“Be that as it may,” continued Conkling, “in your experience, does Archibald become more docile or more aggressive when he’s intoxicated?”
“Certainly more aggressive.”
Martha and I exchanged downcast glances. The beating Archibald was taking was worse than any the brothers could have administered to Fisher.
Conkling proceeded to take Henry through his testimony about the scene by the millpond. For each step in the sequence, he carefully asked only about Archibald’s action or reaction, deliberately leaving his own client, William, out of the scene. For an observer not paying close attention, it would have been easy to believe Archibald alone had conducted the attack. This was precisely Conkling’s intent, of course, and I found myself both surprised and irritated by his deft touch.
After a while, Conkling came to the end of the sequence. “And when first William and then you went to check on Fisher, you realized he’d been killed, suffocated, by Archibald’s rag, is that right?”
“Correct.”
“And what did Archibald say at that point?”
“I don’t think I recall his exact words.”
“Did he appear to be happy? Triumphant?”
“Objection,” interposed Lincoln. “Calls for speculation.”
“Sustained,” said the judge.
“What was the expression on Archibald’s face in that moment?”
“Same objection,” said Lincoln.
The judge shook his head. “Overruled.”
“Satisfied, I would say,” said Henry. “Like he’d accomplished something. For once.”
Conkling took his seat, having landed one last blow. I would never underestimate him again, I thought. Lincoln shuffled through the papers on his lap and started to rise, but the judge said, “It’s getting late, Mr. Lincoln. Why don’t I give you a fresh start in the morning.”
“If it pleases, Your Honor,” said Lincoln, springing to his feet quickly, “I’d very much like to begin my examination at once. Without delay.”
“I think the gentlemen have had a full day,” said the judge, glancing over at the jury, who did indeed appear eager to be released.
“But—”
“That’s my ruling.” Turning to the jury, he added, “Mr. Lincoln desires to commence his examination because he thinks he has contrary evidence on behalf of his client to adduce from the witness. He may or he may not. We’ll see in the morning. I instruct you to keep an open mind until you’ve heard all of the evidence. Today you’ve only heard one portion of the evidence. Do you understand?”
The jury affirmed that they did, and the judge brought down his gavel and dismissed them for the day. The courtroom exploded with noise.
CHAPTER 30
Lincoln remained motionless in his chair as the sheriff took custody of William and Archibald and led them off to their respective cells. The rest of the crowd started filtering away, talking excitedly about the day’s evidence. Few seemed to harbor any doubt about Archibald’s guilt. Mary Todd was one of the only people to stay behind. She went up to Lincoln, rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, and offered him soft words of encouragement. Martha and Matilda Edwards waited for her to finish, and then the three young women went out arm in arm, consoling one another in hushed tones.
Lincoln finally rose and made to go upstairs to his chambers. He did not object as I followed alongside.
“Challenging day,” I offered once we’d entered his office and closed the door.
“I’ve had better,” replied Lincoln quietly.
“Conkling was brutal this afternoon. Remorseless.”
“He was doing his job as William’s counsel. I can’t complain.”
“You’ll get your chance tomorrow.”
“If it’s not too late.” Lincoln wearily lowered himself into his chair. He took off his stovepipe hat, set it on the floor, and arranged his buffalo-skin cloak around his shoulders. He sat in silence, his head tilted to the side and resting on one hand, occasionally jotting a note on a loose sheet of foolscap lying on the table in front of him.
“I’ll leave you to your preparations,” I said after a while.
He nodded. “Your Miss Flannery will be ready to go tomorrow?”
“She is. Her testimony contradicts what Henry said about—”
“I realize it. She could be crucial for us. Make sure she’s ready in the morning.” Lincoln fell silent, and after waiting a few moments to see if he had anything else to say, I walked back somberly to our chambers.
The next morning, I awoke as the first light was starting to creep through our window. I felt the bed beside me, but it was empty and the bedclothes were undisturbed. Lincoln had spent all night at his office.
I dressed quickly and set out for the American House. I crossed the town green, silent and dew covered, and skirted around the capitol building, whose limestone foundations were starting to glow pink in the gathering morning light.
The lobby of the grand hotel was empty. Major Iles was not yet at his usual post. I thought about rousing him, but I reconsidered, given the early hour. So I went back outside to the town green, determined to wait thirty minutes and renew my suit. Around me on the edges of the green, a few people moved about sleepily. The town was starting to stir.
“Excuse me, sir,” came a weak voice.
I turned around. A tiny, wizened old man, with a large nose and wild wisps of white hair, stood near. He must have been at least seventy years old, perhaps seventy-five, and he could not have weighed even one hundred pounds. He was wearing an ancient traveling cloak, mud-splattered boots, and an anxious expression.
“Can you tell me where the main square of Vandalia is? I thought I’d arrived there, but this doesn’t look familiar. Not at all.”
“Vandalia? Why, you are seventy miles distant from Vandalia. Do you believe yourself to be in Vandalia?”
“I thought so,” the man said. “But now I’m not sure.” His voice trailed off and he scratched his cheek. His brown eyes, beneath thick, tangled eyebrows, were clear enough and seemed unaffected by drink. “Perhaps it was Vandalia I set out from. Tell me: where am I?”
“You’ve arrived in Springfield, friend,” I said. “Pray tell, how did you get here? Perhaps your driver can remind you of your business.”
The man’s eyes lit up. “Springfield—yes, exactly. Springfield! I am heading to Springfield. From Vandalia to the courthouse in Springfield. I was told it stood in the middle of the town square.” He stared uncertainly at the massive capitol building behind me. “But that doesn’t look like any courthouse I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s the new state capitol,” I said. “The courthouse used to stand in the same spot, but it was torn down a few years ago. Your informant was out of date. But the current courthouse isn’t far away. I can easily direct you.”
“I didn’t have a driver, nothing that fancy,” the man said. I stared at him in wonder, but then realized he was answering a question I had posed a few moments earlier. It was a shame, I thought, when men outlived the proper functioning of their own minds.
“I drove us in my cart,” he continued. “Drove all day and all night to get here. But the cart broke down and I came the final miles on foot. I need to talk to the judge.”
“You must have important legal business, indeed. I’m Joshua Speed,” I added, extending my right hand to him.
“Garrett Gilmore,” said the man, giving me a faint shake. His skin felt as insubstantial as a fallen leaf. “Physician. At your service.”
“It is nice to meet you, Dr. Gilmore. You’ll find the courthouse in that row of red-brick buildings over there. It’s closed now.”
“But I must see the judge at once,” Gilmore cried. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
“The courthouse should reopen at nine this morning. The judge, Judge Treat, is conducting a murder trial today, but I suppose it’s possible he’ll see you before court begins if you truly have urgent business.”
“Nine days?
” said Gilmore. “I cannot possibly wait nine days.”
“No, friend, I said ‘nine in the morning,’” I said, talking loudly and slowly. “I’m sure the judge may see you then, if you explain your urgency, whatever it is.” I turned to leave.
“The murder trial’s just the thing,” said Gilmore. “I need to see the judge about the murder trial. Because the victim of the murder is under my professional supervision at this very moment.”
I swung around quickly. “What did you say?”
“I said, I am treating the victim of the murder,” Gilmore repeated. “Perhaps you have an obstruction in your ears, young man? I could take a look if you like.”
“I heard you perfectly. What do you mean, the murder victim? You don’t mean Flynn Fisher, do you?”
“That’s right,” Gilmore replied, brightening. “Do you know him? A fine fellow. Not in the best of health, not even in good times, but certainly still alive and breathing. At least, he was when I left him in my cart. It broke down on the road and I walked the rest of the way here.”
“Flynn Fisher is alive?” I shouted.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” said Gilmore, shaking his head with frustration. “That’s why I need to talk to the judge at once.”
“Why, my good friend is the lawyer for one of the defendants in the murder trial,” I said. I realized my heart was pounding. “Telling him is as good as telling the judge. Come, let’s go see him right now. He’ll want to hear your tale from your own mouth.”
I took Gilmore by the arm and marched him along. A few persons were starting to materialize near the entrance to Hoffman’s Row, hoping to secure a spot at the front of the line to get seated inside the courtroom. They stared at the odd-looking man at my side, but I ignored them as we made our slow progress. When we reached the staircase to No. 4, Gilmore paused and gazed uncertainly up the fourteen steps. Then, very slowly and taking them one step at a time, we managed the climb together. I pushed open Lincoln’s door.
“I hope that’s you, Speed,” said Lincoln, without turning to face us. He was in his usual posture, writing pen in hand and hunched over at his table. The candle at his side had burned all the way down to the nub. His hair was disheveled and his shirt was unbuttoned carelessly. “And I hope you’ve brought breakfast. My stomach is complaining something fierce.”
“I’ve brought you something much better than food,” I said, with a smile that was lost on him.
Still immersed in his legal notes, Lincoln said, “I cannot possibly think of anything I desire more at this precise moment than food.”
“Then you are suffering from a condemnable lack of imagination. Lincoln, may I present Dr. Garrett Gilmore.”
Lincoln finally looked up, squinting.
“Dr. Gilmore,” I continued, “please tell Mr. Lincoln who it is you have in your care.”
Gilmore had been following the exchange between Lincoln and me with a puzzled expression, and it took him a moment to realize I’d asked him to speak. When he finally did, he cleared his throat and said, “I’ve treated a good number of souls in my time. Well into the thousands. And that’s not counting all the men who stop me on the street and ask my advice.”
“But who’s the one you just told me about, when we met outside on the green?”
“You mean Flynn Fisher?”
Lincoln jumped to his feet, nearly knocking over the frail doctor, who staggered backward until I caught him. “You’ve treated Flynn Fisher?” exclaimed Lincoln.
“I am treating Flynn Fisher,” replied Gilmore with unusual—though useful—precision.
“When did you last see him?”
“I read an article in the State Register,” Gilmore said. “It said two brothers were going on trial for murdering Fisher. Which struck me as odd, because Fisher was at that moment in my lying-in room. I decided to adjourn to Springfield at once to call a halt to the proceedings.”
“I knew it!” shouted Lincoln. He pounded his worktable with his fist. Turning back to the doctor, he added in a more measured voice, “How did Flynn Fisher come to be in your care? Everyone in Springfield is convinced he was murdered.”
“Fisher suffered a lamentable head wound. During the war. Shouldn’t have survived it, but he did. He’s suffered from aberrations of the brain ever since. I’ve been treating him for years. He’ll spend a few months in my house, and then he’ll vanish without a word. I don’t think even he knows where he is some of the time.”
“Your arrival could not have been better timed,” said Lincoln. He was gathering up the papers in front of him. “Fisher’s murder trial started yesterday. The Trailor brothers are facing great jeopardy. At least, they were until you showed up.”
“I last saw Fisher after midnight,” said Gilmore. “When my cart broke down. Middle of the prairie.”
I motioned my friend over. “I think the poor fellow’s mind is starting to go,” I whispered. “His answers are sometimes out of sequence to the questions being asked.”
“I don’t think that’ll make a difference,” Lincoln replied. “If there’s been no murder, that’s the end of the matter.” He turned back to Gilmore and said, in a loud voice, “Where did you leave Fisher?”
“The Trailor brothers are facing jeopardy?”
“William and Archibald are. They’ve been accused of Fisher’s murder. That’s why I want to know where you left him.”
“Fisher was in the back of my cart. The axle cracked and I couldn’t fix it, not in the dark. He’s in no condition to walk. So I left him and came by foot.”
“Which direction were you coming from?” asked Lincoln.
“LaSalle?” said Gilmore, more a question than a statement.
“I thought you said you were coming from Vandalia,” I said. The two towns were in directly opposite directions from Springfield.
“I said I was going to Vandalia. Er, going to Springfield from Vandalia. Er …” He looked between Lincoln and me, and his face colored. Old pride died a slow, unsightly death. “I’m not sure where I was coming from,” he said, scratching his cheek again. “Or going to.”
“No matter,” said Lincoln. “You’ve arrived in precisely the right place at precisely the right time.” To me, he added, “We need to send out two men to find Fisher, in case Dr. Gilmore’s testimony alone proves insufficient to get the judge to dismiss the case. Can you spare Herndon for the day?”
“For this I can.”
“Good. You send Herndon north, on the road towards LaSalle. I’ll send Hay south on the Vandalia road. One of them should run across Fisher. Hopefully he’ll still be in Dr. Gilmore’s cart. Sounds like the man has a habit of wandering off.”
Turning back to Gilmore, Lincoln added, “Will you accompany me to court this morning, sir? The judge is going to want to hear from you as soon as possible.”
“Now that you mention breakfast, I wouldn’t say no to a spot,” said Gilmore. “I’ve been traveling for several days.” He yawned and put a heavily veined hand to his mouth. “Could you point me towards the public house here in Vandalia?”
“I’ll come along with you,” Lincoln replied heartily. “Could use a bite myself. And then we’ll go to court together.” Before further confusion could ensue, Lincoln took Gilmore by the arm and ushered him out the door.
CHAPTER 31
An hour later, Martha settled into the seat beside me at the back of the gathering gallery. “I could barely sleep,” she whispered. “I’m so worried about what might happen to Archibald.”
“You’ll sleep better tonight, I predict.”
She stared at me. “What makes you think that?”
“You’ll see.”
Before she could reply, the clerk called the courtroom to order. Henry Trailor had been standing off to the side, arms folded, his eyes darting about the crowded courtroom. The judge motioned that he should resume the empty witness chair at the front of the room. Lincoln rose.
“I have a witness to take out of turn, Your H
onor,” he said. Both Lamborn and Conkling swung around in surprise.
“In the middle of the People’s case?” asked Judge Treat, sucking on his pipe stem. “In the middle of the cross-questioning of Mr. Trailor? I don’t think—”
“I discovered definitive proof overnight that there’s been no murder. I’d ask Dr. Garrett Gilmore to come forward.”
The courtroom was alive with excited speculation. Lincoln strode over to Gilmore and helped him to his feet. The elderly doctor walked slowly to the witness chair. Martha turned to me, her mouth open and her eyes wide with hope. Down the row of spectators, I saw Big Red May gaping at Lincoln and Gilmore, his ears flapping wildly. Henry Trailor looked around confusedly, but when no one gave him guidance, eventually he wandered off to the side. William Trailor was glaring at him. Archibald Trailor, meanwhile, squinted at Lincoln, more confused than ever.
“I object, Your Honor,” said Lamborn, rising to his feet uncertainly. “It’s highly improper, in the middle of my case—”
“You don’t have a case,” replied Lincoln. “And, for your own sake, you’re best off realizing it without delay. Have a seat, Doctor,” he added, helping the old man lower himself into the witness chair. Gilmore gazed out at the crowded courtroom and the bustling street beyond and blinked several times.
Lamborn glared at Lincoln suspiciously, but all he said was, “I reserve the right to move to strike the witness. And to cross-question.”
“Of course,” replied Lincoln mildly. “Can you please state your name, Doctor?”
“Garrett Gilmore.”
“You are a medical man?”
Gilmore nodded.
“And where do you reside?”
I felt myself tensing. Given Gilmore’s chronic confusion regarding location, I hoped Lincoln had been over this question with him several times during the course of their breakfast.
“Near to LaSalle.”
“Can you tell us whom you currently have in your care?”
Gilmore looked uncertainly at Lincoln. “I’ve cared for many thousands of men—”
A House Divided Page 21
