The Transcendental Murder

by Jane Langton

  “It must be awful for all of you. I’m sorry. Did you say Kelly, Homer Kelly?”

  “Yes, you know he’s a Lieutenant-Detective for Middlesex County from the District Attorney’s office. Didn’t you know? Writing books on Emerson is just his hobby, or something.”

  Mary didn’t know. She was thunderstruck. “Where’s Charley?”

  “They’re holding him for questioning at the Police Station. Do you think they’ll put him in jail? They’ve got Philip there, too. But they say it was Charley that did it. Oh, isn’t it dreadful? How could he have been so foolish? Always so much wilder than Philip. Oh, dear.”

  Mary looked at Edith, feeling a little dizzy. She had the odd suspicion that Edith was enjoying herself. Her eyes were big and woeful, her voice almost gleeful. Like those people who read headlines aloud with gloating melancholy: FATHER KILLS SELF, FIVE CHILDREN.

  The door opened and Rowena came out. Homer Kelly held the door open, his hand on the knob. He saw Mary.

  She blurted it out. “I-I didn’t know you were a policeman.”

  Homer looked tired. He turned away and looked at nothing. “Even Apollo had to plow for King Admetus,” he said. His voice was dry.

  He meant, like Brpnson Alcott. Jimmy Flower came out, rubbing his hand across his bald head. Invisible inside the room beyond, there was a woman laughing. It was a peculiar, babbling laugh. Rowena looked up at Homer. “Is there anything else I can do to help?” She was wearing black already. No lipstick. Just mascara. Lovely and tragic. Her father was dead, her brother under suspicion, her mother collapsed or something—but Rowena the actress was playing a part, just as Edith was in her clumsier way. Mary asked after Charley.

  “He’s confessed,” said Homer shortly.

  Confessed. Oh, oh, no. Mary put out an unbelieving hand. Her eyes filled with tears. She turned her back on them, pushed open the front door and stumbled out. The door closed after her, and she started home, her knuckles in her mouth, thinking wretched thoughts.

  Chapter 22

  Let us settle ourselves, and work and wedge our feet downward through the mud and slush of opinion … till we come to a hard bottom and rocks in place, which we can call reality … a place where you might found a wall or a state.

  HENRY THOREAU

  Jimmy Flower had dragged another desk into his office for Homer Kelly. But Homer wasn’t using it, he was leaning against the wall. Jimmy sat on his swivel chair, screwed high up with his feet off the floor. Philip Goss and his law partner, George Jarvis, sat in the two hard-backed chairs. Harold Vine took notes.

  Philip answered most of the questions himself, calmly, in his clear voice, progressing in polished sentences from subject to predicate, adorning them with dependent clauses and participles that never dangled. Now and then there was a gentle demur from George Jarvis, uttered in the politest tone, with an air of such extreme courtesy that one hardly knew that a question was being parried and set aside. There was an atmosphere of extreme fair play.

  No, Philip had not seen his father leave the Rod and Gun Club. Yes, it was true that he himself had left for an interval. No, he wasn’t sure of the time, nor how long he had been out. He had felt the need of fresh air to clear his head. Jerry Toplady had mixed the drinks with a heavy hand and Philip had never been able to live up to the Battery’s mighty reputation for stowing it away. Where had he gone? To Nicholson’s Barn, by the old sawmill there. No, he didn’t think anyone had seen him, he had kept away from the road.

  Jimmy asked him point-blank if there had been time for him to have walked home, changed clothes, ridden Dolly to the bridge, shot his father, ridden back home, changed clothes again and come back to the Rod and Gun Club?

  Philip frowned and hesitated. George Jarvis broke in softly. How long did Chief Flower think all those things would take?

  Chief Flower thought it would be hard to squeeze ‘em all in under an hour.

  Perhaps, George Jarvis thought, it would be preferable if Chief Flower simply asked Philip whether or not he had been away for an hour.

  Philip could not seem to remember. He thought not. Well, then again, maybe he had been.

  Homer Kelly sat down on the edge of Jimmy’s desk and folded his arms. “Philip, can you tell us what went wrong this morning when the Battery was firing the Sunrise Salute? You made some sort of mistake?”

  “I was tired. It was the sheerest stupidity. I gave the order to fire when my father was still standing in front of the gun with his ramrod down inside the barrel. If the lanyard man had pulled the, string in response to my order my father would have been killed.”

  George Jarvis corrected him. “I doubt he would have been killed. You remember, Philip, when this very thing happened in Acton, the unfortunate fellow lost an arm, but that was all.”

  Homer scowled. “Isn’t the order to fire supposed to be the duty of the captain? That’s Harvey Finn, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’m only the lieutenant for the number one gun. All I should have done was to inform the captain that the gun was ready, so that he could give the order to fire. I guess I was trigger happy, as they say. I was tired.” Philip smiled. “I still am.”

  “Why were you tired?”

  Philip explained it patiently. “I went to the Ball last night, and of course the Battery gets up before Dawn in order to be at the bridge before sunrise with the guns.”

  That was all for Philip. As he and George Jarvis were shown out, to wait in the front office, Charley was ushered in. Homer caught the look in Charley’s eye as he glanced at his brother. It was a speaking glance, full of message and meaning. And something else—sympathy, affection? Philip seemed to avoid it. He spoke to Charley, his words rapid and businesslike. “You’re going to have legal counsel, aren’t you, Charley? Let me get John Frippen. He’s the best there is.” Charley said nothing. He looked back and forth between his brother and George Jarvis, and then moved on into the office and closed the door behind him. He looked uneasy.

  “What did my brother say?” he wanted to know.

  Homer Kelly looked at Jimmy. Then he directed Harold Vine to read the first part of Philip’s statement.

  Harold flipped over the pages of his notebook and found the words taken down by Jimmy Flower. “Philip Goss said, ‘I don’t know what you want with me. I know nothing whatever about it. Nor will I answer any questions until I can discuss the matter with George Jarvis, my law partner.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Charley. “You’re lying. No, of course you’re not lying.” His face was distorted. He was hit hard. He folded over in his chair, and clasped his hands behind his neck, struggling silently with himself. “What do you want to ask me?” he murmured, his face still hidden.

  “You say that you killed your father. Did anyone see you? Speak louder, Charley, I didn’t hear you.”

  “I said, someone may have.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone.”

  “What were you wearing when you killed your father?”

  Charley paused. He was still staring at the floor. “I was wearing these pants and a khaki shirt.”

  “How did you get there? To the bridge and back?”

  “Well—I walked to the Rod and Gun Club and took Philip’s car. Mine was—out of gas. Then I left it at the Club afterwards, and walked home.”

  “You got to the bridge in a car? Charley, the witness says the presumed murderer was dressed like Samuel Prescott and riding a horse. Your story doesn’t fit with that very well.”

  Charley lifted his head and stared at Homer. “Like me? He was dressed like me?” Then he stood up and gesticulated. “It’s not true. It’s a lie. He wouldn’t do it to me …”

  “Who wouldn’t? The witness?”

  Charley’s eyes were red. He glanced around the room, then sat down with his head in his hands. “Oh—my—God,” he said.

  Chapter 23

  He shrinks from me as far as I have shr
unk from him; his eyes no longer seek mine; there is war between us; there is hate in him and fear in me.

  RALPH WALDO EMERSON

  Arthur Furry had been brought back from Acton. He bit his fingernails nervously and looked with popping eyes at Charley Goss.

  “All I saw,” he said piously, “was the man’s back.”

  Charley grimly turned around and showed Arthur his back.

  “What about his height, Arthur?” said Jimmy Flower. “Would you say the man was about that tall? Mr. Goss is fairly tall.”

  Arthur, thinking about the honor of the Boy Scouts, stared at Charley’s back and then rolled his eyes up at the ceiling. Jimmy felt a twinge of irritation. “I think,” said Arthur, “if he were dressed up the same way the man was, it might be easier to tell.”

  “Have you got the Prescott outfit, Jimmy?” said Homer Kelly.

  “Sure,” said Jimmy. “It was in the horse’s stall, kind of stuck behind the hay.” Sergeant Ordway brought out a cardboard box and displayed its contents, piece by piece. There was a black coat, longish and flared in the skirt, streaked and caked with mud on the left side, a ruffled shirt (obviously a lady’s blouse in a large size), a yellow vest, a pair of narrow riding pants, also stained, and a set of soft leather boots. There was an orange mohair wig tied back with a black ribbon.

  “Is that all?” said Homer. “I thought he had a three-cornered hat.”

  “That hasn’t turned up,” said Jimmy. “Although Arthur swears he saw it fall off.”

  “Scouts’ Honor,” said Arthur.

  “What about the gun? No sign of it, yet?”

  “Nope,” said Jimmy, “although I don’t see how in the Sam Hill we could miss it, if it’s there. You say the thing is five feet long.”

  “What about the river? You’ve had skin-divers out there?”

  “Yes, they’ve been and gone. Didn’t find a thing.”

  Charley emerged from Jimmy’s office wearing the costume he had put on earlier in the day for his ceremonial ride. His shoulders slumped. The jaunty look was gone. His garments might have been a shroud. Arthur Furry stuck out his lower lip and looked doubtful.

  “He only saw his back,” said Jimmy under his breath to Homer. “It could have been almost anybody. Well, we might as well see Philip in that rig. Harold, would you take that suit up to Philip when Charley gets it off, and bring him down here? Luther, you keep Charley there in my office for a while.”

  Philip was a little taller and slighter than his brother, and the dirt-stained coat hung loosely on him, his bare wrists showing. But Arthur, still uncertain, let his lower lip sag and put his finger in his mouth. (He’s grubbing around in his little mind for the Real Honest Boy Scout Type Truth, decided Jimmy Flower, who had taken a dislike to Arthur Furry.)

  “I think,” said Arthur, “I would have to see them on the horse, you know, right there at the scene of the crime.”

  “Oh, fer …,” said Jimmy Flower. “Well, all right. We’ll try to do that, but not now. Harold, you can take Philip back upstairs. Now, look here, Arthur, Sergeant Ordway showed you the horse Mr. Charles Goss was riding, on your way over here this afternoon. And you said it was the same as the one you saw. Right?”

  “I said,” said Arthur carefully, “that it could have been. I mean it was about the same size and color and everything.”

  “Was the horse you saw a mare or a stallion? I mean, was it a boy horse or a girl horse?” said Jimmy. “I mean, you said it went right over you, so you could have seen …”

  Arthur’s round face went red, but he rolled up his eyes conscientiously and let his lower lip hang slack. In the interval Harold Vine happily recalled a funny if apocryphal story about the time the Concord Independent Battery, hard up for horses as usual, had located nine, one a stallion, and then they couldn’t find any more until the last minute when three more had been rented from a local stable. These had turned out to be a trio of mares who (it was dramatically discovered) were all in heat.

  Arthur finally decided he didn’t know.

  Homer Kelly showed him a small piece of flat brown rock. “This is a flint which we presume fell from the priming mechanism of the murder weapon. It was found on the ground near the body. Now, Arthur, you say you saw no gun, no big long musket, that you remember? There was nothing hanging on his saddle, or fastened to the horse’s bridle in any way? You didn’t see him drop or throw anything, except for his hat? He didn’t have a powder horn hanging on a strap over his shoulder? We are puzzled, you see, because if Mr. Goss was killed with a musket, where is it? It hasn’t turned up in the area, it is not hidden in the Goss house, so far as we have been able to discover, and the skin-divers have found nothing in the river for a hundred yards on either side of the bridge. It would seem that the murderer must have carried it off with him. Now, I don’t want you to remember something that you didn’t actually see, but we wonder if you might not have noticed a gun that was lying across the saddle, or attached to the horse’s gear in some way?”

  Arthur said, no, he didn’t think so. “Unless it was attached to the other side of the horse, of course. I only saw one side of the horse. But if the gun was as big as me, I don’t see how I could have missed it.”

  “All right, Arthur, thank you. Tomorrow we’ll go back to the bridge and watch the horse jump the fence. You can go along now with your mother.”

  “Detestable child,” said Chief Flower, watching Arthur waddle across the street with his large amiable mother. “Pompous little pain in the neck. I suppose we’ve got to be nice to him.”

  “We can be damn glad the boy was there,” said Homer. “The horseman seems to have escaped observation by anybody else at all. Silverson was the one who followed his trail along the river? Can I see his report? Yes, here’s where he went—right along the river and across lots until he got to the hard dirt road that runs down by the barns and sheds at the Hand place. And that’s where they lost him, but they think he must have gone back to the Gosses’ barn somewhere in there. I see they didn’t turn up any gun, either. You think they were thorough?”

  “They sure were. Got some state troopers to help ‘em. Turned those bams and sheds upside down.” Jimmy pulled at Homer’s sleeve. “Look, what are we going to do with Charley? He’s confessed, but his confession is as full of holes as a sponge. Ordinarily with a confession you’d keep him in custody until the next court session on Monday. I’m darned if I know what to do.”

  “Let him go,” said Homer. “All we can have now is a medical examiner’s inquest. I’m sure the D.A. would go along with that. It’s just as you said—the boy only saw the man’s back. About the only limits you can set are that it had to be somebody taller than a shrimp like you and shorter than me, and neither a fat man nor a walking skeleton, and probably somewhat less than ninety-five years old. There are at least two prime suspects without alibis, maybe more. How do we know there wasn’t a third person present? He might have hidden under the bridge, then got away by water. Let them both go. They’ll be around when we need them. And see to it that Charley gets himself a lawyer.”

  Homer put on his coat and his fur hat. It had occurred to him that somebody ought to go talk to the Hands again. It was mighty queer that nobody in that big family had seen that horseman. Besides, it was a good excuse to see that heavenly girl again.

  “No, I didn’t see anybody, did you, Tom?” said Gwen.

  “No, I didn’t either,” said Tom. “Did you, Mother?”

  “No, I didn’t. Did you, Mary?”

  “No. Did you, Annie?”

  “No, did you, John?”

  “No, did you, Freddy?”

  “Horsie!” said Freddy, who was too young to count. So that had gotten him nowhere.

  Chapter 24

  Such is the daily news … a parasitic growth…. I would not run around a corner to see the world blow up The morning and the evening were full of news to you.

  HENRY THOREAU

  The newspapers called it “The Minuteman Murder
,” and they celebrated it swiftly. There were so many charming things about it. For one thing it had happened on Patriot’s Day at the Birthplace of American Liberty, and for another it had apparently been committed by a reincarnation of Paul Revere (this universal error brought joy to the heart of the Governor of the Commonwealth). How much juicier could a story get? the A.P. man wanted to know.

  “Well, the victim could have been a shapely blonde draped in the American flag,” said the reporter from the Globe.

  For a week or so the story stayed on page one in the Boston papers. The inquest in the District Court helped it along.

  INQUEST FINDS MURDER

  Widow Insane With Grief

  “Ernest Goss met his death at the hands of a person or persons unknown.” This was the finding of Judge Harlow Murphy this morning in Concord’s District Court. His decision was based on the report of District Medical Examiner Walter Allen and on an autopsy performed by Dr. Warren Betty of Harvard’s School of Legal Medicine.

  The nature of the wound, Dr. Betty said, was such that it could only have been inflicted from a distance of approximately six to ten feet. The angle of passage of the fatal ball through the body indicated that the weapon from which it was fired was held at a height. It could have been fired, said Dr. Betty, either from horseback or from the rise of ground below the obelisk in front of the bridge. Dr. Allen declared the time of death, one P.M., compatible with a shot fired about five minutes earlier, i.e. about the time Boy Scout Arthur Furry heard such a shot.

  Mrs. Elizabeth Goss, widow of the murdered man and mother of Charles Goss, has been pronounced incapable of participation in the investigation, said Psychiatrist David Marks of the Massachusetts General Hospital. On the advice of Dr. Marks, Mrs. Goss, who is said to have lost her reason as a result of the tragedy, will be removed from her luxurious Concord home to McLean Hospital in Waverly.