A Lack of Temperance

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “What is it now, Miss Davish?”

  “Could you tell me if you have a Mr. John Martin registered here?”

  He slid the ledgers to one side and drew the enormous registration book in front of him. “When would he have arrived?”

  I gave the same answer I’d given over and over all afternoon. “I’m not certain. I do know that he was in Eureka Springs as of last Friday.”

  He flipped through the book and scanned several pages. “Sorry, no John Martin.”

  “Thank you.” I would have to start again tomorrow. The clerk peered over my shoulder. I turned to see what had caught his attention.

  “Davish,” Miss Lucy shouted as she and her sister proceeded across the lobby at an astonishing pace.

  “Hattie, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, panting and bending at the waist, “we found you.”

  “What is it?” I said. “What’s happened?”

  Miss Lucy grasped my arm. “Davish, we’ve been searching all over for you. Where have you been?”

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Hattie, dear, we have the most monumental news.” Miss Lizzie held her hand to her heaving chest. “You tell her, Lucy, I still can’t breathe.”

  “Lizzie and I were right all along. Weren’t we, Lizzie?”

  “What do you mean?” I said. “Miss Lucy, what are you talking about?”

  “That barkeep, Davish.” She raised her chin and folded her arms across her chest. “The police arrested him a little over an hour ago. We were right. George Shulman murdered Edwina Trevelyan.”

  The coach was waiting. I would’ve rather walked, but the medicine had worn off and my knee was again throbbing. Donned in my black Henrietta cloth dress, which I’d worn to my father’s funeral, and a new French saucer hat with black satin bow, black feathers, and spotted veil that I’d picked up at Mrs. Cunningham’s shop, I joined the multitude of guests ascending into the hired coaches, broughams, and Rockaways lined up in the Arcadia’s circular drive. We descended the hillside in a slow procession. I felt at odds saying farewell to a woman I’d never properly met. It was my duty, yet I felt the gesture premature. There was so much I still didn’t know.

  “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it, dear?” Miss Lizzie said, sitting beside me, looking up at the sky. Miss Lucy, in a well-used black Directoire bonnet, dozed across from us.

  “Yes, it is,” I said.

  “So crisp and clear. Just look at those stars. With the killer caught, I imagine Edwina is up there among them now, finally at peace.”

  “I hope so, Miss Lizzie. I truly hope so.”

  Despite the cool air, the broad doors of the Opera House had been left open, allowing the glow of the gaslight chandeliers and the chords of the organ to spill out into the road. A parade of women streamed into the Opera House. As I helped Miss Lucy through the doors and down the center aisle, we passed women of all kinds, condoling, greeting, and mingling together. There were servants and dignitaries, Southerners and Yankees, old and young. Women held babes in their arms while others flapped fans of ostrich feathers. Some hid dresses of plain wool or cotton under hand-stitched shawls while others flaunted the puffy shoulders of a dress of crepe, silk, or taffeta. On their heads were every shape, size, and style of hat to be found in Eureka Springs. And they were all whispering about the arrest of George Shulman. I had never felt so alone.

  My head was still reeling from the array of emotions that revelation had created. I was shocked and suspicious. Any relief I might’ve felt was negated by the unresolved mystery surrounding John Martin and the menacing letter. And although I myself had argued that George Shulman might’ve pushed me down the stairs, thus making him a suspect, the near-violent clash I’d experienced with Mrs. Cordelia Anglewood made me uneasy about my own rationale. Could I’ve been mistaken about my assailant? Could the police be wrong? The arrest of George Shulman alleviated me from any further duty toward Mrs. Trevelyan; I was free to leave Eureka Springs. So why did I feel regret instead of relief? Why wasn’t I packing my things right now?

  After settling the Shaw sisters into their seats, I located one for myself several rows behind and scanned the crowd for familiar faces. Mary Flannagan, tears streaking down her cheeks, sat a few rows back with a group of girls I didn’t recognize. I was touched. It was the first time I’d seen her upset over Mrs. Trevelyan’s death. Scattered about in the rows in front of me, I caught glimpses of several coalition members I knew, including the schoolteacher from Memphis, Diana Halbert, who waved when our eyes met. A woman in a black toque with an entire blackbird upon it sat in front of me, blocking my view of the first several rows where the few men in attendance sat: city dignitaries, members of Mrs. Trevelyan’s family, and financial supporters of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition. I elevated myself from the arms of my chair to see above the bird on the woman’s hat and found who I was looking for; Walter sat in the third row with Judge Senrow and Chief Jackson. I was eager to talk to him, but he was too far away for me to capture his attention.

  The box seats, normally reserved for special guests during theatrical productions, were empty and curtained, but the stage, overflowing with flowers and wreaths, was set up for the service. In front and center of the stage was a closed casket covered with flowers and silk AWTC banners of sky blue. A podium draped in black crepe stood off to the left with three chairs set behind it. Occupying one of the chairs was Mrs. Josephine Piers, deep in conversation with the rotund man sitting next to her. By his coat, collar, and shallow-crowned dignitaries’ hat, he had to be the officiating minister. The third seat was empty.

  As the organ music faded to silence, everyone standing scrambled for a seat, except Cordelia Anglewood, who greeted and consoled those in the front row. When the music stopped altogether, she ascended the stairs and took her place at the podium.

  “Gentle ladies and gentle men, we are here to remember our dearly departed friend, Edwina Ruth Trevelyan.” Bowing her head slightly, Cordelia Anglewood proclaimed, “May God rest her soul.” She lifted her head and surveyed her audience. “As her closest friend and successor, I would like to thank you all for attending this service. Let us begin with a prayer from Reverend Little.”

  The minister, with a book clutched in his hand, replaced Mrs. Anglewood at the podium. Both of the women onstage bowed their heads. As I followed their lead, I couldn’t help feeling that Mrs. Piers was the more sincere of the two.

  “Most merciful Father,” the minister said, reading from the Book of Common Prayer, “who hast been pleased to take unto thyself the soul of thy servant; Grant to us who are still in our pilgrimage, and who walk as yet by faith, that having served thee with constancy on earth, we may be joined hereafter with thy blessed saints in glory everlasting, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”

  “Amen,” answered those in attendance.

  “Most merciful Father—”

  Before Reverend Little could add another word, Cordelia Anglewood was on her feet. The minister blinked at her and muttered something incoherent as Cordelia closed the prayer book, offered the minister her hand, and thanked him, without ever taking her eyes off the gathering. Josephine Piers rose, clasped his hands in hers, and whispered something as she guided the minister to his seat.

  “As the first official act as president of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition, I move that a Resolution of Sympathy and Respect be adopted on this solemn occasion.” Without turning around, she reached out toward Josephine Piers, who placed a tablet in the new president’s hand. I wasn’t surprised to learn she’d been elected president but was amazed that Mrs. Anglewood’s first official act hadn’t been to require me to type the resolution.

  “Whereas,” Cordelia Anglewood proclaimed, “it has pleased our divine leader to take our beloved friend from us; and Whereas, the family circle has been broken with few among us left untouched; and Whereas, the Coalition members feel the loss of our fellow worker; Therefore, be it Resolved that while the American Women’s Temperan
ce Coalition does humbly bow in submission to His will, we do not the less sympathize with our esteemed colleague’s family, both by blood and by bond, in their hour of sorrow and commend them to His care; Therefore be it Resolved that this resolution be entered upon the minutes of this special meeting of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition, Eureka Springs, Arkansas, November 10, 1892.”

  “Is the motion seconded?” Mrs. Anglewood said.

  “I second the motion,” Josephine Piers declared before absorbing herself in the task of recording the motion in the tablet Cordelia Anglewood had passed back to her.

  Is this a memorial service or a business meeting? I wondered.

  “Anyone who would like to come forward and speak on the behalf of our departed friend, please step forward.” Cordelia Anglewood beckoned for others to approach the stage.

  Finally. This was, in large part, why I’d attended the memorial service.

  Dozens of men and women took the stage, each taking a few minutes to remember “Mother” Trevelyan. All who spoke praised Mrs. Trevelyan for her temperance work, her generosity, her passion, and her faith. One man, to titters and scattered applause, admitted astoundment that “the little lady could wield an ax like a lumberjack.” Mr. Charles Trevelyan Junior spoke on behalf of the family and evoked the name of his deceased sister, Ruth, whose death at the hand of her drunken husband had brought Mrs. Trevelyan to the cause. Cordelia Anglewood, as her successor, spoke more eloquently of Mrs. Trevelyan’s role as president of the coalition than I thought her capable. Josephine Piers didn’t speak at all except to say, “God’s will be done,” before bursting into tears. The minister, his hand cupping her elbow as she leaned into him, escorted her back to her chair. The evening dragged on.

  I’d hoped to gain more insight into Mrs. Trevelyan’s character, her life, or her impact on the coalition and its members. I was disappointed. With the exception of her son’s revelation, I’d learned nothing new. I was relieved when the minister began to rise from his chair, indicating the night was almost over. Instead Mrs. Anglewood approached the podium.

  “In closing I would like to read part of a prayer written by Dr. Alexander Griswold in support for our great cause.”

  Nonplused over this breach in protocol, the minister commenced toward the podium. Josephine seized the minister’s arm and cajoled him back into his seat.

  Raising her hands above her, as I’d seen her do at the Harding Spring meeting, Cordelia Anglewood prayed.

  “O merciful God, help us to fulfill the duties of our respective stations in life, and to go forward in our Christian course. Give us grace to be temperate in all things, that we may live soberly and righteously. Give thy blessing, O Lord, to all who labor to suppress intemperance. Give success to their benevolent efforts, that they may be instrumental in promoting sobriety and good morals. Help each and all of us to do our duty in the state of life to which it shall please thee to call us, that we may glorify thy name, and obtain everlasting life, through our Lord and Savior. Amen.”

  Is this a memorial service or a temperance rally? I wondered.

  I wasn’t the only one. The room was silent. Reverend Little squirmed in his chair. Mrs. Piers stared, without expression, at the back of Mrs. Anglewood’s head. Cordelia Anglewood faced the audience with an expression simultaneously challenging and triumphant. The minister stood, after this pronouncement, in hopes of giving a parting benediction, but President Anglewood again ignored him.

  “May God keep the old and bless the new leader of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition,” she said.

  “May the devil curse you, Cordelia!” a voice shouted. A woman in a sky-blue taffeta gown and wide-brimmed hat several rows in front of me leapt to her feet. The crowd around her screamed as the woman brandished a hatchet in the air. “You don’t deserve to wipe Mother Trevelyan’s boots!”

  “I’m president now, Selina,” Cordelia declared, “and I represent the cause. You will not wave your hatchet at me! Now sit down.”

  Selina dropped back into her seat, subdued. The crowd murmured with excitement.

  “I will not tolerate dissent,” President Anglewood said, “not from anyone. For to fight for sobriety and the sanctity of the family, we must be strong, we must be steadfast, we must be united as one!” A cheer rose from the crowd. “God bless the AWTC.”

  The altercation was revealing. In that moment, Cordelia Anglewood had taken complete, unquestionable control of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition. Regardless of what the Shaw sisters thought, could this be a motive for murder? In light of her duplicity, her demonstrated violence, and now her blatant ambition, I was beginning to wonder if the police had arrested the wrong person.

  With a wave of her hand, President Anglewood dismissed us all.

  A moment or two of confusion followed before everyone realized the service was over. I leapt from my seat and tried to avoid the crush. I succeeded in making my way to the Shaw sisters but missed any opportunity of speaking with Walter.

  “I’m in no mood for gossiping over punch and cookies,” Miss Lucy snapped as her sister and I stopped in the lobby to sample the delicious cake. “Lead us straight to the coach, Davish.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Despite Miss Lucy’s admonishment, the conversation in the carriage returning from the memorial service was nothing but gossip. The elderly sisters and I were accompanied by two other coalition members, Diana Halbert and another woman introduced to me as Miss Pole. The four temperance women talked nonstop from the moment we entered the carriage until we bid each other good night in the hotel lobby. I expected some discussion of George Shulman’s arrest but, to my surprise, and gratification, the sole topic of conversation was Cordelia Anglewood. Her blatant use of power, her disregard for tradition, even her choice of jewelry were called into question.

  “And was that a brooch she was wearing,” Miss Pole said, “or one of those new bottle caps pinned to her neck? At least the steel would shine up a bit. It’s such a pity. Mrs. Anglewood used to have such good taste. Thank goodness she only wore the brooch and earrings.”

  “Yes, dear,” Miss Lizzie agreed. “I’ve often thought Cordelia wears too much jewelry. Though I don’t know why she didn’t wear her emerald brooch. It would’ve complemented her dress better.”

  “Who cares what brooch she was wearing,” Miss Lucy chided. “Who wears a green dress to a memorial service?” It continued in this vein for some time.

  “Was Mrs. Trevelyan a good leader?” I said. The conversation had turned to the previous night’s elections and Selina’s objections.

  “Granted, she wasn’t perfect, dear, using hatchets and all, but no one could say Edwina Trevelyan wasn’t an excellent president.”

  “I agree with you, Miss Lizzie,” Miss Pole said, “though I don’t think wrecking a few bars is a bad thing. The coalition thrived under Mrs. Trevelyan.”

  “Yes, Edwina Trevelyan was a superb fund-raiser, a devoted crusader of the cause, and bought us unprecedented political support,” Diana Halbert said. “She had correspondences from Mrs. Harrison herself.”

  “Of course, not everyone agreed with her new plan of action,” Miss Pole said. “But overall, she fostered a general spirituality and mutual respect among the members. Only time will tell if Cordelia can do the same.” The other women agreed. “She certainly didn’t do her best for Edwina’s service.” A barrage of criticisms about the service, everything from the use of Griswold’s prayer as a benediction to the flower arrangements on stage, followed.

  “If you don’t think Mrs. Anglewood’s capable of leading, then why elect her president?” I asked.

  “Oh, she’ll be an excellent leader, Miss Davish,” Miss Pole said. “In this troubled time, the coalition needs a heavy hand.”

  “It’s such a difficult task,” Miss Lizzie said, “keeping all of us ladies happy. I often wonder why anyone would want to be president.”

  “It’s an honor to lead, Miss Lizzie,” Diana Halbert said. She had
been voted vice president.

  “Besides the honor, are there any other advantages to being president of the coalition?” I said.

  “Are you asking if the president gets paid, Davish?” Miss Lucy said, as painfully blunt as ever.

  “Among other things, yes,” I said.

  “The stipend’s a trifling hundred dollars a month and an all-expenses-paid trip to the annual meeting of the Temperance Union in London. But money has nothing to do with it, Davish. Edwina became president because she felt it was her calling. Cordelia’s in it for the power. She certainly doesn’t need the money. Commodore Anglewood, Cordelia’s husband, could finance the entire temperance movement single-handedly if he had a mind to. From what I hear, J. P. Morgan himself once asked him for a loan.”

  “Yes, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Commodore has been the coalition’s biggest single contributor for years. He’s a great supporter of temperance.”

  Miss Lucy had the last word on the matter as the carriage approached the hotel.

  “Well, if you want my opinion, his donations are more about keeping Cordelia away from Chicago than anything to do with our cause.”

  “Want me to saddle a horse for you, miss?”

  The stable boy couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. His dark skin glistened with sweat as his back bent over the weight of the bucket he carried. He had the aspect of one well into his workday despite the early hour.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “But I am seeking someone I could ask a few questions.”

  “I’m in charge here. Though if it’s about after-hours business, you’ll have to ask Theo.”

  “No, you’re the one I need to talk to.”

  I’d had difficulty sleeping after the memorial service. I’d tried all night to convince myself that the monetary gain of being the AWTC president (though far more than I could earn in a month) was not enough to murder someone over. I’d tried to assure myself that my assumptions about Cordelia Anglewood being a suspect for the murder were wrong. I reminded myself over and over that the police had already arrested the killer and that I needed to start focusing on my own future. After my hike this morning, I’d intended to begin in earnest securing my next position. Nevertheless, I had been recapitulating the events of the past few days in my head when I passed the stables on the way in to breakfast. I still suspected Cordelia Anglewood. The conversation in the carriage hadn’t quelled my suspicions. I hoped the little stable boy before me might be able to put my doubts to rest.