“Thank you, sir.”
He struck a match. “Nobody wants a mob in the streets, Mears. Bad for business.” He lit the cigarette, shook out the match, and blew a puff of smoke. “Anyway, get what you can at that inquest. They’re convening at the sheriff’s office. And don’t forget I need something for the society section on the Ladies’ Club meeting over in Phoebus.”
By the time I made it to the courthouse, Dr. Vanderslice’s mare was nibbling daffodils in front of the Elizabeth City County jail.
3.
Inquest
The night of the Belote murder Dr. Vanderslice swore in five men for the coroner’s inquest. They had inspected the crime scene at the crack of dawn Tuesday morning and were drinking coffee in Sheriff Curtis’ office when I opened the door. The sheriff had his boots up on the fender of the wood stove in the middle of the room. The heat felt good.
“You’re getting an early start, Charlie,” Dr. Vanderslice said. He was standing by the stove, warming his hands. “Come in and have a cup of coffee.”
The sheriff sat up and pulled a chair away from the wall. “Chilly out there, ain’t it, son?” Dr. Vanderslice handed me an enamel cup and a plaid cloth. I picked up the handle of the pot on the stove with the cloth and poured some coffee.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Sit down,” Sheriff Curtis said. I pulled the chair close to the stove.
“You’re the first one in,” Dr. Vanderslice said. He removed a folded document from his breast pocket and handed it to me. “I expect you’ll be wanting to read this. Today we’re interviewing more witnesses for the record.” He nodded. “Go ahead.”
I unfolded the paper.
Virginia, County of Elizabeth City, To wit: An inquisition taken at the residence of Mrs. Ida V. Belote, 809 Washington Street, Hampton, Virginia and continued at the jail office in the County of Elizabeth City on the 18th day of March, continued March 19th, 1912, before G. K. Vanderslice, MD, a coroner of the said county, upon the view of the body of Mrs. Ida V. Belote there lying dead. The jurors, sworn to inquire how, when, and by what means the said Mrs. Ida V. Belote came to her death upon their oaths, do say: said Mrs. Ida V. Belote came to her death on March 18th, 1912, from injuries, wounds and strangulation, received at the hands of Virginia Christian, a deliberate murder. In testimony whereof the said coroner and jurors have hereto set their hands.
“First-degree?” I asked.
“That’ll be up to the Commonwealth’s attorney, but the constable discovered the victim’s purse on the girl’s person after she was arrested. Apparent motive is robbery. Appears the girl was lying in wait for the widow. I don’t see any way around it, do you, Sheriff?” Dr. Vanderslice said. Sheriff Curtis shook his head.
“Especially when you take into account the violence of the act. And the fact that the victim’s children discovered her corpse,” Dr. Vanderslice said. “This’ll be your first murder trial, won’t it, Charlie?” He sipped at his coffee, then brushed the tips of his moustache with the back of his forefinger.
“Yes, sir.”
“Young fellow over at the Daily Press is about the only other one paying much attention right now,” one of the jurors said. I took out my pencil and pad.
“Let me go ahead and get the jury names from this, Dr. V.”
“Certainly.”
I noted the names from the report and refolded it. Dr. Vanderslice put it back in his pocket.
“About that scarf at Mrs. Belote’s neck in the posted statement,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Mrs. Belote took in a boarder a few months after her husband died, to help with the bills, I expect. Fellow’s name is Cahill. We interviewed him. Took work at the shipyard after he left the navy. The Mrs. and the girls liked to wear his uniform blouse and scarf around the house. Seems like a nice enough fellow. Says he overheard the Mrs. giving the colored girl the what-for over something had gone missing. Said the Mrs. could lay it on pretty hot when she wanted to. Bet that little woman didn’t weigh ninety pounds.”
“Ever want you a jar full of piss and vinegar, just find you a small woman of a certain age, ain’t that right, V?” Sheriff Curtis said. Dr. Vanderslice smiled and nodded.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I’ll follow up on that.”
“I’m sure you’ll do a good job, son.”
“Sheriff Curtis, would it be all right if I saw the prisoner?” I set my cup on the floor by the stove.
“Sure, head on back, Charlie.” He stood and picked up the keys hanging next to the lock of the steel door leading back to the jail. He unlocked the door and swung it open.
“I expect she’s about finished her breakfast,” he said.
The floor of the jail was stone and the air was cold. Virginia Christian sat huddled in a blanket on a spring cot behind the bars of her cell. Her eyes were open, downcast. She sat so still I didn’t think she had heard me enter. She was staring at the stone wall beyond the bars. I cleared my throat.
“Virginia Christian?”
She raised her eyes. The dim light obscured her face. I could not make out the features. “Daddy gone come, fetch me out of here?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so. My name’s Charlie Mears.”
“Why ain’t my daddy gone come?” She blinked once and leaned forward. I could see her cheek now. Her hair was flattened on one side from lying on the cot. On the floor by the cot was a tray and cup. Nothing on the tray had been touched.
“Well,” I said. “Mrs. Belote is dead.”
“Humph,” she said. She put her hand to her cheek. It glistened in the light. She shook her head slowly. “I knowed I never should gone back. I told my momma so, too.”
“It’s best not to talk,” I said. “Not to anybody but your lawyer.”
“I ain’t been in jail before,” she said. “I ain’t got no lawyer.”
“Your father’s getting you one,” I said.
“How come you know so much?” she said. “Maybe I ought not talk to you neither.”
“I work at the newspaper, I reckon is how I know.”
She studied my face. “You ain’t nothing but a boy,” she said. “I can tell a white boy’s age, good as I can tell a colored’s. Bet you eighteen years old.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Told you,” she said.
“Well,” I said, “I’d better get back out front.” She sprang up and put a hand on the bars. The coils on the cot hummed.
“You see my daddy, you tell him come fetch me. I’m lonesome. Momma don’t like it when I ain’t home.”
“If I do see your father, I’ll tell him. I promise.”
She raised her other hand to the bars.
“What you say your name is?”
“Charlie.” I heard keys jangling.
“Charlie?” Sheriff Curtis called. “Come on out. Couple reporters heading up the street. They better not see, cause I ain’t gone let them back there with the girl.”
“They calls me Virgie,” she said.
I