“Lavinia Fisher, Charleston’s most famous poisoner and quite possibly the country’s first serial killer,”
Mrs. Morrissey replied.
I’d heard the story many times of how Lavinia and her husband John poisoned the guests at their tavern outside of town and stole the dead men’s money. They hadn’t been caught until hundreds of travelers had gone missing. John had ultimately confessed, but Lavinia had been unrepentant, insisting she be hanged in her wedding gown and jumping off the gallows on her own accord to cheat the hangman of his due. Sorren had talked about her on more than one occasion. He’d had the dubious honor of being one Lavinia’s guests, the one who got away. Her cold eyes seemed to follow me, and I took another half-step backwards as I saw the mannequin next to the portrait wearing an antique wedding dress.
“We’ve got some of Blackbeard’s gold, a watch belonging to a notorious Civil War spy, pistols from some of the city’s most infamous duels, and this,” she said, standing next to a glass encased object in the center of the room. “Come see.”
Against my better judgment, I edged into the room until I was close enough to make out the object in the case. I made very sure not to touch anything.
“Jeremiah Abernathy’s ‘judgment’ coin,” she said triumphantly, pointing to the case, “and his ‘decision cane’, the one he supposedly used in all the murders.” For being a proper society matron, I was concluding that Mrs. Morrissey had a wild streak.
I startled at the name. “You’ve heard of Jeremiah?” Mrs. Morrissey asked, delighted.
“Actually, he’s associated with the story I came to talk to you about,” I said, intrigued against my better instincts. I leaned closer, careful not to make contact.
“That’s why having his items is such a coup for the museum,” she replied. “He’s such a colorful character, I think this might put him on the map of memorable historical bad guys. Maybe even get Hollywood’s attention.” She pointed to a large oil painting on the far wall. “We’ve even got his portrait.”
I followed her gaze. The man in the portrait had been painted in his best suit, a style nearly a hundred and fifty years old. He had an arrogant tilt to his jaw, thin, merciless lips, and cold gray eyes.
“We think we may have an item that was associated with him,” I said. “Can you tell me more?”
“Jeremiah Abernathy was a corrupt judge who ran a whiskey and gambling empire in Charleston’s wild days,” Mrs. Morrissey said. “Rumor has it, he was the illegitimate son of one of the rice planters and a Creole slave, but if that’s true, Abernathy never claimed his Creole heritage. He was known – and feared – for his ruthlessness. He hanged a lot of pirates, some of whom might have been business competitors.”
I peered into the case. A gold coin lay in the spotlight. Next to it was a worn ebony cane with an elaborate silver handle and a lead tip, much like the one Sorren had lent me from Alard.
“Jeremiah Abernathy didn’t like people who refused to pay their debts. He had the protection of powerful people in the city, and he operated with impunity by his own rules, which were enforced by his private squad of strong-arm men,” Mrs. Morrissey said with more relish than I thought a woman of her standing really should be according an old-time criminal.
“When someone tried to cheat him, Abernathy would have them brought before him in his private ‘court’,” she recounted. “Usually, if stories are to be believed, the offender had already been worked over by Abernathy’s men, so the real question was, would they die easy or die hard?”
My eyes widened, more at her choice of words than at the concept. Mrs. Morrissey went on enthusiastically. “Abernathy would take his cane and thump it hard on the floor three times to convene his ‘court’. He would make his accusation, and allow the panicked victim to plead and bargain for his life.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Very few men who were brought to Abernathy had any leverage to bargain for mercy. By the time they got low enough to renege on a debt to him, they had already squandered their fortunes,” she added. “He would thump that cane of his again to indicate that he was about to give out his sentence.”
Her voice had dropped, and I found myself leaning in, hanging on every word. “And?”
Mrs. Morrissey grinned. “He would take his coin, which he claimed the King of Spain gave him, and he would toss it three times. Heads, the victim died. Tails, the victim lived. Best two out of three determined the poor wretch’s fate.”
I stepped back from the case. My imagination could supply what it must have been like to kneel before Abernathy’s court, life hanging in the balance as the coin flipped and landed. I didn’t need my gift kicking in to confirm those images. “What happened to him?” I asked, sounding a little breathless.
“Times changed, and some of Abernathy’s protectors fell from power. The government began to look into some of Abernathy’s business deals. It all ended in a blaze of gunfire when federal agents raided Abernathy’s stronghold. One wing of his mansion exploded with all the illegal whiskey. Abernathy burned alive, thumping his cane, and swearing that he would return to get vengeance on those who crossed him.”
I shivered. “That’s some story,” I said, looking askance at the glass case. I was growing more uncomfortable by the moment the longer we stayed in the exhibit room, and my intuition was telling me to get out now. I made a show of glancing at my watch. “Oops – we’d better get up to the stacks before I need to go back to the shop.”
“Well, at least you got a taste of the exhibit. Be sure to tell your friends.” Mrs. Morrissey touched the panels at the door. The music box fell silent and the spotlights went dark, but I couldn’t keep from glancing over my shoulder to make sure nothing was following us.
On the mansion’s fourth floor was a huge ballroom that once hosted fetes that attracted a who’s-who for South Carolina and the entire Southeast. Now, the ballroom was home to the ‘stacks’, rows of dark wooden bookshelves that housed the majority of the Archive’s books. Between the shelves were large library tables for reading, along with computer terminals for online research. “Now, dear, what is it you wanted to know?” she asked.
“There’s a rumor that Jeremiah Abernathy hired pirates to bring something back for him from Barbados aboard a ship called the Cristobal,” I said. “The Cristobal sank off the Carolina coast.” I gave her my most innocent, winning smile. “I’m trying to find out what might be known about that incident.”
“Ohh,” Mrs. Morrissey said, her eyes shining. “What do you have of his?”
A demon, I thought. “We might have a letter related to the Cristobal situation, but we’re not sure yet whether it’s genuine.” I hated to lie, but I was certain she really didn’t want to know the truth.
“Let’s see,” she said. She hummed as she selected large, cloth-bound books off the shelves and set them on one of the big reading tables. “Computer searches are easier on my back,” she said. “But some of these old books haven’t been digitized yet.”
She looked up. “You also mentioned the Navy yard. Was it something related to Abernathy?”
I shrugged, palms up. “I’m not entirely sure. Did Abernathy have any connection to that area?”
“If you want, Cassidy dear, go ahead and get the computer working on loading the ‘real estate’ records page on the Archive site,” she said, with a wave of her hand toward the terminal I got to work as Mrs. Morrissey began to flip through the huge old books. A glimpse told me they were maps and surveys of the greater Charleston area, and from the yellowed paper, I was guessing the most recent volumes were from the 1800s.
“All right,” she said finally, dusting her hands together. “Let’s see what’s in the records.” She motioned for me to join her at the reading table.
“This is a reprint of some of the earliest maps of the area, and they show who laid claim to which pieces of property,” she said. “That land where the old Navy yard is has seen more than its share of trouble over the years. The location made it a good sh
eltered port, and the pirates were quick to take advantage of it, all the way back to old John Rouge – Red-eye John.”
I leaned over, scanning the page. A black-and-white sketch of a hanging caught my eye. “I gather something went wrong?”
“Eventually, the deal he had with authorities fell apart, and in 1715, the Royal Navy attacked Red-eye John’s haven, killings most of the pirates and burning their homes, saloons, brothels, and ships. Red-eye John was captured and hanged.” She gave an impish grin. “The stories said he cast a curse on the city, and that his spirit called out to Blackbeard for revenge. Blackbeard laid siege to Charleston a few years later.”
I peered at the book and the map. “Does anyone know where, exactly, Red-eye was hanged?”
Mrs. Morrissey pointed to a spot on the map. “Right about here, according to legend.” It was within the bounds of the old Navy yard, but I’d have to look more closely to see if it matched any of the old buildings we’d scouted. I laid a pencil with its point next to the spot on the map and took a photo with my phone for Teag to examine later.
“Any ghost stories about Red-eye?” I asked.
Mrs. Morrissey laughed. “Oh my goodness. You know Charleston – there’s a ghost around every corner! Yes, there have been stories about ol’ Red-eye. Some folks claimed they could smell something burning out in that area, when nothing was on fire. Others say they’ve seen the ghost of a man hanging in mid-air, then suddenly plummeting, like on a gallows.”
I felt a chill go down my back. “Anything else?”
Mrs. Morrissey consulted her sources. “Rumor had it that after Red-eye was hanged, they found bodies in shallow graves. Might have been some of his victims. ’Course, he wasn’t the only pirate to drop anchor in that area.”
She gave me a sidelong look. “You know, there is even a rumor – never substantiated, you understand – that the founder of Trifles and Folly had some dealings with privateers.”
Sorren had told me that story the last time he was in town, only it was no rumor. He remembered Dante fondly—and my ancestor Evann, who was Sorren’s partner back then. “Imagine that,” I said noncommittally.
“That’s a prime piece of land,” I said. “I can’t imagine it was too much longer before someone laid claim to it legitimately.”
“Oh, that happened soon enough. Before that point, there were more pirates, more raids, and more hangings.” She flipped a few more pages. “Then along came Edwin Sandborn, whose father had a prosperous rice plantation upriver. Edwin thought that if he could start his own shipyard, he would save on docking fees and make a profit off the nearby plantations.”
She raised an eyebrow. “There were also rumors that Edwin’s family was also doing some smuggling along with their rice shipments.” She managed a very proper smirk. “You know smuggling is in our blood in this city.”
“What happened to Edwin?”
Mrs. Morrissey leaned against the table. “Some people say he got in trouble trying to elope with the daughter of one of the other rice planters. Others say he tried to elope with the buried treasure of one of the other plantation owners. One foggy spring night, someone shot him dead as he sat at the desk in his office. After that, the dockyard fell into disarray and eventually was sold.” Again, I marked the spot on the map with the pencil point and snapped another photo.
“What happened to the land after Edwin?” I asked.
“The property has changed hands a number of times – unusual, since so many of our commercial properties remain in the same family for generations,” she replied. “And every time, there was a whiff of impropriety. Most ventures ended very badly – bankruptcies, mental breakdowns, embezzlement, murders.”
“Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Corban Moran?” I asked, typing the name into the computer to see if I would stumble on anything that had eluded Teag’s hacking. I wasn’t surprised when the search came up blank.
Mrs. Morrissey frowned. “Moran?” She shook her head. “Do you mean Corwin Moran?” She walked over to the shelves and pulled down another book, skimming through the pages until she found what she wanted.
“Is this who you meant?” she asked, setting the book on the table. “He was a smuggler – pirate, really – in the years soon after the Revolution.” She shook her head. “Awful man, even by pirate standards.
Killed so many men, some people thought he had made a deal with the Devil,” she added.
Not the Devil, I thought. Just a demon.
“He burned to death in a fire,” she said. “At least, that’s what the stories say.” She pointed to a sketch in her book of Corwin Moran. I was certain he was the man I’d seen in the broad-brimmed hat, the man who had returned to Charleston to raise Abernathy’s demon.
Just then her phone rang, and I did my best to look completely absorbed checking my cell phone as Mrs. Morrissey took the call. She looked up when she was done. “I’m sorry, dear. I’ve got to go over to the Chamber of Commerce and straighten out some details for the reception they’re holding. It’s part of our latest fundraiser. You’re welcome to stay here and use the computer – I shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”
I checked the time. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Mrs. Morrissey nodded. “That’s why I hesitated about going over to the Chamber. One of the professors at the University is dropping by to discuss a lecture we’re planning for the Fall Luminaries Lantern Tour schedule.”
“I love those tours,” I said, thinking silently how I wished Sorren could lead one of the sessions. “They make you feel as if you’re right there, like you’ve met the people.”
Mrs. Morrissey brightened. “That’s the whole goal – to give reality TV a run for its money and get more people engaged in history.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “After all, every good historian knows that history is the original reality show.
“I’ve got an expert on African myth and folklore who’s supposed to be here sometime this afternoon, and I know that if I step out for a moment, she’ll show up while I’m gone.”
“I don’t mind waiting,” I said. “Once you get back, I can finish up in the stacks and still get to Trifles and Folly in time to finish out the afternoon.”
“Bless you,” Mrs. Morrissey said. “If anyone else shows up, tell them I’ll be back soon. I won’t be long.”
She left me with instructions not to let anyone else in and to let the phone go to voice mail and hustled out the door. It wasn’t until she was gone I realized I had just volunteered to be alone in a museum. Damn.
Chapter Nineteen
I WALKED INTO the foyer and took the opportunity to look at the ‘Healers and Helpers’ exhibit, being careful not to touch any of the cases or objects. I figured I was safer with objects that had been used to heal and protect rather than with pieces that had belonged to killers and rogues.
I walked over to appreciate a beautiful oil painting that hung on the opposite wall. It was a painting of a long-ago ball that had been held in the Drayton House’s ballroom. Judging by the clothing of the people in the painting, I guessed the period to be mid-1700s. The women were resplendent in their long dresses with massive skirts of silk and satin, and the men looked prosperous and satisfied in their knee breeches and brocade waistcoats.
I had seen the painting many times, but I’d never had the time to study it. To get a better view, I walked up a few steps so that it was on eye level. The artist’s main focus was on the mansion’s current owners at the time, who were in the center of the action. But he had also captured the likenesses of many of the other notable guests, some of whom I recognized from Charleston’s history. One image caught my eye, and I let out a slight gasp. Off to one side, trying to look inconspicuous, stood a thin blond man with light skin and high cheekbones. His sea-gray eyes seemed to meet mine and a startle of recognition thrilled through me. Sorren.
My mind was still reeling from surprise when I heard the faint sounds of an old-fashioned music box.
I froze,
straining to listen. The music box had been part of the ‘Ramblers and Rogues’ exhibit. Mrs.
Morrissey had turned it off when she turned out the lights.
From above me, I heard a thump, a sharp sound of metal on wood. Exactly what a lead-tipped cane might sound like pounding against the wooden floor.
Thump. Thump. Jeremiah Abernathy had convened his court once more, more than a century after his death.
There was no way in hell I was going to go up those stairs. I began to back down the steps carefully, doing my best not to make any noise. Mrs. Morrissey had not mentioned any ghostly activity. Then again, between the age of the house and the notoriety of many of the artifacts the Archive housed, perhaps she had come to take haunting in her stride.
I heard a coin fall and rattle on the floor.
I eyed the door, wondering how badly Mrs. Morrissey would be disappointed if I locked it behind me and high-tailed it back to the store. I could tell her that Teag came down with accute appendicitis. Or that the shop was being invaded by aliens (sometimes, that didn’t seem far from the truth).
The coin fell again.
I could feel my heart thudding. Get a grip, Cassidy, I chided myself. It’s probably a recording on a timer, or a glitch in the wiring. I didn’t touch anything. There’s nothing to worry about.
Something clinked at the top of the stairs. As I watched, a coin rolled off the top step and fell to the next, impossibly remaining on edge. I stared in fascination and horror as it fell from stair to stair until at last it tumbled from the bottom step, spun for a second, and landed flat at my feet.
Heads, you die.
I had backed all the way down the stairs, and now stood in the foyer. A glance at my watch told me that Mrs. Morrissey wouldn’t be back for at least twenty minutes. Once again, I weighed my options. I could leave and lock the door behind me, but that would mean breaking my word to Mrs. Morrissey and putting the archive in a bad light with the expert who was due to arrive any minute. I decided to ignore my thudding heart and stay where I could keep an eye on the stairs and the door at the same time.
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