The Last of the Stanfields(67)
“Why no mention of any of this in the press?”
“As I said, Baltimore is like a small town. While Mrs. Stanfield wasn’t loved by all, she certainly had no shortage of friends in the highest of places. I suppose our local journalists and editors had the grace and dignity not to heap more on the back of a family down on its luck, especially one whose matriarch had spoiled the press so thoroughly in her heyday.”
“And just what was it they decided to keep quiet about?” I asked.
“All of this happened more than thirty years ago! Just what is your interest in the fate of the Stanfields?”
“It’s a long story.” I sighed. “You said that history is set into stone through deduction, cross-referencing of facts and events, so I’m just trying to cross-check the story in my own way.”
Morrison crossed over to the window and gazed out onto the street. The professor seemed miles away, lost in the not-so-distant past that seemed close enough to touch.
“I crossed paths with the Stanfields from time to time at social gatherings. An academic with any career ambition must venture out and mingle with high society from time to time. But I had never met with them in private, not until I was struck with the idea of publishing a book on the lives of the founding figures of Baltimore, a project I never actually finished. Robert was the only descendant of Frederick Stanfield. I reached out to him and received an invitation to visit. Robert was a quiet man who valued his privacy, but was also very generous. He gave me quite the warm welcome, inviting me into his study and treating me to a glass of incredible Scotch—a bottle of 1926 Macallan, a whisky so rare, there were scarcely ten bottles of it left in the entire world, even back then. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; the taste was unforgettable.
“We spoke at length, and I eventually gave in to my curiosity and asked a few questions about Robert’s past, starting with his wartime experience. Robert had shipped off to fight in France before the landings, an exceedingly rare occurrence. Most American soldiers serving in Europe in early ’44 were stationed in England. I knew that he and Hanna had met during that tumultuous period, and I secretly dreamt of recounting their story as part of my book. My vision was to demonstrate a continuity between the past glory of the Stanfield family and Robert’s own exploits.
“When at last I raised questions about how he and Hanna had met, the lady herself happened to enter the study, and Robert immediately cut the conversation short. Now, getting faithful accounts and asking pointed questions are part of my job, as is grilling my subjects for answers, just as you two are doing now. But I haven’t a clue as to the motives behind the couple’s secrecy. What I can tell you is that Hanna had a very strong influence over the rest of the family. It took mere moments observing the two of them in that study to see the extent of her authority. Hanna was the empress ruling over all. She called the shots. She even showed me to the door herself that day, both figuratively and literally. Firm yet courteous, she gave a message that was loud and clear: I was not welcome to return. I don’t know what else I can tell you. All else is gossip, a tawdry domain which I’m loath to enter.”
“So, you visited their house? Where is it?” I asked.
“‘House’ doesn’t quite cover it. It was an estate, one that’s long gone. As a leading member of the Baltimore City Historical Society, I, as well as my peers, vehemently protested when the city granted authorization to tear it down. A pack of shameless developers reduced it to rubble, erecting upscale condominiums in its place. This despicable skullduggery is laying to waste our heritage and history, all for the benefit of a select few. This city has become infested with corruption and greed that goes as high as our former mayor, just one more poor fool who flew too close to the sun. Luckily, the new mayor has integrity, luckily for you, considering it’s that very trait that drove her to send you here to me. On that note, I believe it’s high time I returned to my duties.”
“First, could you tell me more about the estate?” I insisted.
“It was opulent, richly furnished, lined with canvas masterpieces, and imbued with a grandeur that is, alas, all but forgotten now.”
“So, what became of their art collection?”
“Mrs. Stanfield was forced to part with it out of necessity, I suppose. The parting came at a great cost, for the reasons I mentioned earlier. I apologize if this comes as a disappointment, but that collection is long gone. Lost and buried in the sands of time.”
Morrison walked us to the door and bid us good luck.
George-Harrison sat behind the wheel in silence for a long time before at last starting the pickup and pulling onto the road. Ten minutes later, I decided to ask where we were headed.
“Well, clearly the Stanfields saw their fair share of tragedy, but so what?” he began. “Most of what he said was useless, except for—”
“You can stop there. You’re right, I was wrong. You don’t have to gloat. It was a dead end. And what’s worse, I don’t have a clue where we should head next.”
George-Harrison pulled over and stopped the truck in front of a police station. “Except, as I was saying, there was one thing the lovely Professor Morrisman said that fits with our story.”
“The theft. When he mentioned them being robbed? That occurred to me as well. But a city of this size has got tragedies and insurance scams to spare.”