These Honored Dead (15 page)

T
he sun was low on the southwestern horizon by the time I mounted Hickory to ride home. I had rinsed my hands and face in the stream by Rebecca’s house, but the pall of death remained everywhere about my person. Though I considered bedding down in Menard for the night and getting an early start the next morning, I was in no mood for the boisterousness of the muster. As it was, Hickory and I barely made it through the muster field, stepping carefully over soldiers passed out from drink and weaving our way through a gauntlet of bonfires and bands and bare-knuckle boxing contests.

We raced the sun and then, having lost, rode carefully through the moonlit prairie. A cool breeze ruffled Hickory’s chestnut mane and transformed the long grasses into rolling waves. The night sky was very clear. A thousand stars shone down from the heavens.

Rebecca Harriman was dead. I repeated the unthinkable truth over and over in my mind. Her presence in Sangamon County had been inseparable from my own, and I felt keenly that a part of my own history had vanished alongside her. Bringing her killer to justice wouldn’t bring her back to life, of course, but it was the only thing I could think of to help salve my loss.

I thought again about the words of Rebecca’s letter to Dr. Patterson. Could the sheriff be right that they pointed to the
doctor as the murderous culprit? It seemed far-fetched. What possible motive could he have had for killing the two children? I imagined the sheriff, or at least the venal Prickett, responding that he had done so to remove them as “obstacles” to marrying Rebecca. But if that was the case, then why would he have killed her in turn? The doctor fancied himself, above all, as a man of reason, but there was no reason behind the actions they sought to ascribe to him.

That left the question of the identity of the depraved man who had eliminated in turn each member of this tossed-about family. But by the time the farms surrounding Springfield began to materialize from the dark and perilous prairie, I was no further toward answering it.

I took Hickory to her stables, gave her a much-deserved rubdown, and went home and collapsed into bed. Given the horrors of that very long day, it was a blessing I fell asleep immediately and did not dream.

The next morning, Sunday, I awoke to a scribbled note on Lincoln’s side of the bed saying there would be a court session at two o’clock in the afternoon I might want to attend. After I dressed, I headed down to the storeroom, thinking I should go find Martha. As it turned out, my sister was at the bottom of the stairs waiting for me, her arms crossed impatiently.

“At last,” she exclaimed. “I was about to come rouse you myself.”

“I had a ghastly day yesterday,” I said, and I started to tell her about it.

“I’m afraid I know all about the Widow Harriman,” she said. She put her arms around my shoulders. “I’m ever so sorry. Humble came home yesterday evening very agitated and told me and Molly what’d happened.”

I returned Martha’s embrace and released her. “Wallowing in her death won’t do anyone any good,” I said. “I need to find out who did it. Lincoln left a note there’s to be a hearing?”

Martha nodded. “Dr. Patterson’s been thrown into the jail cell. I caught a glimpse of Lincoln out there early this morning. I think he’s defending him.”

“I can’t believe they actually arrested him.”

“I called upon Jane Patterson a few hours ago,” Martha said, “and she’s devastated. Absolutely devastated. I assured her it’s all a mistake and her father would probably be set free this very afternoon.”

Martha and I reached the town square several minutes before two. Word of the unusual court session had spread quickly, and large numbers of men and women in Sunday dress milled about in front of the courthouse, trading speculation about the purpose of the hearing. More than a few in the crowd had heard about a commotion at the Patterson house the previous night. Sheriff Hutchason stood at the top of the courthouse steps, holding the door shut against the multitude.

There was a sudden murmur from the crowd, and we saw Jane walking toward us. Her countenance, previously clear and composed, was blotchy and her eyes were streaked with red. Martha hugged her, and I gave her my hand.

“Father’s completely innocent,” Jane said fiercely.

“I understand he’s asked Lincoln to defend him,” I said. “Lincoln will do his best, I’ve no doubt, to rebut the charges.”

“He’s devoted his whole profession to saving lives,” she continued. “How can they think he’d take one?”

Martha squeezed her arm comfortingly. At that moment, Sheriff Hutchason called out from the top of the stairs, “Court’s open. The judge says you can all come in now.” The crowd surged forward, nearly trampling us in their fervor to secure choice viewing spots for this unexpected but most welcome after-church entertainment.

The public benches at the back of the courtroom were crowded with men in silk top hats and ladies in prodigious lace bonnets and ostrich-plume caps by the time the two young women and I managed to file up the dusty courthouse steps. I
was looking around for a place where Martha and Jane could sit when Hutchason gestured toward me. He had saved a small space on the front bench, directly behind the defendant’s table. The women and I hurried over and squeezed in beside one another.

Lincoln and Patterson were inclined toward each other in close conversation as we took our seats. Jane called out to her father, and he turned and gave her a smile and gave one toward Martha too. He looked tired and anxious. Several of the men around us muttered angrily at the sight of the doctor’s face.

There was a knock on the door of the antechamber and Matheny, the court clerk, shouted for order. Judge Thomas ascended the bench, wearing his dark church suit rather than his judicial robe. The judge had evidently given himself a dispensation to smoke his cigar on Sunday, as it smoldered in his clenched right hand.

“It’s the Lord’s day, Prickett,” the judge began, looking over to the prosecutor, who was seated at the other counsel table in the well of the courtroom. “I understand, though, you have a matter that cannot wait.”

“Your Honor,” Prickett said, rising confidently, “I am pleased to report to the Court, and to the people of Springfield”—he gestured to the assembled crowd—“we have apprehended the scoundrel responsible for the terrible murders that have lately afflicted our community. Your Honor, the People of the State of Illinois charge this man, Allan Patterson, with three counts of murder with malice aforethought.”

Prickett pointed at Patterson with an outstretched arm cloaked in a ruffled sleeve and a long, powerful finger. The crowd around us erupted in jeers and angry shouts. More than a few men called out, “String him up!” Lincoln leaned over and whispered something into the doctor’s ear. I saw Jane trembling on the other side of Martha.

From the bench, Judge Thomas puffed on his cigar and watched the crowd howl. Matheny looked over at him for
instruction, but the judge gave a quick shake of his head.
Let them rage
, he was saying.

After a minute or two, the crowd’s fire began to burn itself out. When it had been reduced to embers—mere growls and angry murmurs—the judge looked at Prickett again.

“Have you confronted the defendant Patterson with your charge?” the judge asked.

“We have, Your Honor. The sheriff and I questioned him together last night, just as soon as we uncovered the final pieces of evidence pointing ineluctably to his guilt.”

“And what did he say?”

“He refused to answer our questions,” Prickett responded. “Said he’d only talk to his lawyer. Demanded we send for Mr. Lincoln.”

Another angry howl arose from the crowd. Most of the spectators, it was clear, viewed the doctor’s conduct as an admission of guilt. On the bench, Judge Thomas seemed to concur. He sucked on his cigar and stared at Patterson and Lincoln unsparingly.

“In that case,” the judge said, blowing a huge cloud of smoke into the air, “the Court finds there is cause to hold the defendant Patterson on the charge of murder. How do the People wish to proceed?”

“With an immediate trial,” Prickett responded. “I note the Court’s September Trial Term happens to commence tomorrow. I am quite sure the Court already has an exceptionally busy docket, but I humbly submit this matter take precedence in view of the great interest of the community in the apprehension and punishment of this villain. The People are prepared to begin the murder trial tomorrow morning if the Court is amenable.”

This announcement set off a new wave of tumult in the courtroom. Men turned to their wives and said they figured nothing would be harmed by delaying the harvest preparations for a few days. Wives asked husbands what they’d like packed in their picnick lunches. The innkeeper Walters, who was sitting directly behind me, loudly announced to the crowd that his City Hotel
would be serving luncheon every day at a time corresponding to the jury’s midday recess. Not to be outdone, Saunders climbed atop a bench on the other side of the courtroom and shouted at the top of his voice that persons wishing to lodge at the Globe for the duration of the trial rather than riding in from the outskirts each morning could do so at a special reduced rate.

Once again, the judge let the excitement die away on its own accord. When it had, he turned to Lincoln and asked, “Your plea on behalf of the defendant, Mr. Lincoln?”

Lincoln stood tall, hands clasped behind his back. “Not guilty, Your Honor,” he announced in his reedy voice.

“And do you care to comment,” the judge said, puffing in and out on his cigar, “on the People’s suggestion we proceed with trial tomorrow?”

“That’s much too soon,” Lincoln said. “The Court will appreciate, I trust, that I was only retained for this charge in the past eight hours.”

The judge looked unsympathetic. “You’ll have had over twenty-four hours by the time we’re finished picking the jury tomorrow, Mr. Lincoln,” he said, “Surely that’s sufficient.” The crowd murmured in concert. Jane grabbed at Martha’s arm. In front of us, Patterson looked up at Lincoln with concern.

“With all due respect, it’s not, Your Honor,” Lincoln returned. “I need more time to investigate my defense. I think two weeks—”

The judge held up his hand and said, brusquely, “You’re not getting two weeks. Or one, for that matter.”

Sensing his advantage, Prickett rose again. “Your Honor,” he said, “if Mr. Lincoln wants an
extra-ordinary
amount of time to prepare, may I suggest he make a preliminary statement of his defense now. The man’s as much as admitted to being the killer by his refusal to explain himself.”

“We’ll put the People to their proof first, Your Honor,” Lincoln said. “As is our right.”

Judge Thomas scowled at Lincoln over his smoldering cigar, while Prickett said, “I doubt trial will last longer than the morning, in that case. It sounds like Mr. Lincoln has got nothing to say to the jury because his client is guilty. What can he expect?”

“I expect the jury to listen to all the evidence and not to reach any conclusions before they have,” Lincoln replied evenly.

Many men, and more than a few women, were calling out angrily again, and this time Judge Thomas directed his clerk to impose order. Matheny hollered for silence, and when this failed, he stalked along the low railing dividing the public section from the well of the courtroom and shouted down the disobeying spectators one by one.

“Trial is set for Tuesday morning,” the judge announced when, at length, quiet had been restored. “
This
Tuesday morning, Mr. Lincoln, not the next one. That will give you another full day to find your defense.” The judge took two deep pulls on his cigar and expelled a large cloud of smoke, which hung over him like a rain cloud before it slowly dissipated.

“In the meantime, the defendant is to be held without bail. Make sure nothing happens to him, Sheriff,” the judge said, looking at the hulking form of Hutchason, who had been standing guard next to Dr. Patterson at Lincoln’s table. Hutchason nodded without removing his gaze from his prisoner.

“And listen carefully, all of you out there,” the judge added, pointing at the crowd with the burning end of his cigar. “We’ll have a verdict before the end of the week. Banish any thoughts of dispensing justice yourselves. That’s why we employ the hangman.”

As the crowd rumbled its approval and the judge walked off the bench, Jane Patterson reached over and grabbed my arm. “You’ve got to help Mr. Lincoln save my father,” she cried desperately. “You two are his only hope.”

T
hat evening, Martha and I were taking our dinner at the Globe’s public room when Hay appeared on the threshold. “Lincoln asked you to come by his office when you’re finished, Mr. Speed,” the boy said. He stole a glance at my sister, but as soon as he saw I was watching, he scampered away.

“I’ll walk you home first,” I said a few minutes later, once we had finished devouring two large slices of Mrs. Saunders’s huckleberry pie.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Martha said. “I’m coming too.”

I knew it would be useless to argue, and so we headed off together toward Hoffman’s Row. The public excitement of the afternoon had long since faded; the town was deserted, and the silence was broken only by the crunch of our footsteps on the moonlit dirt-and-gravel streets.

“How is Jane?” I asked as we turned the corner onto Fifth Street. “I know you accompanied her back to her house after the hearing.”

“She was on the edge of tears the whole time. She kept asking me what she would do if her father was convicted and actually hung.” Martha shuddered.

“What’d you tell her?”

“We’d make sure it didn’t happen. You and I. And Lincoln, too, of course.”

We were mounting the stairs to No. 4 now. “Do me a favor,” I said, “and don’t tell Lincoln he’s an afterthought in your design to get the doctor acquitted.” Without breaking stride, Martha kicked me in the back of my leg. I yelled out in pain.

“That must be the Speeds,” Lincoln called from his office.

The door was ajar and the room was, if possible, even more disordered than usual. In addition to widely flung paper and parchment, several half-eaten meals littered the floor. Two candle stubs burned in the middle of the table, perilously close to the scattered papers.

“Good evening to you both,” Lincoln said. “I figured, when I sent Hay, I’d end up with two Speeds for the price of one.”

“What’s your plan for having the doctor acquitted?” Martha asked as Lincoln was still pushing around debris to make two places to sit.

Lincoln gave her a crooked smile. “I only wish,” he said, “the doctor’s enthusiasm for his own defense matched yours, Miss Speed.”

“What do you mean?”

With a great sigh, Lincoln threw himself down onto the buffalo robe draping his chair. “I’ve spent the better part of the day, before and after the hearing, talking to Patterson through the bars of the jail cell,” he said. “Without elucidation. I still don’t fully know what his position is. Or, as a consequence, what mine is. That’s why I had to dance that jig in front of the judge earlier. I’ll tell you—if I’d been wrongly accused of three murders I’d be a lot more outspoken than he’s been.”

Martha was chewing on her lower lip. “Surely he’s still under the shock of the accusation,” she said. “I wonder if most men would behave differently. How does he compare with other men accused of murder whom you’ve defended?”

“I’d say Patterson is about average,” Lincoln said casually. I snorted.

“What’s funny?” Martha asked, looking back and forth between us.

“Lincoln’s made a mathematical joke,” I said. “This is his
first
murder case. So, by definition, Patterson’s the average thus far.”

“You’ve never done this before?” Martha asked with genuine concern.

“I’ve represented men accused of various sorts of criminal misconduct,” said Lincoln, “but never this severe.”

“But then why did he hire you?”

“Watch your impertinence,” I said sharply, but Lincoln held up his hand and said, “You needn’t defend me, Speed. It’s a fair enough question, Miss Speed. I assume it’s because the good doctor has familiarity with me from the real estate dispute with Major Richmond.”

“I wonder whether the major’s the one who should have been arrested,” Martha said. She rose and started pacing about, as if it were she who was preparing to address the jury. “We know he bears a grudge against Dr. Patterson, so it makes sense he would have wanted to harm people close to him. Indeed, he might have attacked Patterson himself the other night at Torrey’s if you hadn’t been there to step between them, Joshua. And we know Richmond was also at Torrey’s the night Jesse disappeared. Did you see him at the muster in Menard? It’d certainly make sense, given he wears that sorry uniform around all the time. If he was there, that places him at the scene of at least two of the murders.”

“I didn’t spot him,” I admitted, “though I may have overlooked him. It was a mob’s scene, from start to finish.”

“Thank you for your opening statement, Miss Speed,” Lincoln said with a smile as my sister resumed her seat. “I fully intend to argue at trial Richmond might be the actual killer. Among others. Perhaps it was Speed’s favorite suspect, the Prussian Gustorf.” Martha started to protest but Lincoln put up his hand. “Perhaps it was the unsavory poorhouse master you encountered in Decatur. Or perhaps it was a madman, as you suggested earlier, Miss Speed, one not locked away in a poorhouse. Who knows for sure?

“Remember, the prosecutor Prickett bears the burden of proving, beyond any reasonable doubt, that Patterson was the killer. I don’t need to prove anything myself. Merely suggesting it might have been someone else is enough for me if it causes the jury to have doubts about Prickett’s case against Patterson.”

“But I want to know who the killer was,” I said.

“I know you do,” said Lincoln. “And so do I.
After
this week. For this week, my only aim is to ensure Patterson doesn’t swing from the gallows. That’s all I can manage—quite possibly more than I can manage. If that doesn’t suit you, Speed, there’s no need for me to involve you in the defense. Defending Patterson is my professional brief after all, not yours.”

“Do you think he’s guilty?” I asked.

“Nothing’s been proven in a court of law,” said Lincoln, “and it doesn’t make sense he would have wanted to kill them, any of them, even if there’s evidence suggesting he could have done so.”

“That’s good enough for me,” I said. “I’d much rather be of use, especially if it helps bring Rebecca’s true killer to justice.”

“Can’t you show the doctor was somewhere else when the murders were committed?” asked Martha. Her face lit up and she added, “In fact, on the night of Jesse’s death, we know exactly where he was. Dining at his home with us. So he can’t possibly be guilty of that one. Have you told the sheriff?”

“I have,” replied Lincoln, “and apparently Prickett intends to try to prove the boy was killed earlier in the evening and then hidden away in the Lafayette carriage for disposal later. The sun had set by the time you got to the Patterson house for dinner?” He looked at me.

I thought back to that night, which seemed so long ago though it was barely two weeks earlier. “That’s right,” I said. “We came here so I could introduce you to Martha. When we left Hoffman’s Row and walked to the Pattersons, it was dark already, as I recall.” There was pause, as each of us remembered the argument about Phillis’s appearance in Springfield that evening, though none of us said anything about it now.

“I wonder how Prickett obtained the letter?” I thought aloud.

Lincoln looked up sharply. “What letter?”

“Prickett or Hutchason didn’t tell you?” I asked. I described Rebecca’s note and recited its contents from memory. “I don’t actually know whether Patterson read it before Prickett intercepted it.”

“I’m vexed they’ve failed to disclose it to me,” Lincoln said with a frown. “I wager it will be their central evidence, at least as to the widow’s murder. It certainly suggests an argument between the two preceded her murder.”

“What about the night of Lilly’s murder?” asked Martha. “We know the widow wasn’t actually at the market fair that day, where she said she was. How about Patterson?”

“I’ve asked Patterson repeatedly about that day,” said Lincoln. “As near as I can tell, he wasn’t at his home in Springfield. But he’s been maddeningly vague. Where he actually was, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Perhaps he was with Rebecca somewhere,” I suggested. Even as I said this I flinched.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” said Lincoln, “especially in light of the letter you just told me about.”

“But if the doctor’s not telling you for some reason,” Martha said to Lincoln, “and Rebecca’s . . . well, how are we going to prove where he was?”

And then, all at once, I was struck by a notion of how to discover if the doctor had an alibi for the night of the first murder.

“Leave this one to me, Lincoln,” I said. “I’ve had an idea.”