by M Murphy
“It wasn’t your typical break in. Someone knew how to get in the house without setting off the alarms, and they came looking for something particular.”
“How do you know?”
“The house alarms didn’t go off, but I have a second set of alarms to guard my office here. There are sensitive company documents stored in this room so it needs a little more protection. The alarms in this room went off this evening and woke me up.”
“Did you see who broke in?” I asked, still not convinced the break-in was worth waking me up in the middle of the night.
“No, we didn’t get his face. It was a man, but Johnson lost him in the shadows after chasing him down the street for a few blocks.”
“Johnson?”
“He’s the gentleman who showed you in.”
“Oh.” I said, wondering how that relationship worked. “You mentioned that the thief was after something specific, how do you know that? Is anything missing?”
“Let me put it as delicately as possible. This house is filled with an immense fortune worth of art, antiques, jewelry, and other valuable objects. There is enough in this room alone to make the average burglar euphoric, but none of that was touched tonight. Whoever that man was, he was here looking for something specific.”
“Okay, I see your point. You still didn’t tell me if anything was missing.”
“Nothing obvious, but I haven’t had time to look through everything.”
“Why don’t you go through everything a call me after the sun comes up with the results?”
“I’ve got a better idea, why don’t you sit tight here while I go through my things. That way you can start the investigation into this break-in a lot sooner.”
“You hired me to look into your son’s murder, not to chase down petty criminals.”
George Trenholm sneered at me then covered it up quickly. “I would bet my soul that the two are connected. Now sit tight. I’ll have Johnson bring in some breakfast and coffee. You can fill your stomach will I go through my office.”
“Fine.”
Chapter 16
I was wiping my last bit of biscuit through some grits when Trenholm finally spoke to me. The man had gone through his desk, an obvious safe, a safe hidden behind a painting, a secret compartment built into the desk, and finally moved onto the bookshelves when he apparently found something.
“I found what the thief must have been after.”
“What’s that?” I answered as I swallowed the last of my food.
“An old letter from my great-great-grandfather to his son.” He said, turning around and holding an opened copy of Plato’s The Republic. “I should have known.” I heard the man mumble to himself.
“I can imagine why a letter like that is important to you, but why would someone want to steal such a thing?” I had no intention of telling him that I knew where the letter was until I got to hear more about it.
Trenholm froze on my question for a second and then quickly recovered. “I can’t imagine why. Though there are some history buffs out there that would find anything written by my ancestor valuable.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because my namesake, George Alfred Trenholm was Secretary of the Treasury for the Confederacy, and we all know how radical some historical groups can be.”
“It’s an angle.” I said, pretending to think on it. “Is there anything else about the letter, anything in its contents that someone may find valuable?”
“I doubt it. The letter is simply a communication between father and son.”
“Then why do you believe this break-in was connected to Jason’s murder?”
The man froze for a moment caught up in his own antics. “Well…maybe I jumped the gun on that connection.”
“Or there is something you’re not telling me. How can I help you or your family if you don’t tell me everything you know, and every reason someone may have wanted Jason killed?”
“I don’t know why someone would want the letter.” The man was near yelling and defiant. “I do know someone broke into my home to steal it mere days after my son was killed. How can they not be connected? Now Mr. Francis, are you going to help me retrieve my letter and find out who killed my son, or am I going to have to hire someone else?”
“I have no intention of doing anything but solving your son’s murder, and if it leads me to your letter…well then…we all win.”
Trenholm grew quiet and took a seat behind his desk again. He pulled out a drawer and began to write. “Here you go.” He said as he ripped a check from his checkbook and handed it
to me. “This is to start, and I’ll double it if you find my son’s killer and my letter.”
“I’ll do my best.” I took the check and tucked it into my pocket. “I guess I’ll be getting started then.” With that, I turned for the door and left the man sitting behind his desk. In the hall, Johnson was there to escort me through the front door. “Nice to meet you Johnson.” I said as I stepped into the garden. The only sound I heard in return was the massive door closing behind me.
Chapter 17
I had two things I knew I needed to address. The connection between Sarah and Tommy Makem had me thinking. It could be nothing and maybe all of these blueblood children had too much dispensable income to spend on extracurricular activities, but Sarah knowing a bookie seemed odd to me. The second thing was whether or not to tell Hannah about George Trenholm and the letter she was in possession of. There was a chance that if I told her he thought it had been stolen she would want immediately to return it and explain the situation. Because the man was obviously keeping information from me, I didn’t want that to happen. On the other hand, I may tell and she might do the opposite. Hannah was a researcher on a mission and that letter was the key to her work…and possibly mine. If the letter went back to the Trenholm residence, neither of us would ever see it again.
The morning air was a little crisp as I walked down Broad St. to a small French café to meet Hannah. Breakfast was some strong French pressed coffee, cheese, ham, and some fresh baked bread. An assortment of mustards and jellies complimented the meal. Hannah had arrived first and had the spread ordered and waiting when I arrived. She was buried in a manila folder when I sat down next to her.
“Too early for you?” she asked as she set down the folder.
“I was up earlier yesterday.” I figured I would tell her about the letter and try to convince her to keep it if I had to. “George Trenholm woke me up before the sun had risen claiming his house was broken into. Apparently, the alarm in his office went off and his butler chased the perp down the street only to lose him.”
“Seriously, what was stolen?”
“Nothing, but Trenholm seems to think a particular letter is missing from his copy of Plato’s Republic.”
“Shit. Are you serious?”
“Sure am. Now don’t jump the gun and go running it right over to him. He hasn’t called the police, and in my personal opinion he’s hiding something.”
“Like what?” Hannah asked obviously concerned about the whole situation.
“I’m not sure yet, but the man has been real vague with my questions. Especially for someone trying to find his son’s killer. It’s my hunch that if we return the letter to him neither one of us will see it again.”
“That does leave me in a predicament. I guess the letter isn’t technically stolen since Jason gave it to me. Plus, I really think it holds some clue to my research.”
“Mr. Trenholm isn’t reporting the letter stolen to the police, so technically it hasn’t been stolen, and unless he asks you personally if you have it…well then there is no way you would know that he is looking for it. I’d say you’re safe to keep it.”
“You said that someone did break in though?” Hannah asked with a little concern in her voice.
“According to Trenholm his butler chased the man down the street.”
“So what was the intruder after? Could he have been looking for the letter since
nothing else was touched?”
“I guess I haven’t thought about that. As Trenholm pointed out, the house is filled with valuable items and nothing else was touched. It might be a safe assumption that the letter could have been what the man was after, but how did he even know it existed?”
“I’m not sure since Jason didn’t even know about it until recently.”
“Hannah, I would keep that letter out of sight and well hidden until we can find out a little more.”
Chapter 18
Four of us sat on the porch of the carriage house I had been renting. I had finished dinner with Bryce and Sarah at a pizza joint in the Park Circle neighborhood called EVO. Now I sat with the two of them and was joined by Hannah for some after dinner cocktails and a little brainstorming. It might have been spring, but the wind coming off of the Cooper River and blowing through the old historic streets had a chill to it. I could hear the branches of oak and magnolia trees clack together as each burst passed through their leaves. A half-moon showed bright through a partially cloudy sky as the gaslights flickered on the porch. It was chilly enough that we were all having our drinks stiff and iceless.
The three of them were already sitting comfortably, Sarah and Bryce under a light blanket on the porch swing, when I came out with a bottle of rye and four glasses. I poured for everyone and then made myself comfortable.
“Who wants to be a storyteller?” I asked the group.
“What story are we telling?” Bryce asked.
“Good question. Let’s start with a little Trenholm family history, so Sarah or Hannah should take this one.”
“You probably should go down to the main house and get Mrs. Legare.” Sarah said. “She fancies herself a local historian.”
“I already have gotten her story of the events. Hannah why don’t you give me what you and Jason were working on in a little more depth. I really believe Mr. Trenholm has been hiding a few things from me.”
“Okay, where should I start?”
“How about you tell me about George Alfred Trenholm and the end of the war.”
“I see,” Hannah said. “Well, George Alfred Trenholm was one of the most important men in the Confederacy. From his role as the war's premier operator of blockade runners to his position as Secretary of the Treasury, his actions had more influence on the Confederacy and its ability to fight a war than most generals and politicians. During the war, his firm, Fraser, Trenholm & Co., made significant contributions to the Confederate war effort. It acted as the exclusive overseas banker of the Confederate Government and financed the supply of armaments, gunpowder and other essential goods in return for cotton, tobacco, and turpentine. The company also participated in blockade running, had vessels built for the Confederate Navy, assisted in the floating of Confederate loans, and encouraged support in Europe for the South. By war's end, the organization controlled over sixty large steamers and numerous sailing ships which operated out of Charleston, Savannah and Wilmington.
Trenholm's successful blockade running ventures made him both wealthy and powerful. On July 18, 1864, he replaced Christopher G. Memminger as Secretary of the Treasury in President Davis’s
Cabinet. As skilled as he was with money, Trenholm couldn't rescue the Confederate economy. After the fall of Richmond, he
took flight southward with the rest of the Cabinet, but in ill health, was unable to continue running, so when the party reached the
South Carolina upcountry Trenholm split from Jefferson Davis and returned to Charleston.”
“When Trenholm left Richmond with Davis, did they take the Confederate Treasury reserves with them?” I asked Hannah.
“There is some documentation to believe that they did, and common sense tells you that they wouldn’t leave it for the approaching Union Army, so I believe they did have it with them.”
“So it's possible Trenholm could have taken it with him when he split from Davis and headed to Charleston?”
“Yes, it’s possible.” Hannah said matter-of-factly. “There is also the fact that no sign of the Confederate treasure was found with Davis, which means Trenholm did take it or Davis abandoned the heavy load somewhere else along his journey.”
“What happened when Trenholm came back to Charleston?” Bryce asked. “Weren’t the Union troops waiting for him…the city was occupied.”
“Yes, he was taken by the Union authorities upon his return. They sent him down to Fort Pulaski near Savannah.”
Sarah finally spoke for the first time. “There was a rumor in Charleston lore that was slightly different.”
“What’s that?” I asked anxiously.
“Well, local residents always believed that Trenholm stopped outside of town on his way back. He knew once he returned to Charleston he would face prison and he was supposed to be in ill-health. Any stay in Fort Pulaski would probably kill him in his condition so his party stopped outside of town while he rested.”
“Jason mentioned that to me as well.” Hannah said. “But he never knew where.”
“I don’t think anyone does for sure.” Sarah said. “The story is that he stayed at a couple different plantations, moving to avoid Union capture until his health returned.”
“It sounds like the man had time to stash a treasure then.” I said. “Whether it was aboard a hidden blockade runner or at one of the plantations there was definitely an opportunity if Sarah’s story is true.”
“Oh, it’s not my story, just a little Charleston history that missed the books.”
“I don’t know how all of this history plays a part in Jason’s murder, but the Trenholm family seems to get more mysterious every day. And so far it seems to be the best lead other than Tommy Makem.” I gave Sarah a quick glance, but she didn’t even blink at the bookie’s name.
Chapter 19
The man observed the gathering, a benefit for some useless charity put on by the wealthy to make themselves feel better. I hope it works the man thought as he watched a group of men dressed in dinner jackets talk about the weekend hunting trip. A sneer showed across the man’s face as he dreamt about following them out to their stately plantation and hunting each one down…now that would be a hunting trip to remember.
His focus tonight was not on the men, but a group of woman, chardonnay in hand, gathered and pecking like hens around the silent auction merchandise. Earlier in the afternoon he had found the perfect hiding spot among an unkempt corner of the backyard garden. The shrubbery, in need of a trim, concealed and old iron gate that led to an alley. The lane at one time had been used for servant access to the old stately mansions along the street. The man now crouched spying on the rich from a vantage point they had once created with their own desire never to see those that served them, and now it was serving him well.
One woman in particular held his gaze, which was impressive because they all looked alike. Three hundred years of inbreeding amongst Charleston’s wealthy had left most of the current generation looking like the distant cousins they probably were. There was also the “keeping up with the Jones” effect where each woman shopped, got their hair done, and sent their kids off
to the same school as all their neighbors. The man grimaced at the disgusting nature of their lives. These women had no desire in life except to marry rich and keep the bloodlines of the old families alive. Hell, they didn’t even raise their own children that was done by the nanny. He would be doing this world a favor by cutting down a few of them in the prime of their lives…soccer moms more spoiled than their kids, if that was possible.
The woman he watched now ventured to the first-floor portico of the old home and dug through a purse. A cell phone appeared at her ear a second later. She spoke for a moment and then put the phone back in her purse where she dug for something else. The man smiled to himself as he watched. Our perfect South of Broad housewife has a nasty habit, he thought following the woman as she walked towards the front of the house with a lighter and cigarette in hand.
The man got up from his crouching st
ance and looked one last time upon the party. Little do these people know that with their arrogance they have created their own nemesis. And with that last thought he made his way down the alley back towards the street. He had seen enough tonight to know it was time for him to make his move. What a pleasure this night would be.
Chapter 20
I had taken a liking to the little French café that I had met Hannah at and decided to grab another breakfast there. I ordered a coffee and grabbed a paper from the stack at the end of the counter to keep myself occupied until my food arrived. The paper was previously read and I had to comb through the pages to reorganize and find the front page. To my shock the headlines read Another South of Broad Murder as bold and as loud as they could. I quickly scanned through the article.
The woman had been found hanging from the trees in White Point Garden like an angel descending from the heavens, naked and painted white. The police weren’t giving much information but apparently the reporter had seen the body before they closed off the crime scene. It was being rumored that the body belonged to a divorced mother of two. It appears that she lived in her ex-husband’s ancestral home in the neighborhood. A family tradition apparently stated that the female heir must reside in the house and the woman’s daughter was that heir, so the husband moves out and the ex-wife stays because she has custody. Wacky town, I thought.
