Arsenic And Old Books

THIRTY-ONE

Stewart answered after several rings, and I identified myself.

“Hi, Charlie, how are you?” Stewart asked.

“Doing fine. I’m working on a new project,” I said. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“Sure,” Stewart said. “What do you need?”

“It might be better if I explained in person,” I said. “Can I come over to your office sometime today?”

Stewart chuckled. “I’m not in the office at the moment. I have my office phone forwarded to my cell phone. I’m home, actually. How about I come to your office in about twenty minutes?”

“That’s fine,” I said, “if you’re sure you have time.”

“I do,” Stewart replied. “See you in twenty.”

I hoped Stewart might be able to answer the questions I now had about the authenticity of the fifth volume of Rachel’s diary. I suspected that it was a fake, and if Stewart could give me some kind of basic evidence of that possibility, I would turn the book over to Kanesha and tell her it needed to be thoroughly tested.

If the diary proved to be a fake, then the question was, who did it?

The most obvious answer was the mayor herself, Lucinda Beckwith Long.

Her motive? To embarrass Jasper Singletary and cost him votes by spreading the news that he was a descendant of a slave who once was the property of the Long family.

The arrogance that lay behind such a plan stunned me. Was the Long family so desperate to put Beck in office that they would stoop to something so preposterous? I suspected they were. I also found repugnant the notion that Jasper Singletary was less worthy—I had to struggle for a word—because of the alleged connection to a slave woman. Did Mrs. Long really believe that was such a terrible thing, enough to turn voters away from Jasper?

The man himself didn’t seem that bothered by it, and I had to credit him for that attitude if it was, indeed, genuine.

How did the murder of Marie Steverton connect to this? I wondered whether she had known about the faked diary. Allegedly faked diary, I reminded myself. Had the mayor run Marie down in cold blood to keep her from giving away the scheme? That was possible, I supposed, but it didn’t seem likely somehow.

I kept running these and other questions through my brain while I waited for Stewart to arrive. The frustration from not being able to find answers was building, and I knew before long I would have a headache from the tension.

Stewart’s arrival came as a welcome interruption. “Hi, Charlie,” he said from the doorway. “Here I am, and I have a companion with me.”

Diesel trotted into the room ahead of Stewart and came around the desk to sit by me. He looked up at me and meowed.

“Your companion has been naughty,” I said. “He sneaked out of here while I was busy and went down to see Melba.”

“Oh, Diesel, you are a bad boy.” Stewart chuckled as he made himself comfortable in the chair across from me.

I looked down at the cat and frowned. “You shouldn’t do things like that.”

Diesel meowed and placed a large paw on my leg. For him, this probably constituted an apology. I patted his head. Reassured, he climbed into the window behind me and stretched out.

I turned to Stewart, who looked as neatly groomed and fresh as always. I wished I knew how he managed to stay that way, even in the heat of a Mississippi summer.

“Thanks for coming by,” I said. I waved a hand to indicate the volumes of Rachel Long’s diary on my desk. “I need your help with these.”

Stewart quirked one eyebrow. “Are they old chemistry books? Otherwise, I’m not sure I’d be of much help.”

“They’re not,” I said, “but it’s your expertise in chemistry that I need.” I tapped the suspect volume lightly. “I think this one is a fake, and I’m hoping you can tell me if I’m right.”

“What are they?” Stewart asked.

“I’m getting ahead of myself,” I said. “These are diaries written by Rachel Afton Long around the time of the Civil War.”

“Long?” Stewart said. “As in our esteemed mayor’s husband’s family?”

I nodded. “Yes. Mrs. Long brought four of the diaries to me on Monday. She found them in a trunk in the attic and wanted them added to the Long collection here in the archive. Later she brought me a fifth one.” I held it up. “She said she found it in the same trunk, but hidden in a false bottom.”

“What makes you think it’s a fake?” Stewart asked.

“The contents,” I said. “From what I can see, the paper, the ink, and the handwriting are similar. But the time period covered in this volume is also covered in one of the original four Mrs. Long brought.”

“Tell me the whole story,” Stewart said. “I’ve got time, and before I get involved with this, I want to know what’s really going on.”

That was a fair request. I gave him the salient facts as I saw them. When I finished, he shook his head. “The Longs have always been snobs, but this really takes the gâteau.” He shifted in his chair. “Do you think the mayor ran Marie down, then?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m really not sure how the murder fits into this mud-slinging scheme. Unless Marie managed to figure it out and threatened to expose it.”

“I’ll leave that up to you and your buddy Kanesha.” Stewart grinned. “Have you told her yet that you think you’ve got a fake on your hands?”

“No, I haven’t. I wanted to have some kind of evidence before I tell her and suggest she send it for a more thorough investigation.”

“And that’s where I come in.” Stewart looked thoughtful. “I’m sure you don’t want me to do anything to harm the integrity of these books. Probably the easiest thing would be for me to examine the paper and ink with the microscope.”

“What would that tell you?” I asked.

“I can compare the fibers in the paper, to start with,” Stewart replied. “Then I can look at the ink, see how it has bonded with the paper, for example. If one was written back during the Civil War and the other one only recently, there will be noticeable differences.”

I forestalled him before he launched into a more technical explanation. “If you do find these differences, then I’ll feel more confident about calling Kanesha and telling her what I suspect. When will you be able to do it?”

Stewart smiled. “I don’t have class this afternoon, so I can work on it now. I’ll take the suspected fake and one of the others and compare them.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate this,” I said. “I’ve got a box here you can take them in.” I put the suspected fake and the final volume of the four original ones into the box for him.

“I’ll bring them back when I’ve finished,” Stewart said. “Shouldn’t take too long if I can get into one of the labs and find the appropriate tools available. This time of the semester the labs are pretty full.”

Diesel warbled and trilled a good-bye as Stewart left. He called a farewell to the cat before he disappeared into the hallway.

I turned in my chair to regard the cat. Diesel gazed sleepily at me. He meowed, and I rubbed his head.

“I can’t stay mad at you for long,” I told him. He purred and pushed his head against my hand. “I’m going to have to pay more attention, though.”

Diesel settled down after a bit more love, and I tried to focus on what I needed to do next. I had to keep busy or else I’d be staring at the phone every other minute, silently urging Stewart to call.

My glance fell on the diary volume with the missing pages, and my thoughts homed in on the time period of those pages. What had happened in the summer of 1863 in Athena?

I picked up the dissertation. Too bad it didn’t have an index, I thought. Instead of looking up pages where any of the Long family was mentioned, I’d have to read or skim through the text.

After the chapter on the early history of Athena, the author of the dissertation focused more tightly on the years of the war and its aftermath. I started skimming, looking for mentions of the Long and Singletary families. After fifty pages or so, I found what I was looking for.

Tragedy befell the Long family twice in rapid succession in the summer of 1863 with the deaths of both Andrew Long Senior and his son, Major Andrew Long Junior. The major, badly wounded during the Battle of Gettysburg in early July, and no longer able to serve, somehow managed to make it home to Bellefontaine by mid-August. He remained secluded there with his wife, son, and father until his death. Several of the town’s prominent citizens called upon the family to welcome Major Long home, but were turned away by his wife, Rachel. The major’s wounds were so disfiguring, she told them, the major refused to see anyone.

The footnote to this paragraph cited the letters of one Josiah Rhodes, who was evidently the Longs’ banker. The author of the dissertation went on to say that word reached the town in late September of 1863 that the major had succumbed to a fever, and shortly after, his father died as well. Mrs. Long was left with her young son and a few servants at Bellefontaine.

I had seen photographs of the carnage wrought by the Civil War and the grievous wounds borne by the soldiers who survived. I could understand that a proud man might not care to be seen and pitied by anyone other than his family. The Battle of Gettysburg had the highest casualties of any battle during the war, with more than twenty thousand of them from Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia. Meade’s Army of the Potomac sustained a similar number.

I put the book aside, my question about the death of Major Andrew Long answered. Time now to focus again on Rachel’s diaries. Ordinarily I would have started at the beginning, but because of the questions I had regarding the diary I thought was fake, I started with the volume with the missing pages. There might be clues in other parts of the diary that could be helpful.

For the next forty-five minutes I read steadily, and I paused every few minutes to make sure Diesel remained on the windowsill. I also cast a few glances at the phone, wishing Stewart would call, but I had no idea how long it would take him to examine the paper and ink. I hoped he had been able to find the equipment he needed and hadn’t had to wait for it to become free.

The office phone rang while I was standing and stretching in front of the desk. I snatched up the receiver.

“Charlie, I’ve got an answer for you,” Stewart said without preamble. “Based on my analysis, I’d say this one volume is definitely a fake. The inks don’t match, though the paper does.”