Murder at the Capitol

by C. M. Gleason

  “Yes, sir.” The soldier gave a salute, which Adam—though he wasn’t enlisted—returned.

  Then he went off to follow the trail made by the dragged heels.

  If he hadn’t had the instinct and the experience, Adam would have lost the trail many times due to the rain and many footprints that marred the area. The marble dust was a clue that indicated from which direction the body had been dragged, and Adam doggedly examined the area until he found part of the trail, then another part, then another until he was approaching the clutter of marble blocks in the shadow of the building.

  The sun was fully up and Provest’s crew was at work again. As he drew closer, he smelled the smoke churning from the basement bakery and saw the soot flushing into the sky from the chimneys. A large wagon laden with barrels of flour had pulled up to the first floor of the building.

  “Mr. Provest,” Adam said, approaching the marble finisher. “I reckon it’s not going to make you happy, but I need you to keep your men out of this area for a short while.”

  The other man removed his hat and scratched his head, squinting into the bright sun as he looked up at Adam. “I heard there was another body found. Poor Billy Morris. Not much of a watchman, but he never did nobody no harm.” He leaned closer. “Was he murdered too?”

  Adam nodded.

  Provest frowned, then shouted at his men to take a break. “What’re you looking for? Isn’t any dead body hereabouts,” he said, following Adam as he did a slow, careful survey of the place where the dragged heel trail temporarily ended.

  “But there was,” Adam replied. “There.” He crouched next to a pile of large, uncut blocks of marble.

  The story was as clear as in the page of a book: the marks where Billy Morris had dug in his heels as he struggled, kicking in vain to free himself from the stick crushing his throat; the imprints from two knees on the ground that had straddled his body as the killer did his work; the marks from the frantic scraping of shoulders, elbows, and arms as the victim tried to fight off the attack. Even a smear of blood mixed in with dirt and marble dust from the broken skin at the back of Billy Morris’s head. Adam reckoned the blow must have been just enough to stun Morris and knock him to the ground, then the murderer did the rest.

  Adam found more footprints from the killer and was even more certain they would match the ones found on the wooden beam of the derrick. He followed them back to the north side of the Capitol, noting where the killer stopped behind a bush next to one of the lampposts, waiting for Billy to walk by. The slightly deeper impressions of the fronts of his shoes when the killer swung his walking stick to smash into the back of Billy’s head—and there, beneath a bush, was a cap that Adam reckoned belonged to the dead man.

  The trail ended there, for too many people had passed by on the walkway where the killer approached from Penn Ave.

  That made Adam wonder whether the killer had driven his own carriage, or if he’d walked here, or if he’d taken a hackney cab and been dropped off—nothing more unusual than a gentleman taking a bit of air. There wasn’t any way to tell unless someone had seen something.

  He hoped if someone had seen something, they wouldn’t be as loud about it as Billy Morris had been. Since someone had already killed two people in less than twenty-four hours, there was no doubt he’d kill again.

  He looked back at the footprints where the murderer had waited for his prey, and was delighted to see an excellent impression in the soft dirt—the deepest, clearest one he’d seen yet and he was able to confirm that there was definitely a chunk broken off the corner of the inside of the right heel. It wouldn’t impede a man’s stride, because it was on the inside, in the middle of the sole, but it made the footprint—and therefore the boot—distinctive.

  At the sound of his name, Adam turned to see the young soldier he’d dispatched to fetch George Hilton. He was running at top speed up the hill toward him.

  “What is it?” he asked as soon as he was close enough to hear the boy.

  “I went to find that George Hilton, sir, and he wasn’t where you said he was. No one was there—exceptin’ a dead man, and he was all cut up something fierce! His guts were—everywhere.” The boy gagged and swallowed hard, his face colored with a definite green cast. “And it looked like there was a big fight went on in there—furniture was all smashed and there was blood everywhere. I don’t think it was from the dead man, though.”

  George. No.

  The image from his dream lodged back into his mind as Adam’s stomach plummeted to his feet. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do—where to go, whom to contact, where to look for his friend. For all he knew, George could be in manacles on his way to Mississippi or Georgia by now. Then just as quickly, his mind cleared: he could start with the scene, see what he could learn from the tracks and then decide what to do.

  He left short, sharp directions for the soldiers and the constables—who’d finally arrived—to wrap up Billy Morris’s body and put it in a wagon until he returned or sent word, and then hailed a hackney driver to take him up to Ballard’s Alley. He had no time to waste and climbed up to sit next to him so he could give easier directions.

  When he told the driver, a friendly black man with a huge wad of tobacco in his jaw, where he meant to go, the man scratched his head. “Why, that’s funny. I done took a coupla women up there last night. They was gwan to see a doctor or somepin, which I thought was a strange thing, that time-a night. White woman, she was, with her nanny. And she had a southern accent thicker than my mama’s waist. She’s rich too; paid me double t’wait for her—and though she took longer than she said—and it was gettin’ on to curfew, y’know, and I din’t wanna get no fines—she come back, she and her nanny, and wit’em a Negro man was beat up real bad. That was after I heard some gunshots over from there too.”

  Adam was only half listening until the driver went on and said, “Sounded like her daddy was hurt real bad too, and that Negro was gonna help her—though he could hardly stand up, so I dunno how he was gwan do nothing anyways.”

  “This woman, was she very pretty, with blond hair?” When the driver nodded, Adam continued. “Do you remember where you took them? With the man who was beat up?”

  “I shore do. Was over to G Street.”

  “Never mind going to the First Ward. Can you take me there?” Adam’s apprehension eased a little, and he sat quietly as the driver navigated the way to what he believed was going to be Althea Billings’s house.

  When the hack stopped in front of the familiar house, Adam saw another carriage parked there and recognized it as Dr. Forthruth’s. He quickly paid his driver, then hurried to the front door.

  It was Jelly, Miss Lemagne’s maid, who answered the door to him, and although she seemed surprised to see him, she didn’t have the opportunity to say so, for there were raised voices in the other room.

  “Oh, Mr. Quinn, you’d best go in there and see what they’se doin,” she said. “That black doctor o’ yours come and fixed up Mr. Hurst, but that other doctor ain’t likin’ it.”

  Adam went into the parlor to find Dr. Forthruth whipped up into quite a state, as his mother used to say. His face was red and his eyes bulged. Miss Lemagne was standing on the other side of her father’s sickbed, hands on her hips, chin jutting out in a stubborn position Adam had seen before. Hurst Lemagne was lying there, his eyes open and himself propped up in the bed—clearly in a much better condition than yesterday.

  And George Hilton, whose one eye was swollen closed and his face bruised and scraped, stood a little behind Miss Lemagne, hands raised as if in an effort to settle the furious doctor.

  “Good morning, Miss Lemagne,” Adam said cheerily—and he was indeed more cheery than he had been, now that he was assured of his friend’s continued freedom and good health. “Good morning, Dr. Hilton,” he said, deliberately using George’s title. “And Dr. Forthruth. And Hurst. You’re looking surprisingly recovered this morning.”

  “I certainly am,” replied the Southern gent
leman in a much more civil voice than he’d ever used with Adam. Hurst Lemagne was not a supporter of Mr. Lincoln—in fact, quite the opposite—and transferred his antipathy for the president and the Union toward anyone connected to him. “I’m sore, but the pain is gone and I can move my leg—carefully though. That man there”—he jerked his head toward George—“says I’ll be walking in a fortnight.” His tone was colored with disbelief as well as hope.

  Before Adam could respond, Dr. Forthruth exploded. “That confounded darky had no business touching one of my patients. You’re damned lucky he didn’t kill you! And don’t be calling me back when your leg starts to shrivel up and you get a fever, Mr. Lemagne.” He yanked up a medical bag, but not before Adam saw a sharp, lethal blade sticking out of it.

  The same type of blade they’d used to cut off his own arm.

  He’d been partially conscious during the surgery, for they’d not dosed him with enough chloroform, and he well remembered the flash of the blade as it came close to his burning, bleeding, macerated skin.

  He shuddered and stuffed the thought away before the memory came flooding back, but a streak of pain shot through his short arm and into the limb that was no longer present. “Good day, Dr. Forthruth,” he said as the doctor brushed past him.

  “Mr. Quinn!” Miss Lemagne gave her father’s hand one last pat then, in a rustle of petticoats, flowed over to greet Adam. Her hair was smoothed back in a simple knot and she wasn’t enclosed by the usual amount of fabric in her skirts. “How kind of you to call.” She took his real hand with her ungloved ones and looked up at him.

  “Of course. I wanted to see how your father was doing. It appears he’s taken a turn for the better.” Adam found it strange to be holding a woman’s bare hands, especially in front of her father and his own friend. He gently extricated his fingers.

  “Dr. Hilton fixed him up,” she replied. “His leg wasn’t broken after all. That Dr. Forthruth had got it all wrong, and then he came here this morning to cut off Daddy’s leg!” Her eyes were narrow with disgust as she slammed her hands on her hips.

  “I reckon you won’t have to worry about Dr. Forthruth bothering you again,” Adam replied. Then he said to George, “Have you seen yourself in a mirror?”

  “Can’t get too good a view with only one eyeball working,” replied the doctor dryly.

  “Heard you had a little bit of trouble,” Adam said. “I sent for you this morning, and word got back to me about the condition of your place.”

  “He was in a bad way until Jelly and I rescued him,” Miss Lemagne said, slipping her hand through the crook of Adam’s false arm as she directed him out of the parlor. “Daddy needs some sleep.”

  Adam cast a look over his shoulder at George, who appeared as mortified as a man whose face looked like it had been through a meat grinder could look. “You and Miss Jelly went to Ballard’s Alley at night?”

  “Of course we did.” Miss Lemagne looked up at him with soulful blue eyes. “My daddy was in a bad way, Mr. Quinn. I wasn’t going to let him die. Or worse—have his leg cut off. And so I thought maybe Dr. Hilton could help set my daddy’s broken leg. It needed someone horribly strong, I thought. But when we came upon Dr. Hilton here—why, he was being pummeled to death by those three terrible men. So I shot one of them.”

  Adam barely managed to control his shock at her blithe statement. “Is that so?” Did that mean he had another dead body to see to?

  “Yes. Right in the leg. And Jelly swatted another one of them with her club. And then I chased them off. They were good-for-nothings,” she added flatly. “And I needed Dr. Hilton.”

  Adam glanced at George, who still looked pained. But there was a bit of worry limning his gaze, and Adam doubted the fact that a young woman had “chased them off” would be an end to his problems. “And as it turns out, I’m in need of Dr. Hilton’s particular skills right now as well, Miss Lemagne.”

  “Why is that? Oh. There’s another murder?” Her eyes sparkled with interest. “I’ll fetch my sketchbook so I can get a good drawing of the scene. Daddy will be just fine resting with Louise and James to look after him.” She hurried from the room before Adam could attempt to dissuade her.

  “Who died?” George asked—likely before Adam could do the same and question him. Adam understood that his friend didn’t want to discuss the events of last night.

  “Billy Morris—the Night Watch at the Capitol—was murdered. His throat was crushed—looks like someone took a long stick and choked him with it. I’ll feel better if you take a look at him—somewhere else than your office,” he added. “We need to move you somewhere safer.”

  George shook his head. “I can’t do that, Adam. I got patients. I’m not leaving my place.”

  Adam pursed his lips. “I reckon I might need to find someone else to do the work, then, George, if it’s going to cause you a black eye and a busted-up face.”

  “Coupla broken ribs too,” the other man replied. “And if that’s what you want to do, I’ll not stop you.”

  “It’s not what I want to do. Next time it could be worse,” Adam said.

  “I’ll be more careful. Lock the doors. Have a rifle handy. Maybe I’ll get a dog.”

  Adam nodded, then allowed a glint to creep into his eyes. “Or you could just set Miss Lemagne up with a revolver at the door.”

  George said something under his breath that sounded like, “Lord save me from interfering women,” and shook his head.

  Miss Lemagne bustled back into the front room, satchel in hand with her sketchbook in it. A simple bonnet with ribbons trailed from her other hand. “Jelly, I declare, I can’t seem to pin this on straight.”

  “Miss Constance, you can’t go out looking like that! ” her maid said in horror. “Why, that’s only an at-home dress, and your hair ain’t even done! Lookit the edges of your petticoats—they’re plain and not even hemmed! No, Miss Constance, I can’t let you go out like that. Your daddy would whip my backside if’n I did.”

  Adam seized the opportunity. “Miss Lemagne, I appreciate your willingness to help, but Mr. Morris’s body has already been removed and so there’s nothing at the scene to be sketched. And I reckon I’ve got to excuse myself, as Dr. Hilton and I must attend to the problem right away. I hope your father continues his recovery.”

  She looked as if she wanted to say something, but George spoke up quickly. “If you like, I’ll come back and check up on your father later today, Miss Lemagne. Thank you for letting me stay here last night.”

  “Well, I couldn’t let you go home after curfew,” she said sharply. “And after everything else. Yes, I’m sure Daddy will want to see you later today. Good-bye, Mr. Quinn.” Her tone was frosty, without a hint of southern in it.

  Adam grimaced but managed a smile before he fled with George close on his heels.

  CHAPTER 8

  Sophie hurried up the walk to the front door of the Executive Mansion—or, as President Lincoln had begun to call it, the White House.

  “Good morning, Mr. McManus,” she said to the wizened old man who opened the door for her.

  Despite the number of times she’d been to the great mansion—and in fact, she’d even lived at the President’s House for several nights in April when everyone was certain the Rebels were going to come across the Potomac and invade Washington—Sophie was always mildly surprised that anyone could gain admittance to the house for any reason. There was no security to speak of, despite the war going on, and people came and went as they liked. There were always job-seekers and other favor-mongerers loitering about, waiting for the opportunity to press Mr. Lincoln for their requests.

  “Top o’ the morning to you, Miss Gates,” Old Ed McManus replied. “If it’s that handsome Adam Quinn you’re after seeing, lass, well, he’s not here.”

  At this news, Sophie screeched to a halt just inside the door. “He’s not? Why, it’s only half nine! I thought for certain he’d still be here.” Drat. Now she’d never be able to track him down—that man moved a
round faster than a raindrop fell.

  She’d wanted to find out whether he’d learned anything else since yesterday about Pinebar Tufts. And she was going to advise him of her intention to meet Miss Barton at the Patent Office today and use the opportunity to do some snooping around at his place of work.

  “No, lass, he was called out just before dawn this morn’. There’s another body was discovered up on the hill at the Capitol.”

  Double drat. Another body meant another crime scene that she wasn’t able to see with her own eyes. “All right, then. Thank you, Mr. McManus.” Sophie adjusted her bonnet and was just about to leave when Old Ed opened the door once more.

  To her surprise, she recognized the young woman who hesitantly stepped inside.

  “Miss Monroe!” Sophie exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” she added before she realized how peremptory that sounded. “I mean, what a surprise to see you again.”

  “Hello—Miss Gates, isn’t it? How wonderful to see you here.” The pretty young woman rushed over to her and took Sophie’s hands as if they were old friends. “It’s a bit intimidating, coming in here like this, isn’t it?” She looked around with wide eyes, and then Sophie recognized the moment Miss Monroe saw the shabbiness of the entryway of the house and surprise flickered in her gaze.

  Unfortunately, the president’s house was in dire need of renovation and sprucing up. To be sure, Mrs. Lincoln was hard at work spending far too much money (if one believed the rumors) to get new furnishings and decorations, as well as painting, repairs, and other updates. But especially the entranceway, which was separated from the main corridor and stairs to the rest of the house by a pebbled-glass wall, was as sterile and unexceptional as the entrance to a bank.

  “The Blue Room is absolutely beautiful,” Sophie replied with sincerity. “Mrs. Lincoln always makes certain to have fresh flowers on every table too. I hope you’ll be able to see it someday. What brings you here, Miss Monroe, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  The other young woman hesitated, then plunged on. Later, Sophie was to wonder why she was so immediately open and trusting of someone she’d just met, but realized it was likely because she had no other options and that a young woman her age would presumably be a sympathetic listener. And it became obvious Miss Monroe desperately needed someone to talk to.