Anything But Civil (24 page)

“May I help you?”

I’d walked down a corridor toward the familiar rhythmic tapping of typewriter keys striking paper. The trepidation I’d felt upon entering this strange place dissipated with every keystroke. I heard the voice as I approached a glass-front office. A middle-aged woman sat at a desk, her hands poised above a Hammond.

“Is there something I can help you with?” the woman repeated, looking up at me above her spectacles. I stepped into the office.

“Yes, I would like to speak to Mr. Frederick Reynard.”

“And you are?”

“Miss Hattie Davish, secretary to Sir Arthur Windom-Greene.”

“Is Mr. Reynard expecting you?” she said, her hands still hovering above the keys.

“No, but if you would announce me,” I said, handing the woman my card, “I believe he will see me.” The woman took my card and scrutinized every letter. She looked at me again and handed back my card.

“I’m afraid Mr. Reynard does not wish to be interrupted at the moment. If you would care to make an appointment, I’m sure you can be accommodated at a more convenient time.” I refused to take my card back and we stood for an awkward moment while her hand extended my card toward me above the desk. Finally she dropped it.

“If you would be so kind to announce me now, Miss . . . ?” I said. Instead of a camaraderie that should exist between fellow workingwomen, a sense of competition often arose. I hadn’t had to spar with a fellow professional for a long time, but I was oddly enjoying the challenge.

“Miss Haversham,” the woman offered.

“Miss Haversham, what I need to discuss with Mr. Reynard requires discretion and delicacy. Thus if he knew, he would not deny me a few minutes out of his busy schedule. In fact, he would be displeased if I were not to speak to him immediately. Hence we are wasting both my time and yours, which I believe is as invaluable as Mr. Reynard’s, if not more. I understand that you may lack the time to announce me, so I will find my own way to Mr. Reynard’s office.” Success! The woman pushed back from her desk, scraping her chair along the wooden floor, and stood up.

“If you will follow me,” she said gruffly.

“Thank you,” I said. My satisfaction at besting the factory secretary at the stubborn game was short-lived. The moment I saw Frederick Reynard, grim and bent over a table full of cigar boxes in conference with another man, I realized I’d made a serious mistake in not bringing Walter with me.

“Miss Davish?” Mr. Reynard said, standing up quickly, a look of panic on his face. “What on earth are you doing here?” The whirling, scraping sound of a band saw nearby made me jump.

“I . . . ah . . . I . . .” He took a step toward me and I almost bolted for the door.

“Has something else happened? Are Adella and the children all right?”

“Oh, no,” I said, relieved. I thought he was going to accost me for revealing the secret that I didn’t even know. Instead he imagined I was again playing the bearer of bad tidings. “No, your family is fine, sir.”

“Then why are you here?”

“May we speak privately, sir?” I said. Frederick looked at the man next to him.

“Oh, of course. You’re excused, Haversham,” he said to the secretary. “If you would excuse us for a moment, Verner.” The man and the secretary retreated in opposite directions. “Now, what is this all about?” Frederick said, slightly impatient.

“Sir Arthur has been arrested for your father-in-law’s murder, Mr. Reynard,” I said. “And he has charged me with the task of finding the real killer.” Frederick stared at me for a moment without blinking. Then he shook his head as if to clear his vision.

“What are you talking about?”

“The police arrested Sir Arthur yesterday afternoon. They believe that it was his gun that killed Captain Starrett. But I believe he’s innocent and I’m determined to prove it.”

“So what does that have to do with me?” His voice rose in pitch with each word. “I didn’t kill anybody!”

“Didn’t you?” I demanded, setting all caution aside. “Then why have you been entreating me for days not to reveal that I saw you that day in front of the photography studio? Why have you been acting so strangely if you have nothing to hide?” He knotted his brow and stared at me in confusion. “If you didn’t kill Henry Starrett, what is your secret, Mr. Reynard? I’ve been keeping a secret I don’t even know.”

Suddenly the man laughed. I took a step back. Did he genuinely find what I said funny or was he unstable and dangerous? I wondered.

“Oh, Miss Davish, I have taken unfair advantage of you, haven’t I?”

“Sir?”

“You’ve done nothing but show kindness, bravery, and discretion toward me and my family and how do we repay you? With behavior that I believe tests even
your
patience, I’m ashamed to say.” I still had no idea what he was talking about. If he only knew how patience was not one of my virtues and I’ve only developed a professional veneer of it.

“I’m sorry to say, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Reynard.” He pointed to the table with the cigar boxes on them.

“Come over here, Miss Davish. I’d like to show you something.” I took a few tentative steps toward the table and saw that every one of the boxes was open, revealing the underside of the lid. Each bore a different variation of a portrait of General Cornelius Starrett. “This, my fair secretary, is my secret.”

“Cigar boxes?”

“Not boxes, Miss Davish, but what’s in them, cigars, a new commemorative cigar,” he said. “It’s for Christmas. With everything that’s happened, I’ve had to work almost every waking hour for the past few days to be able to present them to General Starrett on Sunday.”

“So all this secrecy and furtiveness was to be able to surprise the general with a cigar made in his honor?” Frederick nodded.

“Pathetic, I know, but you have no idea how difficult secrets are to keep.” Ah, how wrong he was, I thought. “I’ve had to lie to my wife, the general, everyone. I’ve been working on this for months. I was almost done, the charade was almost over, when you saw me on Main Street that day. I panicked. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, mentally crossing another viable suspect off my list. Although I was genuinely relieved that this man was as I had originally thought him, kind and sincere, it was difficult not to feel the weight of another defeat. Sir Arthur wasn’t any closer to getting out of jail than when I started.

“But General Starrett said you retrieved something from the library yesterday morning, around six thirty?”

“I woke him up? Too bad. But no, Miss Davish, it wasn’t six thirty, it was five thirty. The general’s eyesight isn’t strong.”

“You have workers here who saw you yesterday morning?”

“I can see why you’d be suspicious of me, Miss Davish,” he said sadly, “but I assure you several people will be able to verify that I was here at the time of Henry’s death. Miss Haversham for one.” He pointed in the direction that his colleague Verner had left. “Verner for another. Everyone’s been commendable, working early and late to make this happen.”

“But then where did the olive tree leaves come from?” Frederick shook his head. “Probably from one of my boutonnieres or corsages. It’s Christmastime. I’ve tucked the leaves into almost every one I’ve made.”

“Olive branch means peace,” I said, remembering the language of flowers.

“Yes, appropriate, don’t you think?” I had to agree, though I wasn’t blind to the irony that some of the leaves had lain next to a murdered man.

“Could you make a list of everyone you gave flowers to?” I asked.

“I think so, if it will help. I’ll do it when I take a break from this.” Frederick indicated the cigar boxes on the table with a sweep of his hand.

“So all of this was for a surprise Christmas present?” I said, thinking about what lengths people will go to keep a secret. If Frederick did this for a Christmas present, what would a murderer do?

“Yup,” Frederick said. “But what horrible timing! I wonder if I should even give them to him now.”

“I think the timing couldn’t be better,” I said. Frederick tilted his head and looked at me askew.

“Are you mad, Miss Davish?”

“No, General Starrett needs this present now more than ever.”

“Indeed? Why is that?”

“Because at least Adella won’t be able to refuse him his cigars anymore. Of course, his pipe is another matter.”

“You don’t know my wife,” he said.

“But how can anyone, even Mrs. Reynard, deny General Starrett a smoke of his own cigar?”

Frederick laughed heartily out loud, slapping the table with his hand. “How clever you are, Miss Davish,” he said.

With Sir Arthur still in jail and not being any closer to finding Captain Starrett’s killer, I didn’t feel especially clever.

S
omeone had been in my room. It wouldn’t be difficult. As with all the third-floor rooms, the door was never locked. And the intruder had gone to great lengths to cover up their presence, but I could tell. At first I thought I’d forgotten, in all the confusion of the morning, to straighten up my desk. With all that had happened, I had felt slightly muddled at times. But although I might’ve left a hat on the chair or forgotten to align my brush with my mirror, I never would’ve left my pearl-handled letter opener lying haphazardly on top of a stack of manuscript notes, not even if the house was on fire. I always put it in the drawer, especially after it had once been proposed as a weapon. No, someone had definitely been in my room.

Was this going to become common practice?
I wondered, this being the second time this had happened to me. I felt violated and annoyed. I took a deep breath and counted.

After leaving Frederick Reynard busy at work at the Star Cigar Factory, I’d returned to Sir Arthur’s to a message from Walter inviting me to luncheon at the DeSoto House Hotel. I had thought I’d have enough time to type up my notes and recollections of the day and change for luncheon. Instead I spent precious time making a swift catalog of my notes, my lists, Sir Arthur’s manuscript, and my few belongings. Everything on my desk seemed to have been touched and misaligned, but nothing obvious was missing. What could I have that someone would want? What were they looking for?

I realigned the stack of photographs I’d picked up at the photographer’s for Sir Arthur. The tintype of Captain Henry Starrett’s steamboat, the
Lavinia,
was no longer among them. The intruder must’ve taken it. But why? It wasn’t a great loss to me, for I remembered it well, or to Sir Arthur, who hadn’t wanted it for his book in the first place, but I’d promised to show it to General Starrett. Could I have missed something in the photograph, something important? I didn’t have time to wonder. I sat down and quickly typed up my notes as Sir Arthur had requested. When I finished, I put a partially typed list back into the typewriter and added more questions than I could answer.

I was staring at the last question when my door began to slowly creak open. Without thinking I grabbed my letter opener and held it behind my back, poised to strike.

“Hattie,” Ida said as she peeped around the door. “Are you in there?”

I breathed a sigh of relief and in the next moment was dismayed at how unnerved I’d truly become. Did I actually think the intruder would come back? And if so, with the intention of harming me? I had to admit that it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. Someone stole from my room and someone killed Henry Starrett. Who’s to say they weren’t one and the same? The thought sent a shiver down my back. I’d been perturbed by the violation and disarray of my belongings, but could I’ve been in danger?

“Ida,” I said, pulling the desk drawer open and dropping the letter opener inside. “You startled me.”

“Oh,
verzeihen Sie mir,
but your doctor is here,
ja?
”

Walter! I had completely forgotten about luncheon and here I was still in my street dress. I slammed the drawer closed.

“Please tell him I’ll be right down.” Ida looked at my dress and shook her head.

“I will first help you dress and then I will tell him you will be right down,
ja?
”

Her small kindness touched me and brushed away the fear and dread I was beginning to feel.

“Thank you, Ida, but I can manage. Too bad it’s too soon to wear the bodice to my new dress!” I pulled it out of the wardrobe to show her.

“But Hattie, you don’t have a maid,” she said, feeling the silk fabric. “Why did you buy it?
Es ist verrückt,
it’s crazy,
ja?
”

“It is a little crazy, but it’s lovely, don’t you think?” I said. “I bought it to wear for Christmas dinner.”

“Ja,
it is lovely.” She nodded cautiously and then we both laughed at the absurdity of my owning anything with twenty buttons down the back.

 

“Ready for lunch?”

Walter stood up abruptly as I entered the parlor. The Christmas tree was still standing bare in the middle of the room. It made me melancholy again to see it, remembering the excitement I’d felt cutting it down, buying and making ornaments for it, only a few days ago. A few days ago Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook and Henry Starrett were still alive, Sir Arthur was happily working on his manuscript, and I still envisioned a festive and happy Christmas. The events over the past few days had changed all that.

“Yes, though I need to see Sir Arthur first, if that’s all right,” I said.

“Of course, but something else is wrong,” Walter said. He must’ve seen the sadness in my face. “Something else has happened to upset you. Are your ribs still bothering you?”

“No, it’s not that. Someone stole the photograph of Henry Starrett’s steamboat from my room.”

“Why would anyone want it? Let alone bad enough to steal it from you?”

“I have no idea. In fact, Walter, I’m baffled and frustrated by most of this.” I told him about Frederick Reynard and what I’d learned from the police at Killian’s grocery. I handed him my report for Sir Arthur.

He scanned my notes. “As usual, you are thorough and precise, Hattie. No one could’ve done better. Not even the police.”

“But I’ve spent part of yesterday and all of this morning searching for anything that’ll help Sir Arthur and I’m no closer than when I started.” He handed back my notes. “In fact, all I’ve done is confirm that Sir Arthur is still the best suspect the police have.”

“Let Sir Arthur be the judge of that,” he said, putting on his top hat. I nodded and preceded him out the door. Remembering Walter’s aggressive driving style, I opted to walk to the jailhouse. The fresh air, I knew, would do me good.

“How is Mrs. Triggs?” I asked as we walked down Bench Street, my hand on Walter’s arm.

“She was extremely upset. I had to give her chloral hydrate. I checked on her this morning and she was still sleeping. I don’t know the woman. Do you think it characteristic that she’d be this distraught over the captain’s murder?”

“She does seem fragile in constitution as well as in mind,” I said. “And I think in general she is an unhappy woman,” I said. “But I was surprised how she reacted to the murder too. She barely knew Henry Starrett.”

“That confirms something I’ve been thinking. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think she knows something.”

“Really? Like what?” This was hope from an unseen quarter. Maybe she knew something that could help Sir Arthur.

“I don’t know,” Walter said, “but after I administered the chloral hydrate, I stayed for a while to observe. I couldn’t help hear her mumbling ‘murderer, murderer,’ over and over.”

Why would Priscilla Triggs say “murderer” in her delirium? I never once considered her involvement in any of yesterday’s sordid events. But why else would she say it if she didn’t know something we didn’t? Could she have been a witness? Could she have seen or overheard something that made her suspect someone? Could that be the cause of her intense reaction to Henry’s death? A thrill of hope enlivened me.

“When will she be well enough to talk to?” I asked.

“I gave her a strong dose, but she should be up and about this afternoon.”

Only moments ago I was dreading more “detective” work and now I couldn’t wait.

 

“You’ve done an excellent job so far, Hattie, but you must delve deeper,” Sir Arthur said after reading the report for the second time. Walter and I sat opposite Sir Arthur, iron bars between us, in a large room in the county jail, an impressive red and limestone brick building on Meeker Street, where only the bars on the third-story windows gave any indication that this wasn’t a wealthy gentleman’s home.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” I said.

“It can’t be a coincidence that someone stole that photograph, Hattie. And where does the letter come in? Who wrote it and is there any truth to it?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, sir,” I said, “and I wonder if a connection exists between the two, the letter and the photograph, I mean.”

“In what way?” Sir Arthur said.

“The letter accused Henry Starrett of being a Southern sympathizer and the one photograph that shows evidence that Henry did at least spend time in the Deep South has been stolen.”

“Of course, he could’ve been a Southern sympathizer without leaving Galena,” Sir Arthur said, “but I get your point. Especially since no one you’ve talked to admits knowing anything about it.”

“Do you think the person who stole the photograph is the same one who wrote the letter?” Walter asked.

“That’s what you need to find out, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said. It was a formidable task and my earlier enthusiasm for this type of “research” was gone. “I’d start with looking into Captain Starrett’s war record. At least you should be able to confirm or deny whether he had official duty in the Deep South. I have a few friends in the War Department you can telegraph. The scrapbooks in General Starrett’s library may also hold some clues.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. The door opened and Officer Corbett leaned into the room.

“Time’s up, Mr. Windom-Greene.” He looked at me and smiled, and then took off his hat. “Oh, I didn’t know it was you visiting the prisoner, Miss Davish.” He hadn’t been the officer who let Walter and me in. “You can have a few more minutes.”

“Thank you, Officer Corbett,” I said. I turned to say something to Walter and stopped short. He was glaring at the policeman as he closed the door.

“What is it, Walter?” I said under my breath, hoping to keep a semblance of privacy between us with Sir Arthur only a few feet away.

“I don’t like him,” Walter mumbled. Walter shook his head in short, clipped movements before waving his hands in agitation. I looked back at the jail room door as if the answer to Walter’s sudden perplexing behavior would be there.

“I don’t understand,” I said. Walter turned to look me straight in the eyes and gave me a sideways grin.

“Never mind, Hattie,” he said, taking my hand and squeezing it lightly before letting go again. “I’m a foolish, jealous man.”

My heart thumped hard in my chest. Walter was jealous! Before Walter, I’d never had a serious suitor before, dare I even call him that. What was the likelihood that less than two months after meeting Walter I’d have another man stammering like a schoolboy in my presence? The idea was both absurd and thrilling. Yet Walter had a right to be suspicious. What should I do? I hoped to avoid any misunderstanding between us. Archibald Corbett was a good-natured, professional policeman and, to me, nothing more. Should I tell Walter? Or would not mentioning it at all be best? Either way, the matter could wait. I had a task to do for Sir Arthur and couldn’t let any man’s fancy get in my way.

“If that’s all,” Sir Arthur said, looking at me with an amused look on his face, “I think you’d better get to work.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, embarrassed by the exchange and relieved to be talking about work again. “Though I’d like to mention one more thing. Dr. Grice has something he’d like to add that isn’t in the report.” Walter told him what he’d told me about Priscilla Triggs.

“Sounds like a promising lead,” Sir Arthur said, walking away from the bars, “though I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” He sat down on the only piece of furniture in the cell, an iron double-decked cot, having to stoop to do so. It was the first time I’d seen Sir Arthur look tired. It frightened me. “Mrs. Triggs is a delicate soul who may simply be emotionally disturbed by the murder and may know nothing at all,” Sir Arthur said.

She knows something,
I thought.
She has to or else . . .

I had no illusions about how much my fate was tied up with this man. I had to do everything I could to free him. I had to find the real killer; my livelihood depended on it.

 

“Walter,” I said, trying to keep my voice down. I was ecstatic and wanted to shout. “It’s Horace Mott!”

The man, who remained a mystery to both me and the police, had disappeared after the Christmas entertainment at Turner Hall. Now he was being seated at a table a few feet away. He still wore the outdated black suit. Walter and I had proceeded with our plans to dine together at the DeSoto House Hotel. Over a wonderful light luncheon of sliced cold corned beef, fried potatoes, bread, butter, and pickled peaches, we rehashed all that had happened since Henry Starrett arrived unannounced at his father’s home seven days ago. Whenever Officer Corbett was mentioned I sensed a tension that I’d never felt in Walter’s presence before. I couldn’t let this go on. I’d gathered the courage to speak to Walter about the policeman when Horace Mott walked into the dining room.

“Where?” Walter said, scanning the room. I pointed in the general direction. Mott was seated with three middle-aged men of varying gentility. “I wonder where he’s been the past few days?”

“I don’t know.” I pushed my chair back and stood up. “But I’m going to find out.” The courage I’d gathered to talk to Walter propelled me across the dining room. Without looking back, I knew Walter had followed me.

“Excuse the interruption, gentlemen,” I said, standing before the table, “but would it be possible to have a private word with you, Mr. Mott?” The strange little man looked down his nose at me and blinked twice.