Murder in the Oval Library

by C. M. Gleason

  “Unfortunately, I was there when the discovery was made,” replied Miss Gates in a very smooth voice. “Right there in the White House, it was. Such a horrific thing—to have one’s throat slit—”

  “Her throat was slit?” Miss Lemagne turned a shocked look at Adam that had a hint of accusation in it, leaving him uncertain whether her reaction was because of the nature of the violence, or because Miss Gates had been permitted to know the cause of death but she had not.

  “Thank you very much for making those drawings, Miss Lemagne,” he interrupted quickly. He sensed there was some sort of unspoken communication happening between the two women, but exactly what it was eluded him. He just knew he needed to take control of the conversation before—well, before something uncomfortable happened, like the two women deciding to walk over to Hilton’s to look at the body again. He subdued a shudder at the thought. “I reckon you must have worked very hard to get them finished before you had to leave town.”

  “Leave town?” Miss Lemagne gave a light laugh. “Why, Daddy and I aren’t leaving Washington.” Her Southern accent became more pronounced and drawn-out. “We’re moving into Mrs. Billings’s house. We’re goin’ to be stayin’ here permanently, because Daddy has asked Althea to marry him.” She gestured toward the barouche, where the driver and her maid waited.

  Her smile revealed a dainty dimple in one cheek and was accompanied by a sparkle in her eyes, and before he realized it, Adam was smiling back.

  “That’s wonderful,” Miss Gates said in a slightly too-loud voice, and Adam blinked—realizing he’d been lost in Miss Lemagne’s smile for a moment. “But aren’t you nervous about staying here with the war going on, Constance, darling?”

  “Why, whatever for? Our boys are coming across from Alexandria tonight. That’s what my daddy says, and he knows everyone,” she replied. “There aren’t enough Union men here to fight them off. Two hundred? Three at the most? Against Beauregard’s thousand?” Her blue eyes glittered with excitement.

  Her comment jolted Adam back from what had been a light and pleasant conversation to the reality of war and the predicament the Union was in. His smile faded, but before he could respond, Miss Gates spoke up.

  “Only three hundred? Heavens, no, there’s over a thousand—” She stopped abruptly and clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes had gone wide and appeared very innocent and shocked. She looked up at Adam as if she’d just spilled some great secret, and that was when he suspected what she was doing.

  “Miss Gates,” he said firmly, as if embarrassed by her runaway mouth, “I believe you said you needed to be at the infirmary as soon as possible. Perhaps we should be on our way so you aren’t late.”

  “Yes, Mr. Quinn,” she said in the meekest voice he’d ever heard from her; and that was when he knew for certain she was playacting. “It was very nice to see you again, Constance. Now that you’re staying in town, I’m certain I’ll see you again soon. Mrs. Carpenter holds such pleasant salons.”

  “Miss Lemagne,” Adam said with a brief bow. “I reckon I’ll need to get those drawings from you. When would be convenient?”

  “Why don’t y’all call on me at Mrs. Billings’s house after you get Miss Gates to the infirmary. I’m on my way to the house now with my things—surely you remember where it is, Mr. Quinn?”

  “I do, yes, thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I am able.” He nudged Brian, who’d become distracted watching a fine set of bays trotting by, pulling a sleek, shiny landau.

  “Top o’ the day to you, Miss Lemagne,” said the Irish boy, still looking at the horses. “Gor, look at them! They couldn’t be any more the same color if I painted them!”

  As they walked toward the barouche loaded with the Lemagnes’ trunks, Miss Gates took Adam’s arm and began to speak breathlessly, “I’m so very sorry, Mr. Quinn! I hope I didn’t say anything completely untoward about all those extra men at the White—” She stopped herself as if realizing her voice was pitched loud enough for Miss Lemagne to hear, then, looking guilty once more, she waved at the Southern woman as they walked on past.

  “Well done, Miss Gates,” he said when they were out of earshot and he’d sent Brian off to tell Hilton he’d be there no later than tomorrow.

  Assuming he was still alive tomorrow. And not captured.

  “Thank you,” she said in her normal voice, which was far less light and giddy than a moment ago. “Now when you see Miss Lemagne to pick up the drawings, you can dig those seeds in a little deeper by hemming and hawing about what I said. You know she’ll rush off to tell her father, and possibly some other people as well. And since he ‘knows everyone,’ I’m certain Mr. Lemagne will help spread the word.”

  “I reckon you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”

  “Just consider it one of my contributions to the Union’s cause. One of many, I hope. I did hear Mr. Lincoln say he wanted you to muster up anyone who could handle a rifle.” She gave him a sidewise look.

  “I don’t reckon he meant women,” Adam replied, a grin tugging at his mouth.

  “Well,” she said as they reached the steps of the infirmary and she released his arm, “I could always dress up as a man.”

  He laughed as he walked away, a little startled that even on a day filled with so much anxiety and danger he could still manage to do so.

  He just hoped there would be something to laugh about tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sunday April 21

  MIRACULOUSLY, THE SUN ROSE THE NEXT MORNING OVER AN OMI-NOUSLY quiet, tense Washington. Another night had passed with no sign of the Confederates.

  It was, Sophie thought, almost worse than actually being invaded: the waiting. The stretching tension. The constant unsettling of her stomach.

  She was still staying at the President’s House, though she’d seen little of Mr. Quinn since he left her at the infirmary yesterday. He’d made arrangements for one of the Frontier Guard to escort her back when she was finished at the hospital last evening, but she hadn’t seen him except for a brief passing in the corridor after she returned. Then Sophie spent another near-sleepless night sitting with the other women, talking about what might and might not happen and what they would do if it did.

  This Sunday morning, the streets were silent and empty except for the few brave—or unfortunate—souls who remained in the city as they went to church services. Since the railways were down, the only way evacuees could leave now was by wagon or cart, which made for limited options.

  She heard whispers that there was a shortage of food, and that if the rail lines didn’t open soon, or if the blockade of the river wasn’t ended, they could starve. This fear was evidenced by the smaller, simpler meals coming up from the kitchen downstairs.

  Sophie had managed to stop by the Smithsonian yesterday while she was out with Miss Barton seeking donations, and she’d retrieved clean linens for herself. But it wasn’t until late afternoon on Sunday that she finally had the opportunity to wash up and change into the pale pink dress. She put on a lace collar, tucking its underside edges beneath the neckline of her dress bodice, and pulled on two matching cuffs.

  As most women did, Sophie had far more collars, cuffs, and removable sleeves than she did skirts, bodices, and dresses. For day-to-day wear, those removable and easily washed parts helped to keep the actual dresses unsoiled, for they couldn’t be changed nearly as often and were more difficult to launder.

  Sophie was contemplating this fact as she smoothed the points of her collar into position over the buttoned-up front of her bodice. Clothing was very dear to everyone but the wealthiest, and even they didn’t have unlimited articles of clothing. It continued to bother her that whoever had killed Jane Thorne had thrown away his bloody coat—a more expensive article of clothing than even a shirt or trousers.

  None of the members of the Frontier Guard had more than one change of clothing with them, with perhaps an extra pair or two of socks and under linens. And surely there were very few of anyone here in this
house—save Mrs. Lincoln, perhaps—who had more than one coat that he could spare by throwing it away.

  With the amount of blood on the coat, however, what option did he have? He could try and wash it off, but he’d have to hide it until he had the opportunity to do so. Any of the servants doing the laundry would surely notice and comment on bloodstained clothing, especially in light of the murder.

  Still mulling over these thoughts, Sophie stepped out of the bedroom and found herself in the corridor with Mr. Lincoln. He was facing a wiry, dark-haired man who was clearly beseeching him for a position—and had obviously been doing so for some time.

  “Please, sir, if you’d just take one moment to reconsider—”

  “Go away!” exclaimed the president, dragging his arm from the grip of the insistent job-seeker as he reached for the doorknob to the anteroom. “I cannot attend to all these many, small details! I could as easily bail out the Potomac with a teaspoon!”

  He pulled away at last and ducked into the waiting room of his office, leaving the undaunted position-seeker standing in the corridor looking after him. Nicolay, who’d also witnessed the incident, turned on the man and sent him scuttling away.

  “We’ve more important things right now. Take you—all of you,” he growled, waving a hand at the ever-present line of men waiting for Mr. Lincoln. Although this was the shortest lineup Sophie had seen, there were still at least two dozen people in the corridor and on the stairs. Some of them she even recognized from having seen them over the last several days. “All of you go, now. It’s Sunday, for pity’s sake! And don’t come back!”

  Sophie hurried toward the stairs, unpleasantly aware that even the most patient of men, Mr. Lincoln, was exhibiting tension and impatience during this siege of sorts. That knowledge confirmed her worst fears of how dire the situation was.

  As she started down the stairs, she saw Mr. Quinn along with Senator Lane and a man named Mr. Arick speaking with Major Hunter. They were standing at the base of the stairs and didn’t seem to notice her.

  She paused halfway down the steps, partly because she didn’t want to interrupt their conversation, but also because this was the closest she’d been to the famous and fascinating (and maybe a little mad) Jim Lane, and she was curious about him.

  He was very tall, probably as tall as Mr. Lincoln, who towered many inches over everyone except Mr. Quinn and General Scott. He was over forty, and his hair was terribly long and uncombed. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved in weeks. The new senator and war hero had a long, gaunt face and intense, dark eyes that held a gleam that was almost fanatical. She supposed that sort of fierceness was important for a general in war, but it made her feel a little wary of the man despite his heroic reputation.

  And now, faced with him in person for the first time, Sophie couldn’t help but be reminded of the case when Lane shot Gaius Jenkins. Lane had been charged with cold-bloodedly murdering him over some sort of land dispute in Kansas, but during the trial he’d been acquitted for the reason of self-defense. Still, there was something about the man that bespoke of madness.

  “There’s no word where the New York Seventh is,” Major Hunter was saying as Sophie paused on the steps only a short way down. “And when they might arrive. We’ve got to hold off until they get here.”

  “The Confederates across the river—they’re all saying we’ve got a thousand men here, ready to go,” Arick told him in a sort of wry, wondering voice. “Somehow they got word we’re four times bigger than we are. And there’s rumors you’re going to lead them over and attack Alexandria,” he added to Lane. “They’re pissing their pants afraid of your Jayhawkers.”

  Senator Lane grinned (and so did Sophie, knowing she’d contributed to the rumors), and, scratching his unshaven chin, looked at Mr. Quinn—who was also unshaven and appeared more scruffy and uncivilized than Sophie had ever seen him. But Mr. Quinn didn’t have that wild light in his eyes.

  Could he truly track an ant’s path over stones? She thought he had to be teasing her about such a thing.

  “I reckon we should send more of our men out to see what they can find. Two each to Baltimore, Annapolis, and Alexandria,” Senator Lane said to Mr. Arick, who Sophie had learned was responsible for keeping the roster and schedule of the Frontier Guard members.

  “Ask ones who know their way around and won’t get lost. They might get taken for Secessionists if they know the terrain and seem to be locals,” added Major Hunter.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Arick. “I’ll talk to Hoban and Walton, for certain.” He made an about-face and went off toward the East Room, from which Sophie could hear the sounds of male voices and activity. Major Hunter accompanied him, and Sophie decided it was safe to continue her descent.

  “Jim,” said Mr. Quinn. His voice stopped Senator Lane as he started toward the steps. “Where’s your coat?”

  Sophie had just reached the bottom of the stairs and she hesitated, loathe to walk between the two of them as they were still conversing.

  “My coat?” Lane stilled, then he saw Sophie. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said with a smile. “We’ve been doing a fine job holding off those Rebels for the last few days, ain’t we? And don’t you worry—we’ll keep’em away. You have nothing to fret about. Those Confederates’ll have to go through my Jayhawkers to get to anyone here in the White House.” And he bounded up the stairs on his long, long legs.

  Mr. Quinn muttered something and looked up after him. Sophie couldn’t quite read his expression, but it didn’t look pleased. She noticed he was wearing his prosthetic today, but that the lines on his face seemed more pronounced. Or maybe that was due to the dark stubble covering his jaw and cleft chin.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Gates,” he said politely, but his mind seemed elsewhere.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Quinn.” She felt compelled to say something further, but his expression seemed so remote and blank that she felt uncharacteristically hesitant to continue. She wanted to know whether he’d visited Constance and retrieved the drawings, but something told her now was not the time to mention it.

  Yet she had the urge to reach out, to cover his flesh and blood arm with her hand in a steadying sort of way. Instead, she spoke. “Is there anything I can do to help, Mr. Quinn—anything? At all? In any way?”

  “Stay safe,” he said as the sound of the soldiers taking up their arms and lining up for drills came from the East Room. “That’s all, Miss Gates. Only stay safe, and pray that we get through this.”

  And before she could respond, he gave a short incline of his head, then started down the corridor to where the Frontier Guard waited.

  CHAPTER 11

  Monday April 22

  ADAM’S EYES WERE GRITTY FROM LOST SLEEP, BUT HE OPENED THEM to yet another dawn in which Washington still slept safely.

  They still haven’t come.

  Four days, and they still haven’t come.

  Although he certainly didn’t want the Secessionist soldiers to descend on the poorly armed and frighteningly unprepared city, Adam reckoned the waiting for the battle seemed nearly as awful as the invasion itself would be.

  As before, he’d settled near one of the walls in a far corner in the room to sleep. He preferred the relative privacy for putting on and taking off his prosthetic, as well as his reaction to any nightmares that might disturb his sleep. Now, he looked around to make certain none of the women staying in the White House had entered the East Room—which now held more than 110 men as a result of his and Lane’s recruitment. When he saw none, Adam felt it was safe to pull off his shirt in order to don his false limb.

  Adam didn’t need assistance strapping on the Palmer arm, though it had been easier when he shared a hotel room with his uncle Joshua and he’d given him a hand. But he’d been wearing the prosthetic for nearly two years—after first having a leather-covered Selpho arm, which smelled like a dead carcass after a few months—and had worked out the process of fastening the complicated buckles and ties on his own.

  Th
e Palmer—which was considered the most realistic and useful of prosthetics currently available—was made from willow, hollowed out so it was strong, light, and cured, and it was covered with a fine stretch of lambskin. The lambskin made the hand look almost like flesh, and it was soft and natural to the touch. With a complicated set of straps and gears, the forearm and its hand allowed Adam to use the muscles in his shoulder, upper arm, and elbow to maneuver the hand, wrist, and even pinch the fingers.

  There were other options for false limbs—metal, pincerlike fingers, or a rudimentary sort of stub into which different implements (fork, knife, screw, pencil) could be inserted, or even an immobile hand carved of wood—but Adam had been fortunate to be able to acquire the practical Palmer.

  He’d worked diligently over the last two years to learn to use the arm, and he could do nearly everything he used to be able to do—except play the fiddle. In spite of that—or perhaps because of it—Adam still carried the instrument and its case with him, for the fiddle had belonged to his grandfather. But he wasn’t certain he’d want to play it again even if he could. It carried too many memories—as well as a bullet from the pro-slavers that attacked them at Tom and Mary Skillton’s place on that terrible day. He saw no reason to remove the lump of lead that was lodged in the back of the violin.

  Now, as he settled the false arm over his stump, he couldn’t help but think about Leward Hale and wonder what had brought him here from Missouri. Hale, like his cohort Orin Bitter and many of the pro-slavers who’d fought for Kansas to be a slave state, hadn’t even lived in the territory. Instead, bands of like-minded men had crossed the state line from Missouri to terrorize the Free-Staters and fight for the right to make Kansas part of the extension of the “peculiar institution.” They also voted fraudulently in the territory’s elections for government and statehood.