The Giver of Stars

26

Alice was first in the queue for the courthouse on Monday morning. She had barely slept and her eyes were sore and gritty. She had brought fresh-baked cornbread to the jail earlier in the morning, but Officer Dulles glanced down at the tin and observed apologetically that Margery wasn’t eating. ‘Barely touched a thing over the weekend.’ He looked genuinely concerned.

‘You take it anyway. Just in case you can get her to eat something later.’

‘You didn’t come yesterday.’

‘I was busy.’

He frowned at the abruptness of her answer, but plainly decided that things were off-kilter enough in the town that week without him questioning it further, and headed back down to his cells.

Alice took her place at the front of the public gallery and regarded the crowd. No Kathleen, no Fred. Izzy slid in beside her, then Beth, smoking the tail end of a cigarette that she stubbed out under her feet.

‘Heard anything?’

‘Not yet,’ said Alice.

And then she startled. There, two rows back, sat Sven, his face sombre, and his eyes shadowed, as if he hadn’t slept for weeks. He kept his eyes to the front and his hands on his knees. There was something in the rigidity of his bearing that suggested a man working hard to keep himself contained, and the sight of him made her swallow painfully. She flinched as Izzy’s hand reached across and squeezed her own, and she returned the pressure, trying to keep her breath steady in her chest.

A minute later Margery was led in, her head down, and her gait slow. She stood, her expression unreadable, no longer even bothering to meet anybody else’s eye. ‘C’mon, Marge,’ she heard Beth mutter beside her.

And then Judge Arthurs entered the courtroom and everybody rose.

‘Miss Margery O’Hare here is a victim of unhappy circumstance. She was, if you like, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now only God will ever know the truth of what happened on the top of that mountain, but we do know that it is only the flimsiest of evidence that takes a library book, one which by all accounts may have travelled halfway across Lee County, and places it near a body that may have come to rest some six months earlier.’ The defence counsel looked up as the doors at the back opened and everyone swivelled in their seats to see Kathleen Bligh march in, sweaty and a little breathless.

‘Excuse me. I’m very sorry. Excuse me.’ She ran to the front of the court where she stooped to speak to Mr Turner. He glanced behind him and then stood, one hand on his tie, as the people in the court murmured their surprise.

‘Your Honour? We have a witness who would very much like to say something before the court.’

‘Can it wait?’

‘Your Honour, this has a material bearing on the case.’

The judge sighed. ‘Approach the bench please, Counsels.’

The two men stood at the front. Neither attempted to lower their voices much, one from urgency and the other from frustration, so the court got to hear pretty much everything that was said.

‘It’s the daughter,’ said Mr Turner.

‘What daughter?’ said the judge.

‘McCullough’s daughter. Verna.’

The prosecution counsel glanced behind him and shook his head. ‘Your Honour, we have had no prior notice of such a witness and I object in the strongest terms to the introduction of such at so late –’

The judge chewed ruminatively. ‘Did the sheriff’s men not go up to Arnott’s Ridge to try to talk to the girl?’

The prosecution counsel stammered, ‘Well, y-yes. But she wouldn’t come down. She hasn’t left that house in several years, according to those familiar with the family.’

The judge leaned back in his chair. ‘Then I would say if this is the victim’s daughter, possibly the last witness to see him alive, and she is now content to make her way down into the town to answer questions about his last day, then she may well have information pertinent to the case, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Howard?’

The prosecution counsel glanced behind him again. Van Cleve was straining forward in his seat, his mouth compressed with displeasure.

‘Yes, Your Honour.’

‘Good. I will hear the witness.’ He waved a finger.

Kathleen and the lawyer spoke for a minute in hushed voices, and then she ran to the back of the court.

‘When you’re ready, Mr Turner.’

‘Your Honour, the defence calls Miss Verna McCullough, daughter of Clem McCullough. Miss McCullough? If you could make your way to the witness box? I would be much obliged.’

There was a hum of interest. People strained in their seats. The door opened at the back of the court, revealing Kathleen, her arm through that of a younger woman, who walked a little behind her. And as the court watched in silence, Verna McCullough made her way slowly and deliberately to the front of the courtroom, every stride an apparent effort. Her hand rested on the small of her back and her belly sat low and huge in front of her.

A murmur of shock, and a second wave of exclamation as the same thought occurred to each person, went up around the room.

‘You live at Arnott’s Ridge?’

Verna had held her hair back with a bobby pin and now fiddled with it, as if it were out of place. Her voice emerged as a hoarse whisper. ‘Yes, sir. With my sister. And before that our father.’

‘Can you speak up, please?’ said the judge.

The lawyer continued. ‘And it’s just the three of you?’

She held on to the lip of the witness box and gazed around her, as if she had only just noticed how many people were in the room. Her voice faltered for a moment.

‘Miss McCullough?’

‘Uh … Yes. Our mama went when I was eight and it’s been us three since then.’

‘Your mama died?’

‘I don’t know, sir. We woke up one morning and my daddy said she was gone. And that was it.’

‘I see. So you are unsure as to her fate?’

‘Oh, I believe her to be dead. Because she always said my daddy would kill her one day.’

‘Objection!’ said the state prosecutor.

‘Strike that from the record, please. We will leave it on file that Miss McCullough’s mother’s whereabouts are unknown.’

‘Thank you, Miss McCullough. And when did you last see your father?’

‘That would be five days before Christmas.’

‘And have you seen him since?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did you look for him?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You … weren’t troubled? When he didn’t come home for Christmas?’

‘It was not … unusual behaviour for our daddy. I think it may be no secret that he liked a drink. I believe he is – was – known to the sheriff.’ The sheriff nodded, almost reluctantly.

‘Sir, would it be possible for me to sit down? I’m feeling a little faint.’

The judge motioned to the clerk to bring her a chair and the court waited while it was positioned and she was able to sit. Someone brought her a glass of water. Her face was only just visible above the witness box and most in the public gallery leaned forward to try to see her better.

‘So when he didn’t come home on the … twentieth of December, Miss McCullough, you didn’t see anything particularly untoward in that behaviour?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And when he left, did he tell you where he was going? To a bar?’

For the first time, Verna hesitated a good while before she spoke. She glanced at Margery, who was looking at the floor.

‘No, sir. He said …’ She swallowed, and then turned towards the judge. ‘He said he was going to return his library book.’

There was an outburst from the public gallery, a sound that might have been shock or a burst of laughter, or a mixture of both; it was hard to tell. Margery, in the dock, lifted her head for the first time. Alice looked down to find that Izzy was gripping her hand, her knuckles white.

The defence lawyer turned to face the jury. ‘Can I check that I heard that correctly, Miss McCullough? You said your father set out to return a library book?’

‘Yes, sir. He had recently been receiving books from the WPA Packhorse Library and he believed it was a great thing. He had just read a fine book and said it was his civic duty to return it as soon as possible so that some other person could have the benefit of reading it.’

The heads of Mr Howard, the state prosecutor and his second were pressed together in urgent conversation. He raised his hand but the judge dismissed him with a wave. ‘Go on, Miss McCullough.’

‘Me and my sister, well, we did warn him in the strongest terms not to set out because the conditions were bad, what with the snow and ice and all, and that he might slip and fall, but he had taken a fair bit to drink and he would not be told. He was insistent that he didn’t want to be late back with his library book.’

Her gaze flickered around the courtroom as she spoke, her voice now level and certain.

‘So Mr McCullough set out by himself, on foot, into the snow.’

‘He did, sir. Taking the library book.’

‘To walk to Baileyville.’

‘Yes, sir. We warned him it was a foolish enterprise.’

‘And you never saw or heard from him again?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And … you didn’t think to look for him?’

‘Me and my sister, we don’t leave our home, sir. After our mama went our daddy never liked for us to come to town, and we didn’t like to disobey him, what with his temper and all. We went around the yard before nightfall and shouted for him, just in case he had taken a fall, but most times he would just come back when it pleased him.’

‘So you just waited for him to return.’

‘Yes, sir. He had threatened to leave us before now, so I guess when he didn’t return some part of us thought maybe he had finally done so. And then back in April the sheriff came up to tell us he was … dead.’

‘And … Miss McCullough. May I ask one more question? You have been most courageous making this trip down the mountain and completing this difficult testimony, and I am much obliged to you. One final question: do you remember what book it was that your father enjoyed so much, and felt such an obligation to return?’

‘Why, yes, I do, sir. Most clearly.’

And here Verna McCullough turned her pale blue eyes on those of Margery O’Hare, and to those nearest it was possible that the faintest smile played around her lips. ‘It was a book by the name of Little Women.’

The court exploded into a wall of noise, so that the judge was forced to bang his gavel six, eight times before enough people noticed – or could hear enough – to quiet it. There was laughter, disbelief, and shouted fury from different parts of the court, and the judge, his brows an overhanging ledge, grew puce with anger.

‘Silence! I will not have this court held in disrespect, do you hear me? The next person to make a sound will be in contempt of court! Silence in the court!’

The room quieted. The judge waited a moment to be sure that everyone had got the message.

‘Now, Counsels, will you approach the bench?’

There was some muttered conversation, this time inaudible in the court, under which a low hum of whispers had begun to escalate dangerously. Across the courtroom, Mr Van Cleve looked like he was about to combust. Alice saw him get up once, twice, but the sheriff turned and physically forced him to sit down. She could see Van Cleve pointing, his mouth working, as if he couldn’t believe he, too, didn’t have the right to go up and debate with the judge. Margery sat very still, disbelieving.

‘Go on,’ muttered Beth, her knuckles white where she gripped the bench. ‘Go on. Go on.’

And then, after an age, the two lawyers made their way back to their seats and the judge banged his gavel again.

‘Can we call the physician back, please?’

There was a low murmur as the physician was recalled to the witness box. The public gallery was full of people shifting in their seats, pulling faces at each other.

The defence counsel rose.

‘Dr Tasker. One further question: in your professional opinion, would it be possible that the bruising to the victim’s face might have been caused by the weight of a large hard-backed book falling onto it? For example, if he had slipped and fallen backwards.’ He motioned to the clerk and held up the copy of Little Women. ‘One the size of this edition, for example? Here – I’ll let you feel the weight of it.’

The physician weighed the book in his hands and considered this for a moment. ‘Why, yes. I would imagine that would be a reasonable explanation.’

‘No further questions, Your Honour.’

It took the judge two more minutes of legal conversation to conclude. He banged his gavel to quiet the court. Then, abruptly, he rested his head in his hands, and stayed like that for a full minute. When he raised it, he eyed the court with what seemed to be an impossibly weary expression.

‘It seems to me in the light of this new evidence I am minded to agree with the defence counsel that this can no longer be positioned with any certainty as a murder trial. All solid evidence seems to suggest this was … an unfortunate accident. A good man set out to do a good deed, and due to the, uh, prevailing conditions – shall we say? – suffered an untimely end.’

He took a deep breath and placed his hands together.

‘Given the Commonwealth evidence in this case is largely circumstantial, and heavily dependent on this one book, and given the witness’s clear and unwavering testimony as to its prior whereabouts, I am moved to strike this trial and instead record a verdict of accidental death. Miss McCullough, I thank you for your efforts in doing your … civic duty, and I wish to convey my public and heartfelt condolences, once again, for your loss. Miss O’Hare, you are hereby free to leave the court. Clerks, if you could release the prisoner.’

This time the court did erupt. Alice found herself suddenly enveloped by the other women, who were jumping up and down, yelling, tears streaming from their eyes, arms and elbows and chests pressed together in a giant hug. Sven vaulted over the barrier of the public gallery and was there as the jailer undid Margery’s handcuffs, his arms closing around Margery just as she began to sink to the floor in shock. He half walked, half carried her swiftly out of the back exit, Deputy Dulles shielding them before anyone could really work out what was happening. Through it all, Van Cleve could be heard yelling that this was a travesty! An absolute travesty of justice! And those with particularly good hearing could just make out Mrs Brady retorting, ‘Shut your fat mouth for once in your life, you old goat.’

In all the hubbub nobody noticed Sophia quietly leave the coloured section of the public gallery, her bag tucked neatly under her arm, disappearing through the door and briskly making the short walk to the library, picking up speed as she went.

And only those with the very keenest hearing would have heard Verna McCullough, as she was steered out past the librarians, her hand still on the small of her back and her face grimly determined as she muttered under her breath: ‘Good riddance.’

Nobody felt Margery should be left alone, so they brought her to the library and locked both doors, mindful that Kentucky’s most widely circulated newspapers, as well as half of the town, suddenly wanted to talk to her. She said barely a word during the short walk there, her movements slow and oddly frail, as if she had been ill, though she did eat half a bowl of bean soup that Fred brought down from the house, her eyes fixed on it as she ate, as if it were the only thing of any certainty around her. The women exclaimed among themselves about the shock of the verdict, Van Cleve’s impotent fury, the fact that young Verna had indeed done as she had promised.

She had spent the previous night at Kathleen’s cabin, having been walked down on Patch, and even then she had been so nervous at the prospect of facing all those townspeople that Kathleen had been afraid she would find her gone when she awoke. It was only when Fred arrived in the morning with his truck to bring them to court that Kathleen believed they might be in with a chance, and even then the girl was so odd and unpredictable that they had no idea what she was going to say.

Margery listened to all this as if from a distance, her expression oddly blank, and distracted, as if she found the noise and commotion too much after the months of near silence.

Alice wanted to hug her and yet something about Margery’s demeanour forbade it. None of them knew what to say to her and found themselves talking as if to a near stranger – did she want some more water? Was there anything they could get for her? Really, Margery should only say.

And then, almost an hour after they arrived, there was a short rap at the door and Fred, hearing a familiar low voice, moved to unlock it. He opened it a fraction, then his eyes fixed on something unseen and his smile widened. He stepped back, and up the two short steps walked Sven, holding the baby, who was wearing a pale yellow dress and bloomers, her eyes button bright and her hands gripping his sleeve tightly in her tiny fist.

Margery’s head lifted and her hands moved slowly to her mouth as she saw her. Her eyes filled with tears and she rose slowly to her feet. ‘Virginia?’ she said, her voice cracking as if she could barely trust what she was seeing. Sven moved to her, and handed the baby to her mother, and Margery and the child gazed into each other’s eyes, the child scanning her mother’s as if to reassure herself of something. And then, as they watched, the tiny girl took a moment, then let her head come to rest in the space under her mother’s chin, her thumb plugged into her mouth, and as she did Margery closed her eyes and began to sob, silently, her chest heaving violently as if some terrible pain was exorcizing itself, her face contorted. Sven stepped forward and placed his arms around the two of them, holding them close to him, his head lowered, and mindful that they were now privy to something that felt beyond the realms of what was decent, Fred and the librarians tiptoed out of the library and made their way silently up the path to Fred’s house.

The Baileyville WPA packhorse librarians were a team, yes, and a team stuck together. But there were some times when it was only right to be alone.

It would be several days before the other librarians noticed the ledger the sheriff had believed missing, disappeared in the Great Floods, stacked neatly with the others in the shelf to the left of the door. Under the date of 15 December 1937, it showed a loan to Mr C. McCullough, Arnott’s Ridge, of one hardback edition of Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott (one page ripped, back cover slightly damaged). Only someone who looked terribly hard might have noticed how the entry sat between two lines, its ink a very faintly different shade from those around it. And only if you were very cynical indeed might you wonder why there was a one-word entry beside it, written in that same ink: unreturned.