to slap him, to shout at him, “Who do you think you are?” but instead tried pulling my hand away. He wouldn’t let go.
“It’s all right, Becker. No need to call the police,” General Starrett said, then turned to face the stranger. “Fighting Jamison in the street, Henry? What did you think you were doing, training for a prize fight with John L. Sullivan?” The general pushed himself up with the aid of his cane, his body shaking. The cost of restraining his anger was clearly written on his face. “You didn’t kill the man, did you?”
Saint Nick let go of my hand, shrugged out of his coat, and tossed it over the back of the sofa, a sleeve brushing against me. I immediately moved as far away from him as possible and rubbed my hand on my skirt. I looked up to see Sir Arthur scowling. Before I could apologize for my coarse behavior, he handed me his handkerchief, without taking his eyes off the new arrival.
“He deserved a beating,” Henry said in answer to the general. “You heard what he said to me.” Henry looked at the general and noticed, as I did, that the old man’s strength was leaving him, that he began to sway on his feet. Again I was concerned the old man might fall. “Well, maybe you didn’t hear it, but they did.” The stranger pointed in Sir Arthur and my direction. “Trust me, General. He deserved it.”
“I’ve heard it before, Henry. And Jamison’s right, you know. It was a long time ago. It’s not important anymore. Forget it, forget him.”
“Never,” Henry said.
“Well, my boy,” the general said as he eased back into his chair. “Life’s never boring when you’re around, I’ll give you that.” He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he did. His anger was gone. “No, never a dull moment. Though you could’ve come at a more opportune moment.”
I couldn’t agree more, I thought. We were finally getting some work done.
“General,” Sir Arthur said, “I’m afraid I am at a loss. Would you be so kind as to introduce me to your guest?” I could tell from Sir Arthur’s formal tone that he was more than at a loss; he was livid. His interview had been interrupted, his secretary had been imposed upon, he was being rudely ignored, and he felt the sting of the offense.
“Guest?” Henry said, pointing his finger at Sir Arthur. “You, sir, are the guest here and don’t forget it.” Sir Arthur struggled to maintain a calm countenance, but the hands he held behind his back were clenched. It took all my experience with impertinent-behaving employers not to allow my jaw to drop. No one spoke to Sir Arthur as this man had. No one.
“Pardon me?” Sir Arthur said. “I think you’ve forgotten yourself, sir.”
“I think it’s you who have forgotten your place, whatever your name is,” the man said, taking a step toward Sir Arthur. Henry was a good half foot taller. Images of him pounding on the head of the man outside flashed into my mind. Sir Arthur was a brilliant man, but he was no physical match for this perverse Santa Claus.
“I’m Sir Arthur Windom-Greene, sir. And you are?”
“Oh, so sorry, Sir Arthur, I’ve forgotten my manners,” General Starrett said. “Sir Arthur, this is Captain—”
Before he could finish, the sound of footsteps tripping rapidly down the staircase reached us. The captain turned as a woman in her thirties burst into the room. Dressed in a pale gray walking dress, a few tendrils of blond hair loose about her face, she breathed in effort after her flight down the stairs. She stood a moment in the doorway, a book, Journeys in Persia and Kurdistan, clutched to her chest. She looked at the stranger as if he were a ghost.
“Adella,” Henry said. He opened his arms and she, bursting into a radiant smile, tossed the book and flew into them.
“Daddy,” she squeaked like a child, “you’ve come home!”
“. . . Henry Starrett,” the general said, finishing his introduction, “my son.”
CHAPTER 3
“Blast! What a damn nuisance,” Sir Arthur said, almost spitting the words. “We were finally making progress with the old boy. But bloody hell, what cheek that son of his had.”
We faced each other in Sir Arthur’s glass-front Landau carriage as it rumbled across the Spring Street Bridge toward the west side of the Galena River. Sir Arthur fiddled with his hat, a faded Civil War officer’s slouch hat that could’ve been blue once or could’ve always been a nondescript gray. In winter weather, I’d hoped he’d wear a fur cap. At his age (was he over sixty now?) and with little hair left to warm his head, he could easily succumb to the cold. I should’ve known he wouldn’t wear anything else.
“Bloody hell.” Sir Arthur yanked the hat over his eyes.
Since abruptly leaving the general’s house, Sir Arthur had fumed in silence. It was unsettling, seeing his anger stifled, but I knew Sir Arthur. He couldn’t hold it in for long. I was relieved when he finally spoke.
“And what did he call himself, Captain Starrett?” Sir Arthur said sarcastically. “I’ve never even heard of him. Have you?”
“No, I was as surprised as you were, sir,” I said. “I haven’t come across 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