“Of course, Mrs. Yardley, but how can I help?” Instead of answering me, she glanced over at the approaching policeman. No taller than I, he had very broad shoulders, a square jaw, but almost no neck. His uniform fit snugly over the thick muscles in his arms.
“Miss Davish?” The officer indicated for me to sit next to Mrs. Yardley on the bench. “I’m Officer Quick. Mrs. Yardley said you have something to tell me about the disappearance of her husband.” I looked to Bertha for guidance.
“Please, Hattie, tell him everything you know about what happened to Levi.”
The officer took the seat beside me and waited. I’ve had several experiences with police of late. Luckily in this case, I wasn’t directly involved in any way. I could relate my pertinent information to the man and let him take it from there. And the man seemed patient enough to listen to my story. So I did.
Bertha Yardley slowly paced the room, occasionally stopping to glance out at a buggy passing or to squint closely at the World’s Fair print hanging near the door. (I truly am the only person who hasn’t been.) Ignoring her anxiety, I told the officer everything: from my misgivings at the funeral, to my learning about the escaped patient from the asylum, to the nurse’s confirmation that Levi Yardley was the escaped patient, to Mrs. Upchurch’s identification of Levi Yardley arguing with Dr. Hillman in the street.
Officer Quick sat quietly and listened. Not once did he roll his eyes, shake his head, pick at his fingernails, or display any other dismissive behavior. Instead, he gave me his full attention and gave me every reason to believe he was taking me seriously. After all, I wasn’t trying to do his job. It was a refreshing change from times past.
“With both of them missing, I can’t prove that Levi Yardley was mistakenly buried as Frank Hayward, but that is my suspicion,” I said. “I suspect that because these two men resembled one another so closely that they were mistaken for each other and at least one of them is dead.”
Officer Quick nodded his head, placed his finger across his lips but said nothing for several moments. A few moments too long for Bertha Yardley.
“Well?” She strode across the room and stood over us. “What are you going to do about it?”
The policeman calmly rose. “What do you propose, Mrs. Yardley?”
“Dig him up!”
“Are you formally requesting that I exhume the body of Frank Hayward?”
“No,” Bertha said, shaking her hands about her, flustered. “I’m asking you to dig up the body of my dead husband, Levi Yardley.”
“Who Miss Davish suspects was buried wrongfully in the casket bearing Frank Hayward’s name?”
“Yes.”
“If my husband is buried in Frank Hayward’s grave, I want his body back. To be buried with his family, not misidentified as some stranger.” The policeman nodded but said nothing. Compared to the other policemen I’d encountered, Office Quick was a man of few words. Now I’d learn whether he was also a man of action.
“If what you say is true, Miss Davish, where’s the body of Frank Hayward?”
“I have no idea.” And then I remembered the incident on “Lover’s Lane,” when a buggy raced by driven by a man I thought resembled Frank Hayward. That couldn’t have been the escaped patient as I’d once thought. Levi Yardley would’ve already been dead. Could it have been Frank Hayward after all? And what about the man who’s been following me? Could he be Frank Hayward? “I can’t say for certain he’s even dead.”
“But his family believes he is, correct?”
“Yes, his daughter identified the body.”
“But you think the damage to the man’s face misled her.”
“Yes, considering how much the two men resembled each other.”
“Besides Levi’s nose, of course,” Mrs. Yardley added. The policeman nodded.
“If Frank Hayward isn’t dead,” the officer said, “why hasn’t he come forward? Why would he prolong the grief of his family?” I shook my head. That’s the one question I’d asked myself over and over and still couldn’t answer. The Mr. Hayward I remembered adored his daughter. He wouldn’t want her to suffer one moment if he could prevent it.
“He too must be dead,” Bertha Yardley said. And then I had a thought.
“Or incapacitated in some way.”
“How?”
“Like being locked up in the Lunatic Asylum,” Bertha said, thinking the same thing I was. I nodded. “One patient for another. If Miss Hayward mistook Levi for her father, couldn’t Dr. Hillman have mistaken Frank Hayward for Levi?”
“But then the nurses would’ve known they’d found the escaped patient, wouldn’t they?” I said.
“Not if Dr. Hillman lied about that too,” Bertha said.
“So to be clear,” the policeman said, “you ladies think that Mr. Yardley, trampled by a horse, was mistakenly buried for Frank Hayward while Frank Hayward may have been mistaken for Levi Yardley, the escaped patient, and returned to the asylum?”
Bertha and I looked at each other. Having someone else repeat our speculations out loud made them seem fantastical, but nonetheless true. We both nodded.
“So you’ll dig up the body?” Bertha Yardley asked. The policeman stared at Mrs. Yardley for a moment and then at me. With an answer not coming forthwith, Bertha added, “You do know that Miss Davish has helped the police solve murder cases? You should take what she says with great consideration.”
I cringed. I’d hoped to get through this interview without my past experiences being mentioned. I should’ve known better. There had been few conversations I’d had since I arrived home where someone hadn’t mentioned them. How could I’ve thought an interview with a policeman would be any different?
Officer Quick said nothing but tilted his head as he regarded me. I felt like he was looking at me for the first time. “I will consult with Chief Broder,” he finally said, turning to Mrs. Yardley.
“Does that mean you will dig up Levi so I can bury him at home in Omaha?”
“Rest assured, Mrs. Yardley, we’ll look into the matter.” He stood, walked over to the door, and held it open for us. “Thank you, ladies, for coming.”
“Does that mean I’m going to get Levi’s body or not?” Mrs. Yardley asked me when we were outside. I shook my head.
“I don’t know, Bertha.”
“Well, I’ll dig him up myself if I must.” I stifled a chuckle at the image of Bertha Yardley grave-robbing in the middle of the night. But then I realized she was in earnest.
“No, Bertha, you must let the police take care of it. You’ll get your husband’s body back and some much-needed peace of mind.”
She nodded, though I wasn’t sure if she believed me. And then I realized I wasn’t sure if I believed it either. After all, I’d never told the policeman about my pursuer or about the acts of vandalism and theft occurring at Mrs. Chaplin’s school. Why? Because I didn’t think they were related to what happened to Levi Yardley and Frank Hayward? Officer Quick seemed trustworthy enough. So why didn’t I tell him?
“Yes, thank you, Hattie. You’re right. Peace of mind, that’s what I’m doing all this for,” Bertha said, unaware of my doubts.
Me too, I thought. But for whom?
And that question brought me back to Ginny’s house, despite her desire for me not to return.
“What do you want, Hattie?” Ginny said, finally, the words coming slow and with difficulty.
I didn’t know what to say. She’d been kind enough to see me when Mrs. Curbow informed her I’d come. But I was shocked by the change in Ginny’s appearance and manner. A few days ago, she was calm, composed, and, despite dressed in black, had color in her cheeks. Now with deep circles under her eyes, she was pale and her hair was barely contained in a hastily pinned bun. She’d entered the parlor without a word, sat down, and without regarding me once, stared at the floral pattern on the rug to the right of her feet for several minutes. She blinked but twice. I’d come to tell her about the police’s involvement, the possibility that
her father’s coffin might be exhumed, and my concern that if Levi Yardley was found in her father’s place, that her father’s fate might have been to take Levi Yardley’s place, at the asylum. Yet she seemed unfit to hear such news. I had to tell her something.
“Ginny, I have news that may be both a relief and a concern. I don’t want to add to your grief, but I think it’s important that you know.” She gave no indication that she’d heard me or that she wished for me to continue. I had to continue. I owed her that much. “There’s a woman, Mrs. Bertha Yardley, who’s asking the police to exhume your father’s coffin.” That got her attention. Her head jerked up and she stared straight into my eyes.
“What? Why would she do that? Why would the police do that?” How did I tell her it was because I’d convinced them that her father wasn’t buried in the coffin that bore his name? She’d already forbidden me from getting involved. Our friendship was already strained. If I told her the whole truth, she may never speak to me again.
Then why have I gotten involved? I wondered.
I’d told myself it was for Ginny’s sake, but I knew now that she wanted nothing to do with discovering the truth behind her father’s death or disappearance as it may be. Or at least she wanted me to have nothing to do with it. So why had I gotten involved? I didn’t want to face the truth, so I faced Ginny instead.
“Mrs. Yardley believes that her husband was mistakenly identified as your father.” I pulled out the photograph of Levi Yardley. Ginny looked away, leaving me holding the photograph in the air between us. “If you saw this, you’d see why. The two men bear a striking resemblance to one another.”
“Did you have anything to do with this, Hattie?” She reached up and clutched her gold locket.
“I met Mrs. Yardley at the site of the accident, where your father was trampled. She was looking for her missing husband and I . . .”
“And you were snooping around where I’d asked you not to.” She glared at me. “Doesn’t our friendship mean anything to you?” Her accusation stung. She was right to accuse me, but it was for the sake of our friendship that I’d done it.
“Of course it does.” She turned her gaze to the far wall. “Ginny, I think your father is still alive.”
Ginny gasped and then turned to look at me. Tears ran down her cheeks. Was she feeling the grief and sorrow of her loss or was she crying in relief? I couldn’t tell.
“I didn’t mean to bring you more pain, Ginny. I thought I could help.”
“Please just leave.”
“And if they discover that your father is still alive?”
“How cruel are you, Hattie? Get out of my house!” I felt a sharp pain in my chest and my breath quicken as I realized she didn’t believe me. She thought I was toying with her. “Get out!”
“I’m so sorry,” was all I could say as I retreated from the room.
Grief threatened to overwhelm me as the impact of Ginny’s accusation and mistrust grew. Mrs. Curbow gave me a questioning glance as I rushed past her in the hall, a tightening in my chest so unbearable I could barely breathe, let alone mutter good-bye. How could she ever think I’d be so cruel? Have I changed so much that she’d think this of me? I didn’t want to consider what it would take for her to believe me. So for now, I simply fled from the Hayward house, determined to get answers from the one person I knew was withholding them, even if it meant going back to the asylum.
CHAPTER 19
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I’d walked the mile from the end of the streetcar line, in drizzling rain, and was approaching the imposing presence of State Lunatic Asylum Number Two again. This time I was all alone. This time it was personal. Once on the portico, I lowered my umbrella, took a deep breath, and then yanked on the heavy door. This time it opened. I’d assumed the rain had kept the patients inside as I hadn’t passed any in the gardens or fields as I had before. Therefore, I expected a flurry of activity inside, but the hall was empty. I approached the open door of the nurse’s office and waited for the nurse at the desk to acknowledge me.
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see Frank Hayward. He’s a patient of Dr. Hillman’s.” She began flipping through a ledger on her desk.
“I don’t think . . .” The woman paused mid-sentence. “Let me call Nurse Simmons. She may be able to help you. It may be a few moments. You can wait over there.” She pointed to a row of simple, wooden, high-backed chairs against the wall.
“I remember from years back that you once had a conservatory. Would it be possible for me to wait there?”
“It hasn’t been used much in recent years, but I can certainly have Nurse Simmons find you there if you’d like.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you remember where it is? I can’t leave my post to show you.”
“Through those doors and at the very end of the hallway?” I pointed in the direction I meant. She nodded.
“Yes, the conservatory door should be unlocked.”
I thanked her again and opened the doors to the hallway. To my dismay, the hallway wasn’t empty. Dozens of rockers, parallel against the wall, creaked as silent, lethargic men rocked back and forth. I kept my eyes straight ahead as I swiftly made my way down the hallway, past the patients and the many open doors leading to their rooms. I had no desire to see anything but the conservatory.
When I pulled the conservatory door open, I was immediately assailed by the smell of soil, decaying plants, and mold. The nurse was right. When I’d been here last, dozens of plants, including several types of asters, lupines, lilies, citrus trees, and tomatoes, had been flourishing. One of the doctors had believed caring for the plants was therapeutic for his patients. Did the doctor leave or discover he was wrong? But now there was little left but the weeds. I was slightly disappointed not to see the thriving blossoms, but the weeds were exactly what I’d come to see.
I’d always enjoyed the scent and beauty of flowers and had been interested in the hidden language of plants, as many a young girl my age had been. And thus, on the day my father died, I’d sought solace in this place of color and life. I’d strolled under the glass, warm from the afternoon sun, in shock, barely conscious of the beauty around me, when I’d nearly tripped over a humble sorrel plant, a weed growing up through the gravel floor. How had it grown so large? Why hadn’t anyone pulled it out? How had it even found its way into this haven of cultivated beauty? And then I’d realized what it meant.
Paternal love. According to the flower dictionaries I’d memorized, the sorrel plant meant paternal love. I’d broken down then, letting out my exhaustion, my fear, my anger, my intense sorrow, and had fallen on my knees to the ground, ignorant of the dirt and litter on my dress or the gravel digging into my knees and palms. My father was dead, but here was a sign that he was at peace. I had no idea how long I’d knelt there not knowing or caring about my physical discomfort. When I couldn’t cry any longer, I’d carefully pulled up the sorrel plant and, unpinning my hat, had placed it inside. I’d carried it home that day and haven’t stopped collecting plants since. Whenever I miss my father, I pull out that original sorrel plant, preserved in my collection. I haven’t looked at it for some time. And despite my hope, I didn’t see another one today. Despite all the other weeds including dandelions, broadleaf plantain, and horseweed, there were no sorrel plants growing through the cracks.
“Miss Davish?” I turned to see Nurse Simmons standing in the doorway. I crossed the weed-covered gravel floor and followed the nurse out of the conservatory. “You were asking about another patient, a Frank Hayward?” She closed the door behind me.
“Yes, I wondered if I could speak with him.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miss Davish. I looked through the admittance paperwork and found nothing for a Frank Hayward.”
“He’s not a patient here?” She shook her head again.
“And never has been. Who told you he was here?”
I evaded her question. “M
ay I speak with Dr. Hillman, please?”
“If it’s about Levi Yardley—”
“No, it’s of a more personal nature.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back. Dr. Hillman isn’t here today.”
“Really?” I didn’t want to have to come back again. “Is he visiting patients in town?”
“No, I believe one of his daughters has taken ill. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“No, thank you. You’ve been most helpful.” The nurse furrowed her brow slightly.
“Well, then, I must get back to my rounds. I’ve already taken too much time away. I know it’s irregular, but could you find your own way out?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll leave you. Good day, Miss Davish.” The nurse headed down the hallway.
I watched her disappear into one of the patients’ rooms less than halfway down before I headed in the same direction. As I passed the room she was in, I couldn’t help but glance in. A man in a white nightshirt was sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands wrapped in what looked like a leather muff. His head was turned away as he dodged Nurse Simmons’s attempts to coerce him into drinking medicine from a brown glass bottle. I rushed past, not waiting to see the man’s inevitable defeat. When I came to the main lobby, instead of leaving, I ascended the stairs and made my way to Dr. Hillman’s office. Whether the nurse was telling me the truth or not, I couldn’t leave without confirming for myself that the man wasn’t here. The door was slightly ajar. I looked about me to make sure I was alone and then peered through the crack in the door. The narrow view it afforded me showed me part of his desk and a bookcase. I couldn’t tell if the doctor was in the room. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, slightly harder, causing the door to open wider. I still couldn’t tell if anyone was inside. And still there was no answer. I looked about me again. No one was in the hall as I pushed the door all the way open and slipped inside.
The room was empty. I glanced at Dr. Hillman’s desk. It was mainly covered with closed files bearing patients’ names. Resisting the urge to organize the haphazard files, I pulled open a drawer. It was filled with various medical supplies: bulb syringes, packets of cotton gauze, a mortar and pestle, and many glass bottles of varying sizes, filled with colored tablets, clear liquids, or powders. I closed it and pulled open another.
A Deceptive Homecoming Page 14
