A Lack of Temperance

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “Are you saying that another American Women’s Temperance Coalition president has gone missing?” I said, hoping this was just Miss Lucy indulging in exaggerated gossip again.

  Miss Lizzie patted my hand. “No, no, Cordelia’s not missing, dear, she’s merely checked out.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Don’t you understand, Davish? Cordelia Anglewood, the proud, the rich, the haughty,” Miss Lucy said, to sounds of Miss Lizzie’s distress, “has checked out of the Arcadia Hotel and is now staying at the Hotel Byron.” She said the last word with a triumphant flourish. In my search for the elusive John Martin, I’d visited the Hotel Byron. It was small but respectable, catering to middle-income families and the aged.

  “Why would Mrs. Anglewood leave the Arcadia for the Hotel Byron?” I said.

  “Exactly!” Miss Lucy said, slapping her knee for punctuation.

  “We don’t know, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, taking a napkin and dabbing at a blob of marmalade that had dripped onto her shoulder.

  “We do know, Davish, that her bill was paid here until yesterday, and that after the rally, the woman packed her things and moved . . .” She hesitated for dramatic effect.

  “In the middle of the night!” Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy exclaimed simultaneously. The door burst open. We all jumped and stared at the puzzled maid.

  “My, you startled us, Mary, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Do you always enter a room like that?” The maid wrinkled her brow and said nothing.

  “And she keeps interrupting me,” Miss Lucy said, annoyed.

  “Don’t mind us, Mary,” I said. “We’re all a little jittery, that’s all.”

  “I came to tell you, Miss Hattie,” the maid said, “that I sent your dress, petticoat, and stockings downstairs to the laundry; the bloodstains were too difficult for me to get out. And before you say anything, don’t worry. I know Sally downstairs and it won’t cost you a ha’penny.”

  Both sisters stared at me, Miss Lizzie wild-eyed, her sister squinting with suspicion.

  “Bloodstains, dear?” Miss Lizzie said.

  “Free laundry?” her sister said. “If that’s the case, girl, I’ve a few things you can take down.”

  I ignored the former comment. Mary ignored the latter. “Thank you, Mary. I doubt anything’s salvageable, but please thank Sally for trying.”

  “Sure.” She began clearing the cups, saucers, and plates.

  “One more piece of news you might be interested in, Davish, if you’re finished discussing your laundry.”

  “But, Lucy, dear, the maid mentioned blood,” Miss Lizzie said.

  “The girl exaggerates, Lizzie. I’m sure if there was something to it, we would’ve heard about it. Now,” Miss Lucy said, facing me again, “about my other news.”

  “Oh my,” I said, “it’s been an eventful morning. I’m not certain I can handle any more news.”

  “Yes, dear, it has been an eventful week,” Miss Lizzie said, plucking the last cracker from the tray.

  “The news you might be interested to know, Davish,” Miss Lucy said, with a hint of exasperation, “is that the police are transporting the murdering saloonkeeper to Berryville in the morning. Justice will be served. As sure as rum turns to ruin, he’ll hang. The police this morning said—”

  A crash of falling china interrupted Miss Lucy, as Mary, who had finished her task and was in the process of leaving, tipped the contents of the tray onto the floor. She dropped to her knees. I rushed to her aid.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” Mary said, groping, through tearing eyes, at pieces of shattered china. Suddenly, she leapt to her feet.

  “It’s all right, Mary. I’ll help you clean it up.”

  “No, miss, there’s nothing you can do. I’m sorry, but . . .” She shook her head frantically. Without saying another word, the maid flew out of the room, leaving me on my knees, dumbfounded, surrounded by little bits of broken white china scattered across the floor.

  “That looks much nicer on you than my derby did,” Walter said, indicating my bonnet, a recent purchase from Mrs. Cunningham’s. He’d been waiting for me in the lobby. “In fact, all of you looks lovely, and rested.”

  “I don’t know. I was starting to take a fancy to that hat.” I laughed at my own joke, pleased with the compliment.

  “Ready for our picnic?” he said.

  “Do you mind waiting a few minutes more?” I said. “I want to check on something.”

  “I’ll be in the gentlemen’s parlor.”

  “Good, I’ll be right back.”

  Mr. Floyd was hunched over the telegraph machine. His face grew somber when he saw me. He rose and met me at the open service window.

  “Did you hear?” he said.

  “Hear what?”

  “About that man, you know,” he followed a passerby with his eyes as he spoke, “the one the dead lady sent the local wire to.” He referred to the death of John Martin. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Yes, I heard. It’s horrible.”

  He nodded vigorously in agreement. “What a coincidence.”

  “Yes, you could say that,” I said. “Could you do me another favor, Mr. Floyd?”

  He leaned in toward me. “If I can.”

  “Cordelia Anglewood received a wire yesterday morning. Could you tell me anything about it?”

  After the conversation with the Shaw sisters, I had begun to wonder about Cordelia Anglewood’s unusual behavior. What would cause the steel-hearted woman to cry at the breakfast table, then act the gracious host the rest of the day? Could she be hiding something? Why else would she move to another hotel in the middle of the night? The police still insisted George Shulman was Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer. I still wasn’t convinced.

  “You know I shouldn’t, Miss Hattie,” the telegraph operator said. “Telegrams are confidential. I told you about the others because the lady was dead.”

  “I understand the need for discretion, Mr. Floyd, and I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t important. Your previous assistance was invaluable.”

  “Invaluable?”

  “Yes, you helped establish an approximate time of death, which may be key in discovering Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer.”

  “Really? All right, I’ll help you again, but you can’t tell anyone. Mrs. Anglewood could get me fired.” I nodded my assent. “The lady actually received one and sent one. The telegram she received was from her husband.”

  “Do you remember what the one from her husband said?”

  “Sure, all it said was No.”

  “Simple and unrevealing,” I said. “Oh well. And the one she sent?”

  “I don’t remember much about that one, what it said or who it was from. I wasn’t paying much attention. It was marked urgent, of course,” he said, rolling his eyes, “and I was concentrating on getting it out.”

  “Do you remember where it was sent?”

  “Let me see.” He thought for a moment. “I think it was Fayetteville.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Floyd. I hope not to impose on you again.” I was disappointed, and started to walk away.

  “That lady also received a money wire about a half hour or so ago,” the telegraph operator hissed under his breath. I halted.

  “Did the wire come from Chicago, from her husband?” I said.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t on duty until one, so Amos received it. But I came in a little early, won’t do that again,” he muttered under his breath, “and had to deliver it the moment I came in. It was addressed to the Arcadia Hotel, but the lady had checked out. I had to go all the way to the Hotel Byron to deliver it. I just got back. She didn’t even tip me.”

  “Is there a record of it?”

  Mr. Floyd pulled a tan-colored ledger from a shelf mounted above the window. He scanned the page with his eyes, flipped to the next, and continued scanning. “Here it is. No, it didn’t originate in Chicago.”

  “Fayetteville, then?”

  He gaped at me as he closed the book. I’d gues
sed correctly.

  “If that’s the case, then I’d like to wire something myself, Mr. Floyd.”

  “If I’m gonna get fired, the least you can do is call me Hank.”

  “Hank it is, then,” I said, writing out my brief message. “Ask for a response, please, and, Hank,” I said with a laugh, “mark it ‘urgent.’ ”

  “Miss Davish?” I turned to see Colonel Walker, in a brown regulation army hat, approaching. He carried two large suitcases and a bulky envelope tucked under one arm. “You found my son-in-law?”

  Images of John Martin’s body and the blood everywhere flashed into my mind. I reached out for something to steady myself but then found I had no need. I faced the colonel with my hands laced together in front of me, composed.

  “Yes.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hank’s jaw drop.

  “They tell me it was an accident. Is that true?” He let the suitcases drop with a thud.

  “I don’t know, sir,” I said. “The police think so.”

  “But you don’t?” His blue eyes were piercing, reminding me of Mrs. Trevelyan’s photograph.

  “Yes, I do think it most likely, Colonel. It’s just that . . .”

  “That you believe there’s a connection between the death of your temperance leader and my son-in-law?” How would he know that? I wondered. “I’d known John for years, Miss Davish, as a levelheaded young man, a loving husband to my daughter. He was a teetotaler, for goodness’ sake. Then we came here.” He held out the envelope he was carrying. “This was at the bottom of John’s suitcase; I found it this morning.” In large scrawling letters, it read For Joseph Mascavarti. To my consternation, I recognized the handwriting.

  “Do you recognize this, Miss Davish?” he asked.

  “Not the envelope, Colonel, but the handwriting. Mrs. Trevelyan addressed it.”

  “John was family and he’s dead. I don’t speak ill of the dead. But I don’t want anything more to do with him, or his entanglements.” He spat out the last word as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Here, take it.” The colonel thrust the envelope at me. “Keep my daughter out of it, if you can.” He picked up his suitcases.

  “Shouldn’t you give this to the police?” I said, turning the envelope over in my hand.

  “You knew about John’s true identity before anyone else, didn’t you?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Well, there’s your answer,” he said. “God knows he had me fooled, and I don’t trust the police, Miss Davish. I trust you to do the right thing.”

  I rushed into the gentlemen’s parlor the moment Colonel Walker walked out the Arcadia Hotel’s front door.

  “Walter, come look at this,” I said. Seven astonished faces looked up from their newspapers or billiards game to gawk at me. I froze.

  “Hattie,” Walter exclaimed, leaping from his chair, grabbing my arm, and escorting me out of the room. “You know women aren’t allowed in there.”

  “I’m sorry, Walter, it’s just that . . . Come in here and see this.” I motioned for him to follow me to the library. “I haven’t had a chance to read every article, but . . .” I dropped the envelope on the table and sat down.

  “What’s this all about?” Walter pulled a chair up next to me.

  “See for yourself.” I slid the envelope toward him. He pulled out some newsprint. He dumped the remaining contents of the envelope on the table, picked up the closest article, and began to read. I eagerly reached over and did the same.

  “This article’s from the Chicago Tribune about the murder of Ruth Mascavarti by her husband.” Walter paused. “Joseph Mascavarti.”

  “Known to us as John Martin,” I said. “He allegedly killed his wife by pushing her down a flight of stairs.”

  “Like he did to you. Hattie, I had no idea.”

  I sat on the edge of my chair. “Keep reading.”

  “ ‘Joseph Mascavarti, a clerk at Dunn, Dunn, and Steele, is suspected of killing his wife of three years in an intoxication-induced rage by shoving her down the three flights of stairs at their apartment building on North Green Street,’ ” Walter read out loud. “ ‘Neighbors alerted the authorities after hearing the couple’s violent argument. Mrs. Mascavarti died later at the Chicago Hospital for Women and Children from injuries incurred in the fall. The suspect fled the scene and is still at large.’ ” He skimmed the rest of the article. “Oh my God, Hattie, Ruth’s maiden name was Trevelyan.”

  “Exactly,” I cried. “Ruth Trevelyan Mascavarti died in May 1877. That’s around the time Mrs. Trevelyan joined the coalition and became estranged from her husband. Her son even mentioned it at the memorial service.”

  “So John Martin, who was also this Joseph Mascavarti who killed his wife, was Mrs. Trevelyan’s son-in-law?”

  “Yes. It would explain why she was blackmailing him,” I said. “She probably hated him and wanted to make him pay, literally, for what he’d done.”

  “And she knew he would pay it,” Walter said. “He couldn’t risk having his past revealed; he had too much to lose. If he hadn’t had the misfortunate of meeting his first mother-in-law after all this time, he might’ve gotten away with it. Where did you get all this?” Walter slid the newspaper articles back in the envelope.

  “Colonel Walker, John Martin’s father-in-law. He said he didn’t trust the police, so he gave it to me.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “In John Martin’s suitcase. Mrs. Trevelyan met with someone last Friday; I’m guessing it was her son—in—law. She must’ve confronted him with these articles, then made her blackmail demands. That’s about the time Colonel Walker said John started drinking again.”

  “Ironic. The man starts drinking again after seeing a temperance movement leader,” Walter said, shaking his head. “So he paid her a thousand dollars,” Walter said. “The money that the coalition thinks was a donation to their cause.”

  “Yes, and since it went to the AWTC and not to Mrs. Trevelyan personally, in a way it was,” I said. “But then she demanded more.”

  “Sounds like a good motive for murder.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “You haven’t told me about the autopsy,” I said.

  Walter and I had traveled in companionable silence toward Pivot Rock. Walter had concentrated on driving the carriage through the mountainous terrain, while I, despite the breakneck speed and the brisk wind on my face, had endeavored to classify trees: oak, hickory, shortleaf pine, maple, hackberry, Ohio buckeye. As we journeyed through the countryside toward the celebrated “natural wonder,” I attempted to put all thoughts of murder and temperance and secret pasts out of my mind. But the disconnected facts and inexplicable events of the past week continued to creep in my mind and disrupt my moments of tranquility. Frustrated, I finally gave up and asked Walter what was foremost in my mind.

  “I was wondering when you were going to ask,” he said. “It’s as I thought, his blood had high levels of alcohol, and intracranial bleeding was the cause of death. The angle of the incision and contusions on his head as well as the position of his body, when accounting for the effect alcohol had on the muscles, match the trajectory of a backward, sideways fall toward the bench. The police examined the cave and found a partial footprint on a dry patch next to the bench that matches John Martin’s boot. So it was much like Chief Jackson supposed.”

  I pictured John Martin setting his flask down beside him, rising from the bench in a stupor, and after taking a few precarious steps, slipping, falling, and cracking his head on the stone bench. Ironic justice indeed, I thought.

  “Judge Senrow, as coroner, has officially ruled it an accident.”

  “Walter, I think we’re here.” The end of the road approached swiftly and I braced myself against the rail.

  Walter jerked back on the reins and the carriage halted abruptly at the end of the gravel road, less than a foot away from an enormous old hickory tree.

  “We can discuss this further, if you’d like, when we return,” he said, lif
ting me down from the phaeton. “In the meantime, Miss Davish, let’s enjoy this beautiful spot.”

  We found a mossy piece of ground a few feet from the rock formation itself to spread out the blanket and have our picnic. Striated and pale gray in the afternoon sun, the curiosity we had traveled several miles to see wasn’t disappointing. Standing alone in a mossy clearing, Pivot Rock was twice the height of a man. The base of the pedestal rock was less than two feet wide, yet with a top broad enough to accommodate an omnibus. I insisted we not sit too close; the top-heavy rock appeared, to me at least, to be on the verge of tipping over. A well-trod path, through oak–sweet gum forest and along eroded limestone ledges, led to the clearing and beyond.

  I sampled everything Walter had packed: cold fried chicken, potatoes in mustard sauce, sharp Cheddar cheese slices, boiled beans in vinegar, taking seconds of the pound cake and stewed apples. Walter had a glass of champagne, and the ginger beer he offered me as we lounged lazily after our meal was delicious. We made an unspoken pact beneath the lengthening shadow of Pivot Rock not to discuss the police, Mrs. Trevelyan, or anything related to the tragic events of the past week. Instead we laughed about the Shaw sisters’ endearing contradictions, reflected on the beauty of the late-autumn afternoon, and took turns reading out loud from Whittier’s Poems of Nature, which Walter had thoughtfully tucked into the basket. It was all that Walter had promised as a “pleasant distraction” and more.

  All too soon, Walter said, “We should head back; it’ll be dark before long.”

  I suggested a brief hike of exploration before returning. I’d been eyeing the path that meandered away from the clearing all afternoon, wondering what I might find around the bend. Walter agreed. The hike was short and steep but well worth the effort. I’d been rewarded with two new specimens for my collection, a forest wildflower I’d yet to identify and several leaves from the rare Eureka Springs hawthorn tree, when we came across a small cluster of Eastern red cedar atop an escarpment with a thrilling view of the valley below. The fragrance of the trees, as they brushed against me, brought to mind the last time I’d encountered the scent. I crushed a few needles in my hand, breathed in the fragrance, and then lifted my upturned palm.