“Miss Lemagne,” he said. “I need a moment with Mr. Quinn and—and Thorne. If you could wait over there, please, miss.”
She looked at the chairs he indicated, then back at him with a dissatisfied expression. “If you insist.” Apparently, she knew better than to try cajoling and conniving him.
“There’s something you need to see”—he told Quinn as he pulled the curtain as far over as he could to obstruct Miss Lemagne’s and her maid’s views of the body—“that will make a difference in your investigation.”
“All right, then.”
Taking care to stand between the table and the curtain to ensure the two watching females couldn’t see anything even if they adjusted their position, George began to pull the blanket back from the bloodstained sheet that covered the corpse. He’d put the blanket over the lighter covering at the last minute so that Miss Lemagne wouldn’t be shocked by the sight of all the blood staining the flimsy sheet—and that was even before he began a minute examination of the body, which could include cutting into it to remove organs such as the stomach or heart.
In Toronto, where he’d received his schooling, George had spent more time than most of his fellow students examining the cadavers used for their medical training. That was partly because he was a black man, and not particularly welcomed by most of the other students. But not only had he been interested in what made the bodies move and breathe while alive, and how to assess disease and injury, but he’d found himself just as fascinated by what brought them to death.
Now he had a second chance, granted by Adam Quinn and President Lincoln, to continue his somewhat morbid fascination with the story of death. He was both anticipatory and nervous.
“I haven’t begun a full examination yet,” he explained as he prepared to uncover the corpse. “But I can tell you what I believe about several things, including the time of death. But first, I thought you should see this.”
He carefully pulled the sheet back, easing it away from the raw, angry slice across the larynx and through the carotid, down over the clavicles and torso.
“I’ll be damned,” Quinn breathed as he looked down.
It was only when the boy gasped that George realized Brian Mulcahey was still on the wrong side of the curtain. Before he could cover the boy’s eyes, he pushed up next to them.
“Gor! It’s a woman!”
CHAPTER 6
“A WOMAN?”
Adam heard Miss Lemagne’s shocked exclamation, followed by the rustle of skirts—as if she were hurrying over to see for herself.
Fortunately, Hilton was quick enough to flip the sheet back over the bare torso of the person known as Johnny Thorne—but who now must be thought of as Jane Thorne. Adam felt as if his world had tilted to one side, then back again.
This revelation did, as the doctor had said, shed a completely different light on the matter.
“Miss Lemagne, please,” Hilton said in a tight voice, “if you could give us another moment. Then you can finish your drawing. Brian, I’m going to need another dozen candles and a pot of kerosene from Mitchell’s,” he added in such a tone that Adam knew he wished he’d thought to send the boy away sooner. Hilton dug in his pocket to pull out money, but Adam was faster, and withdrew two silver dollars left over from their stop at Willard’s.
“Mr. Lincoln insists on paying all expenses related to this investigation,” he said when the doctor appeared ready to argue. Hilton had made it clear on more than one occasion that he was not about to be a recipient of charity—any sort of charity. But Adam had learned that, as with Brian Mulcahey’s mother, employing the name of the president improved receptivity to any charitable suggestion.
After all, Adam had very few expenses other than the boardinghouse fee, and despite what had happened in Leavenworth, he was far from destitute. His fur trapping business in Wisconsin, with Ishkode, had been quite successful. Aside from that, Mr. Lincoln had assigned the salaries for both him and his newest aide, George Stoddard, as part of his budget for clerks of the Interior Department. Thus Adam would be paid a comfortable $1,600 annual wage for his jack-of-all-trades work for the president.
The number of candles and lamps Hilton required for his post-mortem examinations were expensive, and there was no reason for the doctor to bear the cost himself. Especially when Adam brought the problem to him.
Brian took the money, but his eyes slid over to the shrouded corpse once more. “Gor,” he whispered. But when Adam gave him a stern look, he adjusted his cap and dashed off on the errand.
If only it had been that simple to get rid of Constance Lemagne.
Adam looked up and caught George’s eye, and nearly grinned—for his woebegone expression indicated he was thinking the same thing.
“Brian’s been helping me out a bit,” the doctor said. “Running errands and such.”
“I reckoned his mother might have wanted to leave the city,” Adam mused. “I was surprised when he found me on the street today.”
His mood darkened a bit when he remembered he’d seen Leward Hale only moments before Brian called out to him. The reminder that the man who’d destroyed his life was in the same city as he was threatened to distract Adam from the matter at hand, and it was with effort he returned his attention to the body. “What else can you tell me about Miss Thorne?”
Hilton glanced toward the curtain and, with his back to the women he kept his voice low but clear as he spoke. “She was also stabbed in the side of the kidney.” He gently lifted the body to show Adam the ugly, narrow gash just above the hip on her right side. “Based on the amount of blood, I believe it was after the first laceration.”
Adam let the images move through his mind as he considered this new information.
He slips out from behind the curtains and grabs her from behind, catching her as she’s—probably—facing the door to the president’s waiting room. Left hand over the mouth, he holds her tight and immobile as he uses his right hand to slit her throat, then, still holding her in a smothering grip, shoves the knife into her side.
“He had the knife in his hand. Wasn’t going to drop it or put it in his pocket and he had to act quickly so she didn’t make any sound or, somehow, struggle free. So he stabbed her again, holding the knife in her side to help keep her in place, and to quicken her death,” Adam murmured.
Yes, it felt right.
Ugly, but right.
He blinked and looked at Hilton, waiting for more.
“I estimated earlier that the time of death would have been approximately eight or nine hours before the body was discovered. Livor mortis—the way the blood settles in the body after death, when the heart stops beating, and how quickly it does so,” the doctor said, lifting a corner of the sheet to show Adam the dark reddish-purple bruiselike marks coloring the arch of the woman’s back and underside of her thighs, “indicates a similar time frame.
“Of course, you understand, it’s only an estimate, but between the lividity and the rigor mortis—when the body’s muscles begin to tighten—from smaller to larger—and then release, I believe the time she died was between one o’clock and four o’clock this morning. The flies had time to become attracted, but, I don’t think, not enough time to lay eggs. I’ll do a closer look to be certain.”
“That sort of wound would cause a very quick death,” Adam said. “Within a few minutes. So that gives me a general idea of when the killer would have left the library.” Though it was, unfortunately, a large chunk of time—and when no one would be in the corridor or up and about to witness anyone else who might be. Except Jim Lane, who’d slept in the hall.
“Yes. It wasn’t an instant death, but I don’t believe she suffered long.” Hilton’s gaze wandered back to Jane Thorne’s body. “She has no other marks on her other than a few minor bruises, which would appear to be from the normal types of bumps she might get through daily life.”
“She was dressed as a man. She was pretending to be a soldier. She’d purposely joined the Frontier Guard at the Pr
esident’s House. One of the men told me she approached him for that purpose.”
“Yes. There’s a bruise on the front of her shoulder where she would have taken the force of a rifle’s recoil.” Once again he peeled away the sheet to show Adam. “Seems to me it’s fresh enough that she hasn’t been firing a rifle very long. At least, regularly.” He covered her up again. “Her feet are much too small for the boots she wore, but the blisters are fresh. She hadn’t been wearing them long. I expect you’ll want to look closely at her belongings to see if there’s anything else you can learn.”
Adam glanced over at the neat pile of clothing and worn boots. “I reckoned he’d just not grown into his feet yet,” he said sadly. “But she never would have grown to fit in those boots.”
“There’s one more thing.” Hilton’s expression had gone bland once again. “She had recently . . . er . . . had relations.” His voice was hardly above a whisper, and both of them couldn’t help but glance toward the dividing curtain.
Adam drew in a long breath and expelled it slowly. His insides were in turmoil at the thought of what the poor young woman had endured. “Is there a way to know . . . was she—”
“Once I finish the examination, I’ll know more,” Hilton said, still keeping his voice low. “But there seems to be no indication she was forced. No bruising—at least, related to that.”
They were silent for a moment, both looking at the shrouded figure.
“He wanted to make certain she died—and quickly,” Hilton said after a moment. His voice was heavy with sorrow and disgust.
Adam felt the same way. “He couldn’t take the chance of her making any sounds that would alert anyone. Jim Lane—that’s Senator Lane, newly arrived from Kansas—slept on guard in the hall outside the president’s door all night. He didn’t hear anything.”
Hilton looked at him. “Either he is a very sound sleeper—which doesn’t bode well for guard duty—or the killer, as you said, was very careful. Bold, but careful. But I reckon you’re right—the blood marks look like a hand print right over her mouth.”
“Lane’s used to sleeping lightly and waking at the slightest noise. We fought against the pro-slavers in Kansas, and there wasn’t anyone I’d trust more than him when it comes to security or leading men into battle.”
“All right then. I can—if you like—scrape out what’s beneath her fingernails, see what’s under there besides dirt. Could be skin—if she was scratching at him, trying to fight him off while he killed her. Might tell us a little more about what happened.”
“Skin. Under her fingernails,” Adam said thoughtfully. Another form of tracks, left behind from the killer—or that she might have left on him while trying to defend herself. “That would be interesting. I reckon there might be other remnants caught on her fingers or beneath her nails too.”
What if she’d scratched at the man’s sleeve while fighting for her life, and there was a thread that had come loose? Or a piece of hair? He considered the body with new interest, then glanced at the pile of her belongings.
Adam had looked over the clothing of a murder victim during his previous investigation, but this time he’d do an even closer examination with an eye to finding a thread, perhaps, that could be matched to a coat—or a hair, or some other remnant left behind could help to identify not only the killer, but also the victim.
“Save everything you find—beneath her nails, or any stray hair or threads. No matter how small,” he said, still musing over this interesting possibility. Animals left tracks and scat. They left remains from their kills, and residue in their dens or lairs. The distance between footprints and the height at which branches or grasses were broken or disturbed could tell the tracker an entire tale of what had gone on in a location.
And every tree, flower, bush, and grass spilled a trail of leaves, pollen, seeds—and often they clung to the feet and tails of the animals who passed by, dropping off or scattering with movement. As well, the makeup of a creature’s scat or the bedding in its den could tell the history of where it had been and what it had eaten.
And the very air left dust and minute scatterings—if one knew where and how to look for it. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he told Miss Gates he’d been taught to track an ant over a bed of stones. Not that it was an easy task, but he’d been able to do it on occasion.
With a rush of real interest, Adam realized the possibility was great that the killer—a far larger creature than a hare or fox—surely must have left something of himself behind. Not only a track and trail of his actions and movements, but also something that could help to identify him.
“All right, then. I’ll save every little thing I find.” Hilton glanced in the direction of the women. “What about Miss Lemagne?”
“I reckon I can’t argue about me needing a drawing, especially now that we have a female victim. It wasn’t my choice to have her here, but since she is, I suppose it’d be best to let her finish.”
Hilton appeared to agree, though he said nothing. Instead, he turned to carefully adjusting the sheet so the body was swathed from chin to toe, hiding all evidence of violence—except for the blood marks over her face. The outlines of fingers, smudged but nonetheless obvious that the hand had been placed over her mouth before the blood splattered.
“Should I wash those marks away?” Hilton asked. “Before Miss Lemagne continues?”
Adam nodded, then brooded down at the young woman as the doctor cleaned the blood from her cheeks and jaw. Now that he knew the victim was female, he appreciated the femininity in her features. What he’d viewed as a young, beardless boy was much more recognizable as a young woman. “How old do you think she is?”
“Maybe twenty-two, twenty-three,” Hilton replied, drying his hands. “Never carried a baby.”
Adam nodded, still brooding. Why would a woman pretend to be a soldier? He had some ideas.
And why would a woman dress as a man in any case?
He gave a quiet sigh, then his mouth twitched a little. Well, he reckoned he knew one person he could ask about that.
* * *
The mood in the President’s House was tense and sharp. Everyone seemed to be looking over their shoulders or jumping at the slightest unexpected noise. The servants moved about with worry furrowed between the brows, and the women in the household spoke in hushed whispers while casting furtive glances toward the windows—as if expecting to see lines of men marching up the hill toward the house, bayonets at the ready.
Amid this icy tension and her own fears and questions, Sophie spent almost two hours interviewing as many people as she could about whether they’d heard or seen anything the night before. She made notes to help her remember everything, and later, she would try to plot out a schedule of who was on the second floor and near the library during the night.
She began her interviews with the friends and relatives of Mary Lincoln herself, including Elizabeth Grimsley and several other female cousins who were staying at the White House. They gathered in the Red Room on the first floor, Mrs. Lincoln’s favorite public parlor. Sophie could understand why it was a favorite, for the space was beautifully appointed with velvet carpet, gold damask furnishings, and ormolu clocks and statuettes. There was a large grand piano, and on the mantel were two ornate candelabra. The fireplace held only a small, smoldering fire, as the April weather was pleasant that day.
Sophie saw no sense in hiding the reason she needed to interview the ladies, for everyone in the house had heard the screaming when Leah had discovered Johnny Thorne. And although she tried to avoid answering questions about the state of the body, she knew she’d have to give up some gossip in order to get people to readily talk with her.
However, the ladies didn’t have much to share. Nervous about the expected Confederate Army invasion, they’d all slept in the same large bedchamber on the second floor known as the Prince of Wales bedroom (except for Mrs. Lincoln, who’d shared her husband’s bed). Sophie, who’d arrived at the White House after they’d s
ettled in bed, had slept in one of the other, smaller bedrooms.
Although they’d talked and worried among themselves for a time, Mrs. Lincoln’s guests agreed that everyone in their chamber had been asleep by midnight. Even if their slumber had been light and nervous, no one seemed to have heard anything out of the ordinary. And though Mrs. Grimsley and Mrs. Edwards didn’t have any information for Sophie, they insisted on questioning her about everything related to the murder—so much so that she spent more time answering questions (or avoiding answering them) than she did asking them.
“Right here in the President’s House,” Mrs. Edwards, who was Mrs. Lincoln’s older sister, said for at least the fifth time. “We could all have been murdered in our beds! Why, all those soldiers downstairs didn’t do a thing to prevent it. How do they think they’ll protect us when the Rebels come?”
There was discussion about whether they should remove themselves to the Willard, which would presumably be safer, until Sophie—with a bit of mischievous relish because she needed something to relieve the unbearable tension—said, “But don’t you know, there was a plot to burn down that hotel last night. It was only narrowly prevented.”
This sent the ladies off into other wild, conversational tangents, and Sophie used the opportunity to excuse herself. She slipped out of the Red Room and found herself in the main corridor of the first floor. A large screen made from ground glass separated the hallway from the vestibule and kept the weather from intruding on the rest of the house. There was a door in the center of the glass screen connected the vestibule to the corridor that led to the large, formal room.
She could hear raucous sounds from the East Room, where the Frontier Guard was barracked. It was the largest room in the entire mansion, taking up more than a third of the first floor, and had been the location of the single levee she’d attended at the White House. She could only imagine the state of the pale green Brussels carpeting—newly installed by Mrs. Lincoln—after sixty or seventy men camped out on it, night after night. Especially with their tobacco chewing.
Murder in the Oval Library Page 11
