“John Martin?” Miss Lizzie put down her tea with a clatter, spilling some into the saucer.
“Yes, John Martin, Esq. Do you know of him?”
“Know of him? Why, Davish, do you think he killed Edwina?” Miss Lucy said.
Walter Grice looked up from his plate, his eyebrows arched. Miss Lizzie glanced at her sister. “Do you know something we don’t, Hattie?” Walter said.
“No, no. It isn’t anything like that. At least I don’t think so. You know him, then, Miss Lucy?”
“Of course I don’t.”
“Neither do I, dear,” Miss Lizzie said.
“I’ve never heard of him, either,” Walter said. “Wait, the name does ring a bell. Could he have been a patient of Dr. Cantor’s?”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” I said, brushing bread crumbs off the table. “I thought one of you might’ve known him because he’s a coalition supporter and an acquaintance of Mrs. Trevelyan.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of the man,” Miss Lucy said. “Why do you want to know who he is?”
I explained that I had come across several correspondences from John Martin that didn’t fit into any obvious category. Judging by how Miss Lucy responded to my question, I refrained from describing the contents of the letters, or my true reason for asking. I didn’t want my companions jumping to any more conclusions.
“I didn’t know whether to place his letters in the personal file or the coalition business file,” I said.
“Oh, Davish, what difference does it make?”
“It does make a difference, Miss Lucy. Mrs. Trevelyan’s son, I’m sure, will want his mother’s personal letters. Josephine Piers, on behalf of the AWTC, has already requested everything pertaining to coalition business. It’s my job to make sure that John Martin’s letters go to the right person.”
“This is a murder investigation,” Walter said. “All of Mrs. Trevelyan’s possessions, including her correspondences, will be held by the police. I’d say leave all that to them.”
“I wouldn’t leave anything to them, Hattie, dear, even those silly letters,” Miss Lizzie said. “That police chief is incompetent. Consider how little they’ve investigated your attempted murder.”
“My God.” Walter knocked the table as he rose half out of his seat and rattled the china. Those breakfasting nearby turned their heads at the sound of the doctor’s distress. “What attempted murder?”
“When someone with the strength of Samson shoved Davish down the stairs, of course,” Miss Lucy said, “though Lizzie’s being dramatic. Tell Dr. Grice what they said, Davish.”
“I don’t understand, Hattie.” Walter retrieved his napkin from the floor, waved off a concerned waiter who had rushed over, and regained his chair. “Someone pushed you down the stairs? I thought it was an accident; I thought you’d fainted or tripped.”
“The police concluded that too, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “despite our efforts to convince them otherwise. That’s why we don’t think they’re very competent.”
“I had no idea,” Walter said. “What happened?” I repeated the account of my encounter with an unknown assailant in Tibbs Alley.
“The last thing I remember was a cry from below, the lantern crashing, and someone running away,” I said. “You know the rest.”
“And the police aren’t doing anything about it, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Of course, they’ll search Edwina’s room, but they won’t look for poor Hattie’s attacker.”
“That was me you heard shouting,” Walter said. He paused when he saw the startled looks on our faces. “Why are you all gaping at me like that?”
“August gentlemen of your stature, Dr. Grice, do not slink behind young ladies into dark alleyways like tawdry, bungling pickpockets,” Miss Lucy said.
“Yes, I thought you more respectable, dear,” Miss Lizzie said.
“Oh, you ladies are much too concerned about reputations and appearances.” Walter pealed with laughter.
“It’s not a laughing matter, Dr. Grice.”
“I apologize, Miss Lucy, but I’m a doctor. Hattie left the saloon pale and shaking, so of course I followed her.”
“Did you see anyone?” I said.
“Davish told us she went to speak to that saloon man,” Miss Lucy said. “What, may I ask, were you doing there, Dr. Grice?” Walter appeared on the brink of laughing again. “Get that smirk off your face, young man, I’m serious.”
“George Shulman happens to be a friend of mine, Miss Lucy,” Walter said.
“But he sells alcohol and destroys families, dear,” Miss Lizzie said.
“Yes, he’s in the saloon business, but can I help how my friends make their living?”
“I’m starting to wonder whose side you’re on, Dr. Grice,” Miss Lucy said. The conversation was heading onto dangerous ground; I had to get back to the question I wanted to ask before the topic of the saloon came up.
“Walter, you said you followed me to Tibbs Alley,” I said. “Did you see anyone? Did you see who pushed me?”
Sobriety returned to the doctor’s countenance. “No, I’m sorry, Hattie, I didn’t.”
“Did you see anyone nearby?” I said. “It might be connected to Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder.”
“Sorry, no. But why do you think it has something to do with the murder?”
“I am a stranger here,” I said. “Who else knows me but Mrs. Trevelyan’s associates and acquaintances? Which reminds me, do any of you know a Joseph Mascavarti? I met him this morning. I’d never met him before, but he said he knew who I was.” No one had heard of him either.
“Do you suspect this Joseph Mascavarti of pushing you, Hattie?” Walter said.
“No, I have no idea who it was.”
“Isn’t it obvious, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “it was that horrible saloonkeeper.” She winced at Walter’s sudden frown. “I’m sorry, Dr. Grice, but even before Hattie mentioned her encounter with him, Lucy and I thought he did it.”
“George?” Walter said. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I have to admit, Walter,” I said, “the same idea occurred to me. You saw how he reacted to my questions the other night.”
“You don’t know George like I do, shouting one minute, singing the next. You remember, he was singing when you left.”
“When I left,” I reminded him, “glass was breaking.”
“Regardless, I was a few yards behind you. I would’ve seen him.”
“The Cavern has a ground entrance on both Main and Center streets,” I said. “He could’ve arrived at the top of the staircase before me. Moreover, I smelled liquor on my assailant.”
“Yes, but you see—” Walter never finished his sentence.
“He’s a violent man, dear, violent,” Miss Lizzie said, interrupting in a burst of emotion. “Shouting vulgarities, smashing glass, and who knows what else.” She threw her fork down, sending it clattering onto her plate. “If he’s capable of those things, he’s capable of anything.” Her hands gripped the edge of the table, turning white.
“How would you know, Lizzie?” Miss Lucy said. “You weren’t even there.” She rose from her chair and grabbed her sister’s arm. “Let’s go. I’ve had enough of this. Besides, it’s time for my nap.” The elderly ladies abruptly took their leave.
“What was that about?” Walter said as he waved the waiter over. He paid the bill, pushed back his chair, and rose.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they’re still upset about you visiting the saloon.”
“Maybe. I’m sorry she has such a negative opinion of George. Has Miss Lizzie even met him?”
“I don’t think so. But Mrs. Trevelyan’s death has put everyone on edge. If only we knew more.”
“I’d better go up and check on Miss Lizzie,” Walter said. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Then, if you’re up to it, let’s go for a walk. The painkiller should be working by then.” He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “We were interrupted earlier, and there’s someth
ing I’d like you to know.”
“And you call yourself a gentleman? Walter Grice, this is blackmail.”
I swatted his arm lightly with my glove as we left the wooded hollow path and approached Grotto Spring. Created by the incessant dripping of water, Grotto Spring was carved deep out of the base of the hill on which the Arcadia Hotel was built. A rocky shelf overhanging its entrance created a natural portico and allowed a bit of light to enter.
Walter and I had strolled around the parklands of the hotel in companionable silence. I’d been content to amble beside him and listen to the rustling autumn leaves underfoot. I had stooped to gather a few fallen hackberry and tulip-tree leaves for my collection when he suggested a visit to Grotto Spring, a hotbed of lichens and liverworts.
“Please just tell me,” I said. He shook his head.
“I know you don’t like the idea of spa treatments,” Walter said, “but in all seriousness, after what you’ve been through, you’re bruised, sore, and exhausted. A hot mineral bath would do you good.”
“How can I be exhausted when all I’ve done is sleep and lie in bed? Getting back to work, now, that would do me good.”
“Hattie, to be honest, when you first arrived I would’ve guessed you hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks, maybe months.” I couldn’t deny what he was saying. When I thought of it, I hadn’t been sleeping well.
“And now?” I said.
“I admit there’s a little color to your cheeks.” He raised his hand to stifle any interruption. “But only because you have been sleeping and lying in bed. Let me prescribe you a spa treatment.”
“No, thank you, Walter, spa treatments are for the sick.”
“Not always. I take spa treatments, even when I’m well. The therapies help ward off sickness. I prescribe them for all my patients.”
“I appreciate your passion and your concern, but spas are not for me. I belong in a typing pool, not a thermal pool.”
“What if I tell you all I know about Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder ?”
“Really? What more do you know?”
“A great deal more than I told the Shaw sisters at breakfast.” He had a gleam in his eye. “Can I make you an appointment at the bathhouse?”
“All right, you win.” I entered the Grotto Spring cave chuckling. “I’ll take one mineral bath.”
“Good.” Walter scooped up water from the spring with his hands and drank. He sat on the long stone bench that had been built out of the cavern wall. In a hushed voice, he said, “Take a seat, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Asphyxiation? Are you sure?” I followed Walter’s example and whispered.
Walter had accompanied the police when they had removed the trunk and Mrs. Trevelyan’s remains to the police station. There, in the presence of Chief Jackson and Judge Senrow, he had completed a thorough external examination of the dead woman’s body and had learned more than he had led us to believe. Mrs. Trevelyan had been killed at least two days ago, though the precise day and time were too difficult to tell; her body had already begun to decompose. He found a gash in her head and tiny pieces of glass embedded in her scalp. Dried blood had clotted in her hair and dripped on the same side of her face and neck. The blood on her clothes could’ve come from the gash on her head, but Walter wasn’t positive. But the blue tints he found around her lips and fingernails, he explained, were signs of suffocation. Walter reiterated that a postmortem examination might lead to more definite conclusions.
“It could’ve been massive head trauma, but I don’t think so.” Walter used the same calm but firm tone he reverted to when discussing professional matters. “The gash on her head, although producing a lot of blood, didn’t appear significant enough to have killed her.”
“Did someone hit her with a looking glass?” I told him how the police had found a shattered mirror hidden beneath the dresser.
“No, the cuts were too deep. I’d say she was hit over the head with something larger, maybe a water bottle, like the ones you saw in her room.” I recalled the large glass fragment the police found on Mrs. Trevelyan’s carpet.
“And then they suffocated her?” I said.
“Perhaps, though the clothes in the trunk would’ve been sufficient to do the job; I didn’t see anything under her fingers to suggest a struggle.”
“Could she have been knocked senseless first?”
“Now, that’s a real possibility,” Walter said. “It would’ve been simple to suffocate her before she regained consciousness.”
“It could’ve been a man or a woman then, couldn’t it?” I said.
“I think a man most likely. They would’ve had to carry or drag her body to the trunk. Mrs. Trevelyan was petite, but unconscious she would’ve been more difficult to lift.”
“But there weren’t any bloodstains apparent on the carpet.” I watched the water trickle down the stone and drip into the spring pool. “Could it have been an accident? Could someone have hit her, seen the blood, and thought she was already dead?”
“And then inadvertently killed her by stuffing her in her trunk?” Walter said, finishing my thought. He stroked his mustache. “It’s possible. Air supply would be limited inside a locked trunk.”
“And if Mrs. Trevelyan never regained consciousness, never yelled out for help?” I said.
“Or if she did, being down in the storage room, no one heard?” Walter added.
“Hello there!”
Walter and I jumped as two young boys who had been clambering on the hill above us dropped down over the rocky overhang at the mouth of the cave. They each had two large tin pails, which they filled after some time with the slow-moving spring water and then hoisted onto their shoulders. Walter and I said hello to them but waited to speak to each other until the boys started their ascent up the hill and their boisterous voices could no longer be heard. In those few minutes of silence, the full reality of Mrs. Trevelyan’s plight hit me.
“How horrid,” I said. Walter slid his hand toward me. I grasped it. “We must find out who did this, Walter.”
“We? Hattie, I’m flattered, but we don’t know the first thing about being detectives. With all due respect to the Shaw sisters, the police are the best ones to handle this.”
I let his hand go. “How can we trust they’ll investigate this? They’re not even looking for the man who attacked me.”
“And I’m sorry for that. But this is a murder case. Let’s leave it to the police to find Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer.”
“Did Chief Jackson or Officer Burke tell you what brought them to the Arcadia Hotel in the first place? My appeal fell on deaf ears. At the time, Chief Jackson was unwilling to follow up on Mrs. Trevelyan’s disappearance.”
“They didn’t tell me anything about that.”
“I’m curious,” I said, turning to face him directly. “Why didn’t you tell me what you’d learned before, at breakfast?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure the Shaw sisters need to know any of this.” He felt about the autopsy as I had about the elusive John Martin. We were both protecting the old ladies from distress and any premature details from the rumor mill. A smile crept across Walter’s face.
“And . . . ,” I said, squinting my eyes in suspicion.
“And until the police release this information, I’m relying on your discretion, again.”
“I’m famous for my discretion, Dr. Grice. You keep your patients’ secrets, and I keep my employers’.”
“Rightly so.”
“And . . .”
“And . . .” He chuckled under his breath. “And I got you to promise to take a mineral bath, didn’t I?”
CHAPTER 15
“Dr. Grice must be late again.”
The doorman, wearing a gray top hat, chuckled as Walter’s carriage careered down the drive. “Or else he’s showing off that new imported spider phaeton. Only doctor in town that doesn’t drive a Goddard wagon. Only doctor in town that risks breaking his neck too.”
What more d
id the doorman know about Walter? I suppressed my curiosity and instead quizzed him on Mrs. Trevelyan and the temperance women. He didn’t know much, commenting that “one old lady looks like the next.” Once in my room, I fulfilled my last official duty as Mrs. Trevelyan’s secretary, collecting all of her papers for Mrs. Piers. Then, free from obligation, I rushed to my typewriter to record everything Walter had said.
In danger of becoming disorganized, I constructed updated lists of questions and facts. When I’d thoroughly considered all points, I sat back and examined my work. The list of questions was far longer than that of the facts, too long; I didn’t know where to begin. I began prioritizing the questions and kept coming back to the trunk. I started a separate list.
1.Who did Mrs. Trevelyan speak to about the trunk? And when?
2.When was the trunk moved to the basement?
3.Were other trunks or cases moved to or from Mrs. Trevelyan’s room that day?
4.Had the trunk been moved within Mrs. Trevelyan’s room that day?
5.Was there a lock on the trunk when it was moved? Before it was moved?
I continued on in this way, grouping questions from the master list into smaller, more manageable new lists. The questions that didn’t belong to any other list, I marked Miscellaneous. Satisfied, I gathered my packet for Mrs. Piers, selected a couple of lists to work on, and set out to find the young bellboy.
Owen was coming out of a suite on the fourth floor, pushing an overloaded luggage cart. “Sorry, miss, but I’ve got to get this luggage downstairs. These folks are fixin’ to catch a train.”
“I only have a few questions.”
“Oh, all right, but you’ll have to be quick.”
I walked beside him. “Did Mrs. Trevelyan speak to you about moving the steamer trunk?”
“Ah, miss, I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
“Please, Owen. Could you tell me what you told them?”
He stopped and pushed the call button for the elevator. “As I told the police, I never spoke to or saw Mrs. Trevelyan.”
A Lack of Temperance Page 11