These Honored Dead

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 26

  That 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 defen
ded?”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 27

  By the time I got downstairs to prepare the store for opening the next morning, rain was coming down in great sheets. I stood at the front door next to Herndon and watched it fall.

  “Doubt we’ll do much business today,” said Herndon.

  “I know it’s not your usual shift,” I replied, “but will you watch the counter for me? I’ve an errand to accomplish.”

  Herndon readily agreed, and in a moment I had thrown on an overcoat and broad-brimmed hat and pushed open the door. Staying close to buildings wherever possible, and avoiding the muddy bogs forming in the low-lying areas of the streets, I wound my way through town. Soon I was knocking on the door of a familiar small shack, the rain pouring off my hat like a downspout.

  “You must need a trim something desperate to come out in this weather,” Billy the Barber said when he opened the door. “Come in, come in. You ain’t got much competition this morning, that’s for sure.”

  I stepped inside and took off my outer gear as a pool of water formed at my feet. Billy started setting up his tools beside his barbering chair, but before I walked over I called out, “Hay? Are you about?”

  “Mornin’,” came a sleepy voice from Billy’s back room. As far as I knew, Hay had no permanent home, but he spent many nights camped on the floor beside Billy’s mattress.

  “Aren’t you due at Lincoln’s office?” I asked.

  “Not for another hour,” said the boy as he wandered into the front room, scratching his scrawny chest. From the look of him, deeply begrimed in his dingy underclothes, he hadn’t bathed since the spring.

  “Do me a service and leave now,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “Head over to van Hoff’s and rent a phaeton and hitch Hickory up to it. Tell van Hoff it’s for me. Then drive it to Patterson’s house and I’ll meet you there. Here’s a half-dime for your trouble.”

  “Where’re you takin’ Patterson’s daughter?” Billy asked.

  “I’m not taking her anywhere. And I’m not answering your questions. Just go.”

  “But it’s rainin’ out.”

  “Do you want the half-dime or not?”

  Hay wavered, then nodded and, throwing on a too-large jacket, went out. Meanwhile, I leaned back into Billy’s chair, my eyes c
losed, and let him comb out my hair.

  “This ain’t much longer than you usually wear it, Mr. Speed,” the barber said. “You sure you want me to cut it?”

  “Just a little, then,” I said. “It’s been bothering me.” As he started snipping away, I asked, “How long have you been barbering folks, Billy?”

  “’Bout ten years now. Started doing it down in New Orleans. White man keeps the Negro in chains, but for some reason he’ll let him hold a sharp blade to his throat so long as there’s lather involved.”

  “When you put it that way, it does seem rash,” I replied with a smile. “I imagine you hear all sorts of things while you’re cleaning folks up and making them look presentable.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” I continued. “About those people who’ve been killed, the Widow Harriman and her niece and nephew. My younger sister’s here for a visit, and all of a sudden I find myself worried about her safety, about the safety of all the young women in town in particular.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “So I was wondering whether you might know something about the deaths. Do you, Billy?”

  The barber blew out his breath through his teeth, one of which, on the top row, was missing. “That be the sheriff’s business, don’t you think?” he said. “Or Attorney Prickett’s. I’ve got enough to do tending to people’s hair.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said.

  There were a few minutes of quiet, during which I searched for another approach, while Billy whistled softly to himself in time with the clacking scissor blades. At length I began again.

  “Have you been known to trim Dr. Patterson’s hair, Billy?”

  “I reckon he’s been by once or twice.”

  “So what’s your opinion? Do you think he’s guilty?”

  “Ain’t got no opinion. All I’ve got is these shears.” He held them up for a moment, then went back to work on my whiskers.

  “Let me ask you another question about Patterson. Maybe you’ve got an opinion on this. If he wanted an evening away from home, to have a private encounter, say, do you have any idea where he might go?”