Миранда Джеймс - Arsenic And Old Books

That made no sense. Why would the mayor tell me about the conversation if Marie had been trying to blackmail her?

Maybe the mayor did it to blacken Marie’s character. Mrs. Long might also have assumed that no one would figure out the one volume was a forgery, so she thought it safe to mention the conversation with Marie.

I put the pen down for a moment because my hand started to cramp, trying to keep up with all the questions and thoughts streaming through my head.

Back to the memoir, I decided. I’d read the rest of it instead of coming up with more questions I couldn’t answer. Then on to the removed diary pages—from the real diary. I might find some answers there.

I didn’t spend long on the remainder of Angeline Long’s overblown prose. I recognized several incidents from the forged volume. Whoever the forger was, she had clearly used this memoir to include authentic-sounding details. Even to the extent of the green tarlatan fabric that Rachel gave to Vidalia Singletary for herself and her children.

The final few paragraphs offered a pious summation of Rachel’s life of charitable works and extraordinary goodness. Her “piety and Christian love for all those around her was noted by all who met her.” I had to wonder what Rachel herself would have thought of this ersatz encomium. I repeated those two words to myself. Yes, I thought, they described this little tribute well.

Before I started on the diary pages, I thought I ought to call Kanesha and give her an update. She needed to know I’d discovered the source of the information in the forged volume. I was about to pick up the phone when another, all-too-obvious question struck me.

Why had the forger used Angeline Long’s memoir of Rachel rather than Rachel’s own diaries? Had the forger even read the original diaries?

Every question I posed seemed to make the whole situation more impenetrable. I couldn’t follow a straight line of logic more than a point or two before hitting a dead end. This was beginning to drive me mad.

It was all too complicated to get across in a phone call. Instead I decided to send Kanesha an e-mail. Then I would send a text message to alert her to the e-mail.

For the next fifteen minutes I typed. I went through the message three times before I was satisfied that I’d included enough details along with the important questions I had. When I finally hit Send I was about ready for a hot shower followed by a couple of stiff shots of whiskey.

Diesel warbled, and when I glanced at the windowsill, I saw him on his back contorted in a position that looked painful, with his head nearly under one shoulder and his chest thrust out at an angle. This was my signal to rub his belly and scratch his chin, and being the well-trained servant I am, I complied.

After a couple of minutes of cat therapy I was ready to tackle the formerly missing diary pages. I located the file in my e-mail, saved it to the computer, then opened it. I increased the size by about 20 percent to make it easier to read.

I picked up the volume from which the pages had been cut and opened it to the gap. I wanted to get a running start, as it were, on the scanned pages.

The entry before the gap was dated August 10, 1863.

This day began like so many before it, with prayers to our Lord to deliver us from the evil in which we daily found ourselves. The war drags on, and there are constantly rumors that the Union Army is about to descend upon us. Then there came to us what at first looked like the Lord’s blessing, a wonderful gift.

Words cannot express the sickness and horror I feel over the acts of betrayal perpetrated by one so dear. The blessing became a curse, one which we must keep to ourselves. The shame, if the truth should ever be known, is unthinkable. Already Father Long looks ill, and I fear that his heart cannot withstand this. Already weakened by the loss of his wife, my own dear mama-in-law, he cannot sustain such a blow. I can write no more for fear that my tears will soak the ink from the very page.

The entry ended there. Rachel sounded as if she were upon the point of utter despair.

What terrible thing could have happened? I wondered.

The phone rang and startled me, and I uttered a word I thought I had excised from my vocabulary.

THIRTY-SIX

I sounded none too cordial when I answered the phone. I could have screamed in frustration at the interruption.

“Catch you at a bad time?” Kanesha said coolly into my ear.

“Sort of,” I said. “Sorry if I sound grumpy, but I’m reading the pages that were missing, and I was just about to find out something important when you rang.”

“Sorry about that,” Kanesha said. “I haven’t had a chance to get to them yet. I did, however, read your e-mail. I wanted to alert you to the fact that I’m sending Turnbull to your office to pick up that library book. I am also trying to track down Kelly Grimes. I think it’s time I had another chat with her.”

“Did I sound like a rambling fool in the e-mail?” I asked a bit nervously. “I gave you more questions than facts, I think, but this is the screwiest case I’ve ever seen.”

“I was able to follow it,” Kanesha said. “It is a screwy case, but I’m beginning to see my way clear. As soon as you’ve finished reading those pages, call me.” She disconnected.

She was beginning to see her way clear, she’d said. I wanted to bang something on the desk. That meant she was pretty sure she knew who killed Marie Steverton. I knew I couldn’t really expect her to confide in me before she was ready to make an arrest, but still, it was annoying.

I shrugged that off and went back to the computer. I scrolled down until the beginning of the next entry, dated three days later, was at the top of the screen.

I have been far too heartsick, and too worried about the state of Father Long’s mind and general health, to sit and write. I have no one in whom I can confide, for we cannot allow anyone to know what has befallen us. Though my heart at first rejoiced to have my husband returned to me, and whole of body, if not of spirit, it soon thudded painfully in my breast when my husband confessed his actions.

My eyes went back to that phrase whole of body . According to Angeline Long, Major Andrew Long had been so grievously disfigured by his injuries he would allow no one to see him.

The explanation came in the next paragraph.

Andrew told us of the horrors of the battle that took place in early July near Gettysburg, which is in the Union state of Pennsylvania. The carnage, the bloodshed, the noise, the cries of the wounded and dying, he made them all seem much too real to us. I know Father Long was moved by this recital, and by Andrew’s sobs. The horror of it clearly overwhelmed him, and that I could understand, for what he described to us was a veritable Hell upon earth. Andrew had his own horse shot out from under him, but he was able to roll free and thus not be pinned beneath the dying beast. Andrew said he does not really remember what happened next. At some point he found himself away from the battlefield. How he came to be there he cannot, or will not, say, but he turned his back on his men and General Lee and walked away.

Poor Andrew, I thought. I could not imagine the horror of that battle. Simply reading descriptions of it made me sick to my stomach. Gettysburg was truly the stuff of nightmares. I was not surprised that Andrew had walked away from it, but of course I knew his family and his fellow soldiers would not see it that way. I understood Rachel’s reaction, but my sympathy was with Andrew.

I resumed reading although I wasn’t sure I wanted to know much more.

Andrew begged his father for forgiveness. “You cannot imagine the demons that live inside my head,” he said. “All I knew is that I must find my way home again, in hopes the demons would leave my dreams, my every waking thought.”