Murder in the Oval Library

by C. M. Gleason

  He was far too outspoken and commanding for being a black man, and she didn’t like it. And whatever he was doing with the dead body of Miss Thorne made her insides queasy. He’d done something with Mr. Billings’s body as well, after he’d been murdered, and she couldn’t understand why Mr. Quinn had involved that Negro in any of these processes.

  In fact, Constance was beginning to regret that Jelly had gone with her on Friday to the man’s office—if you could call a cold, dark, damp cellar an office; which Constance couldn’t—for now her maid wanted to go back to have her foot looked at by the man again.

  “Who is this friend of yours who’s trying to find this out?” asked Mrs. Burnside, still looking at the drawing. She frowned at it. “Perhaps she looks a bit familiar to me, but I can’t place her. Rose, do you know her?” She gave the paper to their hostess.

  “Yes, Constance, do tell us who your friend is,” replied Mrs. Greenhow. “No, Alice, I don’t believe I know the poor girl.” She handed it back to Constance.

  “His name is Adam Quinn. He’s a friend of Mr. Lincoln’s,” she said, and the other ladies hissed their displeasure. But Constance smiled as she tucked the paper away. “It was because of him that I learned the true number of men barracked at the President’s House.”

  Or, more accurately, because of that Sophie Gates’s thoughtless tongue. She’d only met the woman twice, but both times, she seemed unable to control the thoughts that came right from her brain to her lips. But the fact that Miss Gates seemed to be staying at the President’s House did give her pause.

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Greenhow. “So he’s the one. Yes, the handsome Mr. Quinn is a friend of Constance’s and a friend of Mr. Lincoln’s. She introduced me to him—was it Sunday, Constance?—and you said so at the time. I do believe if I were you, I’d do my best to keep your Mr. Quinn close.”

  The other ladies tittered, and Constance smiled in agreement. Despite his rough frontier clothing and uneven manners, keeping the intriguing and handsome Mr. Quinn close would not be the least bit of a hardship.

  * * *

  As she had done ever since the Sixth Massachusetts regiment arrived on the train Friday evening, Sophie helped Clara Barton collect and deliver donations to the infirmary once more on Tuesday.

  Each day, they visited the soldiers they’d assisted that first night, then went on to visit with some of the other members of the troop. After that, they went door to door, from shop to shop, also visiting as many households of people who were left in town, asking for donations of bandages, socks, and food to help the hospital.

  “People have been so generous,” said Clara, as she’d told Sophie to call her. “At least, the Loyalists have been.”

  There’d been a few Southern sympathizers who’d turned them away, often with barely concealed glee about the upcoming invasion. It seemed everyone expected that tonight—whatever night it was—would be the night the Confederates would come.

  Sophie, who’d sat up for the last two nights, fully clothed, with Mrs. Lincoln and the other women, was almost ready to say “let them come”—just to get it over with.

  But of course she didn’t really feel that way. Yet, it was almost like a dream every morning when dawn came and the city was still quiet and secure. Only then did the ladies feel it was safe enough to close their eyes for a few precious hours of sleep.

  And then when they woke up later in the morning, it was to yet another long day of anxiousness and gloom. Waiting.

  Late yesterday, however, there’d been some news—finally—on the Seventh New York regiment and another one from Massachusetts. According to rumor, those two sets of troops had reached Annapolis. Those who were the most optimistic hoped the reinforcements might arrive in Washington sometime today. Even so, every person inside the White House was tense, sharp, shadow-eyed, and grim, for the threat to any Union men trying to move through Maryland was well-known.

  They didn’t want another mob attack or riot like there had been in Baltimore. And Sophie knew, from being at the White House, that General Scott had sent eight different riders to Annapolis late yesterday to get news, and to bring pleas for the soldiers to hurry to Washington. As of this morning, none of the eight had returned.

  That was an ominous sign, and it made the mood in the mansion even darker.

  Thus, Sophie was glad to leave the house, as she did most every day. And although most of the time she had a member of the Frontier Guard as an escort down Pennsylvania Avenue, she hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of Mr. Quinn since their conversation on Sunday.

  “Let’s put up the target here,” Clara said, setting down the painter’s easel that Sophie had “borrowed” from the naturalists’ supplies in the North Tower.

  They were near in an empty lot next to the wide open—but muddy—space of the National Mall, in the shadow of the stub of the unfinished Washington Monument. The abbreviated marble column was surrounded by scaffolding and building debris as it had been for seven years, since the construction had paused in 1854.

  “Do you think they’ll ever finish it?” Sophie asked, looking up the small hill toward the stunted monument as she rested an old canvas painting of a barnyard (also “borrowed” from the North Tower) in place on the easel for their shooting target. Near the Mall was the perfect place for target practice, as it was wide open with several empty lots and, with the city so empty, very devoid of people.

  Clara raised her dark brows. Although she was generally rather shy, the two of them—along with Clara’s sister, Sally Vassall, who also lived in the city—had become quite comfortable and outspoken friends. “If we win the war, I think they’ll have to finish the monument. Don’t you think? If we don’t . . .” She grimaced as she stepped away from the easel, putting twenty paces between her and the target as she untied and removed her bonnet. “They’ll tear it down. The Confederates.”

  Sophie stood next to her, removing her own bonnet (it got in the way when one was managing a firearm; and her gloves, also, had been eschewed so as not to stain them with gunpowder). She watched as Clara expertly cocked her revolver, then fired at the target. The ball ripped through the canvas painting in the center of the upper right corner, replacing half of a bright yellow sun with a dark hole.

  “But if they do finish it,” Clara said, nodding in satisfaction before she stepped back to allow Sophie a shot, “I fear there will always be a line showing where the construction stopped and then started again. The blocks will be different shades of white, for the bottom half will have been much longer aged.”

  Sophie lifted her shotgun, settling it against her shoulder, and aimed. Boom! The butt of the gun kicked against her in the same place it always did, and the shot scattered into small holes at the edge of the painting. “So much for Madam Cow,” she said. “Next time I’ll try for Mr. Rooster.” He was closer to the center of the painting which was, quite honestly, an eyesore. Mr. Stimpson, Sophie decided, should confine himself to drawing diagrams of clam species instead of painting idyllic barnyard scenes.

  “Beef is better than eggs, if you can get it,” Clara quipped, then took her turn while Sophie reloaded.

  They went back and forth like this several times over the next hour. Although both of them needed improvement, eventually, the barnyard scene was riddled with black holes and torn canvas.

  “The last time I did shooting practice here,” Clara said as she expertly reloaded the revolver’s cylinder, “one of the constables tried to stop me. That was last week, just after the news came about Fort Sumter.” She closed the chamber and looked up. “It seems that this week the constables either don’t care, or have left the city.”

  “Or else they’ve recognized the importance of proper shooting skills,” Sophie said with a giggle, struggling to reload her shotgun. “I live on the National Mall and I’ve never thought about doing target shooting here. But you’re right, dear Clara—we must be prepared to protect ourselves for when the Rebels come.” She stepped back as her companion positioned for
another shot.

  “We are going to need another painting, I think,” Clara said as she cocked her gun. “Perhaps one not quite as poorly rendered as this one? Those goats have a canine look to them, if you ask me.”

  “But that just makes using it for target practice all the more satisfying.” Sophie was still chuckling as she caught sight of an open carriage crunching along the road toward them. It didn’t look fine enough to be a private vehicle—which might have given a clue to its occupant—so she presumed it was a hackney.

  When it pulled up next to them and the female passenger looked out from the side opening of the barouche, Sophie didn’t immediately recognize her.

  “What an enterprising idea,” said the woman, looking pointedly at their arrangement. She was quite beautiful, and was dressed in fine clothing with a tall, arched bonnet of dark blue. A wide white bow tied under her chin matched the ribbon on the bonnet and the yellow and white daisies decorating it. “There’s no sense in sitting back and doing nothing while we wait, is there?”

  Clara had just taken her shot when the carriage stopped, and now she turned. “Why, Mrs. Lander, how good to see you. And that is quite the truth you speak.”

  “I thought that was you, Miss Barton,” replied the woman with a smile.

  “Thank you again for your donations to our soldiers,” replied Clara.

  The lovely woman’s face sobered. “My husband the colonel is one of ‘our’ soldiers, and I would hope that he and his men will receive the same care and attention no matter where they are during these troubling times.”

  By now, Sophie realized this was Mrs. Jean Lander, the famous actress—and, she realized with a flash of excitement, the woman who’d visited the White House at midnight to warn Mr. Lincoln of an assassination plot.

  “Would you care to take a shot?” Clara asked with a smile. “I believe it’s important for women like us not to settle for waiting to be saved and protected, but to be prepared to do so ourselves.”

  Mrs. Lander seemed delighted with this idea, and she called to the driver for assistance.

  “Thank you—what was your name again?” she asked the man as he helped her and all of her skirts, hoops, and petticoats safely to the ground.

  “Isaac, ma’am.” Beneath the brown bowler hat, which he tipped politely, his face was tanned from the sun. His hands were the capable, worn ones of a man who’d used them often.

  “Thank you, Isaac.” Mrs. Lander followed Sophie and Clara’s example, removing her bonnet. She handed it to the driver, who set it inside the carriage.

  Mrs. Lander took the revolver Clara offered her, and seemed very comfortable with it. “As if it’s not enough that the Rebels are breathing down our necks, now people are being killed outright in the city. My favorite hackney driver—his name was Louis—was murdered right here on the street last week! He always knew to wait for me outside the Willard or my house every day—the Colonel refuses to bring our carriage to the city from home, and so I quite relied on Louis to be driven from rehearsal to the theater, and to every other event in town. His landau was always clean and neat, so my hems didn’t get dirty and I didn’t get tobacco stains on my skirts—unlike most other hacks. Not his though,” she added in a stage whisper, glancing toward Isaac. “It’s just as clean as Louis’s was. I looked inside before I engaged him, of course, and I was pleasantly surprised.

  “Anyhow, I was quite devastated when I learned that poor Louis had been found dead—he was such a friendly fellow. Reminded me of a wizened leprechaun—small and wrinkly like an old apple, but very quick and efficient. He knew how to manage horses.”

  She faced the target, checked the weapon, and prepared to fire. “Someone cut the poor man’s throat, if you can believe it.” She paused, drew a breath, then took aim and slowly pulled the trigger. Boom!

  “That was a very nice shot, Mrs. Lander,” Sophie said when the ball hit one of the few sections of the painting that was still intact. Good-bye to the canine-like goat.

  “Thank you.” She looked at Sophie questioningly.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Clara. “Mrs. Lander, this is Miss Sophie Gates. She lives in the Smithsonian Castle with Dr. Henry and his family—she’s his niece—but she is currently staying in the President’s House. She’s been helping me collect donations for the infirmary.”

  Mrs. Lander gave Sophie a surprised and perhaps even envious look. “How incredible. The President’s House? As it happens, I was there very late on Thursday night. I suppose it’s very . . . anxious there at this time, isn’t it?”

  Sophie seized upon the opportunity to do some further investigating. “Yes, it is rather . . . gloomy at times. And, incidentally, I heard that you had called at midnight last week. Terribly enough, a man”—she chose not to share the details about Jane Thorne for fear she’d have to give a long explanation—“was found dead the next morning in a room on the second floor.”

  “The second floor? The next morning? Why, that’s where I was! That young, quite amiable assistant to Mr. Lincoln—Mr. Hay, I believe his name is—took me and Millicent up to the second floor right that night. We sat in the waiting room and I told Mr. Hay what I knew about the plot. I’d heard a man talking about doing a thing that ‘would ring throughout the world’—and I knew I must warn Mr. Lincoln.

  “It was so quiet up there on the upper floor. Mr. Hay told me he didn’t want to wake the president, and that I should tell him whatever I knew, and he would make certain to tell Mr. Lincoln. I’m certain he did.” She looked at Sophie questioningly, as if she would somehow know what transpired between the president and his secretary.

  “Millicent? Is that your maid?” Sophie asked. “She came inside with you? What about your driver?” She realized the questions were tumbling out almost rudely, but she didn’t care. She knew the answers might be important. And Mrs. Lander seemed to be the type to enjoy being the center of attention—even an interrogation.

  After all, she was an actress.

  “Yes, of course, Millicent is my maid. I wasn’t going to come out without a chaperone—and the colonel is out of town.” Her expression sobered. “That was the last time Louis drove me anywhere. I was looking for him, as I expected he’d be waiting outside my home the next morning—rather later than usual, due to a lack of sleep on my part,” she added with a wry lift of her brows, “and he never arrived. And then later, when I sent around to Willard’s looking for him, I learned he was dead.”

  “Louis drove you to the President’s House. Did he come inside with you?”

  “No, of course not. Whyever would he do so? He remained with the carriage while Millicent and I went inside. That tall Irish man called for Mr. Hay, and showed us to the stairs to meet him.”

  Sophie felt a sudden rush of excitement. “Are you quite certain Louis didn’t come in with you? Mr. Burns—that was the tall Irish doorman—said that your driver came inside.”

  Mrs. Lander appeared astonished by this information. “But, no, of course he didn’t come in with me.” She thought for a moment. “Perhaps he was merely curious about the great white house, and wanted to take a peek inside whilst he was waiting. There is something about that mansion that feels so very important—just stepping over the threshold it makes one draw in such a deep breath of awe. . . . Although, I venture to say, it’s looking rather shabby as of late. Like a worn-out hotel.”

  Sophie nodded. “Perhaps that was it. He was just curious to see the inside.” She hesitated, then went on, “And he was there when you came out, and drove you back home?”

  Mrs. Lander gave her a strange look, as if just realizing how invasive Sophie’s questions were. “Yes, of course. Miss Gates, you seem inordinately interested in all of this.”

  Clara, who’d been listening to the exchange while cleaning her black powder revolver, answered. “They’re trying to find out who murdered that poor man up at the President’s House, and Sophie is helping with the investigation.”

  “Is that so?” Now Mrs. Lander’s ast
onishment was laced with admiration, if not a bit of skepticism. “Do you fancy yourself a Pinkerton, then, Miss Gates? Like that Kate Warne? And what on earth does my driver have to do with all of it anyway?”

  “I don’t really know, Mrs. Lander. But the man was killed sometime between midnight and half-past five that night, and so Mr. Quinn—that is, the man who is helping the president with this problem—is trying to determine who was in the house and where everyone was at the time in order to narrow it down. And”—Sophie added as she picked up her bonnet—“I can’t help but find it interesting that your driver turned up dead the very next day after he drove you there.”

  The other woman shook her head. “As sad as it is, I see no connection, Miss Gates.”

  “Perhaps you’ll change your mind when I tell you that the person who was killed in the President’s House also had his throat cut.”

  Mrs. Lander’s eyes went wide, almost completely round, as she tilted her head thoughtfully. “Well, that is quite interesting. Still, I see no reason for there to be a connection. However . . . I suppose now I’ll be thinking about that all of the rest of the day.” She turned and summoned Isaac, who’d brought his carriage over to one of the rare trees on the mall and was feeding his horse. “I suppose that’s preferable to stewing over when the Confederates are going to come. And whether the New York regiment will get here first.”

  Sophie couldn’t disagree with that sentiment.

  * * *

  Later that day, after Sophie had returned the remains of their shooting practice to the Smithsonian and walked another block collecting donations, Clara suggested that she and her sister Sally, who’d helped them on the latest round of knocking on doors, along with Sophie, should visit the rest of the soldiers of the Sixth Massachusetts regiment—the ones who didn’t need to be in the hospital—at the Capitol.

  By now, it was just after four o’clock, and the tension that seemed to overtake the very air of the city as evening and night drew near, was palpable. The hoped-for arrival of the New York regiment hadn’t happened, and it seemed as if perhaps it had been only a rumor that they’d gotten to Annapolis. What had been a spark of hope had burned out and become dull and gloomy once again.