A March to Remember (15 page)

C
HAPTER
18

C
lick!

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 good 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.

C
HAPTER
19

B
ut 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.”

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. Clayworth 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.

 

 

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.