These Honored Dead (A Lincoln and Speed Mystery #1) - Jonathan F. Putnam Page 0,22

the goodness of her heart.”

Lincoln looked over at me skeptically. I was going to have to be more adept in my defense of Rebecca, I realized, if I wanted it to make a difference.

We had reached the town green, and we walked past a large rectangular cornerstone surrounded by unruly weeds. The Illinois state legislature had voted to move the state capital to Springfield some months earlier, and like the rest of the village’s merchants, I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the high aspirations and low business of government.

A grand new capitol building and courthouse was to rise in the center of the town square, and its perimeter was already chalked out in the grassy field. But after an elaborate ceremony to lay the cornerstone of the new building, the town fathers had thought to ask who was going to pay for the project. The town thought the legislature should; the legislature thought the reverse; and the increasingly cash-poor banks announced they would not lend to either group. Construction had come to a halt, and the lonely cornerstone remained the full extent of the state government in Springfield.

In the meantime, the legal business of Sangamon County continued to be conducted in the old courthouse in front of us. It was a two-story brick building, topped by a low, hipped roof and a cupola. The structure had long ago begun to fall into disrepair, and its brick walls bowed outward perilously.

“If I were you,” said Lincoln, “I’d start by finding out the basis for Prickett’s conjecture. The man’s a snake in the grass, but he has some relationship, however distant, with the facts. There must be something he’s learned that’s caused him to view the widow with heightened suspicion.”

We reached the courthouse steps and I pulled open the heavy oak door for Lincoln. At that moment, the senior lawyer Logan, a lit corncob pipe clutched in his hand, hurried up from behind us. None other than Prickett was at his side.

“That’s quite a hat,” Logan said to Lincoln with a laugh. And the two lawyers pushed past us into the courtroom.

“Did I tell you? Logan’s my adversary today,” Lincoln said. “The old saw is right. A man who’s the only lawyer in town has got nothing to do, but once a second lawyer arrives, neither of them will ever want for work.” He chuckled and ducked inside.

I hesitated for a moment then followed him in. Lincoln’s advice made sense; I would see what I could learn from Prickett.

The courtroom was a dark, shabby affair, a long, narrow room with six crowded rows of wooden benches in the back for spectators and two counsel tables in the front of the room. At the far end rose a low platform that served as the judge’s bench. The entire room was obscured by a thick haze of smoke clinging menacingly to the low ceiling like storm clouds converging on the prairie.

Peering through the smoke, I saw the audience this morning consisted of some two dozen persons, mostly lawyers waiting to be heard on other matters, along with a smatter of village residents who habitually attended court sessions as a form of free entertainment. I spotted Prickett off to the far right of the gallery and headed in his direction.

Lincoln was seated on the other side, conferring in whispered tones with Dr. Patterson. Patterson was a small, precise man with thinning hair and an elaborate moustache. As usual, he was wearing his double-breasted, knee-length surgical coat. Dark splotches on the navy blue coat served to advertise the many surgeries he had conducted. It had occurred to me to wonder whether Patterson chose to display these visual reminders of his craft because of the scarcity of living patients who could testify to his services. Next to Patterson was an attractive young woman with light brown hair: his daughter.

In front of us, Judge Thomas was concluding a prior hearing. As I slid in next to Prickett, the judge dismissed the lawyers with an impatient wave of his hand and said to my friend Matheny, who was working as the clerk today, “Call the next matter.”

“Patterson against Richmond,” shouted Matheny in a voice an octave deeper than his usual one. Logan and Lincoln stepped forward into the well of the courtroom.

“What’s this one about, Logan?” the judge asked.

“If I may be heard first—” began Lincoln.

“You may not,” Judge Thomas said severely. Jesse B. Thomas Jr. looked like a pugilist, with a brawny body; a wide-set, florid face;