“Don’t tell anyone,” I said, emboldened by John Martin’s sudden departure, “but you have that only partly right, Miss Gunning.” She cupped her ear with her hand, licked her lips, and tilted her head toward me. “I did find Mrs. Trevelyan, but she was suffocated by her dresses, not strangled by her lace.” My plant press and morning hikes aside, the old woman had something right. “And I will find her killer.”
The woman’s jaw dropped, and her walking stick clattered to the ground. I indulged in a moment of guilty satisfaction in the old woman’s reaction, then excused myself and hurried to meet up with Walter.
“Welcome one and all to the American Women’s Temperance Coalition’s Annual Temperance Rally.”
Prodigious applause erupted at President Anglewood’s greeting. The park was filled to capacity, every chair was filled, every available space to sit or stand was occupied. I sat between Walter and the elderly Shaw sisters near the stage, on a folding chair the sisters had saved for me. John Martin was nowhere to be found.
Candles were passed down the makeshift aisles and lit, as Mrs. Anglewood explained, “to signify the Holy Spirit that lives in us all.” She called for a moment of silence in the memory of the late President Trevelyan. The rowdy crowd hushed as the flames of hundreds of candles flickered in the slight evening breeze. The moment felt sacred; a true memorial for a woman who, despite her faults, had devoted her life to the temperance movement. I bowed my head.
For the first time I could sense the love, the pride, the veneration, and the loss Mrs. Trevelyan’s followers felt for her. And in that moment I regretted never knowing her. Several women stifled cries with their handkerchiefs held tight against their mouths. Miss Lizzie dabbed her eyes. Josephine Piers broke the silence by reading the coalition’s mission and charter. Her voice quivered with emotion. I raised my head, tears in my eyes, and caught both Walter and Miss Lucy watching me. Abashed, I tried to ignore their stares and followed the proceedings on stage.
Cordelia, appearing to have recovered from her altercation with John Martin, proceeded to introduce all the dignitaries seated on the stage with her, including the mayor of Eureka Springs and several visiting coalition branch officers, many of whom I’d seen at Mrs. Trevelyan’s memorial. She invited them all, one by one, to give a speech, and graciously thanked each one. The rally again became festive as dozens of water toasts were offered. Josephine Piers raised her champagne glass first.
“In honor of God, the glorious cause he has called us to, and to the coalition’s new president, who will lead us to victory.” Cordelia, in turn, raised her glass to victory.
People cheered and proposed new toasts. The town clock struck ten o’clock and someone called for a song. The first, a boisterous but appropriate hymn, was led by Diana Halbert, followed by temperance songs I’d never heard called “Willie Has Signed the Pledge” and “Girls, Wait for a Temperance Man.” The tunes were catchy and I tentatively joined in the singing. Everyone was intoxicated with the spirit of the rally, including me. I mentioned my surprise at the raucous crowd to Miss Lizzie.
“We’re here to celebrate what brought us all together in the first place, dear. With the killer behind bars, it’s time to put the tragedy of the past week behind us,” she said.
I refrained from telling her that I didn’t share her conviction that the right person had been arrested or that I would probably never be able to forget the past week, ever.
“By the way, you have a lovely voice, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “You should use it more often.”
I stayed as late as I could, enjoying the congenial atmosphere. But the events of the day eventually caught up with me, and I was tired. The American Women’s Temperance Coalition, Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy included, were still singing and drinking Basin Spring water when Walter escorted me home.
I couldn’t sleep. I had gone through the motions of changing into my nightdress, washing my hands and face, and giving my hair a hundred strokes with a brush, knowing that last night, when I had slept better than I had in years, had been an aberration. Temperance songs reverberated in my mind and I couldn’t stop thinking. I lay in bed for an hour or more before slipping onto the balcony. It sounded so peaceful. Carriage wheels rattled on the street below and a few singing voices came from the direction of the Spring Street staircase on the edge of the hotel’s parkland. People were still returning from the rally.
I returned to my room and typed up another list.
1. Why was John Martin also known as Joseph Mascavarti?
2. Why was Mrs. Trevelyan blackmailing John Martin? Was there a connection between the blackmail and the alias?
3. Having sent a threat, did John Martin follow up on it? He confessed as much.
4. If so, was there a witness to place John Martin in Mrs. Trevelyan’s room that morning, as there were for George Shulman and Cordelia Anglewood?
5. Where was John Martin between 9:30, when he was released from jail, and 11:00? Do the police know?
6. Where did Cordelia Anglewood go after leaving Mrs. Trevelyan’s room? Not out riding. Did she come back to see Mrs. Trevelyan again?
7. Why were Cordelia and John Martin arguing at the Rally?
I fell asleep in the early-morning hours, but during a pleasant dream, Walter’s amiable countenance metamorphosed into the red, blotchy face of John Martin. I woke with a start, disconcerted. Only one thing would help. I lit the lamp on the night table and carried it to the desk. I tucked my legs under me in the chair and retrieved from a drawer my copy of the report I’d given the police. I slipped the last sheet of the report into my typewriter and added an addendum, comprising John Martin’s arrest for public drunkenness and the time he was released from jail. I added a note of speculation, that Cordelia Anglewood must be unaware of his arrest or she would never have showcased his generosity at a coalition meeting. Maybe that’s what this evening’s argument was about. I plucked the paper out of the typewriter, feeling composed again. I attached it to the report and attempted to review the facts objectively.
Mr. John Martin, also known as Mr. Joseph Mascavarti, had been blackmailed by Mrs. Trevelyan. He’d been arrested for public drunkenness, and upon his release from jail Monday morning had received Mrs. Trevelyan’s wire demanding more money. Within an hour and a half she was dead. Did he kill her? Did he get drunk and, wanting to confront her, come to the hotel, bringing his gin bottle with him? It was the most likely scenario. Could it have been an accident? I doubted it. Pushing me down the stairs just to stop me from asking more questions demonstrated his desperation and proclivity toward violence. And he had a reason for wanting Edwina Trevelyan dead. He must’ve killed her. Otherwise why would he lie about his whereabouts?
But then so had Cordelia Anglewood and George Shulman. They too each had a reason to want Mrs. Trevelyan dead. And who else could be lying? Who else wanted her dead? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that almost every reason to suspect John Martin could also apply to several others. I was dumbfounded. How could one woman have so many followers and at the same time have so many enemies? In Mrs. Trevelyan’s case, of course, I thought I knew the answer. What I didn’t know was which one of them had killed her.
The moonlight was enough to see by, but at times the path, weaving its way down through the glen behind the Arcadia, was completely dark. But I was determined and, having come this way twice before, was confident that I could find my way back to Grotto Spring. I thought fresh air would help me clear my head. I was wrong. The question of Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer still rumbled through my mind as I made my way down the woodland path, armed with a candle and a small specimen jar.
The rain had washed away the dust and pollen, leaving the air crisp. I relished the fresh scent of autumn leaves and fallen pine needles. The soft rustling of damp leaves beneath my boots and an occasional hoot of an owl were all that broke the early-morning silence. When I reached the top of the hillock that led to the spring’s rocky cliff ceiling, I lit the candle. Something s
curried off through the leaves. I’d been confident about navigating the path in the dark, but wasn’t as sure about the ridge.
Crouched low to the ground, with one hand to anchor me, I crept down the hillside. Halfway down, my candle went out. Yet I persevered. At the bottom, I brushed the soil and leaves from my skirt and straightened my hat. I relit the candle and, poised to enter, peered into the cavern. The light only pierced a foot into the gloom. At once, I felt apprehensive. I’d come to collect liverwort specimens I’d noticed in Grotto Spring before; safe in my room, it was an appealing place to spend a few peaceful moments before daybreak. But I hadn’t considered that I might wake a sleeping animal or a wandering tramp taking refuge inside. I listened for the gentle rise and fall of someone or something sleeping.
“Hello?” I called, more timidly than I’d like to admit. The wind rustled in the trees above; a roosting bird took flight. I called again.
“Hello? Is there anybody in there?”
There was no response. No late-night revelers or skittish wildlife emerged.
Reassured, I hoisted my candle above my head and entered the cave. I took a few steps toward the back of the cave and the noiseless trickling source of the spring, and hesitated again. The previously dry cavern floor was slick, dampened from the previous morning’s rain. I steadied myself against the cavern wall and lifted the candle higher.
What is that?
Something white was on the ground in front of me. I was jittery and almost dropped my candle. But it was only the enamel mug I had shamelessly thrown against the wall yesterday; its owner had yet to retrieve it. I felt ridiculous for overreacting and yet again regretted venturing out alone in the dark. I would get my liverworts and go.
I moved swiftly, steadying myself against the cavern wall, and aimed for the spot near the spring where I had seen a large population of the plant earlier. But I never made it. Instead, I nearly stumbled over something in the dark. I felt foolish, letting my nerves get the best of me, as I lifted my candle.
What is it now, I wondered, a branch, a forgotten walking stick?
It was an arm, with pearl buttons on its shirt-sleeve cuff.
I screamed. I couldn’t help myself. There, next to the stone bench, sprawled across the cave’s floor, was a man, his head lying in a small pool of liquid. He wasn’t moving.
“Is anybody there?” I shouted.
I held the candle up and frantically circled around hoping to confirm that there wasn’t. My candle reflected off something metal on the floor. Suddenly I began to panic, breathing erratically, perspiring and feeling my heart pound hard in my chest. I felt paralyzed, trapped between the darkness and the body on the floor, the way out impossible to reach. As I listened for the sound of an unseen assailant’s footsteps, I became dizzy and knelt down beside the body.
Blood caked his hair and streaked down his temple and cheek. His eyes were partially closed. I put my candle to his lips; the flame didn’t waver. A pebble that had been stuck to his face fell back into the dirt, leaving behind a tiny indentation. I became nauseous; I recognized the face! I leapt to my feet. The heel of my boot snagged my skirt, rending my hem and tripping me. I dropped my specimen jar and my candle, plunging the cavern into darkness, and fell to my hands and knees. Blood splashed on me. I cried out as a sharp pain shot through my injured knee.
Why does this keep happening to me?
I slammed my hand into the ground. Tiny pebbles lodged themselves in my palm. A moment of calm came over me as remorse for indulging in self-pity replaced my fear and anger. I knew what I had to do. I scrambled to my feet and, as fast as my knee would allow, raced from the cave, each step distancing me from the body of Mr. John Martin.
CHAPTER 23
“Walter! Walter!”
I gasped for breath and pounded on the door again. Mr. Theakston, Walter’s valet, finally opened the door. He was wearing a blue and green plaid dressing gown. His eyes flew open in surprise.
“Miss Davish, it’s six o’clock in the morning,” he said.
“Get Dr. Grice,” I said. “Please!”
He checked up and down the street, blocking my entrance. I’d no patience for appearances or conventions. I pushed past him into the dimly lit hallway.
“Miss, this is highly irregular,” the valet lectured as he hurriedly closed the front door behind me. “Unless you are . . . Oh my!” He seized my arm and set me down in the hall chair. “Stay right here, I’ll get the doctor.”
As he disappeared down the hallway, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. Did I really look that ghastly? My carefully combed hair was now tousled; masses of curls had loosened and fallen haphazardly about my shoulders. Where is my hat? The palms of my hands were scraped and streaked with soil. One of my favorite dresses was ruined; splotches of blood stained the skirt, and strips of fabric, caked with blood and dirt, hung partially attached to the hem. Lines of perspiration and soil mixed with tiny specks of blood streaked across my face and bodice. I was mortified that anyone should see me like this. As I began wiping away the grime, Walter, disheveled and still pulling a dressing gown around a pair of striped silk pajamas, raced down the hallway. He immediately began to examine me.
“Walter,” I said, “I know I look a fright, but I’m all right. It’s not my blood.”
“Just stay quiet,” he said. He swept me up into his arms and rushed me to his examining room. Countless metal instruments gleamed as Mr. Theakston lit the lamps. The doctor laid me down, loosened my collar, and reached for his stethoscope. I felt my breathing catch in my throat.
“Walter, this isn’t necessary.”
Despite my declaration, the doctor continued his examination, leaning closer, placing the stethoscope on my chest.
“Please, Walter, let me up. I don’t like this room.” I struggled to sit up.
“Hattie, calm down. Just stay still and breathe deeply.” He held me down with one hand on my shoulder and spoke in his particular professional manner, which alarmed me all the more.
“Please, Walter, it’s not my blood. Please let me get up.” My breathing quickened and my fingers started to tingle and go numb.
“There’s nothing to fear here. I won’t hurt you. Now, just try to breathe deeply.”
On the brink of panic, I clutched at his arm. “Stop, Walter, stop,” I said. “John Martin’s dead!” Walter’s head snapped up. “This is his blood, not mine. I found him at Grotto Spring, lying in a pool of it.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“He wasn’t breathing, Walter. I think he’s dead.” To my absolute relief, he lifted his stethoscope away from my chest and took a step back.
“Who, Hattie? Who’s dead?”
“John Martin, the man I told you about, the one Mrs. Trevelyan was blackmailing, this is his blood.” I struggled again to sit up. Walter helped, supporting me until I had my legs dangling off the side of the examining table. “I ran here as fast as I could.”
“You’re all right, then?”
“I’m exhausted, and my knee hurts, but otherwise I’m fine. Can I get down now?”
The doctor held me at arm’s length, studying my face. “Let me see your knee.”
I looked dubiously at the shiny metal objects mounted on the wall in front of me. “It just aches. That’s all.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Miss Davish,” Walter chided.
“What about John Martin?” I said.
“You’re my priority right now. It’ll only take a minute.” My hands trembled as I slid my skirt up, revealing my legs. My petticoat was intact but ruined; the scab from my fall down the stairs must’ve torn off and blood had seeped through. Walter snatched a pair of scissors from a metal tray. I recoiled from him as he sheared off a square patch of the cotton fabric, exposing my bare knee. He retrieved a bottle from a shelf and dipped a wad of cotton into it.
“This might sting,” he said. He swabbed my scrape with the cotton and then clamped a bandage over it.
&nbs
p; “Ouch!” I jerked my leg away from him. It didn’t sting; it burned. I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned my injured knee.
He noticed my hands and reached for another wad of cotton. I quickly resettled my skirt and hid my hands in its voluminous folds.
“Okay, okay,” he said, putting the cotton back, “I’m done.” My whole body sagged forward in relief. “You’re still suffering from your exertions and shock, so I’ll have to keep you under observation.” Before I could protest, he continued, “Otherwise, with the exception of your knee, you do appear uninjured.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” I said. “I’m fine.”
Walter exhaled deeply, then chuckled. “I’ve heard that before.”
Relief washed over his face as he abruptly wrapped his arms around me. A pang of guilt hit me. Why didn’t I trust him more? He was a physician, yes, but he did seem only to want to help and heal me. Hopefully I wouldn’t have occasion to worry about it again.
Walter’s calm, professional demeanor returned as he helped me down from the table.
“Now, about John Martin,” he said, “tell me everything you can.”
I matched his mood, composed myself, and relayed my outing to Grotto Spring and the subsequent discovery of John Martin’s body. Walter remained silent and attentive throughout, stopping me but once to clarify a point. When I finished, the doctor sprang into action.
“He may still be alive. If you’re well enough, we should go immediately.” He indicated the basin Mr. Theakston was filling with steaming water. “This is the best I can offer you at the moment. It’ll take a minute or two for me to get ready.”
A Lack of Temperance Page 19