Читать книгу Thaddeus Lewis Mysteries 5-Book Bundle - Janet Kellough - Страница 41

Surprisingly, there was little in the newspaper about Spicer’s testimony, although they had given over the entire front page to the trial. Apparently he had described his efforts to apprehend the accused in a factual and low-key way, and it was reported in the same manner. A great deal of the space was again given to a gruesome description of the dead body and the bravery of the constables who had attended the scene. There were also a couple of paragraphs about the accused, and an account of the way in which he seemed to sit quietly one moment, his head down, as if he weren’t listening; the next he would be slavering at the mouth, his eyes rolling, his whole body shaking. It was obvious that he was criminally insane, the editor of the paper wrote, but he had taken the life of an innocent woman, and so must pay the price.

The court agreed and the magistrate set the date of execution for a month’s time.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Spicer said as they rode the circuit together. “If everyone agrees that he’s insane, then how can he be held accountable for his crime? I find this very troubling.”

“As do I,” Lewis replied. “All I can say in response is that now you’re beginning to understand that life is never straightforward. Often there is no clear right or wrong, and our duty is to think hard and long before we pronounce any kind of definitive judgment.”

“With the Bible as our authority?”

Lewis hesitated. “I prefer to think that my conscience is the final arbiter.”

“I wish it were easier.”

“If it was easier, we wouldn’t have to think so hard, would we?”

It was an excellent point that emerged, and Lewis decided to use it as the basis for his next sermon. He was a little disappointed when his words seemed to go over the congregation’s heads somewhat, for he could see the puzzled looks on their faces. This was not what they wanted from a preacher, this measured approach that put the onus on their own judgment and called upon self-discipline and reason to guide their days. They wanted fire and brimstone, the threat that if they trespassed they would burn in eternal hell, but that if they followed the rules of their faith, they would go to their reward in a heavenly paradise. Suddenly, Lewis felt very old, and very tired.

At the end of the service he stood by the door to say a word to each of the congregation, and for a moment he was taken aback when a girl stopped before him to speak. It was not the reaction that had so long plagued him when he saw someone who looked like Sarah. This girl did not have chestnut hair or grey eyes; her hair was a dull yellow paired with eyes of a washed-out blue; she did not carry herself in a sprightly way, but rather slouched as she walked along. What she did have was a little green book that was leaching dye onto her palms.

“May I see this?” he asked, and she handed it to him. This one was the Book of Acts, not Proverbs, but the size and the binding were the same. He leafed through it, paying special attention to the front fly-leaf, but there was no sloping inscription written there.

“Read it well, and understand,” was all he said when he handed it back to her. It reminded him that he had one still-unanswered question.

“Morgan, do you remember the meeting at Gatrey’s farm? The day you found the Lord?”

“Of course I do. It was the most momentous day of my life.”

“Just after the first hymn was sung, you asked me if I had seen Rachel Jessup. Do you remember? You wanted to give her one of those books.”

“Yes. The Proverbs. I gave it to her.”

“You did?” He looked at the boy with astonishment.

“Yes. What’s the matter?”

“Then how did Simms’s handwriting get into it?”

Spicer blushed. “I asked him to write the inscription for me. I didn’t write well enough to do it myself. I still don’t, but I’m getting better. He threw in a Lord’s Prayer pin as a bonus. Why are you asking all this now?”

“Because I couldn’t figure out why Simms would have written in the book. He didn’t write anything in any of the others. Just that one. It’s been puzzling me.”

“He didn’t know. Who I was giving it to, I mean.”

“Of course.” And yet the handwriting was the thing that had finally convinced him that Simms was the murderer. How odd, he thought. He had missed so many clues, yet the one that had led him to the culprit had turned out to be no clue at all.