Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Greenbriar Ghost

Chapter 5

The very next morning found us in the telegraph office where Holmes dictated a dozen telegrams and left me to pay the operator. We then went to municipal offices where Holmes demanded to speak to the county prosecutor, one Mr. John A. Preston. Upon presenting his credentials Mr. Preston first raised bushy eyebrows in surprise and then shot to his feet.

“Dear me!” he said.

Holmes gave him a rueful smile. “I perceive that I am not entirely unknown even this far from London.”

“Unknown! Good heavens, Mr. Holmes, but there is not a lawman in these United States who has not heard of the great Consulting Detective. Why, not eight months ago I attended a lecture in Norfolk on modern police procedure in which the lecturer thrice quoted from your monographs. I believe it’s fair to say that the future of police and legal investigation will owe you a debt, sir.”

Preston’s words penetrated even Holmes’ unusually unflappable cool and for a moment he was at a loss for words. “Why thank you, sir. If only Scotland Yard were as progressive in their thinking.”

“Give them time, Mr. Holmes, give them time. A prophet is never accepted in his own country.” Preston laughed at his own witticism and waved us to chairs. “What can I do for the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“I will get right to it, then,” said Holmes, and he told Preston everything Mrs. Heaster had told us, even to the point of handing him her letter for examination. Preston chewed the fringe of his walrus mustache as he handed the letter back.

“Mrs. Heaster has already been to see me,” he admitted.

“And have you done nothing?”

Preston cleared his throat. “To be honest, Mr. Holmes, superstition abounds in these parts. Though we are fairly modern here in Lewisburg, much of West Virginia is still wild and a good many of my fellow citizens are deeply superstitious. Everyone has a tale of a ghost or goblin, and this would not be the first time I’d had someone sitting in that very chair there telling me of knowledge shared with them from a friend or relative months or years in the grave. Wild-eyed kooks, Mr. Holmes; superstitious country bumpkins.”

“And is it your opinion, Mr. Preston, that Mrs. Heaster is another wild-eyed kook?” Holmes tone was icy, for indeed the woman had impressed my friend with her calm clarity.

“Well,” Preston said cautiously, “after all, her daughter’s ghost…?”

“You are not a believer?”

“I go to church,” Preston said but would venture no further.

“You have, I hope, had at least the courtesy to read the transcript of the case, including the remarks of the county coroner?”

“No sir…I confess that I did not take the case seriously enough to care to investigate further.”

“I do take it seriously,” said Holmes with asperity.

They sat there on opposite sides of Preston’s broad oak desk, and as I watched the prosecutor I realized that it was possible for a seated man to give the impression of coming to full attention and even saluting without so much as moving his hands.

“If you will do me the courtesy of coming back tomorrow at ten o’clock,” he said, “I will by then be fully familiar with this case.”

Holmes stood. “Then we have no more to talk about until then, Mr. Preston. Good day.” We left and outside Holmes gave me a wink. “I believe we have lit a fire there, Watson.”