These Honored Dead (23 page)

“I’m not leaving without Phillis,” said Martha.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” said Jane. “You heard your brother—the trial won’t wait for me. What if Father were to be convicted, where my testimony would have produced his acquittal?” Her voice rose with genuine emotion. “As soon as we eat, we must be back on the trail to Springfield.”

“I’m not leaving without Phillis,” repeated Martha.

“Dear, don’t you think you’re being a little stubborn?” said Jane. I could tell she was trying hard to maintain her composure. “And selfish. You’ve done all you can, especially in this state, where no part of officialdom will lift a finger to protect your rights. Molly will have given birth by the time we’re back. And you won’t need a midwife yourself for several years now, will you? Meanwhile, my father’s life is at stake. Tonight.”

“Martha’s right,” I said. “We need to reclaim Phillis before we return.”

Jane looked at me with great surprise. “But Mr. Speed—my father . . . Mr. Lincoln’s client. Surely you share my interest, at the least, in seeing to it Mr. Lincoln is positioned to advance his best possible defense. His professional reputation depends on it, I would think.”

“Whatever interests we do or do not share,” I returned, “is beside the point right now. My sister’s correct. We can’t leave our bondswoman in the hands of a blackguard. We’ve got to reclaim her, if she’s still in Decatur.”

Jane was at a loss for words.

“She’s still here, all right,” Martha said. “Surely it would take time for Hathaway to locate a slave dealer in these parts. When we arrived, he dragged Phillis into the poorhouse and locked the door, preventing us from following. She must be hidden away inside somewhere.”

“I bet I know exactly where,” I said. “Supper can wait. Let’s go.” I paused. “Unless you want to stay and dine, Miss Patterson. We’ll be happy to come back and collect you after we’ve found the slave woman. Returning to Springfield tonight is the plan. I’m in full agreement with you on that score.”

Jane shook her head. “I’ll accompany you,” she said. “I’m as invested as Miss Speed in righting the injustice of Phillis’s capture.” Jane gave a gracious smile to Martha, who did not return the same.

I gave a cold stare to the proprietor of the Hound’s Breath, who had come to complain we were taking up a table without
ordering any food, and the three of us hurried out of the tavern and across the dark square. A thin layer of clouds dimmed the moon and obscured all but the most persistent stars.

“I’m so proud of you, Joshua,” Martha whispered as we walked down the hill toward the poorhouse. “I knew you’d see, in the end, that rescuing Phillis was the honorable thing to do.”

I hesitated; Jane was watching us closely, trying to hear whatever might pass between us. But I realized it didn’t matter if she heard my response.

“Honor’s got nothing to do with this.”

M
artha stood in the dark at the poorhouse door and knocked loudly. And again. And then again. Finally we heard footsteps echoing inside and Hathaway’s rough voice: “Who is it?”

“It’s Martha Speed. May I come in?”

“No.”

“Please, sir, it’s a matter of urgency. I’m trying to find my brother. Have you seen him about today?”

“Of course I haven’t. Now go away. I warned you when you insisted on coming along that I’d show you no mercy.”

From my hiding place, flattened against the wall beside the door, I motioned for Martha to get on with it. It was so dark, I had no idea whether she could see me. Jane was standing a step behind Martha; I could hear her quick breathing.

“Please, sir, Miss Patterson and I have no place to spend the night. All the inns are full.”

“That’s your problem, Miss Speed. Not mine.”

“We have money. Lots.”

There was a pause. I readied myself to break through the door with my shoulder if necessary. But then we heard the sound of two locks being snapped open. The poorhouse master opened the door and, without looking to either side, took a step out. I’d have to tell Lincoln that Hathaway was that stupid, after all, I thought, as I brought down a rock on the scoundrel’s head with
as much force as I could manage. He dropped to the ground, a limp sack of potatoes, in front of the young women. Jane gave a gasp.

“He’ll be fine soon enough,” I said. “Martha, find some twine to bind him, in case he wakens before we’re finished. I know he keeps his keys in here somewhere.” Martha went off in search of supplies while I rummaged through Hathaway’s pockets until my fingers struck a ring of keys.

I took the candle that had been in Hathaway’s hand and walked into the house. At once, I was hit by the stench of decay and suffering. A few residents were peering out from their doors on the long hallway, drawn by the late night disturbance. I saw them gape in wonder as they realized it was their master who was lying unconscious in the entranceway. I didn’t stop to ask their views on the matter, but Martha seemed to have procured with great speed enough rope to tie Hathaway up three times over.

By the time Martha had secured his arms and legs, pulling the rope especially tight, Hathaway was moaning softly. “Where to?” my sister asked.

“Perhaps I’ll stay to make sure he’s bound securely and then catch up with you,” suggested Jane.

“No, we need to stick together,” I said, thinking there was no longer any doubt Jane and Hathaway had been in league. “It’s a labyrinth inside. Follow me.”

Jane looked at me warily but did not argue. I led the two women along the dank hall, through the closed door at the end, and down the narrow flight of stairs to the long infirmary. Most of the persons there were sleeping, and we walked through the room quietly in order to avoid waking them. I noticed several were covered by blankets once in the inventory of A. Y. Ellis & Co.

As quietly as I could, I tried the various keys from Hathaway’s ring in the door at the end of the sickroom. Finally one inserted and turned, and I opened the door and beckoned Martha and Jane to follow me into the small, pitch-black space.

The two women looked around the empty room with confusion. “I thought you said you knew where he’d hide her,” said Martha.

“I do. Hold this for a minute.” I handed her the burning candle, then dropped to my knees and felt around until I found the hidden lever in the floor. I pulled open the panel, revealing the Idiot’s pit and the top of the ladder. A great smell of waste erupted from the hole. Martha gulped.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, taking the candle from Martha and descending the ladder. Jane took half a step to follow after me, but the odor must have hit her with full force as she gagged and stepped back.

When I reached the bottom of the pit, it was hard to see anything at all. If I looked at the candle, it blinded me to the rest of the dug-out room; if I looked away, the refracted light was too faint to make out anything. But gradually my eyes adjusted, and I perceived Fanning asleep in his man-cage, a sighing, foul heap of rags, skin, and bones. Stooping to avoid the low ceiling, I squinted around the room. Where was she?

“Over here, Master,” came a quiet voice.

I knelt beside a shrouded figure, bound in a burlap sack under the eaves opposite the man-cage. I held the flame up to Phillis’s eyes and she blinked rapidly. There was a bruise below her right eye.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, sir.”

“What’s happened to your face, then?”

“It’s nothing. But that one over there is crazy. Hollering at me until he fell asleep from the effort.”

“Phillis?” called Martha’s voice from above. Lifting the candle, I saw Jane peering down anxiously beside her.

“I’ve got her,” I said. “We’ll be up in a minute.” I put the candle in my teeth and, working quickly with both hands, managed to loosen the sack and untie Phillis’s arms. The Negro
neither smiled nor thanked me but merely stood there, rubbing the welts on her arms and awaiting my further direction.

“Can you make it up the ladder by yourself?”

“Imagine so,” she said, and she did, slowly. As I trailed behind her, I tried to figure out what to do next. Jane seemed determined not to let Phillis out of her sight. There was no need to bring the issue to a head here in unfamiliar territory. After we’d returned to Springfield, there would be plenty of opportunity to learn what Phillis had overheard.

When she reached the top of the ladder, Phillis was swept up by Martha in an exuberant embrace. “I told you I wouldn’t let you go,” Martha said, her arms gleefully around Phillis’s neck. The slave stood limp; her arms remained at her side. “I told you she was still here,” Martha continued, looking at me and Jane with triumph, seemingly unaware of the bondswoman’s lack of affect.

“Now can we get on the trail for Springfield?” Jane asked. “We’ve lost nearly half the night as it is. I need to be back in time to testify for my father.”

“We can,” I said, but then I stopped short. Phillis was staring at Jane with determined, hostile eyes. Jane noticed the stare a moment after I did, and her mouth dropped open with disbelief. Martha realized as well something was afoot, and she released Phillis from her embrace and stepped back. The slave stared at Jane, and the other three of us stared at the slave and her remarkable act of defiance. The room was silent; the flickering candle in my hands casting all of us in its dancing light.

“I’ll not cover for your madness again,” said a voice. Even though I was looking right at Phillis, it took me a moment to realize the words had come from her mouth.

“Excuse me?” I looked at the slave incredulously.

“‘I’ll not cover for your madness again.’ He said that.”

“
Who
said that?” I asked, looking back and forth between Jane and Phillis. Jane had one hand to her mouth and the other near the folds of her skirt.

“Dr. Patterson, to his daughter here. ‘I’ll not cover for your madness again.’”

Jane gave a nervous, high-pitched laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I said nothing of the sort.”

“What
he
said,” repeated Phillis, still staring at Jane with dark, unblinking eyes.

“You’re misremembering the words I used,” insisted Jane.

“Not you. Him. That’s what
he
said.”

“But surely, Phillis dear, you’re mistaken about who said what,” said Martha. “Surely it was Jane who said that to her father, if anyone said anything at all. Her father’s the one who’s admitted to having a creeping madness.”

“That’s right,” said Jane. “Perhaps I did say it, but to my father. My father’s the one who’s mad.”

“He said it to you,” repeated Phillis firmly.

I was staring at the three of them, open-mouthed.
Jane was mad
. Suddenly that made sense to me, where nothing else had made sense for a very long time. Not since I’d stumbled upon Rebecca’s broken body and my mind filled with grief and fog had I had such a coherent, definite thought.
Jane was mad
.

“You have no idea what you’re saying,” said Jane. “Mr. Speed, I’m warning you, your bondswoman is far over the line. I won’t stand for it. I demand you correct her at once.”

I took two steps toward Phillis, and finally she shifted her gaze from Jane to me. “Are you quite sure,” I said, “the phrase you’re remembering is something Dr. Patterson said to Jane and not the other way around?”

“I’m sure.”

I turned and looked at Jane. Her face was twisted in the flickering flame.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Jane. “You’re not actually giving any credence to what this illiterate slave is saying, are you, Mr. Speed?” When I did not answer, she continued, her voice fluttering ever higher, “You’re going to take her word over mine? You cannot be serious.”

I wondered at the slave’s fortitude. Even now she showed not the slightest concern whether I believed her.

The proposition put by Jane would have seemed absurd to me just a half hour earlier. Accept the word of an illiterate Negro slave over the word of a doctor’s daughter? I would have laid a hundred to one—nay, a million to one—odds it would never be so. And yet—

“I believe her,” I said.

Martha started to open her mouth to say something, but before she could, Jane jerked up the hand that had been resting in the folds of her skirt. In it shone the barrel of a small lady’s muff pistol, with an ebony stock and silver frame. She grabbed Phillis around the neck and shoulders with one arm and dragged her a few paces back into a corner of the room. With her other hand, Jane held the pistol to Phillis’s temple.

“Jane—no!” shouted Martha.

“Father gave it to me,” Jane said with an unnatural calmness. “After they found the dead girl. He told me I needed to be careful with a killer about.” She gave a high-pitched laugh.

“My father’s wrong, you know,” Jane added, looking at Phillis, who remained tightly secured by her other arm. “Completely wrong. I’m not mad. I’m the sanest person I know.”

The midwife, who was not struggling against her captor, did not respond. Her face was calm and clear, as if secure in the belief she was protected by some higher presence.

Meanwhile, my mind was working furiously.
I’ll not cover for your madness again.
How far back did Jane’s madness extend? Her mother had died shortly after her birth. But her stepmother had disappeared only four years ago, right before the Pattersons had moved to Springfield. Had the doctor known his daughter was responsible for his second wife’s disappearance in Decatur and moved to Springfield to give her a new beginning?

I had the sense I was missing an important connection. Something else had happened in Decatur at about the same time. Then I remembered: the young woman Abigail had told my sister that
Lilly Walker and her family had been thrown into turmoil when their neighbor and landlord in Decatur, a land speculator, had suddenly sold off their property.

I hastened to piece together the events. What if Patterson himself had been that neighbor and speculator? Lilly and Jane, about the same age, would have been neighbors—acquaintances surely, likely friends—at the time of Jane’s stepmother’s disappearance. And then earlier this summer Lilly, newly rescued from the poorhouse and determined never to return, had visited Springfield with her aunt and walked about town. And soon thereafter she’d been murdered.

“You must have been surprised to see Lilly Walker again,” I said.

Jane’s face gave no reaction, but I saw her grip on the pistol tighten. The gun would carry only a single shot. If I could get her to discharge it, we would all be safe.

“You two had been close, hadn’t you, when you lived next door to each other in Decatur?”

“She was a poor girl with a runny nose and dirty, mended clothes,” said Jane. “We were never friendly.”

“But she knew what you’d done to your stepmother, didn’t she?” I continued. I heard Martha gasp quietly behind me. “How, I wonder? Did she see it happen? Help you, even—two thirteen-year-old girls whispering and plotting? Or did you boast about it to her afterward? ‘A poor girl with a runny nose.’ I’ll bet she would have been impressed with you, for your daring. I’ll bet that’s exactly who you would have wanted to share your deed with.”

A tremor ran across Jane’s face. She did not answer.

“So then she tried to blackmail you when she encountered you again in Springfield after all those years,” I continued. Everything was becoming clear now, like the morning mist melting away to reveal the new day. “Threatened to reveal your secret if you didn’t give her money.”

I had always wondered about Jane Patterson and Lilly Walker. Their lives had seemed mirror opposites of each other; in fact, they had been far more intertwined than I ever could have imagined. And, in the end, Lilly’s instinct for financial independence—the very characteristic that had so pleased Rebecca—is what had gotten her killed.

“She was a greedy wench,” said Jane. “She was nobody. She didn’t mean anything to anybody.”

“Except her aunt,” said Martha. “And her little brother.”

I started moving slowly toward one side of the room and inclined my head slightly at my sister. At once she understood and began drifting toward the other side.

“Her brother was a pest,” Jane said. Her eyes were focused tightly on me.

“He was an innocent little boy,” said Martha.

“He was a nosy little brat,” Jane responded. “He didn’t know his place. And I wasn’t sure what he might know. Or might have seen.”

“But Rebecca Harriman figured out that you were responsible for the two murders,” I said. “That’s what she came to confront your father about. That’s why they quarreled.”

“Father had no true feelings for her,” said Jane. “He didn’t need her. He’s never needed anyone else. He’s always had me.”

At that moment, a dark shadow streaked across the room. Belatedly I realized it was Martha charging at Jane. I shouted and took a running jump toward Jane from my side of the room. As I leapt, the candle dropped from my hand and extinguished on the dirt floor. I felt myself landing atop a tangle of writhing bodies in the pitch-black room.