Anything But Civil (20 page)

“W
here on earth did you find it?” Rachel Baines said, gazing at the brooch in astonishment.

After explaining to Officer Corbett what had happened to me on the bridge, I’d been more than grateful to end the interview and take General Starrett’s offer of his driver and sleigh. Walter volunteered to accompany me. I normally would’ve walked to Sir Arthur’s, but I would have had to cross the Spring Street Bridge again or pass the statue in Grant Park with its bloodstained pedestal stairs. I shuddered at the thought and instantly lamented the loss of a once peaceful place. The sooner I got back to work, the better I would be. I parted with Walter, who wished to clean up after the autopsy, at the DeSoto House Hotel, with a promise to meet for lunch. I had found Mrs. Baines reading in the parlor by the Christmas tree. The tree looked pathetic. Harvey had secured it in a wooden box filled with sand, but with all that’d happened it was bare of any ornaments, garland, or candles. I vowed to rectify the situation as soon as possible. I would not let the death of Henry Starrett rob me of my Christmas.

But first I had to face Rachel Baines. No wonder Sir Arthur had charged me with the task of returning the brooch, discreetly, to Mrs. Baines. Either the exchange would uncover a relationship between Henry and Rachel or it would raise speculation about Henry as a thief. I’m not sure which would be more awkward. Better that I face Mrs. Baines. Sir Arthur wasn’t going to embarrass himself.

“In Captain Starrett’s room,” I said. She looked up sharply at me. “I was hoping, Mrs. Baines, that you could—”

“What were you doing in Henry’s room?” she demanded.

“Ma’am?” As I was not expecting her reaction, the question took me by surprise.

“Does Sir Arthur know about this? Don’t think I won’t tell him; I hate snooping servants.”

“I was not snooping, Mrs. Baines.”

“Then answer me. Why were you in Henry’s room?” Before I could answer, John Baines walked into the room.

“I think the question you should be asking, Mrs. Baines,” Mr. Baines said, “is what was your brooch doing in his room?”

“John, are you back so soon?”

“I forgot my overcoat. I heard the whole conversation. Answer the question, Rachel.”

“Excuse me, John,” Rachel said, “but I think it’s highly inappropriate for this . . . this secretary to be nosing around Captain Starrett’s room. The man is dead, after all.”

“It’s not supposed to be general knowledge, ma’am, but we believe that Captain Starrett might’ve stolen your brooch.” In the presence of her husband, I’d decided to avoid mentioning the most probable reason and suggested the alternative.

“Really?” Her entire demeanor changed in an instant. She sank back into her chair, smoothing her skirt. She batted her eyelashes and put a hand to her cheek. “How despicable.”

“Yes, it is shocking,” I said, though the expression on Mrs. Baines’s face belied any dismay. “But since your brooch was in his possession, I can think of no other explanation.”

“No, what other explanation could there be?”
Was that a smile that flashed across her face?

“If that’s true, how could he have gotten to your jewelry?” John Baines said. His nervous wink apparent again. “You keep it in the safe in your room.”

“Yes, of course,” Rachel Baines said, but suddenly seemed distracted, lost in thought.

“But I don’t know if Captain Starrett ever came to Sir Arthur’s house,” John said.

“Maybe Ida or Mrs. Monday saw him,” I said. “I can ask.”

“Sir Arthur’s house? I’m sorry, what did you say?” Rachel Baines said.

“We were speculating as to how Captain Starrett gained access to your room,” I said, “without anybody seeing him.” Suddenly the woman blushed, her face turning scarlet red.

“What are you implying, you little imp?” the woman said, raising her hand as if to strike me. Her violent reaction took me unawares.

“I didn’t mean to imply anything, Mrs. Baines.”

“She’s trying to determine how the man got to your jewels, dear,” John said bitingly. “How did the man get to your jewels?”

“Now what are you trying to say, John?”

“Maybe he didn’t come here at all,” I said, scrambling to extricate myself from what seemed to be an escalating domestic spat. “Could you have worn it while you were visiting the Reynards’ home, Mrs. Baines?”

“Yes, yes,” she said. “That’s it. I was wearing it at the dinner party. I took it off when I was nursing the ill.”

“Is that true?” her husband said.

“You know I helped nurse Henry Starrett,” she said, grabbing her husband’s hand. “I must’ve put it down somewhere in his room.” Then she actually giggled. “How foolish of me to forget.”

“Darling, that must be it,” John Baines said, relief in his voice, taking both of his wife’s hands in his.

Rachel giggled again, then looked at me. Her face reddened. I wasn’t the only one embarrassed by my presence at this private scene.

“Are you still here, girl?” she said, taking a deep breath, composing herself.

“Well, I really must be going,” John Baines said, kissing his wife on the cheek. “Thank you for returning the brooch, Miss Davish. And clearing up any . . . misunderstanding.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Have a lovely afternoon, darling,” Rachel said, waving to her departing husband. The moment her husband was gone she turned on me. “What more do you want?”

“I wanted to convey my condolences to you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Baines tilted her head back and laughed. Her whole body shook, convulsing uncontrollably. Again her behavior had caught me off guard. Why was the woman acting so strange? I wondered.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Baines?” I said. “I’m so sorry. Henry Starrett was your friend. You’ve had a great shock.” She laughed, shallow and calm for a moment longer, before taking a deep breath and frowning.

“You misunderstand me, girl,” she said, suddenly cold and composed. “It’s a tragedy, but I’m not shocked he’s dead. I was shocked at seeing Henry Starrett alive.”

“Why?”

“You see, you’re right, we were friends a long time ago. Though how you would know is a matter to be taken up with Sir Arthur. It only proves you are a snoop after all.” I started to protest. “Hush,” she said, holding up her hand, demanding my silence, “keep it to yourself or . . .” She smiled again, this time sending shivers down my back. “I’ll see to it that you never work again.” She looked down at the brooch in her hand. “As I was saying, we were friends long ago, but I thought that he’d been dead for years.”

“Why did you think he was dead?” I asked, my heart still pounding from her threat.

“He was a steamboat captain, girl. Think of the
Sultana
. It’s dangerous to be a steamboat captain, especially during the war.”

“Yes, it was,” I said
.
My mother’s brother, Uncle Michael, had died on that ship, where roughly fifteen hundred returning Union soldiers, many rescued from prison camps, burned to death or drowned in the worst steamboat disaster ever. Although I was an infant when it happened, it was a story my mother told me on many occasions. I’ve never been on a boat, let alone a steamboat, as a result.

“You knew Captain Starrett during the war then, Mrs. Baines?” I asked, hoping to change the subject back to Henry Starrett.

“Yes, we were acquainted. We met when I was a nurse and he was the captain of a hospital ship.” I wasn’t about to reveal that I’d overheard their conversation at the Christmas entertainment, that I knew that they’d been more than acquaintances. “That reminds me. I’ve forgotten all about telling Sir Arthur how I met Dr. Kittoe once. He’d like to know that.”

“Do you know if Captain Starrett piloted a steamboat named SS
Lavinia
?”

“What?” She again seemed distracted. “Yes, yes, he did.” She smiled and seemed suddenly lost in a memory. “It was his own boat, named it after his mother.” She scowled as she came out of her revelry. “Why?”

I told her of the photograph I’d come across and that I wanted to verify its authenticity.

“Well, if it’s for Sir Arthur’s work,” she said.

“He mentioned at dinner the other night that he was based out of St. Louis.” I was thinking about the subtropical foliage in the photograph. “Do you know if he sailed the
Lavinia
anytime to the Deep South?”

“No, I don’t think he did. When I knew him, he was sailing back and forth from St. Louis to Cairo, like he said. In fact, he used to complain that he never got to go to New Orleans, even after the North controlled that city. Why? Is this something else for Sir Arthur?”

“No. It’s to satisfy my own curiosity.”

“Well, it’s not your place to be curious.” She picked up her book, Wilkie Collins’s
Blind Love
, and began reading. When I didn’t leave, she looked up at me and said, “Don’t you have work to do?”

I don’t know what possessed me, but I suddenly blurted out something that had been bothering me since I found Henry Starrett dead. “I smelled lily of the valley on Captain Starrett when I found him at the base of Grant’s statue.”

“What of it?” Rachel said with disdain. “It was probably from one of those silly corsages Henry’s son-in-law insists everyone wear.”

“I thought of that,” I said, “but Captain Starrett was wearing a single carnation. Is that lily of the valley perfume you’re wearing, Mrs. Baines?”

She clenched her teeth and stared back down at her book. “I’m done talking to you. Get out!”

D
ring, dring
. Someone was ringing the front door bell.
Dring, dring, dring, dring
. As I left Mrs. Baines in the parlor, I looked around for William or Ida, but no one seemed around to answer the door.
Dring, dring. Dring, dring
.

“Yes?” I said as I undid the latch and pulled the door open. Officer Corbett was standing posed to ring again. He hadn’t taken long to interview General Starrett’s household, I thought.

“Miss Davish,” he said, his face growing red at the sight of me. I nodded as he looked beyond me into the hallway. “Is Sir Arthur at home?”

“I honestly don’t know, Mr. Corbett.” I followed his gaze behind me into the hallway. “I’ve only been back a few minutes and no one is about.”

“May I come in?” I hesitated, but I knew that I was only forestalling the inevitable. I stepped back from the door.

“Please,” I said, gesturing for him to enter, “if you would kindly wait right here. I’ll see if I can find Sir Arthur.”

“One moment, Miss Davish,” Officer Corbett said, all formality gone from his voice. “I, I’d like to apologize for . . . I never meant to insinuate that—”

“I know, Mr. Corbett. General Starrett brought it up and you were just doing your job.”

“Thank you,” he said, relaxing his shoulders and smiling. “I would hate for you to think I had anything but the highest regard for you.” His eyes searched my face for a reaction.

“Let me get Sir Arthur,” I said, keeping calm but wanting to run away.

“Miss Davish,” the policeman said, catching my arm as I turned to leave. “Hattie, I . . .” He held me for a moment in his grip and with his gaze, expectantly. What was I to say? Disappointed by my silence, he dropped his hand and pulled out his notebook. “Better go find Sir Arthur.” I nodded.

I walked swiftly down the hall to Sir Arthur’s library and turned once to see Officer Corbett, slumped down in the foyer chair, dropping his head into his hands.

What am I going to do now?
I thought, then knocked once and, without waiting for an answer, slipped into the library. Although the expression on his face was disapproving, I was relieved to find Sir Arthur hovering over a manuscript.

“Hattie, what’s the meaning of this?”

“Sir, excuse the intrusion, but the police are here,
already.
” I emphasized the last word. Officer Corbett obviously saw through my explanation for Sir Arthur and was suspicious. Why else would he have skipped interviewing the dead man’s household to follow on our heels back to Sir Arthur’s house?

“Okay, time’s up then, I’m afraid,” he said.

“Time, sir?”

“Yes. I have the whole household searching for my missing revolver and I had hoped to uncover it before Corbett caught up with me.” So that was where Ida and William were, busy turning over every drawer in the house. “Maybe if I’d had you help instead of returning Rachel’s brooch, we would’ve located it in time.” It was a compliment with the overtones of a reprimand. I couldn’t win. Mrs. Baines hadn’t appreciated my time and now Sir Arthur was second-guessing my use of it.

“Well, bring him in,” Sir Arthur said, snipping off the tip of his cigar.

“Sir Arthur,” the policeman said when he entered the library, “I appreciate you finally talking with me.” Sir Arthur merely nodded without offering the man a chair.

“If you’ll excuse us, Miss Davish,” Officer Corbett said. He seemed to have recovered his composure but wouldn’t look at me. I turned to leave the room.

“I don’t see any reason she should have to leave,” Sir Arthur said, indicating for me to sit. Having been in this position before, I was uncomfortable staying but recognized a command when I heard one. Why did he want me to stay, as a witness? Did he expect me to record what was said?

“If you say so,” the policeman said.

“I’d also like for her to record what we say,” Sir Arthur said. “I don’t want any misunderstandings later on.” I retrieved a notebook, a pen, and ink from Sir Arthur’s desk, relieved to know my presence was merely a practical one, and sat down on the far end of the room.

“Although highly irregular,” the policeman said, “I’m happy to oblige.” Still standing, he flipped open his own notebook and spent several awkward moments staring closely at it. “You didn’t like the victim, did you, sir?”

“Hello? Excuse me?” Sir Arthur bellowed. The policeman’s abrupt accusation took us both by surprise.

“Sir, I have spoken to several witnesses that confirm that you and the victim had harsh words on multiple occasions. I believe you even called him, and I beg your pardon, Miss Davish, but it’s a direct quote, an ‘
ass
’ during a tour of Grant’s home. Do you deny, sir, that you and the victim, Henry Starrett, were confrontational every time you met?”

“No, I can’t and I won’t,” Sir Arthur said. “The man
was
an ass. He insulted me, Miss Davish, and represented the opposite of everything I believe in. I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.”

“Sir, did you kill Henry Starrett?”

Sir Arthur chuckled. It was an odd reaction to having a policeman accuse you of murder. “You aren’t what I thought you were, Corbett. You’re made of stronger mettle than I would’ve given you credit for,” Sir Arthur said, smiling. Then he stood up and walked to within inches of the policeman, who to his credit didn’t step back. “But to answer your question, no, I didn’t kill Henry Starrett.” He turned his back on the man. “Now get out of my house.”

“Sir, as you are fully aware, the victim was killed by a shot to the chest by a .44-caliber revolver.”

“Yes, and . . . ?” Sir Arthur said as he took his seat behind his desk again.

“And, sir, it has come to my knowledge that you own a .44-caliber gun.”

“A Remington ‘Army’ Model 1863 to be exact, Officer. Forty-fours aren’t unusual in this town, though Colts seem to predominate. In fact, General Starrett’s grandson owns one and it’s missing.”

“If you are referring to the gun belonging to the boy Edward Reynard, it was in General Starrett’s backyard. According to the family, he’d been playing with it and had misplaced it.”

“Had it been fired?”

“We didn’t check, sir.”

“Why the bloody hell not?” Corbett didn’t flinch at Sir Arthur’s profanity but glanced in my direction, watching for a reaction. He didn’t see one. I was accustomed to Sir Arthur’s colorful language.

“Because, sir,” Officer Corbett said, “the boy’s gun is a LeMat and doesn’t fall under suspicion at all.” For the first time in the verbal volley between the two men, Sir Arthur hesitated.

“A grapeshot, huh?” Sir Arthur said under his breath.

“What’s a LeMat?” I asked. My knowledge of firearms only extended to Sir Arthur’s collection and those he mentioned in his manuscripts. General Starrett had mentioned the gun when the police were investigating the burglary and Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook’s death, but I didn’t think to ask then. “I don’t recognize the make.”

“You wouldn’t, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said. “It’s a rare, unusual gun.” The faraway look in Sir Arthur’s eyes and the fact that he hadn’t noted my interruption told me he was not only contemplating how Henry Starrett came to have such a gun but also devising a way to acquire it for his own collection.

“So why isn’t it a possible murder weapon?” I asked. Officer Corbett dropped his eyes and bit his lip and seemed hesitant to answer.

“Because it’s a .42 or .36 caliber,” Sir Arthur said thoughtfully. “That may prove significant. Write that down.” The policeman quickly looked up at Sir Arthur and was about to protest when he saw me writing in my notebook. He had thought the command was for him. He took a deep breath before continuing.

“Considering your confrontational past with the victim, Sir Arthur,” the policeman said, “I have to ask if you can produce your gun, sir.”

“So I am a suspect, am I?”

“Yes, sir, you are.”

“What about Oscar Killian, Horace Mott, or Enoch Jamison?” I blurted out. I couldn’t stay silent while Sir Arthur was accused of this ghastly crime when I knew of at least three other possible suspects. As soon as I interrupted, however, I regretted it and waited for Sir Arthur’s reprimand. It never came.

“Well?” Sir Arthur said to the policeman.

“We’ve discussed these men before in connection with the poisoning, but we know now that Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook’s death was an accident.”

“But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t intentional,” I said.

“So you’re assuming there’s a connection between the two men’s deaths?”

“Aren’t you?” I asked.

“Okay, assuming that’s true, you’re right. Killian and Jamison should be questioned in this matter as well.”

“And Horace Mott?” Sir Arthur demanded, almost as if he was trying to provoke the policeman.

“I’m afraid I know nothing more of Horace Mott,” the policeman said matter-of-factly to Sir Arthur. Corbett turned to me. “The last time his name came up, General Starrett was a bit . . . uncooperative. Would you share what you know of him now, Miss Davish?”

I told him about the several times our paths had crossed, at General Starrett’s house, at Turner Hall at the Christmas entertainment, and the first time as Mott exited Enoch Jamison’s house. I emphasized the heated argument Mott and Henry Starrett had the day I finished General Starrett’s interview. I wanted to tell the policeman of the journal entries we found in Henry Starrett’s room, but then he would know that we’d been there before him. I had to be satisfied knowing that he would eventually find the entries himself.

“And you know nothing of the nature of their association or where I can find this Mr. Mott?”

“No, I’ve told you all I know.”

“Thank you, Miss Davish,” Officer Corbett said, with an odd smile on his face. Then his countenance became grave. “You can rest assured that we will not take this investigation lightly and will look into all of these matters.”

Again I was struck by the difference in investigation styles between Officer Corbett and others I’d encountered. Archibald Corbett was a professional and didn’t let personal biases and emotion interfere with his work. Maybe I had wrongly misjudged police in general by basing my opinion on only one incident. I’d done the same with physicians and been proved terribly wrong. Walter was nothing like the doctors Terry and Hillman who treated my father. I vowed to be careful not to pass judgment so quickly again.

“May I see your Remington revolver, sir?” Officer Corbett asked Sir Arthur, as if he had never been interrupted.

“No, you may not.” Sir Arthur said. The policeman obviously didn’t expect
no
for an answer and stood silently taken aback by this response.

“Why not? Before you answer, may I remind you this is a murder investigation. Your weapon may have in fact been the murder weapon.”

“You may not because I don’t have it,” Sir Arthur said.

“Are you saying it has been stolen, sir?”

“That or merely misplaced as Master Edward’s had been. Either way, I’ve had my entire household staff looking for it and it hasn’t resurfaced.” The two men stood staring at one another for a moment.

“Can you tell me where you were between six and seven this morning, Sir Arthur?”

“I was asleep in my room.” The policeman wrote something in his notebook.

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

“No, most certainly not,” Sir Arthur said, his eyebrows raised. “My wife is in Virginia.”

“Did a maid start a fire? Did your butler bring you breakfast?”

“Is that what you meant? Well, no, I ask that the staff not disturb me before nine,” Sir Arthur said.

“Does that include you, Miss Davish?” I looked up, startled that the question was directed at me. The policeman was looking at his notebook and wouldn’t look me in the eye.

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“Though this morning was an exception, wasn’t it? You contacted Sir Arthur when you found Henry Starrett’s body?”

“Yes, this morning was an exception. And may I say that Sir Arthur was here, available to take my call. William Finch can attest to that if you’d like.” It was the closest thing to an alibi Sir Arthur would probably get.

“Thank you, sir,” Officer Corbett said abruptly. “I will let you know if I have any more questions.”

“Of course,” Sir Arthur said dismissively. The policeman turned to me.

“And thank you, Miss Davish, you’ve done some of my work for me. I promise I will follow up on the other possible suspects you mentioned.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Corbett,” I said, sincerely grateful that I’d been able to help and that the interview was over.

“I’d like to speak to Lieutenant and Mrs. Triggs and Mr. and Mrs. Baines, if I may.”

Sir Arthur looked like he was about to object but instead reached for the velvet bellpull. William appeared a few moments later. “Would you mind letting our guests know that Officer Corbett would like to have a word with them in the parlor in five minutes?”

“Yes, of course, sir,” William said, bowing and then backing out of the room.

“Thank you, Sir Arthur,” Officer Corbett said, “for your cooperation. Miss Davish.” He tipped his hat at me and left the room.

“That man is dangerous, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said, to my surprise. I’d been thinking quite the opposite. “Almost as much as the man who killed Henry Starrett.”