These Honored Dead (A Lincoln and Speed Mystery #1) - Jonathan F. Putnam Page 0,104

of affect.

“Now can we get on the trail for Springfield?” Jane asked. “We’ve lost nearly half the night as it is. I need to be back in time to testify for my father.”

“We can,” I said, but then I stopped short. Phillis was staring at Jane with determined, hostile eyes. Jane noticed the stare a moment after I did, and her mouth dropped open with disbelief. Martha realized as well something was afoot, and she released Phillis from her embrace and stepped back. The slave stared at Jane, and the other three of us stared at the slave and her remarkable act of defiance. The room was silent; the flickering candle in my hands casting all of us in its dancing light.

“I’ll not cover for your madness again,” said a voice. Even though I was looking right at Phillis, it took me a moment to realize the words had come from her mouth.

“Excuse me?” I looked at the slave incredulously.

“‘I’ll not cover for your madness again.’ He said that.”

“Who said that?” I asked, looking back and forth between Jane and Phillis. Jane had one hand to her mouth and the other near the folds of her skirt.

“Dr. Patterson, to his daughter here. ‘I’ll not cover for your madness again.’”

Jane gave a nervous, high-pitched laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I said nothing of the sort.”

“What he said,” repeated Phillis, still staring at Jane with dark, unblinking eyes.

“You’re misremembering the words I used,” insisted Jane.

“Not you. Him. That’s what he said.”

“But surely, Phillis dear, you’re mistaken about who said what,” said Martha. “Surely it was Jane who said that to her father, if anyone said anything at all. Her father’s the one who’s admitted to having a creeping madness.”

“That’s right,” said Jane. “Perhaps I did say it, but to my father. My father’s the one who’s mad.”

“He said it to you,” repeated Phillis firmly.

I was staring at the three of them, open-mouthed. Jane was mad. Suddenly that made sense to me, where nothing else had made sense for a very long time. Not since I’d stumbled upon Rebecca’s broken body and my mind filled with grief and fog had I had such a coherent, definite thought. Jane was mad.

“You have no idea what you’re saying,” said Jane. “Mr. Speed, I’m warning you, your bondswoman is far over the line. I won’t stand for it. I demand you correct her at once.”

I took two steps toward Phillis, and finally she shifted her gaze from Jane to me. “Are you quite sure,” I said, “the phrase you’re remembering is something Dr. Patterson said to Jane and not the other way around?”

“I’m sure.”

I turned and looked at Jane. Her face was twisted in the flickering flame.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Jane. “You’re not actually giving any credence to what this illiterate slave is saying, are you, Mr. Speed?” When I did not answer, she continued, her voice fluttering ever higher, “You’re going to take her word over mine? You cannot be serious.”

I wondered at the slave’s fortitude. Even now she showed not the slightest concern whether I believed her.

The proposition put by Jane would have seemed absurd to me just a half hour earlier. Accept the word of an illiterate Negro slave over the word of a doctor’s daughter? I would have laid a hundred to one—nay, a million to one—odds it would never be so. And yet—

“I believe her,” I said.

Martha started to open her mouth to say something, but before she could, Jane jerked up the hand that had been resting in the folds of her skirt. In it shone the barrel of a small lady’s muff pistol, with an ebony stock and silver frame. She grabbed Phillis around the neck and shoulders with one arm and dragged her a few paces back into a corner of the room. With her other hand, Jane held the pistol to Phillis’s temple.

“Jane—no!” shouted Martha.

“Father gave it to me,” Jane said with an unnatural calmness. “After they found the dead girl. He told me I needed to be careful with a killer about.” She gave a high-pitched laugh.

“My father’s wrong, you know,” Jane added, looking at Phillis, who remained tightly secured by her other arm. “Completely wrong. I’m not mad. I’m the sanest person I know.”

The midwife, who was not struggling against her captor, did not respond. Her face was calm and clear, as if secure in the belief she was protected by some higher presence.

Meanwhile, my mind was working furiously. I’ll not cover for your