1. Lottie Fox
2. Senator Abbott
3. Chester Smith
4. If not Chester, whoever met Neely at Smith’s house: Senator Smith? Mildred? Claude Morris? One of the staff?
5. Any one of hundreds of men from Coxey’s Army
“Ouch!” I cried as we passed through a particularly deep rut that sent me several inches into the air before landing hard again on the wooden bench that lined the inside of the wagon.
“All right, miss?” the police officer driving shouted back to me.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
I wasn’t. I was in a great deal of pain and I was frightened. I cradled my arm, which did nothing the sling wasn’t already doing, but it made me feel like I was in control of something. Because I wasn’t. A few hours ago, I was contentedly digging through old war pension records for Sir Arthur, and now I was tied up in yet another murder. And this time they thought I did it.
When the wagon stopped, a uniformed officer helped me disembark through the back, carefully holding my good arm with one hand and putting his other hand around my shoulders for support.
“Careful now, miss.” He was the first policeman of the day who had shown me any compassion.
“Thank you.”
He led me into the station, an undistinguished three-story limestone building, down an unadorned hall, and into a small, windowless, whitewashed room furnished only with a simple wooden table and three plain wooden chairs, two on one side of the table and one on the other. He sat me in the single chair and told me to wait.
“I’m going to see if I can get something for that.” He indicated my arm with a jut of his chin. “We should have something around to ease the pain.”
“Thank you. May I also have a glass of water?”
“Of course, miss,” he said before closing the door behind him. I heard the bolt of the lock click.
I let my forehead drop to the table and allowed myself a moment of despair. Tears welled up in my eyes, tears of pain, tears of fear and insecurity, and tears of self-pity. I was innocent, but would anyone believe me? I’d seen Sir Arthur’s countenance cloud over when they lifted me into the wagon. When this was all over, would I still have his support? Would I still have a job? Sir Arthur would not abide any scandal in his household or among his friends. I could easily imagine that the moment the police insisted I accompany them to the station, Sir Arthur was already contemplating how quickly he could acquire a new secretary.
Sarah’s face too, as the patrol wagon hauled me away, had clearly showed her mortification. But why? Because she believed I was being mistreated or because she believed the false allegations against me? Or did she believe me innocent, but as a congressman’s wife she could ill afford to show me any support without jeopardizing her husband’s career in Washington? At one time I would have thought the latter, but now I didn’t know.
Thank goodness for Walter. Thinking of his consternation at not being able to join me in the wagon or give me relief from my pain gave me the strength to lift my head and wipe away the tears. A wave of shame swept through me. It did neither him nor me any credit to indulge my self-pity and doubts. I knew Walter would support me regardless of what was to come. I knew I could rely on his faith, his love, and his support. We weren’t married yet, but from the moment I saw the look on his face as the patrol wagon rumbled away from the Capitol, I knew he’d already taken the marriage vows to heart. Now I must prove worthy of such a man. I pulled back my shoulders, tucked in the stray curls under my hat, and wiped away all remains of my tears.
It can’t be all that bad. Can it?
CHAPTER 18
Click!
Despite my newly found courage, I flinched when the door unlocked.
Buck up, Davish! That won’t do, I admonished myself silently as the policeman entered carrying a plain white china cup with a chip on the rim and a small bottle of reddish-brown liquid.
“Here you go, miss.” The policeman set the cup, filled with water, before me. “And your doctor friend brought you this.” He held out the bottle. “He said to drink it all.”
“Dr. Grice is here?” I said, reaching for the bottle. It tasted terribly bitter, but I drank every drop without hesitation. Once, not long ago, I would’ve avoided such medicine, even when racked with pain, not trusting the prescribing physician to treat me. But after learning the truth behind my father’s death and knowing Walter, I’d come to trust again. At least to trust Walter unequivocally.
“Yeah, can you believe it? Must have followed us here pretty fast.” I nodded, almost smiling, thinking of Walter’s reckless driving. This time I was grateful for it. I drank the water then.
“Thank you, Officer—?”
“It’s Lynch, miss.”
“Thank you, Officer Lynch. You’ve been most kind.”
“You remind me of my wife. I can’t imagine you’re mixed up in all this nasty business. Besides, it doesn’t do any harm to treat everyone with a little respect.”
“And everyone does get treated with respect here, Lynch,” Lieutenant Whittmeyer said, entering the room without warning.
“Of course, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” Officer Lynch cast a quick glance at me. Was that pity I saw? If so, it didn’t last as he left the room as fast as he could, shutting the door behind him. I was now alone with the detective.
“So, Miss Hattie Davish, can you explain the blood on your dress?” he said without preamble. I looked at the dark splotch spread across my skirt.
“Yes, I can. When I was running from your officers during the melee that occurred after the arrest of Marshal Browne, I tripped and met with the sharp edge of a stone. It scraped my knee and I bled.”
“I don’t see a cut in your skirt.”
“There is a slight rent in the fabric, here.” I pointed to the spot. He leaned down and examined the fabric, and to my surprise, poked his finger through the tear. I instinctively sat farther back in the chair, trying to distance my skirt from his inspection.
“It doesn’t go through. You could’ve easily torn your dress in any number of ways.” He stood straight but continued to stare at me. “It doesn’t explain the blood. I’ll have to see your knee.”
“Excuse me?” I was shocked. He expected me to show him my leg?
When I didn’t move, he said, “Right now, without convincing evidence indicating otherwise, I have to assume that the blood on your skirt is from the neck of the murdered man.”
“But there were plenty of people bleeding after your officers took clubs to their heads,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt.
“That may be, but none of them was standing next to the dead man. Only you, of all those who discovered the body, had blood on them.”
“But—”
“Show me the knee,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.
“If suffering this indignity is the only way to clear me of suspicion, I will have to endure it.”
“Yes, you will.”
We sat staring at one another in silence for several moments. He was obviously not going to change his mind.
“Well, Miss Davish? Shall I show you to a cell or are you going to show me your knee?”
What choice did I have? So I took a deep breath, silently counted in French to five, and then slowly pulled up my skirt, revealing my fine cotton hose an inch above my knee. The stone had ripped a hole in my stocking. My bare pale skin, marred by an irregular dark red gash, was easily seen through the rent. I lifted my head and stared at a thin, meandering crack in the wall near the ceiling as the man had the indignity of examining the area, his face mere inches from my leg.
“So I see,” he said, stepping back. I immediately dropped my skirt, shielding my leg from his eyes. I smoothed the skirt across my lap as he took a seat across from me at the table. “Your own blood then.”
“Yes, as I told you it was. There was no reason to subject me to such indignity.”
“But you could’ve lied now, couldn’t you?”
“Why would I lie?”
“To hide the fact that you killed Jasper Neely.” I knew he had suspected me, but to hear him say it out loud silenced the indignant reply on the tip of my tongue.
“And now?” I asked. He stared at me in silence while my heart raced. I could feel every heartbeat against my stays.
“Tell me what you know of Jasper Neely,” he said slowly.
“I’ve already told you.”
“Tell me everything you know about Jasper Neely.”
“Why do you think I know anything more than I told you?”
“Don’t be coy with me, Miss Davish. I know who you are.”
“So you said before.”
“Yes, but now I remember where I heard your name before. You are no ordinary bystander, are you, Miss Davish?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I know all about your involvement in several high-profile murder cases in the past two years, and I’m not just talking about the well-publicized case of Mrs. Edwina Trevelyan, the temperance leader.”
“But—”
He leaned forward across the table. “I even know about Newport.” I was speechless.
Due to her celebrity, Mrs. Trevelyan’s death and my involvement in aiding the police in discovering her killer was in all the national papers. Several of the other crimes I’d helped solve were widely known as well, but none outside of Newport knew about the murder there. Or so I thought.
“How do you know about Newport?”
“You are in Washington, D.C., now, Miss Davish,” he said, as if that explained everything.
If he knew about Newport, did he know as well that I was the secretary mentioned in the newspaper who had witnessed the death of Annie Wilcox?
As if in response to my thought, he said, “Oh, yes, I know all about your involvement with violent deaths. So I don’t believe for a moment that it was a coincidence you were on hand for this one.”
“But—” I started to argue that of course it was a coincidence but stopped myself.
“Don’t deny it.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe in that type of coincidence either.” He was a bit surprised by my sudden capitulation. He relaxed back into his chair.
“Okay then, tell me everything you know about Jasper Neely.”
So I did, almost. I told him about seeing Mr. Neely at the camp the day before, spouting his views that were detested by Senator Smith and his son but that had the ear of half of the camp. I retold how Chester Smith and Neely came to blows. I described how I’d seen Neely slip into the senator’s house before dawn this morning and his smugness upon leaving.
“And what were you doing outside before dawn this morning?”
“I don’t sleep well, Lieutenant, and often hike in the early-morning hours before I must attend to my duties.” He nodded and waved for me to continue.
I then told him how I’d seen Jasper Neely conspiring with Senator Abbott in the State, War and Navy building later in the morning.
“But everyone in Washington knows Smith and Abbott are political enemies,” the detective said. “Why would the victim be conspiring with both? What do they have in common?” He stared at the blank ceiling, thinking. His questions were rhetorical so I waited for him to finish, watching a moth, having gotten into the room somehow, batter itself against the electric lightbulb.
“I can’t possibly think of anything those two men have in common,” the detective said. He rubbed his cleft chin thoughtfully for several moments before saying, “Go on.”
I hesitated. This was the part of my story I felt the most awkward about. “I saw him again right before the marchers arrived at the Capitol.”
“Of course, he was marching with the rest of them.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
I hadn’t thought that odd before, but thinking about it now it did seem strange. Simeon Harper had said that Neely had been one of Coxey’s original followers, marching with him all the way from Massillon, Ohio. Why would he not want to be a part of the climactic finale?
“So what was he doing?” Whittmeyer asked me. I hesitated again. “What was Neely doing instead of joining Coxey and Browne at the Capitol steps, Miss Davish?”
I took a deep breath. “He was speaking with Miss Lottie Fox.”
There, I’d said it. I’d said her name out loud.
“You mean the madam from the Apple House on C Street?” I’d surprised the policeman. I nodded, holding back the urge to chuckle.
I hadn’t noticed the name of the establishment the two times I’d been there, my focus being diverted elsewhere, but it was clever. Apple in the language of flowers meant temptation. As I’d once speculated, the name truly was an advertisement in itself. What better description than “Temptation House”?
“I should ask how you, a respectable lady, know Lottie Fox by sight. But in this one case, I’ll take your word for it. I know she’s been following the marchers for a while, and it’s reasonable she would know Neely.” I blushed at his remark but said nothing. “Is that all? Have you told me everything?”
“Yes.” But that wasn’t all. When had I acquired the ability to lie to the police? I wondered, not really wanting to know.
“Very well, you’re free to go.”
“I am?”
“Of course. I never thought you had anything to do with this. In fact, before I came in here, I read several statements of witnesses that prove you hadn’t the opportunity to kill Neely, being part of the commotion involving the arrest of Carl Browne. And I can’t imagine your motive.”
Whether the medicine Walter gave me had lessened the pain or my fear had turned to anger, I don’t know, but it took all the training I’d ever had working with demanding employers not to lash out at this man. I’d felt guilty for holding back information from him but not anymore.
“Un, deux, trois,” I counted beneath my breath, trying to calm myself down. When I was calm enough, I said slowly, “So you scared me to death, while possibly tarnishing my reputation by bringing me here under a cloud of suspicion for murder, merely to learn what I know? Couldn’t you have simply asked?”
“I’ve learned witnesses are more honest when they are under duress.” He stood, walked to the door, and held it open as he waited for me to leave.
“You made me lift my skirt, sir!” I said, astonished I’d been mistreated so.
“It had to be done.”
“I see,” I said, already imagining Sir Arthur’s reaction when I told him the truth. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I ask you a question.” I rose from the table and approached the door.
“Not if it’s reasonable, no.”
“The carriage accident in the carp pond by the Washington Monument yesterday morning. Have there been any further developments?” He raised an eyebrow and frowned.
“Read about that in the paper, did you?”
“Actually, I witnessed that too.” The man chuckled under his breath. So he didn’t know, after all.
“So you’re the secretary the article mentioned? I knew I was right to bring you in.”
“A woman died. Have you learned who was driving the carriage?”
“A prostitute died, you mean.”
“But the man left the woman to die.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if it hadn’t been an accident, in this city, considering the victim, we have far more important cases to pursue.” I was mortified by his callousness. She might have been a fallen woman, but she was a person after all.
“Would it make a difference if I told you Jasper Neely was among the men who tried to save her?” I said.
“And you are just telling me this now?”
“Will you investigate further now?” I said, ignoring his question.
“Not unless Neely was the driver. Was he?”
“No, of course not. He arrived after the fact and besides, his clothes were dry.”
“Then g
ood day, Miss Davish. Let’s hope I don’t need to bring you in again.”
“Yes, let’s,” I said sincerely, slipping by him, grateful to be out of that room. I had no intention of coming back.
CHAPTER 19
But I was slower leaving than I anticipated, and not from any physical constraints. As I passed the next room, with its door wide-open, I slowed my steps, keeping my head facing forward but glancing into the room from the corner of my eye. Five men, in rumpled shirts and knee-stained pants, faced Officer Lynch across a table. I recognized all the disheveled men as marchers in Coxey’s Army, and they were talking about Jasper Neely. When I’d cleared the door, I stopped to listen.
“But he was as loyal as they come,” one man said, answering a question I hadn’t heard. “Walked every step of the way from Massillon to the Capitol steps.”
“I can’t imagine who would want to kill him,” another added.
“But who were his enemies?” Officer Lynch asked.
Silence reigned until one man said, “It had to have been one of them damn politicians who wouldn’t lift a finger to help out the common man.”
Grunts of assent filled the room. “Now, now,” the policeman said. “We won’t be having you accuse anyone without just cause. Think now. Back at the camp, were there any quarrels between Neely and any of the others?”
“The only quarrel Jasper had was with those hoity-toity men who came to gawk but refused to consider sponsoring the bill that Coxey and Browne and everyone was proposing. ‘Where’s the respect?’ Jasper would ask. ‘We aren’t animals in a zoo, we’re men who only want to work, to put food on our tables, and take care of our families proper.’ That’s what Jasper said, and those ‘gentlemen’ didn’t like it.”
Could they be referring to Senator Smith? Or were there others? Many “gentlemen” had come to the camp those last two days before the march, even members of the Chinese legation.
As if to answer my silent question, one of the men added, “One of them even punched Jasper in the nose.”
A March to Remember Page 15
