These Honored Dead (A Lincoln and Speed Mystery #1) - Jonathan F. Putnam Page 0,105

madness again. How far back did Jane’s madness extend? Her mother had died shortly after her birth. But her stepmother had disappeared only four years ago, right before the Pattersons had moved to Springfield. Had the doctor known his daughter was responsible for his second wife’s disappearance in Decatur and moved to Springfield to give her a new beginning?

I had the sense I was missing an important connection. Something else had happened in Decatur at about the same time. Then I remembered: the young woman Abigail had told my sister that Lilly Walker and her family had been thrown into turmoil when their neighbor and landlord in Decatur, a land speculator, had suddenly sold off their property.

I hastened to piece together the events. What if Patterson himself had been that neighbor and speculator? Lilly and Jane, about the same age, would have been neighbors—acquaintances surely, likely friends—at the time of Jane’s stepmother’s disappearance. And then earlier this summer Lilly, newly rescued from the poorhouse and determined never to return, had visited Springfield with her aunt and walked about town. And soon thereafter she’d been murdered.

“You must have been surprised to see Lilly Walker again,” I said.

Jane’s face gave no reaction, but I saw her grip on the pistol tighten. The gun would carry only a single shot. If I could get her to discharge it, we would all be safe.

“You two had been close, hadn’t you, when you lived next door to each other in Decatur?”

“She was a poor girl with a runny nose and dirty, mended clothes,” said Jane. “We were never friendly.”

“But she knew what you’d done to your stepmother, didn’t she?” I continued. I heard Martha gasp quietly behind me. “How, I wonder? Did she see it happen? Help you, even—two thirteen-year-old girls whispering and plotting? Or did you boast about it to her afterward? ‘A poor girl with a runny nose.’ I’ll bet she would have been impressed with you, for your daring. I’ll bet that’s exactly who you would have wanted to share your deed with.”

A tremor ran across Jane’s face. She did not answer.

“So then she tried to blackmail you when she encountered you again in Springfield after all those years,” I continued. Everything was becoming clear now, like the morning mist melting away to reveal the new day. “Threatened to reveal your secret if you didn’t give her money.”

I had always wondered about Jane Patterson and Lilly Walker. Their lives had seemed mirror opposites of each other; in fact, they had been far more intertwined than I ever could have imagined. And, in the end, Lilly’s instinct for financial independence—the very characteristic that had so pleased Rebecca—is what had gotten her killed.

“She was a greedy wench,” said Jane. “She was nobody. She didn’t mean anything to anybody.”

“Except her aunt,” said Martha. “And her little brother.”

I started moving slowly toward one side of the room and inclined my head slightly at my sister. At once she understood and began drifting toward the other side.

“Her brother was a pest,” Jane said. Her eyes were focused tightly on me.

“He was an innocent little boy,” said Martha.

“He was a nosy little brat,” Jane responded. “He didn’t know his place. And I wasn’t sure what he might know. Or might have seen.”

“But Rebecca Harriman figured out that you were responsible for the two murders,” I said. “That’s what she came to confront your father about. That’s why they quarreled.”

“Father had no true feelings for her,” said Jane. “He didn’t need her. He’s never needed anyone else. He’s always had me.”

At that moment, a dark shadow streaked across the room. Belatedly I realized it was Martha charging at Jane. I shouted and took a running jump toward Jane from my side of the room. As I leapt, the candle dropped from my hand and extinguished on the dirt floor. I felt myself landing atop a tangle of writhing bodies in the pitch-black room.

A single shot rang out.

CHAPTER 40

“Martha?” I shouted. “Martha, are you harmed?”

For an instant that seemed to stretch without end, there was no answer. Then, from somewhere beneath me, my sister’s voice. “I’m fine, Joshua. It didn’t hit me.”

“Miss Patterson?” I called out, at the same moment Martha was saying, “Phillis? Are you all right?”

“I will be once everyone gets off,” came the hoarse voice of the slave.

Jane did not answer.

I struggled free from the pile of bodies and felt around on the floor in the darkness until I found the candle, which I lit with a