Murder at the Capitol

by C. M. Gleason

  “I wondered what that delicious smell was,” said Felicity with a smile.

  “Chicken pot pie. I brought some strawberries too—and this for you, Constance.” Sophie offered her friend the box of chocolates. “And this lap blanket for your father.”

  Constance seemed pleased and appreciative of the chocolate. “That’s so kind of you, Sophie,” she said. But that cruel edge was still in her voice. “Brilla! Come and get this pie—”

  “Oh, that’s fine. I’m already up—I’ll take it to the kitchen. I wanted to tell Louisa about how to heat it up anyway,” Sophie said swiftly.

  She hadn’t even seen the new maid, but her heart went out for her. The poor young thing had just lost her brother, and now was in a new household with a mistress who was not at her best.

  She swept out of the parlor before Constance could stop her, picnic basket over her arm. Something compelled her to go to the kitchen, to speak to the maid that had been shuffled to a new household without having a bit of say in the matter. At least Sophie had wanted to come to Washington. At least she’d had the choice to change households.

  At least she was free to go and do what she wanted, even though at times she’d felt trapped in her life. But she hadn’t been. Not really.

  “Are you Brilla?” she asked once inside the kitchen. Since the young woman was the only person in there—Louisa must be in the yard attending to something—she supposed it was fair to guess.

  The girl startled and looked at Sophie as if her question was an accusation. “Yes, ma’am,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear no bell ring, and I—”

  “It’s no mind. I just brought this pie in here and wanted to tell Louisa to put it in the oven thirty minutes before supper. It’s chicken pot pie.” She smiled, trying to ease the girl’s nerves. The poor thing looked as if she were about to cower in the corner if someone looked at her crossly. “I’m very sorry to hear about your brother,” she added.

  To her surprise, Brilla burst into tears, and then immediately and desperately tried to stop them. “Oh miss, I’m sorry, please don’t tell no one, please.” She yanked a rag from where it was tucked into her apron and wiped roughly at her face. “Please.”

  “No, no, not at all,” Sophie said, horrified by the unchecked display of emotion. How long had that been bottled up inside her? “Sit down, Brilla, please. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It must be awful, missing your brother and then suddenly being so-sent to a new place today. . . .” She found she couldn’t even say the word “sold”—though that was exactly what had happened.

  She eased the girl into a chair, hoping Constance and Felicity were deep in conversation in the parlor. She had a feeling Constance, in her present mood, with that layer of cruelty in her tone and expression, would not take kindly to her new maid sitting down in the kitchen—especially with a guest present.

  “No, no, I can’t—”

  “It’s all right.” And that was when Sophie saw the bruises on her shoulder, slightly bared by the collar of her dress. Dear God. Her stomach flipped. They weren’t the kind of bruise you got from bumping into something. They looked like purplish-black handprints on her smooth brown throat and neck. Sophie’s heart squeezed, and she skimmed the other woman closely. There were more marks on her arm, and more on her thin, bare legs. One of them looked like a burn. God in heaven.

  She wanted to tell Brilla that she didn’t need to be so fearful here in the Billings house, but the truth was, she didn’t actually know. She knew the Billings hired free blacks for servants, but the Lemagnes obviously had slaves.

  And then it struck her. Brilla had been at Carson Townsend’s house. She’d been his slave. The man her friend Felicity loved—the man she was going to marry—beat his slaves.

  Sophie felt ill, and she sank into the chair across from the other woman. Her mind was so full, and yet so frighteningly empty, she didn’t know what to do.

  Brilla had mastered her sobs and now simply dabbed at her eyes as she watched Sophie warily.

  “Mr. Townsend was your master?” she asked at last.

  Brilla nodded, those dark eyes fixed on her. Terror lurked in them. “Yes, ma’am.” Barely audible.

  “Did he do that to you?” she asked.

  Brilla’s neck convulsed as she swallowed, but she didn’t speak. Her fingers trembled against the rag she held.

  “Brilla, you can tell me. I won’t hurt you. Did Mr. Townsend do that to you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered at last.

  “Does that happen . . . often?” Sophie felt like she was going to vomit. What was she going to tell Felicity?

  He couldn’t marry me, if he knew.

  Maybe Felicity already knew what her future husband was like.

  Dear God.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Brilla whispered. “To all of us.”

  Sophie didn’t know what compelled her to ask, but suddenly she knew. But she had to make certain. “Your brother who died—was Mr. Townsend his master too?”

  Brilla’s eyes flew so wide the whites showed all around her dark brown irises. They filled with tears that suddenly spilled from them, running down her cheeks in misery. She nodded and wiped roughly at her face again as if desperate to scrub away any emotion.

  “He didn’t die in an accident, did he? Your brother?”

  “No,” Brilla said, for the first time above a whisper. “Master kilt him. He so angry, he beat Deucy so bad he kilt him.”

  Sophie pressed a hand to her middle, trying to ease her twisting belly. But she knew whatever she was feeling couldn’t come close to the horror and pain Brilla experienced. “I’m so sorry,” she said, overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness.

  There was nothing she could do. Nothing. For Brilla, for any of the other slaves in Townsend’s household—for any slave anywhere who was beaten by his or her master.

  Or who wasn’t beaten but didn’t want to be there—who had no choice in their life or choice of work.

  Sophie had always known the so-called “peculiar institution” was wrong; it never set well with her that one man should own another, no matter his skin color or makeup. But she’d lived in the North—she didn’t see it, she didn’t experience it. Sure, she’d heard the likes of the Grimke sisters and Frederick Douglass preaching about the evils of slavery, but it had been easy for her to hear those words, agree with them—and then go on with her life.

  She could set it aside, ignore it, forget about it. Because she could. It wasn’t there; she didn’t live with it.

  But that was no longer the case.

  Her heart lodged in her throat, and Sophie was utterly paralyzed by this awful realization. Just then, Louisa slammed in from outside. Sophie started a little, but Brilla bolted from her chair as if it was burning, and she looked terrified.

  “Lands, child, I ain’t gon’ swat you or nothing,” Louisa said, giving her a pitying look. She glanced at Sophie, who was still so frozen in her own moment of horror that she couldn’t react. “Hello, Miss Gates.”

  “I brought a chicken pot pie,” she said, popping up out of her seat.

  “I smell it, I sure do,” said Louisa.

  Sophie was so mortified by her own ignorance, she could think of nothing more to say. She gave one last look at Brilla, then fled the kitchen, confident that the pragmatic housekeeper could calm the younger maid better than she, a white woman, could.

  “Why, Sophie, what on earth took you so long?” asked Felicity, which reminded Sophie yet again that the lovely woman in front of her was going to be marrying a brute.

  “I . . .”

  But before she could make up something, Constance stepped in. “As I was saying, Felicity, dear—I didn’t find out until late last night when I got home. After Mr. Quinn left, I looked all over for Jelly, and she wasn’t anywhere to be found.”

  Sophie slowed her reach for the cup of coffee she’d left on the table, then snatched it up quickly.

  Adam had been here last night? Wi
th Constance? She felt even sicker.

  “It was long after ten o’clock, and she was nowhere to be found,” Constance went on in that strange, cruel voice. “I didn’t notice until after Mr. Quinn had gone,” she added.

  And Sophie felt the other woman glance at her, as if to make certain she’d heard—and understood—the comment. She gulped the coffee, glad that it had gone cold or it would have scalded her mouth, and tried to appear nonchalant. But inside, she was reeling.

  Only two nights ago, Monday, she and Adam had had that wonderful walk home after finding the boys. They’d talked about the case, and about other things, and she’d felt so comfortable with him. As if he respected her thoughts and ideas. Almost as if he thought she was as important in the investigation as he and Dr. Hilton were.

  And there’d been that moment outside the East Tower when . . . well, there’d been that moment when she thought she felt something. And that he had too—with the way their eyes met. The way he’d looked down at her, with those eyes that crinkled at the corners and his fine mouth curving a little.

  But he’d been out with Constance last night? Until long after ten o’clock?

  For the second time in minutes, Sophie felt as if the rug had been yanked out from beneath her. As if she’d just been jolted from a comfortable, dreamy sleep.

  Now she felt like she was tumbling down inside some great, deep well that never ended—out of sorts, confused, and completely off-balance.

  And then she shook herself and came out of it. Whatever interest she’d had in being courted by a man had evaporated after the disaster with Peter. She sternly reminded herself of that, and of how content Clara was, being unmarried and living a life independent of a husband.

  That was what Sophie had intended when she moved here to Washington. That was why she’d left New York behind. And it was just as well that Constance had reminded her of it.

  CHAPTER 14

  Saturday, July 13

  Adam looked down at the note and rubbed his chin as he reread it for the third time, trying to see if he’d missed something. The penmanship was far neater than anything he’d ever manage, but almost masculine in its simplicity.

  Mr. Quinn:

  I’ve been invited to a small garden fête on Saturday to celebrate the upcoming wedding of Miss Felicity Monroe and Mr. Carson Townsend. In the interest of continuing our investigation, perhaps you should attend as well.

  Both Miss Lemagne and I will be there at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, Saturday, and Miss Monroe would be delighted to have you at her home for the festivities.

  –Sophie Gates

  There was something about the message that bothered him. Of course, he’d never received a note from Sophie before, but somehow he’d expected something she’d write to be more . . . well, interesting.

  He’d read it twice yesterday when it first arrived, and each time, he felt as if he were missing some vital piece of information.

  In the end, Adam reckoned he was just a little unsettled about going to a garden fête. Whatever that was. He’d been too bashful to ask Mrs. Lincoln, and had barely gotten a straight answer from John Hay, the only other person he’d had the opportunity to talk to.

  “It’s pronounced ‘fate’ not ‘feet.’ A party,” he’d said, looking at Adam’s battered frontier coat. “Outside. There’ll be some food. Wear a neckcloth and don’t forget your gloves, man.”

  Along with a neckcloth and gloves meant the new shoes Adam had worn to Mr. Lincoln’s inauguration, and a crisp, white shirt that had been starched thanks to the White House staff. He was going to miss that sort of service when he left, but he’d found a small set of rooms in a boardinghouse just two blocks behind the Willard and would soon be moving to his own space.

  Adam tugged at the coat he’d struggled into; it was a tighter cut and of finer material than the frontier duster at which Hay had curled his lip. It buttoned up the front over a waistcoat he’d had to borrow from Abe—though the man wouldn’t miss it; he was even less interested in how he clothed his body than Adam was. When he looked in the mirror, Adam almost didn’t recognize himself.

  He didn’t like it. He felt out of sorts and uncomfortable and stiff. Even his hair didn’t look like his own—the barber who shaved him had combed it back from his face and temples so it rose like a low wave over his forehead. And he’d put pomade in it to keep it there, which made his hair stiff and smell like lemons.

  But he had a job to do. And Sophie would be there. She’d probably look pretty fancy herself, and she might even laugh if he managed to make a joke. That would make it worth getting trussed up like a roast hen, he supposed.

  And then he realized what niggled at him.

  Sophie’s message had implied they would meet at the fête. There was no suggestion that he should pick her up and escort her, and he wondered if she’d been expecting him to offer. After all, she’d sent the message early yesterday morning—with plenty of time for him to reply.

  He grimaced. Damn it. This was the sort of thing he didn’t really think about, and now he wondered if it was too late—if she’d already left for the Monroe house on her own—or, worse, if she was waiting in vain for him to arrive at the Castle to take her. He glanced at the clock—it was nearly four already because he’d dawdled as much as possible.

  No, Sophie wouldn’t wait. His lips twitched. No, if she hadn’t heard from him, she would take matters into her own hands and go on by herself. And she’d probably flay him with her tart tongue about the whole situation when he arrived. He grinned again and rubbed his freshly-shaven chin. That could be enjoyable.

  And then all at once he realized what other matters she might take into her hands at the Monroe house—where Henry Monroe’s office would be ripe for the snooping.

  Damn. She was probably already there, and here he was, woolgathering and dragging his feet because his shoes were too tight. He snatched up his gloves and a hat he’d also borrowed, but sneered at the thought of a walking stick. Instead, he stuffed a clean handkerchief into his pocket and was just about to the door of his bedchamber when he stopped.

  Turning back, he reached into the dresser drawer and withdrew his revolver.

  He was going to a fête—whatever that was—and it was very possible a murderer was going to be there. He was going to be prepared.

  * * *

  “Why, Sophie, I’m so glad you could make it. And your frock is so lovely!” Felicity embraced her in a cloud of scented rosewater. “You look as fresh as a summer morning. Those tiny roses along the velvet ribbon are just darling.”

  “Thank you! I brought it from New York when I came,” Sophie replied, smoothing her lemonade-colored skirt. “It was from Mrs. Fancy’s shop on Fifth Avenue—do you know it?”

  She did have a particular fondness for the dress made from Swiss-dotted yellow lawn with pale green trim and tiny gold rosebuds along the bodice and the edges of her short, lace-dripped sleeves. Two crinolines shaped her skirt in a small but elegant hoop shape—wide enough to be fashionable but narrow enough that she could fit through a doorway without crushing it. She’d worn a bonnet made from dark brown straw, but it had a tall, open brim that framed her face. She’d added a wide spring green ribbon that tied beneath her chin, and gold and yellow flowers with forest leaves for decoration.

  For once, she felt just as well-dressed as Constance Lemagne, who’d arrived in a frock with broader hoops and more crinolines, but of a less flattering color (pale pink) and far too many layers of lace for an afternoon gathering—in Sophie’s opinion.

  But her reason for accepting Felicity’s invitation was not about whose dress was the prettiest—her hostess’s blue watered silk would obviously win that competition—but to do some investigating for the blackmail problem. This was her chance to try and poke around Mr. Monroe’s office to see if she could find the letters from the blackmailer.

  Whether Adam Quinn made an appearance was an entire other issue, and one that she didn’t care to dwell on. It might be
helpful if he were there to assist while she snooped, but it certainly wasn’t necessary.

  “Oh, of course I know the place! Mrs. Fancy’s is one of my favorite shops to visit when I’m in New York.” Felicity was still holding Sophie’s hand. “Now, do let me introduce you to my parents.”

  Of course Sophie was eager to meet Henry Monroe, her chief—really, only—suspect in the Pinebar Tufts’s murder, and she gave a brief curtsy as Felicity introduced them. “What a lovely home you have,” she told the Monroes as she shook their hands. “And an even lovelier daughter.”

  Mrs. Monroe was tiny and birdlike with brown hair that wasn’t nearly as dark as her daughter’s black tresses, and a warm smile. “How kind of you to say,” she replied with a sweet smile as she glanced down at the drawstring bag that dangled from Sophie’s wrist. It was a little heavier than usual and had swayed, bumping her hostess’s arm as they squeezed hands in greeting. Sophie quickly withdrew her hands and tamed the little bag as Mrs. Monroe continued. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Miss Gates.”

  “A lovely daughter indeed, but have you seen her trousseau bills?” Mr. Monroe joked, and laughed heartily. He was as distinguished looking as Sophie had expected him to be—and she noted with satisfaction that his hair was fading from light brown to white. “I’ll be more than happy when Townsend has to take them over.” He chuckled, but Sophie sensed an underlying tension in his demeanor.

  Mr. Monroe took his daughter’s hand and patted it gently. “You know I’m only jesting, darling,” he said, looking down at her with a fond smile. “I’ll happily pay your bills as long as you need me to. Just don’t forget about your old papa once you’re married and moved off to Richmond.”

  “Oh, Daddy,” Felicity said, blushing. “You’re the sweetest man ever, and how could I ever forget you?”

  One thing about Mr. Monroe: he seemed to truly love his daughter. He wanted the best for her, and he clearly adored her. Which explained the secret he’d so carefully kept for nearly eighteen years. But that sort of devotion could make a man desperate enough to do whatever it took to keep his beloved daughter safe and scandal free.