CHAPTER 25

I woke early the next morning in my own bed, my head pounding. I thought perhaps I had dreamed the encounter with Miss Flannery, but then I felt by my cheek her lace handkerchief, which she’d given me as we parted. And I sighed contentedly and turned over and fell back asleep.

When I woke again, it was to a hard, unrelenting rain. I foreswore the morning walk to the Globe and breakfasted instead on stale biscuits I took from the store’s shelves. The rain had driven most of Springfield’s populace inside, and so when I heard the door creaking open a few minutes after ten, I expected our first customer of the day. Instead, it was Sheriff Hutchason, water dripping from every limb.

“Awfully wet morning for your rounds, Humble,” I said.

“Without the downpour, I doubt I would have found him.”

My pulse quickened. “Found whom?”

“Fisher. At last. I need shovels and a burlap bag, for collecting the remains. If you want, saddle up your horse and come see for yourself.”

After fetching the supplies for the sheriff, I threw on my greatcoat and grabbed an old straw hat that was already ruined for proper occasions. Then I hustled around the corner to the Globe stables and got Hickory ready as quickly as I could. She never minded the weather, and as it had been several days since I had taken her out for exercise, she was jangly and eager to set off.

The sheriff called out impatiently from the yard, and I jumped aboard Hickory and we took off, the mud flying up from both horses’ hooves. Sometime later we came to an abrupt halt, and I blinked through the rain to gauge our location. After a moment, I realized we were about a quarter mile distant from Hickox’s millpond, only on the side opposite where Henry Trailor had led Big Red and his search party.

In front of us was a low bank, about four feet high. Rainwater streamed down the bank, and there was a muddy pool at its base. Parts of two weathered military boots stuck out, soles first, from the sloping surface.

“That’s him,” Hutchason said. He was bareheaded and his scalp was wet and glistening. “What remains of him, anyway.”

“How do you know it’s Fisher?” I had to shout to be heard over the din of the pounding rain.

“When he first turned up missing, I got a description from Ransdell of what he was wearing on his last day. Keeps a close eye on anyone who owes him money. Ransdell told me about the boots, and the jacket and hat, too.” Hutchason pointed, and I saw a tattered half-coat caught in some brambles a few feet from the boots. The coat bore a pattern that, while faded, I recognized as the insignia of a band of military irregulars. And a few feet away, impaled on the end of a bare branch, was a discolored fur hat, with part worn away. It was exactly what Ransdell had told me, too, of Fisher’s final outfit.

“Is any of his flesh and bones still there?” I asked. A steady stream of water was pouring off the brim of my hat, and I had to squint to make out Hutchason.

“There’re a few bones scattered about. I’ll walk around carefully to recover what I can, but I don’t think much is left. The wolves must of eaten him. There’s not much else for them to eat this time of year.”

“How do you think he got here?”

“Dunno.” The sheriff shrugged. “Maybe this is where the Trailor brothers buried him, until the rains eroded away the bank and put him to the surface again. Or maybe they left him on the other side of the pond, where Henry indicated, and the wolves dragged him over here to have their meal.”

We sat atop our horses quietly for a minute or two, while the rain pounded down on the lonely remains of Flynn Fisher. It was a gloomy scene, befitting the sorry end to Fisher’s life.

“How did you come to look for him here?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“That’s the funny part,” said the sheriff. “This morning, when I went to check on William Trailor in his cell in the capitol basement, he asked me if Fisher’s body had been found yet. I said it hadn’t, and he said why don’t you search again, on the far side of the pond. Indeed, he gave me pretty decent directions to this exact spot.”

I gazed up in confusion. “But why would William want you to find the body? Surely it’s better for his defense if it never surfaced.”

The sheriff shook his head, flinging a jet of water off his scalp.

“Perhaps it’s some kind of trick,” I said, trying to answer my own question. “Perhaps William arranged for another set of remains to be placed here, suggesting it was Fisher, and then in the middle of the trial he’s going to prove it’s not him, in order to discredit the prosecution’s case.”

“Beyond the clothing, I’m not sure how anyone could prove for certain whose bones these are,” said Hutchason. “Unless the wolves left his skull, but I don’t see anything that large. Not intact, anyway.”

I had a sudden inspiration. “Did you spot a mourning ring among the remains?” I related what Archibald had told me about the ring commemorating Fisher’s dead wife and child.

“Haven’t seen anything of the sort.”

“Let’s keep an eye out for it as we collect what’s left,” I said, swinging off Hickory. “Here, I’ll help you.”

We dug and poked around in the mud for the better part of an hour. We bagged the clothing and the bones we could find. They were human bones, no doubt, although they added up to considerably less than a full skeleton. The wolves had scattered, or eaten, the rest.

We were nearly finished with our work when I thrust my spade into the muddy ground one more time and heard a sort of clink. Excitedly, I dropped to all fours and dug. Finally, I was able to scoop the object up, and I held it in my cupped hands. As the sheriff watched beside me, the falling rain washed away the mud, gradually revealing a silver ring with intertwined initials.

“The very one I saw on Fisher’s finger in Chicago,” I said. “It’s him, all right.”

As we parted, Hutchason asked me to tell Lincoln about our discovery of the body, but when I called at Hoffman’s Row, he was absent. Hay told me he was closeted with Belmont and Big Red, overseeing the final details of the gold shipment. In fact, Lincoln was gone all day, and when I awoke the next morning, his side of the bed had not been disturbed.

Later that morning, Herndon and I were behind the counter of my store, sorting through a newly arrived shipment of fashionable hats from New York City, when my sister Martha burst in. Her face was flushed, her hair dripping, and she was gasping for breath. She waved her arms frantically.

“What is it?” I said, coming through the gap in the counter at once.

“Joshua … I need you,” she panted. “Come with me to the sheriff’s house … at once. Archibald Trailor’s future may depend on it.”

“Of course—but why?”

“He’s about to confess to something he didn’t do. You’ve got to stop him.”

I shouted to Herndon to find Lincoln, wherever he was, and send him to the jail cell immediately. Then I took Martha’s arm and we hurried through the door.

Outside, it was a chilly spring morning. It was raining again, though more gently than the day before, and the streets were sloppy and slippery. Martha’s shoes and stockings were already coated, but she paid them no heed as we splashed through the muck.

“Tell me what happened,” I said, holding my hand to my brow to keep the rainwater from running into my eyes.

Martha’s chest was still heaving with agitation. “I was having a conversation with Archibald this morning out back at the cell. Henry Trailor came into the backyard and said he’d arranged for Big Red to be by shortly, and Archibald nodded and said something like, ‘It’s set, then.’ And Henry told me Archibald was going to confess that he and he alone was responsible for Fisher’s murder.”

“What?”

“I know,” said Martha, bobbing her head. “I pleaded for Archibald to talk to Lincoln first, but Henry started arguing back and wouldn’t let Archibald say another word for himself. I knew I had to enlist your help. Oh, we’ve got to hurry!” She gathered her skirts in her hands and splashed ahead through the mud.

“Did you hear the sheriff found Fisher’s remains yesterday, right where William told him to look?” I asked as I caught up with her.

Martha nodded. “Humble started to describe the scene at suppertime last night, until Molly shushed him and told him it was no business for the baby’s ears. But I got the gist of the story. I know it’s looking grim for Archibald. We’ve got to stop him before he makes it worse.”

We soon reached Sheriff Hutchason’s house, but as we raced through the gate toward the cell in the rear yard, we saw the jail door standing open and Archibald Trailor being led out by the sheriff himself, with Henry Trailor walking behind his brother. The prisoner’s hands were tied behind his back.

“What’s this?” I said as I hurried to intercept the little procession.

“Speed? I should have known your sister would go for you.” Hutchason frowned. “You’ll have to step aside. I’ve been told Mr. Archibald Trailor has a statement to make, and as a service to him, in view of the weather, I’ve agreed he can make it inside the house. Big Red’s waiting for them near the hearth.” He indicated over my shoulder to his house, and I could just make out the mayor’s distinctive profile, watching us through the window.

“But why’s he coming?” Martha asked, pointing at Henry Trailor, who returned a glare full of daggers aimed squarely at her.

The sheriff sighed. “Archibald asked that his brother be present, too, for his statement. Now, I must ask both of you Speeds to step aside. You can’t interfere. This is legal business.”

I went up to Archibald and put my hand on his shoulder. The carpenter’s face was puffy and his eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in days. “What are you doing?” I asked in a quiet voice.

“No more than I must,” he returned.

“This isn’t still about your five-year-old self telling your father you’d protect your brothers, is it? You’ve got to protect yourself, first and foremost. Your life could be at stake, Archibald. Your father would tell you the same, if he were here.”

“I made a promise.” It was barely a whisper.

“I urge you to refrain from saying anything. At least until you’ve had a chance to consult with Lincoln. He has your interests at heart. None of these other men do. Not the sheriff or the mayor. And definitely not your brothers. I’ve been around Lincoln long enough to know he’s going to tell you to stay silent.”

“Stand aside, Speed,” said Hutchason. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“It concerns Lincoln, at a minimum, and he’s on his way at this very moment,” I replied, hoping mightily it was true. The fact that Big Red had returned to town gave me a glimmer of optimism that Lincoln was about as well. Hopefully Herndon would track him down.

“What’s the delay, Sheriff?” came Henry’s screeching voice. He was only a few feet from us, close enough to have heard the entire exchange. “I was under the impression you are the principal lawman in this county. And that ordinary citizens do not have the power to subvert the interests of the law. Meanwhile we’re all standing in the rain, getting wetter and wetter.”

I turned and said hurriedly to Martha, “Go inside. Now! You’ll know what to do.” Martha nodded and rushed toward the sheriff’s back door. The sheriff watched her without comment; I figured he wouldn’t bar her from entering the house she’d called home for several years.

Turning back to Henry, I said, “It seems to me it’s you who’s subverting the interests of the law.”

“This is your last warning, Speed,” said Hutchason in an angry voice. “Stand aside voluntarily, or I’ll have no choice but to lock you up yourself.” He pointed toward the jail cell.

I raised my hands in the air and moved a few feet away. But as both Trailors passed, I fell into step behind them. The sheriff opened his back door and ushered them inside. I was a step behind Henry, and I managed to block the door with my foot just as the sheriff was pulling it shut. “I won’t say one word,” I told Hutchason. “I promise.”

He stared at me for a moment, calculating. “A single word and I’m jailing you for a week,” he finally replied, standing aside to let me pass.

The Trailor brothers had taken seats next to each other around Hutchason’s hearth. Big Red May sat across from them, his hands folded on his lap and his enormous ears flapping with excitement. Henry frowned as he saw me enter the room, but he kept his tongue.

Martha, standing in the far corner, avoided catching my eye.

“Why don’t you untie my brother, Sheriff, now that we’re inside,” said Henry. “He’s no risk of flight in here.”

Sheriff Hutchason agreed, and Archibald rubbed his wrists and stretched his arms once the sheriff removed the bindings. I stared through the window, willing Lincoln to appear before Archibald inflicted permanent damage on his case. The rain had picked up and was coming down in steady sheets.

“Go ahead and warm yourself,” said the mayor, pointing toward the hearth. Inside a proper building for the first time in days, Archibald gratefully extended his hands toward the fire.

“Now Archibald,” began May, honing in on his target, “you and I have known each other for quite some time, haven’t we? Going on ten years at this point.”

“I reckon you’re about right, Big Red,” replied Archibald peaceably. He rotated his wrists back and forth in front of the smoldering logs.

“And we’ve had good relations during that time?”

Archibald nodded.

“Now, Archibald, this trial for you and William is going to begin in three days.”

Another nod.

“You understand, don’t you, that the sheriff found the remains of Mr. Fisher yesterday, found them out by the millpond.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“I’ve got to tell you, Archibald, you and William don’t got much of a chance, not between the testimony of Henry and now the body turning up. I’m just being honest with you, all right? The men of this town want justice. They’re going to hear the evidence of what you’ve done, and a picture’s going to come into their minds of you and William swinging from a pair of gallows set up on the green beside the state capitol, and they’re going to think that’s justice. You understand what I’m saying?”

Martha stiffened. Archibald said, “I understand.” A hint of tension had begun to creep into his temples.

“I don’t want that to happen, Archibald. Truly I don’t. But if it’s you and William together on trial, I’m telling you, that’s what’s going to happen.” Big Red stole a glance at the sheriff. “Now, if it was just you on trial, Archibald, you by yourself, it’d be a different matter. A different trial altogether. I imagine your lawyer Mr. Lincoln could put on all manner of evidence about your character. About what a credit you’ve been to the town of Springfield all these years. About how many folks you’ve leant a helping hand to. How many you’ve done good, honest carpentry for. I’m telling you, Archibald, if that’s what the trial is, I don’t think anyone’s going to be swinging from the gallows, not William, and certainly not you, either.”

Again Archibald nodded. Henry was watching him intently.

“So, Archibald, tell me what really happened between you and this Fisher fellow.”

There was a pause, during which everyone but Archibald leaned forward with anticipation. If the man himself was experiencing inner turmoil, it was hard to tell. He cleared his throat.

“It began when—”

“Wolves!” screamed my sister. “Two wolves out by the barn. The chickens and milk cow are about to get eaten!”

“Are you sure, Miss Speed?” The sheriff turned to her with a suspicious look.

“Positive. Two shadows creeping past the jail cell. They slipped between the boards into the barn.”

The sheriff lumbered through his door, after first grabbing a shotgun from atop the door frame. The rest of us sat in awkward silence. A few minutes later the sheriff came back inside, dripping wet.

“There were no wolves,” he said, glowering.

“You must have chased them off,” said Martha, her face steady. “What a relief.”

“Now Archibald—” began Big Red again.

“Don’t say anything!” cried Martha.

Everyone turned to look at her again. Both Big Red and Henry Trailor shouted angrily. Sheriff Hutchason took several steps toward her. The expression on his broad face was somewhere between resignation and fury. I stepped in front of Martha to shield her from the approaching lawman.

There was a bang behind us. A soaking-wet Lincoln crashed through the door and into the home. He took in the scene as water dripped from his stovepipe hat and started to form a puddle on the sheriff’s floor. Then he marched up to Archibald Trailor, grabbed him by the scruff of his work shirt, and pulled him to his feet. “Close your mouth and come with me,” commanded Lincoln.

The words unleashed an uproar. Everyone started speaking at once. Everyone, that is, except Archibald.

“He’s in my custody,” said Hutchason. “You can’t take him.”

“This is my interrogation,” said Big Red. “You can’t interrupt him.”

“He was about to confess,” said Henry Trailor. “You can’t stop him.”

“I can do all those things,” responded Lincoln coolly. “This interrogation is over.”