As soon as I said it, I recognized the slip of the tongue and, sure enough, he caught it.
“That’s not what Beaumont said in his letter,” Randall pointed out.
“So you’ve read the Beaumont letter?”
“Yes.”
“Then what else do you want?” I exploded. “The man came out and said that the ‘treasure’ was lost in gambling dens all up and down the coast. There is no treasure.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Don’t believe it? Don’t believe the Beaumont letter?”
Randall looked at me inquisitively. Softly, almost in a whisper, he said, “No. I don’t believe it.”
There was something menacing in his tone. I threw up my hands again, desperate to look only exasperated and not frightened. “Look, it doesn’t even matter – save yourself some heartache and backache, Mr. Randall, and listen to me: there is no treasure on Chase Farm. There never has been. You’re on a fool’s errand that’s ruined better men than you.”
“You mean,” he said, in the same soft tone, “that it ruined Michael Chase.”
For the second time today, my uncle’s end had been thrown in my face for effect. Now fury replaced fear. If he wanted a fireworks display, I could oblige.
I grabbed the door knob and threw the door wide open. It bounced against the wall and nearly rebounded on me. I whirled on him and pointed at the doorway, but Randall hadn’t moved. My display of temper didn’t do anything more than make the set expression on his face even more firm.
“That,” I hissed, “is enough. You get out of my house, Randall. Get out now, or I swear, I’ll call the police.”
There was another moment of quiet, so deep, so still, that it was frightening. Randall - for all his peculiarities, his snobbish, particular exterior - looked so calm, so still, that I thought, I’ve lost.
Just as I completed the thought, he leaned in. His dark eyes bored into mine, and I repressed a shiver.
“Tell me, Warwick,” he asked, ever so softly. “Did that letter achieve its purpose? Has it stopped anybody from digging on your land?”
My mouth went dry and I leaned back against the wall, struggling to ask, “What are you talking about?”
Again, the look of feigned innocence. “The Beaumont letter. You published it in the local and national papers to ward off further trespassers. After all, the death of your uncle wouldn’t have been enough to stop them, not when they’re caught in the throes of gold fever.” His head tilted, almost sympathetically. “His death – it nearly destroyed you, didn’t it?”
The memory hit me like a tidal wave. I staggered, the images threatening to overwhelm me.
They come in solid moments, images like flashcards, moving too fast for me to stop. My uncle on the stallion. I could see clearly the solid set of his shoulders, the loose, practiced way he held his seat, the careless way he rejected his helmet. “Haven’t been tossed in twenty years and there aren’t any students around to see.”
It was like being there again. The morning sun making the new leaves sparkle like jewels. The feeling of the saddle between my legs. The bite of the early morning chill.
He’s ahead, standing in the stirrups.
“Let’s see what you can do, boy!”
The stallion is magnificent. He’s my first purchase for the farm, a stud that I’m sure we can breed racers from. Uncle Michael had teased me: “You take this horse thing seriously, don’t you?”
I’m laughing breathlessly, trailing behind. The trail is smooth, empty. We’re racing, flying, free and fast. A splendid day for a ride. My roan eats the ground, as enthused as I am.
The first crack is like a rifle shot. It’s the sound of the stallion’s front leg snapping. He falls, my uncle keeps going. The second crack, a sickening, wet sound, is when he hits the tree. The stallion is thrashing, but my uncle is still. He’s dead before I can get to him. I pull up his head and call his name, but he’s loose in my hands.
The shriek of the stallion, rolling over the abandoned fortune hunter’s hole, echoes in the empty morning air.
Shattering doesn’t begin to describe it. Earth shaking is closer. Everything changed that day.
Sharp tears sprung to my eyes, but I bit them back as I glared at Professor Randall. For a moment, I wondered if he knew that I run every morning, keeping guard against more holes.
Ridiculous, I thought, angry at myself for a moment. He doesn’t know anything.
But my hands were shaking.
Randall said, “The letter hasn’t stopped them, has it? There aren’t legitimate hunters any more, but the amateurs are worse. People who are willing to trespass don’t tend to enclose their sites or post warning signs. I bet you’re still finding exploratory holes scattered about the place. I bet you’ve threatened a few with the police, but they’ve caught the scent and they won’t stop until something is found. The Beaumont letter hasn’t solved the problem, has it?”
I swallowed hard. He was right, absolutely right. The Beaumont letter had cut back on the incursions, but not nearly enough.
“You must have been so disappointed,” he said.
“All right!” I snapped, my voice shaking. “I’ll admit it – we published it to stop the intruders. I thought it would help, but it didn’t and they still come. Not as bad as before, but they come. People will insist on believing in Santa Claus as long as they think they can get something out of it. The letter didn’t work and I’ll admit it. Now will you go?”
I gestured towards the door, but Professor Randall didn’t move. He studied me for a long moment, his dark, fathomless eyes roaming my face, searching for I knew not what.
I didn’t care what he saw. He had managed to touch that which should be left alone, and I was through with being his emotional puppet. I was ready for whatever weapon he cared to throw at me.
I thought I was prepared.
“If I were you, I’d get your money back.”
His voice was soft, even gentle, but the words struck me as forcibly as arrows from a crossbow. My mouth went dry, my heart slowed to almost a stop. The dreadful calm I felt as I faced him, wide-eyed and an easy target, was almost as frightening as the look of certainty in his eyes.
I stammered. “What are you talking about?”
He sighed and lowered himself back down onto the couch, draping his clasped hands over the armrest. Then he fixed me with that dark-eyed stare again.
“I’m talking about the letter you forged,” he said.
Chapter 7:
After what seemed like an eternity, I found my voice.
“You are insane,” I gasped. “Absolutely insane.”
My breath was shallow. A thousand moths beat their wings against my stomach lining and I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself before realizing what I looked like. I let go and drew myself up to glare at him.
“Insane,” I repeated, but he only shook his head.
“Now, now, Miss Warwick, let’s stop wasting each other’s time. The letter’s a fake. You know it. I know it. Let’s move on.”
“Professor Maddox, Professor Anthony Maddox, authenticated it. He was the finest in his field. Are you trying to say,” I demanded, gaining confidence slowly, “that he made a mistake? He was too good to be mistaken. The letter is real, Randall. Maddox said so.”
Professor Randall regarded me with amusement.
“My dear Miss Warwick,” he said. It was a mild and mocking reproof.
Damn him. He was so implacable!
“Professor Maddox had the respect of the community,” I said. “He was known as an ethical man who wouldn’t put his name behind anything that wasn’t absolutely true. You may not have known him, Professor Randall, but everyone said…”
“Actually, I knew him quite well,” he interrupted. He turned to his papers and searched through them as he spoke. “I said before, I worked and studied under him for two years. He was, as you say, a man of principle. If he gave his word, it meant something. Which leads me to be
lieve that he must have thought an awful lot of you and your family to do what he did.”
I flinched. “I don’t know what you mean. I barely knew the man.”
“Then you must have had some impressive hold over him to make him commit perjury.” He plucked out a folded piece of paper and sat back in the couch.
My face was hot. “You think I blackmailed Professor Maddox to authenticate the letter?”
“It wasn’t my first theory, but it does fit.”
“Where on earth would I get anything on a man like that? And why would I? I didn’t gain anything. We couldn’t even sell the letter. Except for local interest, it’s worth nothing.”
“No, that isn’t strictly true,” Randall said calmly. “A friend at Harvard University told me that he contacted you, hoping to add it to his collection. He offered you the usual, generous amount, but you turned him down flat. Surprised him greatly and made him curious. Neither he nor I could figure it out.”
“So, you’re basing this whole crazy forgery theory on the fact that I disappointed a collector friend of yours?”
“No. As I said, I can prove the forgery to you right here and now. Want me to show you?”
“No!” I said sharply. “You’re crazy and I want you to leave. What’s that?”
Professor Randall had opened the folded paper while I was ordering him out, insufferable amusement plain on his face.
“This?” he asked, innocently. “It’s a copy of the letter. Surely you recognize the writing.”
I did and felt the blood drain from my face. He had a copy – but what could he tell from that?
We’d been so careful, so very, very careful. Finding the proper nib and the right ink had been easy compared to finding paper that was the right age and from the right location. The search went on for weeks, and in the end, I had to settle for English stationary - reasoning that in a port town like Baltimore, Beaumont might have had access to English print supplies.
The letter was perfect enough that it accomplished the seemingly impossible: convinced Maddox that it was the real deal. It was a risk that cost me many nights sleep while he studied the letter; but in the end, it paid off, and with Maddox declaring the authenticity, no one questioned it. To be sure that no one ever did, I’d convinced Aunt Susanna to store the letter in the safety deposit box – for future generations, I’d said.
I thought I’d covered it all. It was such a small event in the academic world that I convinced myself that no one would pursue it. The Chases were locally interesting, but not enough to draw national attention - except, of course, for the treasure angle. With that out of the picture, I thought I’d ended it.
It appeared, in the form of Professor Randall, that I’d failed to kill all interest.
Where this was going seemed obvious, but how much money could he really expect to get out of us, knowing the pitiful state of the farm?
I decided to keep playing the game for as long as he was willing. I pointed to the letter he held and demanded, “Where did you get that? Did Maddox give it to you?”
“Copies are available to all interested parties,” Randall said. “I thought you might be reluctant to show me the real thing, so I brought this to prove my claim to you.”
“To prove that Professor Maddox was a liar.”
“Or that his affection for you and your family was strong enough to override his natural honesty,” he said calmly. “I have to confess, I haven’t been able to discover the connection yet.”
“If you think this will make me give you permission to run around my property, then you’ve got a big disappointment coming. I’ll run you out of town, Professor. Don’t think I won’t file a harassment suit against you and your precious Hadley University for ruining my family name. ”
Again, the grin, accompanied by a glitter in his eyes. “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure that you and I can work things out so that no one’s reputation is damaged.”
There it was. The first demand. I felt deflated.
I folded my arms. “So it’s blackmail,” I stated, and noted that he flinched at the word. “I don’t deal with blackmailers, but even if I did, if you’ve been as thorough as you claim, you’d know that we don’t make enough to keep a mouse, let alone a greedy, self-serving…”
He cut in with a dismissive wave. “We’ll get into the particulars later. First things first – while your aunt is out, suppose I show you what is wrong with your letter?”
Without waiting for my response, Professor Randall placed the letter on the coffee table, then reached into his suitcase to pull out a magnifying glass and a file folder. Reluctantly, I left the wall and went to look over his shoulder. I kept telling myself there was nothing he could prove from a mere copy – that his entire case had to be based on a hunch and that it would, if made public, turn into a case of my word against his. If that happened, I’d be in the better position of having the deceased, respected Professor Maddox on my side. Joe Tremonti would back me, too - but I preferred to leave him out of it, until absolutely necessary.
Logic notwithstanding, I was nervous as I peered over Randall’s shoulder.
Randall smoothed the letter out and my eyes ran over the artistic strokes. It was a good letter, artfully done, with just the right blend of training in the pen-strokes and gruffness in the tone to be convincing as a letter from a carelessly educated man. It fooled Maddox. It should have fooled Randall, too.
“Show me,” I demanded.
“Just a minute.”
He pulled out a slim, paperback book, garishly yellow and red. I thought, Typical – technology adverse.
Randall placed the book face down and rubbed his hands together, satisfied that everything was in place.
“Now,” he said, “I did say that I was working on a biography, but I didn’t say who it was about. To save you the trouble of asking, it’s about Ernst Raine, a Baltimore prison guard during the Civil War, and an interesting subject.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Very few have. He played no significant part in the war and I’m the first historian to take any real interest in him. Raine’s contribution was made in a lengthy, detailed diary he kept, in which he described his daily life and wrote brief sketches of his inmates. Raine was an amateur psychologist, although he wouldn’t have known of the science at the time. He had a great deal of sympathy for those in his care, especially those who were injured, sickly, or crippled. Life in the 1860s was a rough sport, Miss Warwick, and it left scars. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
“No, and I wish you’d get to the point.”
“I’m practically on top of it. You knew, of course, that Beaumont was arrested and tried for causing unrest in Baltimore shortly after Alexander Chase’s death?”
“Of course,” I said.
He grinned again, and flipped over the book so that I could see the title: Handwriting Analysis – the science and psychology.
He said, “And I’m sure you knew that he was right handed.”
I felt such a rush of relief that I had to fight against showing it.
“I hate to disappoint you, professor, but I think if you analyze this letter, you’ll find - as Maddox did - that the letter was written by a right-handed man,” I said. “Maddox was, as I’m sure you’ll remember, a thorough man.”
And so were we, but I didn’t say it.
Randall’s smirk threatened to undermine my confidence.
“Oh, I remember,” he said, and pulled a piece of paper out of the book. “You’re right – this is the letter of a right-handed man. But that’s the problem. At the time this letter was written, according to both Ernst Raine and the surviving Baltimore Prison Records, Jeremiah Beaumont was in the hospital, recovering from a severe beating he received in a prison riot. Among the injuries sustained were head injuries, the usual bruising, cuts to the legs, the torso – and breaking four out of the five fingers on his right hand. It took him two months to recover.”
“Wher
e?” I demanded and without a word, he handed the paper to me. There, copied from the original records, was the notation from the prison records. And lest I claim this was a forgery, the copy bore the stamp of the school library it came from. A precaution that was particularly sagacious on Professor Randall’s part – it left me without recourse.
Not that I didn’t try. Desperately I scrounged about for an explanation, any explanation. “Then, then someone else must have written it for him,” I stammered. “Someone else – someone who – who…”
“Someone who took such care to imitate his handwriting? I had an analysis done on this letter, comparing this letter to the logs that Beaumont kept for McInnis back in Charleston. Even though this was a copy, the expert I hired told me that it was a near-perfect imitation. ‘A very impressive piece of work,’ was the phrase she used, actually.”
I didn’t say anything. I was thinking, Stupid, stupid! Why didn’t I check for hospital records?
But there had been no indication that Beaumont had done anything other than complain about prison food and catch the lingering disease that killed him six months after his release. Why would I have looked further?
I felt my world crumbling about me. I could fight Randall, claim innocence, throw him out and deny access to the letter or make sure that it was lost or destroyed, leaving nothing for the authorities when they came looking to verify his claim. What would Aunt Susanna think? What would this do to her?
I can’t let this touch her. I can’t let this happen, I thought over and over again; but try as I might, I could think of no way to avoid this. Randall had me over a barrel, me and all those I held dear.
After a moment, Professor Randall said, “If you still have doubts, let me reassure you that I do have documentation to back my claims. The Baltimore Historical Society will verify the hospital records. I told them they could expect a call from you.”
I glared at him.
He went on, folding the letter as he spoke. “Initially, I thought that you’d been had, Miss Warwick. I thought, as anyone would, that you lacked the motive, the means, and the cunning to carry out such a deception. But when I learned that it was your aunt who’d found the letter in your attic, I realized that there was no way a third party could have put it there. You had to be in on the fraud. I wondered if you were trying to keep others away. I thought, She’s found the treasure and now she’s looking to dispose of it through underground channels, but that didn’t wash. None of it was turning up, and it’s obvious you don’t have an independent source of income. You’re running yourself into the ground trying to keep this place open. That gave you opportunity without means or motive. I wrestled with this for a while. Then it came to me. The reason why you did what you did, and why you kept it from your aunt.”
Necessary Evil Page 7
