A Lack of Temperance

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “Do you know who she did speak to?”

  “No.”

  “Well, do you know when the trunk was picked up from her room?”

  “Yeah, around eleven A.M. on Monday. I saw to it myself.”

  “If you didn’t speak to her about it or know who did, then how did you know Mrs. Trevelyan wanted it sent back to storage? The trunk was meant for a charity.”

  “I had my instructions. As I told the police, the lady had sent her new instructions to the desk.”

  “New instructions?”

  “Sure, her trunk was supposed to go to the depot on Tuesday. Like you said, for a charity. She must’ve changed her mind.”

  The elevator arrived. With the help of the elevator attendant, Owen maneuvered the cart inside. “Sorry, miss,” the attendant said, “you’ll have to wait for the next one.”

  “Owen, who gave you those instructions?”

  “Mr. Oxnard, he was the clerk on duty.” As the doors slid closed, he said, “Sorry, gotta go.”

  I glanced at my list. There were still a few questions I needed to ask. I bounded down the stairs, my knee no longer paining me after taking Walter’s tincture at breakfast. I had to admit that my whole body felt better. Owen was outside, loading the luggage onto a wagon. He laughed when he saw me.

  “Don’t give up, do you?” he said.

  “I’ve got a few more questions, if that’s all right.”

  “Go ahead,” he said, turning back to his work.

  “Do you remember a lock on the trunk?”

  “Sure. I heard the police had to break it to get the lady out.”

  “Did you move anything else that day for Mrs. Trevelyan?”

  “No, just the trunk.”

  “Do you happen to remember when you got the new instructions?”

  “It must’ve been just before we moved the trunk. She wanted it done right away.”

  “Any idea why?” I asked.

  “Sorry, that’s all I know.” He scrambled up next to the driver. “Hope that’s it. We gotta go.”

  “One last question. Where in the room was the trunk when you picked it up?”

  Owen scrunched his eyebrows together and frowned. “That’s a new one. I hadn’t thought about it before.”

  He bit his lip as both the driver and I waited. The two horses bobbed their heads and snorted.

  “That’s funny,” he said. “It was by the tea table. Some of the chairs had been moved back, out of the way, kinda. Usually guests store the luggage out of the way, next to a wall, at the foot of the bed, that sort of thing. Guess Mary thought it easier to pack it from there. Oh well, if that’s all, ma’am. Let’s go,” the lad said to the driver, who whipped the horses into motion.

  I too was spurred into action. I hurried to the ladies’ parlor and snatched up a pen. I leaned over an end table and jotted down the answers Owen had given me. I also added several new items to my questions list.

  6.Did Mary move the trunk near the tea table?

  7.If not, who did? Why?

  8.Why did Mrs. Trevelyan change her mind about shipping the trunk?

  9.When did she change her mind?

  10.Did she change her mind?

  I stood up and noticed three women, needlework on their laps, with their mouths gaping open on the other side of the room. I tipped my head, then scurried out to the registration desk.

  The same stoic clerk, Mr. Oxnard, who’d registered me on Sunday worked behind the desk. I asked if he would answer a few questions.

  “I’m sorry about your boss, but I’ve already told everything I know to the police.”

  “Would you mind answering a few of my questions? I won’t take much of your time.” He dropped his elbows on the desk, propping up his chin in his hands, and sighed. “Did you speak with Mrs. Trevelyan about having her trunk moved?”

  “No.”

  “But Owen said that you instructed him to do so.”

  “I said that I didn’t speak to Mrs. Trevelyan.”

  “Then you did receive the request to have her trunk moved?”

  “When did she make it?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” I said. “That’s what I’m hoping to determine, when and why. Owen thinks the new instructions came sometime late Monday morning.”

  “If something was requested on Monday, I would’ve gotten it,” he said. “As you know, I was working on Monday.”

  “Then you do remember getting the request?”

  “No.”

  “What about the request to deliver the trunk to the depot?”

  “I wouldn’t know without seeing the specific instructions.”

  “Then you keep requests on file?”

  “No.”

  “But Mrs. Trevelyan’s was a written request? Could she have brought it down herself?”

  “Never. If she needed something, someone else, usually her secretary or one of the maids, would deliver the request to the desk.”

  “So who delivered this one?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Mr. Oxnard, do you remember anything about Mrs. Trevelyan’s request to have her trunk moved on Monday, either to the storage room or the train depot?”

  “No,” the clerk said. At this moment, a man in a black poplin hat arrived and waited to be served. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more service. You could speak to the manager.”

  “Would he know about Mrs. Trevelyan’s request?”

  “No, he wasn’t working on Monday. I was.”

  “Well then, no, thank you, that won’t be necessary.” I stepped aside, but not quickly enough, as the new guest knocked into me as he approached the desk. I nearly dropped the packet of Mrs. Trevelyan’s papers.

  “Actually, I do have one more question.” The new arrival began tapping his foot. “Among Mrs. Trevelyan’s papers, there was a letter marked Give to secretary. Do you know anything about that, Mr. Oxnard?” To my surprise, he did.

  “I addressed them myself after they were found by a cleaning maid, slipped under Mrs. Trevelyan’s door.”

  “Them?” I said. “There was more than one?”

  “Of course, there’s been a couple. Last one was found Monday morning. I had it sent up immediately.”

  “To me?”

  “Aren’t you the woman’s secretary?” He turned to the new guest. “Didn’t know she was dead then, did we?”

  I tried to occupy myself while I waited for Mrs. Piers in the library. Mahogany wood shelves stretched from the floor to the ceiling on all four walls; the entry door and two French doors facing east were the only breaks in their continuity. Overstuffed leather chairs were scattered about the room, a few with matching ottomans. End tables, each with a lamp, were stacked with variously sized piles of books. I browsed the shelves and found an old edition of Gray’s School and Field Book of Botany. I flipped through its pages but had difficulty concentrating. I didn’t remember the letter the clerk said he sent me. In all of my years of service, I had never mislaid a letter. But then I’d never had an engagement like this one. Regardless, it was inexcusable. I’d succumbed to distractions and put my livelihood in jeopardy. Yet where could it be?

  I put the book back and picked up a copy of today’s newspaper lying on the table nearest me. I had read a report analyzing Proposition 203’s defeat and was finishing an article on Mrs. Trevelyan’s death when I heard Mrs. Piers step into the library.

  “Ah, Miss Davish. Any news?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” I lied. I was bursting with news, but Walter’s request for discretion tied my hands. “That’s everything.” I handed her the packet. She accepted it and thumbed through the stack.

  “Yes, everything seems to be in order. Thank you, Miss Davish. You’ve been most accommodating.” She glided toward the door.

  “I was wondering, Mrs. Piers, if I could ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course. How can I help you, Miss Davish?” She settled in the nearest chair and motioned for me to join her.

&nbs
p; “I wonder, since you knew so much of Mrs. Trevelyan’s affairs, if you know anything about the request to move Mrs. Trevelyan’s trunk back to storage?”

  “Isn’t that a matter for the police, Miss Davish?”

  “Yes, technically, but they haven’t confided in me, and the hotel staff can’t recall anything definite. It’s a puzzle, don’t you think?”

  She didn’t answer me. She picked up the newspaper, which was still opened to the article I’d been reading.

  “We’ve arranged a lovely service for Mother Trevelyan,” Mrs. Piers said. She stared at the paper and then gazed out the window. “Sister Cordelia wanted to have it at the Presbyterian church, but I rented the Opera House instead. The Baptists used to hold services there, before they built their church. It has plenty of room, and everyone knows Edwina wasn’t a Presbyterian.”

  “Why not hold it in her church, then?”

  Josephine Piers regarded me with an unreadable expression in her eyes. “She was a woman of God, Miss Davish, not one of any church. Her mission was to reach Christian people of all faiths. We should follow her example. The Opera House can welcome all people under one roof. You’re expected to pay your respects, Miss Davish.”

  “Of course.” I reminded her of my question: Mrs. Trevelyan’s trunk?

  “The one they found her in?” she said.

  “Yes, the one in the basement.”

  She thought a moment. “Mother Trevelyan was preoccupied with writing a sermon for the saloon smashing. She mentioned several times that she wanted the trunk put into storage. I volunteered to write up the directive and did so before we went into town Sunday, the night before she died.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. I felt sorry for her. She had lost someone very important, someone I’d never known.

  “Do you know who delivered the message?”

  “I did,” she said. “But it’s God’s message we must deliver now, to continue the good work Mother Trevelyan started.”

  “Yes, that may be, but her trunk was originally scheduled to go to the train depot Tuesday. When she spoke to you about it, did she mention why she changed her mind? It was half-packed with old clothes destined for a charity.”

  “I don’t know anything more about that dreadful trunk,” she said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with yellow lilies. “As always, I’d simply done as she asked. Now,” she said, rising from her chair, “I’ve indulged in this exercise long enough. I must return to my duties. The work is endless, but the cause is just.” She laid her hand on my shoulder. “You still look peaked, I’m afraid. You should take better care of yourself.”

  I ignored her remark. “You delivered the message Sunday night, then? Or was it Monday morning?”

  “Josephine, what are you doing?” a voice snapped.

  We turned to see Cordelia Anglewood, in full riding gear, the diamond collar pin less lustrous under the electric lights, standing in the library doorway. She glowered at me.

  “Are you still here? Now that your services are no longer required, I thought you would’ve packed your bags and returned to wherever it is you came from. In fact,” she sneered, “since Trevelyan was dead before you arrived, you never were required, were you?”

  “I’ve served Mrs. Trevelyan since the moment I arrived Sunday afternoon, Mrs. Anglewood. If you will remember, Mrs. Trevelyan was still very much alive. And I’m still working for her, albeit in a different capacity.”

  “You’re still being paid, you mean.”

  “No, that isn’t what I mean, though I have been paid through the end of the week.”

  “And then you intend to leave?”

  “I’ve yet to decide when I will leave.”

  “Ah, I see you’ve finally relinquished all of Trevelyan’s correspondences.” She strode into the room and snatched the papers from Mrs. Piers. “Good. Since you’re still being paid to serve the AWTC president, I’ll return to you anything of a personal nature to which you may respond, including all condolences. And I have a stack of temperance pledges that need to be typed up.”

  “Mrs. Anglewood, I don’t work for you,” I said.

  “I can tend to the condolences, Cordelia,” Mrs. Piers said.

  “No, Josephine, you must help me. This woman has been paid and will finish her job. Won’t you, Miss Davish?”

  “Sister Cordelia is our acting president now, Miss Davish,” Josephine Piers said, patting my shoulder. “We all must do as she bids, and serve in the ways she sees fit.”

  “Very well,” I conceded, sensing an opportunity. The condolence letters, at least, might reveal something useful. “For Mrs. Trevelyan’s sake.”

  A smirk crawled across Cordelia’s face. “And I’ll need to approve all responses before anything is posted.” She flicked two fingers in the air. “Come, Josephine, we have work to do.”

  I followed the two women as they left the library.

  “By the way, Mrs. Anglewood, I know you told the police you were out riding all day Monday. But why didn’t you mention you visited Mrs. Trevelyan that morning? It seems important.”

  “It’s not,” Cordelia said, her back to me. “And it’s none of your business.”

  “When did you see Mother Trevelyan?” Josephine asked.

  “Before I went riding that morning,” Cordelia said. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  “It doesn’t matter that the two of you argued?” I said. “That you raised your riding crop to her?”

  Both women swung around, the velvet-trimmed hem of Mrs. Piers’s black dress swishing back and forth, and advanced toward me.

  “How dare you?” Cordelia Anglewood shoved the packet of papers at the wide-eyed Josephine and backed me into the wall. She stood mere inches away, her breath hot and smelling of coffee. I turned my face aside. “How dare you imply I had something to do with Trevelyan’s murder?”

  “Did you?” I whispered. She swung the riding crop above her head.

  “Cordelia!” Josephine Piers lunged forward, forcing Cordelia’s arm down. She peered over her shoulder, searching for onlookers, before turning to me. “You cannot leave well enough alone, can you, Miss Davish?”

  “Let go of me.” Cordelia Anglewood, seething, yanked herself free of Mrs. Piers’s grip.

  “Think about the coalition, Sister Cordelia, Madame President,” Josephine Piers said, emphasizing the last word. “A typewriter girl isn’t worth the cost to our cause. If you’re so adamant about brandishing that whip, join us at the next saloon smashing.”

  Cordelia Anglewood shook her crop at me. “You . . . ,” she stammered with rage, “stay out of my way.” She swiveled on her booted heel and, trailed by Mrs. Piers, stomped down the hall.

  I have to get out of here.

  I raced through the lobby, arousing a string of astonished looks and indignant exclamations from the people I passed. I didn’t care. I swung open the French doors that led to the hotel’s eastern portico and ran. I clutched my ribs and dashed across the manicured lawns and down the hillside, tracing the same wooded path I had strolled arm in arm with Walter a short time ago. My lungs ached and I stumbled several times before I reached the safety of the cavernous Grotto Spring. Tears streamed down my face, blinding me, as I entered the dark cave and felt my way along the cold stone walls. I dropped onto the stone bench. Someone had left a white enamel cup at the end of it. I picked up the cup and flung it as hard as I could against the opposite wall. I gave in to my frustration and fear and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe.

  I’d faced challenges here that I never could’ve imagined while typing manuscript pages for Sir Arthur or taking dictation for Mrs. Madeleine Kennedy. Nothing I’d learned at Mrs. Chaplin’s school had prepared me for this. In less than one week, I’d found my employer murdered, locked and suffocated in her own trunk, had been pushed down a flight of stairs, and a moment ago, had been threatened with a whipping or worse. My own dear father never raised a hand to me. I wanted to leave and have nothing more to do w
ith the American Women’s Temperance Coalition. I wanted to erase the horrific sight of Mrs. Trevelyan’s face ashen and contorted in death from my memory.

  Pull yourself together. Un, deux, trois . . .

  It’s not like I was the one lying on a cold slab in the coroner’s office. I pulled a handkerchief from my sleeve and dabbed my eyes. But why was Mrs. Trevelyan killed? Why was I being threatened? Why was any of this happening? I tried to take a deep breath, but a sharp pain in my ribs stopped me short. Something must be done.

  I picked up the enamel cup and inspected it for damage. A small chip on the rim was the only evidence of my shameful behavior. I replaced it on the bench. I knelt at the spring and splashed water on my face. I stood, brushed soil from my skirt, and readjusted my hat. A bald, middle-aged man on crutches entered the cave as I was leaving.

  “Not scaring you off, am I, missy?” he said, showing a mouth full of missing teeth.

  “No, no. There’s just something I have to do. Good day.”

  I had never shied away from a challenge before. Why start now?

  CHAPTER 16

  “Do you have a Mr. John Martin registered here?”

  All afternoon I had searched hotel after hotel, asking the same question. I had visited the Hancock House, the Wright House, and the Pence House, all popular whitewashed frame boarding houses. I had stopped at the Congress Hotel, which proved to be accommodations for black servants. I had inquired at the Lamont Hotel, the Waverly Hotel, and the grand Southern Hotel at Basin Circle Park. I had questioned clerks at hotels with names like the Josephine, the Clara Bell, and the Catherine or at others named for nearby springs, the Sweet Spring Hotel, the Magnetic Springs Hotel, and the Congress Spring Hotel. And still there were dozens left to visit. Yet every hotel clerk gave me the same answer, “No.” Exhausted, I took the streetcar up to the Thach Cottage Hotel, high up on the hill. After another disappointing inquiry, I disembarked at my hotel, the Arcadia. The same clerk who always seemed to be behind the desk was poring over a pile of ledgers.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Oxnard, but could you do me one more favor?” He glanced up from his work, rolled his eyes at the sight of me, and sighed.