A Dream of Daring Read online

  “What about birthmarks?” asked the sheriff.

  “I’ve seen birthmarks run in certain families. I know brothers who have the same birthmark in the same place on their legs. And cousins with the same birthmark on the back of their necks. If a birthmark is passed on by a parent to one offspring, it could be passed on to another.”

  “Did Polly Barnwell have that birthmark?” asked the sheriff.

  “My heavens!” said Charlotte.

  “I treated Polly for consumption. No, she didn’t have any such marking,” said Dr. Clark. “Besides, Polly wasn’t a blood relative of Rachel.”

  “We take offense at this questioning!” Rachel glared at the sheriff, who was undeterred.

  “Did Polly’s husband, the senator’s brother, have the marking?” asked the sheriff.

  “He wasn’t my patient. I wouldn’t know,” Dr. Clark replied.

  “Didn’t Polly’s husband die twenty-four years ago?” asked Nash. “I remember the senator mentioning that at the funeral.”

  “That sounds right,” said Dr. Clark.

  “This girl looked younger to me, maybe nineteen,” said Nash.

  The sheriff nodded. “Well then, did Wiley Barnwell have this birthmark?”

  “Sheriff, really!” cried Rachel.

  “You must stop these insinuations at once!” scolded Charlotte.

  The sheriff acknowledged the women with a brief, sympathetic glance, then turned his attention back to the coroner for a reply.

  “Wiley Barnwell was never sick a day in his life. I can’t recall ever examining him while he was alive. After the crime, I didn’t see any birthmark on his body—”

  “You see, Sheriff! You see!” Rachel said triumphantly.

  “However,” Dr. Clark continued, “the knife wound tore the tissue over his heart. So because of the damage caused by the murder weapon, it’s impossible to know if there was a marking on the skin in that area.”

  The sheriff nodded, then turned to the women. “Mrs. Barnwell, did your husband have that marking?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Miss Barnwell, did you ever see that birthmark on your father or any other relative?”

  “No, Sheriff, I most emphatically did not!”

  “Do either of you women know anything about the girl that Mr. Nottingham described?”

  “No!” they said in unison.

  “It’s a lie!” Charlotte added. “It’s only the word of a coward and a scoundrel who’ll say anything to keep himself out of jail. If it’s just him who says it, Sheriff, then it can’t be proven.”

  The sheriff slowly turned to Brett Markham. “Mr. Markham, do you know the mulatto female that Mr. Nottingham described?”

  “Yup,” he replied.

  “Is she the slave that the senator directed you to whip and that you gave lashes to in the old cottage house on the morning of the crime?”

  “Yup.”

  “Did she have a birthmark above her heart, as Mr. Nottingham says?”

  Markham surveyed the group suspiciously.

  “Did the slave have the birthmark, Mr. Markham?”

  “I never whipped her before. Miss Polly never allowed that, no sir. But that day, the senator was in charge. I ordered her to loosen her dress. She done it. I lashed her back, just a few stripes to teach her good.”

  “Did you see the marking?” repeated the sheriff.

  “I seen her outside later when this feller did.” He pointed to Nash. “I seen her staggerin’. I seen her dress fall off from her shoulder, like he says.”

  “Did she have the birthmark?”

  Everyone in the room stared at Markham.

  “Yup. I seen it.”

  “Liar!” Charlotte’s arm shot across the table, her finger pointed at Markham’s face. The coroner, in the gesture of a doctor giving comfort, gently put her hand down and held it for a moment.

  “Where is this girl, Mr. Markham?” asked the sheriff. “Can we see her and verify the birthmark?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s the girl the senator sold that day.”

  “What!” Tom gasped.

  A look of astonishment cracked the sheriff’s marble face, sending furrows across his brow.

  “The senator up and gone to town with her,” Markham added. “Seemed sudden, but then the wench was Miss Polly’s personal servant and of no use no more.”

  The sheriff spoke slowly, as if digesting the full implication of his words. “You mean Senator Barnwell suddenly had to go to town that day to sell the very slave who had the birthmark, after Mr. Nottingham noticed her?”

  “Seems so,” said Markham.

  “Why didn’t you mention before that the slave he sold was the one you whipped?”

  “Nobody asked me, Sheriff,” said Markham dully.

  “Did you notice that Mr. Nottingham had paid special attention to her?”

  “I didn’t pick up none on that, Sheriff. Only that the senator didn’t like purty boy here.” Markham pointed to Nash.

  “Did this matter of the girl, as far as you know, have anything to do with the invention, Mr. Markham, anything at all?”

  “I don’t reckon so.”

  “Do you know anything about this girl’s parents, or how she got to the Crossroads?” the sheriff continued.

  Markham shook his head. “I been there jus’ five years. The girl was there when I came. Nobody ever said nothin’ ’bout her parents to me. I managed the field hands. Didn’t know much ’bout the house servants.”

  “In the afternoon, when Senator Barnwell went into the kitchen and argued with Mr. Nottingham, did that have anything to do with the invention?”

  “Nothin’ I can tell,” said Markham.

  “Did you hear the invention mentioned by either man?” asked Duran.

  “Nope.”

  The sheriff weighed the matter, then spoke to the coroner. “From what I can tell, the quarrel that occurred seems to be a . . . personal . . . matter between the senator and Mr. Nottingham.”

  “I agree.” Dr. Clark nodded.

  “For now, you can go, Mr. Nottingham,” said Duran.

  Nash gave a great sigh of relief. He sprang from his chair and bowed to the women, who were looking daggers at him.

  “I assure you, I am most deeply and humbly sorry,” he whispered. Then he turned to leave.

  Tom was incredulous. He approached Nash, standing eye-to-eye with him.

  “You mean you really did want to sabotage my invention?”

  Nash rolled his eyes irritably, but Tom pressed on.

  “An invention that would’ve given you a chance to make the profits you have trouble making as a planter, to have the idle time you crave, to pay your debts, to buy your clothes at the finest shops, and to support your lavish tastes? That night, you took a big risk in coming to the Crossroads to sabotage my invention. Since you were willing to go that far—to break the law—I don’t understand why you didn’t try to go for the big prize. How could you choose to destroy the invention instead of to exploit it for your benefit?”

  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 look
ed 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.