The Adventure of the Greenbriar Ghost
By
Jonathan Maberry
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 Jonathan Maberry Productions LLC
All Rights Reserved
Chapter 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 toward 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 rant 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 left 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.
Chapter 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.
Chapter 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 Greenbriar 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.”