These Honored Dead (A Lincoln and Speed Mystery #1) - Jonathan F. Putnam Page 0,16
see what we find out together.”
After breakfast the next morning, I climbed astride Hickory while Francis perched his immense frame awkwardly atop a sturdy black nag, who seemed used to the burden.
We set off in companionable silence through the ripe prairie vibrant with summer wildflowers. About an hour into the journey, the quiet was pierced by an approaching high-pitched whine. The horses surmounted a hillock and we looked down on an enormous flock of prairie chickens, partridges, and blackbirds, all screaming into the morning breeze. There was a sudden fluttering and a vast black-brown carpet flecked with white took off in flight, obscuring the sun as it flew over our heads. And then, mercifully, it was silent again.
When we reached the Menard commons, I rode past Harriman & Co. at once and was relieved to see it shuttered and unoccupied. Rebecca must be off at another market fair. I had come up with a number of things to say to her to explain our presence, but I feared none would have been satisfactory.
At Simeon’s suggestion, we started on the far left of the semicircle of businesses and other houses flanking the commons. “Morning, ma’am,” he began, addressing an elderly lady in a nondescript housedress who opened the door of a modest home on the literal edge of town. “I’m Francis, publisher of the Journal, and I wanted to ask you about what happened over at the Widow—”
The door slammed shut, narrowly missing crushing Simeon’s hand, which he pulled back from the doorframe at the last moment.
At the next building, a public house, Simeon got through even less of his introductory sentence before the proprietor pulled a long-barreled pistol from inside his dusty frockcoat.
“You’re the one who’s writing the filth about the dead girl that’s got everyone up in arms?” rasped the man, who had droopy eyes and an enormous, veined nose.
“I report the news, good and bad,” replied Simeon, holding his ground.
The man waved his pistol in the air and spat at Simeon’s boots. “Unless you want to report on your own death, you’ll leave my property in the next ten seconds.”
“In that case,” said Simeon, “I thank you for your subscription and I wish you a good day.” I stifled a laugh as we headed toward the blacksmithy next door.
“Is he actually a subscriber?”
“I know the Department delivers a dozen copies to Menard each week,” Simeon said with a casual flick of his hand. “I don’t know specifically who takes them. But I always say, a newspaperman who doesn’t have more enemies than readers is doing something wrong.” He raised his hand to knock but paused and said, “Why don’t you try this one, Speed? You’re the one who claims to have relations with all these people.”
“I used to have good relations with them, before I began associating with you. You go ahead.”
We got no further at the smithy nor at the two private houses next in the line. No one wanted to talk about Lilly, especially not to Simeon. The entrance to the stables was a few places along, and I had seen a stable boy moving about, caring for his charges. “Let’s try there next,” I said, indicating the building. “I wager we’re better off finding someone who’s not a regular reader of your sheet.”
The boy emerged from the stable gates atop a light gray horse. He rode the animal bareback, expertly charting a wide loop around the commons, circling slowly at first but then picking up speed on the last few go-rounds. A half-dozen cows grazed the commons; none of them so much as looked up as horse and boy flew by. We took up a position next to the entrance gates and watched. When they trotted back toward us, the horse glistening with a fine coat of sheen under the midday sun, I called out a greeting.
“Decided you need help with your horses after all, did you?” said the boy. He jumped down and, holding the gray horse’s lead, started toward the public post where Simeon and I had tied up our rides when we’d first arrived.
“Water them both, if you please,” I said. “Are you the usual boy here?”
“Have been the past few months.”
“I’ve just learned distressing news. A girl I was acquainted with, who lived somewhere about these parts, has turned up dead. Her name was Lilly Walker. Have you heard of her?”
“A little,” the boy said without looking up from untying our two horses.