by M Murphy
“In history there are clues to the present.” Hannah said.
“I know, learn from history or you’re destined to repeat
it.”
“No, not quite. History doesn’t repeat itself, but history does rhyme.”
“Rhyme?”
Hannah smiled at my confusion. “A lot of history sounds the same. World War I and World War II, the American Revolution and the French Revolution, and the work of Martin Luther King and Gandhi all sound alike, but when you dig deeper and try to define them it is easy to see that they are different. They sound the same but, in fact, have different meanings, causes, and effects.”
“How does that correlate to us and our search for Confederate gold?”
“History has patterns because people are creatures of habit. You can use the past to interpret patterns and associate them with events of the present. It allows historians to predict future patterns all while researching the past. It is the reason history is so significant.”
I still wasn’t figuring out how this all connected to our work. “What exactly does that mean for us?”
“It means I am searching for patterns in the history of the South, Charleston, the KGC, and the Trenholms looking for clues to help us resolve our current challenges…breaking the KGC
code, finding out why Jason and Eliza were killed, and how are they all connected.”
I sat back in my chair and swirled my wine a little for effect. “Sounds like a lot of work…let me know if you find anything.” I closed my eyes, leaned my head back a little, and took a sip of wine. It was time to recharge the batteries.
Chapter 46
The tablet in Hannah’s hand began to light up like the chalkboard scene in A Beautiful Mind. A photo of the marks and carvings on the foundation of 1 Broad Street was on the screen as Hannah highlighted objects with her finger. With a couple of taps, a half-dozen barely recognizable markings now illuminated to life creating a clearer picture of what was in front of us. A ghost, a ship, something that appeared to be a money sign, the letters ISH, a tree, and finally a symbol with numbers and dots.
“Out of all of these markings,” Hannah said, “I believe these are our clues.”
“How do you figure?”
“We’ve already seen the ghost used once and the cemetery theme has been consistent. The ghost here could simply be leading us back to St. Phillip’s or to something new, but I believe it’s important. The ship falls in line with the James’ tombstones and their place as merchants. How exactly, I’m not sure but it’s not a coincidence. The fact that there is a money sign and these markings were placed on a bank building is also too much for me to believe in coincidence.”
“What about the others?” I asked. “They seem new.”
“They are, but there is only one of each carved into the building’s foundation, while all the other symbols can be found multiple times.”
“So you’re saying their singularity is the way to identify
what the real clue is and what is simply a ruse?”
“It’s just a theory.” Hannah stared at the screen as if she was trying to break it with her mind. “But I think it’s a reliable one. I’m going out on a limb here, but just like with the letters JAM I believe the ISH symbolizes a name…Isaiah. Look here,” she pointed to the last symbol, a mixture of numbers and dots. “The number twelve with for dots on either side.”
“Another bible verse?”
“I think so. It’s either Isaiah 8:12 or Isaiah 44:12 from my best guess.”
I quickly grabbed my phone and searched for the verses. “Say ye not, A confederacy, to all them to whom this people shall say, A confederacy; neither fear ye their fear, nor be afraid. Isaiah 8:12.” I read out loud. “That’s got to be it.”
“Possibly, what does the other verse say?”
I looked quickly feeling I was right with the first one. The confederacy reference was just too perfect. “The smith with the tongs both worketh in the coals, and fashioneth it with hammers, and worketh it with the strength of his arms: yea, he is hungry, and his strength faileth: he drinketh no water, and is faint.” I read to her.
“Okay, I’ll need to keep both of those two in mind moving forward.” Hannah was silent for a few moments. It was as if she was memorizing the verses. “I have to admit that these
clues could be way off. There is just so much information to go through.”
“Your reasoning seems good. Where should we go next? We have at least to try to prove your work correct.”
“I have a couple of ideas. I’ve seen common themes in our search so far. The obvious one is the Trenholms. Second, and more recent, is the James family and their association as merchants. Third is death or burial sites. And fourth is the use of trees.”
“Trees?” I asked.
“The tree in St. Phillip’s cemetery was the focal point of the clue there, and now we have a tree carved into the building. Also, the KGC were notorious for carving clues and messages into trees. They were often known as ‘wisdom trees’ because of the information they held.”
“Okay, how do we put it all together to locate our next spot? The first place we found because of Trenholm’s letter. The second one we got lucky. It looks like the third will have to be a combination of both.”
“Good research always trumps luck.” Hannah said.
“I still won’t turn down a little luck if it comes a calling.”
Chapter 47
The strangest thing that had struck me recently, and lately I was stumbling on a lot of strange things, was the fact that there had been zero outcries from the South of Broad neighborhood over the murders. In a community with zero crime rate to suddenly have two murders, especially two of its own, usually called for a public outcry. The local police would usually have their hands full dealing with the case and the public at the same time. Instead, everything seemed quiet.
The paper lacked any updates on a suspect and it was almost like there was no investigation currently in progress. In fact, Eliza’s husband had been written off because of an alibi, but there was no mention of other suspects. In my experience, when an investigation was kept quiet someone powerful had their hands in it. The fact that the neighborhood where the murders took place was equally silent left me to believe that same person had a good stranglehold on the neighborhood as well.
Hannah had gone off to lecture at the college and I was stuck going through all the information we had collected. I was focusing in on the Trenholm and James families, somewhere there was a connection, or was the connection simply that their gravestones had been the perfect spot to leave clues to a lost
treasure? I found that the James family had been around Charleston, in a position of power, a lot longer than the
Trenholms. Apparently, the Trenholm family didn’t amount to much until George A. Trenholm made his fortune prior to the Civil War while the elder James had ties to the city’s founding.
The eldest James had gone into business with
Christopher Gadsden, father of the ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ flag, post American Revolution. They helped finance Gadsden’s Wharf reconstruction after the British left the city, and shortly thereafter made an enormous fortune by helping to import over one-hundred-thousand slaves into the country. It appeared after 1808 that the James family removed their ties to the wharf, which happened to be the same point Fraser & Company, pre-Trenholm, began leasing warehouse and dock space there. It wasn’t much to go on, but it at least it was a connection.
I searched other information on the two families finding no similarities, except that each was extensive landowners with holdings in plantations, homes in the city, and business properties. The curious thing was the James family had a lot of information about them pre-Civil War, but that all ended with James III. It was as if the war began and all records for the family stopped. I couldn’t even find an obituary for the youngest James or if he had any offspring. It was as if the family stopped existing. There was zero information on wh
at happened to their holdings. I found the information on one of their plantations that had survived General Sherman and his men, but there were no ownership records during the period of Reconstruction. It appeared that a northern carpetbagger had merely taken up residence after the war and eventually his family sold it as their own to a New York firm looking for a hunting retreat in the 1950s.
Dead-end searches and investigative research makes me hungry, so I printed out what lists I could find of properties owned by the Trenholms and James families. I tucked the printed pages into a pocket along with my cell phone and decided to find some
food. I promised myself I would continue my work over a cold beer, and smart phone technology would provide the means. I texted Hannah to have her join me, but got no immediate response. Deep down inside, I was hoping to pass the dirty work off to her…she was better at it than me.
I was talking to Colin on my cell phone as I walked north on King St. My former FBI partner was obviously bored at the office. If he was sincerely interested in how my work in Charleston was going, I would be surprised. I had made it to the corner of King and Society when I suddenly stopped. There in the back of my head was the feeling that I was being followed.
It’s an odd feeling and I’m not sure where it comes from, but one minute you’re in your own little world on a busy street and then suddenly you feel like someone is staring a lightning bolt through your back.
I kept talking to Colin, but looked up at the street sign and then turned to look down Society Street. I wanted to make it look like I was looking for something and not someone. I wanted to make whoever was following me believe the person on my phone was giving me directions. Making some hand gestures as I talked, I finally turned around some more to get a look at the crowd behind me on King. Nothing. Turning further, and now fixing my gaze across the street to the opposite sidewalk, I tried to recognize anyone the least bit suspicious. Nothing still. I held my stare for a few seconds longer hoping to grasp something I had missed, and I did. In the doorway of a woman’s boutique stood a man. It wasn’t the cross-armed boredom of a husband waiting for his wife, but instead the goonish stance of Tommy Makem.
Chapter 48
Walking up King St. a couple blocks with my tail in tow, I slipped through a crowd of shoppers into a chicken wing joint on the street’s west side. The bar sat street side and I could get a good view of the crowds passing by as I drank a beer. There was no sign of Makem, as I ordered a Holy City Porter from the bartender. Either he saw me and ducked into a restaurant or he was waiting outside. By the time the bartender poured the pint and set it down in front of me with a menu in hand, Tommy Makem had come trudging up the sidewalk with a pissy look for every tourist that bumped into him. He turned to glance through the windows and we made eye contact. I smiled. He nodded and came inside.
“What have I done to deserve such an honor?” I asked, as Makem sat and motioned for the bartender.
“Oh, I was doing a little window shopping.”
“Bullshit. I spotted you following me blocks ago.”
Makem squirmed in his seat a little. “I’m going to give it to you straight Francis. Partly, because I like you and partly because we come from the same town, but mostly because a warning is only fair. There are some powerful people in this town. They’ve run this city for hundreds of years, saved it from the ruin
caused during Reconstruction by making it a tourist town, and today they are more desperate than ever to hold onto their control.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because of people like you and I. Northerners who have seen how beautiful Charleston is and want a piece of it for themselves. The old bluebloods who run the show here want our tourist dollars, but would rather see us leave after a week than stay permanently. There is a new generation of carpetbaggers in their eyes.”
“So why do I need a warning? I’m only here temporarily.”
“You’re butting your nose in where it doesn’t belong. You and that the teacher are getting a little too curious about the local history around here, and some very important people are getting upset. These aren’t simply important businessmen, but the kind of people that can make problems disappear if needed. You know the type?”
“Tell me Makem, how have you found yourself involved? Why are you, a fellow Yankee, passing along a warning to me?”
The man paused, barely, and most people wouldn’t have noticed but I did. “I’ve got business ties to these men and they knew we had been talking. I was approached to keep an eye on you and send a message if needed. There is no need for me to follow you around all day and waste my time if I can simply pass the message along…so that’s what I’m doing.”
There was more Makem wasn’t telling me, and that fact was a big clue. I wanted to find a connection. Originally, Makem was a separate entity in this case, but now the pieces may be falling together a little better. I only needed to figure out the link.
“I’m not buying it,” I said to Makem. “Why is a little historical research so threatening to these people?”
“People in Charleston take their history more serious than anywhere else. Their status and position in society depends on what history says about their family. Sometimes, what history says and what the history actually is aren’t always the same.”
“So you’re saying if the real history is discovered it could possibly affect the livelihood of someone?” I asked.
“A little change is the history might affect the livelihood of someone in this town, a significant change could impact multiple families.”
Makem got up and threw some cash on the bar for his drink.
“I’ve got that.” I said, handing the cash back to him. “I can’t imagine what could be so important to these people.”
“At the end of the day it’s all about the same thing…money.” Makem walked to the door and stopped before he stepped out. “You’ve been warned Francis. These Southerners will be sweet to your face all day long, but that’s just a devilish ruse to hide their mean streak.”
Chapter 49
“We’ve been warned.” I said to Hannah, as I spread my research across her kitchen counter.
It was actually the first time I had been to her place and it was sterile, immaculate, and the opposite of cozy. She was renting the top floor of a building on King Street, and it had been remodeled in the loft-modern style that provides zero personality to a home. The elevator had opened into an open space that spanned the entire third floor. Hardwood floors ran left to right, with bright open windows to my left that let in light and the noise from the street below. In front of me stood the kitchen with granite counters, stainless steel appliances, and cabinetry that looked like it came from an Ikea store. Off to my right, through a dining space, were two doors that I could only assume lead to the bedroom and bath. I was already missing the aged hardwood, exposed brick, and two-hundred year old fireplaces of my carriage house.
“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.
“I spotted Tommy Makem tailing me today. He finally had enough of the game and stopped to talk. Apparently, we are pissing off some very important local boys with our snooping.”
“How’s Tommy connected?”
“I’m not sure, but they sent him after us with the message.”
“The Citadel.”
“What about it?” I asked confused.
Hannah looked excited. “Makem went to the Citadel. The Charleston aristocracy sends their young men to either Sewanee in Tennessee or to the Citadel here in Charleston. The connection must be during his time at the Citadel. Makem must have made connections there with some of the locals, built up his ties for his bookie business, and it appears got involved in some kind of secret group.”
“A secret group like the Knights of the Golden Circle?”
“Possibly. He would have had really to prove himself as an outsider and especially as a Northerner.”
“In my experience people who use the same bookie over an extended peri
od usually have built confidence in that person. When you trust someone with your money, finances, and especially debt you’ll have faith in them with about anything. If Makem was college friends with these men, the trust would have come a lot quicker.”
Hannah stood quiet for a moment locked in thought and then turned to see the mess of papers I had spread over her counter. “What’s all this?”
“My research.”
“Well organized.” She said with a smile and a hint of sarcasm. “What did you find?”
I began to organize my work. “Not a lot. I’ve gathered all the records I could find that might connect the James Family with the Trenholms. The only obvious connection, and it’s a stretch, was the Gadsden Wharf. I also mapped out all known properties the two families had an interest in throughout the area. The hope was to find a connection or joint ownership…nothing there though.”
