The Unquiet Grave: A Novel

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Dr. Rucker shrugged. “Corvus oculum corvi non eruit.” He said it in an offhand way, but he was watching Gardner through lowered eyelids to see if his bit of erudition had been understood.

  It had. Gardner paused only to wonder what would give Rucker greater satisfaction: for him to feign ignorance so that the old man could show off his learning, or to prove that he understood the quote, thus reassuring the old man that he was getting his money’s worth in a legal associate. He decided to risk the latter. Money was always important to William Rucker.

  “Yes, sir, I take your point. Crows will not pull out one another’s eyes, and doctors will not destroy the reputation of a colleague even if they know he made an error.”

  Rucker grunted, but Gardner couldn’t tell if that indicated satisfaction or disappointment. He tapped the case notes with the end of a pencil. “That’s it, James. Doctors are notorious about hanging together—to keep from hanging separately, as Benjamin Franklin so aptly put it. I reckon the other two would lie for him if he needed them to, but since they seem to have hauled in half the county to watch that autopsy and no one disputed the findings, I suppose we will have to accept the examiners’ word for it that the woman’s neck had indeed been broken, and that finger marks were present on the skin around her throat.”

  Gardner scribbled something in his own notebook, to underscore his diligence. “And you wish to persuade the jury that someone other than Mr. Shue was responsible for this.”

  “I want them to concede the possibility, anyhow. No one can know for certain that Edward Shue killed his wife—though it doesn’t help our case that his first wife is going around telling all and sundry how he beat her. He served two years in Moundsville for horse-thievery, did you know that?”

  Gardner sighed. He had not known it, because his gossip was often filtered through the household help and delivered to him at church, but he supposed that most of the county had already been apprised of the fact. The client’s criminal record would complicate matters for them. “That is unfortunate. A previous legal transgression speaks ill of his character.”

  “No smoke without fire, people will say. Damn their eyes.” The pencil had been tapping steadily for a minute now, and Dr. Rucker seemed to become aware of it, because he shoved it back into the pencil cup, knocking it over in the process.

  Gardner saw him begin to put the cup back to rights, but he busied himself with his notebook, so that he had an excuse for not scurrying to help.

  “I must take care to remind the court that larceny is a far cry from murder.” The buzzing fly sailed close to Rucker’s nose, and he made a halfhearted lunge at it with one of the pencils, but it soared out of his reach, and he threw the pencil back into the cup. Sinking down in his chair, he went back to staring at the trial notes. After another minute of silence, his head snapped up, and he looked at Gardner, his eyes alight with inspiration.

  Gardner caught the look and leaned forward. “Has something occurred to you . . . sir?”

  “By Jove, it has! I was looking over this account of the events, and I noticed that the body of Mrs. Shue was discovered by the boy that Shue had asked to gather the eggs, and to look in on his wife. What was his name again?”

  There was a long pause before Gardner said, “Anderson Jones.”

  “That’s it! And you interviewed the boy and his family. What age is he?”

  “About eighteen—sir—but—”

  “Eighteen! The way people talk about him, I was picturing a lad of ten. Well, there you are! An eighteen-year-old colored boy goes into the house where a pretty young white woman is alone and ailing. No neighbors nearby to hear her cries for help—”

  “No!” He had said it with such force that the “sir” would have to be added, probably more than once to soften the opposition, but he did not intend to give way on that point. He restored the cap to his fountain pen, giving all his concentration to the process, while he took deep breaths and marshaled his thoughts. More calmly then, “No, sir, Dr. Rucker. Andy Jones did not interfere with Mrs. E. Z. Shue, and he had nothing to do with her death.”

  Rucker’s avid expression wavered, but he rallied. “Now what makes you say that, James? Not everybody is as cold-blooded as you are, you know.”

  Gardner stiffened. By cold-blooded, Rucker had meant indifferent to sex, an impression that was partly true and partly the result of Gardner’s efforts to seem so, by ignoring risqué humor and salacious comments in badinage with the other attorneys. He could not afford to do otherwise. He could have disputed the charge by pointing out that he was engaged to be married, but he knew better than to bring up personal matters. In the world of the courthouse, he was happy to be regarded as an automaton in a suit. It simplified matters. Keeping his voice low and his face expressionless, he said, “Anderson Jones is what you might call simple, sir. He is not an ordinary eighteen-year-old youth. People talk about him as if he were ten because that’s about what he is in his mind. Still a child. I talked to him, and I know.”

  Dr. Rucker gave him the cold smile of one who much prefers his pet theory to the facts. “Never mind the boy’s brain, James; his body is eighteen years old. The mind may be trapped in eternal childhood, but the urges of the flesh grow just the same as they would in a normal person. He could have felt lust right enough, and not have the wit to control himself or to foresee the consequences of his actions. Perhaps he didn’t mean to hurt her. Certainly not to kill her. Just a tragic accident.”

  Rucker’s tone was soothing, promising that nothing dire would happen to this poor afflicted youth, that everyone would be sympathetic and understanding, but Gardner knew better. When it came to matters of sex between the races, the whole world was full of simpletons who could not be reasoned with. If Rucker proceeded with this ploy, which to him was no more than an ingenious ruse to deflect attention from the client, Anderson Jones would surely hang for it. Not legally, perhaps; not after due process in a court of law; but, trial or no trial, one dark night a mob would lynch him from a tree somewhere out in the country. Even the suggestion of such an incident might be enough to get him killed.

  Gardner stiffened. He was polite and temperate in the face of all slights and discourtesies because he saved up his resistance for times when it mattered. He leaned forward—to stand would be threatening—still calm, still speaking softly, but with an intensity that made itself felt. “Anderson Jones did not do this, Dr. Rucker. No one has even suggested such a thing, not even the man about to go on trial for his life. That child—for he is a child in his mind—is innocent. And you know he is innocent. I know this is just a legal maneuver to you. You want to use Anderson Jones as a smoke screen to protect this wife-killing scoundrel we are defending. It’s just a move in a legal chess game to you, but you have to see what the result might very well be.”

  “And what is that?” Dr. Rucker would have looked just the same if the fly had started talking: skeptical, but interested.

  “Why, it would get that poor boy lynched. People feel that they have to bring somebody to justice over the death of this woman, and if it’s somebody who doesn’t matter to them, they would consider that all to the good. Even if they didn’t believe Anderson Jones killed that woman, they might hang him anyway, just for good measure. And don’t talk to me about evidence and the protection of the law, sir, because we both know that even if he were acquitted, or never even charged, the mere suggestion of sexual impropriety of that sort would cost him his life. Not in a legal execution, but he’d be dead all the same. You cannot do this . . . sir. It would be the cruel murder of an innocent, just as much so as the killing of Mrs. Shue.”

  The fly buzzed close to Dr. Rucker’s face, and he picked up another sheaf of papers from the pile on his desk and folded them over. Instead of swatting the fly, though, he used the rolled-up paper to shoo it toward the open window. He waited as it hovered near the sill. Then it picked up a breeze and sailed off into the shrubbery. Dr. Rucker lowered the window, and tossed the papers back onto the sta
ck. He took out an oversized handkerchief and mopped his brow before sitting down again. He studied Gardner’s face for a few moments, but Gardner couldn’t tell what he was thinking because the silvery thicket of a beard concealed much of his face. Only his eyes might give him away, but now they were blank, as they often were.

  Finally he shrugged and scribbled a note on the topmost paper. “Well, perhaps you’re right, James. It might not save the client, anyhow. I suppose the prosecution would argue that Shue had expressly sent young Jones to check on his wife to ensure that someone other than himself would find the body.”

  Which is exactly what he did. Gardner managed to hold back the words, but his expression said them anyway.

  Dr. Rucker nodded. “I take your point about putting the Jones boy in danger with such a suggestion. Mobs do not possess the sum of their members’ intelligence; they replace intellect with passion, and nobody thinks at all, so things might indeed transpire just as you suppose.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gardner when he could trust himself to speak. “It would be unconscionable to risk it.”

  “Perhaps it would, James. Perhaps it would.” Rucker stroked his beard. “You know, in my youth I was trained as a doctor. Physicians take an oath that begins, First, do no harm. Now that I am practicing law, I don’t know that the oath applies to my activities outside the field of medicine, but perhaps in this case, it ought to. To be responsible for a death, even indirectly, is a solemn matter. Sometimes, perhaps in war, such an act may be necessary, but in a trial, where the sacrifice may not even make any difference—yes, perhaps it is too great a charge upon my conscience.”

  Gardner did not move or breathe, but he listened very carefully, hoping that Dr. Rucker would not talk himself out of this merciful impulse. He tried to think about other things—the bloom on the roses in the jar on the desk, the film of road dust on his freshly shined shoes—while he waited without a flicker of expression to see how the old man’s reasoning fetched up.

  Rucker stood up now and began to pace while he thought. “I suppose that if Anderson Jones had given any appearance at all of a threat, Shue would never have sent him to the house to begin with. And if he perceived the boy to be harmless, then surely all of the residents of Livesay’s Mill would have been of the same opinion.”

  Gardner nodded. “And I’m sure that Mr. Preston could summon any amount of them to testify to the fact that young Jones is a blameless innocent. But it mustn’t come to that, Dr. Rucker. We mustn’t cast aspersions on him in a public forum. Why, even if the angels themselves sang his praises, there are likely to be some hard-hearted souls who would doubt his innocence, and they might well harm him on the off chance that he did something wrong.”

  “First do no harm.” Rucker exhaled a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks while he thought about it. “Well, I wish I could come up with a better idea for casting doubt on Mr. Shue’s guilt. Anderson Jones would have been a perfect alternative for the role of culprit, but I take your point, James. Have you a better suggestion for a defense strategy?”

  “Can’t we just say that Mrs. Shue’s death was a tragic accident, sir? That would get our client acquitted without harming anyone else.”

  “But the finger marks on her throat?”

  “Perhaps they occurred shortly after her death. Perhaps her distraught husband attempted to revive her when he found her insensible and inflicted those injuries unintentionally. And as for his apparent lack of grief, one could argue that he was not one to show his feelings: still waters run deep. I think Mr. Preston would find it more difficult to find witnesses to refute that.”

  Rucker’s lips moved, and he paced back and forth, as if constructing an argument. He turned on his heel and smiled at Gardner. “Well done, James. That reasoning does you credit. I recall that I used the mysterious-stranger defense in a murder case once before, and I did not carry the day that time, so perhaps it would be wise not to try that gambit again. Very well, let us call it a tragic accident, and implore the jury not to compound the tragedy by convicting an innocent man in a misplaced quest for revenge. Do you think they might bring themselves to believe that?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. I’m sure you could persuade them to see it that way.” Gardner breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, given a fervent, well-crafted argument, an unsophisticated jury might very well believe that construction of the events. He, of course, did not.

  “There’s something else,” he said. Rucker would hear about it sooner or later. It might as well be from him. “Mrs. Jones says that the mother of Mrs. Shue claims to have seen her daughter’s ghost, and that the daughter told her that she was murdered by Shue. That’s why Mrs. Heaster went to Mr. Preston and requested an autopsy.”

  Rucker was speechless for a moment, and then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Did she, by God? And Preston fell for that?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, sir. More likely, he figured he had nothing to lose by granting the request of a grieving and suspicious mother.”

  Rucker shook his head, still grinning. “He’ll be laughed out of court.”

  “Remember the results of the autopsy, sir. He got his proof. The doctors will swear to that. I don’t suppose Mr. Preston will introduce the ghost story into the trial testimony.”

  “I daresay he won’t. But I will.”

  Despite the heat of the day James Gardner felt a stab of cold beneath his ribs. “But, Dr. Rucker, suppose the jury believes it.”

  Rucker gave him a pitying smile. “Give them some credit, James. The jurors may be indifferently educated fellows, but they’re not fools. They won’t fall for superstitious nonsense. After all, there will be no ladies on the jury—or darkies.”

  twenty-two

  GREENBRIER COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  1897

  “IT’S NICE TO SEE YOU again, Mrs. Heaster. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Preston. I passed the time of day with your wife, since she was waiting to see you, too.”

  “Yes, just a question about hiring a carpenter for some household repairs. Fortunately, it didn’t take long.”

  “Mrs. Preston was kind enough to say that she remembered my father,” she said with a trace of a smile.

  “Ah. Well, now we can begin our conference. I trust you are well?” Preston smiled back reassuringly at the stern-faced woman in black.

  She was sitting ramrod straight in the visitor’s chair in his courthouse office, and now that the discussion had begun she wore a grim expression more appropriate for facing a firing squad than for engaging in a witness discussion with a friendly attorney. Her homemade high-necked dress and the straw bonnet that put him in mind of a dinner plate were unfashionable, but there was a fierce dignity about her that made her attire irrelevant. He thought she looked thinner than when he had seen her in February; her cheekbones seemed more prominent, and the dress seemed to hang on her angular frame. Asking in general after her health was as close as he could come to mentioning it, though, and really it wasn’t any of his affair. He could do nothing about private grief. All he could promise her was his earnest effort to secure a conviction of her daughter’s killer. Maybe that would alleviate the poor woman’s grief and maybe it wouldn’t, but it was all he had to offer.

  She managed another tight smile, for form’s sake. “I’m tolerable, thank you for asking, Mr. Preston. And yourself?”

  He dabbed at his temples with a handkerchief. “I don’t mind working hard, but I could wish for cooler weather to do it in. Opening the window just seems to let in more hot air. Can I fetch you a glass of water? You must have had a hot, dusty journey over from Meadow Bluff.”

  She shook her head. “I’m all right. I don’t seem to mind the heat as much as I used to. Seems like it takes me all summer to get the chill out of my bones.”

  Preston smiled again. “You’re right. I shouldn’t complain. Now that summer has arrived, I notice that my knee isn’t hurting anymore. Is your husband in good healt
h? I see that he didn’t come with you.”

  “No.” She was twisting her wedding ring up and down between the knobby knuckle and the base of the finger. The ring was loose, but Preston doubted that she could get it past that swollen joint. He wondered if she ever took it off, or if she wanted to. “My husband wants no truck with this court business.”

  Preston nodded. He had encountered such reluctance before, especially among country folk. Even if they led blameless lives, they seemed intimidated by the prospect of appearing in court before a room full of strangers. “Is Mr. Heaster shy about appearing before a crowd? We won’t call him as a witness, you know. He can sit in the courtroom as silently as he pleases to give you moral support, and no one will bother him. Does he understand that?”

  Her lips tightened. “He knows. But you’re putting me on the witness stand, and he doesn’t want that to happen, either. If he could forbid me to testify, he would. But I told him that it was my duty to speak my piece. Besides, I promised Zona that I would.”

  “But surely, as the father of the poor murdered young woman, Mr. Heaster will want to see the killer brought to justice. Any grieving father would want the satisfaction of seeing Edward Shue pay for his crimes.”

  She looked down at her lap, twisting the ring again. “My husband says that nothing the law can do will bring Zona back. I reckon he thinks she brought it down on her own head, marrying him quick as she did and knowing next to nothing about him.”

  Her voice quavered, and Preston felt deeply sorry for her. Bad enough to have to face the death of one’s only daughter and the ordeal of a public trial without having to face family opposition in one’s efforts to get justice. He said gently, “Perhaps his own grief has caused him to speak harshly. Even if we concede that your daughter acted with the rashness of youth, she did not deserve to die. Why, from what you have told me, Mrs. Shue herself came back from the grave to ask for justice.”