Chester! He was an obvious suspect. He could easily have been who Neely was meeting with this morning. But why? I still couldn’t imagine any reason, good or bad, why Jasper Neely had business at the Smith House. Another suspect was Senator Abbott. I’d seen Senator Abbott speaking with Mr. Neely twice—at the camp and at the State, War and Navy building. But they seemed more like conspirators than enemies. Could the conspiracy have gone sour? At one time I would’ve been mortified even considering the possibility that a United States senator was a murderer, but I’d learned the hard way that, given the right motive, anyone was suspect.
So what could the motive be? I wondered.
As if he’d heard my thoughts, Officer Lynch asked, “But what motive would any respectable gentleman have for killing Neely? Surely not a wallop in the nose?” Again, silence. I leaned back slightly to hear what was said next.
“What are you doing, Miss Davish?”
“Oh!”
Lieutenant Whittmeyer startled me as he emerged from the room next door. When he noticed the door to the interview room was open, he closed it, and I could no longer hear if the men offered an answer to the question of motive.
“Can’t find your way out?”
“I was feeling a bit faint and was resting against the wall.” The lie came out effortlessly. Inwardly I cringed at deceiving the policeman, and yet I had no regrets.
“Do you need me to escort you?”
“No, thank you. There’s no need. I’m feeling much better.”
“Good day then, Miss Davish.”
“By the way, Lieutenant, since I am still here, would it be possible to speak with Marshal Browne?”
“No.”
“But I—”
“I know what you’re thinking, but you’re not in Podunk, Miss Davish. You’re in the seat of the U.S. government. If I find that you are in any way meddling in police business, I will not hesitate to arrest you. And unlike this time, I can guarantee it will not be pleasant.”
Pleasant? This had been far from pleasant. I blinked in astonishment and felt my heart skip a beat or two. I had met with resistance from police before, but I’d never been threatened with incarceration.
“Surely you don’t mean if I—”
“In any way,” the detective said, enunciating “any” with particular force. “Do I make myself clear?”
None of this had anything to do with me, I reminded myself. I was simply indulging in the curiosity that had gotten me into too many bad predicaments already. The man was right. This was none of my business.
“Yes,” I said.
“The door is that way.” He pointed down the hall. Then he tipped his head, satisfied that he would never have to deal with me again, and strolled away. Without hesitation, I hurried toward the exit, knowing my freedom depended upon leaving as quickly as I could.
* * *
“Miss!” someone called in a loud whisper. Despite my hurry, I slowed to look about. I was alone in the hallway. “Please, miss, I need to talk to you,” the voice pleaded.
Could they be talking to me? I wondered. Why would they be? Besides, I needed to get out of there. I picked up my pace.
And then Lottie Fox stepped out from the shadows of a darkened intersecting hallway, blocking my way. I stopped at once. I looked about again. Luckily we were still alone in the hallway. But what was I to do? How could I possibly speak to a woman like her in public and not risk my reputation? But how could I ignore her plea? Did I simply act as if she didn’t exist, push past her, and keep walking? Did I return with her into the dark hall where no one could see us?
“Miss Fox?” was all I could muster, before realizing my mistake.
I shouldn’t know her name. A respectable woman wouldn’t know her name. But our paths had crossed several times over the past few days. Did that say more about her or me? I stood rooted to the spot, tongue-tied and not knowing what to do.
Sensing my predicament, the madam said, “Please, miss, I know you don’t want to be seen with me, but I have to talk to you. If you’ll stand next to the wall where you can hear me, I’ll go back there.” She pointed toward the darkened hallway.
As if in a dream, I nodded and stood close to the corner of the wall as she slipped back into the dark. I glanced around me, to see if anyone could have seen us together, but only a few policemen were about and none seemed interested in anything other than his own affairs.
“Were you hurt?” I finally gathered up the courage to ask. I could still picture her staggering to her knees after being hit by a policeman’s club.
“I’m fine, miss. Thank you.”
“Weren’t you arrested?”
“Yes, but I know the police superintendent.” She said no more, and I was grateful. “You don’t need to know any more about me, but aren’t you the one that witnessed my Annie drowning in the carp pond yesterday morning?”
I was stunned into silence. This wasn’t what I’d expected. For some reason I’d assumed she wanted to talk about Jasper Neely. And then the reality of what she’d said seeped into my muddled mind. She knew me. She knew I’d witnessed the carriage accident.
“Simeon Harper,” I hissed beneath my breath. How else would she know I was the secretary mentioned in the newspaper?
“Yes, Simeon told me,” she said, unaware of my anger.
“Please, Miss Davish, can you tell me anything? Annie was like a daughter to me.”
He had told her my name! I seethed as I immediately glanced both ways along the hall to make sure no one heard her. How dare Mr. Harper compromise me in such a way? How dare he betray my confidences and to a . . . a madam, of all people? How dare he!
“Please, miss, I don’t know what else to do,” Lottie Fox was saying.
Focused solely on my anger and the choice words I had for Simeon Harper if I ever saw him again, I’d barely heard another word of what she’d said. Her pathetic pleading brought me back. I couldn’t see her face, but grief and remorse was obvious in her voice. The woman was wretched; she was stifling tears. Not for Jasper Neely, however she was connected to him, but for a girl who sold her body for money.
“I’m not sure I can ease your sorrow,” I said, moved by her grief, “but I can tell you what I saw and what I know.”
I’d never considered that a madam would care for the women who worked for her. I’d never considered that those types of women would have feelings like any other woman, but she did. So I told her what I knew, including a description of the carriage driver’s horrendous behavior.
“But I’m sorry to say that when I asked, the police indicated they weren’t going to investigate further. They have other cases that take precedence over an accident.”
“You actually asked about it? To the police?” Miss Fox’s voice betrayed her disbelief.
“Of course I did.”
“But Annie was a harlot.” I flinched at her vulgarity, but in different words that is what the police had said. “Why would you care?”
I wonder myself sometimes, I thought, and then told her the truth.
“It was a tragedy. A woman died and she deserves justice. I still have hope they’ll find the man who did it.” A stifled sob escaped from the dark hall that hid the madam. I almost turned to face her but cowardly held my back against the wall as a policeman, roughly escorting a disheveled man reeking of whiskey, passed by.
“I didn’t expect such kindness,” she whispered through her tears. “God bless you.”
I felt ill at ease. I’d done nothing but express my desire to see justice for that poor dead girl. I wished I had done something worthy of her gratitude.
“If you want to thank anyone, thank the man, the Coxeyite, you know as Billy. Along with Jasper Neely, he stopped and tried to save Annie.”
“I will. I didn’t know Billy and Jasper had been there. Poor Jasper. I told him . . .” She hesitated. Told him what? I waited in anticipation, but she never finished the sentence. Instead she said, “Please tell Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Claywort
h that I’m sorry.”
“What?” I nearly spit out the word in surprise.
What on earth did Jasper Neely have to do with Mrs. Smith and Sarah? Was Mrs. Smith the one who had met Neely this morning? I couldn’t imagine why. And Sarah, had she even met Neely? How could she possibly have anything to do with him? And how did Lottie Fox know Mrs. Smith and Sarah? Was Simeon Harper to blame for that as well?
“I thought . . . but how was I to know?”
Know what? Before I could ask, she added, barely above a whisper, “Please tell them I regret it now. Oh, how I regret it.”
“Regret what?”
Disregarding my own sense of caution, I turned the corner into the adjacent hallway. But the madam, her heels clicking sharply on the linoleum floor, was running away from me as fast as she could, shoving open a door at the end of the dark hall, and disappearing behind it. I flattened myself back against the wall, my mind racing. Another policeman walked by, eyeing me with suspicion, but said nothing when I smiled.
“Regret what?” I said again out loud to myself the moment he was gone. My fingers shaking, I rummaged through my bag for my pencil and notepad. Using my injured arm to support the notepad, I scribbled a quick list.
1. What did Miss Fox regret?
2. What was Miss Fox sorry about?
3. What didn’t she know?
4. What had she told Jasper Neely?
5. Could she know something about his murder?
6. What did Mrs. Smith and Sarah have to do with it?
How could they? I reread the last thing I’d written. Perhaps Mrs. Smith was mixed up with all this, but Sarah? No. I couldn’t accept that my future sister-in-law had anything to do with Jasper Neely’s death. I stared at the words I’d written one last time before crumpling the paper and stuffing it deep into my bag.
* * *
“Say hello to Daniel Clayworth for me, ma’am,” someone called when I arrived in the lobby, jammed from wall to wall with people. From their worn, sun-bleached clothes and the strong scent of unwashed bodies, Coxey’s men made up the majority, with a handful of others I recognized as witnesses at the scene of Jasper Neely’s dead body. I looked about to see who had called out. The man I knew as Billy pushed back the new wool cowboy hat that had covered his face, and rose from the bench he’d been sharing with several others.
“Billy McBain’s the name,” he said, holding out his hand. “We weren’t formally introduced when we met before.” He glanced around. “Also under unusual circumstances.” He smiled.
Knowing now that he was no friend of Daniel Clayworth’s, I didn’t know what to do. I hesitated. Would I offend the Clayworths if I was friendly toward Mr. McBain? But then again, I reasoned, he had attempted to rescue the life of the drowned woman, and for that alone I took his hand, however reluctantly. Rough and callused as a man’s who spends most of his time outdoors would be, his hand was also missing the tip of his middle finger. I could only wonder what had happened to it.
“Yes, both unfortunate circumstances,” I said. He nodded. “I’m Miss Davish.”
“How are you, by the way, Miss Davish? It’s not every day a lady like yourself bears witness to two deaths in so many days,” he asked, appearing genuinely concerned.
“I’m fine, Mr. McBain, but thank you for asking.”
“I’m glad to hear it, and please, still call me Billy, will you?” he said, before leaning in and whispering, “Have you learned anything more about Annie’s death?”
“I did ask, but they told me nothing. In fact, they might not be investigating the accident at all.”
“If it was an accident,” he said cryptically.
I’d seen the carriage careening toward the pond. I’d seen the horse rear up and bolt. I had no doubt what had happened. “A tragic accident and nothing more,” I said.
“Was it an accident that the driver fled and left Annie to die?”
I sighed. Having witnessed another dead body and escaped the accusations of participating in the poor man’s demise, I wasn’t prepared to ponder such a thought. Instead I changed the subject.
“How do you know Congressman Clayworth, Billy?”
“No need to bother yourself with details. Just tell him Billy says hello. And that I saw Doggie Miller hit a home run against Cleveland. He’ll love that!”
“I’m sorry, Billy, but—”
“Just tell him. He knows who I am. We go way back.” The man grinned, as if he’d told a joke I was supposed to find funny.
So there is a connection between him and Daniel Clayworth, after all, I thought.
Originally I’d presumed Billy was a stranger, possibly a disgruntled constituent taking advantage of the chance meeting with his representative in Washington. It didn’t seem possible a member of Coxey’s Army could have any other connection to Walter’s brother-in-law, a congressman no less. But I’d seen Daniel interact with Billy McBain, twice. I’d seen the anger Billy aroused in him, and the disappointment in Billy’s manner. And how would Billy know Daniel loved St. Louis Browns baseball, Doggie Miller being one of their players? No, I had no doubt Daniel Clayworth knew Billy McBain. And yet neither Sarah nor anyone else seemed to recognize him.
Before I could inquire further, a policeman called out, “Alexander, McBain, Pfrimmer, and Schwantes. If you would follow me, please.”
Billy McBain tipped his hat and joined the other men who had been called. “Just tell him Billy said hello,” he said again before following the policeman back down the hall I’d left minutes ago.
I’ve been given the second behest by a relative stranger in less than ten minutes, I thought, watching the men disappear down the hall. What am I to do now?
Was I to convey the message and possibly incur Daniel’s ire or forget the encounter ever happened? I couldn’t help feel a bit of sympathy for a man who risked his life for a fallen woman. And yet? And what about the message Lottie Fox wanted me to convey? Would Mrs. Smith and Sarah understand the cryptic apology, or would they be appalled when I mentioned Miss Fox’s name in their presence? Banishing the indecision and conflicting emotions from my mind, I navigated my way across the crowded lobby, pushed open the police station door, and stepped out into the fading evening sunshine.
CHAPTER 20
“Miss Davish! Miss Davish!”
A group of men, all wearing brown derby hats, rushed at me, some waving their hands and notebooks closer than a foot from my face. I backed away until I was flat against the station door.
“Why did the police question you?”
“Did you know the murdered man?”
“Has the killer of Annie Wilcox come forward yet?”
“Why are you wearing a sling?”
“Was the madam Lottie Fox arrested?”
“Did you speak to Carl Browne? Does he know one of his men has been murdered?”
“I don’t know,” I said, putting my free hand up to shield my face from their intense questioning.
“Hattie!” Walter said, shoving his way through the men. “Leave her alone. She doesn’t know anything.”
“She witnessed Annie Wilcox’s death, and now she’s being questioned by the police after another murder,” one of the men said. “How can she not know anything?”
“Go away. Find someone else to harass.” Walter put his arm around me. “How are you? How’s the pain? Did you take the laudanum?”
“Much better, thanks to you,” I said, patting the hand he’d placed on my good arm.
“Let’s get out of here.” He led me through the throng of journalists toward a four-passenger phaeton across the street, the horse looking vaguely familiar.
“Are you a suspect in the murder, Miss Davish?” a journalist shouted at our backs.
Not wanting to encourage them, I ignored the question. But as I approached the phaeton, a head peeked around the side and said, “Well, are you?”
“Harper!” Walter said. “You know she’s not.”
“Then why did the police take you
in?” he said, holding out his hand to help me into the phaeton. I reluctantly took his hand but said nothing until Walter was settled beside me.
“Miss Davish has been through an ordeal and needs medical attention. Can’t this wait?”
“Sure, she can tell me all about it on the way back to Senator Smith’s house.” I groaned as his horse, Swift, with a little urging from Harper, slowly clomped away from the curb.
At this pace, I’ll have time to tell him my life story, I thought. But I had no intention of telling this journalist any more than I’d told the reporters at the police station. Walter had the same idea.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” he said quietly.
“I was worried you’d think I had something to do with it,” I said.
“Never,” Walter said, frowning. “How could you think such a thing?” I indicated Harper’s back, in the driver’s seat in front of us, as he guided Swift through a right turn.
“He did. Sir Arthur might.”
“I am not Sir Arthur,” Walter whispered, sensing my concern. “When we are married, you will not be gaining another demanding master. You and I are a team, are we not?” I nodded, too relieved for words.
“Now, if you two lovers are through, I suggest you start from the beginning and tell me everything that happened, Miss Davish,” Simeon Harper said. But before I could say a word, he asked, “Did you see Browne? Why did the detective think you knew anything about Jasper Neely? Where did the blood come from that was on your dress?” I ignored all of his questions and snuggled closer to Walter. “Well?” I remained silent several moments more. I was enjoying his distress. “Well, Miss Davish, aren’t you going to tell me what happened?”
“No, but you are going to answer a question of mine.”
“What?”
“Why did you mention me in your article as a witness to Annie Wilcox’s drowning, after promising you wouldn’t?”
“I didn’t mention your name,” the journalist said. “I merely mentioned the secretary to a reputable historian visiting the city.”
“A very thin veil, Mr. Harper. Why do you think those journalists were waiting for me outside the police station? They figured out who I was. Even Lottie Fox figured it out. She called me by name, Mr. Harper.”
A March to Remember Page 16
