These Honored Dead (12 page)

W
hen I returned to A. Y. Ellis & Co. at noon that same day, the urgency of my task came into sharp focus. The new edition of the
Sangamo Journal
was waiting on the counter. Simeon’s lead story reported Rebecca Harriman had become the sole suspect in her wards’ murders. Simeon also reported that Rebecca’s violent arguments with her niece Lilly had been widely known in Menard in the weeks leading up to the girl’s death.

My temples pounding, I threw down the paper and rushed over to the
Journal
’s offices on “chicken row,” the dilapidated north side of the town square.

“This is an outrage,” I roared as I pushed through the door.

The phlegmatic newspaperman did not look up from his composing table. “You do realize,” he said, “that shooting the messenger does nothing to change the message.”

“Of course. But even so . . .”

“Even so, Speed. That is the message. I’d have thought you’d thank me for passing it along at once, when you still might be able to do something about it.”

“If I didn’t know it would make you happy, I’d cancel my subscription,” I said. The newspaperman was chuckling as I slammed the door shut behind me.

I decided to complete my interrogation of the mysterious Prussian Gustorf. I went straight to Dr. Patterson’s house and asked to see him. But the hired girl told me he was still recovering from the doctor’s medical procedure on his leg.

“It’s a matter of immediacy,” I said as I pushed past her into the home.

At that moment, Patterson himself emerged into the hallway from his public parlor, shutting the door carefully behind him. “What’s this?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the girl. “I told him he couldn’t—”

“I need to talk to Gustorf at once,” I said.

“Why?”

“A private matter between me and him.”

“It’ll have to wait, whatever it is. He’s in no condition to receive visitors.”

“But—”

“When he awakes from sedation, I’ll tell him you called,” Patterson said, ushering me toward the door.

As I walked back to my store, I tried to build a brief against Gustorf in my mind. He had gone into Rebecca’s store in Menard, perhaps, and encountered Lilly there. He’d made roguish advances toward the girl, and when these were rebuffed, he’d attacked her and slit her throat. Later, he’d encountered Jesse in the barn behind the Globe and . . . what? Had he somehow connected Jesse to Lilly? Why had the small boy been a threat, or a prize, worth doing violence to? Did I accuse the Prussian of pederasty as well as murder? I had to admit to myself none of this seemed very plausible. I needed a better theory of the case, as Lincoln had called it.

I was trying to construct one as I sat across the table from Lincoln at the Globe during dinner that evening, staring at the cracked ceiling in search of inspiration while chewing on a roast leg of lamb.

“Did you see Simeon’s story?” asked Lincoln, breaking into my thoughts.

“Of course. I imagine everyone in town did.”

“For once his reporting hit the mark. I was talking with Humble earlier today about his investigation. Seems the widow can’t account for her whereabouts on the evening of the boy’s murder. And they think she didn’t react with a mother’s sorrow when word of his death reached her.”

“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 barn, 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.