Anything But Civil (17 page)

“The exchange outside,” I said. “What Adella overheard her father say to Mrs. Baines.” The startled look on Frederick’s face made me realize I’d already said more than I should. “I’m sorry. I need to get back to my friends.” I turned to go but felt a restraining hand on my arm.

“You have to promise again you won’t say anything. . . .” Frederick looked around the room before his eyes settled on his children, in the process of climbing up on their newly returned grandfather’s back; Adella stood silently nearby. “Not a word about seeing me the other day.” His grip tightened.

“Mr. Reynard, you’re hurting me.” He looked abashed and immediately let go. I was relieved to see Walter approach. I couldn’t tell whether he had seen the exchange.

“Please, Miss Davish, don’t give me up,” Frederick pleaded under his breath. “I’m relying on your discretion.”

“Ah, Miss Davish, I found you,” Walter said. “Mr. Reynard.” He bowed his head slightly and spoke congenially, but I knew Walter; he was eyeing Frederick with suspicion. Walter had seen the exchange. “They’re going to light the town Christmas tree.”

When we arrived we had admired the tree and I’d anticipated seeing it lit up but no longer. Between seeing Mr. Mott again, the intimate exchange between Henry Starrett and Rachel Baines revealing secrets I hadn’t wanted to know, and Frederick Reynard’s alarming insistence that I keep his secret, the magic and holiday spirit of the night had all but vanished, leaving me feeling empty, confused, and exhausted. And my ribs were starting to ache again. I wanted to go.

“Or maybe I should take you home,” Walter said, reading the emotions on my face. I nodded and gratefully took Walter’s arm. We said our quick good-byes, collected our coats, and stepped outside.

It had begun to snow. We stood at the top of the stairs as a family clambered into their sleigh on the street below us. The sleigh’s departure was almost silent except for the quiet jingle of the bells and the snorting of the horses, their breath visible in the air. Music played mutely inside, but the night was calm and quiet.

“The morphia is wearing off, isn’t it?” Walter asked. I nodded and leaned on him a little more. “Can you walk?”

“Of course,” I said, ruing the day I wouldn’t be able to walk, even in pain. Arm in arm, Walter and I slowly made our way up the Washington Street stairs to Prospect Street. We strolled in companionable silence until we had almost reached Sir Arthur’s house.

“Is something wrong, Hattie?” Walter said. “Besides the pain in your ribs, that is.”

“No,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t believe me. We walked a few more steps and then I stopped. “Oh, Walter, it was so wonderful, all the candles and the music and dancing with you and then . . .” His face lit up when I mentioned dancing with him but quickly clouded over at my retraction.

“Something happened, didn’t it? I can tell.” I told him about the exchange I’d overheard between Henry Starrett and Rachel Baines.

“Until that moment, they had pretended not to know one another. And they denied that anything untoward occurred while she was nursing Henry back to health. It’s a conversation I wish I’d never heard.”

“Strange,” Walter said. “Unless of course if they’re conducting a love affair right under John’s nose.”

“It certainly sounded that way. And then Adella came out. . . .” I told him about what Henry Starrett said and how Adella reacted. “She may never want to talk to me again. I think she was ashamed to have me witness it all. I’ve known secrets before; it’s inevitable in my position, but this one . . .” I struggled to put words to the way I felt. “The last few days, what with the food poisoning and the burglary and Enoch Jamison running me down on the bridge . . . and Frederick Reynard’s strange behavior. At first he seemed so congenial and friendly. He’s been quite generous and kind to me.” I pointed to the beautiful corsage on my dress. “But then, everything changed.”

“How?”

“He’s threatening.”

Walter clenched his teeth. “He’s threatening you? How dare he.” Walter was seething.

“He’s not dangerous, Walter, but I wish he’d leave me alone.”

“But why? Why would he threaten you? And about what?” he said quizzically, his anger abating. “Isn’t this the man whose daughter you saved?”

“Yes, but I think he has a secret and he somehow thinks I know what it is.”

“Do you? Do you know his secret?”

“No.” Unless he didn’t want anyone to know he was on Main Street at the time I saw him. I didn’t even know where he’d been or where he was going. “I don’t think so. Oh, Walter,” I sighed, suddenly on the verge of tears.

Images flashed through my head: of Lieutenant Holbrook’s two different-colored eyes, unblinking, as he lay dead beside me, Frederick Reynard’s look of desperation as he squeezed my arm too tight, my brand-new hat blowing away down the icy river, the retreating sleigh of Enoch Jamison as I struggled for breath, Henry Starrett, as Santa Claus, laying a hand on Sir Arthur in anger, the blush on Adella Reynard’s cheeks as she caught my eye tonight, Gertrude as she emerged gasping from the frozen water. I hugged Walter’s arm, putting my cheek on his shoulder, hiding the tears streaming down my face.

“It’s Christmastime, Walter. Is there no joy, no peace, no goodwill toward men? Am I naive to want these things?”

“No, Hattie, you’re not naive,” Walter said sadly. He pulled me closer. “It’s what we all want.”

E
ven before Walter bid me good night I was regretting the self-pity I’d momentarily given in to. What was wrong with me? I’d weathered much worse. So what if this wasn’t the routine assignment I’d expected from Sir Arthur? I had steady, interesting work to do and I was grateful for it. What if this Christmas wasn’t the joyous, festive holiday I’d anticipated? Walter was here, wasn’t he? I wouldn’t spend Christmas alone. What more could a girl ask for? When I closed my bedroom door behind me and saw my typewriter, I knew. Peace of mind. I sat down and started to type.

A pattern had developed to my questions. Everything seemed to revolve around Captain Henry Starrett. But it was of no consequence what my questions were. I was merely performing an exercise in order to find mental peace. Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook’s death, the burglary, the poisoning, these were all matters for the police.

None of this has anything to do with me,
I reminded myself as I prepared for bed. My job was to type Sir Arthur’s manuscripts, organize his research material, take any dictation, and get his household prepared for Christmas. I pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter and climbed into bed. I looked at my questions again; the type was blurry as I tried to stay awake. I had organized my thoughts, but the peace I’d sought didn’t come.

Maybe I should show this to Officer Corbett,
was my last thought before falling asleep.

 

“Stepping out with your
Verehrer
again, Hattie?”

I jumped at the sound of her voice. Ida had startled me as I tried to quietly open the kitchen door. She was setting more coals on the fire and I hadn’t seen her there in the dark.

“My
Verehrer?
” I asked. I didn’t know what
Verehrer
meant, but I could guess. “If you mean Dr. Grice, yes. He agreed to meet me in Grant Park.”

“But it’s still dark,
ja?
”

“It’ll be light soon. I don’t normally go out when it’s this dark, but Walter wants to go up to the top of the hill behind Grant’s home and watch the sunrise.”

“Ah,
sehr romantische,
how romantic.” She batted her eyes at me teasingly. “But cold,
ja?
You will have to hold him close for warmth,
ja?
”

“Oh, Ida,” I said, dismissing her teasing with a wave of my hand and heading out into the cold. Despite my heavy wool cloak and fur-lined gloves, I shivered after leaving the warmth of the kitchen.

If I still had my felt hat . . . ,
I thought, adjusting the inadequate straw one I was wearing.
I’ll have to buy a new one, I guess.

With that happy thought, I rubbed my hands quickly up and down my arms and then set off at a rapid pace; a brisk walk would warm me up quicker than standing in the doorway. I headed to Grant Park but took the long way. I took High Street over to Franklin and down the hill, which was tricky. Patches of ice hid beneath the snow. I had to take small, carefully placed footsteps to avoid slipping. With my tender ribs, if I fell I might not be able to easily get back up. And then what would Walter think? At Main, the sidewalks had been cleared, with the snow piled in the middle of the road. Mrs. Monday recalled winters when the snow piles were so high, it was difficult to cross the street and impossible to travel by sleigh at all. Imagining how amusing that would be, I turned onto Meeker at the end of Main, passed the smelters, and took the wagon bridge.

On the northwest side of the river, I was passed by several sleighs and an occasional person on foot heading to work. Now the sidewalk I decided to take along this edge of the river was deserted. It was so still and silent I could hear myself breathe. The only other sound was the crunching of snow beneath my boots. I took a wooden staircase up to Park Avenue. The houses I passed as I made my way to Grant Park were mostly dark, with the occasional faint glow of a candle or lamp in an upstairs room. General Starrett’s house was still dark too, though several tracks in the snow suggested that Frederick Reynard, as usual, had already left for work. But whose were these other tracks? Had the dairyman already delivered the morning’s milk? Were Gertie and Ned disobeying their parents and sneaking off to the river again? I hoped not. I knew many a maid and cook were already working by the dim light from kitchen fires not visible from the street. Maybe Mrs. Cassidy or Mrs. Becker had already been out on an errand this morning. How many other souls were up and about on this peaceful morning? I wondered. I was never one to lounge in bed but was grateful that many preferred to. It gave me the chance to enjoy the illusion that for a few minutes I had the town to myself.

Like the street, the park was empty. On the northern end of the park was the soldier’s monument, a limestone obelisk with the sites of Civil War battles inscribed on all four sides. The names of the dead, inscribed on the pedestal and steps, were only readable when I stepped up close. Next to the monument was the cannon that only a few days ago was aimed at Enoch Jamison’s house. I reflected on the contrast between the chaos and noise of that evening and the silence and solitude that surrounded me now. I preferred the present, the anticipation of seeing Walter only adding to the moment. I leaned on the cannon and gazed across the river, unable to distinguish Sir Arthur’s house from the other buildings on the hill in the dark. I lingered as lights appeared, the town preparing to wake. First, high on the hill like a beacon, light streamed from St. Matthew’s church, then the Methodist church, where President Grant had attended services when he lived here and where Sir Arthur, despite being Anglican, insisted on going and sitting in Grant’s pew. Then other churches lit up, Grace Episcopal, St. Michael’s where I attended Mass, and South Presbyterian. And then light blazed from the riverside warehouses and shops on Main Street. Windows in the DeSoto House Hotel flickered on, first one, then another. Was one of those lit rooms Walter’s? I hoped so. I left the cannon and monument and followed the curving path that transected the park toward the bridge where Walter would cross. I passed the fountain, gaslight reflecting off its cherubs and female statuette encrusted with ice. I crested the small hill where Grant’s statue was prominently installed, his back to me. As I rounded the statue to look at the front, I suddenly realized I wasn’t alone. Someone was sitting at the base of the statue.

“Good morning,” I said. The man didn’t reply. He was wearing a fur coat but no hat and leaned with his head resting back against the pedestal steps. He looked exhausted or ill.

The ground all around him had been trampled so much that blades of grass stuck up through the snow.

“Are you all right, sir?” I said, taking several steps toward him and laying my hand on his shoulder. Oddly, he had a slight scent of lily of the valley about him.

I looked down at his face. It was one of a monster. He’d been beaten brutally. His nose was crushed unnaturally toward one side of his face and his lips, cut in several places, were swollen. His cheeks were red with bruises, and trickles of blood from his nose and swollen lips had seeped into his mustache and beard. But his eyes were the worst. One eye was swollen shut and ringed with red bruises; the other looked directly at me, unblinking. I jerked my hand back and screamed!

It was Captain Henry Starrett and he was dead.

“Hattie!” I could hear him running across the bridge.

“Over here, Walter, over here!” I shouted. When Walter reached the statue, all I could do was point.

“What happened?” Walter immediately picked up the man’s hand and felt for a pulse at his wrist.

“I don’t know. I found him this way. Did someone beat him to death?” I pointed to the trampled snow. “You can tell a struggle went on here.”

Walter did a cursory examination of the man’s head and found nothing. “No blunt-force trauma to the head that I can tell, despite how badly his face appears.” Then he began examining other parts of the dead man’s body. He bent the man’s arm at the elbow and then his fingers. “No rigor mortis,” Walter said, almost to himself. He next pulled off the man’s boots and wool hose. Captain Starrett’s feet looked normal. “No visible liver mortis either.”

Then, after replacing the dead man’s boots, Walter pulled back Captain Starrett’s coat.

Blood drenched the dead man’s entire chest: vest, shirt, and skin. Two tiny white pearl buttons dangling from a thread, all that remained from when Walter ripped open the shirt, glowed in stark contrast to the red stain. Walter peeled back the sticky, bloody clothes, revealing a wound in the man’s chest, a roundish gaping hole straight through his heart. The earth moved beneath my feet and I turned my back on the gory scene. Nausea threatened to overwhelm me. I bent over, resting my hands on my knees and ignoring the pain in my ribs, and took a few deep breaths of the crisp morning air. I thought I was going to get sick or faint but did neither. My experience in Eureka Springs had obviously steeled me for discovering dead bodies.

“Are you all right?” I looked over at Walter, who was mercifully closing the man’s eye. I nodded. “How long had you been in the park before you found Captain Starrett, Hattie?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes. Why?” The tone of Walter’s voice unnerved me. What did my being in the park have to do with Captain Starrett’s death?

“Did you see anyone or hear anything usual?”

“No, why?” Walter still hadn’t answered my question.

“Good thing,” Walter said, draping the flaps of Captain Starrett’s shirt and vest back over the wound. “This man’s been shot within the past hour.” I shuddered at the thought that Henry Starrett could’ve been murdered as I strolled along the river or about the park.

“Shot? Who would’ve done this?” I asked out loud.

“I have no idea,” Walter said, scooping up some snow and rubbing away blood from his fingers. It’d been a rhetorical question, but Walter had no way of knowing that I was already compiling a list of suspects in my head. After trying to run me down on the bridge, Enoch Jamison was first on my list.

“It’s barbaric, beating up a dead man,” I said, slowly standing upright. I was shaking but tried not to let Walter see how upset I was.

“The size, shape, and color of the bruises indicate they occurred before the man died. Someone beat him up first and then shot him. With so little blood in the snow, he was probably already in this prostrate position.”

“It’s so horrible,” I said, wrapping my arms around my shoulders to stop myself from shaking.

“Yes, it is,” Walter said. “We have to notify the police.”

“And Sir Arthur.”

“Sir Arthur?”

“Trust me. I’ve worked for dozens of wealthy, influential people and one common thread that ties them together is their desire to control: control their own money, their own families, and definitely their own fates. They hate scandal and rarely involve the police. And since General Starrett is in no shape to be here, Sir Arthur’s going to want to be here in his stead when the police arrive.”

“You’re joking?” Walter said.

“No, I’m not. If Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook hadn’t died suspiciously, General Starrett would never have involved the police when his home was burgled.” I could tell by the expression on Walter’s face that he was seeing me in a new light, one that I was afraid wasn’t flattering. “Why do you think I’m successful? Granted I’m good at what I’m hired to do, but I’m also discreet. I once told you I keep my employer’s secrets to myself the same way you keep your patients’. I was in earnest. You’d be shocked what I could tell you about some of this country’s most prominent citizens.”

“But a man’s been murdered, Hattie.”

“Believe me I know,” I said, trying desperately to keep the nausea down. “And I’m agreeing with you, Walter. We have to telephone the police immediately. I’m merely suggesting that we call Sir Arthur first. In fact, I may lose my job if I don’t.”