A Lack of Temperance

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “Unless it has to do with George Shulman, it’s no use to me.”

  “But I would think Cordelia Anglewood is as much of a suspect as Mr. Shulman,” I said. “She lied about her whereabouts. She said she was out riding all day, but the stable boy I spoke to said—”

  “Wait, stop, right there,” Jackson said. “What are you doing questioning anyone about alibis? This is a police investigation, Miss Davish, and I won’t have you interfering. Now,” he said, his face flushed with anger, “this interview is over.”

  The bathing room gleamed in the early-afternoon sun. White tiles reflected the light flooding in through the high windows encircling the room. The room was silent except for the occasional sound of water lapping as someone readjusted in their tub.

  I was relishing the warmth of my final soak when I heard Nellie hiss, “The miss was almost done, Fred. What did you go and do that for?”

  When I’d first arrived at Basin Spring Bathhouse, I’d been shown into a changing room where I’d exchanged my navy and white striped tailor-made dress and a sailor hat for a black knee-length woolen bathing costume, black stockings, bathing slippers, and cap. When I’d emerged thus attired, Nellie, the bath attendant, intimidating in a starched white cap, dress, and apron, had been waiting for me. It was her responsibility to attend to me throughout the series of baths that Dr. Grice had prescribed. Although she jested and tried in vain to assuage my apprehensions, she took her responsibility seriously. The doctor had put me in capable yet unyielding hands.

  The first place she led me was a large, white-tiled room with silver showerheads spaced every five feet. A large copper drain stood in the middle of the room. She switched on the water, adjusted the temperature, and then steered me beneath one of the showerheads. Once I was sufficiently rinsed, she conducted me to a room full of long, rectangular enamel bathtubs. Three women bathers and an attendant were already in the room. It was bright; the sun reflected off the sterile white tiles and, despite towering ceilings, the air was warm. Nellie indicated a bathtub and helped me climb into it. Despite the attendant’s encouragement, I had difficulty relaxing in the lukewarm water. I lay there, counting the minutes in my head and fixating on the bottom of my tub, a mosaic of color tiles, goldfish swimming in a sea of brilliant blue. I was shivering by the time Nellie indicated that it was time to move on.

  The next room was crammed with strange contraptions including a jungle of metal pipes and a series of metal cabinets, holes cut out of their tops. A woman occupied one of the cabinets. Only her head and the steam surrounding her could be seen. I was beginning to regret ever having met Dr. Walter Grice when Nellie, lifting a latch, opened a front hatch in the cabinet and had me sit on the wooden bench. I cowered as she closed the hatch over my head, securing me inside. She yanked on a handle on the pipe next to the cabinet and steam hissed as it filled the spaces around my body. Being locked in a box filled with steam was a strange sensation. Within a minute, I couldn’t see beyond my nose as the mist escaped about my head. Perspiration dripped down my face. Nellie dabbed my forehead with a thick white cotton towel. Within another minute or two, the sense of being trapped lessened and a tranquility I hadn’t felt in years fell over me.

  Maybe Walter is on to something after all, I thought.

  The experience was over almost as fast as it began. Nellie explained, as she freed me from the steam cabinet, that steam relaxed and cleansed the body, but too much could be detrimental. I entered another, smaller bathing room, where there were six claw-foot bathtubs lined up, three on each side. A woman lounged in the second tub on the left. Nellie, indicating the first tub on the right, helped me into a fresh, warm mixture of Sweet Spring and Basin Spring water. It felt cool and refreshing after the hot steam treatment. After fifteen minutes, Nellie indicated I should enter the adjacent tub. This, too, was a mineral spring bath, and was warmer still. After another fifteen minutes, I eagerly climbed into the third bathtub. As I lowered myself in, a faint scent of mint and eucalyptus filled the air around me. I’d never felt so refreshed in my life. I’d lounged in this scented, hot bath for a long time with my eyes closed, letting my mind wander, when the disgust in Nellie’s voice as she scolded Fred jolted me upright. The serenity I’d felt a moment ago was gone.

  “I’m so sorry, miss.” Nellie rushed to my side, blocking my view of the room. She glanced over her shoulder. “Fred didn’t know you were still in here. I’d stepped out for a moment. I don’t know how this could’ve happened.”

  “What’s wrong, Nellie?” I said, craning my neck, trying to see around her.

  “This has never happened before, miss. Ever, I swear.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “A gentleman’s in the bath, miss,” she whispered. “And of course, there’s Fred too.” I could see then as Nellie turned that a man in a white uniform was standing in the line of sight of the first tub on the left. His back was turned to us.

  “You don’t allow men to bathe here?” I asked.

  “Yes, miss, of course they do,” Nellie said. “Just not in the presence of a lady.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “I’m so sorry, miss,” she said, wringing her hands, over and over. “You’ll be a prune soon if I don’t get you out of that tub.”

  “Do you think the gentlemen could be persuaded to close their eyes as I exit the bath?” I said.

  Nellie’s face lit up as if this suggestion had never occurred to her. She dashed over to the male attendant, whispering something I couldn’t hear, and then waited while he spoke to the gentleman in the tub. One flick of Fred’s head and Nellie rushed back, wrapping me in a towel long enough to cover me from my chin to my feet. I felt ridiculous, shuffling along slowly so as not to trip. I’d plenty of time to regard the men as we passed. Fred, the attendant, was a stocky man with grease glistening in his straight brown hair. When I saw the gentleman in the tub, I almost lost my footing. It was the man from the Catholic chapel. Enhanced by the heat of the steam, the blotches bloomed crimson across his face, yet the fierceness I’d seen there yesterday had been replaced by an expression of equanimity. The baths were doing him some good. Nonetheless, I was relieved when I reached the changing room.

  Nellie helped me out of my wet bathing costume as my mind raced back to my encounter with the man I’d just seen. I still didn’t know how he knew me. It wasn’t long before my thoughts were full of Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder, Cordelia Anglewood’s deception, and George Shulman’s dire predicament. The serenity of the baths was behind me, yet my body retained the memory. I felt refreshed and warm and hungry.

  “Nellie,” I said as I fastened my corset, “do you know that gentleman in the bath? I met him before, but didn’t catch his name.”

  I’d asked more questions in the few days since arriving in Eureka Springs than I had since autumn began. But what was I doing asking about this man? He had nothing to do with Mrs. Trevelyan. It seemed indulging my curiosity was becoming habit forming.

  “I can check for you, miss.”

  I joined her, when I finished dressing, in the waiting area, a narrow hall consisting of a wooden desk, a coatrack, and a yellow-flowered settee. Nellie stood behind the desk, poring over a registration book.

  “No wonder you overlapped,” Nellie said. “The men’s baths are full, and obviously overflowing.” The male attendant slipped into the waiting room from a side door. “Fred, you shouldn’t have scheduled any treatment until two.”

  “What are you doing?” Fred blustered. He grabbed the book and slammed it shut. “Treatments are confidential.” He stalked away with the registration book tucked under one arm.

  “Did you happen to catch the man’s name?” I asked my attendant.

  Nellie glowered toward Fred’s retreating figure. “Sorry, miss, but no.”

  “I’ll give you ten minutes with the prisoner, Miss Davish, but no more.” Officer Burke, more sympathetic toward me since the discovery of Mrs. Trevelyan’s body, led me toward the cell block. “And don�
�t tell the chief I let you in.” I promised.

  After my baths, I’d been in the mood for some window shopping and a roundabout stroll back to the hotel. As I’d been leaving Mrs. Cunningham’s millinery shop, I’d seen Mary Flannagan. I had waved to her. She didn’t acknowledge me but instead had ducked around a corner. Something in her behavior propelled me to follow. I kept her in my sights as I descended a flight of stairs until a gig driving past on the street below prevented me from catching up. She disappeared down another stairway. By the time I’d descended the second flight of stairs, she was nowhere to be seen. I plopped down on the bottom stair.

  Was Mary purposely avoiding me? Why? Could Miss Lucy be right that Mary wasn’t to be trusted? Was Walter the only one in this town who was who he appeared to be? How much more of this could I take?

  I had stood up, brushed my dress off, and straightened my hat. No longer content with the distractions of window shopping, I wanted answers. Being in the vicinity of the jailhouse, I had decided to start here; I’d confront George Shulman once and for all.

  “Mr. Shulman, someone’s here to see you,” Burke announced before he left.

  George Shulman leapt to his feet. “My darling, again? You shouldn’t . . .” He stopped mid-sentence when he saw me. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  My darling? I wondered. So someone else had been to visit him. I’d have to ask Walter about George Shulman’s known family or attachments.

  “We met Tuesday evening outside your saloon, Mr. Shulman. I’m Miss Davish, Mrs. Trevelyan’s secretary.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember you. You’re the prim and prissy lady who was asking a lot of questions and made some nasty insinuations.” He plunked down hard onto wooden plank bench. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Edwina Trevelyan.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. I didn’t kill that woman. I’m not sorry she’s dead, but I didn’t do it.”

  “Dr. Grice believes you,” I said. “I think Chief Jackson wants to believe you. But there’s a great deal of evidence against you.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “You claimed to be at the saloon all day, but a witness saw you threatening Mrs. Trevelyan the morning she died. They heard glass breaking. Glass was found in her scalp, Mr. Shulman,” I said.

  George Shulman blanched. “Someone saw me?”

  “And telephoned the police.”

  “Well, I did threaten the old cow. She’d almost ruined my business. Sure I gave her a piece of my mind, but I didn’t kill her.”

  “What about the glass?” I said.

  “A mirror. I smashed a mirror. Those crazy women broke every mirror and window in my place. It was a little payback.”

  “So you hit Mrs. Trevelyan with a mirror?”

  “No! I broke it against the dresser.”

  “Did you hit her with a gin bottle then?”

  “No! I never laid a finger on the old hag. She deserved a good beating, especially after threatening to finish what she started with my bar. But that’s when I got out of there, before I really got mad.”

  “When was this?” I said.

  “I don’t know. The police asked me the same thing. I don’t know. Sometime in the morning, I don’t remember. The lady was very much alive. I swear.”

  “Mr. Shulman, you are hot-tempered and impulsive, and you threatened to kill Mrs. Trevelyan if you ever saw her again. Why should anyone believe you?”

  “Because I didn’t do it!” He rattled the iron bars with his fists in frustration.

  Officer Burke appeared. “What’s all the racket?”

  I ignored the policeman and approached the bars. “Mr. Shulman, did you push me down the stairs?”

  “What? What are you talking about?” the saloonkeeper said.

  “The night we met and argued, someone pushed me down a darkened alley stairwell not far from your bar. I believe it was to stop me from asking questions about Mrs. Trevelyan. I want to know, was it you?”

  “I didn’t push you down any stairs, lady.”

  “You said yourself you didn’t like me asking questions and making insinuations.”

  “Listen here, lady, if I’d wanted to harm any woman, it would’ve been that Mrs. Trevelyan. Would’ve been but wasn’t. She insulted me, threatened me, tried to burn down my business, forbid me to—” He stopped short, shaking his head. “I’d every right to, but I didn’t. As for you, if you were a man I would’ve knocked you down, with one punch, right then and there in the street. But I don’t go sneaking around and I don’t harm women. Get her out of here, Burke.”

  He threw himself onto the bench, his head in his hands, staring at the floor. I wanted to ask him more, but the stubborn, gruff man was finished talking.

  “Shouldn’t have let you in,” Officer Burke muttered as he escorted me out of the cell block. “Chief said you’d be trouble.”

  CHAPTER 19

  THE WESTERN UNION TELEGRAPH COMPANY

  NUMBER 69 SENT BY TW REC’D BY HF CHECK 24 paid

  RECEIVED at No. 2 Arcadia Hotel Eureka Springs Nov 11 1892

  Dated: Galena, Illinois 7:37am

  To: Hattie Davish Arcadia Hotel

  Heard about Edwina Trevelyan, not satisfied with information. Daily update required, relying on your usual discretion, efficiency. If already engaged, cancel, all arranged

  A Windom-Greene

  “Telegram for you, Miss Davish,” the desk clerk shouted as I crossed the hotel’s rotunda. Normally very restrained, his boisterousness alarmed me. “It’s marked urgent.”

  I hastened over to the registration desk to take the pink slip from the clerk’s waving hand, a profusion of possibilities racing through my mind. The last telegram I’d received marked urgent had brought me to my present predicament.

  “It arrived this morning; we’ve been trying to reach you all day,” the clerk said.

  I scanned the telegram’s contents quickly, almost giggling in relief. Sir Arthur was at it again. I reassured the anxious clerk with a smile before reading the contents more carefully a second time.

  As always, my reaction to his telegram was mixed; this hadn’t been the first time Sir Arthur Windom-Greene had dictated “If already engaged, cancel” to a telegraph operator. On one hand, Sir Arthur was personable and generous with his vast fortune; on the other, he was a man used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. I’d worked on several projects for him and had found him to be a stimulating and rewarding employer. However, his recommendations often compelled me to work in more trying or tedious situations, such as the one I found myself in now. I owed my present position in society to his patronage and didn’t begrudge him his demand for absolute loyalty and acquiescence. However, it’d been his influence that had brought me to Eureka Springs and now, at his insistence, I was obliged to stay.

  “It says here that arrangements have been made. Can I assume they relate to my accommodations? I was to check out tomorrow,” I said.

  Annoyance marked the clerk’s countenance. “I’ve been anxious all day on account of your telegram, Miss Davish. Are you telling me that it merely concerned an extension of your stay?”

  “It would seem so.” The clerk stared blankly at me. “I’m sure, Mr. Oxnard, you’ve encountered many influential people such as Sir Arthur here in the hotel.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “So you must know how they tend to approach everything with a sense of urgency. If I’d known Sir Arthur was going to contact me, I would’ve been more diligent in checking for messages. I apologize if you had any anxiety on my account.”

  “Some people,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Am I correct about my bill?”

  With a deep sigh, he checked his registration log. “Yes, funds were wired under the name of Windom-Greene and have been credited to your room, Miss Davish.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Oxnard. Would you point me in the direction of the telegraph office, please?”

  T
he telegraph office was a tiny room off the hotel’s main lobby. The operator, a young man with shaggy brown hair, wearing a bow tie and tan jacket with “H. Floyd” stitched over the left breast pocket, was bent over a telegraph machine on a desk littered with telegrams, ledgers, and teacups. His uniform cap lay on top of a pile.

  “Be just a moment,” he said, continuing to tap on the key.

  As I waited for the operator to finish his task, I glanced at the telegram in my hand. At once I was struck by its similarity to the one I’d received from Mrs. Trevelyan and by the irony of Mrs. Trevelyan’s own sense of urgency. Despite her well-laid plans, mine might have been the last telegram she’d sent. Did I arrive too late? I still wondered if I could’ve prevented her death. What if I had arrived earlier? Pushing the thought out of my head, I wrote a quick response to Sir Arthur, my “new” employer.

  “Not urgent, is it?” the operator said congenially. I had the uncomfortable feeling he’d been standing at the window, watching me, for several moments. I was about to say no, then changed my mind.

  “Actually, he is expecting a prompt response. It isn’t urgent, but if you could send it in a timely manner, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Of course, that’s what they all say.” The telegraph operator took my note and payment and glanced over the message quickly. “Nice handwriting, lady.” He walked back to his desk. “You should see some of the scrawl I get. Most of the time I can barely make it out.”

  I understood exactly what he meant. I have spent countless hours deciphering the illegible handwriting of my employers, with Sir Arthur being one of the worst offenders. It confounded me how a man like Sir Arthur, so meticulous in his research, could be so slovenly in his handwriting. But then again, I was grateful for it; that’s one of the reasons why he had hired me.

  “Do you often get requests for urgent telegrams?” I said.

  “Sure, you’d be surprised what some folks call urgent news.” He began tapping rapidly on the telegraph machine.