“Here you are.” Mr. Putney handed me three letters and a telegram.
I glanced at the letters, immediately recognizing Walter’s handwriting on one and Miss Lizzie’s, a dear old lady who had befriended me recently, on the other. Seeing their letters boosted my spirits. And then I glanced at the third letter. It was typewritten with no return address exactly like the anonymous one before it. I ripped it open. It read in standard shorthand:
For the good of the school, please help us.
Who’s sending these letters? I wondered with a mixture of dread and annoyance. At least it confirmed my suspicions that someone from the school was sending them. But why? And what did they expect me to do?
I had turned to go to my room when the clerk said, “Are you going to open the telegram?”
Distracted by the anonymous note, I’d barely noticed the telegram. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Putney.” I pulled it out from beneath the letters I was holding.
“It’s lucky you got here when you did. The telegram scarcely arrived five minutes ago over the wire.”
It was marked “URGENT.” I immediately ripped open the envelope. It was from Sir Arthur.
THE WESTERN UNION TELEGRAPH COMPANY
NUMBER 309 SENT BY CM REC’D BY WT CHECK 25 paid
RECEIVED at 3rd sw cor Edmond Aug 27 1893
Dated: Newport, Rhode Island 5:38 pm
To: Hattie Davish St. Charles Hotel, St. Joseph, MO
Arrived in Newport. Expect you no later September 7.
Research all on General Thompson before returning.
A Windom-Greene
I shook my head at his careless sense of urgency. And then I sighed. In an instant my plans to leave St. Joseph as soon as possible, tomorrow if I could secure a ticket, had changed. At least now I have something constructive to do, I thought, cheering up slightly.
“Nothing too bad, I hope?” the clerk said, curious but concerned.
“No, thank you, everything is as it should be.” Mr. Putney nodded, genuinely relieved. “By the way, you don’t happen to know who”—I glanced down at the telegram—“General Thompson is, do you?” Although I didn’t recognize the name, knowing Sir Arthur, I could easily guess.
“You mean Jeff Thompson, former mayor of St. Joseph, known as the ‘Swamp Fox of the Confederacy’?”
“Yes, I suspect that is whom I’m referring to. Do you know where I can find him?” The clerk’s eyebrows rose in question.
“Sure, and you can go visit him anytime you like.”
“Really?” Maybe the research Sir Arthur required wouldn’t hold me in St. Joseph much more than a day after all.
“Sure. Mount Mora is open every day, dawn to dusk.”
“Oh! Of course.” I’d forgotten that he was the infamous Confederate general buried there.
My shoulders sagged as the reality set in. Without a personal account from the man himself, I could be here for days. I glanced down at Walter’s letter, suddenly missing him terribly. I hoped it contained better news.
CHAPTER 12
Who else could it be?
That question haunted me all night. After reading the letters from Newport, I spent the evening writing replies and went to bed filled with thoughts of Walter playing tennis every day at the Casino and Miss Lizzie’s report that the Mayhew household had unexpectedly abandoned Rose Mont for Europe days before. And yet it wasn’t thoughts of Walter or the Mayhews that crowded my restless mind. As the tune of “I’ll Take You Home, Kathleen” played over and over in my head, I dreamt one dream over and over all night. Champagne, by unknown hands, was poured over my head as Madame Maisonet poked me with her cane and asked, “Who else could it be?” I woke many times throughout the night and each time her question echoed in my brain. Finally, an hour before dawn, I couldn’t take it anymore. I rose, and in an attempt to occupy my mind with productive thoughts, I sat down at the desk. Once again, I dipped my pen in ink and jotted down what I might do to satisfy Sir Arthur’s request. Depending upon how much had been recorded about General Thompson, I could be in for several long days of research.
Good, I thought. To return to a routine of focused and productive work would benefit me far more than the reminiscing and conjecturing I had witnessed of late. And yet even as I dressed for an early-morning hike, the image of Frank Hayward in his coffin and the voice of Madame Maisonet asking “Who else could it be?” returned.
And the thought returned again and again, as it had in my sleep, as I hiked north along the river. Even as I stood on the bluffs, with one of the best views of the city, which is why they built Fort Smith here during the Civil War (with the cannons aimed at the city), I couldn’t shake the idea that the man in Frank Hayward’s coffin wasn’t Frank Hayward.
But why couldn’t I shake it? Because the dark, overcast sky was dampening my spirits? Because I’d mistaken on which side of his face he’d had a distinct scar? Because Ginny’s grief wasn’t as visible as mine had been? Or was it because I was desperate to give my friend something I could never have, her beloved father back? It didn’t matter. I couldn’t change the truth, and I’d been childish and selfish thinking I could. Frank Hayward, like George Davish, was now beyond our earthly reach. All that was left for me to do was accept the fact and get to work.
But then why can’t I stop hearing Madame Maisonet say, “Who could it be?”
I spent most of the day visiting the library, City Hall, and the courthouse, poring over books, newspaper clippings, and records about General Meriwether Jeff Thompson. I was pleasantly surprised how much I learned in a short time. Beyond the basics—his birth, his death, his marriage, his children, his occupations, and his places of residency—I was also able to uncover intimate details. Before the war, Thompson was a land agent and leader in developing the Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad, as well as the Pony Express. But he was also the man who brought the Civil War to St. Joe. As mayor at the outbreak of the war, he led a mob to remove the U.S. flag from the post office. The act was so controversial he was forced to flee the city, eventually joining the Confederacy. There he gained the nickname the Swamp Fox by spending much of the war leading ragtag Confederate guerillas on forays through the swamps of the South. While a prisoner of war in Charleston, he took up writing poetry and, unlike anyone else, carried a white-handled bowie knife stuck out perpendicularly from his belt on the middle of his back. But the strangest detail I’d uncovered all day was that General Thompson had proudly supplied, and reclaimed afterward, the rope used to suspend John Brown from the gallows.
Sir Arthur will be thrilled, I thought.
Pleased with my day’s work, I emerged from the courthouse into a clear, blue sky and brilliant sunshine. I felt my spirits lift. I walked the two blocks north to 516 N. Fifth Street, General Thompson’s former residence. A maid answered the door and was able to confirm that the house had long since been sold to a family who had no connection to the Thompsons. Satisfied I’d done all that I could do, I happily forwent the streetcar and briskly made my way back toward my hotel, taking a quick detour when I spied a vendor’s wagon parked down the block (I hadn’t eaten anything all day).
I can leave for Newport tomorrow, I thought, as I glanced down the street. I noticed the sign for Sherwood’s spice shop.
And then I froze. A woman, less than twenty yards away, was stooped over, staring down at the ground. A gray squirrel scampered across the yellow awning above her head, scrambled down the side of the brick building, and bounded across the street. She didn’t notice. She was obviously searching for something she’d dropped in the road, but that’s not why I stopped. She was standing in the exact spot that Asa Upchurch said he found the dead body of Frank Hayward. I immediately approached her.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
She looked up at me, her eyes blank. Graying yellow curls popped out from under her floppy straw hat with a simple gray velvet bow, sunspots marked her face, and her shoulder stayed slightly hunched over even when she stood. Her deep-set blue eyes, de
eply wrinkled at the corners, couldn’t focus. Was she blind? I wondered.
“Are you looking for something? May I help look?”
“Yes,” she said, bobbing her head as she looked about her as if for the first time. “Yes, I’m looking for my husband, Levi.”
Taken by surprise, I almost retorted, “In the road?” But luckily I caught myself and asked instead, “Does your husband work around here? Can I take you to him?”
“No, he works at the Excelsior Wagon and Carriage Works on Lafayette.”
“But you’re on South Third and Charles Street, ma’am.” I was still under the impression that her sight was poor. Then she looked me in the eye.
“I know. You see, I’ve been at my sister’s.” She hesitated as if she’d finished her tale. She looked about her again and continued as she took in the buildings surrounding us. “When I came home, Levi was gone. He’s been anxious lately, you see, and I worry about him.”
“Have you checked at the hospitals?” She nodded. “Then what brought you here?”
“Someone at Ensworth Hospital said that a man fitting my husband’s description was rumored to have been found dead here several days ago.” I tried to keep the shock from my face. Frank Hayward? Could he have had a wife no one knew about? Could he have had a false identity? Had Ginny suspected?
“There’s nothing here now, I know, but I was hoping someone saw something or could tell me something that might help me find Levi.” And then she pulled a photograph out of her leather shopping bag. “This is him, my husband, Levi Yardley, taken many years ago.” She held it up for me to see. I gasped but couldn’t bring myself to say a word.
I knew it!
“What is it?” she said. “Do you know something about my husband? Please, please tell me if you do?”
I took the photograph from the woman’s hand and looked at it more closely. Even without the aid of my monocular, I could see the uncanny resemblance. For with the exception of a bulbous nose and the scar missing from his eyebrow, Levi Yardley was the very image of Frank Hayward.
I wasn’t going crazy after all, I thought.
But what should I say to this poor soul? For despite being vindicated for my suspicions, I still didn’t know if I was right. I didn’t know which man was dead or which man was actually buried in Frank Hayward’s grave or which man recently escaped from the Lunatic Asylum. Could it all be the same man? Could the bulbous nose be a disguise? Was Frank Hayward really Levi Yardley and vice versa? I’d come across men who had false identities before. Or was it a mere coincidence that the two men resembled each other? I didn’t believe in such coincidences. Something was definitely suspicious here. But what? Could one have been mistaken for the other? Could Levi Yardley have been the missing patient from the State Lunatic Asylum and mistakenly buried in Frank Hayward’s place? If so, where was Frank Hayward? I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, envisioning myself cheering on who I’d thought was an escapee from the asylum. Could that actually have been Frank Hayward? Or Levi Yardley? I didn’t want to believe Frank Hayward was capable of killing Levi in order to fake his own death. But it was possible. Or was it the other way around? If so, why? At least one of them had been admitted to the asylum, after all. My head hurt puzzling it out.
“Please, if you know something,” Mrs. Levi Yardley pleaded, grabbing ahold of my arm.
“I don’t know much, Mrs. Yardley, but I can tell you all I suspect. Is there somewhere we can talk? It’s a little complicated.”
How little I knew what an understatement that would turn out to be.
“Then we must go to the asylum and determine if it was my husband who escaped!” Mrs. Yardley insisted after I explained my suspicions to her. We’d found a small restaurant a few blocks away. I ordered a plate of beef, fried potatoes, cabbage, and apple pudding. I was starving. We both ordered coffee.
We? I had no intention of going to that place ever again. I told her as much.
“Please, Miss Davish. I must know what’s become of Levi.”
“I understand, Mrs. Yardley. If our places were reversed, I’d have to know as well. But he’s your husband. Why must I go?”
“I can’t go alone.” She shook her head violently. “I had a friend that struggled a bit after the birth of her fifth child and they sent her to the state asylum. I never saw her again.”
“What does that have to do with me going with you?”
“What if they won’t let me leave?”
I wanted to tell her she was foolish to think such a thing, but I couldn’t. She had every reason to be afraid. I’d been there before, and after reading a list of reasons for admittance that included everything from immorality and grief to novel reading and uterine derangement, I held the same fear. And I knew they could do it without anyone’s consent.
“Don’t you have family or a friend who could go with you?”
“No, Levi and I moved here from Omaha a few months ago. We don’t have family in town. Our children are all grown with families of their own. And we haven’t made any friends yet. I know you as well as I do my neighbors. It’s not like home where we had lots of friends. I still don’t understand why Levi made us leave. He had a good job working for the Elder Carriage Company.” She reached across the table and grabbed my hand in both of hers. “Please, Miss Davish, will you go?”
No, I told myself. I can’t go back there. I swore I’d never go there again.
And yet my heart ached for this poor woman. Would I plead with a stranger for help if it meant finding the truth about a loved one? About my father? And too, I couldn’t deny the pull of curiosity. Could this be a strange case of mistaken identity? I hadn’t heard of Frank Hayward spending any time in the asylum and assumed Levi Yardley was the escaped patient. But if so, why hadn’t he contacted his wife? Hadn’t I seen him in the buggy making his getaway? Or had I? Could Levi Yardley be the man whom Asa Upchurch found in the street? Could he be the man in Frank Hayward’s coffin? If so, I’d been right to disturb Ginny with the news. But then where was Frank Hayward? I had to find out.
And yet I still couldn’t believe my own ears when I said, “Very well, Mrs. Yardley. I will accompany you to the asylum.” The woman sighed in relief.
“Please call me Bertha.”
“Very well, Bertha,” I said, standing. I placed coins on my bill, snapped my purse closed, straightened my hat, and said, “Let’s go find out what happened to your husband.”
CHAPTER 13
It hadn’t changed a bit. After hiring a cab, the mile walk beyond the last streetcar stop being too strenuous for Mrs. Yardley, we drove beyond the city limits on Frederick Avenue until we came to pasture and farmland. Horses grazed as men in denim overalls drove a caravan of Bain wagons toward a distant orchard. Dairy cattle, chewing their cud and swishing their tails, watched as we passed. Dozens of men in old woolen suits and women in gray linen aprons, their backs bent, took no notice of us as they harvested fruits and vegetables from gardens that stretched for acres. We had arrived at State Lunatic Asylum Number Two. I never discovered where Number One was; I didn’t care. Surrounded by a deceptively pastoral scene, this institution, with its redbrick four-story building sprawling over a quarter of a mile long, capped with numerous cupolas and wings that stretched out on either side of the center, like some large raptor about to take flight, haunted my nightmares. And here I was again. This time I wasn’t leaving without answers.
As we pulled into the semicircular drive, lined with trees shading the many wooden benches and swings scattered about, Mrs. Yardley leaned over, and said, “Are we in the right place, Miss Davish? It looks like a city park.”
“Don’t let the illusion fool you, Mrs. Yardley.” Before long, she understood what I meant.
We disembarked from the cab and headed up the path to the main entrance. Bertha Yardley’s expression soon reflected my own trepidation. Before reaching the front doors, we passed a row of men in plain blue suits with white shirts but no ties, rocking incessantly, t
heir chairs lined up parallel, instead of perpendicular against the wall. Several had their arms cuffed to the armrests of their rocking chairs. Mrs. Yardley unconsciously moved closer and took my arm.
“Miss Davish, what do we do?” she said when the closest man waved to us, his fingers wiggling independent of each other, a blank stare upon his face.
“You might wave back if you want or keep walking. He means you no harm.”
I’d seen this scene before, and far, far worse, but time had diminished its hold over me. Yet as we neared the front door, my heart fluttered and I grew light-headed. I forced myself to take deep breaths, imagining Walter, and not Mrs. Yardley, holding my arm. I took one last deep breath and pulled at the door. It refused to open.
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Yardley’s voice was slightly higher pitched than usual.
“The door’s locked.” I didn’t remember the door being locked in the middle of the day.
“Then we must knock.” Without conferring, we knocked at the door simultaneously. We looked at each other and chuckled nervously. And then Mrs. Yardley grew serious. “We will find him, won’t we, Miss Davish?”
“Yes, we will. And if he’s not here, we won’t leave until we know what’s happened to him.” And then the door opened.
“May I help you?” A young woman in a plain light blue cotton dress and white apron of a nurse’s uniform stood in the doorway.
“Yes,” Bertha said, as I peered beyond the woman’s shoulder to the hallway beyond.
Uncluttered by chairs, hat stands, tables, or furniture of any kind, the wide hall stretched toward a grand oak staircase at its end, the main access to the upper floors. Several doors, accented by oak molding and lead glass transoms, stood open and inviting. Light from a large ornate brass chandelier high above reflected off the spotless decorative tile floor as a woman in a light gray wrapper pushed a floor drag over and over across the same few feet of tile. It was bright, it was clean, and it was tranquil, and yet I hoped I’d never have to step into that hall again.
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