Deadly Curiosities (28 page)

On the mansion’s fourth floor was a huge ballroom that once hosted fetes that attracted a who’s-who for South Carolina and the entire Southeast. Now, the ballroom was home to the ‘stacks’, rows of dark wooden bookshelves that housed the majority of the Archive’s books. Between the shelves were large library tables for reading, along with computer terminals for online research. “Now, dear, what is it you wanted to know?” she asked.

“There’s a rumor that Jeremiah Abernathy hired pirates to bring something back for him from Barbados aboard a ship called the
Cristobal
,” I said. “The
Cristobal
sank off the Carolina coast.” I gave her my most innocent, winning smile. “I’m trying to find out what might be known about that incident.”

“Ohh,” Mrs. Morrissey said, her eyes shining. “What do you have of his?”

A demon,
I thought. “We might have a letter related to the
Cristobal
situation, but we’re not sure yet whether it’s genuine.” I hated to lie, but I was certain she really didn’t want to know the truth.

“Let’s see,” she said. She hummed as she selected large, cloth-bound books off the shelves and set them on one of the big reading tables. “Computer searches are easier on my back,” she said. “But some of these old books haven’t been digitized yet.”

She looked up. “You also mentioned the Navy yard. Was it something related to Abernathy?”

I shrugged, palms up. “I’m not entirely sure. Did Abernathy have any connection to that area?”

“If you want, Cassidy dear, go ahead and get the computer working on loading the ‘real estate’ records page on the Archive site,” she said, with a wave of her hand toward the terminal I got to work as Mrs. Morrissey began to flip through the huge old books. A glimpse told me they were maps and surveys of the greater Charleston area, and from the yellowed paper, I was guessing the most recent volumes were from the 1800s.

“All right,” she said finally, dusting her hands together. “Let’s see what’s in the records.” She motioned for me to join her at the reading table.

“This is a reprint of some of the earliest maps of the area, and they show who laid claim to which pieces of property,” she said. “That land where the old Navy yard is has seen more than its share of trouble over the years. The location made it a good sheltered port, and the pirates were quick to take advantage of it, all the way back to old John Rouge – Red-eye John.”

I leaned over, scanning the page. A black-and-white sketch of a hanging caught my eye. “I gather something went wrong?”

“Eventually, the deal he had with authorities fell apart, and in 1715, the Royal Navy attacked Red-eye John’s haven, killings most of the pirates and burning their homes, saloons, brothels, and ships. Red-eye John was captured and hanged.” She gave an impish grin. “The stories said he cast a curse on the city, and that his spirit called out to Blackbeard for revenge. Blackbeard laid siege to Charleston a few years later.”

I peered at the book and the map. “Does anyone know where, exactly, Red-eye was hanged?”

Mrs. Morrissey pointed to a spot on the map. “Right about here, according to legend.” It was within the bounds of the old Navy yard, but I’d have to look more closely to see if it matched any of the old buildings we’d scouted. I laid a pencil with its point next to the spot on the map and took a photo with my phone for Teag to examine later.

“Any ghost stories about Red-eye?” I asked.

Mrs. Morrissey laughed. “Oh my goodness. You know Charleston – there’s a ghost around every corner! Yes, there have been stories about ol’ Red-eye. Some folks claimed they could smell something burning out in that area, when nothing was on fire. Others say they’ve seen the ghost of a man hanging in mid-air, then suddenly plummeting, like on a gallows.”

I felt a chill go down my back. “Anything else?”

Mrs. Morrissey consulted her sources. “Rumor had it that after Red-eye was hanged, they found bodies in shallow graves. Might have been some of his victims. ’Course, he wasn’t the only pirate to drop anchor in that area.”

She gave me a sidelong look. “You know, there is even a rumor – never substantiated, you understand – that the founder of Trifles and Folly had some dealings with privateers.”

Sorren had told me that story the last time he was in town, only it was no rumor. He remembered Dante fondly—and my ancestor Evann, who was Sorren’s partner back then. “Imagine that,” I said noncommittally.

“That’s a prime piece of land,” I said. “I can’t imagine it was too much longer before someone laid claim to it legitimately.”

“Oh, that happened soon enough. Before that point, there were more pirates, more raids, and more hangings.” She flipped a few more pages. “Then along came Edwin Sandborn, whose father had a prosperous rice plantation upriver. Edwin thought that if he could start his own shipyard, he would save on docking fees and make a profit off the nearby plantations.”

She raised an eyebrow. “There were also rumors that Edwin’s family was also doing some smuggling along with their rice shipments.” She managed a very proper smirk. “You know smuggling is in our blood in this city.”

“What happened to Edwin?”

Mrs. Morrissey leaned against the table. “Some people say he got in trouble trying to elope with the daughter of one of the other rice planters. Others say he tried to elope with the buried treasure of one of the other plantation owners. One foggy spring night, someone shot him dead as he sat at the desk in his office. After that, the dockyard fell into disarray and eventually was sold.” Again, I marked the spot on the map with the pencil point and snapped another photo.

“What happened to the land after Edwin?” I asked.

“The property has changed hands a number of times – unusual, since so many of our commercial properties remain in the same family for generations,” she replied. “And every time, there was a whiff of impropriety. Most ventures ended very badly – bankruptcies, mental breakdowns, embezzlement, murders.”

“Have you ever heard of a man by the name of Corban Moran?” I asked, typing the name into the computer to see if I would stumble on anything that had eluded Teag’s hacking. I wasn’t surprised when the search came up blank.

Mrs. Morrissey frowned. “Moran?” She shook her head. “Do you mean Corwin Moran?” She walked over to the shelves and pulled down another book, skimming through the pages until she found what she wanted.

“Is this who you meant?” she asked, setting the book on the table. “He was a smuggler – pirate, really – in the years soon after the Revolution.” She shook her head. “Awful man, even by pirate standards.

Killed so many men, some people thought he had made a deal with the Devil,” she added.

Not the Devil,
I thought.
Just a demon.

“He burned to death in a fire,” she said. “At least, that’s what the stories say.” She pointed to a sketch in her book of Corwin Moran. I was certain he was the man I’d seen in the broad-brimmed hat, the man who had returned to Charleston to raise Abernathy’s demon.

Just then her phone rang, and I did my best to look completely absorbed checking my cell phone as Mrs. Morrissey took the call. She looked up when she was done. “I’m sorry, dear. I’ve got to go over to the Chamber of Commerce and straighten out some details for the reception they’re holding. It’s part of our latest fundraiser. You’re welcome to stay here and use the computer – I shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”

I checked the time. “Are you expecting anyone?”

Mrs. Morrissey nodded. “That’s why I hesitated about going over to the Chamber. One of the professors at the University is dropping by to discuss a lecture we’re planning for the Fall Luminaries Lantern Tour schedule.”

“I love those tours,” I said, thinking silently how I wished Sorren could lead one of the sessions. “They make you feel as if you’re right there, like you’ve met the people.”

Mrs. Morrissey brightened. “That’s the whole goal – to give reality TV a run for its money and get more people engaged in history.” She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “After all, every good historian knows that history is the
original
reality show.

“I’ve got an expert on African myth and folklore who’s supposed to be here sometime this afternoon, and I know that if I step out for a moment, she’ll show up while I’m gone.”

“I don’t mind waiting,” I said. “Once you get back, I can finish up in the stacks and still get to Trifles and Folly in time to finish out the afternoon.”

“Bless you,” Mrs. Morrissey said. “If anyone else shows up, tell them I’ll be back soon. I won’t be long.”

She left me with instructions not to let anyone else in and to let the phone go to voice mail and hustled out the door. It wasn’t until she was gone I realized I had just volunteered to be alone in a museum. Damn.

I
WALKED INTO
the foyer and took the opportunity to look at the ‘Healers and Helpers’ exhibit, being careful not to touch any of the cases or objects. I figured I was safer with objects that had been used to heal and protect rather than with pieces that had belonged to killers and rogues.

I walked over to appreciate a beautiful oil painting that hung on the opposite wall. It was a painting of a long-ago ball that had been held in the Drayton House’s ballroom. Judging by the clothing of the people in the painting, I guessed the period to be mid-1700s. The women were resplendent in their long dresses with massive skirts of silk and satin, and the men looked prosperous and satisfied in their knee breeches and brocade waistcoats.

I had seen the painting many times, but I’d never had the time to study it. To get a better view, I walked up a few steps so that it was on eye level. The artist’s main focus was on the mansion’s current owners at the time, who were in the center of the action. But he had also captured the likenesses of many of the other notable guests, some of whom I recognized from Charleston’s history. One image caught my eye, and I let out a slight gasp. Off to one side, trying to look inconspicuous, stood a thin blond man with light skin and high cheekbones. His sea-gray eyes seemed to meet mine and a startle of recognition thrilled through me. Sorren.

My mind was still reeling from surprise when I heard the faint sounds of an old-fashioned music box.

I froze, straining to listen. The music box had been part of the ‘Ramblers and Rogues’ exhibit. Mrs.

Morrissey had turned it off when she turned out the lights.

From above me, I heard a thump, a sharp sound of metal on wood. Exactly what a lead-tipped cane might sound like pounding against the wooden floor.

Thump
.
Thump
. Jeremiah Abernathy had convened his court once more, more than a century after his death.

There was no way in hell I was going to go up those stairs. I began to back down the steps carefully, doing my best not to make any noise. Mrs. Morrissey had not mentioned any ghostly activity. Then again, between the age of the house and the notoriety of many of the artifacts the Archive housed, perhaps she had come to take haunting in her stride.

I heard a coin fall and rattle on the floor.

I eyed the door, wondering how badly Mrs. Morrissey would be disappointed if I locked it behind me and high-tailed it back to the store. I could tell her that Teag came down with accute appendicitis. Or that the shop was being invaded by aliens (sometimes, that didn’t seem far from the truth).

The coin fell again.

I could feel my heart thudding.
Get a grip, Cassidy
, I chided myself.
It’s probably a recording on a timer, or a glitch in the wiring. I didn’t touch anything. There’s nothing to worry about.

Something clinked at the top of the stairs. As I watched, a coin rolled off the top step and fell to the next, impossibly remaining on edge. I stared in fascination and horror as it fell from stair to stair until at last it tumbled from the bottom step, spun for a second, and landed flat at my feet.

Heads, you die
.

I had backed all the way down the stairs, and now stood in the foyer. A glance at my watch told me that Mrs. Morrissey wouldn’t be back for at least twenty minutes. Once again, I weighed my options. I could leave and lock the door behind me, but that would mean breaking my word to Mrs. Morrissey and putting the archive in a bad light with the expert who was due to arrive any minute. I decided to ignore my thudding heart and stay where I could keep an eye on the stairs and the door at the same time.

From the empty second floor, I heard the unmistakable sound of a man’s boot step.

My hand went to the agate necklace at my throat. Last night, after Teag and I had chased off whatever attacked the house, I had placed the necklace in the moonlight to recharge it. I hoped that would be enough to let Jeremiah Abernathy and any of the other rogues know that I was not someone they wanted to mess with.

Unfortunately, I had neither Alard’s walking stick nor my grandmother’s wooden spoon, though Bo’s collar was still twined around my left wrist.

Too bad it’s too warm to have worn my jacket. I’m pretty sure Teag filled the pockets with salt
, I thought. Then again, I had no idea how I would have explained it to Mrs. Morrissey if she found me standing in a circle of salt.

Maybe Abernathy’s ghost is just putting on a show
, I thought.
After all, he seemed like the bullying type.

Upstairs, I heard more footsteps. I decided Abernathy could walk around all he wanted, so long as he stayed on his own floor.

The music box was still playing. I heard a woman’s laugh, and remembered the display dedicated to Lavinia Fisher, the serial killer. She was not someone I wanted to meet in person. I hoped she and Jeremiah would keep to themselves upstairs and leave me alone.

The temperature in the foyer plummeted. When Mrs. Morrissey had shown me through on the way upstairs, it was comfortably cool. Now, it was as if I had stepped into a refrigerator, enough to raise gooseflesh on my arms. Not a good sign of things to come.

Upstairs, the heavy footsteps sounded again, closer this time. Before, they had been muffled, as if someone were moving around the exhibit room. Now, the steps were in the upstairs hallway, and coming toward the landing.