JUDITH GREENE: The Old Port Chronicles, Part 1

by James C. Burke

  “There is no closer friend I have than Colonel Wyche, and it has been that way since we were boys. If he gave his word of honor to my wife to keep a secret, he would; and if he shared a secret with me, I would keep it. As for my wife, I can understand how she did not want that attention. By her nature, she thrives on abundant attention, but not that type of notoriety. But getting back to our son.” Sykes interjected,

  “From what she told me, the boy died when she was at Oak Crossroads sometimes late in 1863. I presume, he was originally buried there, and she decided to have him exhumed so he could rest in the Greene family plot.” Puzzled, Dr. Greene asked,

  “Why was she at Oak Crossroads? I’m trying to figure that out.” Sykes explained,

  “It was the sickly season. A young teacher from the school named Sarah died. She was boarding in your old house with Mrs. Greene and the Wyche girl. When the Colonel found out about the dead teacher, he brought Laura to stay with him at Oak Crossroads. He insisted that Mrs. Greene come there to teach Laura privately.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of this.”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “I officiated at the funeral. It was an impressive service, I tell you. Your wife purchased her casket, the tombstone, and provided for a farewell to the Hereafter in a dignified fashion. The young woman died penniless, and a widow. Mrs. Greene considered it her Christian duty. You can’t say that your wife has a selfish bone in her body – nobody can. Hard currency was scarce in those days, and she could have used it without the slightest feeling of guilt to feed herself and the Wyche girl. I am getting off course. When they were burying the girl Sarah, I remember seeing your wife holding the baby, and I thought to myself certain things… well, I might be wrong.” Reluctantly, Dr. Greene said,

  “You might as well tell me.”

  “Your wife is a regular church-goer; and sings in the choir too! Except for an occasional Sunday or two, she rarely misses services. I could not tell she was expecting, and none of the ladies – you know that they would know first –said nothing about her expecting. Most of all, she said nothing about expecting. Now, it might be wrong of me to say this, but I think she took it upon herself to raise that boy. This is why I say so: that Wyche girl has the bad habit of talking to herself. At the grave, she said something or other about the Sarah girl being the boy’s mother, and she hoped nobody would come to take him away.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me Reverend, but do you realize how complicated you have made my life this afternoon?”

  “I didn’t make your life complicated. Remember, you were the one that came looking for answers. I certainly am not going to tell you lies to make you feel better. However, I might be wrong about the baby. I just don’t know.” Dr. Greene placed his hand on his brow and asked,

  “Do you know anything more about the girl Sarah?”

  “I don’t remember her full name off hand, but it is in the church records because of the funeral. It is strange you are asking now since she is buried in the Greene family plot. Do you not go out and visit?” Surprised, Dr. Greene remarked

  “I’ve never seen a grave like that in our plot.”

  “It’s there.”

  “I’ll go check in a moment since it is on the way, Reverend. Now, the big problem seems what should I do?”

  “Nothing,” answered Sykes. “What’s done is done and no ‘I’m sorry’ will undo it. I am sure that whatever mess she made in the past was done so with the purest intentions. So there! Let sleeping dogs lie!”

  ****

  Monday evening, January 23, 1882. The affluent section of Old Port in the 1880s was known as the Southside. It was newer than the colonial era section of the city south of City Hall known as Old Town, and the German community that bleeds into Southside known as Deep Pond. Except for the wharves, a textile mill, and the brewery, the entire city south of the Old Port Road was residential. The financial district and railroad depot were north of the Old Port Road. Dr. Lovejoy and Mina lived on the boundary of Southside and Deep Pond.

  Doctor Lovejoy was having dinner with Mina and Myrtle when the police came knocking. Mina announced in precise English with a heavy German accent,

  “Gilbert, the constables are here again at dinner time. And the day when I make chocolate cake too, untimely death, I might say.” Myrtle jumped to her feet and Doctor Lovejoy dropped his fork as if on cue.

  “I suppose your friends would not consider staying for cake and coffee. What! Are you taking Myrtle?

  “Right, Aunt Mina!” Folding his napkin, Lovejoy said,

  “Yes! It will be good for her education. Myrtle Why don’t you go out and ready the horses while I talk to the constables?” Mina warned,

  “Don’t you think there will be talk Gilbert?”

  Oh, I’m sure my love. But there has to be a first time for everything. I know what I’m doing.

  Doctor Lovejoy learned from the police that Judge Maxton Pugh was dead. It appeared to be suicide. The doctor and his niece rode the horses out to the morgue to pick up the ambulance, as Lovejoy called his death wagon. That her uncle would so readily defy the county by taking her to the death scene surprised Myrtle. He laughed and went about his preparations. Within about ten minutes they were rattling their way down the Belgium block streets of the South side to the office of his Honor, Judge Pugh.

  Myrtle, rather excited about seeing her first death in situ, tugged at the reins. Her uncle said, “Slow down! A wheel might fall off.” Aside, he could do without all the jostling of his inner parts after dinner. On arriving, the officer expressed dismay about Myrtle. Her uncle mentioned the name Klieneburger, and suddenly the proceedings turned cordial. They ushered the esteemed medical examiner and his niece into the office, a brightly lit room. Myrtle noted this as she scribbled away in a notebook.

  There he was, hanging by a sash cord tied off to the heavy decorative chain of the gas chandelier in the center of the room, the gas jets burning at full. At his feet was an overturned stool. The judge used it to access books in the large ornate bookcase that dominated the room.

  Lovejoy asked why they hadn’t cut him down yet. The senior officer responded by saying that none had ever seen such a thing. The night watchman had found him when he was locking up, and that had been more than an hour earlier. They were sure he was dead when they arrived, but could not presume so until a doctor made it official. Myrtle dropped her pencil. Looking over his glasses Lovejoy said,

  “Take him down.”

  After cutting the cord midway, the police struggled to bring him to the floor. Lovejoy told Myrtle to make a note of the time they cut the judge down. He sent one of the officers out to his “ambulance” to bring back a heavy board with stout handles at both ends, fitted with turned spindle feet. The police moved the body on the board for Lovejoy to make his first examination. Despite the obvious, he felt for a pulse, and notice marks left by cords that had bound his wrists. Small splits on each corner of the mouth suggested a gag. Lovejoy announced in a matter of fact tone,

  “Gentlemen, I believe this to be a murder.”

  He instructed the police to turn the body over, then turning to Myrtle, he said,

  “Please wait outside for a moment, my dear, since I don’t want you to be subjected to more cruel remarks than you have become accustomed.”

  She quietly exited the room, closing the door behind her. He completed his examination, then warned the police not to speak ill of his niece. With his usual assistant unexpectedly needed elsewhere, he had little choice but to employ her services. She was good, dutiful, and gifted; and he would defend her honor in the most rigorous fashion should anyone utter a slander against her, namely they would be out of a job. After that, he made the proper adjustments to the corpse, and had the police right him. Then, he called Myrtle back into the room. She asked,

  “Has he been dead a while?”

  “Yes, Myrtle.”

  With the paperwork complete, they removed the body
to the “ambulance” for transport to the morgue. Before Lovejoy left, he brought in his large camera. The room soon filled with the smoke from the flash powder, but it quickly vented out into the hallway. When the police captain arrived after Lovejoy left, he thought the judge had been shot. From the pervasive stench of flash powder, how could he think otherwise? By the time the Messenger was off the press, Old Port was abuzz with talk of the first sensational murder it had known since the end of Reconstruction. Alas, one of Mrs. Greene’s unknown champions had finally paid the price for preserving her honor. On the way to the morgue, Myrtle told Doctor Lovejoy, she knew about the rest of his examination, and he need not think such a thing would have shocked her.

  “I didn’t expect it would, my dear. I intend to have you as my assistant come what may, but it would be far easier without the malicious slanders of gossips.” After a moment of reflection, he said,

  “You know I grew up with Judge Pugh – fine fellow – but a little too overwrought if you ask me. Sure, he had enemies. My guess is his murder is revenge for one of his decisions. Still, he did not deserve to go out this way. It is a shame that most of our clients are usually friends. Enough said, we must do our job. Get used to it Myrtle.”

  After a brief struggle to put the Judge on ice, they return back to the house for cake and coffee.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Half past six o’clock in the evening on Monday, January 23, 1882. With the table set and the meal still on the stove, Judith waited for her husband to return home from his day at the hospital.

  Not rattled by her scrape with certain death in the theatre as one might expect, the fortunate Judith Greene worried about other dire matters. The dark cloud of her secret took away the light that usually beamed from her countenance. The thought of enduring public ridicule and perhaps prosecution for her elaborate deception was painful. Adding to it imaginings of the contempt for her, she anticipated would be kindled in her husband’s heart proved unbearable. A sudden death seemed preferable. These were the thoughts of a woman who had faced danger, boldly in the past.

  In the midafternoon, Judith wrote a letter to her husband stating her intent to take the early train to the hot springs in Warren, about 170 miles to the north. She continued by explaining her reasons, “It is impossible to prevent Doctor Lovejoy from getting permission from the court to have Little Jack’s grave exhumed, so allow it. However, I do not want to be present when it happens.” Admitted to having acted in a devious way, her letter closed with “not out of selfishness, but for the safety and well-being of others.” Without being specific the letter hinted at something being amiss with the grave.

  At the same moment the police interrupted Doctor Lovejoy’s supper, Doctor Greene arrived for dinner one hour late. He found her setting the dinner table when he arrived before seven o’clock. The letter was on his plate. Upon reading it, he placed it folded into his coat pocket and said,

  “I believe that whatever you do, you do it for others.”

  “Phillip, do you want to know the truth?” Looking down at his plate, he paused momentarily to consider whether he really wanted to answer that question. Taking a deep breath and looking out the window, he continued tensely,

  “I had a talk with Doctor Lovejoy. He said that he does not think there is a need to open the grave at this point. He does not suspect you had anything to do with removing the casket from the grave, if it proves to be empty. He let slip he thought the late Fred McAdams had something to do with the coffin they found.” After stating this, he briefly felt relieved, then-

  “I have never been with child.” Dr. Greene sat down at the table, then said,

  “You wouldn’t have let me think we had a child for all these years unless you were protecting somebody. Was it the little boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he is alive, well, and happy this day because you protected him?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then you acted like a good mother. I would like to meet this boy someday.”

  “Yes, Phillip. You will.”

  “We will not discuss this matter further, at least until we must; and be assured that I will stand by you come what may… There is one thing.”

  Judith, who was feeling a great weight was being lifted from her shoulders, suddenly grew apprehensive.

  “What is that, dear?”

  “I think it's high time you share some stories about those adventures you had while I was away with the army. Put aside the heroic Greeks, we have a real heroine in the household.”

  Her apprehension fell away.

  “So what is for supper?” She smiled and said,

  “Ham and dumplings peas and corn bread, coffee; everything cold just the way you like it.”

  Doctor Greene had taken Reverend Sykes advice to heart. He had certainly been hurt by her deception, but chose to put his feelings aside for the sake of their marriage. Nothing he had learned had lessened his love for her. Trouble was looming on the horizon and she would need him to stand up for her. He would trample underfoot the worship of truth and save his wife – realizing at his age that sometimes the truth is irrevocably lost forever. His friends, it appeared, had risked their lives for her. It would be a shameful thing if he proved remiss on this point.

  Perhaps one of the strangest puzzles that confounded him came because of his own initiative. On visiting the family plot on Sunday after speaking with Reverend Sykes, he did not find a tombstone for Sarah. On Monday he visited the cemetery at noon, and inquired with the caretaker about a woman named Sarah Porter buried in 1863. She was buried in the yellow fever section, not in the Greene family plot. Could Reverend Sykes have been wrong on this point? He said he had been at the grave site. His memory must have failed him. Doctor Greene would not ask his wife after declaring his commitment. It really did not matter.

  ****

  Tuesday morning, January 24, 1882. The morning after the murder of Judge Pugh, Colonel Wyche returned from his business trip to New York. It is a crystal clear, frigid day. Howard Chance, the man who replaced the late Fred McAdams as the Colonel’s assistant was waiting for his boss on the passenger platform. On this trip the Colonel traveled in the First-Class cars rather than use his private car. He used the private car as an office, and had it moved to a siding between the machine shop and the stationmaster’s office. Increasingly he felt he needed to work close to the daily operations of the railroad. At least, that is how he justified the move to the directors of the company, and to himself. The truth was his health was failing. He would become tired easily. Occasionally he would lose his balance, and his right hand had a slight, but noticeable tremor. Being self-conscious of these defects more so than anybody around him except for his wife – he preferred to limit his time in the business office. Today, however, he intended to deliver his report to the directors in person.

  “Colonel!”

  “And how are you, Mr. Chance?”

  “Well, sir. I hope you had a pleasant journey?”

  “Yes indeed, son. It was a successful meeting to be sure. It took too long to get an agreement. How did you fare running the railroad in my absence? No mishaps, I hope? No locomotives in the river?” The Colonel smiled broadly, and laughed.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary here, but there has been a lot of mischief afoot in town. First, some of our men found a child’s casket buried under the Fourth Street Bridge. Fancy that?”

  The good humored expression on the Colonel’s face melted away. Without a second thought he knew it was his wife’s doing. He asked,

  “Was there a body inside?”

  “No. Coroner Lovejoy said there had never been a body in that casket. It was likely a macabre joke of some sort.”

  “I am not laughing, Mr. Chance. Tell Mr. Thomas to let Doctor Lovejoy know that if there is no crime connected to that item, it was found on company property and we are responsible for seeing that it is returned to its rightful owner. The county can’t hold on to it without cause and they certainly cannot sell
it. Make sure Mr. Thomas sets them straight on that before the day is done.”

  “Yes, sir. And another piece of news is far more serious: Judge Maxton Pugh was murdered!”

  “What did you say?” Chance continued.

  “Judge Pugh was murdered in his own office Monday afternoon. The paper said the murderer strung him up to make it look like suicide, but the detectives and Doctor Lovejoy determined that the evidence suggested murder. There will be an inquest.”

  “Poor fellow, only a few years younger than me. He was a fine gentleman, son. Very honest, and he was a fair judge. We will not have another like him… I suppose even an honest man has enemies. They’ll catch the murderer, I’m sure of that. Is there anything else that I don’t want to know about, Mr. Chance?”