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required—nay, deserved—of that moment in time.”
    With an effort, Fraser ignored Townsend’s aspersions against Mr. Bingham. He pressed the burning question in his mind: whether the Confederacy was behind the assassination. When Townsend rejected the idea out of hand, Fraser began to argue. “What of all the Confederate spies buzzing around Booth?” he asked. “You yourself wrote in Leslie’s Illustrated that the Surratts were spies, and so were Thomas Harbin and Augustus Howell and Mrs. Slater. And both Booth and John Surratt went to Montreal to see the Confederates scheming up there.”
    Townsend admitted every fact that Fraser threw at him, but he did not budge on the basic proposition. “There was no Confederate involvement in the plot,” Townsend proclaimed in a patronizing tone that rankled. “You will have to accept,” Townsend said with some finality, “that the conspiracy was the spawn of one talented, charismatic, very likely insane young actor who happened to be an extraordinary athlete as well.”
    With that pronouncement, their host called for his man to refill their glasses. Though the evening was upon them, he said nothing of supper.
    Exasperated but fortified with a fresh lemonade, Fraser deployed his most powerful weapon, Mr. Bingham’s deathbed description of Mrs. Surratt’s confession and how Mr. Bingham and Edwin Stanton took her secret to their graves. As he spoke, Fraser kept his eyes on Townsend, who was scraping out the bowl of his pipe. He hoped that Cook wouldn’t betray that he had never heard of this episode before.
    Townsend’s demeanor began to change. After tapping his pipe into the ashtray, he looked up sharply. “Who else knows about this?”
    â€œNo one,” Fraser said, still not looking at Cook.
    â€œNow, if I were still working as a reporter,” Townsend said, nodding over at Cook, “I might pursue that question. But as I’m a poet and a novelist now, I can only respond that, yes, I now understand your interest in this subject.”
    Townsend pressed for any other hint from Bingham of what Mrs. Surratt said, but Fraser could add nothing. “All right, gentlemen,” Townsend said, grimacing with apparent thought, “where does this take us? What could that woman have learned in the weeks before the assassination? She ran a boarding house and regularly went to church to confess her sins. She wasn’t rushing down to Richmond or up to Montreal, like Booth or her son did. So she could only know what Booth or her son told her. Or one of the priests.”
    â€œSir,” Cook said quietly, “who wanted President Lincoln dead? Who would you list?”
    Townsend shook his head. “That’s a fine question, but one with far too many answers. Rebels? Of course. The Copperhead Democrats in the North? Yes. Right there you’ve got about half the country. Crazy people? That takes you well over half.”
    Townsend began to pace in front of the massive stone fireplace at the end of the room. “Let’s think about Mr. Bingham, shall we? After Mrs. Surratt told him this secret, he did not change how he prosecuted the case or what he thought about the conspiracy, right? He just went right on saying it was Jeff Davis and the Rebs, right?”
    â€œSo,” Fraser tried, “she must have confirmed that, right?”
    â€œNot so fast. Maybe she told him something completely opposite, and maybe he and Stanton decided to hide it so no one would know how wrong they had been. Nobody likes being wrong, least of all zealots.”
    â€œMaybe,” Fraser ventured, “she confirmed that the Confederates were behind Booth, but Stanton and Bingham decided to keep it secret so they didn’t stir up old wounds.”
    â€œNo,” Townsend said quickly. “Those wounds weren’t old in July of 1865. They were quite fresh.”
    â€œThey didn’t want to