A House Divided

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “I know,” said Martha, bobbing her head. “I pleaded for Archibald to talk to Lincoln first, but Henry started arguing back and wouldn’t let Archibald say another word for himself. I knew I had to enlist your help. Oh, we’ve got to hurry!” She gathered her skirts in her hands and splashed ahead through the mud.

  “Did you hear the sheriff found Fisher’s remains yesterday, right where William told him to look?” I asked as I caught up with her.

  Martha nodded. “Humble started to describe the scene at suppertime last night, until Molly shushed him and told him it was no business for the baby’s ears. But I got the gist of the story. I know it’s looking grim for Archibald. We’ve got to stop him before he makes it worse.”

  We soon reached Sheriff Hutchason’s house, but as we raced through the gate toward the cell in the rear yard, we saw the jail door standing open and Archibald Trailor being led out by the sheriff himself, with Henry Trailor walking behind his brother. The prisoner’s hands were tied behind his back.

  “What’s this?” I said as I hurried to intercept the little procession.

  “Speed? I should have known your sister would go for you.” Hutchason frowned. “You’ll have to step aside. I’ve been told Mr. Archibald Trailor has a statement to make, and as a service to him, in view of the weather, I’ve agreed he can make it inside the house. Big Red’s waiting for them near the hearth.” He indicated over my shoulder to his house, and I could just make out the mayor’s distinctive profile, watching us through the window.

  “But why’s he coming?” Martha asked, pointing at Henry Trailor, who returned a glare full of daggers aimed squarely at her.

  The sheriff sighed. “Archibald asked that his brother be present, too, for his statement. Now, I must ask both of you Speeds to step aside. You can’t interfere. This is legal business.”

  I went up to Archibald and put my hand on his shoulder. The carpenter’s face was puffy and his eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in days. “What are you doing?” I asked in a quiet voice.

  “No more than I must,” he returned.

  “This isn’t still about your five-year-old self telling your father you’d protect your brothers, is it? You’ve got to protect yourself, first and foremost. Your life could be at stake, Archibald. Your father would tell you the same, if he were here.”

  “I made a promise.” It was barely a whisper.

  “I urge you to refrain from saying anything. At least until you’ve had a chance to consult with Lincoln. He has your interests at heart. None of these other men do. Not the sheriff or the mayor. And definitely not your brothers. I’ve been around Lincoln long enough to know he’s going to tell you to stay silent.”

  “Stand aside, Speed,” said Hutchason. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “It concerns Lincoln, at a minimum, and he’s on his way at this very moment,” I replied, hoping mightily it was true. The fact that Big Red had returned to town gave me a glimmer of optimism that Lincoln was about as well. Hopefully Herndon would track him down.

  “What’s the delay, Sheriff?” came Henry’s screeching voice. He was only a few feet from us, close enough to have heard the entire exchange. “I was under the impression you are the principal lawman in this county. And that ordinary citizens do not have the power to subvert the interests of the law. Meanwhile we’re all standing in the rain, getting wetter and wetter.”

  I turned and said hurriedly to Martha, “Go inside. Now! You’ll know what to do.” Martha nodded and rushed toward the sheriff’s back door. The sheriff watched her without comment; I figured he wouldn’t bar her from entering the house she’d called home for several years.

  Turning back to Henry, I said, “It seems to me it’s you who’s subverting the interests of the law.”

  “This is your last warning, Speed,” said Hutchason in an angry voice. “Stand aside voluntarily, or I’ll have no choice but to lock you up yourself.” He pointed toward the jail cell.

  I raised my hands in the air and moved a few feet away. But as both Trailors passed, I fell into step behind them. The sheriff opened his back door and ushered them inside. I was a step behind Henry, and I managed to block the door with my foot just as the sheriff was pulling it shut. “I won’t say one word,” I told Hutchason. “I promise.”

  He stared at me for a moment, calculating. “A single word and I’m jailing you for a week,” he finally replied, standing aside to let me pass.

  The Trailor brothers had taken seats next to each other around Hutchason’s hearth. Big Red May sat across from them, his hands folded on his lap and his enormous ears flapping with excitement. Henry frowned as he saw me enter the room, but he kept his tongue.

  Martha, standing in the far corner, avoided catching my eye.

  “Why don’t you untie my brother, Sheriff, now that we’re inside,” said Henry. “He’s no risk of flight in here.”

  Sheriff Hutchason agreed, and Archibald rubbed his wrists and stretched his arms once the sheriff removed the bindings. I stared through the window, willing Lincoln to appear before Archibald inflicted permanent damage on his case. The rain had picked up and was coming down in steady sheets.

  “Go ahead and warm yourself,” said the mayor, pointing toward the hearth. Inside a proper building for the first time in days, Archibald gratefully extended his hands toward the fire.

  “Now Archibald,” began May, honing in on his target, “you and I have known each other for quite some time, haven’t we? Going on ten years at this point.”

  “I reckon you’re about right, Big Red,” replied Archibald peaceably. He rotated his wrists back and forth in front of the smoldering logs.

  “And we’ve had good relations during that time?”

  Archibald nodded.

  “Now, Archibald, this trial for you and William is going to begin in three days.”

  Another nod.

  “You understand, don’t you, that the sheriff found the remains of Mr. Fisher yesterday, found them out by the millpond.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “I’ve got to tell you, Archibald, you and William don’t got much of a chance, not between the testimony of Henry and now the body turning up. I’m just being honest with you, all right? The men of this town want justice. They’re going to hear the evidence of what you’ve done, and a picture’s going to come into their minds of you and William swinging from a pair of gallows set up on the green beside the state capitol, and they’re going to think that’s justice. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Martha stiffened. Archibald said, “I understand.” A hint of tension had begun to creep into his temples.

  “I don’t want that to happen, Archibald. Truly I don’t. But if it’s you and William together on trial, I’m telling you, that’s what’s going to happen.” Big Red stole a glance at the sheriff. “Now, if it was just you on trial, Archibald, you by yourself, it’d be a different matter. A different trial altogether. I imagine your lawyer Mr. Lincoln could put on all manner of evidence about your character. About what a credit you’ve been to the town of Springfield all these years. About how many folks you’ve leant a helping hand to. How many you’ve done good, honest carpentry for. I’m telling you, Archibald, if that’s what the trial is, I don’t think anyone’s going to be swinging from the gallows, not William, and certainly not you, either.”

  Again Archibald nodded. Henry was watching him intently.

  “So, Archibald, tell me what really happened between you and this Fisher fellow.”

  There was a pause, during which everyone but Archibald leaned forward with anticipation. If the man himself was experiencing inner turmoil, it was hard to tell. He cleared his throat.

  “It began when—”

  “Wolves!” screamed my sister. “Two wolves out by the barn. The chickens and milk cow are about to get eaten!”

  “Are you sure, Miss Speed?” The sheriff turned to her with a suspicious look.

  “Positive. T
wo shadows creeping past the jail cell. They slipped between the boards into the barn.”

  The sheriff lumbered through his door, after first grabbing a shotgun from atop the door frame. The rest of us sat in awkward silence. A few minutes later the sheriff came back inside, dripping wet.

  “There were no wolves,” he said, glowering.

  “You must have chased them off,” said Martha, her face steady. “What a relief.”

  “Now Archibald—” began Big Red again.

  “Don’t say anything!” cried Martha.

  Everyone turned to look at her again. Both Big Red and Henry Trailor shouted angrily. Sheriff Hutchason took several steps toward her. The expression on his broad face was somewhere between resignation and fury. I stepped in front of Martha to shield her from the approaching lawman.

  There was a bang behind us. A soaking-wet Lincoln crashed through the door and into the home. He took in the scene as water dripped from his stovepipe hat and started to form a puddle on the sheriff’s floor. Then he marched up to Archibald Trailor, grabbed him by the scruff of his work shirt, and pulled him to his feet. “Close your mouth and come with me,” commanded Lincoln.

  The words unleashed an uproar. Everyone started speaking at once. Everyone, that is, except Archibald.

  “He’s in my custody,” said Hutchason. “You can’t take him.”

  “This is my interrogation,” said Big Red. “You can’t interrupt him.”

  “He was about to confess,” said Henry Trailor. “You can’t stop him.”

  “I can do all those things,” responded Lincoln coolly. “This interrogation is over.”

  CHAPTER 26

  An hour later, Archibald was back in the jail cell behind the sheriff’s house while Lincoln, Martha, and I huddled close to him on the other side of the bars, trying to stay dry against the spitting rain. After a heated discussion, the sheriff and Big Red had agreed not to question him further in Lincoln’s absence. And Henry Trailor had been instructed to desist from further contact with his brother as well.

  Archibald himself proved the more challenging problem. He stood silently as Lincoln berated him for planning to incriminate himself. “I can’t defend you,” said Lincoln, with great exasperation, “if you won’t defend yourself. Why would you take the blame for something you didn’t do?”

  Archibald’s eyes were full of grief. “That night, I did something I shouldn’t have. I did wrong to Flynn.”

  “But Fisher was your friend, wasn’t he?” said Lincoln. “You never wanted to hurt him.”

  “Of course I didn’t.”

  “And, whatever happened to Fisher, your brothers were there, too, weren’t they? You wouldn’t have done anything to him on your own.”

  “That’s true.”

  I expelled my breath in frustration. “Just tell us exactly what you did, Archibald, and exactly what your brothers did. At the least, tell Lincoln. That way, he’ll be best positioned to defend you in court.”

  Archibald shook his head. “I’ve told you before, Speed, I can’t. I promised my brothers.”

  “But your brothers are the ones trying to make you take all the blame!” cried Martha from the other side of our little gathering. There were tears of frustration in her eyes, and for a moment I wondered why she had become so devoted to Archibald’s cause.

  “I was only doing what I thought best,” mumbled Archibald, his eyes downcast. He seemed to be trying to avoid Martha’s gaze in particular.

  “Will you assure me you won’t do it again?” said Lincoln. “Don’t make any statements about what happened the night Fisher disappeared. Not to anyone. Not even your brothers.”

  Archibald stood mutely. Some seconds passed. Then he said, quietly, “Very well. I’ll do as you say, Mr. Lincoln.”

  Lincoln, Martha, and I headed back toward the square. I told Lincoln about my excursion with Hutchason the prior day and our grim discovery of Fisher’s remains.

  When I was finished, Lincoln shook his head. “As a human being, I’ve been holding out hope Fisher was still alive,” he said. “As an advocate, I had been hoping his body—if there was a body—wouldn’t materialize before trial. It definitely added an argument for us to make. But I guess there’s finality now for his family, if he has one.” Lincoln paused and stroked his smooth chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Perhaps Conkling encouraged William to tell the sheriff where the body was.”

  “But why would Mr. Conkling think it good strategy to have the body found?” asked Martha.

  “It’s certainly not the one I would have chosen. But if you were Conkling, defending William, and you couldn’t argue Fisher was still alive because you knew he’d been killed, what would you argue instead?”

  “If I were Conkling,” I said, “I’d probably be translating Cicero from the original Latin and Plato from the ancient Greek rather than working on the Trailor case.”

  “You’re underestimating him again,” said Lincoln with a smile. “He’s gotten to be a much better advocate. He’s going to be forceful in William’s defense. You’ll see.”

  “In that case,” Martha offered, “perhaps he’ll argue it was all Archibald’s doing. Or Archibald and Henry together, I suppose.”

  “Very good,” said Lincoln, nodding. “It could be Conkling thinks that having the body emerge will enhance his argument. Maybe there’s a mark on the body of some sort. We’ll have to see what Hutchason finds when he has a proper chance to examine the remains.”

  “But Conkling’s hurting your case,” I protested.

  “There’s nothing much I can do about that. William and Archibald are charged jointly with killing Fisher, and they’ll be tried in the same trial. But that’s no guarantee they’ll pursue the same defense, or even defenses aligning with one another. One potential hazard of the joint trial is that I’ll advance one argument on Archibald’s behalf and Conkling will advance a contradictory one on William’s behalf. So it’s not just the proofs of Attorney General Lamborn I’ll need to worry about at trial. It’s my co-counsel’s as well.”

  “That’s not fair,” protested Martha.

  Lincoln shrugged. “This sort of situation happens in trials from time to time. Remember, the whole reason Judge Treat appointed me as separate counsel for Archibald is that he decided the two brothers’ positions in the case might diverge. So I can hardly complain now that Conkling might make arguments not in Archibald’s best interests.”

  “Perhaps,” said Martha, “William directed the sheriff to Fisher’s remains because he knew Archibald was going to confess. William thought he was about to be in the clear.”

  “But how would William know what Archibald was planning to do?” I asked. “They’ve been jailed separately for weeks now.”

  “William must have conveyed a message to him,” said Martha, “a direction that he confess. An order. Passed along by Henry, I imagine.”

  “Has Henry come by to visit Archibald at the jail cell before today?” I asked Martha.

  “I haven’t noticed.”

  “Still, what you’re saying makes sense.” I turned to Lincoln. “Go tell William to leave Archibald alone. Big Red and the sheriff agreed not to question Archibald further, and you warned Henry away. But Martha’s right—William’s the one in charge.”

  “I suppose I can speak with Conkling about it,” said Lincoln doubtfully.

  “But you just said yourself that Conkling’s trying to put the blame on Archibald. He’s not going to help. You need to warn off William yourself.”

  “I can’t,” said Lincoln. “He has his own counsel. It would be against the court rules for me to speak with him directly.”

  “But surely those rules don’t prevent you from protecting your own client,” I said, frustrated with Lincoln’s rigid stance.

  “They’re the rules. As a member of the bar, I’m pledged to follow them.” Lincoln looked into my eyes for a moment. “It’s hard not to admire Archibald’s loyalty to his older brothers, for all they mistreat him.
But the fact is something took place among the three Trailor brothers and Fisher the night of the gala at the American House. Fisher isn’t around to tell us what happened, and none of the Trailors are going to tell us the truth, at least not the whole truth. If the two of you want to help Archibald, you’ll try to find me a witness who saw what actually happened that night.”

  I realized I hadn’t told Lincoln about Miss Flannery’s tale of seeing William and Henry Trailor working in concert on the night of the murder. I did so now, although I left out the circumstances in which she had related the story to me.

  “And who was the witness who told you all this?” Lincoln asked when I had finished.

  “A woman named Rose Flannery. She’s staying at the American House, with her cousin, during the legislative term.”

  “Would she make a credible witness in front of the jury?”

  “I find her most stirring.”

  Martha chortled. I gave her an elbow to the ribs.

  “It could be a very helpful story,” said Lincoln, “depending on how the prosecution’s evidence comes in. Can you tell her to be ready to testify on Tuesday? That’s when I’d want to call her.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, happy to have an excuse to call upon Miss Flannery again so soon.

  We had reached the edge of the capitol square, and we were about to part when we saw the bulky figure of Simeon Francis hurrying toward us across the muddy construction site and waving his arms frantically. He was shouting something at Lincoln, the same phrase over and over again. Eventually I understood the words: “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” asked Lincoln, smiling, when Simeon finally reached us.

  “That you’ve moved the gold here. To the Springfield State Bank.” Simeon pointed at the ornate front of the bank building, opposite us.

  Lincoln grinned.

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “You were right on one account the other day, Speed,” he said. “I needed an insurance policy. This was it.”

  “But the papers have been filled with stories about the shipment to Chicago,” said Martha.

  “You misled me, Lincoln,” said Simeon, looking aggrieved.