After that day, whenever I saw Mr. Brennan on the streets, I ran. One day, when I was much older, I asked my father about Brennan and the house on St. George. He was silent for a long time. “There was a lot of tragedy there,” he told me at last. I asked him why the young Mr. MacTavish had left. I understood a broken heart—half the women not too many years older than I was had broken hearts, on account of their fellows had died in the war. But he had abandoned such a beautiful house.
“The disappearances,” my father said. “Or the murders,” he added after a moment of reflection. “I didn’t believe it at the time.” He rattled off a list of names. Women’s names. “They all disappeared, starting right when Cato MacTavish came home. We assumed then that they had run off—it was a war, conditions were miserable. Only two of the girls were ever found—and the doctor on call said that both had died in the streets. Carriage accidents. But…they didn’t look right.” He stopped. He wasn’t going to tell me any details of the corpses that had been found. “Cato’s fiancée had disappeared right after he left to fight, and since he wasn’t here, he was a good scapegoat. When he returned from the war, people said he’d killed her because she was pregnant or he was just tired of her. He tried to fight the accusations—they weren’t official, there was no evidence—but bear this in mind, child. Words can be as cruel as any weapon; they give rise to battles and wars, and in the end, he was a soldier who could not win the battle of words, I’m sad to say. Thing is, soon after he left, the housekeeper disappeared, too. She wasn’t actually his housekeeper, she had come with Brennan. But the whole city was terrified of her.” “Why?” I asked. “Black magic.” “You don’t believe in black magic,” I told him. He shook his head. “I didn’t want to believe. They said that she mixed voodoo with Indian lore, black magic and more. Some thought it was her spells that made the girls disappear. Or made them run away. Or perhaps she was the one who killed them. The truth, Brennan was allied with the powers that controlled the city at the time. Cato MacTavish was not. And MacTavish was a man who could bear no more. Perhaps he changed his name when he went north—or south. All anyone knows for sure is that he rode out of town one day on his father’s big bay, crying out his innocence and cursing the city, never to be seen again. Brennan, now, Brennan is a dangerous man. He conned Cato into teaching him the business, and he managed to make MacTavish leave and get hold of the place for himself. It’s always dark, that house, always covered in a pall of black and mourning. I told you once, years ago, to stay away. And I want you to do so now and forever, even if you’re growing into a woman.”
And so I did. But as the years went by, I found myself walking past the house, time and time again. It was on St. George, just a block from my home, so it was easy to take that route. The house remained sheathed in black, black veils, black drapes, black wreaths. And the death carriages came and went, and I still wondered why old man Brennan had never told my father about my crawling up on his hearse and looking into the coffin of the beautiful young woman.
Sarah just finished the entry when her cell phone rang, nearly sending her flying from the chair as it broke into her intense concentration.
“Hello?” she said a bit breathlessly.
“Sarah?” It was Caroline.
“Yes, hi.”
“Are you all right?”
Sarah laughed. “Yes. The sound of my phone just startled me, that’s all.”
“I know you’re taking the day off, but can you stop by the museum for a minute? Come in the back. No one will even know you’re here.”
“Okay. But are you all right? You sound…disturbed.”
“There’s something I need to show you,” Caroline said.
“What?”
“Just get over here. You really need to see it for yourself.”
Sarah frowned and glanced at her watch. “Okay. Should I head over now?”
“Please. I’ll meet you at the back door.”
Sarah returned the book to Vicky Hind, aware that it was valuable and should be put away carefully, so she was surprised when Vicky told her that she was welcome to take it home to read.
“I know you, Sarah. You’ll treat it like gold. Here—let me put one of these dust jackets over it, and then you won’t have to worry about a thing.”
Once the book was duly encased, Sarah put it in her shoulder bag and left, thanking Vicky for her help. Vicky assured her that she would dig around for more references to the house.
Sarah hurriedly walked the few blocks to the museum and headed around to the back.
Caroline was already standing there with the rear door open, dressed in homespun antebellum attire. Her face was knitted in a frown, and she was anxious.
“Get in, get in!” she urged, as if they were on a secret spy mission.
Sarah stepped through the back door into the employees’ break room, nicely set up with a slightly worn but comfortable sofa, a refrigerator, microwave, television and coffeemaker. A door on a side wall led to the hall, and the restrooms and lockers.
They were alone in the room, but even so, Caroline looked around worriedly, as if the walls themselves might be watching surreptitiously.