“I haven’t been invited either,” she replied, “but it’s possible my aunt and uncle have been.” Joseph Henry, her uncle, was the director of the Smithsonian Institute, and Sophie lived with him, his wife and their three daughters in apartments in the East Tower of the Castle. “I’ll have to ask.”
“Oh, do tell, Sophie, dear. The wedding is August first, so there’s still time for me to finagle an invitation. I’ve invited Miss Monroe to meet me for coffee this afternoon and perhaps we will become friends. But if not, I’ll want to know every detail if you attend,” Constance gushed, then turned back to Mrs. Greenhow. Her voice dropped. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Varina and Jefferson were back in time for the nuptials? I just know Miss Monroe must be devastated that they had to leave. The Townsend family knows them very well.”
Back in March, Varina Davis, the wife of former senator Jefferson Davis—who was now president of the Confederacy—had sent out notes to all her society friends in Washington inviting them to a fete on May first in the President’s House, anticipating a quick end to the war and her husband’s triumph. That day had of course come and gone with Mr. Lincoln still ensconced in his rightful position and the Union intact, but the audacity of Mrs. Davis seemed to be echoed by Rose Greenhow and Constance Lemagne.
Thus far, the war had been limited to a few small skirmishes between the two sides, mostly in Virginia and Maryland, with hundreds of casualties—including one of Mr. Lincoln’s particular friends, Captain Ellsworth. That was part of the reason everyone in Washington was on pins and needles, waiting for something to happen.
Sophie didn’t know whether the conflict could be resolved within a few months; she certainly hoped it would be the case that one big battle would be decisive. The lack of accommodations and supplies for the wounded soldiers was appalling. She couldn’t imagine what would happen if the conflict went on for much longer.
But Mr. Quinn wasn’t the least bit confident. At the mention of that sort of quick resolution, his mouth would tighten and he would shake his head gravely. “I reckon that’s a lot of optimistic thinking,” he’d say.
Mrs. Greenhow smiled quietly. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that came to pass, Miss Lemagne. We must have faith in our boys.” Her expression was one that reminded Sophie of a cat that had just finished off a dish of cream and was grooming the remnants from its whiskers.
Sophie managed to hide her shock at such a boldly sympathetic statement—and in the Senate Chamber!—even when the elder woman glanced at her as if to assess her reaction.
More of the senators had begun to filter their way into the chamber, followed by their staff and other government bigwigs.
“I see Senator Wilson.” Mrs. Greenhow straightened in her seat and waved down at the portly gentleman who was the Chairman on the Committee for Military Affairs. She looked at Sophie and smiled. “We severely disagree on politics, but he is a generally agreeable fellow, so I shan’t hold it against him and will continue to invite him to my home. And there is Senator Trumbull.” Her lips compressed with disgust. “He’s threatening to bring a bill to the floor to support that disgusting confiscation declaration by General Butler. That would be an appalling overreach by Congress.” She slapped her closed fan against the inside of her palm.
Sophie knew about the declaration to which Mrs. Greenhow was referring—back in May, the Union’s General Benjamin Butler had announced that any slaves captured by the Federal army would be considered a contraband of war. His reasoning, which made sense to Sophie, was that because the slaves were being used by the Rebels to dig trenches or build blockades, they were tools and supplies of warfare and therefore could legally be confiscated as spoils of war by the Union and also put to use.
Since the Southerners owned the slaves, they were thus considered commodities—a concept which sat uncomfortably with Sophie, but nevertheless that was the way of things at the moment—and therefore, by Butler’s proclamation, meant that any slaves could be taken and freed or otherwise put to use. Apparently, since Butler had made that announcement, word had gotten around and slaves had been escaping to Monroe, the fort held by Butler and his troops, and offering themselves up as contraband.
Despite her agreement with the concept, Sophie decided this was not the moment to debate with the outspoken Southern sympathizer who sat next to her. Still, the fact that Rose Greenhow was here, watching the senate meeting, was curious to Sophie. There were no senators from the seceding states, and in fact, that was one of the things the chamber meant to discuss today: whether the absent senators, like Jefferson Davis, should be expelled and taken off the official rolls of the senate.
Why would Rose Greenhow be so interested in the workings of the Congress for a country she obviously no longer supported? Perhaps she merely wanted to learn about the fate of Jefferson Davis in his former congressional role. Sophie gnawed on that thought as Solomon Foot, the Senate President pro tem, called the session to order. Or maybe Mrs. Greenhow was merely interested because the Congress could pass laws that would affect her friends in the South—such as with the confiscation predicament.
Possibly, it was just a matter of wanting to see and be seen, as a Washington socialite who invited both Unionists and Southern sympathizers to her salon.
Sophie mulled over Mrs. Greenhow’s smile from a moment ago. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that came to pass, she’d said. As if she knew something . . .
For the first time, Sophie thought maybe she would like Constance to bring her to Mrs. Greenhow’s salon.
Just so she could find out more.
* * *
When Adam left Mrs. Tufts with her daughter, both women were gripping each other’s hands at the kitchen table, their faces flushed with tears of grief. Mr. Melvis, the son-in-law, was expected soon.
Adam had asked Priscilla Melvis the same sort of questions he’d done Mrs. Tufts, but the daughter had nothing of interest to add except to give him the names of some friends of her father.
Even so, it was nearly half ten when he closed the door of the small, neat house on M Street. Brian Mulcahey was sitting on the ground beneath a tree, his bony knees angled up and away from his body like that of a spindly grasshopper. At the sight of Adam, he launched to his feet like the energetic insect.
“Mr. Quinn, where are you about going now? Did you see that pair of bays? They were just prancing by, pulling a buggy, and I never seen two that matched so well.” Even as he spoke, the boy was looking down the street after the horses in question. His eyes glowed with wonder. “Mr. Birch at the Willard said as how he’d be putting in a word with the groom there, that maybe he might be letting me help curry the horses for a few pennies. I told Mr. Birch, I’d be doing it for no pennies at all—just to be touching those beauties!”
“And what about going to school, young man?” Adam asked—then realized he sounded like Mr. Lincoln, who used to lecture him about the same topic back when Adam lived with Uncle Joshua in Springfield. “If you’re running errands for me and helping Dr. Hilton and brushing horses at the Willard, there’s little enough time for learning your letters and numbers.”
“Oh, me mam’s always going on about teaching me that. Every night she’s about making me work on my letters,” he said, brushing the idea away with a pale hand as he skipped along to keep up with Adam’s long stride. “But a groom—well, he’s not needing all that book learning if he’s got a way with horses and knows how to care for ’em and talk to ’em. That’s all the edu . . . cation”—he struggled a little with the word—“I’ll be needing.”
“Well, that’s not what Mr. Lincoln would say,” Adam replied. “And I reckon I’d agree with him. After all, if you own your own livery or stable someday, you’ll need to add up all the money you’re making and spending on oats and brushes, and you’ll have to be able to read the papers for the horses you’re buying so no one can cheat you.”
Brian’s feet slapped to a halt on the dirt. “Own my own livery? Gor . . .”
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p; “I reckon anyone who loves horses as much as you do and who’s as smart as you are should want to be in business someday.” Adam mussed his hair.
“Mam said when school starts up in September, she’ll be making me go. But I can still be helping you and Dr. Hilton, can’t I? Before and after?”
“As long as you keep your studies up.” They started walking again, and Adam felt as if he’d stepped into yet another occupation here in a city he didn’t truly want to live in. It was as if Washington, D.C., was trying to put its hooks into him so that he would never leave. First he’d come as a jack-of-all-trades to the president. Then he’d been conscripted as a murder investigator. And now he found himself acting as parent to a young boy.
He didn’t know where Brian’s father was. The boy spoke of him only occasionally, and with neither malice nor grief. Just simple pragmatism.
“Where are we going, Mr. Quinn? Is it true there was a man hanging dead inside at the Capitol? I never been inside there, but my mam says all the men who run things work in that place. What’s it like? It’s awfully big. Why do they have to go on making a building so big anyway?”
“I’m going there now,” Adam replied. He’d only had a brief look at the foot markings on the crane’s beam. He wanted to examine them a little more with better light, as well as the hallway where Miss Gates had found the hat that belonged to Mr. Tufts. “Would you like to come with me?”
Brian slowed and trailed behind him a little. “I’m not allowed to go in there, Mr. Quinn. Not a place like that.”
“Everyone’s allowed in there. And I reckon if you live here in Washington, you ought to see inside the building.”
The boy picked up speed to keep even with him, but Adam sensed his hesitation as they drew nearer. He reckoned he couldn’t blame the kid—he was thirty years old, and the big, fancy, gleaming building made him feel like the dusty, ragged frontiersman he was. Or had been.
But when he climbed the broad steps of the grand building, Brian was on his heels. The boy nearly tripped on the top step, he was so intent on looking up at the dome. “Gor . . .” he whispered.
He stuck near Adam as they went inside, and Adam was pleased to see that Privates Strongley and Belcher had carried out his orders of not letting anyone onto the steps of the crane or down the hall where the hat had been found.
But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a ruckus about it.
“We’ve already had enough of a delay getting this work done,” a man was saying to the two soldiers. “Do you see all those massive pieces of cast iron sitting out there on the lawn? The ones big as carriages? They’ve been on the grounds for months. We paid for them almost two years ago and I’ve been losing money on this sotted project now because of the damned war. I’ve got workers I’m paying, standing around waiting for this to be cleared out so they can get back to work, and a Congress who’s scratching their arses waiting to give me the official go-ahead to start up again.” The man wasn’t dressed in the clothing of a construction worker but in a coat and fancy neckcloth, and Adam wondered who he was.
Private Strongley saw them approaching and said something to the man, who turned and started toward Adam.
“Are you the man in charge? What is going on here? How much longer until my men can get back to work in here?”
Adam removed his hat and shook the man’s hand. “I’m Adam Quinn. I’m investigating the murder of—”
“Murder? A man hangs himself and it’s murder now?” His frown deepened. “I just traveled all the way down from New York so we could get the construction going on the dome again. You see those big pieces of cast iron out there? The curved ones? All over the place, next to the big marble columns? They’ve been collecting dust and rain since May, and I’m losing money every day because I bought the material and cast it over a year ago and—”
“It’s a murder investigation, Mr.—what did you say your name was?”
“Charles Fowler. I’m a partner with Janes, Fowler, Kirtland and Company—the ironworkers who are supposed to be finishing the damned dome on this building. A murder investigation? What are you—some sort of Pinkerton? Or are you a constable?”
“Neither. I work for the president, and the sooner I can take a look at the crane up there, the sooner you’ll be able to get your men back to work.” Adam offered him the card Mr. Lincoln had given him, then turned to Brian, who’d been alternately gawking at the interior of the Rotunda and watching the conversation. “I need two big lanterns. Ask Private Strongley over there to help you find them.”
When Fowler returned the card, Adam asked, “Were any of your men working here yesterday or last night? What time did they arrive this morning?”
“On Independence Day? No, of course they weren’t working. The crew started back last week, but no one was here yesterday—except maybe Walter—that’s Thomas Walter—might have been here. He’s the architect who designed the dome, and he’s here most every day from what I hear. In fact, it’s him who’s been trying to get the project going again, while that bast—while Captain Meigs shut it all down.”
Fowler didn’t appear to be very fond of Montgomery Meigs, an engineer who’d just been named quartermaster general of the Union army. Meigs was the one who’d conceived of the idea of using a crane to install the dome instead of scaffolding, and he’d been in charge of the entire Capitol Expansion.
“Now that he’s working for the army, Meigs says construction’s suspended until the end of the war. We can’t have that. We can’t have that at all.” Fowler looked around, his lips tightening again as his expression became thunderous. “Three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cast iron, just sitting—”
“What time did your men arrive this morning?”
Fowler collected himself. “They’re to report by seven o’clock. Usually a few of them get here earlier than that.”
“I’d like to speak to whoever arrived first.” When Fowler opened his mouth to argue, Adam said, “You can give me their names when I get down from up there. Now, I reckon if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get my work done and then you can get back to yours.”
Brian was trotting toward him, carrying two large lanterns. “We’re going up there?” the boy said as Adam pointed to the steps that wound up through the gigantic crane’s base.
The lanterns cast two expansive glows as they climbed. Adam was satisfied that they’d illuminate the crossbeam in question well enough for him to see the fine details. “Now just keep that right there, Brian, so it shines on those footprints and doesn’t cast my shadow over them.”
“What are ye doing there, Mr. Quinn?” asked the boy as Adam crouched close to the markings in the dust, holding his own lantern right next to them.
“I’m looking at the footprints to see what happened here. It’s like a story,” he said even as he absorbed the meaning of the telltale disturbances. “One person, a man, stepped off the steps and walked onto the beam. He threw the rope over up above here, and then tied it tightly. And then . . .” His voice trailed off as he noted the smudge in the dust that ran along the edge of the beam where the rope had dangled.
Adam frowned. It didn’t seem right. There was a long swath along the edge; if Piney Tufts had dropped the noose around his neck and jumped—even though there wasn’t a set of footprints near the edge where he would have done so—his weight would have snapped the rope nearly straight down. It wouldn’t have swayed or moved so much along the edge of the beam, he didn’t think.
No, he was sure of it. And as he looked and read the signs, he became even more certain that Tufts hadn’t launched himself off the beam.
“How can ye tell all that, Mr. Quinn?” Brian had edged as close as possible and the lantern shivered with his movements. “All’s I’m seeing is dirt and lots o’ boot marks.”
“Well, I reckon I’ve been practicing for longer than you’ve been alive,” he replied. “I learned it from an Indian friend of mine—his grandfather, really.”
“Gor. You’ve met a savage?
With red skin? I ain’t never seen one of them. Did he try’n scalp ye?”
Adam couldn’t let that comment go without a careful response. He turned where he squatted and looked squarely at Brian in the wavering light. Their eyes were level and he saw the flash of surprise in his young friend’s as he began to speak. “My friend Ishkode isn’t a savage, young man, and neither are any of his people.” His voice was firmer and sharper than he’d ever used when he spoke to the boy. “He is part of the Ojibwe tribe, and they were always very kind to me”—especially Ishkode’s sister—“when I knew them in Wisconsin. They understand nature far better than anyone I’ve ever met with white skin, and one of the things I learned from Ishkode and his grandfather Makwa is that all living things should be respected and honored—no matter whether they have red skin or black skin or white skin or fur or scales or feathers or whether they are trees or grasses or rocks.”
Brian’s eyes had gone so wide Adam could see the whites all around his irises, as well as a faint pink in his milky cheeks. “Yes, sir, Mr. Quinn,” he said, obviously abashed—although Adam wasn’t certain the boy fully understood what he was saying. Nevertheless, he’d planted the seed and would continue to nurture that thought because he himself had felt the same way Brian did before he got to know and understand his friends of the Ojibwe. Now he looked at things very differently than most people of his acquaintance.
“Now,” he said, turning his attention back to the mussed-up dust and dirt, “if you look here, Brian, you’ll see how this footprint is wider at the back—the heel. What do you think the man was doing when he stood here, to make it wider at the back?”
Brian hesitated a moment, then eased forward to look. He was silent for more than a minute, then finally spoke. “Mr. Quinn, I don’t know. I’m about trying, but I can’t see much difference between that mark and the one I’m seeing next to it.”
Murder at the Capitol Page 5
