Миранда Джеймс - Arsenic And Old Books

I found mention of it in an entry dated October 15, 1863.

Two weeks ago we laid to rest my precious Andrew, only days after we mourned the passing of his father. Father Long lost heart, seeing his son in such grievous condition, and the news of the war compounded his sorrow. I must remain strong and pray that the Lord will guide me now. My boy is too young for the responsibility of caring for his inheritance, and I cannot fail him, though I cannot see how we will last through the winter.

Poignant words, but I knew that Rachel had survived, along with her son. They made it through the war and somehow found the way to prosperity again. In her way, I thought, Rachel must have been a formidable woman. With the deaths of her father-in-law and her husband, she had a heavy burden. I recalled that her son, Andrew III, was only about five or six years old at the time.

I finished the pages about twenty minutes later. Rachel’s record-keeping grew sparse. She had little time to think about writing in her diary. The final entry came on May 17, 1865.

Word reached Bellefontaine today that General Lee surrendered to General Grant in Virginia. The war is over, and I find myself numb and exhausted. All but a few of our most loyal workers have fled. May the Lord watch over us and give us the strength to face the future.

I felt as if I’d been left hanging by an ambiguous ending to a mystery novel. I wanted to know what happened next. I wouldn’t have long to wait. The rest of Rachel’s diaries would be back in the archive tomorrow, and I could read the rest of the story, as it were.

I shut down the laptop and got up to put it on the desk in the corner of my bedroom. Back in bed I lay there and stared at the ceiling. Diesel slept on beside me. I dozed off at some point, then was roused by the ringing of my cell phone.

I yawned as I picked up the phone. “Hello, love,” I said.

“You sound as tired as I feel,” Helen Louise replied. “Long day?”

“Yes, I’ll tell you about it later. How was your day? Was business good?”

“Very good,” she said. “So good, in fact, I’m thinking about expanding into that empty storefront next door. What do you think about that?”

“That’s great,” I said. “Congratulations to you for building up such a successful business. You have such a gift, not only for creating the most delicious food I’ve ever tasted, but also for creating a wonderful ambience at the bakery. It’s no wonder everyone in Athena loves it.”

“Thanks, love.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “I have to sit down with my banker and figure out the finances, but I think it’s doable. Going to be a lot more work, though, and of course I don’t want to be shut down long for the construction. I need to talk to an architect about that and see what the options are.”

“Maybe all you’ll need is a door between your space and the one next door. That should be simple enough.”

We talked about her plans for several minutes before we both began to yawn. Soon after that we bade each other good night. I promised to come by for lunch again tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning I was eager to get to the archive and hurried through breakfast. I didn’t know when the diaries would arrive, or who would bring them. I doubted that the person bringing them would show up before nine, but Diesel and I made it there by eight thirty just in case.

Melba’s door was closed, but she would arrive soon. Diesel and I headed upstairs. I planned to get a few things done before Melba popped up for her usual visit and before the diaries arrived.

I had neglected e-mail the past few days, and I needed to catch up. I spent half an hour responding to messages, some of which required answering questions about the archive’s collections. I also needed to make new archival boxes for the four diary volumes. When I finished that task I decided to act upon a half-formed idea I had when I woke up this morning.

My knowledge of Civil War–era Athena was sketchy at best, and I intended to rectify that. I wanted to know more about what happened here during those dark days, and I figured there might be theses or dissertations that could satisfy my curiosity. I hadn’t run across any books on the subject, but students earning degrees might have written about aspects of the town’s history.

I also debated going through the Long collection to look for letters that Rachel might have written, but decided that she would hardly have confided plans to poison the Singletary children to a correspondent.

A search of the college library’s online catalog yielded several works with the town of Athena as a subject. One of them, Athena, Mississippi, During the Civil War: A Study of Social and Political Life Under Crisis , was a dissertation by Catherine Louisa Brooke. The date of the degree was 1987, and according to the catalog the bound item was on the shelf in the library.

I considered my options and decided to ask Melba to watch Diesel while I went next door to the main library building in search of the dissertation. I knew she would be happy to have my cat to herself for a while. “Come on, boy,” I said to the napping feline on the windowsill. “Let’s go see Melba.”

Diesel perked up the moment he heard Melba’s name and slid down from the window. He scampered to the door ahead of me and was down the stairs by the time I reached the top of them. I hurried down, and as I neared the office, I could hear Melba already cooing over the cat.

“Morning, Charlie,” she said. “I was asking Diesel if he sneaked down to see me on his own.” She rubbed her hand along the cat’s spine, and Diesel chirped happily in response.

“No, we came down because I wanted to ask you to watch him while I go next door. I want to get a book from the library.”

“Of course.” She beamed at me.

“One other thing,” I said. “Someone will be returning the Rachel Long diaries to the archive today. I’m not sure exactly when, but I was told it would be this morning. Give me a shout on my cell phone if they show up before I get back, okay?”

“Sure,” Melba said. “Take your time. Diesel and I’ll be fine.”

The whole errand took me only ten minutes, and it was almost nine thirty when Diesel and I arrived back upstairs in the office. He got comfortable in his favorite spot, and I sat at my desk and opened the dissertation.

I noted that Professor Newkirk was the student’s major advisor and also that Marie Steverton had been a member of her committee. I skimmed the acknowledgments and was not surprised to see that Marie received only a bare mention.

I settled back in my chair and started to read. I was happy to discover that Dr. Brooke had an engaging style and her prose didn’t suffer from the usual academic dryness. The opening chapter related the beginnings of the town of Athena in the early 1820s, and I recognized several names as those of our most prominent families: Ducote, Long, and Pendergrast, among others. Then I had the pleasant shock of seeing the name of my own great-great-grandfather, Henry Harris. He had owned a large dry goods store in Athena and was considered one of the town’s most prominent businessmen.

The narrative absorbed me, and I lost track of time while I read. A knock at the door roused me, and I looked up to see a man in the uniform of the sheriff’s department standing there.

“Please, come in.” I stood and motioned for him to enter. He looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t remember his name.

“Morning, Mr. Harris,” the deputy said. “Where would you like me to put this?” He nodded to indicate the box he carried.

“Right here on the desk, Deputy Turnbull.” He had come close enough for me to read the name on his badge.