Arsenic and Old Books (13 page)

“The evidence isn't conclusive yet,” Kanesha went on after a brief pause. “I'm satisfied, though. I'd already figured Marie Steverton as the thief.”

“I can't say I'm surprised,” I responded. Marie was one of two obvious candidates, the other being Kelly Grimes. “You obviously have some kind of proof. Can you tell me what it is?”

“As long as it doesn't go any further,” Kanesha said.

“Of course,” I replied, a bit nettled that she even felt the need to mention it.

“Maybe you remember I mentioned we found a canvas bag in the street with the body,” Kanesha said. “There was residue in it from something, and I suspected it was flakes from the binding of those diaries.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, the flakes match, although the report isn't official yet.”

“You're sure the bag belonged to Marie?” I asked. I couldn't resist needling her slightly in return for her earlier question.

“Had her name embroidered on a tag inside,” Kanesha said.

“I wonder why the person who took them from Marie left the bag behind.” I paused as another thought struck me. “Have you made any progress on finding the car that ran Marie down?”

“Nothing significant,” Kanesha replied. “The neighbor who saw the car disappearing wasn't close enough to read the license plate number or really tell what make and model it is. All he could come up with was large and dark. And that it was a car, not a pickup.”

“Was there any damage to the car?” I asked.

“Pretty likely,” she said. “We found fragments that might have come from the vehicle. Also there will probably be minute paint fragments on the deceased's clothing. They might even be able to figure out a make and model from that. In the meantime, we're considering all possibilities.”

“That's good. Do you have any idea when they'll be finished with the diaries and I can get them back?”

“You should have them in your hands sometime Friday afternoon,” Kanesha said. “The mayor really pulled some strings, because they made this investigation a top priority.”

I couldn't tell from her tone whether Kanesha was impressed or annoyed by this exercise of political heft.

“I'll be glad to have them back,” I said. “In the meantime I finished scanning the volume the mayor brought the other day. I've been reading it, and it's interesting.”

“Found a motive for murder yet?” Kanesha asked. This time I interpreted her mood easily—skeptical.

“Not yet.” I wished I could share Singletary's tragic story with her, but I'd given my word.

“Give me a call if you do.” Kanesha ended the call.

I put the receiver down and turned back to the computer. Diesel warbled, and I focused on him instead. He batted a paw toward my arm, and I recognized the demand for attention. I stroked his head and along his back a few times. He meowed loudly, and I also recognized that sound. He was hungry.

A quick check of my watch told me why. At eleven fifteen it was close enough to lunch for us to take a break and head home to eat. “Come on, boy, I'm a little peckish myself.”

After a meal of scrumptious homemade chicken pot pie for me and more boiled chicken for him, Diesel and I made it back to the office around twelve fifteen. Melba's door was closed, and that meant she was out to lunch. She would no doubt appear upstairs at some point in the afternoon, but not, I hoped, until I had made considerably more progress with Rachel Long's diary.

The cat settled into this favorite spot while I called up the file. I found my place and started reading. Moments later, I hit upon another mention of the Singletary family.

Vidalia Singletary came to see me today while Father Long was occupied elsewhere, and that is just as well, for he finds the sight of the poor woman distasteful—almost as distasteful as that of her husband, for whom he has little good to say. That pains me, for I would have my husband be of a more Christian disposition toward these unfortunates. Vidalia appeared near exhaustion, and she burst into the most pitiable tears the moment I first spoke to her. It took me some several minutes to calm the poor woman enough that I might hear the extent of her troubles. The sum of them was simply that her husband was still too weak to work the farm. Franklin, the son by Mr. Singletary's first wife, is rather a feckless boy and moreover is not himself strong, apparently suffering from a similar complaint of the heart as his father.

How could I not take pity upon one so wretched? My soul would be worth nothing in this life or the next were I not to help those so much less fortunate than we. Although I do see that difficult times are coming for us all, as we are feeling the effects of that d——d blockade (the Lord forgive me for swearing, but we are vexed terribly by this) of our ports. Yet with the shortages here, I know the situation is much more dire for Vidalia and her little ones. Vidalia herself is in rags, and the children fare little better.

In addition to victuals I also gave her a large bolt of cloth from which to make suitable garments for herself and the children. My charity is perhaps not as pure as the Lord would command, for I gave her the bolts of green tarlatan sent to me by my cousin Marianna from London. The shade is most complimentary to me, but the fabric does have a rather peculiar smell. I would rather not see it go to waste, and there is enough for Vidalia to make at least two suits of clothing for each of the children as well as a simple dress for herself.

I sat back for a moment and rubbed my eyes. Rachel Long still sounded like a charitable woman, even though one act of charity consisted in giving away something she did not particularly want herself. She had no intention to use the cloth, so she might as well give it to someone who could, odd smell aside. A few good washes, and the odor probably went away. I noted again the name of the fabric, tarlatan, and jotted it down on a notepad. I didn't recall having heard that term before, and I would look it up later. Perhaps I could throw it into a conversation and impress Laura, who always found my lack of knowledge of women's fashions amusing.

Back to work
, I admonished myself. I focused on the screen. A few days later, on June 10, 1861, Rachel confided disturbing news to her diary.

Today Vidalia Singletary sent word by her husband's son Franklin that her children are ill and she does not know how to doctor them. She begged me to come, as she herself is falling ill as well, but though it caused me much distress I could not go. Mother Long is suffering terribly from a fever, and I dared not leave her side. If only Doctor Renwick had not abandoned us all, but I know our valiant boys on the front lines have need of his skills, too.

I could not ignore Vidalia's plea however so I instead sent my maid Celeste. The girl learned something of the ways of healing from her grandmother and mother on my own grandmother's plantation in Louisiana. She is knowledgeable enough about herbs and so should be able to dose the children with something to alleviate their distress. I will of course pray for the speedy recovery of Vidalia and her children. Her husband, I fear, is past help by now
.

I felt heartsick reading this. Rachel seemed to be a truly tender and caring woman, but without a doctor and with her own sick mother-in-law, she evidently did the best she could.

How skilled at herbal medicines was Celeste, though? I wondered also how old Celeste was. Rachel seemed to think the girl knew enough to help. According to present-day Jasper, however, Celeste did not help Vidalia and the children. Instead, or so he believed, she harmed them. Had she done so deliberately? Or accidentally, through lack of real skill and knowledge?

Only Rachel's diary might hold the answers. I scrolled down to the next page and continued reading. Nothing about the Singletarys in the next couple of entries. Rachel had little time for her diary, for it seemed that her mother-in-law hovered near death's door for several days before rallying miraculously. An exhausted Rachel turned the elder Mrs. Long's care over to one of the slaves and went to bed herself with a fever, no doubt brought on by exhaustion.

A few days later Rachel recovered and began writing more profusely in her diary. On June 15, 1861, she mentioned another plea for help from Vidalia. Once more Rachel dispatched Celeste with food and medicines.

Rachel's diary entries became sparse again. She noted the blockade and the resulting shortages, not to mention the difficulty of the planters in getting their cotton and other products to market. Cotton was king, but only if the planters could sell it for a good price.

Throughout the fall of 1861, there were rumors in Athena that the Union Army was approaching, and Rachel worried over the news. From what I remembered reading, there were no real battles fought in Mississippi between the armies until a year later, so their fears would not be realized for a while.

Rachel frequently expressed anxiety over her husband, a major in one of the Mississippi cavalry regiments. He was a graduate of West Point, I was surprised to learn. She seized upon every letter from him, she wrote, “and read with feverish anxiety until I was assured he was well and had not been in any way injured.”

The next entry after that surprised me enough that I exclaimed, “Good grief,” and startled Diesel. He warbled, and I reached over to pat his head while I read once again the words that shocked me.

Celeste, the wretched girl, has been behaving oddly these past weeks. Finally she has come to me with a confession that I can scarcely believe. It seems that those times when I sent her to aid Vidalia Singletary and her children, Celeste behaved shockingly. She claims that she was seduced, but Franklin Singletary has never impressed me as a particularly forceful nor articulate boy. I suspect that Celeste is wholly to blame for her current condition for I have known her to be of a flirtatious nature before now
.

Though Rachel Long did not use the word
pregnant
, I knew that was what she meant by Celeste's
condition
. Franklin Singletary was the father of a slave's child.

I wondered whether
that
bit of family history had been passed down to the present generation.

In the next few entries Rachel made no mention of Celeste or the Singletarys. Then came the sad news, on November 16, 1861.

Franklin Singletary came today to tell us that the three younger children died in the night. They remained feeble, their sickness unabated, since the summer. The weather of the past weeks was harmful to them, I am certain. Cold, wet, damp, it could not have helped their poor frail lungs. I take some comfort knowing that at least they had warm garments from the cloth I provided. Franklin reports that Vidalia is so weak she cannot move from her bed and his father is prostrate with grief at the loss of his children
.

Franklin most humbly begged for assistance to dig the graves, for his father has no workers to aid him. Jasper Singletary was most vehement against the use of slave labor, an attitude that of course did not aid his cause among his fellow citizens. Father Long kindly offered him the use of two of the young, strong field hands, and they went with Franklin to perform the sad duty.

Even at the distance of one hundred and fifty years, I felt the grief of such a tragic loss. Poor Jasper Singletary. No wonder the man was out of his mind—or that his wife died of a broken heart. I couldn't imagine anything worse than outliving one's child, let alone three children.

I had to take a break from the diary. My head needed clearing after reading such a heartrending story. Diesel, bless him, sensed my distress. He chirped and leaned from the windowsill to butt his head against my shoulder. He continued to chirp and purr while I stroked him. I felt better after a couple of minutes of special Diesel therapy.

I still didn't feel like going back to the diary. There was only so much pathos I could take in a day. As Diesel settled back on the windowsill to clean his front paws, I debated what to do. There were always books waiting to be cataloged, but there was another task I suddenly remembered needed doing.

“I'm going next door, boy,” I told the cat. “You stay here and nap.” Diesel answered me with a sleepy meow and a yawn.

With all the other things on my mind, I had forgotten about searching through the Long collection to find the copy of Angeline McCarthy Long's memoir of Rachel Long that Miss Eulalie said she donated.

In the storage room next to my office I unlocked the door and switched on the lights. I left the door slightly ajar in case Diesel came to look for me. I remembered where the Long collection was shelved and headed to the far end of the room from the door.

I surveyed the shelves and made a mental calculation of the collection—probably around twenty linear feet, I reckoned. That was a good-sized collection. Much of it consisted of correspondence, but there were also copies of wills and deeds, along with maps of the Long family's extensive property both around Athena and in the Mississippi Delta. I located the finding aid to the collection put together by Miss Eulalie on one of the shelves and started skimming through it.

The contents of each box was listed under the various categories. I found no mention of books in any of the boxes, but the list for the final box in the collection noted it simply as
Miscellany
. Accordingly I moved to the shelf that housed the box and pulled it down, noting that it was lightweight.

After slipping on a pair of cotton gloves, I opened the box on the worktable and delved through the contents. There were three books inside, but none was the memoir I sought. They appeared to be old schoolbooks from the early twentieth century. Interesting, but not pertinent to my present search. I also found three briar pipes, each in a box with a label denoting the owner, Adalbert Long. I wasn't sure where he fit into the family tree, but I remembered that the name Adalbert cropped up frequently among the Longs. The final object was a file folder that contained several pieces of sheet music. I checked their copyright dates, and they were of 1890s vintage. Again, interesting but not pertinent.

I replaced the box on the shelf and considered whether I should go through all the boxes in the collection to search for Miss Eulalie's copy of the memoir. I couldn't believe the former archivist would have put the book in another box and not have noted it in the finding aid. Still, I decided, I had better check.

Fifteen minutes later, having gone through all the boxes, I came up empty-handed. Either Miss Eulalie had knowingly lied to me or someone had removed her copy of the memoir from the collection. I didn't like to think of Miss Eulalie as a liar, but she was probably protecting someone. The question was whom.

I peeled off the gloves and discarded them before I locked the storeroom and went back to the office. I found Diesel still asleep on the windowsill. He raised his head groggily and yawned when I resumed my seat at the computer. I patted his head a couple of times, and he settled down to sleep again.

I called up the website of the Mississippi Department of Archives and History. I wanted to search their online catalog for a copy of the memoir. No luck, however. Then I searched an online database that claimed to be the world's largest online catalog. Again, nothing.

The memoir of Rachel Long was indeed a rare item. I would have to ask the mayor whether the family had a copy. I knew there was a large library at Bellefontaine, the antebellum mansion that had been home to the Longs since the 1830s. If they didn't have a copy, I would have to hope one of the two missing copies turned up. Otherwise I would never know what clues it might contain to the bizarre events of the past few days.

I needed to get back to the diary for now. I would deal with the memoir later. I found my place and began to read.

Two weeks after Rachel recorded the death of the three little Singletarys—how sad that she didn't even mention their names, I thought—she noted the death of Vidalia Singletary.

As a mother myself I understand the grief of a woman who has lost all three of her children at once. I doubt that I could withstand such a horror, and it is no wonder to me that poor Vidalia did not have the will to live through this harsh winter. Far better to be reunited with her loved ones in the Kingdom of Heaven than to suffer their loss in this sad and frightening world. As the war continues I wonder how we will continue the fight and whether our cause is worth such bloodshed and loss.

I felt Rachel's anguish, and I could have told her that no, it wasn't worth it. The loss of all that life, those years of privation and hardship, weren't worth it, particularly to preserve such a heinous system in which persons were property just like plows and chairs.

Rachel continued to mention the harsh winter and the difficulties caused by the weather. Her parents-in-law suffered particularly, her mother-in-law struck down by pneumonia. She died two days after Christmas. Rachel recorded the fact but did not elaborate, saying only that her own husband would be devastated when he received the news. He was last known to be in Virginia, and she had written but had no idea when, or if, the letter would reach Major Long.

The entry for January 3, 1862, contained startling news. I shared Rachel's shock, once I read through it completely.

Franklin Singletary came to speak to Father Long today, and though I was not privy to the conversation, Mr. Long later shared with me the gist of it. Father Long is most anxious that I should agree with the scheme that Franklin has proposed, but I am reluctant. In the end, however, I fear I shall have no choice because Father Long is so insistent.

Franklin is obsessed with Celeste, it seems, and with the child she will bear him. He has proposed to Father Long that he and his father will cede one hundred and fifty acres from their farm in return for Celeste and her unborn babe. Franklin will take the necessary steps to have Celeste declared a freewoman. While I admire his determination to win freedom for Celeste—a state to which I have no objection—I am fearful of the outcome. Celeste is light in color and may almost pass for white, owing to the fact that both her father and grandfather were white men who had relations with her mother and grandmother, but by law she is black. Franklin cannot marry her, because the law forbids it. He may call her his wife, but in law she cannot be, and any child of their union will be illegitimate.

I wonder that Jasper Singletary has agreed to this, for he has for many years resisted the attempts of Father Long to buy this same land. Jasper has lost all hope, it seems, because of his tragic losses, and perhaps that is why. Father Long insists that my husband would agree that I should sell Celeste for this parcel of land. Celeste herself has begged me, and I find I cannot withstand such pleas, no matter my worries for her welfare and that of her child. They will be desperately poor, with little good farmland left, and they will face the opprobrium of the townspeople. I foresee nothing but ill fortune awaiting them.

I hadn't yet finished reading the diary but I closed the file and turned away from the computer. I wondered how the current Jasper Singletary would feel when he read all this. It could come as a great shock to him that his great-great-grandmother was a freed slave.