A Lack of Temperance

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “Dr. Grice carried you himself, dear. He’s such a gentleman,” Miss Lizzie said, blushing. Then she bit into an apple tart. “He said you were lucky to land on that pile of dresses. Not wanting to take any chances, he attended to you himself.”

  “Where is Dr. Grice now?” I said.

  “He went with the police, dear. Something about an autotopsy ?”

  “Not an autotopsy, Lizzie, an autopsy, a postmortem examination,” Miss Lucy said.

  “Does he know how Mrs. Trevelyan died? Or when?” I asked.

  “We don’t know, Davish. Dr. Grice didn’t tell us a thing,” Miss Lucy grumbled. “At least that policeman Burke was thoughtful enough to tell us they were taking Edwina’s remains to be examined and that Dr. Grice went with them. As far as we know, they’re all still there.”

  “Did the police say anything else?” I said. “Do they have any ideas who did this?” Miss Lucy bristled at the question.

  “No, they did not. They’ve been rude and unforthcoming. You were there during the questioning, Davish. You know everything we do. We haven’t heard anything more.”

  “Of course, rumors abound, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “The police questioned the hotel staff first, and I’ve heard several of the members whispering about missing jewels.” Her hand sought the mother-of-pearl pin at her throat. “What was the maid saying?”

  “Yes, Davish, you never did tell us what that maid was fussing about,” Miss Lucy said.

  “Mary was telling me how several of the ladies lied about their whereabouts.”

  Miss Lizzie batted her eyes as if dazed. Miss Lucy choked on her pumpkin cake.

  “Don’t believe it, Davish,” Miss Lucy chided. “Did she also tell you that pink flamingos took up residence in the fountain outside? The girl’s trying to bamboozle you.”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. She’s a strange one, that girl. Mopes around dusting at a snail’s pace, goes up to that Catholic chapel every day. I’ve even found her lounging about reading! I know it’s hard to find good help these days, but I wouldn’t put up with that. And why, I ask you, would she want to trudge all the way to that hut in the woods when a perfectly good Presbyterian church is at the bottom of the hill? Davish, now there’s a good Protestant name.”

  I remained silent as I took a sip of my tea. My father had been Protestant, but my mother, who had emigrated from Ireland, had raised me Catholic. But I didn’t think Miss Lucy was in the mood for me to explain. “And her family, from what I hear, are a bunch of brawling drunkards.”

  “Yes, dear, I heard she has a father or uncle or something in Ireland who’s in prison,” Miss Lizzie said in a conspiring undertone. “Allegedly killed a man. Edwina took a special interest in the girl.”

  “I gave up on the girl weeks ago,” Miss Lucy said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Lint coats my chairs and dust flies out of the wardrobe, even with the door closed. Who knows what else she’s neglecting.”

  “But that’s Edwina,” Miss Lizzie clucked, “wanting to save even the maid from the devil’s vice.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if we find out she’s involved with this whole sordid business,” Miss Lucy said matter-of-factly.

  “You think Mary might’ve killed Mrs. Trevelyan? But why?” I couldn’t believe it. The idea had never entered my mind.

  “Who knows with servants, money, pure vindictiveness,” Miss Lucy said. “I heard Edwina tried to be strict with the girl, no courting, no carousing, and no slovenly behavior.”

  “Well, I know for certain there’s some truth to what Mary told me,” I said. “Maybe she lied about a few things, but I can’t believe she murdered Mrs. Trevelyan. You must be able to think of someone else who would do this.”

  “I don’t think so, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Edwina Trevelyan was a generous, spiritual crusader of her cause, a role model for the younger women, a genuine leader.”

  “But what about the threats?” I said, then told them about the threatening letters I had seen. They seemed to know all about them and were calmly dismissive.

  “True, not everyone approved of her use of violence, Lucy and I included, but that’s not reason enough for someone to do this to her.”

  “More motivation than Mary Flannagan has, surely,” I said.

  “No, no, I agree with Lizzie,” her sister said. “The American Women’s Temperance Coalition has seen a sad day. Granted we’re grateful saloon smashing will now be a thing of the past, thank goodness, but her flock will miss her, even if we didn’t always agree with her tactics. No, I think Mary’s the best suspect.”

  At that moment, the waiter returned to refill our teapot. We sat for several moments steeping our tea until Miss Lizzie interrupted the silence.

  “Of course, that dreadful saloonkeeper could’ve done it.”

  “George Shulman?” I said, remembering the threat he had made to Mrs. Trevelyan.

  “Yes, dear, him. He showed his penchant for violence by attacking you on the stairs.”

  “We don’t know for sure it was him,” I said.

  “You may be on to something, Lizzie. The barkeep ran for city council, you know. I’ve heard he may have even won.“ Miss Lucy obviously hadn’t read today’s headlines yet. “And he was vehemently opposed to Proposition 203. He based his entire platform on its defeat. That’s why Edwina chose his saloon, you know. And after Edwina almost destroyed his saloon, a man like that might turn to murder. What better way to ensure its defeat than to dispatch its greatest champion.”

  “But when was he at the hotel? Mrs. Trevelyan’s trunk was in her room on Monday. How did he get in her room? Whoever killed Mrs. Trevelyan had access to her trunk.”

  “He must’ve come here,” Miss Lucy said. Miss Lizzie squirmed in her seat and stuffed another roll in her mouth. “What’s wrong with you, Lizzie?”

  “But he said that he was working all day Monday,” I said, “and I’m sure he’ll have witnesses.”

  “You believe a man like that?” Miss Lucy said. “First the maid, now the saloon man. I’m disappointed in you, Davish. I’ve known toddlers at a magic show that are less gullible.”

  “I don’t know who is and who isn’t lying,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Just think about it. The barkeep’s full of drink more times as not. And so are his so-called witnesses. He sells liquor on the Sabbath. What kind of man does that? He must be lying.”

  “Lucy’s right, dear. He’s lying,” Miss Lizzie said, with unusual conviction.

  Miss Lucy abruptly crinkled up her napkin and threw it on the table. “Why didn’t we think of this sooner? He must be arrested. Lizzie, telephone the police. The murderer must be caught.”

  “But, Lucy, dear, I haven’t finished my tea.” She quickly popped a melon slice into her mouth.

  “Yes, well, finish your tea, and then you can call the police.”

  “Why don’t you call? If I call, I’ll miss my nap.”

  “But what about my nap? Davish, why don’t you call? You’ve got nothing better to do now.” Miss Lucy’s beady eyes awaited my response.

  “I don’t think the police will speak to me.” And I didn’t want to speak to them at the moment either. I quickly changed the subject. “From the look of everyone earlier, the members are taking the news of Mrs. Trevelyan’s death quite hard.”

  “Yes, everyone’s in shock, dear. We’ve lost our beloved leader.”

  “Everyone but Cordelia Anglewood, you mean,” Miss Lucy snapped. She was growing increasingly annoyed. “She’s always been the commanding type, but this is ridiculous. She’s already acting like we’ve elected her president.”

  “Isn’t she the vice president?” I said.

  “Yes, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “But the vice president has no authority to do anything in this situation but call emergency elections. She’s doing far more than that, I’m afraid. She’s circulating a resolution she wants printed in the newspaper, and she is, even as we
speak, making all the arrangements for Edwina’s funeral and memorial service. I don’t think she’s consulted any other members, let alone Edwina’s children. Oh, there’s Diana Halbert and Kate Dowd.” She waved to the two women sitting at a table on the other side of the dining room.

  “Mrs. Anglewood’s done all this since this morning?” I said.

  “Unbelievable, isn’t it, Davish? You saw her earlier; she was like a tightly wound top, ready to spin out the window. Edwina isn’t even in the ground, and Cordelia Anglewood has anointed herself president. I’ve aligned myself with Cordelia on many issues, she being the most outspoken against the use of violence. So it pains me to say it, but I for one plan to vote against her. She’s dictating that the schedule proceeds as planned while she makes the funeral arrangements. It’s almost as if she had been prepared ahead of time.”

  Miss Lizzie and I stared aghast at Miss Lucy. The silence was uncomfortable as Miss Lucy looked back and forth between me and her sister.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you two looking at me . . . ?” She stopped mid-sentence, realization dawning on her face. She hesitated to say any more.

  “Miss Lucy, are you implying that Mrs. Anglewood knew beforehand that Mrs. Trevelyan was dead?”

  “Oh, that’s not what you meant, is it, Lucy, dear?” Miss Lizzie squeaked, an expression of mortification on her face.

  “No, no. Goodness, girl, you have a more vivid imagination than Jules Verne,” Miss Lucy said, shaking her head. “No, I only meant that Cordelia is ambitious and I wouldn’t put it past her to have anticipated this possible occasion, that’s all. Everyone knows she’d sell one of her grandchildren to be AWTC’s president. You’re both reading too much into this. Rumor had it that after the incident at the saloon, Cordelia was going to call new elections anyway.”

  “Ambitious enough to have killed Mrs. Trevelyan?” I said.

  “Lower your voice, Davish,” Miss Lucy said, quickly glancing about the room. “You certainly did hit your head hard, didn’t you? Enough of this. Here, eat some more cake.” Miss Lucy handed me the plate she snatched from in front of her sister.

  “But you just implied that very possibility,” I said.

  “I did no such thing.”

  “Hattie, dear, that is wicked of you to say, no, to even think such a thing,” Miss Lizzie said. “Cordelia did not murder Edwina, George Shulman did. Besides, Cordelia was out riding on Monday.”

  Cordelia Anglewood had done more than go riding; she had quarreled with Mrs. Trevelyan, almost striking her with a whip. A fact she had yet to reveal to Miss Lucy, Miss Lizzie, or the police.

  “Yes, that’s what she told the police. And you, Miss Lizzie, told the police you were with your sister all morning. But Mary saw you coming out of the library alone.”

  “Oh, I forgot about that, dear. You’re right. I went to use the telephone and returned a book I’d borrowed on the way.”

  “I think you’ve forgotten your place, Davish,” her sister said coolly, rising from the table. “You accuse Cordelia when you yourself saw Cordelia walking to the stables. And now you accuse my sister Lizzie of wrongdoing? I expect an apology.”

  “I am sorry if I offended you, Miss Lucy, but a woman has been murdered. Anyone could’ve done it. And until the police find the killer, even members of the coalition are suspect.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I bolted upright. Someone was trying to open my door. After tea, the Shaw sisters had insisted that I rest again. Still suffering from last night’s fall and this morning’s shocking events, I must’ve fallen asleep. The room was pitch dark. I barely remembered getting back into bed.

  “Who is it?” I rose, slipping my feet to the floor. I still wore my brown and black pinstriped wool dress.

  “Just the maid, ma’am.” She jostled a tray laden with a coffeepot, mug, and several covered dishes and shoved the door open with her hip. I hastened over to help her. I pushed the button on the wall, lighting the room.

  “Here, ma’am. I thought you might be hungry. You’ve missed supper.”

  As I fixed myself a plate, Mary poured the coffee. Despite my hunger, little on my plate looked appetizing. I struggled to eat the dishes of meat and cheese. However, the slices of vanilla pound cake were delicious. I told Mary to help herself.

  “Thank you, but no. I’m actually here to give you these.” She picked up a stack of letters from the tray. “More mail for Miss Edwina. Mr. Oxnard, the desk clerk, told me to bring them to you.”

  “Thank you, Mary. I suppose I am still responsible for Mrs. Trevelyan’s correspondences.”

  “I don’t know what you’re gonna do with a dead woman’s letters.”

  I took the letters from Mary’s outstretched hand and glanced through them. Most were similar to those I’d already seen. However, one was from the Bank of Eureka Springs. I plucked my letter opener off the desk and slashed the envelope open. It contained a bank receipt. One thousand dollars donated to the American Women’s Temperance Coalition and deposited in an account at the Bank of Eureka Springs. The name on the receipt was John Martin. I set the letter pile down, with the bank slip at the bottom.

  “I’ll go through them later. But that reminds me . . .” I wrote a brief letter of my own. I had intended to write it earlier but fell asleep before I had the chance.

  “Would you mind taking this to the registration desk on your way out, Mary? I would do it myself, but . . .”

  The maid, taking the letter, glanced at the address. “I can take this to Dr. Grice for you, ma’am, if you want me to.”

  “Oh, no, it’s too late.”

  “Don’t you worry about me.” Mary waved her hand in dismissal. “I won’t be alone, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh . . . Oh, I see. In that case, that would be kind of you. Are you sure you don’t want some of this food?”

  Mary squinched up her face and stared at me. “You’re a queer one, if I may say so, ma’am. I rather like you.”

  “Thank you, Mary.” I think that was a compliment.

  She tucked the letter into the pocket of her apron, hoisted the tray off the table, and with me holding the door open, disappeared down the hall, whistling. She was long out of sight when I heard her holler, “Don’t forget to take your medicine.”

  I glanced at the bank receipt again before filing it away. The receipt was dated Friday, November 4, 1892. One mystery solved, I thought. I had spent a somber but satisfying hour sorting, organizing, answering, and filing the newest batch of Mrs. Trevelyan’s letters. I had related the news of Mrs. Trevelyan’s death to several of her correspondents when I came across the receipt again.

  It was obviously from the same man as had left his calling card for Mrs. Trevelyan. John Martin must be one of the AWTC’s many supporters here for the annual meeting.

  Oh, no, I thought. Could he also be . . . ?

  I quickly leafed through one of the piles on my desk and found what I was looking for, the threatening letter signed J.M. Could this too be the same man? I hadn’t made the connection before. I read the letter again, then put a sheet of paper in my typewriter.

  FACTS:

  1. John Martin left his calling card.

  2. A man with the name starting with an M met with Mrs. Trevelyan on Friday afternoon.

  3. Within an hour or two of that meeting, John Martin donated $1,000 to Mrs. Trevelyan’s temperance cause.

  4. A threatening letter, alluding to blackmail, was delivered by hand on Saturday or Sunday.

  5. Mrs. Trevelyan was killed on Monday.

  Could all this be a coincidence? I reread my list. I don’t believe in these kinds of coincidences. I needed to tell the police.

  Someone tapped on my door.

  “Back already, Mary?” I said, answering the knock.

  To my surprise, Josephine Piers, poised to leave, stood in the hallway. She was dressed in black and held a blue glass bottle in one hand. Her perfume filled the room as she entered uninvited.

 
“I’m relieved to see you well, Miss Davish. I was on my way to our election meeting upstairs and thought I should check on you. I heard you met with a nasty accident in Tibbs Alley. Then to have found Mother Trevelyan like you did. It must’ve been horrible. Whenever I picture her lying in that trunk, dead . . .” She started to gasp for air.

  “Please sit down, Mrs. Piers.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “I brought this for you.” She set the bottle down on the table. It was labeled Basin Spring Water. Bottled by Eureka Water Bottling Co. I poured her a glass of water.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. From what I’ve heard, you and Mrs. Trevelyan were close. You must be very upset.”

  “Yes, Mother Trevelyan was my mentor, my guiding light.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “To find her like that, and then to lose the proposition vote after we worked so hard. Ah, what a devastating blow.” As with the Shaw sisters, I wasn’t sure what was more devastating, the murder of Mrs. Trevelyan or the defeat of the liquor law. It was baffling. “Do the police have any leads?”

  “I wouldn’t know. The police haven’t spoken to me, except in the parlor this afternoon. You were there. They didn’t give us much information.”

  “What about the doctor? Have you spoken to him?”

  “The doctor? No, I haven’t spoken to Dr. Grice since this morning.”

  “No news I can share at the meeting, then?”

  “Not that I know of. Do you have any idea who might’ve done it, Mrs. Piers?”

  “She’s a martyr to the cause. You’ve seen the letters, the threats.” She hung her head. “God’s will be done.”

  Mary chose that moment to enter the room with little more than a quick rap for warning. Mrs. Piers leapt from the chair, clutching her chest.

  “Am I interrupting something?” the maid said.

  “You should knock properly, child,” Mrs. Piers said. “What do you want?”

  “I have a message for Miss Hattie from Dr. Grice.”

  “Well, what is it?” Mrs. Piers said.

  Mary glanced at me, a flash of concern on her face, before replying. “Dr. Grice said he can call on Miss Hattie in the morning, for breakfast.”