A Lack of Temperance

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  Un, deux, trois . . .

  I finished counting to ten and found myself refreshingly undisturbed by Cordelia Anglewood’s veiled threat. I started a new list.

  1. Did Cordelia Anglewood previously know of John Martin? Or of Joseph Mascavarti?

  2. Did she know about the blackmail or does she believe the money is a donation to the cause?

  3. If she believes it’s an honest donation, what would she do if she discovered it was otherwise?

  I finished my report, adding an entire previously unintended section on Mrs. Cordelia Anglewood. Although John Martin/Joseph Mascavarti had as good as admitted his guilt, the police needed all of the evidence before them to convict Mrs. Trevelyan’s murderer, even if that meant exposing the American Women’s Temperance Coalition’s new president’s threats, cruelty, and lies.

  “Hattie, I mean, Miss Davish,” Walter corrected himself, “you have impeccable timing.” I’d come to tell Chief Jackson about John Martin and was surprised to find Walter and Jackson already in conference. “Please join us, have a seat.”

  Burke, having escorted me, awaited Chief Jackson’s word. The chief indicated the chair next to Walter. Burke rolled his eyes and left. “We were talking about George,” Walter said, his voice suddenly sullen. “It doesn’t look good.”

  “I was telling Dr. Grice that without an alibi, George Shulman is the best suspect we have,” Chief Jackson said. “And with those temperance ladies picketing his saloon and calling for justice, I’m transporting him to the courthouse in Berryville Monday morning.” This was the first I’d heard about the picketing, but it didn’t surprise me.

  “The AWTC’s meeting ends tonight. I’m certain that—” I said.

  “Most don’t emerge until midday or later,” Jackson said, interrupting me. “That’s why I’m leaving before dawn, less of a crowd. And simply because their meeting is over, Miss Davish, doesn’t mean they’re gonna stop. Lots of these women spend the winter here.”

  “What if I have information that might help cast suspicions elsewhere?” I said.

  The policeman raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t I heard this before?”

  “Give her a chance, Ben,” Walter said. I handed Chief Jackson the summary of all of my findings about John Martin /Joseph Mascavarti and about Cordelia Anglewood. He flipped mindlessly through the pages.

  “John Martin? Cordelia Anglewood? You can’t be serious, Miss Davish?”

  “Yes, I’m serious, Chief Jackson,” I said. “Very serious. I’ve been threatened by one and practically confessed to by the other.” Walter gaped, his expression a mixture of concern and wonderment. The policeman was unfazed.

  “All right, I’m a fair-minded man,” Jackson said. “Let’s take Cordelia Anglewood first. She has an alibi and no real motive.”

  “Gaining the power and prestige of the coalition’s presidency might be enough of a motivation for Mrs. Cordelia Anglewood. She was seen by a chambermaid threatening Mrs. Trevelyan with her riding crop the morning of the murder. She lied about riding that day. I spoke to the stable boy; he never saw her.”

  “Miss Davish, you trust the word of a stable boy and a maid over a pillar of the community? Come now. Do you know who Commodore Anglewood is? He’s one of the richest men in Chicago. He could buy his wife the position. She didn’t need to kill to get it.”

  “What about John Martin, then?” I said. “He essentially confessed to me that he killed Mrs. Trevelyan.” I appealed to Walter. “He admitted to pushing me down the stairs and tried to attack me again this morning.”

  Walter leapt from his chair, sending it screeching across the floor.

  “Where’s the devil? I’ll—”

  “I’m okay, Dr. Grice,” I said, waving him away. “I ran away before he could catch me.”

  “Ben, this man must be stopped,” Walter said.

  “What man?”

  Walter ignored the policeman. “Are you sure you’re okay? If you were running, you must’ve taken your medicine this morning.” Without taking his eyes from my face, he eased back into his chair. “Did he say why, Hattie, why he attacked you?”

  “I was asking too many questions.” I described all that I could remember of the conversation.

  “He must’ve heard you talking to George,” Walter said. “He must’ve been at the Cavern that night.”

  “That’s what I thought too,” I said. “The door was open. Anyone inside could’ve heard us talking about Mrs. Trevelyan’s disappearance.”

  “Uh, ’em,” Chief Jackson cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but could someone explain to me what you’re talking about?”

  I turned back toward the policeman. “John Martin wrote a very sinister note to Mrs. Trevelyan. The full text is in the report. I believe Mrs. Trevelyan was blackmailing him, though I haven’t discovered why. Maybe it had to do with the heinous crime he referred to. In the letter, Mr. Martin threatened to harm Mrs. Trevelyan if she didn’t leave him alone. And he’s the one who pushed me down the stairs.”

  Chief Jackson put his hand up to silence me.

  “Enough of this, Miss Davish. I’ve seen the threatening letters to Mrs. Trevelyan. They’re nothing new.”

  “But—” I said.

  “But that’s beside the point,” Jackson interrupted again. “John Martin couldn’t have killed your Mrs. Trevelyan. He’s a drunkard, and yeah, maybe his liquor got the best of him this morning when you confronted him, but that’s all it was.”

  “But what about—”

  “And that applies to your regrettable encounter with him on the stairs as well,” Jackson said. “But he didn’t kill anyone. The fact is, we arrested him for public intoxication the night before the murder. He couldn’t have done it. He was locked up right here.”

  “But . . .” I was stunned. That John Martin was an inebriate made sense, and I should’ve realized it sooner. I’d seen him drinking this morning as well as on the day I met him at the chapel. Intoxication could indeed account for much of his behavior. Yet my instincts told me John Martin/Joseph Mascavarti was also a dangerous man. He’d pushed me down the stairs. But if he was in police custody Monday morning, he couldn’t have killed Mrs. Trevelyan. Or could he?

  “When did you release Mr. Martin?” I asked. “Was it before eleven A.M.?”

  Chief Jackson ignored me. “I’m sorry, Doc, I don’t like it any more than you do, but I’ve got to take George Shulman to Berryville. The sheriff ’s been notified and Judge Senrow has already signed the papers.”

  I was unwilling to give up. “Did you know that John Martin is an alias for Joseph Mascavarti?” I blurted out.

  “No, I didn’t.” He hesitated, twisting his mustache between his fingers. “But it doesn’t matter.”

  “What about—”

  “Miss Davish.” The policeman cut me off again and rose from his chair. “This discussion is over.” He held up my report and waved it at me. “It’s obvious from this, and your unauthorized visit to the prisoner, that you’ve ignored my repeated requests not to interfere in this investigation.” The report dropped to the desk with a thud. “I’ve endured your presence for Dr. Grice’s sake, but you’ve gone too far, lady. You’re not to interfere again. Do you understand?” I nodded, my cheeks burning with frustration.

  “If I see you here again, I’m tossing you in a cell.” He waved his arm and nearly shouted, “Now get out of here.”

  “Now what do we do?” I said.

  Walter had offered to buy me dinner at the Grand Central Hotel, the hub for train travelers, a few blocks from the jailhouse. An eclectic mix of laborers, merchants, and leisure travelers filed in and out of its unpretentious dining room. I felt right at home.

  “We wait,” Walter said, shoveling poached potatoes onto his fork. Walter relished everything set before him, the soup, the lamb and beef in mushroom sauce, the peas with lettuce, and the wine. He’d been elusive about his stance, most likely for professional reasons, but now I knew Walter’s views on temperance. His secret
was safe with me.

  “Despite his posturing and bluster, I know Ben is a decent policeman,” Walter said. “He answered your question, didn’t he?”

  Before we’d left the station, Walter spoke to Chief Jackson in his office, repeating my question about John Martin’s release. To my vexation and relief, the chief had offered Walter a straightforward answer; all prisoners were released at 9:30 A.M. Monday morning. Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder occurred between 9:18 A.M. and 11:00 A.M. John Martin could’ve received the blackmail telegram, gone to the Arcadia, confronted her, and then killed her before the bellboy moved the trunk. The timing would’ve been close, but possible.

  “He has your report, and I’ve no doubt that he’ll read it thoroughly. No matter how much he may dislike getting his information from a woman, he’ll have to consider it.” Walter swirled his wine and regarded me with a mischievous glint in his eye. “In the meantime, I may have to chaperone you more often. You tend to invite danger, Miss Hattie Davish.”

  “I don’t know why,” I said. “I’m just a lady typewriter.”

  Walter laughed and held his glass up in a toast. “A charming and clever one at that.”

  Over dessert, I broached the subject of George Shulman. “Do you know, Walter, if George Shulman has any romantic attachments?” I selected a thick piece of nut cake, sliced off a piece of cheese, and took heaping servings of the pickled peaches and the orange jelly.

  He sipped his coffee. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “It may mean nothing, but when I visited Mr. Shulman in jail, he mistook me for someone else at first, calling me ‘my darling.’ ”

  “That’s peculiar, Hattie. Now that you mention it, I think George was courting someone. I’d heard him teased about it by the boys at the bar. But that was a while back; I’d assumed it got called off. If that’s the case, I’d guess it was probably his sister, Gertie, he mistook you for. She keeps house for him.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “Of course his sister would visit him.”

  But then why did George Shulman say “my darling” the same way Walter said “Hattie”?

  “Is something wrong? You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Mr. Shulman mentioned that Mrs. Trevelyan forbid him to do something,” I said, “but he didn’t say what. Do you know what it could be?”

  “Besides selling liquor? No. Why?”

  “I’m sorry, Walter, but I think there’s more to George Shulman’s story than what he’s telling the police. And I think it’s connected to the woman he thought I was.”

  “And you don’t mean his sister Gertie, do you?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “What’s going on here?” Walter said, slightly out of breath. We had climbed straight up several flights of stairs from the restaurant on Main Street.

  A crowd gathered in Basin Circle Park, the physical and social center of town. Tonight, the park was fitted with a stage and hundreds of folding chairs. The street lamps blazed, colorful paper lanterns hung from the trees, and dozens of torches, placed periodically along the curving stone wall that encircled the park, lit up banners staked in the ground. Among them were banners that read: TEMPERANCE LEADS TO HEALTH, WEALTH, AND HAPPINESS, or AGITATE—EDUCATE—DO NOT INTOXICATE, or LIPS THAT TOUCH LIQUOR SHALL NOT TOUCH MINE, or TAKE THE PLEDGE, GET ON THE WATER CART. Bunting decorated every lamppost, stone wall, and fountain. It was wonderful.

  Hundreds of people mingled, their voices and peals of laughter reverberating off the buildings that surrounded the park. Musicians set up their instruments on a pavilion built on a rocky ledge halfway up the hill. Everywhere people were drinking, from tin cups, champagne glasses, and beer mugs. Though every glass was filled with spring water, the whole atmosphere was festive and exciting, more reminiscent of an Independence Day or New Year’s Eve celebration than a rally to the cause of temperance. And to think I’d considered skipping it.

  “The rally!” I said. “I’d almost forgot. I promised Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy to meet them.”

  “I’ll help you find them,” Walter suggested. “They’ve got to be around here somewhere.”

  As we traversed the crowd, we were stopped repeatedly by patients and friends who wanted to chat with Walter and wish him well. He had a jest, a smile, or a pat on the back for each one. I felt proud to be on his arm. His gaiety seemed boundless until a man in a crushed brown duck hat mentioned how much fun George Shulman would’ve been, had he been there.

  “We should toast his health, don’t you think, Walt?” the man suggested.

  “Ah, but George wouldn’t restrict himself to a water toast,” Walter said.

  The man roared at the jest and slapped Walter on the back. Officer Burke chanced to walk past, acknowledging us with a nod. The man bid Walter a jovial good-bye as both he and the policeman disappeared separately into the crowd. The corners of Walter’s mouth drooped.

  “I’d toast to George Shulman’s health with Coca-Cola if it meant getting him out of jail,” he grumbled. “That’s the irony of this whole sordid business, Hattie. George doesn’t drink liquor. He prefers cocoa and coffee to beer and brandy. He runs the saloon because it’s the family business.”

  I was shocked. “Why didn’t he just say so? So much of what has happened could’ve been avoided had the temperance ladies known.”

  “George has principles, Hattie, and didn’t want the temperance group dictating how he made a living. But I’m afraid you’re right. His principles may land him in the gallows.” Walter’s countenance clouded over for a moment, but he didn’t dwell on the thought as I might have, and as quickly as his gloomy disposition had arrived, it was gone.

  Eventually I espied the Shaw sisters and left Walter behind me, conversing lively with yet another acquaintance, and threaded my way through the crowd. I’d gone a few yards when John Martin swaggered in my direction. I was mortified at the thought of facing him again. I twisted around, trying to lose him in the sea of people, and in my haste nearly collided into the old woman I’d met waiting for the public omnibus the afternoon I’d arrived. She wore the same old black bonnet but carried a new walking stick.

  “Oh, my, you look rested, miss,” she said. “Last time I saw you, you were as taut as a fat man’s suspenders. I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

  Can that have been less than a week ago? I wondered. It didn’t seem possible.

  “The springs are doing you good then, miss?” I stood on my toes and peered through the throng. “Miss?” The old woman shouted over the din of the crowd. I dropped back onto my heels.

  “Oh, thank you, and how are you? I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

  “It’s Gunning, Sarah Gunning. Thank you for asking, miss. It’s kind of you to remember. Ah, my gout isn’t much improved. Harding, Sweet, Gadd, Rock House, and Iron, so far none of the springs have helped.” She pointed to the fountain in the middle of the park with her stick, almost hitting a passerby. “I’m leaving this here Basin Spring for last. It’s done wonders for some others I’ve met at the Piedmont House. That’s where I’m staying.” She pointed, with a gnarled finger this time, toward a group of old ladies sitting in folding chairs to the left. “They’re here at the rally. Would you care to join us?”

  “Thank you, Miss Gunning, but I’ve friends waiting for me.”

  “This is grand, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have missed this rally for the world.” She watched as coalition members and their well-wishers flocked by, oblivious to my subtle hint. I watched, loathing the moment John Martin might appear.

  “I really must be going,” I said. I fidgeted with my collar and then my gloves.

  The old woman put a hand on my arm and continued, blind to my distress. “I wanted to see Mrs. Trevelyan with my own eyes, you know, but alas, I’m too late. Poor Mrs. Trevelyan. You did hear what happened?”

  A shiver went down my spine. It was almost more than I could bear. Even now Mrs. Trevel
yan’s murder permeated the gaiety around me, and at any moment her killer would be upon us. Where was Walter? Why hadn’t he caught up to me by now? The old woman gripped my arm tight and leaned closer.

  “I heard,” she said in a conspiring tone, “that her personal secretary found her dead in a wardrobe, hanging from a hook like nothing more than a kitchen bib apron, strangled with her own best lace.” The old woman licked her lips and edged closer. “And that the secretary, crazed by the trauma, has been seen scaling the mountains, barefoot and bareheaded, every morning, searching for her mistress’s killer. She collects dead and dried-up bits of plants and animal hair and bones, and brings them back to the hotel.” The band started up and the woman yelled over the music. “Girl’s gone completely mad.”

  Aghast by the ghoulish rumor, I stared at the woman in horror. Then a group of women passed. One of them bumped against me and dropped her black lace handbag. She and another woman were outlandishly attired in identical dresses of puce and black stripes and enormous black Gainsborough hats with puce muslin roses. As I stared at the comical duo stooped over to retrieve the bag, I caught a glimpse of John Martin, a few feet away. He was arguing with Cordelia Anglewood, gesturing with a clenched fist, while she pointed down the hill. I couldn’t tell what they said, but I could guess. I stood mesmerized by the confrontation, acutely aware that I wasn’t involved this time. Better Cordelia Anglewood than me, I thought.

  Colonel Walker and Josephine Piers emerged out of the crowd. The former gripped John Martin’s shoulder; the latter took her place next to Cordelia, clasping her hands before her in supplication. None seemed too happy. Cordelia Anglewood raised her hand. Torchlight reflected off the wineglass she held in her hand and, for a moment, lit a patch of John Martin’s blotchy red cheek. She threw it at him. It shattered at his feet. I flinched, but he didn’t move. Cordelia blanched in surprise. Could Cordelia Anglewood have met her match? It was frightening to think so. But she recovered herself quickly, glowering at John Martin and everyone around her. She shouted something about retribution. John Martin jerked out of his father-in-law’s hold and stalked away in the opposite direction. Ever the peacemaker, Mrs. Piers tried to follow. The old woman next to me craned her neck, tracking the retreating figures’ path through the multitude. I took a deep breath, relieved to see them all go.