A Lack of Temperance

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “How about the ladies of the temperance coalition?” I asked.

  “I’ve definitely wired more ‘urgent’ messages since they’ve been in town,” Mr. Floyd said.

  “Did Mrs. Trevelyan, the club’s president, send a lot of ‘urgent’ messages? Or a lot of telegrams in general?”

  His fingers slipped on the telegraph key. “Oh no, I misspelled Davish. I keyed a second v instead of an h.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “He’ll know who it’s from.”

  “As long as you don’t mind. . . .” He continued typing in silence. When he finished, he stamped a receipt with the date and time and handed it to me. He leaned forward through the service window and peeked around.

  “You’re talking about the dead woman, right?” He pulled out his log book. “She always had an urgent message to send. And lots of them.”

  “Did she send one Saturday or Sunday to something called the Salvation Army?” I said.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. What’s a Salvation Army?”

  “It’s a charity Mrs. Trevelyan supported. Could you tell me if she sent or received any telegrams last weekend?”

  He flipped through his log book. A lopsided grin spread across his face. “I see an urgent telegram from Mrs. Trevelyan to a Miss Hattie Davish on Friday, the fourth.” I grimaced at his attempt at a jest. “Sorry.” He blushed and quickly examined the ledger again. “She sent several Saturday morning and two Sunday afternoon. Nothing to the Salvation Army.”

  “Could you give me a list?” I said.

  “Ah, I don’t know. I could get fired.”

  “Could you at least tell me if anything was wired to or from Mr. John Martin?”

  He paused, regarded me for a moment, then returned his glance to the ledger.

  “I don’t see any John Martin. She sent a telegram to someone with the same initials as John Martin though, a Joseph Mascavarti.”

  “Joseph Mascavarti? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.” He pivoted the log around and pointed. “See for yourself.”

  Joseph Mascavarti, Elmwood House, 9 :18, 7 Nov 1892 Mrs. E. Trevelyan. He turned the log to face him again.

  “This was wired Monday morning,” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, sorry, you only wanted to know about the weekend days, didn’t you.”

  “Oh my goodness, Mr. Floyd, don’t apologize. This is extremely helpful. Now think, can you remember who requested this telegram? I’ve been told that Mrs. Trevelyan usually sent her secretary or a chambermaid down with the request.”

  Again he consulted his log and hesitated, elucidation dawning on his face. “Oh boy, I remember now. Mrs. Trevelyan brought it herself.” He looked up with horror in his eyes. “I was one of the last people to see her alive, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes. Now tell me everything you remember, Mr. Floyd.”

  He remembered it distinctly. Mrs. Trevelyan had wanted to wire someone in town. It was highly unusual to wire anything locally and he had told her so. He’d tried to convince her to use the mail, or if she was in a hurry, to have the message hand-delivered; the Arcadia Hotel provided such a service. Or why not use the telephone? But she had insisted, saying nothing but a telegram would command the immediate attention she desired.

  I leaned closer to the operator through the window and lowered my voice. “Do you remember what the telegram said?”

  His hands quivering, Mr. Floyd shook his head, then proceed to rifle through a filing cabinet. After an unfathomable amount of time, he pulled a slip of paper from the files.

  “I don’t know why I’m showing you this. I’m gonna get fired.” He set the slip down reverently between us on the window shelf.

  This time, I was the one to glance over my shoulder to assure we were unobserved.

  THE WESTERN UNION TELEGRAPH COMPANY

  NUMBER 5 SENT BY HF REC’D BY CHECK 14 paid

  RECEIVED at Nov 7 1892

  Dated: Arcadia Hotel Eureka Springs 9:18am

  To: J. Mascavarti Elmwood House

  Contribution received with insufficient funds expect additional response

  Mrs. E. Trevelyan

  The operator and I regarded each other in silence. “What does it mean?” he said.

  It meant that Mrs. Trevelyan had died somewhere between 9:18 A.M. and 11:00 A.M., and that Joseph Mascavarti, whose initials were the second to match the menacing note I’d found among Mrs. Trevelyan’s papers, had received the last telegram Mrs. Edwina Trevelyan would ever send.

  “I’m not certain,” I said. “But it may have something to do with Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder.”

  The wording of the telegram and the fact that Mrs. Trevelyan had personally requested it could leave little doubt that Joseph Mascavarti was a victim of Mrs. Trevelyan’s blackmail. And isn’t blackmail a motive for murder? But if this was true, then Joseph Mascavarti, and not John Martin, was the one with the motive to kill. Could it be merely a coincidence that both men share the same initials? I wondered as the operator whisked the telegram away.

  Bolstered now that I knew where to find at least one of the mysterious J.M.’s, I said, “Are you sure you can’t give me the list from this weekend too?”

  Without hesitating, he pulled the log book closer and scribbled onto a scrap sheet of paper, looking up several times to see he wasn’t being watched. He scrutinized the lobby one more time before he slipped it to me. I glanced down at the paper in my hand. In his haste, he had written down everything that had been wired over the weekend, not only those from Mrs. Trevelyan. A few familiar names caught my eye. I folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of my skirt.

  “Thank you, Mr. Floyd. You’ve been most helpful.” I stepped away from the telegraph office window and headed slowly back to my room.

  It was a surprisingly long list with telegrams sent from three doctors, two local businessmen, and numerous hotel guests. In addition to Mrs. Trevelyan, several temperance club members had wired messages that weekend: Cordelia Anglewood to a jeweler in Fayetteville, Agnes Kiltcher to a Mrs. Boone in Jonesboro, and Mrs. Elmslie, an elderly lady staying in the room across the hall from me, to Mr. Elmslie in Joplin.

  “I said wait, Miss Davish!” a harsh voice commanded.

  I stopped in my tracks. I’d been contemplating the assortment of telegrams when I nearly bumped into Cordelia Anglewood.

  “Get your head out of the clouds, girl. Now, if you recall,” she said, “you agreed to write responses to all of the condolence cards. I was about to leave these at the desk, but . . . here are several more.” She thrust the cards and some leaflets at me. “And as your obligations and commitments are at an end tomorrow, it behooves you to have them completed by then. The signed temperance pledges are there too.”

  Taken aback by her businesslike manner, I stood speechless as she, not expecting a reply, turned to leave. I found my voice, but stammered. “I spoke to the stable boy. . . .”

  She halted, then faced me, glowering. Her hand brushed her bare throat, smoothed her hair, then twirled the gold stud in her right ear. “Mine wasn’t an idle threat, Miss Davish,” Cordelia Anglewood said in an eerily calm voice. “I am trying to lead this coalition and serve its cause. For no apparent reason, you seem intent on undermining my endeavors with your petty insinuations. You’ve been nothing but an insolent, incompetent pest since you arrived.” She leaned forward, causing me to lean back slightly. Her voice was almost a whisper. “Once and for all, I’d nothing to do with Trevelyan’s demise. But if you don’t stay out of my way, and out of my business, I won’t be able to say the same about you.”

  I was getting distressingly accustomed to threats but decided it was best to remain silent. Mrs. Anglewood stared at me for a moment more without blinking, then left. More than happy to get out of Cordelia Anglewood’s way, I returned to my room, typed my first report to Sir Arthur, and then set to work on the condolence responses and pledge list as Mrs. Anglewood had requested. Finally, I was able to immerse myself in a task that made sense. I fell a
sleep late in the night at my desk, content.

  CHAPTER 20

  The chipping black paint on the sign read, ELMWOOD HOUSE.

  I was walking back to my hotel, refreshed from my morning hike exploring East Mountain and its springs, including Little Eureka Spring, said to be the best-tasting water, and Laundry Spring, where a woman with bare arms up to her elbows was rinsing linen sheets. It’d been at Onyx Spring where I’d collected sedges, now preserved in the plant press I held flung over my shoulder. Elmwood House was the residence of Mr. Joseph Mascavarti. The telegram suggested that Mr. Mascavarti had been a guest here as recently as a week ago. I dashed up the stairs.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” the desk clerk said, yawning. “There’s no Joseph Mascavarti registered.” He took a sip from a cup set on a filing cabinet next to the desk.

  “He was wired here this past Monday. He could’ve checked out since.” The clerk leafed through the pages of the registration book and yawned again. I peered over the desk, trying to see for myself.

  His head was shaking before he replied. “Sorry.” He reached for the cup again. “No Joseph Mascavarti.”

  “But the telegraph office at the Arcadia Hotel confirms that the telegram was received.”

  He slurped his drink. “Why would anyone send a wire across town?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “Could you check again?”

  “Well, we do get telegrams for folks staying in some of the nearby boarding houses. I could check if he picked one up.”

  “Thank you, that would be helpful.” He disappeared into a back office, carrying his mug with him. The clerk reappeared moments later with a tablet under his arm. He drank from his mug as he walked. He clanked the mug down and let out a satisfied sigh.

  “Nothing like the first cup of coffee in the morning.” He opened the tablet to a particular page and smoothed the paper on the desk. “Here it is, Mr. Joseph Mascavarti, Monday, the seventh.”

  “Is that a record of the telegram?” I asked, barely able to contain my excitement. “Did he sign for it?” The clerk fixed a blank stare on my forehead and took another slurp of his coffee.

  “As I was saying, a telegram for Mr. Joseph Mascavarti, dated Monday, the seventh of November, was signed for by . . .” He wrinkled his nose. and hesitated. “I don’t understand. Mr. Mascavarti didn’t sign this, a Mr. John Martin did.”

  I staggered forward, my plant press nearly slipping off my shoulder. The implications reeling in my head, I barely had the faculty to ask what I had asked dozens of times before: “Is Mr. Martin a guest here?”

  “Are you okay?” the clerk said. “You look like you got dizzy there for a minute.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Could you look to see if John Martin is staying here?”

  “Yeah, sure.” The clerk retrieved the registration book as I gripped the edge of the desk. His finger traced the entries down the page. When he stopped to take one last swig from his coffee mug, I thought I was going to scream. He turned another page.

  “Well . . . ?” I said, almost losing my patience.

  “Yeah, looks like Mr. John Martin has been staying with us for several weeks now. He’s staying in room 24, second floor, second door on your right.”

  I thanked him and immediately bounded up the stairs. Once I found room 24, I took a few moments to catch my breath. Was I doing it again? I had confronted George Shulman at the Cavern Saloon, knowing it might not be the best course of action, and had gotten myself shoved down an alley stairwell. Now I was contemplating confronting John Martin, at this early hour, alone. I began to doubt the intelligence of even speaking to this man. I should notify the police. He might be Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer. I knocked anyway.

  “Can I help you?” A man in his mid sixties answered the door. He had bushy eyebrows, a long white mustache, and a few strands of hair plastered across an otherwise bald head. He was wearing a blue silk dressing gown.

  “Mr. Martin?”

  “No. What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. John Martin,” I said, impetuously adding, “or Mr. Joseph Mascavarti.”

  The man eyed my hiking costume and plant press. “And you are?”

  “I’m Miss Hattie Davish, personal secretary to Mrs. Edwina Trevelyan.”

  His eyebrow raised as he peered down at me. “The temperance woman found dead in her travel trunk?”

  “Yes.” It was a crude observation, but true.

  “What business, may I ask, Miss Davish, do you have with John?”

  “Mr. Martin contributed to Mrs. Trevelyan’s American Women’s Temperance Coalition. I would like to speak to him on related business.” I’m ashamed how easily this half truth came to me.

  “Yes? Well, I’m very proud of John. The AWTC is a worthy cause. But I’m sorry, Miss Davish, John’s not here right now. I’m Colonel William Walker, John’s father-in-law. May I be of assistance?”

  “Thank you, Colonel Walker, but it’s important I speak with Mr. Martin personally.”

  “I believe he’s taking treatments at the baths, though I don’t know which bathhouse. However, I do know he received an invitation from President Anglewood to attend the coalition’s event at Magnetic Spring today. But then again, being the secretary, you probably already knew that. You may be able to speak to him there.”

  I thanked him, apologized for disrupting his morning, and walked briskly toward the staircase.

  “By the way,” the colonel said, stepping across the threshold into the hallway, “who is Joseph Mascavarti?”

  When I arrived back at the hotel, brimming with my discoveries, the lobby, dining room, and ladies’ parlor were abuzz with coalition members and talk of today’s culminating rally. I was anxious to return to my typewriter so I could sort out everything I’d learned. Colonel Walker hadn’t known of Joseph Mascavarti. Yet John Martin and Joseph Mascavarti had to be one and the same. Which meant that he who had left his calling card and had contributed to the AWTC was one and the same as he who had written the threatening note and had been blackmailed by Mrs. Trevelyan. It didn’t answer the question of why. Or did it? I was weaving my way through the crowded lobby when I heard, “Davish, there you are!” shouted above the din of the women chatting. I turned and headed for the two white-headed ladies inching toward me.

  “Isn’t it exciting?” Miss Lizzie exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Today’s the big day. You will accompany us to the rally tonight, won’t you, dear?”

  “Of course she will, Lizzie,” her sister declared. “What else has Davish to do?” The two sisters stared at me expectantly.

  “Of course I will, Miss Lizzie. I officially relinquished all of my correspondences and duties to Mrs. Anglewood before breakfast.”

  “Does that mean you’re out on your ear, Davish?” Miss Lucy said.

  “Oh, I hope not.” Miss Lizzie put her hand to her throat. The motion reminded me of something, but I couldn’t quite remember what. “You did hear from Arthur, didn’t you, dear?”

  “Arthur?” I said.

  Miss Lizzie squinted and clucked her tongue against her teeth. “Shame on him. He promised me he would take care of you. What are old friends for if not to do favors for one another ?”

  “Oh, do you mean Sir Arthur Windom-Greene?” I said. Miss Lizzie bobbed her head. “You contacted Sir Arthur on my behalf, Miss Lizzie?”

  “Did I do wrong, dear? I just wanted to help. I thought it best if you stayed, at least until Edwina’s murder was solved.”

  “I knew it.” Miss Lucy wagged her finger at her sister. “You really must stop meddling, Lizzie. I insist. Look at what happened the last time.”

  “Well, you’ll be happy to know, then . . .” I’d missed something. “What did you mean, Miss Lucy, by ‘look what happened the last time’?”

  “Oh, Hattie, dear, it’s nothing.” Miss Lizzie patted my arm. I watched Miss Lucy.

  “Nothing but trouble, you mean, Lizzie, or should I call you Miss Nosey Parker?”

>   “What are you two ladies talking about?” I asked.

  “Lizzie pries into other people’s business, Davish, like the Great Blondin crossing Niagara Falls on a tightrope, that’s what I’m talking about. It’s a way of life that God never intended. She had no business petitioning Sir Arthur, on your behalf, for a job.”

  “I’m sure it was kindly meant. I don’t think—”

  Miss Lucy silenced me with a glare. “And was it her magnanimous nature that compelled her to call the police, enticing them to investigate with her ‘credible evidence’?”

  My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t believe it. “Miss Lizzie, is this true? You’re the anonymous telephone caller?”

  “Yes, dear. How else was I going to get them to probe into Edwina’s disappearance and the attack on you? They didn’t seem overly eager to do their job. When George Shulman’s name came up, I knew that what I had to tell them would spur some action.”

  “What did you tell them?” I said.

  “That she overheard George Shulman shouting and threatening Edwina the morning she disappeared,” Miss Lucy said. “That she heard glass breaking in Edwina’s room.”

  “Miss Lizzie, you saw George Shulman here at the hotel threatening Mrs. Trevelyan?” I said. “What did he say?”

  “Well, I’m not exactly certain what he said, dear.” She fiddled with her collar and blushed. “They were shouting and yelling in Edwina’s room, so I hid down the corridor.”

  “And when was this?” I said. “Do you remember?”

  “During breakfast, dear. Don’t you remember I excused myself for a minute? I knew that if I didn’t retrieve that book from the library that moment, I would surely forget.” Hence the food stains that Mary had mistaken for blood. A blackberry compote had been served that morning.

  “Did you check on Mrs. Trevelyan after he left?” I said.

  “I’d slipped into the bathroom before he could see me. I was frightened, dear, very frightened.” Her lip began to tremble. “When I felt safe to come out, Edwina was gone.” Miss Lucy, in a rare act of compassion, patted her sister’s hand.