“…the discovery was made that the neck was broken and the windpipe mashed,” said the coroner from the witness box in the courtroom. “On the throat were the marks of fingers indicating that she had been choked. The neck was dislocated between the first and second vertebrae. The ligaments were torn and ruptured. The windpipe had been crushed at a point in front of the neck.”
From the spectators’ gallery I watched as the findings struck home to each of the twelve jurors, and I saw several pairs of eyes flick toward Trout Shue, who sat behind the defense table, his face a study in cold contempt.
In was hot in the courtroom as a June sun beat down upon Lewisburg. Following the arrest of Trout Shue Holmes and I had returned to England, but a summons from Mr. Preston had entreated us to return and so we had. Despite the autopsy findings it was by no means a certain victory for the prosecution. Shue at no time recanted his claim of innocence and the burden of proof in American law is entirely on the prosecution to establish without reasonable doubt that the accused was the murderer. The evidence as it currently stood was largely circumstantial. Overwhelming, it seemed to me, but in the eyes of the law things stood upon a knife-edge.
During a break in the trial Mrs. Heaster accosted Mr. Preston. “You must let me testify,” she implored.
“To what end, madam? You were not a witness to the crime.”
“But my daughter—.”
Preston cut her off with some irritation, for in truth this was an argument they had revisited many times. “You claim your daughter came to you in a dream. A
“It was her ghost, sir. Her spirit cries out for justice.”
Holmes gently interjected, “Mrs. Heaster, at very best this is hearsay and the laws of this country do not allow it as testimony. You cannot prove what you claim.”
She wheeled on Holmes while pointing a finger at Preston. “Are you defending him? Are you saying that I should just be quiet and let my daughter’s murderer glide through this trial like the oiled snake that he is?”
“Indeed not. In fact I have provided some evidence to Mr. Preston that he may find useful.”
“What evidence,” Mrs. Heaster and I said as one.
“Watson, do you remember that I sent a number of telegrams when we first arrived in Lewisburg?”
“Of course.”
“I cabled various postmasters in this region in a search for forwarding addresses for anyone of the name Erasmus Stribbling Trout Shue, or any variation thereof, and I struck gold! It turns out our Trout Shue has quite a checkered past. He has already served time in jail on a previous occasion, being convicted of stealing a horse.”
“That hardly bears on—.”
Holmes brushed past my interruption. “Zona Heaster was not his first wife, Watson. Not even his second! Shue has been married twice before, and in both cases there were reports…”
“…unofficial reports,” Preston interjected.
“Reports nevertheless,” snapped Holmes, “that each of his previous wives suffered from the effects of his violent temper. His first wife divorced him after he had thrown all of her possessions into the street following an argument. She, of the three Mrs. Shue’s, survived this man; her successor was not so lucky.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Mrs. Heaster.
“Lucy Ann Tritt, his second wife died under mysterious circumstances of a blow to the head, ostensibly from a fall — according to Shue, who was the only witness. The investigation in that case was as lax as it was here,” Holmes said and gave Preston a harsh glare. “No charges were filed and Shue quickly moved away.”
“And came here and found my Zona.” She shivered and gripped Preston’s sleeve. “You must secure a conviction, sir. This man is evil.
But Preston just shook his head. “Madam, I will try to introduce the evidence Mr. Holmes was clever enough to find, but it, too, is circumstantial. This man has not been convicted of harming any woman. I cannot even bring in his previous conviction for horse theft because it might prejudice the jury, and on those grounds the defense would declare a mistrial. I am bound by the law. And,” he said tiredly, “I cannot in good conscience put you in the witness chair and have you give legal testimony that a ghost revealed to you in a dream that she was murdered. We would lose any credibility that we have, and already we are losing this jury. I thank my lucky stars that the defense has not learned of your claims, because then he would use it to tear our case apart.”
“But the autopsy report—.”
“Shows that she was murdered, but it does not establish the identity of the killer. I’m sorry, but please remember, the jury have to agree that there is no doubt, no doubt at all, that Shue is the killer; and I do not know if we possess sufficient evidence to establish that.” He began to pull her hand from his sleeve but held it for a moment and even gave it a gentle squeeze. “I will do everything that the law allows, madam. Everything.”
She pulled her hand away. “The law! Where is justice in the law if it allows a girl to be murdered and her killer to walk free?” She looked at Preston, and at Holmes, and at me. “How many more women will he marry and then murder? How will the law protect them?”
I opened my mouth to mutter some meaningless words of comfort, but Mrs. Heaster whirled away and ran from us into a side room, her sobs echoing like accusations in the still air of the hallway.
Preston gave us a wretched look. “I can only do what the law allows,” he pleaded.
Holmes smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “We must trust that justice will find a way,” he said. Then he consulted his watch. “Dear me, I’m late for luncheon.”
And with that enigmatic statement he left us.
Chapter 8
The trial ground on and true to Preston’s fears the evidence became thinner and thinner, and the defense attorney, a wily man named Grimby, seemed now to have taken possession of the jury’s sympathies. Had I not looked into Shue’s face during the autopsy and saw the cold calculation there I might also have felt myself swayed into the region of reasonable doubt.
Again and again Mrs. Heaster begged Preston to let her testify, but each time the prosecutor denied her entreaties and I could see his patience eroding as quickly as his optimism.
Then calamity struck.
When the judge asked Mr. Grimby if he had any additional witnesses, the defense attorney turned toward the prosecution table and with as wicked a smile as I’d ever seen on a man’s face, said, “I call Mrs. Mary Jane Robinson Heaster.”
The entire courtroom was struck into stunned silence. Preston closed his eyes, looking sick and defeated. He murmured, “Dear God, we are lost.”
I wheeled toward Holmes, but my friend did not look at all discomfited. Instead he maintained what the Americans call a poker face — showing no trace of emotions, no hint of what thoughts were running through his brain during this disaster.
“Mrs. Heaster?” prompted the bailiff, offering his hand to her.
The good lady rose with great dignity though I could see her clenched fists trembling with dread. To have been denied the opportunity to speak against this evil man and now to become the tool of his advocate! It was unthinkably cruel.
“Holmes,” I whispered. “
Very calmly he said, “We have done all that can be done, Watson. We must trust to the spirit of justice.”
Mrs. Heaster took the oath and sat in the witness chair, and immediately Grimby set about her, gainsaying niceties to close in for a quick kill. “Tell me, madam, do you believe that Mr. Shue had anything at all to do with your daughter’s death?”
“I do, sir,” she said quietly.
“Did you witness her death?”
“No sir.”
