The former summer house of a onetime plantation owner and one of the signatories of the Declaration of Independence, Heyward House was just one of the many landmarks in the city’s Bluffton’s National Register Historic District. A stroll in Bluffton was a stroll through history.

They parked on the east side of Forsyth Park under a sprawling oak and walked a block south to a taupe-colored house with mint green shutters. Sam checked the address against the one Severson had given them.“This is it.”

A hand-painted sign above the porch steps said in flowing cursive: MISS CYNTHIA’S MUSEUM AND GALLERY.

As they mounted the steps, a bony, white-muzzled coonhound lifted its head from the mat on which it was lying, let out a single howl, then put its head back down and went back to sleep.

The front door opened, revealing a wizened woman in a white skirt and pink blouse standing behind the screen door. “Afternoon, folks,” she said in a melodic Georgia drawl.“Good afternoon,” Remi replied.

“Bubba is my doorbell, you see.”

“He’s good at it,” said Sam.

“Oh, yes, he takes his job very seriously. Please, come in.”

She unlatched the screen door and pushed it open a few inches. Sam opened it the rest of the way, then followed Remi through.

“I’m Miss Cynthia,” the woman said and extended her hand.

“Remi-” “Fargo, yes. And you would be Mr. Sam Fargo.”

“Yes, ma’am. How did you-”

“Julianne told me to expect you. And I don’t get many visitors, you see, so it was a safe guess. Please, come in. I’m making tea.”

In an unsteady yet strangely elegant shuffle, she led them into what Sam and Remi could describe as a parlor. The heavy ornate furniture, lace curtains, and velvet-covered settees and chairs could have been taken straight from the set of Gone with the Wind .Sam asked, “Miss Cynthia, how do you and Julianne know each other?”

“I try to make it up to Washington once a year. I love its history. I met Miss Julianne about five years ago during a tour. I guess she found my pestering questions endearing, so we stayed in touch. Whenever I find a new piece I can’t identify, I call her for help. She’s been here to visit. Excuse me while I check on our tea.” She disappeared through another door and returned two minutes later. “It’s steeping. While we’re waiting, let me show you what you came to see.”She led them back out of the parlor, across the foyer, down a short hall, and through a door into a spacious, sunlit room painted snow white.

“Welcome to Miss Cynthia’s Museum and Gallery,” she said.

Much like in Morton’s Museum and Curiosity Shop in Bagamoyo, Miss Cynthia had assembled a plethora of artifacts-these all related to the Civil War-from musket balls and rifles to uniform patches and daguerreotypes.

“I collected all of this with my own hands,” Miss Cynthia said proudly. “On battlefield sites, garage and estate sales . . . You’d be surprised what you find if you know what you’re looking for. Oh, my, that sounded very wise, didn’t it?”Sam and Remi laughed. Remi said, “It did indeed.”

“Those bits come to you now and again as you age. Well, you can look around at your leisure later, but let me show you this.”

Miss Cynthia walked to the room’s northern wall, which was packed from floor to ceiling with framed photographs and sketches. She stood before it, lips pursed, as she scanned her eyes back and forth.

“Ah, there you are.”She hobbled to the corner, reached up, and took down a black-framed four-by-six-inch image. She shuffled back and handed it to Sam.

A grainy daguerreotype showed a three-masted wooden ship sitting at anchor.

“My God,” Remi breathed. “It’s her.”

“Remi, look at this.” Sam brought the picture closer to their faces.

In the photo’s lower right-hand corner, etched in faded ink, was a single word: Ophelia.

FIVE MINUTES LATER in the parlor, teacups in hand, they were still staring, dumbfounded, at the photograph. Sam said, “How did you . . . ? Where . . . ?”

“That Julianne has quite a memory-eidetic, I think it’s called.”

“Photographic memory.”

“Yes. She spent hours in my museum. This morning she sent me a pencil sketch through the e-mail whatsahoozit and asked me to compare it to mine. I assume the sketch was yours?”“Something tells us it’s more yours than ours,” Remi replied.

Miss Cynthia smiled, waved her hand. “I told Julianne the two could be twins, despite the difference in media. The same right down to the inscription.”

“Ophelia.”

“Yes. Sadly, we never knew much about her.”

“Pardon me?” said Sam.

“My apologies. I’m getting ahead of myself. You see, William Lynd Blaylock was my great-great-great-I’m not sure how many ‘great’s, but he was my uncle.”

Miss Cynthia smiled sweetly and took a sip of tea.

Sam and Remi exchanged glances. Remi pursed her lips, thinking, then said, “You’re a Blaylock?”

“Oh, no, no. I’m an Ashworth. So was Ophelia until she married William. After Aunt Ophelia was killed, my great-great-my grandmother Constance stayed in touch with William. It was never more than a friendship, of course, but I imagine there was some fondness there. He wrote her often, starting a few months after he got back from England and all the way until the end. Around 1883, I think.”“The end,” Sam repeated. “You mean his death?”

“Oh, I don’t know. In fact, no one knows what became of him. I’m simply talking about the last letter he sent Grandmother Constance.” Miss Cynthia’s eyes brightened. “Goodness, there are dozens of them, with the most wonderful postmarks and stamps from all over. He was quite the character. Always on some kind of adventure or quest. As I understand it, Grandmother Constance was worried that he was a bit touched in the head. She took all his stories with a grain of salt.”“You mentioned letters,” Remi said. “Do you still-”

“Oh, yes, certainly. They’re in the basement. Would you like to see them?”

Sam, not trusting himself to speak, merely nodded.

THEY FOLLOWED HER through the kitchen and down a set of narrow steps near the back door. Predictably, the basement was dark and dank, with rough stone walls and a veined concrete floor. Using the light streaming down the stairs, Miss Cynthia found the light switch. In the center of the basement a single sixty-watt bulb glowed to life. The walls and floor were stacked with cardboard boxes of all sizes and shapes.“You see the three shoe boxes there?” Miss Cynthia said. “Beside the Christmas-tree box?”

“Yes,” said Sam.

“That’s them.”

Back in the parlor, Sam and Remi opened the boxes and were immediately relieved to find the letters had been divided and stored in gallon-sized Ziploc baggies.

Sam said, “Miss Cynthia, you’re our hero.”

“Nonsense. Now, I have one condition,” she said sternly. “Are you listening?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Sam. “Take care of them and bring them back when you’re done.”

“I don’t understand,” Remi replied. “You’re letting us-”

“Of course. Julianne said you were decent people. She said you were trying to find out what happened to Uncle Blaylock in Africa-or wherever he ended up. It’s been a mystery in our family for a hundred twenty-seven years. It would be nice to have it solved. Since I’m too old for that kind of adventure, at least I can hear about it later from you. Providing you promise to come back and tell me everything.”“We promise,” Sam said.

LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA

“PETE, WENDY, GET THESE INTO THE VAULT AND DO A QUICK assessment,” Selma said. She slid the shoe boxes across the worktable, and her assistants picked them up and disappeared into the archive chamber.Unsure of the Blaylock letters’ condition, Sam and Remi had resisted temptation and refrained from opening the Ziplocs before they got home.

“A fruitful trip, it seems,” Selma said.