“I’ve no idea. As we were dressing this morning he said he was heading to Hoffman’s Row. Have you checked his office?”
“It’s Hoffman’s Row I’ve come from,” said Hay, panting. “He ain’t there, but he’s needed there. He’s needed there at once.”
“Why?”
“Because the judge, he’s havin’ a hearing on Mr. Truett’s case. He’s havin’ a hearing right now! I told him I didn’t know where Lincoln was, and he said if Lincoln didn’t care enough about his case to show up on time that was his problem.”
“A hearing on the case without Lincoln?” I repeated, my pulse racing. “You damn well better track him down. Get going! In the meantime, I’ll go to court myself.”
I was out the door on Hay’s heels and rushed up the street to Hoffman’s Row. When I entered the temporary courtroom on the ground floor, Stephen Douglas was on his feet making a presentation to Judge Thomas, who was caressing an unlit cigar with a particularly nasty expression on his face.
“As I told Your Honor’s clerk when I requested this hearing,” Douglas was saying, “the issue is the body of the decedent in the People against Truett murder case. We seek the Court’s permission to retrieve the body to examine it for additional evidence relating to our prosecution.”
“Retrieve the body?” said Judge Thomas. “From where?”
“Four feet underground. Early’s remains are reposing in Higgins Burying Ground, end of Adams Street.”
“And what evidence do you expect to find on the corpse of a dead man?”
“I believe the fatal ball is still lodged inside him. We’ve recently discovered what we believe to be the murder weapon. It’s a pistol we can connect to the defendant Truett, and we seek to recover the ball to match it with the weapon.”
Judge Thomas struck a match and held it in front of his cigar. He inhaled deeply to get the tobacco smoldering. “Makes sense to me,” he said, “though I suspect it may not to your brother Lincoln. Which raises the question—where is he?”
I looked frantically around the courtroom, willing Lincoln to materialize from the ether. But the gallery was dotted with only a few courtroom regulars at the early hour. I didn’t even see any other lawyers present.
“I sent word to his office this morning noticing this hearing and received a note back in his hand acknowledging the same,” said Douglas with apparent sincerity. He turned around and took in the courtroom, an innocent look on his face. “I cannot account for his absence. Perhaps he does not consider this case worthy of his attention.”
“You’re certain you noticed him, Mr. Douglas?”
“Absolutely. I affirm it as an officer of the court.”
“In that case, I’m surprised and disappointed by Mr. Lincoln’s absence, but I do not intend to delay the course of justice. On the People’s request to exhume the body of the decedent Early, the Court rules—”
“Wait, Your Honor!” I shouted, rushing to the front of the courtroom.
Both the judge and Douglas turned to me with surprise. “Do you know where Lincoln is, Mr. Speed?” the judge asked.
“No, but—”
“Then stand back. You know full well I’ll only hear from members of the bar, and I’ve listened to you recount on more occasions than I care to remember how pleased you are that you decided not to follow your father and older brother into our learned profession. The Court grants—”
“I’m certain Mr. Lincoln would like to be heard on this matter, Your Honor.”
Judge Thomas glared down at me. “I imagine he might, but he should have appeared for a duly noticed hearing if he did. You are out of order, Mr. Speed. One more word and I’ll hold you in contempt.”
“Give me five minutes to find him, Your Honor.”
Without waiting for a response, I sprinted from the courtroom. I clattered upstairs to No. 4 and pushed open the door. Nothing but the usual clutter greeted me. Scanning the top surface of the mess, I couldn’t see anything that suggested Lincoln’s destination this morning. So I raced back out onto the street and toward the square. Simeon might know something, I thought, as I headed for the Journal’s offices.
“Lincoln’s missing?” the rotund newspaperman asked after I hurriedly explained my mission. “I haven’t seen him in days. I trust nothing bad’s happened.”
A shock of cold terror jolted through my body. “I don’t think … I certainly hope not. Probably he’s gotten tied up with something and lost track of the time. But to miss a court hearing…”
“It’s not at all like him,” agreed Simeon.
“Let me know if you see him,” I called, taking my leave and racing back into the town square.
I stopped and gazed about. It was another hot summer day, and the desultory business of the town carried on all around, ignorant of the turmoil swirling inside of me. Two elderly ladies, shielded by faded parasols, walked arm in arm along the far side of the square. A stonemason chiseled away at the corner of a block of limestone meant for the capitol foundation. Not far from him, a few horses stood languidly, grazing on limp brown grass. On the south side of the square, the postmaster Clark talked to the driver of the mail-stage, who had driven up with a team of four. Opposite me, Ninian Edwards walked out of the apothecary, a package in hand.
At least he’s a lawyer, I thought as I hurried up to Edwards. “Do you know where Lincoln is this morning?” I called.
Edwards fumbled with his package, jamming it into his pocket. “No idea,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for something, Speed.”
“He’s missing and Judge Thomas is having a hearing on the Truett case right this minute. The judge wouldn’t hear from me. I’m sure Lincoln would be ever grateful if you’d step in and speak to his client’s interests.”
“But I have to … oh, very well,” said Edwards, grabbing his lapels and staring down the edge of his beak nose. “You be sure to tell Lincoln he owes me a favor—a big one—when he gets reelected.”
“I’ll ensure he knows,” I said, putting my hand on Edwards’s back and steering him toward Hoffman’s Row. As we neared, however, we saw a tall, gangly figure striding toward us in great haste from the opposite direction. Edwards and I arrived at the door to the courtroom at the very same moment as Lincoln. He was out of breath and his face shone bright red.
“You’ve missed—” I began.
“I know. Hay found me. Let me see if I can undo the damage.”
Leaving Edwards, who was muttering about having his day interrupted, I followed Lincoln inside. As soon as he saw us enter, Judge Thomas stood up on his platform at the far end of the room.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t hold both you and Mr. Speed in contempt,” the judge thundered, shaking his smoldering cigar. Douglas was sitting on the other side of the room, his legs crossed and his short arms folded across his thick chest, smiling serenely.
“My profound apologies, Your Honor,” said Lincoln. “I assure the Court it won’t happen again.”
“What’s your explanation for your tardiness?”
“I don’t have one, Your Honor.” Lincoln sneaked a glance at me; I could tell at once from his eyes that his true meaning was that he didn’t have one he cared to share with the court—or perhaps with Douglas.
“That’s not good enough.”
“As for Mr. Speed,” continued Lincoln, “whatever he did in my absence, he did on my behalf. If you intend to pronounce any punishment on him, I ask you to visit it on me instead.” He paused, but when the judge did not immediately continue his scolding, Lincoln continued, “With the Court’s leave, and yours as well, brother Douglas, I’d ask that the issue of the day be restated.”
Douglas did not bother to stand. “I want to have Early’s remains dug up so we can retrieve the fatal ball, in order to match it to a weapon we’ve found. The Court has already granted my request. The gravediggers may already be on their way to the cemetery.”
“What weapon?” asked Lincoln sharply.
Douglas
was taken aback. He looked at the judge and said, “I don’t have to answer that question, do I? Since the hearing has already concluded and the Court has already given me the relief I sought.”
“If you wanted the hearing to be over, you shouldn’t have lingered,” said Lincoln. Turning to me he added, in a not-very-quiet whisper, “He couldn’t resist waiting around to see me humiliated.” To the judge: “If it’s the basis for the Court’s order, I think I’m entitled to know.”
“I expect this will never happen again,” said the judge, looking at Lincoln sternly. Then he trained the same unsparing gaze on Douglas. “Enlighten us,” he ordered.
Douglas sighed, uncrossed his arms and legs, and rose. “We found a pistol under some shrubbery at the back of the Edwards property. It stands to reason it’s the weapon that killed Early, but of course we want confirmation of the same.”
“What type of pistol?” asked Lincoln.
Douglas held his hands about six inches apart. “It appeared to be a standard gentleman’s belt pistol. Walnut stock. Percussion cap.”
My heart sank. Douglas’s description matched precisely Truett’s pistol, which I had seen that evening at Spotswood’s. That it had been found on Quality Hill was very bad news for Lincoln and his client.
“I’d like to inspect the weapon at your convenience, Mr. Douglas,” Lincoln was saying. “And see exactly where you found it. In the meantime, I have no objection to your retrieving the ball from Early’s remains. You expect the exhumation to take place this very afternoon?”
“Indeed,” said Douglas, looking sour.
“Very well.” To the court, Lincoln added, “If there is nothing else, Your Honor, I apologize again most humbly and bid you a good day.” Lincoln turned on his heels and departed, with me in tow.
As we reached the door, he whispered, “Let’s not repeat Douglas’s mistake. We’ve achieved victory—the relative victory of not being cited for contempt, at least. We shouldn’t tarry at the scene.”
Outside on the street, Lincoln gestured that we should continue walking away from Hoffman’s Row. Finally, a few blocks away from the courtroom, he came to a halt.
“Where were you?” I asked.
Lincoln looked around to make sure we were alone. Then he said, “When I got to my office this morning, there was a note, on my chair, telling me to come to the streambed north of town. I found something nailed to a tree there. This.”
He handed me a piece of foolscap, folded in two. Written in crude capital letters, like those of a small child just learning to write his name, was the following:
I KNOW
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID
I KNOW WHERE YOU SLEEP
I KNOW WHERE YOU WORK
I KNOW WHERE YOU EAT
I KNOW WHO YOU LIVE WITH
I KNOW WHO YOU WALK WITH
I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW
I read it over twice, my eyes lingering the second time through on the phrases “who you live with” and “who you walk with.” I gulped.
“The note telling me to come to the streambed was written in the same hand,” said Lincoln quietly. “It’s bad business.”
“It certainly is. Come with me.” I took his arm and walked quickly toward the square.
“Where are we going?” Lincoln asked.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I led him into my store, through the opening in the counter, and to the back of one of my rows of shelving. Reaching up to the very top shelf, I felt around and grabbed two new pistols, one after the other. Then I took down a box of balls and a flask of powder and, working silently, loaded both weapons. I put one pistol in my pocket and handed the other to Lincoln.
“Don’t go anywhere without this.”
He nodded.
“Are you going to tell Miss Owens?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. I don’t want to alarm her. Besides, it’s clear I’m the target, not her.”
“I suppose you’re right. Any idea who it could be?”
Lincoln shook his head. “Hopefully just an overeager Democrat, trying to make me lose my nerve right before the election.”
“Maybe it was Douglas,” I said, “trying to get you out of the way for the court hearing so he could exhume Early in secret.”
Lincoln laughed. “That, I know, is a joke. A duly sworn member of the bar wouldn’t resort to such trickery. But I am surprised the judge started the hearing this morning in my absence. It’s highly unusual procedure.”
“Douglas said in court he’d sent you a notice of the hearing and received back a confirmation in your hand.”
Lincoln looked at me with surprise. “Did he?”
“It’s not true?”
“I never saw a notice and I certainly never sent a written acknowledgment back to Douglas. So either he’s barefacedly lying, or someone’s been forging my hand.”
“Ask Douglas to see the confirmation supposedly written in your hand,” I suggested. “Maybe the handwriting will tell you something.”
“I shall. In the meantime, you’d better hurry.”
“Where?”
“Over to the burying grounds.”
I gave him a questioning look.
“I need you to watch them dig up poor Early.”
CHAPTER 20
A small city cemetery had been established years ago on what had originally been the outskirts of the new frontier village. It had filled up much more rapidly than the founding town fathers had imagined as Springfield’s first residents dropped dead of disease, childbirth, violent acts of nature, accidents, and—occasionally—old age. Like the pilgrims of New England, these early citizens sometimes seemed to think that they lived only to die.
Meanwhile, the cabinetmaker John Higgins, not long after establishing his undertaking enterprise, had purchased a large plot of land to serve as a family burying ground. The ever-enterprising Higgins, sensing yet another opportunity to expand his business (this time horizontally), volunteered to throw open his gates, and thus it was that Higgins Burying Ground had become the final resting place for the deceased citizens of Springfield.
By the time I reached the cemetery, the scorching sun was directly overhead. It was the hottest day yet of an already hot summer, the kind of day where you wouldn’t be surprised to see whole suits of clothes walking along the streets, the occupants having melted away.
The burying ground was surrounded by a low, wrought-iron fence designed to keep the spirits of the dead from wandering too far from their former corporeal hosts. No other living person was present when I arrived. I wandered among the rows of graves, a few marked by engraved limestone slabs but many more by carved planks of wood or even simple wooden crosses, as the sun beat down and drops of sweat gathered beneath the rim of my hat. Early’s grave was as yet unmarked, but a rectangular mound of hard-caked brown earth, with no grass growing on top, readily showed its location.
In the back corner of the burying ground, Higgins had built a modest wooden chapel. I tried the door and found it unlocked. Inside it was dim and cool, with two plain benches and a small altar. I sat on a bench, my hands clasped and my eyes closed, and said a prayer for the soul of my sister Ann. The last time I’d been to a cemetery had been for her burial.
Then I went back outside and stood in the shade of a tall oak tree. Birds twittered from the branches above. Every few minutes I patted my pocket to make sure my weapon was still there. At length two navvies walked up, carrying a single shovel between them and jabbering at each other in an unintelligible Irish dialect. With the state’s canal projects ground to a halt by the dire economy, I imagined the men were grateful for any work they could get.
“Are you the doc?” one of them asked me through a thick brogue.
“Excuse me?”
“We was told there’d be a doc to show us where to dig and to pay us. The doc who’s gonna cut apart the body, once we dug it up.”
“I’m not him, but the grave you want is there,” I said, pointing to the fresh patch of earth.
“Douglas told me you might be here,” he said when he reached my position. He was sweating profusely, and he took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.
“It’s going to be a long wait yet,” I replied, gesturing at the navvies. The pile of excavated dirt beside the grave was still modest. They had spent most of their time arguing with each other about whose turn it was with the shovel.
“Let me have a word,” said Warren. He went over to the two men and soon returned to the shade. “They reckon another hour at most, but I have my doubts. I told them there’s an extra dollar in it for them if they hurry. Come, let’s retire to the Globe. Saunders has a new brew I want to try. We’ll come back when they’ve reached the coffin.”
The public room at the Globe proved to be even hotter than the shade provided by the cemetery’s oak, which at least afforded an occasional breeze. Warren and I sweated on either side of the common table while drinking eagerly of Saunders’s offering.
“Don’t know why Truett went and did a foolish thing like shooting Early,” said Warren, tugging on his beard.
“We—Lincoln and I—think the killer may have been someone else.”
Warren took a long sip and looked at me with a skeptical gaze. “Those of us trained in healing know the most obvious cause is usually the correct one. When a man appears in my examining room complaining of pains in his stomach, I know his humors are out of balance, and I know my leeches will be able to restore his balance. I expect the same principle applies to the so-called legal sciences.”
I took a long drink from my own glass, thinking that we needed concrete evidence of Truett’s innocence if we were going to counter this widespread assumption of his guilt.
Two hours later we left the Globe and headed back to the burying ground. Warren had taken to Saunders’s new brew with enthusiasm, and he wobbled as we walked along the dusty streets. At least, I thought, Early was one patient to whom he could do no harm. The falling sun was still hot in our faces.
Final Resting Place Page 13
