by Rodney Jones
Pastor Stewart, appearing as upright and self-confident as ever, was next to testify. He too swore on the Bible before lying and saying he’d seen me running from the mill, “chasing a frightened gal into the forest.”
During Mr. Morse’s turn, he asked the pastor if I attended his church and if I were a regular churchgoer, which I had already assured him I was.
Mr. Stewart pointed out that I had missed his service the Sunday before Tess’s murder. “Clear evidence that he was in the grip of the devil,” he added.
Mr. Buckhurst then called the county coroner to the stand. Pickett was a pallid fellow with dark circles around his eyes, a large lumpy nose, and a pink and brown blotchy scalp showing through his thin gray hair.
Buckhurst approached the stand. “So, Mr. Pickett, what did you conclude was the cause of Miss McKinnon’s death?”
The coroner glanced at the sheriff and fidgeted. “It’s in the report. I wrote it all down in the report, didn’t I?”
The prosecutor turned to the judge. “Uh, sir, do we have a copy of that report at hand?”
The judge rolled his eyes. “No, Mr. Buckhurst, we do not.”
“Excuse me, Your Honor.” Mr. Buckhurst stepped back to his table and thumbed through a stack of papers. “Ah…” He waved a sheet of paper in the air then returned to the witness stand. He handed the coroner the document and repeated his question. “What was the cause of Miss McKinnon’s death?”
The coroner studied the report. “Shot to death, sir.”
“How many times and where?”
Pickett again glanced at the document. “Twice… in the head.”
I turned to Mr. Morse. “That’s wrong.”
He shook his head and put his finger to his lips.
“But it’s wrong, sir.”
“Well, we can’t discuss that right now, can we?” he whispered.
“Why would he lie about—”
“Mr. Morse.” The judge glared at him.
“My apology, sir.” Morse whispered to me, “Not now.”
Mr. Pickett repeatedly dabbed at his upper lip with a handkerchief as he gave morbid details about Tess’s wounds, none of which matched what had happened. I started to wonder if he had her murder mixed up with another.
Once he was finished with his testimony, I whispered to Mr. Morse, “Tess wasn’t shot in the head. She was shot in the chest.”
“But why would he…?” He twisted his head to the side, his brow bunching up in confusion.
I knew what he was thinking, because I was wondering the same. If I was convicted of Tess’s murder, it wouldn’t matter where she was shot, or even if she was shot. Murder was murder. I would hang regardless. But I thought maybe it did matter whether the coroner’s report had the story straight or not.
The judge said, “Mr. Morse, the court is waiting. Do you have any further questions for the witness?”
“Yes, sir.” Morse rose and stepped up to the witness box. “Mr. Pickett, can you tell me… I mean, the court, tell the court where precisely Miss McKinnon was shot?”
“He’s already answered that,” Mr. Buckhurst said.
“But where? Where in the head was she shot? Between the eyes? The back of the head? Where?”
“This is pointless!” the prosecutor yelled. “He’s just wasting everyone’s time.”
“For the last time, sit down, Mr. Buckhurst,” the judge snapped. “Just what is your point, Mr. Morse?”
Charles leaned in close to the judge and whispered something.
The judge rubbed his chin. “No.” He shook his head. “If you don’t have anything more than a desperate ploy from the accused, his word against the state’s, then sit down.”
Charles stood there for a long moment, not saying anything.
“Mr. Morse, is there more?”
“No, sir.” He looked at Mr. Pickett. “I reckon not.”
The judge announced that the court would take a recess and reconvene in an hour and a half. I twisted around in my chair. I saw nothing but concern in the eyes of the people who mattered to me.
chapter thirty-five
Tess
The streets were empty when I rode into the village of Woodstock. I passed the courthouse and realized with a shock why the streets had been abandoned. I’d planned on arriving on Sunday, ahead of the trial, but getting there took longer than anticipated, as did just about everything in 1875. Court Street was lined with empty buggies. The hitching posts in front of the courthouse were occupied by a dozen waiting horses. It looked as though the trial had already begun, even though it was an hour before the time given in the court documents.
I had to act quickly but cautiously, as it was crucial that I avoid being seen by anyone who could identify me. I had to get a package to Mr. Morse, and he was at the very core of the hornets’ nest. I couldn’t just walk in there and hand it to him, even with my disguise in place.
I rode past the building, hoping I’d find a barefoot boy willing to deliver the package for candy money. I went up one street and down the next—no kids anywhere other than a few toddlers playing in their yards while their mothers knitted and watched from the front porches.
I probably covered three-quarters of the town before it dawned on me where they were. I’d forgotten that nineteenth-century kids went to school—those who weren’t working the fields and factories, anyway. So I returned to Court Street, racking my brain for a way to get my package into Mr. Morse’s hands. I was nearly a block away when I heard a commotion behind me. I twisted around in the saddle and stared up the street. People were spilling out from the courthouse, everyone gesturing and talking.
“Whoa, whoa.” My heart was thumping hard. I refused to believe that I’d totally missed the trial because of some stupid inaccuracy in the trial documents.
No. They will not hang John. I will not friggin’ have it!
I scrambled down from my saddle and pretended to adjust the cinches. Two older couples walked past, all four talking at once. I strained to make out what they were saying but couldn’t. A second group drew near—three women and a man wearing a funky brown suit with a red-and-white-plaid bowtie. They were annoyingly animated, going on about McNeil and Pickett as though they were describing a sports event. I couldn’t stand another minute of not knowing.
“What happened?” I pointed up the street. “What’s going on?”
The man tipped his derby. “Murder trial.”
“It’s a fine day,” the first lady said, smiling. “Looks like we’re gonna be havin’ a hangin’.” Her eyes sparkled.
The man gestured at Victoria. “That’s a handsome beast you have there. Where’re you from?”
I cleared my throat. “The trial…” I adjusted the pitch of my voice, taking it down a couple of octaves. “Is it over? Have they…?” I swallowed.
“Oh, no. It’s a supper recess. They’ll finish it up here in a bit,” the man said. “The thing’s just draggin’ on longer than expected, I reckon.”
“Oh, Jesus.” I threw my hand over my heart and slumped in relief.
Four pairs of eyebrows lifted. The second lady, a woman with a large hat covered in a jungle of fake flowers, brought a hand to her mouth.
Realizing my mistake, I quickly added, “May He bless us all.”
The third lady—short, round, and grandmotherly—squinted up at me. “Are you kin to Rosabelle Hayes, perchance?”
I smiled and shook my head. “No, ma’am.”
“Well, we haven’t had a hangin’ here in… what? Four years, I believe. Is that right, Thelma?” the first lady said.
“It was the Watkins murder,” the second lady said. “Three years ago.”
“Three years,” I said. “That’s an awful long time.” I glanced at the few clusters of people standing out in front of the courthouse. “Do you know where I might find Mr
. Morse?”
“Charles?” the man said. “That’s who you’re visiting?”
“No, no, I need to get a package to him. It’s urgent.”
“Oh. He’s likely on his way home for supper,” the first lady said.
“I don’t know how he could manage an appetite after such a poor performance,” the short woman added.
“I thought he did rather smartly for a clerk,” the flower-hat lady said.
The man nodded toward the courthouse. “You might yet catch him inside there if you hurry.”
I hesitated. People were still trickling out, though it looked as if they might be the last few.
The first lady’s head pivoted toward a young woman walking down the other side of the street. “Why, there’s Margaret Ann.” She raised her hand. “Yoo hoo. Miss Morse?”
Miss Morse’s dark hair was twisted into twin fist-sized buns, one above each ear. She turned to see who was calling then started across the street.
“Well, how utterly serendipitous,” the first lady said. “This young… uh…” She glanced my way. “I didn’t get your name.”
“White,” I said. “Jack White.”
chapter thirty-six
John
I was escorted to a small windowless room at the front corner of the courthouse, where I sat at a table with two chairs. I’d waited plenty in my eighteen years, but nothing was like waiting in the quiet of that vacant courthouse—the perfect environment for panic.
I got up and paced the perimeter of the room, fretting over what might be going through the minds of those twelve men. My life was in the hands of a group of strangers who likely couldn’t care less about a miller’s nephew from a one-horse town they’d never seen. Taking into account the testimonies they’d heard so far, I didn’t think my future appeared very promising. I stopped when I heard the rattling of a key being worked into the lock on the door.
Mr. Morse stepped into the room, carrying a small cloth bundle. “From your aunt,” he said.
I knew what it was. I could smell the biscuits and fried chicken. He set the bundle down on the little table.
I unwrapped the bundle. “You like the dark meat or the white?”
Morse hesitated as if he were about to decline then said, “I prefer dark.”
I passed him a wing then pulled out a biscuit, since my stomach was churning.
Morse took a couple of bites before speaking. “What do you make of that coroner’s report?”
“She wasn’t shot in the head is what I make of it.”
“You examined her?”
“There was no need to. I could see the hole in her chest well enough.”
“Why would he lie about it?”
“Maybe he never went to Greendale. Maybe he never saw her.” I pulled a second biscuit apart and placed a chunk of chicken between the two halves.
“I’m wondering if he even wrote the damned thing. He couldn’t seem to recall a thing he’d written. That was a bit—”
Someone knocked on the door. Mr. Morse got up from his chair and opened it. A handsome young lady stood there, holding a paper-wrapped package.
Morse looked surprised. “Margaret?”
“Uh…” She glanced at me then looked back at Morse. “It’s for you, Father.”
He took the package. An envelope was tucked under its strapping. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Some fellow down the street gave it to me. He insisted it was urgent. A Mr. Jack White.”
Morse’s eyebrows rose. “Never heard of him.”
The gal pressed her lips together. “He was a… strange young man.” Her eyes drifted downward. “Well… unusually handsome.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Perhaps a bit… dandy?”
“Hmm, all right. Thank you, hon.” Morse closed the door after her and brought the package over to the table. He opened the envelope and began reading the note. “Huh?” His brow furrowed as his jaw dropped. “What the dickens?”
I leaned forward, attempting to get a glimpse of the letter. “What is it?”
“You are not going to believe this.” He untied the bundle and removed the wrapping. Inside was Tess’s blue dress—dirty, crumpled, and bloodstained.
I gawked at the dress for a minute then pointed at the note. “May I see that?” He handed it over, and I read it.
Mr. Charles Morse,
Enclosed is the dress that Tess McKinnon was wearing when she was shot and killed by Mr. Henry McNeil, the sheriff of Windsor County. The coroner’s report states that she died from two gunshot wounds to the head. But note that there are no bloodstains around the collar of the dress. The stains originate around a small hole in the chest and extend downward to the hem, which would indicate that Tess was shot in the chest and remained standing long enough for her blood to run the length of the dress.
The letter was not signed, but it was written in the same odd style as the note that had come with Uncle Ed’s pills. I didn’t know anyone named Jack White and had no idea why a stranger would be trying to help me and my uncle.
Mr. Morse and I sat down and devised a plan.
I watched as the crowd filed back into the courtroom, noting the occasional familiar face: Zach, Poly, Martha, Mr. Pickett, Hugh and his pa, Randall and his sister, Zella—she was not quite as striking as I used to think. After the sheriff and the prosecutor, Joe Ferguson entered with the stragglers. He winked at me then took a seat in the last row.
The hubbub was even louder, as if the crowd sensed something was afoot. I twisted around and gave my family a nod that I hoped exhibited more confidence than I felt. They seemed to be the only people there with nothing to say—all of them sitting as quiet as death. I wished Uncle Ed could have been there with Lil for support.
The judge walked in and announced, “Let’s have quiet.” He took his seat. “Quiet! Or I’ll have y’all tossed out of here.” Once the room was silent, he continued. “Mr. Buckhurst, Mr. Morse, are we ready to proceed?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” they said in unison.
“Then let’s have your next witness, Mr. Buckhurst.”
“Mr. Randall Shaw,” the prosecutor said.
Randall rose from his front-row seat, crossed the short distance to the witness box, then eased down into the chair. His voice held a slight quiver as he swore his oath.
Buckhurst approached the bench. “Mr. Shaw, you were with Sheriff McNeil at the time Mr. Bartley was caught burying his victim. Would you please tell the court what you saw?”
Randall glanced toward Hugh Stewart, who was seated in the gallery behind the prosecutor’s table. “What I saw?”
“Yes, what you saw. You, the sheriff, and Mr. Hugh Stewart were traveling along Greendale Road when you happened upon Mr. Bartley. Is that right?”
Randall nodded. “Yeah.”
“What was he doing there?”
Randall swallowed. “Washing up.” He looked at me then away.
“Oh?” The prosecutor brought a hand to his cheek as though that were news to him.
Randall nodded. Mr. Buckhurst continued prying for damning answers. I sensed his mounting frustration as Randall offered none of the drama he’d so easily elicited from the others. Then, after prodding Randall with a few more questions and getting little more than reluctant one-word responses, he shook his head and said, “No further questions, Your Honor.”
Mr. Morse stood, glanced down at a sheet of notes in his hand, then looked up at Randall. “So Sheriff McNeil had you hold a gun on Mr. Bartley while he and Mr. Stewart opened Tess McKinnon’s grave. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.” Randall shook his head. “I mean, no, sir.”
“No?”
“Hugh and I did all the work.”
“Oh. Then you saw Miss McKinnon’s body in the grave. Is that right?”
“Wel
l, not exactly.” Randall looked toward the ceiling.
“No?” Mr. Morse placed his hands on the railing and leaned toward Randall. “You didn’t see a body?”
Randall closed his eyes. “No, sir.”
The people in the gallery started murmuring and whispering.
Mr. Buckhurst jumped to his feet. “Of course he didn’t see a body. She was fully clothed.”
The judge rubbed his beard. “Mr. Morse, would you please rephrase your question to satisfy Mr. Buckhurst’s concern?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Morse turned back to Randall. “Mr. Shaw, could you describe to the court exactly what you saw in that grave?”
Randall squirmed in his seat. “Blue.”
“Blue? Blue what?”
Randall’s face reddened. “A dress.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shaw. That’ll be all.” Mr. Morse returned to his seat.
The judge looked a bit surprised at the abrupt end to the questions. “Do you have any more witnesses, Mr. Buckhurst?”
The prosecutor stood. “One more, sir. Hugh Stewart.”
Hugh wiped his brow several times with a handkerchief on his way to the stand. It was warm in the courthouse but not that warm. He seemed jumpy. I puzzled over his seeming reluctance to be there, center stage, the perfect opportunity to sink me. After ten minutes of having Hugh repeat pretty much the same testimony Randall had already given, Buckhurst turned the witness over to Morse.
Mr. Morse walked up to the stand. “Mr. Stewart, did you see Miss McKinnon’s corpse?”
Hugh mopped his brow. “What?”
“Is it true you helped Randall Shaw open her grave?”
“Only because I was ordered to.” Hugh threw a glance at the sheriff.
“So you saw her corpse?”
He swiped at his brow again. “Yes, sir.”
“Can you describe what she was wearing?”
He took a deep breath. “She was wearing a blue dress.”
“Did you notice any bloodstains on the dress, Mr. Stewart?”
“Yes, it had blood all down the front.” He rubbed his hands down the front of his shirt.