A March to Remember

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “How can you, of all people, ask that? You’ve done this sort of thing many times, haven’t you?”

  “I—”

  “Walter told me all about how you helped solve several murders, Hattie.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Who knows, Lottie Fox may have something that may help the police catch Mr. Neely’s killer.”

  She was right. If I’d found that note slipped under the door, I would’ve pinned on my hat, slipped on my gloves, and headed straight for C Street. So why was I hesitating now? I was already at odds with Sir Arthur over my engagement. Was I concerned about what he would say if I went lurking about Hooker’s Division in the dark in a quest to uncover yet another murderer? Was it because of what Walter might say, if he knew? What if Lieutenant Whittmeyer found out? Was it worth the risk? Was it because I’d already been involved in several murders? Had I had enough? Yes, I had. At least that was what I told myself.

  “She didn’t say she had something that indicated who killed Mr. Neely, just something that she no longer wants in her possession. Perhaps something belonging to the dead man.” I was hedging, and Sarah knew it.

  “I feel compelled to meet her, regardless. I once told her I’d help her, and I don’t intend to break my promise. So, are you coming with me or not?”

  “Why me? Wouldn’t Walter or Daniel be a better escort to meet her in that place?” I remembered the warnings Claude Morris had issued the day of Mrs. Cleveland’s reception. I remembered what I’d seen of Hooker’s Division and the Apple House in the daylight. I wasn’t eager to find out what such a place was like in the dark.

  “Daniel? You know he’d never let me go, let alone accompany me. No, Daniel can never find out.”

  “Walter, then.”

  “My brother is a wonderful man, but I don’t think he’d approve of his sister going to Hooker’s Division before dawn to meet a madam any more than Daniel would.”

  “I don’t think he’d approve of his fiancée accompanying his sister there either.”

  “That’s why we don’t tell him.”

  But I tell Walter everything, I thought.

  Seeing my hesitation, Sarah, still trying to persuade me, added, “You might help solve Mr. Neely’s murder and come to the aid of a fallen woman all in one fell swoop.” She was persuasive but not enough.

  “It’s too dangerous, Sarah. Why not give the note to the police and let them handle it?”

  You’re a hypocrite, Davish. How many times had I risked my reputation, position, and even my life, because my curiosity and sense of duty drove me to meddle in police affairs?

  “I’m going with or without you, Hattie.” Her statement startled me. I held up the lamp to see her face more clearly. Her countenance was full of determination.

  “No, Sarah, you can’t go alone.”

  “Then come with me.”

  I looked back at the house, half expecting to see someone at the window, curtain pulled back, but all was silent and dark.

  Maybe Sir Arthur would never find out, but if I did accompany Sarah, I was determined to tell Walter afterward. I didn’t keep secrets from Walter. He would be dismayed, perhaps even angry, but he would understand and forgive me. Sir Arthur, I knew, would not.

  But after our argument and his aloof treatment of me of late, maybe it didn’t matter. I shivered at the thought of no longer being in Sir Arthur’s good graces. For the second time today, I pictured myself wearing the dead girl, Annie Wilcox’s, garish dress. And then I remembered her pale, lifeless face covered in algae.

  That could’ve been me without Sir Arthur’s protection, I thought, not for the first time.

  But no, my father was my protector—having supplied me with a typewriter and the education to best use it to my advantage. I was already a competent secretary when Sir Arthur met me, otherwise he would never had taken me on. I would never have been in a predicament like that. But did that give me the right to ignore the plight of these women? Sarah was determined not to. I looked into Sarah’s eyes again. She was more resolved than ever.

  Setting aside for the moment what Walter would think of me going to Hooker’s Division, I considered what he would say if he knew I had let his sister go there alone.

  “Well, are you coming or not?” Did I have a choice?

  “Yes, I can’t let you go alone.”

  Sarah wrapped her arm through mine and smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “Let me get my hat,” I said.

  “There’s no time,” Sarah said. “We have to go before it gets too light.”

  She was right. In the park, the darkness clung to the trees, but in the empty street, the first signs of dawn could be seen. I nodded as I touched my hair self-consciously. I’d never spent any time out-of-doors without a hat on. It was disconcerting.

  Not any more than visiting a bawdy house in the dark, I thought.

  “Besides, you might wake someone,” Sarah said.

  “You’re right. Let’s go.” To Sarah’s surprise, I took the lead, waving off her offer of Lottie Fox’s letter with the address on it. I knew exactly where I was going.

  On Pennsylvania Avenue, the buildings, their windows still dark, loomed high above the quiet streets. I kept up a brisk pace and a keen eye out for any of the reporters. Luckily I saw no one. Sarah kept up, though barely, as she nervously searched the street for signs of danger. She started and grabbed my arm when a dairy wagon, its milk cans rattling against each other, passed us on the street. She obviously had never been out at this hour before. And then we came to Thirteenth Street. Unlike Pennsylvania Avenue, this street was alive with lights and music. I slowed and stepped into the shadows on the east side of the street. As we passed the second building on the block, with light blazing into the street from its open second-story windows, revealing silhouettes of half-naked women singing a slurred version of the old drinking song “Vive la Compagnie,” Sarah grabbed my free hand and held on tight. She walked behind me, but so close that her breath, smelling of tooth powder, tickled the back of my neck. For all her bravado, she was more nervous than I was.

  We walked nearly a block, past several more bagnios and saloons still filled with boisterous patrons, even as dawn seeped across the city, when a well-dressed man in a top hat stumbled out of an alleyway. A light, wet stain blotching the front of his jacket, he nearly careened into Sarah’s shoulder as he wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. He smelled of liquor and stomach sickness. He reached out to steady her, or himself, I couldn’t tell, and began coughing violently the moment their eyes met.

  “Congressman Tignor?” Sarah whispered, stunned. Without a word, the man let his hands drop, lurched backward a few steps, before turning on his well-polished boot heels and staggering away as fast as he could.

  Could he have been the man who left Annie Wilcox to drown? He was a visitor to Hooker’s Division. He was wearing pearl buttons. But like the policeman had said, this city was rife with powerful, rich men. It could’ve been almost anyone. Besides, Congressman Tignor must weigh three hundred pounds.

  Definitely not a strong swimmer, I thought.

  “I can’t believe it,” Sarah said, still shocked at seeing someone she knew. “You don’t think he’ll tell Daniel, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t worry. He probably won’t even remember seeing you.”

  “Is it all like this?” Sarah stood rooted to the ground, staring at a woman wearing rouge, a corset, a half-open yellow-and-blue-striped dressing gown, and little else, leaning against an alley wall. A man in a gray derby, his hand on the wall beside her, kissed her neck as she giggled.

  “Quick, in here!” I ignored her question and pulled her with me into the shadows of a doorway.

  “Ew!” Sarah groaned at the smell of urine beneath our feet. “My goodness, Hattie, this is disgusting. Why—?”

  “Shhh!”

  Ambling down the middle of the street was a group of men, five or six in number, and th
ese men were no journalists. A glint of metal caught my eye as one man tossed a knife up and snatched it out of the air by the handle. Two of the others were arguing loudly in such slurred voices, I understood little beyond “horse,” “bet,” and “cheat.” Another man, wearing only dirty trousers and a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, drank from a whiskey bottle. When it was empty, he tossed it carelessly away. Shards of glass glimmered in the streetlight as the bottle smashed against the side of a building. He staggered toward one of his cohorts and snatched that man’s whiskey bottle. The victim, his arms flopping about, plunged forward and threw an aimless punch. As the thief cackled with glee, his victim nearly crashed down when he missed his target. Yet they moved closer and closer.

  As they approached our hiding place, the man who’d lost his whiskey bottle, a lopsided smile spreading across his face, pointed toward us. Sarah whimpered. I put my arm across her and pushed us both flat against the wall. And then, as one, the men looked up.

  “Hey, girls!” the man with the knife shouted, as he pushed his cap back. A line of grime crossed his forehead.

  “Hey there!” came several high, trilling voices from above. Unable to look up without stepping out of the shadows, I could only guess who the women were.

  “Why don’t you come on down here and say a proper hello?” another of the men said, smiling. He was missing two bottom teeth.

  “Yeah, come on down,” the man with the stolen whiskey bottle said. He puckered his lips in mock kisses.

  I guessed right, I thought, silently praying the men would soon be on their way.

  “There’s a party at Celia’s,” one of the girls above us said. “We’ll catch up to you there.”

  “See that you do,” the man with the knife said, tossing it up and catching it again. I could feel Sarah trembling beside me.

  “Ta-ta,” one of the girls said. A window banged closed above, and with a few chuckles, the men sauntered away.

  “Oh, Hattie,” Sarah whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. “If this is what your adventures are like, next time I’ll pass.”

  Next time? I hoped there never was a next time. I gave her hand a squeeze. I’d been as frightened as she was, but I wasn’t going to let her know.

  “Let’s go. It’s not far now.”

  Sarah nodded and managed a slight smile as we, hand in hand, crept out of the shadows toward the Apple House.

  * * *

  When we passed the respectable Galvanized Iron Cornice Works, loud clanking noises emanating from within as their workday began, Sarah let go of my hand and sighed in relief. But then I stopped in front of the Apple House.

  “Is this it?”

  I nodded.

  Sarah’s eyes widened as she studied the place, which was surprisingly dark and silent. In contrast, a “house” a few doors down blazed with electric light pouring out of its downstairs windows and a few bars of “Take Your Time, Gentlemen,” playing on a phonograph, escaped into the street. Why was Lottie’s place so quiet?

  “Welcome to the Apple House,” I said.

  Third time’s a charm, I thought, staring at the empty balcony. Poor Annie’s dead, but maybe we’ll finally learn something useful.

  “The letter says to go to the back door,” Sarah whispered.

  We circled the building and found the alley I’d hidden in before. A scrawny orange cat, balancing on the rim of a barrel, had its head buried in the refuse. It looked up, a torn scrap of stocking draped across its head, and hissed at us, but stayed clinging to its perch as we passed. A fat gray rat, its nose skimming the ground, scurried across our path. I cringed as it crawled over the toe of my shoe. Stifling a cry, Sarah put her hand over her mouth and hurriedly followed me to the door in the back.

  Before we had the opportunity to knock, the door flew open, light spilling into the dark alley around us. A young black-haired woman, barely into her late teens, dressed only in a plain white nightgown with several cloth buttons undone at the neck, stood holding the door. A purple bruise tinged with green, circling her eye, marred her otherwise pretty face. That and the scowl she wore.

  “Who’s this?” she asked Sarah, pointing at me. “I was told only a blond lady was coming, not a brunette.”

  “This is Miss Davish,” Sarah said, in her best parlor voice. “My brother’s fiancée. You can trust her as you trust me.” The girl huffed at that, obviously not trusting Sarah much either. “I’m Mrs. Clayworth.”

  “I know who you are, the congressman’s wife. Lottie told me.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And you are?”

  The girl frowned, surprised I’d asked.

  “Fanny.”

  I’d heard that name here before. Wasn’t that who Chester Smith agreed to “see” the day Annie drowned? I was sure it was.

  The girl waited, as if expecting us to challenge her on her name, but when we remained silent she said, “You’re to follow me.”

  We fell into step behind the girl. To Sarah’s relief, evident by her reassuring smile, we were spared the lurid display of the “fallen women” vying for men’s attention. For Fanny led us, not through a room filled with overstuffed chaise longues and closed, dark, heavy drapes where half-dressed women drank whiskey while laughing at their male companions’ jokes, as I imagined, but along an austere whitewashed hallway and up narrow back stairs. So why was I disappointed? Was it my curiosity taking hold again? Or was it something more?

  I’ve come this close, I thought, and will never get the chance again. But did I truly want to see the vulgar scene? I looked at the bare legs and feet of the girl ahead of me. No, not really. But I couldn’t help but ask her questions.

  “How long have you lived here, Fanny?”

  “Miss Lottie took me in after I ran away from my pa. He used to beat me terrible.” Oddly, she chuckled. “Funny, ain’t it?” She pointed to her bruised eye.

  “Not particularly, no,” I said. Fanny dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

  “What do you know?”

  “Who did that to you?” Sarah asked. “I can’t imagine Miss Fox allowing violence in her establishment.”

  “You’re right. Miss Lottie is real protective of us girls. Any customer who gets nasty never steps inside here again.”

  “What happened to you?” I said.

  “Someone got nasty.”

  “I’ll say,” Sarah said.

  “You might even know him,” Fanny said slyly. Sarah’s shoulders tensed. No woman wanted to learn that a man she knew or loved visited one of these places. “He’s the son of a senator.”

  “Chester? Chester Smith did this to you?” I said, aghast. What would Mildred Smith say if she knew her son not only frequented a place like this but purposely beat the girl?

  “Yeah. How did you know?” The girl eyed me suspiciously.

  “When did he do that, Fanny?” I said. “Was it the day Annie drowned?”

  “Poor Annie. Thought she’d found herself a rich man. Thought she was getting out of here. She should’ve known better. None of us are getting out of here.”

  “That’s not true,” Sarah said. “I belong to an organization of influential ladies who can help any girl who wants to leave here and start over.”

  “Yeah, Lottie told us about you.”

  “When did Chester do this to you, Fanny?” I asked again. I’d seen Chester take a swing at more than one man and now Fanny. With such a temper, it wasn’t hard to imagine Chester abandoning Annie and then attacking Fanny later that morning.

  “There’s the rub. I was with Lottie and a bunch of the other girls at the edge of the Capitol grounds the morning of the march.” When Sarah grimaced, her eyes wide with dismay, Fanny stuck out her chin and added, “We have a right to see Marshal Browne and General Coxey and their men as much as the rest of you.”

  “Of course you do,” I said, trying to placate Fanny before she decided not to tell us any more. “Miss Fox is a friend of Marshal Browne’s, isn’t she?”

 
“Yes, that’s right,” Fanny said, again surprised by what I’d said. “And Marshal Browne isn’t ashamed to be seen with her either.” She glared at Sarah. Poor Sarah hadn’t said anything disparaging, but even as she was determined to help these women, she still couldn’t help react the way most would at the thought of a gathering of fallen women at a public event.

  “No, I’m sorry to imply otherwise,” Sarah said. Fanny appeared satisfied.

  “So you were at the march and then what happened?” I asked.

  “And then Chester Smith happened, is what. He spied me in the crowd and dragged me back here. He used to be one of my regulars, generous too, until he left town all of a sudden. But that was months ago. I couldn’t say no, I needed the money, but he made me miss seeing Coxey and Marshal Browne. With all the talk from Lottie about them having part of Jesus’s soul, I was sorely disappointed about that.”

  “Exactly when did Chester hit you?”

  “Afterward, when he was dressing. I asked him where he’d gone, why he left town. He’d been in a foul mood since the moment I laid eyes on him so he growled at me, told me to shut up and stop asking questions. He’d always been testy, but he was so generous, I didn’t care. I never thought he’d hit me, though. But then again, it was my fault. I should’ve stopped asking him questions.”

  “It was not your fault,” I said.

  “He does seem an irascible sort, but that’s inexcusable,” Sarah said.

  “Ah, I don’t know. At least he had a reason. Pa used to hit me for the fun of it. These are Lottie’s rooms.” Fanny stopped in front of a highly polished wooden door with an open transom window.

  “How long was he here, Fanny?” I asked.

  “Like I said, long enough for me to miss the whole thing. He left when the girls came back telling me Lottie had been arrested.”

  Long enough to have an alibi for Jasper Neely’s murder, I thought.

  CHAPTER 29

  “No, I’m sorry. My mind is made up,” a woman’s voice declared from behind the closed door. It was Lottie Fox.

  “You were willing to give it to an unbalanced radical but not to me?” a man said, his Southern drawl vaguely familiar. “What could he do, use it to get one bill passed? I could change this whole darn country!”