knew—and maybe she did ruffle feathers. I know from reading her diary that she had a hard time settling in and that she was a distinctly opinionated woman, even haughty, at times. If these are qualities that still can nettle today, imagine how they might have been received in a world that was organized on the superior-subordinate relationship of man to woman, a microcosm with a densely woven web of personal interaction governed by strict rules, rife with gossip and self-righteousness.”
Here I paused, waiting to see who was getting it. There was an air of tension in the room, like the smell of ozone before a thunderstorm, but try as I might with the lights in my eyes, I couldn’t see anyone reacting. All I could see was the detective sergeant, who seemed to be staring in particular at one corner. I couldn’t stop to try and discern the source of her interest. I had to plow on.
“She was probably a ‘difficult’ woman, with all the freight that word implies, but I also know, from my intimate acquaintance with her—through her diary, of course—that Margaret had a strong sense of her role in life and was determined to carry it out. As a woman of rank, she took her duties seriously, helping the poor, tending the sick, sometimes even arbitrating neighborhood squabbles. She taught her servants to read and pray, she ran her household strictly but fairly, even generously, for the times. And in her own words, she ‘took to regulating the habits of Mr. Chandler,’ meaning that she reminded him to eat his meals, dress tidily, and become involved in the community on a social as well as judicial level. She describes with pride and affection how people remarked on these positive changes in Matthew after their marriage and her arrival.
“But all of this was forgotten when someone pointed out that it was shortly after her arrival in America, after her frequent visits, that the Reverend Blanchard fell ill and died. All that was remembered then was that she was a stranger. That distracted people from examining what had really happened, that the reverend was murdered, but by someone else, for reasons that I still don’t know. I don’t know, but I have my suspicions.”
I couldn’t help myself, I didn’t mean to be dramatic, but I was dying of thirst and I paused to take a sip of water. You could have heard a pin drop in that room.
“A few conjectures? My impressions are, based on the documents that describe the situation obliquely, the diary and the records that do survive, that it was someone close to the reverend, possibly even in his household. As far as motive, I don’t know for sure, but I get the impression from some of her hints that the reverend saw something he shouldn’t have. Perhaps it was town politics.
“Perhaps”—I was reaching here, leaving my prepared text but following as the thought occurred to me—“he had something someone else wanted—position, security, wealth? Something that provoked his murderer to speedy, vicious action.”
I was really working the nerves of the audience now, and I noticed Pam shaking her head. I was pushing it. I had to bring it back to my research.
“All I know for certain—now—is that Margaret Chandler knew who the guilty party was and ultimately convinced Matthew Chandler to look in the right place for the real murderer. But because she left her diary”—I stressed that word emphatically—“as a clue, we are that much closer to learning the truth of what happened the day she believed she would be hanged. We know that she was acquitted, but I am still hot on the trail of why.
“Dr. Maya Angelou once wrote that we, all of us, owe a tremendous debt to the past, that we must make an account of ourselves to those who came before us and struggled to make us what we are, what we can be. In this case, she was referring to our own personal antecedents, but I think that as archaeologists, historians, and others interested in the past, that idea holds a special message for us. It is an adjuration to look beyond the obvious, the easy, the comfortable, to consider all of the possibilities. In the case of Madam Chandler, there was simply a confluence of unrelated events that led to one innocent person being unjustly accused.
“Margaret Chandler was right, things aren’t always what they seem, even when the facts are fitted into a sensible pattern. As the