The Uncle Abner Mysteries
Melville Davisson Post
Uncle Abner: Justice in Virginia
Melville Davisson Post created an unusual but fascinating character in the figure of Uncle Abner. Abner was a strong, courageous Virginian, set in the years prior to the Civil War. He had a strong sense of justice, and a remarkable talent for solving mysteries as he sought to aid the afflicted and bring murderers and thieves to trial.
This volume includes all 22 of Post's original Uncle Abner stories.
The Adopted Daughter
“Isn’t she a beautyeh, Randolph?” Vespatian Flornoy had a tumbler of French brandy. He sucked in a mouthful. Then he put it on the table.
The house was the strangest in Virginia. It was of some foreign model. The whole second floor on the side lying toward the east was in two spacious chambers lighted with great casement windows to the ceiling. Outside, on this brilliant morning, the world was yellow and dried-up, sere and baked. But the sun was thin and the autumn air hard and vital.
My uncle, Squire Randolph, the old country doctor, Storm, and the host, Vespatian Flornoy, were in one of these enormous rooms. They sat about a table, a long mahogany piece made in England and brought over in a sailing ship. There were a squat bottle of French brandy and some tumblers. Flornoy drank and recovered his spirit of abandon.
Now he leered at Randolph, and at the girl that he had just called in.
He was a man one would have traveled far to seeyesterday or the day ahead of that. He had a figure out of Athens, a face cast in some forgotten foundry by the Arno, thick-curled mahogany-colored hair, and eyes like the velvet hull of an Italian chestnut. These excellencies the heavenly workman had turned out, and now by some sorcery of the pit they were changed into abominations.
Hell-charms, one thought of, when one looked the creature in the face. Drops of some potent liquor, and devil-words had done it, on yesterday or the day ahead of yesterday. Surely not the things that really had done ittime and the iniquities of Gomorrah. His stock and his fine ruffled shirt were soiled. His satin waistcoat was stained with liquor.
“A daughter of a French marquis, eh!” he went on. “Sold into slavery by a jest of the godsstolen out of the garden of a convent! It’s the fabled history of every octoroon in New Orleans!”
Fabled or not, the girl might have been the thing he said. The contour of the face came to a point at the chin, and the skin was a soft Oriental olive. She was the perfect expression of a type. One never could wish to change a line of her figure or a feature of her face. She stood now in the room before the door in the morning sun, in the quaint, alluring costume of a young girl of the timea young girl of degree, stolen out of the garden of a convent! She had entered at Flornoy’s drunken call, and there was the aspect of terror on her.
The man went on in his thick, abominable voice:
“My brother Sheppard, coming north to an inspection of our joint estate, presents her as his adopted daughter. But when he dropped dead in this room last night and I went about the preparation of his body for your inquisitioneh, what, my gentlemen! I find a bill of sale running back ten years, for the dainty baggage!
“French, and noble, stolen from the garden of a convent, perhaps! Perhaps! but not by my brother Sheppard. His adopted daughtersentimentally, perhaps! Perhaps! But legally a piece of property, I think, descending to his heirs. Eh, Randolph!”
And he thrust a folded yellow paper across the table.
The Justice put down his glass with the almost untasted liquor in it, and examined the bill of sale.
“It is in form!” he said. “And you interpret it correctly, Flornoy, by the law’s letter. But you will not wish to enforce it, I imagine!”
“And why not, Randolph?” cried the man.
The Justice looked him firmly in the face.
“You take enough by chance, sir. You and your brother Sheppard held the estate jointly at your father’s death, and now at your brother’s death you hold it as sole heir. You will not wish, also, to hold his adopted daughter.”
Then he added:
“This bill of sale would hold in the courts against any unindentured purpose, not accompanied by an intention expressed in some overt act. It would also fix the status of the girl against any pretended or legendary exemption of birth. The judges might believe that your brother Sheppard was convinced of this pretension when he rescued the child by purchase, and made his informal adoption at a tender age. But they would hold the paper, like a deed, irrevocable, and not to be disturbed by this conjecture.”
“It will hold,” cried the man, “and I will hold! You make an easy disclaimer of the rights of other men.”
Then his face took on the aspect of a satyr’s.
“Give her up, eh! to be a lady! Why Randolph, I would have given Sheppard five hundred golden eagles for this little beautyfive hundred golden eagles in his hand! Look at her, Randolph. You are not too old to forget the pointsthe trim ankle, the slender body, the snap of a thoroughbred. There’s the blood of the French marquis, on my honor! A drop of black won’t curdle it.”
And he laughed, snapping his fingers at his wit.
“It only makes the noble lady merchandise! And perhaps, as you say, perhaps it isn’t there, in fact. Egad! old man, I would have bid a thousand eagles if Sheppard had put her up. A thousand eagles! and I get her for nothing! He falls dead in my house, and I take her by inheritance.”
It was the living truth. The two men, Vespatian Flornoy and his brother Sheppard, took their father’s estate jointly at his death. They were unmarried, and now at the death of Sheppard, the surviving brother Vespatian was sole heir, under the law, to the dead man’s properties: houses and lands and slaves. The bill of sale put the girl an item in the inventory of the dead man’s estate, to descend with the manor-house and lands.
The thing had happened, as fortune is predisposed to change, in a moment, as by the turning of dice.
At daybreak on this morning Vespatian Flornoy had sent a negro at a gallop, to summon the old country doctor, Storm, Squire Randolph and my uncle Abner. At midnight, in this chamber where they now sat, Sheppard as he got on his feet, with his candle, fell and died, Vespatian said, before he could reach his body. He lay now shaven and clothed for burial in the great chamber that adjoined.
Old Storm had stripped the body and found no mark. The man was dead with no scratch or bruise.
He could not say what vital organ had suddenly played outperhaps a string of the heart had snapped. At any rate, the dead man had not gone out by any sort of violence, nor by any poison. Every drug or herb that killed left its stamp and superscription, old Storm said, and one could see it, if one had the eye, as one could see the slash of a knife or the bruise of an assassin’s fingers.
It was plain death “by the Providence of God,” was Randolph’s verdict. So the Justice and old Storm summed up the thing and they represented the inquiry and the requirements of the law.
My uncle Abner made no comment on this conclusion. He came and looked and was silent. He demurred to the ‘Providence of God’ in Randolph’s verdict, with a great gesture of rejection. He disliked this term in any human horror. “By the abandonment of God,” he said, these verdicts ought rather to be written. But he gave no sign that his objection was of any special tenor. He seemed profoundly puzzled.
When the girl came in, at Vespatian’s command, to this appraisal, he continued silent. At the man’s speech, and evident intent, his features and his great jaw hardened, as though under the sunburned skin the bony structure of the face were metal.
He sat in his chair, a little way out beyond the table, as he sat on a Sunday before the pulpit, on a bench, motionless, in some deep concern.
Randolph and Vespatian Flornoy were in this dialogue. Old Storm sat with his arms folded across his chest, his head down. His interest in the matter had departed with his inspection of the dead man, or remained in the adjoining chamber where the body lay, the eyelids closed forever on the land of living men, shut up tight like the shutters of a window in a house of mystery. He only glanced at the girl with no interest, as at a bauble.
And now while the dialogue went on and Storm looked down his nose, the girl, silent and in terror, appealed to my uncle in a furtive glance, swift, charged with horror, and like a flash of shadow. The great table had a broad board connecting the carved legs beneath, a sort of shelf raised a little from the floor. In her glance, swift and fearful, she directed my uncle’s attention to this board.
It was a long piece of veneered mahogany, making a shelf down the whole length of the table. On it my uncle saw a big folded cloth of squares white and black, and a set of huge ivory chess-men. The cloth was made to spread across the top of the table, and the chess-men were of unusual size in proportion to the squares; the round knobs on the heads of the pawns were as big as marbles. Beside these things was a rosewood box for dueling-pistols, after the fashion of the time.
My uncle stooped over, took up these articles and set them on the table.
“And so, Flornoy,” he said, “you played at chess with your brother Sheppard.”
The man turned swiftly; then he paused and drank his glass of liquor.
“I entertained my brother,” he said, “as I could; there is no coffee-house to enter, nor any dancing women to please the eye, in the mountains of Virginia.”
“For what stake?” said my uncle.
“I have forgotten, Abner,” replied the man, “some trifle.”
“And who won?” said my uncle.
“I won,” replied the man. He spoke promptly.
“You won,” said my uncle, “and you remember that; but what you won, you have forgotten! Reflect a little on it, Flornoy.”
The man cursed, his face in anger.
“Does it matter, Abner, a thing great or small? It is all mine to-day!”
“But it was not all yours last night,” said my uncle.
“What I won was mine,” replied the man.
“Now, there,” replied my uncle, “lies a point that I would amplify. One might win, but might not receive the thing one played for. One might claim it for one’s own, and the loser might deny it. If the stake were great, the loser might undertake to repudiate the bargain. And how would one enforce it?”
The man put down his glass, leaned over and looked steadily at my uncle.
Abner slipped the silver hooks on the rosewood box, slowly, with his thumb and finger.
“I think,” he said, “that if the gentleman you have in mind won, and were met with a refusal, he would undertake to enforce his claim, not in the courts or by any legal writ, but by the methods which gentlemen such as you have in mind are accustomed to invoke.”
He opened the box and took out two pistols of the time. Then his faced clouded with perplexity. Both weapons were clean and loaded.
The man, propping his wonderful face in the hollow of his hand, laughed. He had the face and the laughter of the angels cast out with Satan, when in a moment of some gain over the hosts of Michael they forgot the pit.
“Abner,” he cried, “you are hag-ridden by a habit, and it leads you into the wildest fancies!”
His laughter chuckled and gurgled in his throat.
“Let me put your theory together. It is a very pretty theory, lacking in some trifles, but spirited and packed with dramatic tension. Let me sketch it out as it stands before your eye. . . . Have no fear, I shall not mar it by any delicate concern for the cunning villain, or any suppression of his evil nature. I shall uncover the base creature amid his deeds of darkness!”
He paused, and mocked the tragedy of actors.
“It is the hour of yawning graveyardsmidnight in this house. Vespatian Flornoy sits at this table with his good brother Sheppard. He has the covetousness of David the son of Jesse, in his evil heart. He would possess the noble daughter of the Latin marquis, by a sardonic fate sold at childhood into slavery, but by the ever watchful Providence of God, for such cases made and provided, purchased by the good brother Sheppard and adopted for his daughter!
“Mark, Abner, how beautifully it falls into the formula of the tragic poets!
“The wicked Vespatian Flornoy, foiled in every scheme of purchase, moved by the instigation of the Devil, and with no fear of God before his eyes, plays at chess with his good brother Sheppard, wins his interest in the manor-house and lands, and his last gold-piecetaunts and seduces him into a final game with everything staked against this Iphigenia. The evil one rises invisible but sulphurous to Vespatian’s aid. He wins. In terror, appalled, aghast at the realization of his folly, the good brother Sheppard repudiates the bargain. They duel across the table, and Vespatian, being the better shot, kills his good brother Sheppard!
“Why, Abner, it is the plan of the ‘Poetics.’ It lacks no element of completeness. It is joined and fitted for the diction of Euripides!”
The man declaimed, his wonderful fouled face, his Adonis head with its thick curled hair, virile and spirited with the liquor and the momentum of his words. Old Storm gave no attention. Randolph listened as to the periods of an oration. And my uncle sat, puzzled, before the articles on the table. The girl now and then, when the speaker’s eyes were on my uncle, by slight indicatory signs affirmed the speech, and continued strongly to indicate the chessmen.
My uncle began to turn the pieces over under the protection of his hand, idly, like one who fingers about a table in abstraction. Presently he stopped and covered one of the pieces with his hand. It was a pawn, large, like the other chess-men, but the round ivory knob at the top of it was gone. It had been sawed off!
The man Flornoy, consumed with his idea, failed to mark the incident, and moved by the tenor of his speech, went on:
“This is the Greek plan for a tragedy. It is the plan of Athens in the fifth century. It is the plan of Sophocles and Æschylus. Mark how it turns upon the Hellenic idea of a dominating Fate: a Fate in control over the affairs of men, pagan and not good. The innocent and virtuous have no gain above the shrewd and wicked. The good Sheppard dies, and the evil Vespatian takes his daughter, his goods and lands to enjoy in a gilded life, long and happy!”
He thought the deep reflection in my uncle’s face was confusion at his wit.
“That ending would not please you, Abner. Luther and Calvin and John Wesley have lived after Aristotle assembled this formula in his ‘Poetics.’ And they will have the evil punisheda dagger in the wicked Vespatian’s heart, and the virgin slave, by the interposition of the will of Heaven, preserved in her virginity. And so you come, like the Providence of God, to set the thing in order!”
My uncle looked up at the man, his hand covering the mutilated pawn, his face calm in its profound reflection.
“You quote the tragic poets, with much pedantry,” he said. “Well, I will quote them too: ‘Ofttimes, to win us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tell us truth!’ How much truth, in all this discourse, have you told us?”
“Now, Abner,” cried the man, “if it is truth you seek, and not the imaginations of a theory, how much could there be in it? If it were not for the granite ledges of reality, one might blow iris-colored bubbles of the fancy and watch them, in their beauty, journey to the stars! But alas, they collide with the hard edges of a fact and puff out.
“To begin with, the pistols have not been fired!”
“One could reload a pistol,” replied my uncle.
“But one could not shoot a man, Abner, and leave no mark of the bullet on his body!”
He paused and addressed the old doctor.
“I sent for Storm, when I sent for Randolph, to rid me of every innuendo of a gossip. Ask him if there is a mark of violence on my brother’s body.”
The old man lifted his lined, withered face.
“There is no mark on him!” he said.
Vespatian Flornoy leaned across the table.
“Are you sure?” he said. “Perhaps you might be mistaken.”
The words were in the taunting note of Elijah to the priests of Baal.
The old man made a decisive gesture. “Voilà!” he said, “I have handled a thousand dead men! I am not mistaken!”
Vespatian Flornoy put up his hands as in a great, hopeless gesture.
“Alas, Abner,” he said, “we must give up this pretty theory. It does honor to your creative instinct, and save for this trifle, we might commend it to all men. But you see, Abner, Storm and the world will unreasonably insist that a bullet leaves a mark. I do not think we can persuade them against their experience in that belief. I am sorry for you, Abner. You have a reputation in Virginia to keep up. Let us think; perhaps there is a way around this disconcerting fact.”
And he put his extended palm across his forehead, in mock reflection.
It was at this moment, when for an instant the man’s face was covered, that the girl standing before the door made a strange indicatory signal to my uncle Abner.
Vespatian Flornoy, removing his hand, caught a glimpse of the girl’s after-expression. And he burst out in a great laugh, striking the table with his clenched hand.
“Egad!” he cried. “By the soul of Satan! the coy little baggage is winking at Abner!”
He saw only the final composition of the girl’s face. He did not see the stress and vigor of the indicatory sign. He roared in a pretension of jealous anger.
“I will not have my property ogle another in my house. You shall answer for this, Abner, on the field of honor. And I warn you, sir: I have the surest eye and the steadiest hand in the mountains of Virginia.”
It was the truth. The man was the wonder of the countryside. He could cut a string with a pistol at ten paces; he could drive in a carpet-tack with his bullet, across a room. With the weapon of the time, the creature was sure, accurate to a hair, and deadly.
“No man,” he cried, “shall carry off this dainty baggage. Select your weapon, Abner; let us duel over this seduction!”
He spoke in the flippancies of jest. But my uncle’s face was now alight with some great comprehensive purpose. It was like the face of one who begins to see the bulk and outlines of a thing that before this hour, in spite of every scrutiny, was formless.
And to Flornoy’s surprise and wonder, my uncle put out his hand, took up one of the pistols and suddenly fired it into the wood of the mantelpiece beyond the table. He got up and looked at the mark. The bullet was hardly bedded in the veneer.
“You use a light charge of powder, Flornoy,” said my uncle.
The man was puzzled at this act, but he answered at once.
“Abner,” he said, “that is a secret I have learned. A pistol pivots on the grip. In firing, there are two things to avoid: a jerk on the trigger, and the tendency of the muzzle to jump up, caused by the recoil of the charge. No man can control his weapon with a heavy charge of powder behind the bullet. If one would shoot true to a hair, one must load light.”
It seemed a considerable explanation. And not one of the men who heard it ever knew whether it was, in fact, the controlling cause, or whether another and more subtle thing inspired it.
“But, Flornoy,” said my uncle, “if to kill were the object of a duelist, such a charge of powder might defeat the purpose.”
“You are mistaken, Abner,” he said. “The body of a man is soft. If one avoids the bony structure, a trifling charge of powder will carry one’s bullet into a vital organ. There is no gain in shooting through a man as though one were going to string him on a thread. Powder enough to lodge the bullet in the vital organ is sufficient.”
“There might be a point in not shooting through him,” said Abner.
The man looked calmly at my uncle; then he made an irrelevant gesture.
“No object, Abner, but no use. The whole point is to shoot to a hair, to lodge the bullet precisely in the point selected. Look how a light charge of powder does it.”
And taking up the other pistol, he steadied it a moment in his hand, and fired at Abner’s bullet-hole. No mark appeared on the mantel board. One would have believed that the bullet, if the barrel held one, had wholly vanished. But when they looked closely, it was seen that my uncle’s bullet, struck precisely, was driven a little deeper into the wood. It was amazing accuracy. No wonder the man’s skill was a byword in the land.
My uncle made a single comment.
“You shoot like the slingers of Benjamin!” he said.
Then he came back to the table and stood looking down at the man. He held the mutilated ivory pawn in his closed left hand. The girl, like an appraised article, was in the doorway; Storm and Randolph looked on, like men before the blind moving of events.
“Flornoy,” said Abner, “you have told us more truth than you intended us to believe. How did your brother Sheppard die?”
The man’s face changed. His fingers tightened on the pistol. His eyes became determined and alert.
“Damme, man,” he cried, “do you return to that! Sheppard fell and died, where you stand, beside the table in this room. I am no surgeon to say what disorder killed him. I sent for Storm to determine that.”
My uncle turned to the old eccentric doctor.
“Storm,” he said, “how did Sheppard Flornoy die?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders and put out his nervous hands.
“I do not know,” he said, “the heart, maybe. There is no mark on him.”
And here Randolph interrupted.
“Abner,” he said, “you put a question that no man can answer: something snaps within the body, and we die. We have no hint at the cause of Sheppard’s death.”
“Why yes,” replied my uncle, “I think we have.”
“What hint?” said Randolph.
“The hint,” said Abner, “that the eloquent Vespatian gave us just now in his discourse. I think he set out the cause in his apt recollection from the Book of Samuel.”
He paused and looked down at the man.
Vespatian Flornoy got on his feet. His face and manner changed. There was now decision and menace in his voice.
“Abner,” he said, “there shall be an end to this. I have turned your ugly hint with pleasantry, and met it squarely with indisputable facts. I shall not go any further on this way. I shall clear myself now, after the manner of a gentleman.”
My uncle looked steadily at the man.
“Flornoy,” he said, “if you would test your innocence by a device of the Middle Ages, I would suggest a simpler and swifter method of that time. Wager of battle is outlawed in Virginia. It is prohibited by statute, and we cannot use it. But the test I offer in its place is equally medieval. It is based on the same belief, old and persistent, that the Providence of God will indicate the guilty. And it is not against the law.”
“The same generation of men who believed in Wager of Battle, in the Morsel of Execration, in the red-hot plowshares, as a test of the guilt of murder, also believed that if the assassin touched his victim, the body of the murdered man would bleed!
“Flornoy,” he said, “if you would have recourse to one of those medieval devices, let it be the last. Go in with me and touch the body of your brother Sheppard, and I give you my word of honor that I will accept the decision of the test.”
It was impossible to believe that my uncle Abner trifled, and yet the thing was beyond the soundings of all sense.
Storm and Randolph, and even the girl standing in the door, regarded him in wonder.
Vespatian Flornoy was amazed.
“Damme, man!” he cried, “superstitions have unhinged your mind. Would you believe in a thing like that?”
“I would rather believe it,” replied my uncle, “than to believe that in a duel God would direct the assassin’s bullet.”
Then he added, with weight and decision in his voice:
“If you would be clear of my suspicion, if you would be free to take and enjoy the lands and properties that you inherit, go in before these witnesses and touch the dead body of your brother Sheppard. There is no mark appearing on him. Storm has found no wound to bleed. You are innocent of any measure in his death, you tell us. There’s no peril to you, and I shall ride away to assure every man that Sheppard Flornoy died, as Randolph has written, by the ‘Providence of God.’”
He extended his arm toward the adjacent chamber, and across the table he looked Flornoy in the face.
“Go in before us and touch the dead man.”
“By the soul of Satan!” cried the man, “if you hang on such a piece of foolery, you shall have it. The curse of superstition sticks in your fleece, Abner, like a burr.”
He turned and flung open the door behind him and went in. The others followedStorm and Randolph behind the man, the girl, shaken and fearful, and my uncle Abner.
Sheppard Flornoy lay prepared for burial in the center of the room. The morning sun entering through the long windows flooded him with light; his features were sharply outlined in the mask of death, his eyelids closed.
They stood about the dead man, at peace in this glorious shroud of sun, and the living brother was about to touch him when my uncle put out his hand.
“Flornoy,” he said, “the dead man ought to see who comes to touch him. I will open his eyes.”
And at the words, for no cause or reason conceivable to the two men looking on, Vespatian Flornoy shouted with an oath, and ran in on my uncle.
He was big and mad with terror. But even in his youth and fury he was not a match for my Uncle Abner. Liquor and excess failed before wind and sun and the clean life of the hills. The man went down under my uncle’s clenched hand, like an ox polled with a hammer.
It was Randolph who cried out, while the others crowded around the dead man and his brother unconscious on the floor.
“Abner, Abner,” he said, “what is the answer to this ghastly riddle?”
For reply my uncle drew back the eyelids of the dead man. And stooping over, Randolph and old Storm saw that Sheppard Flornoy had been shot through the eye, and that the head of the ivory pawn had been forced into the bullet-hole to round out the damaged eyeball under the closed lid.
The girl sobbed, clinging to my uncle’s arm. Randolph tore the bill of sale into indistinguishable bits. And the old doctor Storm made a great gesture with his hands extended and crooked.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried, in a consuming revulsion of disgust. “My father was surgeon in the field for Napoleon, I was raised with dead men, and a drunken assassin fools me in the mountains of Virginia!”
Poe's Dupin Mysteries | Futrelle's The Thinking Machine | A. J. Raffles, Gentleman Thief | Hamilton Cleek | Sherlock Holmes |