A Lack of Temperance

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “Walter, does this scent remind you of anything?”

  He touched the tips of my fingers as he inhaled the fragrant needles. It was a small but intimate gesture that almost took my breath away. I quickly brushed my hands off on my skirt.

  “Gin.”

  “Exactly.” I was simultaneously exuberant and appalled. “I last encountered this fragrance on one of Mrs. Trevelyan’s handkerchiefs. It was faint but undeniable. I wasn’t able to place it until now.”

  With the implications of my discovery settling in, we turned back.

  “Do you realize what this means?” Walter said, offering me his arm. “Either the killer used the handkerchief to clean up and left it behind . . .”

  “Or Mrs. Trevelyan had more than one dangerous secret,” I said.

  The sun was below the horizon when Walter, promising to return for dinner, bolted around the hotel driveway. The moment his carriage disappeared from view, I dashed up the stairs and ran straight to Mrs. Trevelyan’s room. It was imperative to determine whether indeed the coalition’s late hatchet-wielding, saloon-smashing temperance crusader had had a secret drinking habit. Although the police had searched Mrs. Trevelyan’s room, I decided to look again.

  I wondered if the police had left Mrs. Trevelyan’s possessions or whether the hotel had given the room to another guest. I tried the door. It was unlocked. Neither scenario was right; the room was empty. I scoured it anyway. I opened every table drawer and every wardrobe door and searched under every piece of furniture, even lifting the mattresses. For my efforts, I found several slivers of glass, a blue feather, and a small piece of molding cheese, but nothing of any significance. Next I searched Mrs. Trevelyan’s bathroom. I knocked three times before entering. The room was vacant but far from empty. Both washstands were covered with ladies’ toiletries, as they had been the day I arrived. I was lucky. The police hadn’t removed or disturbed any of Mrs. Trevelyan’s belongings; dust had settled on the perfume and Magnetic Spring water bottles.

  I examined the top of the washstand and the shelf above it, systematically reading all of the labels, and checked each bottle by scent for any hint of alcohol. I found nothing unusual. As I suspected, the washstand drawer contained piles of the plush hand and bathing towels. I removed the towels in order to check the back of the drawer and uncovered a stack of handkerchiefs matching the one I’d found in Mrs. Trevelyan’s nightstand drawer. Why had there only been one in her room? Did these too carry the scent of gin? As I lifted the handkerchiefs out, the drawer tipped toward the floor and a four-sided dark olive bottle, lying on its side, slid forward. My heart skipped a beat. Could the beloved, controversial, and infamous president of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition have been an intemperate hypocrite, a betrayer of everything that those around her held dear? I stared at the bottle a few moments, unsure I wanted to know the truth. But I had to know. I uncorked it and sent the aroma of juniper wafting through the room. I felt dispirited and enlightened at the same time; I’d found Mrs. Trevelyan’s cache of gin.

  It all began to make sense: Mrs. Trevelyan’s lackadaisical attitude toward Cordelia Anglewood’s threat to whip her, her preference for Magnetic Spring water, the frequent trips to the washroom that Mary mentioned, even her flushed cheeks and unfocused gaze I noticed the night the temperance leader assailed the saloon. The bottle weighed heavy in my hand. I had to tell the police. Mrs. Trevelyan herself had supplied the weapon of her demise, not George Shulman. I tucked the bottle under my jacket and replaced the remaining contents of the drawer.

  As I approached my room, I was startled to hear someone moving about within. I cracked the door open and watched, mortified, as Mary Flannagan searched frantically through my desk, pulling out drawers and sending papers flying to the floor. She grabbed my letter opener, hid it in her apron, and sprinted toward the door. I dodged back into the bathroom, barely avoiding meeting her in the hallway. Her head twisted this way and that. Loose hair strands sprang haphazardly from her forehead and bun. Her eyes were red and swollen. She disappeared down the hall. I hid the gin bottle in the desk in my room, checked the condition of my typewriter, and cringed at the sight of my work flung about the floor. I struggled with the urge to reorganize the mess, but I’d have to leave it for now if I wanted my letter opener, a gift from a former employer, back. I raced to catch up with Mary.

  I followed her down staircases, through back alleys, and across many winding streets. We navigated through a yard of hanging laundry and kept to the back of the hotels. The sun no longer reached many of the paths, and I had no idea where she was going. To keep her in my sights, I often drew too near. Twice Mary glanced over her shoulder and forced me to duck behind a parked wagon. Otherwise, she was oblivious to everything around her. Behind one hotel, I almost stepped on a stray cat raiding a hotel’s garbage. It hissed at me, but Mary didn’t pause or turn around. I thought she hadn’t heard and was inching forward when suddenly she froze in the middle of an alley. I darted into the shadow of a doorway.

  “Is someone there?” She twisted her head in my direction, brandishing the letter opener. She stood still, listening.

  Do I typically breathe this loud? I wondered.

  I tried to hold my breath, fearful she would detect my presence. Then a darker thought crossed my mind. This was Mary Flannagan, the maid, who had been kind, if not always truthful, with me. So why was I suddenly afraid of her? Was it her threatening stance with the letter opener? Was it that I had witnessed her complete lack of regard for my belongings and papers? Was I starting to realize that Miss Lucy had been right about Mary all along? I dismissed this outright but knew of no other explanation. She turned away again but proceeded more slowly.

  She had left the alley before I continued after her. I crept forward in the dark along the alley wall and, peering around the corner, was amazed. The police station loomed in front of me. Despite the numerous times I’d been here before, I’d never arrived by such a circuitous route. There were no signs of the maid. I’d lost her again. Yet the last time I’d followed Mary, I had ended up in the same place. She had to be close by.

  “George, George,” someone whispered. I moved in that direction.

  It was Mary, standing beneath a barred window of the jailhouse. “Here, I brought something that might help you.”

  I crouched behind some brush, flinching at the crunch of dried leaves beneath my feet. She either didn’t hear me or didn’t care because her glance never faltered. I watched as Mary tossed my letter opener to a pair of waiting hands. George Shulman’s face filled the window.

  “Ah, love, what am I to do with this?”

  Here was George Shulman’s “darling.” No wonder she felt bitterness over the assault on the saloon and reacted strongly to Miss Lucy’s callous remarks about George Shulman hanging. Mary had hinted that she had a beau. And Mary’s and George Shulman’s names had both appeared in the prayer book at the chapel; they probably even met there. I silently reproved myself for my ignorance. I should’ve known. Walter had thought George no longer had any attachments, but here was Mary, in her desperation to help him, arming George with a stolen letter opener. I suddenly felt ashamed for eavesdropping on such a private conversation, but had no way to leave undetected.

  “You can defend yourself,” Mary said. “I won’t let them hang you. I won’t.”

  “It would be worse for me if they found this.” George Shulman tossed the letter opener back on the ground. It landed a few feet away. “There now, let’s hear some more of that book you’ve been reading. You stopped just after the girl Marian’s diary entries.”

  Mary fumbled with the book in her pocket. When she accidentally dropped it on the ground, Mary collapsed in on herself, falling to her knees. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  “Mary, dear, don’t cry. I’m innocent. They’ll find out who really did it.”

  “They’re sending you to Berryville in the morning,” she shouted. “Don’t you understand, George? My da was inn
ocent too, but he rotted away for years, until he died in his cell. The coppers aren’t even looking for someone else.”

  “Oh, it’s all that hypocrite’s fault.” George rattled the bars and spat. “In life, she was a tyrant, keeping us apart with threats of reporting you to the hotel. She knew they’d throw you out without any references. Now someone’s murdered the old hag, and I’m to blame for it.”

  “Don’t talk ill of the dead, George. It’s bad luck. Besides, she did some good, all those charities and such. You know she paid me well. So what if she liked a nip now and then?” I gasped, dumbfounded at this revelation. Mary knew about Mrs. Trevelyan’s habit. Who else knew? I wondered.

  “But what type of woman objects to us being together because I sell liquor for a living, while she’s drinking gin-loaded coffee?” the barkeeper said. “Even after we took the temperance pledge with her as a witness!” Mrs. Trevelyan knew that George Shulman didn’t drink and yet she targeted his saloon anyway. She must’ve been more fanatical than I’d thought.

  “All that matters now is that she’s dead,” Mary said. “And they’re going to hang you for her murder.”

  “What about that secretary lady? Or Doc Grice? They said they were going to help.”

  “I don’t know,” Mary said. “I think they’re trying, but the coppers aren’t listening.” George rested his head on the bars, all the spark gone from his eyes.

  “Well, let’s hope they start listening,” he said.

  Mary jumped to her feet, brandishing her fist. “I’m not going to let them hang you. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll say I killed her, if I have to. I’ll fight those coppers with my last breath.”

  “No! I’ll let them hang me before I let them get their hands on you, love. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

  “You’ll never lose me, George Shulman. Never.”

  “Then promise me you won’t do anything foolish, Mary. And that you’ll marry me the day I get out of here.”

  “Ah, you’re a fool, George Shulman.” My heart broke as I watched Mary slump to her knees, her body shaking as she cried.

  Walter held the door for an older couple as I mounted the hotel portico steps. He had arrived early for our dinner date.

  “What are you doing coming from out there? It’s going to rain any minute,” he said, peering over my shoulder at the darkening sky. “I thought you had work to do.”

  “I did,” I said, breathing hard from my brisk walk back to the hotel, during which I’d promised myself that I’d help Mary any way I could. “Walter, George Shulman’s innocent. We have to do something to prove it.”

  “I’ve always thought so. But, Hattie, what convinced you?” I wasn’t prepared to tell him everything just yet.

  “Is there somewhere in town we can grab a quick bite to eat?” I said.

  “Sure, we can get a nice broiled steak at Fletcher’s Grillroom in twenty minutes. Why?”

  “Let me get something from my room and then I’ll tell you all about it on the way.”

  Still not used to Walter’s reckless driving, I clung to my hat with one hand, the railing of the phaeton with the other, and squeezed the bag I had retrieved from my room tightly between my knees as I relayed everything I’d overheard between Mary Flannagan and George Shulman. Large raindrops splashed onto the top of the phaeton.

  “What incredible news,” Walter exclaimed, oblivious to the declining weather. “The hotel chambermaid and George Shulman courting? Many eligible ladies have attempted to snag George Shulman. But wouldn’t you know it would be Mary Flannagan of all people he takes to.” A peculiar expression grew on his face but was quickly replaced by a wide grin. “Cupid works in mysterious ways.” Then he noticed the bag clutched between my knees. “What do you have in the bag?”

  “Evidence for the police,” I said.

  Walter raised his eyebrows. “I take it that’s where we’re going after dinner?”

  “Walter, I think we’re here.”

  I pointed to a building, which we were rapidly approaching. He glanced up at the sign, and we suddenly skidded to a halt in front of Fletcher’s Grillroom on Armstrong Street. True to Walter’s boast, we ordered, were served, had eaten a hearty steak dinner, and were on our way to the police station in less than an hour.

  We rode in silence for several blocks, both of us most likely thinking about the importance of our meeting with the police. If we failed to convince Chief Jackson that George Shulman was innocent, the policeman would take him to the sheriff in Berryville in the morning. We couldn’t help George Shulman in Berryville. But despite Chief Jackson’s earlier dismissals, I was feeling more confident with each block. I glanced at the bag on my lap again.

  The rain pelted down now and the streets were thick with mud. We rumbled over a wooden bridge that spanned a ravine and crossed over to the usually busy thoroughfare of Main Street, though its nickname, Mud Street, was more appropriate today. The wheels slid on the mud, but Walter didn’t slow his pace until we reached Montgomery Street and nearly tipped over making the turn. The one fully lit building on the dark street, the police station was a beacon in the rain. Nonetheless, when we entered, shaking the rain from the umbrella, it was as still as one would expect late on a Sunday evening. A lonely clerk, holding a broadsheet between his hands, peered over the newspaper at us.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Yes, we’d like to speak to Chief Jackson,” Walter said.

  “Can’t this wait until morning?”

  “What now?” Chief Jackson had seen our approach.

  “We’ve found out a few things you need to know,” Walter said.

  “Doc, it’s been a long day. It’s late. It’s Sunday and the missus has already telephoned twice. I should’ve been home with my slippers on hours ago.” Walter sat down on the bench, folded his legs, and set his hat in his lap. “Oh, all right. If you’re going to be that way, let’s go into my office.”

  He led us to a cluttered room, filled with a desk, three chairs, a sofa, and numerous bookcases. One barred window revealed a view of the livery down the street. Every bookcase, the floor, the sofa, and two of the three chairs were stacked with piles of tablets and typewritten paper. And where there wasn’t paper, there were ferns: maidenhair, holly, sword, Boston, and several varieties I didn’t recognize. They were bushy, beautiful, and in the way. The chaos explained much about the policeman. How he got anything done was beyond me. With no curtains, carpets, or paintings, the room’s only other adornments consisted of two dirty coffee mugs, the tin watering can I had seen before, a framed photograph of twin towheaded boys and a petite woman wearing a black straw braid bonnet, a Wardian case containing an African violet with purple flowers, and a Crandall typewriter on the desk.

  “I’ll get us some coffee,” Jackson said, leaving us alone in the room. Walter was clearing a space for us to sit and I was admiring his Crandall when he returned, carrying three steaming mugs.

  “Hattie’s a gardener too, Ben,” Walter said, indicating the Boston fern he had placed on the floor at our feet.

  “Really?” He sounded enthusiastic for the first time since I’d met him.

  “I’m actually more of a specimen collector,” I said. “I don’t have much luck with live plants. But I wish I had; your ferns are lovely.” It was difficult to watch the exuberance drain from his face and any respect I might’ve gained disappear.

  “What was it you wanted again?” he said.

  I told him about the conversation I’d overheard between Mary and George.

  “I’ll have someone secure that jail cell window tomorrow,” he said. “Letter openers, huh?”

  “And if you need to speak with Cordelia Anglewood,” I said, “you should know that she’s no longer staying at the Arcadia. She moved to the Hotel Byron late last night.”

  “You came down here this late to tell me a lady changed addresses and my prisoner refused a letter opener?” I ignored the policeman’s sardonic tone. After what I had endured th
is past week, it would take more than that to discourage me.

  “Colonel Walker, John Martin’s father-in-law, left this morning,” I said, “and he gave me this. I thought you should see it.” I pulled the envelope out of my bag and told Jackson about its contents. He scowled, then read through the articles, shaking his head.

  Several times he muttered something under his breath, “dead woman’s daughter,” “Mascavarti,” “alias,” and then, pushing it all aside, stared out the window.

  “I read your report,” Jackson offered after we had sat for several minutes in awkward silence, sipping our coffee. “If nothing else, Miss Davish, I have to admit you’re thorough. What type of plants do you collect?”

  I was taken aback by the question, but answered happily enough. “Everything I can find and collect personally. With my new specimens from Eureka Springs, I now have 1,854 plants pressed and identified.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Thank you.” I hesitated before getting back to the matter at hand. “There was something not in my report that I want to show you.” I reached into my bag and pulled out the gin-soaked handkerchief I’d found in Mrs. Trevelyan’s room.

  “A handkerchief?” Chief Jackson said, reaching across his desk and taking it from my hand. “What do I want with a handkerchief?”

  “Give it a whiff,” Walter suggested.

  “The scent’s very faint,” I said. “I can’t smell it anymore, but Walter said he could.”

  “You sure about this, Doc?” The policeman held it to his nose. “I don’t smell anything.” He crinkled the fabric between his fingers. “Hold on, do I smell . . . gin? Where did you get this?”

  “In Mrs. Trevelyan’s room,” I said.

  “When?”

  “The day she died. It was tucked into a nightstand drawer. There’s more.” I retrieved the gin bottle from the bag.

  Walter whistled. Chief Jackson furrowed his eyebrows. “So you did find concrete evidence,” Walter said.