I had crashed early the night before, and I woke up feeling good … for about five seconds. Then I remembered my plans for the morning: meeting up with Detective Reynolds and his crew to observe the removal of a body from the house I was working on—or trying to work on anyway. It was going to be an unusual day, to say the least. But I still wanted to know who the guy was, and why he was there. Which reminded me that I should call Frances and see if there was anything in the old Asheboro newspapers under her care that might shed some light on missing persons in 1880-something. But I wasn’t going to hold my breath.
Josh bumbled his way in from the bathroom, vigorously drying his hair with a towel. “Hey, you woke up. No nightmares?”
“No, nothing murder-related—just the usual final exam for a class I forgot to attend all year.”
“That old chestnut,” he chuckled. “Listen, I’m due back in the city to teach this afternoon. It slipped my mind last night, after all the day’s excitement.”
“Josh, you really don’t have to be at the mansion for this. I know you’re busy. I’ll be fine. Today is the detective’s project anyway—I’ll just be standing off to the side chewing my nails if anyone scratches the antique wallpaper.”
“Really? You don’t mind? I do want to be there—it’s just that I haven’t taught this class for a few years, and I could use the extra hours to brush up on my lecture notes.”
“Don’t worry about it! Go—I’ve got this under control.” Did I really mean that? Of course I didn’t need Josh to be there; I’d overseen bigger projects than the Barton kitchen in my days working hospitality. But I enjoyed having him around to bounce ideas off of—when he was available.
We made it down to breakfast eventually, to find Carroll sitting at the kitchen table busily scribbling notes on a lined pad. She had the buzzy look of a person who’s been up drinking coffee since dawn. “Hey, guys—I wondered when you’d wake up. Any brilliant revelations overnight?”
I answered first. “Nope. I’m sticking with the known facts: there’s a dead guy behind the wall in the kitchen of the Barton house, and … Well, that’s all I’d swear to. I suppose it’s not impossible that it’s a dummy someone left there to freak out whoever found it. We know the place has been a snooping ground for local kids for a long time—it’s a wonder it’s still in such good shape. Anyway, I’ll wait for the police pathologist to tell us more. Josh has to head back to the city today. Are you coming along, or would you rather go right to the library?” I didn’t want to say it, but I was hoping for a little company in the strange span of hours ahead.
“Oh no, I’d better head to the library and get going on those documents,” she replied, almost vibrating with caffeine and a researcher’s excitement. “I’ve got a lot to look for: Henry’s family, and Mary’s story, possible servants, not to mention tracking down prior owners of the house itself. But I could stop by later? To look at the maid’s room like we talked about.”
“Right—sure, that’s a good idea.” My face fell a little, but I hoped it didn’t show. “I’ll expect you sometime later on.” Onward, Kate! There’s work to be done. I took a deep breath and pulled my hair back into a low ponytail. It was a potentially dusty day at the Barton mansion.
Josh, Carroll, and I left the B&B, locking up carefully, and split up in the driveway for our separate vehicles. I headed for the mansion, uncertain what the day would bring. I managed to arrive there ahead of the police and the pathologist, and on entering, I checked in with our police guard, who had nothing to report. Once in the Barton kitchen I looked around carefully to see if anything had changed or if my perception of it had changed. But everything was the same, as far as I could see. It was a large, pleasant, high-ceilinged room with rear-facing windows and a body behind the wall. All perfectly normal, I thought dryly. I spied Morgan on the back lawn through a window; he seemed to be studying the outside of the building from all angles. I imagined the morning light might reveal details that had been invisible yesterday. I opened the back door and called out to him.
“See anything new?”
“No, but sometimes it takes a while.”
“I’d offer you coffee, but there isn’t any. Or water, for that matter. I’m working on it. Say, how many houses have hidden staircases?”
“I think ‘hidden’ might be overstating the case. There are a fair number of secondary staircases in homes of this era—for servants or nannies in charge of small children who should be seen but not heard, or to enable a quick escape from unwanted visitors. This house, as you know, has a back staircase apparently added at the time of the 1880s rebuild. Cover up one staircase, build another—go figure. And of course there were secret spaces in some homes—holding places for travelers on the Underground Railroad … But I haven’t seen anything of the sort here so far.” He furrowed his brow, casting his gaze toward the building’s stone foundation.
“Was the Underground Railroad active in this area?” I asked.
“That I can’t say, but I’ll wager either Carroll or Josh could find out easily enough.”
“Josh isn’t with us today, and Carroll is working at the library for a while. Are you coming in? The detective and his crew should be here soon with the pathologist.”
Just then, I heard more than one vehicle crunching its way down the driveway on the other side of the house. The police had arrived.
I went to the front to let them in. The detective—Brady—led the way, followed by a woman I didn’t recognize, who turned out to be the pathologist. A couple of men in uniform brought up the rear, I assumed to do the heavy lifting. We all traded introductions, and then I took them to the kitchen. They glanced around at the walls as we walked, and I was glad to see that nobody was carrying a sledgehammer.
Meredith, our pathologist, got right down to business. “Where’s our victim?”
“Behind that wall there.” I waved vaguely. “Before you all get carried away, I’d like to ask you again to try not to destroy anything. This is a historic building, and I’ve formed a committee to try to preserve it and open it to the public later this year. I’d like to keep things as intact as possible. Please.”
“Do you have a floor plan for the house?” Meredith asked.
“No, I haven’t found one. We talked yesterday with the detective about going in through the basement.”
“Kate,” Morgan broke in, “I hate to say it, but I’ve been thinking over that plan, and it may not be our best bet. I believe we’d compromise the structural integrity of the building by removing a patch of ceiling of that size from the basement. You saw what it looks like down there—it’s substantial stuff. I think we’ll do best to go through this wall here, same way we found him.”
I swallowed a small lump of disappointment. “That’s fine, if it’s what you need to do.” I shot a glance over at Detective Reynolds, looking for confirmation. His face was stony as he spoke.
“I agree. Let’s go in here.”
“Now, these walls are lath and plaster, keep in mind,” Morgan continued. “It’s not like modern drywall. Which means it will take some work to get access to the body.”
“I’m well aware, Mr. Wheeler,” the detective replied. “We’ll do whatever we need to.”
“What condition do you think the body is in?” I asked.
Meredith considered this for a moment. “Is the house damp?”
“No,” Morgan replied. “Not unusually so.”
“That bodes well,” Meredith said. “While this isn’t exactly ancient Egypt, odds are the body mummified, rather than rotted.”
“How does that work?” I asked, intrigued in spite of myself.
“If the circumstances are right—which mostly means dry—it can happen very quickly, in weeks or months. If this kitchen’s oven was in use, or the furnace lies beneath this part of the house, either might have sped up the process. So far you’ve been basing your estimate of the time of death on the architecture, rather than the state of the body?”
“Right,” I replied. “No one’s seen the body up close yet.”
“We can change that,” Meredith replied, faintly smiling. She nodded to a man behind her, who laid out a large duffel of tools on the kitchen table.
I turned to Detective Reynolds. “What will you do with him, once you get him out of there?”
“Take him back to headquarters, so we can get a good look at him. Determine cause of death. Meredith may run some labs to determine if any unusual chemical agents are present. Look for identifying marks—not that they’ll be of much use, if he’s been dead a hundred years. But it all needs to be looked at and recorded.”
“I see. You’re taking this very seriously, aren’t you?”
“A death is a death, Ms. Hamilton, whether it happened last year or a century ago. We’ll do what we can.”
“How long should we leave the scene intact?” I asked.
“You mean, when can you begin your renovation project? Let me get a look at the body and the space once we open it up, and I’ll be able to give you a better idea. A week, perhaps?”
Meredith had covered herself in protective gear and now held a small electric handsaw that oddly resembled a lamprey. She looked around at the people standing in the kitchen.
“We’re ready. We’ve got a gurney to move the body, and a photographer to record what we find. Kate, Morgan, if you’re squeamish, now’s the time to clear out. But you’re welcome to watch from over there.”
I was torn. I felt very protective of this house, as though it were a living thing whose welfare had been entrusted to me. I didn’t want to see it damaged. But I knew this was happening either way.
“I’m going to step out for a few minutes, but I’ll be nearby. Just shout if you need me.”
“I think I’ll stay,” said Morgan. “I’ve heard the plaster in Victorian walls could include horsehair, among other things—I’d like to see firsthand what’s in that mix.”
I wandered out to the dining room to clear my head. The room was dark, the heavy draperies drawn mostly closed, so only thin strips of white sunlight slotted in. The dense Persian rug underfoot made dry scuffing noises as I walked on it. I had so many questions, and no idea whether we’d find answers. Who was the man? Why had he died? Was local business magnate Henry Barton—who by now was coming to feel like a friend—a killer? Had whoever was using the kitchen to prepare meals for the next twenty-plus years been aware that there was a dead man in the wall? I sat down in a high-backed dining chair and looked down at the rich wood of the table, where many meals must have been served and eaten, many conversations had—all now lost to time, reduced to silence and a darkened room. I hoped I’d still get my chance to bring the life back into this place.
There were ominous cracking noises coming from the kitchen, as well as the squealing, grinding sounds of a powerful saw, but I thought it wiser to stay out of the way. After a few minutes, Morgan came into the dining room. “They’ve opened up a panel big enough to get the body out, but the police want some pictures before anyone tries to move him. It’ll be a while.”
“Any surprises?” I asked as I stood up.
“Nothing obvious—yet. Were you expecting a note or something?”
“Maybe. But this house and its occupants didn’t seem to work that way. Is it—he—disgusting?”
“Not really. More like your typical Egyptian mummy. Dry, and no bugs or goo.”
“Thank goodness—I’m not in a mood for goo today. I guess I’d better come watch.”
We turned and headed back toward the brightly lit kitchen.