He was trying to distract me from Walter’s ministrations with the tale of Coxey’s moments on the steps that I had missed. But I could do little else but focus on Walter as he bent my arm at the elbow and at the wrist, so that my fingers were turned upward toward the front of my arm.
“Forgive me,” Walter whispered. Before I could ask for what, he yanked slightly but forcefully on my arm.
“Ah!” I gasped as a sharp pain sliced through my arm.
“I’m sorry, my love, but I had to realign the bone. It should heal properly now,” Walter said, as he tightened one of the marchers’ white peace banners, which he had found fluttering on the ground, around my neck to create a sling.
“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” I whispered, tears of pain still welling up in my eyes. He smiled at my attempt at a jest.
“What did Coxey do then?” Sarah said, with eager anticipation.
She knelt next to me opposite Walter, with her hand on my good arm for comfort. She had been distraught when she’d rejoined our group and had heard what had happened. But now, as she too had missed the climactic moment on the steps, she listened in rapt attention. After leaving with her husband to avoid Billy, she had insisted on returning alone. Unfortunately, she arrived only in time to see Coxey drive by her in his carriage as the crowd around her chanted “Speech, speech!” Of our group, only she, Walter, Simeon Harper, and Sir Arthur had gathered where I lay.
“Coxey pulled a typewritten manuscript from his pocket and unfolded it,” Harper said. “But before he could utter a word, the policemen pushed him firmly back down the steps.”
“So he never got a chance to say a word of what he walked hundreds of miles to say?” Sarah said disbelievingly.
“Not a word. Even when the crowd shouted for a speech as he left in his carriage, his words were lost in the clamor.” Sarah was nodding her head, having seen that firsthand.
“Astonishing!” Sir Arthur said.
“Disappointing, is what I’d call it,” Sarah said.
“Ah, but, fine lady, that’s not the end of the story,” Harper said cryptically.
“It isn’t?” I said, my curiosity overcoming how dreadful I felt.
“No,” the journalist said, “for as he was pushed, Coxey, the champion of the poor and oppressed, tossed the manuscript into the crowd and said, ‘That is for the press.’ And behold!” Harper yanked a folded piece of paper from inside his vest pocket and brandished it about as the prize that it was.
“Is that it?” Walter asked, astonished enough to look up from checking the tightness of my sling for the third time. Even I was captivated by the possibility that Harper held the forbidden speech in his hand.
“It is and I’ll be the first to print it!”
“Jolly good show, my boy!” Sir Arthur said, proud of his ambitious friend. “Give it here.” Harper handed the speech to Sir Arthur, who immediately started reading.
“Have you read it?” Sarah asked.
“Of course,” Harper said.
“But what about Marshal Browne and . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to voice Lottie Fox’s name. “And the others who were arrested or injured?”
“Only Browne, Christopher Columbus Jones, and Miss Lottie Fox, a fervent follower of Marshal Browne, were arrested,” Simeon Harper said. “Coxey was allowed to leave with his family.”
“Of the injured, all but you have already walked away of their own accord.” I still wasn’t sure how well I would do on my own two feet again.
“Yes, the crowd is dispersing peacefully now that Browne and Coxey are gone,” Sir Arthur said, looking about us.
“Where are the Smiths?” Sarah asked.
“Senator Smith and his wife left right after Coxey did. I assume Morris went with them,” Sir Arthur said. “Chester left some time before that.”
Sir Arthur diplomatically avoided mentioning the row between the senator’s son and the journalist, but Sarah’s interest was piqued when Simeon Harper grinned smugly.
“Mr. Harper, you didn’t—?” Sarah began.
“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!” someone screamed, interrupting Sarah’s question. We all snapped our attention toward the source of the scream.
“What the devil?” Sir Arthur said.
The scream came again. “Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!”
Sarah, Sir Arthur, and Simeon Harper leaped to their feet and dashed toward the sound. I struggled to stand. Instead of insisting I stay where I was, Walter knew better and simply helped me, wrapping his arm around me for support. My arm throbbed, but I wasn’t going to be left behind. We followed, though more slowly than I would have liked, the small crowd now heading in the direction of the scream to a stretch of the low stone wall that encircled the entire Capitol grounds. The woman’s screaming had been replaced by a multitude of exclamations murmured through the crowd.
“Oh my God!”
“What happened?”
“Who is he?”
“Stay back. Give him room!”
“Bloody hell!”
Walter and I easily pushed our way through, the onlookers standing back when they saw my sling. We stopped at the front of the crowd. Sarah was crying, her head turned into Sir Arthur’s shoulder, shielding her eyes from the scene at her feet. Simeon Harper, with his back to us, knelt beside a prone figure on the ground next to the wall. With Harper partially blocking our view, I could see two legs in dusty brown trousers, bent awkwardly, one on top of the other, as if they had crumpled beneath the man, sending him sprawling to his side. On his feet were boots cracked and worn so thin, a brown stocking could be seen through the hole in the bottom of the left boot.
One of Coxey’s marchers, I thought, staring at the well-worn boots.
Walter eased himself away from me and joined Harper. He bent over the man, and although I couldn’t see, I knew he was checking the man’s wrist and neck, hoping for even a faint sign of a pulse. When Walter sat back on his heels and I saw the look on his face, I knew the man was dead.
“Can someone find a police officer? There were plenty about earlier,” Walter said, uncharacteristically bitter.
“I will,” a man called from the back of the crowd.
“Poor soul,” said a lady next to me in a purple braided straw hat with a plethora of green leaves and lavender silk flowers. “Must have walked himself to death.”
“I heard they never had enough to eat,” another one said.
“If Cleveland would only find work for these men, it wouldn’t have come to this,” someone else added.
As the speculation grew in grumbles around me, Walter stood and said sharply, “Don’t blame the march on this man’s demise.”
“What? Why?” someone asked.
Simeon Harper stood and faced the crowd. “Because this man’s been murdered.”
“Oh!” Sarah cried as a collective gasp arose from the onlookers.
Sir Arthur escorted her away through the crowd, which had instinctively stepped several feet backward. I alone seemed rooted to the ground and remained where I was, two or three feet from the dead man. With Walter and Harper standing, the man and the scene of his death were laid out in full before me.
His eyes were closed, but there was nothing peaceful about him. His face, with his mouth frozen in an open grimace, still held the surprise and subsequent pain of his attack. A thin trail of blood from a hole on one side of the man’s neck streaked across to the other and pooled on the ground beneath him. In his hand, his fingers stained by his own blood, the dead man gripped a penknife, the tip of which was also darkened with blood. No one could doubt what had happened. And I had no doubt who the “poor soul” was.
It was Jasper Neely.
CHAPTER 17
“How long has he been dead?” Sir Arthur asked.
“Not long. The man’s body is still warm, his lips and fingernails still have color, and lividity hasn’t set in yet,” Walter said. Sir Arthur stared at Walter, anticipating a more precise answer. “I’d say less than fifteen minutes, no mo
re than thirty.”
Satisfied, Sir Arthur nodded and turned toward Simeon Harper when high-pitched whistles marked the approach of the police.
Several policemen arrived, mostly in uniform but three wore dark brown sack suits with derby hats to match. It was the bespectacled man in a suit, with dark wavy hair and mustache and a pronounced dimple in his chin, who took charge.
“Secure the area,” he said to the uniformed officers, who immediately began yelling and pushing the bystanders back from the dead man.
“Back away!” one of the uniformed officers yelled at us, grabbing Walter forcibly by the arm. Walter went peacefully until the second policeman grabbed my arm and yanked me backward.
“Aaahhh!” I cried as pain from the jarring shot through my body. Walter shook off the policeman’s hold and raced to my side.
“Unhand her. Can’t you see this lady has been injured? And by the likes of you, I might add.”
“What happened to her?” the bespectacled man asked Walter as if I wasn’t there.
“She was beaten by police with clubs, unprovoked. She’s very likely broken the ulna in her arm.”
“If she’s injured, what are you two doing looking at the body of dead man?” the bespectacled man said.
“I’m a doctor. As I was tending to Miss Davish, I heard another needed my assistance. So I came.”
“But why are you here?” the policeman said, looking at me for the first time. He squinted at me despite his spectacles.
Before I could respond, Walter said, “I couldn’t leave her unattended, so I asked her to accompany me.”
“Yeah, okay. But I will need a statement from you, Doctor—?”
“Dr. Grice.”
“And everyone in your party.”
“Of course.”
“Rhodes, take statements from those in the crowd,” the man in charge said, pointing to one of the men in suits. And then he pointed to the other. “Gallaher, I want you to take statements from Dr. Grice and his companions. Don’t let anyone leave until you do.”
“I beg your pardon,” Sir Arthur declared. “I am Sir Arthur Windom-Greene, and this”—he indicated Sarah, who was still using his arm for support while she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief—“is the wife of Congressman Daniel Clayworth.” The bespectacled policeman raised an eyebrow.
“And?”
“If you will not allow us to leave, then at the very least we deserve your full attention, as the detective in charge, Mr.—?”
“Lieutenant Whittmeyer, of the Detective Corps, Metropolitan Police,” the detective said. “My men are all special officers in the Corps, Sir Windom-Greene, but if you prefer waiting while I conduct a full investigation of the body and the area, then I will be happy to oblige.” He tipped his hat, almost mockingly, and turned away before Sir Arthur could respond.
“Damn cheek!” Sir Arthur said. “Forgive my language, Mrs. Clayworth.”
“Forgiven, Sir Arthur. The man was inexplicably rude.”
“Are you all right, Hattie?” Walter said.
“Did that ghastly policeman hurt you?” Sarah asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, smiling at Walter. He’d heard me say this too many times to count and usually I wasn’t fine at all. “My arm does throb a bit, though.”
Walter frowned. If I admitted to any pain, he knew I was in trouble. “I need to get my bag. Come with me.”
As Detective Gallaher approached, hoping to convince Sir Arthur to speak to him instead of waiting, Walter led me gently toward the detective who was kneeling beside Jasper Neely’s dead body. He removed the penknife from the man’s grip and stood examining it.
“Lieutenant Whittmeyer?” Walter said, stopping several feet from the body and the detective. The man didn’t look up but instead lifted the penknife to his nose. “Lieutenant Whittmeyer?” Walter repeated, now urging me forward.
The detective still didn’t acknowledge us. We took a few more steps, but this time, in my state, I was unsteady and tripped on a rent I hadn’t noticed before in the hem of my skirt. I stumbled slightly, my good arm reaching for some purchase. Walter steadied me, but not before the detective reached out to my aide. I immediately detected a strong scent about him.
“Coconut oil,” I said, without thinking. He released his grip on me.
“That’s right,” the detective said, sniffing the penknife again. “I couldn’t place it, but you’re right.” He looked at me again as if seeing me for the first time. “I don’t think I got your name.” I steadied myself, with Walter’s help, straightened my hat, and took a step back from the policeman and the body.
“Miss Hattie Davish.”
The detective nodded. He handed the penknife to a uniformed policeman and then looked sharply back at me. “Hattie Davish, did you say?”
“Yes, I’m Sir Arthur’s secretary.”
“I know you.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
“No, but I’ve heard that name before. I can’t place it, though. Were you the one who got in the way of my men’s arrest of Marshal Browne?”
“I beg your pardon?” I said, indignant. “As Dr. Grice explained, I was an innocent bystander who was beaten without provocation by your men. Like many other innocent people who were attacked. As Marshal Browne, Mr. Jones, and . . .”—I still couldn’t bring myself to name the madam—“the others were well within your custody, there was no reason for such violence against women and children.”
“If you were innocent . . .” he said, and before I could argue added, “I agree with you, Miss Davish. The incident will be investigated. And I will remember where I’ve heard your name before. But right now, I’m more interested in how you knew this was coconut oil.”
“I’m an amateur botanist. I collect plants and flowers and know many of their scents by heart. Besides, it’s commonly found in ladies’ toilet soap.” I looked at the penknife in the detective’s hand. In addition to the blood, a clear, oily sheen was on it. “But that looks like pure coconut oil. It probably helped Mr. Neely pull the penknife out of his neck after being stabbed. But how did it get on the penknife?”
The detective stared at me for a moment as if not knowing how to respond. In the end, he decided to ignore my question and ask one of his own.
“Familiar with penknifes are you, Miss Davish?”
“Yes, I have one much like that one. A tool of the trade, you might say.” The detective squinted his eyes as he regarded me.
“So you knew the victim?”
“In a way. I saw him at Coxey’s camp yesterday, though we were never formally introduced.” I wasn’t about to mention I’d met Jasper Neely for the first time at the scene of another death.
“Lieutenant Whittmeyer,” Walter said impatiently. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
Without taking his eyes off me, he said over his shoulder, “What was it that you wanted, Dr. Grice? I’m assuming you have a good reason for interrupting my investigation?”
“Yes, Miss Davish is in pain, and I need to get to my medical bag.”
“Very well, you may go, but I want your statement first. Gallaher!” he yelled. “Stop what you’re doing and come get a statement from Dr. Grice.”
“Thank you,” Walter said, gently urging me toward the approaching detective.
“I didn’t say Miss Davish could leave, now did I?”
“You have no cause to keep her,” Walter said, again supporting me as we walked away.
“Wait a minute!” Lieutenant Whittmeyer shouted. Walter and I stopped and turned to see him pointing at me. “What is that?” We followed his gaze to the mess that was my skirt.
“A muddy footprint,” I said.
“No, there,” he said, pointing to a dark brown splotch on my dress. He bent down and, without warning, pinched part of the fabric of my skirt between his fingers, bringing it close to his face. I leaned back in an effort to distance myself from this affront.
“Blood, I would think,” Walter s
aid, gently removing the detective’s hand from my skirt.
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking too,” the detective said. “Stay right where you are, Miss Davish.” As if to prevent me from fleeing, the detective firmly gripped my good arm. I hissed through gritted teeth at the pain the jarring caused in my other.
“Whittmeyer, what are you doing?” Walter said. “This is ridiculous.”
“What in the devil’s name is going on here?” Sir Arthur said, ignoring the protests of Detective Gallaher, as he came to my side. “Why are you manhandling my secretary? Release your hold immediately, or I will speak to your superior.”
“And you may do that, sir, if you find cause to complain of my conduct toward you, Mrs. Clayworth, or your companions,” the detective said, but didn’t release his hold on me.
“Then release my secretary this instant.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t do that.”
“But she needs medicine,” Walter said. “She needs treatment.”
“Once you’ve given your statement, you are free to retrieve your bag, Doctor. But I’d advise you to bring it to the Fifth Precinct station. This lady is coming with me.”
“On what grounds?” Sir Arthur demanded.
“On suspicion of the murder of Jasper Neely.”
* * *
Who killed Jasper Neely? I thought, trying to distract myself from the pain in my arm every time the patrol wagon hit a bump in the road. And why?
As I jostled about in the back of the wagon, the first time I’d ever been inside such a vehicle, the fear of why the police had taken me into custody far outweighed the pain in my arm or the curiosity that drove me to wonder about Jasper Neely. The question I really wanted answered was, Why me? Why were they taking me to the police station for questioning? Why wouldn’t they allow me to meet them at the station accompanied by Walter or Sir Arthur as both had insisted? Thinking about Jasper Neely’s murder was easier to contemplate, the questions easier to answer: Who had a disagreement with Neely? Who had the opportunity?
Not being able to use my arm to write a list, I made a mental list of suspects instead and counted them off on my fingers. A futile exercise, but it provided the distraction I needed.
A March to Remember Page 14
