“If there is a trial,” said Jonathan. “I believe that matters may follow an unexpected path.”
“What do you mean?” asked Abigail. “Why are you being so cryptic?”
He glanced at Rellman, whose flabby face said he had known all along that Jonathan was unreliable. “I am not being cryptic at all.” He went to the peg, took down the coat that Little had just hung. “I had better get up to the Hill,” he said, and went out.
Abigail could not help herself. If Rellman was going to tell stories, then he would tell stories. She hurried into the hall, calling Jonathan’s name, and caught him at the top of the stair.
“What is it?” she demanded. “What happened?”
The shadows beneath his eyes told her that he had slept poorly, if at all. When he spoke, his voice was toneless. “Remember what Stanton said? About the letter that supposedly doesn’t exist? The one that will convict Mr. Lincoln? Well, Miss Hale says they have one. She says it was given them by one of the President’s close associates. A written order instructing a general to ignore congressional statutes.”
“Do you know who the general is?” she asked, not unreasonably. “Will he be testifying in person?”
“I don’t know. Bessie—Miss Hale—doesn’t know.”
“What is her source?”
“She is not in a position to say.”
Abigail tapped a long finger against her chin. “That means her father, I suspect. Mr. Bannerman says his loyalties are unclear.”
“Mr. Bannerman? Do you mean Fielding?”
“We met at the Eameses’.”
Jonathan was hardly listening. “I wish Sickles were here. Dennard thinks only of legal argument, and Speed is a fool.” He was inching toward the stair. “And both of them would dismiss the tale as rumor. Dan Sickles understands politics. More important, he understands Washington. He will know what to do.”
What Abigail said next, she said kindly. “You know, Jonathan, we have to consider the possibility that there is no letter.” He stopped in mid-stride. “Miss Hale may be scattering these breadcrumbs to keep you, as it were, on her trail.”
Jonathan opened his mouth, shut it again. “I suppose that is possible. Still, when she speaks of it, she is very persuasive.” He realized how he must sound. “Perhaps you are right. But we cannot afford to assume that the letter is chimerical. We must plan for the possibility that it has turned up.”
II
Dan Sickles arrived late in the afternoon. Rellman had disappeared, so Abigail was holding the fort. Sickles listened to her repetition of Jonathan’s tale, and told her not to worry about it. “But if there is a letter—”
“If there is, there is. No point in worrying about what you can’t change.”
He lounged on the settee with his bad leg up and hummed a couple of popular tunes, beating time with his walking stick. He seemed quite pleased with himself.
“Mr. Sickles,” she finally said, “I am trying to work.”
He nodded. “The sheer power of my presence is often distracting.” He sat straighter. “I saw Grant. I saw a few more people, too. I think everything is going to work out.”
“And by everything, you mean …?”
“Never mind. Let’s just say we have a few surprises of our own now.” He turned toward McShane’s office. “The materials from Chanticleer still in there?”
Abigail swallowed. “No.”
“Dennard sent everything on to Mrs. McShane, right?”
“Yes. Only Mrs. McShane would not accept the package. She gave it back. She said that we needed it.”
“If she gave it back, and it’s not in the office, then I assume you took it home with you.” She nodded. “Good,” said Sickles. He rubbed his hands together. “Have you been through it?”
“Please don’t tell Mr. Dennard,” she said, coloring. “But, yes. I have been through the package. There were four other folders of materials from Chanticleer. I have been through those, too. I’m still not sure what it all means.”
“What’s in the folders?”
“Nothing that seems important,” Abigail confessed. “A statement of ownership of a steelworks in Pennsylvania. Additional papers concerning the railroad dispute in South Carolina. A contract for shipping cotton. A few other matters. I fear that Mr. Dennard may be right. These materials may be unrelated to the trial.”
“I am quite sure Dennard is wrong. Go back and study those papers. There is something there.” He shut his eyes briefly. “I won’t tell Dennard you kept the package. You won’t tell him, either.” He shut his eyes briefly. “Speed is going to stay up at the Capitol negotiating the rules of the trial. Dennard and I are going over to Congressman Garfield’s to see if we can’t work out a compromise. Hilliman will take notes. You get the night off.” Even with his eyes closed, Sickles sensed her stiffening. “Fine. It’s not fair. But our only goal in this thing is to help our client.” He laughed. “It’s all a waste of time anyway. We’ll negotiate into the night, but it will never come to anything. Mr. Lincoln can’t back down. Neither can the other side.” His voice grew fainter. “Know something? That’s how the Civil War started.”
III
That night, Abigail attended the theater with the persistent Fielding Bannerman, who not only refused to consider allowing her to find her own transport, but brought along a lovely bouquet for Nanny Pork. He was charming and courteous, and regaled Abigail with stories of his many absurd relatives, including a particularly eccentric uncle who had decided to invest his entire fortune to try to find a method of transmitting telegraph signals through the air without wires, which every scientist knew to be impossible. Said Fielding.
The show was a comedy revue. Parts were satirical; parts were risqué, and Fielding’s whispered asides were even more so. At the intermission, she was spotted by Crete Garfield, who bustled over, pretending to be delighted, and dropped broad hints about the vital negotiations going on even now at her home: she had been sent out for the evening while the men did the work.
“I suppose you are suffering the same tragic fate, Miss Canner.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Your fellow clerk, Mr. Hilliman, is even now closeted with the others, working on the details of a compromise. Whereas you”—eyeing Fielding—“have plenty of time for fun.”
Abigail was word-struck. A bell signaled the second act, and Fielding took her by the arm, but by that time General Lafayette Baker was at her side, wondering whether he might have a word.
IV
“I understand you dropped in on the widow McShane the other day,” said the head of the federal Secret Service. “I understand you upset her tremendously.”
They were in a small, airless room, stuffed full of programs and props, the chamber of the theater manager. Abigail had told Fielding to go back in, that she would join him presently, but he was waiting loyally in the lobby.
“I went to pay my respects,” said Abigail.
“But that wasn’t the only reason, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Don’t fence with me, Miss Canner. We haven’t the time. Mrs. McShane says that you suspect a conspiracy, and that you think the police have the facts of Mr. McShane’s murder all wrong.”
“That is what I told her.”
The little office was very hot, and Abigail found herself perspiring. Out in the theater proper, the audience was laughing hard, so Abigail supposed the second act must be a good deal funnier than the first.
“Mrs. McShane says she told you that she has accepted the conclusions of the police, and that you should, too. She said you refused. She said you made insinuations that the conspiracy included some of the most powerful people in Washington City. Is this correct?”
Abigail considered. Either General Baker was lying about what Virginia McShane had told him, or, more likely, Virginia McShane had lied to General Baker: for some reason, Mrs. McShane did not want the head of the federal Secret Service to know about her husband’s suspicions.
And that meant—
“Is this correct, Miss Canner?”
“We had a disagreement, General. Let the matter end at that.”
Baker had his hands on his wide hips. He towered over her. She was reminded forcefully that this was the man who had seen to it that none of the major conspirators in the plot to assassinate Lincoln two years ago had lived to tell their stories.
“You have been told to leave this matter alone, Miss Canner. Now I am telling you again, for the last time. The murder of Arthur McShane is solved. The case is closed. There will be no further questions about it. Not by you. Not by anybody. Is that clear?”
“Yes, General. It is clear.”
“Good. Because, if I have to tell you again, I’m locking you up.” Grinning savagely. “And believe me, Miss Canner, all those tales you’ve heard of what happens to prisoners in Elmira and Point Lookout? They’re all true.”
One of Baker’s men ushered her back to the lobby. Fielding took one look at her face and offered to drive her home. Abigail shook her head. She insisted on seeing the rest of the revue. After the show, they shared cracked crabs at the late buffet at the National Hotel. Fielding gossiped and made jokes, and a grateful Abigail tried not to think about Baker’s threats. She was pondering instead Mrs. McShane’s lie to him about their conversation. Lafayette Baker spoke for Stanton; and Stanton was these days Lincoln’s closest adviser. If the widow was willing to hide from General Baker what she shared so readily with Abigail, that could only mean—
“I need to speak to Jonathan,” she finally said.
“Oh, absolutely. Absolutely. Hills is a delight. When one is down, his sense of humor will fill—Oh.” He saw her expression. “You mean now.”
V
For Jonathan Hilliman, the events after his arrival at the Bannerman manse that night would always remain a blur.
The negotiations at the Garfield residence had been long and dispiriting, with Jonathan himself frequently exiled to the kitchen. Dennard, on behalf of the President, had offered several compromises. Stevens and Butler, on behalf of the House Managers, were adamant. Lincoln’s Cabinet had to resign, with the exception of Stanton, to be replaced with a Cabinet more consonant with congressional policy. Lincoln had to agree, in writing, that no major decisions regarding either the disposition of troops in the Southern states or the question of eligibility of Southerners for office would be made without the approval of the Congressional Joint Committee on Reconstruction. When Dennard finally agreed to take all of this back to his client, Butler added a third condition: the President had to admit, publicly and in writing, that he was guilty of the charges against him.
Dennard said such a course was impossible: Lincoln would lose all ability to govern. Butler refused to back down; and, just like that, the negotiations collapsed.
It was nearly eleven before Jonathan arrived home. He expected to find Fielding drinking in the library as usual, but Ellenborough told him that “young Mr. Bannerman” had not yet returned from the theater. Jonathan poured himself a drink and settled down to wait. Ellenborough freshened the fire. Jonathan tried to get him to go to bed, but the butler explained that his duties did not permit him to turn in just yet. Not until young Mr. Bannerman was home. Surprised to find his glass empty, Jonathan poured himself a refill. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on toward midnight. Only now did Jonathan admit to himself that he had been brooding, all through the negotiations, on the fact that Fielding and Abigail were out together.
Again.
Absurd, of course. He had no claim on either of them. They were adults and could do as they liked. Another glass. He continued to brood, then had a sudden, brilliant notion to pen a note. He was not sure to whom he was writing, and after a while not sure what he was writing, either, so he tossed the pages into the grate. That would teach her. At some point he decided to shut his eyes for a minute, and in his dream Abigail crouched in front of him, softly calling his name as she pressed a wet cloth to his forehead, and then Fielding and Ellenborough were lifting him by the armpits and dragging him to the stairs. Jonathan found the dream hilarious. Fielding could not possibly be helping him to his room and onto the bed, because Fielding was out with Abigail, who was every bit as engaged as Jonathan himself was. Somebody pulled off his shoes and tugged blankets over him. In the dream he heard Fielding whisper, “You are an idiot, Hills,” and then Abigail’s worried voice on the landing, as though she would ever be upstairs at the Bannerman residence. True, Fielding occasionally brought women home. But Abigail Canner was not that kind of woman. Abigail was—she was—was his—
He slept.
CHAPTER 24
Mollification
I
“I HAVE SPOKEN to Stanton,” said Rufus Dennard. “General Baker will not trouble you again. I am outraged that he bothered you last night. You should have informed me at once.”
“Thank you,” said Abigail, and meant it. She was standing in front of her employer’s desk. Jonathan was in his accustomed place at the table, but the two of them had scarcely exchanged a word. It was Thursday morning, four days until trial, and there was a great deal of work to be done.
“There is something else,” said Dennard. His jowly face was unusually pink today. “The only reason General Baker tracked you down at the theater is that you upset Mrs. McShane. I cannot imagine what possessed you, et cetera. My instructions were perfectly clear. You are not to pursue the question of what happened to Mr. McShane.”
Abigail stood very still. Big soft snowflakes drifted from the darkness to stick briefly against the windowpane before swirling onward.
“Sir, I think—”
Dennard held up a restraining hand. “I know what you think, and I told you to abandon your inquiries. My rules. My firm, my rules.” He had balled soft fists on the desktop. “My goodness, Miss Canner. Do you believe yourself to be the only person in Washington City who cares about the crime? Don’t you think I wish I could press the police to act with more alacrity? You are searching for the killer of a stranger. I lost a dear friend. But I cannot spare the effort just now. The risk to our client is too great. If you are going to be a member of the bar, you must learn to temper emotion with duty, et cetera. Is that clear, Miss Canner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are to drop this matter. Once and for all. I do not want to hear again that you are taking an interest in this terrible crime. Otherwise, I shall dismiss you, no matter what the political consequences. Do you understand, Miss Canner?”
Abigail frowned. “Not entirely. Why would there be political consequences to my being dismissed?”
“You do not know? No one has told you?”
“Told me what?”
The countenance softened. The anger was gone. “Well, never mind. I don’t suppose it is important just now.” He considered. “When I took you on, I was simply doing a favor for Charles Finney, who is a dear friend, and to whom I owe a great deal. I had no particular expectations. I frankly assumed that Finney was simply trying to make a very public statement in that way that he has. Something to do with equality, et cetera. Well, I see that I was wrong. You are indeed going to be a lawyer, Miss Canner. Oh, you will have problems. As I am sure you are aware, there are yet a fair number of states that, by rule, do not admit negroes to the bar, and many that maintain rules, either formal or informal, against the admission of women. How you deal with that is your own concern.” He pulled a letter from his desk. “When the trial is over, you shall begin to study formally, assignments and so forth. The work will be difficult. You will have two years to master all of the law of the Anglo-Saxon people. I have engaged Judge Davis as your tutor. You will have to make some sort of financial arrangement with him. That is your business. I assume that you can afford it.”
“Yes,” she said, because any other answer would be embarrassing. She would work it out somehow.
“Good. Now. Second. Third, I suppose. You are my apprentice, but you remain the junior clerk. We are going to the
Mansion this afternoon, Hilliman and Speed and myself, to discuss what happened last night. No, Miss Canner. Nothing to do with General Baker. Last night, I fear, the settlement negotiations collapsed, just as Sickles predicted. So we must meet the President and take a view. You will remain here and hold the fort. If this arrangement discommodes you in any way, I assume you will keep it to yourself. We haven’t the time for more distraction. We have a client to defend and a trial to win, and the time for personal pique is behind us.” The pouchy eyes seemed to bore into hers. “Do you understand me, Miss Canner?”
“I do, sir.”
“Do you have any complaint?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Now, go away and send in young Mr. Hilliman.”
II
“I warned you,” thundered Stanton. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery, either from anger or from illness, although there were those who said that he took opium. “They were never serious about these negotiations. They were testing us for weaknesses, and we stepped into their trap. We showed them how weak we believe our own case to be!”
They were at the Executive Mansion once more, in the Cabinet Room, Stanton on his feet, Dennard and Speed and Lincoln seated, Sickles on the divan. Jonathan was in the corner, taking notes. Abigail and Rellman were back at the firm, watching the office. Perhaps by leaving Rellman behind Dennard intended to soften Abigail’s exclusion.
But Jonathan turned his thoughts away from her, certain that the whole room was aware of his embarrassed flush. This morning over breakfast, Fielding had called Jonathan several varieties of fool. Just tell her, Fielding kept saying. But when Jonathan asked what precisely he should be telling her, Fielding cited the question as more evidence that he was a fool.
“Well, now, Mars,” the President was saying, chair tilted back as usual. “I’m not all that sure we showed we were any weaker than they were. Maybe their effort to negotiate was just a feint, but, for all they know, maybe ours was, too.”
The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Page 23
