These Honored Dead

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “If they’d actually been with her that evening, as I was, they wouldn’t say that. She was hysterical. Inconsolable.”

  “Perhaps,” Lincoln said evenly. “But to make matters worse for her sake, some of her neighbors in Menard have been telling Prickett she’s well known to be a woman of loose morals. Prickett is convinced this makes her as good as guilty of murder.”

  I threw down my leg of lamb with a clatter. “She’s a Christian woman,” I exclaimed, loudly enough that the men down at the other end of the common table turned to stare at me. Had my own actions, my own desires, contributed to the unjust cloud of suspicion over Rebecca? I could not abide the possibility.

  “You’ve got to take her on as a client,” I said more quietly. “Surely you can do something to help her avoid a charge.”

  “Does she desire my representation?”

  “Probably not. She’s strong-headed. But she does not, in all likelihood, realize the true jeopardy she’s in. Couldn’t you talk to her now and understand the full truth of the matter from her? Then convince Prickett and the sheriff their suspicions are misguided.”

  Lincoln rubbed his smooth jaw for a few moments. “The next time she’s in Springfield, why don’t you bring her by Hoffman’s Row and we’ll all have a chat. There’s not much of use for me to do until a crime’s been charged. But if it will help put your mind at ease, or be of some small assistance, I’m happy to sit down with her.”

  I wasn’t about to take any chances Rebecca might be arrested before Lincoln could provide her with his good counsel. The next morning, I scribbled out a note saying she had to come see me as a matter of urgency. I tracked down Hay, whom I found loitering on the green behind the crumbling courthouse, and bid the boy to ride up to Menard with it and to wait for her reply before returning. Just in case she hadn’t seen it yet, I bundled a copy of the Journal article with my note.

  Hay returned as the sun was setting, his face streaked with sweat and grime from his long ride, and reported that Rebecca was already planning to be in Springfield the very next day and that she’d reluctantly agreed to stop by my store after concluding her other business. I asked Hay to convey the news to Lincoln at once and the boy nodded with a weary, put-upon sigh.

  The following afternoon, the door to my store swung open and Rebecca stood at the threshold. She was still wearing her all-black outfit of mourning. Swollen pouches I’d never noticed before hung beneath each of her eyes, and lines of worry creased her forehead.

  “You wanted to talk?” she said without ceremony or sentiment.

  I did not respond but rather took her by the arm and led her up the street toward Lincoln’s office at No. 4, Hoffman’s Row. “Where are we going?” she demanded as we climbed the creaking staircase.

  We reached the door to Lincoln’s office and I pushed it open.

  “Good afternoon, Widow Harriman,” Lincoln said as he came forward. “Won’t you please have a seat—”

  “This is your doing?” Rebecca asked Lincoln. She did not move to take Lincoln’s outstretched hand and instead remained in the entry to the law office, hands defiantly on her hips.

  “No, I’m solely to blame,” I said. “See here—I can’t stand by and let people think you’re guilty. Or not take steps to prepare for your defense, if it comes to that. I asked Lincoln if he’d meet with you and perhaps give you a bit of advice, wisdom. On . . . your situation.”

  “Meaning no offense to Mr. Lincoln,” she replied, looking at me with unfriendly eyes, “I’m in no need of his wisdom.”

  “You’re hardly the first woman to have spoken those words,” Lincoln murmured.

  Rebecca smiled at this, but when she turned back to me, her face resumed its hardened expression. “I know you mean well, Joshua,” she said, “but I’ll thank you for letting me attend to my own interests myself. Good day.” She took two steps toward the still-open office door.

  “Wait,” I called. “On the day Lilly died—I know you weren’t at the Buffalo Heart fair.”

  Rebecca stopped in midstep. The expression on her face was unreadable. “What makes you think that?” she asked.

  “I encountered the merchant Peters the other day. He told me.”

  “Why don’t you stay for a minute,” said Lincoln in a voice free of accusation, “and let’s talk about matters more fully.”

  Rebecca nodded and turned back into the office. Lincoln hurriedly shifted around the debris of his law practice to make two places for us to sit.

  “Now, Mrs. Harriman,” Lincoln continued, once we were all seated, “I’m going to proceed on the premise you had nothing at all to do with the deaths of your niece and nephew—”

  “Of course not,” said Rebecca with feeling.

  “Of course not,” repeated Lincoln reasonably. “Nonetheless, as Speed here says, the sheriff and Prickett have been pursuing inquiries about you. I want to ask the same questions to you directly—not because I think there’s any truth to them, but because knowing your answers might help me convince them they’re on the wrong track.”

  Rebecca nodded. Viewing her face in profile, I’d never seen her look so old or so tired.

  “On the night of Jesse’s murder, they’re saying it took several hours after he first went missing for you to raise a general alarm.”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Rebecca asked, her hands flying up helplessly. “Ten-year-old boys run off and find mischief—Jesse, especially. I’m sure the sheriff did himself, if he can remember that far back. I had every reason to think he’d turn back up, sooner or later.”

  “You were lodging at Torrey’s that night?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “And there were people in the public room there who could attest to your presence during the course of the evening, I assume?”

  “There were plenty of men who saw me,” she said. “Whether they’d swear to it, I suppose that depends whether they were supposed to be somewhere else at the time. And on their state of intoxication.”

  “By any chance was there an old veteran there, bulbous nose, old plumed hat?” I asked.

  Rebecca turned to me in amazement. “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” I said, feeling pleased we were making some progress. “I’ve seen him there before. Seemed like a regular. Your opponent in the land case, Lincoln, the esteemed Major Richmond,” I added.

  “What do you remember about that fellow?” Lincoln asked Rebecca.

  “Mostly that he was very drunk. He was wandering in and out of the tavern, talking to himself the whole time. At one point, he made a clumsy advance, but I laughed him off and he didn’t bother me thereafter.”

  “Definitely a possible suspect,” I said.

  Lincoln nodded. “How about the night Lilly died,” he continued. “You weren’t home that night or the preceding day?”

  “No.”

  “And I take it, from what Speed said, you weren’t at Buffalo Heart either.”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me where you were that day?”

  She paused but only for a moment. “No.”

  Lincoln stroked his chin. “You should think carefully about that,” he said. “It’s no crime to disappear for a night, of course. But in light of what happened . . .” His voice trailed away.

  “The hunting knife that was used to kill Lilly,” I said. “Prickett said he found one just like it in your back house.”

  Rebecca let out a long sigh. “That’s my one mistake,” she said. “The knife was mine, part of a matched pair my late husband gave me as a wedding present. When I saw it had been used to stab dear Lilly I . . . I guess I panicked and didn’t want it to be so. So I didn’t tell Prickett the truth and I tried to get rid of its mate. I shouldn’t have, obviously.”

  I looked over at Lincoln and saw that his concern about this revelation matched mine. “That’s very unfortunate,” he said. “But not something we can’t deal with. Where was it kept?”

  “Out in my b
arn, mostly. I figure the killer rendered Lilly helpless, somehow, then spotted it and did the terrible deed.”

  “Who do you think the killer was?” I blurted out. “You must have some notion.”

  “There’s no need to put her on the spot—” Lincoln began.

  But Rebecca interrupted him to say, “Actually I do have an idea. A pretty good one. It’s one reason for my journey here to Springfield today, in fact.”

  Both Lincoln and I stared at her but she did not continue. “Well?” I said after a moment.

  She shook her head. “I can’t say. Maybe—maybe someday soon. But not now.”

  “But surely you yourself are in jeopardy, Rebecca,” I said. “He could come after you next if you don’t turn him in immediately. You’re being reckless in the extreme.”

  “I’m in no danger,” she said, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

  “Speed’s advice is sound,” said Lincoln. “If you think you know who did it, you should tell the sheriff at once. Even if it’s true you’re in no physical danger from this blackguard—and I’m not sure how you could have confidence about that—you’re certainly in danger of being arrested. I know that for a fact.”

  “Tell me this, Mr. Lincoln,” Rebecca said, her voice rising with emotion. “Why would I murder my own kin? The charge is preposterous.”

  “I haven’t heard Prickett or the sheriff give any theories on what motivation you could have had for such terrible acts,” Lincoln said. “Perhaps they’d ask if you weren’t overwhelmed by the sudden responsibility of having to care for two almost-grown children, where you’d had none before.”

  Her face darkened. “Those men haven’t the first idea of the hardships, the responsibilities I’ve dealt with all my life. Lilly and Jesse—they were the only children I’ll ever have the chance to raise. And now they’re . . .” Rebecca had said these last sentences in a croak, and now she blinked her eyes and looked to the floor.

  We sat in silence. Lincoln absent-mindedly ran his hands over his buffalo-skin wrap. After an interval, he continued: “Prickett has got it into his head that some of your neighbors up there in Menard have unkind things to say about you.”

  “I expect they do,” Rebecca replied. Her face had hardened into a protective mask again. “Doesn’t make me a monster who’d do harm to my own niece and nephew.”

  “Of course not.” He paused. “I’m the first one to say you can’t worry about gossip. People will talk about other people behind their backs. It’s practically the first rule of society. But until they’ve arrested the outlaw, you might want to take care not to give your neighbors more reasons to tell tales.”

  “If I listened to my neighbors’ advice, Mr. Lincoln,” Rebecca said, getting to her feet, “I’d have long ago remarried a homely widower and given him a new batch of children to support him in his dotage. I live my own life and I don’t need advice on how to do it. From anyone. Good day to you both. If I’m in want of further wisdom, I’ll know where to find you.”

  We listened as her footsteps receded down the staircase.

  “What do you think?” I asked Lincoln when we could hear them no more.

  “I think I won’t let you pretend any longer you’re not smitten with her,” he said. When I started to protest, he held up his hand and turned serious.

  “I think she’s probably innocent. But it’s beyond dispute she’s not telling us everything she knows. And she’s playing with fire if she truly knows who the villain is. It’s obvious she’s used to keeping her own counsel, but that habit is going to put her in grave trouble before long, if it hasn’t already.”

  “By the way,” I said, making ready to depart myself, “I should have known this before I asked you to intercede. What’s your record with murder cases?”

  “Haven’t lost one yet,” he said.

  Reassured, I was halfway out the door when I realized his true meaning. I turned back to him and said, “Why do I think that’s the same thing the novice surgeon says to his first-ever patient?”

  “But no less the truer,” Lincoln said with a small smile. “No less the truer.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The following day was a Friday, the first day of September. When Herndon arrived to take his afternoon shift behind the counter, I set off to interview Gustorf again. This time, I came armed with a new stratagem for gaining admittance to the Prussian’s sickroom: my sister Martha.

  Sure enough, the Pattersons’ hired girl led us into the doctor’s parlor at once. Herr Gustorf was still on the couch, now in a half-sitting position with several pillows lodged behind him. There was an enormous plaster log resting where his shattered leg used to be.

  “What is that damned thing?” I exclaimed as we entered.

  “Ah, Miss Speed,” Gustorf said, flashing a gleaming smile at my sister. “As soon as the girl said it was you, I knew you were just the tonic my spirits needed.” Martha’s face colored. Turning to me, he added, “Patterson calls it a ‘cast.’”

  “Is it supposed to work instead of your leg?”

  “It’s supposed to cure my leg, believe it or not. At least that’s what the doctor says. Myself, I don’t particularly believe it, but I seem to have been unconscious when he imprisoned me in it, so I have little choice but to see if he proves right. If he does—well, that’ll be quite a nice story for my book. Perhaps it will be even if he doesn’t.”

  “So your leg’s somewhere inside there? The doctor didn’t amputate?”

  “So I’m told.” The Prussian turned back to Martha. “But I’m terribly bored with my cast. And with the small slice of sky I can see.” He gestured toward the window above his resting place. “Tell me something interesting from the outside world, Miss Speed.”

  Martha obliged him and I let her chatter on. Gustorf’s flirtations seemed harmless as long as he was weighed down by the heavy cast. In fact, when the hired girl looked in, I took the liberty of asking her to bring us two glasses of the doctor’s liquor and some well water for Martha so we could toast to the Prussian’s renewed health. Neither the doctor nor his daughter was in evidence and I did not inquire about them, figuring they would merely serve as obstacles to my design.

  Instead, I listened patiently as Gustorf spun stories about his encounters with self-important students at Eastern universities and foul-mouthed alligator men on Mississippi riverboats. He had downed his third glass and just finished relating a story of questionable taste having to do with his half-sister disarming an enraged colonel in Vienna when I decided it was time to proceed.

  “Say, Gustorf,” I began, “I was thinking about your touring itinerary. We talked about it on the afternoon of your accident. When you passed through Menard—”

  “Which village, now?”

  “This is the little outpost north of here, with a smithy I suggested you visit.”

  “If you say so.”

  “There’s also an interesting general store in the same settlement. Harriman & Co. Provisioners. Did you happen to go in there?”

  “I don’t think so. Where is that girl?” he added, looking around the room with frustration. “The last glass she poured was a miserly one.”

  “I’m sure she’ll return soon,” I said. “Do you remember encountering a young woman in Menard, close to my sister’s age?”

  The Prussian shook his head. “If I had seen another young woman with even half your sister’s charms, I would remember her, I assure you.” Martha smiled broadly.

  At that moment, the girl appeared and Gustorf began negotiating for an additional glass or three.

  “Mind yourself,” I whispered into Martha’s ear. “Remember why we’re here.”

  “He’s a cad, not a murderer,” she whispered back. “I can tell the difference.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Gustorf’s charm seemed to work on the hired girl as well, as she soon returned with a fresh bottle of the doctor’s spirits, which she balanced next to the Prussian on his couch. As soon as he’d helped himself
to a new glass, I continued.

  “I’ve been looking into the death of that boy, the one whose body was found in your carriage.”

  “Have you?” he returned with genuine interest. “So shopkeepers in your country also investigate crimes? What an unusual arrangement. I shall certainly have to make a note of that in my book.”

  “I’ve an interest in the boy,” I pressed on. “He was . . . a distant relation of a sort. And he was a friendly, harmless lad. Are you sure you hadn’t seen him alive at some point during that day?”

  “Quite sure,” replied Gustorf, sober for a moment.

  “Before the stables began to fire, did you know that he was missing and a search was on for him?”

  “Before, during, and after the fire, I was reclined in my chair inside the tavern. I was quite comfortable, as the wine was flowing and it seemed apparent others had a greater interest in the fire than did I.”

  “But what would you have done if the fire had spread to the tavern itself?” asked Martha.

  “Not worrying about things that haven’t happened yet gives one much more time to enjoy the things that are already happening,” Gustorf said with a smile. He swallowed the remains of his glass and poured himself a new one.

  “Have you been to the public room of a place called Torrey’s?” I asked. “Torrey’s Temperance Hotel?”

  “Alas not,” he said. “I’ve been told by more than a few people in town I’d like it. But I never made it through the door, and then my horses got into that brush with the hog and I find myself imprisoned here. I never thought I’d be so unhappy about a brush,” he added, winking at Martha.

  She giggled. I decided it was time to go. I had only one last question: “If you knew nothing about the boy, why did the killer put his body in your carriage as a hiding place?”

  “I’d think he was planning to drive away later in the evening, to dispose of the body somewhere, when the fire interrupted those plans. Or perhaps the search did.”