A Lack of Temperance (21 page)
I fell asleep in the early-morning hours, but during a pleasant dream, Walter’s amiable countenance metamorphosed into the red, blotchy face of John Martin. I woke with a start, disconcerted. Only one thing would help. I lit the lamp on the night table and carried it to the desk. I tucked my legs under me in the chair and retrieved from a drawer my copy of the report I’d given the police. I slipped the last sheet of the report into my typewriter and added an addendum, comprising John Martin’s arrest for public drunkenness and the time he was released from jail. I added a note of speculation, that Cordelia Anglewood must be unaware of his arrest or she would never have showcased his generosity at a coalition meeting.
Maybe that’s what this evening’s argument was about.
I plucked the paper out of the typewriter, feeling composed again. I attached it to the report and attempted to review the facts objectively.
Maybe that’s what this evening’s argument was about.
I plucked the paper out of the typewriter, feeling composed again. I attached it to the report and attempted to review the facts objectively.
Mr. John Martin, also known as Mr. Joseph Mascavarti, had been blackmailed by Mrs. Trevelyan. He’d been arrested for public drunkenness, and upon his release from jail Monday morning had received Mrs. Trevelyan’s wire demanding more money. Within an hour and a half she was dead. Did he kill her? Did he get drunk and, wanting to confront her, come to the hotel, bringing his gin bottle with him? It was the most likely scenario. Could it have been an accident? I doubted it. Pushing me down the stairs just to stop me from asking more questions demonstrated his desperation and proclivity toward violence. And he had a reason for wanting Edwina Trevelyan dead. He must’ve killed her. Otherwise why would he lie about his whereabouts?
But then so had Cordelia Anglewood and George Shulman. They too each had a reason to want Mrs. Trevelyan dead. And who else could be lying? Who else wanted her dead? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that almost every reason to suspect John Martin could also apply to several others. I was dumbfounded. How could one woman have so many followers and at the same time have so many enemies? In Mrs. Trevelyan’s case, of course, I thought I knew the answer. What I didn’t know was which one of them had killed her.
The moonlight was enough to see by, but at times the path, weaving its way down through the glen behind the Arcadia, was completely dark. But I was determined and, having come this way twice before, was confident that I could find my way back to Grotto Spring. I thought fresh air would help me clear my head. I was wrong. The question of Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer still rumbled through my mind as I made my way down the woodland path, armed with a candle and a small specimen jar.
The rain had washed away the dust and pollen, leaving the air crisp. I relished the fresh scent of autumn leaves and fallen pine needles. The soft rustling of damp leaves beneath my boots and an occasional hoot of an owl were all that broke the early-morning silence. When I reached the top of the hillock that led to the spring’s rocky cliff ceiling, I lit the candle. Something scurried off through the leaves. I’d been confident about navigating the path in the dark, but wasn’t as sure about the ridge.
Crouched low to the ground, with one hand to anchor me, I crept down the hillside. Halfway down, my candle went out. Yet I persevered. At the bottom, I brushed the soil and leaves from my skirt and straightened my hat. I relit the candle and, poised to enter, peered into the cavern. The light only pierced a foot into the gloom. At once, I felt apprehensive. I’d come to collect liverwort specimens I’d noticed in Grotto Spring before; safe in my room, it was an appealing place to spend a few peaceful moments before daybreak. But I hadn’t considered that I might wake a sleeping animal or a wandering tramp taking refuge inside. I listened for the gentle rise and fall of someone or something sleeping.
“Hello?” I called, more timidly than I’d like to admit. The wind rustled in the trees above; a roosting bird took flight. I called again.
“Hello? Is there anybody in there?”
There was no response. No late-night revelers or skittish wildlife emerged.
Reassured, I hoisted my candle above my head and entered the cave. I took a few steps toward the back of the cave and the noiseless trickling source of the spring, and hesitated again. The previously dry cavern floor was slick, dampened from the previous morning’s rain. I steadied myself against the cavern wall and lifted the candle higher.
What is that?
Something white was on the ground in front of me. I was jittery and almost dropped my candle. But it was only the enamel mug I had shamelessly thrown against the wall yesterday; its owner had yet to retrieve it. I felt ridiculous for overreacting and yet again regretted venturing out alone in the dark. I would get my liverworts and go.
I moved swiftly, steadying myself against the cavern wall, and aimed for the spot near the spring where I had seen a large population of the plant earlier. But I never made it. Instead, I nearly stumbled over something in the dark. I felt foolish, letting my nerves get the best of me, as I lifted my candle.
What is it now,
I wondered,
a branch, a forgotten walking stick?
I wondered,
a branch, a forgotten walking stick?
It was an arm, with pearl buttons on its shirt-sleeve cuff.
I screamed. I couldn’t help myself. There, next to the stone bench, sprawled across the cave’s floor, was a man, his head lying in a small pool of liquid. He wasn’t moving.
“Is anybody there?” I shouted.
I held the candle up and frantically circled around hoping to confirm that there wasn’t. My candle reflected off something metal on the floor. Suddenly I began to panic, breathing erratically, perspiring and feeling my heart pound hard in my chest. I felt paralyzed, trapped between the darkness and the body on the floor, the way out impossible to reach. As I listened for the sound of an unseen assailant’s footsteps, I became dizzy and knelt down beside the body.
Blood caked his hair and streaked down his temple and cheek. His eyes were partially closed. I put my candle to his lips; the flame didn’t waver. A pebble that had been stuck to his face fell back into the dirt, leaving behind a tiny indentation. I became nauseous; I recognized the face! I leapt to my feet. The heel of my boot snagged my skirt, rending my hem and tripping me. I dropped my specimen jar and my candle, plunging the cavern into darkness, and fell to my hands and knees. Blood splashed on me. I cried out as a sharp pain shot through my injured knee.
Why does this keep happening to me?
I slammed my hand into the ground. Tiny pebbles lodged themselves in my palm. A moment of calm came over me as remorse for indulging in self-pity replaced my fear and anger. I knew what I had to do. I scrambled to my feet and, as fast as my knee would allow, raced from the cave, each step distancing me from the body of Mr. John Martin.
C
HAPTER
23
HAPTER
23
“W
alter! Walter!”
alter! Walter!”
I gasped for breath and pounded on the door again. Mr. Theakston, Walter’s valet, finally opened the door. He was wearing a blue and green plaid dressing gown. His eyes flew open in surprise.
“Miss Davish, it’s six o’clock in the morning,” he said.
“Get Dr. Grice,” I said. “Please!”
He checked up and down the street, blocking my entrance. I’d no patience for appearances or conventions. I pushed past him into the dimly lit hallway.
“Miss, this is highly irregular,” the valet lectured as he hurriedly closed the front door behind me. “Unless you are . . . Oh my!” He seized my arm and set me down in the hall chair. “Stay right here, I’ll get the doctor.”
As he disappeared down the hallway, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. Did I really look that ghastly? My carefully combed hair was now tousled; masses of curls had loosened and fallen haphazardly about my shoulders.
Where is my hat?
The palms of my hands were scraped and streaked with soil. One of my favorite dresses was ruined; splotches of blood stained the skirt, and strips of fabric, caked with blood and dirt, hung partially attached to the hem. Lines of perspiration and soil mixed with tiny specks of blood streaked across my face and bodice. I was mortified that anyone should see me like this. As I began wiping away the grime, Walter, disheveled and still pulling a dressing gown around a pair of striped silk pajamas, raced down the hallway. He immediately began to examine me.
Where is my hat?
The palms of my hands were scraped and streaked with soil. One of my favorite dresses was ruined; splotches of blood stained the skirt, and strips of fabric, caked with blood and dirt, hung partially attached to the hem. Lines of perspiration and soil mixed with tiny specks of blood streaked across my face and bodice. I was mortified that anyone should see me like this. As I began wiping away the grime, Walter, disheveled and still pulling a dressing gown around a pair of striped silk pajamas, raced down the hallway. He immediately began to examine me.
“Walter,” I said, “I know I look a fright, but I’m all right. It’s not my blood.”
“Just stay quiet,” he said. He swept me up into his arms and rushed me to his examining room. Countless metal instruments gleamed as Mr. Theakston lit the lamps. The doctor laid me down, loosened my collar, and reached for his stethoscope. I felt my breathing catch in my throat.
“Walter, this isn’t necessary.”
Despite my declaration, the doctor continued his examination, leaning closer, placing the stethoscope on my chest.
“Please, Walter, let me up. I don’t like this room.” I struggled to sit up.
“Hattie, calm down. Just stay still and breathe deeply.” He held me down with one hand on my shoulder and spoke in his particular professional manner, which alarmed me all the more.
“Please, Walter, it’s not my blood. Please let me get up.” My breathing quickened and my fingers started to tingle and go numb.
“There’s nothing to fear here. I won’t hurt you. Now, just try to breathe deeply.”
On the brink of panic, I clutched at his arm. “Stop, Walter, stop,” I said. “John Martin’s dead!” Walter’s head snapped up. “This is his blood, not mine. I found him at Grotto Spring, lying in a pool of it.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“He wasn’t breathing, Walter. I think he’s dead.” To my absolute relief, he lifted his stethoscope away from my chest and took a step back.
“Who, Hattie? Who’s dead?”
“John Martin, the man I told you about, the one Mrs. Trevelyan was blackmailing, this is his blood.” I struggled again to sit up. Walter helped, supporting me until I had my legs dangling off the side of the examining table. “I ran here as fast as I could.”
“You’re all right, then?”
“I’m exhausted, and my knee hurts, but otherwise I’m fine. Can I get down now?”
The doctor held me at arm’s length, studying my face. “Let me see your knee.”
I looked dubiously at the shiny metal objects mounted on the wall in front of me. “It just aches. That’s all.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Miss Davish,” Walter chided.
“What about John Martin?” I said.
“You’re my priority right now. It’ll only take a minute.” My hands trembled as I slid my skirt up, revealing my legs. My petticoat was intact but ruined; the scab from my fall down the stairs must’ve torn off and blood had seeped through. Walter snatched a pair of scissors from a metal tray. I recoiled from him as he sheared off a square patch of the cotton fabric, exposing my bare knee. He retrieved a bottle from a shelf and dipped a wad of cotton into it.
“This might sting,” he said. He swabbed my scrape with the cotton and then clamped a bandage over it.
“Ouch!” I jerked my leg away from him. It didn’t sting; it burned. I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned my injured knee.
He noticed my hands and reached for another wad of cotton. I quickly resettled my skirt and hid my hands in its voluminous folds.
“Okay, okay,” he said, putting the cotton back, “I’m done.” My whole body sagged forward in relief. “You’re still suffering from your exertions and shock, so I’ll have to keep you under observation.” Before I could protest, he continued, “Otherwise, with the exception of your knee, you do appear uninjured.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” I said. “I’m fine.”
Walter exhaled deeply, then chuckled. “I’ve heard that before.”
Relief washed over his face as he abruptly wrapped his arms around me. A pang of guilt hit me. Why didn’t I trust him more? He was a physician, yes, but he did seem only to want to help and heal me. Hopefully I wouldn’t have occasion to worry about it again.
Walter’s calm, professional demeanor returned as he helped me down from the table.
“Now, about John Martin,” he said, “tell me everything you can.”
I matched his mood, composed myself, and relayed my outing to Grotto Spring and the subsequent discovery of John Martin’s body. Walter remained silent and attentive throughout, stopping me but once to clarify a point. When I finished, the doctor sprang into action.
“He may still be alive. If you’re well enough, we should go immediately.” He indicated the basin Mr. Theakston was filling with steaming water. “This is the best I can offer you at the moment. It’ll take a minute or two for me to get ready.”
He grabbed a large leather satchel and disappeared from the examination room. A few minutes later, after I had time only to wash my face and hands, Walter stood before me dressed, composed, and prepared. I was impressed. As we left, he snatched an overcoat from the hall tree and put it around my shoulders.
He regarded my hair, still in disarray. “I don’t suppose you’d like to wear one of my hats?” he said.
I glanced at the hat rack. Walter sported some of men’s finest. I weighed the impropriety against the practicality of the idea and then chose a brown derby and stuffed my unruly curls up inside the roomy crown. I stole a glance at myself in the mirror and was pleased at how I looked.
“Maybe they should design derby hats for women,” I said. “It’s very comfortable and doesn’t require a hatpin.”
Amusement flashed across Walter’s face. I didn’t mind; his jests helped divert my thoughts from the morning’s ordeal. He grabbed a similar hat in black and escorted me to the phaeton waiting outside. The carriage’s folding top was raised. Mr. Theakston, holding the horse’s bridle, handed Walter the reins.
“Telephone the police,” Walter instructed his valet. “Have them meet us at Grotto Spring.”
Walter snapped the reins. We lurched forward and I gripped the arm rail with one hand and held on to the hat with the other. The horse galloped down the street, mud flying as it ran. What I had seen of Walter’s wild driving the other morning was not, as I had discovered, the good doctor in a rush. This treacherous speed was normal for him. We reached the spring in minutes. Walter halted the horse abruptly and, without a word, handed me the reins.
“Oh, no, don’t give me the reins,” I protested. But Walter leapt down, grabbed his satchel and a lantern, and ran into the dark cave.
I gripped the leather straps, my knuckles turning white; I’d never handled a horse before. I waited for the animal to rear up at any minute or to bolt and gallop away with me and the phaeton careening behind. Instead the horse swished its tail, bent its head, and snipped off blades of grass, silently chewing.
“Good horse,” I whispered.
This isn’t so hard after all,
I thought and relaxed my grip.
This isn’t so hard after all,
I thought and relaxed my grip.
The stillness of the environs around Grotto Spring surprised me. The roaring of the wind as we galloped through the deserted town had made me forget how quiet it was at this early hour. Though the sky was growing light, sunrise was still a good half hour or more away. From the time I’d discovered John Martin, little more than half an hour had elapsed. I sat listening—to my racing heart, for Walter’s returning footsteps, for the arrival of the police—but I heard nothing but crickets chirping and leaves rustling in the trees towering above me. How I loved this time of day.
The horse snorted, its breath visible in the predawn light. Taking its cue, I inhaled deeply, taking in the clean, fragrant morning air. I felt calm for the first time all morning. For a few moments, I allowed myself to forget why I was there. My race to Walter’s and the subsequent panic being in his examination room seemed a distant past by the time he returned. He placed the lantern on the ground as he removed his stethoscope from around his neck. When our eyes met, he shook his head.
“He’s dead,” he said, returning his satchel to the carriage. “I’ll need more time in order to determine the cause. It’s a lot to ask, but would you take notes?” He handed me the tools of my trade, a notebook and pencil. “The police will need the information as soon as they get here.”
Fortified by a familiar task to perform, I followed closely behind as Walter reentered the cavern. When we reached the prone figure, Walter set the lantern down. Its light revealed more than my candle had. A flask, the same one I’d seen John Martin carry, sat on the bench. Dried leaves and paper litter accumulated in a corner of the cave. And blood was everywhere: on the man’s head, spotted on his jacket, shirt and cravat, puddled on the floor beneath him, on the wall next to him where it had splattered when I’d tripped, and smudged on the stone bench that lined the side of the wall. I felt a wave of revulsion churn up from my stomach. I clutched the notebook and took a deep breath, somehow finding the fortitude to take notes. Walter examined the bench and the wall before kneeling down beside the body. He dictated as he worked.
“The body is cold to the touch. The muscles are stiff.” He peeled back one of the man’s eyelids. “The eyes have filmed over and hypostasis has set in. And there’s a faint smell of alcohol about his lips.” He methodically probed the man’s entire body. “There’s a single wound, on his head, roughly two inches above the ear. The scalp is punctured and bruised, hence the excessive blood, but has already started to heal. The skull feels fractured, possibly causing internal bleeding. Blood and hairs, consistent with those of the dead, are on the edge of the bench. He must’ve hit his head there. I’d say at this point that blunt force trauma to his temple was what killed him. I’ll know more with an autopsy.”
“Is that your official opinion?” a man said from behind us. We both stood up, startled by the voice. I held up the lantern. Chief Jackson, with a shadow of a man behind him, entered the cave. “Didn’t mean to startle you, Doc. I got your message.” He indicated the man behind him. “You know Norris.” Officer Norris nodded in acknowledgment.
“What do we have, Doc?” Jackson said, after a brief glance at me and my hat. “Your servant mentioned a body and blood.”
Walter told what he knew as Chief Jackson leaned over the body and then examined the cave. When Walter finished, Chief Jackson turned to me.
“So, Miss Davish, you found the body.” I confirmed that I had.
“And the man was dead when you found him?” I told him how I’d placed a flame next to the man’s lips. “And it didn’t flicker?”
“No,” I said.
“I’m not surprised,” Walter said. “This man’s been dead for hours.”
“Good to know, Doc,” the policeman said. “And you didn’t touch anything, young lady?” I said I hadn’t. Jackson picked up the Crusher-style hat lying on the ground.
“Not even the hat on his head?” He chuckled, obviously pleased with his pun. I repeated I hadn’t touched anything.
“Good.” He wagged his finger at me. “You have a peculiar knack for finding dead bodies, don’t you, Miss Davish?” Before I could respond, he turned to Walter. “And you think it was an accident, Dr. Grice?”
“I didn’t say that,” Walter said. “But from what I can tell, he hit his head here,” he pointed to the man’s temple, “on the corner of that bench,” he pointed to the corner darkened with blood, “deep enough to cut into the scalp, fracture the skull, and cause severe bleeding. It was probably the blow to the head and not the loss of blood that caused his death. He may’ve had intracranial bleeding. I don’t know. The floor is slippery, but I can’t say if that’s what caused him to fall.”
“As I was saying this afternoon,” the policeman said, “this man was a well-known drunk.” He picked up the flask, unscrewed the cap, and sniffed its contents. “See here? He’d been drinking.” Jackson punctuated his words with a wave of the flask. “He probably was sitting here on the bench, got up to leave, slipped on the wet floor, and hit his head. Any evidence to the contrary?” The policeman held a stern face on me while addressing Walter. “Doc?”
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