jury will have heard plenty about before the trial even started. I wager Lincoln thinks there’s not much profit in fighting to keep it out of evidence.”
“On your view,” Prickett was asking the sheriff, “how was the killer able to fire the stables before the search parties reached them?”
“By acting with alacrity, he was able to out-pursue the pursuers.”
“Now, you mentioned earlier the Widow Harriman raised the alarm about her missing nephew,” continued the prosecutor. “How, specifically, did she do this?”
“That’s just the thing, sir,” said the sheriff. “She did so by going to the house of this very man, the defendant.” He pointed at Patterson. The crowd murmured. “In other words, calamitously, she told the one man who didn’t need to be told, because he already knew of the boy’s tragic fate, and the one man who couldn’t be told, because it gave him time to spark the fire and thereby destroy evidence of his guilt.”
A number of men in the gallery were now standing and yelling at Patterson. I recognized two of them in particular as men who had bravely stood on the roof of the Globe that night, fighting the insidious spread of the fire bucket by bucket. Judge Thomas pounded for order.
Once he could be heard over the din, Prickett asked, “You said the Widow Harriman tragically chose to go to the defendant Patterson with news that young Jesse was missing. Did she later come to suspect Patterson himself was, in fact, the evildoer?”
“I believe she did,” replied the sheriff.
“And the basis for that belief is what?”
“First of all, I spoke with a blacksmith up in Menard named Dickson, and he told me—”
Lincoln was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor,” he shouted, loud enough to drown out any recitation of Dickson’s views. “Hearsay.”
Before the judge could take the cigar out of his mouth to rule, Prickett coolly put up his hand and said, “Mr. Lincoln’s quite right, Sheriff. Dickson himself is coming in tomorrow to give evidence. There’s no cause for you to relate his words.” Lincoln sat down, mollified.
“Let me put the question to you this way,” Prickett continued. “Did you come into possession of a writing by the Widow Harriman, shedding light on her relations with the defendant Patterson.”
“I did, sir,” replied Hutchason.
Prickett took up a small packet of paper from his table and unfolded it carefully. “What’s this?” he asked, handing it to Hutchason.
The sheriff made a show of reading the document carefully to himself. When he had finished, he looked up and said, “A letter. Authored by the Widow Harriman and intended for the defendant.”
“I should ask, Sheriff, how you came into possession of the letter.”
“The widow left it with an innkeeper in town, for delivery to Patterson. But the proprietor—to his credit—recognized the potential public importance of the document and delivered it to you, Mr. Prickett, instead.”
At Prickett’s prompting, the sheriff read the entire contents of Rebecca’s note aloud to the jury, taking care to emphasize the words “confrontation” and “quarrel.” Prickett then obtained permission from the judge to publish the writing to the jury, and each of the gentlemen examined it in turn. The spectators lucky enough to be standing behind the jurors stood on tiptoe and craned their necks to read the letter as it was passed down the row. The rest of the gallery murmured jealously.
During the entire spectacle Dr. Patterson sat straight at attention, occasionally moistening his fingers and running them over his moustache. What were his thoughts, I wondered, at hearing aloud the final words of his intended?
When the last juror had finished his examination, Prickett took up the note again and gave it back to the sheriff. “When did the Widow Harriman pen this communication, Sheriff, if you know?”
“It’s dated last Thursday.”
“And it refers to a confrontation, a quarrel, between the widow and the defendant occurring that same day, which is to say, last Thursday?”
“Correct.”
“And when, Sheriff, was the widow slain? When did some blackguard immobilize her, stretch his fingers around her neck, and squeeze?”
The sheriff shifted in his chair. He looked very somber. I closed my eyes and tried to avoid imagining the moment of Rebecca’s death.
“As near as I can tell,” replied the sheriff, “she was killed the very next day. Last Friday evening.”
A gasp rushed through the room. Prickett gave a satisfied nod and sat.
Judge Thomas called for a short recess, during which the courtroom hummed with excitement mingled with disgust. Then Lincoln rose to commence his cross examination.
Those persons, myself included,