Anything But Civil

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “Actually, I think I do.”

  The moment I’d seen the leaves, I had a suspicion that I’d seen them somewhere else, recently. I methodically looked for all of the species that had been used to decorate the hall or table at dinner the night we all fell ill. But nothing matched. Then I looked at all the flowers I’d seen in a corsage or boutonniere worn by anyone in the past few days, including Frederick Reynard and his dinner guests, attendants of the Christmas entertainment, and men from the G.A.R. Even Enoch Jamison wore a carnation in his lapel at one time. But none of the leaves matched. With those possibilities exhausted, I began looking for plants with similar characteristics in leaf color, shape, and size. Minutes passed as I tried not to become discouraged.

  “Eureka!” I said. “I found it.” Ambrose, who had been waiting for me at the greenhouse door, was suddenly by my side. “See how the leaves on this plant and in the handkerchief are both narrowly lanceolate, approximately three inches long with margins entire?” Ambrose shook his head and shrugged. In my excitement, I’d forgotten myself and used technical terms.

  “You mean they look the same?”

  “Yes, exactly. I’m quite confident these leaves came from this species of plant.”

  “What’s its name?” Ambrose asked, softly stroking one of its branches.

  “It’s an olive tree,” I said. “And here I’d been looking for a flower.”

  Ambrose scowled. “Should’ve known, having seen it so much.”

  “You’ve seen this before, Ambrose?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, miss. Mr. Reynard often uses these leaves in his boutonnieres.” I knew I’d seen these leaves recently. Now I could recall where I’d seen them, in almost every corsage or boutonniere made by Frederick Reynard. Even my corsage from last night had a small olive branch tucked in among the camellia, rosebuds, and ivy. How could I have missed it? I should’ve recognized the leaves immediately.

  You’re getting careless, I told myself.

  “Well, Hattie?” Sir Arthur said upon my return to the library, preempting the general, who was opening his mouth to speak. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll send for Fred then, shall I?” the general said.

  “I think it would be for the best,” Sir Arthur said.

  Within moments of sending Ambrose to find him, Frederick lumbered into the room, dropping into the nearest chair.

  “You wanted to see me, General? Is there news?”

  “In a way, Fred. It’s a terrible business, but I wanted to ask you before the police get here.”

  “Whatever do you mean by that?” Frederick said, with no malice in his voice, only shock and dismay. The general nodded in my direction and I took that as my cue.

  I pulled the handkerchief from my pocket and unwrapped the olive tree leaves. “I found these near the body of your father-in-law.”

  “What are they, Fred?” General Starrett said as Frederick stood and examined the leaves in my hand.

  “They’re from an olive tree.”

  “You have an olive tree in the greenhouse, don’t you? You wore a sprig of it in your boutonniere last night too, didn’t you, Fred?” Fred looked at the general like a man in shock. “Don’t deny it, Fred. Miss Davish, here, found the tree growing in the greenhouse.” Fred shot a glance at me before facing the general again.

  “Of course, I don’t deny it, but—”

  “How did olive leaves come to be near my son’s dead body, Fred?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The general had stood up and was shaking his finger at Frederick Reynard. “Where’s your boutonniere now, Fred?”

  “Are you accusing me of killing Henry, General?” Frederick Reynard said, aghast.

  “Nobody is accusing you of anything, Reynard,” Sir Arthur said, indicating with a nod toward the general for me to help the old man back into his chair. Sir Arthur did the same with Frederick, who then slumped over, his head in his hands.

  “But we need to know if there were olive leaves in your boutonniere yesterday,” Sir Arthur said. I’d remembered seeing Frederick wearing a boutonniere to the Christmas entertainment last night. He had two rosebuds, one red and one white, but I couldn’t remember the accompanying greenery. Had he worn a boutonniere to work this morning as well? He was hardly ever without one.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Frederick Reynard said.

  “Answer the question, Fred,” General Starrett said, between tight lips.

  “Yes,” Fred said, looking up straight into the general’s eyes. “But I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “Mr. Reynard, did you give your father-in-law a boutonniere with olive leaves? Maybe what we found was all that was left of his own boutonniere?”

  “No, no,” Frederick said, shaking his head. “I gave him a simple yellow carnation, with no greenery.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” I said. “I saw it when Walter unbuttoned his coat. It was crushed but still relatively intact.”

  “I have to ask you this, Mr. Reynard,” Sir Arthur said, “for everyone’s peace of mind.”

  “Yes?” Frederick said, with dread in his voice.

  “Where were you when your father-in-law was killed, between six and seven this morning?”

  “At work,” he said. “Where else would I be? I only came home when we got the news about the captain.”

  General Starrett abruptly looked away as Sir Arthur nodded. I wondered if they were thinking the same thing I was; Frederick Reynard could’ve beaten and killed Henry Starrett and then simply continued to work as usual. Only someone at the cigar factory arriving before Frederick would know if he arrived later than usual or not.

  “Do you own a gun, Mr. Reynard?” Sir Arthur asked.

  “No, I don’t own a gun. I’m going to check on Adella,” Frederick said, leaping to his feet. His shock over Henry’s death had transformed into disgust at the accusations against him. “That is, if you don’t mind?” He didn’t wait for a response and stormed out of the room.

  The silence he left behind was awkward. General Starrett was taking short nervous puffs of his pipe. Sir Arthur lit a cigar. The two men sat smoking and stewing in their own thoughts. Finally, with the cigar smoke irritating my eyes, I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

  “Do you believe him?” I said to the room at large.

  The general took a long draw and then sighed. “I never would’ve believed it of him. I still don’t want to believe it. Frederick has always been a good provider and loving husband to my Adella. I know he wasn’t fond of Henry,” he said, then snorted, “but—”

  “But do you think he could’ve killed Henry?” Sir Arthur said.

  “I don’t know,” the general said, shaking his head.

  “Do you think Frederick purposely gave your son the yellow carnation boutonniere?” All three men looked at me with knitted brows. “In the language of flowers,” I explained, “which, as a gardener, Mr. Reynard would be fluent in, the yellow carnation means disdain. Ironically, the olive leaves I found next to Captain Starrett’s body mean peace.”

  “I see what Dr. Grice meant,” Sir Arthur said. “Your botanical prowess may prove valuable after all, Hattie.”

  “All I know,” General Starrett said, “is that Frederick is lying. He didn’t go to work when he said he did.”

  “How do you know?” Sir Arthur asked.

  “I had slept all night here in the library as I sometimes do. Frederick came in to retrieve something. He tiptoed into the room and thought he hadn’t woken me. But he had. I looked at the clock after he left. It was six thirty.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Dr. Grice!” General Starrett said. “You’re back already?” Walter was standing in the doorway to General Starrett’s library, Ambrose helping him off with his coat. He wore no jacket or vest, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows. His hands and forearms were red as if he had scoured them with a
steel brush. Little flecks of blood stained his cuffs.

  “Excuse my appearance, sir,” Walter said, rolling his sleeves down, “but I’ve come straight from the autopsy. They were shorthanded and allowed me to assist. I thought you’d want to know immediately what the medical examiner said.”

  “Yes, of course,” General Starrett said. “Please come in and close the door.”

  “Let me convey my deepest sympathies again, General,” Walter said. “They will bring your son home tonight, sir, so you can plan the funeral.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” General Starrett said, with some difficulty.

  “Doctor,” Sir Arthur said, cutting off anything else General Starrett might’ve said. “What did you find?”

  “I was right. The cause of death was a single shot to the heart. They found the bullet in the body. The medical examiner said it was from a .44-caliber revolver.”

  “What did the bullet look like?” Sir Arthur asked.

  “Like the shape of the wound, round, like a ball,” Walter said. “From an older gun, I’d think.”

  “We’ll want to see the bullet,” Sir Arthur said, “to verify that is was from a .44-caliber pistol.”

  “I’m sure the police will accommodate you, sir,” Walter said.

  “Are these types of guns common, Sir Arthur?” I asked, knowing nothing of firearms. “Can we track down the gun knowing the type of bullet it used?”

  “Yes and no,” Sir Arthur said. “We know the caliber of the bullet, which helps, and since it’s round it’s from a cap and ball percussion revolver, as the doctor said, an older-model gun. But both Colt and Remington Army models were ball and cap .44s and standard issue for Civil War officers. Galena is rich in Civil War officers. Anyone could’ve got ahold of one these.”

  “We may not have far to look,” I said. Both men looked at me. “Ned Reynard received a pistol as a present from his grandfather. I heard him say it was an officer’s gun. It’s been missing since the burglary. The police suspect the burglar took it.”

  “Oh, God,” General Starrett said. “I forgot about that.”

  “Did Henry give the boy ammunition to go with the gun?” Sir Arthur asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but it could be that Ned’s gun killed his grandfather.”

  “Quite! . . . ,” Sir Arthur said, uncharacteristically hesitating. “There’s another possibility, I’m afraid.” All eyes were on Sir Arthur. “As you know, I too had a .44 in my possession.”

  “Had?” General Starrett said.

  “It too has gone missing. I noticed it after last night’s entertainment. With the servants also at the soiree, someone must’ve taken it while the house was empty. I wasn’t going to mention it unless it was a .44 that killed the captain.”

  “No possibility it was simply mislaid?” Walter asked.

  “No,” Sir Arthur said.

  I pictured someone breaking into Sir Arthur’s rental house and wandering around until they discovered the gun cabinet. It wasn’t a reassuring thought.

  “So Henry Starrett’s murderer could’ve used either gun,” I said. “Or another gun altogether?” Did Enoch Jamison ever carry a gun? I wondered. What about Oscar Killian?

  “Yes,” Sir Arthur said. “It’ll make difficult work for the police and some unpleasantness ahead for us all. Now,” he said, lighting a second cigar as if to dismiss the recent discovery as trivial, “is that all they found in the examination, Dr. Grice?”

  “Actually, no. The man had been beaten, as you know, quite savagely. As I suspected, the bruises were made before he died but not long.”

  “So his killer beat him first and then shot him,” Sir Arthur said.

  “Most likely.”

  “Did they confirm when it happened?” I asked.

  “As I’d thought, between six and seven in the morning,” Walter said, glancing at me. “I also have news about Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook’s death.”

  “What is it?” General Starrett said.

  Walter continued to look at me. “Only the police know at this point, but the medical examiner was quite talkative during the autopsy.”

  “Well,” Sir Arthur said, growing impatient. “What did the man say?”

  “The tests revealed Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook died of heart failure. The medical examiner uncovered no traces of arsenic in his body. Further tests did confirm, from the sample the police took, that the oysters were toxic and Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook consumed a large amount. The medical examiner doesn’t know if the toxic oysters caused his heart failure or whether it was a coincidence. Either way the coroner’s going to rule it death by natural causes.”

  “So it was simply food poisoning,” Sir Arthur said.

  “Yes,” Walter said.

  “And it wasn’t murder,” I said. “Even if Oscar Killian knowingly sold the Reynards bad oysters?”

  “Murder? No,” Walter said. “But he’d be culpable in some way.”

  “So unless Oscar Killian stole from General Starrett’s safe, the food poisoning and the burglary were unrelated,” I said.

  “It would seem so,” Walter said.

  “And since the burglar could’ve killed Captain Starrett with Ned’s gun when he was lying incapacitated on the floor but didn’t, it means that the burglar probably isn’t our killer.”

  “Oh, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said, “you are developing a mind for the criminal. I hadn’t even thought of that.”

  “Could it be that neither the poisoning nor the burglary has any connection to Henry’s murder?” the general asked.

  “That’s what it looks like,” Walter said, shrugging. “An extraordinary coincidence.”

  “But what’s the likelihood they could be three separate, unrelated acts?” I said.

  I pictured Enoch Jamison trying to run me off the bridge and considered the conversations I’d overheard between Oscar Killian and Enoch Jamison. I shook my head. No, I couldn’t believe in that big of a coincidence. The two men could’ve conspired to send Henry Starrett a message with the toxic oysters only to have the captain ignore them. Could their argument with the man have escalated, resulting in his murder? Before I could voice my concerns a knock came on the door.

  “Come,” the general said. The housekeeper, Mrs. Becker, cracked open the door. She was already dressed in black. Her eyes were swollen and red.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but the police are here.”

  “Yes, yes, a necessary evil, I’m afraid, Mrs. Becker. Give me a few minutes and then send them in,” General Starrett said.

  “As you say, sir,” the housekeeper said with a quick nod.

  Sir Arthur rose suddenly. Walter and I rose from our seats as well.

  “If you don’t mind, General, I will take leave of you now. Please accept my deepest sympathies for your loss,” Sir Arthur said as Officer Corbett arrived in the doorway.

  “Sirs, Miss Davish,” the policeman said. “Thank you for waiting. May we—”

  “Right,” Sir Arthur said, cutting the man off mid-sentence. Sir Arthur pushed his way past the startled policeman and indicated with a wave of his hand that I was to follow.

  “Excuse me a moment,” I said. Sir Arthur was waiting for me by the door. Ambrose, a black band of crape trimming wrapped around his right arm, was helping Sir Arthur into his coat. The evergreen garland had been stripped from the banister and the mirror on the hallstand had already been covered. Before long all Christmas decorations would be gone and the whole house would be draped in black.

  How sad, I thought, tears welling in my eyes as they hadn’t for Henry Starrett. For this family there’d be no lighting of the Christmas tree candles, no games of snapdragon, no caroling, no pudding or cake. Christmas was to be the second victim of this horrible crime.

  “How long do you expect it will take for that man to invade my home, Hattie?”

  “Sir?” I was taken aback by the question.

  “You’ve dealt with the likes of him before. Will he follow m
e or be content to interview you and the doctor first?”

  “I don’t know. You gave him quite a start. It may’ve made him suspicious.”

  Sir Arthur opened the door before Ambrose had the chance.

  “Then I must make quick work of it then, mustn’t I?” With that he slammed the door behind him.

  Quick work of what?

  Now he was making me suspicious. Was Sir Arthur more involved in this business than I knew of? Did he have something to hide? Could it have to do with his missing gun? Or Rachel Baines’s brooch, which he had charged me to hide in my purse? Or the burnt letter fragments he hid in his breast pocket? I’d always assumed my employment with Sir Arthur would be professional, straightforward, and uneventful. Had I misjudged him? Was this Eureka Springs all over again?

  No, I thought. This is Sir Arthur and I must trust in his judgment as I always have. If only he would confide in me . . . Then again, maybe Sir Arthur knew best.

  “Your cooperation saves me from running directly to the medical examiner’s office, Dr. Grice,” Officer Corbett said, his face bent mere inches over his notebook. I returned to General Starrett’s library as Officer Corbett was interviewing Walter about the autopsy. “Your account confirms many of my suspicions after studying the body and the area around him myself. Ah, Miss Davish,” he said, finally looking up. “Everything all right?” It was an odd thing to ask, but it allowed me the opportunity to cover for Sir Arthur’s abrupt behavior.

  “Yes, thank you. Sir Arthur had an urgent matter to attend to. He will be available at your convenience for questioning at his home anytime.” Corbett nodded, his expression unreadable. Could he tell I was dissembling for Sir Arthur’s sake? I glanced over at Walter, whose expression was plain: What’s going on?

  “Thank you again, Doctor,” Officer Corbett said abruptly. “I will let you know if I have any more questions. Now, Miss Davish, if you would oblige me?”

  “Of course.” I quickly took the chair next to Walter. The policeman bent over his notebook.

  “Young man, if you can’t see the pages in front of your face, hand the notebook to Miss Davish,” General Starrett said. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” It was impertinent but true. I would gladly take notes, even for my own questioning. It would keep my hands occupied and my focus on the task instead of the questions I was being asked. The policeman looked up, his face flush.