“You think it was these letters?” Now I was eager to read them. What love letters from sixty years ago could generate such interest in modern times?
“I don’t know. But twice in the past six months, when I was out of town, I’ve had someone break in and tear through the house. They were obviously searching for something, and they went through cabinets, strongboxes, drawers, cupboards. They completely ignored the silver and other items of great value. The paintings here are worth a fortune and could easily be sold to private buyers.”
Two things struck me. The robber had to know when Uncle Brett would be gone, and it seemed apparent that whatever he was searching for, he hadn’t found. He kept returning.
“May I see the letters?” I asked.
He handed them over. “I’ve read them all. Though they are remarkably literate and speak of a great passion, there’s nothing in them worth stealing. As I said, the female is Eva, but the other correspondent, obviously a man, is not her husband. Or my presumption is that Eli didn’t write the letters. You can judge for yourself.”
The slightest chill traced over me. I opened the first letter, which was written in a strong, sloping hand that I associated with a male. It was dated December 3, 1864.
My Beloved,
The gray days of November are upon us, and I worry that you and the child are without the necessities. In the city, everything is scarce, but food can be found for those with the coin to pay for it. I know the grounds of Caoin House can produce abundant food for you, but I also realize there is no reliable workforce to help harvest what has been planted. The legal bonds of ownership no longer bind the slaves to their masters, and you know I believe this is just and right. Nonetheless, I hope that some of the more loyal slaves will stay to help you.
I will come to you Friday, as planned. After our reunion, I will work the garden in the hopes cold weather won’t arrive and kill the meager plants that remain. You are not a woman who should have to survive on turnips and potatoes, so I will do my best to bring two laying hens when I come.
I read your last letter with great sadness. You have lost hope that we will ever be together. The war drags on, and news from the front is never good these days for the plantation owners. The inescapable fact is that the South is losing. For you, it is the loss of a dream, a way of life filled with grace and plenty. Though my feelings are vastly different, I hurt for you. I would never wish for you to shed a tear at the loss of any element of your life, save the one you no longer want. Your husband.
In my rounds of the society homes, I hear that Eli, at the side of General Nathan Bedford Forrest, led a charge with General Hood. The casualties were high, and some homes in Mobile wear the black ribbons of death that even I have come to dread. I will offer a full report of what I glean when I see you.
Master Granton has confirmed my time with you Friday evening. He is allowing me to ride one of his horses. He guards the horses jealously, but he loves money even more. Just know that each night I dream of your stormy eyes, fringed in black lashes, the peach tint of your skin against the sheets, and the softness of your lips. I have never known a woman of such beauty. While I have little to offer you, I put before you everything I have and everything I am.
I dream only of you and our hours together.
I cleared my throat and put the letter away, feeling as if I’d spied on the most intimate of moments. In my imagination, I saw the woman in the portrait in Uncle Brett’s morning room, Eva Whitehead, as she opened this note and read words that could possibly wreck her world, if anyone had intercepted the letter. “You’re correct about one thing. Clearly this wasn’t penned by her husband.” I scanned the note again. “This would have been very dangerous to Eva. I can’t believe she didn’t burn it.” I looked at the stack of letters, probably twenty or more, in two different scripts.
“There was so little of beauty or hope to hold on to during the war,” Uncle Brett said. “The entire social structure of the South was crumbling. You know I oppose slavery in every form. It’s unfortunate that the underpinning of one of the most gracious and elegant cultures was built upon the trade of human flesh. What I’m saying is that I understand why Eva kept the letters, thinking them safe forever in this cubbyhole. She would have something to turn to in those darkest of times when the world as she’d always known it was gone.”
“If the notes are not from her husband, she would have been ruined if he’d found them.” I liked to think myself brave, but to flaunt infidelity would take more courage than I possessed. While men were forgiven the weakness of the flesh, women were not. Harlot, strumpet, whore, Jezebel—I knew the words that would have been applied.
“She courted ruin, for sure,” he said. “From what I’ve read about Eli, he was a prideful man. To be made a cuckold while away on the battlefield . . .” Uncle Brett shook his head. “It is possible he killed her. Everyone from judges to law officers would have turned the other way, thinking it was her just punishment.”
“But to leave his child beside the dead body of her mother—no father could do that.”
“People are changed by war, Raissa. Seldom in a good way.”
I knew it only too well. Another thought came to me. “If the ghost I saw is Eli, and you have seen Eva’s ghost here . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence because the idea that a jealous ghost had harmed Robert sounded insane. “The soldier ghost seemed more lonely than angry. But from all I’ve read, ghosts can be very devious.”
“We’ll discuss this more at a later time. I think we’d better open the library door. Isabelle is patient, but even a saint has limits.”
“Thank you for sharing the letters. And your concerns.”
“I’m going to return them to the alcove, but you know where they are. I hope you’ll find time to read them. They might inform one of your ghost stories.”
I rushed to him and hugged him. “You are the best uncle ever.”
“Raissa, be careful here at Caoin House. Perhaps I’m shaken by Robert’s death, but I am not satisfied that he fell, and I’ll never believe that he jumped.”
Those last words caught me by surprise. “People are saying he jumped?”
“Accident, suicide, murder. There are only three options for the death of a young, healthy man.”
“I’ll find out what happened to him, Uncle Brett. I will. And I’ll figure out the ghosts here, too. I’ll be like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s detective, Sherlock Holmes.”
Uncle Brett smiled. “Just remember, when you poke under rocks, you might turn up a snake.”
“Then I will capture it.” I put more enthusiasm into the words than I felt.
“I love this house and this city, but I love you more. Mobile is a place that refuses to acknowledge the South lost the war. The colored people are kept in line by harsh means. I know you share my view of slavery, but it’s best to keep your political opinions to yourself.”
“But I feel strongly—”
“I’m proud that Evangeline and Frank raised a daughter with an independent mind, but Mobile is a provincial town. Women are not as free as they are in Savannah, especially not women of your class.”
I wanted to argue that Mobile was exactly the place that needed more outspoken women, but I had to consider my uncle’s place in society. He enjoyed the comforts of acceptance into the highest ranks, and I would be the beneficiary of his standing. To behave in a way that put him at odds was unfair. “I promise you, Uncle, that I will govern my tongue, and I won’t let my guard down.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Uncle Brett kept me busy with fabricated trips to town, dinner parties at local restaurants, and even a pajama party with Isabelle. She was a delightful companion, and I liked her more each time I saw her.
Several days passed before I had a chance to go to the rooftop. I told no one of my plan. I wanted time to go alone, to examine the area with the methods I’d learned from reading the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The tiniest details were important, if one only knew how
to find and then interpret them. By putting myself in the shoes of the famous fictional investigator, I could push my emotions away. Literature had always been the best place I knew to hide from pain.
The afternoon was hot, and as I searched for the means to gain access to the roof, I became more and more certain that Robert had not gone to the roof alone. How would he have found the way? All the help denied that he’d asked directions of them. Nor had any seen him wandering about the house.
A narrow stairway off the back servants’ stairs led through the attic to a trapdoor that had to be pushed up and moved to get to the roof. For a moment I thought the weight of the door would defeat me, but I managed to push the hatchlike contraption aside enough to slip through.
If Robert had gone up to the roof and jumped, then who had replaced the cover? It became more and more clear that he had not been alone. So who had been with him? The physical evidence told me there was a witness to Robert’s death. If not a witness, then a participant.
The idea that a murderer might have been lurking in Caoin House troubled me as I pushed my body through the opening and onto the roof. The sun was bright, hot, and very welcome after my chilling thoughts. Before me lay a gabled slate roof with a manageable slope. Looking for any clue out of the ordinary, I made my way across the tiles toward the front of the house, slipping only twice. Traversing the roof was no easy feat. Why had Robert come up here? It didn’t make any sense at all.
At last I found myself at the ornamental pediment where, based on the position of Robert’s broken body, we believed he had stood before he fell. I was strangely reluctant to search the area. After all the trouble I’d gone to so that I could get onto the roof, I wasn’t about to lose my nerve. I owed this to Robert. A light breeze traced down my neck, and I felt certain it was him, letting me know he was with me, urging me to continue.
For a moment I gazed about the grounds of Caoin House. The rooftop gave an incredible view of the oaks and the shell drive that had seemed so welcoming when I’d first arrived. To the south, Travis worked in the rose garden, pruning the thorny branches of the plants that produced the heavy-headed blooms that filled the front parlor of the house with such rich fragrance. Several of the colored men Travis had hired were putting the front lawn back in pristine shape after the party.
A breeze lifted the skirt of my dress, fanning it behind me. Was Robert on the rooftop with me? I couldn’t say for a fact, though I sensed him. If he was, I hoped he approved of my attempts to find out what had really happened. I believed he would. He would want justice. And to find that justice, I had to push myself, step by step, toward the edge of the roof.
When I stood looking down at the ground, I couldn’t stop myself from remembering the pool of blood that had accumulated beneath my uncle and Robert, slowly spreading down the front steps. Winona had spent two days scrubbing the stain from the bricks. No trace of the tragedy could be found, yet I could call it to mind in an instant.
Sun glinted on metal far in the distance, and I looked down the drive to see Carlton’s dark-blue Meisenhelder Roadster coming toward Caoin House. I hadn’t heard from Carlton since the party, but I knew he’d communicated with Uncle Brett and assisted with the legal complications surrounding a death on the property.
Watching the car draw closer, I realized I looked forward to his visit. Just yesterday my uncle told me that Carlton had found Robert’s family and had let them know what had happened. As it turned out, he had parents and a sister who were devastated by his freakish death. Carlton had explained the circumstances in such a way that the Aultmans had been satisfied that the death was accidental. Carlton had proven to be a good and caring friend. His visit would take Uncle Brett’s mind off the things that troubled him.
With Carlton’s arrival, Uncle Brett would be looking for me. He relied on me to serve as his hostess when Isabelle was absent. But I needed to examine the area. If I intended to align myself with the great detective Sherlock Holmes, I had to detect. And quickly.
I examined the rooftop. There was no sign of a scuffle or anything that I could find. The slates were in good repair, and the lead drainpipes that filled the household cisterns were mostly clear of all debris. My efforts were in vain. Uncle Brett and Carlton had already searched the area. I’d been foolish to think I might find something they’d overlooked. I was leaving when my shoe caught the edge of a slate shingle. The stumble nearly sent me to my knees, but I caught my balance. When I looked back to make sure the roof wasn’t damaged, something winked, bright and shiny in the sunlight. My clumsiness had dislodged a tiny pearl-white button hanging from a tag of cloth. I picked it up and examined it. It had been pulled loose, and the fragment of material appeared to have come from a man’s white cotton shirt.
I put the button in my pocket, retraced my steps, and within a few minutes I was back inside the cool halls of Caoin House.
Uncle Brett and Carlton already had bourbons in their hands when I made it down to the library, flushed by the heat of the roof. I did my best to cover the evidence of my adventure because I didn’t want Uncle Brett or Carlton worried about my actions. While I hadn’t solved the mystery of Robert’s death, I’d learned one thing for sure—Robert had walked out onto the roof of his own volition—it would have taken a preternaturally strong man to force him across the sloping slate tiles, which were slick and untrustworthy. So he had gone under his own power, but why? I didn’t believe his death had been an accident. The button and scrap of cloth told a story of struggle.
“Raissa,” Carlton said as he came toward me. He took my hand and squeezed it. “How are you?”
“I’m thirsty. I think I’ll join you two.” I poured a bourbon for myself. “Has Sheriff Thompson closed the investigation into Robert’s death? Uncle Brett and I have been so concerned.”
“He has,” Carlton said. “The coroner’s jury studied the evidence presented, and it was ruled accidental. Your uncle is in no way held responsible. Whatever Robert was doing on the roof, it’s clear he tripped and somehow accidentally fell.”
“That’s a relief.” I went to Uncle Brett and gave him a one-armed hug. “There’s no logical explanation as to why Robert was on the roof, but I’m just glad the ruling wasn’t suicide. That would have damaged his family.”
“Yes,” Uncle Brett said. “A tragic accident.”
“Let’s put that sad incident behind us. Raissa, why don’t you drive into town tomorrow?” Carlton asked. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out a telegram. “You and Brett come and have lunch with me. Afterward, make him take you shopping for a new outfit. I’ve arranged tickets for Brett, Isabelle, you, and me to attend a séance with Madam Petalungro in New Orleans next week.” He handed the telegram to Brett but spoke to me. “If you’re going to write ghost stories, you’ll need material.”
“Thank you!” I hadn’t forgotten the proposed séance with Arthur Conan Doyle’s medium in New Orleans, but I hadn’t wanted to push Uncle Brett. So much had happened at Caoin House. Thank goodness Carlton hadn’t forgotten. I could have hugged him.
Carlton was busy with his plans. “I’ve arranged tickets on the train to New Orleans, and I’ve secured rooms at the Hotel Monteleone for all of us. This will be an adventure.” He patted Uncle Brett’s back. “We need to get out of Caoin House and forget the misfortune that occurred. Or at least put it aside for a time.”
“Thank you, Carlton.” I was indeed grateful. This was exactly what Uncle Brett needed, and it would also be good for me.
“Brett, I hope I haven’t overstepped, but we’re booked to leave Saturday morning. The séance is Saturday evening, and we’ll return to Mobile Sunday. It isn’t a long journey, but enough to give you both a brief respite from worry.”
“It’s a wonderful idea, Carlton.” A bit of life had returned to Uncle Brett’s eyes as he spoke. “I’d forgotten about Raissa’s interest in attending the séance. Thank you for taking care of it.”
“My pleasure,” Carlton said. “So it’s de
cided. Raissa, I understand your curiosity, but what is it you hope to gain, Brett?”
My uncle swallowed the last of his drink before he answered. “Peace at Caoin House. You’ll scoff at me, Carlton, but there are unhappy spirits here. Perhaps even dangerous.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The train ride with Carlton, Isabelle, and my uncle was a far different trip from my mostly solitary journey down from Savannah. In the rare moments I had alone, the memory of Robert sat beside me. I hardly knew him, but I felt the loss of what could have been.
Carlton kept the conversation lively and the alcohol flowing abundantly. For a country that had passed an amendment to prohibit drinking, there was an amazing number of flasks and discreet bottles of gin, rum, and bourbon about in the club car.
I learned from my uncle that the Gulf, Mobile, and Northern rail line had originally been built by a cadre of wealthy Northern timbermen. The railway’s specific purpose was to move timber from the vast stretches of pine and hardwood in Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana to Northern cities experiencing a housing boom. The end of World War I was bringing prosperity to many Americans who could now afford homes.
Rail passengers were an afterthought, but the wealthy investors smartly realized if the train was chugging the timber to New Orleans and locations north, adding a few passengers would cost very little and bring even more profits.
When we’d rocked halfway to New Orleans, Isabelle and I struck out to find a water closet, since the one in the club car was out of service. I’d never cared for changing cars, even though it was perfectly safe. Something about that step from one moving carriage to the next unnerved me. I hated looking down at the tracks disappearing beneath the train. The sight mesmerized me, and I had the sense that I was being pulled under the train. Uncle Brett would have laughed at my foolishness. To prove to myself I wasn’t a mouse, I pushed open the door and held it for Isabelle. She stepped ahead of me and hesitated. With a laugh, she took the step—and stumbled. For one incredible moment she hung in midair, between the two cars. Below us the cross ties rushed past. My reaction was involuntary. I lunged forward and grabbed her waist. The force of the moving train, her weight, my lack of solid footing—I, too, lost my balance, and, though we both fought against the gravitational pull, we slid toward the gap between the cars.
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