Anything But Civil

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “I’ve already interviewed Ambrose, but I’ll speak to him again. He didn’t mention Mr. Mott. Unfortunately, Captain Starrett has been too ill to be of any help.”

  “What are you waiting for, Corbett?” the general said, badly hiding his annoyance. “You don’t need to talk to my son. Can’t you see the girl here has done your work for you? Go arrest this Mott character. He stole my money and killed poor Issac Holbrook.”

  “But who is this Mott? And where can we find him? What business did he have here? Without speaking to your son, I can only guess. What if—” The policeman stopped. The general’s face had turned red and he was clenching his fists in his lap.

  “What gives you the right to come into my home and make insinuations?”

  “Oh, no, pardon me, sir. No, you misunderstood me. I never meant to imply your son had anything to do with this. I simply need to know more about Mr. Mott before I can arrest him.”

  “Are you done then, man?” the general said, momentarily placated.

  “One more question, General,” Mr. Corbett said, turning to me. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier, Miss Davish?”

  “Because before it was no one but my son’s business who he met here,” the general said. “And unlike some, Miss Davish, here knows that.” The policeman continued to stare at me.

  “Because I now have General Starrett’s permission to tell you,” I said. “Now I think we would all appreciate a rest.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Corbett said. “I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.” He stood to leave, notebook in hand. “Thank you all for your cooperation.”

  Once the door closed behind the policeman, I picked up the pipe and handed it to the general, who sighed, then smiled broadly at me. He patted my hand paternally.

  “I think we need a bit of fresh air, if you don’t mind, General,” I said as I took Priscilla under the arm and gently guided her out of the chair. She clung to me, almost in tears.

  “Excellent idea,” the general said, the pipe clenched between his teeth. He reached for the remaining of the two ship’s lantern-shaped lighters, the green-colored glass one. “Yes, fresh air will do you both good. And take your time. Take all the time you need.” A puff of smoke circled the old man’s head before the door closed behind us.

  CHAPTER 15

  “I heard you identified the thief,” Mrs. Monday said. Every morning after my hike, I looked forward to sitting at Mrs. Monday’s table in the warm kitchen and sharing a pot of hot, black coffee. She had trained as a pastry chef in her youth and baked some of the best pastries and cakes I’d ever had. She always had a piece saved for me. But as I’d spent this morning in bed, I had missed our time together. After the police had questioned us and I’d finished my tasks of cataloging and reorganizing General Starrett’s library, Priscilla Triggs and I returned to Sir Arthur’s. Mrs. Baines remained behind to nurse Henry Starrett as well as her husband and Lieutenant Triggs, who were not quite up to the carriage ride yet. So although I couldn’t eat the shortbread Mrs. Monday had baked especially for me, I enjoyed a few leisure moments in her company sipping ginger tea before getting back to work.

  “Who told you that?” I said.

  “Word gets around, Hattie,” she said. “Word gets around.”

  “You overheard Mrs. Triggs telling Sir Arthur, didn’t you?” She nodded and we both laughed. “Well, all I did was tell the police about the man that met with Henry Starrett during dinner. Since Captain Starrett is still too ill to talk to the police, I told them what I knew.”

  “Speaking of dinner,” Mrs. Monday said, wiping her hands on her apron and putting the kettle on, “what courses were served? Tell me everything.” I did so, but reluctantly; remembering the sight and smell of the food from last night made my stomach churn, and unfortunately Mrs. Monday insisted on the details.

  “Was the fillet of beef served with mushroom sauce or horseradish? What type of wine did they have with the boiled salmon? Did the soup à la reine have a creamy texture or was it more like a broth?”

  When she seemed satisfied she said, “Did you have the oyster course, Hattie?” I was surprised. Of all of the dishes I had described, I wondered why she’d asked me about that.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’d never had them raw on ice before and had originally passed, but Lieutenant Triggs was persuasive in getting me to try one. He did the same to his wife.”

  “Did you like it?” Mrs. Monday wondered.

  “No, to tell you the truth the texture was a bit slimy.”

  “Yes, oysters, raw or on the half shell, are an acquired taste in my opinion. I would’ve served oyster pudding, dressing, or soup for a party of strangers. I think they serve them to impress. Did everyone eat them?” Again, I wondered why she was so curious about the oysters, but I thought back and tried to recall if everyone did eat the oysters.

  “No. Sir Arthur didn’t have any nor did Mrs. Reynard. I heard Adella say they were her father’s favorite, though. Maybe that’s why—Oh my goodness,” I said, finally figuring out the truth. “That was the poisoned dish! It was the only course that so many people passed on. And those that passed didn’t get sick.” Mrs. Monday nodded as if she knew all along.

  “I think you’re right,” she said. “I’ve seen a man die from eating bad shellfish.”

  “Like Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook,” I said. The cook nodded solemnly. “It would explain why Mrs. Triggs and I recovered quickly; we only had a sample of the dish. The men, with the exception of Sir Arthur and General Starrett, consumed a great deal more than we did, with Henry Starrett and Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook each having several helpings. If that’s what killed Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook then Henry Starrett is lucky to be alive.”

  “Yes, he is,” Mrs. Monday said.

  “Would Mrs. Cassidy have known if the oysters were bad?” I asked.

  “Maybe, but only if she knew what to look for. Mrs. Cassidy is a plain cook. I doubt she’s served oysters on ice before.” I was relieved to hear that. “But the grocer might. Where did she buy them, Killian’s?”

  “Yes, he hand-delivered the order.”

  “Thought so. He’s known for the best canned goods in town. But I know Oscar; he wouldn’t knowingly sell bad oysters. . . .” Mrs. Monday hesitated.

  “What is it, Mrs. Monday?”

  “Well, I have to be careful what I say, Hattie, but as you know, there’s no love lost between Captain Starrett and Enoch Jamison.”

  “Yes, I’ve unfortunately been witness to several of their altercations. Why is that?”

  “Because Enoch was a copperhead, Hattie. Many, including Henry Starrett, thought he was a traitor to his own country.”

  “And there were many Peace Democrats who believed as Mr. Jamison did,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Regardless of whether copperheads were considered traitors or not,” I said, “that was over a quarter of a century ago.”

  “Not that long in many a mind’s eye,” she said. “Some wounds from that war are still healing, Hattie Davish, and don’t you forget it. War is a terrible thing and for some it never ends.”

  I knew in part she spoke from personal experience. Her husband, Mr. Clement Monday, who had been in Washburne’s Lead Mine Regiment, was killed at Shiloh, leaving her with five children to raise. I’d heard her many times boast that “my Clem didn’t even know General Grant here in Galena, but he proudly died for the great man that day.” She never remarried.

  “Does that apply to Captain Starrett as well?” I asked.

  “Oh, didn’t you know?” Mrs. Monday said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Those two were the best of friends before the war.” Suddenly everything became clear. Like many, the war had irreparably divided them. “Since neither is often in town, this may be the first time their paths have crossed in years. And we all know what happened then.”

  “No, Mrs. Monday, I have no idea what happened then.”

  “Well, it was right after th
e war. As you probably know, this town loves its heroes and we’ve had more than our share of them, Rawlins, Rowley, Chetlain, to name a few, and of course President Grant. Well, as I said, we love our heroes, so when the men came back we threw them a parade; only the president’s second homecoming in ’79 was bigger. But not all our boys who came back came back heroes. Enoch Jamison and a few other copperheads returned to their own welcome. Some showered them with praise and held a bonfire in their honor. Others, who felt they should’ve been tried for treason, harassed them, refused to trade with them, and vilified them. Let’s just say that Henry was the most enthusiastic of these and didn’t rest until Enoch Jamison and the others were run out of town.”

  “What would bring them back to Galena now?” I wondered out loud.

  “I know Enoch Jamison came to nurse his ailing mother. As to Henry Starrett”—she threw up her hands and laughed—“who knows.”

  “But I don’t understand, Mrs. Monday. What does all of this have to do with Oscar Killian and the oysters?”

  “Oscar Killian is friendly with the Jamisons. He married Enoch’s cousin, Elizabeth. There’s even been rumors that he was once a copperhead himself.” The implications swirled in my mind.

  “So you think that Mr. Killian sold Mrs. Cassidy bad oysters to spite Captain Starrett, knowing he favored them?”

  Mrs. Monday carefully arranged Parker House rolls, shortbread, and cranberry tarts on a plate. “It’s possible,” she said.

  My stomach felt queasy. I wasn’t sure if it was due to the close proximity of the food or the idea that the poisoning may’ve been intentional and possibly unrelated to the burglary after all. I’d never considered the possibility. Could it have been a coincidence? Or was there something more sinister going on?

  “I knew a cook once that poisoned a cake as revenge for losing her best assistant because the mistress of the house thought the girl too pretty,” Mrs. Monday said. “She only meant to make the family sick. Maybe that’s what Oscar did. To get revenge for the captain’s treatment of Enoch Jamison.”

  “Tea ready, Mrs. Monday?” William Finch, the butler, said, poking his head into the kitchen. “He’s such a stickler about punctuality.”

  “Yes, William, all ready.” She set the plate of pastries and sandwiches on the platter next to the tea service and handed it to him.

  “You said ‘only meant to make the family sick,’ Mrs. Monday,” I said. “What happened with the cook and the jealous mistress?”

  “Let’s hope I’m wrong and that Oscar Killian has nothing to do with this dreadful business.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because in that case, like poor Mr. Holbrook, the master of the house ate too much and died. Cook was hanged for it!”

  “May I help you?” A man in his mid-twenties with a trim little mustache and spectacles sat at a desk.

  After Mrs. Monday’s revelation, I’d been grateful to be expected elsewhere and excused myself quickly. I’d always found work the best remedy for a restless body or mind. Right now I had a pandemonium of thoughts swirling through the latter. Was Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook’s death intentional? Were the burglary and poisoning related or coincidence? Why was I even considering these questions? Ten minutes later, I had descended the Washington Street stairs, which had been cleared of snow, and, resisting the lure of the new hat and cloaks window display at the St. Louis Department Store, crossed Main Street to the Merchants National Bank Building on the opposite corner. I walked up three flights of stairs to W. F. Scheerer’s photography studio.

  “Yes,” I said. “I have an appointment with the photographer.”

  “For a sitting?” The man looked puzzled. “We don’t do sittings this time of day.” He pointed to the window. “Bad lighting.”

  “No, I’m Hattie Davish, Sir Arthur Windom-Greene’s secretary. I’m here to look at your photograph collection.” Sir Arthur had felt his current collection woefully lacking and had sent me here to add to it.

  “Ah, yes, the British gentleman’s secretary. Yes, he said you would be here.” He looked at the timepiece on the wall. “My, you’re prompt.”

  “Punctuality is one of Sir Arthur’s expectations, Mr. Scheerer, is it?” I said.

  “No, Mr. Scheerer is visiting relatives for the holidays. I’m his assistant, Willis Myers.” The man put down the glass plate he’d been studying, stood up, and retrieved a leather-bound book from the shelf.

  “If you’ll have a seat,” he said, indicating the table near the window. “This is the catalog to the collection.” He placed the book on a table in front of me. “I don’t know if it’ll help you find what your employer is looking for. When you’re done, I’ll retrieve any specific photos you’d like to see.”

  I opened the book and was impressed by the meticulous care that had gone into the catalog. Each photograph had a unique number, consisting of a photograph number and the location box number, a subject heading, a date, and a description, all typed up neatly without other marks or errors. The photos were arranged by subject heading. I looked at the list I’d made of Sir Arthur’s preferences.

  1. All photographs of Appomattox Court House; McLean’s house, the village, etc.

  2. A photograph of Grant in field clothes

  3. A war era photograph of Grant speaking to his men or at a table

  4. A photograph of Grant on or near his horse, Cincinnati

  5. A photograph of General Ely S. Parker

  6. A photograph of General John Rawlins

  7. A war era photograph of General Starrett

  I flipped the pages to where Appomattox was listed as a subject. Only one photograph was listed: “Front view of McLean’s house in Appomattox Court House.” The date was June 1865. I wrote down the photograph’s number, starting the list I would give to Mr. Myers, and then turned to GRANT, Ulysses S. Due to the sheer number of photographs on this subject, they were further classified. I glanced through Camp Life, Headquarters. I came across a tintype labeled: City Point, Virginia. Lieutenant Colonel Ely S. Parker, Gen. John A. Rawlins, Chief of Staff and others at Grant’s Headquarters that I knew Sir Arthur would want, wrote down the photograph’s number, and continued to Pets and Animals.

  I had worked my way through my list and most of the catalog when I turned to STARRETT, Cornelius A. I was surprised to see right below it STARRETT, Henry R. They were all entries for photographs of Captain Starrett on board or near steamboats: “Capt. Henry Starrett, in pilothouse of the Harold Orson,” “View from CB&N Depot, Galena, Steamer Adella foreground,” “Captain, pilot, and wheelman posed on deck of K. G. Homer river steamer.” The last entry had “Captain H. R. Starrett, in uniform, Lavinia, 1861–1865?” No location was listed. I was intrigued. A picture of young Henry Starrett in his military uniform, on a steamship named for his mother, would be a nice change from the image I had of him as Santa Claus. I added this last photo’s number to my list. Curious, I flipped back through the catalog for any entries for Enoch Jamison. There were none.

  After returning to the entries for General Starrett and picking out a portrait done three years into the war, I gave my list to Mr. Myers.

  “This will take me a few minutes. You aren’t missing your dinner, are you?”

  I assured him I wasn’t missing anything. When he finally returned, I scanned the photos I’d selected and knew Sir Arthur would be pleased. Mr. Myers and I arranged to have the copies made, which I would return for when ready. He charged it to Sir Arthur. While Mr. Myers wrote out a receipt, I gave the photo of Henry Starrett on his steamboat a closer examination, even borrowing Mr. Myers’s hand lens. Henry Starrett was standing on a small dock, stacked with cargo crates marked: U.S. Army Medical Department. He appeared to be directing the loading or unloading of the cargo. Only part of the steamship could be seen behind him. Although an innocuous scene lay before me, I couldn’t shake the nagging sense that I was missing something.

  “Good likeness, don’t you think?” Willis Myers said. It was. The identi
ty of the young soldier was obvious. “And I like the subject matter. So much of the photographs from the war were about the battle sites, the camps, and the dead. I find it heroic for a man to use his brains and brawn instead of his guns to win the war. Don’t you?”

  “I definitely appreciate the unusual pose. And delivering medical supplies must’ve been a vital task.”

  Mr. Myers nodded.

  “I’ll say. Hope your boss didn’t want a copy of this one, though; there’s no negative.”

  “Oh, no. It piqued my curiosity, that’s all. I noticed that the book held little information about it. Do you know anything more?”

  “No, what’s in the catalog is all I know. It’s always bothered me, but I have no idea where this was taken or by whom. It’s my job to ensure the catalog is complete and accurate, but that isn’t always possible.”

  A man after my own heart, I thought.

  “A portion of the collection came from John Pooley,” the photographer said, “when Mr. Scheerer bought the business, with some valuable tintypes taken by Edward Peirce during the war. And after the war, no one wanted these images, so the glass plates were sold and used to build greenhouses. So that means I don’t have all the information about them, or the negative plates.”

  For some reason the photo drew me in. Maybe it was the mystery surrounding it, where was it taken, when was it taken, who was the photographer, what was Henry Starrett doing at that exact moment? Or was it the inexplicable expression on Henry Starrett’s face? Surprise, annoyance, fear?

  “Captain Starrett piloted a hospital ship at some point during the war,” I said, pointing to the label on the crates. “Maybe that’s what this is?”

  “Maybe.” The photographer sounded skeptical. “But if so, the Lavinia isn’t marked as one in any way. That’s pretty unusual.”

  “Did you know that Henry Starrett is in town visiting his daughter and grandchildren?” I said.