CHAPTER 31

An hour later, Martha settled into the seat beside me at the back of the gathering gallery. “I could barely sleep,” she whispered. “I’m so worried about what might happen to Archibald.”

“You’ll sleep better tonight, I predict.”

She stared at me. “What makes you think that?”

“You’ll see.”

Before she could reply, the clerk called the courtroom to order. Henry Trailor had been standing off to the side, arms folded, his eyes darting about the crowded courtroom. The judge motioned that he should resume the empty witness chair at the front of the room. Lincoln rose.

“I have a witness to take out of turn, Your Honor,” he said. Both Lamborn and Conkling swung around in surprise.

“In the middle of the People’s case?” asked Judge Treat, sucking on his pipe stem. “In the middle of the cross-questioning of Mr. Trailor? I don’t think—”

“I discovered definitive proof overnight that there’s been no murder. I’d ask Dr. Garrett Gilmore to come forward.”

The courtroom was alive with excited speculation. Lincoln strode over to Gilmore and helped him to his feet. The elderly doctor walked slowly to the witness chair. Martha turned to me, her mouth open and her eyes wide with hope. Down the row of spectators, I saw Big Red May gaping at Lincoln and Gilmore, his ears flapping wildly. Henry Trailor looked around confusedly, but when no one gave him guidance, eventually he wandered off to the side. William Trailor was glaring at him. Archibald Trailor, meanwhile, squinted at Lincoln, more confused than ever.

“I object, Your Honor,” said Lamborn, rising to his feet uncertainly. “It’s highly improper, in the middle of my case—”

“You don’t have a case,” replied Lincoln. “And, for your own sake, you’re best off realizing it without delay. Have a seat, Doctor,” he added, helping the old man lower himself into the witness chair. Gilmore gazed out at the crowded courtroom and the bustling street beyond and blinked several times.

Lamborn glared at Lincoln suspiciously, but all he said was, “I reserve the right to move to strike the witness. And to cross-question.”

“Of course,” replied Lincoln mildly. “Can you please state your name, Doctor?”

“Garrett Gilmore.”

“You are a medical man?”

Gilmore nodded.

“And where do you reside?”

I felt myself tensing. Given Gilmore’s chronic confusion regarding location, I hoped Lincoln had been over this question with him several times during the course of their breakfast.

“Near to LaSalle.”

“Can you tell us whom you currently have in your care?”

Gilmore looked uncertainly at Lincoln. “I’ve cared for many thousands of men—”

“We don’t have time for all of them, Doctor. I’m asking about a particular man.”

“Which one?”

Lamborn started to rise to object, then thought better of it. I felt my heart sinking. If Gilmore didn’t come through for us now, after Lincoln had made a fuss about calling him out of turn, Archibald’s death warrant was as good as signed.

“Dr. Gilmore, do you have a man named Flynn Fisher in your care?”

This time Lamborn shot up. “Objection, leading the witness!”

“Sustained,” said the judge, pulling on his pipe. “Mr. Lincoln, I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt, but the benefit is very close to expiring.”

Lincoln nodded, the skin around his eyes drawn tight. “Do you know a man named Flynn Fisher, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Describe him, so we know we’re talking about the right fellow.”

“About fifty years of age, fleshy, dark red hair.”

“Have you cared for him?”

“Ever since I’ve known him, he’s leaned his head over his right shoulder.” Gilmore demonstrated briefly.

“Very well. And have you cared for him?” Lincoln tried again.

“For many years.”

“For what malady?”

In a burst of lucidity, Gilmore explained about Fisher’s war wound, his unlikely survival, and his intermittent need for treatment ever since. From time to time, Gilmore added, Fisher would without warning turn up on his doorstep in need of care, like a homing pigeon returning to his roost.

“When did Fisher most recently appear at your home?” asked Lincoln.

“The first time was more than a decade ago. I recall, I was in the middle of treating an invalid named—”

“If I may, Doctor,” broke in Lincoln, “I want us to focus on Fisher.”

Gilmore looked somewhat put out. “All right,” he said.

“Flynn Fisher.”

“Which other one could it be?” he demanded irritably. “Do you know another Fisher?”

“I don’t,” replied Lincoln, to a few titters around the courtroom. Judge Treat sucked madly on the stem of his pipe. I caught sight of Big Red, his ears stiff at attention. “When was the last time—the most recent time—Fisher showed up at your house in need of care?”

“About a month ago.”

“Henry Trailor testified yesterday,” said Lincoln, “that Fisher disappeared from Springfield on the night of the most recent full moon. Do you recall when, in relation to that, Fisher appeared at your house near LaSalle?”

At Lincoln’s reference to Henry, I glanced over at where he had been lingering along the wall, but he was no longer there. Gazing around the courtroom, I could not spot him anywhere.

“I recall that moon,” Gilmore was saying. “It was a beautiful one. Low and round and orange. I said to Maude, I said—”

“Dr. Gilmore, if I may, these gentlemen” —Lincoln gestured to the jury— “are interested in one very specific thing, and that’s the fate of Flynn Fisher. My only question about the full moon is whether you can tell us when in relation to that moon Fisher appeared on your doorstep?”

“It was a few days afterwards.”

“So subsequent to the day Fisher was supposedly murdered in Springfield, he showed up at your home near LaSalle, is that what you’re saying?”

“Right.”

The crowd murmured excitedly. Archibald Trailor looked perplexed; his mouth hung open. His brother William, next to him, seemed consumed with anger.

“Did he show up under his own power?”

“No. He was carried to my door.”

“He was?” asked Lincoln, genuinely surprised. I was surprised too; Gilmore hadn’t mentioned this to me either. “By whom?”

“Why, by that man.” Gilmore reached out an unsteady finger. He seemed to be pointing to William Trailor. The crowd was roiling. William glared at the witness. Conkling leaned over toward his client, and the two men began whispering back and forth furiously.

“By Mr. William Trailor?” asked Lincoln, moving to stand directly beside the man.

“Right.”

“Did William Trailor say anything to you, when he deposited Mr. Fisher at your doorstep?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

Gilmore appeared agitated. “I’ve already told you. He was brought to my door by that man.” Again he pointed, but this time his wavering finger appeared to be aimed at Archibald Trailor, next to William. Archibald looked up with a confused expression on his face. He wasn’t the only one.

Lincoln moved to stand between the two brothers. “This is an important point, Dr. Gilmore, so I want to make sure your testimony is clear. Mr. Fisher was deposited on your doorstep by someone, correct?”

“Several days after the full moon. It was a beautiful one. Low and round and orange. I said to Maude, I said—”

A few members of the audience started to laugh. Martha and I exchanged worried glances.

“Yes, sir,” said Lincoln, straining to remain composed. “When Mr. Fisher was deposited at your home, was he brought by this man” —he pointed to his left, to Archibald— “or this man?” He pointed right, to William.

“That one.” Gilmore pointed to William again.

“And what, if anything, did William Trailor say to you at that time.”

“He said, ‘Flynn’s gone ill again. Take care of him. Make sure he stays alive.’ I remember that last part, because he repeated it several times. ‘Make sure he stays alive.’”

“So William gave Fisher to you, saying, ‘Make sure he stays alive’?”

“Right.”

The crowd was alive with excited speculation.

“And where has Fisher been since that day?” Lincoln asked.

“In my lying-in room. Under my care. He complains every day about missing his wife and child.”

“Oh?” said Lincoln. “Is he married?”

“His wife died years ago. And they never had any children. I think his mind’s a muddle.”

“This doctor’s a muddle,” hissed a man near us in the gallery.

But I realized at once what the testimony meant. “Fisher’s complaining about missing his ring,” I whispered to Martha. “The mourning ring for his wife and child. Someone must have taken it from him and buried it for us to find.”

“Now, how did you happen to be here in this courtroom today?” Lincoln was asking his witness.

“Mostly I keep the curtains drawn, no candles alight, and keep a damp rag on his forehead. It seems to help assure his mind.”

“That’s your treatment, you’re saying?” tried Lincoln.

“That’s what you asked, isn’t it?”

“The question, Dr. Gilmore, is what brings you to this courtroom today?”

“I read an article about this trial, realized you thought—” the doctor gestured at the judge behind him—“Fisher had been killed, and I loaded us in my cart right away and started driving. Been driving without stopping.”

“I’m very glad of it,” said Lincoln. “And so are the defendants.” Glancing over at him, I saw William Trailor’s red face alive with emotions. “Glad” did not appear to be among them. “Where is Mr. Fisher now?”

“My cart broke down on the way, and I had to leave him.”

“Of course it did!” muttered Lamborn under his breath, though loud enough for everyone inside the small courtroom to hear. Several of the jurors sniggered.

“When did your cart break down?” continued Lincoln, ignoring the interruption.

“Somewhere on the road to Springfield, I suppose.”

“No, ‘when.’ When did you leave Fisher in your cart?”

“Last night, of course.”

“And was he alive when you last saw him, last night?”

Gilmore peered at Lincoln and grabbed at his few remaining strands of white hair. “What are you suggesting? That I killed him?” Several men in the courtroom laughed. I heard one remark sneeringly that the doctor had obviously lost his mind.

Lincoln lifted his stovepipe hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Certainly not, Doctor. I merely want you to confirm for the jury that Mr. Fisher is, in fact, alive.”

Lamborn rose, saying, “Objection, leading the witness.”

“Let me rephrase,” said Lincoln, as Lamborn remained standing at his side, his arms folded across his thick chest. “Dr. Gilmore, was Mr. Flynn Fisher alive the last time you saw him, sometime yesterday evening?”

“Yes. Yes, of course he was.”

Lincoln turned to Judge Treat. “We ask you to dismiss the charges, Your Honor. There’s been no murder.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” shouted Lamborn, as the crowd called out with approval and derision in equal measure. “Lincoln’s proven nothing of the sort. Dr. Gilmore, you say you left Fisher in a cart?”

“Right?”

“Where?”

Gilmore shrugged. “I don’t know. Middle of the prairie …” His pause lasted an uncomfortable length. Then he added, in an apologetic tone, “You see, I’m not too good with directions these days.”

“Your mind’s not quite what it used to be?” asked Lamborn with feigned sympathy.

“I’m afraid not.”

Lamborn nodded and glanced over at the judge to make sure he was following along. Judge Treat was working his pipe with short, quick pulls.

“Is Fisher there right now?”

“Where right now?”

“Wherever you left him.”

“But I don’t know where I left him.”

“So where is he now?”

“So where is who now?” Gilmore looked over at Lincoln and back at Lamborn. “I’m confused.”

“Exactly!” shouted Lamborn. A flick of spittle flew out of Lamborn’s mouth and landed on Gilmore’s scalp. Neither man seemed to notice. Several men in the audience laughed. Martha and I exchanged nervous glances again.

“The truth, Dr. Gilmore,” continued Lamborn, “is that this is all a ploy. A trick. Did Archibald Trailor put you up to this?”

“Who?”

“Archibald Trailor. This man right here.” Lamborn pointed at Archibald.

“I’ve never seen that man before in my life—”

“Are you certain—”

“—but him, I know.” Gilmore pointed at William Trailor.

“So William Trailor put you up to this?”

“Up to what?”

“To testifying in court. To claiming that Fisher is still alive.”

“Fisher is still alive,” repeated Gilmore. It was hard to tell if Gilmore’s response was a question or a statement, and he balled up his hands and rubbed his eyes. The old man was getting tired, I thought. And even I was starting to wonder if his tale was true. It was all so improbable.

“William Trailor put you up to this,” repeated Lamborn. An accusation, not a question.

“He asked me to take care of Fisher,” replied the witness.

“So you and William agreed you would come into court and testify Fisher was actually alive?”

Lincoln struggled to his feet, evidently deciding he needed to come to his witness’s rescue. “Your Honor,” he began, “I fear Attorney General Lamborn is confusing the witness with his questioning.”

“The witness is confused, all right,” parried Lamborn. “Hopelessly confused. He admitted it himself. Not my doing.”

“The objection is overruled,” said the judge. “I’m going to give the People every latitude and leeway.”

“You and William spoke at your house?” Lamborn said to the witness.

“Right.”

“And did you agree to come into court and testify Fisher was actually alive?”

“Did I agree with him about that? No, that’s what Mr. Lincoln asked.”

“So Lincoln put you up to this!” roared Lamborn, to cries of excitement from the crowd out on the street. He punched the air with his fist. “What did Lincoln promise you in return?”

Gilmore looked at the attorney uncertainly. “Breakfast.”

Laughter swept the courtroom.

“He promised you breakfast if you testified?”

“Didn’t promise it. Bought it for me. I was powerful hungry.”

“So Mr. Lincoln gave you financial favors in exchange for your agreement to testify. Is that what you’re telling us, Dr. Gilmore?”

“It was ten cents’ worth of coffee and eggs,” called Lincoln calmly from his chair. “Saunders’s finest at the Globe. I daresay Dr. Gilmore’s honesty can’t be bought so cheaply.”

“I’m not testifying for breakfast,” said Gilmore. “I’m testifying because I saw the article about this legal case, and—”

“You’re testifying because William Trailor asked you to take care of Fisher,” said Lamborn forcefully.

“Eggs and coffee,” replied Gilmore.

“So you are testifying for eggs and coffee?”

Before Gilmore could reply, the spectators in the courtroom became aware of a great swell of noise coming through the open windows. It seemed to originate from the very back of the crowd on the street and quickly streaked forward, gaining intensity like the whine of an approaching cannonball. It was a mixture of cheers and jeers, applause and catcalls, whoops and loud groans. Just when the commotion had reached a fevered pitch, it was punctuated by the door to the courtroom being thrown open.

My clerk Herndon stood in the doorway, his face red and perspiring, his hat askew and his riding coat smeared with dirt. Dragging along by his side, his arm thrown over Herndon’s shoulders for support, was a limp figure. His head was tilted unnaturally to the side. The figure was unwell, infirm, feeble. But the figure was, unmistakably, Flynn Fisher. And, just as unmistakably, he was alive.