A March to Remember (16 page)

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.

C
HAPTER
20

“M
iss 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.”

“Yes, well . . .” He had no defense for himself. “What? Wait. Lottie Fox spoke to you personally? Where? At the police station? Do they know anything more about the Annie Wilcox case? Have the police figured out who fled the scene yet?” I said nothing.

“Aren't you going to tell me anything about Jasper Neely's murder? About what the police questioned you about?”

“I wouldn't,” Walter said. “You're a scoundrel, Harper. Why should Miss Davish tell you anything?”

“Sure, I'm a scoundrel. But I too have read all those newspaper articles about you, Miss Davish. I even wrote one of them. I know you want justice done.”

“And telling you will help?” Walter said.

“Yes.”

“That may be so—” I said.

“So you're going to tell me?” Harper interrupted.

“I would, but I'm too tired to tell this tale twice.”

“Twice?”

“I have to tell Sir Arthur. So come with us to Senator Smith's house and you can learn everything I know.”

“
Aaaggh,
” the journalist groaned. “You know they won't let me back into Smith's house.”

“Yes, I do know,” I said, feeling pleased with myself. Walter smiled and Harper fussed as Swift slowly plodded toward Lafayette Square.

* * *

“Sir?”

After parting with Walter and Simeon Harper, I'd headed straight for Senator Smith's study. My head pounded, my arm was beginning to hurt again, and all I wanted to do was go to my room, but I had to explain what had happened to Sir Arthur first. I stood outside the open study room door, not having been invited to enter. A haze of smoke filled the air as Sir Arthur, Senator Smith, and Chester lounged about puffing on cigars. Claude Morris, with his back to me, was hunched over a stack of papers at the secretary desk against the opposite wall. He glanced up for a moment, saw that it was only me, and then returned to his work.

“Ah, Hattie. You just getting back then?” Sir Arthur said.

“Yes.”

“Did you have a chance to get the records I wanted this morning?”

“I did,” I said, trying to keep the sigh out of my voice.

“Good. Have those typed up for me by morning.” And then, as if an afterthought, he glanced at my arm bound in the new, proper sling Walter had rewrapped it in during the carriage ride back. “That is, if you can manage.”

“It will take me a bit longer, only having one hand to type, but it will be done by morning, sir.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you. Now, tell me what happened at the station.”

Before I could answer, Spencer came scampering into the room, a tattered rag white with flour and smelling of sour milk and yeast hanging from his mouth. He'd been in the kitchen wastebaskets again.

“Mildred!” Senator Smith shouted. “Mildred! Come get your goddamn dog!”

I consciously maintained my composure, not because of the senator's use of such a vulgarity, but because of my own urge to smile at the senator's growing annoyance as he rose from his chair and attempted to kick the dog from the room. The dog easily avoided his master's foot and instead ran behind the overstuffed leather armchair the senator had been sitting on. As Mrs. Smith was not forthcoming, the senator shouted again while Spencer attempted to bury the filthy rag behind the chair.

“Mildred, come get your blasted dog!” Senator Smith's face was beet red with anger as he muttered more obscenities under his breath. “If she doesn't do something about this dog . . .” he threatened.

“Don't worry, sir,” Claude Morris said, springing from his chair. “I'll take care of it.” With great ease, he knelt behind the armchair and scooped the dog into his arms. Spencer attempted to wriggle from Claude Morris's grip, but dog, rag, and clerk quickly disappeared through the door and down the hall.

“I swear if that dog . . .” the senator muttered again.

“Mother does indulge it, doesn't she?” Chester said, smirking. His father merely glared at him as he collapsed back into his chair.

“As I was saying before we were interrupted,” Sir Arthur said calmly, as if the butler had delivered the post, “what happened, Hattie?”

“I'm not sure we can trust what the girl has to say,” Senator Smith said, as if I wasn't standing a few feet from him. “In fact, I'm wondering if she should even be in this house anymore.” His mood was fouled by the incident with the dog.

“And why is that?” Sir Arthur said, a current of tension in his tone.

“You saw the article in the paper mentioning her in connection with the death of that strumpet.”

“Yes, I was indirectly mentioned as well. Are you asking me to leave?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“Did you see the headlines this afternoon?” Chester said. “The police are calling for the unidentified man to come forward. He'll never do it, of course.”

How would you know? I wondered, still suspicious of Chester's late-night stroll.

“Never mind that,” Smith said, grumbling. “The girl was witness to it, not you.”

“And how is that her fault?” Sir Arthur said. Silently I sighed in relief. Until now, I had no idea how Sir Arthur felt about my involvement in Annie Wilcox's drowning and the subsequent mention in the newspaper.

“The girl was also brought to the police station for questioning, Sir Arthur. I can't be associated with a woman questioned by the police. It's not proper.”

“But she's my secretary, not yours.”

“Thank God!” Senator Smith said, ignorant of the sting of insult evident on Sir Arthur's face. “Morris would never do anything to bring scandal into this house. He is as loyal as a bee.”

“And Hattie would never do anything to discredit me either, Senator,” Sir Arthur said, crushing his cigar forcefully into the tray. “What are you bloody implying?”

“That she's a liability,” Chester said. “I should know all about that.” He glared at his father, who ignored him.

“I am a guest in your house, Senator,” Sir Arthur said. “I resent your accusations. My word that she is above reproach should be enough.”

“It's nothing personal, Sir Arthur, but I'm a politician, man,” Senator Smith said, trying to defuse Sir Arthur's anger. “I can't have anyone think I condone this march or its message. What will people think when they learn a woman staying at my house was arrested at the march and was associated with such depraved men, let alone a murder? With elections coming up, I can't afford to be tainted by scandal.” He pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket and wiped his spectacles.

But you went to the camp!
I wanted to shout, but wisely said nothing to point out his hypocrisy.

“She wasn't arrested,” Sir Arthur said, quietly seething before I had a chance to defend myself. “She was merely brought in to aid the police in their murder inquiry. Nor was she ever associated with Coxey's men, any more than you or I were. Isn't that right, Hattie?” He said it without looking away from the senator.

“Yes, sir. That's right.”

“The police lieutenant who escorted her to the station probably knew how she had been a boon to other police departments during their murder investigations and thought she could aid him in this one,” Sir Arthur said. I nodded. That was only partially true, but I knew better than to enlighten them.

“Well, then tell us exactly what happened, to put Father's mind at ease,” Chester said.

“As I'd asked her to do before she was interrupted,” Sir Arthur said, still annoyed. “Hattie?”

“Yes, sir.”

I wasn't asked to sit nor was I even looked at as I described the interview with Lieutenant Whittmeyer. The two Smith men puffed on their cigars and stared purposely at the bookshelves filled with volume after volume of the
United States Statutes at Large
. Sir Arthur glowered as he lit himself another cigar. I related my tale with as little emotion and as little embellishment as possible. I could feel the tension in the room and didn't want to add to it. None of the men interrupted me, but Chester Smith yawned loudly several times.

“Is that it?” Chester asked when I'd stopped talking.

“Yes.” I'd briefly mentioned Lottie Fox's inquiries about the drowning, but said nothing of her mention of Mrs. Smith or Sarah or her cryptic message, nor did I mention Billy McBain. That was between him and Daniel Clayworth.

“Very well. It doesn't seem I have much to fear from the girl after all. Will you accept my apologies, Sir Arthur?”

“Of course,” Sir Arthur said, having regained his composure. “Thank you, Hattie. You're excused.”

“May I have a private word with you, sir?” I said, reminding him he'd promised me a moment alone.

“Tomorrow. By the looks of you, you need a good night's rest.”

I nodded as I retreated from the doorway. Disappointment and frustration were all that kept me from stumbling, as the pain in my arm and the final humiliation of the day had sapped my strength. Yet again I'd been denied my private interview with Sir Arthur, but he was right. I didn't even have the strength for it. I wanted only to go to my bed.

“I have to say, Sir Arthur,” Senator Smith said as I slowly made my way toward the stairs. “I was surprised when you first arrived, what with all the scandal she's been mixed up in, that you still employed that girl. Now look what happened today. Sure, she might not have been arrested this time, but I'd discharge her if I were you.”

Too tired and frightened to hear Sir Arthur's reply, I scrambled up the stairs as fast as my aching body allowed.