Anything But Civil (22 page)

O
ur first stop was the home of Enoch Jamison. Walter graciously agreed to accompany me. In fact, I recall he insisted. To avoid Grant Park, we took the long way, crossing the wagon bridge at Meeker. I’d hoped that the stroll, arm in arm with Walter, the crisp air, the festive atmosphere on Main Street as bells jingled and Christmas shoppers passed with colorful packages, would embolden me. This time no mob was waving brooms and throwing rotten eggs at the house nor was the strange little Mr. Mott lingering in its doorway. Yet I was more intimidated by approaching the front door than I’d felt before. Walter tapped on the door with the knocker and we waited. Eventually a short, petite maid with a pointed nose opened the door.

“Yes?” she said.

“We would like to speak to Mr. Jamison,” I said. The maid looked at Walter and then back at me.

“This would be about?” the maid asked. Walter opened his mouth to speak.

“It’s a personal matter between us and Mr. Jamison,” I said before Walter could answer.

“You are?”

“Miss Hattie Davish and Dr. Walter Grice,” I said. “I am Sir Arthur Windom-Greene’s private secretary and Dr. Grice is . . .” I stopped. I had never had to introduce Walter to a stranger or someone who didn’t understand our acquaintance. What did I say? How should I introduce him, my physician, my acquaintance, my personal friend, my companion, my beau? Luckily Walter saved me from the awkward situation.

“Miss Davish and I are the ones who found Captain Henry Starrett’s body,” Walter explained.

“Really?” the maid said with almost a ghoulish glee. “Is it true his face looked like a smashed watermelon, his broken teeth, like so many seeds, on the ground?” I put my hand to my mouth in horror, images of Captain Starrett’s mutilated face flashing through my mind.
What kind of person revels in such things?
I wondered, staring at the gaping, eager maid. Walter put his arm around me.

“Mr. Jamison, if you don’t mind,” he said sternly.

“By all means, please come in, come in.” She stepped aside to allow us to enter, though I was beginning to have second thoughts. She ushered us down a long hallway and then indicated a parlor room on the right. “Please sit down.”

Cozy, with a blazing fire, overstuffed furniture, and pillows of every size, color, and pattern scattered throughout, the parlor, despite the maid’s eerie behavior at the door, instantly put me more at ease. She left us momentarily, but when the maid returned I was surprised not to find Mr. Jamison but a wisp of a woman in her eighties or nineties shuffling along beside her.

“Mrs. Jamison,” the maid said, raising her voice, “this is Miss Hattie Davish and Dr. Walter Grice. They found Captain Starrett’s body and came to talk to you about it.”

Mrs. Jamison, who from her reaction probably hadn’t heard a word that was said, nodded and sat down in the large armchair nearest the fireplace. The maid tucked a white wool blanket with thin indigo stripes around her lap, then swooped up a cat that I hadn’t noticed and placed it too on Mrs. Jamison’s lap. The maid turned to leave.

“Can we expect Mr. Jamison?” I asked, not knowing whether to address the maid or the elderly woman by the fire.

“Sorry, forgot to tell you,” the maid said. “Mr. Jamison isn’t here.”

“Thank you, Enid,” Mrs. Jamison said to the maid. I wasn’t sure if she’d heard what the girl had said or not. “That’ll be all for now.” The maid pouted, then closed the door behind her. I listened for her receding footsteps and didn’t hear them.

She’s eavesdropping at the door,
I thought.

Mrs. Jamison turned from me to Walter as if not knowing who she should address first. It was my turn to save us from the awkward situation.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Jamison,” I said. “I suppose you are wondering—”

“Speak up; my hearing isn’t what it used to be.” The woman put her hand to the back of her ear. I raised my voice, repeating myself.

“I suppose you are wondering why Dr. Grice and I are here?”

The old woman nodded, indicating she’d heard me. She leaned forward, giving me all her attention, almost too much. Her eyes were a piercing blue that seemed to stare straight into you while giving the impression that she couldn’t see you at all.

“Besides being the unfortunate person to have discovered Captain Starrett—,” I said.

“I thought you both found Henry Starrett’s body?” Mrs. Jamison said, looking at Walter as if for the first time.

“Miss Davish was there first, ma’am. I came along a minute or two after.”

“Ah, I see,” Mrs. Jamison said. “Go on.”

“As I was saying,” I said, “besides finding the dead man’s body, I am also the private secretary of Sir Arthur Windom-Greene—”

“Yes, Enid told me,” the woman said. I took a deep breath.
Un, deux, trois
. . . I had never been interrupted so much in my life, at least not by someone who wasn’t paying me to oblige. I looked the woman in the eye. I would not be intimidated by this peculiar woman. Her son may have murdered Henry Starrett.

“Yes, my point is that Sir Arthur has been arrested for the murder of Captain Starrett.”

“Hee-hee!” The woman slapped her knee and grinned. “And you think you have a scapegoat in my son?” She turned to me. “Am I right, Miss Davish?”

“My employer is innocent,” I said, amazed at how easily I spoke with conviction about something I was not sure of myself. When had I become skillful at deception?

“And you want to prove it?” Mrs. Jamison said.

“Yes,” I said. “When will your son be home, Mrs. Jamison?”

“So you can hear him confess to a crime he didn’t commit?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Jamison,” I said, distressed that she could see through me so clearly. “I was hoping he could help us, tell us something, anything that might help prove Sir Arthur is innocent.”

“If not a confession, then what can he offer?” she said.

“He could explain why Henry Starrett attacked your home, why the captain seemed to hate your son so much?” I said.
Why he tried to run me off the bridge?

“I can tell you that, my girl. It was mutual; Henry hated Enoch and Enoch hated him, like the Hatfields and the McCoys. I’ll admit that none of us are sad that he’s dead. Henry made my son’s life . . .”—she hesitated, searching for the proper word—“unpleasant. But Enoch didn’t kill him.” She sat back in her chair and unexpectedly smiled. She had no teeth. “Now there, it’s out in the open. Don’t we all feel better?”

“But why did Henry and your son hate each other so much?” Walter asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Because Enoch is a man of conviction and . . . ,” Mrs. Jamison said, looking down at the cat on her lap and beginning to stroke its fur with the back of her hand. Her fingers were gnarled and twisted with age. The cat purred loudly. “And Henry was not.”

“I’ve heard that your son was once part of the organization called the Peace Democrats?” I said.

“Enoch prefers copperheads,” Mrs. Jamison said, suddenly sticking her tongue out like a snake. I sat back in my chair abruptly to put as much distance as possible between me and this strange woman. I shared a glance with Walter, who merely raised an eyebrow. “I was a copperhead too, you know. Gave much of what Enoch’s father left us to undermine that evil war.” She smiled again.

“I didn’t know. Was Oscar Killian a member of your group as well?”

“Yes, Oscar’s a good boy. Married my niece, Elizabeth, you know. He’s like a brother to Enoch. They’re very close.”
Close enough for Oscar to poison Henry Starrett in retaliation for his treatment of Enoch?
I wondered. I’d wait for the right moment to ask.

“Is it true you believed that the Union could never be restored by war, that peace with the rebels was the only way?” I said.

“Yes, that’s right, among other things.”

“So you were opposed to a cause that many in this town, including Henry Starrett, were fighting and dying for?”

“That was our point, dear girl,” Mrs. Jamison. “With peace, no one dies.”

“But some called ‘copperheads’ like yourself and your son traitors, did they not, Mrs. Jamison?” I said. Suddenly Mrs. Jamison jolted forward. The cat on her lap screeched and flew with all fours toward Walter. He put his arms up defensively, but the cat hit the floor before reaching him.

“My son is not a traitor!” Mrs. Jamison shouted, shaking her gnarled fist before her. Then she reached down and struggled to pick up the misplaced blanket the cat had sent sprawling to the floor. She muttered angrily under her breath. I began to rise to assist her, but she managed to grab the blanket between two knuckles and pull it onto her lap. When she looked up, she smiled again. I was astonished by her erratic behavior. “No need to fret, my girl,” she said to me. “We know the truth. We loved our country then and we do now. That is why we copperheads fought for its salvation.”

“But you were in the minority during the war. You were going against what most people believed,” I said.

“You might’ve heard that Enoch and a few others were wrongly imprisoned for treason at Fort Lafayette. When they were exonerated, they returned to Galena with what you might call a heroes’ welcome. This town was deeply divided when the war broke out. I assure you, many believed as we believed. And some of the real traitors were never exposed.”

“Ma’am,” I said, latching on to what she said, “did you believe Henry Starrett was one of those traitors?” Walter looked at me in surprise. I’d heeded Sir Arthur’s request to keep the letter we’d found in Henry’s fireplace a secret. But now it seemed relevant to proving Sir Arthur’s innocence. I needed all the help I could get. “Someone accused Henry Starrett of that in a letter days before his death.”

“My, my, this is news,” Mrs. Jamison said. “The police never mentioned such a thing.”

“The police don’t know,” I said, more to answer Walter’s questioning stare than responding to Mrs. Jamison’s comment. “Did you or your son write that letter, Mrs. Jamison?”

She held up her hands. I felt ridiculous. “I don’t do much with these anymore, let alone write. I can barely pet Mouser. As for Enoch, I doubt it. My son has never been much of a writer. With him away now, I’ll be lucky if I get a Christmas card.”

“If your son didn’t write the letter then why would Henry Starrett, after all these years, gather a mob and attack your home all in the name of justice?” The woman leaned forward in her chair and indicated that Walter and I should do so as well.

“Simple. Henry Starrett was an ass.” She leaned back again and smiled. Walter and I shared a glance again. This was the strangest old woman I’d ever met. “He was a weak man who was threatened by those he didn’t understand. My family has convictions and he didn’t know what a conviction was.”

“May I ask if you know where your son was early this morning, Mrs. Jamison?” I said.

“No, you may not, but since I’ve already told the police everything, I’ll tell you anyway,” she said. “Enoch’s in Chicago. He left yesterday.”

“Chicago?” I said, stunned that my prime suspect wasn’t even in Galena at the time of the murder. Could I trust this woman to tell the truth? Could Enoch Jamison have told his mother that he was going yesterday only to leave after killing Henry Starrett? The image of Enoch Jamison’s sleigh racing up the hill away from the bridge yesterday came to me. Was he leaving town then? But why was he in such a hurry? “I encountered your son yesterday on the Spring Street Bridge. Is that when he said he left?”

“Yes, he met Oscar. They decided to spend the holidays with Oscar’s sister in Chicago. Though I don’t know why. Oddly, they met in Millbrig and didn’t leave from Galena.” If it was true, I knew why. They were guilty of trying to poison Henry Starrett, inadvertently causing Lieutenant Colonel Holbrook’s death. They had to get out of Galena as fast as possible without leaving a trace for the police to follow. But obviously they didn’t count on Mrs. Jamison revealing their plan. If Oscar Killian and Enoch Jamison were both out of town this morning, who killed Henry Starrett? I had missed some of what the old woman said. “Of course, Elizabeth went with them, so I’m all alone for Christmas.”

“Maybe you should join them in Chicago?” I suggested, knowing what it’s like to be alone at Christmas.

“Now what an idea!” The old woman’s face lit up. “I think I may do that.”

“Ma’am, do you or your son own a .44-caliber revolver?” Walter asked.

“Is that what killed Henry?” Mrs. Jamison said, raising one of her hairless eyebrows. I shared her surprise but for another reason. It was obvious that the police hadn’t mentioned the revolver to her. That was the whole reason they were holding Sir Arthur. Why wouldn’t they have asked her?

“I would’ve thought stoning or tar and feathering more appropriate for that self-righteous hypocrite.” My sympathy for Mrs. Jamison’s loneliness dissipated as she began to cackle. I wasn’t fond of Henry Starrett, but the callous way this woman wished a more torturous death on her son’s adversary was inexcusable.

“Or poisoned to death by tainted oysters?” I said. “Would you or your son have had a hand in that?”

“If it made him suffer, absolutely,” the old woman said, a glint in her eye. “But he didn’t die slowly, though, did he?”

“No,” Walter said. “His death would’ve been almost instantaneous.”

“Too bad.” Mrs. Jamison stroked her cat, who in turn purred in response.

“If it makes you feel better, Mrs. Jamison,” I said sarcastically, “Captain Starrett was first savagely beaten.”

“Ah, that does make me feel better, my girl,” she said with all sincerity, leaning back in her chair. I was starting to get sickened by this woman’s behavior and couldn’t stand being in her presence any more than I had to. Only for Sir Arthur’s sake did I stay in my seat.

But it was Mrs. Jamison who suddenly stood up.