“I’m sorry. There’s nothing except the word of a ghost.”
“I’ll speak with our resident medium when he’s feeling better. Do you think the ghosts will reveal more to Reginald when he’s up to another séance?”
I hated lying to Carlton, but if he was the messenger to the men holding Uncle Brett, he had to believe what he was selling. “The ghosts are gone. Reginald heard their complaints and sent them on their way. There’s no way to contact them now.”
“The men holding Brett will want something more substantial.”
“Then we have nothing to offer them, except money. Reginald can’t undo what’s been done. He’ll get no more information from any of the ghosts. They’re banished. Caoin House is free of the past.”
“I’ll speak with Thompson. I hope this is enough to satisfy the kidnappers.”
“I do, too. Thank you, Carlton.” I hoped with all my heart he could convince Thompson, who I had no doubt could speak with the kidnappers whenever he chose.
And as soon as Uncle Brett was home safely, I intended to find out who in Mobile had so much to lose by the secrets in this old house. Uncle Brett’s abductors would pay. There was obviously something in Eva’s murder and The Book of Beloved that was acutely important, and knowing the bloodline obsession in Mobile, I suspected what it might be. Birthright in Mobile might not be as clear as some families wanted to claim.
Duty pulled me into smoothing out the running of the house. A private nurse arrived to tend to Reginald, and the hall clock struck two o’clock before I had time to return to his room. I’d packed lunches for the searchers, drawn maps of the property, consulted with Carlton and Winona, and finally escaped the hive of activity in the kitchen to check on my friend.
As I went down the empty corridor to his room, I had the unsettling sense that someone was watching me. The ghosts were not banished from Caoin House—but I hoped they would remain hidden for the time being. I’d been up for nearly thirty-two hours without sleep, and my nerves were taut. If Reginald continued to improve, that would be a huge load off my shoulders.
I tapped lightly on the door and stepped into the room. “Reginald—” The bed was empty. There was no trace of my friend. Even the dirty clothes he’d been wearing were gone. Only the rumpled sheets and an empty tray containing the remnants of a sandwich and coffee indicated he’d been in the room.
“Damn!” Too late, I knew where he was. Off with Framon. And they’d deliberately slipped away from me. “Damn, damn, damn!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Winona was in the kitchen washing the mountain of dishes, the result of feeding numerous search volunteers. She looked as exhausted as I felt. “Did Framon say where he was going?” I tried to sound casual, though my heart was pounding.
She shook her head. “He knows what he’s about. I don’t question him.”
“I believe he and Reginald left together.” My panic was contained.
“He has my car.”
Her lack of worry grated on my nerves. “Reginald just came out of unconsciousness. He shouldn’t be out of bed.”
“They may save Mr. Brett,” she said. “Framon thought it was urgent. I trust him.”
She was right. If anyone could find Brett, I believed it would be Framon. The young man knew both the history and topography of the region. He was acutely aware of the forces at work. And Reginald had a talent for watching people’s reactions. He caught the twitches, aversions, and tells that frequently gave away the truth. He would help Framon. But I wanted to be with them, to help find my uncle. “Did they say where they were going?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t ask. Mr. Reginald took sandwiches and vacuum flasks of coffee.” She hesitated. “Mr. Reginald sounded . . . okay. He was lucid and clear. Framon will watch over him.”
“Did they say when they would be back?”
“No.”
It miffed me that they’d left me behind, but the logical part of my brain understood they’d slipped out when it was opportune. I’d been busy. As much as I wanted to go to the search site, it was best I stayed at Caoin House.
“Can I help prepare food?” I asked.
Winona looked around the kitchen. “You should rest. You’ve been up too long.”
My eyes were dry, and a throb of pain had moved from the base of my skull to my forehead. Even so, I wasn’t sure I could sleep. “Will you wake me if Framon and Reginald come back? Or if Carlton shows up?”
“I will.”
I dragged myself up the stairs and to my bedroom. Winona had made my bed, and I stepped out of my clothes and fell on top of the soft comforter. The balcony doors were open, and the light murmur of conversation, the words indistinguishable, came from the oak grove where searchers took a break. At times urgency lifted the voices more clearly to my bedroom, but not long after I stretched out, a heavy lethargy came over me. Sleep took me with a swirl and tug as constant as the tidal pull of the ocean.
In my dreams, I went back to Wassaw Island, a wilderness paradise off the Georgia coast. The summer sunshine and the tang of salt on the air filled me with awareness of the preciousness of each minute. I time-traveled in my dream to the days I’d been invited as a guest of the George Parson family to vacation on the island, which was littered with cannonballs from Union shelling.
The Parsons were friends of Uncle Brett, and as his niece, I’d received many invitations to visit the primitive barrier islands with the sand dunes, palmettos, and sea oats. I’d loved those trips, especially after Alex had been called up to serve and was sent overseas. The sandy island beach was as close as I could get to Europe, to the battlefields where Alex hunkered in foxholes or charged toward the enemy. I stood on the beach and stared beyond the Atlantic horizon and imagined what my husband did so far from home.
In my dream, and I knew I was dreaming, Alex walked barefoot in the sand toward me. The wind whipped his white shirt, and his slacks were rolled up to his calves to avoid the surf. A strand of his fine, dark hair hung in his eyes, but the wind lifted it. He was whole and perfect and happy as he came to me.
“Be happy, Raissa,” he said when he’d stopped a few feet from me. He approached no closer.
“I miss you.” Time had sealed my misery and grief into a cyst, but it ruptured, and the longing for Alex almost brought me to my knees. “Please, don’t leave me.”
“Life is only a transition. And it is brief.”
“Take me with you.” I would go with him. I would leave my body on the bed and take his hand and never look back.
“It’s not your time.”
“I don’t want to stay without you.”
He looked toward the ocean and the sound of the surf. “It’s not your time, Raissa. You have much to do. My work was finished, and now I must go on to the next episode.”
I thought I’d let Alex go. Little by little, I’d allowed life to creep back over me, to pull me into the small joys of each day, the pleasures of my uncle’s company, my writing, the fresh strawberries from the garden Travis tended. Little by little my body had awakened from grief to joy. Those pleasures were nothing compared to the loss of Alex and the life we’d planned.
“I could kill myself and meet you.”
He laughed, and the sun fanned the small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “No, you won’t.”
“But I want to.”
“The pain grows easier with time. You won’t harm yourself because you are not done yet.”
“No, I won’t.” It was foolish to pretend otherwise.
“Beware, Raissa. There’s danger near you.” He looked out to sea again, and his stance changed, as if he heard someone calling his name. He leaned toward it, but then turned back. “Love doesn’t die. It changes, but it doesn’t die.”
He was gone, and I was left with the taste of salt on my lips, my own tears mingled with a gift from the ocean.
I woke to a penetrating silence all around me. When I went to the balcony to look over the grounds, everyone had le
ft. The oak grove was empty. Either the men had gone back to search again, or my uncle had been found. I threw on clean clothes and hurried downstairs. Winona’s kitchen was scrubbed and spotless, and it echoed with emptiness. The afternoon heat settled over the house. I felt as if a spell had been cast. The house had shunned all other guests. I was alone.
A sudden noise came from the stairwell. I knew it instantly. It was the clacking of the dreadful jigger. I wasn’t alone in the house, after all. I should have known better. Caoin House was never empty. The spacious old rooms were beleaguered with secrets and unhappy spirits.
The jigger clacked, a series of pulses. Mine. I knew the dots and dashes, the Morse code. Mine.
As I forced myself up the stairs, I couldn’t be certain I wasn’t still asleep. Sounds came to me, but they were muffled. The clacking of the jigger, the only clear and distinct noise, moved rapidly ahead of me, now on the third floor. My destination was the attic, whether I wanted to go or not.
When I entered the ballroom, the light changed. From the warm glow of the afternoon sun, the columns and hardwood floor took on the shadings of midnight. The white sheer draperies gusted playfully at the tall windows, casting dancing moon shadows across the room. The table where we’d held the séance remained in the center of the space, and the chairs were drawn back, as if waiting for someone to arrive and be seated.
The clacking jigger had fallen silent, but the room pulsed with another entity.
I wanted nothing so much as to run back down the stairs and out the front door of Caoin House. I wanted the sunshine, the oaks. I wanted Alex and the ocean’s kiss on my skin. I wanted anything except to walk up the steep flight of stairs and open the attic door.
One foot after the other, I climbed the stairs. My hand gripped the brass doorknob and twisted. The attic door opened on hushed hinges. I stepped into the space and inhaled dust and the faint traces of a lemony perfume.
“Who’s here?”
The oppressive heat made me short of breath, and the stillness was like a gauzy layer of damp fabric across my mouth and nose. Dragging in air became a chore.
Movement in a dark corner of the attic made me whirl, but I found only the draped furniture and heavy air. Whoever was in the room had no intention of facing me head-on. I couldn’t tell if it was the child or Eva, or perhaps someone else. Someone I might not want to meet.
“I know what happened to Elise.” The room inhaled my words.
I tried again. “I want to help.”
A curtain fluttered at one of the vented windows, and I looked through the slats to the oak grove three floors below me. Caleb stood between the rows of oaks, his uniform once again clean and pressed. He doffed his hat.
“I know who killed you, Caleb,” I said. “Eli Whitehead. He murdered his entire family. His wife, his daughter, his son. All of them.” The truth sat like a stone on my chest. “He was an evil man.”
A trunk lid banged open. When I whipped around, I saw the boy. He stood by the trunk that had contained The Book of Beloved. “Horace, I won’t hurt you.” He didn’t run. I could clearly see his gaunt body and painfully thin legs.
“He’ll hurt you.” He backed into the shadows. “Run away.”
“Where are you buried?” I would find his remains and put them in the family cemetery, where he should be, beside his mother and sister.
He shook his head. “Run! Before it’s too late.”
He disappeared, but the trunk remained opened. I went to it and removed The Book of Beloved from beneath the layers of lingerie. Reginald, Framon, Carlton, and my uncle would understand the value of the book. They would agree with me that lancing the boil of the past was the only way to put the present to rights.
I would carry the book to the library, and by the time I did, my uncle would be safely returned. I negotiated with God, though I knew such efforts were wasted. I’d tried to safeguard Alex’s life with such bargains. And failed miserably.
Cradling the book, I stood up to leave, but some fabric at the top of the lingerie pile stopped me. Or at least a dark stain on white cotton did. I hadn’t noticed the stain when I’d previously been in the trunk. I picked up the cloth and shook it out. It was a man’s white dress shirt, bloodstained on one shoulder. My brain hadn’t registered the significance of the shirt, but my gut immediately did. I examined it more closely.
The placket had been torn, and a swatch of fabric and button were missing. Exactly like the piece of fabric and small pearl-white button I’d found on the roof.
Heart pounding, I closed the trunk and sat on the lid. The fresh bloodstain raised the possibility that it belonged to Robert’s murderer. I folded the shirt and placed it on top of the book of photographs.
Now I had two important leads to show Uncle Brett as soon as he came home.
Winona brought tea to the library, and I sat at Uncle’s desk, sipping the hot liquid, hoping to clear the fog from my thoughts. The Book of Beloved was safely tucked behind a stack of biographies of people so old and dull, I expected they hadn’t been touched since my uncle put them on the shelf.
I’d matched the piece of cloth and button to the bloodstained shirt and placed both into a drawer in my uncle’s desk. I was no detective, but I could read the evidence—there had been a fight between Robert and someone else. In the fray, the button had been torn away and the bloodstain acquired. The questions were, who did the shirt belong to, and how did it get into the trunk in the attic of Caoin House?
When I’d finished my tea, I went upstairs to my dresser drawer and picked up the locket that had been left in the house the night it was ransacked. Clicking it open, I studied the picture of Eva and the defaced image of Eli. The obliteration of Eli had been Eva’s doing. Or perhaps Elise or even Horace, the child prisoner, had lashed out at the man who tortured them. So many people had hated Eli, and for good reason.
But why would any of the unhappy spirits in the house target Robert Aultman, a visitor with no connection to Caoin House or the past? Robert was lured to the rooftop—neither ghost nor man could haul a fully grown man across the slippery slate. Robert was a con man, perhaps, but he’d been in Mobile a mere few days. Not long enough to earn an enemy who wanted him dead.
Robert’s death was tied, somehow, to Caoin House and the events of the past, but I couldn’t make the pieces fit together, no matter how I twisted and turned them.
When I’d checked the coroner’s report, I’d written down the names and address of Robert’s family. I retrieved my notebook from my bedroom, making a quick tour of the house. Everything was still and quiet. Winona was busy in the kitchen, and I hurried back to the library and locked the door. I didn’t know what a long-distance phone call would cost, but I’d pay Uncle Brett back from the money I received from the publication of my short story.
Hand shaking as I dialed the operator, I inhaled and steadied my voice as I asked to be connected with Robert’s parents in Jacksonville, Florida. I could only hope they had phone service.
When Mrs. Aultman answered the phone, I introduced myself and expressed sympathy for the loss of her son. She was clearly puzzled at my call, and I did my best to explain how I knew Robert.
“I’m so sorry to intrude on your grief, but there are things about his death that . . . trouble me.”
“None of it made sense to me.” Her shaky voice was laced with anger. “Robert was excited about the future. He was a great admirer of Mr. Airlie’s steam power and had high expectations of aligning himself with the inventor. The war was over, and he was beginning a new life.”
I blundered into what I needed to know. “I know Robert had been in some trouble with the law—”
“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Aultman’s voice was sharp through her tears. “My son was never in trouble. He was a decent man who was highly regarded by the entire community.”
“But the coroner’s inquest report?” I wasn’t about to be diverted from my quest. “You read it?”
“My husband demanded a co
py of the report, and we read it together. I don’t have a clue what you’re going on about. Robert had no enemies, and he’d never been in trouble with the law. He conducted himself with honor. There was no one who wished him harm, and there was nothing in the coroner’s report that said otherwise.”
This was more difficult than I’d anticipated. “I only want to know if someone from his past could have wished him harm.”
“My son was a good man. I don’t know what you’re implying, but I won’t hear it. What I know is that my boy went to a party at your uncle’s home, and he fell to his death, without explanation. Now here you are calling and implying that he was less than an upstanding man. Shame on you. Shame on you.” She slammed the phone down.
Line noise hummed in my ear.
Dr. Langford Oyles had been in charge of the inquest. One report was filed in his office, but he could have composed a different report for the Aultman family. Based on what I’d learned about how things worked in Mobile, it was possible the coroner had prepared a special report for the Aultman family. But if that were the case, the Mobile report had been written specifically for someone in Mobile to read.
I remembered how easily I’d bluffed my way into Oyles’s office to read the report. He’d questioned my desire to see it, but he’d quickly given in and left the room. He could easily have dismissed my thin excuse and sent me packing. But he hadn’t.
Two systems were at work in Mobile. One for the average citizen, and one for the elite. Those who pulled the strings could manipulate something as simple as a coroner’s inquest report—and much more. But why? What reason would anyone have for painting Robert Aultman as unsavory? Who would benefit from such an action? Who might read the report?
Uncle Brett.
If my assumption was correct, and Robert’s reputation had been distorted and maligned for my uncle’s benefit, then it followed that the person behind the change in the coroner’s report and Robert’s death had attended the party.
I pulled the white shirt from the desk drawer and examined it in the library’s sunny window. A faint pale stain that I’d missed on initial inspection was on the left cuff. I would take the shirt to Winona and ask about the stain.
The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1) Page 27
