If only I had some work to do, I thought. I’d finished all of the tasks set to me by Sir Arthur before I’d left Newport.
So, with the sun high and nothing productive to do, I brushed myself off, straightened my hat, and retraced a hike I used to take frequently with my father. Little did we know that the dirt country road would be immortalized by Eugene Field, the famous poet and one-time city editor of the St. Joseph Gazette, with his popular poem, “Lover’s Lane, St. Jo.” Being a secluded lane, Mr. Field had courted his wife there, and after living in London to recover from illness, wrote fondly of those days. I remember when the poem came out, years after I’d left home. I’d memorized it immediately, relating to his longing for that peaceful place. It was the promise from my favorite line that drew me there now.
But I’d give it all, and gladly,
If for an hour or so
I could feel the grace of a distant place—
Of Lover’s Lane, Saint Jo.
Rochester Road, as it was officially known, was still lovely, with large trees shading the lane, sections of rail fence and stands of willow and alder. I knew it as a remote spot popular with young lovers for that very reason. But no longer. I wasn’t alone in strolling along the shady lane, and several carriages passed me as I went. As always on my hikes, I was aware of the plants that I passed. After my father died, I’d often sought solace and solitude here and it was here that I collected some of the first specimens in my plant collection. My collection had grown considerably since and I wasn’t expecting to find anything new, but I looked about nonetheless. After an hour, I decided to stop. I leaned against a fence post. I was thirsty and tired. Although welcomed, the quiet and serenity weren’t enough to overcome the melancholy that plagued me since I’d arrived.
Had it only been yesterday? I’d found little peace thinking about Ginny and our lamentable reunion. I’d thought over and over about my mistaking which side her father’s scar was on. Without work to preoccupy my hands and mind, without Walter’s reassurances, I hadn’t felt this alone since the day my father died.
Why did I come back here?
And then I saw a small, toothy-leafed mustard plant I didn’t recognize. It smelled oddly like garlic. I readily collected a specimen, folding it several times and then pressing it between layers of my handkerchief. Thrilled with the unexpected pleasure of finding a new specimen for my collection, I felt ashamed of my self-pity moments before.
“Buck up, Davish,” I told myself. I stood up, brushed the dirt and litter off my gloves, and headed back down the lane toward town. Almost immediately, the quiet of the lane was disturbed by crunching wheels and pounding horses as a buggy raced toward me. In an instant I thought of Walter, who was notoriously reckless with the reins of horses in his hands, and then of a carriage once driven by a guilt-driven man who almost ran me off a bridge. I dashed into the shrubbery that lined the road, putting as much distance as possible between me and the buggy. I was safely out of harm’s way but preoccupied by the bramble snagging the trim on my skirt when the horse neighed a few feet away. I glanced up just as the driver snapped the reins wildly, high above the horse’s head. The horse was missing a tooth.
Oh my God! I thought, my shock reflected on the driver’s face, his eyes widening when our eyes met. I stood frozen, my skirt hitched up higher than was decent, my mouth agape as, if I didn’t know better, the ghost of Frank Hayward drove by. Except this man was clean shaven and didn’t have a scar on his eyebrow. And then I remembered the orderlies from the asylum. As the carriage raced by, I realized that I was watching a terrified, persecuted man making his escape from that heinous institution.
“Go!” I yelled, waving my arms, cheering him on, my skirt still caught in the bramble. “Get as far away as you can!”
I stared at the back of the carriage until it disappeared around a bend. Then I freed my skirt and headed back down the lane toward town. He has nothing to fear from me, I thought, knowing full well I wasn’t about to tell anyone whom I’d seen.
CHAPTER 7
When I finally arrived back at the St. Charles Hotel, despite having picked up the streetcar at N. 22nd Street, my legs were tired, my feet were sore, and my mind was completely exhausted. I’d crammed an entire childhood of memories into one day. Unfortunately many of those memories were tainted by the grief and sadness of what was to come. I’d never been a carefree child, but after losing first my brother, then my mother, and finally my father, I’d strived to refrain from showing much emotion. It’s a trait that has served me well in my profession. Yet even as I pushed the door to the hotel entrance, I could feel the memories of the day overwhelm me. The sorrow threatened to engulf me, as if I’d lost my father all over again. I wanted to get to my room to type.
But I can’t even do that, I thought. If I had my typewriter, the rhythmic clicking of the keys would’ve calmed me down. But I didn’t have it with me. When I was leaving for St. Joseph, Lady Phillippa had seen my typewriter among my hatboxes and travel cases. She’d insisted that I leave it behind, as I’d no work to do at the funeral. I’d never been without my typewriter since the day my father gave it to me. I’d tried to explain to Lady Phillippa that, despite all my travels, my typewriter was no worse for wear. And yet she’d been right; I’d no reason to bring it. And I’ve missed its presence ever since.
I’m never leaving my typewriter behind again, I thought as I crossed the lobby.
The hotel lobby was simply furnished with an oak registration desk, several oak rocking chairs along the opposite wall, a wide staircase to the right of the desk with red carpet running up the middle, and a block and leaf patterned ingrain carpet partially covering the polished wooden floor. The room was completed by several brass wall lamps, a wrought-iron umbrella stand by the door, and a cobalt blue vase filled with dried hydrangeas on the painted plant stand.
“Miss Davish?” Was someone calling my name? As I was slow to react, he called out again. “Excuse me, Miss Davish?”
I turned toward the registration desk, cluttered with untidy stacks of newspapers, a brown leather register book, and a half-empty tea cup with tiny orange roses. In his late sixties, the clerk behind the desk was a small, thin man with a very round face and thinning gray hair. He squinted at me despite wearing spectacles. His name tag read, P. PUTNEY.
“Yes?” The old man smiled, reminding me of my beloved, long-dead Irish grandpa.
“Two letters arrived for you while you were out.” His hands shook slightly as he handed them out toward me. One letter was typewritten with no return address. The other was in a hand I recognized immediately.
“Walter,” I whispered to myself. What wonderful timing. “Thank you,” I said to the clerk, though part of me said it silently to another as well, almost 1,500 miles away.
Despite my exhaustion, I returned to my room as quickly as I could, grabbed my letter opener from its place on the table (even with no work to do, my letter opener was always placed where I could retrieve it in an instant), and sliced open Walter’s letter. Most of the letter was inquiring after me, my journey, my health, and my feelings about being home again. He wrote how much he missed me and how his mother was slowly adjusting to the idea of our courtship. It soothed me, his words washing over me as if I were in his embrace. I read it three times before I realized that he’d requested a favor in his postscript: to bring back a souvenir from the house where Jesse James was killed. Ever since that fateful day, April 3, 1882, when the outlaw was shot in the head by Bob Ford, St. Joseph has been ghoulishly synonymous with the death of the outlaw. The house has been the leading tourist attraction almost since the day he died. I’d never visited myself and never planned to.
Only for you, Walter, I thought, setting down Walter’s letter to open the second letter.
I’d been so delighted to see Walter’s letter that it hadn’t occurred to me to question whom the second one could’ve been from. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more disturbed I became. No one, besides Walter and L
ady Phillippa, knew I was staying here. I looked at the envelope. The typewritten address read: MISS HATTIE DAVISH, ST. CHARLES HOTEL, CHARLES STREET, SE. COR. 5TH, ST. JOSEPH, MO. There was no return address, but the postmark read: ST. JOSEPH, MO, 5 P.M., AUGUST 25, 1893. It was sent yesterday right after the funeral. I sliced open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. It was plain white paper, available at any stationery shop. And at first I couldn’t read a word. It was written entirely in an esoteric system of shorthand. I translated it slowly, pulling up memories of the different shorthand systems I’d learned over the years. And even when I’d finished I was uncertain if I’d translated it right. It read: Please don’t leave anytime soon. All is not as it should be.You can help.
I was stunned. What could it possibly mean? What wasn’t as it should be? My thoughts went immediately to Frank Hayward’s funeral. Could I have been right, that the man they buried wasn’t Ginny’s father? But Ginny identified him, and who would know him better than his own daughter? No, that couldn’t be it. But if that wasn’t it, what else could be wrong? Could it be that Frank Hayward’s death wasn’t an accident, that he was deliberately trampled by a horse? Did it even have anything to do with Frank Hayward? I looked at the letter again.
Now what do I do? I wondered for the second time today. Do I pursue this, assuming it has something to do with Frank Hayward’s death, or do I ignore it? If it did have something to do with Frank Hayward’s death, I wasn’t certain Ginny would approve of my meddling. But if it was independent of the Haywards, it’s possible that I could be of some service to someone. But whom? And what did they expect me to do? Again I regretted not having my typewriter. I pulled a piece of stationary out of the drawer that read, St. Charles Hotel, Charles Street, dipped my pen in the inkwell, and started a list.
1. Who sent the letter?
2. Who would know such obscure shorthand?
3. How did they know I was staying here?
4. What does “All is not as it should be” mean?
5. Does it have something to do with Frank Hayward’s death?
6. If not, then what?
7. Why does the sender believe I can help?
8. Can I help?
9. Should I help?
10. Is there someone following me?
The last question on my list took me by surprise. I’d simply written it down without thinking. But yet twice today I’d sensed that someone was watching and following me. I added another question to the list.
11. If so, why?
I had no idea. Was it all a figment of my imagination? Had the events of the past year shaken my courage and made me fearful and suspicious without cause? I’d overreacted to the asylum orderlies. I’d looked behind me on the street to find no one there. And I’d questioned the identity of Frank Hayward’s corpse.
Oh my God, I’m losing my mind! I thought. What would Sir Arthur think? Who wants a secretary who questions her own sanity? I dropped my head into my hands, letting out all of the grief, the confusion, and the sadness that I’d held in since the moment I’d arrived. I drenched my handkerchief before I caught a glimpse of the anonymous letter on the table. That wasn’t a figment of my imagination.
As I caught my breath, I glanced at myself in the mirror: curly strands of hair askew from the knot, red, bleary eyes, glistening streaks of tears running down my face, my nose in need of a good wipe, a thin streak of dirt smeared across my forehead. I was a mess. I retrieved a dry handkerchief, wiped my face, dabbed my nose, and then looked again at my list. There’s something here. There’s something going on. It’s not all in my mind. Relief coupled with embarrassment flowed through me as I focused on who might have sent the letter. It had to be someone who either attended the funeral or knew I was there. Although the funeral was well attended by Mr. Hayward’s friends and neighbors, how many would be skilled in archaic shorthand? It must’ve been someone from Mrs. Chaplin’s school. But why?
I can’t think of this right now. I dropped the list on the nightstand next to my bed. My curiosity had been piqued, but the day had been wrought with emotion; I couldn’t comprehend dealing with this new development with such a muddled, weary brain. It was enough that I trusted myself again. And I had no intention of poking around again into the affairs of others. If nothing else, my momentary lapse reminded me that little good came from such irresponsible behavior. No, I’d come to St. Joseph to offer my support to my dear friend at a tragic time in her life. And even that proved ill-fated.
Refusing to think about the mystery letter for one more moment or to contemplate what wasn’t “as it should be,” I pulled out a new piece of hotel stationery. I spent the remainder of my evening writing to Walter, including a promise to acquire the souvenir from the Jesse James house. At the time, it seemed the simpler task.
CHAPTER 8
If I thought responding to Walter’s letter would be enough to soothe me, I was terribly wrong. The words of the mysterious letter echoed through my mind all night. As did images of my mother, my father, and Frank Hayward, all lovingly laid to rest in their coffins. Bodies of those I’d found crammed into a steam trunk, lying in a pool of blood in a cave, crumpled on the steps of a Civil War statue, or sprawled on the floor of a millionaire’s office haunted me as well. After each dream, I woke with a start and attempted to fill my mind with images of the colorful plants I’d collected or of serene hikes I’ve taken over the years. Instead, I pictured my parents’ graves and the orderlies from the asylum as they drifted from gravestone to gravestone. Finally, it was late enough to give up the pretense of sleeping and get dressed.
I examined my new plant specimen before stepping out for a hike. I planned to hike along the river and then across the iron bridge, but before I’d gone two blocks down Charles Street I had the same uneasy feeling someone was watching me again. As before, I looked about me and saw no one besides peddlers heading to Market Square with their produce.
“Who are you?” My shout was rewarded with a scowl by the driver of a passing gig. I listened to the fading clip-clop of the horse’s tread until it was taken over by the clanking of an approaching streetcar. It was no use. Whoever it was, they weren’t going to reveal themselves to me.
“Whoever you are, stop following me!”
Yesterday I’d been frightened and sad, but today I was angry. I was angry that Ginny didn’t appreciate the effort I had made to get here. I was angry that I could no more go on a leisurely stroll through the city of my birth without wondering, worrying if someone was following me. I was angry that someone thought they could send me an anonymous note and expect me to comply with their wishes. I was angry that even to my friends at Mrs. Chaplin’s school, of all places, my accomplishments as a secretary had been overshadowed by my association with socialites and murderers. When I’d set out on this journey, this wasn’t the homecoming I was expecting.
“Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix.” I counted as I turned around and stomped back to my hotel.
I’d counted to deux cent trente-trois by the time I arrived, much calmer than minutes before. And then I heard the clerk call my name as I headed toward the dining room for breakfast.
“Another letter for you, Miss Davish,” Mr. Putney said.
Oh, no, not another one, I thought, warily taking it from his shaking hand. I turned it over and was relieved to see a well-formed hand on the envelope and the return address of Mrs. Chaplin’s school. It wasn’t from the anonymous shorthand writer after all.
“Thank you, Mr. Putney.” He bobbed his head as he lifted his teacup to his lips. I continued to the dining room, and after being seated and served oatmeal with a side of pears, toast, and coffee, I sliced open the letter with my fruit knife. It was an invitation, or reminder, of the day’s planned “Lake Party,” with me as its guest of honor. A carriage would be sent to pick me up at one o’clock.
That gives me time, I thought.
After breakfast, and Mass at the Church of the Immaculate Conception a f
ew blocks away, I walked to the Hayward family home, a small, two-story redbrick house with a bay window, a small side porch, and a mansard roof on South 12th Street. The exercise did me good. Not once did I sense someone following me. It was a welcomed relief; I was already anxious about seeing Ginny again.
But I had to talk to her. I was uncomfortable with attending a party the day after my friend buried her father. I wanted to make sure that she didn’t object. I also hoped to discuss the mysterious letter. She knew more about Mrs. Chaplin’s school now than I did. Maybe she’d be able to shed some light on who might’ve sent it and why. Despite the black crape tied with white ribbon on the door, the housekeeper, an elderly woman who had been working for the Haywards longer than I’ve known them, invited me in to see Ginny when I arrived.
“Good morning, Mrs. Curbow,” I said, as she indicated for me to follow her into the parlor. All evidence of the funeral was gone except the portrait draped in black crape and the lingering scent of flowers. Instead I noticed several books lying out on the side table. One was a shorthand dictionary.
“So good to see you again, Miss Davish,” the housekeeper said. “I’ve heard all about your escapades, working for Mrs. Mayhew, traveling all over, and of course all about the dead—” Mrs. Curbow grimaced as she realized what she’d been about to say. “What I mean to say is . . . I bet you’ve seen more marvels than there are on the midway at the World’s Fair.”
A Deceptive Homecoming Page 5