blasted fellow would have burned down with the tavern if the fire hadn’t been put out in time.”
“Surely he could have been feigning intoxication,” I said. “The whole thing sounds suspicious.”
“Sheriff Hutchason asked him to remain in town while he investigates and the man’s agreed. If the alibi’s actually a lie, I’m sure the sheriff will sniff it out.”
“What about the fire?” asked Martha. “Does anyone know how it started?”
“Or why?” I added.
“No one’s come forward to confess,” said Lincoln. “As you know, there were dozens of men about that night, many of them with torches, all looking for Jesse. There was such chaos and confusion. I imagine someone touched it off by accident, but I doubt Hutchason could possibly recreate who was where and when, not at any point during the evening.”
“Maybe it was set by the killer to cover his tracks,” I said. “To try to destroy the evidence, the body.”
“But if that was the plan,” said Martha, “why move the body to the carriage in the first place? Why not keep it in the stables, where the killing took place, and then set the fire?”
None of us had a good answer. But it was true the only thing that appeared certain about the night of the murder was Jesse had been attacked in the stables and not in the coach itself. There seemed no other way to explain the presence of straw about his person.
Lincoln departed for Hoffman’s Row. Martha and I walked back to my store alone. The square had cleared, the spectacle of the funeral giving way to another prosaic, sweltering summer’s day. For a change, the sun was obscured by a thick layer of cloud.
“How is the widow bearing up?” asked my sister.
“She’s distraught,” I said. I had spent thirty minutes trying without success to comfort Rebecca on the night we discovered Jesse’s body. “All her life she’s been childless, to her great sorrow. Then two children come into her home and, just as suddenly, now they’re both gone.”
Martha sighed and wiped a tear from her eye.
If Rebecca had managed to avoid overhearing the malicious gossip passed about during the funeral service, I had not. More than a few of the would-be mourners were convinced the deaths were explained by the arrogance of the childless widow who, to make matters worse, held herself out as an independent woman of business. Others whispered she could not account for her whereabouts at the time of either murder.
I worried growing suspicion would focus on Rebecca. And I feared even more that the actual killer would turn his murderous intentions to her. It was no longer possible to suppose Lilly had been killed by a frustrated suitor. Some monster, it seemed, was intent on killing the members of this accursed family, of which Rebecca was now the sole survivor. Both to ensure Rebecca’s freedom and to safeguard her life, it was imperative that I help Prickett and the sheriff identify the killer.
I was working out a concrete plan to accomplish this as Martha and I took inventory inside the store an hour later. Suddenly there was a scream from outside, followed immediately by the sounds of a terrifying crash. Several men started shouting all at once and a horse began shrieking. I took Martha’s arm and rushed through the door.
A tangle of men, beasts, and carriage parts littered the street in front of the store. An injured man was sprawled on the street in a muddy, bloody heap, pinned beneath the tongue of a large open carriage, which lay on its side in ruins. A horse still tethered to the overturned carriage pranced around wildly, while another horse, untethered, ran about the street and village green in wild circles. Meanwhile, a feral hog was trapped under a dislodged carriage wheel and several overturned trunks. The hog was squealing and wriggling fiercely for its freedom. Spectators converged on the fantastical scene from all directions.
My friend Hurst, who ran a dry goods store two doors down from mine, waved me over. “Quickly,” he said. “We’ve got to get him out from underneath the carriage before he’s crushed to death.”
The trapped man, blood trickling down his face, was crying miserably for help. I turned to Martha and said, “He’s going to need a doctor. Run and fetch Patterson.” As she hurried off, I joined Hurst and several other men beside the wagon tongue.
“You four lift on the count of ‘three’ and I’ll pull him out,” I suggested. With a coordinated heave,