any mention of General Starrett having an officer for a son.” I pulled my hands out of my new fox fur muff and flipped the pages of my notebook until I came to my notes on General Starrett. “We knew he had a son and at least the one granddaughter, Adella. But I don’t see any references to his son being a Union officer.”
“He’s obviously an ass, but to be thorough we must find out more about him.” I’d worked with Sir Arthur enough to recognize when it was time to poise my pen for dictation. I also knew when he said “we” he meant me. I made a list of the questions Sir Arthur ticked off on his fingers.
1. In what battles did Captain Henry Starrett fight?
2. How did he earn his commission?
3. What unit did he lead?
4. Had he suffered any battle injuries?
5. Where was he mustered in and out?
6. Where has he been since the war?
7. Why is there little record of him?
“I want any official records you can find, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said. “I need to know if Captain Starrett should be included in the general’s biography.”
Sir Arthur, a millionaire several times over, was a self-taught scholar on the Civil War who had moved from London to Virginia almost ten years ago to “shake the hands of heroes, both dead and alive.” Although Sir Arthur’s preoccupation with our civil war changed my life, it also confounded me. Why would someone be obsessed with someone else’s history? I knew better than to ask.
“Yes, sir.”
“It may also require some below-stairs work on your part,” he said, his way of saying he wanted me to glean what I could about Captain Henry Starrett from the housekeeper, cook, and maids at the general’s home.
“Yes, sir.”
“And I want to know what you can learn by the time we meet with the general again, whenever that will be. Tomorrow, I hope.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Sir Arthur stared out the window. “Did you notice he didn’t mention Custer?”
“Yes, I did. You were right; Custer wasn’t in the room.”
“Yes, it never added up. But we’ll ask the general specifically about him before we cross Custer off our list. Good, we’re here.”
We were on “Quality Hill,” an area of opulent mansions dotting the high bluffs overlooking the wide, flat river valley below. The entire town was laid out before us, the bustling Main Street that ran parallel with the curving river at the base of the hill, Grant Park and the rows of houses on Park Avenue across the river on the eastern ridge, the train depots, the winding tracks that 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,
