Миранда Джеймс - Arsenic And Old Books

With the enlargement I found Rachel Long’s handwriting not at all difficult to read. The fact that the pages were in such excellent condition helped as well. The ink seemed clearer from what I remembered of the other volumes.

Rachel had a chatty, informal style that reminded me a bit of Mary Chesnut’s diary. There was a sense of immediacy, almost as if Rachel were recording things right as they happened, rather than afterward.

The first entry, dated March 9, 1861, was exactly two months after Mississippi seceded from the Union, the second state to do so. South Carolina went first, I remembered. Rachel wrote:

Mr. Lincoln became President five days ago, though of course he is not OUR president. That honor has fallen to Mr. Jefferson Davis, and we in Mississippi are proud that this fine man is from our state. I believe, and in this Mr. Long concurs with me, that Mr. Davis will prove himself worthy.

She went on to express the typical Southern bravado, that if war broke out it would indeed end quickly, thanks to the fine men of the South who could outfight their Northern counterparts easily.

In the early stages they believed it little more than a game, or so I had always thought. Johnny Reb would whip the North quickly, and the South would go on its merry way as a newly formed and separate nation. Five years—and hundreds of thousands of deaths and other casualties—later, the Union was stitched back together.

I read steadily for the next half hour, fascinated by Rachel’s observations of daily life. The mood in the South remained euphoric, even after the incident at Fort Sumter in mid-April 1861.

In an entry dated May 26, 1861, Rachel noted news that the Union Army had crossed the Potomac and captured Alexandria, Virginia. Rachel expressed confidence that the city would soon be retaken by Confederate troops.

Two days later she made her first mention of the Singletary family.

Word has reached us that our wretched neighbor, Mr. Jasper Singletary, has once again fallen ill with his heart troubles. Though he is certainly the most quarrelsome and obstinate creature that Our Dear Lord ever placed upon this earth, I cannot wish him to suffer, for then his poor wife and children will have even less. I have upon occasion visited with Mrs. Vidalia Singletary, and she is a sweet but timid creature, and I fear that she is used most roughly by her husband. Mr. Singletary would no doubt suffer another fit of apoplexy were he to discover that I have sometimes taken food to give to his wife. I cannot bear the sight of those wretched little children with their bony knees and dirty faces.

I sat back and rubbed my eyes, already tired from gazing at the screen so intently for more than thirty minutes. This last entry certainly showed Rachel Long in a positive light. Her charitable interest in the Singletary children spoke well of her, and there was no indication thus far that she bore the least ill will toward the family.

Diesel saw me stretching, and he stretched as well. I got up from the chair and walked back and forth between the desk and the door a few times. The office phone rang while I was walking.

“Hello, Charlie,” Kanesha Berry said. “I have some news for you. I’m pretty sure I know who took those diaries from your office.”

TWENTY-FOUR

“The evidence isn’t conclusive yet,” Kanesha went on after a brief pause. “I’m satisfied, though. I’d already figured Marie Steverton as the thief.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” I responded. Marie was one of two obvious candidates, the other being Kelly Grimes. “You obviously have some kind of proof. Can you tell me what it is?”

“As long as it doesn’t go any further,” Kanesha said.

“Of course,” I replied, a bit nettled that she even felt the need to mention it.

“Maybe you remember I mentioned we found a canvas bag in the street with the body,” Kanesha said. “There was residue in it from something, and I suspected it was flakes from the binding of those diaries.”

“Was it?”

“Yes, the flakes match, although the report isn’t official yet.”

“You’re sure the bag belonged to Marie?” I asked. I couldn’t resist needling her slightly in return for her earlier question.

“Had her name embroidered on a tag inside,” Kanesha said.

“I wonder why the person who took them from Marie left the bag behind.” I paused as another thought struck me. “Have you made any progress on finding the car that ran Marie down?”

“Nothing significant,” Kanesha replied. “The neighbor who saw the car disappearing wasn’t close enough to read the license plate number or really tell what make and model it is. All he could come up with was large and dark. And that it was a car, not a pickup.”

“Was there any damage to the car?” I asked.

“Pretty likely,” she said. “We found fragments that might have come from the vehicle. Also there will probably be minute paint fragments on the deceased’s clothing. They might even be able to figure out a make and model from that. In the meantime, we’re considering all possibilities.”

“That’s good. Do you have any idea when they’ll be finished with the diaries and I can get them back?”

“You should have them in your hands sometime Friday afternoon,” Kanesha said. “The mayor really pulled some strings, because they made this investigation a top priority.”

I couldn’t tell from her tone whether Kanesha was impressed or annoyed by this exercise of political heft.

“I’ll be glad to have them back,” I said. “In the meantime I finished scanning the volume the mayor brought the other day. I’ve been reading it, and it’s interesting.”

“Found a motive for murder yet?” Kanesha asked. This time I interpreted her mood easily—skeptical.

“Not yet.” I wished I could share Singletary’s tragic story with her, but I’d given my word.

“Give me a call if you do.” Kanesha ended the call.

I put the receiver down and turned back to the computer. Diesel warbled, and I focused on him instead. He batted a paw toward my arm, and I recognized the demand for attention. I stroked his head and along his back a few times. He meowed loudly, and I also recognized that sound. He was hungry.

A quick check of my watch told me why. At eleven fifteen it was close enough to lunch for us to take a break and head home to eat. “Come on, boy, I’m a little peckish myself.”

After a meal of scrumptious homemade chicken pot pie for me and more boiled chicken for him, Diesel and I made it back to the office around twelve fifteen. Melba’s door was closed, and that meant she was out to lunch. She would no doubt appear upstairs at some point in the afternoon, but not, I hoped, until I had made considerably more progress with Rachel Long’s diary.

The cat settled into this favorite spot while I called up the file. I found my place and started reading. Moments later, I hit upon another mention of the Singletary family.

Vidalia Singletary came to see me today while Father Long was occupied elsewhere, and that is just as well, for he finds the sight of the poor woman distasteful—almost as distasteful as that of her husband, for whom he has little good to say. That pains me, for I would have my husband be of a more Christian disposition toward these unfortunates. Vidalia appeared near exhaustion, and she burst into the most pitiable tears the moment I first spoke to her. It took me some several minutes to calm the poor woman enough that I might hear the extent of her troubles. The sum of them was simply that her husband was still too weak to work the farm. Franklin, the son by Mr. Singletary’s first wife, is rather a feckless boy and moreover is not himself strong, apparently suffering from a similar complaint of the heart as his father.