With our sincerest wishes. May you be home for Christmas and the rightful culprit in jail, the card read.
“That reminds me,” I said. The flowers reminded me again of the olive leaves.
“Reminds you of what, Miss Davish?” Corbett said.
I hadn’t realized that I’d said it out loud. “We still don’t know where the olive leaves came from,” I said.
“What olive leaves?” It was my turn to blush. I’d inadvertently forgotten to tell Officer Corbett about the leaves. I corrected my mistake, handing him my list of questions, and told him everything I knew: where I’d found the leaves, how I’d verified the species in Frederick Reynard’s greenhouse, and how none of the men, with the exception of Frederick Reynard, had been wearing olive leaves in their boutonnieres. A chill went up my spine. I suddenly knew who killed Henry Starrett.
“Were you wearing or carrying flowers with you when you met Captain Starrett that morning, Mrs. Baines?” I said, already knowing the answer.
“I’m not answering to this girl,” Rachel said, dismissing me with a wave of her hand.
“But you will answer to me,” Officer Corbett said. “Were you or were you not wearing flowers that morning?”
“No,” she declared. “Why would I? We weren’t meeting to go dancing!”
“And the corsage that Mr. Reynard sent to us the day of the Christmas entertainment? What did you do with that?” I asked.
Rachel scrunched up her nose in a look of disgust.
“I threw it away,” she said snidely.
“Why should I believe you, Mrs. Baines?” the policeman said.
“I can confirm it,” William said. Everyone, including myself, turned to look at him. I’d forgotten he was still in the room. “With the guests and extra Christmas tasks, I’ve had to do some of Ida’s work. I cleaned the waste baskets and can confirm that Mrs. Baines’s corsage had been discarded.”
“But she could’ve thrown it away after she met with Henry,” Walter said. The policeman nodded.
“No, sir, she couldn’t have because I emptied the baskets before I went to bed that night.” My heart sank. I didn’t want to be, but I was right.
“Then where did the leaves come from?” Lieutenant Triggs said, innocently curious.
I turned to look at his wife beside him. “A sprig of olive leaves was in each of the ladies’ corsages that Frederick Reynard sent,” I said. “Some dropped from your corsage when you covered the bullet wound with the dead man’s coat. You shot Henry Starrett, didn’t you, Mrs. Triggs?”
“What?” Lieutenant Triggs was on his feet and launched himself at me. Mrs. Baines screamed as I scrambled to avoid his grasp and knocked over a chair. Walter and Officer Corbett caught him by the arms and wrestled him to the floor.
“How dare you! Of all people, Miss Davish!” he cried, kicking and wrestling with his restrainers. “I’ve never hit a woman, but by God—”
“Do something!” Rachel Baines shrieked to no one in particular. Priscilla put her hand on her husband’s arm.
“It’s true, Morgan,” she said, barely audible. He shook off Walter and the policeman and knelt before his wife.
“Why, Priscilla, why are you doing this? I told you I didn’t kill him. You don’t have to lie for me.” She shook her head slowly and put a hand to his cheek.
“I saw you retrieve Sir Arthur’s gun from where you’d hidden it in our room and followed you to the park,” she said.
“I didn’t see you there,” Rachel Baines said.
“But I saw you.” Priscilla looked Mrs. Baines in the eyes for the first time since they’d met. “I saw what you and Henry were doing.” Rachel’s jaw dropped and she was stunned speechless. John Baines glared at her, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides.
“Rachel, I should . . .” John Baines seethed. I was concerned for Mrs. Baines’s safety until John abruptly stood and walked to the fireplace. He picked up the poker and smashed it against the wall. Tiny fragments of plaster burst from the dent the impact made. The poker clattered to the floor. We all gaped in silence at the man’s back as he refused to face the room.
“Please continue, Mrs. Triggs,” the policeman said, disregarding John Baines’s outburst. Priscilla looked back down into her husband’s tormented face.
“I overheard everything you said, Morgan,” she said. He dropped his head against her knees. “I never knew how you ended up a prisoner. You never wanted to talk about it.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lieutenant Triggs said, his voice muffled by his wife’s dress.
“I watched you beat that man and I silently cheered on every blow. It was his fault you were sent to that prison. It was his fault you contracted the mumps. I never wanted to be anything but a mother to your children, Morgan. It’s why I was put on this earth; you know that. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t questioned God for refusing my only prayer. And every day I’d feel guilty for my doubts and conclude somehow I was to blame. But that morning I discovered my suffering: the guilt, the self-recrimination, the faithlessness, had been pointless. We hadn’t been denied the blessing of children by God but by a man, a self-serving traitor of a man.”
Priscilla paused. Every eye was on her, including John Baines, who’d turned around to listen to her story. Silence filled the room, broken only by the creak of Rachel Baines’s chair as she adjusted herself, and the ticking of the mantel clock. I’d been holding my breath. Priscilla shrugged, slightly shaking her head.
“And then there he was, like a Christmas present sent from above.”
“So after your husband left, you shot him?” the policeman said.
“I couldn’t resist approaching him. He lay there groggy and bloody from his injuries. He probably could barely even see who I was. So I told him.”
“ ‘You have such lovely grandchildren, and I’ll never have any,’ I told him,” she said. Suddenly Priscilla looked around the room and stopped with her eyes on me. “And you know what that man had the nerve to say to me, Hattie?”
“No, Priscilla,” I said, slowly shaking my head. “What did he say to you?”
“He said, ‘Well, then I deserve a medal. I prevented a Triggs brat from being born into this world.’ And then he laughed, a gurgling sound with his lips split and his nose bleeding.”
“Then what happened, Priscilla?” I asked.
“I did what any woman in my position would,” she said. “I picked up the gun laying at his feet and shot him.”
CHAPTER 32
Christmas dinner had been everything I’d imagined it would be. The table, which I had had a hand in decorating yesterday, was warm and welcoming. Red velvet ribbon draped down from the chandelier, red and green festive Christmas crackers marked each place, and single candlesticks glowed in the windows. A fire crackled, its light sparkling off the silverware, the crystal glasses, and the etched vase holding Frederick Reynard’s bouquet as centerpiece. As expected, Mrs. Monday outdid herself with the food: tomato aspic, cranberry relish, roast goose, chestnut stuffing, sweet potato croquettes, peas served in turnip cups, dressed lettuce with cheese straws, and ginger sherbet, which, with my stomach fully recovered, I could properly enjoy.
And the company was amiable and merry. Beside Sir Arthur, who had been released after Lieutenant Triggs and his wife had been taken into custody, the guests included the Baineses; Mrs. Kaplan, the feisty widow we’d met at Adella Reynard’s dinner party; Walter; and me. I’d thought I would’ve been satisfied with sharing a simple and relaxing Christmas dinner with William, Mrs. Monday, and Ida in the kitchen. But watching Walter, his face lit by candlelight, tell a scandalous story about a sixty-year-old female patient who insisted on being examined in the nude, I couldn’t have imagined a more pleasant way to end the day. Sir Arthur chuckled and John Baines roared with laughter while Mrs. Kaplan grinned, nodding her head.
“I can see the lady’s point. But if you examined me, I’d rather you were in the buff, Doctor,” she’d said, to the shock and deli
ght of us all.
Even Mrs. Baines, who was uncharacteristically melancholy at the start of the meal, was giggling before long. In fact, she cheered the loudest when Mrs. Monday, given the honors, presented the traditional plum pudding, flames and all.
“I propose a toast—,” Sir Arthur said, standing and raising his glass. And then William arrived bearing a letter. With that the gaiety ended.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir,” the butler said, leaning forward to place the salver within Sir Arthur’s reach. “But this was just hand-delivered by messenger.” The table conversation stopped. Forks that a moment ago had dipped into the pudding were left suspended in mid-air. I instantly recalled the dinner party and Ambrose’s announcement that a man was wanting to speak with Captain Starrett. I wasn’t the only one. Mrs. Kaplan licked her lips and inched to the edge of her chair. Rachel Baines looked anxiously toward her husband, who wouldn’t make eye contact with her as he pushed his plate away. Sir Arthur set his glass down and reached for the envelope. He took out the card. It was silver with a wide black border. One exactly like it had arrived last night, the invitation to Henry Starrett’s funeral.
“It’s from General Starrett,” Sir Arthur said as he looked up into five expectant faces. We had, until now, been able to avoid the topic of Henry Starrett’s murder and the arrest of Morgan and Priscilla Triggs. Everyone had celebrated the day as usual, with church services or Mass followed by presents under the glow of the Christmas tree candles, carols, and games of snapdragon and charades in the parlor. Walter and I had taken a leisurely sleigh ride in the afternoon, his driving tempered by the snow. We had stood arm in arm, looking out over the Mississippi River as it flowed by. Not a word had passed between us of the tragic events of the past few days. But it was inevitable. I took a deep breath and glanced at Walter. He was looking at me and smiling.
It doesn’t matter what that card says, I thought. I’ve had the best Christmas since my mother died. I smiled back.
Sir Arthur put on his spectacles and said, “It reads: ‘As it is Christmastide, I’ve been granted three wishes. One to thank you for your kindness and condolences at this sad time, two to thank Miss Davish for her commendable ‘Pinkerton’ work, and three to wish everyone a Merry Christmas.’ ”
As the weight of the past few days settled on everyone’s shoulders, only the crackling of the fire could be heard.
“What do you think they’ll do to Mrs. Triggs?” Mrs. Kaplan said abruptly, her voice booming in comparison to the previous moment’s hush. She voiced what we all must’ve been wondering. “I can only imagine the desperation and emptiness Priscilla Triggs must’ve felt being denied motherhood. I had nine children, myself. Of course, Henry, no matter what he did, wasn’t to blame, but I do hope they are lenient on her, and her husband.”
“I don’t think she will hang,” Sir Arthur said, “if that’s what you mean. As to her husband, he won’t serve any time, not if I have anything to do with it.”
“Why not?” Rachel asked. “He beat Henry almost to death.”
“Henry deserved what he got, though, didn’t he?”
“But Sir Arthur!” Rachel protested.
“He was a traitor, Rachel, and there’s no getting around that,” John Baines said. He shook his head. “He betrayed his country and his family. If I were General Starrett, I’d never be able to forgive him for that.” He deliberately looked at his wife.
“If only he had never had to learn why his son was murdered,” I said.
“Yes,” Mrs. Kaplan said, “but you’d be surprised. General Starrett’s a good man and more forgiving than most. He’ll find it in his heart someday to forgive both Henry and his killer.”
“Then he’s a better man than me,” John Baines said, deliberately looking at his wife again before taking a healthy gulp of port. His eyes were still and piercing, his nervous twitch gone. Rachel Baines looked away, smoothing her hair with her hand. I had to wonder what Rachel Baines’s infidelity would cost her. I shuddered to think of what the future held for her if her husband abandoned her and branded her an adulteress. A woman’s reputation, as I knew so well, was all she had.
“I have to agree,” Sir Arthur said while Walter nodded his approval. “It was vigilante justice, I grant you, but Morgan Triggs had a right to restitution. He won’t be convicted by a jury of his peers.”
“You never did explain how you knew Mrs. Triggs was the killer, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Kaplan said.
“The police and I had eliminated almost all of the obvious suspects. So then it became simply a matter of determining where the leaves I found next to Captain Starrett’s body came from,” I said. “While preparing for the Christmas holiday, I’d been to every shop that carried fresh hothouse flowers, holly, evergreen garland, and other exotic greenery. No one sold olive branches. The likelihood then that the leaves came from Mr. Reynard’s greenhouse was great. Since Captain Starrett was only wearing a single carnation, they had to have dropped from someone else’s spray of flowers. I assumed the killer’s.”
“But the leaves could’ve been dropped before Henry even entered the park,” Rachel Baines said.
“No, it snowed that morning. So they had to have dropped after it had snowed.”
“But why Mrs. Triggs and not her husband? He could’ve easily lost a few flowers while he beat the man senseless,” John Baines said.
“Because Lieutenant Triggs wasn’t wearing a boutonniere. He’s allergic to flowers. And I still hadn’t determined which woman’s footprints we’d seen. So that made me consider the corsages Mr. Reynard had sent out, including those to us for the Christmas entertainment, one to me, one to Mrs. Baines, and one to Mrs. Triggs. And we all know that William confirmed that Mrs. Baines had disposed of hers the day before.”
“But you seemed to know even before William confirmed it,” Walter said.
“Because I’d told her I hadn’t even gone into the park,” Mrs. Baines said. “Henry and I were simply out on a friendly walk together and had parted on the bridge.”
“That and the fact you are meticulous about your appearance, Mrs. Baines,” I said. “You would never wear a day-old corsage.”
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Baines said.
“But Mrs. Triggs, on the other hand, who wore a lace bonnet and brought but two dresses with her, wouldn’t notice a small detail like the corsage still pinned to the waist of her dress.” Mrs. Baines smiled and nodded her head in vindication.
“But the leaves were next to the body,” John Baines said. “Mrs. Triggs shot Henry from a distance.”
“Yes, but someone closed his coat over the bullet wound, probably to hide the evidence for as long as possible. Mrs. Triggs must’ve dropped the leaves then.”
“But why Priscilla?” Mrs. Kaplan asked. “Why not Adella or even me? Frederick gave me a hibiscus corsage with a sprig of olive leaves too. Or Sir Arthur? Didn’t Frederick send you flowers too, Sir Arthur?” Sir Arthur nodded.
“I admit I never considered you, Mrs. Kaplan. Did you have a motive to kill Henry Starrett?” I asked.
“No, of course not, but simply because I’m old doesn’t mean I don’t like to be considered dangerous,” she said, pouting and crossing her arms across her chest. I had to smile at the old lady’s spirit. “So what about Adella then? I’ve heard she’s in line to inherit money from her father’s lead mine.” News travels fast, I thought.
“That’s true, and I had considered Adella Reynard as suspect at one point, but she had an alibi, attending to her sick children all morning. Mrs. Triggs did not. Mrs. Triggs had originally given her husband an alibi, but Lieutenant Triggs voided that by confessing to confronting Captain Starrett. As to Sir Arthur, he tossed his away at the Christmas entertainment.”
“Who would’ve known that tree leaves would be so important,” John Baines said, slurring his words slightly.
“That’s why Hattie is good at what she does,” Sir Arthur said, his compliment making me blush. “She can be depended upon to pay att
ention to the smallest detail!”
“I’m sure she can,” Rachel Baines said dismissively. “By the way, have you been holding out on me?” Everyone looked at Sir Arthur, whose countenance revealed he was as confused as we were, then back to Mrs. Baines. It was as she wanted it, all eyes on her. “Whatever was in the box that came for you yesterday, Sir Arthur?” If Mrs. Baines thought it was something he would share with her, she was about to be vastly disappointed. “Bonbons, perhaps?”
“Oh,” Sir Arthur said, relieved to finally know what she was talking about. “No, it was a box of Frederick Reynard’s new ‘General Cornelius Starrett’ brand cigars and a rare copy of First Lieutenant B. S. De Forest’s Random Sketches and Wandering Thoughts or What I Saw While with the Army during the Late Rebellion.” Mrs. Baines frowned. “I believe Frederick promised to send a box of cigars for you, John, and you too, Dr. Grice. I’m looking forward to a good smoke after the ladies leave us.”
“Well, I’ll drink to that,” John Baines said, raising his glass in a toast. “To Sir Arthur, a truly generous man and gracious host,” John Baines added, raising his glass again. We toasted Sir Arthur, who in turn toasted his guests.
“To Philippa, my wife, who I wish could be here,” Sir Arthur said.
“To Lady Philippa,” everyone responded.
“To the beautiful women who have graced us with their presence today,” Walter said. He toasted in the direction of Rachel Baines, which pleased that woman immensely, but then winked at me when he caught my eye.
“Hear, hear,” John Baines said boisterously, and then drained his glass.
“We’ll be waiting beneath the mistletoe after dinner, ladies,” Walter said, grinning.
“Oh, Dr. Grice,” Mrs. Baines said, playfully waving her hand.
“Oh, Dr. Grice, nothing,” Mrs. Kaplan said. “I’ll be there, first in line and with bells on! And if Sir Arthur’s game, watch out, ladies, he’s all mine!” For the first time since I’d known him, Sir Arthur blushed. Mrs. Kaplan slapped the table and cackled. Her gaiety was infectious. The table erupted in giggles and laughter.
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