Full of Eyes, page 24
“No, Father. The woman didn’t have any trouble carrying it. Fact, she held it with one hand when she climbed into the buggy. It was about this tall.”
The girl opened her hands and stretched them about three feet apart.
“Was the woman young or old?” Father Gagnon asked.
“Uh, maybe in the middle. No, old. That is, uh, not like a schoolgirl but not as old as Your Excellency. About like you, Father.”
That drew a few smiles and seemed to calm the girl’s nerves a bit. The rest of the questioning went more easily.
Mary told us that the buggy was pulled by a brown horse, which matched the description of the Becknell’s bay that I had seen when I went to warn Gretchen of Quillery’s wild accusations.
When last seen by me, the animal was hauling both Becknells to the Edisto River.
The postulate also described the driver so well that there could be no doubt that it was Gretchen, and that she had stopped at Quillery’s house to pick up the statue that had been the murder weapon.
“All that seems to remain is to determine where Mr. and Mrs. Becknell are hiding and then to determine who of three possibilities is the murderer,” Bishop Lynch said. “I fear that it must be either Gordon Becknell, his wife, or the Reverend Quillery.”
I disagreed. “Has Sister Bernadette told you about Sister Mary Lucille, Your Excellency?”
The bishop looked at the nun. “No, she has not.”
“I’m sorry, Excellency. I thought that Father Dockery would have told you that earlier today.”
He looked at me.
“You hadn’t yet returned when we left to follow Reverend Quillery, Excellency. And we just now got back from the auction.”
The bishop nodded at that and turned to Sister Bernadette.
“One of our sisters is becoming a bit senile, I’m afraid,” she said. “She went into a sort of tirade this morning, claiming that she knew about—”
She paused suddenly and looked directly at Mary Turner. The youngster blushed and stood. She curtsied to the Bishop of Charleston and fairly scurried out the door. After the door closed behind her, the mother superior continued.
“Sister Mary Lucille claimed that she knew about Jamieson Carter and Mrs. Becknell. She went on in a rage about how poor Mr. Carter had to pay for his sins, not the least of which was a scurrilous accusation that he was channeling money, church money, to the Ursuline order in the state’s capital. She had made these accusations before, although always in the privacy of the convent. I’m mortified that poor Father Dockery had to witness such an outburst today.”
“The poor thing,” Bishop Lynch said. “I assure you that the diocesan accountant can confirm that any funds I send to my two sisters come from my own personal account.”
“We had never doubted that for a moment, Bishop Lynch. In fact, one of us knows an Ursuline well, and we know through her that the order is as impecunious as we are, maybe more so. That’s the very reason why we never mentioned poor Sister Lucille’s ramblings before. She’s not right. So we prayed for her and trusted that her accusations would never reach outside our doors. I’m sorry to have to bring it up now.”
“I think the bishop would also be interested to know how Sister Mary Lucille came upon the information about Jamieson and Gretchen Becknell,” I said.
“I have no answer to that, Father. I questioned the other sisters about it, but no one knew anything.”
“We do know that she is occasionally absent from the convent, sometimes at night. Maybe she eavesdropped and overheard something incriminating. How else could she have known?”
Before the nun could answer, Bishop Lynch spoke up.
“The question that intrigues me is what she may have meant by her claim that Jamieson had to pay for his sins. Is she robust?”
“Indeed, Excellency,” I answered. “She’s a big woman and strong looking. When she made her accusations this morning, she acted in a rage. It was a frightening display.”
“Was she inflamed enough to commit murder, do you think? That’s the question in my mind. She may have been in the cathedral, for all we know, and mad rage is motivation enough to crown someone in passion. We need to look into this further, Tom.”
No one had anything to add to that analysis, so the meeting broke up slowly. I escorted the women to the convent across the street and returned to find both Antoine and the bishop suppressing yawns. I also found the paper Rebecca had given me in the pocket of the blouse I was still wearing. It was a receipt describing the sale of Wade Manigault to Andrew Quillery, datelined Baltimore and signed. I thought it might be handy to have as evidence against Quillery’s slave trading if we ever needed it, so I showed it to Antoine, who passed it on to Bishop Lynch. The pontiff laid it on his desk.
The Jesuit said that he would accept Lynch’s kind invitation to spend the night. He wanted to be at the bishop’s house when we notified the police the next morning.
CHAPTER 26
A
s it turned out, we didn’t have to bother notifying them. When I finished the seven o’clock mass in the lower church, I found James Moseley, acting police chief in the absence of Gordon Becknell, waiting for me in the vestibule.
“An interesting sorta service there, Father. You folks go to church everyday?”
“Yes. At least some do, James. Daily mass is not mandatory as it is on Sunday. You could see by this morning’s attendance that most Catholics go once a week as do most Protestants, I would imagine.”
“Probly so. My wife’s family are powerful strong Baptists. They go Wednesday evening and most of the day on Sunday. But it’s almost all talking. I notice you never preached at all this morning.”
“That’s right. We don’t usually give a sermon during the week. People are in a hurry to get to their day’s work, so we concentrate on the Eucharist, which is the center of our worship. We read from the Bible every day, though.”
“I noticed that, all right.”
“You interested in learning more about the Catholic faith, James?”
“Maybe. Sometime. Right now I come to give you some news.”
When I raised my eyebrows at that, he grinned widely, showing a missing tooth on the bottom. The acting police chief was hatless, as usual, his sandy hair rustled like Moses’s burning bush after he ran his hand through it. He was dressed in the brown long-sleeved shirt that was the pro forma uniform of the Charleston police and had his gold badge pinned to its pocket. He had a revolver holstered at his waist. Moseley said, “This could be a big break in two cases, Father Tom. We picked up a man on drunk and disorderly charges last night. One of the boys recognized him as a friend of Gordon Becknell. Becknell’s been removed as police chief by the city council pending the investigation of charges against him, did you know that? Well, ol’ Gordon went visiting with this here fella, name of Jack Madden, by the way. When we started asking Jack about Gordon’s whereabouts, he went to babbling. He’s said some strange things, some concerning a hanged man. I thought you might want to be on hand when we take his formal statement this morning.”
I did indeed want to be on hand and made arrangements with James to meet him at the downtown station house at nine. I skipped breakfast to get some early paperwork done and was waiting inside the police station when Sergeant Moseley came in from his own meal at a local cafe.
He led me to the holding cells in back.
“I’d like you to get a look at this fella before he gets his drama face on for the interrogation. As soon as we open this here door, he’ll be the one in the cell facing us directly. I’ll pull the door, and you step in quick-like and have a look, okay?”
I nodded, not at all sure what this was all about, but more than willing to cooperate. Moseley pulled the door toward him, and I stepped through in a fast stride. A man sat on a stained board bed held off the floor by ropes. He had just looked up when the door squeaked open and still had his chin in his hand. He was unshaven and rumpled. His eyeballs were shot through with lines of burst blood vessels, a whitish crust lined his lips. Most of his teeth were missing.
The prisoner and I both started as we took stock of each other. His mouth opened and a sort of plaintive groan sneaked out. He closed his eyes. I recognized him immediately as the man who had been holding what I had taken to be Uncle Williams’s head outside my window three nights ago. The sight of him caused an involuntary tremor in my chest, but the shock of atavistic fear was momentary. The smell in the windowless room and Moseley’s voice brought me immediately back to reality.
“On yer feet then, Jack. Quick now.”
Moseley was barking out the orders like a volley of gunshots as he unlocked and swung open the barred door to the cell. I was a bit surprised at the authoritative nature of my friend, although I realized that I could not have expected him to display deference in front of criminals. Madden reacted to the bullying by standing. He got up so fast that he swayed slightly, the effect no doubt of the alcohol dissolving still in his brain. He was medium-sized and slightly bow-legged. It was the same shape as the figure that chased my buggy on the way home from Ritter earlier in the week.
“You frightened my horse badly on the road between here and Ritter, Mr. Madden, and you upset my sleep.”
I didn’t want to admit how badly he had frightened me that terrible night of the vapors. I kept my voice low and casual to the ear. He groaned again and put his hands to the sides of his head. He started to shake his head but stopped with a grimace. Beads of sweat popped up at his hairline. When he started to speak his voice grated as painfully as the movement of a rusted gate hinge.
“I didn’t mean nothing. T’were a joke.”
“Yes. I imagine a funny enough one after a few years have passed. But it wasn’t your joke, was it Mr. Madden?”
He looked at me with a jerk that made his brow furrow. He clutched his forehead as if to keep it from splitting in two. His moan had a question mark after it this time.
“Who told you to play the jokes, now?”
“Why, nobody. Them was my own idea, Reverend. I swanny. I’d had a beer or two and felt like some fun, that’s all. I painted up a face and had a little firecracker that puffed out colored smoke, like.”
James Moseley came into play then. He stepped right up to the prisoner and growled in his face, looking for all the world like a rabid bulldog. Madden backed away until he came to the far limits of the room. There he tried to duck away from the cop, but to no avail. Moseley was after answers, and no sodden disgrace of a human being was going to deny him. He cuffed Madden sharply on the arm, almost toppling him, and pushed his head against the wall by griping his jaw in one hand and poking a finger of the other one between his eyes. The drunk squirmed in pain.
“Now answer the gentleman’s question like a gentleman yourself, Jack, or I’ll make yer life even more goddam miserable than it already is. Who put you up to the joke?”
“Twere Gordon hisself, James.”
The man’s breath on his face must have been all Moseley could stand but he never gave an inch. “Do you work for Gordon, then? Why would you do what he says?”
“We’re in the same...er...club. Twere a favor, is all.”
“What did he give you for this favor?”
“Just a coupla pennies, is all.”
“Where is the scalawag now, Jack?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t play with me, man. I’m not in a mood for playing.”
“I—”
“Tell me the truth, Jack, or you’ll rot in this cell with nothing but piss-warm water to drink for the rest of the spring. You’re trying my patience now.”
He threw Madden back up against the cell wall and stood with his fists clenched, staring hard at the cringing prisoner.I wanted to intervene, to invoke some Christian charity, but I sensed that Madden was about to tell everything that he knew. It was Moseley’s brand of justice, surely gentler than Becknell himself would dispense. I assuaged my conscience by noting, as I kept my hands to myself, that Madden was not really suffering from the grilling he was receiving at Moseley’s hands. If he had not spent the night before imbibing alcoholic beverages he probably wouldn’t be suffering at all. At any rate, the treatment and his suffering were enough for him.
“I think he’s still out to the Devil’s Hole somewheres. That’s where he told us he was going to hide out till the war done started. Said he was gonna get a commission. Artillery.”
Madden cackled at the very idea, but his throat phlegmed up, and he stopped to spit in the corner. His incipient smile disappeared completely when he faced Moseley’s fierce face again. I could sense any resolve he had mustered to resist dissipate, like ice cream melting on a summer’s day. He wiped his brow and started talking rapid-fire, his face twisted in discomfort. He told us that a half dozen Know Nothings had lynched Uncle Williams after Becknell told them that the old Negro had overheard his scheme to sell cotton to the Yankees.
“We was gonna use the money from that deal to make us a lively party again. Preserve Charleston for the Charlestonians.”
And three of them were already under arrest and incarcerated in the Confederate prison on Sullivan’s Island. They were caught loading the contraband cotton. Madden stood there in the damp cell, panting, aware that he had said too much.
There was something else that I had to know. “Did the ones who lynched Uncle Williams find him in the Devil’s Hole?”
Both men turned to look at me. Their heads were close together, and both faces registered surprise. It was almost as if they’d forgotten I was there.
“Why, er, no, Reverend. We caught him on the peninsula—that is, I was there but never partook of the action, heah? That poor old nigger said he was on his way back home, called his church his home. He wasn’t making much sense, I don’t guess.”
We left the man after that. Moseley told the jailer to get Jack Madden some flapjacks and coffee. We sat in his office until the jailer came back.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth, James?”
“Aye. I think so, Reverend. I’m sorry if I got a bit rough in there, but I know from experience how to handle those kinds of men. Madden’s a weak fella, needs pushing. He’ll make a good witness, I believe.”
“Yes. All you have to do is find Becknell and arrest him.”
Moseley nodded at that, his persona back to the diffident man I thought I knew. Of course, his treatment of Jack Madden was not cruel by the standards of the day. I thought he was slightly embarrassed because he had shown any meanness in front of a man of the cloth, even if it was calculated to achieve an end in the quickest way he knew how. He smiled over at me.
“Aye again, and that’s where you could help me out.”
“Me? How in heaven’s name could a priest help?”
“You’re a bit more than a priest, Father Tom. Besides being a former policeman yourself, you have been to the Devil’s Hole recently and would know where to start at least. It’s an unknown country to most of us.”
More than a priest, the man said? Was James Moseley beginning to realize that Catholic clerics can be normal southerners too? At any rate, I could hardly say no after all the help he had been to my own investigation. Plus, I thought then that Gordon Becknell might be the key to unlocking the puzzle of Jamieson Carter’s murder.
“If my bishop is agreeable, I’ll be happy to accompany you out there.”
“You have to get permission? We could go on your own time if that would make it easier.”
“Catholic priests promise obedience to our bishop, James. I’ll have to ask his permission.”
“I understand,” he said, looking as if he didn’t understand at all. “We’ll come by after we make a few arrangements. Maybe an hour or so?”
“That will be fine.”
I left then and hurried back to the bishop’s house, where Bishop Lynch and Antoine were waiting in the study. I told them what James Moseley had found out at the jailhouse.
“With any luck, this could unravel some of the knots of this mystery, Tom. Take Antoine here with you and Godspeed.”
CHAPTER 27
W
e rode out to the Devil’s Hole at a rapid clip. We were ten strong, including Antoine on the cathedral mare and me on Jasper. I took the party straight to the house where Uncle Williams had holed up, figuring that Beulah Mae might be more amenable to helping the authorities than the habitués of the roadhouse would be, assuming any of them were still sober enough to help this close to the noon dinner hour. That was an uncharitable observation, I thought, and glib—even if I did make it only to myself. Sober or not, however, they would not be pleased to see a posse ride up to their hideout.
We found Beulah Mae under a shade tree to one side of her house. She and the oldest child were looking collards.
Looking collards is what the Negro in South Carolina referred to when she was cleaning the broad collard leaves and picking off bugs and beetles. I never knew why they bothered—except that it was a good occasion for socializing—since the collards are cooked for hours with fatback, so that nothing on them could possibly survive in recognizable form. Besides, wouldn’t a quick wash in the nearby river serve as well?
The two females stopped conversing and watched us approach, each with a collard leaf in hand, until we were close enough for the mother to recognize me. We stopped under a gnarled old oak a few yards from the house. I dismounted and walked across the sandy yard to them, while the rest of the men stayed on their horses and looked about. I swore I could smell the rankness of the pigsty from here, but no one else commented on it.
“Morning, Beulah Mae.”
“Reverend.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“‘Bout the same. It ain’t come and go none today. Stays ‘bout the same all the time.”
“Then you must refrain from exerting yourself. Let your children do the running around.”
“Sounds good to me. You wanna tell ‘em?”
We both laughed at that. She was wheezing by the time she stopped, and this was just polite laughter. I waited a minute until her breathing was normal again and then asked her had she heard about Uncle Williams. She nodded. She angled her head at the police.
The girl opened her hands and stretched them about three feet apart.
“Was the woman young or old?” Father Gagnon asked.
“Uh, maybe in the middle. No, old. That is, uh, not like a schoolgirl but not as old as Your Excellency. About like you, Father.”
That drew a few smiles and seemed to calm the girl’s nerves a bit. The rest of the questioning went more easily.
Mary told us that the buggy was pulled by a brown horse, which matched the description of the Becknell’s bay that I had seen when I went to warn Gretchen of Quillery’s wild accusations.
When last seen by me, the animal was hauling both Becknells to the Edisto River.
The postulate also described the driver so well that there could be no doubt that it was Gretchen, and that she had stopped at Quillery’s house to pick up the statue that had been the murder weapon.
“All that seems to remain is to determine where Mr. and Mrs. Becknell are hiding and then to determine who of three possibilities is the murderer,” Bishop Lynch said. “I fear that it must be either Gordon Becknell, his wife, or the Reverend Quillery.”
I disagreed. “Has Sister Bernadette told you about Sister Mary Lucille, Your Excellency?”
The bishop looked at the nun. “No, she has not.”
“I’m sorry, Excellency. I thought that Father Dockery would have told you that earlier today.”
He looked at me.
“You hadn’t yet returned when we left to follow Reverend Quillery, Excellency. And we just now got back from the auction.”
The bishop nodded at that and turned to Sister Bernadette.
“One of our sisters is becoming a bit senile, I’m afraid,” she said. “She went into a sort of tirade this morning, claiming that she knew about—”
She paused suddenly and looked directly at Mary Turner. The youngster blushed and stood. She curtsied to the Bishop of Charleston and fairly scurried out the door. After the door closed behind her, the mother superior continued.
“Sister Mary Lucille claimed that she knew about Jamieson Carter and Mrs. Becknell. She went on in a rage about how poor Mr. Carter had to pay for his sins, not the least of which was a scurrilous accusation that he was channeling money, church money, to the Ursuline order in the state’s capital. She had made these accusations before, although always in the privacy of the convent. I’m mortified that poor Father Dockery had to witness such an outburst today.”
“The poor thing,” Bishop Lynch said. “I assure you that the diocesan accountant can confirm that any funds I send to my two sisters come from my own personal account.”
“We had never doubted that for a moment, Bishop Lynch. In fact, one of us knows an Ursuline well, and we know through her that the order is as impecunious as we are, maybe more so. That’s the very reason why we never mentioned poor Sister Lucille’s ramblings before. She’s not right. So we prayed for her and trusted that her accusations would never reach outside our doors. I’m sorry to have to bring it up now.”
“I think the bishop would also be interested to know how Sister Mary Lucille came upon the information about Jamieson and Gretchen Becknell,” I said.
“I have no answer to that, Father. I questioned the other sisters about it, but no one knew anything.”
“We do know that she is occasionally absent from the convent, sometimes at night. Maybe she eavesdropped and overheard something incriminating. How else could she have known?”
Before the nun could answer, Bishop Lynch spoke up.
“The question that intrigues me is what she may have meant by her claim that Jamieson had to pay for his sins. Is she robust?”
“Indeed, Excellency,” I answered. “She’s a big woman and strong looking. When she made her accusations this morning, she acted in a rage. It was a frightening display.”
“Was she inflamed enough to commit murder, do you think? That’s the question in my mind. She may have been in the cathedral, for all we know, and mad rage is motivation enough to crown someone in passion. We need to look into this further, Tom.”
No one had anything to add to that analysis, so the meeting broke up slowly. I escorted the women to the convent across the street and returned to find both Antoine and the bishop suppressing yawns. I also found the paper Rebecca had given me in the pocket of the blouse I was still wearing. It was a receipt describing the sale of Wade Manigault to Andrew Quillery, datelined Baltimore and signed. I thought it might be handy to have as evidence against Quillery’s slave trading if we ever needed it, so I showed it to Antoine, who passed it on to Bishop Lynch. The pontiff laid it on his desk.
The Jesuit said that he would accept Lynch’s kind invitation to spend the night. He wanted to be at the bishop’s house when we notified the police the next morning.
CHAPTER 26
A
s it turned out, we didn’t have to bother notifying them. When I finished the seven o’clock mass in the lower church, I found James Moseley, acting police chief in the absence of Gordon Becknell, waiting for me in the vestibule.
“An interesting sorta service there, Father. You folks go to church everyday?”
“Yes. At least some do, James. Daily mass is not mandatory as it is on Sunday. You could see by this morning’s attendance that most Catholics go once a week as do most Protestants, I would imagine.”
“Probly so. My wife’s family are powerful strong Baptists. They go Wednesday evening and most of the day on Sunday. But it’s almost all talking. I notice you never preached at all this morning.”
“That’s right. We don’t usually give a sermon during the week. People are in a hurry to get to their day’s work, so we concentrate on the Eucharist, which is the center of our worship. We read from the Bible every day, though.”
“I noticed that, all right.”
“You interested in learning more about the Catholic faith, James?”
“Maybe. Sometime. Right now I come to give you some news.”
When I raised my eyebrows at that, he grinned widely, showing a missing tooth on the bottom. The acting police chief was hatless, as usual, his sandy hair rustled like Moses’s burning bush after he ran his hand through it. He was dressed in the brown long-sleeved shirt that was the pro forma uniform of the Charleston police and had his gold badge pinned to its pocket. He had a revolver holstered at his waist. Moseley said, “This could be a big break in two cases, Father Tom. We picked up a man on drunk and disorderly charges last night. One of the boys recognized him as a friend of Gordon Becknell. Becknell’s been removed as police chief by the city council pending the investigation of charges against him, did you know that? Well, ol’ Gordon went visiting with this here fella, name of Jack Madden, by the way. When we started asking Jack about Gordon’s whereabouts, he went to babbling. He’s said some strange things, some concerning a hanged man. I thought you might want to be on hand when we take his formal statement this morning.”
I did indeed want to be on hand and made arrangements with James to meet him at the downtown station house at nine. I skipped breakfast to get some early paperwork done and was waiting inside the police station when Sergeant Moseley came in from his own meal at a local cafe.
He led me to the holding cells in back.
“I’d like you to get a look at this fella before he gets his drama face on for the interrogation. As soon as we open this here door, he’ll be the one in the cell facing us directly. I’ll pull the door, and you step in quick-like and have a look, okay?”
I nodded, not at all sure what this was all about, but more than willing to cooperate. Moseley pulled the door toward him, and I stepped through in a fast stride. A man sat on a stained board bed held off the floor by ropes. He had just looked up when the door squeaked open and still had his chin in his hand. He was unshaven and rumpled. His eyeballs were shot through with lines of burst blood vessels, a whitish crust lined his lips. Most of his teeth were missing.
The prisoner and I both started as we took stock of each other. His mouth opened and a sort of plaintive groan sneaked out. He closed his eyes. I recognized him immediately as the man who had been holding what I had taken to be Uncle Williams’s head outside my window three nights ago. The sight of him caused an involuntary tremor in my chest, but the shock of atavistic fear was momentary. The smell in the windowless room and Moseley’s voice brought me immediately back to reality.
“On yer feet then, Jack. Quick now.”
Moseley was barking out the orders like a volley of gunshots as he unlocked and swung open the barred door to the cell. I was a bit surprised at the authoritative nature of my friend, although I realized that I could not have expected him to display deference in front of criminals. Madden reacted to the bullying by standing. He got up so fast that he swayed slightly, the effect no doubt of the alcohol dissolving still in his brain. He was medium-sized and slightly bow-legged. It was the same shape as the figure that chased my buggy on the way home from Ritter earlier in the week.
“You frightened my horse badly on the road between here and Ritter, Mr. Madden, and you upset my sleep.”
I didn’t want to admit how badly he had frightened me that terrible night of the vapors. I kept my voice low and casual to the ear. He groaned again and put his hands to the sides of his head. He started to shake his head but stopped with a grimace. Beads of sweat popped up at his hairline. When he started to speak his voice grated as painfully as the movement of a rusted gate hinge.
“I didn’t mean nothing. T’were a joke.”
“Yes. I imagine a funny enough one after a few years have passed. But it wasn’t your joke, was it Mr. Madden?”
He looked at me with a jerk that made his brow furrow. He clutched his forehead as if to keep it from splitting in two. His moan had a question mark after it this time.
“Who told you to play the jokes, now?”
“Why, nobody. Them was my own idea, Reverend. I swanny. I’d had a beer or two and felt like some fun, that’s all. I painted up a face and had a little firecracker that puffed out colored smoke, like.”
James Moseley came into play then. He stepped right up to the prisoner and growled in his face, looking for all the world like a rabid bulldog. Madden backed away until he came to the far limits of the room. There he tried to duck away from the cop, but to no avail. Moseley was after answers, and no sodden disgrace of a human being was going to deny him. He cuffed Madden sharply on the arm, almost toppling him, and pushed his head against the wall by griping his jaw in one hand and poking a finger of the other one between his eyes. The drunk squirmed in pain.
“Now answer the gentleman’s question like a gentleman yourself, Jack, or I’ll make yer life even more goddam miserable than it already is. Who put you up to the joke?”
“Twere Gordon hisself, James.”
The man’s breath on his face must have been all Moseley could stand but he never gave an inch. “Do you work for Gordon, then? Why would you do what he says?”
“We’re in the same...er...club. Twere a favor, is all.”
“What did he give you for this favor?”
“Just a coupla pennies, is all.”
“Where is the scalawag now, Jack?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t play with me, man. I’m not in a mood for playing.”
“I—”
“Tell me the truth, Jack, or you’ll rot in this cell with nothing but piss-warm water to drink for the rest of the spring. You’re trying my patience now.”
He threw Madden back up against the cell wall and stood with his fists clenched, staring hard at the cringing prisoner.I wanted to intervene, to invoke some Christian charity, but I sensed that Madden was about to tell everything that he knew. It was Moseley’s brand of justice, surely gentler than Becknell himself would dispense. I assuaged my conscience by noting, as I kept my hands to myself, that Madden was not really suffering from the grilling he was receiving at Moseley’s hands. If he had not spent the night before imbibing alcoholic beverages he probably wouldn’t be suffering at all. At any rate, the treatment and his suffering were enough for him.
“I think he’s still out to the Devil’s Hole somewheres. That’s where he told us he was going to hide out till the war done started. Said he was gonna get a commission. Artillery.”
Madden cackled at the very idea, but his throat phlegmed up, and he stopped to spit in the corner. His incipient smile disappeared completely when he faced Moseley’s fierce face again. I could sense any resolve he had mustered to resist dissipate, like ice cream melting on a summer’s day. He wiped his brow and started talking rapid-fire, his face twisted in discomfort. He told us that a half dozen Know Nothings had lynched Uncle Williams after Becknell told them that the old Negro had overheard his scheme to sell cotton to the Yankees.
“We was gonna use the money from that deal to make us a lively party again. Preserve Charleston for the Charlestonians.”
And three of them were already under arrest and incarcerated in the Confederate prison on Sullivan’s Island. They were caught loading the contraband cotton. Madden stood there in the damp cell, panting, aware that he had said too much.
There was something else that I had to know. “Did the ones who lynched Uncle Williams find him in the Devil’s Hole?”
Both men turned to look at me. Their heads were close together, and both faces registered surprise. It was almost as if they’d forgotten I was there.
“Why, er, no, Reverend. We caught him on the peninsula—that is, I was there but never partook of the action, heah? That poor old nigger said he was on his way back home, called his church his home. He wasn’t making much sense, I don’t guess.”
We left the man after that. Moseley told the jailer to get Jack Madden some flapjacks and coffee. We sat in his office until the jailer came back.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth, James?”
“Aye. I think so, Reverend. I’m sorry if I got a bit rough in there, but I know from experience how to handle those kinds of men. Madden’s a weak fella, needs pushing. He’ll make a good witness, I believe.”
“Yes. All you have to do is find Becknell and arrest him.”
Moseley nodded at that, his persona back to the diffident man I thought I knew. Of course, his treatment of Jack Madden was not cruel by the standards of the day. I thought he was slightly embarrassed because he had shown any meanness in front of a man of the cloth, even if it was calculated to achieve an end in the quickest way he knew how. He smiled over at me.
“Aye again, and that’s where you could help me out.”
“Me? How in heaven’s name could a priest help?”
“You’re a bit more than a priest, Father Tom. Besides being a former policeman yourself, you have been to the Devil’s Hole recently and would know where to start at least. It’s an unknown country to most of us.”
More than a priest, the man said? Was James Moseley beginning to realize that Catholic clerics can be normal southerners too? At any rate, I could hardly say no after all the help he had been to my own investigation. Plus, I thought then that Gordon Becknell might be the key to unlocking the puzzle of Jamieson Carter’s murder.
“If my bishop is agreeable, I’ll be happy to accompany you out there.”
“You have to get permission? We could go on your own time if that would make it easier.”
“Catholic priests promise obedience to our bishop, James. I’ll have to ask his permission.”
“I understand,” he said, looking as if he didn’t understand at all. “We’ll come by after we make a few arrangements. Maybe an hour or so?”
“That will be fine.”
I left then and hurried back to the bishop’s house, where Bishop Lynch and Antoine were waiting in the study. I told them what James Moseley had found out at the jailhouse.
“With any luck, this could unravel some of the knots of this mystery, Tom. Take Antoine here with you and Godspeed.”
CHAPTER 27
W
e rode out to the Devil’s Hole at a rapid clip. We were ten strong, including Antoine on the cathedral mare and me on Jasper. I took the party straight to the house where Uncle Williams had holed up, figuring that Beulah Mae might be more amenable to helping the authorities than the habitués of the roadhouse would be, assuming any of them were still sober enough to help this close to the noon dinner hour. That was an uncharitable observation, I thought, and glib—even if I did make it only to myself. Sober or not, however, they would not be pleased to see a posse ride up to their hideout.
We found Beulah Mae under a shade tree to one side of her house. She and the oldest child were looking collards.
Looking collards is what the Negro in South Carolina referred to when she was cleaning the broad collard leaves and picking off bugs and beetles. I never knew why they bothered—except that it was a good occasion for socializing—since the collards are cooked for hours with fatback, so that nothing on them could possibly survive in recognizable form. Besides, wouldn’t a quick wash in the nearby river serve as well?
The two females stopped conversing and watched us approach, each with a collard leaf in hand, until we were close enough for the mother to recognize me. We stopped under a gnarled old oak a few yards from the house. I dismounted and walked across the sandy yard to them, while the rest of the men stayed on their horses and looked about. I swore I could smell the rankness of the pigsty from here, but no one else commented on it.
“Morning, Beulah Mae.”
“Reverend.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“‘Bout the same. It ain’t come and go none today. Stays ‘bout the same all the time.”
“Then you must refrain from exerting yourself. Let your children do the running around.”
“Sounds good to me. You wanna tell ‘em?”
We both laughed at that. She was wheezing by the time she stopped, and this was just polite laughter. I waited a minute until her breathing was normal again and then asked her had she heard about Uncle Williams. She nodded. She angled her head at the police.
