Chapter 32
CHAPTER 32
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1927
C lara
William’s eyes reveal his delight at seeing me dressed for the ball. I hardly give him a chance to say anything as I explain the situation and hang up the phone. We rush from the apartment, with him taking my hand to ensure I don’t trip down the three flights of stairs as the slightly heeled shoes I am not used to wearing click-clack with every step I take.
Out in the brisk winter air, William secures us a taxi while I fill him in on the plan Louisa and I hatched, ending with Louisa’s phone call. We are a short drive away, which is enough time for William to squeeze my hand and say, “You know we’ll have to go to my sister with this?”
“I do.” Meeting his eyes in the darkened back seat, I ask, “Does she know you are taking me to the ball?”
He shakes his head. “I wasn’t keeping it a secret, if that is what you are wondering. My only intention was to keep you to myself for a little while.”
“I suppose we will both have to be bold, then.”
William tilts his head in question.
“You are merely informing your sister. I, on the other hand, am informing my boss. That comes with a risk.”
“Ah, I see. If it helps at all, I don’t think she’ll be displeased. Don’t tell her I told you, but she talks about you like a proud mother hen.”
I feel my hand squeeze his and decide it is now or never. “Speaking of secrets. I have something more to tell you about Mr. Barnes. You see, the trouble I was having was due to him.”
William’s head snaps up in concern. “What did he do?”
“He tried to force himself on me with a kiss.” I feel my cheeks warm at the bluntness of my words and am instantly thankful for the lack of light in our confined space.
“Did he succeed?” His voice is hoarse and filled with fury.
“Not in the way a kiss is meant to be exchanged, he didn’t. I am saving that for someone special.”
We arrive in front of The Hotel Hamilton, the lights of the hotel filtering into the back seat of our taxi. William’s face is flushed with colour, yet he doesn’t take his eyes off me until the driver is opening the back door closest to him.
William pays for our ride as I slide across the back seat toward the open door. Offering me his hand, he helps me from the car. Time is ticking, and though there are many things that need to be shared between us, they will have to wait. Gwen needs our help.
Strolling into the hotel through the front door unnerves me at first, but that changes when the doorman greets me with an approving smile. “Miss Wilson, you are exquisite this evening.”
I offer a quiet “thank you” and do my best to keep my wits about me as we move toward the back-of-house corridor that leads to Ms. Thompson’s basement office.
William pokes his head into Cookie’s pastry kitchen. “Have you seen Eliza?”
“Well, you certainly clean up nicely.” Cookie steps into the hall with a teasing laugh. Her eyebrows lift toward her hairline as I come into view. “And you, Clara, are lovely.”
William shifts his weight from one foot to the other before pressing forward. “It’s urgent. Eliza?”
“Basement office. She headed there five minutes ago.” Cookie’s expression turns to one of concern. “Can I be of assistance?”
We are already moving down the corridor when William calls over his shoulder, “You might want to brew some strong tea. I have a feeling we are going to need it.”
Out of sight of prying eyes, William reaches for my hand, and together we hurry toward the basement.
Ms. Thompson’s office door is open wide, and we step inside to find her and Mr. Olson chatting casually, each with a small pour of something dark in a crystal glass.
Their eyes travel between William and me, dressed for an evening out and arriving with laboured breaths. It takes only a moment for Ms. Thompson to recognize there is trouble.
She stands abruptly, her legs pushing the chair back with a screech. “What is the matter?”
William gives them the short version of the story I relayed to him. Mr. Barnes’ intentions are clear from his actions toward myself, Louisa, and now Gwen.
Ms. Thompson looks to Mr. Olson, a hand placed across her midsection. “Robert, I knew that man was trouble. I should have stepped in when I suspected. Oh my goodness. Poor Gwen.”
Without uttering a word, Mr. Olson ushers us through the door with a guiding hand. A few minutes later, the four of us are in the service lift and climbing slower than I’d like to the eighth floor.
“What was the girl thinking?” Mr. Olson’s head swivels in Ms. Thompson’s direction.
I bite my bottom lip, feeling Mr. Olson’s admonishment as though it’s been directed at me alone. Perhaps telling him was a mistake. What if Mr. Olson believes Mr. Barnes instead of us? What will that mean for Mr. Barnes being found out? What about the security of our employment at the hotel? Worst-case scenarios spiral through my mind.
Ms. Thompson shifts beside me, drawing my eyes upward. Her pursed lips and stoic silence tell me that she does not agree with Mr. Olson’s assessment of the situation.
William, sensing the discord, speaks up as the lift passes the fifth floor. “Robert, from all that Miss Wilson has told you, surely you will keep an open mind. A girl’s well-being may be at risk here.”
He must realize he is the odd man out, as Mr. Olson nods in agreement before clearing his throat and breaking the tension with another loaded question. “So, you two are…?” He gestures between William and me.
“Getting to know one another,” William replies without missing a beat. I clamp down on my bottom lip, not from worry this time but to suppress the smile that is eager to be set free.
Ms. Thompson clasps her hands in front of her and says pointedly, “I dare say, you have excellent taste, Miss Wilson.” Her lips twitch as she does her best to restrain a laugh I am certain is on the verge of tumbling out.
The lift door opens, saving me from the need to find a suitable reply. Like a herd of elephants, we storm down the hall to suite 815. Ms. Thompson pulls out her master key and inserts it in the lock. With a twist and a push, we dash into the room.
Two heads swivel at our boisterous arrival. Tears stream down Louisa’s cheeks. I run to my sister, who is kneeling on the floor beside Gwen’s motionless body splayed atop the chaise lounge. “Are you okay?” I smooth my hands over her tear-stained face. “Did he hurt you?”
“He didn’t have the chance to.” Louisa holds up the business end of a small ice pick. Her knuckles white from her steadfast grip on the cocktail accessory’s handle. “But Gwen.” Louisa’s voice stretches high with alarm. “I’m not sure what happened. She’s been like this since I found her.”
Ms. Thompson kneels beside us, placing two fingers to Gwen’s neck.
Louisa’s words are coated with regret and marinated in emotion. “I didn’t get here fast enough.” Her head shakes back and forth as fresh tears gather and fall.
Ms. Thompson turns and narrows her eyes on Mr. Barnes. “What did you give her?”
Mr. Barnes, standing near the bathroom, shrugs his shoulders; his lack of concern spurs me into motion. I pivot from my crouched position to take in the rest of the room. Mr. Barnes is cradling his left hand, which I assume was injured by Louisa’s ice pick. William is standing beside him, one hand latched strongly onto Mr. Barnes’ arm, either holding him back or preventing him from running.
Ms. Thompson stands and moves toward the man as a fury I’ve never seen her possess flashes across her face. “I asked you, what did you give her?” The question roars from the hotel matron, garnering all of our attention, and I am instantly thankful she is on our side.
Mr. Barnes offers nothing, dismissing Ms. Thompson with a turn of his head. The matron, disgust and concern emanating off of her, pivots and faces Mr. Olson. Her eyes plead with him to take action. With a single nod, Mr. Olson steps toward the narrow telephone table tucked discreetly into the room’s corner, the luxury of a telephone being afforded solely to guests of the eighth floor.
“Mr. Reynolds, this is Mr. Olson. I need you to call for a doctor immediately. Suite 815. Yes, that is correct.”
Ms. Thompson takes three quick strides across the room and stands beside Mr. Olson. “Robert, the police too.”
“Eliza, surely we can?—”
Ms. Thompson shakes her head. “The police, Robert.”
Mr. Olson exchanges a worried look with Ms. Thompson. With a sheepish nod, he instructs Mr. Reynolds to also call the police. Hanging up the telephone, he runs a distressed hand through his hair, and I sense that he is coming to terms with his incorrect assumptions. It is hard to discount the facts. With Mr. Barnes’ blatant disdain toward everyone in the room and Gwen’s unconscious state, the only logical conclusion is that Mr. Olson has misjudged the situation.
Ms. Thompson reaches up to give Mr. Olson’s arm an understanding squeeze, and I blush at being witness to the gesture.
“I know. You are right, Eliza.” Mr. Olson acknowledges his error with a tilt of his head before moving to the suite’s door and securing it in the open position for those soon to arrive.
I squeeze Louisa’s shoulder before leaving her at Gwen’s side to search the room for answers. If Gwen has consumed anything to make her so unresponsive, it will be here. I spot the empty glass and the nearly empty bottles on the small trolley Mr. Barnes had brought up for his enjoyment.
I point to the silver tray laden with the discards of cocktail ingredients. “It’s this.” I turn to face Mr. Barnes. “How many did you give her?”
The man says nothing, turning his nose up at my accusation. I step toward his sneering face. “How many?” I cajole my features into a pleasant smile. “Mr. Barnes. Just so we are clear, you are going to be arrested tonight. The girl is underage, under the employ of The Hotel Hamilton, and clearly unable to stand on her own two feet. As you’ve stated before, you are a worldly man. Surely you know that harming a girl to the point of unconsciousness isn’t likely to go well for you. If something more happens to poor Gwen because we were unable to properly care for her, those charges will be much more severe.”
William smiles devilishly as he meets my eyes. “As a lawyer, I can say with certainty that Miss Wilson here has made an astute assessment of the situation.”
William squeezes the arm attached to Mr. Barnes’ injured hand and the man hollers. “Three. She had three of your Hamilton Specials.”
I want to scream at the man. Did he tell her they were punch? Did she know what she was getting into? Gwen is a petite thing with hardly an ounce of fat to spare. How many drinks did he think someone her size would need? My inner rant is cut short by Ms. Thompson’s voice.
“Clara, get a clean cloth from the bathroom and run it under cold water.” Ms. Thompson has regained her composure and is back in charge. “Louisa.” She has to call her name twice to garner my sister’s attention. “Louisa, dear. Go pour a glass of water for Miss Russell. We’ll need to get her up and encourage her to drink it.”
Louisa and I return at the same time. Ms. Thompson places the cool cloth on Gwen’s forehead and motions for Lou to help reposition the girl while I take a step back.
By the time they’ve got her sitting up, Gwen is beginning to stir. Louisa tucks herself in beside Gwen and places the cup to her lips. The glass and its contents fly across the room when Gwen pushes it away, calling out, “No more. I don’t want any more.”
Ms. Thompson’s usual tight bun at the back of her head has come loose, with wisps of hair sticking up in all directions. She steps away, taking a moment to collect herself with a hand placed firmly against her lips. I take in the scene from beside the writing desk, close enough to be helpful but far enough away to give Louisa and Gwen some space.
A splash of colour and movement at the door catch my attention. “I see you’ve got quite the party going on in here.” The woman at the door turns slightly and motions to someone behind her. “Let’s be sure to capture it for posterity.”
The flash of a camera’s bulb lights up the room like a bolt of lightning, and my eyes snap closed in response. As we all recover from the unexpected blinding light, the woman I can only assume is Mrs. Oxley-Barnes steps toward her husband. “Well, Harold. It seems you’ve got yourself into a bit of a pickle.” She tilts her head slowly from side to side, examining the man.
Gwen seems to rally at the commotion and manages to sit up with Louisa’s help. The girl holds both her stomach and her head while Louisa whispers quietly to her, telling her she is going to be all right.
“What are you doing here?” Mr. Barnes’ voice is pinched with irritation as he addresses his wife. A slow smile stretches across my face as the realization that Louisa’s plan has worked. Mr. Barnes will have to answer for his actions.
“I got your telegram. Something about urgent business in Vancouver. Unable to travel home at this time. Really, dear, did you expect me to believe there was business in Vancouver during the holiday season? You are slow to realize I am wise to your ways.” The woman winks in Louisa’s direction. “My, it’s like looking in a mirror. A much taller mirror, but how clever of you.”
It's like watching one of Louisa’s theatre productions as Mrs. Oxley-Barnes moves about the suite, asserting her role as if she is on stage in front of a large audience.
The petite woman walks toward Mr. Olson and extends a hand. “Pardon me. I’ve forgotten my manners in all the hubbub. It is nice to see you again, Ms. Thompson, and I presume you are Mr. Olson.”
Mr. Olson inclines his head.
“I am Mrs. Oxley-Barnes. I believe we have a few friends in common.” The woman leans in. “Namely, Mr. Hamilton.”
Mr. Olson is about to reply when Gwen’s garbled voice cuts through. “You’re married?” With a look of disgust, Gwen collapses back into Louisa’s supportive hold.
“Not for long.” Rose Oxley-Barnes grins mischievously. “When word of your plans arrived, I packed a bag and made a quick stop at my lawyer’s office on my way to the train station. Daddy was kind enough to let me borrow the Pullman to expedite the travel.”
From her bag, she pulls out a large envelope. Her smile grows as she hands it to Mr. Barnes. “The divorce papers, dear. Do us both a favour and sign them tout de suite. We both know this marriage has no legs to stand on, with all your philandering and lies.”
“But Rose. You can’t.” Mr. Barnes’ demeanour changes from angry to frantic to pleading. “We were good together once. I know we’ve grown apart recently, but I need you. You are my everything. We have a home and a life. Don’t do this to me, Rose. I’ll be lost without you.
“Harold, we haven’t been good together since our honeymoon.” Mrs. Oxley-Barnes scans the audience assembled for the dissolution of her marriage, catching my eye in the process. “And just to be clear, I have a house and a life. You no longer have that same privilege.” She inclines her head toward the door as three police officers enter. “I suspect you will be busy trying to explain yourself to these fellows for quite some time, anyway.”