Anything But Civil (18 page)

“I had no idea, Hattie. You once tried to tell me, but I didn’t fully understand until now. You do work at the whim of these people.”

Does he truly understand?
I wondered.
Does he think less of me because of it?

“Sir Arthur is generous and fair, but he doesn’t abide disloyalty of any kind.”

“All right. I’ll stay with the body. You go to the DeSoto House and telephone Sir Arthur and the police.”

I ran toward the bridge, relieved to put some distance between me and the dead man. I stopped to look back at Walter, who had covered Henry back up in his coat. If I hadn’t seen the wound, I would’ve thought Henry Starrett had simply fallen ill and Walter was tending him. But I knew different. It was a tableau out of a nightmare, by gaslight. Walter, the man who I was becoming more than fond of, stood in blood-splattered, trampled snow at the base of the statue of a war hero next to the body of a dead Santa Claus. I didn’t look back again.

“Y
ou did right, Hattie.” Sir Arthur was at the reins as the sleigh flew across the Green Street Bridge. I’d telephoned him first. Sir Arthur had departed immediately, instructing William Finch, the butler, to telephone the police after he’d left, ensuring he would have a few minutes before they arrived. Sir Arthur saw me returning from the hotel and drove me the rest of the way. “I knew I could trust you to think of my interests first.”

“Dr. Grice,” Sir Arthur said with a nod as we alighted from the sleigh. He looked down as the sunrise Walter and I had planned to watch together caused our shadows to cross Henry Starrett’s beaten body. “Hattie says the man’s been shot.”

“Yes, though I’ve looked around a bit and haven’t found the gun,” Walter said.

“No, I wouldn’t expect that you would. How long has he been dead?”

“I’d guess less than an hour, but the medical examiner will be able to give us a better idea after the autopsy.”

“And you think that the man was beaten before he died?”

“Yes,” Walter said. “Again the medical examiner will know more, but my guess is that he was beaten but still alive when he was shot, and that’s what killed him.”

Sir Arthur looked up from studying the prone figure on the ground. “Hattie, what are you doing?” I was on my knees at the base of the statue.

“Looking for anything that might help,” I said, “like this!” I held up several small green leaves in the palm of my hand. I’d found them in a footprint a few feet away.

“Leaves?” Sir Arthur said. “How are they going to help?”

“No disrespect, Sir Arthur,” Walter said, “but Hattie used cedar needles in part to solve the Eureka Springs murder.” Sir Arthur looked at me expectantly. I hoped he didn’t expect me to solve this murder as well.

“So what are they?” Sir Arthur asked impatiently.

“I don’t know,” I conceded. “They look like oak willow or black willow tree leaves, but the former doesn’t grow anywhere near Galena and the latter is deciduous; the leaves wouldn’t still be green. Beside, these leaves don’t have closely toothed margins. See?” I pointed to the edges of the leaves. Sir Arthur frowned. “Maybe they’re from a houseplant or a tropical tree, like those that Frederick Reynard grows in his greenhouse.”

“Then how did they get to be in the snow next to a murdered man?” Walter said.

I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Maybe Frederick Reynard can answer that,” Sir Arthur said. I nodded. The same thought had occurred to me. “Find anything else, Hattie?”

Before I could answer, Officer Corbett and two other policemen arrived on a sleigh. Their horse snorted, his breath steaming out in a cloud in the cold air. They stopped on Park Avenue and, leaving one man holding the bridle of the horse, ran up the hill.

“Don’t anybody move!” Corbett shouted. He held his fellow officer back with an outstretched arm as he gingerly walked toward us. “We don’t want to disturb the footprints.”

At his admonition, I looked about me again at the myriad of footprints I’d noticed before, some coming from the direction of the bridge, others from various points in the park, but all converging on Grant’s monument. Since it only stopped snowing early this morning, they must’ve all been made since then. Who were all these people? Besides mine, Walter’s, and Sir Arthur’s, at least three, maybe four other sets of footprints were distinguishable, one or two large enough to be that of Henry Starrett and one that was definitely made by the boot of a woman.
Could a woman have done this?
I wondered, looking down at the dead man. I immediately dismissed the idea. No woman I knew was capable of beating a large, strong man like Henry Starrett almost to death, even with a cane or a pan in her hand. Then why? Why was the woman here that early in the morning?

Officer Corbett stopped and knelt down next to the body, repeating Walter’s action of trying to find a pulse. The harmonica was not in its usual place in Corbett’s breast pocket.

“Is he dead, Archie?” the policeman minding the sleigh shouted.

“Yes!” Corbett shouted as he lifted up one side of Henry Starrett’s coat and revealed the blood-splattered vest. Corbett stood up and regarded us all for the first time. “Thank you for notifying us, Sir Arthur.” He tipped his hat slightly. “Miss Davish?” he said, surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” He smiled. It was an odd reaction as we stood next to a murdered man.

“She discovered Starrett’s body,” Walter said, putting his arm around me. I was still shaking. Corbett flinched. “Oh, Miss Davish, I’m sorry to hear that. And you are?” he said to Walter.

“Dr. Walter Grice.”

“Oh,” Corbett said, nodding but anticipating further explanation. When he didn’t get it he looked me in the eye for a moment, then dropped his gaze to the man lying in the snow. “I’ll get detailed information later, but if you could tell me briefly, Miss Davish, how you came to find Henry Starrett?”

“I walked to the park for my usual morning hike and found him as you see him,” I said.

“Why are you here, Dr. Grice?” Corbett asked.

“Miss Davish and I had arranged to meet this morning in the park. I arrived moments after she discovered the body.” Corbett’s gaze shot up to meet mine.

“Oh,” he said, biting his lip, his face slightly flush. He quickly averted his eyes back to Henry Starrett’s body. “And you, Sir Arthur? What brings you here?” Sir Arthur bristled at having to explain his presence. He wasn’t used to having to explain anything.

“Damn it, man! Why do you think I’m here? Having a picnic? My secretary had just found a dead body. Of course I accompanied Hattie back after telephoning you.”

“Well, thank you,” the policeman said. “I will need to question you all thoroughly once we are done examining the grounds and transporting the body to the medical examiner’s office. Where can I find you?”

“General Starrett’s house isn’t far from here,” Sir Arthur said. “If you will allow me to tell him of his son’s death, we will all be there.”

“Yes, of course,” Corbett said. “And thank you, Sir Arthur.” Sir Arthur hesitated. “I didn’t relish the idea of telling the general.”

“Yes, well, it’ll be best coming from me. I’ll be off then. Hattie? Dr. Grice?” Sir Arthur said as he walked toward his sleigh.

Walter took one look at me and read my mind. “I think we’ll walk and meet you there,” he said.

“Of course,” Sir Arthur said, and climbed into the sleigh. He yanked on the reins and drove across the park.

“I’m truly sorry you’re involved in this,” Mr. Corbett said. I nodded blindly, the shock of the morning settling in.

I took a step forward and stumbled. Corbett and Walter both reached out to help. I took Walter’s hand, steadied myself, and then wrapped my arm around his.

“Looks like you’re in good hands, Miss Davish,” the policeman said, his nonchalance sounding forced. “Take care of her, Doctor.”

Walter studied Corbett for a moment and then nodded. “I will. Let’s go, Hattie.” I clung to him as he guided me slowly down the hill.

“Are you all right?” Walter asked after a few minutes of companionable silence.

I thought about it for a moment. When I had discovered Henry Starrett, I’d been panicked, repulsed, and mystified. Now that I no longer had to look at the dead man’s body, I simply felt exhausted. I was shaking again, but I knew it would pass.

“Yes, I think so.”

I didn’t mention the questions whirling in my head. If I could sit at my typewriter, I could still my mind as well.

“Good. Come here.” Walter took me in his arms, cradling my head against his shoulder, and unexpectedly chuckled under his breath. “Remember how I once accused you of inviting danger?” I nodded, remembering. “And how I offered to chaperone you more?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I think you’d better take me up on my offer.” He squeezed me gently, mindful of my aching ribs, and kissed my forehead. “Agreed?”

“Agreed.”
But exactly what have I agreed to?
I wondered. At this moment, wrapped in Walter’s arms, I didn’t care.

Ambrose was waiting for us on the porch when we arrived. “Come now, quickly, Dr. Grice, Miss Davish. Sir Arthur’s been waiting for you.” The butler escorted us directly into the general’s library.

“Please sit down,” General Starrett said, his expression somber but not what I’d expect of a grieving father. I looked at Sir Arthur for approval and he nodded.

“I’ve already told him,” Sir Arthur said.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, General.” I indicated Walter with a glance. “We both are.” Walter nodded. “May I ask after Mrs. Reynard?”

“Adella is devastated, Miss Davish,” General Starrett said, with pity in his voice. He took a puff of his pipe. “Poor girl adored that brute. We all did.”

“Dr. Grice,” Sir Arthur said matter-of-factly, “the general has a request for you.”

“Yes,” Walter said. “What can I do for you, General?”

“I want you to be present at my son’s autopsy.” By Walter’s reaction, he was surprised as I was.

“General, I don’t think—”

“Please, Dr. Grice,” the general said, holding up his hand, cutting Walter off in mid-sentence. “I don’t know the medical examiner, personally, but the coroner is a business rival of Frederick’s. It would be a great comfort to us all if we had someone we could trust, someone who will be sensitive to our family’s wishes, involved in this necessary but ugly event.”

“Yes, of course,” Walter said. “If it’ll bring you and your family comfort.” Walter immediately stood and took his leave.

The three of us remained sitting for a few moments in awkward silence.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” General Starrett said finally.

“What is, General?” Sir Arthur asked.

“Less than an hour ago, I’d discovered someone had returned the money that was stolen from my safe.”

“Really? That’s excellent news, General,” Sir Arthur said. The old man nodded slowly.

“I suspect one of the servants must’ve felt remorse and returned it before the police uncovered the truth. I was relieved. ‘All’s well,’ I’d thought. ‘All’s well.’ ”

I couldn’t disagree more that the untimely death of Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook and the unresolved case of the poisoning at his own dinner party constituted everything being all well. But the man had lost his son today, and not in battle, but to senseless violence days before Christmas. I pitied him.

“Since it’s Christmastime, I’d been prepared to tell the police to drop the matter and we’d be done with it.” The general hesitated, and when he spoke again a slight break in his voice betrayed his sorrow. “And now this.”

“W
e’ll be discreet,” Sir Arthur said. He had proposed that we search Henry’s rooms.

“But is it necessary?” General Starrett said.

“The police will turn this whole house on end. I think we should have a look first, don’t you?” Sir Arthur had a way of phrasing that made one feel that he was doing you a favor by getting his own way. The general pointed his pipe at me.

“No offense to either of you, but why must Miss Davish be involved? It’s highly irregular.”

“But General, you yourself admitted that Miss Davish is the soul of discretion.”

“Yes, yes, but it’s not that. I’m not sure a woman should be poking around a gentleman’s room.” Sir Arthur seemed taken aback, as if the idea never occurred to him. I wasn’t a woman to him. I was his secretary.

“Woman or not, Miss Davish is the most methodical, observant person I know. She must be allowed to assist me.” High praise indeed. It took all of my discipline not to blush when both men turned and stared at me.

“All right,” the general said. “You’re a good sort, Miss Davish. I can’t imagine you’d do anything lewd. Promise me, though, that you’ll never tell Adella, and please, for goodness’ sake, do be discreet!”

Not wanting to involve the house staff, the general insisted that Sir Arthur and I find our own way to Henry’s room on the second floor. We were more than happy to oblige and stood in front of Captain Starrett’s room minutes later. I’d stopped shaking and was glad to be doing something constructive. Instinctually I glanced down the hall to my right and then my left. The hall was empty. Sir Arthur opened the door and we both slipped in quickly, shutting the door behind us. With the drapes closed and no fire, we couldn’t see a thing. I groped along the wall until I found a gas lamp. Even after I turned it up, the room, adorned with mahogany wood paneling and bottle green wallpaper, was dark.

No wonder Captain Starrett slept in most mornings,
I thought, opening the drapes to let the sunlight in. So what got him out of bed early this morning?

“I’ll take the dressers and closets,” Sir Arthur said. “You search his desk.” I shook my head in dismay at the chaos covering the desk. The top had been rolled back and a half a dozen drawers left open. Blotting paper, letters, blank stationery, empty envelopes, books placed open upside down, and two empty crystal ashtrays, being used as paperweights instead of for their intended use, cluttered the desk. My compulsion was to organize everything immediately, but Sir Arthur expected me to find something that would illuminate why someone would want Captain Starrett dead. I forced myself to focus on the task at hand. I picked up the first piece of paper, a correspondence from a Wallace McKinney, scanned the contents, and set it down. As I scanned each letter or scrap of paper, I couldn’t resist at least piling them in stacks, letters here, bills there, a large stack of them, I noted, miscellaneous, such as a train ticket from Chicago dated December 14, in a third pile. I pulled out my pocket notebook to write down any questions that arose. When I’d perused every scrap of paper on the desk, I moved on to the books, glancing at their titles as I shelved them,
Appleton’s Illustrated Railway and Steam Navigation Guide, Loper’s Steamboat Chartering, Frank on the Lower Mississippi, Practical Miner’s Own Book and Guide,
and, confirming a suspicion I had at the dinner party, a copy of
Personal Memoirs of U.S. Grant
. I flipped through them for notes or letters that may have been tucked inside. I found nothing. I moved on to the desk drawers, starting on the upper left side, opening them one by one, if they weren’t already, and mentally cataloging their contents. All were empty except for three: one contained a pen, an empty inkwell, and a journal book, another contained a simple gold watch fob but no watch, and the main bottom drawer contained an oval gold brooch dominated by a large amethyst encircled by pearls. Mrs. Baines had been wearing one exactly like it the night of the dinner party.

I flipped through the journal, which was blank except for a smattering of meeting notes and dates corresponding to the last few weeks.
Mott
and
SMLM
were repeated several times. Despite reading Henry’s correspondence and his journal, I still had no idea who Mott was or what business he had with Captain Starrett. Everything involving Mr. Mott was written cryptically.

How frustrating,
I thought. Instead of illuminating a possible motive for murder, Starrett’s papers merely added more questions to my list.

I turned to speak to Sir Arthur, having finished searching the desk, but he’d disappeared into Henry’s closet. I walked over toward the closet so Sir Arthur could hear me and stepped on something, a woman’s hairpin.
Who lost this?
I wondered. I immediately put my hand to my hair. It wasn’t mine. Despite the wisps of curl about my face, all of my pins were in place. It could’ve belonged to anyone, the maid, Adella, even Rachel Baines from when she was nursing Henry back to health. I set it on the nightstand next to me. “Sir Arthur, I’ve finished with the—”

I stopped mid-sentence having glanced toward the fireplace. The fire had gone cold hours ago. Why hadn’t the fire been lit this morning? Though that was unusual in itself, I was more intrigued by what I found after sifting through the ashes with the poker. Careful not to get the ashes on the carpet or my dress, I retrieved several fragments of unburnt paper.

“Hello, what’s this?” Sir Arthur said, coming out of the closet and seeing the paper in my hands.

“These were in the fireplace.”

“Brilliant, Hattie,” he said, leaning over my shoulder as I laid the burnt fragment out on the desk. “I don’t have my spectacles. What do they say?”

One word leaped off the page. “ ‘Traitor,’ ” I said. Sir Arthur looked at me and I at him. What could this mean?

“Quickly, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said, motioning to the fragments on the table. I set to organizing the fragments and had to rearrange them several times before it became clear that they were all written in the same hand and most likely all pieces of the same letter. When I was as certain as I could be, I read the parts of the letter left to us, occasionally making a guess what a partial word might be.

“ ‘. . . I tried to avoid you but . . . ,’ ” I read. “Several intact single words follow before it’s coherent again,” I said. I took a deep breath before reading on. “ ‘. . . unforgivable . . . hypocrite . . . traitor . . . you may not remember me but you ruined . . . must meet . . . park. . . .”

I took a step back, overwhelmed with the insinuations spelled out on the yellowed and blackened paper before me. “That’s it.”

“No signature? No proof it was addressed to Henry and not written by him?”

“No,” I said, part of me wondering who wrote the letter and who was being called a traitor, part of me wishing the letter had burned to ashes.

“Well, until we know . . . ,” Sir Arthur said, scooping up the fragments and stuffing them into his breast pocket. “No need to worry the general or mislead the police. I can rely on your discretion as always, I hope, Hattie.”

“Of course, sir,” I said, aghast that he was going to keep this a secret, even for a short while. I started to feel queasy and wondered if I’d fully recovered from the shock of this morning after all. Or was it my experience in Eureka Springs warning me that I’d been holding another letter from a murderer?
Letters are my stock-in-trade
, I thought.
Am I going to have to find another occupation?

“What should we do with this?” I said, showing Sir Arthur the brooch.

“Bloody hell,” Sir Arthur swore under his breath. “How the devil did Henry get that?” I knew it was rhetorical and kept my opinions to myself. Sir Arthur didn’t want to know I thought Henry was either a lecher or a thief. “Same instructions. No one needs to know. You keep it and make sure it gets back to its proper owner.” He purposely avoided using Mrs. Baines’s name.

“Sir, did you happen to find any toiletries with the scent of lily of the valley in the dressers or closet?” I asked.

“No. I found an old shaving brush, which the man obviously hadn’t used of late, but not much else. Why?”

“Because Henry Starrett had that scent about him,” I said.

“Blast, that’s odd,” Sir Arthur said. I had to agree.

 

“And that’s all you found?” General Starrett said when Sir Arthur and I returned to the library. Sir Arthur had told him about only the journal and the merchants’ bills, never mentioning the brooch and the burnt letter.

“I’m afraid so, yes,” Sir Arthur said, with a calm voice I could never match when lying.

“So nothing too helpful. Too bad,” General Starrett said. “Though now I know it’s safe to let the police search the room. That is, if you can confirm you were thorough.”

“Yes, General, you can count on Hattie to have been exhaustive in her search.”

“Good, that’s that then,” he said, sitting back in his chair and taking a puff from his pipe.

“I do have a question though, if I may,” I said. Sir Arthur nodded his approval.

“Yes,” General Starrett said.

“Your son’s journal mentions Horace Mott several times but is cryptic as to their association. Do you recall anything about Horace Mott, sir?” I asked.

“No, I don’t. Had never heard of the man until you mentioned him the other day.”

“What about SMLM?” I asked.

“Don’t know what that is either. Is that all, missy?” General Starrett said, sounding tired and altogether weary of the day that wasn’t half-over.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “But actually, I have a favor to ask.”

“Hattie?” Sir Arthur said, looking at me dubiously. “I think General Starrett’s had enough for today.”

“Yes,” General Starrett said, “and those lousy police are due any minute.”

“Could I have your permission to visit Mr. Reynard’s greenhouse?” I said.

“Hattie!” Sir Arthur said, scowling. “I’m surprised by you. You’re not normally this frivolous.”

The color rose in my cheeks as I tried not to let the sting of Sir Arthur’s accusation weaken my will to do what I needed to do. I gently pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and unwrapped the leaves I’d found next to Henry Starrett’s body.

“It’s necessary if we are to discover if these leaves, that were in the snow next to Captain Starrett, could’ve come from Mr. Reynard’s greenhouse, sir.”

“Oh, I see,” Sir Arthur said.

“It might also help to know what species they belong to,” I said.

I held them up for the general’s inspection. The old man leaned over to within inches of my hand and, using a magnifying glass, looked at them suspiciously. “You say these were near where Henry died?” I nodded.

“What do you say, General? Hattie is an excellent amateur botanist. She might be able to clear up the question of these leaves with the police none the wiser.” It was Sir Arthur’s way of apologizing for misunderstanding my intentions.

“Yes, if you must,” General Starrett said. “Ask Ambrose for the key.”

 

It was breathtaking. With the sky overcast and the world full of gray outside, I walked slowly down the aisle engulfed in color: red amaryllis, purple dahlia, and orange hibiscus. Even the white gardenias seemed to pop from their pots and join the swirl of glorious color surrounding me. Baskets of fuchsia, geranium, and ivy hung from the metal pipe that was used in the summertime to vent the glass roof. I closed my eyes for a moment and breathed deeply of the perfume of flowers mingling with the rich scent of soil. For an instant I forgot my mission and simply marveled at the beauty and the miracle of a thriving garden of exotic plants, all growing in late December. What mastery Frederick Reynard must have to cultivate such a thriving community. And with all the palmettos! What a joy it must be to escape to this paradise even for a few moments a day!

The palmettos! Suddenly it hit me what was odd about the photograph of Henry Starrett’s steamboat. The foliage in the picture had contained switch cane and palmettos, subtropical foliage. For some reason I’d only envisioned Henry piloting in northern waters.
What had put that into my head?
It didn’t matter now.
At least that’s one mystery solved,
I thought. I took a deep breath, reveling in the bouquet of scents, earthy and floral at the same time. A sense of renewal and peace welled up inside me.

“Do you know what you’re looking for?” Ambrose said behind me, breaking the spell. It was a cold December day again and I had work to do.

“Actually, I think I do.”

The moment I’d seen the leaves, I had a suspicion that I’d seen them somewhere else, recently. I methodically looked for all of the species that had been used to decorate the hall or table at dinner the night we all fell ill. But nothing matched. Then I looked at all the flowers I’d seen in a corsage or boutonniere worn by anyone in the past few days, including Frederick Reynard and his dinner guests, attendants of the Christmas entertainment, and men from the G.A.R. Even Enoch Jamison wore a carnation in his lapel at one time. But none of the leaves matched. With those possibilities exhausted, I began looking for plants with similar characteristics in leaf color, shape, and size. Minutes passed as I tried not to become discouraged.

“Eureka!” I said. “I found it.” Ambrose, who had been waiting for me at the greenhouse door, was suddenly by my side. “See how the leaves on this plant and in the handkerchief are both narrowly lanceolate, approximately three inches long with margins entire?” Ambrose shook his head and shrugged. In my excitement, I’d forgotten myself and used technical terms.