The Last of the Stanfields(65)
“Head due south,” she instructed, gesturing down over the balustrade. “Take a right at the end, then a left, and you’re there.”
“And where is ‘there’ exactly?” asked George-Harrison.
“Vital records. But you’d better hurry up. They close at noon.”
“Great, thank you. But how do we even reach that staircase?”
“For that, head due north,” she said, turning around. “Straight down that first stairwell, then make a U-turn and continue straight through the rotunda down the middle corridor. That should put you on the right track.”
“Thanks. What about property records?” I asked.
“Wait, can I ask a question?” George-Harrison cut in. “Have you ever heard of an old Baltimore family by the name of Stanfield?”
The friendly woman arched an eyebrow and beckoned us to follow her. She led us down the stairs to the ground floor and to the middle of the rotunda—right back where we started. There, six statues stood within alcoves carved into the curved wall. Our new friend led us to one of the alcoves and gestured toward an alabaster statue of a proud-looking man wearing a frock coat and tall hat, his hand resting on the pommel of a cane.
“Frederick Stanfield, born 1842, died 1924. If he’s the one you’re looking for, maybe you can just read the plaque and save a trip to the records office!” she laughed. “Stanfield was one of the founding fathers of Baltimore, believe it or not. As an architect, he even contributed to the beautiful building in which we now stand. The first plans were submitted just prior to the onset of the Civil War. Construction began in 1867 and took a full eight years to complete. And all this for the meager sum of eight million dollars, which at that time was a massive fortune. It’s at least a hundred times more, in today’s terms. If I had even a quarter of that, we could fix the entire budget for the year.”
“Sorry,” I cut in. “But just out of curiosity: Who exactly are you?”
“Stephanie Rawlings-Blake,” she replied. My jaw dropped as I realized I was face-to-face with the mayor of Baltimore herself. “Pleased to meet you. And no, I’m not moonlighting as a tour guide, and to tell you the truth, I’m not much of a history buff at all, I just happen to pass by these statues all day long.”
After we thanked the mayor from the bottom of our hearts, I asked one last question. “Can you tell me if there are any surviving Stanfields left in Baltimore these days?”
“I have to admit, I have no idea,” she replied. “But I might know someone who could help you.” She took out her phone and read out a phone number, which I quickly jotted down. “You can find Professor Morrison at Johns Hopkins. He’s a sort of ‘living memory’ around here, the absolute leading authority on Baltimore history. But he’s a very busy man, so be sure to call ahead and tell him I sent you. He should be able to help; he already does so many favors for me, one more won’t make a difference! He writes all my boring speeches for inaugurations and events like that . . . but don’t tell him I said that. Now, sorry to say, I have to leave you. I have a city councilman waiting in my office.” With that, the mayor left as discreetly as she had appeared.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to bother thanking me,” George-Harrison grumbled.
“For what?”
“For having the brilliant idea of asking the mayor about the Stanfields, which may have saved us from wasting an entire day, again.”
“Because you knew who she was all along, huh? Well, isn’t that rich! For your information, if I hadn’t had the bright idea of going to the library in the first place, we wouldn’t have uncovered the Stanfield connection at all.”
“First of all, you’re a total hypocrite. Second, would it really kill you to admit I deserve a thank-you here? And third, why do we keep coming back to these precious Stanfields of yours?”
“If you had actually listened this morning, you’d already know. Hanna and Robert Stanfield were major players when it came to rare and desirable works of art, and were heavily involved in local real estate. They also gave generously to the city. But . . . no one today seems to know a thing about them. The only significant proof we’ve found of their existence came from that article in the Independent and a blurb in the Sun about a party they held, plus a press release about Robert Stanfield withdrawing his bid for governor. So . . . Mr. Stanfield gives up a run for governor because of a tragedy in his family, but there’s no explanation of what this tragedy is. If there’s one rule in politics, it’s that silence is the most expensive thing money can buy. Maybe that gives you an idea of just who the Stanfields were.”
“Fine, the Stanfields were big and powerful. How does that make a difference to us?”
“Well, your mother specifically mentioned a tragic mistake in her letter. Think about it, connect the dots. You don’t think there’s something there? Of course, if you’ve got a better lead, I’m all ears.”
George-Harrison jingled his car keys. “Okay, Johns Hopkins it is. You can call Professor Morris along the way.”
“It’s Morrison! And would it really kill you to admit that I’m a damn fine reporter?”
The professor agreed to see us in his office later that afternoon. Name-dropping the mayor helped get our foot in the door, but we still encountered a bit of trouble. After the secretary nearly hung up on me, George-Harrison had to snatch the phone straight out of my hands and work his charm to secure the meeting.