Jonathan Maberry [Maberry - The Adventure of the Greenbriar Ghost

By

Jonathan Maberry

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Jonathan Maberry ProductionsLLC

All Rights Reserved

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In late November of 1896 I had the pleasureof accompanying my good friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes on a cruise toAmerica. Rather discretely he had been approached by arepresentative of the American government to help with a matterconcerning a suspected forgery of the Declaration of Independence.Although this was a very grave matter, and one that could easilyhave shaken the foundations of the young and mighty nation, it tookHolmes less than a single afternoon to put the matter right and tohand over the notorious Canadian forger DesBarnes to theauthorities.

It was all hushed up and I allude to it nowonly to establish that Holmes and I were indeed in America at theend of that year, and we decided to take the opportunity to enjoy arail 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 Virginiain late February and from there take ship back to England. Theweather and relaxation had done Holmes a world of good and he wasmore animated and less laconic than he had been in recent months.It did nothing but raise his spirits to discover that crime wasrife in the American southand indeed throughout much of this vastcountry. As states were being settled and industry introduced toall quarters there was as much room for corruption, treachery,theft and murder as there was for the more placid and commonplacepursuits of growth and settlement.

On the sixteenth day of February we foundourselves in the shipping office at Norfolk making arrangements forseveral large trunks of chemicals, specimens and books to beshipped back to our lodgings at 221-B Baker Street when a young manin the livery of a telegraph employee came running toward acrossthe 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. Itwas neither the first nor the tenth such urgent communiqu he hadreceived during our journey. As he tipped the boy and unfolded themessage I murmured, Holmes, our ship sails with the dawn tide. Wedont 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 morethan once with such a question only to trounce any credulity I hadwith 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 waitfor another tide.

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

Dear Mr. Holmes

My daughter was murdered. Her ghost has toldme the name of her killer. For the love of God and justice pleasehelp.

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 theshipping office, his lips pursed, eyes narrowed to slits.

Her daughters ghost has revealed theidentity of her killer? I said with half a laugh. Surely this isthe rant of a distressed and overly credulous woman, Holmes. Weveheard this sort of rubbish before.

And yet, Watson, he said as he took backthe letter, and yet....

Holmes left it hang there and turned on hisheel and marched across the shipping yard to the rail transportoffice. With a resigned sigh and weary shake of my head Ifollowed.

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

Tell me, my good man, said Holmes, pitchinghis voice above the rumble of the wheels, do you know Mrs. Heastervery well?

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

Perhaps.

Mrs. Heaster been saying that young Zona waskilt deliberate, said the man, but the doctor and the sheriffsaid it were an accident.

And what do you think? asked Holmes.

The man smiled. I think it were all done toofast.

What was? I asked.

The burial, that inquest, all of it. It weredone fast like there was something to hide.

Is it your belief that there was somemischief? Holmes asked.

Miss Zona were a country girl, youunderstand? Round here even girls with breeding like Miss Zonagrow up climbing trees and hiking them hills. He made a face. Youcant tell me no country girl just up and tripped down some stepsand died.

You dont believe that it was an accident?Holmes prompted.

I were born at night, sir, but it werentlast night. With that he spit another plug, turned around anddrove the rest of the way in silence.

He deposited us at a lovely if rustic countryhouse with a rail fence, chickens in the yard and a view of greenhills. In London there would be a foot of snow but here inGreenbriar 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 recentevents. She was a strong-featured woman, and her face was linedwith grief. Mr. Holmes, she cried, rushing to take his hand as healit from the wagon. God bless you for coming! Now I know that myZona will find justice.

I saw Holmes face take on the reserve heoften showed with effusive displays of emotion, particularly fromwomen, and he took his hand back as quickly as good manners wouldallow. He introduced me.

Heavens above, Doctor, she exclaimed, Ihave read each of the wonderful accounts of your adventures withMr. Holmes. My cousin is married to a London banker and she sendsme every issue of The Strand. You are a marvelous writer,Dr. Watson, and you make each detail of Mr. Holmes brilliant casescome alive.

Holmes barely hid a smile that was halfway toa sneer. His opinion of my literary qualities was well known and heoften berated me for favoring the excitement of the storytellingformat instead of a straight scientific presentation of case facts.Id long ago given up any hopes of explaining to him that thepublic would never read straight case reportage. I also thought ittactless to mention that many of our most interesting cases cameabout because of the notoriety Holmes had achieved with thepublication of my stories.

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

When we were settled in comfortable chairswith teacups and saucers perched on our knees Mrs. Heaster leanedforward, hands clasped together. Can you help me, Mr. Holmes? Canyou help me find justice so that my daughter can rest easy in hergrave? For I tell you truly, my dear sirs, that she is not restingnow. She walks abroad crying out for justice.

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