No such luck. There were editorials on suffrage from both sides of the argument and plenty of speculation as to what might have caused the stage’s collapse but nothing that shed any light on Miss Foster Eldridge’s life. Nothing new, at least. The newspapers were, however, full of conjecture about the war with the Spanish. Trouble was brewing in Cuba, no doubt about it. The Battle of Manila Bay the month before had ramped things up even further. Every page he turned seemed to contain an article espousing zealous support for the war effort.
Yancey had had more than enough of it when Officer Lewis pushed open the door and entered, jawing about the exact same thing with young Henry Goodwin. That was the worst of it, the thing that really got Yancey’s temper to flare—kids like Henry with a gleam in their eyes as they bragged about the way they’d take on an enemy.
“I’d give ’um a wallop. A good one, too,” Henry said, slapping his cap against the leg of his knickerbockers to make the point. Still in short pants and full of dreams of battle. It twisted Yancey’s guts like nothing else. He fought down the urge to shake Henry until he dislodged the boy’s misguided notions.
“Here’s Henry to see you like you asked, boss,” Officer Lewis said. “He was a little hard to track down but I unearthed him behind the livery, playing with firecrackers. It’s a wonder he didn’t burn down the town.”
“Which are you charging him with? Willful endangerment or public menace?” Yancey asked, giving Lewis a wink on the sly.
“I was thinking it might be best to charge him with both,” Lewis said. “That way we have twice as much chance of getting the charge to stick.”
“Or he’ll face twice as much jail time.”
“I promised I wouldn’t do it again.” Henry stopped slapping his hat. His eyes bugged out of his head and he wrapped his arms across his chest like his lungs were trying to escape.
“If he promised to give us some help with an ongoing investigation, is there any way you could consider forgetting about the incident?” Yancey asked.
“I’m not sure. Fire is serious. You know that.”
“We all know that.” Fire was serious. It wasn’t just patter designed to scare the kid. Fires devastated communities all over the country. With fires used to cook as well as to heat buildings the danger of stray sparks and dirty chimneys was always present. Only two years earlier the Opera House block in the state capital, Augusta, burnt to the ground. In the devastation a bank, a druggist, and a grocery were lost. Henry was right to be frightened.
“What is it you need?” Henry asked. His voice cracked and Yancey felt a bit sorry for him. Until he remembered the feeling of searching the crowd for his mother and sister when the popping noise of the firecrackers began. Or the sickening surprise of Miss Proulx suddenly disappearing from sight as the stairs she stood upon went out from under her.
“I want to know about this photograph.” Yancey pulled the picture of Henry and the chief from his jacket pocket once more. “Why were you talking to the chief? Did he ask you to set off those firecrackers at the march? Did he tell you to start the jostling?” Yancey kept his eyes fixed on Henry’s face as he recognized himself in the photograph. He definitely had a guilty conscience but he was surprised by the question.
“No, sir. He did not.” Yancey was going to ask what they had talked about if it hadn’t been the subject of mischief when it registered in his mind that the boy had stressed the word he.
“Who did, then?” Yancey asked. Henry hung his head and shifted his weight from foot to foot. When he looked up his expression was one of complete misery.
“The shoving was an accident. We were just excited and them ladies were packed in like string beans in a pint jar.” Henry’s lower lip quivered slightly. “No one was supposed to get hurt. Honest.”
“But someone did ask you to set off the firecrackers?” Yancey pressed. His money was on Robert Jellison. Oh, how he ached for it to be Jelly Roll.
“Are you really gonna send me to jail if I don’t tell you about the firecrackers?” Henry’s face took on a greenish tinge. Officer Lewis looked almost like he felt sorry for the kid. He knew better than to say anything though, which spoke well for his future on the force.
“People were hurt, Henry. This is no small thing. But you are a kid and if an adult encouraged you to do something so foolish you ought to say so.” Yancey paused to let that thought settle. “If you tell me who it was you can walk out of here a free man so long as you promise never to do such a dangerous thing again.”
“You’re not just saying that and then you’ll stick me in the pokey anyway?” Henry’s family history was one that would not encourage confidence in the police department. Yancey knew exactly how he felt, considering his didn’t, either. He made it a habit not to lie any more than he could help it.
“No, Henry. I promise not to do that. But I won’t be so lenient if you endanger the town like that again. Do you understand?” Henry shuffled his feet and nodded. “Tell me, who was it?”
Henry’s voice came out barely above a whisper.
“That lady from the Hotel Belden.” Henry met Yancey’s eyes. “Mrs. Doyle.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
I had no trouble finding Mr. Fredericks on the veranda sitting in a basket chair in the deep shade. He spent a portion of each day breathing in the sea air just as the articles in the Hay Feverist Monthly recommended. Generally Honoria discouraged staff from disturbing the guests but I was certain she would make an exception. I expected to see the gentleman in question consumed by grief but instead, he greeted me with a cheerful expression and a pleasant word.
“Miss Proulx, you look the picture of health today. If I may be so bold as to say so, the roses bloom upon your cheeks most becomingly.”
“Unlike poor Sophronia,” I said. I watched as his smile faded and he carefully replaced it with a solemn nod of his head.
“Such an unexpected tragedy. It seems unimaginable that someone with as much passion for life as Sophronia had would commit such an act.”
“Do you think there is any possibility that she did not?”
“What are you suggesting?” Mr. Fredericks leaned toward me, his watery eyes fairly bursting from his large head.
“I’m simply wondering if her death was not as clear-cut as it appeared to the police,” I said. He drew in his breath sharply.
“You can’t mean to suggest that someone deliberately harmed her and then made it look like a suicide?” I could almost watch his thoughts parade behind his outsize forehead.
“What do you think?” I said. “Could anyone have borne Sophronia such ill will?”
“Not to my knowledge. She was a controversial figure to be sure but there was nothing to suggest that she had enemies beyond the average public figure.” Mr. Fredericks waggled a bony finger in my direction. “In my experience young ladies are often influenced unduly by sensational novels and a thirst for excitement. Could that be the case here?” I regret to say I felt the warm creep of embarrassment moving up the back of my neck and into my face. More often than I cared to recall my father had chided me for my preference for novels instead of weightier works of philosophy or history. Mr. Fredericks’s words brought back a flood of unpleasant memories and left me feeling like I needed to justify my taste in reading material.
I asked myself what Sophronia would have thought of allowing a man to belittle her and I felt the flush in my cheeks subside. In fact, as I considered his condescending comments from a suffragist perspective, I felt it was he who should be ashamed of himself. With that thought in mind, I pressed on with my questioning
“She did receive at least one threatening letter while she was here.”
“As does anyone who espouses views that run counter to those held by the majority.” He shrugged. “If the police here are at all experienced at their jobs I am quite certain they will know what to discount and what to include.”
<
br /> “I should expect the investigation into her death will lead to questions for you before too much longer.” Strictly speaking, this was true. If Mr. Fredericks understood that the police were the ones investigating that was his own assumption, not something I actually could be credited with saying. It was a fine point perhaps but one that kept me on the side of the angels.
“Why would you say that?” Mr. Fredericks asked.
“Because you knew her from the Hay Feverists convention. You probably knew her better than anyone else in Old Orchard except Miss Rice,” I said, keeping an eye fixed on his expression.
“She knew several people in town besides myself. I am sure they will be questioned as well.”
“I don’t think the investigation will be much aided by acquaintanceships struck up over the past few days.” I cocked my head to the side as if lost in thought. “Do you?”
“There’s where you are wrong, young lady. Sophronia and Miss Rice were acquainted with at least three other people here besides myself through our association with the Hay Feverists Society.”
“I had no idea hay fever was such a common complaint.” I should have been above such a petty dig but Mr. Fredericks’s spluttering indignation raised my spirits to a shameful degree.
“Hay fever and all the other sorts of seasonal complaints experienced by sensitive persons such as myself are not in the least bit commonplace.” Mr. Fredericks sniffed loudly. “However, it is only natural that those with discernment in their health would be sensitive as to their associations as well. Just because Osmond, Phyllis, and George Cheswick all attended the last Hay Feverists annual convention does not make it a condition which afflicts the masses.”
“I’m sure you know far more about such matters than I do.” I lowered my eyes to my lap hoping to convince him of my contrition.
“Don’t fret, my dear. Becoming educated on such matters is as easy as applying oneself to some issues of Hay Feverist Monthly. I would be delighted to lend you a few copies from my personal collection in service of your education. They make for far superior reading than novels that put ideas into young ladies’ heads.” Mr. Fredericks flashed me a patronizing smile. “Perhaps by the time you’ve availed yourself of a few issues you shan’t have any more thoughts of something as sordid as murder.”
“I’m sure they will do me a world of good. I would feel even more at ease if I were reassured that there could be some explanation as to why Sophronia, who had so much to live for, would ever harm herself.”
While I make it a personal point of pride to never, ever play dumb, especially with men, who I find often need no excuse to believe themselves intellectually superior, I have absolutely no compunction whatsoever against using feminine charms. Nothing vulgar, mind you, but I have come to realize that one can get further by being decorative as well as useful. I batted my eyelashes until I felt a breeze on my cheek.
“Perhaps hers was not as happy a life as you imagine.” He shook his head. “It is easy to idolize those people we admire, but in truth they are no less plagued by doubts and burdens than the rest of us.”
“Are you implying she may have had reason to be overcome by melancholia?”
“I would not be surprised if that were the case. You must have been aware of the threat she made concerning her manuscript. That farcical stunt simply reeked of desperation.”
“You sound as though you doubt the existence of such a manuscript.” I was intrigued. So far, I had not heard anyone else offering up the idea the manuscript might have been more fable than fact. “What makes you believe that she would have lied about it?”
“As an author myself I can say without reservation that I do not believe Sophronia had the temperament to sit alone quietly for hours at a time as the production of such a work necessitates. She was a person who thrived in the glow of attention whether supportive or derisive.”
“And you think that making false claims about a manuscript may have led her to take her own life?”
“Imagine the shame of it. She made threats that she could not carry out and she did so in the full view of not only the assembled masses but also the press.”
“You suggest her embarrassment was so utterly overwhelming that she felt she couldn’t go on?”
“The police must have searched her room very thoroughly. Did they find a manuscript or any note left for anyone alerting them to where it might be? If she really were worried for her life she would surely have made arrangements for the release of information she claimed would so greatly aid the cause of suffrage.”
“To my knowledge no such manuscript has been found,” I said. Mr. Fredericks made some excellent points and ones that had been rattling around at the far edge of my thoughts since I learned of Sophronia’s death. There are certain things none of us wish to believe of those we esteem. The perpetuation of this sort of fraud would surely be something Miss Rice would not want to face about her dearest friend.
“She told me just the other day about her clarity of vision for the future. She sounded very hopeful and assured that her cause would prevail and life for women would be entirely different one day. That doesn’t sound like someone who was contemplating ending her life to me,” I said.
“Perhaps by telling you this she was trying to convince herself. Even those who appear supremely confident have their doubts.” Mr. Fredericks unfolded from his chair and reached for my hand, then raised it to his dry lips. I felt my favorite pair of lace gloves snag as he deposited a desiccated kiss on the back of my hand. “I shall fetch those magazines straightaway lest I forget.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Someone needed to ask questions of Congressman Plaisted, and since Officer Yancey had been told not to investigate, that job would fall to me. I was not in the least eager to do so. Despite my enthusiasm for detective work and my personal interest in finding the truth of Sophronia’s death I would be lying if I said I was not just a bit frightened of Plaisted after seeing the way he had manhandled Sophronia. How much less likely would I be to stir his ire if I asked about his ungentlemanly behavior toward a lady?
Ben flagged me down as I hurried along the hallway. He slid his slim white hand into a pigeonhole of the wall-mounted message center and pulled out an envelope. I tried to take it from him but his hand did not let go of the other side. His blue eyes looked into mine as though he wished for me to understand the gravity of what the envelope contained. As I was hoping for an excuse to delay my conversation with the congressman I was happy to pause and discover what he might be trying to communicate.
“Do you want me to be aware of something special about this message, Ben?” I asked. He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving my own.
“Is it important?” He nodded but did not let go of the envelope.
“Is it a secret?” He nodded again with a little more vigor.
“Did the sender tell you this?” I asked. He shook his head even more enthusiastically.
“You just know this about the message in the same way Amanda knows about people by touching their belongings or Mrs. Doyle reads auras?” I asked. Ben gave a noncommittal shrug and released the envelope from his grasp. “I’ll keep what you said in mind,” I said. I took the message to a chair a few feet away and, using a long hairpin from the collection keeping my heavy curls atop my head, slit the envelope neatly open.
I drew out the single sheet of paper it contained and read over the message from Officer Yancey three times before I felt Ben’s gaze bearing down on me. I looked over, wishing he could tell me what to do.
“Speak to her yourself,” the voice said. I blinked but Ben hadn’t said a thing. He turned his attention back to the appointment book on the desk in front of him. As much as I dreaded heading next door to the Sea Spray to confront the congressman, I was even less eager to head into the kitchen right here at the Belden.
• • •
Mrs. Doyle, it c
ould be said, did not look like herself in the least. I did not need to possess her skill at reading auras to be certain something was very wrong with her. The message in my hand from Officer Yancey seemed to me to be a likely explanation for her unsettling change of demeanor. She sat in the rocker at the far end of the kitchen in just the same spot she had occupied the night before the march. She even held her darning egg in her hand with another holey sock slipped over the end.
She lacked, however, a threaded needle in the other hand. She also seemed not to have noticed its absence. She didn’t even look up when I entered, let alone run her critical, squinty expression over me from head to toe. I was surprised to find it was an unpleasant feeling to be rid of her intense scrutiny.
I pulled a chair from the worktable to sit next to her rocking chair, and took the darning egg from her hand. She looked up and finally spoke.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I burnt the breakfast. I broke our best platter and I can’t even find my spool of thread to fix this sock. I’m no good to anyone.”
“I expect your aura’s gone all funny after yesterday,” I said. Mrs. Doyle let out a long sigh. Her shoulders drooped and she suddenly seemed like a tired old woman with a terrible secret. I was startled to realize I preferred her frightening dragon persona.
“You know about Henry, I suppose,” she said.
“I know I saw Henry running around at the rally lighting firecrackers. I told Officer Yancey about it and he brought Henry to the station to ask him some questions. It is remarkable what a boy will say if he thinks it will keep him out of jail.”
“He told the police I gave him the firecrackers?”
“He said you did and that you asked him to wait until Sophronia was on the stage with the crowd all assembled to set them off.”
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