Arsenic And Old Books

I surveyed the shelves and made a mental calculation of the collection—probably around twenty linear feet, I reckoned. That was a good-sized collection. Much of it consisted of correspondence, but there were also copies of wills and deeds, along with maps of the Long family’s extensive property both around Athena and in the Mississippi Delta. I located the finding aid to the collection put together by Miss Eulalie on one of the shelves and started skimming through it.

The contents of each box was listed under the various categories. I found no mention of books in any of the boxes, but the list for the final box in the collection noted it simply as Miscellany. Accordingly I moved to the shelf that housed the box and pulled it down, noting that it was lightweight.

After slipping on a pair of cotton gloves, I opened the box on the worktable and delved through the contents. There were three books inside, but none was the memoir I sought. They appeared to be old schoolbooks from the early twentieth century. Interesting, but not pertinent to my present search. I also found three briar pipes, each in a box with a label denoting the owner, Adalbert Long. I wasn’t sure where he fit into the family tree, but I remembered that the name Adalbert cropped up frequently among the Longs. The final object was a file folder that contained several pieces of sheet music. I checked their copyright dates, and they were of 1890s vintage. Again, interesting but not pertinent.

I replaced the box on the shelf and considered whether I should go through all the boxes in the collection to search for Miss Eulalie’s copy of the memoir. I couldn’t believe the former archivist would have put the book in another box and not have noted it in the finding aid. Still, I decided, I had better check.

Fifteen minutes later, having gone through all the boxes, I came up empty-handed. Either Miss Eulalie had knowingly lied to me or someone had removed her copy of the memoir from the collection. I didn’t like to think of Miss Eulalie as a liar, but she was probably protecting someone. The question was whom.

I peeled off the gloves and discarded them before I locked the storeroom and went back to the office. I found Diesel still asleep on the windowsill. He raised his head groggily and yawned when I resumed my seat at the computer. I patted his head a couple of times, and he settled down to sleep again.

I called up the website of the Mississippi Department of Archives and History. I wanted to search their online catalog for a copy of the memoir. No luck, however. Then I searched an online database that claimed to be the world’s largest online catalog. Again, nothing.

The memoir of Rachel Long was indeed a rare item. I would have to ask the mayor whether the family had a copy. I knew there was a large library at Bellefontaine, the antebellum mansion that had been home to the Longs since the 1830s. If they didn’t have a copy, I would have to hope one of the two missing copies turned up. Otherwise I would never know what clues it might contain to the bizarre events of the past few days.

I needed to get back to the diary for now. I would deal with the memoir later. I found my place and began to read.

Two weeks after Rachel recorded the death of the three little Singletarys—how sad that she didn’t even mention their names, I thought—she noted the death of Vidalia Singletary.

As a mother myself I understand the grief of a woman who has lost all three of her children at once. I doubt that I could withstand such a horror, and it is no wonder to me that poor Vidalia did not have the will to live through this harsh winter. Far better to be reunited with her loved ones in the Kingdom of Heaven than to suffer their loss in this sad and frightening world. As the war continues I wonder how we will continue the fight and whether our cause is worth such bloodshed and loss.

I felt Rachel’s anguish, and I could have told her that no, it wasn’t worth it. The loss of all that life, those years of privation and hardship, weren’t worth it, particularly to preserve such a heinous system in which persons were property just like plows and chairs.