by Jeff High
“But why not do all the bottling here?”
“My guess is that it would have created too much truck traffic on the old ravine road. And those trucks would have had Hiram’s name on the side of them. People would notice. But trucks in town going back and forth to the railroad depot probably wouldn’t get anybody’s attention. Hiram also needed a secure place to warehouse the bottles. That’s what all the wine racks were probably for. Meanwhile, as far as anybody knows, this place is just an old springhouse.”
Matthew nodded silently. “Well, I’ll admit. Everything you say makes sense.” Slowly, he looked around the room, absorbing everything before us and mentally composing the room to its original purpose. Despite the noted gestures of understanding, his face was still framed in a tacit unrest. He exhaled a deep sigh of acknowledgment. "I think you may have figured it out, Luke. I have to say; I'm impressed."
I shrugged, awkward in the face of such a direct compliment. “Sure. I guess that’s where the whole ‘I want to do research thing,’ comes into play.”
Once again, Matthew nodded but said nothing more. In the moment, I felt a mild satisfaction, a sense of closure to a few of the unknowns surrounding Hiram and the past. It would be short-lived.
Matthew was moving in a completely opposite direction. His mood had grown dark again. He seemed distant, removed, searching for something far-flung and unreachable. And with that, a simple reality occurred to me. We had found some answers, but not to the questions that troubled him most. A knotty silence fell between us, and it was only then that I wholly understood that for the past months, Matthew had simply been nursing his anger. Months of smoldering frustration now surfaced fully upon him.
He seemed in want of lashing out, of erupting in an explosive tirade, of blasting anything and everything in this world and the next with the full weight of his pain and loss and disillusionment. I understood. It was impossible not to be drawn in by the profound injustice of his vanquished hope. We stared at each other, wordless. A mutual feeling of exasperation hung in the air like a vapor, difficult to name but impossible to ignore. I exhaled a deep sigh of resignation. Not knowing what else to say, I said the obvious.
"It definitely looks like Hiram was in the whiskey distribution business. But there's nothing here that reveals anything more about what happened in Chicago or why he left town or how that relates to what Emily was trying to tell you.”
Still holding the bottle in his right hand, Matthew stood silently, clearly discouraged.
“Matthew, man...I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.” His well-masked desire to find answers had been seething beneath the surface. Now, he saw no further reason to hold them in check. In his frustration, he threw the bottle across the room, shattering it against the bricks. Disgusted, he pressed his back against the wall behind him and slid to the floor. He sat, resting his elbows on his upturned knees, seemingly defeated.
“I don’t get it, Luke. I’ve been over every inch of that house, every room, every closet, every nook and cranny, and attic. There’s nothing. No documents, no letters, no buried bones, nothing. It’s all just bull. Hiram was a bootlegger, and for some reason, he decided to bail out of it. That’s all I get. What that has to do with Emily, I’ll never know.”
I couldn’t help but share his disillusionment. “Matthew, like I said, I’m sorry. I guess I was hoping we’d find something here that told a larger story, that made some kind of connection. But this is just a dead end. The only things Hiram left behind were a few odds and ends and camera photographs in the attic in Charleston.”
For the longest time, Matthew stared blankly ahead. Then slowly, his eyes rolled toward me, his expression was hard and penetrating. “What did you just say?”
The sharp edge of his tone had caught me off guard, and for a moment, it seemed that he was ready to stand, clench his fist, and confront me, as if in some way I had offended him. I replayed my words, my tone accommodating but deliberate. “I said that the only clues were in the attic. Hiram left everything there...up in the attic.”
“No. You said something else. You said the word camera.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
Matthew’s stern regard paled to an open-mouthed disbelief; stunned. He let his head collapse back against the wall, staring through the hole in the roof to the distant sky. “I’m an idiot.”
“I don’t understand.”
Slowly, a clever smile emerged. “Do you remember the inscription on the inside cover of the bible I found in the trunk.”
“Not word for word. Something about asking forgiveness for not throwing everything away.”
“That’s right. Because he put everything in the camera.”
“Yeah. And...I have to say, that one still has me stumped. So, why are you an idiot?”
“Because Hiram knew Latin.”
“Okay, and?”
“Camera is the Latin word for room, and in particular for a high room, like an attic. So what Hiram was saying was that he left everything in the attic.”
It took a few seconds to grasp Matthew’s meaning. Then, it hit me like a hammer. “Oh! I get it now. But hold on...you said you had been all through the attic of the house.”
"I have. But that was all through the attic over the second floor. I've never been in the attic over the third floor where the study is.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no access. Months ago, I looked at the ceiling in all four rooms on that level and even the closets. There was no way to get up there and candidly, no reason to get up there. So, I wrote it off.”
My mind was racing, searching, trying to connect the dots. “Do you remember the Latin inscription Hiram wrote in the Book of Ecclesiastes, the one about the past being sealed forever?”
“Sure.”
“Christmas Eve night, when I came to your study and stayed there while you went down to check on the twins, I remember looking at the room and thinking it odd that there were no bookshelves on the right side of the fireplace. That wall comes out flush with the firebox. You think there might be a stairwell behind it?”
Matthew paused for a moment, his thoughts churning. “I don’t know. It all appears to be solid paneling.”
“But maybe there’s a hidden door. Or maybe Hiram simply had it sealed up like the inscription said.”
It seemed that within seconds, the pendulum of Matthew’s emotions swung hard in the opposing direction. An irrepressible expression of eager discovery welled upon his face. “Hell’s bells. You may be right. It’s been right there in front of me all this time.”
I slid my hands into my pockets and gazed up at the open rift in the roof, feeling the need to temper Matthew’s hope. “Well, let’s don’t jump to conclusions just yet. But it does sound promising.” It was then that I realized that my last sentence was said to an empty room. He was already out the door. I mumbled to myself. “Okay. Jump to conclusions it is. Right behind you there, buddy.”
Outside, Matthew was already shouldering his backpack, and from all appearances, appeared ready to sprint back up the steep hill. I was contemplating a more controlled ascent. Soon enough, larger forces would motivate both of us to make haste.
I no sooner had pulled the door closed when a deafening explosion rattled the entire gulch. Thunder, so violent it seemed to shake the bones of the earth, stunned both of us; forcing us reflexively to stoop for cover if not outright dive to the ground. Instantly, a cutting gush of wind swept through the ravine, hitting us full force. The ominous and swollen clouds that I had noticed twenty minutes prior had now achieved full strength. The downpour was sudden and brutal. Finer wisdom would seem to dictate that we return to the shelter of the springhouse and let the worst of the storm pass.
But Matthew was undaunted.
With singular focus, he headed down the ravine to find the path we had used for our descent into the gorge. With noticeably less conviction, I followed. We found the washout and headed up. But our climb was viciously challenged
. It seemed that we were facing the elements in all their ferocity. The rain came in sheets, and the wind poured against us. Lightning flashed against the black canopy above and was instantly followed by thunder that quaked the entire woods. The washout quickly became a small torrent and had to be abandoned, forcing us to cut our way through brambles and hedges. The steep incline and slippery ground made for unsteady traction. More than once, each of us slipped and fell; sometimes catching ourselves, sometimes not.
We finally surfaced from the woods covered in mud and thoroughly soaked. The course and the footing across the rear field were now more certain, but the wrath of the storm had not diminished. With the rain stinging our faces, we leaned into the wind and slogged our way forward. Long minutes later, we reached the shelter of Matthew’s back porch; drowned and battered, but with an irrepressible sense of exhilaration.
Without words, we both instinctively took off our muddy boots and made a dripping path to the kitchen. But before either of us spoke, we both heard a hard, distant rapping. It stopped for a moment and then resumed with seemingly greater force and velocity.
“That sounds like someone’s at the front door,” Matthew said.
In our pathetic state, we both walked lightly across the broad living room rug to the front entrance hall. I stood back a couple of feet while Matthew swung the door open. Standing there before us with a raincoat, plastic rain bonnet, and umbrella was none other than Connie Thompson.
Upon seeing us, what had started as an engaging salutation quickly soured to an arrested, critical scrutiny. With stoic, unmoved authority, she methodically assessed the two of us, taking ample time to look down at our dirty feet before carefully working her way back up. Peering over the top of her gold inlay glasses, she was noticeably unamused at our soaked and filthy presentation; regarding us like foolish schoolboys who didn’t have the sense to come in from the rain.
In her typical deadpan manner, she spoke vacantly. “I catch you kids at a bad time?”
Chapter 43
THE WOMAN IN THE SHADOWS
BEFORE MATTHEW COULD respond, I stepped forward, consumed in a sportive grin.
“Matthew, I’d like for you to meet the one and only Connie Thompson. She’s my dear friend, housekeeper, and adopted mother.”
His initial confusion quickly dissolved to a face of amused and knowing recognition. He smiled at her warmly. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Thompson. Luke has spoken of you many times.”
Connie responded with equal courtesy. “Good to meet you, as well, Dr. House.” An awkward silence ensued. Matthew and I suffered a brief moment of social paralysis, but Connie had the grace to carry the conversation. She spoke with tempered politeness.
“I’m sure you gather, Dr. House, that the mother title is figurative.” Having said this, she dropped her chin and regarded me sternly. “And impeachable.”
I was unfazed. But Matthew, unfamiliar with Connie’s sharper edges, went slightly wide-eyed. After a moment of recovery, he spoke cordially. “Umm, won’t you come in, Mrs. Thompson?”
Connie pressed her lips together, deliberating. “Well, I did come to pay a long overdue visit. But it seems I’ve interrupted you boys in the middle of something.”
Matthew hesitated. He shot a few probing glances towards me, searching for a workable response. “Well, umm, not completely. We were, umm...”
“Matthew,” I said calmly.
He stopped and looked at me blankly. He spoke again, still trying to construct a workable response. “It’s nothing terribly important...we were just about to...”
“Matthew,” I said, speaking with all the calm in the world.
He hesitated, somewhat confused and sharpened his attention toward me. He spoke in a whispered, unsure voice. “What?”
“We’re going to have to tell her everything.”
His eyes tightened and his whole manner stiffened. He said nothing but was clearly not in concert with my assertion.
In prelude to my next words, I closed my eyes and shook my head lightly in a gesture of composed certainty. “We’re not going to get away with any half-truths here. Trust me, Connie is going to get to the bottom of all we know and probably faster than we do. But you can be sure of one thing. Whatever we figure out, it will go no farther.”
Matthew squared his stance and tucked his hands under his arms, pondering my advice. I glanced at Connie who stood there silently, watching the two of us with tight-lipped curiosity. I suspect she wanted to appear detached. But I also knew that in the minutes before I spoke to Matthew, she had already gathered from the general air that something huge was afoot.
Finally, Matthew lifted his chin in an expression of composed resolve. “Okay, then. Looks like we have a co-conspirator.”
We both turned to Connie, who was quickly realizing that it was now her turn to enter the conversation.
She did so with unleashed gusto. Her words came hard, fast, and firm.
“Just what kind of foolishness are you two involved in, anyway? And Luke Bradford, where are your manners? Standing there talking about me like I’m off stage in a sound proof booth. Furthermore, whatever it is you two were about to do, you need to change out of those filthy clothes first. Otherwise, you’ll be making a mess that somebody will have to clean up. And that somebody will probably be a woman.” By the time she had finished, everyone in the room could feel that the power balance had shifted.
I looked at Matthew with a boyish grin. “And there you are.”
He smiled in return. “I’ll go change and gather some tools. I can grab some towels for you, but I doubt I have any clothes you can borrow that will fit. Meanwhile, you can fill Mrs. Thompson in on all the details.”
“No worries. I think I have an old pair of jeans and a tee shirt in the car.”
“Good. We’ll regroup in the kitchen.”
The rain had slackened so I made a quick dash to the car and found the clothes in question tucked in a corner of the trunk. By the time I returned, Matthew had already left some towels with Connie. She handed them to me and turned around, facing the living room.
“You can change right there. I’ll keep my back turned. So, Sherlock. Let’s hear it.”
I took off my wet tee shirt and in an economy of words, did my best to relate everything about Matthew’s story; about the connection with Al Capone, about the Charleston trunk and its contents, and about Emily’s dying request. I told her about the bricked in room downstairs, the false spring house, and what we had figured out. As I was putting on my jeans, I told her about Matthew’s revelation with the camera-attic word play and of our suspicion regarding a boarded-up stairwell.
Connie was fascinated. On two occasions she almost forgot herself and began to turn around in a spontaneous act of confirmation. Having finished, I stepped beside her.
“So, you’re telling me that the creepy study upstairs where years ago I heard that scary singing may be connected to some kind of hidden stairwell.”
“That’s what we’re about to find out. Why?”
Connie shook her head warily. “I don’t know. Just the thought of going up there makes me a little weak-kneed. Maybe I’ll just stay down here, and you can shoot me a few text messages.”
I laughed and put my arm around her shoulder. “Come on, Constance Grace. The kitchen is this way.”
Moments later, Matthew joined us, arriving from the utility hall with two large crowbars and a couple of hammers. We exchanged nods of affirmation and, with the air of conspirators, we proceeded to make our way up the grand marble stairs to the third floor. Matthew and I were energized with an overwhelming feeling of immediate and impending discovery. But Connie wore a face of strange disquiet, following a few steps behind.
Once we reached the study, Matthew and I immediately began tapping on the wall to the right of the fireplace, seeing if our untrained ears could detect a hollowing difference. In all honesty, we couldn’t. There was only a low, thick, thud. We ran our hands over all the raised molding
and panels, occasionally pulling at it with our fingers, trying to find some kind of breech or hinge; anything that would reveal an opening. There was none. Having exhausted that option, we stepped back, endeavoring to scrutinize the entire wall on a larger scale.
I lifted my hand in signal of uncertainty. “I don’t know, Matthew. I can’t say anything obvious is jumping out at me.”
He made a swallowed noise of acknowledgement; not so much one of frustration as one of calculation. Connie spoke into the silence. “What was the exact phrase Hiram used about the past?”
Matthew responded. “The Bible we found is on my desk over there. Ecclesiastes, Chapter Three.” Connie found it and turned directly to the Ecclesiastes inscription.
Innocently, Matthew continued. “The phrase, ‘Praeteritis obsignatus est in via,’ Mrs. Thompson, means ‘it is sealed in the past.’”
For a brief second, Connie looked at Matthew dryly. She pursed her lips and refocused on the inscription. Politely, she spoke to the general air. “You know, the way this phrasing is structured, this could also be interpreted, ‘the way to the past is sealed.’”
Immediately, Matthew turned to me, placing Connie to his back. Dumbfounded, he half whispered. “How does she...”
I made a gesture with my hand and mouthed the words, “just go with it.”
Connie continued. “If the way to the past is sealed, I don’t think you’re going to find a hidden door in that wall. If Hiram Hatcher put something or someone up there, he boarded it up where no one would ever find it. At least, not without taking the wall apart.”
After a moment’s contemplation, Matthew and I nodded our agreement to Connie’s conclusion. We grabbed the crowbars and returned to the wall. Within minutes we had popped off the baseboard, crown molding and side molding, revealing the seams of a two-foot wide board that ran from floor to ceiling. With each of us taking a side, we started at the top and began wedging the board outward, unpinning it from the studs behind until it fell with a large whap on the floor. Behind it was a covering of sack-like brown paper that contained sound proofing insulation; most likely vermiculite which was widely used at the time. I was about to punch my way through this with the crowbar when from behind me, I heard Connie gasp loudly.
