The Unforgiven (Echoes from the Past Book 3)

by Irina Shapiro

  “I brought Corinne into the house to shame him, to torment him with guilt, but he didn’t care. She was nothing to him; just another slave girl to pour him coffee and shine his boots. I didn’t punish Jean; I punished myself. I lost my son,” Sybil cried. “I lost the person I loved most in the world.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mammy mumbled.

  “Are you?” Sybil screeched. “I let you go. I let you be with your daughter, and I was good to your sons and their families. I never took my anger out on them. It wasn’t their fault, or yours. But this is,” she hissed, pointing a finger at Mammy. Her breathing had calmed and her voice now had a granite edge to it. “You told her, and now everything I hold dear is threatened once again. Well, this time I won’t be so forgiving.”

  “What do you mean?” Madeline cried. She’d only said what she had to gain some leverage over Sybil. She’d never meant for Mammy to get the blame, but Sybil’s wrath was directed at her grandmother, who was now entirely at Sybil’s mercy. “I begged Mammy to tell me the truth,” Madeline tried to explain. “I wanted to know why my father was banished.”

  “Well, now you know the truth. And are you better for it?” Sybil cried. “You’re an abomination, a stain on the family name. A demon sent by God to torment me for all my days. And it’s all her fault,” Sybil roared.

  Sybil looked deranged, the years of keeping the sordid secret finally giving way to madness. She yanked a handgun from the pocket of her gown and pointed it at Mammy, who stood stock-still, her eyes wide with shock. The gun was ridiculously small, almost toy-sized. The ivory handle was intricately carved and fit perfectly into Sybil’s hand, and the silver barrel glowed as it reflected the morning sunlight. It was difficult to imagine that something so small and pretty could actually kill, but if the weapon were as deadly as the look in Sybil’s eyes, Madeline would not escape unscathed.

  “No!” Madeline screamed and lunged at Sybil. The noise that erupted from the handgun was no louder than the popping of a champagne cork, but the bullet wasn’t as harmless. Madeline felt a searing pain in her chest as a bloody flower bloomed on the front of her camisole. She tried to breathe, but gurgled instead, unable to draw air into her lungs.

  Sybil looked momentarily horrified by what she’d done, but the gun went off a second time, and Mammy crumpled into a heap next to Madeline.

  Madeline stared up at the sky. It was so blue, so clear. Only a crane, startled by the shot, marred its perfection as it took flight. The baby began to cry, but quieted quickly. Paralyzed with pain and shock, Madeline used the last of her strength to reach for Mammy. She inched her arm closer to her grandmother, finally closing her fingers around Mammy’s hand. It was still warm, but Madeline knew in her heart that Mammy was gone. The bullet had found its mark, and Mammy had met a quick end, unlike Madeline, who gasped for breath and wheezed as the air leaked through her damaged lungs.

  “Missus!” Madeline heard Joe gasp in horror. “What have you done?”

  “Joe, toss Clara into the bayou,” Sybil ordered. “Let the crocodiles have her.”

  “No,” Madeline rasped. “Please…”

  “Shall I go for the doctor?” Joe cried. “Miss Madeline is still alive.”

  “Are you mad?” Sybil had regained control and was now all business. “I will be accused of murder and sent to the gallows. Unless, of course, I tell the sheriff that you murdered Clara and Madeline, in which case you will be sent to the gallows,” she said calmly. “One word of this to anyone and you will swing. Understood?”

  Joe nodded miserably.

  “Well, go on then,” Sybil prompted.

  Madeline tried to hold on to Mammy with all her strength, but Joe yanked Mammy’s hand out of her grasp. He tried not to look at her, but Madeline could see the tears in his eyes. He was a good man, but he didn’t have much choice. Sybil wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him as well or turn him over to the law, if that’s what it took to cover up her crime. A dragging noise was followed by a loud splash as Mammy’s body hit the water and began to sink.

  Madeline saw colored spots in front of her eyes. Her chest heaved as she tried to breathe, but her body was running out of oxygen. She knew she didn’t have long. Her mind began to wander, going over every moment she’d spent with her son. She saw her mother’s face. Corinne was smiling, and beckoning to her.

  “Don’t be afraid, Maddy,” she whispered.

  I’m an abomination, Mama, Madeline thought, an affront to God.

  “Nothing that comes out of love can ever be an affront to God, my love,” Corrine replied, still smiling.

  It’s my fault Mammy is dead, Madeline tried to explain.

  Her mother shook her head, but didn’t reply. The image faded. Madeline could still see Corrine’s hand, beckoning to her, but she wasn’t ready to go, not as long as she heard her son crying for her. She didn’t see Sybil leave the porch, but she heard her voice as she boarded the canoe.

  “Joe, take me back to the plantation,” Sybil barked.

  “What about Miss Madeline?”

  “You will come back for her later.”

  “Shall I summon the doctor then?” Joe asked, his voice hopeful.

  “She’ll be dead by the time you come back, you fool,” Sybil said. “Wait until dark, then wrap her body and take her to New Orleans. Lay her in my family tomb. I’m the last of the Talbots, so no one will go in there ever again. Her remains will never be found. And clean this place. No one must ever know what happened here.”

  “Yes, missus.”

  “Oh, and bring me her fan. It’s the only thing that can give me away.”

  “As you wish. What do I tell Mr. George if he ask for Miss Madeline?” Joe asked.

  “You tell him that Madeline refused to marry Mr. Montlake and decided to leave with her Mammy instead. I gave her a sum of money and wished her well,” Sybil replied calmly. “She mentioned her desire to visit Europe.”

  “Yes, missus.”

  Madeline heard the splash of paddles as the canoe glided away from the bank. A lusty wail pierced the air, baby George announcing that he was ready for a feeding. Sybil’s voice carried over the water as she cooed to the baby, sounding for all the world like a happy grandma.

  Madeline’s fingers clawed at the rough boards of the porch as she gasped for air, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. Her chest heaved and her legs convulsed like those of a hanged man. Terror overcame her, but after a few moments the pain receded, leaving a feeling of peace and calm. She was no longer suffering, but floating on a gossamer cloud, free as a bird. A choking sound escaped her chest as blood gurgled from her mouth.

  Madeline’s hand went to the hole in her chest, but never quite made it. It fell to her side as the light went out, replaced by eternal darkness. She didn’t hear the hungry cry of her baby or the screech of a bird as it exploded from a nearby tree and shot into the sky, its wings flapping wildly. She was gone.

  Chapter 45

  May 2014

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Quinn hurled the fan against the wall. The fragile accessory shattered with a satisfying crack as ivory met plaster. This time she didn’t weep. She was furious. Sybil Besson had gotten away with a double murder since it was obvious no one had ever wondered what became of Madeline and Clara or bothered to investigate their disappearance. They weren’t mentioned anywhere, least of all in the history of the plantation presented with such flair by the museum staff. George and Amelia got their baby, and Sybil had gone to her grave knowing that she had assured the continuation of the line. Very commendable!

  “Well, that’s about to change,” Quinn told the empty room. There wasn’t much she could do about Clara, since she rested at the bottom of the swamp, but she would find Madeline’s remains and bring the crime to light. Madeline would get a proper burial, with her name etched into a gravestone that would be erected next to Charles Besson’s. Corinne’s gravestone would need to be restored as well, since whoever had destroyed it, likely Joe acting on Sybi
l’s orders, had done a thorough job. Quinn wondered if Corinne’s stone had been removed during Sybil’s lifetime or at some point after. She couldn’t see why someone would desecrate her grave after Sybil’s death, but anything was possible. Perhaps George had learned the truth of Madeline’s parentage from his grandmother and wished to erase all traces of the family’s shameful past.

  It might be possible to trace Clara’s descendants, Quinn mused as she walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her flushed face. She didn’t know Clara’s surname; she probably hadn’t had one, but there was bound to be some sort of list of slaves at the plantation, and since Quinn knew the names of Clara’s sons, she could follow the thread into the present.

  As she plopped into a chair, she wondered if Clara’s descendants would appreciate learning the truth or resent the interference. What good would it do them to discover that Clara’s death had gone uninvestigated and unpunished? It would be yet another crime committed against their family, a crime they could do nothing about at this stage. It wasn’t as if they could hold Seth Besson accountable. Nor should they, since it wasn’t his fault his ancestors were slave owners and murderers. Seth would suffer needlessly, and so would Brett by association.

  Or maybe Clara’s family already knows, Quinn thought as she sprang out of the chair and began to pace the room, too restless to sit. Zachary and Zane must have searched for their mother when she failed to return from the bayou. It was even possible they had learned the truth of what happened from Joe. He must have told someone what he’d witnessed that day, despite being threatened by Sybil. Or had he chosen to remain silent to shield himself from Sybil’s wrath and to save Zach and Zane from helpless fury?

  She’d never know unless she spoke to the family, which she would have to do before the show aired in Britain. It wouldn’t be shown here in New Orleans, but information had a way of spreading, especially through the internet, and Clara’s descendants might get wind of the program. Besides, the BBC would probably need their consent to tell that part of the story, unless they changed Clara’s name in order to avoid getting mired in legal proceedings. Was there a precedent for this kind of situation? She’d need to run this by Rhys so he could clear the finished script with the Legal Department.

  In the meantime, Quinn would focus on Madeline. She glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was just past two in the afternoon. She had no plans with Seth tonight, since he had a meeting after work, but perhaps Brett was free. For some reason, she felt reluctant to do this alone.

  Quinn called Brett and was happy when he answered in person. “Hey, sis.”

  “Hey, yourself. Listen, I need a favor. It’s a bit gruesome actually, so I’ll understand if you say no.”

  “Do tell. I’m all ears.” Brett sounded like an excited child.

  “I need to break into a tomb.”

  “You’re joking. Have you stumbled upon some archeological mystery in our boring old NOLA?”

  “NOLA?”

  “New Orleans, Louisiana. It’s an abbreviation,” Brett explained patiently. “Anyway, what have you discovered?”

  “I’ll fill you in later. Will you help me?”

  “Hell, yeah! Whose tomb?”

  “It’s the tomb of Sybil Besson’s family. I believe she was the last of that line, so the tomb wouldn’t have been opened since her parents were interred.”

  “Why would you want to break in there?” Brett asked. He sounded distinctly less enthusiastic than before, his voice now tinged with doubt and suspicion.

  “I believe I will find evidence of a crime that has gone unpunished for over one hundred and fifty years.”

  “And how would you know about a crime that took place that long ago?”

  “I can’t really explain, but it’s sort of an extrasensory ability.”

  “Like a sixth sense?” Brett sounded wary, but Quinn was too emotionally overwrought to explain. Now that she knew what she had to do, she didn’t want to waste another minute.

  “Yes, something like that.”

  “You are wonderfully weird, you know that?”

  “Yes, so I’ve been told. Oh, and bring a shovel.”

  “That’s the first time anyone has asked me to bring a shovel, but hopefully not the last.” Brett chuckled. “Have you told Dad about this little unlawful expedition?”

  “No, I haven’t told anyone. I want to see if I’m right first. If I’m not, then we’ll just clear off and pretend it never happened.”

  “Sounds like a great plan. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Chapter 46

  Quinn dressed in a pair of leggings, a T-shirt, and trainers. This could be dirty work, and she had no desire to soil her good clothes. Hopefully, no Good Samaritan would report two people breaking into a tomb in the middle of the day. Disturbing someone’s final resting place was a crime, even if they did nothing to desecrate the actual remains.

  Quinn smiled. It was nice to have a brother willing to come on short notice bearing a shovel. That was what she’d been missing all her life—an accomplice. Of course, Gabe would have been there with bells on had this been England, but he was safely in London, doing the school run and marking end-of-term papers. Quinn fired off a quick text to tell him she missed him and hoped to see him in a few days. Once she found Madeline’s remains there would be no reason to stay in New Orleans any longer. She would have everything she needed for the program, and had spent sufficient time with her new family to have established a lasting bond. It was time to go home. Quinn grabbed her bag, phone, and key-card and headed out.

  Brett was waiting for her in the lobby. His face lit up with anticipation when she came toward him. “So, why are we doing this?” he asked as he kissed her cheek and followed her outside. “Come on. Tell me the whole story. Since I’m about to commit a crime at your behest, I’d at least like to know why I’m doing it and if it’s worth risking my unblemished reputation and enviable future for. I considered robbing a bank when Dad cut off my allowance in seventh grade, but I never expected to resort to grave robbery. Even I have standards.”

  Quinn smiled at him. He seemed very pleased with his own wit and his exuberance was contagious. She really wished she could simply tell him the truth, but she wasn’t ready to share her secret with him. He was too young to understand and would probably label her a freak and a fraud, as many people would once they found out.

  “I will tell you everything if I find what I’m looking for. How about that?” she replied.

  “Will this assignment be on a need-to-know basis, like in the army?” Brett joked.

  “Exactly. This way you wouldn’t be able to reveal too much if tortured for information.”

  “The only person likely to torture me is Dad. He’ll be furious if we get arrested.”

  “And if we don’t?” Quinn asked, amused by Brett’s choice of words.

  “Then he’ll want to know all the details and complain about not being invited along.”

  “He’ll complain about a lot more if I’m correct,” Quinn muttered.

  “What is it you’re hoping to find, Quinn?” He was serious now, his eyes anxious as he searched her face for answers.

  “Proof of murder.”

  Saying the words out loud doused Quinn’s high spirits. This was no laughing matter, and some part of her wished she could leave this alone and forget what she’d seen. Apprehension tugged at her heart as she climbed into Brett’s car. She wanted to find Madeline, but coming face to face with her remains would not be pleasant. Quinn had seen many skeletons in her profession and had always kept a sense of detachment, but this was personal. Madeline was personal, and for the first time, Quinn was directly linked to the victim.

  Brett parked the car close to the cemetery and they walked toward the gates in silence. Brett’s hold-all gave a metallic clang as he slung it over his shoulder.

  “What did you bring?” Quinn asked. A shovel was noticeably absent.r />
  “A screwdriver, a crowbar, and metal clippers. Not like the door is unlocked,” Brett pointed out. “Besides, no one is buried underground. They are all nicely laid out on shelves. No need for a shovel, unless what you’re looking for is buried inside the mausoleum. I have a shovel in the trunk, but thought it might be too conspicuous to be prancing about with it in the middle of the afternoon.”

  Quinn nodded. He was right, of course. Brett was a better accomplice than she’d anticipated. Some part of her was glad of this bonding experience with her brother, but her mind was on Madeline. She could recall Madeline’s face as the gun went off and the bullet ripped into her chest, the impact knocking her backward. She looked so young, so innocent. She’d been only sixteen, a girl whose life had barely begun. In this day and age, Madeline would have had someone advocating for her rights, protecting her. There were laws, and George would have been held accountable for what he’d done. But in the nineteenth century there had been no one to turn to. Clara had been the only person who truly cared for Madeline, but she’d been powerless to do anything except try to advise Madeline to move on and rebuild her life, which she’d desperately tried to do.

  Quinn wiped away an angry tear. This was no time to get emotional. First things first.

  Brett extracted a pass from his pocket and showed it to the attendant at the ticket booth. His forethought impressed Quinn. Visitors to the cemetery had to pay a hefty admission fee, but locals who had family buried in St. Louis Cemetery could obtain a pass to enter the cemetery for free. The attendant waved them through without bothering to examine the pass. He had his mobile out and was too preoccupied with whatever he saw on the screen to care.

  It took a while to find the right tomb since it was located in the most neglected and dilapidated part of the cemetery. The massive stone monument leaned a bit to the side, and chunks of stonework were missing, gouged out by storms and time. The stone lintel was so weathered that the name ‘Talbot’ was almost completely obliterated. A wrought-iron fence surrounded the tomb, and although the gate was unlocked, it screeched with disuse when Brett pulled it open. Sybil had chosen wisely. No one had opened the Talbot vault since the nineteenth century. She’d committed the perfect crime.