Historically Dead Page 12

  Compton Hall gleamed in the morning sunlight, as if the entire façade had received a good wash. I cocked my head and studied the manor house as I walked up the drive. Something was different, aside from the lovely sunlight highlighting the cream-colored bricks. It’s easy to see something out of place, but it’s harder to notice something that should be there but isn’t. It took me a few minutes to realize that I was missing the glorious Japanese maples that should have protected the front of the house. The exterior walls looked forlorn, denuded of their leafy ornamentation. Once again, I hoped that the rewards of participating in the reality show with the chance to win a million dollars warranted the destruction of those prize-winning Japanese maples.

  I shook off a profound sense of sadness and loss, reminding myself that a man had died on the same day that the maple trees had been uprooted. Shame on me for mourning the plants more than the person!

  The front door of Compton Hall was firmly shut. I tried the knob, but it was locked. I sighed and rang the bell, knowing that Louise Pritchard would chastise me for disturbing whatever she was doing at the time.

  Surprisingly, she didn’t say a word when she eventually opened the door. Her dust cloth told me that I’d interrupted her weekly dusting, and her scowl expressed her irritation better than words, while at the same time letting me know that she didn’t consider me worth wasting her breath on. I threw her a cheery “good morning” nonetheless, rising to the challenge of getting Louise to smile in spite of herself. Not this time.

  “Is Miss Ruth ready for her fitting? I’ve brought her new period gown.”

  Louise grumbled, clearly peeved at having to answer my direct question. “She’s in the middle of breakfast. You’re just going to have to wait.”

  “Okay.” I abandoned Louise to her housework, and wandered into the living room to admire my curtains one more time. They looked so beautiful! The morning sunlight filtered through the filmy fabric, lighting up the colorful embroidered flowers and butterflies along the borders. I pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures for future promotional materials. Too bad McCarthy wasn’t here to take some professional shots—my phone camera didn’t do them justice.

  I drifted over to the side table, admiring the stoneware vase displayed there. It was in the shape of an urn, with a squat round base and a long, thin neck. John Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” came to mind as I studied the whimsical figures painted on the base. One was a man wearing an overcoat and fedora—hardly the attire of an ancient Greek.

  “Communing with the soul of my departed husband, are we?” a sour voice demanded.

  I almost dropped the urn.

  Ruth tapped her way into the living room and plucked the urn out of my hands.

  “I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t realize... I thought it was a vase that just didn’t have any flowers in it yet.”

  Ruth replaced the urn on the side table and dusted her hands. “Well. Now you know that it is the repository of my late husband’s mortal remains. I would mention that you’ve no call to handle any item in this house regardless of its origin, but I fear my words would be wasted.” She fixed me with her sharp eye. “Have you brought my historical gown?”

  “It’s right here.” I hastened to pull the gown out of my sewing bag. “I just need you to slip it on so I can pin up the back and the hem.” I held the gown out to her.

  At that moment, the TV crew swept into the room, camera rolling. Stillman focused in on Priscilla’s face as she made her slow way into the living room. Cherry intoned, “The living room curtains are in place, as the final touch to the restored living room.” She waved her hand to indicate a cut and instructed Priscilla, “Walk over to the curtains, take a fold in your hand, and tell the camera how much you love them.”

  Priscilla gave us a vague smile. “Why, Ruth. I wondered where you’d gone after breakfast. You didn’t even finish your coffee and sweet roll.”

  “I haven’t eaten a sweet roll since the Nixon administration, and I’m not likely to start today.” Ruth glared at the camera crew. “Get on with it. We have other things to do right now.”

  Cherry didn’t falter. “Just take a bit of curtain in your hand, Priscilla, and tell the camera how beautiful it is.”

  “Yes, of course.” Priscilla meandered over to the window and fingered a fold of the curtain. “Such lovely embroidery.” She looked right at me. “You did a beautiful job, my dear.”

  I felt my cheeks flush as the camera panned over to me. I had a moment when I didn’t remember what I was wearing or if I would look okay on television, but it passed. “Thank you, Miss Priscilla. The curtains are hand-embroidered in a pattern that would have been commonly used in the 1770s. Thanks to Professor Burbridge’s research, I feel sure that they are historically accurate.” My voice faltered at the sight of Cherry’s hand frantically waving “cut.”

  “Make no mention of Professor Burbridge or give any hint that anything out of the ordinary has happened here. We’re not using the ‘M’ word on this production!”

  The “M” word. Murder. Cherry could deny its existence, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the professor’s death and the almost certain presence of a murderer in our midst. I still didn’t know why someone would want to kill Professor Burbridge. Until I figured that out, I couldn’t ignore the shocking fact that a murder had taken place in this house. To censor any mention of the professor’s name seemed to belittle the horror of his death.

  Cherry carried on, unmoved. “Ruth, please tell us about that impressive vase on the table next to you.” She waved for Stillman to continue filming.

  I caught a glint of amusement in Ruth’s eye as she picked up the urn and displayed it for the camera. “This vase is a mortuary urn containing human remains. The urn itself may be historic, although I strongly doubt it. The remains are quite recent, seven years old, to be exact. They are the ashes of my late husband, the philanthropist Thurman Ellis.” She paused, clearly surprised that the camera was still rolling. Both Cherry and Stillman seemed to be listening in a trance. I hung on her every word, remembering Pete’s story of Ruth’s possible involvement in her husband’s death, and Louise’s adamant assertion that Ruth was a murderer. “What else would you care to know?”

  Stillman blinked and glanced at Cherry. Before she could wave “cut” again I spoke up. “What happened to your husband?”

  Ruth glared at me as if I were a hideous creature who had crawled out from under a rock. The camera kept rolling.

  “He died in a house fire. You can find out all the sordid details from any newspaper at the time, to satisfy your voyeuristic desires.”

  I cringed as her words hit home.

  “Poor Ruth. Your beautiful home all gone, and your love as well.” A single tear rolled down Priscilla’s withered cheek.

  Ruth drew herself up to her full formidable height. “I keep this urn to remind myself of the dangers of marriage in general and marriage to a rich bastard in particular.” Her fierce gaze impaled Stillman. “I fail to see how this is pertinent to a discussion of house renovation, but that is, as they say, your business. If you will excuse me, I have a gown to try on.” She thumped the urn back onto the side table. “We can proceed with the fitting in my dressing room,” she said to me, and gripped the gold-tipped handle of her cane. You couldn’t say she swept out of the room, but the fierce tapping of her cane expressed her disdain in similar fashion.

  I followed her down the hall, feeling like I’d been rightly chastised for my rude curiosity. Still, I privately resolved to find those newspaper articles and read all the “sordid details” on my own time.

  Ruth donned the red gown in silence, and stood stiffly while I marked the back and pinned up the wide hem. I circled around her still form until I couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

  “I’m sorry I asked about your husband like that, Miss Ruth. I hope you’ll forgive my rudene
ss.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “This entire reality TV experience is an exercise in relinquishing one’s privacy in the name of entertainment. Whatever possessed my sister to embrace that, I will never know.”

  * * * *

  I spent the next hour and a half working on Ruth’s gown. I abandoned all pretense at authenticity, and ran the hem up on the treadle sewing machine. My legs were tired out by the end of it, but I shaved a good three hours off my sewing time. All I had left was the buttons in the back, which I could do this evening at home. I bundled up Ruth’s gown and set out for Oliphant University for a second attempt at talking with Noah Webster.

  I managed to slip out of the house without being accosted by Cherry and Stillman. I breathed a sigh of relief once I was out the door and walking briskly down the tree-lined street. I was surprised to note how glad I was to be out of that oppressive household. Murdered professors and dead husbands were starting to take their toll on my psyche.

  At the university, the innocent chatter of college students bustling about their academic business made me feel like I’d stepped back in time to my own college days. I’d been unattached at the time, happy to be studying history and fashion design with no more pressing concern on my mind than the next exam.

  I entered Old Main and made my way up the smooth marble steps to be met by a crowd of students in the third-floor hallway. They stood quietly, intent on the open door of Professor Burbridge’s office. I jostled my way to the front of the crowd.

  The first thing I saw in the professor’s office were two police officers, holding camera and notebook, respectively. The second thing I noticed was the state of chaos, far greater than the general untidiness I’d observed the other day. I turned to the student closest to me. “What happened?”

  “Burbridge’s office got broken into.” The student chewed on the end of his backpack strap. “The cops are trying to figure out if anything is missing.”

  I felt a momentary flush of guilt, remembering my own foray into Professor Burbridge’s office. I hoped I hadn’t left any incriminating evidence for forensic experts to find.

  I didn’t want to get caught up in witness questioning, so I wormed my way back out of the crowd. I caught a glimpse of Noah Webster on the outskirts, his arms full of books and notebooks. I hurried over to him. I touched his arm lightly, and he jumped like he’d been shot.

  “Hi, Noah. I just learned that Professor Burbridge’s office was broken into.”

  He gazed blankly at me, his face pale. “Yeah. Um, hi.”

  “I was hoping we could talk about the professor’s research—unless you have to be here to talk to the police?”

  He shook his head, knocking his horn-rimmed glasses askew. “I don’t want to talk to any cops.”

  I took his arm and steered him away from the crowd, half wondering if he was experiencing some sort of shock. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee and talk.”

  We walked in silence to Foraker, but when we reached the doors to the cafeteria, Noah pulled away from me. “We can’t talk here, it’s too crowded. Let’s go to the Station.”

  He led me back outside the building, around the corner and down a short flight of mossy stairs to a small red door marked “Station.” It opened to a wood-paneled coffee shop filled with small tables arranged in cozy nooks for a maximum of privacy. We ordered coffee and blueberry scones, and settled down at an empty table furthest from the door.

  After a few bites of scone, a bit of color came back into Noah’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

  “I’m Daria Dembrowski. We met at Compton Hall, remember? You were going to tell me about Professor Burbridge’s research into Major Samuel Compton.”

  He nodded over a slurp of coffee. “Right. Sorry. It was a shock to see Burbridge’s office all strewn about like that. Almost like he’d been killed all over again.”

  I made sympathetic noises, all the while chafing inside. I needed to find out about the professor’s research! “I keep thinking about the professor’s death, and wondering if his research had anything to do with it. Can you tell me what he’d learned about Major Compton?” I sipped my coffee, my eyes on him.

  Noah ran a hand through his untidy hair. “Okay. So, you know the story of the Battle of Laurel Springs, right?”

  “Sure. The rebels were camping on the outskirts of town, holding off the British troops. But the British attacked the camp at night, and a lot of American troops were killed before the British were finally defeated. Major Compton died as well, but he was hailed as a hero for holding off the British and saving the town from invasion.”

  He nodded, smiling slightly. “That’s the abbreviated version. If you dig deeper you find out that there’s more to the story. I don’t know if you know that intimate details of the rebel camp, including the positions of sentries and outer defenses, as well as troop numbers and location of armaments, were found in the possession of the attacking British troops.”

  I nodded. I had heard about this, although these details weren’t generally emphasized when teaching fifth graders about the heroic battle. Of course, this only made the kids want to know more. “Right. I did learn that there was a traitor among the American troops who was feeding information to the British.”

  Noah was grinning now. “And do you know the identity of said traitor?”

  “No one ever knew. I learned that the survivors were all questioned, but no one confessed, so the authorities concluded that the traitor was killed in the battle. That was the end of it.” I studied his face. “Wait—did Professor Burbridge find out who the traitor was?”

  Noah clapped his hands, literally. A couple of students looked over at us, and he shrank down in his seat. In a lowered voice, he said, “That’s exactly what Burbridge found out.”

  He didn’t say any more for a full minute. I had to prompt him. “So, who was the traitor?”

  But I wasn’t going to find out that easily.

  Noah glanced around, and then leaned forward to say, “Burbridge was a brilliant historical researcher. He combed through letters and diaries and other primary sources. He was obsessed with finding out the answer to this historical mystery. It was his life’s work.” He bowed his head for a moment, clearly moved. “I like to think that I helped him out through my own research. I’ve focused on the foot soldiers in D Company, like I told you. One of them, Eli Fuller, wrote daily letters home to his brother, which his descendants saved religiously. These letters were donated to the Laurel Springs Historical Society in the 1830s, and the Historical Society gave them to the Tremington Museum at the turn of the twentieth century. I was able to access them for my research. His letters were typical of soldiers at the time, detailing army life and the terrors of battle, and they gave me a fantastic glimpse into the daily life of a Continental soldier. Then I noticed that whenever Fuller named a fellow soldier, it was a name that didn’t correspond to the roster of D Company members. I compiled all the names from Fuller’s letters, and finally concluded that they were a code. Burbridge and I worked on the code for months. When we finally succeeded in breaking it, we discovered that Fuller was telling his brother what was really going on in D Company.”

  I was mesmerized. “What was going on?”

  “Fuller painted a picture of widespread abuses by the officers against the men. Fuller was a little guy, a weaver’s apprentice by trade, who didn’t feel able to stand up to the injustice he was experiencing. All he could do was document it through his coded letters.”

  “Did his brother figure out the code?”

  “We couldn’t find any evidence that he ever did. The collection includes the brother’s letters to Eli as well, and I couldn’t see any reference to coded messages in his correspondence. There’s absolutely no historical record of dissension or injustice within the ranks of D Company, other than Fuller’s coded account.”

  I fe
lt sorry for poor little Eli, trying to be a whistleblower with no success. “What happened to Eli Fuller?”

  “He was mortally wounded in the battle. He died three days later, on October 14, 1778. He had time to write one last letter home to his brother.”

  Noah leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed behind his head.

  I stared at him. “And?”

  “It’s a sad letter. Fuller knew he was dying, and he wrote to say goodbye. He mentioned the names of numerous colleagues who had died in the battle.” He leaned forward. “None of those soldiers were ever in D Company.”

  I gripped the edge of the table. “It was another code?”

  He nodded. “When we analyzed it, we concluded that he was telling his brother the name of the traitor who sold out his company to the British. But his brother didn’t get it, so historians never knew the identity of the traitor, until now.”

  I could scarcely contain my impatience. “Who did Fuller name?”

  Noah glanced around him again and leaned in to within inches of my face. “Major Samuel Compton.”

  I goggled at him. “Major Compton was a traitor?”

  “Shh!” Noah waved both hands as if trying to quiet an unruly crowd. “This is revolutionary original research! Burbridge was going to stun the history world with his discovery. He was on the cusp of fame and critical recognition.”

  I couldn’t help thinking that the fame and recognition might actually belong to Noah Webster, but that was beside the point. “So, what now?”

  He sat back in his chair with a sigh. “No one else knows about Burbridge’s research besides me. He was very protective about his work, because he wanted to publish and he didn’t want anyone else to beat him to the punch. He wanted to find corroborating evidence to back up Fuller’s account, but so far neither one of us has found anything. So we could be dealing with a disgruntled foot soldier who wanted to stir up trouble in his unit, or we could be sitting on a historical bombshell.” He lowered his voice once more. “Can you imagine the scandal this news would cause? Major Compton is our town hero. He saved Laurel Springs from invasion by the British at the cost of his own life. Was he the one to invite the British in to attack the men under his own command? It boggles the mind to think of it!”