Murder in the Oval Library

by C. M. Gleason

They were at the base of the oval, standing in the main doorway. Across from them were two tall, wide windows that looked out over the National Mall and the swampy canal below. Between the windows were two armchairs and a small table that held a lamp, an ink pen, and a bottle of ink. There was a drawer in the half-moon table that presumably held paper and a sharpener.

  On either side of the windows, on what would be the rear of the side walls if the room had been rectangular, were two narrow doors that Sophie thought led to either closets or possibly through to the rooms on either side.

  In the center of the room was a collection of furnishings: a sofa that might have been long enough for even Mr. Lincoln to lie upon, two large chairs facing it, a low table, and some small side tables. The curved walls were filled with built-in shelves, stocked with books. There were two tall-backed chairs arranged at a small table between the windows.

  The body had been found near what would be the back left corner of the room, and would have been hidden from view of this main doorway by the sofa and the gas lamp on the table next to it.

  “Yes, miss?” Leah was clearly uncomfortable both being in the room, and with Sophie’s request to talk to her.

  The maid was in her thirties, and she wore a neat white pinafore over her gray dress, with a matching cap and shiny black shoes. Like all of the colored servants Sophie had encountered in the President’s House, Leah had light skin and a polished demeanor. From what she understood, all the White House servants—black or white—were the best of the best in the city.

  In fact, she’d heard that Mr. Lincoln’s valet, a young black man who’d come with him from Springfield, had had such an awful time of it from the other servants because his skin was so much darker that the president had found him a different position as a messenger with the Treasury and War departments. But Johnson, as was his name, still came every morning to shave and dress the president.

  Hmm. Sophie wondered what time Johnson had arrived this morning, and whether he had seen or noticed anything.

  “I’m sorry to bring you in here,” Sophie said, turning her attention to the other woman. “I imagine it’s not a good memory for you, Leah. But Mr. Quinn has been asked to find out who did such a horrible thing—and I’m helping him,” she added blithely. He had asked her to watch over the room, so that counted as helping. “Has he spoken to you yet?”

  Leah shook her head mutely, her gaze continuing to slide toward the location where Johnny Thorne’s body had been found.

  “Very well,” said Sophie, edging to one side so as to block some of the maid’s view of the bloodstained carpet. She wanted to open the curtains, but that would require her to step through the area of where the body had been, and she didn’t know whether Mr. Quinn would like that. “Could you tell me exactly what happened when you came into the room?”

  “I . . . I always clean the library after I do Mrs. Lincoln’s bedchamber.” Her voice was soft but clear. “I used the door between the two rooms to come in here.”

  So the door on the right near the back of the room led to Mrs. Lincoln’s bedroom, Sophie realized. And the door opposite, near where the body had been found, led to the president’s office waiting room. She nodded to herself as Leah continued.

  “It’s . . . easier to come that way, through the side doors, with the hallway so full of people. The same people come back every day, some of them. And wait and wait.” She trailed off and looked over at the stained carpet.

  Sophie saw how it must have gone, for with the way the furniture was arranged along the center of the room, the tall-backed chair would have blocked the maid from seeing the dead body when she came in from the connecting door of Mrs. Lincoln’s chamber.

  “It smelled in here, but I didn’t take notice right away. I only thought—well, I didn’t give it much thought. All I can think about is them Confed’rate soldiers coming in here at night, and burning the place down, and taking Mr. Lincoln away—”

  “When did you see the body?” Sophie asked, gently returning her to the story.

  “I-I was tidying up the books on the shelf there—that little Tad, he likes to use them to build towers and mountains—and then I went to open the curtains. When I got over there to the windows, I—I saw it. I seen the flies, and came over a little to look . . .” Her eyes darted to the area in question, then back to Sophie.

  “What did you do then?”

  “I—I tried to scream. But nothing came out, miss. Not at first. I just stood there, looking down at it—him—and then it all came out.”

  Sophie nodded encouragingly. “I can’t imagine what a horrible shock it must have been. Did you touch the—er—him?”

  “Oh, no, miss, no. I saw him—saw what had been done—and I didn’t go no closer. I didn’t want to. I knew . . . I knew . . . he was dead.”

  “All right.” Sophie tried to think about what else would be useful for Mr. Quinn to know.

  The bloodstains on the floor . . . were any of them the footprints of the murderer? Or someone else? It was difficult to tell, the way they’d soaked into the rug in indiscriminate blobs.

  “Leah, can you show me where you were standing when you saw him?”

  Still holding the broom and dust cloth, the maid walked slowly to a position between the far ends of the two sofas and the exterior, curved wall of the chamber. “Right here, miss. I was just done pulling open these curtains.”

  “And you’re certain you didn’t move any closer—”

  The door to the hallway suddenly opened wide, and Sophie spun around to see Mr. Quinn. He looked rather disgruntled, and when he saw the two women in the room, his expression became even more irritated.

  “Miss Gates, I was under the impression you’d agreed to stand at the outside of the door—and keep everyone out—until I found someone to relieve you.”

  The maid seemed even more discomfited by the appearance of the tall and imposing Mr. Quinn, who, although he wasn’t strictly rude, he also wasn’t attempting to hide his annoyance.

  “I was just speaking with Leah, Mr. Quinn. She was showing me exactly where she was standing when she saw Johnny’s—Johnny. I thought you would be interested in hearing her story,” she added smoothly.

  “I see.”

  Sophie could almost hear him grinding his teeth as his jaw shifted jerkily. She continued before he could say anything else. “Leah didn’t touch or move the body, and she didn’t get any closer to it than those sofas there so none of the footprints would be hers.”

  He directed his next words to the maid, clearly making an attempt to soften his tone. “All right.” He paused as if to collect his thoughts, and Sophie, who’d been thinking about all the things she wanted to know, took the opportunity to jump in.

  “Leah, did you notice anything unusual or out of place here in the library when you were cleaning? Anything that didn’t belong? Anything that wasn’t right or out of place?”

  “No, miss. Not that I can think of.”

  “How often is this room attended to? Cleaned or straightened up?” Sophie asked. “Are you the person who always cleans this room?”

  “Yes, miss. It’s my morning duty every day. And at night I come in after the wall lamps is lit to close the curtains, straighten the cushions, and tidy the books. Us’ally there’s some playthings left over from the boys.”

  “What time did you tidy up last night, Leah?”

  “It was . . .” Her eyes darted about as if looking for a clock. “Half-past eight or thereabouts.”

  “And did you come back in afterward?”

  “No, miss.”

  Sophie nodded with satisfaction, then looked at Mr. Quinn, who’d, surprisingly, remained silent during her interrogation. “Do you have any other questions?”

  His eyes glinted with irritation, but he smiled reassuringly at the maid. “Not now. Thank you, Leah.”

  The young woman fled, exiting through the door to Mrs. Lincoln’s bedchamber.

  “Miss Gates,” began Mr. Quinn in a stiff voice,
but she forestalled him.

  “Yes, I’m aware I left my post, but I thought it might be easier for me to question Leah instead of you.”

  “Why? Did you reckon I would terrify the woman that much?”

  Sophie sensed a trap, but she barreled on courageously. “Well, you can be rather intimidating, Mr. Quinn. You’re very tall, and broad—and . . .”

  For once, words failed her. She couldn’t tell him how a chamber seemed to get a little smaller whenever he entered one. It was his wide shoulders, and the confident way he moved with long, easy strides that transported him across the room with far more speed than it appeared. And there was his imposing but quiet demeanor, the sharp, contemplative look that always seemed to glint in his dark eyes, and the fact that he just seemed, well . . . more than the other fancy, well-dressed, perfectly-groomed dandies Sophie was used to seeing. He was bigger, rougher, darker. . . .

  “I reckon I’m not the tallest man she’s seen in this house,” he replied dryly. To Sophie’s relief, he didn’t pursue the topic but instead went on to another. “You made certain no one disturbed the area over there?”

  “We only stood just here, past the doorway. The farthest we came in was there. I know better than to walk all through the—the murder scene,” she replied a bit frostily.

  Mr. Quinn nodded. Before he could speak, she said, “Did you know they—some Secessionists—tried to burn down Willard’s last night?”

  “Yes,” he replied, but his attention was on the stained carpet and floor. He glanced at the scene of the crime, then walked carefully past it to finish opening the curtains on both windows. Immediately, the room was much lighter, for it was a sunny day.

  Though she was filled with questions and thoughts, Sophie decided to remain silent for the moment as she watched Mr. Quinn lower onto his knees and bring his face very close to the marks, resting his cheek on the floor. He favored his right arm and side, using his intact limb to hold his weight and the prosthetic hand merely to help balance.

  The false hand was carved from wood, and appeared to be covered by some sort of supple leather. It fascinated Sophie the way Mr. Quinn slightly shifted his shoulders, upper arm, or torso, and the faux digits moved to open or close mechanically, or the wrist and arm twisted in an almost natural fashion. It was amazing what modern mechanics could do for someone who’d lost a limb.

  She remained silent for what seemed like hours as he examined the bloodstains and, it seemed, the floor of the entire room, inching his way around. He spent a good amount of time near the door that led to the waiting room to the president’s office, even opening it for a moment. At last, impatience had the better of her. “Well?”

  He rose gracefully despite his handicap. “Johnny Thorne was standing here, probably moving toward that door to leave the room. His attacker came from behind—I think from behind this curtain, where he was waiting for some time—grabbed him with a hand over his mouth, and sliced.” He demonstrated with a short, effective movement as Sophie swallowed hard.

  “I reckon he held poor Johnny right there, from behind, to keep him from stumbling around and making noise that might have alerted General Lane—who was sleeping in the corridor just yonder. He held him there, hand over his victim’s mouth—and all the while, blood was pumping out of Johnny’s veins and he struggled to save himself. He held him there, torturing him, until he died.”

  She said nothing as he lapsed into silence, contemplating the floor with horror and fury mingling in his expression. She felt the same emotions, but she was also stunned by what Mr. Quinn seemed to know just by looking around the chamber. How could he know all of that? But she waited to ask.

  After a long moment, he spoke again. “The killer was right-handed, taller than Thorne, and he took the knife—and a candle—with him when he left the room.” Mr. Quinn pointed, not to the hallway door through which Sophie and Leah had come, but to the door opposite the one that connected to Mrs. Lincoln’s bedroom.

  “Where does that door lead?” Sophie asked, although she was sure she knew.

  “Into the president’s antechamber, which also has a door leading to the hallway—as well as another one leading to the president’s office. All of these chambers are connected by doors.”

  “How do you know the killer went out that way?” was the first of many questions she had for him. But Sophie managed to contain them so she could dole them out one by one.

  “Tracks.”

  Sophie looked down skeptically at the smudges, splatters, and streaks of blood on the carpet and wooden floor. “None of the footprints lead toward the door,” she said. “So how do you know he went out that way?”

  Mr. Quinn’s mouth relaxed a trifle. “A trace of blood on the floor there—beneath the door. So someone with blood on them walked through and closed the door—and I reckon it wasn’t Johnny Thorne.”

  With some difficulty, due to the inflexibility of her corset and the volume of her skirts, Sophie lowered herself into a crouch to see for herself. “That? You mean that tiny drop?” Was that even a bloodstain? She looked up at him, and, perched on her toes as she was, nearly lost her balance.

  Mr. Quinn offered a hand—his flesh and blood one—and Sophie allowed him to help her upright. As neither of them were wearing gloves, a rare informality, she felt the unfamiliar texture of long, callused fingers and the warmth of his broad palm as their hands slid against the other.

  “Yes,” he replied. “That tiny drop. And the other one there,” he said in a dry tone, gesturing with a booted toe to a slightly larger stain—still hardly the size of a pea.

  “I daresay I wouldn’t have noticed either of them if you hadn’t pointed them out,” Sophie admitted—privately rebuking herself for not being as observant as she should have been, and then promptly deciding that she would learn to be more observant about small details. “What about the candle?”

  “Wax drips.”

  She shook her head. “How do you know the killer had a candle? Wax drips could be from anyone.”

  He gave her a small smile. “Some of the drips are on top of the blood drops or stains.”

  Sophie was fascinated. “How can you tell all of that—everything you said? How do you know he hid behind the curtain?”

  He hesitated, then spread his hands in a gesture of nonchalance. “I reckon it comes from the five years I spent with my Ojibwe friend and his grandfather in Wisconsin. We were fur trappers, and Ishkode and his grandfather taught me how to observe and read markings and signs in the wilderness. Most every living thing leaves some trace of its presence and actions, and if you know where to look, you can see what and how.”

  Sophie nodded and surveyed the room, trying to imagine the horrific event. “But . . . wouldn’t there have been more . . . more blood . . . if he—the murderer—was holding poor Johnny from behind while he bled to death?” She had to swallow hard again, and she clenched her stomach to keep a swish of nausea at bay. “He would have gotten it all over him—his sleeves, his hands . . . How could he keep it to such a few small drops?”

  Mr. Quinn nodded. “You’re right, Miss Gates. The killer most likely wiped his hands off on Johnny’s clothing—he couldn’t be walking around the President’s House with bloody hands or clothes. Or he brought something to wrap his clothing and the knife in, and if he did that, that means he planned to kill Thorne in this room. Or he found something in here to wrap them up in. I reckon he also took off his shoes, which is why there aren’t any footprints leading to the door.”

  “But . . . how can you know all of that? Where he stood? There are marks everywhere, and they’re all jumbled up.” She was fascinated, yet a trifle skeptical.

  He sighed and crossed his arms. “I’m a very good tracker, Miss Gates. I’ve been doing it for ten years, and I was taught by—by a very smart man. Two of them, in fact. I’ve been taught to follow the tracks of an ant across a bed of stones.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “That’s impossible.”

  Mr. Quinn shrugged, an
d a faint smile touched his lips again. “Not if you know what to look for.” He scanned the room with sharp eyes. “The maid didn’t mention that anything was missing or disturbed, did she?”

  Sophie wanted to know a lot more about his claim to be able to track an ant—across anything, let alone stones!—but she controlled her curiosity. “I don’t know how closely Leah looked at the room, to be frank, Mr. Quinn. She was, understandably, upset.”

  “Yes, I reckon that’s true.” Then, as if having spent his allowance of words but still had more to eke out, he pushed on, “If you want to be helpful, Miss Gates, you could talk to the women—Mrs. Lincoln and the others—to see whether any of them heard or saw anything last night.”

  “I’d be happy to do that, Mr. Quinn,” she replied calmly. But inside, she was elated.

  He gave a brief nod, then looked around the chamber. “I reckon there’s no reason to keep the room closed off any longer.”

  “I expect the maids will want to remove the rug to . . . er . . . clean it. And the curtains too. Is that all right for them to do?”

  He hesitated, then nodded again and made a gesture toward the door for her to precede him.

  “Mr. Quinn,” she said with her hand on the door latch, and looked up at him. “Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

  His face was sober. “Not yet. But you’re right about one thing, Miss Gates: whoever it was took a big risk. So it must have been for something very important, and very close.”

  Very close.

  Sophie shivered, then opened the door.

  Someone in the President’s House was a murderer.

  * * *

  Even Pennsylvania Avenue seemed abandoned. Instead of wagons and carriages clogging the cobblestone street, and pedestrians navigating past each other on the walkways, the main thoroughfare of Washington was so empty Adam didn’t have to slow or divert his path as he strode toward the St. Charles Hotel. He didn’t see even the snout of a pig anywhere, nor the tottering sign of a chicken.

  As he walked east from the White House, toward the half-finished Capitol with its scaffold-draped dome looking forlorn in the pale sunshine, Adam passed more than a few men. Whether dressed in the fine attire of the likes of merchants, bankers, or lawyers, or in the clothing of laborers or farmers, they stood in clusters talking earnestly. Southern accents prevailed, but Adam heard enough snatches of conversation to recognize representatives from both sides of the conflict.