“How did you know it was George Shulman?” I said. “Had you seen him before?”
“I didn’t know who he was, dear, at least not until I recognized him standing up to Electra Richards at the protest on Election Day.”
“Thank you for telling me this, Miss Lizzie. And thank you for contacting Sir Arthur. He has hired me again. I owe my current situation to you.”
“I’m so glad I could help, dear.” The elderly lady still fiddled with her collar. Her nervous gesture brought something else to my mind.
“Miss Lizzie, where is your mother-of-pearl bar pin?” I’d never seen her without it.
“Oh,” Miss Lizzie exclaimed, pulling her hand self-consciously away from her throat. “How nice of you to notice, dear.”
“She broke the clasp taking it off last night,” Miss Lucy said.
“I do feel strange without it; it was a gift from our brother,” Miss Lizzie said. “It’s the only thing I had of value until Lucy married Oliver Fry.”
“Davish didn’t ask for your whole history, Lizzie. Besides, the rags-to-riches story is clichéd.”
“Well, anyway, we’re taking the train to Fayetteville on Monday, dear, to have it repaired at a jeweler there. I’ve heard many of the ladies recommend him.”
“We were going anyway, to purchase a few things we can’t get here,” Miss Lucy said. “But with all this talk of my sister’s meddling and clumsiness, we forgot to tell you our news, Davish.” I held my breath in anticipation. “Cordelia Anglewood received a shock this morning.”
“Yes, dear, some very bad news,” Miss Lizzie said.
“What news?” My heart raced.
“We don’t know,” Miss Lucy said, crestfallen.
I closed my eyes and sighed, unable to hide my exasperation. Ah, to be befriended by the coalition’s biggest gossips, I thought. “How do you even know she received bad news, then?”
“Because we saw her, dear, at breakfast when she received the telegram,” Miss Lizzie said.
“And what a sight it was too, Davish,” Miss Lucy said, animated again. “I never suspected the woman of even having tear glands. But there she was proud as ever, with tears welling in her eyes. Of course, she acted like nothing happened.”
Cordelia Anglewood crying? I thought. This was more than mere gossip after all.
“Josephine tried to comfort her, of course, but was coolly rebuked,” Miss Lizzie said. “Cordelia left the dining room almost immediately. I felt horrible for her.”
What could possibly bring the proud Cordelia Anglewood to the verge of tears? My experience left me feeling little sympathy for the woman and unable to imagine such an event. I could only speculate. The news of a loved one’s death or grave illness would upset anyone. The loss of respectability or position to a woman of her ambition might upset her. But to the verge of tears?
“We’ll tell you if we find out more, dear,” Miss Lizzie said.
Several women, arms linked and wearing AWTC buttons, marched past us, singing.
Now the temp’rance army’s marching
With the Christian’s armor on;
Love our motto, Christian Captain,
Prohibition is our song!
“Enough of this prattle,” Miss Lucy said, “we’re going to miss all the festivities. It’s settled, then. Davish will spend the day with us.” She frowned, noticing my plant press and appearance for the first time. “But properly attired and without the dead plants, please, Davish.”
Magnetic Spring acquired its name by imparting magnetic properties to anything that came into contact with it. As a testament, the Arcadia had on display a pewter dinner plate with a fork, a knife, a hatpin, a pair of spectacles, and a tin of kippered herring, all magnetically attached. I was skeptical but hadn’t had time to test the “magnetizing water” for myself. I had brought an extra hatpin for the purpose. However, the Shaw sisters viewed the spring in a different light. As we rumbled down the gravel road toward it, they revealed to me that this spring, said to cure drunkenness and addiction to medicines containing alcohol and laudanum, symbolized their cause. Among themselves they called it “Temperance Spring,” and to some it was akin to holy water. It was one of the reasons the AWTC assembled in Eureka Springs. All attending members gathered here on the last day of every annual meeting. I felt honored to be invited.
The morning had turned cloudy and cold after a more promising, bright sunrise. Therefore the large pavilion built over the spring was filled to capacity with coalition members and cure seekers hoping to stay out of the imminent rain. I was surprised to see such a large crowd, but the sisters assured me that by the time the program began, the pavilion would be overflowing and the crowd would be spilling out into the surroundings. The path the hired coach followed was no more than a rough trail, and although several other wagons and buggies had made the trip, I was concerned rain might convert the trail to mud. I leaned forward and asked the driver to stop on a grassy patch several yards from the pavilion.
“Maybe we should watch from here inside the coach?” I said. “The trail’s muddy beyond this grassy patch and I don’t see any more benches or flat rocks available to sit on.”
“You’re right, Davish. Lizzie and I will watch from here, but you should go and get closer. This is your first time at Temperance Spring.”
“Yes, dear, and make sure to drink the water,” Miss Lizzie said.
I was about to insist on staying with them when Mrs. Anglewood, Miss Halbert, Mrs. Piers, and a few other coalition members approached the other end of the pavilion. Accompanying them was the man I’d seen twice before, at the chapel and yesterday at the baths. More than my curiosity was piqued now. I disembarked and the sisters handed me their tin cups to fill.
“Do you see that man with Mrs. Anglewood?” I said. “Do either one of you recognize him?”
“Davish, why are you whispering?” Miss Lucy asked.
“This could be very important,” I said, “and I don’t want anyone else to hear. Do you know that man?”
Miss Lizzie studied the figure I pointed to. “I’ve never seen him before, dear.”
Miss Lucy, alternating between squinting and holding up her spectacles, watched him trail the coalition women through the crowd. “No,” she whispered. “No, Davish, I’ve never seen him before either. Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why . . . ?”
I didn’t wait for Miss Lucy to finish her sentence. I swiftly wove through the crowd toward the group gathering at the far end of the pavilion. I needed to get closer, unnoticed, to the man with whom I kept crossing paths. I stood behind an old, lanky gentleman wearing a crushed top hat and faded morning coat. Although stooped over, he was tall enough to conceal me. I glanced around his thin frame whenever I could.
As before, Cordelia Anglewood officiated. She was in an unusually jovial mood.
What is she up to? I wondered. At breakfast the woman supposedly had tears in her eyes and now she was beaming at the gathering. She welcomed everyone and explained to the uninitiated the significance of meeting at Magnetic Spring on the last day of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition’s Annual Conference. She held her arms open wide before her while introducing the minister, the same Reverend Little from Mrs. Trevelyan’s memorial service, who gave a benediction. As before, she invited anyone to step forward and give testimonials to the power of temperance. There were many, a great deal many more than on the previous occasion, yet Cordelia Anglewood, clasping her hands before her, bobbed her head in response to each account. She then read, from the list I had typed the night before, the names of those who had made the temperance pledge.
“May God forever keep you in his sight,” she said. During the entire proceeding, I kept myself out of her sight but kept the man on her left clearly in view. Although he remained next to Mrs. Anglewood throughout, he rarely looked at her or at anyone else. Instead, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and studied the roof of the pavilion or co
ntemplated the shine on his shoes or gazed down the trail. He licked his lips incessantly and, despite the chill, periodically pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow. Once, after a particularly stirring testimonial given by a man and his wife, standing hand in hand, he raised his eyes to the ceiling, closed them, and moved his lips as if in prayer. My interest in him grew as the meeting lengthened. However, when the testimonials concluded, I’d yet to learn his name.
He was silent and still as those around him began to whisper and stir. I noticed, for the first time, Colonel Walker among the crowd; he was talking to the men beside him and gesturing toward Mrs. Anglewood. Mrs. Anglewood’s commanding voice settled the gathering down.
“Before we part and ask Reverend Little for a final prayer, I’ve a few announcements to make,” she said, without a hint of her usual disdain. “First, I would like to invite you all, members and well-wishers alike, to the rally tonight at Basin Park Circle. The program will begin at eight P.M. sharp.”
Then she motioned to the man next to her, urging him forward. Several inches taller than him, Cordelia put her hand on his shoulder. I’d never seen Cordelia Anglewood touch anyone before.
“And second, I would like to acknowledge our special guest. Everyone, I would like to introduce to you a man who, unknown to us until quite recently, has unexpectedly out of the goodness of his heart and his belief in our cause given the AWTC one of its largest single donations to date.” Applause followed her announcement. She projected over the noise, waving her arms for the clapping to stop. “He preferred to remain anonymous, his humility being a lesson for us all. But I wouldn’t have it.” This explained his reluctant presence at her side as well as Cordelia Anglewood’s peculiar buoyant mood. “It’s my pleasure to acknowledge this generous friend of temperance, Mr. John Martin.”
CHAPTER 21
“Are you all right, miss?”
Upon hearing John Martin’s name, I’d stumbled into the bent old man in front of me, knocking the hat from his bald head and clutching his coat to keep from falling. The tin cups that I’d been holding clattered to the ground. Cordelia Anglewood’s announcement had rattled me as much as when she had raised her whip at me. The man I’d been seeking all this time, I’d already met, twice. I’d seen him in the Basin Spring Bathhouse, and I’d spoken to him at the chapel. And to see Cordelia laud the man whose “contribution” to the cause was actually blackmail money, in front of the entire membership of the AWTC, was disconcerting. Either she had no idea about the man’s true motivation or else she was the most brazen woman I’d ever met. Chills went down my spine.
“Miss, are you all right?” the old man said again.
“I’m so sorry.” I handed the old man his hat and brushed his rumpled sleeve. I straightened my bonnet, brushed my skirts, and gave the gentleman a brusque curtsy. “Please excuse me.”
I disregarded the old man’s wide-eyed expression and set out toward the retreating figure of Mr. John Martin, who, alone on foot, was heading up the narrow trail away from town. The meeting had concluded and the crowd was dispersing.
“Davish,” Miss Lucy called from the carriage. “Where are you going? You’ll never get back to town going that way.” I waved, then picked up my pace.
I caught up to John Martin at Mystic Spring, a hillside spring a little less than a half a mile up the hill from Magnetic Spring; he was alone. Instead of drinking from the water gushing from a rocky outcrop, he sipped slyly from his flask.
“Mr. Martin, may I have a word with you?” I said. He deliberately lifted the flask for another drink and finished its contents before acknowledging me. The initials J.M. were engraved on it. I suppressed a shiver.
“You. What do you want?”
“I’m Hattie Davish. We met before, at the Catholic chapel and at the Basin Spring Bathhouse.”
“Yeah, Miss Busybody, I know who you are. Like I said, what do you want?” Menace filled his slurred words. “I’ve had enough of the likes of you for one day.” He pushed past me, almost staggering.
“I’d appreciate a few more moments of your time, Mr. Mascavarti.” There, I said it, no going back now, I thought.
He stopped short. “What did you call me?”
“I know Mrs. Trevelyan was blackmailing you, Mr. Mascavarti.”
His shoulders slumped. His head dropped to his chest. He grumbled incoherently. I watched as a crow landed on an overhanging branch and drank cautiously from the spring.
“How much do you want?” He wheeled around to face me. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t have any more. I told that hag I didn’t have any more.” He flung his arms loosely in the air, then pointed his finger at me. “And now I’m telling you. I don’t have any more.”
I backed away from him, stumbling slightly on the mossy rocks; the crow took flight. However, he halted his advance and stood, slightly swaying, staring at the ground. It started sprinkling.
“I’ve had enough of all of you,” John Martin said. “Why couldn’t you keep your stupid mouth shut?”
I gasped. “What did you say?”
He lifted his head, his eyes fixated on a point over my shoulder. He fumbled with something on his lapel without looking at it. It was an AWTC pin. He threw it to the ground.
“Why did you have to start asking questions?” he said. “Little Miss Busybody, demanding answers in the street where everyone can hear. You should’ve done what I told you and left well enough alone.” He dropped his head into his hands, his body slightly shaking. “Now you’ve ruined everything.”
“You? You pushed me? Why?”
His head bobbed feverishly. “Must I keep paying and paying?” He ground the pin into the path with his heel. “I thought, with her dead, I was finally free. Then you came along. Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“You killed Mrs. Trevelyan?” I said.
He put his hands over his ears. “Shut up! Shut up!”
“Did you kill Mrs. Trevelyan?”
He wobbled where he stood, but his voice was low and steady when he spoke. “I told her I couldn’t pay any more. And like you, the witch wouldn’t listen.”
He suddenly lunged forward, grasping wildly with his arms. He stumbled, slipped, and tumbled face first onto the slick grass. I leapt back, spun around, and ran.
Rain pelted me by the time I reached the streetcar stop. My shoes and the hem of my dress were thick with mud. Water dripped from the brim of my hat. My neck ached from looking behind me. I had imagined John Martin in pursuit as I ran, but I didn’t see him again. Soaked through and shivering, I rode the streetcar back into town. I wanted to go straight to the police, but propriety and practicality insisted I change first. Chief Jackson would never take me seriously if I appeared at the police station in such sodden disarray. The stop at my hotel room would give me a chance to write my report for Sir Arthur as well. The typing would calm my nerves.
I took a hot bath, changed into a warm blue and green plaid wool dress with smart lace ruffles at the cuffs and collar, sent my soiled clothes to be laundered, and then sat down to work. I typed an extra copy of both my reports for the police’s perusal. Chief Jackson wouldn’t welcome my summary, but I was confident that he wouldn’t be able to dismiss the information. It felt good to be working again, every keystroke a victory against fear and chaos. I didn’t even mind being interrupted, which I was several times, once by a chambermaid wanting to make up my bed, which I’d already done, and once by another delivering a tray of coffee, soup, biscuits, and cake sent to me by Miss Lucy, who wrote on the card, Missed you at lunch—EAT. I inquired after Mary, but neither maid had seen her today.
I typed with one hand, and with the other, ate two biscuits (dipped in the soup) and a piece of cake. I had finished my second cup of coffee when Josephine Piers arrived with a question about one of Mrs. Trevelyan’s letters. I clarified the reference and returned to my typing.
“I heard you were helping the police,” she said, glancing at the partially finished report in my typ
ewriter. “Have they learned anything more about Mother Trevelyan’s death?” She leaned over my shoulder and took the top of the paper in her hand. Before she could read too much I grabbed the paper and ripped it out of the typewriter.
She stepped away from the desk. “Who is Joseph Mascavarti ?”
I placed the report face down, away from her prying eyes, and answered her with a question. “I saw Mr. Martin at the testimonial this morning. How long have you known him?”
“We didn’t know who Brother Martin was until we became aware of his generous donation. We found the bank receipt among Mother Trevelyan’s papers this morning. His desire was to remain anonymous, but Cordelia . . .”
Mrs. Piers glanced at the door, left slightly ajar when she had entered. The door swept inward and Cordelia Anglewood marched into the room. She was attired again for riding, though the diamond collar pin had been replaced with a simple horseshoe-shaped pin of silver.
“Josephine, how long does it take to ask a simple question?” Cordelia said.
“Is there anything else I can help you with, Mrs. Piers?” I said. Cordelia Anglewood glared at her associate.
“No, thank you, Miss Davish. I’d simply hoped you’d heard something more about Mother Trevelyan.”
“That’s a matter for the police, Josephine, and you know it.” Cordelia Anglewood, dismissing the conversation with a slight flip of her hand, headed out the door. “Are you coming? We’ve wasted enough time here already. I need to dress for dinner.”
“Thank you for your help with the letter from Brother Smith, Miss Davish. I never could read his handwriting.” She approached the door. “I rejoice to see that your stay in Eureka Springs has done you good, Miss Davish. You’re still far too thin, but your cheeks have color and your eyes have a spark that I haven’t seen before.”
“Yes, let’s hope you’re able to take your newfound health with you when you leave,” Cordelia Anglewood said, reaching in and slamming the door behind the retreating Mrs. Piers.
A Lack of Temperance Page 17