These Honored Dead (A Lincoln and Speed Mystery #1) - Jonathan F. Putnam Page 0,21

down all the peach trees for firewood the previous winter.”

He laughed heartily and I joined him.

“That’s more like it,” he said.

“What’s more like it?”

“You’re being quiet. You have been, ever since Saturday evening.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“I heard you and Simeon rode up to Menard on Saturday.”

I nodded as I chewed.

“Is your business so bad you’re thinking of taking on the sheriff’s job?” Lincoln asked. “Or Simeon’s?”

“Of course not. I—”

There was a loud jangling of a bell. Two young boys materialized and sprinted through the public room toward the street. The Globe doubled as the stage line office, and the bell signaled the arrival of a new stage, bringing prospective customers as well as horses needing to be watered. Saunders bustled through the room, and soon we could hear him haggling with the new arrivals over the price of room and board.

Lincoln gestured to me with his knife. “You were saying?”

“I think it’s only natural I have an interest in the girl’s murder. As I’ve said, I know the Widow Harriman. Through the trade, of course. And it turns out I had met the niece once previously, or seen her, at least.”

“‘Through the trade,’ yes,” Lincoln said with a sly smile. “I believe I’ve heard you say that before.” He gulped down a potato. “In fact, I was speaking to Prickett yesterday about his investigation.”

“Do they have any suspects?” I asked quietly, so the soot-faced blacksmith at the far end of the table could not hear.

“Prickett told me he’s more convinced than ever that the widow, your acquaintance through the trade, is the one responsible.”

I felt my temper flaring. “It’s nonsense,” I said. “Why would she have wanted to slay her own kin? And gruesomely so. There’s no logic to it at all.”

“That’s not how Prickett sees it,” Lincoln returned.

Before I could respond, the proprietor of another store on the square stopped by the table and asked Lincoln a few questions about a dispute he’d been having with a customer over a rotten barrel of beer. Lincoln patiently listened to the merchant’s complaints and advised him to split the difference with his customer. The merchant wandered off, still mumbling about the unfairness of the situation.

“That’s the sort of free advice that’s going to put you under if you’re not careful,” I said as we watched him go.

“Spoken like a true businessman,” Lincoln said with a rueful nod. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“If you’re giving out free advice—” I began, but Lincoln glanced at his pocket watch and pushed his chair back with a groan.

“I’m due in court soon,” he said. “Dr. Patterson’s case. Walk with me. Last time I was two minutes late for my hearing, I couldn’t remember where I’d left my notes. Judge Thomas was awfully hard on me.”

Lincoln was dressed in his formal frockcoat and bow tie. He stood and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. Then he checked the pockets of his trousers and coat and, finding nothing, started looking around frantically. Laughing, I pointed to the floor beside his chair, where he’d set down a thin packet of papers when we’d arrived some thirty minutes earlier.

“Why don’t you take my hat?” I said. “I think we’re the same size. You can keep your notes here, in the band.”

I habitually wore a different hat from my inventory each day as a form of walking advertisement. That day, I happened to have a tall, black stovepipe hat with a band of black velvet running circumferentially above the brim. Lincoln looked the hat over quickly, twirling it in his hands, and then tucked his packet of papers into the band. When he settled it atop his head, the combined height of the man and his costume nearly reached to the ceiling.

Outside on the street, the summer sun was already beating down without mercy. I raced to keep up with Lincoln, taking three strides for his two.

“Since you’re in the habit of handing out free legal advice,” I persisted, “I’ll take some myself. What’s the best way for me to help the investigation into this wretched girl’s death?”

“Is your principal interest finding the killer or merely ensuring the Widow Harriman does not face legal jeopardy?”

I considered this as we turned the corner and headed for the town square. “Both—but mostly the latter, I suppose. Of course, I’m dreadfully sorry about what happened to the young woman. But she’s gone now. I don’t want the tragedy compounded by an unjust accusation against her aunt, who’d taken her in out of