Author's Note: I know 'long time no see'. I feel like the worst updater in the history of Fan Fiction.
I know that my brain and inspiration picked a bad time to take a holiday considering that the title from the last chapter was "The End" and some of you thought it was the end of the story, I am sorry for that.
Those who are more aware of my progress as I write will be surprised by this chapter, since it's very very different from the original chapter 8. This one is more of a transitional chapter setting up chapters to come. You've been warned, don't be too disappointed.
Also, for your information chapter 4, 5, 6 and 7 all take place on the same day/night.
As always, many thanks to everyone who took a moment of their time to write a review, it's always heart warming to see that somebody cared enough to comment, and without you lot, I would be nothing.
Hopefully it won't be half as long until the next update.
The news spread in the city of Atlanta like the plague. Good news travels fast, but bad news travels even faster, and Ashley Wilkes' murder was no exception to the old adage.
The reality that people felt great pleasure in discussing the misfortunes of others is as old as time, it seemed to make their own existence appear less miserable.
Naturally, not everyone had heard about the murder from the same sources, after all each person had their favourite way of finding out about other people's business.
Some people found out in the most respectable way there is: by reading the newspaper.
This was the case of Louis Oliver Ramsay, who had read about Ashley Wilkes' demise in the Atlanta Constitution while he was drinking his morning coffee.
Louis Oliver Ramsay –or another one of those damn Yankees, as the locals called him down here, had moved to Atlanta as soon as the war had ended, he had felt it was the perfect opportunity for a fresh start. He had sold the small cobbler's business his father had trained him into and had handed him down and the small house he had inherited after the old man's death, he got a decent enough amount of money for both, and had bought two train tickets to the South, one for him, one for his wife Mary, they had left the North full of hope of leading a better life once they arrived at their final destination.
So far almost everything had worked out as he had planned, immediately after their arrival in town; he had purchased a small shop with and upstairs living area at a record price, the little shop had since then grown into a more imposing store.
Business was good; his only rival was Kennedy's General Store.
"Man found beaten to death," he read the headline out loud to Mary who was busy frying some bacon for their breakfast. "Ashley Wilkes, co-owner of the Wilkes & Kennedy lumber mills was found murdered in his office."
Mary turned around to face him and motioned him to keep reading.
"He was beaten to death," he paused to clear his throat and take a sip of coffee. "With a rock. Can you believe that Polly?"
"I know," she said as she flipped the bacon over in the pan. "It's absolutely dreadful. That's cold blooded murder. I feel sorry for his wife; she's a good person, one of the few Southerners that has never been downright rude to me. Say Ollie, didn't you buy all that lumber for the store's extension from Ashley Wilkes?"
"Yes, Polly, I did," he replied, before adding under his breath, "Yes I certainly did."
He folded the newspaper in four and set it down on the corner of the table.
"Hurry up with the bacon, Polly. I'm starving and I should have opened the store already."
/\/\/\/\/\/\
Others had a more entertaining way of keeping up to date with the latest news in town: through the grapevine.
Gossip was a highly developed means of communication amongst the citizen of Atlanta, it was common knowledge that chitchatting about things that were none of their business over a cup of tea was the ladies' favourite pastime, but it was also a known fact that the men also indulged in it more often than they would care to admit, more than one secret had been revealed by a man being a little too honest after having a drink too many.
The exact details of the story would vary from one narration to the next; each one more gruesome than the previous, but pretty soon Ashley's murder was all anyone could talk about, it had even put an end to the endless talk that had been going on lately about Scarlett Butler's growing pregnant belly, and Scarlett had been the prime topic of idle gossip for all the old guard ever since the day she had stolen Frank Kennedy's affections from her own sister and married him.
A few days after Ashley's murder, Mrs Elsing hosted the weekly sewing circle, "I still can't believe that someone killed Ashley Wilkes," were the words she chose to broach the subject.
"I know," had almost instantly intervened Mrs Merriwether. "He was such a good man, a war hero."
"I feel so bad for poor Melanie; nobody deserves to lose a husband and certainly not poor Melly," added Mrs Whiting. "And poor India, she only has a sister left in Macon and they haven't really been on speaking terms ever since Honey got married."
"Yes, it's such a shame," said Dolly Merriwether. "Was it the doctor who was called to the mills, Mrs Meade?"
"No," Mrs Meade answered, shaking her head from left to right with so much vigour it looked like it was about to fall off. "Thank heavens no; I don't think he would have been able to stand seeing poor Ashley in such a state, they sent for Dr Morrison."
"Is that the Yankee doctor?" asked Mrs Elsing.
"Yes, the bald one with the thick ridiculous looking black moustache," confirmed Mrs Meade. "He's a nice enough man, for a Yankee."
"I heard he was beaten to death," Mrs Merriwether said almost in a whisper.
"I overheard the Doctor talking to Dr Morrison, yes, the killer," she cringed slightly as she said this. "The killer used a rock to murder poor Ashley."
The ladies continued their discussion unaware of a presence hovering in the hall on the other side of the door: Fanny Elsing Wellburn hadn't missed a single word of the conversation. Her eyes were as big as saucers for she had only been told Melanie's husband had been killed, she had not been privy to all the details.
Later that day she called on Maybelle Merriwether Picard, the tea had barely been poured into the teacups when Fanny burst out, "Did you know that Ashley Wilkes was stoned to death?"
Maybelle stared at her friend for a moment a little startled by her friend's words and drank her tea in one gulp.
"The murderer picked up a rock and hit him endlessly until he fell onto the ground, dead and bloody," Fanny continued a little too enthusiastically considering the subject.
The girl had always felt a bit left out by life, she hadn't been the best at the Ladies' Academy, she was never the prettiest girl at a ball, even as a little girl she had always been under the impression that she was constantly in someone else's shadow.
And ever since her husband Tommy had died, she had occupied her lonely days by indulging in gossip; it had kept her mind busy and fuelled her hatred for Scarlett Butler, whom she considered responsible for her husband's death, since most of the gossip was about her.
But over the years she had acquired a certain talent, she seemed to find out everything about everyone, and repeated what she had heard to whoever agreed to listen to her, and while it was certainly not the most flattering gift known to a lady, she had finally found something she was the best at.
"That is just absolutely dreadful," Maybelle said serving herself a second cup of tea. "I feel so sorry for poor Melly."
"Yes, such a primal and hateful crime," Fanny agreed.
That night long after Fanny had left the Picard's house, Maybelle sat on the settee knitting while her husband René was standing buy the window drinking his usual after dinner digestive.
"Do you know what Fanny told me today?" she said as she started another row.
"No, what did she say?" he asked in his thick Creole accent.
"She said that Ashley Wilkes had been bludgeoned to death," she answered.
"Bludgeoned?" he questioned.
"Yes, it's like been hit with a rock, only much worse," she replied. "Poor Melanie, I hope they don't have an open casket wake, apparently his head is all bashed in and distorted. And as much as I care for Melly –we grew up together; I don't think I could pay my respects if that was the case."
René Picard remained silent, letting his wife pursue her ramblings about how hard life has been on Mrs Wilkes, but how she couldn't bear to see a man's deformed face, he stared out the window into the dark night.
The following evening René was out with some of his friends, all married men, at his favourite bistro-like place, which reminded him of his home town so well.
After one drink to many, his friends finally convinced him he should go home to his wife while he was still able to walk, but not before he ordered a final round.
He lifted up his small glass and said loud enough for the whole place to hear him, "Let's drink to Ashley Wilkes, in memory of him, to his kind heart and his wise words, and because no gentleman deserves to be bludgeoned and beaten to death in such a beastly fashion! May he rest in peace!"
/\/\/\/\/\/\
However out of all the ways that people had found out about Ashley Wilkes' death, Felix Kaufman's was the most original.
Felix Alexander Kaufman was the only son and only child of Heinrich Friedrich "Fritz" Kaufman and Brigitte Erma "Britta" Kaufman; they had been leaders in Frankfurt of the revolutionary ideas that had been proliferating through Europe, inspired by the French and the American Revolutions.
They had been forced to flee their native land in 1849, after King Frederick William IV had refused the Parliament's offer of a constitutional monarchy, and had sent out warrants for the arrests of people who had been it favour of a Revolution.
They had left behind every thing they had ever known and loved, taking with them their 5 year old son Felix and all the valuable items they could fit into their rather small travelling bag. they had travelled by train to La Rochelle on the west coast of France, they would have settled there if they hadn't been afraid by the political instability of the country, which was just recovering from it's second revolution in half a century, so they had embarked on the first ship that crossed the Atlantic, they ended up in Savannah.
They had finally arrived in the promised land of freedom and liberty of speech. They would have been overjoyed if they hadn't realised the difficulties that lied ahead. They were in a foreign country, where they had no money, and didn't speak the language.
They were going to have to start from scratch, in this land they would not be able to live by the same standards as they had back home.
Over the years they had managed to build themselves a pretty decent life, after they had sold everything that they could sell out of their travel bag, they had wound up in Atlanta. At first Fritz had worked as a lamplighter, but as soon as he had saved up enough money he had bought a horse and coach and set up business as a hack man. As for Britta, she quickly gained a good reputation as a seamstress and had never gone a day without work, even during the war.
Despite having lived most of his life in America, Felix still spoke English with an audible German accent; this was the result of having received most of his education from his parents. He was a tall man built like a woodcutter, he had always evoked dreams of having his own little farm, but he had surprised everyone who knew him, when after the war, he had decided to stay in his father's line of work, driving people around all day.
Early one morning, Felix was walking into town, he had to go and get his horse at the blacksmith's, one of the poor animal's shoes had fallen off the previous evening and the blacksmith, who was a friend of his, had promised to put new shoes on the beast over night.
As he walked the sunny path that lead from the little house where he lived with his mother to Atlanta itself, he hummed the tune to Jeden Morgen geht die Sonne auf, the song his parents had always sung when the weather was nice.
He was walking past the mills gaily, with a spring in his step, when he noticed something unusual: the door to the Wilkes and Kennedy mills had been left open. If he hadn't been a hopelessly honest man, brought up in good protestant faith, he first thought would have been to sneak inside and see if there was anything worth stealing, instead he approached the building with every intention of just closing the door over to not tempt a lesser individual.
As he was about to pull the door shut, the sun poured in through the window and its light reflected on something that caught his eye, his curiosity got the best of him and he entered the mills.
What he saw would haunt him for the rest of his lifetime, the sun had reflected on a pool of blood that went from the main office right into the entrance. It was in the office he found the man, a blond man with a very large wound on the back of his head, he immediately ran out of the place, and went to the nearest doctor's house.
He had pounded on the door and muttered something incomprehensible to the young woman who answered the door, he asked for the doctor, but the man wasn't even dressed yet. Felix begged him to hurry, it was a matter of life and death: there was a man, a badly injured man at the mills.
The doctor hastily threw some clothes on and allowed Felix to drag him to the mills, the minute the doctor entered the office and took his first glance at Ashley, he knew; there was no doubt this man was dead, nobody could survive this amount of blood loss, even Felix should have realised that before he had hurried him out of his bed at such a ghastly hour.
This man had been murdered, and there was nothing he could, as a doctor, do about it.
TBC …