“What do you want to know?” he said, setting the bucket down with a splash.
“I’m Hattie Davish, by the way.”
“Nate.” We shook hands.
“Do you work here every day, Nate?”
“Yup, though I get Sunday mornings off for church.”
“So you were working here last Monday, then?”
“Yup.”
“Do you know Mrs. Cordelia Anglewood?”
“Big, mean lady with black hair, rides the feisty chestnut every day?”
“That’s her.” I chuckled at the apt description. “Now this is very important, Nate. I want you to think about it before you answer. Did Mrs. Anglewood go riding Monday, at any time?”
Without hesitation, he answered, “Nope.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yup.”
“But I myself saw her heading for the stables,” I said. “Could she have come without you seeing her? Could one of the other boys have saddled her horse?”
“Nope.” He slapped his hands against his thighs, sending dust billowing through the air. “I was here from sunup to sundown, and I never saw her. She’s come every day for weeks, but not Monday. I haven’t seen her today yet either.”
I gestured to the stalls that lined the walls. “You must saddle dozens of horses a day. How can you be so sure?”
He jerked back his collar and showed me fresh lacerations on his shoulder and neck. “I remember. Like I said, miss, she’s a mean lady. Monday was the best day in weeks.”
“Why, Miss Davish, what a surprise.” Walter appeared, wearing a long, starched white coat and a stethoscope around his neck. “You’re early for your bathhouse appointment.”
I was standing in the doorway of his office. I’d come early, eager to tell Walter about Cordelia Anglewood’s lack of an alibi. However, when it came to entering, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I shuddered, recalling the last time I’d visited a doctor’s office.
“Did you come early to have a chat with me?” Walter Grice said, his face beaming.
“Yes. I wanted to tell you something I learned this morning. It’s related to the murder.”
Walter’s smile disappeared. “Let’s go inside where we can talk,” he said.
Walter held the door open with one hand and guided me inside with the other. As we passed through the unoccupied examination room, with its gleaming metal objects and smell of iodine, the room began to spin a bit. Walter’s firm grip on my elbow and hand on my back was all that kept me on my feet. I clamped my eyes shut until he helped me onto a settee in his office. I’d been holding my breath. He wheeled his desk chair across from me, sat down, and leaned forward. He kept his gaze on my face while he took my hands in his. He wasn’t being amorous, but was yet again inconspicuously taking my pulse. Although my instinct was to pull away, I felt comforted by his soft, strong hands.
“You’ve had a bad experience, haven’t you,” he said, in a low, imperturbable voice, “with other doctors?” I nodded, tears welling up in my eyes. I was grateful he didn’t inquire further. “I’m sorry, Hattie.” He gave my hands a gentle squeeze and then glanced over his shoulder as the postman entered the examination room to deliver the mail. “I’d close the door but I wouldn’t want to show any impropriety.”
Embarrassed, I extricated my hands and wiped away the tears. “Thank you. I’m fine now.” I smiled at him in answer to his questioning countenance.
“Good morning, Jacob,” Walter said to the postman. “You can just leave it there on the table.”
“Good morning, Doc, ma’am,” the postman said as he left.
“I apologize for the interruption,” Walter said. “Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said.
He relaxed back into his chair, grinning. “Good. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, spring water?”
“A cup of coffee would be nice, thank you.”
He rose from his chair and pushed a buzzer on the wall. A thin man with patches of gray hair about the ears appeared in the doorway. He was impeccably dressed, with razor sharp creases down his trouser legs, a starched bow tie, and bleached white gloves.
“Sir?” He spoke with a British accent.
“Theakston, could you arrange for coffee for Miss Davish and me. Use the Kona.” Walter, addressing me, said, “My mother sent some wonderful coffee straight from the Sandwich Islands. Would you like something to eat? Knowing you, you didn’t eat enough breakfast.”
“You don’t need to make a fuss on my account, Dr. Grice. Plain coffee is fine. And I don’t need anything to eat.”
“And bring some of the cake Mrs. Norton brought yesterday,” Walter said, addressing his valet again. “Thank you, Theakston.”
“Very good, sir.” The butler took two steps backward and then disappeared through the doorway. When he was gone, I broached the subject that was the purpose of my visit.
“I’m sorry to hear that George Shulman was arrested. I know you and he are friends.”
All the animation vanished from Walter’s face. “Yes, thank you.” His head drooped. “I never thought it would come to this, Hattie. He’s innocent. I know he’s innocent.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Walter appeared expectant but didn’t interrupt. “I’ve seen his violent temper, Walter, and I know he had a very good reason to hate Mrs. Trevelyan. You and I were even witness to his threats. But unless the police have more evidence against him than his motive, I know of at least one, maybe two other possible suspects.”
“Hattie!” Relief and hope washed over Walter’s face. “That’s marvelous. Who are these other suspects?”
Theakston’s return, with a tray laden with a silver coffee service and several slices of scrumptious-looking cake, cut off further discussion. The butler set the tray on a nearby table and proceeded without comment to pour the coffee. He offered me a cup, black as I like it, and then served the doctor a cup brimming with cream and sugar.
“Will that be all, sir?” he said, setting a cloth napkin on Walter’s lap.
“Yes, thank you, Theakston,” Walter said. The butler retreated as I took my first sip of coffee. “How do you like it?”
“It’s fine, thank you,” I said.
Walter wrinkled up his face. “Isn’t it the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The coffee is very good.”
“Very good? I’ll have you know this is some of the finest coffee in the world. Never mind. How about this?” He reached for the cake plate. “Could I tempt you? One of my patients brought this yesterday. She’s a very good cook.”
Without hesitation, I helped myself to a slice and took a bite, and then another and another until it was gone. Walter watched me over his coffee cup as I reached for a second slice and burst out laughing, almost spilling his drink.
“Now I know the secret to getting Miss Hattie Davish to eat—let her eat cake!”
Despite myself I had to laugh. He was right. I hadn’t tasted a cake yet that I didn’t like. I finished my third piece as Walter poured himself a second cup of coffee.
“Now, Hattie, tell me all you know about these other possible suspects. Who are they?”
“One is Mrs. Cordelia Anglewood,” I said.
“Do I know her?”
“Yes, she’s the new president of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition, the one who conducted the memorial service last night.”
“Ah. What would be her reason, to become the coalition’s new president? Doesn’t seem like much of a motive to me. She’s ambitious, but do you think her capable of murder?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible. She might’ve had other reasons as well.”
I recounted everything I knew about Cordelia Anglewood, about the threats she hurled at Mrs. Trevelyan’s closed door the first time I’d met her, how she was witnessed almost striking Mrs. Trevelyan, how she almost struck me. She was a woman with a temper. I repeated what Miss Lizzie had told me of the d
isagreements between Mrs. Trevelyan and Cordelia. I told him about her ambitions and how she had lied about her whereabouts.
“She could’ve lashed out at Mrs. Trevelyan in a rage,” I said.
“Maybe.” He sounded skeptical. “But you said the chambermaid saw Cordelia Anglewood leave early Monday morning when Mrs. Trevelyan was still alive and well.”
“She could’ve returned after Mary left.”
“You don’t like this woman, do you?” Walter teased.
“Dr. Grice, I’m being perfectly objective about this,” I said, offended, in part because I was afraid that he was right. “It’s what I was trained to do. It’s all about organization, summation, and an eye to detail.” He grimaced as he finished his coffee. “You didn’t see the whip lashing she gave that little stable boy.”
“You’re right, Hattie. She’s a legitimate subject.” He offered me another slice of cake. “And the other possible suspect?”
“His name is John Martin.”
I hadn’t told anyone of my suspicions of John Martin: that the money, deposited in the AWTC’s bank account in his name, might have been extortion money, that he might have been in Mrs. Trevelyan’s room, that he might have been the author of the threatening note, that he might have killed Mrs. Trevelyan. It was too much supposition. I also hadn’t told anyone of my search for him and my failure to find him. I’d asked around and no one had recognized the name. He was a mystery, and until now, I alone knew it. So why was I telling Walter?
“Or at least I think it is,” I said.
“He’s the man you asked about at breakfast yesterday morning, something about an ambiguous letter?”
“I’m sorry, Walter. I lied about that, in a way. I needed to know if anyone recognized the name.”
“Why, who is he?”
“That’s just it; I don’t know.” I told him everything, about the note, the calling card, the bank receipt, my futile search, everything. “I’m not sure he has anything to do with Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder, but you have to admit how suspicious it looks.”
“I agree. I think we ought to go to the police.” Walter looked at his pocket watch and then rose from his chair. “We have time before your appointment.” He reached out his hand, urging me to rise, but with the mention of the police, my enthusiasm waned. I began to have doubts again.
“The police don’t hold me in high regard,” I said. “And to tell you the truth, Walter, I’m beginning to wonder why I’m still involved in this.” Walter knitted his brow and sat down again. “Instead of thinking about Mrs. Trevelyan’s murder, I should be spending my time procuring a new situation. I’m a working typist, a secretary after all, and my current wages will only take me so far. My official obligations to Mrs. Trevelyan end tomorrow.”
I stood and studied a painting on the wall. “And except for a few new acquaintances I would miss, I’ve often longed to be away from here.”
I glanced back to regard the impact my speech had had on the doctor. Walter reached up and took my hands, drawing me back to my chair. “If you left, you would be dearly missed.”
Abashed by his revelation, I studied the titles of books stacked up on the desk next to me: Anatomy: descriptive and surgical, Uses of Water in Modern Medicine, Materia Medica and Therapeutics: for physicians and students, Practitioner’s Ready Reference Book: a handy guide in office and bedside practice. Walter touched my chin and gently compelled me to face him.
“George needs my help. The temperance group is against him, the evidence is against him, and even those who voted him into office are turning against him. And I need help if I’m going to prove he’s innocent,” he whispered as he brushed a stray curl from my forehead. “Please stay and help me.” How could I refuse?
CHAPTER 18
“May I help you, sir?” The clerk at the police station addressed Walter as we approached the desk.
“Yes, Miss Davish and I would like a word with the chief. Please tell him Dr. Walter Grice is inquiring. We’re acquainted.”
“What’s this about?” the clerk asked.
“It’s regarding the arrest of George Shulman for the murder of Edwina Trevelyan.”
At the mention of Mrs. Trevelyan’s name, the clerk scrutinized me but continued to address Walter. “I’ll see if he’s around. Please take a seat, Doctor.”
Walter and I had hardly sat down when Chief Jackson emerged from the back room with a watering can in his hand.
“Too bad about George Shulman, eh, Doc? Guess he won’t be on the council now. I voted for the man too.” The two men shook hands.
“That’s what we’ve come to talk to you about, Ben.”
“Let’s talk in there then, Doc,” Jackson said, pointing to a door on the right.
“Miss Davish needs to be there as well,” Walter said. “She has information that might help your investigation.”
The policeman rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of exasperation. “Very well,” he said, “follow me.”
The room was bare except for a long wooden table and four chairs. Wrought-iron bars crisscrossed the window. I had expected to see some greenery, considering the profusion of plants in the lobby; the light was perfect for ferns. With an indication for us to sit down, the policeman closed the door, sat down across from us, and put up his hand.
“Before you say anything, Doc, Miss Davish, I want you to know that we have our man. George Shulman killed that temperance woman. We’ve got him dead to rights.”
“What’s your evidence against him?” Walter said.
Chief Jackson counted out with his fingers. “He had means, motive, and opportunity. With your help, Doc, we determined the victim was killed by asphyxiation sometime last Monday. As you are also aware, we have evidence that she was hit over the head first with a glass bottle. We found shards of glass in the trunk and embedded in the carpet in her room. We asked the hotel staff and all of the water bottles in the victim’s room are accounted for. Then Burke found the remnants of part of a gin bottle wrapped up among the bloody clothes. Shulman probably hid it there.”
“But anyone could’ve hit her with a gin bottle,” Walter said.
“Doc, we’re talking about a lady temperance leader. Who else would bring a gin bottle around this woman but the man who held a grudge against her for burning his saloon? It’s almost poetic.”
“But he says he was at the Cavern all day,” Walter said. “Surely someone can corroborate his claim.”
“Yes, but not for the whole day,” Chief Jackson said. “There are unexplained gaps, a half hour here, twenty minutes there, in which no one knew where he was. But we do.”
“How? Where was he?” Walter asked.
“George Shulman was at the Arcadia Hotel, despite his claims to the contrary. He was overheard threatening Mrs. Trevelyan in her room at the hotel Monday morning. And the witness heard the sound of breaking glass.” The chief folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “There’s no doubt. He killed her.”
Walter and I stared at him, stunned. Mary had told me about the altercation with Cordelia Anglewood, but this was the first time I’d heard anything about George Shulman clashing with Mrs. Trevelyan that morning.
“That’s what prompted you to start investigating her disappearance,” I blurted out. “Who overheard the threats? What time did they say they heard him?”
Chief Jackson looked at me out of the corner of his eye before his head followed his gaze. “We received an anonymous telephone call,” he said. “Handy device, the telephone. We installed it a few months ago. And yes, we received this information the morning we discovered her in the basement.”
“So it was George Shulman who pushed me down the stairs?” I said.
“The two are quite unrelated.” He turned to Walter. “It’s unfortunate, Doc, but as you see, the evidence is convincing against him.”
“But who else could it’ve been?” I said.
“Even if George Shulman did push you down some stairs, what difference d
oes it make now?” Jackson asked.
“None now, but if you had heeded my concerns, you might’ve prevented me a lot of aches and pains.” I clenched my hands into fists in my lap. “I approached you the day before the telephone tip.”
“We don’t know for sure that it was even George that pushed you,” Walter said, enveloping my fists with his hands under the table. “Isn’t that right, Chief?”
“Something like that,” the policeman conceded. “Now, if there’s nothing more.”
“Do you know for certain that George confronted Mrs. Trevelyan?” Walter said. “I’m not certain that you should believe an anonymous telephone caller.”
“Actually, yes,” the policeman said. “Although we never discovered where the anonymous tip came from, the information is true enough. The registration desk clerk on duty at the time saw the saloonkeeper bound up the stairs toward Mrs. Trevelyan’s room that morning. He couldn’t remember the time, but was certain he’d overheard George Shulman all the way from the second floor, shouting something about justice and hypocrisy. We’ve confirmed this with several others who overheard part of the exchange.”
“Sounds like George, all right,” Walter said. “It seems idiotic, though, threatening her where all can hear and then killing her. He would be immediately suspected.”
“It’s a tactic that’s been used before. She could’ve been already dead, for all we knew at the time, and he was covering it up by creating a scene.” He rose from his chair.
“Ben,” Walter said, “Miss Davish has some information about a few other possible suspects you might want to hear.”
A Lack of Temperance Page 14
