“Going to the march tomorrow?” His change in topic was a pleasant surprise.
“Yes, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Me neither. The senator is promised to be among those who will turn Coxey away. It should be quite the moment, and there’s sure to be a great number of reporters and photographers there to capture it.”
As always, Claude Morris wasn’t thinking of himself or his own amusement. He was thinking about how the march would improve Senator Smith’s chances of being reelected in November.
“Yes, quite the moment. Maybe they’ll even let Coxey speak,” I said, as we approached my door.
“Not a chance.” Claude chuckled condescendingly. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d patted my head. “Good night, Miss Davish.”
“Mr. Morris.”
I waited for him to reach his door before I opened mine and slipped in. With no work to do, I prepared for bed early. But I wasn’t to get an early night. Every attempt to close my eyes brought images of this morning’s accident. I’d been able to put it out of my mind at Coxey’s camp, but now in the quiet and dark of my room, I could think of nothing else.
Why did that man leave the woman to her death? After an hour of struggling over this question, I rose, grabbed the notebook and pencil from my bag hanging on the chair, and made a quick list.
1. He was mentally shocked by the incident and was unaware of his actions.
2. He was running to get help.
3. He was unaware that the woman hadn’t resurfaced.
4. He was frightened to be found there.
5. He had planned to do this and intentionally killed her.
The last statement came to me unbidden. Could he have caused the crash intentionally, purposefully inciting the horse to buck and rear? But how could he have known they would be thrown from the carriage? Or that she would drown in the pond? Did he know that she couldn’t swim? No, I saw the entire crash and couldn’t believe it was orchestrated. Most likely, number four was closest to the truth. It was well known and acceptable that men visited women of her kind. What wasn’t acceptable was being found with a dead woman of her kind after you are thrown from a carriage into a carp pond yards away from the Washington Monument in the early-morning hours.
So who was he? He was too well dressed to be an unemployed marcher from Coxey’s Army coming into the city for a night of debauchery, unless he was Coxey himself. The likelihood of that was next to nil, considering this city was filled with many other possible candidates of well-dressed politicians, lawyers, bankers, and government officials, any of which could be the powerful man Annie mentioned at the ladies’ furnishing store. And what about the pearl buttons? They too indicated someone with extra money to spend. Yet I hadn’t seen the like of them on any man all day.
I might never learn who he was. But what about the woman? I knew her name was Annie Wilcox and that she worked for Madam Fox. But why was she in that carriage with that particular man? I couldn’t imagine any woman choosing to sell herself for money. Perhaps she hoped to escape her fate, even for a few hours. Perhaps, as she herself believed, her companion this morning promised to take her away from that life.
And now she’s dead.
I tried to banish the images I had of her being flung from the trap and smashing into the water, and then of her lying dead on the shore covered with algae. Instead I concentrated on the first time I’d seen her, sunning herself on the balcony. She’d been reading, enjoying the warmth of the sun, and petting her cat. And she wasn’t much younger than me.
She could have been me, I thought.
A shudder ran through my whole body as I envisioned myself in her place, an orphan with no other family to support me, lounging in my undergarments outside for all to see. If not for my father buying my typewriter before he died, thus providing me with a means to make a living, that truly could’ve been me.
Unable to shake off this haunting thought, I pulled a dressing gown around me and headed downstairs to the library. If only I had the index to copy. Work always kept the dark thoughts at bay. Tonight the best I could hope for was a distracting novel.
“What kind of idiot are you?” I heard Senator Smith say as I approached the library.
“How was I to know that Abbott would be there?” Chester replied.
“I’m not talking about Abbott. I’m talking about Harper,” his father said.
“I’m not worried about Harper.”
“That’s why you’re an idiot. Harper is a dangerous man.” Had the senator seen the article? Did he too suspect Chester?
“Then why did you invite him to dinner? Why were you friendly with him at the camp?” Chester sneered.
“This is why you should never go into politics, my boy. Never.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Father.”
“You wouldn’t need the answer if you understood politics. Besides, he’s a friend of Sir Arthur. Sir Arthur is a powerful ally and contributor. It would do me no good to alienate him by snubbing his friend, no matter how much I loathe the man. So what does Harper know?”
“Harper doesn’t know anything, Father. How could he?”
Doesn’t know anything about what? Annie Wilcox’s death or something else?
The journalist had threatened to investigate something he’d heard from Senator Abbott that related to Chester. There had also been several comments about Chester’s reappearance in Washington endangering the senator’s chances in the next election. And of course, like me, Simeon Harper had seen Chester at Lottie Fox’s establishment. So what had the son done that could tarnish the father?
“He said he was investigating something you’d be interested in. You don’t think he’s learned something?”
“I’ll look into it,” Chester conceded with a sigh. “I’ll take care of it.”
“See that you do.”
What did that mean? I remembered other threats I’d overheard in the past. Could Chester be planning to harm Simeon Harper before he could learn more?
That’s enough of that, Davish! I chided myself silently. I was yet again letting my imagination rule my head instead of my reason.
“By the way, why did you come back? I told you to stay away until after the election.”
“For the march, of course.”
Creeeeeak!
I turned at the sound of the parlor door closing deliberately slowly. If I hadn’t been near I would never have heard it.
Now that was not my imagination.
I dashed across the hall to the parlor door and put my ear to it. I heard nothing through the thick oak pocket door. I grabbed the handle and slowly slid it open. Creeeeeeak. I winced at the noise but for no reason. No one was in sight. Someone else had overheard the conversation in the library and didn’t want to be discovered eavesdropping. But who?
“Well, I’m off to bed,” Chester said. “Good night, Father.”
Before Chester could discover me in the hall, I slipped inside the parlor and slid the door closed behind me. The pocket doors between the parlor and the drawing room were wide-open. Both rooms were empty. Whoever had been in there was gone. To avoid running into Chester in the main hall, I crossed the parlor into the drawing room, bumping into a side table in the dark. The sweet fragrance of lilacs and lavender filled the air as a vase on the table teetered for an interminable moment until I could steady it. I took a deep breath, appreciating the floral scents as well as calming my nerves, before treading more cautiously across the drawing room toward the faint flickering light shining beneath the small door at the back of the room. I groped for the doorknob and, upon opening the door, found myself in a dimly lit hall near the servants’ stairs. I’d followed the same route the unknown person must have taken.
But they would be undeterred by the dark, being more familiar with the house than I was. I’d never catch up. But did I want to? The more I considered my situation, the more I realized I was the one acting suspiciously. I needed to get back to my room.
“Stop being so jumpy, Davish,” I admonished myself as I climbed into bed and pulled the coverlet up to my chin. “And you forgot to get a book.”
Despite my brave words, I only halfheartedly lamented not being able to get a book; no amount of reading was going to help me to sleep tonight.
CHAPTER 14
Who was that?
As I stepped outside and quietly closed the door behind me, I noticed movement in the park across the street. After last night’s episode in the dark, I’d continued to admonish myself for conjuring suspicion out of nothing until I’d fallen into a restless sleep. And yet here I was again, suspecting every shadow, every flash of motion, to be harboring secrets. But this time, someone was hiding in the shadows of the park.
I loved Lafayette Square. With its statues, its towering old trees, and quaint townhouses of redbrick and painted yellow limestone encircling it, it was a peaceful place at any time of the day. Even when dozens of people strolled through or reposed in the park, the large trees offering welcome shade on the odd day when the afternoon became unseasonably warm, it was a lovely place to be. But now, it being barely dawn, was my favorite time of all. Before another living soul stirred, with the exception of a few songbirds, the park was almost magical. I’d taken my daily morning hike at almost the same time every morning and hadn’t yet seen a street vendor pushing his cart, a government clerk rushing to start his day, or a nanny attempting to soothe a colicky infant with fresh air. The only person I’d ever seen was the sleepy-eyed policeman who walked past the house while patrolling his beat.
So who was that, slinking from tree to tree?
I stepped onto the brick sidewalk and strolled toward the President’s House, looking straight ahead but my eyes alert to any movement. Sure enough, when I left the square and began crossing Pennsylvania Avenue, I detected motion out of the corner of my eye. I dashed behind the nearest tree and peered around. A figure emerged and stepped cautiously into the open street.
It was Jasper Neely, the man with the crooked nose whom I’d met at the scene of the carriage accident. The same man who had had an altercation with Chester Smith yesterday at Coxey’s camp.
What was he doing here at this hour?
My heart skipped a beat when he headed straight for the house I had left moments ago. As I watched, my eyes riveted to the house, a curtain from Senator Smith’s upstairs landing window moved. Only the hint of the hand showed as the white lace curtain was pulled back slightly and dropped closed again.
Who else was awake at this hour? Not Sir Arthur, who made it a point never to rise before nine o’clock. And from my days in the Smith house, no one besides the kitchen staff and housemaid ever rose before seven and none of them had cause to be at that window at this hour. So who could it be? Chester? Senator Smith?
Anyone, I told myself.
Jasper Neely, with his countenance clouded with concern, glanced left, and then right, before approaching the house. Before his hand touched the knocker, the door opened, barely wide enough to allow him in. With the distance between us and the dim light, I couldn’t see who had opened the door. Mr. Neely slipped in, disappearing quickly as the door closed behind him. I leaned against the tree, alternating my attention from the front door to the upstairs window, speculating about what Jasper Neely’s early-morning visit could mean. Did he have business with the senator, with Chester, or with someone else? Either way, the day of the march had finally arrived, and it must have something to do with that. But what? Senator Smith was a well-known opponent of Coxey and his Populist ideas. They had nothing in common. I continued to stare at the house as I puzzled it out.
Had Coxey sent Neely to apologize to Chester in hopes of enlisting Senator Smith’s help in gaining Coxey the Capitol steps? It was a farfetched idea, his helping Coxey, being such a great departure from the senator’s normal stance on labor issues. But it would explain why Chester or the senator agreed to meet Neely in such a clandestine way. Even as I considered this possibility, I shook my head in dismissal. Neither Coxey nor Neely would ever believe a simple apology would change the senator’s mind. Or were they desperate enough to try anyway? Or did someone other than Chester or the senator open the door?
As birds began waking, their calls and trills filling the park with song, I grew impatient with speculating and determined to embark on my preplanned hike. Yet before I left the shelter of the trees, the door opened again, and Jasper Neely slipped out as he had slipped in. The door closed behind him. I still couldn’t tell who was behind it. Unlike before, Jasper Neely wore a smug grin on his face and skipped lightly down the steps. He strolled along the sidewalk toward H Street, whistling “The Cat Came Back,” a popular song about an unwanted cat that wouldn’t go away. When he was out of sight, I hurried back toward the house and stepped inside. I dashed methodically through each and every downstairs room. They were all empty. No one was about. Then who had met with Jasper Neely? Whoever it was hadn’t wanted to be seen and had promptly taken one of the staircases.
I sighed in frustration. I was to stay in the dark about this as well. First the circumstances surrounding Annie the fallen woman’s death, the connection between Daniel Clayworth and the man I knew only as Billy, and now this.
Serves you right for being so nosy, I told myself. It didn’t make me feel any better.
As I headed back toward the door, a maid, a slight girl with carroty hair, came through the servant’s door, up from the kitchen.
“I don’t know how you do it, Miss Davish,” she said, “getting up at this hour when you don’t have to.”
“It’s the best part of the day,” I said. “By the way, you didn’t happen to see a stranger in the house a few moments ago? He has a distinctively bent nose.”
The maid stared at me as if I’d sprouted wings. “No, miss. The senator never allows any callers before two o’clock.”
“Right. Of course.”
The maid headed down the hall to start the morning fires but glanced back twice more at me with a suspicious eye before disappearing into the drawing room. I headed back outside, watching the park for any other unusual activity, but all was peaceful; only the birds clamored about in the warm, gentle breeze and soft glow of sunrise. As I headed toward my destination for the second time that morning, I had more to ponder than what plant specimens I might collect. Whoever let Jasper Neely into the house did so without the maid knowing. But who? And why?
* * *
After catching the trolley near St. John’s Church, I rode it to its terminal end, disembarking at Rock Creek Park, a federally managed twelve-mile-long park stretching from the Potomac River to the Maryland border. I happily hiked along Rock Creek, following the park trail for several miles. Although Senator Smith’s home was right on Lafayette Square, it was still in the city. Here I was able to stroll through woodlands, passing orchards, pastures, fields, gardens, and working mills. More than once I startled squirrels as they foraged on the ground. As the rising sun stippled through the trees and reflected on the slowly moving water, the smell of blossoms, decaying leaves, and fresh damp soil filled my lungs. I scoured the ground, the riverbanks, and the forested hillsides rising on either side of the river for new specimens for my plant collection. Despite my triumph in finding several new species, including American golden saxifrage, mountain laurel, white wood aster, and pink azalea, I couldn’t shake
the implication of Jasper Neely’s predawn visit. My hike was meant to soothe my thoughts, as it had always in the past, but not today. And then, while I was on my tiptoes, stretching to reach the lowest branch of a chestnut oak, another first for my collection, I heard the pounding of a horse’s hooves behind me. Before I could react, a rider, wearing a black fedora, similar to the one I’d seen on the driver of the carriage that had crashed, raced his horse, foam clinging to the corners of its mouth, recklessly close to me on the trail. I lurched forward to avoid being trampled and fell to my knees. The horse and rider were a quarter of a mile away before I stood, brushed the dirt and grass from my skirt, and tucked a stray curl back under my hat. I collected the branch I’d sought, but I no longer appreciated my treasure.
Was that him? I stared at the distant rider.
I knew it wasn’t the carriage driver from yesterday’s fatal accident; this man was much taller, but the thought was enough to send my thoughts further into turmoil. Why was I so upset? Besides witnessing the poor prostitute’s accidental demise, I had every reason to be joyful. I was to be Walter’s wife! So why did I feel troubled instead?
Once I reached Peirce Mill, one of the oldest gristmills still working, I stood on the footbridge above the tailrace, letting the steady turning of the waterwheel ease my palpitating heart. When I found I could take a deep, steady breath, I pulled out my notebook and made a list of all the questions that were distressing me.
1. Why was Jasper Neely at Senator Smith’s home this morning?
2. Who was the man who left Annie Wilcox to her deadly fate?
3. Why was there animosity between Simeon Harper and Chester Smith?
4. Why was there animosity between the Smiths and Senator Abbott?
5. What had Chester Smith done that could cost his father the election?
6. What will Sir Arthur say when I tell him of my engagement?
And there it was. Sir Arthur. I wasn’t dismayed by Jasper Neely; who was he to me? I pitied the dead girl and regretted her death, but again, she was no acquaintance of mine. And as for Simeon Harper, Senator Smith, or Chester, they could argue and fight all they wanted as far as I was concerned. It was Sir Arthur who was worrying me. I had yet to gain a private audience with him, and the longer it went, the more anxiety I felt. I despaired at the thought that Sir Arthur would not give Walter and me his blessing, that he would see my involvement in the “fallen woman’s” death as scandalous, that he would be cross when I failed to produce the property index he wanted today.
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