Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 57, No. 3. Whole No. 328, March 1971

Testimony of a Witness by McGarry Morley[7]

This is the 351st “first story” to be published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine...

We have some interesting things to tell you about the author, McGarry Morley. He was graduated from Wisconsin University as an electrical engineer, got a job with Westinghouse, was assigned to the advertising department; later he went to work for an advertising agency. In his spare time he wrote humorous nonfiction pieces and sold some of them to “The Saturday Evening Post,” “Life,” and “Judge.” Recently he has written some nonfiction reminiscences about his family, especially about his grandfather in a rural area called Brush Hollow.

Mr. Morley now lives on a couple of acres about twenty miles north of Pittsburgh. He has a garden — or, as he puts it, “the rabbits, raccoons, woodchucks, pheasants and I have a garden; precise title seems to be in question.” And he has a shop in his basement where he does some woodworking.

But all these are prosaic details. We haven’t told you the most interesting thing about Mr. Morley. At the time of this writing, at the time we purchased his “first story,” McGarry Morley was 75 years old. Imagine, a beginning writer of fiction at the age of 75! It is the most encouraging thing that has happened to our Department of First Stories since — well, since we published “first stories” by teen-agers! And what a realistic, economical, impressive “first story”Mr. Morley gives us at the start of his new career!...

“I never used to have any trouble getting to sleep, but lots of nights I just pitch and toss. It was always worse after I’d gone to see Bessie. I tried to get out to the asylum at least once a month, even though she hadn’t changed any and still acted like she was walking in her sleep — not seeing or hearing anything and never saying a word. I guess I was the only one that kept on going because everyone‘else said she wouldn’t know them and it would be a wasted trip. The only thing they were ever interested in was, had she said anything about exactly what had happened because that was still a mystery.

“Wasted trip or not I still went, maybe as much for Ben as for Bessie. After all, we had been friends for a long time, clear back to when we were in grammar school together and Bessie was just a little redheaded freckled thing no bigger than a pint of soft soap. We didn’t call her Bessie then — it was always Bossie because she was such a hand to take charge.

“If it was a picnic Bessie would be saying, ‘Gert, you bring the potato salad,’ and ‘Floss, you can make the deviled eggs,’ and like that. Or if it was some kind of meeting she would be standing up all the time telling what they ought to do and usually she’d end up being president or chairman or whatever.

“Ben was always an agreeable fellow and if someone said, ‘Let’s go fishing,’ he’d go. Or if they said, ‘Let’s play ball,’ why, that was all right, too. He used to just grin when Bessie was ordering everyone around, so I guess he liked her even then.

“In high school they went together, and sometimes folks would tease him and say, ‘Watch out, Ben, those redheads are hard to break and she may throw and drag you’; but he wasn’t bothered any and after they got out of school they got married and moved to a farm that Ben bought.

“Ben was a good farmer and did all right. After he’d been on the place about seven years and had it all paid for, he figured he could afford some help. So he came to me and said, ‘I need a hired hand. How about it?’

“Well, I had just been working around for this farmer and that one, or on a road crew or maybe in the tobacco warehouse during the winter, so I said, ‘Sure,’ and moved in.

“It had been a considerable time since I’d been with them much and I could see a change. I guess the ones that had said Bessie would be hard to break were right. She didn’t interfere with Ben’s farming none, but inside the house she certainly ran things. ‘Don’t go in the Room with your shoes on,’ she’d say — the Room was what she called the parlor — ‘You’ll track it up.’ Or if he tried to chop some kindling for the range she’d say, ‘Here, give me that hatchet and let me do it. You’ll litter up the whole place.’

“It was when she was cooking, though, that she was real bossy. If she made pancakes they had to be turned only once. If anyone was helping and turned them again, even while putting them on the plate, she’d say, ‘They aren’t fit for the dog now.’ The potatoes had to be put on the stove in cold water and when a hired girl she had for a short while took some water out of the reservoir to start the potatoes, danged if Bessie didn’t grab the pot and throw the potatoes right out.

“She was fussier about the coffee than any other thing. There had to be a heaping tablespoonful for each cup and one for the pot and there had to be eggshells put in to clear it up. Then the pot had to be snatched off the range the very instant the coffee hit the boil.

“Well, I got to admit that she made wonderful coffee that came out of the pot as clear as spring water and you would always want another cup. Ben sat with his back to the stove and he’d reach back and grab the pot and shake it as though he was trying to see if there was any left.

“Then Bessie’d pop out of her chair like a quail taking off and scream, ‘Don’t shake that pot — you’ll ruin my good coffee!’ And Ben would look kind of surprised as though he couldn’t imagine what was bothering her. This happened time and again, and I could never figure out if he did it just to devil her, or to show her and maybe himself that he was not a doormat in everything. Anyway, he did it every chance he got, and it seemed to make Bessie’s voice louder and shriller every time it happened.

“I worked there just over three years and Bessie got more and more fussy, but I didn’t complain because she was a wonderful cook and they both treated me fine. A few times I caught myself just in time when I was about to use her old nickname. Lucky for me, because I think if I had ever called her Bossy she’d have grabbed a skillet and run me off the place.

“Along about late in October my Uncle Warren died and as the work was well caught up I went over to Maple Grove for the funeral. I came back on the Monday morning train and looked around for a ride out to Ben’s place and just by luck the Sheriff was going out that way. He had a new rifle he wanted to get sighted in before deer season and there was a place near Ben’s where he had a hundred yards clear and a bank for a backstop. Of course the old cuss already had the gun sighted in good enough for the average hunter, but he had to be able to drive tacks with his rifle.

“He drove into Ben’s door-yard and just then we heard a noise from the other side of the house and some fellow took off across a plowed field towards the woods. We wondered what on earth and jumped out of the car and went to the door of the kitchen. The Sheriff took one quick look, grabbed his gun out of the car, and shouted at the fellow running to halt. He didn’t and the Sheriff yelled again, ‘Halt or I’ll fire!’ and drew on the man. He must have been two hundred yards away by then and almost to the woods, but when the Sheriff pulled the trigger, down he went.

“I walked into the kitchen but I sure wished I hadn’t. Bessie was lying on her back on the floor, all covered with blood. Ben was lying half on top of her. He had the little hatchet from the woodbox that they used to split kindling and it was buried right in his head. The table was overturned and the dishes and the coffee pot were all over the floor. The door on the other side of the kitchen that led to the little porch in the back was open and that was lucky because I just made it through before I was sick.

“The Sheriff came back and said the fellow that tried to run away would keep. He had got him in the middle of the back and out through the chest, which was darn fine shooting in any man’s language, but the Sheriff wasn’t satisfied.

“ ‘Bad shot,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Aimed to get him in the leg, but the gun shot high. Not sighted in right. Besides, he stumbled and maybe dropped down a bit just when I fired.’ It must be tough to have to do everything so perfect.

“I wouldn’t go back in but the Sheriff did and called Doc Blake. He came out and they took Bessie to the hospital and Ben and the fellow the Sheriff had shot to the undertaker. He was just a young fellow.

“On Thursday Old Baldy Briggs, the Justice of the Peace, held the Coroner’s inquest. So many people came they had to move to the Court House to find room. Old Baldy spread himself, of course, and acted like he was a Circuit Court Judge.

“They had rounded up some people who had seen the young fellow. Aunt Martha Morse said he’d come to her house Sunday and asked if he could do some work for something to eat. He split some wood for her and she gave him a good dinner.

“ ‘Did you feel uneasy about this man?’ Old Baldy says.

“ ‘Land, no,’ Aunt Martha said. ‘He was as nice a young fellow as you would want to see. I wasn’t a bit worried about him.’

“Then they got Granny Gower and she testified the young fellow had been to her house Sunday evening and asked for something to eat. She claimed she distrusted him from the start and that she was not at all surprised to hear he was a murderer. Of course that just goes to show you about people.

“The Sheriff then told about shooting the fellow to stop him from running away. He said they’d sent his fingerprints away, and his prints had not been on file, so apparently the fellow wasn’t a regular criminal. Then they got Doc Blake on the stand. He could just about squeeze into the witness chair and he didn’t look natural without his little black bag.

“He said Ben had died from a hatchet blow to the brain, which wasn’t exactly news. Bessie he couldn’t be sure of, because she had a concussion and hadn’t come out of it yet. He couldn’t tell if she’d been struck on the head, thrown down by the young fellow who was maybe trying to assault her, or knocked down by Ben when he fell on her — maybe when she had tried to help Ben during the attack.

“The Coroner asked him if Bessie would be able to testify soon, to get the actual story.

“Doc looked kind of bothered. ‘I just can’t say,’ he told Old Baldy. ‘The bump she got doesn’t look too bad, but there must have been some brain damage because she acts like she’s in a coma. Of course part of this might be due to shock. All I can say is, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.’

“Well, the Coroner’s Jury talked it over and they decided that the murderer must have been the young fellow, name unknown. Then they adjourned, postponing the final verdict till Bessie could talk.

“The only thing was, Bessie didn’t get able to talk. She came to, but her eyes looked stary like she didn’t know what was happening and she didn’t say a word. They sent her to the State Asylum for treatment, but she was back in a couple of months. They hadn’t been able to do anything for her. The doctors there thought the trouble was what they called psychic shock, from seeing her husband killed.

“The only other place they had to send her was to the County Asylum, where they put her in the kitchen. The cook said she was the best helper she’d ever had and she only wished she could find some sane people that were as steady and hardworking. I’d gone out this day in February, and as usual Bessie didn’t show any signs of knowing me, or even seeing me. She didn’t even answer when I said hello. It was a real cold day and a fellow named Joe Weber who had just started to work there as an attendant and guard came into the kitchen from outside. He went up to the range to soak in some heat and then he saw the coffee pot on the stove and knew it was just what he needed to thaw out. He picked it up and shook it to see if there was any coffee left in it.

“That was when Bessie said her first words since Ben was killed. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘No, no.’ It wasn’t just an ordinary ‘No.’ It was like someone might say who’s just heard some bad news he didn’t want to believe.

“Joe said, ‘It’s all right — there’s plenty of coffee here,’ and shook the pot again.

“Then Bessie said, ‘You are just like my husband. He wouldn’t listen either, when I told him.’

“Then she shoved the cook, who was cutting up meat for supper, away from the block and grabbed the cleaver and sunk it four inches deep into Joe’s skull.

“Now when I can’t sleep nights, thinking about Ben and Bessie, I think about that young fellow the Sheriff shot. He must’ve just stopped to ask for some breakfast and saw what was on the kitchen floor and then heard us and got so scared he’d be blamed that he turned and ran. I lie here and wonder if somewhere somebody is lying awake like I am, and wondering when that young fellow is coming home.”