front bench. The smith was long and powerful, with a high forehead, receding curly hair, and a fiery red beard. His muscular forearms bulged out of his loose-fitting, soot-stained tunic. Simeon Francis and I had spoken briefly with Dickson on the day of our reporting trip, and I knew him to be a man of few emotions and fewer words.
“You operate a smithy a few storefronts down from Harriman & Co.,” Prickett began without preamble while the crowd was still settling into their seats.
“That’s right,” replied Dickson. His deep, ragged voice was like an anvil dragged along a gravel path.
“And you came to know the Widow Harriman well during the time you and she were both in business in Menard?”
“Well enough.”
“And you came to learn, over the course of time, about the deaths of the widow’s two wards, the young woman Lilly and then her younger brother Jesse?”
Dickson grunted and gave what seemed like an affirmative nod. On the bench, Judge Thomas spit out his cigar and said, “You’ve got to answer with words, Mr. Dickson, not gestures. Do you understand?”
Dickson glanced toward the judge and said, “Yes.” Then he turned to Prickett and repeated the same word.
A quiet laughter spread through the crowd, which was, if anything, larger than the previous day. Dickson did not react.
“Did you,” said Prickett, nodding at his witness encouragingly, “have cause to speak to the Widow Harriman about her tragic losses?”
“No.”
“Well,” said Prickett, trying again, “did you and she have a conversation about the deaths and about her views about what might have happened?”
“No,” said Dickson blankly.
In front of me, Lincoln looked over at the prosecutor with a bemused expression. In profile, his face looked weary. His frockcoat was rumpled and creased. Next to him, Dr. Patterson watched the witness attentively. There were no signs he had experienced trouble sleeping.
Painstakingly, painfully, Prickett pulled the story out of the smith. The day Rebecca had travelled from Menard to Springfield to see the doctor—and meet with me and Lincoln—she had stopped by Dickson’s smithy first to ask him to keep an eye on her store. At the time, the smith relayed haltingly, she told him she was going to Springfield because she had figured out who was responsible for killing her niece and nephew.
“Those were her exact words?” Prickett said over the murmuring audience. “That she’d figured out who committed the crimes?”
“Right.”
“And what did you say in response, when she told you this?”
“Don’t think I said anything.”
My mind was racing. If Rebecca had actually figured out who the murderer was, why didn’t she tell me and Lincoln? Had she said anything to us that might provide a clue to her thoughts? The smith’s story didn’t ring true and yet—given the difficultly Prickett was having in pulling it from him—there was no indication he was fabricating.
Meanwhile, Prickett was trying without success to elicit additional details from Dickson. Finally, the prosecutor asked, “And do you know, in fact, that the Widow Harriman’s destination that day, after she told you why she was traveling to Springfield, was the home of this man, the defendant Allan Patterson?”
“I don’t,” replied Dickson.
“Well, it was,” said Prickett. “That’s where she was going.”
Lincoln shot up, saying, “Objection, Your Honor. If Attorney Prickett intends to testify himself, the least we can do is have Matheny swear him in first.”
“Sustained,” said Judge Thomas, before Prickett could respond. “Do you have anything else for this witness?” When the prosecutor hesitated, the judge said, “Then sit down and let Mr. Lincoln ask his questions.”
Lincoln stood and walked in a big semicircle, passing in an arc by the jury box before coming to rest directly in front of the witness. “Good morning, Dickson,” he said reasonably.
“Morning.”
“Did you ask the Widow Harriman who it was she thought was responsible for the murders?”
“No.”
“Weren’t you interested in learning who the murderer was, or at least who she thought it was?”
“No.”
“You don’t know who she had in mind?”
“No.”
“So as far as you know, the Widow Harriman could have intended to accuse Sheriff Hutchason, or Attorney Prickett, or even Judge Thomas up there on the bench of having committed the first two murders?” The crowd tittered nervously.
“True enough. Can I go now?” Dickson added. “I’ve said all I have to say.”
“You can go,” said Lincoln, resuming his seat.
After the judge called for the morning recess and left the bench to replenish his supply of cigars, I turned to Jane Patterson. She, too, was looking strained and tired.
“What did happen, between your father and Rebecca