Anything But Civil

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “If your son didn’t write the letter then why would Henry Starrett, after all these years, gather a mob and attack your home all in the name of justice?” The woman leaned forward in her chair and indicated that Walter and I should do so as well.

  “Simple. Henry Starrett was an ass.” She leaned back again and smiled. Walter and I shared a glance again. This was the strangest old woman I’d ever met. “He was a weak man who was threatened by those he didn’t understand. My family has convictions and he didn’t know what a conviction was.”

  “May I ask if you know where your son was early this morning, Mrs. Jamison?” I said.

  “No, you may not, but since I’ve already told the police everything, I’ll tell you anyway,” she said. “Enoch’s in Chicago. He left yesterday.”

  “Chicago?” I said, stunned that my prime suspect wasn’t even in Galena at the time of the murder. Could I trust this woman to tell the truth? Could Enoch Jamison have told his mother that he was going yesterday only to leave after killing Henry Starrett? The image of Enoch Jamison’s sleigh racing up the hill away from the bridge yesterday came to me. Was he leaving town then? But why was he in such a hurry? “I encountered your son yesterday on the Spring Street Bridge. Is that when he said he left?”

  “Yes, he met Oscar. They decided to spend the holidays with Oscar’s sister in Chicago. Though I don’t know why. Oddly, they met in Millbrig and didn’t leave from Galena.” If it was true, I knew why. They were guilty of trying to poison Henry Starrett, inadvertently causing Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook’s death. They had to get out of Galena as fast as possible without leaving a trace for the police to follow. But obviously they didn’t count on Mrs. Jamison revealing their plan. If Oscar Killian and Enoch Jamison were both out of town this morning, who killed Henry Starrett? I had missed some of what the old woman said. “Of course, Elizabeth went with them, so I’m all alone for Christmas.”

  “Maybe you should join them in Chicago?” I suggested, knowing what it’s like to be alone at Christmas.

  “Now what an idea!” The old woman’s face lit up. “I think I may do that.”

  “Ma’am, do you or your son own a .44-caliber revolver?” Walter asked.

  “Is that what killed Henry?” Mrs. Jamison said, raising one of her hairless eyebrows. I shared her surprise but for another reason. It was obvious that the police hadn’t mentioned the revolver to her. That was the whole reason they were holding Sir Arthur. Why wouldn’t they have asked her?

  “I would’ve thought stoning or tar and feathering more appropriate for that self-righteous hypocrite.” My sympathy for Mrs. Jamison’s loneliness dissipated as she began to cackle. I wasn’t fond of Henry Starrett, but the callous way this woman wished a more torturous death on her son’s adversary was inexcusable.

  “Or poisoned to death by tainted oysters?” I said. “Would you or your son have had a hand in that?”

  “If it made him suffer, absolutely,” the old woman said, a glint in her eye. “But he didn’t die slowly, though, did he?”

  “No,” Walter said. “His death would’ve been almost instantaneous.”

  “Too bad.” Mrs. Jamison stroked her cat, who in turn purred in response.

  “If it makes you feel better, Mrs. Jamison,” I said sarcastically, “Captain Starrett was first savagely beaten.”

  “Ah, that does make me feel better, my girl,” she said with all sincerity, leaning back in her chair. I was starting to get sickened by this woman’s behavior and couldn’t stand being in her presence any more than I had to. Only for Sir Arthur’s sake did I stay in my seat.

  But it was Mrs. Jamison who suddenly stood up.

  “I think it’s time for you two to go.” Her abruptness was on par with all her other bizarre behavior but didn’t interrupt my thoughts. I had one more question.

  “Ma’am, before we go,” I said, standing, Walter at my side, “could you tell me who Horace Mott is?”

  “Mott?” The woman seemed genuinely surprised. “Horace Mott?” She indicated for us to follow her into the hallway. “Enid!” she shouted for the maid. As her mistress opened the door the maid scurried away from it, furiously dusting a side table nearby. “Enid, the door.” The maid grinned at me and then ran to open the front door.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Mott,” Mrs. Jamison said. “He’s the little rat of a man who offered to buy my house. Well below what it’s worth too, I might add.”

  “Did he say why? Was he looking to buy it for himself or someone else?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” the old woman said as Walter and I stepped down from the threshold and turned to face her. “And I couldn’t care less. Good-bye.” With that she unceremoniously shut the door in our faces.

  “Well, that was strange,” Walter said. “Do you think we can believe anything that woman said?”

  “I don’t know. But for Sir Arthur’s sake, I’ll have to find out.”

  “Ah, Miss Davish and her doctor,” General Starrett said, making me blush. “I’m sorry, young man, I’ve already forgotten your name.”

  “Walter Grice, sir,” Walter said.

  “Of course, please sit down,” the general said, indicating the only two empty chairs in the room.

  Henry Starrett’s body had been brought home. Having seen the black crape on the door when we entered, I was surprised to see so many callers, and at this evening hour. When my father died only our closest friends called before the funeral. Yet besides Walter and me, Adella, Lieutenant and Priscilla Triggs, Mrs. Kaplan, Mrs. Holbrook, and several men I recognized from the G.A.R. meeting last week were all crowded into the front parlor. Candlelight had replaced the gas lamps and the room was silent but for the occasional sniffle from Adella. I hadn’t seen Adella since bringing the news of her father’s death, and by the puffiness and redness of her eyes she’d been crying all day. Dressed completely in black paramatta silk and crape, she sat near the head of Henry Starrett’s coffin, her hands folded in her lap. The coffin was closed.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Reynard,” I said quietly, with Walter echoing my sentiments with a nod.

  Adella glanced toward her father’s coffin. “I’ve been thinking over and over what I could’ve done to save him. If I hadn’t been nursing the children that morning—”

  “Are your children ill?” Mrs. Triggs interrupted.

  “Nothing too serious, Mrs. Triggs, but they both woke up with fevers and I had to stay with them much of the day. They are better now.” Mrs. Triggs sighed and leaned back in her chair.

  “There’s nothing you could’ve done, Mrs. Reynard,” I said.

  “Thank you, Miss Davish,” she said. “I truly mean that. You continue to serve this family in ways we will never be able to repay.” Beyond the reference to Gertrude’s accident in the river, I had no idea was she was talking about.

  “You have my deepest sympathy,” I said, at a loss for anything else to say.

  “And you have mine,” Adella said, lifting a handkerchief in her fist to her mouth, trying to hold back the tears. “I’m ashamed to say I thank God every hour that it was you and not I who found my poor father like that. Have you—” She stopped mid-sentence no longer able to hold back the tears. When I heard someone else sniffle, I didn’t have to turn my head to know it was Mrs. Triggs responding to Mrs. Reynard’s tears in kind. “You must excuse me,” Adella said, bolting from the room.

  The woman’s departure must have been the cue for the gentlemen in the room, because suddenly Major McDonnell from the G.A.R. stood and, reiterating his offer to be a pallbearer, was the first of a mass exodus out of the room. Within minutes, only the general, Mrs. Kaplan, who had volunteered to sit vigil with the body, Lieutenant Triggs, his wife, Walter, and I remained. By the way Morgan Triggs fiddled in his chair, he too wanted to be far away, but with her downcast eyes and dabbing handkerchief he couldn’t tactfully get his wife’s attention.

  “General, sir, you are an exceptional storyteller. I wondered if you would tell us
about Henry’s adventures in the Deep South during the war?” I asked as a way to not only lighten the mood but glean some valuable information at the same time. “I know Sir Arthur would be most interested.”

  “Yes, Cornelius,” Mrs. Kaplan said. “Tell us a nice story about your boy.”

  “I would love to oblige you, ladies, but I can’t,” the general said.

  “Sir?” I said.

  “I can’t because I have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Davish. What gave you the idea that Henry served in the Deep South? He carted cargo and troops up and down the Mississippi River, mostly from St. Louis to Cairo. As far as I know he never got farther south than Cairo.”

  “While doing research for Sir Arthur’s book, I came across a photograph of Henry’s steamboat, the Lavinia.” The general smiled at the mention of his wife’s name.

  His gaze drifted toward the coffin. “That’s one thing I can say about Henry. He loved his mother. That boat was named after her, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. . . .” I hesitated, not knowing whether these questions were too much of an intrusion on the general’s grief.

  “So what about this picture?” he asked.

  I gratefully continued. “It was obviously taken during the war. The foliage in the picture was subtropical, so of course I assumed Henry had had missions to the southernmost reaches of the country.”

  “You mean like New Orleans or . . . Vicksburg?” Mrs. Triggs said, sniffling but oddly interested.

  “Yes. Louisiana, Mississippi, Florida, Arkansas,” I said, remembering the range of switch cane I’d looked up in the latest edition of Chapman’s Flora of the Southern United States, not being able to identify the species of palmetto from the photograph.

  “Why, Mrs. Triggs, have you been to the Deep South?” I asked, curious why this of all topics would interest her.

  “No, but—” She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes and mouth frozen wide open. She dropped her gaze to her lap and mumbled, “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, I can’t help you,” the general said, shaking his head. He’d been watching Mrs. Triggs and seemed as confounded by her behavior as I was. “This idea of Henry taking the Lavinia down south is news to me. Do you have the photograph? I’d love to see Henry’s boat again. A boiler explosion sank it sometime around the time of the siege on Vicksburg, though, as I said, not there, of course. Luckily the boat was docked and no one got killed.”

  “I have the photograph back in my room at Sir Arthur’s house,” I said. “I’d be glad to bring it to you.”

  “Yes, that would be nice. If nothing else, I was proud of Henry in those years. Not everyone can perform the mundane tasks of war and still find glory in it. Henry did. And I’ll never forget it.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Lieutenant Triggs said, standing, “but I think my wife and I will take our leave now. She’s not feeling well.” He took his wife’s hand and helped her to rise. I stood up too. Something in her posture propelled me to touch her shoulder.

  “Is there anything I can do, Mrs. Triggs?” I said. She threw her arms around me, her sudden movement taking me aback. I stood with my arms at my sides not knowing what to do.

  “Oh, Hattie, your whole life’s ahead of you,” she said in my ear. “You have no idea what it’s like—”

  “Priscilla, darling, please,” Morgan Triggs said, peeling his wife’s arms away from me. “Forgive my wife, gentlemen. As you can see, she’s a little hysterical right now.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Walter said.

  “That’s good of you to offer, Dr. Grice,” Lieutenant Triggs said. “Priscilla, would you like to take something to help you sleep?”

  She slowly nodded her head. “Yes, I apologize for my behavior. I haven’t been myself since . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked longingly at me. Since when? I wondered. Henry Starrett’s death? Since she arrived in Galena? Since she finally acknowledged that she’d never have children? “Would it be all right, Hattie, to steal your friend for a few minutes?” Again, I blushed from ear to ear. Did everyone think that Walter was my beau? Was he?

  “Of course, Mrs. Triggs. Dr. Grice will do everything in his power to help you feel better,” I said. “I do hope you feel better soon.” She managed a weak smile.

  “Thank you. And it’s Priscilla, remember?”

  As Lieutenant Triggs gave his apologies and farewells to General Starrett, Walter escorted the frail Mrs. Triggs into the hallway.

  “I need a glass of water before I go,” Priscilla said.

  “Of course, Mrs. Triggs,” Walter said, and then looked back once, meeting my gaze. I shrugged. He hoped for answers I didn’t have.

  “Okay, Miss Davish,” the general said when everyone else had gone. “We both know you aren’t here simply to express your condolences or hear tales of Henry’s nonexistent trips to Mississippi.” This was a shrewd man, despite his frail outward appearance.

  “You’re right, General,” I said. “I did come by today with more than condolences to impart, although I truly am sorry for your family. . . .” I hesitated. “I’m not sure how to tell you this and I’m equally distressed that it falls to me to have to be the one to—”

  “You’ve never been one to prevaricate, girl. That’s what I like about you. Out with it.” He was right. Why was I hesitating now?

  “Sir Arthur has been arrested by the police for the murder of your son,” I said.

  The old man whistled. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Neither do I, sir,” I said. “That’s why I’m doing everything in my power to find the truth behind your son’s death.”

  “So you’re not the man’s secretary anymore but his Pinkerton detective?”

  “If it will exonerate Sir Arthur, yes.”

  “That may mean making some difficult decisions. You do realize that, don’t you? Everyone is suspect. Nothing is sacred. No secret is safe.” How much did the general know about Henry’s death or the events that might’ve triggered it? Did he suspect that he and his household might be subject to such scrutiny as well?

  “You’re right, sir,” I said, remembering having to do this same ghastly process before. “I will do anything in my power to find the truth and not everyone will appreciate my dedication.”

  “You would be right to do so, my girl,” the general said. “No one can blame you for uncovering the truth.” He nodded, seemingly pleased with himself, and took a long draw on his pipe.

  I suddenly thought of the secret letter calling his son a traitor. How would the general react to it coming to light?

  “I hope you’re right, General,” I said. “I hope you’re right.”

  CHAPTER 27

  “Ah, miss,” the grocer said, “what can I do for you this fine day?’

  It was a fine day. Crystal blue skies above me, sparkling snow below my feet, I’d hiked into the hills and returned invigorated. I was picking up a few last-minute items for Christmas, including a new felt hat for myself from Mrs. Edwards’ Millinery, when I passed Killian’s grocery. It was open, so I went in. I was amazed to find Oscar Killian behind the counter.

  “I thought you were in Chicago, Mr. Killian?” I asked. His smile disappeared.

  “Yeah, I was in Chicago, but I came back. I have a business to run after all.”

  “Have the police spoken to you yet?” I said quietly. The man’s head darted back and forth, making sure I hadn’t been overheard. Two young girls, wearing matching trimmed sailor hats with navy ribbon bands, giggled between themselves while admiring Christmas tins filled with bonbons on the other side of the store. Absorbed in adding to their Christmas wish lists, they probably wouldn’t have heard me unless I’d shouted.

  Oscar Killian pushed aside glass jars of rainbow-colored gumdrops, rock candy, and licorice and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. He motioned for me to come closer.

  “Why do you say such a thing?” he whispered.

  “Have you heard about Captain He
nry Starrett’s death?” I said. Killian shook his head slowly, making a clucking noise with his tongue.

  “Yes, what a shame.”

  “It was murder, Mr. Killian.” He stood back from the counter and picked up a feather duster. He turned his back and, with a flick of his wrist, began swishing the duster back and forth across the rows of canned vegetables.

  “But why would the police come here? What do I have to do with Henry Starrett’s murder?”

  “Because someone tried to kill him several days earlier by poisoning him,” I said. I knew that this might not be altogether true, but I’d already been frustrated by not learning anything that could help Sir Arthur. I’d decided to see if my stretching the truth would glean something out of Oscar Killian.

  “My God,” he said as he dropped the duster, his hands flying to cover his face. He began muttering a string of words, a jumbled mixture of English and a language I didn’t recognize. I couldn’t understand a thing he said.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Killian?” I said. “You seem terribly disturbed.”

  Ding-a-ling. The shopkeeper’s bell over the door rang. Oscar Killian and I both looked toward the door as Officer Corbett entered the grocery. The policeman grinned slightly when our eyes met. Suddenly the grocer grabbed my arm. I turned to see why.

  “I’m innocent,” Killian said, tightening the grip on my arm. Tears began to well up in his eyes. “I’ve never hurt anyone. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “Please, Mr. Killian, you’re hurting me right now,” I said. He released my arm.

  “Is everything all right, Miss Davish?” Officer Corbett said, frowning as he approached us. It was obvious he had seen the exchange.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, trying hard not to rub the sore spot on my arm. “Mr. Killian and I were talking about the late Henry Starrett.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you were,” the officer said, not quite chuckling. “Sir Arthur warned me you’d be thorough.”