Whistling Past the Graveyard Read online

  When she was ready she took her pen and tested its point against the ball of her thumb. It seemed sharp enough. She held out her left arm and held the pen tightly in her right fist. She wasn’t afraid of pain and so there was no hesitation at all as she abruptly jammed the point into the soft flesh of her inner forearm. The pen bit deep as she knew it would and blood—so rich that it looked more black than red—welled out of the puncture. Bethy licked the pen clean and put it in her bag and then she walked around the room and dribbled blood here and there. Then she put a Band-Aid over the puncture and put the wrapper in her pocket. Then she picked up a pair of bedroom slippers and used the sole of one to scuff some of the blood, drawing the line in the direction of the window. She left the slipper lying on the floor by the wall a few feet from the window, just where the hem of the long shears would brush against it. She put the other slipper in her backpack. The effect was pretty good.

  Satisfied, Bethy finally stood in front of the window. She grasped the cord and pulled the blinds all the way up. The line of nightbirds scattered from the sill, their caws sounding old and rusty as they flew to join their brothers on the power line. The window was already raised a few inches and she raised it the rest of the way and for a moment she looked out and down at the street.

  The big black roadster was there, idling quietly, parked across the street in the glow of the sodium vapor lamp. Just as she always knew it would be. There was almost no traffic, not this late. No pedestrians. And just for a moment—for a single jagged second Bethy stared at the roadster and saw that it cast no reflection, that the fall of lamplight did not paint its shadow on the street. Doubt flickered like a candle in her heart.

  What if it wasn’t real?

  That voice—sounding more like Millie than Bethy—whispered in her ear. What if Doctor Nine wasn’t down there at all? What if Doctor Nine was never down there?

  Millie’s voice seemed to chuckle in her mind.

  What if…

  What if Doctor Nine was not real?

  “But I’m a monster,” Bethy said aloud. Millie’s voice laughed, mocking her.

  Then the roadster pulled away from the curb…very slowly…and moved into the center of the boulevard on which they lived. Bethy watched, suddenly terrified. Was Doctor Nine a ghost of her mind? Was he leaving now that she had started to believe that he was only part of whatever made her a monster?

  Bethy’s stomach started to churn.

  “No!” she said firmly. “No…he’s here for me.”

  Another car came down the street and Bethy realized that it would have to either veer around the roadster or pass through it. If it was real, the car would veer. If Doctor Nine lived only in her head the oncoming car would just pass through it, reality passing through fantasy.

  “No,” she said again. She felt that her feet were riveted to the floor, held fast by nails of doubt driven through her flesh and bone. All she had to do was wait there, to see the car and how it reacted, or didn’t react. Just five more seconds and then she would know whether she was a godlike monster or a mad little girl.

  “Doctor Nine…” she breathed.

  The car was almost there. Moses doubted, he tapped the rock.

  The cartoon cat on the wall mocked her with its swishing tail.

  “No,” she said once more.

  And Bethy turned away from the window before the car reached the roadster. Her decision was made. Without proof either way. She picked up her backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and left the bedroom. Left Millie and the blood and the fiction that she had constructed. She left her room and her parents and her Aunt Annie. She left her life.

  She never looked back.

  In the end she did not need to look to see if the car veered or drove straight through. She walked quietly down the stairs, placing her feet where she knew there were no squeaks and headed to the front door, flitting out into the night.

  To the roadster. And to Doctor Nine, and to the other monsters he had collected along the way.

  She knew they would be there.

  She had no doubts at all.

  Author’s Note on “The Adventure of the Greenbrier Ghost”

  This was the third short story I ever wrote. I was approached by editor Michael Knost to write a story for Legends of the Mountain State Volume 2, which continued his series of anthologies featuring folklore and urban (or rural) legends from West Virginia. He asked me to tackle the very real legend of the Greenbrier Ghost. Since the story was set in the late 19th century I took it as a chance to write a dream project—a story of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. The story was written in April of 2008 and the book published in October of that year. I have since written other tales of Sherlock, and am even co-editing (with Michael Ventrella) a Sherlock Holmes anthology of my own. But my relationship with the Great Detective began here.

  The Adventure of the Greenbrier Ghost

  -1-

  In late November of 1896 I had the pleasure of accompanying my good friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes on a cruise to America. Rather discretely he had been approached by a representative of the American government to help with a matter concerning a suspected forgery of the Declaration of Independence. Although this was a very grave matter, and one that could easily have shaken the foundations of the young and mighty nation, it took Holmes less than a single afternoon to put the matter right and to hand over the notorious Canadian forger DesBarnes to the authorities.

  It was all hushed up and I allude to it now only to establish that Holmes and I were indeed in America at the end of that year, and we decided to take the opportunity to enjoy a rail trip from Washington D.C. throughout the southern states, which were enjoying fine weather despite the time of year.

  Our plan was to return to Norfolk in Virginia in late February and from there take ship back to England. The weather and relaxation had done Holmes a world of good and he was more animated and less laconic than he had been in recent months. It did nothing but raise his spirits to discover that crime was rife in the American south—and indeed throughout much of this vast country. As states were being settled and industry introduced to all quarters there was as much room for corruption, treachery, theft and murder as there was for the more placid and commonplace pursuits of growth and settlement.

  On the sixteenth day of February we found ourselves in the shipping office at Norfolk making arrangements for several large trunks of chemicals, specimens and books to be shipped back to our lodgings at 221-B Baker Street when a young man in the livery of a telegraph employee came running across the wharf calling Holmes’ name. The young fellow skidded to a stop, knuckled his cap and thrust out a message.

  Holmes took it with a bemused expression. It was neither the first nor the tenth such urgent communiqué he had received during our journey. As he tipped the boy and unfolded the message I murmured, “Holmes, our ship sails with the dawn tide. We don’t have time for any—”

  He cut me off with this singular question, “Do you believe in ghosts, Watson?”

  I hesitated, for Holmes had tricked me more than once with such a question only to trounce any credulity I had with some fact or scientific proof. “Many do,” I said vaguely.

  “You are getting careful in your dotage, Watson.” There was mischief in his eyes as he handed me the note. “Read this and then decide if you want to catch our boat or wait for another tide.”

  I stepped into a patch of sunlight to read the letter, which was short and enigmatic.

  Dear Mr. Holmes

  My daughter was murdered. Her ghost has told me the name of her killer. For the love of God and justice please help.

  Mrs. Mary Jane Robinson Heaster

  Richlands, Greenbrier County, WV

  I looked up and saw that Holmes was staring, not at me but at the shadows clustered under the eaves of the shipping office, his lips pursed, eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Her daughter’s ghost has revealed the identity of her killer?” I said with half a laugh. “Surely this is the r
ant of a distressed and overly credulous woman, Holmes. We’ve heard this sort of rubbish before.”

  “And yet, Watson,” he said as he took back the letter, “and yet...”

  Holmes let it hang there and turned on his heel and marched across the shipping yard to the rail transport office. With a resigned sigh and weary shake of my head I followed.

  -2-

  America is a railroad nation, perhaps as much as England though its scope was Olympian. We took three connecting trains and within two days we were rattling down a country lane in a wagon pulled by a pair of brown horses. The driver chewed tobacco and every few minutes would spit across to the verge with great accuracy and velocity.

  “Tell me, my good man,” said Holmes, pitching his voice above the rumble of the wheels, “do you know Mrs. Heaster very well?”

  He turned and looked at us for a moment, chewing silently. “You fellers are here about what happened to her daughter, aintcha?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Mrs. Heaster been saying that young Zona was kilt deliberate,” said the man, “but the doctor and the sheriff said it were an accident.”

  “And what do you think?” asked Holmes.

  The man smiled. “I think it were all done too fast.”

  “What was?” I asked.

  “The burial, that inquest, all of it. It were done fast like there was something to hide.”

  “Is it your belief that there was some mischief?” Holmes asked.

  “Miss Zona were a country girl, you understand? ‘Round here even girls with breeding like Miss Zona grow up climbing trees and hiking them hills.” He made a face. “You can’t tell me no country girl just up and tripped down some steps and died.”

  “You don’t believe that it was an accident?” Holmes prompted.

  “I were born at night, sir, but it weren’t last night.” With that he spit another plug, turned around and drove the rest of the way in silence.

  -3-

  He deposited us at a lovely if rustic country house with a rail fence, chickens in the yard and a view of green hills. In London there would be a foot of snow but here in Greenbrier Country it was like a spring paradise.

  Mrs. Mary Jane Heaster met us at her gate, and at once we could see that she was much troubled by recent events. She was a strong-featured woman, and her face was lined with grief. “Mr. Holmes,” she cried, rushing to take his hand as he alit from the wagon. “God bless you for coming! Now I know that my Zona will find justice.”

  I saw Holmes’ face take on the reserve he often showed with effusive displays of emotion, particularly from women, and he took his hand back as quickly as good manners would allow. He introduced me.

  “Heavens above, Doctor,” she exclaimed, “I have read each of the wonderful accounts of your adventures with Mr. Holmes. My cousin is married to a London banker and she sends me every issue of The Strand. You are a marvelous writer, Dr. Watson, and you make each detail of Mr. Holmes’ brilliant cases come alive.”

  Holmes barely hid a smile that was halfway to a sneer. His opinion of my literary qualities was well known and he often berated me for favoring the excitement of the storytelling format instead of a straight scientific presentation of case facts. I’d long ago given up any hopes of explaining to him that the public would never read straight case reportage. I also thought it tactless to mention that many of our most interesting cases came about because of the notoriety Holmes had achieved with the publication of my stories.

  “But I am a dreadful hostess,” cried Mrs. Heaster, “making my guests stand chattering in the yard. Please come into the parlor.”

  When we were settled in comfortable chairs with teacups and saucers perched on our knees Mrs. Heaster leaned forward, hands clasped together. “Can you help me, Mr. Holmes? Can you help me find justice so that my daughter can rest easy in her grave? For I tell you truly, my dear sirs, that she is not resting now. She walks abroad crying out for justice.”

  There was a heavy silence in the room and her words seemed to drift around us like specters. Mrs. Heaster sat back, and in her eyes I could see that she was aware of how her own words must have sounded. “Of course you gentlemen have no reason to believe such a tale. But I assure you it is the truth.”

  Holmes held up a finger. “I will be the judge of what is the truth,” he said curtly. “Now, Mrs. Heaster, I want you to tell us everything that has happened. Leave nothing out, however minor a detail it may seem to you. Be complete or we cannot hope to help you.”

  With that he set his teacup down, sank back in his chair, laced his long fingers together and closed his eyes. Mrs. Heaster glanced at me and I gave her an encouraging nod.

  “My daughter was Elva Zona Heaster and she was born here in Greenbrier County in 1873. She was a good girl, Mr. Holmes. Bright and quick, good at letters and sewing. But...” and she faltered, “she got into trouble a few years ago. She had a child.”

  She let it hang there, expecting rebuke, but Holmes gave an irritable wave of his fingers. “I am a detective, madam, not a moral critic.”

  Mrs. Heaster cleared her throat and plunged ahead. “As you can appreciate, an unmarried woman with a child cannot expect much in the way of a good marriage. She resigned herself to living alone, but then in October of 1896 she met a man named Erasmus Stribbling Trout Shue. Most folks around these parts called him Edward, though I’ve always thought of him as ‘Trout:’ cold and slippery. He was a drifter who came here to Greenbrier to work as a blacksmith, saying that he wanted to start a new life. He alluded to a hard past but never gave any details. He went to work in the shop of James Crookshanks, which is located just off of the old Midland Trail. Trout had talent as a farrier and in farm country there is considerable work for a man skilled at shoeing horses and cows. Shortly after Trout came to town my daughter met him when she went to arrange for shoes for our bull, which we let out to stud at local farms.” Mrs. Heaster sighed. “It was love at first sight, Mr. Holmes. You’ve heard the expression that ‘sparks flew,’ well it was true enough when Zona went into the blacksmiths and saw Trout hammering away at his anvil. He is a very big and muscular man, powerful as you’d expect of a blacksmith; but handsome in his way. Perhaps more charming than handsome, if you take my meaning. He had a smile that could turn his hard face into that of a storybook prince; and the attention he lavished on Zona made her feel like a princess. He asked me for her hand in marriage and though I had my misgivings—it seems I am too old to be taken in by a handsome smile and thick biceps—I agreed. My daughter, after all, had such limited prospects.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “From the outset I felt that Trout was hiding something, but he never let on and I found no evidence to confirm my suspicions. I began to think I was just becoming that proverbial ‘old woman,’ yielding to fears and interfering with my daughter’s happiness...but my fears were justified,” she said and as I watched I saw all the color drain from her face. “Worse than justified, for how could I know of the terrible events to come?”

  Holmes opened his eyes and watched her like a cat.

  “Zona and Trout lived together as man and wife for the next several months. Then, on January 23 of this year—on that terrible, terrible day, Andy Jones—a young colored boy who had been sent to their house by Trout on some contrived errand—came tearing into town, screaming that he had found my Zona lying dead at the foot of the stairs. He said that he saw her lying stretched out, with her feet together and one hand on her abdomen and the other lying next to her. Her head was turned slightly to one side. Her eyes were wide open and staring. Even though Andy is a small child he knew that she must be dead. Andy ran to town and told his mother and she summoned Dr. George Knapp, who is both our local doctor and coroner. Dr. Knapp was out at one of the more distant farms and it took him nearly an hour to arrive.”

  Mrs. Heaster took a breath to brace herself for the next part. “By the time Dr. Knapp arrived Trout had come home from Mr. Crookshanks’ shop and he had taken Zo
na’s body upstairs and laid her out on the bed. Normally town women tend to the dead, washing them and dressing them for the funeral; but by the time Dr. Knapp had arrived Trout has washed Zona and dressed her in her best dress, a long gown with a high collar, with a veil covering her face.”

  Holmes leaned forward. “Describe the veil and collar.”

  “It was a white veil recut from her wedding gown so she could wear it to church.”

  “And the collar?”

  “Very high and stiff-necked.”

  Holmes pursed his lips and considered. “Pray continue,” he said after a moment. “Tell me about the findings of Dr. Knapp’s examination of your daughter.”

  “That’s just it, Mr. Holmes, there wasn’t much of an examination. Dr. Knapp tried, of course, but Trout clung to Zona throughout, wailing in grief and agony, abusing the doctor for disturbing his poor dear wife’s remains.”

  “Were you there, Mrs. Heaster?” I asked.

  “Yes, I stood in the doorway, shocked into silence by what had happened, feeling my heart break in my chest.”

  “Where was Trout Shue while the doctor was examining your daughter?”

  “Excellent, Watson,” Holmes said quietly.

  “He sat at the top of the bed, cradling her head and sobbing,” said Mrs. Heaster.

  “Did he order Dr. Knapp to stop the examination?” Holmes asked.

  “No, but he was so demonstrably overcome with grief the doctor relented out of pity and gave Zona’s body only the most cursory of examinations. Barely enough to assure himself that she was in fact dead. However,” she said slowly, “he did notice that there were bruises around Zona’s throat.”

  “Bruises? What did he make of them?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”