“Who is she?”
Ah. That was where Adam didn’t really want to get into details. He felt his cheeks warming a bit, for he knew the moment he told her about Pamela Thorne’s connection to Jim Lane, there would be more questions and they would lead into a realm of topics he didn’t wish to discuss with a proper young lady.
Although he supposed Sophie Gates didn’t precisely fit the “proper” mold, going around dressed like a man as she had done, and shooting at paintings on the National Mall. . . .
“I don’t know much else about her but her name,” he equivocated.
Her expression portrayed a healthy skepticism, but, thankfully, she had another bone on which to chew. “So do you think the man who killed Pamela Thorne also killed Louis the hackney driver?”
“I am certain of it.”
“And that the killer is the extra person who rode in on the hackney? The man with a dark beard and mustache?”
Adam nodded. “I reckon so.”
Her eyes fairly sparkled. “Then I suppose we are getting much closer to identifying that man. And Thomas says the man looked familiar to him—which means he must have been here before. Or comes here often.”
“I reckon that’s so.” Adam hated to think that the killer was a member of the Frontier Guard, but it was becoming more likely that was the case.
“Is there anything else you know about him that might help? From your tracking knowledge?” She gave him a pert smile at that last part, and he wasn’t certain whether she was teasing him a little, or whether she was breathless with anticipation.
He considered, then decided to be honest. “It’s possible he’s missing part of his finger—the right forefinger. There is a handprint on Miss Thorne’s coat, but I’m not certain the finger appears to be missing because of the way he gripped the edge of it, or because he truly is missing a knuckle.”
Her impish smile widened. “What is this, Mr. Quinn? Your tracking abilities are being called into question?” She was clearly teasing him, and he couldn’t resist a smile. “Surely not!”
He shook his head. “Well, I reckon I might have more information about him later today, Miss Gates.”
“Wait a moment.” She held up a hand, and her eyes went vacant as if she were concentrating very hard. “A man missing part of his finger . . . with a dark beard. I’m certain I saw someone like that. Not very long ago, it seems . . . I think.” She frowned, closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Yes, I saw someone meeting that description, Mr. Quinn—and recently. But I don’t remember where or when. It could have been at the infirmary, or on the street, or even here . . .” She looked around nervously. “It could have been someone here, Mr. Quinn.”
He refrained from telling her it likely had been—all indications pointed to the man being in the White House. “If you remember where or when you saw him, please send word to me as soon as possible, Miss Gates. As soon as I speak with Mr. Lincoln and he releases me to do whatever tasks I’m assigned by Major Hunter, I’ll be examining Louis’s carriage—and the crime scene where the poor man was killed. I reckon there might be something helpful there.”
At least, he hoped so.
“Oh, that sounds quite interesting. May I come with you?” she asked. “It would be a fine break from going door to door and asking for bandages and whatnot.”
Damn. He should have known better than to tell her of his plans. “I—”
“Adam! The president has been calling for you.”
He did his level best not to show vast relief when he saw Cliff Arick coming toward him down the corridor. “Excuse me, Miss Gates,” he said.
She gave him a look that indicated she knew exactly why he was rushing off, but said nothing other than, “Good luck, Mr. Quinn. I’ll send word if I remember anything else.”
Adam hurried up the stairs to the second floor, noting that although the line of job-seekers had thinned considerably, there were still a dozen or so men waiting for their chance to speak to Mr. Lincoln.
The mood in the president’s office could hardly be any more gloomy and anxious. As had become usual, Mr. Lincoln was surrounded by his secretaries, General Scott, Major Hunter, Secretary Cameron, and another man Adam didn’t know. Jim Lane was noticeably—at least in Adam’s mind—absent.
“Adam Quinn, this is Lieutenant John Dahlgren from the Navy Yard,” said Mr. Lincoln grimly. “He’s the commander there and was just advising us that he discovered sabotage at the shell house. Proceed, Lieutenant.”
“There is a whole supply of shells we’d recently made that have been filled with sand and sawdust instead of gunpowder,” said Dahlgren in disgust. “And a battery of cannon has been spiked.”
Scott swore, and Major Hunter’s epithet was much clearer and no less crass.
“Traitors. Damned traitors,” Cameron said. “They’re everywhere in this godforsaken city.”
Lieutenant Dahlgren turned to the president. “I will continue to sleep in my office because the attention demanded by all of these matters is incessant. I wish to be ready for a Confederate attack at a moment’s notice, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“You should also know, Mr. President, sir, that should the Confederates attack, I will blow up the shell house—and perish in it, if need be—rather than give up the Navy Yard to those Rebels.”
Because he knew Abraham Lincoln far better than any other man in the room, Adam recognized the glimmer of emotion in the man’s deep-set eyes as he replied again, “Thank you, Lieutenant.
“I’ve just received a letter from Mr. Spinner,” said Nicolay. “Mr. Corcoran has made the United States Treasury an offer.”
“An offer of what sort?” Lincoln replied flatly.
William Corcoran was the wealthiest man in Washington, and Frances Spinner was the U.S. Treasurer.
“He’s offered to loan five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of gold to the government in the event we need it, and will accept a bank draft on our account in New York.”
Lincoln stared for a moment, and then he laughed harshly. “I see. And so when the city is overrun by the Confederates, Corcoran’s gold will be confiscated—but he will rush off to New York to cash his bank draft. So even Corcoran believes we are to fail, and fall to them.”
The tense humor faded from his expression as Nicolay replied, “As Mr. Spinner believed. He intends to decline the offer for that reason, but of course wanted your consent.”
“He’s got my damned consent.” Lincoln pivoted sharply and stalked to the window where he could see the river. The river which remained horribly empty of steamers carrying troops.
Someone knocked on the door and Stoddard rushed to open it. A Frontier Guard messenger rushed in.
He barely saluted before allowing his news to tumble out. “Mr. President. General Scott. Ed McCook has returned. The troops are in Annapolis. The Seventh and the Eighth.”
A gentle hiss of exhaled breath and tension eased the room slightly.
“Then why don’t they come?” Lincoln said flatly, turning from the window.
“There are militia all over the countryside of Maryland, determined to fight them back should they try to march. Generals Butler and Lefferts are trying to reckon the best route to take and remain safe.”
How long would the generals argue and discuss, leaving Washington vulnerable? Although Adam wanted to curse aloud, the president was more contained. “Very well. Thank you.”
“If they leave Annapolis today, they’ll arrive tonight or tomorrow,” said Scott. “Depending how hard they have to fight to get through.”
“Tomorrow will surely be too late,” Lincoln replied. “The food is nearly gone—I’ve just had word that flour is selling for fifteen dollars a barrel—it was just six last week. And most of the shops have been shuttered. Beauregard knows we’re surrounded and weak. He’s gathered his troops. Surely they’ll attack tonight.”
* * *
Adam wasn’t free to visit Hilton until much later in the day. Only
then was he able to walk up to Ballard’s Alley to help the doctor transport the bodies of Louis and Pamela Thorne to the city morgue.
By the time they finished swaddling the corpses and loading them into the doctor’s wagon, it was nearly half-past four. The day was hot, and they were both a little sweaty—though not as rank as the bodies were. Adam was just climbing into the cart when he heard a familiar voice.
“Mr. Quinn! Mister-doctor! Where you goin’—what stinks?”
Stifling a smile, Hilton replied, “We’ve got some smelly cargo for sure. How’s your mam? And your sister? And where’s Bessie today?”
“Can I be ridin’ with you?” Without waiting for permission, Brian climbed aboard, then made a point of holding his nose.
Adam couldn’t disagree—the stench was unpleasant. No wonder Hilton wanted to get rid of the bodies. Then he looked more closely at the young boy, and saw that his face seemed paler and more drawn than usual. “Dr. Hilton and I reckoned we might scare up something to eat at the Willard today, as most of the shops are closed.” And there’s not much food left anywhere else. “Are you hungry, there, Brian? Would you care to join us?”
“Gor, and I ain’t been eating for two days, so, aye, Mr. Quinn!”
“Two days?” Hilton replied, his shocked eyes meeting Adam’s. “What did I tell you about coming to me if you and your mam needed anything?”
“Well, me mam was poorly and I had to watch Megan and Ben—he’s crawlin’ around and don’t you know he’s just always about gettin’ into the coal bin. And then I got to feed Bessie, and I don’t know how to cook and I can’t leave them, and—”
“Your mam was sick? Why didn’t you—oh, never mind. I’d best get over to see her right away.”
“I’ll take care of this,” Adam said, jerking his head toward the contents of the wagon. “Go on with Brian and see to them.” He would have given the doctor some money to help pay what would surely be exorbitant prices for food, but he knew George would refuse.
“Thank you, Quinn. Let me get my bag, Brian, and then we’ll go take a look at your mam.”
“I’ll bring some meat pies for you too,” Adam said, making the decision to add that to his tasks before looking at Louis’s carriage. “We can’t have Bessie starving.”
“Remember Megan don’t like peas,” Brian told him earnestly as he scrambled down from the wagon. “So Bessie can eat hers.”
“Right,” Adam said, scruffing a hand over the boy’s hair. That made it stand up more, and he had a rush of worry over what would happen to the poor Irish family—and the others who were left here in Ballard’s Alley—if the Confederates came.
Yet another thing to weigh down his mind.
He wondered if Mrs. Mulcahey had any sort of firearm. Even if she did, could she afford ammunition? That pit in his stomach dug deeper as he considered their plight and what he could do to help.
Besides keep the Confederates from coming.
By the time Adam took his cargo to the morgue and brought back some food for the Mulcahey family and Hilton, it was almost six o’clock, and his mood had gone to deeper gloom. A dismal inevitability hung over the city, and though he knew he was expected at the White House, Adam wanted to get over to look at Louis’s carriage before it got any closer to dark. Thus, he didn’t dawdle other than to determine—via Hilton—that Mrs. Mulcahey, though weak, was on the mend.
And it made him feel mildly better when he saw the shiny new rifle leaning against the wall in the Mulcahey home. He had a feeling Hilton had something to do with that.
From Ballard’s Alley, it was only seven blocks to the houses at 400 L Street, and Adam made good time with his long legs—and the fact there was hardly anyone on the street. He patted his pocket to ensure he still had the drawing of Pamela Thorne there. He thought if he had the time, he might show it around to anyone who was still in town on that block.
As he walked, aware that he had less than an hour before it became too dark to see, he noodled over what frustratingly little he still knew about the killer and his reasons for murdering Pamela. The reason Louis had been killed was surely because he’d seen—and perhaps recognized—the extra man who rode in on Mrs. Lander’s carriage that night. And noticed that he didn’t return.
But had the man ridden in on that carriage with the express purpose of sneaking into the White House to kill Pamela Thorne? Why on earth would anyone take such a risk? What had Pamela known or seen that had endangered her life?
It had to have been something.
And Adam didn’t even know whether her killer realized he was slitting the throat of a woman, or just believed it was a man who knew something dangerous.
But, he reckoned as a thought struck him, if the man had sneaked into the White House that night, he must have known Pamela was there. How had he known that, unless he were a member of the Frontier Guard?—or, he supposed, a member of the household staff.
But if the killer was a member of the Frontier Guard, why did he have to sneak in that night? He would have been admitted freely—and the same was true for any member of the staff or anyone important whom Lincoln knew.
And why would he risk killing Pamela so boldly—on the first night of the troops staying in the mansion?
“It must have to do with the timing,” Adam muttered as he reached the 400 block. “She had to die that night. But why? What was happening—or what had happened—or what was going to happen that she could have stopped or ruined, and so had to be snuffed out like a damned candle?”
He thought again about the difference Hilton had pointed out in the way the cuts had been made over the two victims’ throats. Pamela’s had been a bit jagged at the beginning—indicating a hesitation—and Louis’s had been smoother all the way across. Adam had attributed that to the fact that the killer might have been nervous over cutting someone’s throat for the first time, but what if it was more than that? What if the killer had known Pamela, and that was the cause of the hesitation?
At that moment, he saw the empty lot where Louis’s landau sat, forlorn and forgotten in the half-abandoned city. Adam didn’t hold out a lot of hope that he’d find anything important—after all, it had been five days since the hackney driver had been killed. Even though the carriage was still there, that didn’t mean it hadn’t been disturbed.
He was mildly surprised that some enterprising soul hadn’t taken it and utilized it to escape the city, but perhaps the blood put them off.
Because there was a lot of blood inside.
He’d opened the door and looked into the carriage. It wasn’t difficult to determine where the body had been when it was found—the pattern of bloodstains made it obvious: in a heap on the floor as if tossed into the carriage.
Adam was delighted to discover a lamp hanging inside the carriage door, and lit it so as to provide more illumination within the vehicle.
And then he took his time, looking over the scene.
The spray of blood made it obvious the killer had cut Louis’s throat from behind while the driver was standing at the door of the carriage, looking inside. So the killer had somehow manufactured a reason for Louis to look inside, either before or after driving his fare, then had come up behind him.
The killer had done the same as he’d done to Pamela: after slitting Louis’s throat, he stabbed the driver’s lower back, and held him there until he died. By that time, Adam imagined, the killer had shoved Louis at least part way into the carriage.
Once Louis was dead, the killer pushed him all the way inside so he could close the door.
And that was how he’d left a bloody handprint.
Adam exhaled softly when he saw it on the seat on the right side: a perfect handprint, as if the killer had had to catch his balance, and he’d used his right hand for leverage.
But what made his pulse kick up was the print itself. The hand was about the same size of his own, but it was clearly missing the first knuckle of the forefinger.
He whistled softly. A man of thirty
, of average height and build, with dark hair, beard, and mustache—and missing part of his finger.
Despite that remarkable confirmation of his suspicion, Adam continued to examine the inside of the carriage to see if there was anything else that could help identify the culprit—or give an indication of his actions.
Understanding the activity, Grandfather Makwa had impressed on him, was just as important as reading and following the tracks—for without that element of placing oneself in the mind of the animal, it was easy to make mistakes and to miss important elements.
Adam had learned that lesson well, quite early on in his outdoor education. He’d been tracking a bear over a difficult terrain that included a small river and its shoreline, which was made up of large, flat boulders the size of wagon wheels interspersed with beds of pebbles. Nonetheless, he’d managed to follow the bear for miles through the woods, across the river where it fished for food, then along the shore over the stones, and then back into the forest where the ground became hard and overgrown.
But Adam had become so engaged in simply looking for the next track that he forgot to be aware of the meaning of the movements—the subtle signs that indicated the bear’s action and reaction, along with mere movement.
It wasn’t until he was following the track which had circled around behind him that he realized his mistake: he’d been so engrossed in following the trail that he’d unwittingly positioned himself between the bear and her cubs.
By the time Adam understood how he’d missed the entire element of the bear keeping watch over her cubs while hunting and fishing for herself, and how she was about to respond to a threat to her cubs—which was Adam—it was too late.
The bear was there, roaring as she barreled down upon him from a small incline. He hardly had time to fling himself to the ground and lay there, stiff, silent, heart thudding like mad as the furious female launched toward him. Chances were, he’d die a very unpleasant death at the clawed hands of the mother, and he had no one to blame but himself.
Makwa had impressed on him the importance of the “knowing,” and Adam had lost it.
But just as the bear laid her claw over his shoulder, a loud disturbance nearby drew her attention. She finished her swipe—cutting through his buckskin vest and shirt—then roared again. With great relief, Adam recognized the noise as Ishkode and Makwa distracting the bear, and as they drew her away and closer to her cubs, he pulled to his feet.
Murder in the Oval Library Page 26
