Holy City (Jack Francis Novel)

by M Murphy

  “Then why move his body?” Hannah asked again.

  “John Calhoun was a symbol of the South and the Confederacy. The citizens of Charleston worried that the approaching Union army would desecrate his remains, so they removed him from the western graveyard, and hid him near the

  temple in the east graveyard. After the war, he was returned to his original burial spot and in 1880 new construction began on the current monument in that location.”

  My mind began to move. The father of the Confederacy was too convenient, but the idea that he had been buried three times would give anyone a chance to hide something or change headstones. In my mind, the story led to a lot of possibilities.

  “Was John Calhoun a Mason?” Hannah asked.

  The professor looked at the Masonic ring on his finger and smiled. “No, Calhoun was not. I didn’t take you as a conspiracy theorist.”

  “I’m not, but I also have to explore all avenues as a researcher. If only to rule them out.”

  “Very well.” The Professor said.

  The old man continued on with his lecture of the history of St. Phillip’s, coming upon nothing more of our interest. When he was finished, Hannah and Professor Thompson exchanged a few tidbits of gossip at the college before we left.

  “If that was a short and interesting history of St. Phillip’s I’d hate to have sat through the full version.” I said to Hannah as we made our way down Tradd Street.

  “He’s a lecturer at heart and Southern. If he has an audience, he’ll talk for days. We did get something from it though.”

  “Yeah, that bit on Calhoun has got me curious. What was

  with your Mason question?”

  “The hooked x on the letter. It still has me thrown.”

  “You thought if Calhoun were a Mason then we would have an obvious answer?”

  “One can hope, can’t they?” Hannah gave a shrug of her shoulders as we walked. “I guess the next step is to head over to St. Phillip’s and look things over for ourselves.”

  “Are you going to be okay with that?” I said looking at the fog still thick in the air. It was almost noon and I was surprised the sun had not burned it off yet.

  “I’ll be fine.” Hannah gave me a flirtatious punch in the shoulder. “And before you say anything I’m not afraid of the fog.”

  Chapter 29

  When I was teasing Hannah about being afraid of the graveyard, I didn’t realize how creepy it actually would be. St. Phillip’s Church is in the center of downtown Charleston and only a few blocks from my Church Street carriage house, but the fog had wrapped itself tightly around each stone making it feel like you were all alone instead of in the middle of the city. You could hear the occasional sound of voices from within the fog as a group of tourist would pass by, and dark shadows could be seen walking in and out of the rows of headstones creating a ghostly effect.

  Hannah and I made our way to the center of the western part of the cemetery across the street from the church building. Slowly, not to walk where we did not belong, Hannah led me to the center of the yard. A large rectangular object began to grow as we moved closer. It stood at least a foot over my head and was wider than my arms could stretch. It wasn’t until I was nearly a foot from its base that I could read John Caldwell Calhoun carved across the side framed with a pair of columns in each corner of the monument. I had noticed the marker before, when I had walked past the graveyard under more normal circumstances. It towered over the other markers in the western portion of the cemetery, and in a town with a history of important people Calhoun’s headstone showed a distinct recognition.

  “This is the original and final resting spot of John Calhoun.” Hannah said. “The stone memorial was added in 1880 as the Professor said.”

  “Any idea what we’re looking for?”

  “None and it will be hard to find anything in this fog. Let’s work our way slowly around the burial site. Look for anything odd or out of the ordinary on the marker. If you see something on one side that’s not on the other, or anything along those lines let me know. After that, we will slowly make our way out. There may be another marker buried within the site.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I said back to her, as a dark shape past us in the fog and then a second later a camera flash went off. What could anyone be photographing in this fog, I thought.

  Hannah and I made our way around the stone memorial a couple times, going over its detailed carvings from top to bottom and back again. Nothing stood out. I found nothing, no hooked x, no mysterious riddles or numbers, nothing but a prestigious monument to a former Vice-President.

  “Let’s start checking the grass.” Hannah said.

  We squatted low and made circles, beginning close to the monument and working our way out. It was painful looking, moving, and squatting all at the same time and I was a little happy when I finally began edging closer to the black shape in the fog. I had assumed it was a stone from the neighboring burial site, and I was right, but I wasn’t prepared for the skull that suddenly came clear through the fog. It gave me a spook and I jumped out of my crouched position.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” I said to Hannah. “I just came upon the next grave a little faster than I thought in this fog.”

  Hannah walked closer to me and smiled when she saw the skull on the headstone. “That’s death’s head.” Hannah said. “Early headstone carving in the Colonies avoided using religious figures, so death’s head was carved onto the Stones to represent the physical and spiritual death of the individual. Basically, it means that it’s an old tombstone, so be careful.”

  “Spooky,” I muttered under my breath. “I didn’t find anything, so what now?”

  “Let’s head over to the eastern portion where Calhoun’s body was hidden from Union troops. His family is also buried over on that side so we’ll examine their plot too.”

  “His family. Why aren’t they buried together?” I asked.

  “No matter how respected John Calhoun was in South Carolina he could never be buried in the eastern portion of the cemetery, because you must be born in Charleston to be interned there. His wife was a Charlestonian and his children were born in the city, so the family’s final resting place is there while John’s is here across the street.”

  “Every day I’m in Charleston I learn of new and often strange customs. For a city that thrives on tourism, many of their rituals aren’t exactly inviting to outsiders.”

  “Charlestonians make great hosts and hostesses but you will never become accepted as one, no matter how long you’re here. Charleston isn’t like other cities were money often buys acceptance. Here you need money and lineage.”

  Chapter 30

  The eastern graveyard was more crowded with headstones and tourists. It was a spot where Charleston’s most well-known residents were buried, from Confederate heroes to signers of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.

  There were more dark shadows, voices in the fog, and flashes going off. Why were they taking pictures in a graveyard full of fog? Many of the stones were beautifully carved, but I couldn’t see so how could the camera?

  “In the back north corner there is a temple building and Calhoun’s body was placed there during the war years.” Hannah said motioning me along.

  Massive columns began to rise from the ground as we wound our way around gravestones and along a skinny path. A gothic structure that mimicked the larger church began to become visible through the fog and towering live oaks. Gravestones had been cemented into the walls along the outer side of the building, with others simply leaning against one and other. Hannah moved slowly around the temple building and made her way to its southern face. The outer wall was covered with grave markers cemented into its side as she motioned me under a spacious oak tree.

  “What is with all the markers along the cemetery walls and here on the temple?” I asked Hannah.

  “When a headstone is removed from its original location it is no longer a marker fo
r a grave, but instead a memorial. Many of these represent burial sites that have disappeared over time or as memorials to loved ones. This one here is not only a memorial, but also a marker to where someone was once buried.”

  I looked up to see a marker on the temple wall that read Calhoun in big bold letters, with a paragraph of smaller text scribed into the bottom of the stone.

  “That marble slab once covered Calhoun’s tomb for 34 years in the western cemetery before he was buried here during the war.” Hannah said.

  I moved closer to get a better look, leaving Hannah to stand by the old oak tree. Bending down I got a closer look at the paragraph carved into the bottom of the stone.

  “My brethren, be not many masters, knowing that we shall receive the greater condemnation. For in many things, we offend all. If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man, and able also to bridle the whole body. Behold, we put bits in the horses' mouths, that they may obey us; and we turn about their whole body. Behold also the ships, which though they be so great, and are driven of fierce winds, yet are they turned about with a very small helm, whithersoever the governor listeth. Even so the tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth! And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity: so is the tongue among our members, that it defileth the whole body, and setteth on fire the course of nature; and it is set on fire of hell.” I read the paragraph out loud.

  “I’m not sure what the whole thing means,” Hannah said, “but I can grasp that it is along the lines of the power of the spoken word. An interesting choice, considering Calhoun’s fame

  as an orator.”

  I turned from the marker and began to walk back towards Hannah when I noticed old markings carved in the tree behind her.

  “Look at this.” I said moving past her. On the tree, I could barely make out the letter J.A.M. roughly carved and scared into the bark. “It’s the same as in the letter.”

  Hannah moved closer in for a look and then made her way around the rest of the large trunk. “Jack look at this. The hooked x.”

  On the opposite side of the tree, and scared into the trunk, was a roughly carved hooked x, small and barely visible to the casual observer.

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure, but we are definitely on to something.”

  I spotted another shadow in the fog moving past us and suddenly another camera flashed.

  “We need to go.” I said quietly.

  “You might be right.” Hannah said leading the way towards the front of the graveyard and back onto Church Street.

  Chapter 31

  “The letter, do you have it?” George Trenholm boomed at me from across the desk in his study.

  I was getting tired of being summoned to his house like one of his servants. “Why would you think that I have it?” I said calmly.

  “You and that northern professor have been snooping around some pretty odd places. What does the Historical Society and St. Phillip’s Church have to do with my son’s murder?” Trenholm threw some photos of us in the graveyard on his desk.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” I was totally ignoring the fact that he was obviously having me followed for the moment.

  “How should I know?”

  “Then why would you believe we have your letter, simply by the places Hannah and I have been visiting? There has been a lot you haven’t told me. Why? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because you don’t believe it has anything to do with Jason’s murder, or maybe it’s because family secrets are more important to keep than finding your son’s killer.”

  Trenholm sat in his leather desk chair, chin to his chest, looking down at his lap and exposing too much of his neck fat. Silent, and like a rock, his stubbornness told me a lot about the main and the beliefs he held.

  “What’s so remarkable about that letter? Someone broke in here looking for it, and now you assume I have it. Why does an old piece of paper seem to be the main key to your son’s death, and yet you refuse to help me understand.”

  “Who says you didn’t have someone break into my study just to get your hands on it?” Trenholm finally spoke.

  “Don’t be so daft. You’re a smart man, but now your stubbornness is making you ignorant.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe the man who broke in has any connection to you. I actually believe that professor got the letter from Jason. I know they were working together on a little family history…not sure how he found it though.”

  “Once again you’re missing the point. I need to know why that letter is so important if I’m going to help find your son’s killer.”

  “Your job is to protect this family by conducting your own investigation into Jason’s murder.” Trenholm stood with hands on his desk, voice reaching a stern tone. “All you appear to be doing is uncovering town gossip. I believe I’m done with your services. And I want you to give that letter back to me.”

  “Fine, but I don’t have the letter.” I smiled calmly back at him.

  “I’ll have the authorities after you and that woman for theft.”

  “I don’t think so. You don’t want anyone else knowing about that old piece of paper.” I got up from my seat and headed towards the door. “If I come across it though I’ll let you know. Oh, and you can send my final check over to Mrs. Legare’s carriage house.” With one last smile at the red-faced man, I left.

  Chapter 32

  I knew there wasn’t going to be another check forthcoming from Mr. Trenholm, but it was a satisfying final jab to irritate the man. I had no intention of stopping my investigation, partly for my own curiosities and partly to help my nephew Bryce find some answers. I detested people like George Trenholm. The man felt he was special because of his birthright and, unfortunately, this perception was only reinforced by most people in Charleston. That’s not how I was raised and I saw each man for the man he was, not for the man his ancestors were, and Trenholm was a rich asshole. It was that simple. How could someone care more about the family’s reputation then finding his son’s killer?

  Part of me realized that I wanted to continue the investigation for selfish reasons. I wanted to find out what Trenholm was hiding and put the man in a place he deserved, if that was possible. I know that the rich usually find a way to wiggle out of responsibility and often someone below them takes the brunt of their actions, but I had to try to expose whatever family secret Trenholm was so desperate to hide. I wondered if it would even be shocking enough to penetrate the fortress that was Charleston’s high society, but I was going to find out one way or another.

  “I got fired.” I said to Hannah, as I came up the stairs of the carriage house.

  “Oh, you poor baby.” The woman was holding a glass of wine in her hand and sarcasm in her voice.

  “I’ll take one of those,” pointing to her drink.

  Hannah poured me a heavy glass from the bottle of Washington State pinot noir she had on the counter. “Here you go. Now go take a hot shower. I’ll have dinner ready by the time you get out.”

  “Dinner? Are we playing house already?”

  “Don’t worry Mr. Francis I’m not looking for a husband, I’m just hungry. Now, go take a shower. We have a lot to go over, unless you’re not moving forward since you’ve been fired.”

  “Oh, I’m definitely moving forward…especially since I got fired, even if it’s just to piss on Trenholm’s happy life a little bit.”

  I went to the bedroom and got undressed before grabbing my robe and heading to the shower. I realized underneath the hot water that I had not smelled any food coming from the kitchen, and it was only after I shut the water off that I heard voices. Take-out, I thought with a smile, as I was drying off.

  A pair of jeans hung over the back of the chair in my bedroom and I quickly threw a Chief Wahoo t-shirt on with them. I pulled a pair of boat shoes from the closet and made my way back to Hannah and our take-out dinner.

  She was standing perfectly still, leaning o
n the kitchen counter with her wine still in hand. Something in the living area had her eye and she didn’t break her glance to look at me as I made my way towards her. It wasn’t until I was standing nearly next to

  her that I realized a man was standing in the room holding a

  brilliantly shined sword, dressed as a tour guide, and brandishing a wicked smile.

  “Mr. Francis, how nice of you to join us. I take it you enjoyed your shower.” The man said in a thick southern drawl that resembled the Upcountry more than the Charleston tongue I was getting used to.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked surprisingly calm.