of the morning and some of the afternoon dictating his life story. He had his midday meal brought to him on a tray. He only stopped when Sir Arthur and Lieutenant Triggs arrived and Adella came to escort him to tea, admonishing me for keeping him from his afternoon nap. It was then that I’d realized that I was famished, not having been offered lunch when the general had his. I hoped Mrs. Cassidy might have something I could eat.
“If I may be so bold to say so, you act like one sometimes, Mr. Starrett,” the man called Mott said.
“I beg your pardon?” Captain Starrett said. “How dare you speak to me like that!” Was this conversation too going to come to blows?
“But I ask, what man comes all this way and then puts everything we’ve worked for in jeopardy?” Mott asked. “Maybe you fail to see the significance of what I’ve told you. Maybe you don’t care.”
“Of course I care,” Captain Starrett growled. “But I may have . . . miscalculated.”
“Miscalculated?” Mott said. “You’re not telling me you’ve wasted my time, everyone’s time, are you, Captain Starrett?”
“No.”
“Do I need to remind you that—”
“Enough!” Henry Starrett shouted, then lowered his voice once again. “You’ll have it by Tuesday. All of it.”
“Good. But let me remind you, just in case, that if I don’t, I won’t be held responsible for the consequences,” the man named Mott said condescendingly. “They won’t wait forever, Captain.” I wished I could see who Henry Starrett was talking to, but I didn’t dare move a muscle or they might know I was in the hall, eavesdropping. “By the way, may I ask how you intend to hold up your end of the bargain?”
“None of your business.”
“It is my business; everything’s my business. Who do you think will have to answer for your . . . miscalculation?”
“You’re scum, Mott. If I thought I could do this without you, I’d . . .”
“You’d what?” Mott said. “Have it by Tuesday, Captain, and you won’t have to deal with me again.”
“You’ll have it, damn it! Now get out of my house.”
“Oh, that reminds me, I spoke with Jamison.”
“Well? What did the snake have to say?”
“Forgive me, Mr. Starrett but I quote, he said, ‘Go to Hell.’ ” The captain growled. “Good day to you, sir,” Mott said.
Before I could hide myself, Mott was in the hallway. To my astonishment, it was the man I’d seen coming out of Enoch Jamison’s house, this morning. What could this man have possibly said to Enoch Jamison that interested Henry Starrett? And why? With my curiosity piqued, all thought of retreat was gone.
As he approached me, Mr. Mott lowered his face so as to see above his spectacles but down his nose. His neck was in an awkward position as he tried to look me up and down. It was comical, for as I was taller than he was, he ended up looking at my chin. He carried a small leather Gladstone traveling bag. What was inside? I wondered.
“Charming,” he said, grinning without showing his teeth. He tipped his old-fashioned hat to me and left by the front door without another word.
Did anyone else see him? He obviously wasn’t concerned that I had or that I’d overheard the conversation. Did anyone else hear Mr. Mott and Captain Starrett arguing? What was it that the captain had to give to Mott by Tuesday? Why was it so important? Before Captain Starrett caught me eavesdropping in the hall, I strode toward the kitchen. But I was too late. I walked right into him as he stormed out of the back parlor door.
“Pardon me,” I said, backing away as quickly as possible. His face was flush and his mouth was twisted into a scowl. He was obviously furious. And as before, it was all the more disturbing due to his resemblance to Santa Claus.
Would I ever be able to think of jolly Saint Nick the same again?
“You?” Captain Starrett grunted, and swung his arm toward me. I closed my eyes and braced for the impact of the blow. Instead Captain Starrett knocked into a side table, sending an Oriental flower vase smashing to the floor. The mosaic of colored pieces of porcelain crunched under his footsteps as he pushed past me down the hall. I didn’t give him a chance to turn back and ran to the kitchen.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Reynard,” Sir Arthur said, taking that lady’s hand. “Come now, Triggs, we must be going.”
“Again, my wife sends her regrets,” Lieutenant Triggs said. The sound of small feet pounded on the floorboards above us. The lieutenant pointed to the ceiling. “She’ll especially regret not meeting your lovely children.” Then he saluted the general and warmly shook his hand. “It was an honor to meet you, sir. A real honor.”
“Good to meet you too, old boy,” the general said. “Send my regards to your brother.”
They were all in the foyer as I left the kitchen after tea. Mrs. Cassidy had been kind enough to offer me a cup of coffee and several each of her toffee bars and pumpkin bread, which had done wonders to calm my nerves. The front door opened and a man entered.
“Darling,” Mrs. Reynard said, greeting her husband at the door.
“Adella, my sweet,” the man said, kissing his wife on the cheek. He handed her a parcel. “That book you wanted came in.” Except for the odd way he spoke, slightly out of the side of his mouth, and the red and white variegated amaryllis on his lapel, Frederick Reynard was unremarkable in every way, average build, average height, sandy hair and mustache, brown and gray single-breasted sack suit. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a crowd. Yet his countenance and manners were charming, as it was evident that he adored his wife. His eyes followed her every movement, even as he handed his coat, hat, and gloves to the butler, a tall, thin black man. Frederick hung on her every word and seemed unabashed at showing her affection in front of complete strangers.
“Oh, Frederick,” Adella said, ripping the paper from the book, Girl’s Winter in India. “Thank you, darling. Oh, forgive me. Frederick, this is Lieutenant Triggs and Sir Arthur Windom-Greene. Sir Arthur is writing a book about Papa. Lieutenant Triggs is a guest of Sir Arthur.” Frederick looked up questioningly at my approach. “And this is his secretary, Miss Davish.”
“Should’ve had you along, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said as way of introduction. “Mrs. Mahoud, the Grant home caretaker, gave us a most illuminating tour. Needed your pen. I won’t remember half of what she told us,” Sir Arthur said, half laughing, to the general.
“Yes, she is most kind,” Adella said. “When we toured the house, she went out of her way to show us the president’s personal belongings, including a satin mouchoir handkerchief case, a wooden tea caddy, and a mother-of-pearl cigar case, that were still in the house.”
“Yes, I think Sir Arthur’s favorite item was the .41-caliber Colt derringer on which Grant himself had carved ‘U.S. Grant 1863,’ ” Lieutenant Triggs said, smiling, as Sir Arthur nodded enthusiastically.
“It was brilliant,” Sir Arthur said. “It would be the crown jewel of my collection. If only the Grants would sell it.”
“Glad
