“That’s very kind of you,” Sophie said again, reaching for the heavy glass-and-brass door that led to the interior, for there didn’t seem to be a doorman. “And please, call me Sophie,” she added.
“Why, thank you. And you must call me Constance.”
“Yes, thank you, I will. I—”
Her words were cut off by a shout that echoed inside the round marble room, followed by a startled male scream.
Sophie pushed her way inside, dimly aware that Miss Lemagne—drat her!—was close on her hems, and saw the crowd gathering in the center of the space. They were all looking up.
“Dear heavens,” she breathed when she saw the man dangling from the huge crane that shot up into the dome.
“What is—oh my stars!” Constance was right at her elbow, and she sounded a little faint as she gripped Sophie’s arm.
Sophie didn’t pull away as she gaped up at the man hanging from a rope. She swallowed hard; she’d never seen a person who’d been hung before. She suspected the bloated, dead white face was a sight that would haunt her dreams.
“Who is it?”
“The poor fellow.”
“We should cut down the poor sot!”
“What’s that pinned on his coat? Is that a note?”
“I can’t read what it says.”
“Who do we send for?”
“Pinkerton?”
The small crowd was paralyzed by indecision, confusion, and morbid fascination. One of the men broke away and began to stride toward the base of the massive crane. He clearly intended to climb up and cut down the man, and that spurred Sophie into action.
“No, wait,” she said, then paused, shocked at how her shout reverberated so loudly within the round space. “Er—don’t climb up there yet, please, sir. We must send for—”
“Adam Quinn,” Constance said at the same time as Sophie uttered his name. “Send for Adam Quinn.”
“At the President’s House.” Sophie spoke a little louder than was strictly necessary, considering that she now had everyone’s attention. The group of people—all men—were staring at her. “He . . . he attends to things like this,” she added, studiously ignoring Miss Lemagne, who’d released her arm at last. “For the president.”
She heard some grumbling, but as no one else seemed to have a better idea, one of the bystanders was dispatched at a run to the Executive Mansion. Another individual, whom Sophie recognized by his uniform that he must be the doorman—he’d obviously been distracted from his duty—began to take control as even more people began to come in from the outside. He and two other men attempted to funnel the newcomers away from the scene. Sophie suspected this was simply so they wouldn’t gawk, not because the doorman had any sense that there might be important information that could be disturbed in the area.
“Damned fellow,” murmured a man at her elbow. “I say cut the bast—er, the sot—down. Why would anyone want to hang themselves in the middle of the Capitol?”
“I have no idea if anyone would,” Sophie said slowly, looking up at the fellow once more. Her heart gave a little bump when she realized what she was seeing. “Because I don’t think this man hung himself. I think he was murdered.”
CHAPTER 2
Adam Quinn loped from the President’s House as fast as he could—which, in his case, was quite quickly for he’d been blessed with long and powerful legs that ate up distance with ease. In fact, the messenger who’d come from the Capitol with a garbled message about a hanging body had been left far behind him before Adam reached the Willard.
“Mornin’, Mr. Quinn,” called the hotel’s doorman with a wave.
“Good morning, there, Birch.” Even in his haste, Adam took note that the elderly black man seemed to have recovered fully from his injuries back in April, when he’d been attacked during Adam’s investigation of a death in the oval library of the President’s House.
“Guess there’s a big ruckus up at the Cap’tol, and it ain’t got nothing to do with that Congress for once,” added Birch as Adam went on by. “Reckon you’ll set it all to rights, sir.”
“I reckon I’ll try,” he replied, wondering not for the first time how it had happened that he, Adam Quinn, a simple, one-armed frontiersman from Illinois by way of Wisconsin and Kansas, had found himself being the one that people—particularly Mr. Lincoln—called on to “set things to rights” nowadays.
Adam had only been inside the Capitol twice since he arrived in late February as part of the president-elect’s security team, but both times he’d been slack-jaw impressed by the grandeur of the building. He’d never seen such a fine, white, imposing structure in his life. He might have seen pictures of what it had looked like before the additions of two new wings for the House and Senate, so he couldn’t compare it with what it looked like now, with the Capitol Expansion being nearly finished—but the massive, fancy columns and impossibly wide steps that led up to the entrance made him proud to be an American and a Unionist.
Adam jogged up those broad steps to the center of the complex, where the dome was marred by the crane’s mast jutting from its sliced-off top. His weather-beaten coat flapped around his thighs, and he’d barely remembered to shove a pair of gloves in his pockets—apparently, they were expected in society, but he never saw any reason for a man to wear gloves unless he was working or it was cold. His boots hadn’t been polished in two weeks, but he’d bought a new hat that wasn’t quite as battered as the wide-brimmed one he’d worn on the prairie. That was, he reckoned, an influence of living in the Executive Mansion where all sorts of dignitaries came and went, and where Mrs. Lincoln ruled the roost with a stylish, grandiose fist.
He really needed to find his own rooms, Adam thought as he pushed through the heavy glass door into the Rotunda. Somewhere with a little privacy—and a place that was near a barber, as he found it difficult to shave.
He strode into the large round space beneath the Capitol’s dome, which served as a sort of entrance hub that connected the two wings of Congress. The wings contained their members’ offices, which he’d learned were frequented by lobbyists, as well as the chambers where they met, argued, and created law.
“Over here, sir,” said the doorman, gesturing for him to move sharply to the left and out of the round room. “Please move on.”
“I’m here to examine the situation,” Adam told him, and dug into his right pocket. He handed the heavy card to the doorman.
Along the top, words were embossed in fancy gold script: OFFICE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN, PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.
Beneath the heading, Mr. Lincoln had scrawled in his own hand:
Please note that Mr. Adam Speed Quinn acts with all the authority of the Office of the President of the United States, and that all due courtesies should be afforded to him in any request or action he takes.
Adam felt a slight riffle of guilt at employing the placard, for, strictly speaking, Mr. Lincoln hadn’t asked him to become involved in this instance. In fact, the President had been in a meeting all morning with Secretary Cameron and didn’t even know about the situation—whatever it exactly was.
Which brought the question that had nagged him all the way from the White House: Who had sent for him?
“Mr. Quinn!”
He turned to see Miss Constance Lemagne pushing her way toward him, her pretty face framed by the arc of cheerful yellow roses inside her bonnet brim.
“Oh, thank heavens you’re here at last,” she said, taking his arm—his prosthetic arm, in fact—without hesitation. “Miss Gates and I just knew you’d be the one to help. It’s just terrible, Mr. Quinn.”
Adam blinked, instantly absorbing the information that the only two young ladies he knew in Washington were both here, as well as the answer to his internal question, and replied without hesitation, “Miss Lemagne, what a pleasure to see you this morning—though I reckon I wish it weren’t at such a difficult time.” These last words he added as he looked up to see a man dangling from the heavy base of the crane.
/>
Dear God.
He closed his eyes and offered a short prayer for the dead man. Even if the poor sot had done it to himself, the man’s soul needed all the prayers it could get. Especially if he’d done it to himself.
“I suggested they wait to cut him down until you arrived,” said a brisk feminine voice behind him. “It was a difficult proposition, for of course the sight is beyond tragic and the poor man should be given his privacy as soon as possible, but I thought it prudent.”
“Good morning, Miss Gates,” he said automatically, even though his attention remained on the dead man. He’d seen plenty of men hung from trees during the Bloody Kansas conflict—including one of his friends, Johnny Brown, who’d been murdered by pro-slavers. He tamped down the flicker of rage before it distracted him.
“Oh yes, good morning, Mr. Quinn. Though not for him.” Miss Gates’s voice was sober as she looked up as well.
“No, I reckon not. Uh . . . thank you, Miss Gates and Miss Lemagne.” Adam stepped away, closer to below the dead man, as the southerner released his arm.
As in the past when faced with similar situations, Adam had a glimmer of uncertainty as he stood beneath the scuffed and worn soles of the man’s feet. Here he was again, with everyone in the room—literally—looking to him for answers.
“Does anyone know anything about what happened? Who found him?” he asked—then, catching himself, held up a hand to stop any response. “That can wait. All of that can wait. Let’s get him down from there.”
The base of the monstrous derrick filled the center of the Rotunda floor and was made with sturdy wooden beams that must have been cut from sky-high trees. Adam estimated the main mast was as much as eighty feet tall. It extruded beyond the top of a temporary roof made of canvas and wooden spokes in the shape of a gigantic parasol.
Adam clambered up the winding staircase built into the base and paused before stepping onto the beam from which the man had likely been standing when he threw himself off. The light was dim here beneath the oiled canvas ceiling and above the gaslights, but he could still make out disturbances in the layer of dust on the beam—footprints and other markings like scuffs.
Later, he would use a lantern to better illuminate the area so he could read the disruptions, but first the rope must be cut and the man lowered to the ground without adding to the disturbed dust. Adam looped his left arm—the one with a prosthetic that began a few inches past his elbow—around one of the beams that crisscrossed the side of the crane and, with his feet on the very edge of the beam and one foot curled around a crossbar bigger than a man’s thigh, he angled out at his torso, partially hanging over the floor.
Below, someone gasped at the precarious position as he struggled to pull the knife from his right pocket. Adam gritted his teeth, hoping the buckles that strapped the prosthesis to his body would hold fast if he slipped. The edge of the squared-off wood dug into his flesh and blood elbow as he crimped his joint around it as tightly as possible. He could barely reach the rope; it required stretching his arm and body as far as possible in order to get a good reach.
Someone muttered below, “Why don’t he just go closer to the damned thing? Gonna fall and split his head like a melon.”
With the straps from his fake arm cutting mercilessly into his skin, the rough wood scraping through his coat and shirt, and the sawing actions causing him to grunt with effort, Adam reckoned it was very possible that would happen—but sincerely hoped the man was wrong.
“He doesn’t want to step on any footprints up there.” Miss Gates’s pragmatic voice filtered up to him. “I’m certain there was a reason he didn’t climb higher so he could cut the rope from above.”
Adam heard this and grunted with effort and frustration. Well, damn. He certainly could have done that and saved himself a passel of trouble and a world of hurt, but he’d been distracted by the foot markings.
The rope had frayed considerably by now, and he gave a few more saws with his blade while his elbow groaned from pain and effort. Several men clustered below to catch and ease the body to the ground, and when the moorings finally gave way, there was a quiet exhale from the small crowd.
“Please just rest him on the floor,” Adam called down, slightly out of breath from his exertions and still annoyed with himself for not thinking of climbing higher.
He was just maneuvering himself back onto the top step when he realized someone was on the stairs just below him, and a pool of light had ascended as well.
“I’ve brought you a lantern.” Miss Gates looked up at him, her face softened by the glow from the light she held. She’d removed her bonnet, and her gray eyes were sharp and curious as she handed her burden up to him. He reckoned if there’d been room on the narrow steps, she’d have pushed up to stand next to him.
“Thank you.”
“I thought you’d need it to see—to be able to confirm my suspicions,” she added, still looking as if she were going to climb up past him to see for herself.
Because he’d come to know Miss Gates and her determination, he gripped the beam next to him more tightly in case he had to keep her from falling when she attempted to push through. “Suspicions of what?”
“Murder.”
Adam smothered his surprise—for he’d seen the note pinned to the man’s coat—and turned to hold the lantern over the narrow beam. He heard the rustle of skirts behind him, but instead of coming closer, Miss Gates was descending.
With the new spill of light at hand, footprints and markings on the beam clearly showed the movements of someone’s activity hanging the rope on the crossbar above. Whoever it was—and it appeared to be only one set of prints—had flung the rope up and around the upper beam once, then tied it to a second pole nearby to hold it in place. The excess rope was left in a messy, dangling heap on the beam next to the upright post.
What he didn’t see was a set of footprints facing the edge of the beam where the man would have stood before throwing himself off.
Contemplating this, along with Miss Gates’s interesting pronouncement, Adam left the remains of the rope and climbed back down the steps. He was ready to turn his attention to the body.
By now, only six people remained in the area—Miss Gates and Miss Lemagne, of course, as well as two well-dressed men, another man in work clothes, and a fourth in a military uniform.
It was the latter person who spoke to Adam as he stepped onto the marble floor. “Mr. Quinn, I want to thank you for seeing to this matter.”
“Commander Dahlgren,” Adam said, shaking the man’s hand. The officer had taken command of the naval yard when Commodore Buchanan defected to the south in April. Shortly after, Dahlgren had discovered that his predecessor had allowed the bombshells being manufactured there to be filled with sawdust instead of explosives. Since then, the new commander stayed on guard overnight at the naval yard—or had a trusted man in his place. Adam had met Dahlgren several times at the President’s House and knew that Lincoln trusted and respected him. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“I’m certain the president and Congress will appreciate being able to go about their business, knowing you’ve taken on the task. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for some of my men to stand guard in order to keep spectators—most of them, anyway,” he added with a pointed glance at the two young ladies, “from bothering you. If you need any assistance, Private Belcher or Private Strongley will be happy to assist.” This time he indicated two men standing at a distance from the group dressed in gray wool shirts and brogue shoes with dark blue coats.
“Much obliged, Commander.” Adam shook the other man’s hand again. “Does anyone know who this man is, or what he might be doing here? I reckon he was here pretty early this morning. Or late last night.” An estimated time of death was a question his friend Dr. George Hilton could possibly answer, and he turned to Belcher. “Please fetch George Hilton. He lives in Ballard Alley—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Quinn, but I’ve already sent word to him to come.”
/> Adam nodded at Miss Gates and smiled. He wasn’t surprised that she’d anticipated his request. But he was startled when he noticed Miss Lemagne had a sketchbook in her hand and appeared to be drawing something—possibly a picture of the body. He considered making a comment, then thought better of it. Based on past experience with Miss Lemagne, he knew that suggesting she remove herself from such an unpleasant scene was a losing prospect. Aside from that, he reckoned he should begin to do his best for the man who lay dead on the floor of the Rotunda.
“His name is—was—Pinebar Tufts,” said one of the well-dressed men. He was holding a short-brimmed hat in gloved hands and blindly turning it around in a circle. “Piney, we called him. I can’t imagine why he’d do such a thing.” He glanced up at what was left of the dangling rope.
“What’s your name, sir? What can you tell me about Mr. Tufts?” Adam had already begun to form opinions based on the dead man’s clothing and appearance, but it was important to understand how others perceived him.
“I’m Theodore Floke,” he said. “I worked with him at the Patent Office. I’m a second examiner in the Agriculture Division. He’s an assistant examiner with Mr. Taft in the Civil Engineering area, but Piney talked to everyone about everything.”
“Do you have any reason to believe Mr. Tufts did this to himself?” Adam asked carefully. “Or why he would have?”
Mr. Floke shook his head, still turning the hat in his hands. “Not at all. In fact, lately Piney seemed happier than usual. He was always a pleasant man, but for the last week or more, he seemed to be particularly optimistic.”
“Do you have any idea why he was so happy?”
Mr. Floke shook his head again. “Not really. In fact, work at the Patent Office has been slowing down so much because of the war that some of the assistant examiners are worried they’re going to be released. No one’s happy to give up a twelve-hundred-dollar-a-year job.”
Adam leaned a little closer. “Was there anyone Mr. Tufts had a problem with? Anyone who might have wanted to harm him, or wanted ill to befall him?”
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