A Deceptive Homecoming (13 page)

“I found Mr. Hayward in the middle of Third Street,” her husband corrected.

“Yes, but near the corner of Third and Charles.”

“Very well, but may we all agree that this is an extraordinary coincidence and nothing more? For the good of the school, let's not talk of this again.” His wife nodded her head slowly but was obviously still giving the subject more thought. “We wouldn't want to undo the good you've done, Miss Davish.”

“No, of course not,” I said.

“Good. I knew you'd understand.” President Upchurch flipped open his gold pocket watch. He walked back behind his desk and snapped the watch closed before sitting down. “Well, now, ladies, I've enjoyed our visit, but the school won't run itself, you know. So if there's nothing more?”

Mr. Upchurch picked up a pen, dipped the nib in ink, and held it over the paper he was reading when I arrived. “Thank you for your visit, Miss Davish. Safe travels back.” A small drip splashed to the page. “Darn it!” Upchurch tried to blot the drip.

Mrs. Upchurch waved her hand, indicating for me to follow her toward the door. “We will leave you to your work, dear.” He nodded without looking up.

“Thank you, Mr. Upchurch,” I said. It was all I could muster with my mind muddled by his artful dismissal of my concern. Did he truly believe in such a bizarre coincidence, or did he not believe his wife saw Levi Yardley like she claimed? Or could he not admit, even to himself, that he'd made a terrible mistake? Either way, he seemed secure in his belief that he buried the right man. I wished I could be that certain.

Once in the outer office with the door closed behind us, Emily Upchurch said, “I really do think you're on to something, Miss Davish.” Miss Clary continued to type, appearing to ignore us.

“You do?” I was relieved to know I wasn't the only one.

“Yes, absolutely. I know what I saw. Yet Asa could be right. It all could be a fantastical coincidence. Either way, it's a mystery, and I do love a good mystery. If there's anything I can do to help, please ask.”

“Actually there is something you might be able to do. Can you describe the person Mr. Yardley was arguing with?”

“Yes, I can. In fact, he was the one that caught my eye in the first place.”

“Why's that?”

“Because he was wearing a white coat over his street clothes. He seemed to be trying to convince the other to return to the safety of the sidewalk.”

“What did he look like, the man in the white coat?”

“He was in his early to mid-forties, tall, thin, with a Roman nose, dark brown hair, graying at the temples—”

“Did he oil his mustache and beard?”

“Why, yes, he did. But how did you know that?”

“The same way you knew Levi Yardley. I've seen him before.” Mrs. Upchurch had described Dr. Cyrus Hillman.

I
couldn't leave Asa Upchurch's office fast enough. I had to get back to the asylum and confront Dr. Hillman. After parting with Mrs. Upchurch in the hall, I pulled out my notepad and pencil and scribbled a quick list.

“Do watch where you're going, Miss Davish,” a voice boomed. I looked up from my list into the amused face of Mrs. Chaplin. “If I recall, you always were one lost in reverie and oblivious to your surroundings. Watch your step, young lady, not your book!”

“Yes, Mrs. Chaplin.” I felt very much the chastised student again.

Mrs. Chaplin!
I'd completely forgotten my promise to Miss Gilbert that I'd have a word with the retired matron. But I had to see Dr. Hillman.

“I'm glad to have run into you, though not literally, of course.”

“Oh?” I said, still struggling with my conflict. I needn't have, as Mrs. Chaplin made the decision for me.

“I feel we haven't had a proper conversation since you returned. The funeral wasn't the appropriate setting, of course.”

“No, ma'am.”

“I'd like you to dine with me. Then we can have plenty of time to discuss literature, life, and the state of the world's affairs.”

“I'd enjoy that but—”

“I will not take no for an answer, young lady. My carriage is waiting.”

“Then thank you, ma'am. I'd enjoy that.” I meant it. I'd much rather spend the evening in my old mentor's company than go back to the asylum.

Mrs. Chaplin was an intelligent, well-read, charismatic woman whom I'd enjoyed countless evenings with. Although we were being trained as typists, secretaries, and stenographers, Mrs. Chaplin insisted we also learn life skills, basic bookkeeping, basic sewing, cooking and housekeeping skills (which I failed miserably), as well as proper dining etiquette, dancing, and conversation skills. She would host these lessons at her home, overseeing the instruction herself. She was a firm but fair teacher who enlightened us, with the lessons as well as with discussions ranging from politics to world travel to art. I credit her more than any other with my success. If it weren't for her, I'd probably be languishing in a typing pool. I'd never have found the courage or the requisite breadth of knowledge to interact with the variety of people I've worked for. It was because of her that I was here today. If not for her insistence that I take further bookkeeping instruction from Frank Hayward, I'd never have met either Mr. Hayward or Ginny. Oddly, I only recently had an opportunity to use those skills.

As we turned up Francis Street and the horses climbed the hill toward Mrs. Chaplin's stately home, I felt relieved not to be going to the asylum. Now that the urgency had left me, I was in no way anxious to return. Dr. Hillman must be held accountable for his lies, but the truth was I needn't be involved. It wasn't my responsibility. After dinner tonight, I'd write Bertha Yardley explaining what I'd learned, but that would be the end of it. Let her pursue this matter. I sat back satisfied with the unexpected rescue and resolution to my predicament when suddenly I thought,
But what was Mrs. Chaplin doing at the school in the first place?

 

Dinner was lovely. Over plates of filet of beef with mushroom sauce, cold duck, green peas, string beans, mashed potatoes, salad of lettuce, and olives, Mrs. Chaplin was as engaging and informative as I remembered, regaling me with her recent visit to the World's Fair. (
Am I the only person who hasn't attended?
) The apple pudding, one of Mrs. Chaplin's signature dishes, was delicious. Eventually the conversation turned from the acquittal of Lizzie Borden, the deadly tornado that hit Charleston, the Duke of York's recent wedding, and the possible repeal of the Sherman Silver Purchase Act to reminiscing about time at the school. We spoke briefly about Ginny.

“Do you know what Virginia's going to do now that her father's dead?” I asked.

“I offered her a position at the school, but she refused me.”

“Did she say why? Did she say what she was going to do?” Without a husband or a personal fortune, a single woman's prospects were slim. She had an education, at least, I thought. I said as much.

“Yes, but she doesn't seem to be making any plans to use it,” Mrs. Chaplin said. “I don't know, Hattie. Between you and me, I worry about that girl. She needs to be looking to her future now.”

I waited throughout dinner, unsuccessfully, for an opportunity to bring up the school's current troubles, as I'd promised. I still hadn't mentioned it when Mrs. Chaplin guided me to her parlor, a comfortable room with a high ceiling, mahogany paneling, plush tapestry covering the parlor suite, and a small fire crackling in the grate. When she left me to supervise the after-dinner refreshments with her maid, I relished browsing the stacks of books that were scattered throughout the room. The few I picked up included
The Firm of Girdlestone
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, John Churton Collins's
The Study of English Literature: A Plea for Its Recognition and Organization at the Universities
,
Might Is Right or The Survival of the Fittest
by Ragnar Redbeard, and Sir Richard Burton's
Land of Midian (Revisited).

And then, while pulling a copy of
Life on the Mississippi
from the bottom of the stack, I knocked the books to the floor. I hurriedly picked them up, restacking them until I noticed a stack of papers under the tea table. Unlike the books, these were not in neat piles but haphazardly stuffed behind the tablecloth. The aberrant piles were so out of character from everything else in Mrs. Chaplin's house that I didn't hesitate to retrieve one of the papers from the clump. It was a page from a shorthand dictionary. I picked out another paper. It was identical to the first, page 187, which ran from
sick-bed
to
sinful-ly
. I grabbed another and another and another, creating a similar pile of random papers on the floor next to me. Sheet after sheet was identical to the first. Hadn't there been an incident at the school where the new shorthand dictionaries were all missing the same page? I pulled the remaining papers from beneath the table, adding them to the pile next to me, and stacked them neatly together. I placed the stack on the table.

Mrs. Chaplin stole the pages from the new dictionaries? Why?

I picked up the Mark Twain book I'd been attempting to retrieve when I created this mess. Directly below it was
Burns' Phonic Shorthand: For Schools.
Many of the pages were bent at the corners and the brown cloth had flecked off from most of the spine. It was twenty years old, and yet when I opened it up to a random page, I immediately recognized the style. This was the same archaic shorthand style from the anonymous letters I'd been receiving. I was stunned. I sat down in a chair, the Burns book in my lap, and waited for Mrs. Chaplin to return. I didn't wait long.

“Here we are.” Mrs. Chaplin handed me a cup of coffee. “I wouldn't have been so long but Lettie misplaced the—” She stopped mid-sentence when she noticed the book in my lap. I glanced at the stack of papers on the table and she followed my gaze. “Oh, I see.” I'd never heard her speak so quietly.

“Mrs. Chaplin?” I waited for an explanation. She dropped into the nearest chair.

“You were one of my best, if not the best, Hattie Davish. I should've known you'd find me out sooner or later. But then again, that's why I did it, you see.” She stopped as if that explained everything.

“No, Mrs. Chaplin, I don't see.” I set the Burns book on the table.

“You obviously realize that I'm the one that sent you the anonymous letters to your hotel.” I nodded.

“And the funeral notice.” I was guessing.

“Oh, figured that out too, did you? Well, yes, but I bet you didn't know that I'd begun planning the lake party before you even arrived? Don't tell Emily Upchurch, though. She thinks it was all her idea.”

“But why?”

“Because I knew you would come.”

I shook my head in confusion and frustration. “I don't understand. Why did you want me to come? And why be secretive about it? Why not write me in your own hand and ask me to come?”

“Would you have made the cross-country trip for Frank Hayward's funeral if I'd simply asked?” I began to answer yes, then hesitated. She was right. I thought I'd come for Ginny's sake, but if I was being honest the intrigue of the mystery behind the funeral notice letter probably did more to persuade me to come than I'd like to imagine.

“I don't know. But why was it important that I come in the first place? I obviously brought cold comfort for Virginia Hayward. Did you too suspect the dead man wasn't Frank Hayward?”

“What? No. What crazy idea is that? Of course not! What are you talking about?”

“You mean you sent me the funeral notice for another reason?”

“I sent you the notice because I need to know what's going on at my school.” That wasn't what I expected. “There have been a string of unfortunate incidents. And they may seem petty to you, but who else would investigate them for me? Isn't that part of what you do now?” It seemed Miss Gilbert was wrong; Mrs. Chaplin knew about the problems all along.

I picked up the stack of the torn-out shorthand dictionary pages. “But what about these? I found them under the tea table.” Mrs. Chaplin took the stack from me.

“See, that's precisely the sort of thing I'd hoped you do, find clues, find answers. Unfortunately I already knew about these.”

“Did you tear them out of the books?” I couldn't believe I was accusing my former head matron, my former mentor, of defacing books, but the evidence was undeniable.

“No, no.” She shook her head, dismissing the idea. She set the stack on the table again. “No, these came to me anonymously, stuffed in a large envelope.”

“Anonymously?” This was becoming an all too common form of communication.

“Yes, that's how I got the idea to write to you. No one but you would be able to translate the Burns' shorthand. And of course, the challenge of it would further intrigue you and persuade you to come.”

How well she knows me,
I thought. Perhaps better than I knew or would like to admit to myself.

“So will you help me?”

What else could I say to the woman I owed so much but, “Of course, I will.”

“Good. Now where do we start?”

“Obviously you're aware of the dictionaries, but do you know about the fire at the school?” She nodded. “And the other acts of vandalism, the stolen typewriter keys and the emptied champagne bottles at the lake party?”

“Yes, I know about all that as well as the missing applications and stolen bazaar money.” Somehow Mrs. Chaplin had been kept well-informed.

“Have you heard the rumors that the school is in financial trouble?” Her face blanched. She obviously hadn't heard about that. “And that Frank Hayward's name has been connected with possible criminal activity?” I didn't like repeating the rumor, but Mrs. Chaplin deserved to know everything I did. She'd founded the school by herself over twenty years ago with the money her late husband left her. She'd been a rich, educated widow, with grown children and nothing to do.

She shook her head slowly; then she squinted at me. I remembered her doing that when I'd yet again burned the roast in cooking class. She wasn't happy. Taking me by surprise, she suddenly stood.

“Let's go!”

I scrambled to my feet and I followed her lead as she headed toward the door without further explanation. Never one to suggest frailty, Mrs. Chaplin moved with a swiftness I found hard to match.

“Where are we going?”

“To the school, of course. I think it's time I came out of retirement, don't you?”

“I admit I wondered why you retired in the first place. But why go to the school now?”

“After apple pudding and such enlightening conversation, I have a sudden hankering to look at the accounting books.” She smiled like the Cheshire cat. She hadn't lost any of her wit, her charm, or her determination in her old age. I admired her more in this moment than ever before.

With my help, she clambered into her ladies' phaeton carriage. “But why do you need me to tag along?”

I hoped it wasn't to drive. It was one lesson Mrs. Chaplin hadn't taught and I'd been glad, having always given horses a wide berth. And considering what happened to Levi Yardley (yes, I told myself it was Levi Yardley and not Frank Hayward who was trampled), I was right to do so. I'd held the reins of a horse once, and even that had given me a fright. Luckily she took the reins herself. Though I hadn't been surprised that she refused to wait for her driver, again I hadn't anticipated her response.

“You always were the better bookkeeper, of course.” And with that she snapped the reins and we were off.

 

“Who's there?”

Mrs. Chaplin and I'd arrived at the school well after dark. Without a single light emanating from within the building, the only illumination we had to guide us was the electric glow of the streetlamps. Mrs. Chaplin had fumbled in the dark with her key.