Holy City (Jack Francis Novel)

by M Murphy

  Chapter 24

  The morning started just as the night had ended. I met with Hannah at the South Carolina Historical Society and quickly discovered that my carriage house had not been the only victim the previous night.

  “It was a mess.” Hannah said. “My whole office was trashed. Months of research scattered, student papers thrown everywhere and my hard drive was ripped from my computer.”

  “Whoever it is was getting frustrated.” I gathered.

  “The good news is your iodine theory worked. I was going to do it here but then thought twice about bringing iodine into a library of historical documents.”

  “Who knows how many secrets you could expose in here.” I said, only half kidding. “What did the iodine vapors expose?”

  “In between the lines of the letter a separate communication was written in invisible ink, but, unfortunately, that message makes no sense to me. Here have a look for yourself.”

  I glanced at the page yellowed with age. In between each line of elegantly written script was a series of letters, dots, and

  numbers scribed in a more simple hand and appeared faded compared to the originally visible contents of the letter. At first glance, I couldn’t makeout anything from them, but I knew there was something there.

  The messages read:

  J.A.M.

  Holy light and savior of ships is where they find eternal rest.

  “Short and to the point you might say” I handed the letter back to Hannah. “Any ideas?”

  “I have a few but they all require some research. How much time do you have today?”

  “I’m all yours until happy hour.”

  “Why, do you have plans?”

  “No I just don’t like to work past happy hour.” I said to her with a smile.

  “Very well. Let’s get to work then, and if you do a good job, I’ll let you buy me a drink afterwards.”

  “Sounds good. What do you want me to do?”

  “I need you to find any history, in fact all the history, on prominent burial sites in the city. For now we will only focus on the places where the wealthy were buried because of the connection to the Trenholms and the hooked x on the letter.”

  “What’s the hooked x have to do with it?” I asked.

  “The association of the hooked x is most common with Stone Masons and Templars, and neither of those two groups is often associated with being poor.”

  “Why the burial places of the rich?”

  “The phrase eternal rest usually means a burial place. I could be wrong, but it’s a good place to start. Also, burial places are often connected to churches, which would help interpret the words holy and savior in the message.”

  “What about the J.A.M.?”

  “I have no clue, and it’s probably important considering it plays such a predominant role at the top of the code. One step at a time though. Now go.” Hannah said waving me away. “Go find a librarian to help you and don’t comeback until you’ve got something.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Research, on a few more ideas I have in my head.”

  Chapter 25

  A young blonde woman, who I could only assume was a grad student or intern, helped me find the section of the Historical Society I was looking for. She pulled out about a half-dozen books that I hoped could give me a little light on the location Hannah and I were hoping to discovery. Most of the time I hated the stale smell of libraries, their dark and dreary corners, and the silence could drive a man insane, but today with the help of the young blonde woman’s perfume and the thrill of the chase I was a bit more excited to be there.

  The first book I went through was about St. Andrews Episcopal Church on the outskirts of Charleston. Its location to the plantations along the Ashley River gave it the prestige I was looking for in a burial site. It also appeared to be the oldest church in the area and its proximity to the waters of the Ashley River gave me some hope that I would figure out what savior of ships meant in the revealed message. Unfortunately, there was nothing more in the book to give me any certainty that I had found my answer on the first try

  I then went on to an old volume on St. James Church in nearby Goose Creek with no luck. There were a few books on family burial plots at area plantations. These were harder to go

  through because I needed to understand who owned the property, who was buried there, and each plantations’ history.

  A good portion of my day was wasted going through plantation histories. Hannah probably would have told me I was wasting my time, and I was, but these old plantation homes were also burial grounds for the areas predominant families. I discovered that patriot Henry Laurens had been buried on his plantation Mepkin. Mepkin Plantation it turned out was now Mepkin Abbey, which struck the holy cord but that was all. I was running into a lot of dead ends and wasting a long part of my day.

  Two books were left sitting in front of me as I stretched my arms back behind my head with a yawn. My backed ached from sitting and I was hungry. I was hoping it was time to break for happy hour so I checked the clock on my cell phone…still had a good hour and a half. It looked like I had no excuse but to keep poring through the history of Charleston.

  I grabbed the closer of the two antiquated volumes and opened it up to begin the story of St. Phillip’s Church, which was just down the street from where I was staying at Mrs. Legare’s. Everything was looking like another dead end. There was the typical colonial founding, fire, new church, fire, and then build a new church. I could see the city had a problem with fires. It was a little footnote in the church’s history that briefly caught my attention. Apparently, the current church building had been used as part of the lighthouse system to guide ships into Charleston’s treacherous harbor. Now I had something. I was sure of it. I continued on and found out that signers of the Declaration of Independence, The Constitution, and even the Father of the Confederacy John C. Calhoun were all buried at St. Phillip’s. In a city filled with churches and cemeteries, this one was beginning to feel right.

  I picked up the book from the table and quickly stood, anxious to find Hannah and tell her what I found, but before I could even step away from the table my whole world suddenly became black.

  Chapter 26

  When I came to, the smell of perfume filled my nose before my vision cleared and I could see the blonde haired grad student shaking me.

  “Mr. Francis…Mr. Francis are you okay?” I heard her in my foggy head.

  “I think so. What happened?”

  “I’m not sure.” She said to me. “I found you on the ground unconscious. I was coming to check on you and see if you needed any more help finding additional books, but you were out cold and on the floor.”

  I thought long and hard about how I ended up on the floor and nothing came to me. I rubbed my eyes clear and began to get some clarity from them. The poor grad student had a sincere look of worry on her face. Sitting up, I tried to organize myself and my thoughts, but when I ran my hands through my hair, I began to get a better sense of what happened. On the back of my head, I felt a lump begin to form and a throbbing pain was beginning to swallow my brain.

  “I think someone hit me.” I said uncertain at first. “Is there anyone else in here?” I asked.

  “Nobody except you and the Professor.”

  “Hannah!” I exclaimed.

  I tried to get to my feet, but my knees buckled on my first attempt and I was saved from falling again by the cute blonde.

  “Thanks.” I said holding on to her. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

  “Lizzy.” She told me with a smile.

  “Thanks Lizzy. Can you help me find Hannah?”

  “Sure. The last time I saw Professor Welsh she was going through a collection of diaries in the main reading room. This way.”

  Lizzy slowly let go of my arm and I took my hand off her shoulder with a little uneasiness and a bit of a wobble. Slowly I put one foot in front of the other and followed her to where I hoped
to find Hannah safe and sound. The trip up the old staircase was a bit rough, but I was able to make it without incident. We passed through the marble-floored lobby and through two large oak doors into the main reading room. Inside, where I initially met Hannah that afternoon, were rows and rows of books. Particles of dust shimmered in the light that passed through the windows, and the air still held the stale smell of decaying paper. Desks with table lamps were placed throughout the room and I look toward the spot where I had left Hannah hours earlier. The lamp on the desk was on and a couple leather bound books were spread across its wooden top. I could see Hannah’s messenger bag on the floor and her notepad on the desk, but there was no sign of her.

  “Hannah!” I called out “Hannah!” I yelled again as the first cry for her name still echoed around the room. “Hannah!” I

  yelled a third time.

  “Don’t you know that this is a library?” A voice said behind me.

  Lizzy and I both turned to see Hannah standing in the doorway behind us, a smile on her face as she put her hair up into a ponytail.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  Hannah got a concerned look on her face. “Can’t a lady go to the bathroom? What’s got you all worked up?”

  “I found Mr. Francis on the floor, Professor.” Lizzy said. “He thinks someone hit him from behind.”

  I rubbed the bump on my head for a moment. “Got me pretty good.”

  “Do you think…?” Hannah began.

  “Yeah, that’s why I was worried about you. Where’s the letter?”

  “Right here.” Hannah said patting her back pocket. I don’t go anywhere without it.”

  “It might be a good thing this time, but next time it might get you hurt. Whoever it is that came after me must have missed you…barely.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Yeah.” I said rubbing my head again.

  “I’m going to grab you some ice, Mr. Francis.”

  “Thanks Lizzy.” The young woman made her way out of the room. Hannah went over to the desk she had been working at and began to gather her things. “Any luck?” I asked her.

  “Not much. I was just going through Charles Fraser’s diaries. I’ve looked through them before, but after Eliza’s death I figured they could use another look. How about you?”

  I had completely forgotten what I’d even been doing downstairs prior to getting knocked out, but now it came crashing back to me.

  “I had some luck.” I said. “I think I found the place the letter was describing, St. Phillip’s Church.”

  “St. Phillip’s. It makes sense as a burial ground, but how did you come upon it?”

  “It was once used as part of Charleston Harbor’s navigational system. Holy light and savior of ships, just like the message says. Put that with so many prominent people being buried in its cemetery I figure it had to be our place.”

  “You might be right.” Hannah said. “We’ll check it out, but for now let’s find you that ice.”

  Hannah put her bag across her should and then grabbed my hand in hers, leading out us of the reading room.

  “And a drink.” I said smiling at her.

  “Fine, and a drink.”

  Chapter 27

  In Charleston the fog creeps in from the Atlantic Ocean, through the tight neck of the harbor entrance, and spreads like tendrils down the two rivers that border the peninsula city. As the fog grows thicker, and the waterways can no longer contain it, the streets gradually begin to fill. The fogs escapes from the water and creeps steadily down the main avenues spreading and engulfing street lamps, buildings, and even the majestic oaks. Usually, just before the entire peninsula is swallowed up the sun will come to strength and battle back the intruder from the sea…usually.

  Hannah had taken me home after the incident at the library. She had been a great nurse, getting me ice for my head and for my bourbon, all while making a fantastic dinner. When I woke the next morning is was with a beautiful woman at my side and a renewed energy.

  I slowly got out of bed, not to wake her, and went to the kitchen to start some coffee. With a fresh cup in hand I went out to the porch to watch the fog slink its way down Church Street.

  “Pretty spooky.” Hannah said coming up behind me with a coffee mug in hand.

  “Sure is, but beautiful in its own way.”

  “Seems odd that we are heading to a graveyard today and the fog rolls in.”

  “Are you scared?” I asked her with a smile.

  “How’s your head?” Hannah fired back ignoring my question.

  I rubbed the back of my head still feeling the spot where I got hit. “A lot better. There’s a little bump, but that’s all.”

  “Good, then you should have no problem cooking me some breakfast.”

  “No problem at all.” I smiled at her as I headed back inside to the kitchen.

  We ate a simple breakfast of bacon, eggs over-easy, and toast. Then got dressed and went to meet a colleague of Hannah’s at the college. Professor Thompson specialized in Southern History and was a member and resident historian of St. Phillip’s Church. We didn’t want to go searching through a graveyard blind with no idea of what we were looking for. Hannah thought that Professor Thompson could possibly give us some insight.

  The Professor chose not to meet us on campus, but instead opted for his home only a few blocks from where I was staying. Hannah and I poured ourselves a couple of cups of coffee for the road and walked from Church Street west down Tradd to Professor Thompson’s residence. His home was a three story Charleston Single with a double piazza and brick fence covered in creeping fig. We walked the drive along the side of the house and made our way to the rear, where the carriage house had been transformed into an office for the long time teacher. Hannah gave a knock on the aged wooden door and almost immediately it began to creak open.

  An older gentleman, tweed jacket, gingham shirt, pleated khakis, and horned rimmed tortoise shelled glasses answered our knock. His gray hair was balding and a little unkempt.

  “Hannah,” Professor Thompson said in a firm voice. “A pleasure to see you on this foggy morning.”

  “Glad you could see us Professor. This is Jack Francis, who is working with me.”

  I found it odd Hannah addressed the man as professor, as I assumed they were equals. Maybe it was out of respect, so I followed suit. “Professor Thompson,” I said shaking the man’s hand, “nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to see you.” He responded politely. “Refills on your coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Hannah said.

  The man topped off both of our mugs and then did the same to his own sitting on top of a large desk. He returned the pot and proceeded to take a seat, offering us a pair of worn leather chairs separated from his desk by an ornate rug. There was a fireplace at one end of the carriage house and a small kitchen at the other. A shaky staircase ascended to a loft on the second floor and the walls on the first were covered with bookshelves and artifacts.

  “What can I help you two with today?”

  “I was wondering if you could tell us a little history about St. Phillip’s Church and in particular its graveyard.” Hannah asked.

  “You two are busy people I assume, as am I, so you’ll need to be more specific. The history of St. Phillip’s is as old and

  long as the city itself.”

  “How about anything that stands out. What makes it unique or different from other churches in town?” I interjected.

  “I see.” The Professor said think. “I may have a few anecdotes that could be of interest to you.”

  Chapter 28

  Unfortunately, Professor Thompson’s history of St. Phillips was long, lectured, and leading us nowhere. I sat mostly staring into my empty coffee cup as he recounted the history of the congregation, the building of the first, second, and third church structures, and the history of some of its more famous members. If he were giving us a s
hort history, I would have hated to hear the full version. I had almost completely tuned out when Hannah finally interrupted the Professor with a question.

  “They moved John Calhoun’s body?” She asked.

  “Why yes. Twice actually.” The Professor answered.

  “But why? Someone as respected as Calhoun, wouldn’t it be sacrilegious to disturb his body?”

  “Mr. Calhoun was revered in the city, the state, and throughout the South. Charleston was, as a whole, in a state of mourning when the Senator died. The town closed down and everyone attended the funeral procession. In the present, John Calhoun is a representative of Southern beliefs even more than Southern politics, but in depth he became part of the Southern psyche.”