Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

“How long have you been the clerk?” I asked.

  Simmons peered up, his eyes grotesquely magnified by his thick glasses. “Ever since the Springfield land office opened in ’23. We’ve had seven registrars in that time but only one clerk. I’ve outlasted ’em all.”

  “And how did Early compare, would you say, to his predecessors?”

  “I shan’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “Of course not. Would you say he paid more or less attention to the business of the office than the men before him?”

  “Most of them was interested in the fees above everything else, and Early was no different,” Simmons said with a shrug. “As long as I opened the desk at nine bells and closed them at four, he left me alone.”

  “In the past few months, did you notice anything changed in the way Early was behaving?”

  Simmons put down his pen and gave me his full attention. “For a man who says he’s interested in buying property, you sure have a lot of questions about someone who don’t work here anymore. What’s your real interest?”

  At that moment, I felt Martha at my side. She held one of the land entry books in her arms. “I’ve noticed, Mr. Simmons,” she said, “that the entries in these books have been made by several different hands. Can you help me tell them apart?”

  Simmons’s stare remained fixed on me and his mien was distinctly unfriendly. “It don’t matter who wrote what,” he said. “The records are the records.”

  “I’ve seen black ink and sepia ink,” continued Martha, unflinchingly. “I’m thinking one color is the one you used and the other was Mr. Early’s. Ah, I see you’re partial to the black,” she added, looking down at the parchment in front of Simmons. “So Early must have been sepia. I’ve answered my own question.”

  “You have.”

  “Come along, Joshua.” Martha took my arm, giving it a quick squeeze. “We’ve taken more than enough of Mr. Simmons’s time.” She steered me through the door, her hands gripping my arm tightly.

  Martha marched me down the block and around the corner. The excitement on her face was unmistakable. “What is it?” I demanded when she finally allowed us to come to a stop.

  “I found notes that Early must have made while looking into the scheme, whatever it was. They were tucked in between the pages of a land entry book from 1835, one that isn’t being used anymore. I figured they were his, but I wanted to confirm it was his writing, so that’s why I asked about the ink color.”

  “Well done! We can go back tomorrow and you can show them to me.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Martha replied with a laugh. She reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out two sheets of paper, creased together into thirds and crisscrossed by tiny notations in sepia ink.

  CHAPTER 14

  We decided to ask Truett about the notes Martha had found. The next morning, I met Martha at the Hutchason house, and we walked to the jail cell in the backyard.

  I was shocked by Truett’s appearance when we came upon him. Captivity was taking a great toll. His dandified clothes were gone, replaced by coarse trousers and a sweat-stained work shirt. His hair was disheveled and his face was unshaved and haggard. Slight to begin with, he appeared to be losing weight.

  “You must get me out of here,” he cried when he saw us approaching, his filthy hands wrapped around the bars of the cell. “I keep telling the sheriff, I’m not made to survive in conditions like this.”

  “Lincoln’s hard at work preparing for your trial,” I said, thinking it best not to mention the political stump tour, “and we’re doing what we can to help. That’s why we’ve come this morning. Take a look at these.”

  I handed Early’s notes through the bars and explained where we’d found them. Truett examined the pages carefully, turning them this way and that. After a few minutes, he nodded and handed them back to me.

  “You say these were made by Early?” he said.

  “We think so.”

  “I always knew he was doing an incompetent job at the land office and these are proof of it. The registrar position should have been mine from the start. In fact—”

  “Please, Mr. Truett,” Martha broke in earnestly, “we’re trying to help get you freed. Surely the land office job is secondary right now.”

  Truett took a step back and exhaled. Gradually his grimy face relaxed into a faint smile. “I suppose you’re right, Miss Speed. I can’t help myself sometimes, but you’re right. Here’s what I think he was doing.”

  Truett led us methodically through Early’s densely packed notations. When he had finished, we understood that Early had constructed in effect a grid in three dimensions, tracking the number of land plots bought and sold by different individuals, for every half year since the start of 1834, in each case along with the named surveyors of each plot. Nearly two dozen different men had purchased or sold at least ten properties in the time period in question, and Early’s investigation seemed to focus on them. Then Martha had a brainstorm.

  “We should match up these names with the list of persons who attended the Edwardses’ party,” she said, snapping her fingers with excitement. “If Mr. Early was killed to conceal some misconduct in the land office, then the killer’s likely to have been someone on this list who was also at the party.”

  Her logic seemed undeniable. We sent a note to Mrs. Edwards advising her of our desire to call, and shortly after noon we received word back that we were welcome to come at once.

  As we climbed toward the Edwards mansion, Martha hummed happily. Despite our long exertions of the previous few days, I had rarely seen her looking so serene. After a while, I asked her to identify the tune.

  “‘Devote your sacred head for one such as I.’”

  “Never heard of it. Where’d you pick it up?”

  “At the meeting last weekend.” Martha stared resolutely ahead, placing one foot in front of the other, and it took me a minute to comprehend her meaning.

  “You went to the camp meeting? I thought I told you it was a crock.”

  “I don’t recall asking your opinion on the matter,” she said, “and I’m quite glad I didn’t. Your friend Miss Butler was right. It was a joyous congregation. And an agreeable place for young women, I should add.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “After the sermon, two of the exhorters gathered a group of us in a circle. Other young women, all. We started talking about the path to enlightenment, but before long we were discussing our common condition. I’ve never participated in such a conversation, certainly not in public like that. It was really quite amazing.”

  “Condition? What condition?” I asked, not bothering to hide my skepticism.

  “The condition of being a woman in this society,” she said, her cheeks glowing with passion. “To have your intellect confined, your morals crushed, your health ruined, your weaknesses encouraged, your strength punished. Of being treated as second-class. Without rights or status.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I said. “You have rights and status. A common farmer’s wife, I suppose I could understand your point. Not agree with it, but at least understand it. But not Miss Martha Speed of Louisville, daughter of Judge Speed, proprietor of Farmington.”

  Martha stopped and turned to face me. Her eyes glistened. “If only you, of all people, understood, Joshua.”

  “When have you ever been treated as second-class?” I said, resuming my march up the slope.

  “When haven’t I? Why, look no further than yesterday. Remember how that odious clerk talked to us? Whenever I said anything, he responded to you. It was as if I didn’t exist.”

  “He’s old and nearsighted. He probably didn’t even see you.”

  “Exactly!” cried Martha, and when I looked to her for further explanation, she thrust her head back and marched ahead, leaving me in her wake.

  Soon the Edwards house loomed in front of us, radiant in the afternoon sun, the cream-colored walls of the mansion giving off the shimmer of pale gold. The front door was opened b
y a Negro boy of about fourteen years. We asked for the mistress of the house.

  “Thank you, Joseph,” said Elizabeth Todd Edwards, dismissing her servant as she approached us from the far end of the long entrance hall. “Mr. and Miss Speed. Your note said you’re interested in something relating to that dreadful business on the night of our party?”

  “Mr. Lincoln’s been hired by Mr. Truett,” Martha began eagerly, “the man charged with the murder—”

  “I know all about Henry Truett,” interrupted Mrs. Edwards.

  “What do you know?” I asked.

  She glanced around to make sure no one else was within earshot. “Ninian always says I shouldn’t talk about the other politicians in town, but he can’t expect me not to form opinions. We always know the truth about men before the men themselves realize it—isn’t that so, dear?”

  Martha favored her with a broad smile.

  “Henry Truett is the little terrier who thinks he should have been born a Great Dane,” continued Mrs. Edwards. “What God didn’t give him in stature, He gave him in orneriness. I’ve never had a five-minute conversation with him that didn’t end in a quarrel, even if he’s in perfect agreement with me and every other person present. He can’t help himself.”

  “I imagine you saw the argument between him and Mr. Early earlier that evening,” I said.

  “It was the worst fear of every hostess. I was trying to find Ninian to help extinguish it when Stephen intervened. Thank heaven for Stephen.”

  Martha sighed audibly. I glared at her.

  “Unfortunately,” continued Mrs. Edwards, “he couldn’t prevent the calamity at the end of the evening. And now Truett’s been charged with the killing and Lincoln’s representing him. I understand. I’m a lawyer’s wife as well as a politician’s. I learned more about the law than I ever wanted to know back when Ninian was attorney general. What does Lincoln need?”

  “We have two favors to ask,” said Martha. “First, we’re hoping you have a list of the guests who were present. It stands to reason one of them has to be the killer, as distasteful as that sounds. And second, we want to walk around your grounds. If we can make a map of the area where Mr. Early was standing at the moment he was shot, we might be able to figure out where the shot came from.”

  Mrs. Edwards nodded. “I think I still have the list I used to send out invitations. You’re welcome to copy it. And after that, help yourself to the grounds. Just do me a favor and don’t trample on the dahlias. They’ve just started opening and I do love them.”

  We assured Mrs. Edwards we would take care to avoid her flowers, and she led us into the drawing room and pointed to two chairs beside a small desk. “I’ll have Joseph bring you the list,” she said, turning to leave.

  “Before you go,” I said, “may I inquire of the health of your sister Mary?” Mary Todd had lodged with her elder sister in Springfield the previous summer, and I’d found myself beguiled by her clear blue eyes and serious wit. “She performed a favor for me at the end of her visit last year, for which I am grateful. I found her a most capable and handsome young woman.”

  “She’s doing quite well, thank you,” replied Mrs. Edwards. “Indeed, she talks of leaving Lexington to return to Springfield permanently, perhaps as soon as next year. I think she prefers the openness of the frontier to the structure of our father’s house.”

  “In that event, she and I see eye to eye,” said Martha with a laugh. “Having lived here for a few seasons myself, I can’t imagine ever going back to my father’s dungeon.”

  Elizabeth Edwards gave Martha an indulgent look and departed. A few minutes later, her servant came in with two creased, well-handled sheets. He also folded down the desktop to show us the location of a bottle of ink, a quill pen, and writing and blotting papers.

  “Why don’t you read off the names and I’ll write them down,” said Martha. “My penmanship’s far superior, you have to admit.”

  I did not argue. I squinted at the pages; they were covered by cramped scribbles, juxtaposed at assorted angles.

  “It looks like some of the names have a single check mark next to them and others have two,” I said, examining the pages. “I’m not sure what they mean.”

  “Invitations sent out and replies received,” suggested Martha. “Or persons attending. Maybe you got two check marks if you said you were coming.”

  “You and I got two marks,” I said, “but I see Simeon Francis here with only one, and he was assuredly present as well.”

  “Do you think he would have sent back a reply note?”

  “Almost certainly not. I think we’re better off writing down all the names.”

  Martha agreed, and she copied down the names on a clean sheet of paper as I read them off. At the bottom of the first page, wedged into a corner at an angle, I came upon the notation “Father Lincoln + son,” followed by two check marks.

  “So she included people who showed up uninvited,” I said as I read the names aloud for Martha. “She was certainly a meticulous hostess.” Martha nodded, running her finger absently along the ridge of her quill.

  When we were finished, we had a list of 129 persons, including virtually every politician, lawyer, and member of the other learned professions in Springfield, along with their wives and some unmarried sisters. Both of us agreed that total seemed about right for what we remembered of the size of the party. Comparing it to Early’s list of land purchasers, we found a half dozen names on both lists, including Ninian Edwards himself, the publisher George Weber, Truett, Douglas, and Henry Owens, the apothecary. I pointed at Douglas’s name and raised my eyebrows.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Martha. “I think Henry Owens is the interesting one. We should investigate him.”

  “I did see him having an animated discussion with Early during the party,” I said, thinking back. “I wasn’t close enough to hear what they were talking about. But I don’t think Lincoln would want us to interrogate his beau’s brother in his absence.”

  Martha thought about this. “You’re probably right. Let’s go walk the grounds.”

  We stepped into the hallway and nearly collided with the servant Joseph, who was coming in the opposite direction. He was of medium build and dark-skinned, with a scar on his nose and wide-spaced eyes.

  “Is your mistress about?” I asked.

  “No, sir. She went down into town sometime back. Can I deliver a message?”

  “We merely wanted to thank her for her help. We’ll be going outside to look around for a spell. Your mistress said that was fine.”

  Martha had finished blotting her list of names and was beside me now, her shawl around her head and shoulders. “How long have you been the Edwardses’ servant, Joseph?” she asked.

  “Not their servant, ma’am. Their bondsman.”

  “How long have you been in bond to them, then?” asked Martha, glancing at me with surprise.

  “Since the day I was born, ma’am. My momma was their bondsman before me. She’s not with us anymore.” He gave a brief nod, then stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes averted as we walked down the entrance hall.

  “Can that be true?” Martha asked as soon as the front door closed behind us.

  I gave a rueful nod. “Under the Illinois constitution, Negro children can be held in contracts of indentured servitude until they reach a particular age. It’s slavery in everything but name. I imagine his mother agreed to indenture him to Edwards upon his birth.”

  Martha gasped, her hand over her mouth.

  “Anyway,” I continued, nodding, “you know as well as I do that he’s much better off being held to his bond as a house servant on Quality Hill than in the fields of a sugarcane plantation in Louisiana.” I did not add, or the fields of a hemp plantation in Kentucky, though both my sister and I knew that perfectly well, too. “Now let’s see if we can map the grounds.”

  Martha murmured something under her breath. I thought I heard the phrase “another unseen person,” but when I
asked her what she’d said, her back stiffened and she replied, “Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

  We walked away from the house toward the lip of the rise overlooking town. I wandered around a bit, trying to judge the angle we’d had for viewing the fireworks. “About here,” I said, coming to rest at last.

  “And where was Early standing?”

  “He fell right there,” I said, pointing to the ground a few paces away. “Presumably that’s where he was standing when he was shot.”

  Martha took out a pencil and a large sheet of card paper and began sketching the immediate landscape with considerable skill.

  “Which direction was he shot from?” she asked.

  “That’s a good question. He was shot from the front. The wound was in the direct center of his forehead. Whoever shot him was staring straight at him, and vice versa. So it depends which way Early was turned at that moment.”

  “Surely he would have been looking out toward the fireworks.”

  But when we gazed forward from the spot where Early had been, we immediately saw the problem. The Edwards yard extended for another five feet, then quickly gave way to the sloping hillside. “I don’t see…” began Martha, before trailing off.

  “You’re right. If he was shot while looking out, the killer would have been right there in front of him. Surely Early would have seen him and called out or tried to get out of the way.”

  “And you would have seen him too,” said Martha.

  I looked around at where I’d been standing and then back to the presumed spot of the assassin. “Probably,” I said. I took in the undulations of the grounds again. “Unless he was down the hill.”

  “But in that case, I don’t think he would have had a shot. The crest of the hill would have obscured the line of sight. Here—I’ll stand on Early’s spot and you go over the ledge and see if you can still see me.”

  I did as Martha suggested. As soon as I went over the lip of the hill and took two steps down, she disappeared from view. I kept backing away. The slope of the hillside undulated as it fell away toward town. But at no point during my descent was even the top of Martha’s shawl visible. I hurried up the hill to rejoin my sister.