Anything But Civil (23 page)

“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.”

“A
h, 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 Henry 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.”

“Is that all right with you, Mr. Corbett?” I said, expecting to hear him tell me that I was overstepping my bounds and that I was interfering with his investigation.

“Of course, Miss Davish,” he said, “as long as you share with me any evidence or insights you may find.”

“Thank you, Officer Corbett,” I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. “I have learned that the gun cabinet and kitchen door had both been left unlocked during last night’s entertainment. Anyone could’ve taken Sir Arthur’s gun.”

“Okay, I’ll take that into consideration,” the policeman said. “Anything else?”

“Yes, I’m able to tell you now that Mr. Killian denies any involvement in Henry Starrett’s murder.” I turned to Oscar Killian. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Killian?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I had no reason to kill him.”

“No, not unless you are a man who holds a grudge,” I said. The grocer’s head swung around and he stared at me in horror. He started to shake his head violently.

“No, no, I don’t know what she’s talking about.” His hands flew toward the policeman in supplication. “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t. I have an alibi.”

The two girls, at the bonbon display, did look up at that.

“First things first, Mr. Killian,” Corbett said, holding his palm up toward the grocer and trying to sound calm. He walked over to the girls, placed a hand under the elbow of each, and escorted them, astonished and frightened, out the door. He flipped the sign on the door from O
PEN
to C
LOSED
as he shut it behind them. The two girls clasped hands and ran as fast as they could down the street out of view. “Now what are you referring to, Miss Davish?”

I’d been waiting to ask Mr. Killian about his involvement in the Copperhead Movement and his friendship with Enoch Jamison and this seemed as good a time as any. But I was beginning to regret my actions, having no idea they would solicit such a strong reaction from the grocer. He wouldn’t turn violent with a policeman here, would he?

“I learned yesterday that Mr. Killian and Enoch Jamison, the man whose house Henry attacked, are as close as brothers and have been since before the war. They were even both part of the political movement known as the Peace Democrats, or copperheads.”

“Is that true?” Corbett asked the grocer. “I thought you fought in the war?”

“Yes, it’s all true,” Killian said. “I joined the movement at Enoch’s urging after I was discharged.” He pointed to the letters tattooed on his hand. “My initials in case I was killed in battle,” he said. Without warning, he untied his apron, unbuttoned his vest, and draped them over the counter. Then he yanked his shirttails free and lifted them up to expose his naked stomach. A jagged scar of purplish puckered skin ran from his navel several inches toward his left hip. I immediately averted my eyes. He tucked his shirt back in. “I was sick of war. I wanted peace. We both wanted peace. So why would I kill anyone, even for a friend?”

“But you would poison him, intending to make him sick,” I said, remembering Mrs. Monday’s story of the cook who inadvertently killed her master with a poisoned cake. Oscar Killian dropped his head in his hands and sobbed.

“How did you know?” Corbett asked.

“I didn’t,” I said. “It was a reasonable guess.”

“Yes, well,” Corbett said, “we know for sure that it was the oysters that were tainted. We’ve discovered several other people throughout town that had fallen ill around the same time as your dinner party. And they all confirm they bought them from Killian’s grocery.” He turned to the distraught grocer. “You said you had an alibi, Mr. Killian, for early yesterday morning?”

“Yeah, I was in Chicago visiting my sister and her family. You can check. I have my ticket receipts and you can ask my sister.” If he was telling the truth I had to check another suspect off my list.

“I’ll do that,” the policeman said. “Did you deliberately sell bad oysters to the Reynards’ cook, knowing Henry Starrett would be poisoned?” The grocer nodded.

“I heard from several families that they had gotten sick from the oysters. It was bad for business, especially this time of year, so I pulled them from my shelves and refunded everyone’s money. I was going to dispose of them but—”

“But then Mrs. Cassidy came here looking specifically for the oysters, saying they were the captain’s favorite,” I said.

“I had a whole case in the back and had already taken a loss. This would be a good payback for Enoch, I thought.”

“But what about the other innocent people who were poisoned?” I asked. “Did you think about them? Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook likely died because of you.”

The grocer looked at me and his shoulders drooped. All color left his face. I pitied the man. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know it was for a dinner party. You must believe I thought it was only to be Henry who would eat them.”

“Basically, you weren’t thinking at all, Oscar,” the policeman said. “Now you’re facing hefty fines and criminal charges. You will make amends one way or another. You can start by giving Miss Davish here an apology.”

“You were at that dinner party, miss?” he said, barely above a whisper. I nodded. “I’m truly sorry for the suffering I’ve caused you.”

“Apology accepted, Mr. Killian,” I said sincerely. It was true I’d spent a night miserable on account of him, but the happy consequence was that Walter had rushed to my aid. I personally couldn’t begrudge Killian much. But an apology wasn’t going to bring Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook back.

“So that is why you are so adamant to find the truth?” he said.

“No, it’s because my employer and mentor has been accused of the heinous crime of killing Henry Starrett,” I said, simultaneously being overwhelmed by a competing sense of loyalty, gratitude, and potential loss. I wouldn’t be who I was or have gotten as far in life without Sir Arthur’s support and belief in me. How could I have ever doubted him? “And because I know he’s innocent.”

Officer Corbett grinned at me again. Was that a look of condescension or was he truly glad I believed in Sir Arthur’s innocence? I couldn’t tell.

“By the way, Mr. Killian, do you know where Enoch Jamison is?” I asked.

“In Chicago.”

“Do you know when he left Galena?” I said.

“Wednesday morning. Why? He had nothing to do with this. He didn’t know anything.”

“No, that isn’t why I asked,” I said. The grocer looked from me to the policeman and back again.

“Then why?”

“He’s a suspect in Henry Starrett’s murder,” I said.

“No!” Oscar Killian exclaimed. “Enoch would never do such a thing, no matter how much he hated a man, even Henry Starrett. I told you, we wanted to stop the killing.”

“Would he purposely run me off a bridge?” I asked.

“What? No. What are you talking about?” the grocer said.

Could it have been an accident?
I wondered. In his haste to leave town and any hint of his involvement in Holbrook’s death, could Jamison have simply lost control of his horses on the icy bridge? Maybe. I’d certainly like to think so.

“Well, if he can confirm he wasn’t anywhere near Galena at the time of the murder, I’ll believe you. Okay, Oscar,” the policeman said, waving his hand. “Out from around that counter. You need to come with me.”

“Can’t you wait until closing time? It’s Christmas. I have no one to work the store for me. That’s why I had to come back.”

“No, you have to close up now,” the officer said as he held the door open for me. He tipped his hat. “Good-bye, Miss Davish, for now.” I nodded.

“But I can’t lose my business,” Killian said, waving his arms around indicating all the goods on the shelf. “It’s my life.”

“Be grateful you’ll get to keep it,” I heard the policeman say as I stepped into the street and was hit by cool, refreshing brisk air. I started shivering despite my wool coat. I was glad to leave the grocer in the hands of the police. Would I ever understand the drastic measures people took to get revenge? I hoped not. Although he seemed like a decent man, Oscar Killian had endangered an entire dinner party of people, some of them quite old and frail, all for the sake of getting revenge for the act of one man toward another. And it had turned deadly. But neither Killian nor Jamison could’ve killed Henry Starrett.

 

I walked almost a block in my reverie. When I stopped to look about me, I recognized the figure I’d been walking only a few steps behind, Frederick Reynard. If I’d been walking at my usual pace, I probably would have bumped right into the back of him. I stepped into the shadow of a store front entrance and, leaning around, watched from relative safety as Mr. Reynard crossed the street. A woman in a wide-brimmed hat with silk purple violets and matching velvet bow exiting the store eyed me warily and pulled her young son close as they passed. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, smiled as I slipped by the boy and his mother, and from a distance followed Frederick down Main Street. I kept close to the buildings, prepared to step out of sight at the slightest indication that he might see me. But it was for naught. Frederick stared straight ahead and never once looked behind him. He seemed comfortable with the route, never hesitating and barely even turning his head to watch for wagons and sleighs when he crossed the street. I followed at a safe distance for several blocks and was almost surprised when he turned and disappeared from sight. He must have entered a building, so I picked up my skirt and ran after him. I stopped in front of the squat three-story nondescript redbrick building I thought he disappeared into.

Do I go in?
I wondered, staring up at the sign etched into the building, S
TAR
C
IGAR
F
ACTORY.
Frederick Reynard worked here. Although I didn’t know his motive yet, I considered him an excellent alternative to Sir Arthur as Henry Starrett’s murderer. Frederick had acted so strangely: demanding I not tell anyone that I’d seen him in the street, swearing me to secrecy for a secret I didn’t know, and lying to General Starrett about his whereabouts at the time of the murder. And I couldn’t overlook the fact that the olive tree leaves discovered near the dead man almost certainly came from Frederick’s greenhouse. But what if he was a murderer? Should I be confronting him alone? I knew what Walter would say, but Walter wasn’t here and this was an opportunity I’d been waiting for. Before I lost my courage, I opened the door, the pungent smell of drying tobacco hitting me the moment I went in. How did Frederick stand smelling this all day? Maybe that was why he relished his greenhouse and flowers, I thought.