“So you grabbed the offending gin bottle you found her drinking from, didn’t you, Mrs. Piers?” I said. “And smashed it over her head.”
“Yes. Seeing our leader sitting there, infested with liquor . . . I simply reacted. It was like storming into the saloon, ignoring the cries and the protests and, hatchets held high, doing what needed to be done.”
“You stuffed her into one of her trunks,” I said. “Why?”
“She was dead. I had to hide the body. The temperance vote was the next day and the annual meeting was about to begin. I could only think of what it would do to the coalition for her, our president, to be found like that. I couldn’t chance it.”
“Like that, you mean intoxicated?” Walter said.
“Of course, it would’ve jeopardized everything. As it was, I barely finished cleaning up when Eleanor arrived.” She paused and sighed. “And we lost the vote anyway. What a disappointment after all our hard work. But we can try again in two years. In that at least, the law is with us.”
The clanking and creaking of the wheels on the departing train, as they labored to make the first few rotations, caused her to pause. “Sister Cordelia may never forgive me for disillusioning her about Mother Trevelyan,” Josephine said. “I wish she never had to know. It’s a burden I was willing to bear alone.”
“But you killed a woman,” I sputtered, incredulous. “Don’t you think that’s the more heinous act?”
“That’s different. She’ll forgive me for that, for what I did, I did for the good of the coalition. Cordelia knows I loved Mother Trevelyan and that it pained me greatly to have killed her. But we’ve worked too hard to free this nation from destruction and Godlessness to have it all ruined now. Cordelia would understand.”
“I don’t think Cordelia or any member of the coalition would understand murdering someone,” I said.
“Yes, they would,” she said. “We fight for what’s right. We do God’s work, even if it means killing the greatest among us. That bottle was a holy weapon meting out justice.”
“She wasn’t dead, Mrs. Piers,” Walter interjected as Officer Norris and the station security guards arrived. “The bottle didn’t kill Mrs. Trevelyan.”
“What?” Josephine said, alarm rising in her voice. “But I saw her head fall. I saw her bleed. She wasn’t moving or breathing when I put her in the trunk. She was dead.”
“No, the cause of death was suffocation from the clothes you piled on top of her, and not the head wound you inflicted with the bottle,” Dr. Grice said. “It was your callousness and not any act of holy justice that killed Mrs. Trevelyan.”
“Noooooo!” The woman’s wail as she collapsed to the platform was something I’ll never forget. She held her head in her hands, rocking back and forth against the wooden planks, muttering, “No, no, no, no.” It was hard not to feel some pity for her.
“Oh, Mother Trevelyan,” Josephine said, raising her eyes and bound hands to the sky in supplication. “If only I could’ve held my hand fast, I might’ve saved your soul.”
“Take her away, Norris,” Walter said to the policeman. “It’s her own soul she needs to worry about now.”
C
HAPTER
27
“I
still can’t believe Josephine killed Edwina, dear,” Miss Lizzie said as we sat on the hotel’s second-story veranda, sipping coffee. She held a plate on her lap, collecting the toast crumbs on the tip of her finger. “She adored Edwina, was devoted to her.”
“I’m afraid Josephine Piers was more devoted to her cause,” I said.
“But how did you know it was Josephine, Davish?” Miss Lucy asked.
“It was John Martin’s note, the one Chief Jackson showed me that said,
I may be a drunk, but I’m no killer
. At the time, only John Martin and Mrs. Trevelyan would’ve known that it pertained to the death of Mrs. Trevelyan’s daughter. We all know that now. But Mrs. Trevelyan’s killer, upon reading it, wouldn’t have and thus might think the note referred to them. There were witnesses who said John Martin wasn’t alone that night, that he was overheard talking to a woman. I’m guessing once she discovered the identity of J.M., Josephine confronted John Martin with the note at Grotto Spring, after the rally. One of them must’ve dropped it.”
“But that doesn’t explain how you knew it was Josephine, dear,” Miss Lizzie said.
“Yes, it does. The desk clerk had written
Give to secretary
on the note, so it was logical that it had been given to Mrs. Trevelyan’s secretary. But I never received the letter, and it had bothered me at the time that I hadn’t, so that left Josephine Piers, who everyone knows had once served as Mrs. Trevelyan’s secretary. Once I suspected her, everything else fell into place.”
“But John Martin’s death was accidental, Davish,” Miss Lucy said.
“That’s the official verdict, yes,” I said.
“But you think otherwise?”
“We’ll never know, Miss Lucy,” I said. “But either way, I think Mrs. Piers is culpable.”
“How can you believe that, dear?” Miss Lizzie said. “Even if she met him at the spring, there’s no evidence she was involved in any way.”
“But there is, Miss Lizzie. Josephine Piers mentioned that he died by hitting his head on the bench. She wouldn’t have known that unless she’d seen him fall. The police report hadn’t been released to the public yet.”
“Are you saying she might’ve pushed him herself, Davish?” Miss Lucy said, licking her lips. “Then it wouldn’t be an accident at all, would it? It would be,” she paused for effect, “a double murder.” Miss Lucy sounded almost gleeful. I couldn’t understand why.
“I’m saying that even if she didn’t push him, Josephine Piers should still bear partial responsibility for his death. If you or I had seen John Martin fall, we would’ve cried out, sought help for the dying man. But she didn’t. She left him to die. I’d wondered what would’ve happened had any of the coalition members discovered Mrs. Trevelyan’s secret drinking habit,” I said. “Now we know.”
“None of us condone such violence, Davish,” Miss Lucy snapped, suddenly annoyed.
“I knew nothing good would come of slashing up saloons,” Miss Lizzie said, slowly shaking her head.
“Lizzie,” her sister rebuked, “Josephine was an extremist. We all knew it, but no one could’ve foreseen this.”
“But we should have, Lucy, dear. We should have. Shouldn’t the AWTC strive for temperance in all things?” It wasn’t my place to say, but I agreed completely with Miss Lizzie. An awkward silence followed.
“Ladies,” Walter said from behind me as he stepped out onto the veranda.
“Walter, I’m so glad you’re here.” And I meant it. The growing tension was making me uncomfortable. The sisters had been kind to me. Whenever they began to disagree, I tried not to get caught in the middle. I rose from the rocking chair to meet him halfway. “I was hoping to see you before I left. Did the police tell you anything?” I whispered. He took my hand, and kissed it, though uncertainty showed in his face.
“Only that they contacted Colonel Walker, who provided an alibi for his son-in-law. Supposedly, John Martin, upon returning from his night in prison, received a disturbing telegram and stormed out of the hotel.”
“The demand for more money from Mrs. Trevelyan,” I said.
“Probably. Worried, the colonel followed him. The colonel swears John never left his sight all morning and that they never approached the Arcadia Hotel.”
“Then where were they all that time?” I said.
“The little Catholic chapel on the outskirts of town,” Walter said. “It’s quite a hike from here. The colonel stood outside for over an hour listening while his son-in-law prayed, mumbling things about redemption and forgiveness over and over. He must’ve had renewed feelings of remorse over his first wife’s death.” I was having feelings of remorse of my own. I had all but accused John Martin of Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder. I’d met John Martin at that little chapel. I’d seen Joseph Mascavarti’s name in the chapel’s petition book, dated that very day. I should’ve made the connection. I should’ve mentioned it earlier. I mentioned it now.
“But why didn’t the colonel reveal this immediately?” I said.
“Chief Jackson speculates it’s because the colonel was ashamed, first of his son-in-law’s behavior, and then, after discovering the articles about Ruth Mascavarti’s death, of his own culpability in exposing his own daughter to a drunken killer. That’s probably why he gave you the articles and left town, instead of facing the police.”
“I said, ‘Good morning, Dr. Grice,’ ” Miss Lucy said. I had the feeling it wasn’t the first time. “Are you now as deaf as a copper kettle? Or do you only have ears for Davish here? Will you two sit down?” We complied. Walter reached for my hand under the table. “We were interrogating Davish here on last night’s adventures.”
“Oh, really? Did she explain how she knew about Cordelia Anglewood’s lack of funds?” Walter said.
“No, dear, you never did tell us,” Miss Lizzie said.
“It was you, Miss Lizzie. I saw Cordelia Anglewood fiddle with her collar the same way you did after your stick pin broke. Then you mentioned taking the train on Monday to visit a jeweler in Fayetteville.”
“That doesn’t explain a thing, Davish,” Miss Lucy said.
“When I first arrived, Cordelia wore exquisite jewelry, but of late had been wearing less expensive pieces or not wearing anything at all,” I said. “You ladies even commented on it after the memorial service. Her moving to the Hotel Byron substantiated my suspicions. So when I discovered she had received a money wire, not from her husband, but from a jeweler in Fayetteville, I contacted them. She had taken the same train you mentioned, the day Mrs. Trevelyan died.”
“The 9:15,” Miss Lizzie said.
“Yes, the 9:15. Mrs. Trevelyan was still alive at 9:18, so Cordelia couldn’t have killed her.”
“Clever of you, Davish,” Miss Lucy said. “Or should I start calling you Holmes? You’ve already got a Dr. Watson.” Walter laughed.
“I’m afraid we’ve missed that train today, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “By the way, who are Holmes and Dr. Watson?”
“Oh, Lizzie,” Miss Lucy said, “don’t fret. We’ll go to Fayetteville tomorrow and I’ll read you a good detective story on the train. Oh, Diana, come join us.”
Diana Halbert, the presumptive new AWTC president, approached and engaged us with an amusing story about Charlie the dog and last night’s dessert course.
“And there he was, covered with whipping cream and cherries, lapping up the last of the chocolate sauce,” Miss Halbert said. Miss Lucy laughed and slapped her knee. Miss Lizzie wiped tears from her eyes. Walter and I chuckled at their reaction. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you the latest gossip, Miss Lucy. You know the saloonkeeper, the one that—”
“Yes, Diana, dear, we know all about Mr. Shulman,” Miss Lizzie said.
“You do? Well, I should’ve known you’d be the first to know that he’s getting married.”
“Married?” Miss Lucy cried, almost spilling her coffee.
“Oh, good,” Diana said, clapping her hands in delight, “you don’t already know. Well, I spoke to Annie Butler at the
Daily Democrat
this morning, and she said the man came in after being released from jail, wanting the banns published in the paper.”
“To whom?” Miss Lucy said. “Who would marry that brute?”
“A chambermaid from this hotel.” Miss Halbert paused for effect. “The very one that cleaned for Mother Trevelyan. She quit her job this morning.”
“Well, I never,” Miss Lucy declared. I pictured my letter opener as I’d found it upon my return last night, and smiled. The blade had gleamed under the electric lights. I’d touched its edge lightly. It had recently been sharpened and polished.
“And now that he’s Councilman Shulman, he’s turning the saloon over to a cousin or some such relative. There’s even a rumor that he never drank in the first place, and to prove it, has taken the temperance pledge!”
“No!” Beyond this exclamation, Miss Lucy was speechless. I thought she was going to fall out of her chair.
“Now that you’ve solved our mystery, Miss Davish,” Miss Halbert said, satisfied with the effect her news had had on our companions, “what now? Thanksgiving with family, I presume?”
“No, I’m off to Illinois for a new engagement, for Sir Arthur Windom-Greene.”
I couldn’t keep the gratitude and excitement out of my voice and Walter released my hand. I could read the disappointment in his face and regretted it. But I had no choice but to take another position—that’s who I am. And I could never refuse Sir Arthur anything. Nor would I doubt him again; he had given me the adventure of a lifetime and was indirectly responsible for my meeting Walter in the first place.
“When Sir Arthur received my news about Mrs. Piers’s arrest this morning, he immediately wired back, requesting my services indefinitely,” I said. “I’ll be here a few more days yet, traveling back and forth between here and Pea Ridge, and then I’ll go to Galena. I may be there well past the New Year. He’s begun work on a new book.”
“Well, that sounds exciting, Hattie,” Walter said, attempting to sound enthusiastic. “But less eventful, I hope.”
I had to admit, the thought of working with Sir Arthur again and getting caught up in his passion for Civil War history was thrilling. The idea of not spending Christmas alone, but in the presence of Sir Arthur’s large and boisterous family, was also tremendously appealing. I was relieved Walter was at least attempting to understand.
“But you do mean Chicago, don’t you, dear?” Miss Lizzie said. “I wired him there just a few days ago.”
“No, Miss Lizzie,” I said. “He’s currently doing research on Civil War generals from Galena, including President Grant, so he’s rented a house there.”
“Now, there was a man in need of some temperance,” Miss Lucy said, recovered from her shock over the gossip about George Shulman.
“I hope you mean General Grant, Lucy, dear, and not Arthur.”
“Of course, I mean Grant, Lizzie. Arthur’s one of us.”
“Well, I think we shouldn’t be hasty to judge anyone,” Miss Lizzie said, “considering the shocking behavior we’ve witnessed this past week. I believe a pervasive lack of temperance exists, even among the best of us.” For several moments, we sat in silence, each contemplating Miss Lizzie’s insightful comment. “Well, Hattie, dear, give our best to Arthur. The holidays always remind me of him. I wonder . . .”
“Oh, no, Lizzie, we’re not leaving the Springs,” her sister said. “Look at this weather.” Behind the rain had come a calm morning of blue skies and warm sunshine.
“But think of it, Lucy, Christmas in Illinois.”
“Thanksgiving, maybe, but Christmas?” Miss Lucy said. “I’m not trudging through ten-foot snowdrifts, with wet boots that weigh like clothes irons, so you can sing carols through the night with Arthur Windom-Greene again.”
Walter looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Again?” his lips read silently. I shrugged. I’d no idea what the sisters were talking about. I couldn’t imagine Sir Arthur caroling in any weather. He hated being outdoors, preferring his pipe and a good book to fresh air and a hike.
“It has a romantic ring about it, don’t you think, dear? Your dear Oliver loved Christmas at Arthur’s that year, don’t you remember?”
Miss Lucy glowered at her sister. “Of course, I remember. Those two fools were up all night singing Willis’s ‘Carol’ over and over again. I don’t think any of us got any sleep that night.” Despite her complaints, a hint of a smile passed Miss Lucy’s lips.
“Then we should do it again,” Miss Lizzie said. “And it will give us a chance to see how Hattie is getting along. I think I’ll write to Arthur this very evening.”
“There you go butting in again, Lizzie. I thought we discussed that.”
“That’s all right, Miss Lucy,” I said. “I don’t mind.”
Walter took my hand again. “Oh, Miss Davish, I think you’ve proven you don’t need anyone checking up on you.”
“Unless it’s you administrating the checkup, eh, Dr. Grice?” Miss Lucy said.
“You’re right about that, Miss Lucy,” Walter said, roaring with laughter, and then he kissed me, to my astonishment and the satisfaction of our companions.