A Lack of Temperance (22 page)
Walter rubbed his chin as he stared down at the body on the floor. “That seems reasonable.” He turned to me. “Hattie?”
Chief Jackson glared at Walter. My gaze drifted from Walter to the policeman to the man I’d been convinced was Mrs. Trevelyan’s murderer. If he had killed Mrs. Trevelyan, then his death by a drunken-induced fall was ironic justice, and the ordeal was over. I should feel satisfied and relieved. I didn’t feel either.
“What do you think, Hattie? An accident?” Walter repeated.
John Martin was a known drunk and could’ve easily lost his balance and fallen; I’d seen him acting erratically myself. And all the evidence indicated his death was an accident. But what was he doing here? What would the police do now? With John Martin dead, would we ever know for certain that he was Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer or why she was blackmailing him? What if it wasn’t an accident? And what if he wasn’t the killer?
Despite my desire for a more orderly solution, and to the amazement of both Walter and Chief Jackson, I reluctantly agreed. I was too exhausted to argue. Chief Jackson nodded in satisfaction and walked back to the cave’s entrance, where sunlight now filtered in. He disappeared from view, but a moment later, two men carrying a stretcher appeared and, with Officer Norris as escort, carried the body away.
“He pushed me down the stairs, Walter.” I stared, unseeing, at the cave’s entrance. “He may’ve killed Mrs. Trevelyan.” My whole body began to shake. “What was he doing here?”
Since discovering Mrs. Trevelyan dead, images of her contorted in the trunk, with a dull unseeing gaze, had plagued my dreams. Now, even while awake, images of John Martin haunted me. His body was gone, but the blood remained. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but instead of blackness I saw blood everywhere, on the floor, on the corner of the bench, on my skirt, my knee, my face.
“Let’s get you out of here.” Walter put his arm around my shoulders and led me into the sunshine. Despite its warmth, I couldn’t repress the shivering. A small crowd had gathered and several policemen were keeping them from approaching the spring. Chief Jackson and Officer Norris were off to one side, near Walter’s phaeton, questioning people, including the two boys Walter and I had encountered during our first visit to Grotto Spring. I wanted to warn them. I wanted to tell Walter not to let the boys see the blood, but I couldn’t voice the words. Walter helped me into his phaeton and wrapped a horsehair blanket around my shoulders. Chief Jackson approached several minutes later.
“Well, didn’t learn much,” the policeman said in answer to Walter’s query. “Those boys there claim to have heard our deceased talking with someone last night, but I don’t put too much into that. The man was drunk and was probably talking to himself.” Walter agreed. “But, just to be thorough, we’ll do a sweep of the cave and let you do a full autopsy, Doc, if you want. Though I’m guessing we’ll still come up with the same answer, accidental death.” He regarded me. “Sorry, Miss Davish, no murder here.”
Walter and I left Grotto Spring, and any investigation, in the hands of the police. The crisp chill of the breeze as we wound swiftly up through the woody hollow toward the Arcadia Hotel cut through me. In less than a week I’d found two dead bodies—first my employer in her steamer trunk, and now one of the suspects in her death, in a wet spring cave. Until last Wednesday, I’d only seen two dead bodies in my whole life, those of my mother and father. I was still shaking.
And I kept coming back to the same questions over and over. What had John Martin been doing there? Would the police be able to prove he’d killed Mrs. Trevelyan? Then other questions cropped up. When had he gone to the spring? I had seen him the night before at the rally. Did he leave the rally and go straight to Grotto Spring, or did he have other encounters, other things to do first? How would Colonel Walker react? He had attended the Magnetic Spring meeting and the rally. Would he be shocked to learn his son-in-law was a drunkard? How was John Martin’s death going to affect the reputation of the coalition? What would Cordelia Anglewood do when she found out?
“Mrs. Anglewood isn’t going to like this,” I said.
Walter jumped at my comment; it was the first thing I’d spoken since exiting the cave. I hadn’t realized I’d said it out loud.
“What do you mean, Hattie? What does Mrs. Anglewood have to do with this?”
I explained how John Martin had been honored yesterday and hailed as a patron of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition, and how I’d seen them arguing the night before.
“Despite the sum of the contribution, Cordelia Anglewood wouldn’t have gone public if she’d known that John Martin was a drunk. She would’ve accepted the contribution for what it was without announcing it at the Magnetic Spring meeting. If everyone finds out that John Martin, the AWTC’s champion of the moment, died of an inebriation-induced accident the night of the rally, she’ll be humiliated.”
“It won’t do her cause any good, either,” Walter agreed. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Why on earth were you at Grotto Spring at six o’clock in the morning?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said. “I’d noticed liverworts on the walls of the cavern when you and I were there. So I thought I might collect some specimens.” I had forgotten about my jar; it must still be lying in the Grotto Spring cave somewhere. “I still haven’t gotten a sample.”
Walter laughed. “Oh, Hattie, what am I to do with you?”
C
HAPTER
24
HAPTER
24
“C
ome with me to Pivot Rock this afternoon,” Walter said as he helped me from the carriage. “You need a pleasant distraction. I’ll have Theakston pack us a picnic lunch.” I stared at him, my eyes blurry with fatigue. “Catch up on your sleep while I perform the autopsy. Then I’ll cancel all my appointments and spend the afternoon with my favorite patient.”
ome with me to Pivot Rock this afternoon,” Walter said as he helped me from the carriage. “You need a pleasant distraction. I’ll have Theakston pack us a picnic lunch.” I stared at him, my eyes blurry with fatigue. “Catch up on your sleep while I perform the autopsy. Then I’ll cancel all my appointments and spend the afternoon with my favorite patient.”
I cringed at the last word but held my tongue. “That sounds wonderful. I have to finish my latest account for Sir Arthur, so I’ll meet you on the rotunda at one o’clock.”
“Until one, then.” Walter flicked the switch and sent the horse and carriage careening down the driveway.
Relieved and grateful to have work to focus on, I went straight to my room. Someone had sent breakfast. I changed out of my bloody clothes into my favorite muslin wrapper and took a few sips of lukewarm coffee. My hands were unsteady, but the typewriter keys felt reassuring under my fingers as I chronicled the events of the morning and evening before. Once the report was completed, a wave of relief washed over me. I curled up in bed and immediately fell asleep.
When I awoke, the sun had almost climbed to its zenith. I felt refreshed. I shook off the morning’s events as one would a bad dream. I carried my bloody clothes to the washroom, leaving them to soak. I was drinking the rest of the coffee, though now thick and cold, when, after a cursory knock, Miss Lucy, followed by her sister and Mary Flannagan, entered the room.
Miss Lucy eyed the partially eaten breakfast tray. “As I suspected. The girl didn’t even touch her food. Mary, go fetch Davish some lunch.” Mary left and the elderly sisters sat down.
“We heard about what happened, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, helping herself to the breakfast tray. “How dreadful.”
“Davish, you do have a knack for morbid adventure,” Miss Lucy said. “You should be sitting down.” I complied.
“I assure you I’m fine, Miss Lucy. I took a nap and feel completely refreshed. It was a nasty business, though, I agree.”
“Well, then, Davish, tell us everything.”
I relayed the morning’s events: my early-morning hike, discovering the body in the Grotto Spring cavern, and running to Walter’s house, being careful to gloss over the blood and the ghastly wound to the dead man’s head. To be honest, I avoided the gory details as much for my own sake as for the elderly ladies’.
“Walter sent for the police and they deemed it an accident,” I said.
“An accident, huh? Oh, well,” Miss Lucy said, disappointed. “Anyway, we’ve got news too, Davish.”
Mary Flannagan arrived then with a lunch tray.
“Mary, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I said.
“Miss?” Mary frowned.
“My room has a similar layout to Mrs. Trevelyan’s,” I said. “Could you show me where the trunk was when you were packing it for the charity?”
Mary raised an eyebrow, but her shoulders relaxed. “About there.” She pointed to a spot near the tea table, the same place the bellhop had found it.
“And Mrs. Trevelyan?” I said. “Where was she sitting?”
“The missus sat there,” she said, pointing to the chair Miss Lucy now occupied, “while I brought over clothes from the wardrobe.”
“Stop pointing at me like that, girl,” said Miss Lucy, whose eyes widened at the shift of everyone’s focus. She breathed on her spectacles and began rubbing them rapidly with a handkerchief. “Don’t you have something useful to do, Mary, like tending to the monsters of dust accumulating under my bed? I do believe I’ll wake up one morning to find myself consumed by them.” The maid remained, awaiting my reply.
“That’s what I wanted to know,” I said. “Thank you.”
I poured the sisters’ tea and invited Mary to join us, much to the chagrin of Miss Lucy.
“Thank you, Miss Hattie, but I’ve got chores to do.”
“Maybe another time, when you have a break,” I said.
“I don’t know why you insist on treating that girl like you do, Davish,” Miss Lucy said after the chambermaid had left. “Even she has enough sense to know better.”
“Yes, dear, I have to agree with Lucy. She is just a maid.”
“I myself am just a secretary.”
Miss Lucy dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “Nonsense, Davish. Now, do you want to hear our news or not?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Did you know that our worthy president has checked out of the Arcadia Hotel?”
“Why is that surprising?” I said. “The coalition’s meeting ended last night, didn’t it? Maybe she changed her mind about staying on for the winter. She probably went home to Chicago.”
“No, no, Hattie, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “she couldn’t have left.”
“You know as well as I, Davish, that the police specifically told several people, including Cordelia, that they weren’t to leave Eureka Springs until the investigation was concluded.”
“According to the police, the investigation is concluded,” I said.
“Besides that, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “Cordelia’s husband is joining her here for Thanksgiving.”
“Are you saying that another American Women’s Temperance Coalition president has gone missing?” I said, hoping this was just Miss Lucy indulging in exaggerated gossip again.
Miss Lizzie patted my hand. “No, no, Cordelia’s not missing, dear, she’s merely checked out.”
“Thank goodness.”
“Don’t you understand, Davish? Cordelia Anglewood, the proud, the rich, the haughty,” Miss Lucy said, to sounds of Miss Lizzie’s distress, “has checked out of the Arcadia Hotel and is now staying at the Hotel Byron.” She said the last word with a triumphant flourish. In my search for the elusive John Martin, I’d visited the Hotel Byron. It was small but respectable, catering to middle-income families and the aged.
“Why would Mrs. Anglewood leave the Arcadia for the Hotel Byron?” I said.
“Exactly!” Miss Lucy said, slapping her knee for punctuation.
“We don’t know, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, taking a napkin and dabbing at a blob of marmalade that had dripped onto her shoulder.
“We do know, Davish, that her bill was paid here until yesterday, and that after the rally, the woman packed her things and moved . . .” She hesitated for dramatic effect.
“In the middle of the night!” Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy exclaimed simultaneously. The door burst open. We all jumped and stared at the puzzled maid.
“My, you startled us, Mary, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Do you always enter a room like that?” The maid wrinkled her brow and said nothing.
“And she keeps interrupting me,” Miss Lucy said, annoyed.
“Don’t mind us, Mary,” I said. “We’re all a little jittery, that’s all.”
“I came to tell you, Miss Hattie,” the maid said, “that I sent your dress, petticoat, and stockings downstairs to the laundry; the bloodstains were too difficult for me to get out. And before you say anything, don’t worry. I know Sally downstairs and it won’t cost you a ha’penny.”
Both sisters stared at me, Miss Lizzie wild-eyed, her sister squinting with suspicion.
“Bloodstains, dear?” Miss Lizzie said.
“Free laundry?” her sister said. “If that’s the case, girl, I’ve a few things you can take down.”
I ignored the former comment. Mary ignored the latter. “Thank you, Mary. I doubt anything’s salvageable, but please thank Sally for trying.”
“Sure.” She began clearing the cups, saucers, and plates.
“One more piece of news you might be interested in, Davish, if you’re finished discussing your laundry.”
“But, Lucy, dear, the maid mentioned blood,” Miss Lizzie said.
“The girl exaggerates, Lizzie. I’m sure if there was something to it, we would’ve heard about it. Now,” Miss Lucy said, facing me again, “about my other news.”
“Oh my,” I said, “it’s been an eventful morning. I’m not certain I can handle any more news.”
“Yes, dear, it has been an eventful week,” Miss Lizzie said, plucking the last cracker from the tray.
“The news you might be interested to know, Davish,” Miss Lucy said, with a hint of exasperation, “is that the police are transporting the murdering saloonkeeper to Berryville in the morning. Justice will be served. As sure as rum turns to ruin, he’ll hang. The police this morning said—”
A crash of falling china interrupted Miss Lucy, as Mary, who had finished her task and was in the process of leaving, tipped the contents of the tray onto the floor. She dropped to her knees. I rushed to her aid.
“I’m sorry, miss,” Mary said, groping, through tearing eyes, at pieces of shattered china. Suddenly, she leapt to her feet.
“It’s all right, Mary. I’ll help you clean it up.”
“No, miss, there’s nothing you can do. I’m sorry, but . . .” She shook her head frantically. Without saying another word, the maid flew out of the room, leaving me on my knees, dumbfounded, surrounded by little bits of broken white china scattered across the floor.
“That looks much nicer on you than my derby did,” Walter said, indicating my bonnet, a recent purchase from Mrs. Cunningham’s. He’d been waiting for me in the lobby. “In fact, all of you looks lovely, and rested.”
“I don’t know. I was starting to take a fancy to that hat.” I laughed at my own joke, pleased with the compliment.
“Ready for our picnic?” he said.
“Do you mind waiting a few minutes more?” I said. “I want to check on something.”
“I’ll be in the gentlemen’s parlor.”
“Good, I’ll be right back.”
Mr. Floyd was hunched over the telegraph machine. His face grew somber when he saw me. He rose and met me at the open service window.
“Did you hear?” he said.
“Hear what?”
“About that man, you know,” he followed a passerby with his eyes as he spoke, “the one the dead lady sent the local wire to.” He referred to the death of John Martin. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Yes, I heard. It’s horrible.”
He nodded vigorously in agreement. “What a coincidence.”
“Yes, you could say that,” I said. “Could you do me another favor, Mr. Floyd?”
He leaned in toward me. “If I can.”
“Cordelia Anglewood received a wire yesterday morning. Could you tell me anything about it?”
After the conversation with the Shaw sisters, I had begun to wonder about Cordelia Anglewood’s unusual behavior. What would cause the steel-hearted woman to cry at the breakfast table, then act the gracious host the rest of the day? Could she be hiding something? Why else would she move to another hotel in the middle of the night? The police still insisted George Shulman was Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer. I still wasn’t convinced.
“You know I shouldn’t, Miss Hattie,” the telegraph operator said. “Telegrams are confidential. I told you about the others because the lady was dead.”
“I understand the need for discretion, Mr. Floyd, and I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t important. Your previous assistance was invaluable.”
“Invaluable?”
“Yes, you helped establish an approximate time of death, which may be key in discovering Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer.”
“Really? All right, I’ll help you again, but you can’t tell anyone. Mrs. Anglewood could get me fired.” I nodded my assent. “The lady actually received one and sent one. The telegram she received was from her husband.”
“Do you remember what the one from her husband said?”
“Sure, all it said was
No
.”
No
.”
“Simple and unrevealing,” I said. “Oh well. And the one she sent?”
“I don’t remember much about that one, what it said or who it was from. I wasn’t paying much attention. It was marked urgent, of course,” he said, rolling his eyes, “and I was concentrating on getting it out.”
“Do you remember where it was sent?”
“Let me see.” He thought for a moment. “I think it was Fayetteville.”
“Thank you, Mr. Floyd. I hope not to impose on you again.” I was disappointed, and started to walk away.
“That lady also received a money wire about a half hour or so ago,” the telegraph operator hissed under his breath. I halted.
“Did the wire come from Chicago, from her husband?” I said.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t on duty until one, so Amos received it. But I came in a little early, won’t do that again,” he muttered under his breath, “and had to deliver it the moment I came in. It was addressed to the Arcadia Hotel, but the lady had checked out. I had to go all the way to the Hotel Byron to deliver it. I just got back. She didn’t even tip me.”
“Is there a record of it?”
Mr. Floyd pulled a tan-colored ledger from a shelf mounted above the window. He scanned the page with his eyes, flipped to the next, and continued scanning. “Here it is. No, it didn’t originate in Chicago.”
“Fayetteville, then?”
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