“Thank you for tea, Mrs. Reynard,” Sir Arthur said calmly, removing Morgan Triggs’s hold on him. “And the tour, General. As I said, it was most illuminating.” Without another word to acknowledge Henry Starrett, Sir Arthur turned his back on us and left.
“Does he always leave a room like this?” Lieutenant Triggs asked me as we scrambled out the door to catch up with Sir Arthur.
“No,” I said, pondering the question I’d been asking myself. “Only when Henry Starrett enters it.”
CHAPTER 8
I’d spent the entire evening and part of the night transcribing my notes from General Starrett’s interview. Sir Arthur’s disappointment for not having them in hand earlier in the evening had been assuaged by their sheer volume. He had graciously given me until morning to finish.
Well before sunrise, with the notes on Sir Arthur’s desk, I stood at the top of the Washington Street stairs, wearing my rubber boots, recently purchased from Strohmeyer’s, for the first time. Although I’d have little time to actually hike this morning, I was excited; it had snowed several inches during the night. Even in the faint light of the quarter moon, everything glistened. Snow crystals clung to the tree branches and the muddy street was sparkling white, a single wagon track running down the middle. The view from the top of the stairs revealed that throughout the entire town every awning, lamppost, bench, boardwalk, parked wagon, and rooftop was blanketed in snow. And the stillness was absolute.
Not a single footprint marked the newly fallen snow on the stairs. I gingerly stepped on the top stair, holding the railing, then decided that I didn’t want to be the first to test the slipperiness of the untrodden stairs. Instead I walked down Prospect to the Green Street, or as the pupils who have to climb them for class every day call them, the High School stairs. Here many footprints marked the passage of other early morning risers, mostly merchants and clerks who worked on Main Street below. I followed in their path and descended the hill to Bench Street without incident. My goal this morning was Mrs. Brendel’s first, to order holly, greens, and several bouquets of cut flowers for the Christmas decorations, and then to the river path that followed the train tracks toward the Mississippi River.
I arrived at Mrs. Brendel’s a few minutes before she opened. I’d planned it that way. Mrs. Brendel had the best selection of cut flowers and Christmas greenery in town, but she was first and foremost a milliner. I’d spent hours since arriving in Galena pursuing the wares of Mrs. Edwards’ Millinery and especially Miss Burke’s, which I passed on Main Street every time I walked to the Green Street Bridge, but I’d never been to Mrs. Brendel’s. I now took the opportunity to admire her latest creations in her shop front window until a young girl with bows in her hair, obviously not Mrs. Brendel, unlocked the door. It took all of my restraint to order only the holly, evergreen rope, and flowers I’d come for. As I left, I pledged to myself I’d be back at a more convenient time for the fancy lace braid hat in the window. The wide satin trim and large spray of velvet forget-me-nots would match my navy brilliantine suit perfectly.
I crossed the river on the footbridge and walked up Park Avenue. When I passed the Starrett house, most of the curtains were still drawn. From previous early morning hikes, I’d presumed that Mrs. Reynard and her grandfather, General Starrett, were both late risers. It seemed Captain Henry Starrett was as well. Mr. Reynard, on the other hand, was always gone to work before even I passed by. This morning seemed to be an exception, as evidenced by the three sets of footprints on the steps leading down from the lawn to the road. As I followed the train tracks south, I noticed that two of those sets of footprints had followed the same path. Who else had been hiking this way this morning from the Starrett house? I got my answer in the form of a distinct giggle a few yards away. Suddenly a snowball whizzed by my head and smacked against an elm behind me. Shouts of glee from the two children filled the still air.
“Can’t a body pass in the early morning without being assailed by a missile of snow?” I mockingly declared. A little girl shrieked.
“It’s not Mrs. Becker,” a boy of ten said. “It’s some lady in funny clothes.” I looked at the short hemline of my hiking skirt and my boots. What was so funny about them? “You can come out now, Sis.” A girl about eight came out of hiding from behind a tree.
“You’re not going to Mama, are you?” his sister said.
“I don’t know, who might your mother be?” I asked.
The boy stood tall and puffed out his chest. “Mrs. Frederick Reynard. I’m Master Edward Reynard and this is my sister, Gertrude.” I knew the Reynards had children, having heard their squeals and the pounding of running feet above General Starrett’s library, but I’d not yet met them.
“Well, Master Reynard, Miss Reynard, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. And I am not some lady in funny clothes; my name is Miss Davish and I’m wearing my very practical hiking costume. And no, Miss Reynard, I’m not going to tell your mother. But I do think an apology is in order,” I said, trying not to laugh.
“Sorry, Miss Davish,” the children said in unison. Edward brushed the snow on the ground with his boot and stared down.
“Apology accepted,” I said, offering my hand. Edward smiled and shook it heartily. Gertrude giggled and smiled at me before running back toward the trees. Her brother immediately followed his sister.
Chuckling under my breath, I continued on my hike. Yet before I’d gone a hundred yards, a high-pitched screech came from the direction of the children I’d left behind. I ran back the way I’d come.
“Help, help!” Edward was flying over the snow toward me screaming. “It’s Gertie!” He grabbed my hands and began pulling me down toward the river. “Come on, we have to help Gertie.”
I let him lead me to the edge of the river, all the while hearing screams and cries from Gertie. But when we got there she was nowhere in sight.
“Where’s your sister, Edward?” I asked. He pointed to a black hole in the river about ten feet from the edge, where the ice had broken completely. The snow around the hole had been scraped away on the side closest to the riverbank.
“Oh my God. She’s fallen through the ice?” I asked.
“We were playing and . . . the ice broke and . . . ,” Edward replied. “You have to get her out!”
Suddenly the little girl resurfaced, gasping for air and wildly thrashing about in the freezing water. She obviously couldn’t touch the bottom of the river.
“Ned! Ned! He-e-e-el-l-lp-p-p!” Gertie screamed, madly clutching for a hold on the slippery edge of ice. She burst into convulsive sobbing; her breathing sounded sporadic. Without thinking, I threw off my coat, dropped to my knees, and then crawled on my belly toward the break in the ice, pulling my coat behind me.
“I’m coming, Gertrude. Keep swimming. I’m almost there.”
I inched toward the struggling girl praying that the ice would hold my weight. Not wanting to get too close, I stopped about three feet from the hole and I threw the end of my coat toward it.
“Grab my coat, Gertrude!” I cried. “Grab my coat!”
As the little girl snatched the end of my coat, the weight of her pulled me toward the hole. The ice creaked and then stopped. I pulled my coat toward me and held my breath. The ice creaked again, but I could see that Gertrude had her elbows on the ice. A bald eagle circled silently above us.
“Hang on, Gertrude, and I’ll pull you out.”
“It’s hard!” the little girl cried. “My hands hurt and I can’t feel my legs!”
“Just hold on and everything will be all right.” I tried to sound convincing and keep the worry from my voice.
“Hold on, Gertie!” her brother shouted encouragement from the river’s edge. “She’ll get you out.”
It