Anything But Civil

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “Could you make a list of everyone you gave flowers to?” I asked.

  “I think so, if it will help. I’ll do it when I take a break from this.” Frederick indicated the cigar boxes on the table with a sweep of his hand.

  “So all of this was for a surprise Christmas present?” I said, thinking about what lengths people will go to keep a secret. If Frederick did this for a Christmas present, what would a murderer do?

  “Yup,” Frederick said. “But what horrible timing! I wonder if I should even give them to him now.”

  “I think the timing couldn’t be better,” I said. Frederick tilted his head and looked at me askew.

  “Are you mad, Miss Davish?”

  “No, General Starrett needs this present now more than ever.”

  “Indeed? Why is that?”

  “Because at least Adella won’t be able to refuse him his cigars anymore. Of course, his pipe is another matter.”

  “You don’t know my wife,” he said.

  “But how can anyone, even Mrs. Reynard, deny General Starrett a smoke of his own cigar?”

  Frederick laughed heartily out loud, slapping the table with his hand. “How clever you are, Miss Davish,” he said.

  With Sir Arthur still in jail and not being any closer to finding Captain Starrett’s killer, I didn’t feel especially clever.

  CHAPTER 28

  Someone had been in my room. It wouldn’t be difficult. As with all the third-floor rooms, the door was never locked. And the intruder had gone to great lengths to cover up their presence, but I could tell. At first I thought I’d forgotten, in all the confusion of the morning, to straighten up my desk. With all that had happened, I had felt slightly muddled at times. But although I might’ve left a hat on the chair or forgotten to align my brush with my mirror, I never would’ve left my pearl-handled letter opener lying haphazardly on top of a stack of manuscript notes, not even if the house was on fire. I always put it in the drawer, especially after it had once been proposed as a weapon. No, someone had definitely been in my room.

  Was this going to become common practice? I wondered, this being the second time this had happened to me. I felt violated and annoyed. I took a deep breath and counted.

  “Un, deux, trois . . .”

  After leaving Frederick Reynard busy at work at the Star Cigar Factory, I’d returned to Sir Arthur’s to a message from Walter inviting me to luncheon at the DeSoto House Hotel. I had thought I’d have enough time to type up my notes and recollections of the day and change for luncheon. Instead I spent precious time making a swift catalog of my notes, my lists, Sir Arthur’s manuscript, and my few belongings. Everything on my desk seemed to have been touched and misaligned, but nothing obvious was missing. What could I have that someone would want? What were they looking for?

  I realigned the stack of photographs I’d picked up at the photographer’s for Sir Arthur. The tintype of Captain Henry Starrett’s steamboat, the Lavinia, was no longer among them. The intruder must’ve taken it. But why? It wasn’t a great loss to me, for I remembered it well, or to Sir Arthur, who hadn’t wanted it for his book in the first place, but I’d promised to show it to General Starrett. Could I have missed something in the photograph, something important? I didn’t have time to wonder. I sat down and quickly typed up my notes as Sir Arthur had requested. When I finished, I put a partially typed list back into the typewriter and added more questions than I could answer.

  5. Was Enoch Jamison in Chicago at the time of the murder as Oscar Killian claimed?

  6. Where was Rachel Baines the morning of the murder? Why wouldn’t she want anyone to know?

  7. If Frederick Reynard couldn’t have killed Henry, where did the olive leaves come from?

  8. Who entered my room? Why did they take the steamboat photograph?

  9. Could there be a connection between the burnt letter and the photograph?

  10. How am I going to free Sir Arthur from jail?

  I was staring at the last question when my door began to slowly creak open. Without thinking I grabbed my letter opener and held it behind my back, poised to strike.

  “Hattie,” Ida said as she peeped around the door. “Are you in there?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and in the next moment was dismayed at how unnerved I’d truly become. Did I actually think the intruder would come back? And if so, with the intention of harming me? I had to admit that it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. Someone stole from my room and someone killed Henry Starrett. Who’s to say they weren’t one and the same? The thought sent a shiver down my back. I’d been perturbed by the violation and disarray of my belongings, but could I’ve been in danger?

  “Ida,” I said, pulling the desk drawer open and dropping the letter opener inside. “You startled me.”

  “Oh, verzeihen Sie mir, but your doctor is here, ja?”

  Walter! I had completely forgotten about luncheon and here I was still in my street dress. I slammed the drawer closed.

  “Please tell him I’ll be right down.” Ida looked at my dress and shook her head.

  “I will first help you dress and then I will tell him you will be right down, ja?”

  Her small kindness touched me and brushed away the fear and dread I was beginning to feel.

  “Thank you, Ida, but I can manage. Too bad it’s too soon to wear the bodice to my new dress!” I pulled it out of the wardrobe to show her.

  “But Hattie, you don’t have a maid,” she said, feeling the silk fabric. “Why did you buy it? Es ist verrückt, it’s crazy, ja?”

  “It is a little crazy, but it’s lovely, don’t you think?” I said. “I bought it to wear for Christmas dinner.”

  “Ja, it is lovely.” She nodded cautiously and then we both laughed at the absurdity of my owning anything with twenty buttons down the back.

  “Ready for lunch?”

  Walter stood up abruptly as I entered the parlor. The Christmas tree was still standing bare in the middle of the room. It made me melancholy again to see it, remembering the excitement I’d felt cutting it down, buying and making ornaments for it, only a few days ago. A few days ago Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook and Henry Starrett were still alive, Sir Arthur was happily working on his manuscript, and I still envisioned a festive and happy Christmas. The events over the past few days had changed all that.

  “Yes, though I need to see Sir Arthur first, if that’s all right,” I said.

  “Of course, but something else is wrong,” Walter said. He must’ve seen the sadness in my face. “Something else has happened to upset you. Are your ribs still bothering you?”

  “No, it’s not that. Someone stole the photograph of Henry Starrett’s steamboat from my room.”

  “Why would anyone want it? Let alone bad enough to steal it from you?”

  “I have no idea. In fact, Walter, I’m baffled and frustrated by most of this.” I told him about Frederick Reynard and what I’d learned from the police at Killian’s grocery. I handed him my report for Sir Arthur.

  He scanned my notes. “As usual, you are thorough and precise, Hattie. No one could’ve done better. Not even the police.”

  “But I’ve spent part of yesterday and all of this morning searching for anything that’ll help Sir Arthur and I’m no closer than when I started.” He handed back my notes. “In fact, all I’ve done is confirm that Sir Arthur is still the best suspect the police have.”

  “Let Sir Arthur be the judge of that,” he said, putting on his top hat. I nodded and preceded him out the door. Remembering Walter’s aggressive driving style, I opted to walk to the jailhouse. The fresh air, I knew, would do me good.

  “How is Mrs. Triggs?” I asked as we walked down Bench Street, my hand on Walter’s arm.

  “She was extremely upset. I had to give her chloral hydrate. I checked on her this morning and she was still sleeping. I don’t know the woman. Do you think it characteristic that she’d be this distraught over the captain’s murder?”

  “She does seem fragile
in constitution as well as in mind,” I said. “And I think in general she is an unhappy woman,” I said. “But I was surprised how she reacted to the murder too. She barely knew Henry Starrett.”

  “That confirms something I’ve been thinking. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think she knows something.”

  “Really? Like what?” This was hope from an unseen quarter. Maybe she knew something that could help Sir Arthur.

  “I don’t know,” Walter said, “but after I administered the chloral hydrate, I stayed for a while to observe. I couldn’t help hear her mumbling ‘murderer, murderer,’ over and over.”

  Why would Priscilla Triggs say “murderer” in her delirium? I never once considered her involvement in any of yesterday’s sordid events. But why else would she say it if she didn’t know something we didn’t? Could she have been a witness? Could she have seen or overheard something that made her suspect someone? Could that be the cause of her intense reaction to Henry’s death? A thrill of hope enlivened me.

  “When will she be well enough to talk to?” I asked.

  “I gave her a strong dose, but she should be up and about this afternoon.”

  Only moments ago I was dreading more “detective” work and now I couldn’t wait.

  “You’ve done an excellent job so far, Hattie, but you must delve deeper,” Sir Arthur said after reading the report for the second time. Walter and I sat opposite Sir Arthur, iron bars between us, in a large room in the county jail, an impressive red and limestone brick building on Meeker Street, where only the bars on the third-story windows gave any indication that this wasn’t a wealthy gentleman’s home.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” I said.

  “It can’t be a coincidence that someone stole that photograph, Hattie. And where does the letter come in? Who wrote it and is there any truth to it?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, sir,” I said, “and I wonder if a connection exists between the two, the letter and the photograph, I mean.”

  “In what way?” Sir Arthur said.

  “The letter accused Henry Starrett of being a Southern sympathizer and the one photograph that shows evidence that Henry did at least spend time in the Deep South has been stolen.”

  “Of course, he could’ve been a Southern sympathizer without leaving Galena,” Sir Arthur said, “but I get your point. Especially since no one you’ve talked to admits knowing anything about it.”

  “Do you think the person who stole the photograph is the same one who wrote the letter?” Walter asked.

  “That’s what you need to find out, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said. It was a formidable task and my earlier enthusiasm for this type of “research” was gone. “I’d start with looking into Captain Starrett’s war record. At least you should be able to confirm or deny whether he had official duty in the Deep South. I have a few friends in the War Department you can telegraph. The scrapbooks in General Starrett’s library may also hold some clues.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. The door opened and Officer Corbett leaned into the room.

  “Time’s up, Mr. Windom-Greene.” He looked at me and smiled, and then took off his hat. “Oh, I didn’t know it was you visiting the prisoner, Miss Davish.” He hadn’t been the officer who let Walter and me in. “You can have a few more minutes.”

  “Thank you, Officer Corbett,” I said. I turned to say something to Walter and stopped short. He was glaring at the policeman as he closed the door.

  “What is it, Walter?” I said under my breath, hoping to keep a semblance of privacy between us with Sir Arthur only a few feet away.

  “I don’t like him,” Walter mumbled. Walter shook his head in short, clipped movements before waving his hands in agitation. I looked back at the jail room door as if the answer to Walter’s sudden perplexing behavior would be there.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. Walter turned to look me straight in the eyes and gave me a sideways grin.

  “Never mind, Hattie,” he said, taking my hand and squeezing it lightly before letting go again. “I’m a foolish, jealous man.”

  My heart thumped hard in my chest. Walter was jealous! Before Walter, I’d never had a serious suitor before, dare I even call him that. What was the likelihood that less than two months after meeting Walter I’d have another man stammering like a schoolboy in my presence? The idea was both absurd and thrilling. Yet Walter had a right to be suspicious. What should I do? I hoped to avoid any misunderstanding between us. Archibald Corbett was a good-natured, professional policeman and, to me, nothing more. Should I tell Walter? Or would not mentioning it at all be best? Either way, the matter could wait. I had a task to do for Sir Arthur and couldn’t let any man’s fancy get in my way.

  “If that’s all,” Sir Arthur said, looking at me with an amused look on his face, “I think you’d better get to work.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, embarrassed by the exchange and relieved to be talking about work again. “Though I’d like to mention one more thing. Dr. Grice has something he’d like to add that isn’t in the report.” Walter told him what he’d told me about Priscilla Triggs.

  “Sounds like a promising lead,” Sir Arthur said, walking away from the bars, “though I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” He sat down on the only piece of furniture in the cell, an iron double-decked cot, having to stoop to do so. It was the first time I’d seen Sir Arthur look tired. It frightened me. “Mrs. Triggs is a delicate soul who may simply be emotionally disturbed by the murder and may know nothing at all,” Sir Arthur said.

  She knows something, I thought. She has to or else . . .

  I had no illusions about how much my fate was tied up with this man. I had to do everything I could to free him. I had to find the real killer; my livelihood depended on it.

  “Walter,” I said, trying to keep my voice down. I was ecstatic and wanted to shout. “It’s Horace Mott!”

  The man, who remained a mystery to both me and the police, had disappeared after the Christmas entertainment at Turner Hall. Now he was being seated at a table a few feet away. He still wore the outdated black suit. Walter and I had proceeded with our plans to dine together at the DeSoto House Hotel. Over a wonderful light luncheon of sliced cold corned beef, fried potatoes, bread, butter, and pickled peaches, we rehashed all that had happened since Henry Starrett arrived unannounced at his father’s home seven days ago. Whenever Officer Corbett was mentioned I sensed a tension that I’d never felt in Walter’s presence before. I couldn’t let this go on. I’d gathered the courage to speak to Walter about the policeman when Horace Mott walked into the dining room.

  “Where?” Walter said, scanning the room. I pointed in the general direction. Mott was seated with three middle-aged men of varying gentility. “I wonder where he’s been the past few days?”

  “I don’t know.” I pushed my chair back and stood up. “But I’m going to find out.” The courage I’d gathered to talk to Walter propelled me across the dining room. Without looking back, I knew Walter had followed me.

  “Excuse the interruption, gentlemen,” I said, standing before the table, “but would it be possible to have a private word with you, Mr. Mott?” The strange little man looked down his nose at me and blinked twice.

  “Miss . . . Miss . . . I’m sorry I don’t recall your name,” he said.

  “Miss Davish,” I said. I turned slightly toward Walter. “And this is Dr. Walter Grice.” Horace Mott didn’t stand and offer Walter his hand but continued to look over his spectacles at us.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked without introducing his dining companions. I knew the man was uncouth.

  “May we speak in private, sir?” I said. Mr. Mott looked around the table at his companions and then produced a high-pitched giggle of a laugh. I took a small step back.

  “I have no secrets from my good friends here, Miss Davish,” Mott said. “Now what could you tell me that warrants interrupting our luncheon?” My apprehension from a moment ago was gone; now I was angry. How dare he call me ru
de.

  “You’ve been absent from town of late, Mr. Mott,” I said.

  “Yes, so? You disturbed us to tell me that?” he said, interrupting me and laughing his strange giggle again. “Besides, how do you know I’ve been out of town?”

  “The police have been trying to locate you, sir,” I said. A small sense of triumph surged through me when his smug expression suddenly changed. His companions began mumbling to each other.

  “The police? Why are the police looking for me?”

  “In regards to Captain Henry Starrett’s death,” Walter said. Mott cast a quick look at Walter and then purposely twisted his shoulders to more directly face me.

  “But as you say, Miss Davish, I was out of town when Henry was murdered,” he said, some of his overconfidence emerging again. “So obviously I’ve nothing to tell the police.”

  “You could tell them exactly where you were when Henry was killed,” I said.

  “When was that?” the man to Horace Mott’s left said. Droplets of consommé, trapped by the man’s heavy gray mustache, sparkled above his lip. It was the first time any of them had spoken directly to me.

  “Between six and seven yesterday morning,” Walter said. Mott and his companions all began to speak at once until the man with the gray mustache put his hand up.

  “If that’s when Starrett was killed, then Mott is innocent. He was at the mine, signing the final paperwork. We here can all attest to that.” The men all nodded in agreement as a sly smile grew on Horace Mott’s face.

  “What mine?” I said, again seeing another likely suspect slip through my fingers.

  “The Starrett-McKinney Lead Mine,” the man, whose name I still didn’t know, said.

  Starrett-McKinney Lead Mine, I repeated to myself, the SMLM on Henry Starrett’s papers.

  “I thought all of the lead mines were exhausted years ago,” I said, remembering the old newspaper articles I’d read in General Starrett’s library while researching for Sir Arthur. For good reason the town was named Galena; galena meant “lead” and lead, as early as the 1820s, propelled the town’s growth and prosperity. But only fifty years later, the production of lead had dropped drastically and the mines in this region were no longer of national interest.