Murder in the Oval Library

by C. M. Gleason

  With a nod of acceptance, Adam continued talking through his theory. “When Pamela came back, she was probably going to leave by the side door near the windows, and then go out through the anteroom or the president’s office. Everyone was asleep and those rooms should be empty.

  “The killer waited until she passed by, then stepped out from the curtains, grabbed her over the mouth, and sliced. He was wearing Lane’s coat, so all of the blood went there—and on hers as well.” He gestured to the one laid on the table. “Then he held her until she died so she’d make no sound—or no loud enough sound—for Jim to hear. And even if he did hear something from the room, he’d assume it was her getting dressed again or something.

  “After she was dead, the killer picked up the candle she’d brought with her—”

  “You didn’t mention a candle,” Hilton said with a grin.

  “She had to have a candle; it was pitch dark in there otherwise with the windows closed and the lamps off for the night. The killer took it with him, and spilled a little wax and dripped some blood on his way out. Then he sneaked down and went into the East Room and curled up on the floor near the wall, where he slept the rest of the night—but that was after he’d removed Lane’s bloody coat. He probably kept it in a wadded bundle next to him.”

  “The East Room? Where the Frontier Guard is? So he must be one of the frontiersmen.”

  Adam nodded soberly. “Possibly. Or, if he wasn’t, he knew enough about where they were sleeping to reckon he could use the East Room and all the men as concealment overnight. In the dark, no one would notice an extra person huddled by the wall, and in the morning, he could slip out without anyone seeing him.

  “The next day,” Adam said, thinking about all of the facts he’d learned from his own interviews and Miss Gates’s as well, “while everyone was distracted by the shock of finding a dead body, he hurried down to the basement and put the bloody coat in a trash bin.” As he spoke, Adam remembered that Jim hadn’t been there at the door of the library when the body was found.

  Another point against his friend.

  “What about that dark hair you found in hers?” he asked. If he could somehow prove that hair couldn’t belong to Jim, that would go a long way in exonerating the senator. But how on earth could he do that?

  Just then, Birch shifted on the table next to them. “What happened?” grumbled the old man.

  “Easy there, sir,” Hilton said, putting a gentle hand on him so he didn’t roll off the table. “Your head hurt at all?”

  “Hurt like a sum-bitch.”

  “It’s going to be that way for a while. Do you know your name?”

  “Of course I know my damned name,” snapped Birch as he struggled to sit up. Hilton assisted from behind, and the older man’s feet dangled off the side of the table.

  “Well, sir, why don’t you tell me what it is then?”

  “Well, it’s Birch. Who asking?” He said, trying to angle around to look behind him. Then he caught sight of Adam. “Mr. Quinn! What you doing here?”

  Once he explained, Birch’s irritation faded. “I remember you now,” he said as Hilton came around to the front. “You’s the one who wanted to take Louis’s body. Why’d you want that for if he’s already dead?”

  “I wanted to . . . examine it.” The doctor seemed a little abashed.

  Adam gave him a jaundiced look. “Is it fair to say you have two bodies back there, and not just Pamela Thorne’s that’s causing the smell?”

  “S’pose it is.”

  Adam was glad he hadn’t gone back there to look around before Hilton showed up home. That would have been an unpleasant surprise.

  “What you want with poor Louis, anyhow?” Birch said. “Last time I saw him he was driving Mrs. Lander up to the President’s House at midnight of all things, and then next day he turn up his throat cut. Still don’t know why anyone would want to do that to poor Louis.”

  Adam stared at the old man, then looked at Hilton, who nodded gravely and said, “And he was also stabbed in the back right side, just like Miz Thorne was.”

  “It’s the same killer.”

  “I reckon you’re right.”

  Adam narrowed his eyes at Hilton. “I suppose that was part of what you wanted to tell me?”

  “I didn’t know if it would help your investigation, but when I heard another man’s throat was cut, it seemed important to take a closer look. Anyways, I like the practice.”

  “And poor Louis, he ain’t got no family neither,” put in Birch. “So they ain’t gonna bury the body right away. And half the city gone—well, I told George here I didn’t figger anyone cared if he took care of Louis. But he didn’t say he was gwine examine him.”

  Adam hardly heard what Birch was saying, for he was thinking about the implications of this new information. “So Louis drove Mrs. Lander up to the White House, and the next day he’s dead in the same way Pamela Thorne was killed. Why? What’s the connection?”

  “It were Mrs. Lander and her maid Millicent went up the White House,” Birch said firmly, “and I saw when Louis brought them back. But when he come back, the other man got a free ride—he wasn’t there.”

  “The other man?” Adam said sharply. “Tell me about that.”

  “Well, he sit right up there with Louis—climbed up next to him just as they were driving off. When he din’t come back, I figgered Louis was jes’ givin’ him a ride to the mansion. Mebbe he was part o’ them soldiers up there and wanted a ride, and Louis—he a good man and he wanted to help a soldier, mebbe.”

  “Did you ask Louis about him?”

  “Naw.” Birch shrugged. “Only saw him when he come back at fi’teen afore one, and I was ready go home then. But then I found them pile of rags they was gwine use to burn down Willard’s, so I din’t get home till near dawn, looking for all them other ones.”

  Adam was still looking at him, a disturbed inevitability sliding over him. “And tonight you were attacked. Why? To be robbed?”

  Birch gusted out a laugh. “I ain’t got two coins rub together. No one gwine rob me. But—my gloves!” With a panicked expression, he began patting the pockets of his frock coat.

  “That’s what I reckon too—no one would have any cause to rob you,” Adam said. “So there’s another reason. Were you talking to anyone about how you saw this other man riding with Louis that night?”

  The old man produced his spotless white gloves with an exclamation of relief. “Not one drop blood on them, too.” Then, realizing Adam had spoken, he tilted his head and winced as if caught by surprise with the pain. “Mebbe I said something to someone. I don’t recall.”

  “Do you recall anything about what that man looked like? The one who rode up next to Louis? Was he tall, short, dark, light? Did he have a beard or sideburns?”

  Birch seemed a little taken aback by Adam’s rapid-fire questions. “Well, how’m I supposed to know? He was sitting next to Louis, so how do I know how tall he was? His hair was dark. He had a beard, I remember that.”

  “Louis was a small man,” Hilton commented. “So did the man sitting next to him look taller or the same size?”

  “Hmm.” Birch screwed up his face, wrinkling his eyes closed. “He was prolly taller than Louis by yay so.” He measured a good five-inch span with his hands.

  “So that would put him about five feet, maybe nine inches? Or ten.” Adam could picture it.

  “Be about the right height to get his beard hair in Miz Thorne’s when he was cutting her,” Hilton said agreeably.

  Adam nodded. “Suppose it’s time I looked at her things. And I reckon I should take a gander at Louis too, and his things as well.”

  “I noticed something interesting about them. The way they were cut.”

  He looked at Hilton. “And?”

  “Miz Thorne—the beginning of the cut was a little shallower, a little more jagged. Like he maybe hesitated. But for Louis, the cut was smooth and deep all the way across.”

  “So I reckon he might’
ve been a bit spooked about actually killing a person in cold blood—though he did it anyway,” Adam said.

  “Yes, and by the time he did Louis, he was easier about it.”

  Adam thought about that for a moment, then looked at Birch. “Where did they find Louis’s body? And who found him? When was it, do you remember?”

  “Well, it were late in the day next day. I remember, because Mrs. Lander were asking out for him, and I ain’t seen him—and that was strange. So they found him cut up and dead mebbe two o’clock?”

  “Could you tell whether he’d been dead for long?” Adam asked, then looked at Hilton. He didn’t know how soon the doctor had learned about the body and got involved.

  “He couldn’ta laid there long, Mr. Quinn, because it were right there in the vacant lot next that boardinghouse on L Street. On the 400 block of L Street it was, and peoples pass by there alla time. He was in his carriage, and summat found him there on the floor of it.” Birch tsked. “He allus kep’ it so clean in there, and now look at it—all bloodstained and all.”

  “What do you reckon they did with his carriage?” Adam said.

  “It still there, far as I know. Got blood all over’t and all the peoples are gone from the city right now. Who would take it? Now, his horse I say summat took him, but I don’t know where that went.”

  “Four hundred block of L Street. All right.” Adam wished he wasn’t so tired, but he was. “I’ll have a look over there tomorrow when it’s light out.”

  Adam insisted that he would drive Birch home, telling him to rest for a while longer while he looked at the belongings of Pamela Thorne, and then at Louis’s wizened body.

  “There’s hand prints on her coat,” he said, laying it out so he could bring a lantern over to examine it closely. “I reckon they have to be from him. The killer.”

  Then he caught his breath. “George. You see this?”

  The doctor came over, and Adam pointed. “What do you see on that handprint?”

  “A handprint. Got cut off a little, I think, at the edge there. Looks like maybe he took her by the hip and rolled her over.”

  “That’s what I think. She was in the way; maybe she fell on the floor in front of the door.” Adam could picture it in his head. “And he couldn’t open it, so he had to move her. He grabbed her by the hip, and shoved . . . but see the first finger?”

  When George drew in his breath, Adam knew he’d seen it too. “It’s like his forefinger isn’t as long as the others.”

  Adam was nodding, looking at the handprint from all angles. “It may be. But it could also be the way he grabbed her—the way the coat folded beneath his fingers, because he was moving in a hurry. But it’s possible. I reckon it’s possible we’re looking for a man who’s missing the top knuckle of his finger. Maybe there’s another, better print.”

  He and Hilton used the expensive kerosene lanterns to closely examine all sides of the clothing, but there weren’t any other discernible full handprints.

  Adam sighed, looking at the coat again. He carefully tested it with his own right hand, and saw how it was possible to grab it and not have the full length of each finger connect with the fabric.

  Inconclusive. The print was inconclusive.

  Damn. He thought he might have had his best, clearest track—so to speak—so far.

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, blinking his bleary eyes, Adam finally decided it was time to try and get some sleep. Though the whiskey had long worn off, he’d had a long day, and tomorrow—if it came peacefully—would be just as tense.

  And if it came in the midst of war, then it would be even worse.

  CHAPTER 15

  NO TRAINS—NO TELEGRAPH—NO ANYTHING

  —The Washington Star

  Wednesday, April 24, 1861

  ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, THE RESIDENTS OF WASHINGTON AWAKENED to dark, frustrated headlines.

  The tension was particularly unbearable for both the permanent and temporary residents of the Executive Mansion, and the slight hope that came with each new day and no invasion had begun to wear off into brittle awareness that the days slogged on with no end in sight.

  There was no news from the New York Seventh, or the Massachusetts Eighth—both regiments of which were rumored to have landed in Annapolis. Of the eight riders General Scott had sent up there to find out, none had returned to confirm this, and more and more people began to believe it wasn’t true.

  As Mr. Lincoln said when he visited the Sixth Massachusetts early that morning: “I don’t believe there is any North. The Seventh Regiment is a myth. You are the only Northern realities.”

  * * *

  Having sought his spot on the floor of the East Room well past two o’clock last night, Adam woke later than usual. He was groggy, and the remnants of his dreams clung to him like black cobwebs: a murky swirl mixed with the dry-mouth effects from a good portion of whiskey the night before, the shouts and thudding sounds of galloping into a cluster of Rebel soldiers and the whirling of the flag they’d captured, dead bodies with their throats cut open, and Leward Hale’s wild eyes as he screamed threats at Adam’s nocturnal self.

  By the time Adam shook the sleep from his eyes and sat up, most of the large room was empty of the Frontier Guard. The scent of bacon and eggs—which had been cooked over the two fireplaces—lingered, and he heard men drilling on the lawn outside.

  He longed for a bath or a dunk in the river, and it was nearly warm enough to do the latter without shriveling his balls up to his insides. But he’d have to suffice with a quick wash up at one of the sinks. Or, he thought with a smile, if he went down to the basement, Miss Cornelia might let him use a pan of warmed water.

  As it happened, the cook was happy to do so—as well as to feed him. Adam was on his way back upstairs to the second floor after these small comforts when he encountered Miss Gates.

  “Oh, Mr. Quinn, I’m so glad to have seen you! I heard you were with the scout group that captured the Confederate flag yesterday in Virginia. That must have been quite exciting.” Her eyes, though underscored by dark circles, danced. She wasn’t wearing a bonnet, which was an indication that she had no plans to leave the mansion soon.

  Although he knew he was needed up in the president’s office, and that he had a myriad of things that called to him, Adam discovered he was in no hurry to rush off. Instead, he smiled down at her. “I reckon it was quite exhilarating, if nothing else. And what have you been doing with your days, Miss Gates? Writing news stories or visiting the infirmary?”

  Her nose wrinkled a bit as she replied ruefully, “I’ve not thought about writing a newspaper story for days, Mr. Quinn. And have you heard—they’ve begun to run out of paper to even print them on! All of the newspapers in town are running short. The National Republican was asking for the return of their newspapers from Friday so they could reuse the paper and print on the back. But I have been collecting for the infirmary, and I’ve visited the Capitol—which is an utter disgrace with all those soldiers there!—and yesterday, Miss Barton and I did shooting practice on the National Mall.”

  Adam blinked. “On the National Mall? You were shooting at things?” He couldn’t keep the horror from his voice.

  “Not precisely on the Mall,” she amended quickly. “And yes, we were shooting—at a very poor attempt of a barnyard portrait. I do believe we might have put a few spindly painted cows and one canine-like goat out of their misery.”

  “I see.”

  She lifted her brows. “The point is, Mr. Quinn, that we were hitting the painting, and nowhere else. In other words, Miss Barton and I are quite good shots.” She sobered and he saw a flicker of worry in her eyes. “Do you think they’re going to come tonight? Beauregard and his men?”

  Adam hesitated, then he decided there was no reason to prevaricate. “With reinforcements from the North in Annapolis, and close enough to arrive within a day or two, God willing . . . I reckon Beauregard has to act sooner rather than later if he wants his chance. If the New York Seventh do
esn’t get here today, I believe it’ll be tonight that the Rebels strike.”

  Miss Gates was nodding. “That was my thinking exactly. Oh, and Mr. Quinn, about that other matter.”

  “I haven’t forgotten about it,” he replied, a bit sharply.

  “No, of course not, Mr. Quinn. I merely wanted to tell you that I learned something interesting. I believe there was another man in the carriage when Mrs. Lander came here at midnight, the night of the murder, and that he came into the mansion.”

  “It’s very interesting you say that, Miss Gates, for I have recently come to that conclusion myself. Why do you believe this?”

  “Miss Barton and I spoke with Mrs. Lander yesterday, and she said that her driver absolutely did not come inside with them. But Thomas Burns, the doorman, said that the driver did come in—just a short while after Mrs. Lander and her maid, as if he meant to bring something to them.

  “When I asked him what the man looked like, he said he was certain he’d seen him before, and that he had a dark beard and mustache. He couldn’t tell me much about his clothing, but he did say he wasn’t dressed like an important person; that is to say, not in a nice frock coat or top hat—and that he didn’t even have a hat. Can you imagine that? He also said,” she added breathlessly, “that the man was about thirty years old, and of average height. Mrs. Lander’s driver, Louis, was over forty and he wasn’t—”

  “Average height,” Adam finished for her. “In fact, I reckon he was hardly taller than you, Miss Gates. Thank you—you’ve now helped to confirm something I suspected.”

  She beamed up at him and he found himself smiling back. “I shan’t ask how you came to know that,” she added. “But you could tell me if you like.” Her eyes danced with amusement.

  Adam capitulated and gave her a brief description of what he’d learned last night from Birch.

  “So the person who killed Jane Thorne—”

  “Her name is Pamela,” Adam told her, realizing it had been that long since he’d actually spoken to Miss Gates.