Murder at the Capitol

by C. M. Gleason

“The troops need something to do,” Sophie said. “Soon. All the ones that came from the north, right after the firing on Fort Sumter—their ninety days are almost over. Then they can go home.”

  “Everyone here keeps talking about a battle in Manassas,” Clara replied as they strolled along the hall. “If old Fuss and Feathers is going to send them off to fight, he’ll have to do it soon or he’ll lose all of his men.”

  “Mr. Quinn says there is a lot of argument over whether the men are ready to go,” Sophie told her. “And the president is torn between what General Scott and General McDowell are telling him—that they aren’t ready—and the pressure Congress is putting on him to do something. They want him to act decisively before the men all go home.”

  “Oh, Mr. Taft,” said Clara suddenly, pitching her voice toward a man on the other side of one of the cases. “Do you have a moment?” She dropped her voice and murmured to Sophie, “Mr. Taft is an examiner in the Civil Engineering and Firearms Division. Mr. Tufts was one of his assistant examiners.”

  “Yes, Miss Barton? Why, Miss Gates, is it?” Mr. Horatio Nelson Taft gave a brief bow of recognition. He was in his late fifties, with thinning white hair combed straight across his head and a clean-shaven, pleasant face. “How are you doing today, ladies?”

  If Clara was surprised that her coworker knew her companion, she didn’t comment. Sophie responded, “What a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Taft. I’m enjoying the beautiful weather—and am simply fascinated by all of these inventions. What an interesting place to work. Tell me, how are your boys doing?”

  She’d met Horatio Taft during the week in April while she stayed at the White House when everyone expected the city to be invaded by the Southern forces. Adam had insisted on her living there temporarily, for Sophie’s aunt, uncle, and cousins had evacuated the city and he didn’t feel it was safe for a young woman to be staying alone in the Smithsonian. Sophie hadn’t disagreed too vehemently—after all, the man had a point, and living in the Executive Mansion would give her a unique perspective for the news stories she wanted to write.

  “Bud and Holly are just the same as always—filled with energy and always getting into trouble. Of course,” he added with a smile, “they’re usually not alone in their predicaments, are they?”

  Sophie laughed heartily. “Not at all. In fact, I think everyone agrees it’s more Tad than anyone else when it comes to those four boys stirring up trouble.” Tad and Willie Lincoln were inseparable friends of the Taft boys, and anyone who spent any time around the President’s House knew what havoc the quartet could wreak. The Tafts’ oldest child, fifteen-year-old Julia, was often sent to accompany the boys to and from their playmates’ house. She was at the White House nearly as often as her brothers, and Sophie had also met the pleasant young woman several times while she sat in one of the parlors reading books that her father wouldn’t approve of.

  “That wouldn’t surprise me,” Mr. Taft replied. “Why, last week Julia came home and told me that Tad and Willie had arranged it so all of the servants’ bells in the whole house rang at one time, summoning the entire staff to Mr. Lincoln’s office at once. He was in the middle of a Cabinet meeting.” He appeared both pained and amused by the situation. “Fortunately, the president only laughed and sent the servants on their way. I spoke severely to Holly and Bud, but of course, Tad and Willie do have the run of the mansion.”

  “Indeed they do,” Sophie replied, having seen herself the way the two Lincoln boys charged down the corridors and in and out and through whatever rooms they wished, at any time, at any volume. It was difficult to fault them though, for they were darling, funny, intelligent boys—especially the older one, Willie, who was adored by everyone. “Is it true that Tad was riding in his wagon pulled by goats, and he drove it into the house one day?”

  Mr. Taft’s lips twitched, but he kept the smile in check. “Yes—right down the hall past the Red and Green Rooms and into the Blue Room. Several congressmen and a senator nearly got their heels taken off and their legs bruised when he raced through the house. One of the ones whose feet were run over told me that Tad is ‘more numerous than popular.’ ”

  “Dear Heaven,” Sophie said, grateful that she wasn’t in charge of the little boys. She changed her expression from amusement to soberness. “It was just awful about Pinebar Tufts, wasn’t it? I happened to be at the Capitol last Friday when it—when he was found.”

  “Just terrible. Tufts was a pleasant man, easy to work with. Had a good eye for patent work too, and mechanics,” Mr. Taft said. “He was brought on not long after I was, about four years ago.” He tilted his head to look at her. “Julia says that Adam Quinn is investigating the case, as he did with the killing at the White House back in April.”

  Sophie hid a smile. Apparently, Adam’s—it was still strange to think of him by his familiar name—reputation was growing, whether he wanted it to or not. “Yes, and I’ve been assisting him, as I did before.”

  Mr. Taft’s brows rose up his tall forehead. “I see.”

  Sophie could tell that he didn’t really “see,” but she plunged into her interrogation. She saw no reason to beat around the bush. “Did Mr. Tufts ever mention Mr. Henry Monroe or an invention Mr. Monroe was thinking of investing in?”

  “Henry Monroe? Well, yes, I do think Piney was working with him on something. It wasn’t a patent that came through my division, though. Something in agriculture, I believe. But it was his brother-in-law—Henry’s wife’s brother—who’d filed for the patent. It was approved, if I recall correctly.”

  Sophie remembered Felicity mentioning her uncle Stuart who was an inventor. “So Mr. Monroe was considering investing in the production of this patent? And Mr. Tufts was advising him?”

  “Piney had a way of seeing things about gadgets and machinery where he could pinpoint the shortcomings. He couldn’t make up his own inventions, but he could see the faults in others. I think he was helping Monroe and his brother-in-law—blast if I can remember his name—to smooth out any wrinkles in the idea before they went to find investors. But who knows—now that the war is here, they might have a more difficult time.”

  Sophie nodded. “That’s very interesting. Do you know of anyone who might not have gotten along with Mr. Tufts, or who might have wanted to harm him?”

  Mr. Taft drew back a little and his expression settled into something grave. “So the rumors are true, then? Piney was murdered?”

  “Yes. It’s been proven without a doubt by Mr. Quinn and Dr. Hilton. Do you have any idea who might have done such a thing?”

  He shook his head. “No, I can’t think of anyone who had a problem with Piney. He was just the sort of man who mostly got along with everyone. He did his work and lived for inventions and gadgets.” He smiled softly. “I’ll miss him around here. He was a good assistant examiner—and I was going to suggest he be promoted, but then everything slowed down here, with the war.” He rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “I’ll have to get the wife over to call on Marybelle Tufts again, poor woman. Mrs. Taft heard about Piney and went over on Saturday, but she wasn’t home. I’ll go with her next time. Piney was a good man. And I’m—well, while it’s terrible that someone did such a thing to him, I admit I’m relieved he didn’t do it to himself.”

  “Whoever killed him also killed Billy Morris,” Sophie said. “The Auxiliary Guard who patrolled the Capitol.”

  Mr. Taft’s eyes widened with shock. “Why, that’s terrible. I hadn’t heard about that. I—”

  “Mr. Taft!” A young man came rushing up to their little group. “I’ve been looking for you. Your daughter, Julia, is downstairs. She says your sons are missing—along with the Lincoln boys!”

  * * *

  Adam had been unusually busy since Saturday afternoon, when he and Miss Gates—or, rather, Sophie, as she was now known to him—had called on Mrs. Tufts. Unfortunately, the tasks and problems with which he’d been occupied were unrelated to the murders of Pinebar Tufts and Billy Morris.

  Pressu
re to end the war was growing from Congress, now that they’d reconvened, and President Lincoln was wavering between the two factions pushing and pulling at him: that of the generals, who wanted more time to drill their troops, and the inflamed members of Congress, who wanted action—quickly and decisively. And with the majority of the thirty thousand troops of the Army of the Potomac nearing the end of their commission, something had to be done or most of the Union Army would disintegrate as the men returned to their homes up North.

  Over the last two days, Adam had been sent off to meet with seven different regimental leaders as an unofficial representative of their commander in chief, as well as being involved in security arrangements for Mrs. Lincoln and the two boys. He was also starting to look seriously again for a private room at one of the boardinghouses near Penn Ave. He’d moved out of the President’s House in late March, taking rooms in a small boardinghouse run by a Mrs. Hunter. But then the war started and Mrs. Hunter had evacuated the city, evicting her tenants in favor of the safety of Philadelphia, where her family lived. But it was time for him to find his own quarters again, now that it was clear he’d be staying in Washington for the foreseeable future. Adam had come to the conclusion that since he couldn’t enlist with only one arm, his contribution to the nation and the war would be by serving Mr. Lincoln.

  And, apparently, by solving crimes such as murder.

  Despite all of these matters, Adam had also taken it upon himself to discreetly ask around about Mrs. Rose Greenhow. He knew the city was rife with Southern spies, and since Allan Pinkerton had returned from Chicago, he and his team had been spending a good portion of their time rooting out the informers, while doing some spying of their own.

  But Adam didn’t want to mention anything to Pinkerton about the widow—who, he’d learned, had recently lost her daughter Gertrude—or do anything to besmirch Mrs. Greenhow’s reputation unless he had evidence. Or at least something more tangible than Sophie’s hunch.

  Along with all of these matters, the deaths of Pinebar Tufts and Billy Morris continued to nag at him. He was determined that justice would be served to whomever had done the deeds; but he felt as if the investigation had come to a bit of a standstill. The only suspect he had so far was a man he’d been unable to speak to—Henry Monroe—simply due to the fact that he kept missing him at home or his office or at the Capitol.

  Finally, late Monday afternoon, Adam had the opportunity to make his way to Monroe’s office, which was just a few blocks from the Capitol. It was a rainy day and surprisingly chilly, and so Adam wore the coat he’d left home yesterday in the blistering heat.

  As he walked, he felt a crinkle in his pocket. All at once he remembered the packet of papers he’d thrust in there as he exited Pinebar Tufts’s office and was immediately annoyed. How could he have forgotten about them?

  He found a bench in front of City Hall and sat down to look over the papers. Each was a folded note inscribed with a brief message. In the Small House Rotunda beneath the North-side bench. July 4. No earlier than midnight, read the top one.

  The second one read: Inside the Rotunda Crypt between the two outer columns at the South-most side. June 14. Between midnight and two o’clock. Deliver before noon June 15.

  A third one was similar, listing what Adam reckoned was a pickup location and then a drop-off date and time. That date was May 31.

  Approximately every two weeks since the end of May. Who was picking up what? Were these directions for Tufts’s blackmail victim? It appeared that when he’d arrived to collect his money on July 4, the victim had lain in wait to put an end to the harassment.

  It made sense. But why did Tufts have the notes, if they were directions to his victim? Copies, perhaps. But why would he keep copies of such incriminating documents? Adam mulled this over, looking at the letters.

  All were written in the same hand, and as he examined them, he realized the author must be left-handed because of a few light ink smudges from the writing hand as it passed over the fresh ink. Other than that, the notes provided no other clue to the identity of the writer. The paper wasn’t any sort of stationery and was of common weight and color. None of the notes had envelopes, although they appeared to have been folded and sealed at one point, for Adam found a trace of blue wax on the edge of one, which strengthened his belief that these letters weren’t copies Tufts had kept for himself, but messages that had been sent to him.

  Adam frowned. Maybe Tufts hadn’t been blackmailing anyone after all. Maybe someone had been blackmailing him.

  But then why would someone have killed him? It didn’t make any sense.

  Adam folded the papers and stuffed them back into his pocket. As soon as possible, he’d compare the writing to the note that had been pinned to Tufts’s coat. But since there were only three words on that note, it would be difficult to determine if the same person had written it.

  He rose from the bench and continued on his way to Henry Monroe’s office. Adam had just turned onto Seventh Street when he heard a male voice shouting his name.

  It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence to be hailed that way—how else was one to get his attention when he was two blocks ahead of them on the street?—but Adam was acutely aware of how often that had been happening lately. He turned and started toward William Johnson, Mr. Lincoln’s valet and messenger, who was running toward him at top speed.

  That told him something urgent was happening, and Adam picked up his own pace to meet William. The young man was out of breath. “Mr. Quinn, sir . . . the Lincoln boys . . . are missing! No one can find them . . . and they ain’t been seen . . . since dinner. . . at noon . . .” He was huffing and puffing, and the expression on his face was one of fright and concern. “Taft boys are . . . with them.”

  “Does the president want me to come back to the White House to search there, or has the search gone beyond the grounds?” Adam asked.

  “Tracks,” gasped William. “Can you follow . . . tracks?”

  “Yes.” It was just as fast to walk as it was to find and hire a hack down the busy Avenue, so the two men started off back to the President’s House on foot as Adam tried to quell his fear. The last thing his friend Abe needed on top of all of these war worries was for something to happen to the children.

  Could they have been abducted? Intended to be used as hostages in the war?

  Adam’s chest felt tight as he began to run, leaving the already out-of-breath William far behind.

  CHAPTER 10

  “I just can’t thank you enough for sending over Bettie to visit, and for all of the food as well,” Constance said, reaching over to pat Mrs. Greenhow’s hand. Indeed, her family had dined on several loaves of bread and a roasted chicken her friend had had one of her servants deliver. “My daddy is doing so much better, and the—uh—doctor says he should be able to begin walking within a fortnight.”

  It was late in the day Monday, and they were sitting in the elder woman’s parlor in her well-appointed home at 398 Sixteenth Street. No one was present except the two of them and Mrs. Greenhow’s eight-year-old daughter, Little Rose, who sat in a corner working on her embroidery.

  “I expect Bettie is across the river and well on her way to the general by now,” replied Mrs. Greenhow with a smile taut with nerves. “Please God, she’ll get to Beauregard safely.”

  The two women clasped hands tightly for a moment, then Mrs. Greenhow released Constance’s fingers and settled back in her chair with a sigh. “I declare, the waiting is so very difficult. I can’t hardly sit without worrying about a knock at the door, coming with bad news—or good news.” She sighed again. “Would you like some more coffee?”

  “I’ll pour it, thank you,” Constance said. “Mrs. Greenhow—”

  “Oh, you must call me Rose, Constance,” she replied firmly. “We’ve become so close and have done so much together that it strains the bonds of friendship for us to have such formality between us.”

  “Thank you. I feel the same way. As if you’re the mother I never had,
” Constance replied truthfully, for her mother had died when she was ten. “It’s so refreshing to be able to speak openly to you about my hopes for the South. My daddy is so besotted with Mrs. Billings—and she’s such an abolitionist—that even he doesn’t speak as strongly about our boys anymore. I begin to wonder if he’s giving up on our way of life.”

  “And what about that handsome Mr. Quinn? Have you been able to spend any more time with him?” Rose asked.

  Constance sighed and settled back in her own chair. “He’s been so busy, and I’ve hardly seen him at all.” It still bothered her that he seemed to have forgotten she’d moved from the St. Charles Hotel to Mrs. Billings’s house. “And even then, usually there are other things happening and I have no chance to speak to him privately.” But even as she spoke, Constance sensed a little niggle of guilt. She liked Adam Quinn very much, and although she liked—loved—her Confederate brothers more, she still felt a trifle unsettled over trying to pry information from him.

  There was something about Mr. Quinn—his loyalty, his integrity, his calm and intelligent demeanor—that made Constance uncomfortable about using him for information. She was reluctant to tarnish those qualities that she so admired.

  Which was silly. Because this was war. And if the Federals won, if they somehow managed to quash her Southern boys, then their entire way of life would be destroyed. Her daddy’s plantation would be in ruins because there’d be no one to work the fields.

  And besides, if all the slaves were freed, what would they do? They’d be completely lost without their masters. How would they make a living? What would they even do? The image of Dr. Hilton popped into her head and was immediately and vehemently dismissed as she went on to think about her dear Jelly. Why, if she were freed and turned out of their house, the poor woman would be inconsolate. She loved Constance like a daughter.

  “Perhaps it’s just as well,” Rose said, “that you’ve been unable to acquire any information from Adam Quinn. Because then you’d be under suspicion if you were caught.” Her eyes glinted with something that had Constance sitting upright once more.