Murder in the Oval Library

by C. M. Gleason

  He lifted the man’s arm and examined the cold fingers, testing their flexibility and that of his elbow, then allowed the hand to rest back on the floor. After a prolonged pause that might have been a prayer, Hilton began to drag the sheet up over Thorne’s torso and face.

  “I reckon I want you to . . . uh . . . do what you did before,” Adam said, helping with the shroud. “Look over the body. It seems obvious how he died—name’s Johnny, or maybe Jimmy, Thorne, by the way—but as you know, last time the obvious wasn’t the whole story. If you’re willing, that is.”

  “I’m willing.”

  “Much obliged, Hilton.” Adam hesitated, then went on. “But weren’t you meaning to evacuate with all the rest of the city?”

  He didn’t want to keep the man here if he’d intended to leave—a free man, whose independence could easily be “overlooked” by an invading pro-slavery army. God knew he’d seen it happen more than once in Kansas. And why wouldn’t Hilton have intended to leave? Damn. Adam realized he’d likely put the doctor in an untenable position, and now the man’s pride wouldn’t allow him to renege on his agreement.

  “I could have gone yesterday,” Hilton said in that low, steady voice of his. “But I chose not to. I’m a doctor. If war’s coming here, the Good Lord knows I’ll have plenty of work.”

  Adam gave a short nod. He wasn’t completely convinced he hadn’t backed Hilton into a corner, but admittedly, he couldn’t argue with his statement. “Again . . . much obliged. And, much as I wish it weren’t true, you’re right.”

  He gestured to the shroud-covered figure. Dark blood had already stained the white sheet. “I don’t know whether you can tell how long he’s been dead, but that would surely help.”

  “Full rigor hasn’t set in yet—the small muscles have stiffened pretty good, which happens early on, but the large ones are still moving. No more than eight, nine hours dead, I’d say. I may be able to give you a better estimate, once I get him back and . . .” Hilton glanced at Miss Gates and didn’t finish his sentence.

  Adam nodded. “You got your wagon here?”

  As the doctor replied in the affirmative, a creak in the floor drew their attention to the doorway.

  “Cliff Arick said you wanted to see me.” Dan Clayton was short and stocky, with a weathered face and a sun-bleached beard. He was speaking to Adam—though his attention slid to the bloodstained shroud. Behind him were two other men, crowding into the doorway. “Benson and Timmons knew him too, a little. Johnny Thorne.”

  Adam arranged for two of the men to help Hilton get the corpse to his workshop, several blocks away beneath a church in Ballard’s Alley. He was about to leave with Clayton to interview the man, so to speak, when a thought struck him.

  “Miss Gates,” he said, “would you remain here at the door—close it behind you so no one’s gawking in at it—and don’t allow anyone to enter until I get a guard sent up?” He hadn’t had the chance to look as closely as he wanted to at the scene of the murder and all the marks that had been left. He didn’t want either of the Lincoln boys (especially Tad, the eight-year-old scamp)—or anyone else—to come in and disrupt anything before he had a chance to fully examine the room.

  Miss Gates seemed disappointed—he reckoned she might have thought she’d be able to accompany him while he was questioning Clayton and the others—but she didn’t argue. Although the look she gave him was a measured one, as if she wasn’t certain whether he really wanted her help, or if he was just trying to get her out of his hair.

  It was, Adam thought to himself, a little of both.

  * * *

  “I only met him two days ago,” said Dan Clayton. “It was Wednesday, I guess, almost night, and I was coming out from Willard’s to go fetch Benson and Timmons from their boardinghouse. Lane was wanting to get a count of who’d join up to protect the city and the president, and I knew how they’d want to be in on it.

  “Johnny—he was there, standing on the street, and he musta recognized me as one of Lane’s men, because he come right up to me and said how he wanted to join up.” Clayton grimaced. “I asked him how old he was—damned kid didn’t look hardly old enough to sprout whiskers—and he said eighteen. Which I knew was a lie, but . . .” He shrugged, and Adam nodded in commiseration.

  Yes, there’d been youngsters fighting in Kansas too. And in the Mexican War. And probably in every other war. Hell, Andrew Jackson had been only fourteen when he fought the British in the War for Independence. Didn’t make it right, but there you had it.

  “But now he’s dead.” Clayton’s expression tightened. “Who’d do such a thing?”

  “That’s what Mr. Lincoln wants me to find out. I need to hear everything you know about Johnny Thorne—where he’s from, where he’s been, and anything else he ever said so we can try to find his family.”

  And his killer.

  Clayton shook his head again. “I ain’t gonna be much help there, Quinn. The kid didn’t say much a’tall. He sorta stayed in the background and did what he was told, but he didn’t say much. I guessed it was because he didn’t want to draw attention to himself ’cause he was too young to be signing up.”

  Adam couldn’t help wonder if there was another reason Johnny Thorne didn’t want to be noticed. Had the young man already known he was in danger when he signed up to be a Frontier Guard, and was using the troop as cover for himself? A place to hide, or get lost in?

  Or had he seen or heard or done something that put him in danger after he’d joined Lane’s guard? If that were the case, Adam reckoned the implications of that scenario were far less comforting, as that would imply someone in the guard was a cold-blooded murderer.

  Either way, Miss Gates was right: whoever had killed Johnny Thorne had been desperate. He reckoned that also meant Thorne would have known at some point that he was in danger.

  What was he even doing here, on the second floor, in the middle of the night?

  He pressed the men further. “Thorne didn’t mention anything at all? Or anyone? You’ve got no idea where he’s from, his family? Wife?”

  Clayton frowned as if he felt Adam’s frustration. “The only thing was he had a Southern accent. I think he tried to hide it, but it was there. Kinda faint.”

  That, Adam supposed, was something—although it might not mean anything. A man joining up to fight for the Union might not want to draw attention to his Southern roots. Especially among the rough, experienced Jayhawkers.

  Although, curiously enough, the scrap of paper he’d found in Thorne’s pocket was from the St. Charles Hotel—the establishment preferred by Southerners over Willard’s. Adam tucked that bit of information into the back of his mind as the two other Frontier Guard members, having returned from helping Dr. Hilton, entered the chamber.

  “We only knew him a day or so, but he kept to himself, Johnny did. He was a shy one too—didn’t like to be talking much. Sat in the corner and ate and drank mostly alone while we was waiting to see whether Mr. Lincoln would have us come here,” said Timmons, looking around at the room where Adam had decided to do his interviews. It was the Green Room on the main floor, straight down the corridor from the East Room.

  The carpet and walls had seen better days, and the furniture puffed out a musty smell when they sat down. But the wooden table in front of the sofa gleamed from being polished, and a vase of fresh flowers—some fragrant white ones that Adam didn’t recognize—sat in the center. They were probably from the huge conservatory, located off the west wing of the mansion. It was obvious Mrs. Lincoln had high standards for keeping up the mansion, even if it was shabby and worn in areas, and one of her favorite places was the warm, fragrant greenhouse attached to the west side of the mansion.

  “Did you see Thorne last night at all, once you got barracked in the East Room?” Adam asked

  “He was out on guard duty at eleven o’clock and was on until two,” replied Timmons.

  “Do you know who relieved him? Where was he stationed? Upstairs?” That could explain why he
was on the second floor.

  “No, he was outside, assigned to the northwest corner of the house, near the conservatory. I was on the southwest side and we went out together. Lane come out and walked the perimeter, talked to each of us just around midnight, make sure we had what we needed before he took up at Mr. Lincoln’s doorway. Hattenshier would have relieved Johnny at two, but I was on the other side of the house so I didn’t see what time he came out.”

  That was helpful. If Thorne was relieved at two o’clock, and Hattenshier had seen him, that helped narrow the time of his murder. But that still didn’t answer what he would have been doing upstairs on the second floor. Could he have had news to report to Lincoln or Hay—something from his shift? Or a message to deliver?

  “Was anyone else up and moving around after the Guard settled in the East Room? You weren’t on guard duty. Did you see anyone?” Adam asked, looking at Benson.

  Everyone in the entire mansion would need to be interviewed about their whereabouts last night—not to mention who else they might have seen while up and about. He sure as hell hoped Hilton would be able to narrow down the time of Johnny Thorne’s death.

  All that questioning was going to be less than fun, collecting and then organizing all of that information. He wished Hobey Pierce was still here to help because he was good at talking to people, but the red-headed Pinkerton agent had left with his boss and gone back to Chicago.

  Adam reckoned he could ask Miss Gates if she wanted to assist. After all, the woman sure as hell knew how to ask questions. But it wouldn’t be seemly for a woman to be involved in a murder investigation, and especially if she helped interrogate a slew of men.

  Although, he considered, maybe she could at least talk to the servants and the other women in the house. That would keep her busy for a while—and under the circumstances, he thought it would be an acceptable occupation. He had a feeling she’d find a way to get further involved even if he didn’t ask.

  “I got up to take a piss a little before midnight,” said Benson.

  “How did you know what time it was?”

  “Well, that’s because I laid there for a while contemplatin’ whether I wanted to git my arse up to go. But when I remembered I didn’t have to go outside to piss, I decided to git up and go. Why not, eh?” He grinned. “And I know what time because it was after the clock struck fifteen till midnight, but before it struck twelve. Cuz I was tryin’ to decide if I could wait till mornin’.”

  Adam nodded. “All right then. Did you see anyone else around?”

  “I was half asleep, Quinn, but I don’t remember seeing anyone. I got a little turned around though—this house is so damned big! And it was dark and all. But I finally found the water closet—fancy having one inside!—took a piss, then came back,” Benson said. Then he frowned. “Wait. Maybe there was someone going up the stairs—right, there was, now I’m thinking of it. On my way back, it was. I was more awake by then. And I heard two people talking. I think I did see someone, just a shadow from outta the corner of my eye, up the top of the stairs. Mighta been a skirt.” He screwed up his face as he attempted to remember.

  “Before midnight, then. Or maybe a little after, because you’d already gone to the toilet? Did you hear the clock strike twelve?” It probably didn’t matter, as Johnny Thorne was on duty until two o’clock . . . unless he wasn’t there when his relief showed up. But Adam knew he had to be thorough and clarify the details.

  “The clock. Yes, it struck midnight while I was standin’ and leakin’,” Benson replied with a quick grin that displayed tobacco-stained teeth.

  Adam wrote down all of the names and information, scant as it was, then dismissed Timmons and Benson and went in search of Hattenshier—who’d supposedly relieved Thorne—and Jim Lane.

  He found his friend first, with Lincoln and several other advisors—including General Scott and Secretary Cameron, along with Major Hunter—in the president’s office. Also present were Nicolay and John Hay. The grim expressions on their collective faces made Adam grit his teeth in expectation of the worst.

  At first no one spoke, and that gave him the impression there was so much bad news they didn’t know where to begin. His heart sank, but he exchanged resolved looks with Lane. They’d been outnumbered before and had emerged the victor.

  Cameron broke the silence. “Virginia voted to secede a few days ago—in secret—so they could take over the public buildings and other federal property before we could stop them. Not a surprise, but if Maryland follows . . .”

  “And there’s been another riot in Baltimore,” Lincoln said, looking at Adam. “The Sixth Massachusetts tried to pass through, and a riot broke out. They were attacked like the Pennsylvanian regiment was yesterday. This time, the mob stopped the troops from getting through. They’ve cut off the railways and roads going through the city.” He gestured to a telegram on the desk. “I’m waiting for more information—in particular, how many dead and injured—but the telegraph lines aren’t working too well. We don’t know whether the Massachusetts troops are on their way again, and how many can travel.”

  “There’s rumors that Baltimore mob’s heading here to Washington too,” said General Scott in his thready voice. The man was over seventy—older than Washington City itself—and though he’d attracted the nickname “Old Fuss n’ Feathers,” he moved slowly from gout and his generous weight, and certainly didn’t seem terribly fussy at the moment. He was, however, one of the few men tall enough to look Lincoln in the eye.

  Adam swallowed a curse and glanced at Lane.

  His friend’s expression was resolute. “I’m just about to leave here for a bit. There are more Union loyalists in this town. I’m going to find them and we’ll get them signed up.” A brief, hard grin flashed over his face. “Your ploy of marching across the bridge last night seems to have worked, Adam. All the ruckus left the Rebs wondering how big an army we got here, and they held off coming in so they could wait for more reinforcements. That bit of news is from two loyalists who made it in from the Virginia hills, sneaking through the backyards and forest while the Rebs sat by their campfires scratching their arses and watching us from across the river. Those two men are downstairs now, getting armed up and something to eat.” He crossed his arms over his middle. “While I’m out, I’m going to be dropping plenty of hints about how many men we got here.”

  “We can see the glints from the spyglasses across the river,” said John Hay. “They’re watching us.”

  “And waiting for more of their own reinforcements. Our only hope is to make certain our numbers look much bigger than they are, and to hold off till the New York and Ohio troops get here. Are Cash Clay’s men still over at the Willard, Major?” When Hunt nodded in affirmation, Lane continued, “With your permission, sir, we can march together and make ourselves look even bigger.”

  “I reckon I’ll be out on the Avenue a bit today—probably need to go to the St. Charles. I’ll manage to seed a few rumors myself,” Adam said, thinking about that scrap of paper in Johnny Thorne’s pocket. “I might scare up a few more recruits myself—though not likely at that hotel. But I also need a list of the regiment here, Lane, and the schedule of guard duty as well so I can account for everyone during the night.

  “And, Mr. President, with your permission, I’ll need to speak with—or have someone help me to speak with—the staff and Mrs. Lincoln, as well as the other women.”

  He didn’t need to explain why, and the president, clearly distracted by the impending invasion and other problems related to running a country, nodded vaguely as he stared down at some papers. He didn’t seem to be reading them, for he was shuffling through them aimlessly. “Yes, yes, whatever you need, Adam. You have that endorsement card; use it. My cabinet’s going to be here at three, and I hope to have news from Baltimore by then.”

  Adam nodded. The endorsement to which Lincoln referred was a placard of thick, ivory paper stock. It was approximately the size of a party invitation and engraved on it were the wo
rds: Office of Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States of America.

  Beneath it, Lincoln had written: Please note that Mr. Adam Speed Quinn acts with all 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.

  This was the second such card Lincoln had given to Adam; the first one had been ripped to shreds by an angry Southern sympathizer when Adam presented it as his credentials. Though he kept it on him at all times, the card felt unusually heavy in his shirt pocket—weighted down by the trust and responsibility implicit in the endorsement.

  “Cliff Arick’s got the list of everyone in the Frontier Guard,” Lane told him—unnecessarily, as Adam had already gathered that information, but Lane hadn’t been around when the body was found. “And he’s got the duty roster as well.” He made as if preparing to leave, setting a hat on the wild waves that were his hair and picking up his rifle, which had been leaning against the wall next to the window.

  Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Adam spoke quickly and plainly. “Before we all go off, I reckon I need to ask where each of you were last night, and whether you saw anyone up and about from midnight until, say, eight o’clock.”

  He reckoned Johnny Thorne was killed before dawn, because there had been far more people moving around after that. But until he heard more from Hilton and found out whether Johnny had been relieved at two, Adam wouldn’t have any better idea about the time of death. From the way the blood at the scene had begun to congeal and darken, however, he knew the death had to have been well over an hour or two before the body was found. Hilton had said maybe as long as eight or nine hours ago, which would put the time between midnight and six o’clock.

  Every man in the room with the exception of Lincoln stared at him. Adam kept his expression blank and watched the array of emotions cross each face: surprise, confusion, gravity, and, in several of them, flickers of affront or insult.