“Can I help you, Miss Davish?” Miss Clary, the president’s secretary, looked up from her typing.
She sat behind a Remington set on a small walnut desk in the outer office, simply furnished with area rugs with geometrical patterns of green and white scattered about the room. Behind the desk were two doors, one labeled, PRESIDENT, on a brass plate, the other, slightly ajar, led to a storage room. Several new posters from the World’s Fair hung on the walls.
“Yes, I was wondering if Mr. Upchurch was in?” I approached her desk. A souvenir spoon with the famous Ferris Wheel imprinted on it sat next to a steaming cup of coffee.
“Yes, he is. Please follow me.” She pushed back from her desk and walked to the president’s office. She knocked loudly once and then opened the door. “Mr. Upchurch, Miss Davish is here to see you.”
Asa Upchurch looked up from his large, elaborately carved mahogany desk and smiled. Sunlight streamed through the tall double windows behind him, making the room brighter than I’d expected with mahogany paneling and numerous mahogany bookshelves.
“Ah, Miss Davish, what a delight. Thank you, Miss Clary.” Mr. Upchurch rose from behind his desk as his secretary left. He approached me and then touched my arm slightly while indicating for me to sit. “Please, please, have a seat.” He sat on the edge of his desk as I picked the armchair closest to me. “I want you to know what a treasure you are to this school.”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
“Now, now, no denials, young lady. Mrs. Chaplin said you’d be modest.” He leaned over and patted my shoulder. “You’re undoubtedly the best student we’ve ever had. And what with all that’s been going on, you’ve no idea what a boost in morale your visit has given the students and teachers alike.”
“Thank you, Mr. Upchurch.” I tried to sound gracious when I felt quite awkward. “I’m glad I could help.”
“Yes, you most certainly did help. Now, what can I do for you, Miss Davish?”
I revealed the photograph Bertha Yardley had given me and handed it to him. “I wonder if you recognize this man?”
Mr. Upchurch took the photograph and studied it briefly before looking back up at me. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say that I do. Who is he?”
“His name is Levi Yardley.”
“Levi Yardley,” he repeated, looking carefully at the photograph again. “No, his name isn’t familiar either. Why do you ask?”
“Because except for his nose, I think he looks extremely similar to Frank Hayward.”
“Really?” A slight frown stretched across Asa Upchurch’s face as he continued to study the photograph. “Yes, I guess he does.” He shook his head as he finally handed it back to me. “Is he a relation you’re trying to track down for Virginia? I didn’t see him at the funeral.”
“I think maybe you had but didn’t realize it.”
“Oh?”
“Could it be possible that the man you saw in the street, the man you thought was Frank Hayward, was actually this man, Levi Yardley?”
“Oh now, my dear Miss Davish, I don’t mean to sound critical, but no. I know Frank Hayward. I worked with the man six days of the week. I wouldn’t make such a terrible mistake. No, no, I can’t even imagine such a heinous thing.”
“What are you talking about, ‘heinous thing’?” We both turned at the voice to see Mrs. Upchurch entering the office, wearing the latest style dark plum velvet wrap and matching silk gloves I’d seen in Herr’s department store window. It would’ve cost me a month’s wages. “Hello, Miss Davish. Enjoying your visit?”
“It’s been interesting.” She smiled down at me, her dimples deepening, and then approached her husband, who kissed her cheek.
“What heinous thing, Asa?”
“No need to trouble yourself about it, Emily,” her husband said. “Miss Davish and I were discussing the funeral. Sad business, that. What can I do for you, dear?”
His wife ignored his question and looked back at me. “What heinous thing, Miss Davish?” I glanced at Mr. Upchurch for permission to answer his wife’s question. He tossed his head and threw up his arms in mock dismay.
“Whatever my wife wants, my wife gets,” he said, playfully dramatic. His wife smirked at her husband’s acquiescence.
Perhaps he was attempting to shield his wife from distress, but I couldn’t approve of his lighthearted treatment of my concern. This is nothing to joke about, I thought.
“I was speculating that perhaps Mr. Upchurch had been wrong about the man he found dead in the street.”
Emily Upchurch’s smile instantly vanished from her face. “My, my, that is serious. What would make you think such a thing?”
“I can’t dismiss the resemblance of this man,” I said, handing her the photograph, “to Frank Hayward. His name is Levi Yardley.”
“Where did you get this?”
“The man’s wife. Do you know him?”
“Yes, in a way, I do.” A thrill ran through me and I stood up. Mr. Upchurch’s eyes narrowed and his face reddened.
“Emily, you couldn’t possibly know this man.”
“Oh, but I do, Asa.” His wife continued to stare at the photograph. “I saw him the other day arguing with someone in the middle of Charles Street.” She looked up at her husband and then at me. “He seemed quite oblivious to the traffic doing their best to avoid him.” She handed the photograph back to me. “Are you saying this is the man we buried instead of Frank Hayward?”
“No, no, dear, of course not,” her husband said, even as I nodded.
“Really?” she asked me. “Then where’s Frank Hayward?”
“I don’t know.” It was the question that had haunted me since the minute I doubted the identity of the man in the casket.
Asa Upchurch smiled at me while shaking his head. “Well, I do, dear ladies. Frank Hayward, rest his soul, is dead and buried in Oakland Cemetery. We all saw him with our own eyes. I assure you, Emily, Miss Davish, it wasn’t this Levi Yardley I found in the middle of Third Street. It was Frank Hayward.”
“But I’ve no doubt that this is the man I saw in the street.” Mrs. Upchurch pointed to the photograph in my hand.
“I don’t doubt that you did, my love, but that doesn’t mean he was the man I found. The two men obviously were in the area of Charles Street and Third at different times and for different reasons. Unfortunately, it was Frank, and not Mr. Yardley, that suffered the worst consequences.”
How could President Upchurch believe what he was saying? Spoken out loud, such a coincidence seemed preposterous. Did he truly believe what he said or was he rationalizing away his part in burying the wrong man?
“Besides, even if you question my judgment,” he said, “which would be a blow, dear Emily, how can you question Miss Hayward’s? She too knows the man that I found, the man that we buried, was her beloved father.”
“It is a conundrum,” his wife agreed. “I don’t doubt your judgment, Asa.”
“Thank you, dear.”
She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Or that of Virginia’s, though she was indeed distressed enough to make a mistake. But—”
“But what?”
“I do marvel at such a coincidence,” she said. I nodded in agreement. “Two men, who resemble one another, both finding themselves, for whatever reason, in the middle of Charles Street traffic.”
“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 si
tting 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.
CHAPTER 17
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.
1. Why had Dr. Hillman lied about not knowing what happened to Levi Yardley?
2. What were the two men arguing about?
3. Did Dr. Hillman witness Yardley being trampled?
4. Why didn’t he come forward when the body was misidentified?
5. Why is Asa Upchurch so certain he discovered the right man in the road?
6. How could Ginny misidentify her own father?
7. How could they not be wrong?
8. Where is Frank Hayward?
“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.
A Deceptive Homecoming Page 12
