Whispers of Warning

by Jessica Estevao

  Chapter Forty-one

  Yancey stubbed his toe getting out of bed. He proceeded to scald his tongue on a cup of coffee at breakfast then broke a bootlace while trying to dress his feet. Not an auspicious start to what should be the most memorable day in the history of Old Orchard. At least thus far. He promised Lucy and his mother that he would keep an eye out for them at the pier opening and that there would be no danger in their attending.

  At least they would be accompanied to the festivities by Thomas Lydale. He wished he felt certain of his assurances to his mother and Lucy. While they put on brave faces, both of his family members had been more rattled by the rioting than they cared to admit.

  Neither had said anything outright but he couldn’t help but notice they left the house far less frequently since the incident. Lucy was the sort who always loved to run to the store to fetch a pot of mustard or a cake of soap ever since she was old enough to be off on her own. Now instead of going to the shops herself, Lucy had telephoned them and arranged for delivery. She also could not be convinced to go for a jaunt on her bicycle, not even when reminded of her new cycling costume. He wondered if discovering who had murdered Sophronia would set their minds at ease and return them to the dauntless adventurers he knew them to be.

  The crowds had already swelled to an enormous throng even before he reached the base of the pier. Excursion trains had been arranged from as far away as Lewiston and Boston, bringing in thousands. A ferry carrying five hundred from Portland was scheduled to dock at the new landing site. Frank and Officer Lewis were on the earlier shift and Yancey spotted them at the entrance to the pier, where swarming groups of merrymakers stopped off at the pier’s twin entrance pavilions to spend ten cents each at the ticket booth or to stow their burdensome belongings in baggage rooms and bicycle stalls.

  Despite the rocky start to his day, Yancey felt his mood lift as he found himself buoyed along with the crowd. He passed through the brightly shingled twin-domed entranceway and found himself feeling more optimistic than he had in weeks.

  Yancey passed a pair of steel enclosures, one built to hold brightly colored birds and the other for a troupe of cavorting monkeys. He paused for a moment to look at the bizarre sight and wondered what the creatures themselves made of the situation. Yancey doubted any of them felt at home in a cage alongside the North Atlantic. As he drew closer to the ballroom situated at the end of the eighteen-hundred-foot-long pier the crowds grew denser and Yancey’s concerns for the safety of those assembled returned. So much, in fact, all his senses snapped to attention when he felt a tug on his jacket sleeve.

  “Did I startle you, Officer Yancey?” Miss Proulx stood with her parasol held aloft. “You are concerned about the possibility of another mob, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” he said. “You aren’t here alone, are you?”

  “Certainly not. I believe every single person from the hotel is here, including Mrs. Doyle. It is a wonder I was able to slip away from the lot of them long enough to have a private word with you.” Miss Proulx inclined her elaborately coiffed head, indicating they should step to the railing together. He used his superior height as well as the influence of his uniform to part the crowd and make for the spot she suggested. “No one shall think a thing of the two of us chatting here. We are hiding in plain sight, I should say,” she said, looking around at the clamoring masses.

  “Is there a purpose for this meeting?” Yancey asked. “Have you discovered something that you think I should know?”

  “Indeed I have. I hardly know where to begin.” Miss Proulx gestured excitedly with the hand holding her parasol and attracted an angry glance from a man whose vision she had endangered. “There are two things of especial note. Firstly, Miss Rice and Sophronia had a falling-out just before Sophronia died. Miss Rice reports that she was distressed with the way her friend ignored the danger to herself and others. When I asked if she was worried about the threatening letter she said she was not because Sophronia was in the habit of sending those to herself in every town she held rallies.”

  “For the publicity?” Yancey asked. Miss Proulx nodded excitedly. “Why should she be worried, then?”

  “Because Nelson Plaisted is a powerful man who was willing to accost Sophronia on a public street. Miss Rice feared he was capable of far worse.” Miss Proulx’s eyes shone and the wind ruffled her hair slightly. “I have not yet had the opportunity to question the congressman and to tell the truth I am not overly eager to do so after witnessing the way he assaulted Sophronia.” Yancey was surprised. Miss Proulx always presented herself as the sort of young woman who with no prior experience would fill in for a lion tamer at a traveling circus. The congressman’s actions must have reminded her of something particularly distressing from her past. Yancey had disliked the man before. Now he felt as though he would like to be alone in an alley with the man himself.

  “There is no need to do so. I have already confronted him about it.” The look of relief on Miss Proulx’s face was extremely gratifying.

  “Does he admit to having abandoned her for another lady with better connections?”

  “No. He contends that Miss Foster Eldridge was the one to break off their engagement. He claims she was only interested in his money and when he lost his she was quick to disassociate herself from him.”

  “Is it possible to prove which story is the truth, I wonder?” Miss Proulx said.

  “I very much doubt it. Many years have passed and those sorts of unpleasant situations are generally conducted without an audience. It comes down to a matter of honor and in the case where there is none then a distressing scenario of he said, she said takes place.” Yancey looked out over the crowd and saw the Misses Velmont and Dewitt Fredericks heading in their direction. He and Miss Proulx might not have much more time. “What was the second thing you discovered?” He made a small gesture with his hand in the direction of the two elderly sisters, which Miss Proulx seemed to understand to mean she should go straight to the point.

  “According to Phyllis Cheswick, George has been borrowing money from his brother for years. Well, in truth that would mean George was borrowing money from Phyllis since she is the one who controls the purse strings.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the George Cheswick I know. He lives a very modest life and is content to eat plain meals and spend time with the Divination Circle,” Yancey said. “Did she say what he needed the money for?”

  “She did not but it would have had to have been something far beyond the ordinary sort of expense.” Miss Proulx’s eyes grew large in her face. “She said Osmond told her George needed five thousand dollars. And what’s more, he never even thanked her for it.”

  Yancey leaned back against the railing for support. The entire structure upon which they stood had cost $38,000. What could George possibly need such an amount for himself for?

  “Have you asked him about it?”

  “I have not. I first asked Mrs. Doyle if she believed it could be true. She said she felt it far more likely that Osmond was simply blaming his own need for money on George in order to extract it from his wife without implicating himself.”

  “From what I know of George that sounds more likely. I don’t know his brother in the slightest. In fact I had to ask Chief Hurley to identify him in a photograph from the march.”

  “In my opinion you’ve missed very little. I should also tell you that I asked George about the incident Lucy mentioned at the Hay Feverists convention. He refused to comment on it and suggested I direct any questions about the matter to Osmond. Encountering him at the Belden has been awkward ever since. As he is staying at the hotel for the time being I think it would be best if you asked him about the money.”

  “I could do that without it being in an official capacity. I could approach him as a friend concerned about both him and his reputation,” Yancey said. “And I can ask him about his brother whil
e I am at it. Maybe he will tell me if it is Osmond who is actually in need of ready cash.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  I watched Officer Yancey as he shouldered his way through the throng. I confess, I felt a bit nervous to be in the middle of such a large group of strangers after the violent turn of events at the march. I stood surveying the oppressive crowd pressing in on all sides. I had never felt anything quite like it. Even the very best days at one of my father’s popular medicine show performances had never attracted such a number.

  If asked to guess I would have said the number milling the pier looking at the exotic birds in cages or listening to the band playing counted in the thousands. I worked my way to the railing on the western side of the pier. Looking back toward the beach gave an entirely different view of it than gazing up or down the beach from the sand.

  Hotels along the beach stood cheek by jowl and covered every inch of the shoreline. The Ocean House, the Sea Shore House, and the Fiske, with its distinctive triple roofline, stood out against the blue sky. It struck me afresh how smart Honoria had been to carve out a special niche for herself in such a competitive business and how much was riding on the success of the world-famous pier. Viewed at a distance it was possible to see how much larger most of the other hotels were in comparison.

  Just as I spotted the seaside veranda of the Belden I heard the voice.

  “Turn around and look.”

  I surveyed the crowd around me and found nothing of the sort the voice usually would call to my attention. After all, it never seems interested in entertainments or fine swaths of scenery. Then out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Thomas Lydale. He stood by the enormous exotic birdcage and was arguing with Congressman Plaisted. I felt as though I was experiencing a distorted sort of déjà vu.

  Once again the congressman was angry and once again he had his hands raised. This time though, Thomas was not elated as Sophronia had been. Nor was he too small to defend himself. I slipped through the crowd hoping I could draw close enough to hear what all the fuss was about before they came to their senses.

  Once again my trusty parasol was the appropriate tool for the job. Not only did it shield my identity from Mr. Lydale, it did an admirable job of encouraging those in my way to remove themselves from my path. I stood on the opposite side of the birdcage and strained to hear their conversation over the squawk of the birds and the roar of the crowd. I was lucky to make out what few words I did.

  From what I could hear there was a disagreement about photographs. At first I thought it possible that the congressman had commissioned portraits from Mr. Lydale and had been disappointed with the results. But as the conversation droned on it seemed too hostile for that. In fact, the congressman had grabbed the front of Mr. Lydale’s lapels and looked as though he were preparing to cause a scene. After seeing how quickly violent actions spread at the march I easily imagined the congressman’s actions becoming contagious. I had no desire to be a part of another stampeding crowd. It was time to take action of my own. I stepped around the birdcage and announced my presence. Congressman Plaisted dropped his hands to his sides and wiped his palms along his trouser legs.

  “There you are, Mr. Lydale. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I thought you said we should meet at the bandstand but I must have misunderstood.” I gave him a showstopping smile. When I turned to include the congressman in its beam all I saw was his retreating form hurrying toward the ballroom at the far end of the pier. “I expect there is an explanation for why two civilized gentleman would be about to start brawling in public. Since the other gentleman had a publicly aired dispute with Sophronia that also turned violent I would very much like to hear what it is.”

  “I’m sure a nice young lady such as yourself would have no interest in such a sordid story.” Mr. Lydale would not meet my gaze.

  “That is exactly the sort of thinking that has kept women from having the vote. I thought you were a far more broad-thinking man. I shall have to discuss my disappointment on that subject with Lucy.”

  “Lucy is a lovely young woman, whose company I have come to enjoy immensely, but I am not about to share my secrets to keep you from telling her that.” Mr. Lydale lifted his hat as though he were about to take his leave of me.

  “Would you prefer I mention the congressman’s photographs to her instead?” I felt just the slightest bit squeamish at that. It was a bluff but one that managed to create the desired response. His lips parted in surprise, then he bent toward my ear.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to find who is responsible for Sophronia’s death. The congressman is my favorite suspect and you know things that I believe should be taken into consideration, as I am seeking the truth.”

  “If I explain things to you will you give me your word that you won’t mention any of it to Lucy?”

  “I shan’t promise until I hear what you have to say. But I can assure you that I have no interest in carrying tales or spreading gossip. I just need to know how this might connect to Sophronia’s death.” I laid my gloved hand on his jacket sleeve. “Besides, I am a medium. Wouldn’t you rather tell me yourself than have me hear about your secrets from someone who has passed on?” Something about my words spurred him to a decision.

  “I cannot meet with you today. I have social engagements for the rest of today and client appointments in the morning. I can be available to explain it all tomorrow. Shall we say my studio at noon?” Mr. Lydale glanced down the pier. I followed the direction of his gaze and noticed Lucy making her way toward us. A wide smile spread across her face as she stopped to say hello to the Velmont sisters.

  As I watched him watching her I wished fervently that he was not involved in Sophronia’s death. I wondered if he were stalling for more time in order to concoct a convincing lie, or worse, to make his escape in the night. Father and I had done the same on many occasions and I knew how easy it was to put a great deal of distance between yourself and your problems over the course of a single night. I wanted to trust him but was unsure whether or not I should do so. But Lucy had left the Velmonts and was almost upon us. Mr. Lydale gave me a pleading look and I hadn’t the heart to put him on the spot in front of my friend.

  “I’ll see you there.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Miss Proulx was nowhere to be found at the Hotel Belden when Yancey slipped quietly through the midnight blue portieres of the séance room and took a moment to observe George unseen. The older man sat at the center table, his back to the door. His head bent in concentration, and Yancey wondered fleetingly if he had caught George at prayer.

  “Damn,” George said, and Yancey heard something clatter onto the tabletop. Reassured that he had not interrupted a moment of communion with a deity he announced himself.

  “George, might I have a word?” Yancey asked, pulling his small notebook from his breast pocket. George nodded and pointed to a chair beside him at the table. Yancey tried not to stare at George’s burnt mustache. He looked like a different man with the dramatically swirling points absent from his face.

  “Have you ever tried one of these things?” George asked. On the table between them lay a pair of school slates, a bit of chalk, and three pieces of sturdy string. The surfaces of the slates were flecked with white specks of chalk. As far as Yancey could see there was absolutely nothing special about them. He always had the feeling there was something more to every question he was asked at the Belden.

  “I’ve a passing familiarity with them from my grammar school days. But I can’t say I’ve used any since.”

  “Then I don’t recommend trying. It will drive you to drink.” George winked at him and pulled a squat flask from an inside pocket. Yancey shook his head.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t see that, sir.” Maine had been the pioneer in temperance and since the state constitution had been amended to prohibit alcohol thirteen years earlier Yancey hadn’t touched a dro
p. With a bob of his head George uncapped the flask and took a moderate tug. “Are they supposed to be doing something special?”

  “They’re divination slates. They’re supposed to reveal a message from the spirit world. Honoria says you place a piece of chalk between the slates and then tie them together,” George said. “If the spirits have message for you it appears written in chalk on the interior sides of the slates.”

  “It doesn’t look like you’re having much luck.” Yancey picked up a slate and gave it a once-over.

  “I never do.” George shook his head and toyed with his flask like he was considering another sip.

  “I was really very sorry to hear about your house.”

  “The fire was a terrible shock but I must admit it has been a pleasure to be under the same roof with so many other people for a change.” Yancey hadn’t given any thought to whether or not George might be lonely. His mother often mentioned she wanted both of her children to marry and settle down so she wouldn’t worry about them withering away from too much solitude. He had never given her concerns much credence but Yancey didn’t really want to end up in the same sort of condition as George. Still, he had time before he was too old to seriously consider marrying. It would be far better to wait for the right young lady to show interest than it would be to hurry into a marriage. He had seen what had become of the ill-considered match between his parents and he had no desire to find himself in similar misery.

  “You look more recovered than I might have imagined you would. Quite well enough for me to ask you some uncomfortable questions.” George took another swig from his flask, then pocketed it. Yancey took it as a signal to proceed. If Ruby was right there was good reason to ask uncomfortable questions.

  “About the fire?” George asked.

  “About your brother.”

  “Osmond didn’t start the fire.” George’s eyes widened in surprise. “I mean, he’s gotten into more than his share of youthful mischief but setting fire to my house would not be the sort of shenanigans he would ever get up to. Besides, the fire was entirely my own fault.” George’s face reddened. Yancey wasn’t sure if it was from shame or indignation. He understood the shame of a family member being accused of a crime all too well. He took no pleasure from putting anyone in the same position but he wouldn’t shirk his duty to a victim to spare his feelings or anyone else’s.