Anything But Civil. Anna Loan-Wilsey
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ran along both sides of the river and the river itself. The view was spectacular, one of the best in town.
Leave it to Sir Arthur to rent a house visible from any point in town, I thought as we entered his fully furnished, fully staffed three-story redbrick Federal-style home.
William Finch, a blond-haired man in his thirties, dressed in an evening tail coat, long, black tie, and formal striped pants, yawned as he held the door open for us, the mingled scent of coal, furniture polish, and gingerbread greeting us as we entered. William took Sir Arthur’s coat and hat. I usually came in through the back door, so I stood in the foyer with my coat and boa draped over my arm and my hat and muff in my hand, not sure what to do.
“Finch, take Hattie’s things,” Sir Arthur said. “We’ll be in my library until tea.”
“Sir,” Finch said, awkwardly taking my things, “the mail came a few minutes ago. Do you want me to bring it to you at tea?”
“No, bring it now,” Sir Arthur said.
“B-b-but,” the butler stammered, nearly throwing my things on a chair, “tea’s in a few minutes. I don’t think I’ll have time to bring the mail and then the tea.” I flinched at William’s ill-timed complaint. He obviously hadn’t worked long for Sir Arthur.
Sir Arthur pulled out a pocket watch. “It’s 3:54. You have six minutes until tea. Plenty of time.” He looked up directly at William. “If you want to still be here for dinner, that is.” He turned and didn’t see the distraught fellow dash away.
I followed Sir Arthur into the library and shivered slightly from the cold. The overstuffed leather chairs and sofa sat in shadow as the last rays of the setting sun streamed in through the bay window, reflecting in the glass doors of the wall-length mahogany bookcase. Only the outlines of the numerous books, manuscripts, and bric-a-brac inside were distinguishable. An ivory elephant, left behind by a previous occupant, cast an eerie shadow across the leather surface of the large walnut desk. The last of the fire’s embers glowed in the fireplace. Sir Arthur turned up the gas lamp, flooding the room with light. It was again my favorite room in the house.
Sir Arthur went to his desk and retrieved several pages of handwritten paper from a drawer. He handed them to me. “I need these for tomorrow.” I took them and turned to leave. “Jolly good show today, Hattie, uncovering Lieutenant Colonel Regan’s death. I can see now why you were invaluable to the Eureka Springs police.”
“Thank you, sir.” I beamed with pride. Sir Arthur was generous with his money but never with his compliments, especially when he was feeling ill-humored. I only wish he hadn’t linked my research skills with my helping the Eureka Springs police discover who killed my previous employer.
“Maybe you’ll uncover something new at Grant’s home. I’ve arranged for you to accompany me on the G.A.R. tour tomorrow. By the way, I’d like you to look into this Jamison man too.”
Finally, I thought. I’d been hoping to discuss Mr. Jamison and his violent altercation with Captain Starrett from the moment we saw them in the street, but to my chagrin and surprise Sir Arthur never brought the matter up. Until now. Captain Starrett had called Mr. Jamison a traitor. Serious talk, especially in a town built on its Civil War pride. But why?
A knock on the door prevented me from commenting and Finch entered the room, carrying a salver covered with several envelopes. Sir Arthur took them and shuffled through them quickly. From the decorative envelopes, many were Christmas cards. He pulled one out of the pile.
“Here’s one for you, Hattie,” he said, handing me a card. I was thrilled. Having no family and few acquaintances, I rarely received Christmas cards. “Miss Shaw has kindly remembered both of us this year.” He chuckled and then pulled out his pocket watch again. “Four o’clock, Finch. Time for tea.”
CHAPTER 4
Dismissed without further discussion, I retired to my own room to work, a simple, whitewashed room on the third floor with a sloping ceiling, a fireplace that Ida always kept burning, and a small window that looked out on the back of the houses on High Street. Modestly furnished, it contained only a small brass bed with a white crocheted bedspread, a darkly stained pine washstand with a chipped washbasin with pink lilies painted on one side, a wooden ladder-back chair, a small dresser, and, unlike the rest of the staff’s rooms, an oak rolltop desk. My plant press lay on top of the stack of wooden hatboxes piled next to the dresser, and several botany books and the most recent issues of La Mode Illustrée, my preferred source for the newest fashion in hats, lined the one bookshelf in the room. It was adequate for my needs but a long way from the luxury of the Arcadia Hotel. Before typing up the pages of Sir Arthur’s manuscript that he’d handwritten in his illegible scrawl, I sat at the desk and deciphered them. As always, it confounded me how a man like Sir Arthur, so meticulous in his research, could be so slovenly in his handwriting. But then again, I was grateful for it; it’s one of the reasons why he’d hired me.
When I was done, I picked up the Christmas card that had arrived earlier. The envelope was postmarked Eureka Springs, Arkansas. I sliced it open with my pearl-handled letter opener. Fringed in blue silk, one side of the card showed a richly colored bouquet of red roses, wheat, and blue forget-me-nots and it read: “Happy may your Christmas be.” On the other side, it read: “May Christmas Peace keep Winter from thy heart.” I read the brief note Miss Lizzie, the dear elderly woman I’d met during my time in Eureka Springs, had included, written on Arcadia Hotel stationery.
They weren’t coming! She and her sister, Miss Lucy, friends of Sir Arthur’s, had planned to visit for the holidays, but Miss Lucy had come down with a coryza and Dr. Grice didn’t recommend that she expose herself to the cold winter weather.
How disappointing, was my first thought. Ah, Dr. Grice, was my second.
Dr. Walter Grice, a physician I’d also met in Eureka Springs who, only after a brief acquaintance, had become dear to me and, I think, me to him. But the reality of our lives intervened and separated us. The situation was impossible, but it hadn’t stopped me from anticipating and relishing every letter I’d received from him.
I was replying to Miss Lizzie’s letter when someone tapped on my door.
“Come in,” I said. Ida Hollenbeck, maid-of-all-work for Sir Arthur, opened the door tentatively. Ida was at least ten years younger than me, with big bones and big hands that were strong, calloused, and stained with something she’d been helping Mrs. Monday, the cook, with in the kitchen. She had a wide face and small eyes and often mixed her German and English without realizing it. She wore a dark apron over a blue working dress and two unmatched boots, which she alternated every other day, so “to wear them down evenly.” Brown frizzy hair stuck out from under her white cap.
“Verzeihung—Excuse me, Hattie, but he wants to see you, in the library, ja?” Ida, in awe of her employer, could never bring herself to call him by name. She seemed to be slightly frightened of even me. At least I convinced her to call me Hattie.
“Thank you, Ida.” I didn’t have to ask her when Sir Arthur wanted to see me, the answer was always “now.” I brushed my dress off, picked up my notebook and pencil, and followed Ida down the stairs.
“Gute Nacht—Good night, Hattie, ja?” Ida said as we separated at the bottom of the stairs, Ida toward the kitchen and me toward the library.
I knocked and then opened the door. “You wanted to see me, Sir Arthur?” I said.
“Sit down, Hattie. There’s a matter I’d like to discuss,” he said. He was settled in his favorite leather chair, smoking a cigar and reading the local newspaper, the Galena Gazette. A stack of newspapers were folded up on the table beside him.
I found a seat opposite him and flipped over to a blank page on my tablet. As he folded the paper and set it on top of the stack, he pointed to a headline, SHOPLIFTER STRIKES ST. LOUIS STORE, MAKES OFF WITH HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS’ WORTH OF GOODS. “Not my idea of getting into the Christmas spirit, eh, Hattie?”
“No, sir.”