Anything But Civil

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  Officer Corbett walked out to the street, pausing to pat the horse between the ears before climbing into the patrol wagon next to the driver. Corbett said something I couldn’t hear, and then the wagon slowly drove away. I couldn’t see Sir Arthur in the back of the wagon or the other two policemen. Before the wagon was out of sight, I’d begun formulating a plan. I’d find and confront Enoch Jamison first.

  “For goodness’ sake, girl, close the door. It’s cold outside.” I turned to see Rachel Baines coming down the stairs. “What’s wrong with you?” I had no idea how long I’d been standing in the open doorway. I quickly shut the door.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Baines,” I said, trying to get by her and back to my room with minimal conversation. I needed to type up the list of suspects I had forming in my head.

  “Why did you have the door open?” she said, peering into the front parlor. “And where is everyone?”

  “You are the first to come down for tea, ma’am, except for Sir Arthur,” I said. As I started to run up the stairs, I added, “And Sir Arthur’s been arrested and is on his way to jail.” I traded seeing the look on Mrs. Baines’s face for the few minutes it bought me and ran back to my room.

  1. Enoch Jamison

  2. Oscar Killian

  3. Horace Mott

  4. John Baines

  5. Frederick Reynard

  6. Rachel Baines

  7. Sir Arthur Windom-Greene

  The list of all possible suspects I developed was impressively long. Henry Starrett, despite his outward popularity, was not a man without enemies. To shorten the list or at least help the investigation become manageable, I included motives, alibis, whether he or she had access to Sir Arthur’s gun, and then attempted to reorder my list from the most likely suspect to the least likely. Along with Enoch Jamison’s, Sir Arthur’s name rose to the top. I decided I needed a more objective point of view. I pulled the list from the typewriter, tucking it into my coat pocket. I pinned on my straw hat with the ostrich feathers, retrieved my gloves from the satin-lined celluloid box Mrs. Madeleine Kennedy gave me for Christmas last year, and bounded down the back stairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Monday was tying ribbons around the roll sandwiches as I came in.

  “Terrible thing, that,” she said. “You’ve heard, of course.”

  “Yes,” I said. She had no idea how terrible. Not only had Sir Arthur been arrested for Henry Starrett’s murder, but he now relied upon me to prove his innocence. And determined to have him free by Christmas, I had two days to do it. “Unfortunately we’ve been saying that a great deal lately,” I said. It’s the same thing Mrs. Monday had said when she heard about Henry Starrett’s murder.

  “And poor Ida thinks it’s all her fault.” Ida had said something to that effect when she came to my room this morning.

  “Why would that be?” I asked.

  “Because Ida dusts inside all the cabinets every other Wednesday. She was so excited about the entertainment that she thinks she forgot to lock the gun cabinet after she dusted. She didn’t have the nerve to tell anyone but me.”

  “So all it would’ve taken is for someone to break in to the house and walk away with a loaded gun.” Sir Arthur kept a bare minimum supply of accompanying bullets for his gun collection. He prized the guns. The ammunition was a side thought, in the rare case he wanted to fire one. With the guns locked up, Sir Arthur never thought to restrict access to the bullets. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  “They wouldn’t have had to break in either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hattie, Ida wasn’t the only one distracted last night. I feel awful about it. I didn’t think any harm would come of it.”

  “What are you saying, Mrs. Monday?”

  She hung her head. “I left the kitchen door unlocked too.” Mrs. Monday started to cry. “Ida and I have done a terrible thing. In a way, we killed Henry Starrett.” I wrapped my arms around her as she sobbed into my shoulder.

  “You are not to blame for Henry Starrett’s murder, Mrs. Monday, either of you,” I said. “And I see a positive side to what you did.”

  “What could that possibly be?” Mrs. Monday stepped back and wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron.

  “Because it shows that anyone could’ve come in the door and taken the gun. Not solely Sir Arthur, as the police suppose, but anyone.” It was a frightening thought, but I focused on what it meant for Sir Arthur. “The police will have to consider other suspects.”

  And it was up to me to give them viable alternative suspects. I knew exactly where to start.

  “I thought it might be you,” Walter said as he crossed the lobby of the DeSoto House Hotel. I’d requested the registration clerk to call up to Walter’s room. “They simply said a young lady wanted to see me.” He took my gloved hand and raised it to his lips. “Don’t mistake me, but didn’t we agree you needed a restful afternoon and evening at home?” He took one look at my face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Walter, I need your help,” I said. He frowned and indicated a settee set against the wall. We walked over to it in silence and sat down.

  “What is it, Hattie?”

  “Sir Arthur has been arrested for Captain Starrett’s murder.” Walter whistled and for a moment leaned his head back against the wall. Then he perked his head back up and took my hand.

  “How can I help, Hattie?”

  “Sir Arthur has had me put aside our work together and investigate the murder myself,” I said.

  “Like you did in Eureka Springs,” Walter said. I nodded. “But you don’t want to, do you?” I had obviously failed to keep the dismay out of my voice.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But you aren’t in a position to deny Sir Arthur this either, are you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then what can I do to help?” I was relieved Walter understood how much I relied on Sir Arthur’s good graces and couldn’t say no regardless of how much I wanted to. I pulled out my list of suspects.

  “I’ve tried to order these in an objective manner, from most likely to least likely, but as you can see . . .” I pointed to Sir Arthur’s name at the top. “This won’t do.”

  “No, it won’t.” He hesitated slightly. “Unless of course he did kill Henry Starrett.” We both sat in silence, mulling over the possibility and what it would mean.

  “No, Sir Arthur wouldn’t do such a thing. He might kill a man, but I think he would do it publicly, in a duel, not at the break of dawn with no witnesses.”

  “You say that so matter-of-factly,” Walter said. I shrugged my shoulders. I’d worked with Sir Arthur on and off for a long time. Until recently, I would’ve said I knew Sir Arthur well.

  But did I?

  “We should still consider him, though,” I said, “to be thorough.”

  “Is that why Mrs. Baines is on your list, a love affair gone awry?” I nodded. “Well, I’d put her at the bottom of your list.”

  “Why?” I asked. “It’s unlikely, I know, but not impossible. After all, a woman left her footprints in the snow.”

  “I know, but she couldn’t have inflicted the bruises the captain sustained.”

  “But she could’ve shot him,” I said haltingly. It was the first time the thought had occurred to me. “Do you realize what we’re saying, Walter?” I said.

  “That one person could’ve beaten the man and a different person could’ve shot him?” Walter said. “Yes, we need to consider the possibility that two people were involved.”

  I looked at my long list of suspects, mentally rearranging the order of names in two separate categories. This could change everything, I thought adding a few more names to the list.

  CHAPTER 26

  Our first stop was the home of Enoch Jamison. Walter graciously agreed to accompany me. In fact, I recall he insisted. To avoid Grant Park, we took the long way, crossing the wagon bridge at Meeker. I’d hoped that the stroll, arm in arm with Walter, the crisp air, the festive atmosphere on Main Street as
bells jingled and Christmas shoppers passed with colorful packages, would embolden me. This time no mob was waving brooms and throwing rotten eggs at the house nor was the strange little Mr. Mott lingering in its doorway. Yet I was more intimidated by approaching the front door than I’d felt before. Walter tapped on the door with the knocker and we waited. Eventually a short, petite maid with a pointed nose opened the door.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “We would like to speak to Mr. Jamison,” I said. The maid looked at Walter and then back at me.

  “This would be about?” the maid asked. Walter opened his mouth to speak.

  “It’s a personal matter between us and Mr. Jamison,” I said before Walter could answer.

  “You are?”

  “Miss Hattie Davish and Dr. Walter Grice,” I said. “I am Sir Arthur Windom-Greene’s private secretary and Dr. Grice is . . .” I stopped. I had never had to introduce Walter to a stranger or someone who didn’t understand our acquaintance. What did I say? How should I introduce him, my physician, my acquaintance, my personal friend, my companion, my beau? Luckily Walter saved me from the awkward situation.

  “Miss Davish and I are the ones who found Captain Henry Starrett’s body,” Walter explained.

  “Really?” the maid said with almost a ghoulish glee. “Is it true his face looked like a smashed watermelon, his broken teeth, like so many seeds, on the ground?” I put my hand to my mouth in horror, images of Captain Starrett’s mutilated face flashing through my mind. What kind of person revels in such things? I wondered, staring at the gaping, eager maid. Walter put his arm around me.

  “Mr. Jamison, if you don’t mind,” he said sternly.

  “By all means, please come in, come in.” She stepped aside to allow us to enter, though I was beginning to have second thoughts. She ushered us down a long hallway and then indicated a parlor room on the right. “Please sit down.”

  Cozy, with a blazing fire, overstuffed furniture, and pillows of every size, color, and pattern scattered throughout, the parlor, despite the maid’s eerie behavior at the door, instantly put me more at ease. She left us momentarily, but when the maid returned I was surprised not to find Mr. Jamison but a wisp of a woman in her eighties or nineties shuffling along beside her.

  “Mrs. Jamison,” the maid said, raising her voice, “this is Miss Hattie Davish and Dr. Walter Grice. They found Captain Starrett’s body and came to talk to you about it.”

  Mrs. Jamison, who from her reaction probably hadn’t heard a word that was said, nodded and sat down in the large armchair nearest the fireplace. The maid tucked a white wool blanket with thin indigo stripes around her lap, then swooped up a cat that I hadn’t noticed and placed it too on Mrs. Jamison’s lap. The maid turned to leave.

  “Can we expect Mr. Jamison?” I asked, not knowing whether to address the maid or the elderly woman by the fire.

  “Sorry, forgot to tell you,” the maid said. “Mr. Jamison isn’t here.”

  “Thank you, Enid,” Mrs. Jamison said to the maid. I wasn’t sure if she’d heard what the girl had said or not. “That’ll be all for now.” The maid pouted, then closed the door behind her. I listened for her receding footsteps and didn’t hear them.

  She’s eavesdropping at the door, I thought.

  Mrs. Jamison turned from me to Walter as if not knowing who she should address first. It was my turn to save us from the awkward situation.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Jamison,” I said. “I suppose you are wondering—”

  “Speak up; my hearing isn’t what it used to be.” The woman put her hand to the back of her ear. I raised my voice, repeating myself.

  “I suppose you are wondering why Dr. Grice and I are here?”

  The old woman nodded, indicating she’d heard me. She leaned forward, giving me all her attention, almost too much. Her eyes were a piercing blue that seemed to stare straight into you while giving the impression that she couldn’t see you at all.

  “Besides being the unfortunate person to have discovered Captain Starrett—,” I said.

  “I thought you both found Henry Starrett’s body?” Mrs. Jamison said, looking at Walter as if for the first time.

  “Miss Davish was there first, ma’am. I came along a minute or two after.”

  “Ah, I see,” Mrs. Jamison said. “Go on.”

  “As I was saying,” I said, “besides finding the dead man’s body, I am also the private secretary of Sir Arthur Windom-Greene—”

  “Yes, Enid told me,” the woman said. I took a deep breath. Un, deux, trois . . . I had never been interrupted so much in my life, at least not by someone who wasn’t paying me to oblige. I looked the woman in the eye. I would not be intimidated by this peculiar woman. Her son may have murdered Henry Starrett.

  “Yes, my point is that Sir Arthur has been arrested for the murder of Captain Starrett.”

  “Hee-hee!” The woman slapped her knee and grinned. “And you think you have a scapegoat in my son?” She turned to me. “Am I right, Miss Davish?”

  “My employer is innocent,” I said, amazed at how easily I spoke with conviction about something I was not sure of myself. When had I become skillful at deception?

  “And you want to prove it?” Mrs. Jamison said.

  “Yes,” I said. “When will your son be home, Mrs. Jamison?”

  “So you can hear him confess to a crime he didn’t commit?”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Jamison,” I said, distressed that she could see through me so clearly. “I was hoping he could help us, tell us something, anything that might help prove Sir Arthur is innocent.”

  “If not a confession, then what can he offer?” she said.

  “He could explain why Henry Starrett attacked your home, why the captain seemed to hate your son so much?” I said. Why he tried to run me off the bridge?

  “I can tell you that, my girl. It was mutual; Henry hated Enoch and Enoch hated him, like the Hatfields and the McCoys. I’ll admit that none of us are sad that he’s dead. Henry made my son’s life . . .”—she hesitated, searching for the proper word—“unpleasant. But Enoch didn’t kill him.” She sat back in her chair and unexpectedly smiled. She had no teeth. “Now there, it’s out in the open. Don’t we all feel better?”

  “But why did Henry and your son hate each other so much?” Walter asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “Because Enoch is a man of conviction and . . . ,” Mrs. Jamison said, looking down at the cat on her lap and beginning to stroke its fur with the back of her hand. Her fingers were gnarled and twisted with age. The cat purred loudly. “And Henry was not.”

  “I’ve heard that your son was once part of the organization called the Peace Democrats?” I said.

  “Enoch prefers copperheads,” Mrs. Jamison said, suddenly sticking her tongue out like a snake. I sat back in my chair abruptly to put as much distance as possible between me and this strange woman. I shared a glance with Walter, who merely raised an eyebrow. “I was a copperhead too, you know. Gave much of what Enoch’s father left us to undermine that evil war.” She smiled again.

  “I didn’t know. Was Oscar Killian a member of your group as well?”

  “Yes, Oscar’s a good boy. Married my niece, Elizabeth, you know. He’s like a brother to Enoch. They’re very close.” Close enough for Oscar to poison Henry Starrett in retaliation for his treatment of Enoch? I wondered. I’d wait for the right moment to ask.

  “Is it true you believed that the Union could never be restored by war, that peace with the rebels was the only way?” I said.

  “Yes, that’s right, among other things.”

  “So you were opposed to a cause that many in this town, including Henry Starrett, were fighting and dying for?”

  “That was our point, dear girl,” Mrs. Jamison. “With peace, no one dies.”

  “But some called ‘copperheads’ like yourself and your son traitors, did they not, Mrs. Jamison?” I said. Suddenly Mrs. Jamison jolted forward. The cat on her lap screeched and flew with all fou
rs toward Walter. He put his arms up defensively, but the cat hit the floor before reaching him.

  “My son is not a traitor!” Mrs. Jamison shouted, shaking her gnarled fist before her. Then she reached down and struggled to pick up the misplaced blanket the cat had sent sprawling to the floor. She muttered angrily under her breath. I began to rise to assist her, but she managed to grab the blanket between two knuckles and pull it onto her lap. When she looked up, she smiled again. I was astonished by her erratic behavior. “No need to fret, my girl,” she said to me. “We know the truth. We loved our country then and we do now. That is why we copperheads fought for its salvation.”

  “But you were in the minority during the war. You were going against what most people believed,” I said.

  “You might’ve heard that Enoch and a few others were wrongly imprisoned for treason at Fort Lafayette. When they were exonerated, they returned to Galena with what you might call a heroes’ welcome. This town was deeply divided when the war broke out. I assure you, many believed as we believed. And some of the real traitors were never exposed.”

  “Ma’am,” I said, latching on to what she said, “did you believe Henry Starrett was one of those traitors?” Walter looked at me in surprise. I’d heeded Sir Arthur’s request to keep the letter we’d found in Henry’s fireplace a secret. But now it seemed relevant to proving Sir Arthur’s innocence. I needed all the help I could get. “Someone accused Henry Starrett of that in a letter days before his death.”

  “My, my, this is news,” Mrs. Jamison said. “The police never mentioned such a thing.”

  “The police don’t know,” I said, more to answer Walter’s questioning stare than responding to Mrs. Jamison’s comment. “Did you or your son write that letter, Mrs. Jamison?”

  She held up her hands. I felt ridiculous. “I don’t do much with these anymore, let alone write. I can barely pet Mouser. As for Enoch, I doubt it. My son has never been much of a writer. With him away now, I’ll be lucky if I get a Christmas card.”