A Lack of Temperance

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  He grabbed a large leather satchel and disappeared from the examination room. A few minutes later, after I had time only to wash my face and hands, Walter stood before me dressed, composed, and prepared. I was impressed. As we left, he snatched an overcoat from the hall tree and put it around my shoulders.

  He regarded my hair, still in disarray. “I don’t suppose you’d like to wear one of my hats?” he said.

  I glanced at the hat rack. Walter sported some of men’s finest. I weighed the impropriety against the practicality of the idea and then chose a brown derby and stuffed my unruly curls up inside the roomy crown. I stole a glance at myself in the mirror and was pleased at how I looked.

  “Maybe they should design derby hats for women,” I said. “It’s very comfortable and doesn’t require a hatpin.”

  Amusement flashed across Walter’s face. I didn’t mind; his jests helped divert my thoughts from the morning’s ordeal. He grabbed a similar hat in black and escorted me to the phaeton waiting outside. The carriage’s folding top was raised. Mr. Theakston, holding the horse’s bridle, handed Walter the reins.

  “Telephone the police,” Walter instructed his valet. “Have them meet us at Grotto Spring.”

  Walter snapped the reins. We lurched forward and I gripped the arm rail with one hand and held on to the hat with the other. The horse galloped down the street, mud flying as it ran. What I had seen of Walter’s wild driving the other morning was not, as I had discovered, the good doctor in a rush. This treacherous speed was normal for him. We reached the spring in minutes. Walter halted the horse abruptly and, without a word, handed me the reins.

  “Oh, no, don’t give me the reins,” I protested. But Walter leapt down, grabbed his satchel and a lantern, and ran into the dark cave.

  I gripped the leather straps, my knuckles turning white; I’d never handled a horse before. I waited for the animal to rear up at any minute or to bolt and gallop away with me and the phaeton careening behind. Instead the horse swished its tail, bent its head, and snipped off blades of grass, silently chewing.

  “Good horse,” I whispered. This isn’t so hard after all, I thought and relaxed my grip.

  The stillness of the environs around Grotto Spring surprised me. The roaring of the wind as we galloped through the deserted town had made me forget how quiet it was at this early hour. Though the sky was growing light, sunrise was still a good half hour or more away. From the time I’d discovered John Martin, little more than half an hour had elapsed. I sat listening—to my racing heart, for Walter’s returning footsteps, for the arrival of the police—but I heard nothing but crickets chirping and leaves rustling in the trees towering above me. How I loved this time of day.

  The horse snorted, its breath visible in the predawn light. Taking its cue, I inhaled deeply, taking in the clean, fragrant morning air. I felt calm for the first time all morning. For a few moments, I allowed myself to forget why I was there. My race to Walter’s and the subsequent panic being in his examination room seemed a distant past by the time he returned. He placed the lantern on the ground as he removed his stethoscope from around his neck. When our eyes met, he shook his head.

  “He’s dead,” he said, returning his satchel to the carriage. “I’ll need more time in order to determine the cause. It’s a lot to ask, but would you take notes?” He handed me the tools of my trade, a notebook and pencil. “The police will need the information as soon as they get here.”

  Fortified by a familiar task to perform, I followed closely behind as Walter reentered the cavern. When we reached the prone figure, Walter set the lantern down. Its light revealed more than my candle had. A flask, the same one I’d seen John Martin carry, sat on the bench. Dried leaves and paper litter accumulated in a corner of the cave. And blood was everywhere: on the man’s head, spotted on his jacket, shirt and cravat, puddled on the floor beneath him, on the wall next to him where it had splattered when I’d tripped, and smudged on the stone bench that lined the side of the wall. I felt a wave of revulsion churn up from my stomach. I clutched the notebook and took a deep breath, somehow finding the fortitude to take notes. Walter examined the bench and the wall before kneeling down beside the body. He dictated as he worked.

  “The body is cold to the touch. The muscles are stiff.” He peeled back one of the man’s eyelids. “The eyes have filmed over and hypostasis has set in. And there’s a faint smell of alcohol about his lips.” He methodically probed the man’s entire body. “There’s a single wound, on his head, roughly two inches above the ear. The scalp is punctured and bruised, hence the excessive blood, but has already started to heal. The skull feels fractured, possibly causing internal bleeding. Blood and hairs, consistent with those of the dead, are on the edge of the bench. He must’ve hit his head there. I’d say at this point that blunt force trauma to his temple was what killed him. I’ll know more with an autopsy.”

  “Is that your official opinion?” a man said from behind us. We both stood up, startled by the voice. I held up the lantern. Chief Jackson, with a shadow of a man behind him, entered the cave. “Didn’t mean to startle you, Doc. I got your message.” He indicated the man behind him. “You know Norris.” Officer Norris nodded in acknowledgment.

  “What do we have, Doc?” Jackson said, after a brief glance at me and my hat. “Your servant mentioned a body and blood.”

  Walter told what he knew as Chief Jackson leaned over the body and then examined the cave. When Walter finished, Chief Jackson turned to me.

  “So, Miss Davish, you found the body.” I confirmed that I had.

  “And the man was dead when you found him?” I told him how I’d placed a flame next to the man’s lips. “And it didn’t flicker?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I’m not surprised,” Walter said. “This man’s been dead for hours.”

  “Good to know, Doc,” the policeman said. “And you didn’t touch anything, young lady?” I said I hadn’t. Jackson picked up the Crusher-style hat lying on the ground.

  “Not even the hat on his head?” He chuckled, obviously pleased with his pun. I repeated I hadn’t touched anything.

  “Good.” He wagged his finger at me. “You have a peculiar knack for finding dead bodies, don’t you, Miss Davish?” Before I could respond, he turned to Walter. “And you think it was an accident, Dr. Grice?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Walter said. “But from what I can tell, he hit his head here,” he pointed to the man’s temple, “on the corner of that bench,” he pointed to the corner darkened with blood, “deep enough to cut into the scalp, fracture the skull, and cause severe bleeding. It was probably the blow to the head and not the loss of blood that caused his death. He may’ve had intracranial bleeding. I don’t know. The floor is slippery, but I can’t say if that’s what caused him to fall.”

  “As I was saying this afternoon,” the policeman said, “this man was a well-known drunk.” He picked up the flask, unscrewed the cap, and sniffed its contents. “See here? He’d been drinking.” Jackson punctuated his words with a wave of the flask. “He probably was sitting here on the bench, got up to leave, slipped on the wet floor, and hit his head. Any evidence to the contrary?” The policeman held a stern face on me while addressing Walter. “Doc?”

  Walter rubbed his chin as he stared down at the body on the floor. “That seems reasonable.” He turned to me. “Hattie?”

  Chief Jackson glared at Walter. My gaze drifted from Walter to the policeman to the man I’d been convinced was Mrs. Trevelyan’s murderer. If he had killed Mrs. Trevelyan, then his death by a drunken-induced fall was ironic justice, and the ordeal was over. I should feel satisfied and relieved. I didn’t feel either.

  “What do you think, Hattie? An accident?” Walter repeated.

  John Martin was a known drunk and could’ve easily lost his balance and fallen; I’d seen him acting erratically myself. And all the evidence indicated his death was an accident. But what was he doing here? What would the police do now? With John Martin
dead, would we ever know for certain that he was Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer or why she was blackmailing him? What if it wasn’t an accident? And what if he wasn’t the killer?

  Despite my desire for a more orderly solution, and to the amazement of both Walter and Chief Jackson, I reluctantly agreed. I was too exhausted to argue. Chief Jackson nodded in satisfaction and walked back to the cave’s entrance, where sunlight now filtered in. He disappeared from view, but a moment later, two men carrying a stretcher appeared and, with Officer Norris as escort, carried the body away.

  “He pushed me down the stairs, Walter.” I stared, unseeing, at the cave’s entrance. “He may’ve killed Mrs. Trevelyan.” My whole body began to shake. “What was he doing here?”

  Since discovering Mrs. Trevelyan dead, images of her contorted in the trunk, with a dull unseeing gaze, had plagued my dreams. Now, even while awake, images of John Martin haunted me. His body was gone, but the blood remained. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but instead of blackness I saw blood everywhere, on the floor, on the corner of the bench, on my skirt, my knee, my face.

  “Let’s get you out of here.” Walter put his arm around my shoulders and led me into the sunshine. Despite its warmth, I couldn’t repress the shivering. A small crowd had gathered and several policemen were keeping them from approaching the spring. Chief Jackson and Officer Norris were off to one side, near Walter’s phaeton, questioning people, including the two boys Walter and I had encountered during our first visit to Grotto Spring. I wanted to warn them. I wanted to tell Walter not to let the boys see the blood, but I couldn’t voice the words. Walter helped me into his phaeton and wrapped a horsehair blanket around my shoulders. Chief Jackson approached several minutes later.

  “Well, didn’t learn much,” the policeman said in answer to Walter’s query. “Those boys there claim to have heard our deceased talking with someone last night, but I don’t put too much into that. The man was drunk and was probably talking to himself.” Walter agreed. “But, just to be thorough, we’ll do a sweep of the cave and let you do a full autopsy, Doc, if you want. Though I’m guessing we’ll still come up with the same answer, accidental death.” He regarded me. “Sorry, Miss Davish, no murder here.”

  Walter and I left Grotto Spring, and any investigation, in the hands of the police. The crisp chill of the breeze as we wound swiftly up through the woody hollow toward the Arcadia Hotel cut through me. In less than a week I’d found two dead bodies—first my employer in her steamer trunk, and now one of the suspects in her death, in a wet spring cave. Until last Wednesday, I’d only seen two dead bodies in my whole life, those of my mother and father. I was still shaking.

  And I kept coming back to the same questions over and over. What had John Martin been doing there? Would the police be able to prove he’d killed Mrs. Trevelyan? Then other questions cropped up. When had he gone to the spring? I had seen him the night before at the rally. Did he leave the rally and go straight to Grotto Spring, or did he have other encounters, other things to do first? How would Colonel Walker react? He had attended the Magnetic Spring meeting and the rally. Would he be shocked to learn his son-in-law was a drunkard? How was John Martin’s death going to affect the reputation of the coalition? What would Cordelia Anglewood do when she found out?

  “Mrs. Anglewood isn’t going to like this,” I said.

  Walter jumped at my comment; it was the first thing I’d spoken since exiting the cave. I hadn’t realized I’d said it out loud.

  “What do you mean, Hattie? What does Mrs. Anglewood have to do with this?”

  I explained how John Martin had been honored yesterday and hailed as a patron of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition, and how I’d seen them arguing the night before.

  “Despite the sum of the contribution, Cordelia Anglewood wouldn’t have gone public if she’d known that John Martin was a drunk. She would’ve accepted the contribution for what it was without announcing it at the Magnetic Spring meeting. If everyone finds out that John Martin, the AWTC’s champion of the moment, died of an inebriation-induced accident the night of the rally, she’ll be humiliated.”

  “It won’t do her cause any good, either,” Walter agreed. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “Why on earth were you at Grotto Spring at six o’clock in the morning?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I said. “I’d noticed liverworts on the walls of the cavern when you and I were there. So I thought I might collect some specimens.” I had forgotten about my jar; it must still be lying in the Grotto Spring cave somewhere. “I still haven’t gotten a sample.”

  Walter laughed. “Oh, Hattie, what am I to do with you?”

  CHAPTER 24

  “Come with me to Pivot Rock this afternoon,” Walter said as he helped me from the carriage. “You need a pleasant distraction. I’ll have Theakston pack us a picnic lunch.” I stared at him, my eyes blurry with fatigue. “Catch up on your sleep while I perform the autopsy. Then I’ll cancel all my appointments and spend the afternoon with my favorite patient.”

  I cringed at the last word but held my tongue. “That sounds wonderful. I have to finish my latest account for Sir Arthur, so I’ll meet you on the rotunda at one o’clock.”

  “Until one, then.” Walter flicked the switch and sent the horse and carriage careening down the driveway.

  Relieved and grateful to have work to focus on, I went straight to my room. Someone had sent breakfast. I changed out of my bloody clothes into my favorite muslin wrapper and took a few sips of lukewarm coffee. My hands were unsteady, but the typewriter keys felt reassuring under my fingers as I chronicled the events of the morning and evening before. Once the report was completed, a wave of relief washed over me. I curled up in bed and immediately fell asleep.

  When I awoke, the sun had almost climbed to its zenith. I felt refreshed. I shook off the morning’s events as one would a bad dream. I carried my bloody clothes to the washroom, leaving them to soak. I was drinking the rest of the coffee, though now thick and cold, when, after a cursory knock, Miss Lucy, followed by her sister and Mary Flannagan, entered the room.

  Miss Lucy eyed the partially eaten breakfast tray. “As I suspected. The girl didn’t even touch her food. Mary, go fetch Davish some lunch.” Mary left and the elderly sisters sat down.

  “We heard about what happened, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, helping herself to the breakfast tray. “How dreadful.”

  “Davish, you do have a knack for morbid adventure,” Miss Lucy said. “You should be sitting down.” I complied.

  “I assure you I’m fine, Miss Lucy. I took a nap and feel completely refreshed. It was a nasty business, though, I agree.”

  “Well, then, Davish, tell us everything.”

  I relayed the morning’s events: my early-morning hike, discovering the body in the Grotto Spring cavern, and running to Walter’s house, being careful to gloss over the blood and the ghastly wound to the dead man’s head. To be honest, I avoided the gory details as much for my own sake as for the elderly ladies’.

  “Walter sent for the police and they deemed it an accident,” I said.

  “An accident, huh? Oh, well,” Miss Lucy said, disappointed. “Anyway, we’ve got news too, Davish.”

  Mary Flannagan arrived then with a lunch tray.

  “Mary, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I said.

  “Miss?” Mary frowned.

  “My room has a similar layout to Mrs. Trevelyan’s,” I said. “Could you show me where the trunk was when you were packing it for the charity?”

  Mary raised an eyebrow, but her shoulders relaxed. “About there.” She pointed to a spot near the tea table, the same place the bellhop had found it.

  “And Mrs. Trevelyan?” I said. “Where was she sitting?”

  “The missus sat there,” she said, pointing to the chair Miss Lucy now occupied, “while I brought over clothes from the wardrobe.”

  “Stop pointing at me like th
at, girl,” said Miss Lucy, whose eyes widened at the shift of everyone’s focus. She breathed on her spectacles and began rubbing them rapidly with a handkerchief. “Don’t you have something useful to do, Mary, like tending to the monsters of dust accumulating under my bed? I do believe I’ll wake up one morning to find myself consumed by them.” The maid remained, awaiting my reply.

  “That’s what I wanted to know,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I poured the sisters’ tea and invited Mary to join us, much to the chagrin of Miss Lucy.

  “Thank you, Miss Hattie, but I’ve got chores to do.”

  “Maybe another time, when you have a break,” I said.

  “I don’t know why you insist on treating that girl like you do, Davish,” Miss Lucy said after the chambermaid had left. “Even she has enough sense to know better.”

  “Yes, dear, I have to agree with Lucy. She is just a maid.”

  “I myself am just a secretary.”

  Miss Lucy dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “Nonsense, Davish. Now, do you want to hear our news or not?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Did you know that our worthy president has checked out of the Arcadia Hotel?”

  “Why is that surprising?” I said. “The coalition’s meeting ended last night, didn’t it? Maybe she changed her mind about staying on for the winter. She probably went home to Chicago.”

  “No, no, Hattie, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “she couldn’t have left.”

  “You know as well as I, Davish, that the police specifically told several people, including Cordelia, that they weren’t to leave Eureka Springs until the investigation was concluded.”

  “According to the police, the investigation is concluded,” I said.

  “Besides that, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “Cordelia’s husband is joining her here for Thanksgiving.”