Anything But Civil

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “Thank you, Mrs. Reynard. Thank you, General Starrett, sir,” I said. “You’ve both been extremely helpful.” I said, gathering up my notes. I threw my coat on, not bothering with my gloves.

  “You’ve found something, haven’t you?” General Starrett said.

  “I believe so, sir. Yes.” Before either could ask me another question, I stuffed my hat on my head and ran out the door.

  “He’s your guest, sir,” I said. “What would you have me do?”

  After leaving General Starrett and Adella Reynard gaping at my abrupt departure, I’d headed straight for the nearest telegraph office. I wired a request to Sir Arthur’s friend in the War Department. When I marked it “Urgent,” I laughed out loud, to the befuddlement of the telegraph operator. Hank, the operator in the Arcadia Hotel in Eureka Springs, would’ve understood. Then I ran, literally, to the jailhouse. I was overwhelmed with what I’d learned and the only way that I could release the pent-up energy and calm my nerves was to run. Once or twice I slipped on an icy patch on the sidewalk, but I’d kept my balance on both occasions and, despite the ache in my ribs, kept going. I told Sir Arthur everything I’d learned from Henry’s letters.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t had time to type it up properly, sir,” I said, “but I thought it more important that I speak to you immediately, to see how you would have me proceed.” Sir Arthur stroked his chin.

  “You wired Rogers at the War Department?”

  I nodded. “Before I came here,” I said. “I’m hoping for a prompt response.”

  “Then we should wait for the response.” I wasn’t sure I’d be able to wait. It would mean Sir Arthur would languish that much longer in this cell. It would mean I’d have to keep this secret for hours, maybe days. I was already feeling anxious. What if I saw the object of my inquiry at Sir Arthur’s house? How was I going to pretend that everything was as it was before?

  “Should I continue asking questions?” I asked.

  “No, suspend everything you’re doing on my behalf until you get the telegram. We’ll know where to go from there.”

  “Sir, what if I only spoke to Mrs. Triggs?” I said.

  I’d been eager to speak to Priscilla after lunch and the confrontation with Mott. But when Walter accompanied me back to Sir Arthur’s house to check on her, he discovered she’d taken another, unprescribed dose of the chloral hydrate. Walter had been both furious and deeply concerned. Some people have died from overdoses of this medicine. Despite Lieutenant Triggs’s assurances he would make sure she didn’t take any more, Walter insisted on staying by her bedside until she woke. Knowing she was in good hands, I’d left Walter and the Triggses and gone to General Starrett’s house.

  “Dr. Grice implied that she might know something of importance.” I was convinced more than ever that she knew something. Something she didn’t want to face. Why else would she prefer to spend the day in a drug-induced stupor? “And we’re on friendly terms. If she’ll talk to anyone, she’ll talk to me.”

  “No, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said, “leave Priscilla out of this.”

  I wanted to shout, “Even if she knows something or saw something that could exonerate you?” But I knew better than to question Sir Arthur. Instead, I sighed and said, “Yes, sir.”

  I had barely slept at all. I was unaccustomed to going to bed with little or nothing to show for a day’s efforts. My sole task had been to find something, anything, that would ease Sir Arthur’s predicament and yet I’d failed. I’d successfully eliminated several people as possible suspects, but the only evidence I’d uncovered in Sir Arthur’s favor had yet to prove significant. Now all I could do was wait. I didn’t even have any manuscript pages to type to keep me occupied. Restless, I’d left the house hours before sunrise and hiked several miles beside the railroad tracks that paralleled the Galena River toward the Mississippi River. The rigor of the hike and the burn in my lungs as I breathed in the cold air effectively cleared my head. I returned energized and able to concentrate on the tasks of the day: to wait patiently for a reply to my inquiry and to prepare for Christmas. It was Christmas Eve. Despite Sir Arthur’s arrest, he had compelled his staff to act as if he were to arrive home at any minute. That meant the daily newspapers on his desk, a decorated Christmas tree, and a timely Christmas Eve tea.

  “A message arrived for you,” William Finch, the butler, said as I hung up my coat. He was sitting in the kitchen having breakfast with Mrs. Monday, Ida, and Harvey. My heart skipped a beat. Could it be a telegram from Washington already? “I left it on the table.”

  “Can I fix you a plate?” Mrs. Monday said, pushing her chair back and standing up. I picked up the envelope that was addressed to me and carefully peeled it open. I didn’t have my letter opener. I scanned the contents and my hopes were dashed. It was from Walter.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Monday,” I said, having lost my appetite. Then I noticed the raspberry jelly cakes. “Well, maybe I’ll have a jelly cake.” She smiled as she set the plate before me.

  “Who’s it from?” she asked.

  “Dr. Grice. He’s invited me to luncheon again.”

  “Then why do you sound so disappointed?” Mrs. Monday said. “My lamb on toast isn’t that good.” I smiled at her jest.

  “No, it’s not that,” I said, walking over to the stove and pouring myself a cup of coffee. “I was expecting a telegram.” I sat down next to Ida at the table and sipped my coffee and nibbled on the jelly cake. The front door bell rang. I experienced a moment of exhilaration, expectation. Could that be my telegram? Then I came to my senses and realized the telegram I was anxious for, especially at Christmastime, might take days to arrive. William took one more gulp of his coffee and then jumped up to answer the door. William returned a minute later. He carried an envelope in his hand. My heart raced again.

  “Who was that?” Mrs. Monday asked.

  “The mail,” he said. “Looks like a Christmas card for you, Mrs. Monday.” My hopes dashed a second time, my stomach was tied in knots. This won’t do, I thought. I had to distract myself or I was liable to become ill with anxiety. I gulped down the remainder of my coffee, grabbed a second jelly cake off the tray, and pushed myself back from the table. Making up my mind had brought back some of the original excitement I’d felt before the two men died.

  “Anyone else ready to decorate the Christmas tree?” I asked.

  CHAPTER 30

  Even without the candles lit, the Christmas tree was stunning. William Finch had donated the hundreds of tiny candles and he and Harvey helped secure them while I draped the garlands and ribbon. We took turns climbing up and down the ten-foot ladder. Then Ida, Mrs. Monday, and I took turns trimming the tree. We hung sugarplums, handmade paper cornucopias filled with Brazil nuts and preserved coriander seeds, gold-painted pinecones, glass ornaments in a myriad of colors, shapes, and sizes, icicles made of silver foil, and strings of whole cranberries and unwrapped hard candy in rainbow hues. All that was missing was the wrapped presents and the angel that I’d purchased out of my own wages. It waited for Sir Arthur to do us the honor.

  It was the most spectacular Christmas tree I’d ever seen. Everyone who walked by exclaimed how lovely it was. Sir Arthur would be proud.

  “It’s great, Hattie,” Lieutenant Triggs said, who with his wife had spent part of the morning watching us trim the tree. “Doesn’t it look like it should be on the cover of Harper’s, Priscilla?”

  “I’ve never seen a tree so beautiful,” Mrs. Triggs said, caressing the baby Jesus from the nativity scene beneath the tree. Even Mrs. Baines, who had checked on our progress several times, had to admit that it was a “festive, colorful thing.”

  It almost made everything seem to be all right—almost.

  I was standing on the ladder, straightening a few wayward candles, when Ida pushed the door open. She was carrying a bucket of coal and had dark smears on her face and apron. She set the bucket down next to the fireplace.

  “Mrs. Monday says tea will be ready soon, ja?”
she said. Even though Sir Arthur was in jail, the staff had continued as if he was still demanding prompt and proper service.

  “Thank you, Ida,” I said. I sighed and climbed off the ladder. It was teatime and Sir Arthur was no closer to being home for Christmas than he was yesterday.

  After decorating the tree and having a pleasant, diverting luncheon with Walter, I again waited. The afternoon dragged on as I tried to occupy myself. With no manuscript to work on, I wrote a letter to Miss Lizzie in Eureka Springs, read some chapters of William Trelease’s Species of Rumex Occurring North of Mexico, which I’d borrowed from General Starrett’s library, retyped some labels in my botanical collections according to the taxonomic changes I’d learned from Mr. Trelease’s book, and then set to wrapping Christmas presents. I had set the presents beneath the tree and had just noticed the tilting candles when Ida arrived.

  The front door bell rang.

  I knew not to get excited anymore. The bell had rung several times this morning while we trimmed the tree. Twice it had been well-wishers who hadn’t heard the news of Sir Arthur’s arrest; once it was someone delivering an exquisite bouquet of flowers from Frederick Reynard. The former had been a harsh reminder that Sir Arthur was still in jail. The latter, with its sprigs of olive branch, was a grim reminder that Henry Starrett’s killer was still free. The last time the bell rang it was Walter arriving to escort me to lunch.

  William appeared in the doorway.

  “This came for you,” he said, handing me an envelope.

  I held my breath. This time it was the telegram. I looked around for something to open the envelope with and, seeing nothing, ungracefully ripped it open with my fingers.

  THE WESTERN UNION TELEGRAPH COMPANY

  NUMBER 17 SENT BY RM REC’D BY JG CHECK 24 paid

  RECEIVED at No. 1 Galena, IL Dec 24 1892

  Dated: Washington, DC 3:47pm

  To: H Davish 112 S. Prospect, Galena, IL

  Received your request, Confirmed 29th MO Infantry transport 12-

  24-62, soldier listed as POW Vicksburg jail 12-25-62 to 5-20-63,

  Cahaba Prison, AL dates unkn. Regards to Sir Arthur.

  Adm J. Rogers

  I was right, I thought. It’s true!

  With my hands trembling, I read the message again. It was not only true but astounding! I’d been right about the transport on Captain Starrett’s steamboat but was shocked to discover that this particular soldier had become a prisoner of the Confederates at Vicksburg, the very next day. And Christmas Day of all days! Was his entire regiment captured? If so, how did Henry Starrett and his crew not suffer the same fate? Could that have something to do with Henry’s death, almost to the day thirty years later? How does the saying go? “Revenge is a dish best served cold”? I shivered at the thought.

  Now I must confront him. But when and how? Should I tell Sir Arthur what I’d learned first? Should I ask Walter to be at my side? I folded the telegram, put it back in the envelope, and brought it up to my room. I hid it under a stack of manuscript pages. What if he’s the killer? I thought as I went down to Christmas Eve tea. I took a deep breath.

  Everyone was there, except of course for Sir Arthur. I hesitated before entering the parlor.

  “Why are you hovering in the doorway staring at me?” Rachel Baines said. It wasn’t Rachel Baines I’d been staring at. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

  “You’re making my wife uncomfortable, Miss Davish,” John Baines said with a hint of sarcasm. He winked at me. Or was that his nervous twitch? “Please stop hesitating and join us for tea.” Rachel sneered at her husband.

  “I didn’t want you to invite the girl in,” she said, under her breath but loud enough for me to hear her from the hallway. I took a few steps forward.

  “Yes, join us,” Lieutenant Triggs said while his wife patted a chair next to her.

  “Yes, please, Hattie,” Priscilla said. “Sit with me.” William Finch entered carrying the tea tray with Ida behind him, a clean apron around her waist but the coal smudges still on her cheek and brow. She carried a three-tiered cake dish brimming with egg sandwiches, salmon sandwiches, apple bread, scones served with jam, butter, and clotted cream, slices of golden cake and silver cake, cranberry tarts, jumbles, peppermint drops, and chocolate caramels.

  “Well, since Sir Arthur’s not here and I’m tired,” Mrs. Baines said, “we won’t stand on ceremony. You may serve the tea, Hattie.” Mrs. Triggs frowned. “Unless you want to do it, Mrs. Triggs?”

  “No, Hattie may do it,” Mrs. Triggs said.

  “Very well. I prefer mine weak with two sugars,” Rachel Baines said.

  “Bitte, please,” Ida said, bending in a clumsy curtsy, “but I can do that, Frau Baines.” Before I could say anything Ida took the teacup I’d prepared for Mrs. Baines.

  “For goodness’ sake, when was the last time you had a proper washing?” Rachel said, noticing the smudges on Ida’s face. Ida offered Mrs. Baines the teacup. “You expect me to drink from that? Being poisoned once this week was enough, thank you.”

  She pushed the teacup away, almost spilling the tea. Ida glanced at me in a panic. I picked up a clean teacup and poured the tea. Using the tongs, I dropped two cubes of sugar into the cup, and handed it to Mrs. Baines.

  “It’s okay, Ida,” I said. Ida, not understanding the etiquette of tea, thought I was being imposed upon. “I’ll serve the tea.” With a quick nod toward the door, I encouraged Ida to leave as quickly as she could. Mrs. Baines, like some women of her class, often forgot to treat those who served them like people. I’d worked for many an employer who treated me this way. I was used to the verbal abuse, but Ida was not. But as Ida retreated after William and I poured Mrs. Triggs a cup of tea, I was baffled. Rachel Baines had never passed on an opportunity to make herself the center of attention. And she’d never shown anything but condescension toward me since the moment she arrived. So why had she not poured the tea instead of giving that honor to me? Was it simply because she was tired, as she said? Or was there some other reason?

  I handed Priscilla her tea. She smiled weakly at me.

  And what do you know? I thought as I returned her smile. As dictated, I’d refrained from asking Priscilla about Henry Starrett’s murder. But it hadn’t stopped me from wondering.

  When I approached Lieutenant Triggs with his tea, he and John Baines were in a conversation about past Christmastide hunts. Again my thoughts turned to Sir Arthur, who loved to hunt. Tomorrow was Christmas. How could I allow Sir Arthur to spend Christmas in jail? I’d dutifully waited for the telegram as I’d been told. And I knew he expected me to consult him before I did anything further. But Sir Arthur hadn’t forbid me from continuing my questions after the telegram’s arrival. If my questions led to his release, he’d forgive my breach of duty. Hopefully.

  I handed Lieutenant Triggs his tea and took a deep breath. I couldn’t look the man in the eye. He’d almost always been friendly to me and appreciative of my work. But he was a liar and I had to know why.

  “Why did you lie to the police about knowing Henry Starrett?” I said. Lieutenant Triggs spit his tea out and started coughing. His wife leaned over and pounded him on the back.

  “Hattie, what kind of question is that?” she said.

  “A crucial one,” I said.

  “I don’t know, Miss Davish,” John Baines said. “It almost sounded like an accusation.” All eyes were on me and I couldn’t back down now.

  “Sir Arthur is in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. I’ve been charged to discover the true culprit, if possible. My questions and research have led me to a few unexpected discoveries, such as a connection with the murder victim and you, Lieutenant Triggs.” Lieutenant Triggs had his wife’s handkerchief over his mouth, still trying to compose himself. He merely shook his head.

  “What sort of connection?” Rachel Baines asked.

  “Like you, ma’am,” I said as her cheeks burned red. “They crossed paths during the war. The unit that Lieutenant
Triggs belonged to was once on Captain Starrett’s steamboat. His regiment was transported to Chickasaw Bayou around Christmas, 1862.”

  “You knew Henry Starrett during the war?” John Baines asked his wife. His nervous twitch was apparent in both eyes now. She ignored him.

  “But I thought Henry never went to Vicksburg or anywhere near there?” she said. “How do you know this?”

  “I read it first in one of Henry Starrett’s letters and then had it confirmed by a friend of Sir Arthur’s in the War Department.”

  “Henry’s letters?” Lieutenant Triggs and Rachel Baines exclaimed at the same time.

  “Yes,” I said. “The captain was a prolific writer during the war. His wife kept every one and left the letters to her daughter, Adella Reynard.”

  “Did Henry mention me in any of these letters?” Rachel Baines said.

  “Why would he?” John Baines demanded.

  “Oh, John,” Rachel said, dismissing her husband with a wave of her hand. “Well?”

  “Not that I read,” I said, noticing Rachel frown. John Baines noticed his wife’s reaction as well. “No, they’re more like a ship’s log than anything. He described his cargo, his missions, the tedium. Rarely did he write of anything personal.” She blushed again.

  “Again, I have to ask, why didn’t you tell the police or Sir Arthur that you had met Henry Starrett before?” I asked Lieutenant Triggs.

  “I didn’t think it was important,” he said.

  “My wife didn’t tell anyone either and that may turn out to be of the greatest import,” John Baines said snidely.

  “Jack, this has nothing to do with me,” Rachel said.

  “Did you also think it wasn’t important to tell anyone that only days after being on Henry Starrett’s boat you were a prisoner at Vicksburg?”

  “How did you know that?” Lieutenant Triggs blustered. He stood up abruptly, but his wife, taking his hand, nudged him back into his chair.