CHAPTER 18

As I pushed open the door to Hoffman’s Row, I ran headlong into Big Red May, coming down the stairs from Lincoln’s office at full tilt.

“I think you’ll be interested—” I began.

But the mayor pushed past me, saying, “No time, I’m afraid,” and hurried out into the street. I did not follow. It made sense to see what was in William Trailor’s trunk, I figured, before telling the mayor about the development.

Upstairs, Lincoln was seated at the large, square table that dominated the room, scrawling away at some court document. He nodded at my entrance but remained hunched over his pleading. Lincoln’s office boy, young Milton Hay, stood next to him, jingling his legs nervously. Belmont sat on Stuart’s lounge, wearing an immaculate frockcoat as usual, his legs crossed and his walking stick balanced under one palm. Belmont gave me a half smile as I entered.

“I’m waiting for his attention, too,” said the banker. “As was your mayor. We are all in line behind a series of overdue pleadings.”

As I waited for Lincoln to look up, the sound of angry shouts floated through the room. I went out into the hallway to investigate, but glancing up and down the dimly lit corridor, I found it empty.

“Who’s carrying on?” I asked, ducking back into the office.

“Judge Treat,” Lincoln replied, as he dipped his pen into the inkwell. “He’s hearing Douglas in the Purkapile case at this hour. I was down there earlier, arguing one of the Wrenwag cases, and His Honor was in a foul mood already.”

Lincoln still had not moved his eyes from his pleading. A shout that sounded very much like “hold you in contempt” floated up through the floorboards.

I cleared my throat.

“Yes?” Lincoln prompted, still scrawling away.

“I’ve come to talk to you about the case.”

After a pause, filled only by the sound of Lincoln’s nib dashing across the page, he asked, “Which case?”

“Which one could it be?” I said. Finally, Lincoln looked up. His brow was clenched with concentration and his gray eyes were streaked with tiny red lines. He gestured impatiently. “Archibald’s, of course,” I explained.

“Oh.” Lincoln looked down again and resumed his writing. “Because it could have been the Wrenwag cases. Those hearings continue tomorrow morning. Or perhaps the four Harris brothers and their horse. Two of the brothers are due here later to explain their side to me. Or perhaps O’Fraim and his assault trial. He goes into the dock in less than a fortnight, and I have yet to talk to any witness I might call for the defense. And of course that leaves aside Belmont and arrangements for shipping the gold to Chicago.”

Lincoln finished his document. He held it up to the light and read it over quickly, his lips moving slightly as he did. He blew on the sheet to dry the ink and handed it to Hay.

“You’re to deliver this immediately to Browning. Tell him it’s my answer to his motion in the second Wrenwag matter.”

Hay bobbed his head up and down, swallowing rapidly. The office boy was of sixteen years, thin as a willow and flighty as a hummingbird. He hoped to read law one day and join the bar himself, but I thought this prospect very dim as I watched him stand nervously in Lincoln’s shadow.

Lincoln looked up at the boy, surprised to see him still at his side. “Get going!” Hay gasped and flittered past me. “Remember—the second Wrenwag matter,” Lincoln called as Hay disappeared through the door. Lincoln pulled out a blank sheet of paper and began scratching away again.

“I hate to interrupt,” I said, “but I think you should come at once, Lincoln. With apologies to your suit, Belmont.”

“Come where?” asked Lincoln.

“To Mary’s—Miss Todd’s—house. She and my sister found something important for Archibald’s case.”

Lincoln’s head shot around. He pushed himself rapidly to his feet, and his chair toppled over and clattered to the floor. A shout of “Quiet!” carried through the boards.

“You sought out Miss Todd again?” Lincoln asked. His prominent jaw was clenched and the muscles in his neck bulged.

“Not exactly,” I said, taking a step back at the force of Lincoln’s challenge. “I was taking a turn around the square when I came upon her. She was with my sister and Miss Matilda Edwards. Quite a sight, actually, the three of them stuck in the mud.”

“Tell me what happened,” demanded Lincoln, a deep frown creasing his face.

Belmont gathered his walking stick and rose to his feet, giving a little cough. “I’ve just recalled another appointment,” he said unconvincingly. “We’ll find another time to resume, Lincoln. Good day, Speed.” Neither Lincoln nor I turned his direction as the door closed in his wake.

I explained to Lincoln about the trunk Mary and Martha had found. Scowling, he put on his coat and followed me out the door. We slopped through the muck and mire up to Quality Hill, barely exchanging two words. An angry conversation raged inside my head, where I imagined Lincoln’s voice telling me to stay away from Miss Todd while my voice answered that he was being presumptuous in the extreme. There had been no resolution to my internal debate by the time we reached the top of the hill.

We made much faster progress through the mud than could Hart’s sturdy draft horse, burdened by his cart and its cargo and passengers, and we reached the curving drive in front of the Edwards home just before Hart did. Lincoln and the ladies exchanged greetings, and Lincoln held out his hand and helped them down in turn from the back of the cart.

“Do you want to change first?” I asked, gesturing at their muddy clothes.

“To the contrary,” said Mary, “we’re perfectly dressed to go mucking around in a barn.” Martha smiled in agreement.

“I’ve had enough adventure for one day,” said Miss Edwards. She lifted her ruined skirts as she headed for the front door.

“Don’t tell my sister or brother-in-law we’re out here,” Mary called. “You can say you turned around first and that Miss Speed and I will be on our way back soon enough.”

“Speed told me you’d found a trunk belonging to William Trailor,” Lincoln said to Mary. “Can you show us?”

“This way,” said Miss Todd. She and Martha linked arms, while Lincoln and I trailed after them, not deigning to look at each other.

The barn was located on the eastern slope of Quality Hill, off to the side of the Edwards house. As the prevailing winds in central Illinois blew from west to east, all men who could constructed their barns to the east of their houses, so that the winds would carry the pungent smells of the barnyard away from their dwelling places. It was a one-story “English barn,” a framed, side-gabled structure divided into three bays. It was well made, with regular oak joists, beams, and overhead trusses. The peaked ceiling was open to the rafters. The scent of fresh manure hung in the air.

We entered the center bay, the widest one, which featured double doors at either end to allow carriages to be driven in and out. The Edwardses’ coupe carriage, the same one I’d seen picking up Martha at the Hutchason house several days earlier, stood in the middle of the bay. The black paint on the side panels and four wheels shone and the window glass of the enclosed compartment glistened.

“The trunk’s up there,” said Martha, pointing to a hayloft in one of the side bays.

Lincoln and I hurried after one other and climbed the ladder that had been built into the wall. It was a small, rectangular platform, covered by a broad pile of loose hay several feet deep. Both of us had to stoop to avoid the low, slanted roof.

“Under the hay,” called Martha. “We buried it again, after we found it locked.” Lincoln and I dug through the hay and soon struck something solid. The trunk was a rectangular box, constructed of polished elm and held together by banded iron straps. It measured about four feet wide and three feet high and deep. A shacklebolt lock hung from its latch.

“It’s too small to hold a body,” said Lincoln, his voice touched with irritation.

“That’s what the women said,” I replied, nodding at them, below us on the ground level. “But if it’s William Trailor’s, there’s no telling what might be inside. Something proving his guilt, I don’t doubt. And therefore something exonerating Archibald. Let’s get it open at once.”

But Lincoln took a step back. “I can’t be party to breaking into another man’s possessions,” he said. “Especially one charged with a crime and represented by other counsel. Perhaps if we sought Conkling’s blessing—”

“Turn around,” I ordered, and after a slight pause Lincoln complied. I’d seen a loose nail among the hay straws, and I grabbed it and started working on the lock. There was a satisfying click. “Hoy, now! The trunk wasn’t locked after all.” I threw open the lid. “Let’s have a look.”

Lincoln and I swore.

“What is it?” shouted Martha and Mary from below.

I reached in and carefully pulled out a bone-handled pistol. There was a box of ammunition of a sort I carried in my store next to the gun, and I grabbed that as well. I held up the weapon so the ladies could see it.

“Is it loaded?” asked Martha.

I shook the pistol and cracked open the barrel. “No.” I sniffed the end of the barrel. “But it was discharged not long ago, I’d judge.” I opened the ammunition box; five balls rolled around, not the six it was sold with. “And a ball is missing, too.”

“So William Trailor shot Fisher with his gun,” said Martha. “It practically proves Archibald’s innocence!”

“I’m afraid it does no such thing,” said Lincoln from behind me. He was still crouched down, sorting through the rest of the trunk. “For one thing, Henry said Fisher was suffocated, not shot. Isn’t that right, Speed?”

I allowed that it was.

“For another,” continued Lincoln, as he swung the trunk lid shut and relocked the lock, “even if someone was shot with that gun, there’s no proving William pulled the trigger.” He started to climb down the ladder and motioned that I should follow.

Mary and Martha exchanged disappointed glances, the thrill of finding a useful clue ebbing away. “Still, it’s something,” I said. “And we have Miss Todd and Miss Speed to thank for its discovery.”

“What else was inside the trunk, Mr. Lincoln?” asked Martha.

“What you’d expect from a canal contractor’s traveling trunk. Several changes of work clothes. Maps. A shovel for exploratory digging. And surveyor tools—a compass and chain. I know them all too well myself from my time fighting through the brambles. There’s nothing to suggest anything other than the story William Trailor told to Ninian.”

Martha’s face fell further.

“But the pistol,” I said. “Surely that’s not a contractor’s tool.”

“I suspect it is in many parts of the state. You’ve led us on a wild-goose chase, Speed. A waste of time I didn’t have. I’ll go inside and give Ninian the weapon and balls for safekeeping. Then I need to return to my office.”