The Adventure of the Greenbriar Ghost

“Miss Zona were a country girl, you understand? ‘Round here even girls with breeding like Miss Zona grow up climbing trees and hiking them hills.” He made a face. “You can’t tell me no country girl just up and tripped down some steps and died.”

“You don’t believe that it was an accident?” Holmes prompted.

“I were born at night, sir, but it weren’t last night.” With that he spit another plug, turned around and drove the rest of the way in silence.

Chapter 3

He deposited us at a lovely if rustic country house with a rail fence, chickens in the yard and a view of green hills. In London there would be a foot of snow but here in Greenbriar Country it was like a spring paradise.

Mrs. Mary Jane Heaster met us at her gate, and at once we could see that she was much troubled by recent events. She was a strong-featured woman, and her face was lined with grief. “Mr. Holmes,” she cried, rushing to take his hand as he alit from the wagon. “God bless you for coming! Now I know that my Zona will find justice.”

I saw Holmes’ face take on the reserve he often showed with effusive displays of emotion, particularly from women, and he took his hand back as quickly as good manners would allow. He introduced me.

“Heavens above, Doctor,” she exclaimed, “I have read each of the wonderful accounts of your adventures with Mr. Holmes. My cousin is married to a London banker and she sends me every issue of The Strand. You are a marvelous writer, Dr. Watson, and you make each detail of Mr. Holmes’ brilliant cases come alive.”

Holmes barely hid a smile that was halfway to a sneer. His opinion of my literary qualities was well known and he often berated me for favoring the excitement of the storytelling format instead of a straight scientific presentation of case facts. I’d long ago given up any hopes of explaining to him that the public would never read straight case reportage. I also thought it tactless to mention that many of our most interesting cases came about because of the notoriety Holmes had achieved with the publication of my stories.

“But I am a dreadful hostess,” cried Mrs. Heaster, “making my guests stand chattering in the yard. Please come into the parlor.”

When we were settled in comfortable chairs with teacups and saucers perched on our knees Mrs. Heaster leaned forward, hands clasped together. “Can you help me, Mr. Holmes? Can you help me find justice so that my daughter can rest easy in her grave? For I tell you truly, my dear sirs, that she is not resting now. She walks abroad crying out for justice.”

There was a heavy silence in the room and her words seemed to drift around us like specters. Mrs. Heaster sat back, and in her eyes I could see that she was aware of how her own words must have sounded. “Of course you gentlemen have no reason to believe such a tale. But I assure you it is the truth.”

Holmes held up a finger. “I will be the judge of what is the truth,” he said curtly. “Now, Mrs. Heaster I want you to tell us everything that has happened. Leave nothing out, however minor a detail it may seem to you. Be complete or we cannot hope to help you.”

With that he set his teacup down, sank back in his chair, laced his long fingers together and closed his eyes. Mrs. Heaster glanced at me and I gave her an encouraging nod.

“My daughter was Elva Zona Heaster and she was born here in Greenbrier County in 1873. She was a good girl, Mr. Holmes. Bright and quick, good at letters and sewing. But...,” and she faltered, “she got into trouble a few years ago. She had a child.”

She let it hang there, expecting rebuke, but Holmes gave an irritable wave of his fingers. “I am a detective, madam, not a moral critic.”