A Lack of Temperance (23 page)
He gaped at me as he closed the book. I’d guessed correctly.
“If that’s the case, then I’d like to wire something myself, Mr. Floyd.”
“If I’m gonna get fired, the least you can do is call me Hank.”
“Hank it is, then,” I said, writing out my brief message. “Ask for a response, please, and, Hank,” I said with a laugh, “mark it ‘urgent.’ ”
“Miss Davish?” I turned to see Colonel Walker, in a brown regulation army hat, approaching. He carried two large suitcases and a bulky envelope tucked under one arm. “You found my son-in-law?”
Images of John Martin’s body and the blood everywhere flashed into my mind. I reached out for something to steady myself but then found I had no need. I faced the colonel with my hands laced together in front of me, composed.
“Yes.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hank’s jaw drop.
“They tell me it was an accident. Is that true?” He let the suitcases drop with a thud.
“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “The police think so.”
“But you don’t?” His blue eyes were piercing, reminding me of Mrs. Trevelyan’s photograph.
“Yes, I do think it most likely, Colonel. It’s just that . . .”
“That you believe there’s a connection between the death of your temperance leader and my son-in-law?”
How would he know that?
I wondered. “I’d known John for years, Miss Davish, as a levelheaded young man, a loving husband to my daughter. He was a teetotaler, for goodness’ sake. Then we came here.” He held out the envelope he was carrying. “This was at the bottom of John’s suitcase; I found it this morning.” In large scrawling letters, it read
For Joseph Mascavarti
. To my consternation, I recognized the handwriting.
How would he know that?
I wondered. “I’d known John for years, Miss Davish, as a levelheaded young man, a loving husband to my daughter. He was a teetotaler, for goodness’ sake. Then we came here.” He held out the envelope he was carrying. “This was at the bottom of John’s suitcase; I found it this morning.” In large scrawling letters, it read
For Joseph Mascavarti
. To my consternation, I recognized the handwriting.
“Do you recognize this, Miss Davish?” he asked.
“Not the envelope, Colonel, but the handwriting. Mrs. Trevelyan addressed it.”
“John was family and he’s dead. I don’t speak ill of the dead. But I don’t want anything more to do with him, or his entanglements.” He spat out the last word as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Here, take it.” The colonel thrust the envelope at me. “Keep my daughter out of it, if you can.” He picked up his suitcases.
“Shouldn’t you give this to the police?” I said, turning the envelope over in my hand.
“You knew about John’s true identity before anyone else, didn’t you?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, there’s your answer,” he said. “God knows he had me fooled, and I don’t trust the police, Miss Davish. I trust you to do the right thing.”
I rushed into the gentlemen’s parlor the moment Colonel Walker walked out the Arcadia Hotel’s front door.
“Walter, come look at this,” I said. Seven astonished faces looked up from their newspapers or billiards game to gawk at me. I froze.
“Hattie,” Walter exclaimed, leaping from his chair, grabbing my arm, and escorting me out of the room. “You know women aren’t allowed in there.”
“I’m sorry, Walter, it’s just that . . . Come in here and see this.” I motioned for him to follow me to the library. “I haven’t had a chance to read every article, but . . .” I dropped the envelope on the table and sat down.
“What’s this all about?” Walter pulled a chair up next to me.
“See for yourself.” I slid the envelope toward him. He pulled out some newsprint. He dumped the remaining contents of the envelope on the table, picked up the closest article, and began to read. I eagerly reached over and did the same.
“This article’s from the
Chicago Tribune
about the murder of Ruth Mascavarti by her husband.” Walter paused. “Joseph Mascavarti.”
Chicago Tribune
about the murder of Ruth Mascavarti by her husband.” Walter paused. “Joseph Mascavarti.”
“Known to us as John Martin,” I said. “He allegedly killed his wife by pushing her down a flight of stairs.”
“Like he did to you. Hattie, I had no idea.”
I sat on the edge of my chair. “Keep reading.”
“ ‘Joseph Mascavarti, a clerk at Dunn, Dunn, and Steele, is suspected of killing his wife of three years in an intoxication-induced rage by shoving her down the three flights of stairs at their apartment building on North Green Street,’ ” Walter read out loud. “ ‘Neighbors alerted the authorities after hearing the couple’s violent argument. Mrs. Mascavarti died later at the Chicago Hospital for Women and Children from injuries incurred in the fall. The suspect fled the scene and is still at large.’ ” He skimmed the rest of the article. “Oh my God, Hattie, Ruth’s maiden name was Trevelyan.”
“Exactly,” I cried. “Ruth Trevelyan Mascavarti died in May 1877. That’s around the time Mrs. Trevelyan joined the coalition and became estranged from her husband. Her son even mentioned it at the memorial service.”
“So John Martin, who was also this Joseph Mascavarti who killed his wife, was Mrs. Trevelyan’s son-in-law?”
“Yes. It would explain why she was blackmailing him,” I said. “She probably hated him and wanted to make him pay, literally, for what he’d done.”
“And she knew he would pay it,” Walter said. “He couldn’t risk having his past revealed; he had too much to lose. If he hadn’t had the misfortunate of meeting his first mother-in-law after all this time, he might’ve gotten away with it. Where did you get all this?” Walter slid the newspaper articles back in the envelope.
“Colonel Walker, John Martin’s father-in-law. He said he didn’t trust the police, so he gave it to me.”
“Where did he get it?”
“In John Martin’s suitcase. Mrs. Trevelyan met with someone last Friday; I’m guessing it was her son—in—law. She must’ve confronted him with these articles, then made her blackmail demands. That’s about the time Colonel Walker said John started drinking again.”
“Ironic. The man starts drinking again after seeing a temperance movement leader,” Walter said, shaking his head. “So he paid her a thousand dollars,” Walter said. “The money that the coalition thinks was a donation to their cause.”
“Yes, and since it went to the AWTC and not to Mrs. Trevelyan personally, in a way it was,” I said. “But then she demanded more.”
“Sounds like a good motive for murder.”
C
HAPTER
25
HAPTER
25
“Y
ou haven’t told me about the autopsy,” I said.
ou haven’t told me about the autopsy,” I said.
Walter and I had traveled in companionable silence toward Pivot Rock. Walter had concentrated on driving the carriage through the mountainous terrain, while I, despite the breakneck speed and the brisk wind on my face, had endeavored to classify trees: oak, hickory, shortleaf pine, maple, hackberry, Ohio buckeye. As we journeyed through the countryside toward the celebrated “natural wonder,” I attempted to put all thoughts of murder and temperance and secret pasts out of my mind. But the disconnected facts and inexplicable events of the past week continued to creep in my mind and disrupt my moments of tranquility. Frustrated, I finally gave up and asked Walter what was foremost in my mind.
“I was wondering when you were going to ask,” he said. “It’s as I thought, his blood had high levels of alcohol, and intracranial bleeding was the cause of death. The angle of the incision and contusions on his head as well as the position of his body, when accounting for the effect alcohol had on the muscles, match the trajectory of a backward, sideways fall toward the bench. The police examined the cave and found a partial footprint on a dry patch next to the bench that matches John Martin’s boot. So it was much like Chief Jackson supposed.”
I pictured John Martin setting his flask down beside him, rising from the bench in a stupor, and after taking a few precarious steps, slipping, falling, and cracking his head on the stone bench
. Ironic justice indeed,
I thought.
. Ironic justice indeed,
I thought.
“Judge Senrow, as coroner, has officially ruled it an accident.”
“Walter, I think we’re here.” The end of the road approached swiftly and I braced myself against the rail.
Walter jerked back on the reins and the carriage halted abruptly at the end of the gravel road, less than a foot away from an enormous old hickory tree.
“We can discuss this further, if you’d like, when we return,” he said, lifting me down from the phaeton. “In the meantime, Miss Davish, let’s enjoy this beautiful spot.”
We found a mossy piece of ground a few feet from the rock formation itself to spread out the blanket and have our picnic. Striated and pale gray in the afternoon sun, the curiosity we had traveled several miles to see wasn’t disappointing. Standing alone in a mossy clearing, Pivot Rock was twice the height of a man. The base of the pedestal rock was less than two feet wide, yet with a top broad enough to accommodate an omnibus. I insisted we not sit too close; the top-heavy rock appeared, to me at least, to be on the verge of tipping over. A well-trod path, through oak–sweet gum forest and along eroded limestone ledges, led to the clearing and beyond.
I sampled everything Walter had packed: cold fried chicken, potatoes in mustard sauce, sharp Cheddar cheese slices, boiled beans in vinegar, taking seconds of the pound cake and stewed apples. Walter had a glass of champagne, and the ginger beer he offered me as we lounged lazily after our meal was delicious. We made an unspoken pact beneath the lengthening shadow of Pivot Rock not to discuss the police, Mrs. Trevelyan, or anything related to the tragic events of the past week. Instead we laughed about the Shaw sisters’ endearing contradictions, reflected on the beauty of the late-autumn afternoon, and took turns reading out loud from Whittier’s
Poems of Nature,
which Walter had thoughtfully tucked into the basket. It was all that Walter had promised as a “pleasant distraction” and more.
Poems of Nature,
which Walter had thoughtfully tucked into the basket. It was all that Walter had promised as a “pleasant distraction” and more.
All too soon, Walter said, “We should head back; it’ll be dark before long.”
I suggested a brief hike of exploration before returning. I’d been eyeing the path that meandered away from the clearing all afternoon, wondering what I might find around the bend. Walter agreed. The hike was short and steep but well worth the effort. I’d been rewarded with two new specimens for my collection, a forest wildflower I’d yet to identify and several leaves from the rare Eureka Springs hawthorn tree, when we came across a small cluster of Eastern red cedar atop an escarpment with a thrilling view of the valley below. The fragrance of the trees, as they brushed against me, brought to mind the last time I’d encountered the scent. I crushed a few needles in my hand, breathed in the fragrance, and then lifted my upturned palm.
“Walter, does this scent remind you of anything?”
He touched the tips of my fingers as he inhaled the fragrant needles. It was a small but intimate gesture that almost took my breath away. I quickly brushed my hands off on my skirt.
“Gin.”
“Exactly.” I was simultaneously exuberant and appalled. “I last encountered this fragrance on one of Mrs. Trevelyan’s handkerchiefs. It was faint but undeniable. I wasn’t able to place it until now.”
With the implications of my discovery settling in, we turned back.
“Do you realize what this means?” Walter said, offering me his arm. “Either the killer used the handkerchief to clean up and left it behind . . .”
“Or Mrs. Trevelyan had more than one dangerous secret,” I said.
The sun was below the horizon when Walter, promising to return for dinner, bolted around the hotel driveway. The moment his carriage disappeared from view, I dashed up the stairs and ran straight to Mrs. Trevelyan’s room. It was imperative to determine whether indeed the coalition’s late hatchet-wielding, saloon-smashing temperance crusader had had a secret drinking habit. Although the police had searched Mrs. Trevelyan’s room, I decided to look again.
I wondered if the police had left Mrs. Trevelyan’s possessions or whether the hotel had given the room to another guest. I tried the door. It was unlocked. Neither scenario was right; the room was empty. I scoured it anyway. I opened every table drawer and every wardrobe door and searched under every piece of furniture, even lifting the mattresses. For my efforts, I found several slivers of glass, a blue feather, and a small piece of molding cheese, but nothing of any significance. Next I searched Mrs. Trevelyan’s bathroom. I knocked three times before entering. The room was vacant but far from empty. Both washstands were covered with ladies’ toiletries, as they had been the day I arrived. I was lucky. The police hadn’t removed or disturbed any of Mrs. Trevelyan’s belongings; dust had settled on the perfume and Magnetic Spring water bottles.
I examined the top of the washstand and the shelf above it, systematically reading all of the labels, and checked each bottle by scent for any hint of alcohol. I found nothing unusual. As I suspected, the washstand drawer contained piles of the plush hand and bathing towels. I removed the towels in order to check the back of the drawer and uncovered a stack of handkerchiefs matching the one I’d found in Mrs. Trevelyan’s nightstand drawer. Why had there only been one in her room? Did these too carry the scent of gin? As I lifted the handkerchiefs out, the drawer tipped toward the floor and a four-sided dark olive bottle, lying on its side, slid forward. My heart skipped a beat. Could the beloved, controversial, and infamous president of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition have been an intemperate hypocrite, a betrayer of everything that those around her held dear? I stared at the bottle a few moments, unsure I wanted to know the truth. But I had to know. I uncorked it and sent the aroma of juniper wafting through the room. I felt dispirited and enlightened at the same time; I’d found Mrs. Trevelyan’s cache of gin.
It all began to make sense: Mrs. Trevelyan’s lackadaisical attitude toward Cordelia Anglewood’s threat to whip her, her preference for Magnetic Spring water, the frequent trips to the washroom that Mary mentioned, even her flushed cheeks and unfocused gaze I noticed the night the temperance leader assailed the saloon. The bottle weighed heavy in my hand. I had to tell the police. Mrs. Trevelyan herself had supplied the weapon of her demise, not George Shulman. I tucked the bottle under my jacket and replaced the remaining contents of the drawer.
As I approached my room, I was startled to hear someone moving about within. I cracked the door open and watched, mortified, as Mary Flannagan searched frantically through my desk, pulling out drawers and sending papers flying to the floor. She grabbed my letter opener, hid it in her apron, and sprinted toward the door. I dodged back into the bathroom, barely avoiding meeting her in the hallway. Her head twisted this way and that. Loose hair strands sprang haphazardly from her forehead and bun. Her eyes were red and swollen. She disappeared down the hall. I hid the gin bottle in the desk in my room, checked the condition of my typewriter, and cringed at the sight of my work flung about the floor. I struggled with the urge to reorganize the mess, but I’d have to leave it for now if I wanted my letter opener, a gift from a former employer, back. I raced to catch up with Mary.
I followed her down staircases, through back alleys, and across many winding streets. We navigated through a yard of hanging laundry and kept to the back of the hotels. The sun no longer reached many of the paths, and I had no idea where she was going. To keep her in my sights, I often drew too near. Twice Mary glanced over her shoulder and forced me to duck behind a parked wagon. Otherwise, she was oblivious to everything around her. Behind one hotel, I almost stepped on a stray cat raiding a hotel’s garbage. It hissed at me, but Mary didn’t pause or turn around. I thought she hadn’t heard and was inching forward when suddenly she froze in the middle of an alley. I darted into the shadow of a doorway.
“Is someone there?” She twisted her head in my direction, brandishing the letter opener. She stood still, listening.
Do I typically breathe this loud?
I wondered.
I wondered.
I tried to hold my breath, fearful she would detect my presence. Then a darker thought crossed my mind. This was Mary Flannagan, the maid, who had been kind, if not always truthful, with me. So why was I suddenly afraid of her? Was it her threatening stance with the letter opener? Was it that I had witnessed her complete lack of regard for my belongings and papers? Was I starting to realize that Miss Lucy had been right about Mary all along? I dismissed this outright but knew of no other explanation. She turned away again but proceeded more slowly.
She had left the alley before I continued after her. I crept forward in the dark along the alley wall and, peering around the corner, was amazed. The police station loomed in front of me. Despite the numerous times I’d been here before, I’d never arrived by such a circuitous route. There were no signs of the maid. I’d lost her again. Yet the last time I’d followed Mary, I had ended up in the same place. She had to be close by.
“George, George,” someone whispered. I moved in that direction.
It was Mary, standing beneath a barred window of the jailhouse. “Here, I brought something that might help you.”
I crouched behind some brush, flinching at the crunch of dried leaves beneath my feet. She either didn’t hear me or didn’t care because her glance never faltered. I watched as Mary tossed my letter opener to a pair of waiting hands. George Shulman’s face filled the window.
“Ah, love, what am I to do with this?”
Here was George Shulman’s “darling.” No wonder she felt bitterness over the assault on the saloon and reacted strongly to Miss Lucy’s callous remarks about George Shulman hanging. Mary had hinted that she had a beau. And Mary’s and George Shulman’s names had both appeared in the prayer book at the chapel; they probably even met there. I silently reproved myself for my ignorance. I should’ve known. Walter had thought George no longer had any attachments, but here was Mary, in her desperation to help him, arming George with a stolen letter opener. I suddenly felt ashamed for eavesdropping on such a private conversation, but had no way to leave undetected.
“You can defend yourself,” Mary said. “I won’t let them hang you. I won’t.”
“It would be worse for me if they found this.” George Shulman tossed the letter opener back on the ground. It landed a few feet away. “There now, let’s hear some more of that book you’ve been reading. You stopped just after the girl Marian’s diary entries.”
Mary fumbled with the book in her pocket. When she accidentally dropped it on the ground, Mary collapsed in on herself, falling to her knees. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
“Mary, dear, don’t cry. I’m innocent. They’ll find out who really did it.”
“They’re sending you to Berryville in the morning,” she shouted. “Don’t you understand, George? My da was innocent too, but he rotted away for years, until he died in his cell. The coppers aren’t even looking for someone else.”
“Oh, it’s all that hypocrite’s fault.” George rattled the bars and spat. “In life, she was a tyrant, keeping us apart with threats of reporting you to the hotel. She knew they’d throw you out without any references. Now someone’s murdered the old hag, and I’m to blame for it.”
“Don’t talk ill of the dead, George. It’s bad luck. Besides, she did some good, all those charities and such. You know she paid me well. So what if she liked a nip now and then?” I gasped, dumbfounded at this revelation. Mary knew about Mrs. Trevelyan’s habit.
Who else knew?
I wondered.
Who else knew?
I wondered.
“But what type of woman objects to us being together because I sell liquor for a living, while she’s drinking gin-loaded coffee?” the barkeeper said. “Even after we took the temperance pledge with her as a witness!” Mrs. Trevelyan knew that George Shulman didn’t drink and yet she targeted his saloon anyway. She must’ve been more fanatical than I’d thought.
Other books
A Home at Trail's End by Melody A. Carlson
This Merry Bond by Sara Seale
The Luxe by Anna Godbersen
Thunder In Her Body by Stanton, C. B.
In the Land of Milk and Honey by Jane Jensen
Fortune Said: A Valentine Haberdashers Tale by Sue London
The Roles We Play: An Erotic Short (The Classics Collection) by Rossi, Trina
Breathe by Lauren Jameson
The Viceroys by Federico De Roberto
The Waiting Sky by Lara Zielin