Witness to Murder
The Widow Moreland owned a sizable piece of property in Portsmouth in the days when Rhode Island was still a British colony under King George III. Although her farm was one of the largest and most profitable in the New England region, Rebecca would have gladly traded it all away to have her beloved husband back from the dead. Unfortunately, the resurrection of John Moreland was not an option. Thus, the only comfort the lonely widow had to sustain her on the long, cold winter nights was her steadfast belief in life everlasting and her sincere expectation of an eventual reunion in heaven with the man she loved.
Not even the couple's only child—a son—gave the widow much solace. Benjamin Moreland, who spent more time carousing at the local tavern than he did toiling in his mother's fields, was a belligerent young man who, since the untimely death of his father when the boy was only ten years old, had been at war with both God and himself ever since.
Despite the great love she bore her son, Rebecca had been unable to get close to the lad during his childhood, and when Benjamin reached his majority, she was resigned to the fact that they would never be close.
Then as her sixtieth birthday approached, the widow noticed a marked and welcome change in her son. He spent fewer evenings at the tavern and more time working on the farm.
"It's not like you to spend a Saturday evening at home," the mother declared when she saw Benjamin heading to the barn, sweating from a long day's exertions in the field.
"I woke up the other morning and realized I'm not a boy anymore," he explained apologetically. "I'm a man now, and it's high time I started taking my responsibilities seriously. This farm is far too much work for a woman to manage."
Rebecca smiled knowingly at her son.
"I have a strange feeling this change that's come over you might have something to do with a young woman."
Benjamin blushed.
"Is it that obvious?"
"To a mother, yes. Who is she?"
"Elizabeth Ballard."
"The blacksmith's daughter?"
"That's the one. There's not a comelier girl in all of Portsmouth, or a smarter one."
"It sounds like you might be serious about this young woman. Have you asked her father for her hand or discussed marriage with her?"
"No," Benjamin replied. "The relationship hasn't progressed to that stage yet. I've only been courting her a few weeks."
"When the time does come," Rebecca said optimistically, "you and your wife are more than welcome to live here with me. The good lord knows I've got plenty of room. You and Elizabeth can move into the large bedroom upstairs, and I’ll sleep in the small room behind the parlor."
"I wouldn't want to put you out of your own bedroom."
"Nonsense! That room was meant for two people, and since I'm not likely to remarry, why shouldn't you and your future wife sleep there?"
"Thank you, Mother."
"You know, I'm not getting any younger, and when I die, you'll inherit this place."
Benjamin seemed genuinely upset at the prospect of his mother's passing.
"Don't say that. I hope you live another forty or fifty years."
Rebecca smiled and silently thanked God for the change that had come over her son.
"That would be nice. Then I can enjoy spending time with the grandchildren you and Elizabeth will give me."
Sadly, Rebecca Moreland never lived to enjoy her grandchildren or even to see them born. In fact, she died before her son had the opportunity to propose marriage to the blacksmith's daughter.
* * *
One of the perils of life in seventeenth-century New England was that the colonists relied on fire to heat their homes, cook their meals and provide light in the darkness. As a consequence, many buildings were either damaged or destroyed by fire, and people and livestock frequently perished in the conflagration. Women, especially, were in danger of being burned since their long skirts, petticoats or full sleeves would often get too near to an open flame or an errant spark from a spitting fireplace log and set their clothing ablaze.
One cold winter morning in February of 1673, when Benjamin Moreland entered his mother's house to share with her the good news that he had spoken to Zebedee Ballard, the blacksmith, about his intentions toward Elizabeth, he found the old woman's charred body on the scorched carpet in front of the bedroom fireplace. It was naturally presumed by one and all that the widow's death had been accidental in nature since there was no sign of foul play.
Family, friends and neighbors were horrorstruck by the tragic mishap, Benjamin, in particular. A funeral was held for Rebecca, and people came from all over the colony to pay their respects. After the assembled mourners dried their tears, the good woman was laid to rest in the graveyard adjacent to the Portsmouth Church, next to the body of her husband, John.
The people of Portsmouth believed that would be the end of the matter. Once the legal wheels were put into motion, Benjamin would inherit his mother's property, and life would go on. Not a man or woman in all of Rhode Island expected the dramatic turn of events that would occur just two days after the dead woman was interred.
* * *
Sheriff Jonah Deering was sitting at a table, washing down a buttered crust of bread with a mug of ale, when Morris Hillman, the late Rebecca Moreland's younger brother, stormed into the King's Arms Ordinary and demanded to speak with the lawman.
"What's all the commotion about, Morris?" the sheriff asked, wiping the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand.
"It's about my sister," Hillman replied, "Rebecca, the Widow Moreland."
"Yes, I heard about her death. My condolences to you. Rebecca was a mighty fine woman. It was such a tragic accident."
"It wasn't no accident!" Morris cried. "She was murdered."
There was silence in the tavern, and curious faces turned in the direction of the two men.
"This is a conversation that would best be held in private," the sheriff declared, knowing that any allegation of murder would quickly spread through the colony.
"All right," Hillman said, calming down considerably.
Neither man spoke as the two made their way to Deering's house. Once inside, Morris commenced his story.
"Rebecca was murdered," he repeated.
"I know you're upset by your sister's untimely death. I would be, too, if it was one of my kin. But I assure you, Morris, it wasn't murder. Her nightdress caught fire, and she suffered severe burns on her body."
"No! She was already dead before her clothes were set on fire."
"You're saying someone murdered Rebecca and then deliberately burned her body?" Deering asked with disbelief.
"Yes, I am."
"Did you witness the crime yourself? Were you in your sister's house at the time the murder was committed?"
"No."
"Did you see the killer flee from her house after your sister was dead?"
"No, I was at home that night."
"Was there another witness who gave you this information?"
"No."
"Then the murderer must have confessed the deed to you himself."
"Not exactly," Hillman said hesitantly.
"Then what proof do you have that your sister was murdered?"
"She told me she was."
"You just said you weren't in her house at the time."
"She appeared to me in a dream last night and told me what transpired."
Jonah Deering removed his hat and scratched his head.
"I'm sure your dream was brought on by grief."
"No, Rebecca unbuttoned the bodice of her nightdress and showed me where she was stabbed."
"She was stabbed?"
"In the chest, right through the heart," Morris stubbornly contended.
"Did your sister tell you who wielded the knife?" the sheriff asked, humoring the bereaved man.
"Yes, her son, Benjamin. He killed her so he could inherit her property."
"I've known Benjamin all his life. He doesn't strike me as the kind of man who would kill to get a farm."
"If you don't believe me, have the body exhumed. An examination would surely reveal the truth."
Sheriff Deering sighed. He hated to disturb the eternal rest of a good woman like Rebecca Moreland, but an accusation of murder, however bizarre the circumstances surrounding it may be, required an investigation.
* * *
Dr. Rufus Horne and Sheriff Deering stood beside the open grave, waiting impatiently for the two gravediggers to pry open the top of the wooden coffin. Both men found exhumation a repugnant, even if sometimes necessary, task.
The sound of splintering wood broke the solemn silence of the occasion. When the lid was opened, all four men grimaced at the vile, unmistakable stench of burned and decayed flesh that wafted up from the open coffin. It was the sheriff who bravely reached inside and pulled aside the homespun shroud that covered the remains.
The doctor then leaned forward and gingerly unbuttoned the bodice of Rebecca's dress. The gaping wound that he uncovered was proof of Morris Hillman's story.
"It's definitely a puncture," Dr. Horne announced after a brief inspection. "Most likely caused by the blade of a knife."
"What's your conclusion, Rufus?" the sheriff asked formally, although he could see the wound with his own eyes.
"Rebecca Moreland was murdered," the physician officially proclaimed.
The sheriff then instructed the gravediggers to hoist the coffin onto a wagon and take it to the meetinghouse.
"Be careful with the body," he stressed. "The doctor will have to perform a more thorough autopsy on it."
"I'll begin later this morning," the doctor promised. "After I've had a good breakfast at the tavern. Want to join me, Jonah?"
The sheriff, who would have liked a good meal himself, regrettably had to decline.
"I want to question Benjamin Moreland before word of the murder gets out."
* * *
"I hope I didn't disturb you," Deering said when Benjamin answered the door.
"No. I was just packing up my mother's clothing. What can I do for you, sheriff?"
"I have a few questions for you concerning her death."
"Won't you come inside, then?"
"You were the one who found the body, weren't you?" Jonah asked.
"Yes. When I noticed she wasn't in the kitchen, I went up to her room to see if she was feeling ill. I found her on the floor, in front of the fireplace, her body badly burned."
"When was the last time you saw your mother alive?"
"The previous evening. We ate dinner together. I went to the King's Arms afterward, and when I returned, she had already gone to bed."
"Do you know if your mother had any enemies?" Jonah inquired.
"No, not a one, as far as I know. She was a well-liked woman in the village. Why all these questions, Sheriff Deering?"
"I've just discovered that your mother was murdered."
Benjamin's face paled, and his hands began to tremble.
"She was stabbed," Deering continued, "and then her dead body was set on fire."
"Who would do such a thing?"
"Your Uncle Morris tells me your mother's spirit appeared to him in a dream and named you as her murderer."
"That's absurd!" the young man exclaimed indignantly. "A ghost indeed! Who would believe such nonsense?"
"I do. I just came here from the graveyard. The doctor and I had Rebecca's body dug up, and it was just as your uncle claimed. Your mother was stabbed in the heart."
Sheriff Deering was not the only person who believed Morris Hillman's tale. After Benjamin Moreland was arrested and put on trial, a jury found him guilty—based mainly on his uncle's testimony. Colonial justice was swift and merciless: the condemned man was sentenced to death by hanging, and the sentence was to be carried out once the gallows was constructed.
"But I'm an innocent man, I tell you!" Benjamin protested. "I loved my mother. Why would I want to kill her?"
"Greed is a strong motive, young man," the magistrate replied. "And your mother was a wealthy woman."
Despite his outcries of innocence, Moreland was hanged on the town common for the murder of his mother.
"He always was a bit of a wastrel," Ichabod Cobham, a farmer who lived just south of Portsmouth declared after the execution. "He spent far too much time at the tavern if you ask me."
"I don't know. From what I hear, he was finally beginning to settle down," remarked the blacksmith, who had looked forward to having Benjamin as a son-in-law.
"A man who would commit matricide is more than a wastrel," Ichabod argued. "He's a monster! Poor Rebecca!"
"If you ask me, there wasn't enough evidence against him to prove he murdered his mother. Dreams, indeed! I've dreamt of my dead wife dozens of times, but I don't for one minute believe her spirit is trying to communicate with me."
"If Rebecca's son wasn't the murderer, then who was it that killed her?"
"It could have been someone who broke into the house to rob her," Zebedee theorized.
"Look at the facts," the farmer declared. "The house was locked when Benjamin got back from the King's Arms, so no one broke in. And nothing was stolen, so robbery couldn't have been the motive. I know your daughter was sweet on the boy, but he was the only one with a motive to kill Rebecca."
The blacksmith shook his head, still unwilling to see the lad's guilt.
"The boy swore he was innocent, and, frankly, I believe him."
"I guess we'll never know what really happened in that house," Ichabod concluded.
"Not unless Rebecca comes back again."
* * *
With Benjamin Moreland executed, Rebecca's property went to her next-of-kin, her younger brother. Once the farm was legally in his name, Morris Hillman sold his one-room cottage and moved into his late sister's much larger house.
"Ah! Isn't this comfortable!" he said, relaxing in a wing chair in front of the parlor fireplace with a pipe of tobacco and a pint of ale.
The crops had already been harvested, so Hillman, who shied away from manual labor, could take things easy and enjoy his new property until it was time for spring planting. At that point, he would either hire someone to work the farm or sell it and live the life of a gentleman in Boston or Salem.
As the evening wore on, the darkness grew and the shadows lengthened. With his pipe gone out and his tankard empty, Morris decided it was time to head upstairs to bed. Then he abruptly changed his mind.
"I'm a man of leisure now. I can sleep late in the morning. I think I'll have another smoke and another drink."
He rose from the chair, packed his pipe with tobacco and filled his mug with ale. Finally, he walked to the fireplace to add another log. The fire spit out a spark that landed on his britches.
"Damn me!" he cursed when he burned his fingers trying to extinguish the small burning patch on his pants.
Another spit, another spark, another smoking hole in his britches.
"What the devil is wrong?" he cried as several more sparks found his pants.
The only response to his question was a sudden burst of firewood followed by a shower of sparks. Daggers of pain stabbed at his legs and he fell to the floor, his hands frantically trying to pull the burning britches off.
The small flames in the pants grew larger and spread upwards toward his shirt. He screamed in agony as the fire seared his flesh. His suffering was so great that when he saw his sister's ghost standing at the foot of the staircase, he felt no fear.
"Please, Rebecca!" he shrieked. "Help me! I'm on fire!"
The unbearable pain had pushed Morris Hillman to the brink of unconsciousness when it suddenly stopped.
"Thank you, dear sister," he said, lying on the floor, exhausted.
The respite from his misery was only temporary, however. An intense pain stabbed at his chest, in the same area where his sister's breast had been pierced with a knife.
"Re ... bec ... ca ...," he panted, barely able to breathe, much less speak.
His sister's vengeful ghost had plunged a frozen fist through his heart.
"You killed me and laid the blame on my innocent son. You got what you wanted: my land and my house. But you'll not live to enjoy them, brother."
The dead woman's face was contorted with rage.
"Goodbye, Morris. May you regret your foul deeds for all eternity."
By the time Rebecca's revenant faded, the house was engulfed in flames. The fire was so hot and so bright that Morris wasn't sure at exactly what moment he passed through the veil of death and entered the gates of hell.
* * *
"Is it true what I heard about Morris Hillman?" Zebedee Ballard asked Sheriff Deering two days later. "Is he dead?"
"Yes. Odd, isn't it? He died just like his sister did."
"Coincidence?"
"If it was just the fire, I'd say yes. But, like Rebecca, Morris was stabbed through the heart."
"Do you have any idea who did it?"
"Not a clue," the sheriff replied. "There were no witnesses. No murder weapon. No motive."
"I remember what the magistrate said at Benjamin's trial," the blacksmith mused. "'Greed is a strong motive.' It occurs to me that young Moreland was not the only one who stood to profit by Rebecca's death."
Jonah nodded his head in agreement.
"That's true. I wish I'd realized that at the time. I fear there might have been a great miscarriage of justice."
"Perhaps not, sheriff," the blacksmith answered, working his bellows to stoke the flames of his forge. "Maybe there's a greater justice in this world that can't fail."
"I hope so," Deering said. "I'd sleep a lot sounder at night knowing that Benjamin is at peace and Morris Hillman will burn in hell for his wickedness."
This story is inspired by the legend of Rebecca Cornell of Rhode Island. She died in a fire, and her spirit supposedly appeared to her brother in a dream, claiming she was murdered. Her son was later executed for the crime. Mrs. Cornell was an ancestor of both Ezra Cornell (founder of the university that bears his name) and Lizzie Borden (accused of killing her father and step-mother).
Salem had a dream he was the star of Meerkat Manor.
