Black River (17 page)

Paula smiled. “I made him blue.”

“Are there any butterflies in your book?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Do you like butterflies?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to draw one for you? Then you can color it, too.”

“Okay.”

O’Brien lifted a black crayon from the table, and on the edge of the page, next to Big Bird, he drew a butterfly. Paula’s eyes grew wide. She grinned. “What colors go on it?”

“You pick. Maybe something bright.”

“I like yellow.”

“Me too.”

Laura poured two cups of coffee, watching her daughter interact with O’Brien. She bit her bottom lip, and blinked back tears. “How would you like your coffee?”

“Black’s fine.”

“Let’s sit at the living room table.”

O’Brien looked at Paula and said, “I can’t wait to see how you color the butterfly.”

“Me, too.” She grinned, dimples popping.

He followed Laura into the living room. She set the cups and saucers on a wooden coffee table, O’Brien taking a seat in a chair across from the couch where she sat down. He said, “You have a sweet little girl. She’s animated and curious, a great combination.”

Laura smiled. “You’re good with children. Do you have kids?”

O’Brien was hesitant a moment and then said, “No.”

“Paula can’t fully grasp the death of her father. And I can’t totally explain it to her. She knows Daddy is in a better place, and one day we’ll all be back together again.”

O’Brien said nothing. He sipped his coffee.

Laura looked at O’Brien over the rim of her cup and said, “Jack was the type of man who would give you the shirt off his back if you really needed it. We were married for twelve years, and never in all that time did I hear him say something mean-spirited about another person. He was remarkable, and he had such a love for life and for his family and friends. He loved doing the Civil War reenactments. Paula and I would join him on some of the bigger ones in the summer. It was fun to reunite with people who came to those weekend camps and battles at old historic sites. Jack used to say he felt the spirits of the dead soldiers when he was on that hallowed ground.”

O’Brien nodded, letting her talk.

Laura looked over to a family photograph on the end table. In the picture, she stood with her husband and daughter in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. Jack Jordan was holding Paula in his arms, snow falling around them. “Mr. O’Brien—”

“Please, call me Sean.”

“Sean, you said you were a police detective at one time…”

“For more than a dozen years.”

“Why’d you stop, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My wife, Sherri, she’d asked me to. Unfortunately, she was dying of ovarian cancer when she did. She wanted to spend more time together, to start a family, then she got sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. And so now you work as a private investigator, right?”

“Sort of…just starting, officially, but only if I feel I can help someone. That’s why I wanted to show you this photo.” He slipped it from the folder.
“The picture was taken on the bank of a river. The painting was made from it. Is this the painting that you had?”

She nodded. “Yes. We never knew that the artist painted it from a photo. It’s a remarkable, almost uncanny resemblance. You said it was found on a battlefield.”

“My client thinks the woman in the picture—the same woman that’s in the painting, is his great, great grandmother. Did you or your husband ever look at the back of the painting?”

“I didn’t…don’t think Jack did either. Why?”

“Because before his death on the battlefield during the Civil War, the man who’d commissioned his wife’s painting had written something on the back of it…and he’d signed his name.”

Laura stared at the photo in silence for a few seconds. “What was his name?”

“Henry Hopkins.”

She touched her throat with the tips of two fingers. “Henry?”

“Yes.”

“If you can locate the painting…maybe it’ll mean closure for Henry’s family after all these years.”

“I hope it happens.”

“I do too. I want closure as well. Not just for me, but for Paula. If her father was murdered, one day she needs to know why. And today I need to know. Sean, I don’t want to impose, and I don’t want to sound like a hysterical widow who just lost her husband and is looking for someone to blame. But because my husband died on a film set where there’s substantial money at stake if they have to delay shooting, I don’t think there’s a lot of motivation to call it a homicide if it can have the appearance of an accident. If you find that painting, maybe along the path you’ll learn whether my husband’s death was really an accident or a planned killing.”

“You said there is something found in the pages of an old magazine that might have played a role in your husband’s death. What was that?”

Laura sipped her coffee, her eyes again looking over to a family photograph on the end table. She glanced up at O’Brien. “The thing that entered our lives began when we spotted the painting. That’s what got our attention. But it was what we found between the pages that left us stunned.”

“What do you mean?”

“The antique dealer told us the painting and thirteen old magazines, most of them Saturday Evening Posts, came from an estate sale of an eccentric woman who’d lived outside of Jacksonville. The very last magazine in the stack had something remarkable hidden between the pages.” She stopped speaking and studied O’Brien’s eyes. “You look like a man who would keep his promise.”

“I am.”

“Can I trust you? I mean
really
trust you? Please, in the name of God, answer truthfully.”

“Yes, you can trust me. And that’s an absolute promise.”

“Okay…I believe you. I’m not sure why, but for some reason I do. And I
need
to believe you. I can tell you what was hidden in the pages, but to understand it fully, to understand the significance, I must show you.”

S
he was gone almost five minutes. When she returned, Laura Jordan was wearing white cotton gloves and she carried a file folder in her arms. She sat on the edge of the couch and opened the folder, gently removing two papers, both aged the color of light brown mustard. “Sorry I took so long. For a minute I couldn’t remember the combination to the safe. Jack was the one who usually opened it. He and I found these in the magazine. My hands perspire each time I read them.”

“What are they?

“One is a letter, signed by a man named Henry. He might be the Henry related to your client. The other paper is a document—it’s an agreement between the Confederate States of America and Great Britain.”

O’Brien leaned forward. “Are you saying this is a wartime contract between the Confederacy and England?”

“Exactly. This is amazing when you read what it says.”

“I’m almost hesitant to ask what’s written on that page.”

“Well, for certain this is something no one ever studied in American history or British history classes because I doubt whether anyone alive knew about it until Jack and I found this stuff. The agreement is signed by Jefferson Davis, the president of the Confederate States of America and Lord Palmertson, who was the British prime minister during the time of the American Civil War. You can read it, but what it says is that England agreed to partial backing, at least financially, of the Confederacy as long as the CSA was winning the war. Here’s some of what it says.” She looked down and
read from the document.
“It is agreed upon, on this date, August 14, 1861, that Great Britain will forgive remaining debt owed on seven warships commissioned by the Confederate States of America, built in Liverpool shipyards, and delivered to the CSA in Charleston, South Carolina. It is further understood and mutually agreed, that Great Britain will not seek repayment or restitution for monies lent to enable the CSA to purchase the yacht known as America, a vessel to be fitted with British weaponry by the CSA, and used at its option in its succession effort. The bullion, more than one million pounds of gold, provided to the CSA treasury by special arrangement with Great Britain, shall remain in the CSA treasury, to be used at the sole discretion of the CSA. Whilst, it is mutually understood and agreed that the diamond on loan from Her Majesty’s Crown Jewels, shall be used only in a capacity of collective collateral assets, although never to be sold jointly or individually, bartered or traded. It is conclusively understood, agreed and guaranteed that this diamond, sometimes referred to as the Koh-i-Noor, will be returned to Great Britain from the CSA by special emissary within seventy-two hours of CSA’s war effort diminishing to the point of no probable restoration or victory. This decision is to be made solely by the Honorable Jefferson Davis, President of the CSA, after consultation with General Robert E. Lee and British Prime Minister Lord Palmertson. At which point the diamond will be returned to Lord Palmertson to be reinstated in its proper place within the Crown Jewels. All parties to this pact shall be sworn to absolute secrecy and confidentially, bonded by the signatures affixed to this covenant.”
Laura sat straight back on the couch, her eyes lifting from the paper to O’Brien. “What do you think?”

“If that contract is authentic, this would be huge international news and rewrite British and American history books. Overtly, England was said to have been neutral in the American Civil War, never taking sides with the Union or the Confederacy. But that contract suggests that the Queen of England may have partially financed the Confederate war machine. If nothing else, did she know her diamond was on loan from the Crown Jewels? And since the South lost, was it ever returned? Is this the diamond your husband found?”

“This next paper, written by a man named Henry, may answer that. Let me check on Paula, and I’ll tell you what it says.”

L
aura refilled the coffee cups and returned to the couch. She put the cotton gloves back on and lifted the first document, setting it aside, and then holding the second page to read. “This isn’t part of the contract. It’s a letter written by a Civil War soldier—Henry—to his wife. Jack and I thought the wife might have been the woman in the painting. So maybe it’s the connection you’re looking for, too.”

“Was there an addressed envelope in any of the magazines, or did you only find the letter and that contract?” O’Brien asked.

“Just the pages you see here. Anyway, he apparently wrote this and sent the letter and this unknown Civil War contract to his wife when he was about to go into battle again. Here’s what he wrote to her:
‘My dearest Angelina…I miss your sweet smile more than I can ever convey here with pen and paper. During short times away from battle, I remove your photograph from my rucksack just to gaze at your beauty. I want you to know how much I miss you, and how I long to return to your arms, to hold you like we had no promise of tomorrow. That’s what this war does, it promises nothing but the separation and loss of families. The more I am out here, away from you, the more I see the ugliness of war. However, now I have no choices except to follow my fate. Urgent military matters called President Davis away from our appointed rendezvous three times, thus I have had to carry the document with my person far too long. I fear the document will be discovered upon my capture or death by the Union forces. I feel the CSA can no longer sustain any hope. Therefore, I have sealed it in the envelope and asked a kindhearted gentlemen farmer I met to place it in the post. Finally, as I look at your beautiful photograph near the river, close to where the strong box was lost, I remember how we also lost our dear friend, William, in death that horrible night. Considering the circumstances and the ravages and downward spiral of the CSA in this dreadful war, the diamond from the Crown Jewels must be returned to England, if possible. William sacrificed his life trying to bring it ashore. In his name, and following the terms of the agreement between the CSA and England, the diamond must be returned. The strongbox is probably resting in the mud on the belly of the river, not far from where the photograph of you was taken. There is a handle on the strongbox. Perhaps your brother, or your father, using a grappling hook, could search for the box, bring it to the surface, and then return it to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. God willing, I shall one day come back to your loving arms to restart our lives together. I miss and love you with all my heart. My life and love, always and forever, I dedicate to you. Your loving husband, Henry.’