relaxing in the lukewarm water. I lay there, counting the minutes in my head and fixating on the bottom of my tub, a mosaic of color tiles, goldfish swimming in a sea of brilliant blue. I was shivering by the time Nellie indicated that it was time to move on.
The next room was crammed with strange contraptions including a jungle of metal pipes and a series of metal cabinets, holes cut out of their tops. A woman occupied one of the cabinets. Only her head and the steam surrounding her could be seen. I was beginning to regret ever having met Dr. Walter Grice when Nellie, lifting a latch, opened a front hatch in the cabinet and had me sit on the wooden bench. I cowered as she closed the hatch over my head, securing me inside. She yanked on a handle on the pipe next to the cabinet and steam hissed as it filled the spaces around my body. Being locked in a box filled with steam was a strange sensation. Within a minute, I couldn’t see beyond my nose as the mist escaped about my head. Perspiration dripped down my face. Nellie dabbed my forehead with a thick white cotton towel. Within another minute or two, the sense of being trapped lessened and a tranquility I hadn’t felt in years fell over me.
Maybe Walter is on to something after all,
I thought.
The experience was over almost as fast as it began. Nellie explained, as she freed me from the steam cabinet, that steam relaxed and cleansed the body, but too much could be detrimental. I entered another, smaller bathing room, where there were six claw-foot bathtubs lined up, three on each side. A woman lounged in the second tub on the left. Nellie, indicating the first tub on the right, helped me into a fresh, warm mixture of Sweet Spring and Basin Spring water. It felt cool and refreshing after the hot steam treatment. After fifteen minutes, Nellie indicated I should enter the adjacent tub. This, too, was a mineral spring bath, and was warmer still. After another fifteen minutes, I eagerly climbed into the third bathtub. As I lowered myself in, a faint scent of mint and eucalyptus filled the air around me. I’d never felt so refreshed in my life. I’d lounged in this scented, hot bath for a long time with my eyes closed, letting my mind wander, when the disgust in Nellie’s voice as she scolded Fred jolted me upright. The serenity I’d felt a moment ago was gone.
“I’m so sorry, miss.” Nellie rushed to my side, blocking my view of the room. She glanced over her shoulder. “Fred didn’t know you were still in here. I’d stepped out for a moment. I don’t know how this could’ve happened.”
“What’s wrong, Nellie?” I said, craning my neck, trying to see around her.
“This has never happened before, miss. Ever, I swear.”
“What’s happened?”
“A gentleman’s in the bath, miss,” she whispered. “And of course, there’s Fred too.” I could see then as Nellie turned that a man in a white uniform was standing in the line of sight of the first tub on the left. His back was turned to us.
“You don’t allow men to bathe here?” I asked.
“Yes, miss, of course they do,” Nellie said. “Just not in the presence of a lady.”
“Oh, of course.”
“I’m so sorry, miss,” she said, wringing her hands, over and over. “You’ll be a prune soon if I don’t get you out of that tub.”
“Do you think the gentlemen could be persuaded to close their eyes as I exit the bath?” I said.
Nellie’s face lit up as if this suggestion had never occurred to her. She dashed over to the male attendant, whispering something I couldn’t hear, and then waited while he spoke to the gentleman in the tub. One flick of Fred’s head and Nellie rushed back, wrapping me in a towel long enough to cover me from my chin to my feet. I felt ridiculous, shuffling along slowly so as not to trip. I’d plenty of time to regard the men as we passed. Fred, the attendant, was a stocky man with grease glistening in his straight brown hair. When I saw the gentleman in the tub, I almost lost my footing. It was the man from the Catholic chapel. Enhanced by the heat of the steam, the blotches bloomed crimson across his face, yet the fierceness I’d seen there yesterday had been replaced by an expression of equanimity. The baths were doing him some good. Nonetheless, I was relieved when I reached the changing room.
Nellie helped me out of my wet bathing costume as my mind raced back to my encounter with the man I’d just seen. I still didn’t know how he knew me. It wasn’t long before my thoughts were full of Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder, Cordelia Anglewood’s deception, and George Shulman’s dire predicament. The serenity of the baths was behind me, yet my body retained the memory. I felt refreshed and warm and hungry.
BOOK: A Lack of Temperance
12.48Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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