Martha Henderson, hearing her truck, came out the door of the clapboard two-story house built in 1790.
“Just what I wanted. Hootie’s been pestering me for apple pie.”
“I expect he’ll be happy.”
“Come on in. Come on, Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter. I know you want to ask us about the slave chits.”
“How do you know that?” Harry stepped over the swept threshold.
“Because Deputy Cooper called on us yesterday and you can’t resist a mystery. There are so many here on this land, all those prisoners-of-war, then Ewing buying up the camp and, well, there’s no end to history, is there? It’s always around us.”
“Sometimes I feel ghosts close to me. Silly, I know.”
“Sit down, honey.” Martha, in her middle sixties, had always been motherly, even when young. “What can I fetch you?”
“Not a thing.”
“I’ll take a treat,” Pewter piped.
Harry ignored her as Martha put out a plate of scones that she’d made that morning. Who could resist?
Then she made a pot of tea, set down fresh butter on a little plate, a few jams, and sat down herself.
“Where’s Hootie?”
“Upstairs. He wants to show you the old account books.”
Just as she said this, a heavy footfall was heard on the wooden stairway. Carrying large, leather-bound books, Hootie, large himself, came in, placing them on the table. “Good to see you, girl. I don’t get to see enough of you.”
“Nor I you. Farming, especially during the changing seasons, is no respecter of socializing.”
He laughed as Harry spoke. “I couldn’t live any other way, could you?”
“No.” She reached for a scone while Pewter emitted a piteous meow.
“Poor kitty.” Then Martha roared. “Poor starving kitty. Oh, well, even if she’s fat she has to eat.” Martha, pleasantly plump, rose, opened a cupboard, and retrieved a box of cat treats and one of dog treats. Her pets, outside, hadn’t come in but they, too, evidenced too many good meals.
“You won’t believe how many of these account books there are. I brought down the earliest ones. Starting in 1786. Goes right up to World War Two.” He flipped open Book I, revealing black cursive handwriting, beautiful, and the numbers, too, showed artistic flair.
Harry followed his finger. “Shipped three hundred bushels of apples to Richmond. Fifty cents a bushel. Six wagon wheels over to Maureen Selisse Holloway and one full oaken wagon to Father Donatello.” She looked up. “There was an early Catholic church?”
“The Italians. Remember there were Hessians and Italians imprisoned at The Barracks.” Hootie was a history buff. “Most stayed behind. They started St. Mary’s. Just like the Lutherans started St. Luke’s.”
“What a find.” Harry whistled. “And in such good condition.”
“Covered with dust. Martha cleaned them all up.” He smiled at his wife.
“These have historical value.” Harry touched the page.
“That’s why I’m not giving them away. You give them away and they wind up in storage at the university library or a historical group. No. If someone pays for these account books I bet they will actually read them. I called Jerry Showalter,” he named a local antique book dealer who traveled the country. “He’ll find the right home for them and Martha and I will enjoy a bit of profit. We reinsulated the attic, not cheap, which is how I found all this.”
“And the slave chits?” Harry wondered.
He carefully closed the book. “A leather bag of them.”
“I don’t think this was a slave house.” Harry looked around.
“Who knows? The Garths took good care of their people but as the business expanded Catherine added as much as her father once she took over. I expect they had to hire a true bookkeeper and some secretaries. No way one person or even the two sisters could handle all the paperwork.” Then he leaned back in his chair. “Imagine how many people you’d need today? I’d reckon that the average American loses four to five days a month on paperwork for the federal, state, and county governments. A hindrance to productivity.”
“Hindrance, hell, a nightmare.” Harry pressed her lips together.
“I figure all these questionnaires, tax papers, it’s all designed to create government employee jobs. Eventually half the population will be government employed. Jobs that don’t create profit,” Martha, once a schoolteacher, said. “Government can’t make money, can’t be for profit. I understand that but as more and more people no longer understand the necessity of private profit I think we’ll all go down the tube. As so many work for the government or take money from the government, contracts and such, they keep voting themselves more money.”
“You all think much more deeply about this than I do. I’d better catch up.” Harry smiled.
“Oh, we get riled up. Now, the chits? What are they? What were they doing here? That was the officer’s question. She’s a nice girl. And not married?” Hootie’s eyebrows shot upward.
“Well, you are.” Martha poked at him.
“She’s dating one of the baseball coaches at UVA. Back to the chits. Any ideas why they were here? Any idea at all?” Harry inquired.
“No. Whoever lived here was good with detail. Maybe that was another detail.” Hootie reached for a scone himself.
“Pretty important.” Martha knew her history. “You can’t have chits out in the open. Were as valuable as money back then. ’Course, after 1865, I reckon they were worthless.”
“I never thought of that.” Harry finished her delicious scone.
“How very strange that that fellow, the one killed, was wearing Number Five and he’d just bought it. Deputy Cooper talked a long time with us and I don’t think we were much help. I have no idea why that fellow was killed or why he was wearing a chit. As I recall the five was quite elegant, just as the Garth name, in script, was elegant.”
“I told Fair last night after I’d been to Liz’s shop and seen the chits that I had an irresistible urge to buy Number Eleven.”
“That’s a pretty one, too.” Martha smiled. “Think you might? Buy it, I mean?”
“I don’t know. I know I don’t want our past hidden, or anyone’s past, for that matter. We have to acknowledge it regularly. How else can we learn? I remind myself that most people did the best they could with what they had. They weren’t thinking about big issues. They were thinking about food, clothing, and shelter. Not much has changed there.”
Hootie added, “Deputy Cooper told us Liz was selling the chits for one hundred dollars a pop.”
“We sold them to her for fifty apiece after a lot of back and forth.” Martha pushed another scone toward Harry, who took it.
“That’s retail. Called keystone. You double the price. You figure out rent on a good location store, utilities, advertising, the cost of decorating and display. The retail business is hard. How can someone anticipate what people will want to buy? At least with farming we know everyone’s got to eat,” Harry opined.
Hootie laughed, a deep, throaty sound. “Got that right.”
“Well, let me get back to work. I’ve thatched the pastures and want to put down fertilizer. I like a light dressing before winter. I think the freezing and thawing helps get the good stuff into the soil,” Harry said.
“Does.” Hootie agreed, then added, “Glad you came by. If your mother were alive she’d read every one of those account books before I sold them.”
“I bet she would.” Harry smiled.
Martha, voice soothing, said, “I don’t see how the chit or the Number Five can be important. Just a coincidence. Why would anyone kill someone over an old slave pass?”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Harry rose. “Then again, people do crazy things.”