These Honored Dead

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “I conclude each was incapacitated by the killer before the fatal blow was struck.”

  “How did he accomplish such?”

  The sheriff shifted in his chair. “I wasn’t present at the time, of course,” he said, “so I cannot be certain. But it’s my belief he induced them to ingest a potion rendering them insensible to the surrounding world. Once incapacitated, they had no ability to resist his deadly advance. I should note, in this regard, I detected a strong odor of alcohol near the bodies of Miss Walker and the Widow Harriman.”

  “And what of young Jesse?”

  “A bystander reported finding a partially eaten cake not far from the boy’s resting place,” Hutchason said, his eyes flickering toward me for a moment before returning to the prosecutor. “I can only presume the villain had soaked the cake with his potion before malevolently feeding it to the boy. Unfortunately, as the gentlemen of the jury know, the Globe stable fired that very evening, so that evidence, along with who knows what else, was lost to us.”

  “I was going to ask you about the fire,” said Prickett, giving his hair a well-practiced toss. “The gentlemen will remember well the night the Globe fired, I have no doubt. Do you accuse the defendant of arson in addition to murder?”

  “Sir, it is my method to be judicious in the charges I levy. I am not certain I can prove he set the fire, and therefore I do not accuse him of such before this tribunal. However, the circumstances are suspicious in the extreme.” He looked up at Prickett, who gestured for him to continue.

  “Young Master Jesse was killed in the barn at the back of the Globe stables. We know this from the straw about his person. I believe the killer meant to dispose of the body but was interrupted in his design by some intervening event. Someone unexpectedly entered the stables, most likely. So he hid the corpse in a nearby carriage with the intention of driving it out of Springfield later that same night. When, instead, the Widow Harriman sounded the alarm and a search was launched for the missing boy, the killer decided to obscure his tracks by setting the fire. He was, in the end, only partially successful.”

  Jane leaned over and whispered, “The whole thing’s speculation. Why isn’t Mr. Lincoln challenging the testimony?”

  “He’s choosing his battles, as he told you he would,” I returned. “Most of the sheriff’s testimony concerns matters the jury will have heard plenty about before the trial even started. I wager Lincoln thinks there’s not much profit in fighting to keep it out of evidence.”

  “On your view,” Prickett was asking the sheriff, “how was the killer able to fire the stables before the search parties reached them?”

  “By acting with alacrity, he was able to out-pursue the pursuers.”

  “Now, you mentioned earlier the Widow Harriman raised the alarm about her missing nephew,” continued the prosecutor. “How, specifically, did she do this?”

  “That’s just the thing, sir,” said the sheriff. “She did so by going to the house of this very man, the defendant.” He pointed at Patterson. The crowd murmured. “In other words, calamitously, she told the one man who didn’t need to be told, because he already knew of the boy’s tragic fate, and the one man who couldn’t be told, because it gave him time to spark the fire and thereby destroy evidence of his guilt.”

  A number of men in the gallery were now standing and yelling at Patterson. I recognized two of them in particular as men who had bravely stood on the roof of the Globe that night, fighting the insidious spread of the fire bucket by bucket. Judge Thomas pounded for order.

  Once he could be heard over the din, Prickett asked, “You said the Widow Harriman tragically chose to go to the defendant Patterson with news that young Jesse was missing. Did she later come to suspect Patterson himself was, in fact, the evildoer?”

  “I believe she did,” replied the sheriff.

  “And the basis for that belief is what?”

  “First of all, I spoke with a blacksmith up in Menard named Dickson, and he told me—”

  Lincoln was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor,” he shouted, loud enough to drown out any recitation of Dickson’s views. “Hearsay.”

  Before the judge could take the cigar out of his mouth to rule, Prickett coolly put up his hand and said, “Mr. Lincoln’s quite right, Sheriff. Dickson himself is coming in tomorrow to give evidence. There’s no cause for you to relate his words.” Lincoln sat down, mollified.

  “Let me put the question to you this way,” Prickett continued. “Did you come into possession of a writing by the Widow Harriman, shedding light on her relations with the defendant Patterson.”

  “I did, sir,” replied Hutchason.

  Prickett took up a small packet of paper from his table and unfolded it carefully. “What’s this?” he asked, handing it to Hutchason.

  The sheriff made a show of reading the document carefully to himself. When he had finished, he looked up and said, “A letter. Authored by the Widow Harriman and intended for the defendant.”

  “I should ask, Sheriff, how you came into possession of the letter.”

  “The widow left it with an innkeeper in town, for delivery to Patterson. But the proprietor—to his credit—recognized the potential public importance of the document and delivered it to you, Mr. Prickett, instead.”

  At Prickett’s prompting, the sheriff read the entire contents of Rebecca’s note aloud to the jury, taking care to emphasize the words “confrontation” and “quarrel.” Prickett then obtained permission from the judge to publish the writing to the jury, and each of the gentlemen examined it in turn. The spectators lucky enough to be standing behind the jurors stood on tiptoe and craned their necks to read the letter as it was passed down the row. The rest of the gallery murmured jealously.

  During the entire spectacle Dr. Patterson sat straight at attention, occasionally moistening his fingers and running them over his moustache. What were his thoughts, I wondered, at hearing aloud the final words of his intended?

  When the last juror had finished his examination, Prickett took up the note again and gave it back to the sheriff. “When did the Widow Harriman pen this communication, Sheriff, if you know?”

  “It’s dated last Thursday.”

  “And it refers to a confrontation, a quarrel, between the widow and the defendant occurring that same day, which is to say, last Thursday?”

  “Correct.”

  “And when, Sheriff, was the widow slain? When did some blackguard immobilize her, stretch his fingers around her neck, and squeeze?”

  The sheriff shifted in his chair. He looked very somber. I closed my eyes and tried to avoid imagining the moment of Rebecca’s death.

  “As near as I can tell,” replied the sheriff, “she was killed the very next day. Last Friday evening.”

  A gasp rushed through the room. Prickett gave a satisfied nod and sat.

  Judge Thomas called for a short recess, during which the courtroom hummed with excitement mingled with disgust. Then Lincoln rose to commence his cross examination.

  Those persons, myself included, who hoped Lincoln would match Prickett’s flair and forcefulness were disappointed. Lincoln established the doctor had not confessed to the charges and that Hutchason could not positively exclude the possibility another man had been responsible for the killings. And Lincoln got Hutchason to acknowledge none of the murder weapons had been owned by Patterson.

  The only frisson of excitement came at the end of his questioning. “Is it fair to say, Sheriff,” Lincoln said, his hands clasped behind his back and his long torso stooped forward, “you exhaustively considered all possible suspects before coming to lodge charges against my client, Dr. Patterson?”

  “Very fair,” returned the sheriff.

  “You considered every possibility? You left no stone unturned?”

  “Quite. I think the people of this county would expect nothing less of me.”

  “The people of this county expect when you determine to arrest a man for a crime, certainly for the most serious crime
of murder, you will do so only after having reached the conclusion, as a moral certainty, of the man’s guilt.”

  “Indeed,” replied the sheriff. A ripple of uncertainty passed across his face; I guessed he was trying to figure out Lincoln’s destination.

  “The Widow Harriman’s two wards, Lilly and Jesse, were the first two victims of this mendacious killer, isn’t that right?” continued Lincoln.

  “Yes.”

  “And you were well along into your investigation of those deaths when the tragic news came to you of the third death, that of the Widow Harriman?”

  “Correct.”

  “And isn’t it a fact you had determined to arrest the widow for those two murders—that you were, in fact, on your way to arrest her when you discovered instead she herself had fallen victim to the murderer?”

  “That’s right,” the sheriff said. The crowd buzzed with surprise. On the bench, Judge Thomas blew out a large cloud of smoke and scowled at Prickett.

  “What happened to your moral certainty the Widow Harriman was the killer of her own niece and nephew?”

  Hutchason stared at Lincoln open-mouthed, as if he did not comprehend the question. “I changed my mind is what happened,” he said at last. “The new evidence changed my mind. It’s apparent, of course, she hadn’t strangled herself.”

  “And what confidence,” continued Lincoln, “can the gentlemen of the jury have, if they determine to pronounce a sentence of guilt, that you won’t change your mind again based on some new evidence, this time about the guilt of Dr. Patterson—only this time after he meets his fate at the hands of the executioner?”

  “That’s not going to happen,” sputtered Hutchason.

  “How can you be sure?” Lincoln gestured to the jury. “How can they be sure?”

  “Well, for one thing,” said Hutchason, recovering his footing, “his guilt is apparent from the face of the widow’s letter.” He held up the folded packet of paper again. “I don’t see what intervening fact could change the import of this letter. They quarrel, violently it would seem, and the next day she’s dead.”

  “The letter,” repeated Lincoln. “That’s what I thought you were going to say. We’ll come back to it in due course.” And with that he resumed his seat next to the doctor.

  CHAPTER 33

  That night I dreamed repeatedly about Rebecca but never once glimpsed her. She remained in my nighttime world, as in my waking one, an invisible presence. A shade.

  I awoke to bright sunlight. The other side of our bed appeared undisturbed. If Lincoln had made any use of it he had, uncharacteristically, tidied it before departing. As I crossed the green to the courthouse, a few minutes before nine, my sister Martha called out my name. From the red streaks in her eyes, it seemed she hadn’t slept well either.

  “How’s Molly?” I asked. “Is there a baby yet?”

  “The baby hasn’t come,” Martha said. “And do you genuinely want to know Molly’s condition?” A brief pause, during which I remained mute. “I didn’t think so. I’m going to spend the day at her bedside. I think I can be of use to Phillis.”

  “Let’s meet for dinner at the Globe if Molly can spare you then,” I said. “I’ll let you know what happens in court today.”

  “Try to be kind to Jane,” said Martha as she made ready to depart. “She was devastated last night after hearing her father attacked as a cold-blooded murderer.”

  “So was I.”

  Martha gazed at me appraisingly. She looked much older than her seventeen years. “But your pain is in the past. Hers is in the present. And the future.”

  Dickson, the blacksmith from Menard, was already seated in the witness chair when I entered the courtroom and took my place on the front bench. The smith was long and powerful, with a high forehead, receding curly hair, and a fiery red beard. His muscular forearms bulged out of his loose-fitting, soot-stained tunic. Simeon Francis and I had spoken briefly with Dickson on the day of our reporting trip, and I knew him to be a man of few emotions and fewer words.

  “You operate a smithy a few storefronts down from Harriman & Co.,” Prickett began without preamble while the crowd was still settling into their seats.

  “That’s right,” replied Dickson. His deep, ragged voice was like an anvil dragged along a gravel path.

  “And you came to know the Widow Harriman well during the time you and she were both in business in Menard?”

  “Well enough.”

  “And you came to learn, over the course of time, about the deaths of the widow’s two wards, the young woman Lilly and then her younger brother Jesse?”

  Dickson grunted and gave what seemed like an affirmative nod. On the bench, Judge Thomas spit out his cigar and said, “You’ve got to answer with words, Mr. Dickson, not gestures. Do you understand?”

  Dickson glanced toward the judge and said, “Yes.” Then he turned to Prickett and repeated the same word.

  A quiet laughter spread through the crowd, which was, if anything, larger than the previous day. Dickson did not react.

  “Did you,” said Prickett, nodding at his witness encouragingly, “have cause to speak to the Widow Harriman about her tragic losses?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” said Prickett, trying again, “did you and she have a conversation about the deaths and about her views about what might have happened?”

  “No,” said Dickson blankly.

  In front of me, Lincoln looked over at the prosecutor with a bemused expression. In profile, his face looked weary. His frockcoat was rumpled and creased. Next to him, Dr. Patterson watched the witness attentively. There were no signs he had experienced trouble sleeping.

  Painstakingly, painfully, Prickett pulled the story out of the smith. The day Rebecca had travelled from Menard to Springfield to see the doctor—and meet with me and Lincoln—she had stopped by Dickson’s smithy first to ask him to keep an eye on her store. At the time, the smith relayed haltingly, she told him she was going to Springfield because she had figured out who was responsible for killing her niece and nephew.

  “Those were her exact words?” Prickett said over the murmuring audience. “That she’d figured out who committed the crimes?”

  “Right.”

  “And what did you say in response, when she told you this?”

  “Don’t think I said anything.”

  My mind was racing. If Rebecca had actually figured out who the murderer was, why didn’t she tell me and Lincoln? Had she said anything to us that might provide a clue to her thoughts? The smith’s story didn’t ring true and yet—given the difficultly Prickett was having in pulling it from him—there was no indication he was fabricating.

  Meanwhile, Prickett was trying without success to elicit additional details from Dickson. Finally, the prosecutor asked, “And do you know, in fact, that the Widow Harriman’s destination that day, after she told you why she was traveling to Springfield, was the home of this man, the defendant Allan Patterson?”

  “I don’t,” replied Dickson.

  “Well, it was,” said Prickett. “That’s where she was going.”

  Lincoln shot up, saying, “Objection, Your Honor. If Attorney Prickett intends to testify himself, the least we can do is have Matheny swear him in first.”

  “Sustained,” said Judge Thomas, before Prickett could respond. “Do you have anything else for this witness?” When the prosecutor hesitated, the judge said, “Then sit down and let Mr. Lincoln ask his questions.”

  Lincoln stood and walked in a big semicircle, passing in an arc by the jury box before coming to rest directly in front of the witness. “Good morning, Dickson,” he said reasonably.

  “Morning.”

  “Did you ask the Widow Harriman who it was she thought was responsible for the murders?”

  “No.”

  “Weren’t you interested in learning who the murderer was, or at least who she thought it was?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t know who she had in mind?”
>
  “No.”

  “So as far as you know, the Widow Harriman could have intended to accuse Sheriff Hutchason, or Attorney Prickett, or even Judge Thomas up there on the bench of having committed the first two murders?” The crowd tittered nervously.

  “True enough. Can I go now?” Dickson added. “I’ve said all I have to say.”

  “You can go,” said Lincoln, resuming his seat.

  After the judge called for the morning recess and left the bench to replenish his supply of cigars, I turned to Jane Patterson. She, too, was looking strained and tired.

  “What did happen, between your father and Rebecca Harriman, the afternoon she showed up?” I asked, talking quietly so neither the spectators around us nor the doctor in the well in front of us could hear.

  “I’m not sure,” she replied. “I wasn’t home at the time. But there was no scene, no long argument, I can assure you. My father was perfectly normal when I returned home later that day.”

  “Were you aware of the understanding between your father and the widow? Before the letter was read aloud yesterday, I mean.”

  “Of course,” she said quickly. Something about the way she replied made me wonder, but the judge was back on his bench calling the proceedings to order.

  “Your Honor,” Prickett announced, “the People call Dr. Weymouth Warren.” The doctor, one of Patterson’s principal rivals in town, walked stiffly to the stand. He was long-faced and dolorous, with a flowing gray beard. Like Patterson, he wore a surgical coat stained with the insignia of his profession.

  The contrast with the prior witness could not have been greater. Where the blacksmith struggled for monosyllables, Warren expounded in paragraphs and sometimes chapters. Warren’s discussion of his background and experience in the medical arts extended at such great length that the judge was obliged to call for the luncheon recess in its midst.

  A cynic might have wondered if Warren was more interested in recruiting patients from among the assembled multitudes than in providing his evidence. If this was indeed his goal, however, he had severely misjudged his audience, which looked on with increasing impatience as he expounded upon himself.