A Dream of Daring (23 page)

With a tremendous weight
lifted from his mind, a more relaxed Nash could afford to laugh dismissively.
“You don’t understand us, Tom. Actually, it would be good for everybody if you
just went away, old boy, and left us alone.”

Chapter
19

A portrait of Polly and
her husband painted twenty-four years earlier hung in her library. Tom looked
up at the canvas from Polly’s writing table. Three months after her death, a
pair of reading glasses still lay on the table as if she had just left for a
moment and planned to return. Next to the glasses, a letter was tucked inside
an envelope that had not yet been addressed or sealed. Tom felt as if he were
observing one of Polly’s last acts, cut short by her illness.

Charlotte Barnwell had
not yet visited the Crossroads to handle Polly’s affairs since her funeral. The
mistress of Ruby Manor had long declared that the air at the Crossroads made
her ill. In fear for her daughter’s health, she had even discouraged Rachel
from visiting her aunt. Thus, it had become customary, Tom gathered, for Polly
to visit her relatives at Ruby Manor rather than the other way around. Now
Charlotte seemed to be continuing the same habit after Polly’s death.

Because Charlotte had
appointed him to manage the Crossroads until a new owner was found, Tom took
the liberty of looking through the plantation’s old journals in search of
clues. Sitting in Polly’s library, a few days after Cooper was saved from the
hangman, he wondered if he could uncover any information to help him find the
person who stole his tractor and killed Wiley Barnwell.

In a cabinet underneath a
bookcase, he found stacks of the yearly bound journals of the plantation’s
operations. They contained records of the supplies purchased, fields planted,
crop yields, prices of cotton, weather conditions, and many other details. Each
book also chronicled the activities of the slaves: their names, jobs,
marriages, births, illnesses, doctor’s visits, special events, and deaths. He
spread out the books of prime interest to him.

Two large globes hung in
walnut stands on either side of the writing table. One mapped the earth’s
continents; the other, the celestial bodies. Tom felt as if he were spread
between two worlds as dissimilar as those painted on the globes: the familiar
world inhabited by everyone around him and the new world that he saw on the
horizon.

There was someone else
who saw the great potential of the new realm. It disgusted him to know that the
person was a thief and murderer. By stealing the motorized tractor—while taking
special care to place the cover on the beating heart that was its motor—the
culprit showed that he recognized the coming age and the machine’s great value.
Tom wondered what perversion within a man could make him appreciate a device
born of science yet stoop to primitive aggression.

His thoughts turned to
the only other man—besides himself, the senator, Cooper, and Nash—who had seen
the invention at the Crossroads and was on the property that night: Bret
Markham. Tom recalled how Markham had opened the door of his cottage in the middle
of the night, after the murder, fully dressed and armed. What was he doing that
night? Was he coming in or going out? Was he really about to patrol the slaves’
cabins as he stated?

Tom absently looked out
the window, thinking. It was Sunday, and the field hands were walking about the
property on their day off. He had brought Jerome with him to question the
slaves. Jerome had brought his charm and his chocolate squares—both
appealing—to accomplish the task. Outside, Tom saw the slaves gathering around
the new chef to taste his special recipe.

Tom had told Jerome that
a murder had occurred at the plantation, and he wanted to find out what the
slaves knew about it. In particular, he asked if Jerome could find out whether
the overseer, Bret Markham, really patrolled the slaves’ cabins at night.

“I want to know the
truth, Jerome,” Tom had said, “and that might be different from what they told
the sheriff.”

Jerome had replied with
his usual self-confidence. “If they know somethin’, Jerome’ll git it outta
them.”

Inside, Tom heard a kind,
able voice directing the servants in the parlor. It belonged to Bret Markham’s
sister, Kate, who was staying in the big house. After Polly’s death, Markham
had urged Tom to employ his unmarried sister, a tutor in New Orleans, to come
to the Crossroads temporarily to manage the house servants. Tom spoke to
Charlotte about the matter, and the arrangements were made. The capable,
energetic teacher soon brought order and efficiency to a household that had
fallen into disarray since its mistress’s death. With Charlotte’s approval, Tom
asked Kate to stay on until a new owner was found, and she arranged to do so.

Kate was half the size of
her younger brother, but when they were together she seemed to tower over him
in authority. At first Tom was startled at the resemblance between Kate and
Bret and even more startled at their striking differences. Although the
prominent brows, wide eyes, and firm jaw of Bret formed a perpetual scowl,
those same features on Kate caused her to look forthright and intelligent.

As Kate directed the
servants to arrange the parlor for a meeting called by Sheriff Duran, Tom
examined the journals. He read the entries pertaining to the slaves, going back
eighteen to twenty years: five males and four females born in that period,
various cases of influenza and other illnesses, three deaths, four marriages,
outings to neighboring plantations and church gatherings in town, a funeral
that some of them attended for Daniel, a slave at Ruby Manor who had drowned.
He could find no record of the birth of the mulatto female who had caught
Nash’s attention; the slave births for the period recorded the names of both
parents, and they both were slaves. He examined a couple of books before and
after that period, found nothing of interest, then closed the journals and put
them away.

Despite his curiosity
about the girl’s lineage, there seemed to be no connection between her and the
crime. The heated exchange between Nash and the senator regarding her seemed to
have been centered around Nash’s discovering a family secret, but that secret
had nothing to do with the invention. Tom sighed, wondering where to look next.
If chasing Nash led to a dead end, then what trail should he follow instead? He
walked outside, pondering the matter.

“Mr. Tom,” Jerome called
to him. “Farley here has somethin’ to tell you.”

At the brick post that
held the plantation bell, Jerome and a tall, young slave were talking. As Tom
approached them, the teenager dashed behind the post. His glistening eyes
peered out at Tom.

“Come on,” Jerome coaxed.
“Tell him what you tell me.”

There was no answer. The
youth only looked out from behind the post, his head tilted sideways, his eyes
expressive.

“Farley, I won’t hurt
you,” said Tom.

The slave cautiously
stepped out.

“What do you do here,
Farley?”

“I’s a field hand, sir.”

“Do you remember the
night when a man was killed here, last winter?”

Farley nodded.

“Where were you that
night?”

“In my cabin, ’cross the
hill.”

“Does anyone patrol those
cabins at night?” Tom continued.

Farley hesitated.

“Does Mr. Markham, the
overseer, come out at night to check on things?”

“He say he do, sir.”

“What do
you
say,
Farley?” Tom asked sympathetically.

“Why, sir, I say whut he
tell me to say.”

“If you could say what
your eyes tell you, instead of what Mr. Markham tells you, what would your eyes
tell you to say?” Tom’s voice was kind yet persistent.

The slave stared at Tom
in what looked like a silent plea. Then the boy turned away in fear.

Tom touched his shoulder
reassuringly. “I promise, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Farley looked at Jerome,
who nodded to him, vouching for Tom.

“Does Mr. Markham patrol
your cabins at night?”

“No, sir.”

“Does he come out at
night?”

“Him drinks at night.”
Farley’s voice was stronger now, as if he were easing out of a choke hold.

“Does Markham ever come
out of his cottage after dark to check the cabins?”

“No.”

“Not on the night the man
was killed?”

“Not then. Not never.”

“Are you sure, Farley?”

“I . . . I—”
The slave’s voice suddenly lost its confidence.

Farley was looking at
something behind Tom that gave him a start. The slave whirled around and ran
away.

“Farley, wait!” said Tom.

It was too late. The
slave was gone.

Tom looked behind him to
see someone watching them from a distance. It was Markham.

* * * * *

The harp and the piano
stood dormant in a corner of the parlor, with Sheriff Duran having no need for
music or levity at his meeting. Those summoned sat around the room facing the
sheriff and the coroner, with two deputies standing nearby.

Nash Nottingham and the
now-exonerated Ted Cooper looked imposed upon, Bret Markham looked guarded, and
Tom looked somber. Charlotte Barnwell sat on the sofa. Rachel, sitting next to
her, wore a dress with an uncharacteristically high neck, masking the little
birthmark that had caused a great stir.

The sheriff gestured to
the widow. “I want to thank Mrs. Barnwell for allowing me to hold this meeting
here and for coming at my request.”

“The air here makes Mama
ill,” said Rachel resentfully.

“Goodness knows I have to
be here, to protect my family from lies and rumors you allow to be spread,
Sheriff,” added Charlotte.

Duran took the reprimand
quietly, then turned to the others. “I wanted to be by the murder scene in case
we needed to verify anything that might come up. Thank you all for coming.”

He studied the uneasy
group. Except for a quiet nod from Tom, no one offered a courteous reply.

“I want to continue where
we left off the other day in the courthouse, when our meeting brought out new
information that was previously withheld.” He looked pointedly at Nash. “I have
a feeling there’s more that some people know but haven’t yet told.”

The people in the room
glanced at one another suspiciously.

“Dr. Clark, do you have
anything to add?”

“After a careful
examination of the knife from Manning Creek, I found it to be the right size to
have been used in the stabbing,” the coroner said to the group. “It definitely
came from Miss Polly’s silverware set. And the bits of fabric stuck on the
blade precisely match the robe that the victim was wearing. It’s the murder
weapon, all right.”

“This means we’re looking
for the person who planted that knife at Manning Creek.” The sheriff concluded.
He paused for a reaction.

“That leaves just one
man,” said Tom, rising to his feet. “There’s only one man besides the senator,
Cooper, Nash, and me who knew about the invention at the Crossroads. And that
man also had access to the knife, was here at the Crossroads that night, and
could have later brought the knife to Manning Creek.”

His head turned sharply
to Markham.

“And this man, I have
just learned, also lied about his activities that night.”

“Sez who? A slave?”
Markham shot back.

“You touch him, and I’ll
smash you,” Tom threatened.

Markham leaped toward
Tom, a fist cocked at his accuser’s face. The deputies quickly wedged
themselves between the two men.

“Tom! What impertinence!
Whoever said you could threaten
my
overseer?” said Charlotte.

She raised her eyebrows
at Tom, expecting an apology. But he didn’t offer one, only a look of surprise
at the side she took.

“Sit down, gentlemen!”
ordered the sheriff.

The men complied. The
deputies stepped back.

“Go on, Mr. Edmun—”

“He spoke to a slave,
Sheriff. A
slave
,” Markham griped. “That don’t count as no evidence, an’
you can’t hear it out!”

“I
will
hear it,
Mr. Markham.” He turned to Tom. “Go on.”

“When I went to your
cottage after the crime to tell you the news, I found you fully dressed and
armed in the middle of the night. You said you were going out to patrol the
slaves’ cabins and that you do that every night. That wasn’t true. You were up
to something else that night.”

“You believe a slave over
me? You rotten Yankee!”

“Why did you lie?” Tom
asked sharply. “What were you doing that night?”

“’Cause a worthless slave
says somethin’ don’t make it true. They all got a’ ax to grind.”

“If you won’t give an
answer, I can supply my own theory,” said Tom. He looked at the sheriff.

“Go on,” said Duran.
“Maybe your theory will prod Mr. Markham here to tell us the truth.”

Tom leaned forward in his
chair, looking grimly at Markham.

“On the day of the crime,
you went into the old carriage house to whip a slave. There you saw an
invention, something you had never seen before. You were curious. You poked
around, examining it. You could’ve found the drawings and calculations I had in
a box near the driver’s seat. They showed how to operate the device, what it
could do in the field, and the tremendous work output it had over manual
farming. From the device, the drawings, and the numbers, it would be easy to
figure out what the invention was and its potential to revolutionize farming.”

“Them’s lies, all lies!”
bellowed Markham.

“You could’ve figured
that the invention was just what you needed to solve your own problems. You
blamed the slaves for your low yields. With the machine, you could get high
yields. You blamed Miss Polly for not letting you beat the slaves so the crop
would be better. With the machine, you wouldn’t have to beat any slaves to get
a good crop. You could be far more efficient and have hardly any field hands to
supervise. You could be more valuable to any employer if you had a tractor
instead of slaves.”