“I’d rather talk to them one at a time,” Stuart said, “but it would take too long and maybe it’s better this way. I want you to watch them, watch the way they look at each other. If something about their story doesn’t seem right or if you know they’re lying, let me know. Sit with me on the bench and touch me with your foot—no one will see.”
He went to the door, opened it, and said, “The Wakefields.”
Corinne came in carrying a tray with a pitcher of water and several glasses, followed by Logan and Brooke who wore almost identical expressions of resentment.
Without a word Corinne poured herself a glass of water, drank thirstily, and set the glass back on the tray. Her chignon was loose with tendrils of hair escaping around her face and her sharp eyes darted all around the room.
Mallory found herself eyeing their clothes. Were there signs of being outdoors? Was there blood on them? But of course they could have changed, before and after the murders—they’d had ample opportunity to do so.
Again she was caught by a feeling of incredulity. Cold-blooded murder was a dark and evil thing. Surely some sign of it must be on the face of anyone who committed such an act. There must be some shadow in the eyes, some strange twist of expression…Then she realized that they all had shadows, including herself. They all looked strange, because murder had reached out beyond its victims and touched each of them in some indefinable way.
“Sit down,” Stuart said. He was no longer trying to seem affable. His face was cold and unsmiling. When the three had seated themselves in front of the piano Stuart sat down on the bench beside Mallory.
“Mallory is here because I want to keep an eye on her,” he told the others, seeming to notice their questioning looks. “There have been two attempts to frighten her, one possibly to kill her.”
“Two attempts?” Brooke’s gaze flicked toward Mallory and back to Stuart.
“Never mind. I’ll ask the questions. Do any of you know a man named Judd Fowler?”
Three blank looks were his answer, and then Logan said, “That was the deserter you spoke of, the one you’re looking for? His name sounds familiar, but I can’t…Wait. Wasn’t he with one of the banks in Natchez?”
“Yes. He may have worked as a clerk.”
“Well, any of us might have seen him in town. I had no idea that was who you were looking for. And no, I didn’t know him at all. I don’t recall seeing him—just hearing his name.”
“Mrs. Wakefield?”
“Certainement pas,” Corrine said distractedly, pushing at a strand of hair. “I no longer have any business with the bank—any bank. I have no money, monsieur.”
Stuart looked at Brooke, who bridled and said, “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Stuart. Of course I didn’t know him. He sounds like a very unsavory character! What does he have to do with any of this anyway? Don’t you dare say we can’t ask questions. And we don’t have to answer yours! I want a lawyer!”
“You will answer my questions,” Stuart said calmly, “or I will have you all in jail. Somebody in this house has killed two people.”
There was silence, then Logan said, “It’s got to be Fowler. He’s hiding somewhere around here. Maybe Tipper and Deke saw him.”
“What makes you so sure of that? You were just as certain before that it was Deke who killed Tipper.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“What if I were to tell you that I believe Fowler is dead?”
“Dead! You think he was murdered as well?”
“It’s certainly possible. Tell me, Logan, about the last four years. Where were you? Did you ever come here on furlough?”
Logan looked haughtily at his cousin. “I was with my division and I never left it without permission. I had one furlough, at Christmas of ’61.”
“Did you come to this house?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you go into town?”
“No, I did not.”
He came to see me, Mallory thought, though her house was several miles outside the city. She remembered that Christmas of 1861. Her father had been alive, the Confederates had won a major victory that summer, and spirits were high. There were still slaves at Grace Hall and the butler had come to tell her that Logan Wakefield was calling.
The staircase had been decorated for Christmas, with red ribbons and bows and long ropes of evergreen wound around the balustrade. She’d gone down the stairs in a new gown, yards of deep red and black wool spread over a wide hoop that bobbed enticingly as she entered the parlor. The room was festooned with garland and evergreens, and an enormous Christmas tree stood in front of the window.
Logan had been facing the fire that snapped in the fireplace, tall and handsome in his gray uniform, with a feather stuck jauntily in his hat. He swept off the hat and put his arms around her and kissed her on the cheek.
“Mallory,” he exclaimed, “you are a sight for sore eyes!” That night the Holts and Wakefields had gone to the theater for a performance of Handel’s Messiah…so he had been to town. But why had he denied it? Had he been with them the entire time? She seemed to remember he had left at some point and later returned. How much later?
“What are you getting at, Stuart?” Logan asked. “You think I had a meeting with Fowler…that we were friends? He was in the Union army, and I didn’t see him during that furlough or any other time!”
Stuart looked at him imperturbably until Logan dropped his gaze to his hands, which were clutching the arms of the chair upon which he sat.
Brooke began to fidget as she had earlier in the evening. Stuart’s attention went to her.
“Tell me, Brooke, about your late husband. Where did you meet him?”
“I met him at a party in town. And he didn’t know the man either! And even if he had, I certainly didn’t know him.”
“Was your husband from Natchez?”
“He was from Jackson. I’m sure you already knew that.”
“I had trouble finding any records on Captain Chandler. What did he do before the war?”
“He and his father owned a clothing store—a very successful one. It burned and went out of business when the Yankees came.”
“Did your husband ever come to Natchez to pick up supplies?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. I didn’t know him before the war.”
Mallory had distinct recollections of Brooke chattering endlessly about the “terribly good-looking Captain Chandler…you know, I first saw him at his store in Jackson and I never dreamed I’d run into him here in Natchez…”
Was that important? It seemed such a minor thing but she reached out and lightly touched Stuart on the knee.
After a pause Stuart said, “I believe the family has friends in Jackson. You never went there to visit, never went to the stores?”
Brooke batted her eyes rapidly. “Of course I did, but I—I don’t remember. Maybe I did see him but we weren’t formally introduced, not until he came to Natchez the first year of the war.”
“Why did he come here?”
“To join up, of course. I think he had friends here too. But not Judd Fowler!”
“Who were his friends?”
Brooke spun off several names, none of which Mallory recognized. She realized her hand was still on Stuart’s knee and took it away. Brooke withdrew a handkerchief from her bosom and touched the corner of one eye.
“Lawrence has been dead for over a year,” she said, her voice quavering. “Why are you asking things about him?”
“Because somebody had an association with Fowler and it could have been through your husband.”
“None of us knew Fowler!” Logan almost shouted. “How many times do we have to tell you?”
“Mrs. Wakefield,” Stuart said, turning to Corinne, “you took care of the business of the household while Logan was away. If Fowler was on furlough during any of that time, you certainly could have encountered him in town.”
Corinne’s dark eyes grew wide. “But I did not! I defy anyone to say so!”
“Where were you tonight between the time you found Mallory and me talking in this room, and when the trouble started outside with Mallory chasing the dog?”
“I was in my room the entire time, Col-o-nel. I lay on my bed, in my clothes. I had a terrible feeling.”
“What do you mean, madam?”
“That something was going to happen. Something else. What is the word…a foreseeing.”
“A foreseeing of what?”
Corinne shuddered and said, “Murder!”
“If you thought that, why didn’t you warn us?”
“No one listens to me! No one likes me. I am the wicked French stepmother.”
“Corinne,” said Logan, turning to her, “that isn’t true.”
She leaped to her feet, her eyes opening still wider. “It is true!” she cried, with one hand clutching at her bosom. More hair tumbled loose from her chignon. “I have tried to do everything, I have kept the household together. The Yankees took everything! Everyone looked to me. I have done what I had to do!”
Mallory had a sudden fanciful vision of her, no longer an aristocrat but with rough-shod peasant feet planted in front of Madam Guillotine, denouncing some unlucky nobleman and demanding his head.
Stuart too had risen, as though he expected Corinne to pounce on someone and indeed she looked capable of it. “Sit down, Mrs. Wakefield,” he said firmly, but she didn’t seem to hear him.
“Yes, I have done what I had to do to keep us all alive. But I know nothing of this Mr. Fowler. I know nothing of murder! You would all like to cast the blame on me!”
Mallory rose quickly and went to her, touching her shoulder. “Corinne, you mustn’t say that. It isn’t true. I have often admired you. You did so much while Logan was away.”
Corinne stared straight ahead for a moment longer, her chest heaving, and then she looked at Mallory. “Veritablement?” she whispered.
“Yes, of course.”
Stuart stepped forward and drew Mallory away from Corinne. Brooke had drawn herself up into a ball as though expecting to be the next recipient of Corinne’s verbal vengeance, and Logan had half risen.
“Well, then,” Corinne said in a normal voice and sat down.
Mallory went back to the piano bench, noticing the slight frown on Stuart’s face. He hadn’t wanted her to do that—he didn’t want her close to anyone. She supposed it was possible that Corinne could have had a knife concealed on her person, and could have gone berserk and started stabbing.
It was terrible to think such things.
Logan resumed his seat. Stuart remained standing next to the piano, looking somewhat at a loss. Probably he didn’t know whether to continue questioning Corinne or to move on to someone else. He chose the latter.
“Logan, you’ve been seen in Natchez quite a few times since you came back. Why? What was your business there?”
Logan scowled. “Why don’t you ask whoever was spying on me?”
“You weren’t being watched,” Stuart said smoothly. “I only said you were seen. How is it that you always seem to have money to buy things, like whiskey and cigars?”
And nightgowns for Tipper.
“As I’ve already explained once tonight, I sell things. I have some of my mother’s jewelry, and other things.”
Corinne frowned her disapproval. “When we need food on the table!”
“We haven’t gone hungry!”
“The house needs repairs. There are many things—”
“Enough!” Logan stood up and faced Stuart. “I’m going to get a lawyer in the morning. I cannot believe this, Stuart—that you really think any of us are guilty of these murders!”
The two men stared at each other, and because Stuart was turned slightly to his left, Mallory could see his face. She saw the look of regret that was almost instantly gone.
“I don’t want to think so, Logan. If it weren’t for Mallory I’d gladly walk away and leave this to the sheriff, but I’m not going to let anything happen to her.”
“I wouldn’t hurt Mallory.” Logan’s eyes went to hers. “You understand that, don’t you?”
“I would be interested in seeing that jewelry of your mother’s,” Stuart said to Logan.
Logan glared at his cousin. “I don’t have to show you anything. I don’t have to prove anything.”
“Then I will assume that it doesn’t exist.”
“Assume what you like!”
“Listen to me, all of you.” Stuart walked slowly back to the piano and stood beside Mallory. “If any of you know who committed these crimes, you had better tell me now. This is not going to go away. There are two people lying dead in Tipper’s cabin and we will find out who killed them.”
Mallory watched their faces as he spoke. Logan looked at the floor, Brooke stared at her hands knotted together in her lap, and Corinne fixed her dark gaze on the opposite wall.
Stuart went to the door and opened it. Logan stalked out first, not waiting for the ladies. Brooke followed with a flourish of her skirts and Corinne somehow exuded contempt without a gesture or change of expression. Stuart closed the door.
Mallory walked to one of the windows and pushed back the curtains. The stars were fading now in the grayness of dawn.
Stuart leaned against the piano. “I don’t want to think it was Logan,” he said quietly, “but you said he was in Natchez that day…the day Fowler came here. Suppose he had gone to meet him and then they missed each other somehow and Fowler came here instead.
“Logan could have come back and seen Fowler through a window. He could have decided to keep the money for himself.”
Mallory turned to look at him. “You mean that he knew Fowler was going to kill the Union spy and take the money. That they planned it together?”
“It’s possible. Logan could have told Tipper and she kept quiet about it until tonight. Maybe she grew frightened and threatened to tell the truth.”
He paused and was silent for a long moment. “No, I can’t believe it. Not Logan.”
“He said that war changes a man.”
Stuart straightened. His eyes left hers and he turned, walking a little way across the room. Then he looked back at her.
“It changed me. I’m not the man I was four years ago, Mallory. We got used to killing. We had to see other men not as human beings, not as men with families and people who loved them, but as the enemy. Oh, I could go on about it and try to explain, but there’s no explaining what it does to you. You get over it, maybe, by the grace of God…but you never forget it.”
She started to say, “But you Yankees wanted war,” and thought better of it.
Many Southerners had wanted war, too—they’d all but clamored for it with their ideas of defending their homeland and standing up against what they considered the North’s attempt to dominate them.
Bitterness clouded her mind for a moment, but she remembered Medora’s words and changed the subject.
“Let’s not talk of that now, Stuart. I’m sorry that I spoke of it. What about Brooke, or Corinne?”
“I can see Brooke striking out against Tipper in a fit of anger. I can see Corinne doing it. But I can’t see either of them killing Deke.
“However, a person who is desperate enough can do just about anything. If the murderer thought Deke had seen him or her kill Tipper, he probably wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.”
“You’re thinking that any of them could have made a bargain with Fowler about that money. But where is the money? You’ve searched the house.”
“There are plenty of hiding places. I think it’s in one of the slave cabins, maybe even Tipper’s. That’s one reason I have the men watching the cabins. That reminds me…Munford’s been out there long enough.”
He opened the door and Mallory could hear him telling Captain Bell to relieve the sergeant. Stuart remained in the doorway.
Mallory moved away from the window. She felt as if she were walking in a fog, barely aware of time passing, when finally she heard the front door open and the clatter of boots in the hall. Stuart gave orders to Sergeant Munford in a low voice and came back into the room.
She swayed and instantly Stuart was at her side. “Sit down, honey,” he said, easing her onto the piano bench. “You’re about done in, aren’t you? Can you stay awake for just a while longer? Then I’ll go and put you to bed myself.”
“No, I’m sure I couldn’t sleep.”
Stuart poured a glass of water and held it toward her. She sipped it gratefully as the O’Connors entered the room: Boyce resigned, Henrietta frightened, and Henry as sulky as Logan had been.