Slavery's Ghost
It was July of 1839. Robert
Bellamy of the Department of Extranatural Affairs stood in a cemetery in
Philadelphia in the early hours of the morning, next to the mound of a
new-filled grave. Although the Fourth with its fireworks and guns was long
past, the air still smelled of black powder, and in the heat and the haze that
was already gathering, it seemed to him that the sky itself might catch fire at
any moment.
He took out an object that looked
like a pocket watch, as was customary in this sort of Bureau affair. The dial
was marked in twelve sections like the hours, but inside the case, instead of
hands and a steadily ticking mechanism, a single wooden needle floated on a
pool of mercury. He pushed the knob, releasing the needle: it floated lazily.
He nodded in satisfaction and wrote a number down in a little notebook.
Then Bob Bellamy did something
that was not required Bureau procedure. He bent his head and said an earnest
prayer for his deceased fellow investigator. Then he put his hat back on and
left the grave, its copious floral tributes already withering in the hot,
stagnant air.
A half-hour later found him in
the outskirts of the city, being guided up the stairs of a neat, modest
three-story building by a neat modest maiden of thirty or so.
"I hope you don't think I
put Opa up here to get him out of the way," she panted, her broad fair
face coloring with the effort. "This is the way he wanted it. He said it
helped him think."
"I completely understand,
Miss Jandt. You're sure there are no family papers I might take away by
accident?"
"Ah, no, he put me in charge
of all that years ago. Up here there is nothing but his work and his research
library, and he told me it was all for the Bureau. What would I do with
it?"
She reached out and took his arm,
stopping him. They had reached a door at the top of the stairs.
"You will take care of it,
won't you? For all the ten years since he retired, he worked on his files and
analyses. His observations, his speculations, his conclusions. He talked of
them constantly, though I never could make head or tail of it. All this will be
preserved, won't it? It will be ... useful?"
Bob smiled and patted her hand.
"Ma'am, your father was one
of the best agents we ever had. Mr. Frobisher, our first Director, spoke of him
often, and held him up to our esteem as a model operative. I imagine his
writings will be studied for decades to come. Set your mind at rest, Miss
Jandt; his life was well-spent in service, and his legacy is secure in our
hands."
She relaxed and dropped her hand.
"Then I will leave him to
you," she said simply. "There is a bell by the door. Ring it when you
are done, or if you need anything. Go gently among his remains, Mr.
Bellamy." She turned and descended the dimness of the stairwell.
Bob opened the door and stopped
short. For a brief second it had seemed a ghostly figure hung before him; the
next second it had resolved itself into a rather skillful portrait done in the
Rembrandt style, hanging on the wall opposite. He would have laughed at himself
if the occasion were not so solemn. It was obvious to him that he had been
half-expecting some manifestation of just that kind.
The picture was of Gus Jandt,
exactly as he remembered the old man from years ago. A square head made squarer
still by a prickly brush cut; piercing light eyes behind small, square steel
spectacles perched on a broad blunt nose. An almost geometrically cut suit fell
from his broad shoulders. The only bit of fancy among these severe planes was
his neck-stock, that fell from his chin to his waistcoat like a waterfall
plummeting between granite shelves.
The room was well-lived in, but
immaculately clean. Glass-enclosed bookcases, a trim roll-top desk with a
wheeled padded chair, an iron stove in one corner, a bed like a camp cot with a
small, sturdy table next to it. On the table, a pair of glasses, obviously the
original of the portrait's, and an empty ceramic mug.
Bob felt a wash of guilt, as if
he were an intruder somehow caught in the sight of the spectacles. To cover
this confused emotion, he went quickly over to the desk and settled down to
business. The sooner he was done, the better. He opened a desk drawer.
It was full of files, bound up
and labeled. He had never seen more orderly kept records. They were classified
by phenomenon, and each case marked Verified, Inconclusive, and Disproved. The
Disproved were by far the thinnest cases but the most abundant category. All
six of the desk drawers were full, but not crammed; they were, after all, only
Jandt's own investigations. Bob thought of the files back at the Bureau and
shook his head. They could certainly use a going over with the old man's
method, but the idea of the labor involved made him shudder. He made a few more
notes on his pad, then began to unpack the drawers onto the faded red carpet.
When he got to the bottom of the
fifth drawer, he stopped. There was a file, sitting hidden horizontally under
the vertical dossiers. He drew it out, puzzled at the anomaly. There was no
listing of phenomenon, no indication of its status. It was simply labeled
"Tacenda," and under that, in neat red ink, "Burn This."
Bob sat down in the wheeled
chair, hunched forward, and considered the file in his hands. It was not
particularly heavy. It was not sealed with wax; a flip of a string would undo
it. Common decency dictated that it be destroyed unread. Professional curiosity
urged that it be examined at least once. Bureau policy demanded it be turned
over to the director, who would make his ruling on it. Bob sat perfectly still,
hardly breathing, while his conscience struggled with the trilemma. The
argument was shattered by a small crystal chime from his pocket.
He drew out the little device and
popped it open. It chimed again. He released the needle, and the wooden pin was
suddenly twirling around on its mercury ocean like a top being unwound. He
looked at in amazement. He had never seen one act quite like this before. It
didn't look like it was ever going to slow down. He closed the case and
carefully set it on the desk. He looked at the file.
Bob wasn't sure, exactly, how the
doohickey was supposed to work. All agents were issued one of them these days
and told how to use them. But whether they reacted to some unknown dicta of the
world around them, or to subtle messages from the agent himself, he had never
been told. But the instructions were clear: if the needle moved, something
interesting was afoot. Keep your eyes open and investigate.
He unwound the thread, opened the
file, and started to read.
I am going to assume [it began]
that if you are reading this you know something of the Department of
Extranatural Affairs, or the Bureau of Shadows, as it is sometimes theatrically
called. I will state for the record that I am Augustus A. Jandt, Agent Number
#05 of the same, and have been an operative of the Department since its
inception. This case and my conclusions are a personal memorandum of an
investigation that was kept out of the official record, and I think, if you
persist in reading it, you will discover why.
I have no notes, but I recall
well enough it was a day early in June in the year 1823. In our enterprise,
there are certain busy times of the year, but I was enjoying the balmy lull
between what we call the Darkest Days and the High Summer Madness. I was
sitting in my office, amusing myself with a study of Olaus Magnus' Historia
de Gentibus Septentrionalibus, when Mr. Ballentine Frobisher, my old friend,
and the Director of the Department, entered without even a courtesy knock.
"Prepare yourself," he
told me, waving some letters high in the air. He plucked one out and handed it
to me for inspection. It dripped with official vernissage. "For a trip to
Charlottesville. Mr. Monroe's government is feeling the pinch and is
questioning the necessity of continuing the Bureau. So we are going to see the
President."
"I beg your pardon," I
said, "Would not a trip to Washington be in order then? I believe that is
where President Monroe is at present."
"I don't mean our current
Caesar. I mean the President, the man who established our Bureau. We are going
to Monticello to see Mr. Jefferson."
"I do not understand the
necessity of my presence," I replied. I do not enjoy travel, even under
the most pleasant circumstances. "If Mr. Jefferson will not listen to you,
who have such history with him, what could I possibly accomplish?"
"This is where the mystery
of Providence steps in to help us." He handed me a second letter; a simple
paper folded twice. "Mr. Jefferson, our enlightened progenitor, our
rationalist philosopher of natural law, is being haunted by a ghost."
Frobisher looked at me, a grin
twisting his sour face.
"You, Gus, are my best investigator, and it is your efforts that can save or doom the Bureau."
(To Be Continued)
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