who hoped Lincoln would match Prickett’s flair and forcefulness were disappointed. Lincoln established the doctor had not confessed to the charges and that Hutchason could not positively exclude the possibility another man had been responsible for the killings. And Lincoln got Hutchason to acknowledge none of the murder weapons had been owned by Patterson.
The only frisson of excitement came at the end of his questioning. “Is it fair to say, Sheriff,” Lincoln said, his hands clasped behind his back and his long torso stooped forward, “you exhaustively considered all possible suspects before coming to lodge charges against my client, Dr. Patterson?”
“Very fair,” returned the sheriff.
“You considered every possibility? You left no stone unturned?”
“Quite. I think the people of this county would expect nothing less of me.”
“The people of this county expect when you determine to arrest a man for a crime, certainly for the most serious crime of murder, you will do so only after having reached the conclusion, as a moral certainty, of the man’s guilt.”
“Indeed,” replied the sheriff. A ripple of uncertainty passed across his face; I guessed he was trying to figure out Lincoln’s destination.
“The Widow Harriman’s two wards, Lilly and Jesse, were the first two victims of this mendacious killer, isn’t that right?” continued Lincoln.
“Yes.”
“And you were well along into your investigation of those deaths when the tragic news came to you of the third death, that of the Widow Harriman?”
“Correct.”
“And isn’t it a fact you had determined to arrest the widow for those two murders—that you were, in fact, on your way to arrest her when you discovered instead she herself had fallen victim to the murderer?”
“That’s right,” the sheriff said. The crowd buzzed with surprise. On the bench, Judge Thomas blew out a large cloud of smoke and scowled at Prickett.
“What happened to your moral certainty the Widow Harriman was the killer of her own niece and nephew?”
Hutchason stared at Lincoln open-mouthed, as if he did not comprehend the question. “I changed my mind is what happened,” he said at last. “The new evidence changed my mind. It’s apparent, of course, she hadn’t strangled herself.”
“And what confidence,” continued Lincoln, “can the gentlemen of the jury have, if they determine to pronounce a sentence of guilt, that you won’t change your mind again based on some new evidence, this time about the guilt of Dr. Patterson—only this time after he meets his fate at the hands of the executioner?”
“That’s not going to happen,” sputtered Hutchason.
“How can you be sure?” Lincoln gestured to the jury. “How can they be sure?”
“Well, for one thing,” said Hutchason, recovering his footing, “his guilt is apparent from the face of the widow’s letter.” He held up the folded packet of paper again. “I don’t see what intervening fact could change the import of this letter. They quarrel, violently it would seem, and the next day she’s dead.”
“The letter,” repeated Lincoln. “That’s what I thought you were going to say. We’ll come back to it in due course.” And with that he resumed his seat next to the doctor.
CHAPTER 33
That night I dreamed repeatedly about Rebecca but never once glimpsed her. She remained in my nighttime world, as in my waking one, an invisible presence. A shade.
I awoke to bright sunlight. The other side of our bed appeared undisturbed. If Lincoln had made any use of it he had, uncharacteristically, tidied it before departing. As I crossed the green to the courthouse, a few minutes before nine, my sister Martha called out my name. From the red streaks in her eyes, it seemed she hadn’t slept well either.
“How’s Molly?” I asked. “Is there a baby yet?”
“The baby hasn’t come,” Martha said. “And do you genuinely want to know Molly’s condition?” A brief pause, during which I remained mute. “I didn’t think so. I’m going to spend the day at her bedside. I think I can be of use to Phillis.”
“Let’s meet for dinner at the Globe if Molly can spare you then,” I said. “I’ll let you know what happens in court today.”
“Try to be kind to Jane,” said Martha as she made ready to depart. “She was devastated last night after hearing her father attacked as a cold-blooded murderer.”
“So was I.”
Martha gazed at me appraisingly. She looked much older than her seventeen years. “But your pain is in the past. Hers is in the present. And the future.”
Dickson, the blacksmith from Menard, was already seated in the witness chair when I entered the courtroom and took my place on the