The Mystery of Beautiful Nell Cropsey

by Bland Simpson

  The Mystery of Beautiful Nell Cropsey

  THE MYSTERY OF Beautiful Nell Cropsey

  A NONFICTION NOVEL

  Bland Simpson

  The University of North Carolina Press

  Chapel Hill & London

  © 1993 by Bland Simpson

  All rights reserved

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Simpson, Bland.

  The mystery of beautiful Nell Cropsey : a nonfiction novel / by Bland Simpson.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-8078-2120-9 (alk. paper).—

  ISBN 0-8078-4432-2 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  1. Cropsey, Nell, d. 1901. 2. Murder victims— North Carolina—Elizabeth City—Biography.

  3. Wilcox, Jim. 4. Murderers—North Carolina— Elizabeth City—Biography. 5. Murder—

  North Carolina—Elizabeth City. I. Title.

  HV6534.E45C767 1993

  364.1’523 O9756142—dc20 93-3324

  CIP

  The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

  97 96 95 94 93 5 4 3 2 1

  THIS BOOK WAS DIGITALLY PRINTED.

  For Ann Cary Simpson

  who came from Carteret County

  land of white boats

  and brought me home

  Contents

  Part One

  THE SEARCH

  Part Two

  THE TOWN

  Part Three

  THE TRIAL

  Chronology

  Acknowledgments

  Illustration Credits

  Maps

  Elizabeth City, North Carolina 167

  Eastern North Carolina and Tidewater Virginia 168

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  Beautiful Nell Cropsey, ii

  Jim Wilcox, 7

  Seven Pines, 24

  W. 0. Saunders, 56

  The Narrows, 76-77

  The Three Theories, 132-33

  Carrie, Ollie, and Nell Cropsey, 147

  1901

  And the angel said unto me, Wherefore didst thou marvel? I will tell thee the mystery of the woman, and of the beast that carrieth her, which hath the seven heads and ten horns.—Revelation 17:7

  There is a rope some two or three generations in length, knotted near but not exactly in the middle, with an unraveling off in either direction. The knot in the unraveled rope is the moment central to a celebrated mystery, a national sensation in its day. This is the tale of that moment and the strands of time that pulled taut just then and, knotting, separated it from all the rest. By now, the mystery of Beautiful Nell Cropsey is almost a folktale, a ballad of lovers, as newspaper clippings yellow and ten thousand conversations echo across the century.

  1 The Search

  TALK

  Word traveled fast in a river town with thirteen saloons. It spread with alacrity and gaining excitement through the oyster-shucking and canning houses of Elizabeth City, North Carolina. They were well into the r months there in November, and the 1901 oystering season was on. The hundreds of workers who spent their days with the slime and smell of a hundred-fifty-thousand gallons of oysters a season needed something to talk about there in the long frame shuckhouses built on the Pasquotank Rivers horseshoe bend.

  They talked about Nell Cropsey and Jim Wilcox.

  Word spread into the textile mills, down the lines of spinning bobbins whose mistresses were at the very moment of this frightful entertainment fighting and winning a price war against the northern mills over spun goods, and that victory was being bought with their deft fingers and keen eyesight and browned lungs. There was gossip on those battle lines about a girl, Nell Cropsey, who had been sweetheart to Jim Wilcox since the Cropseys came down from Brooklyn, New York, three-and-a-half years ago.

  —Wasn’t it his daddy used to be county sheriff? What on earth do you reckon happened?

  —What about that mysterious burglar last month and the month before? It could have been him got the girl and not Wilcox after all, what do you think? You know the one. The degenerate burglar who touched women when they were asleep and always ran at the first alarm so they never got a description of him. Could have been him got Nell Cropsey and not Jim Wilcox, what do you say?

  —He was the last to see her, though, far as we know.

  Word spread through the sawmills and planing mills along the rivershore from Charles Creek to Knobbs Creek. The men talked, the men who kept the pressure on the boilers that drove the pistons and turned the belts and drove the bigtooth blades against the logs. Everywhere it was piney-smelling, and the men in the mills turning out hundreds of thousands of board feet a year talked about the pretty girl Nell Cropsey and the man Jim Wilcox who wasn’t saying much.

  —Weren’t it one of his kin killed that Brothers fellow down at Newbegun a few years back?

  —Could be she got in a little trouble and he had to send her away. Or she just run away on her own.

  —Maybe she drowned herself if she was in that kind of trouble. He was the last to see her and he says she was crying—maybe she drowned herself in the river.

  Word spread into the cypress and gum swamps through work of the getters, the hundreds of men who spent most all their time out in the woods and swamps securing timber for the insatiable mill blades. Into the remote reaches of that two-thousand-square-mile jungle, the Great Dismal Swamp, the mire that separated Elizabeth City from Norfolk, Virginia.

  —Before the War, the slave that cut and ran hid out there, didn’t he? The convict that busted his chain, law wouldn’t go in after him, would they? Reckon Nell Cropsey could have got up in there somewhere to hide out?

  —That boy Wilcox sent her up there maybe, or took her gainst her will. You hear they arrested him for kidnap? And it was his daddy that was the sheriff.

  —Yep, that’s him, and it was his uncle killed a man. Keep your eyes open for her—don’t guess a swamp rat like you’d mind seeing a pretty young gal back up this way, hunh?

  —Not at all. Say, how bout bringin me some coffee next time you get up this way?

  —Sure will, sure will.

  Word spread like that back into the swamps where the slaves had run, where convicts had run—mightn’t Nell Cropsey run there too? Back deep toward the lake at the heart of the great Swamp, where the ghost of an Indian girl searched each night for her lost lover, by firefly lamp, gliding in her white canoe.

  And word spread far beyond those low tidelands, as the dailies in the big eastern cities of Baltimore and Philadelphia and New York played up the mystery till Nell Cropsey and Jim Wilcox were the talk of the nation and the booming little river port of Elizabeth City was suddenly on the map.

  Lord, the fulminations that were to rain down upon Jim Wilcox. For time closed around that moment like a circle round the sun, or stood like the moon before it, and how could anyone know the fashion in which the circle had closed, or whether the moment of Nell’s disappearance had brought him within or cast him without? And if without, how were any to know, to the satisfaction that brings belief, that Wilcox was outside like the rest trying to peer in?

  All his life he claimed he had left her crying on her front porch, and all his life he was doubted.

  —Why didn’t you see her back to the door and see her safe inside? they asked.

  —If I’d a known all this trouble was going to come of it, Jim Wilcox answered, I would have.

  The sick old sandy-haired man Jim Wilcox, lying on a dirty bunk with a shotgun by his side, looked back across thirty-three years, half of them in prison, and formed the whisper words: I would have.

  JIM WILCOX


  Lying here makes me think of it.

  Thirty-three years ago if it was a day.

  Mama was shaking me, the way she always had to when she wanted me to get up. They put it up against me in the papers that I was a light sleeper and even a carriage going by down on Shepard Street could of woke me. That I was a light sleeper pretending to be in a deep slumber when they come, pretending on account of I was scared bout what I’d done—or what they said I’d done.

  They said I carried off Nell Cropsey from the start.

  —Jim, son, wake up!

  Mama was shaking me and the lamp was swinging in her other hand. I got that upset feeling from waking up too fast, till I realized it was Mama trying to get me up without disturbing my cousin that I was sharing the back bedroom with. But she was talking in a screech whisper like there was something wrong.

  Fact was, I was a sound sleeper. Mama had to come after me several times every morning because when she’d call, I’d tell her I was getting up and then roll over back to sleep. But that night she shook me till I woke and there were dizzy-making shadows and her screech whisper.

  —Jim, son, wake up! William Cropsey and his brother all down there with your daddy. They want to know where you left Nell.

  —On the front porch of her house, I said. And I fell to sleep again when she left and closed the door. Or maybe not right to sleep. Maybe I heard some talk from downstairs or some noise when old man Cropsey and his brother went down off the porch and out to the street, scuffing on that hard frozen ground.

  Lying here reminds me.

  Then there was Chief Dawson with my daddy right behind him. I’d been sleeping faced away from the door, but when I woke again I turned and saw it weren’t Mama this time but God now the law in there shaking me and saying,

  —I want you to go over to Cropsey’s with me, Jim.

  I knew the Chief, course I did. He’d come into office in the election of ‘98. He was a Democrat and we were all Republicans and the Democrats cleaned up that year and my daddy got voted out of being county sheriff.

  —All right, I said.

  Hell, what was a little guy like me going to do? Go disagreeing with Chief Dawson, a big man and him the law? I got up and started dressing by the electric flashlight Chief carried. And I saw him take a good look at my blue steel pistol on the shelf.

  Downstairs we met Officer Scarborough, who came along I guess in case I turned out to be some business. Two of em. What’d they think I’d done that they needed two of em to come get me?

  It must of been an hour since old man Cropsey had come bothering me, and now Chief Dawson led me out into the cold and the bright moonlight. My jaw got tight and I forgot I’d been halfway warm for a bit up there in the bedroom, where my cousin was sleeping alone now and didn’t know a damn thing about what all was happening.

  He didn’t know about Nell crying on her front porch, and he didn’t know about the Cropsey men coming after me, or the law carting me over to where the same men were waiting to stare me down and blame me for things I never done.

  The policemen rolled their bicycles and I walked between em, down Shepard Street to Charles Creek right where it flowed into the river. There was a wood bridge there then, a bridge that sat on a post and swiveled like a playing card with a pin through it to let the boats go by. A bridge keeper worked it, but if he was there that night he was asleep.

  I was wide awake by then, and fast realizing I might be in some pretty deep trouble. When we got up near Pat Ives’s house across the bridge I said,

  —Here’s where I met Len Owens earlier on, bout 11:30.

  The Chief seemed to take in what I said, but he kept a stern face. Like that was his job what with Nell missing like this. It was past three in the morning.

  Jim Wilcox

  —Jim, what do you make of this? Chief Dawson asked me, and I watched the words coming out of his mouth on the little breath clouds, because it was that cold and that bright from the November moon.

  I didn’t know what to think and I sure didn’t know what to say, and I told em so.

  —Where’d you last see Miss Cropsey?

  We were going along the rivershore road, them rolling the cycles that rattled every so often on bumps and ruts, and if there was water standing in a place it was froze by then and maybe it crunched underfoot or if one of the cycles rolled over the ice just right.

  —I left her standing on her porch, I said.

  —Did she seem to be in any trouble? the Chief asked.

  —She was crying when I left her.

  —What about?

  —I gave her back her picture and she said, I know what this means. We were a little on the outs.

  —A little lovers’ quarrel? Chief asked.

  —She laughed at me, I said.

  And she had laughed at me the night before, Tuesday night, after I’d brought her cousin Carrie back home from the roller skating rink. I stopped in the front hall on my way out to light a smoke and I overheard Carrie and Nellie and her sister Ollie laughing about how short I was. Why don’t you call him Squatty? I’d heard Nellie say, and they all three laughed. I got out of the house before they knew I’d overheard.

  She hadn’t even spoken a word to me for two weeks—not a word.

  —Why’d she laugh? asked the Chief.

  I thought about earlier that same Tuesday night when I come to pick Carrie up for the skating date and I’d asked Nellie how the corn on her foot was. But she wouldn’t speak straight to me. She laughed then, too, and turned to her sister Ollie and said, All right. Nell Cropsey had been my girl for three-and-a-half years, almost since the day the Cropseys moved to Elizabeth City from Brooklyn, and now she wouldn’t have anything to do with me or even talk to me, so I took Carrie out to spite her.

  —Well, Chief, last night when I went in and asked her how her corn was she laughed at me. I told her the laugh would be on the other side.

  We passed the shipyards on the river, where I’d been working back then. Up to the right and set back away from the river was Mr. John Fearing’s big place where the Cropseys first stayed when they moved south in ‘98. They still stabled their horses there. I’d been in the stable with Carrie and Nell’s sister Lettie the afternoon before, and I remembered thinking how much easier it was to breathe the stable air when it was cold like it was that November than in summer when it was either ripe or manure dusty in the air.

  The first courting I did with Nell was out riding. Maybe I got the horse and rig from one of the downtown liveries or borrowed it—I don’t know.

  The sick old sandy-haired man Jim Wilcox, lying on his dirty bunk in the back room of Tuttles garage, lying with a double-barrel twelve-gauge beside him, looked back through thirty-odd years of outlaw whiskey and prison and trials and couldn’t recall just where he’d gotten the horse and buggy the first time he took Nell Cropsey out riding. But other things he did remember.

  —Jim, did she ever speak of suicide?

  I told the Chief it was mentioned tonight or last night one.

  —How’d it come up?

  —It come up, that’s all. I don’t know who brought it up.

  We walked toward Cropsey’s house all this while and I can hear those policemen’s bicycles rattling still.

  —Did Nell say anything about it? Chief Dawson asked.

  —Yes, she said if she ever committed suicide she’d rather do it by freezing than any other way.

  I saw the Chief was getting at the idea of Nellie killing herself cause I’d give back her pictures and left her crying on the porch. How could that of been my fault? She hadn’t even been speaking to me. And she was planning to go to New York with her cousin Carrie on the next Saturday.

  —Did she ever talk about suicide any other time?

  —Yes, I said, a long time ago, when there was a crowd of us in the Cropsey summerhouse down by the river. She said if she was ever going to commit suicide she’d put a stone round her neck and do it well.

  Chief Dawson and Officer Scar
borough and I were almost to the Cropsey house then, and I looked down to where the summerhouse gazebo was, off to the left by the little beach where we’d used to go swimming or take the sailboat out from. The Cropsey house was easy to see across the old man’s turnip patch, all lit up with oil lights inside and the bright moon outside.

  How could I of known then how sorry I’d be, or how long it would all last? The policemen laid their bicycles up by the fence and went up that front walk just like I had for three years and more and then up the steps where I told em I left her crying. I never looked out on that river with her again.

  Then Chief Dawson was knocking on the front door and it was opening and he was motioning me in. There was no way but to do it.

  I was walking through the gates of hell thirty-three years ago if it was a day.

  OLLIE CROPSEY

  —Nell, can I see you out here a minute?

  My sister didn’t answer Jim Wilcox’s question. I did. And the response I gave has trapped me in that moment I will live over and over till my dying day.

  I was twenty then, and poor Nell was nineteen. She hadn’t been speaking with Jim for a while, hoping I suppose that he would stop calling on her. She looked over at me for an answer, and I nodded as if to say yes, it was all right. Nell stepped out into the front hall with Jim. There was a brisk, cold draft because a large pane of glass was missing from the inner front door, so I got up and closed the dining room door behind her. That was the last I ever saw of my sister.

  I let her go to speak with him because they had been awkward with each other long enough, on back into Indian summer and September of that year, 1901. Thanksgiving was a week and a day away, and Nell was leaving with Carrie the Saturday before to go north and spend it with Carrie’s family at Stony Brook Farm in Rockland County, New York. It was time Nell and Jim settled it.