A Distant Murder

by Donna McLean

  The graveyard spread out around the back and sides of the old church, the tombstones peaking into elegant stone spires or laying close to the ground with arching and curved edges, the various heights and shapes together giving the appearance of softly undulating waves that slowly unfurled against the countryside beyond. The old burying ground seemed to blend at some unknown point with the white sand and tilled rows of the fields that lay outside it, which were bordered by impossibly tall and narrow longleaf pines, far away against the horizon.

  They pulled into a sandy lot next to the chapel and Tilda hopped out of the car and pointed. “There she is, just as I figured.” She took off at her usual quick pace, heading toward a slender figure at the far end of the churchyard.

  Addie followed the spritely woman around the graves as her eye fell upon names and dates: Etta Dora, born 1850, died 1851. Louisa, beloved wife of Abraham. She sleeps in the arms of the Lord. Many of the surnames were repeated on numerous headstones; MacArdan, McNeill, Campbell, McLeod, MacGuffin, Dowd. Some stones were deeply carved with ancient calligraphic letters; some had thin wooden forms, their letters long vanished over two centuries of time. There were also a few modern headstones in rectangular styles low to the ground, signifying that the old cemetery was still in use. Many bore wheeled crosses or carved Celtic symbols signifying the Scottish heritage of their dwellers.

  Graceful statuary dotted the landscape with pale and sweetly sad figures. The sculpture of a tiny lamb slumbered upon the top of a small headstone that was the burial place of an infant, words blurred by time’s passage, the year 1915 all that remained. In the oldest part of the burying ground a marble angel spread graceful wings across the graves beneath; angel’s eyes lifted skyward to the Immortal, delicate hands reaching downward to mortals, a symbolic bridge to the eternal. It stood on a tall pedestal in front of a small gray stone mausoleum inscribed with the name Goss in thick capital letters.

  Sunshine playing over the graveyard darted in and out among the branches of a huge magnolia tree casting shadows alternating with brightness upon the old graves, their headstones and statues, their ancient figures standing despondently in the same places they had stood for decades or perhaps centuries. The whole place held its breath as though time itself had forever paused in moments of deep grief and stillness.

  Addie shielded her eyes with one hand as sunlight glancing off the white sands suddenly brightened. She squinted at a distant statue Tilda appeared to be moving toward purposefully, a wistful figure leaning over an urn filled with flowers.

  “Hey, Morwenna! How are you this afternoon?” Tilda called.

  Addie was startled when the alabaster angel moved, the lissome form straightening and raising an arm to wave.

  Perhaps through some mischief of sunlight and shadow, the alabaster angel appeared to be walking slowly out of the dimness of the distant past into the brightness of present day North Carolina. Morwenna Goss seemed unreal and real at the same time, like an ornamental statue imbued with breath that was somehow alive among the dead she protected. First seen in the distance, Addie would have called her a young woman. Drawing closer revealed the timelessness of ages past in the eyes of this person called the story keeper.

  Dainty features and deeply blue eyes of traditional Celtic beauty graced the pale skin and deepened the alabaster effect. Her hair was of long, loose curls as dark and glossy as a raven’s wing. She seemed familiar, like someone a person could recognize but certain that she had not been seen before; she seemed a person who had been entrusted with secrets and in which anyone would confide. Her face was kind and filled with wisdom.

  Morwenna spoke in a soft southern tone instilled with the serenity of moonlight. “Ah, Miss McRae. You look so much like your Grandmother. I’m glad that you’ve returned to Sparrow Falls. Are you visiting or staying?”

  Startled, Addie briefly wondered how the story keeper knew her name and if the mysterious lady had the ability to read minds. She blinked in the bright sunlight and then gazed at the landscape around her. The sky so blue, the soft breeze scented with pine and magnolia, that unending view of the sandy, flat land, all seemed to beckon to her heart. Even the tombstones filled with names that she didn’t know drew her to this place; those names that now seemed so familiar to her, although she couldn’t say why. Addie McRae hesitated before replying.

  “I hadn’t planned to stay, but it is so lovely here, so tranquil. It’s odd that you should say I’ve returned. It almost feels like I’ve come home, even though I’ve never been here before. So it does feel that I’ve returned, somehow.”

  Morwenna smiled.

  Tilda said, “Addie is tracing her family history, so of course she just has to speak with you, Morwenna. I told her that you and your family know things others wouldn’t know, that you know all the stories others have forgotten.”

  “That we are the story keepers?” Morwenna’s voice held a gentle humor. “I suppose we are. Every headstone holds a story, you know. More than just names and dates. All those who have gone before were once alive, and gave love, and were loved by someone. Many of their descendents reside in Sparrow Falls today.”

  Morwenna began to walk about the graves slowly and the two women followed. Addie paused next to a weather beaten stone encircled with intricate carved knots and read aloud, “Lachlan McEwen, born in Scotland. Died 1834.”

  “You’ll see quite a lot of stones that refer to Scotland in one way or another,” Morwenna said. “The old timers never forgot their family connections and continued the Scottish naming customs that preserved their family’s history even after they settled here.”

  “But it’s a tangled up ball of twine for those of us who are trying to figure it all out today!” Tilda added. “There are probably three or four more Lachlans buried here who are this one’s kinfolk even if the last names are different.”

  “So how did there come to be so many Scottish people living in the Sandhills area of North Carolina?” Addie asked.

  Morwenna replied, “The first settlers came here due to the Highland Clearances of the 1700s, a very tragic and sad time in the history of Scotland. The English government and some of the Scottish landowners wanted the land for the lucrative business of raising sheep and cattle, and so they forced their Scottish tenants to immigrate to British colonies, which this area was at that time.” The story keeper’s voice grew sad. “Many Scots were forcibly removed from the homes in which their families had lived for generations, their meager possessions taken away, their houses burned to the ground. For some of them, the only option was to accept passage on the ships going to other lands and start over again in a new and unknown world.”

  “That’s shocking!” Addie remarked in astonishment. “I’ve never heard anything about that, and I thought I knew American history pretty well. It was a favorite subject in school.”

  Tilda bent close to the headstone and peered at the Celtic markings. “The Scottish folk don’t talk about it much. My Granny Polly always said that people felt they should leave the heartbreak behind them and start fresh in a new land that was their own. That’s what they wanted for their young’uns, a fresh start. That’s why they named the town Sparrow Falls. It’s taken from the Bible, that verse that says the Lord knows even when a sparrow falls from a tree. Reckon they felt like a poor little sparrow fallen from its nest when they had to leave their homes, their land.”

  The spritely lady straightened up, tilted her head to one side like a curious little bird, and a pensive expression entered her bright eyes. “They were proud to be Scots and they never forgot Scotland. But I believe they wanted to look ahead and forget the bad things, not look behind and grieve,” she remarked in a contemplative tone of voice. “That’s probably the only way they could have gotten through all the hardships and difficulties of life way back then. Just set their hearts and minds on what had to be done, and they did it without complaining, and taught their young’uns to be grateful for all that the Lord provided them in a new land.”


  Morwenna commented, “That is a very wise and insightful statement, Tilda.”

  The women resumed their stroll and continued chatting in an amiable fashion. “Your Granny Polly sounds like a smart woman,” Addie said.

  “Oh, she was that, to be sure. All the old Scots were very smart people,” Tilda agreed. “They could design and build just about anything, and they cleared all this land and started farms, carded their own wool, made their own clothes, just about anything they needed they could do for themselves.”

  “Did she tell you a lot of stories about your family who are buried here?” Addie asked, looking around her at the multitude of headstones.

  Tilda burst out laughing. “Bless your heart; how old do you think I am? Granny Polly died in 1878! She’s buried right over there next to that big old magnolia tree with the other McHensons.” She pointed across the graveyard to a gracefully arching tree that shaded tall, thinly weathered stones permanently tilted by the labyrinth of roots running beneath them.

  Addie stopped walking and stared closely at Tilda MacArdan. “You talk like you knew her personally. You said that Granny Polly said . . .”

  Morwenna smiled softly, her lovely dark eyes infused with a starry twinkle. Tilda MacArdan stopped walking and laughed as though she had heard the best joke of her life. The merry tinkling sound seemed out of place in the quiet burying ground.

  “Well, she did say those things, but Granny Polly said them to my Granny Maggie, who said them to my Mama, who said them to me. So that’s how I came to know Granny Polly even though I didn’t really know her.” She chuckled again.

  Addie resumed the slow strolling pace and the other two women joined her. “Well, I must say that’s a bit startling. You talk about these dead people as though they’re still alive!” She cast a crooked grin at the two ladies and then said, “Some of these stones are marked 1750 or earlier. So these people emigrated a good many years before North Carolina was a state?”

  Tilda answered, “Land sakes, it was before the United States became the United States! My great-great-great grandparents arrived just before the American Revolution. I’ve often wondered how they felt about that little bit of history, and how they managed to survive.” She paused and looked around at the numerous headstones. “But they obviously did survive! Look at all these names, and the town is just full of their descendents.”

  “They must have been strong people. Strong in character as well as strength,” Addie remarked.

  “And strong in faith,” Morwenna said. “The first thing they built upon arriving was a kirk, or church, as it is called today. They also established schools in areas where there had previously been none, schools that were open to all people who wanted to learn, regardless of whether or not they were Scots.”

  “I remember when there was an old clapboard building not far from the church, the old one room schoolhouse, my Mama called it. It fell down many, many years ago and the menfolk of the church carted off the wood and built other things out of it.” Tilda nodded her head toward the side of the church where the schoolhouse had once stood, and Morwenna murmured in agreement.

  The two women continued to walk across the cemetery, reminiscing comfortably with each other. Addie followed in relaxed silence, beginning to feel that she had known these people all her life.

  She commented on a square, flat gray stone that was placed slightly apart from the others. “This one is a fairly modern headstone.” She leaned over it to read out loud, “Here lies Benjamin Isles, born 1901, died 1957.”

  Tilda spun around and said archly, “Lies is right! I always wondered if Mrs. Isles had that done on purpose.” She sauntered away from the headstone and Addie followed her, glancing at the older woman curiously.

  “Done what on purpose?” she asked.

  “Well, Mr. Isles just seemed to be the nicest man you’d ever want to meet. And they seemed like the happiest couple, too, although they never had any children. That turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Mr. Isles was a traveling salesman, gone three or four days a week. They had the cutest little house and garden, just beyond the feed store, it isn’t there anymore, Mr. Johnson’s son couldn’t keep up the business after Mr. Johnson passed, never did have a head for business. Anyway, Mr. Isles was gone from home a lot but nobody ever thought anything about it, and then, after he died of a heart attack all of a sudden like, one day another Mrs. Isles turned up looking for him! Come to find out that for ten years Benjamin Isles had had another wife and three children tucked away in a little town not fifty miles from here!”

  Tilda shook her head in disgust. “I just couldn’t believe it. Turns out he had lied to his wife, his first wife, I mean, his real wife, lied to her all those years. And lied to his friends, and his neighbors, and the whole town, for his whole life long!”

  “Wow. That must have taken some doing!” Addie sounded appalled. “I wonder how people can do things like that? I guess most of us tell little white lies sometimes, but a whopper like that one must have been a terrible thing to live with.”

  Tilda shook her head. “I don’t know how he managed it. I mean, back then people didn’t travel like they do now; most people didn’t even have a car, so he could have kept them hidden in another town fairly easily. But what I don’t understand is his lack of conscience. How could his conscience allow him to look people in the eye day after day, people you would think he truly did care about, and lie to them?”

  Morwenna’s soft voice answered. “I suppose Benjamin Isles began by lying to himself. Then it was easy for him to keep lying to others.”

  The women fell silent, pondering the wisdom of that statement. They walked to the outer edge of the cemetery, leaving the oldest graves behind, approaching the part that was still in use by the community of Sparrow Falls. The headstones here seemed less personal than the first stones. Their shapes were similar in size and shape rather than individually carved, and all the modern stones were of the same gray rock that resembled marble rather than made of wood or local stone like the earlier ones.

  Morwenna paused next to a grave marker and glanced at Addie. Tilda waited quietly. The young woman paused too, silently reading the words etched upon the plain gray stone. Ada McRae, beloved wife of James and mother of Jim Jr. Born August 3, 1927. Died June 1, 1953. She is gone but will never be forgotten, for she is loved.

  A warm breeze stirred and spread throughout the hushed cemetery, and off in the distance a bob white began to call in quick, sweet tones that seemed poignant among the atmosphere of the old burying ground. Addie reached out a hand to touch the headstone as though she had to feel it to see if it were real and true. Then she looked up and gave Tilda a small smile. “Now I understand about your Granny Polly,” she said, and the older woman smiled kindly in return.

  Morwenna asked, “What would you like to do now, Addie?” There was an enigmatic expression upon her face, and she waited patiently, as though she already knew the answer and was silently encouraging Addie to come to the same conclusion.

  The young woman thought about it, but not for long. She spoke firmly and with the air of someone who has reached a decision. “I suppose I can find some newspaper archives in the library. I’d like to find as much information as I can about what happened, maybe talk to a few people in town.”

  Tilda looked at her with a curious expression. Morwenna’s dark eyes studied the young woman’s face.

  Addie said, “Maybe I’m trying to solve the mystery after all. Maybe I just want to know more about my Grandmother. I guess it doesn’t make any difference after all this time.”

  Morwenna smiled in her mysteriously sad way. “Family is always important. It is part of where you’ve come from, and it’s partly the person you’ll become, too. We’ll do what we can to fill in the empty places, and if you happen to solve the mystery along the way, well, that’s just part of your own life’s story. Perhaps you came to Sparrow Falls to find the story that was never written, the story of the woman your grandmother did not have an op
portunity to become. Or perhaps you came to finish the story of the one who interrupted it so tragically.”

  The trio of women stood silently among the steadfast gravestones, each thinking their own private thoughts, each carrying many memories. Morwenna Goss cast a glance that was both loving and sad across the graves of all those she had known or come to know through generations of story keepers.

  Addie McRae gazed at the grave of the woman she had never known, wondering what she was on the verge of discovering, wondering if she truly wanted to know, for it made no difference now to the woman who slept peacefully in the tomb.

  And Tilda gazed curiously at the story keeper as a question began to form in her mind. It swirled and gathered itself into a more solid shape that was not yet completely whole, a question that played slightly discordant among the peaceful sunlight and statuary of the old burying ground.

  “Morwenna, that thought has never occurred to me before. The thought of the person who interrupted Ada’s story. The murderer, who may still be alive and even be living right here among us!”

  four

  Mrs. Delcie Needles was overly tall, and gaunt rather than slender. Her eyebrows angled inward and neatly met at the center of a long and pronounced vertical crease ending just above the bridge of her narrow nose, the result of perpetual scowling. Her eyes were tiny but lethal. Like the gray steel of sharp pins, finely pointed, dark and shining, those eyes always hit their mark and caused wincing pain. Even the mouth of Mrs. Delcie Needles was barely more than a solidly straight line that had rarely, if ever, bent itself into a smile.