“Mr. Billings has light brown hair,” Hilton pointed out, dunking his hands in a basin of water.
“Yes. I’ll take some of his hair with me—they could be from his own beard if he scratched his face; the length of them is right for facial hair—and see if I can tell whether it matches what I found. If the hairs don’t match, then maybe he fought against whoever killed him.” Adam put the envelope back in his knapsack; it wasn’t light enough in here to try to compare the sets of hairs, and he didn’t want to risk losing either sample.
Instead, he picked up one of the dead man’s shoes and brought it closer to the light. No oil smudge, but there was quite a bit of mud on the sole. Billings would’ve had to step off the wooden walkway between the dance hall and City Hall and take at least several steps for the shoe to get that dirty. Some of the mud was scraped off near the heel.
Adam wasn’t one to care about the appearance of his own footwear, but he’d been forced to submit to a good blacking of his new, virginal shoes yesterday, so he knew how important that bit of grooming would have been to a man dressed like Custer Billings.
So Billings had left the ball, and walked across unprotected ground—ruining his perfectly blackened shoes? Why would he have done that? To speak to someone?
Fremark had seen two people standing in the shadows near the door to the anteroom. “A secret meeting,” he’d said. Something had given him that impression.
Adam reckoned a rendezvous would count as a secret meeting. Had Billings been with Annabelle Titus? Or her husband? Or someone else?
He checked the other shoe. More mud, but no oil smudge. He sniffed at the dried mud. It smelled like earth and animal dung. No surprise.
“I’m going to take the shoes with me.”
“Extra rags over there if you want to wrap them up.” Hilton showed him a small jar. “And here are samples of his hair—from his head and his beard.”
Adam was pleasantly surprised by the man’s preparedness—which was markedly better than his own. “Much obliged.”
He was picking up Billings’s gloves when a thought struck him. What was the sticky substance that made the strands cling to the gloves? It could have been anything from the meal—especially the dessert, which had been dried apple tarts and cinnamon-frosted cakes.
He stilled as another realization came to him.
Miss Henry Altman—if that were her real name, which was surely not the case—had been wearing very thick, dark blond facial hair that had been glued onto her face.
Damn. Now he had even more questions to ask the so-called journalist. If he could even find her.
How the hell was he going to track down a woman who’d been dressed as a man, in a city he didn’t know, with people coming and going now that the inauguration was over? Would he even recognize her if they came face-to-face, thanks to last night’s shadowy light?
That was another task to add to his list—besides calling at the St. Charles Hotel to see whether Hurst Lemagne had shown up, helping Agent Pierce follow up on the list of business associates Mr. Delton had given him, and, of course, reporting to Mr. Lincoln what progress he’d made on the task to which he’d been set.
And surely there were other things Adam should be doing in this investigation . . . but he wasn’t certain what. He wasn’t a damned detective. He was a simple man of the West who just wanted to make a living and maybe, some day, have a family.
He sure as hell wasn’t happy in a town where hackney drivers stopped so they could help whip a black man, or where people slept until noon and didn’t go to bed until nearly dawn. And where the noise was constant, the smells were pungent, and young Irish boys had bare toes in the middle of winter. . . .
Adam moved sharply, annoyed with himself and his mental grumbling, and his false hand bumped against the table. He felt the jolt up over his elbow and into the bicep, and then a dull throb at the base of his arm’s stump, reminding him of last night when he foolishly put too much unexpected weight on the fake hand to propel himself over the dais.
Hilton eyed him as he dried his hands with a rag. “Is that a Palmer arm?”
Of all the queries Adam received about his prosthetic, that was definitely not one of the common ones. “Yes.”
He didn’t ask the obvious follow-up question, but the other man acknowledged it, shrugging as he spoke, “I’ve never seen one before, but I hear he makes a good limb. My friend Marcus is something of an . . . expert, I suppose you’d say.”
“Not bad. Better than the first one I got, which was made by Selpho. The leather socket that strapped to my stump stunk to high heaven after six months. This arm’s hollowed-out willow,” Adam told him. Obviously the man was a doctor and had more of a technical interest in the limb than the average person. “Light, durable, and it ages well. No leather. That’s fine calfskin stretched over it, making it look as natural as possible. If I move my arm just so, the fingers close—see?” He demonstrated by rotating his upper arm and squeezing it closer to his torso. “The thumb’s got a spring-loaded joint, which works if I do this.” He contorted his shoulder, which moved the mechanism inside the limb.
Hilton nodded briefly, though his eyes were riveted to the false hand curiously.
“Only thing I can’t really do with it is play the fiddle,” Adam said. “And I reckon my writing’s not as clear as it used to be, but it’s passable, once I get the pencil in the right position. Can even hold a gun and pull the trigger, though my aim’s pretty damned sorry with that hand.” He gave a wry laugh, then sobered. “I have a gang of pro-slavers back in Lawrence to thank for all of it. They ambushed me and a friend of mine.”
Hilton nodded once more, then, as if ashamed by his bold curiosity, jerked his attention back to Billings’s body.
Adam was about to leave when he remembered the knife in his knapsack.
“Take a look at this, will you?” He unwrapped the dagger and brought it to Hilton. “Can you confirm this is the blade that stabbed him? There’s hardly any doubt; it was found in the closet with his coat, and it had blood on it. But I reckon we should be certain.”
Hilton, whose hands were still washed, took the dagger and examined it. “About two inches wide at its greatest width, four inches long,” he muttered to himself. “I’d say most likely.”
As Adam watched, the doctor carefully measured the dagger against one, then the other, of the stab wounds. When it seemed to match, he then carefully slid the blade into the cuts as if to ensure it fit. Each time he withdrew it, blood glistened on the blade.
“It fits the width of the wounds exactly. I didn’t force it all the way through, though, and as you saw, it didn’t go to the hilt. Maybe only four inches deep. There isn’t any bruising next to the cuts, so that means the hilt didn’t hit his skin like it would if the killer shoved it all the way in.” He wiped off the blood and handed it back to Adam. “I’d say yes, this is what did it.”
Adam took the knife, but he was looking at the dead man on the table. “That cut is a straight entrance, with the same width all the way across,” he commented, looking at where the knife had glanced against a rib on the right. “But the other one isn’t. Why?”
Hilton nodded, following his gaze to the wound just below the sternum. Instead of looking like a straight, slender line where the blade had gone in, in the middle, the cut was slightly wider, then narrowed at the edges.
“Yes, I noticed that. It could be the angle he was holding the blade, or if Billings moved at the moment he was stabbed. But . . . it looks strange to me.” Hilton hesitated, looking down at the table. “The only way to know for certain is to do an internal examination,” he said, as if measuring his words. “Which might explain what, if anything, caused that wound to be wider in the center. And I want to make certain there’s nothing I’ve missed. It’ll take a long while, and it’ll be . . . sir, the body will be cut up inside.”
Adam looked up at the other man. “I reckon you should be thorough, Dr. Hilton.”
The doctor ex
haled quietly. “Obliged to you, sir.” Hilton straightened and gave Adam one of those wary but determined looks. “I’m truly obliged for you letting me take him back here, sir. I don’t get much chance to study a whole body like this. Us’ally, I’m just trying to mend what’s broke.”
And probably rarely getting any payment for it. Adam wondered how the man had come by such a comfortable workshop, for his Negro patients likely couldn’t pay him what he was worth. “I’m obliged you taking him for a look,” he replied. “If you find anything that might help me learn who stuck him with this knife, I’d be even more obliged.”
Adam wrapped up the dagger again. The president would be expecting him soon. “I’ll come back later. Or, if you need to send word, I’m at Willard’s. I’ll reimburse you for a messenger.”
Hilton didn’t look up. “I got my own money.”
“Suit yourself,” Adam replied. “I’ll be back when I can.”
“I’ll send word if I find anything.”
Adam nodded and stepped out into the bright morning, leaving death and its mysteries behind him.
CHAPTER 5
March 5, 1861
Adam had just crossed Lafayette Square and was approaching the north portico of the President’s Mansion when someone called out.
“Mr. Quinn!”
He turned to his right and saw a lone woman in a simple dress and unremarkable hat hurrying up behind him. It wasn’t until she came closer that he recognized her beneath the brim of her bonnet.
“Good morning, Mrs. Keckley.” He smiled but was curious as to what she was doing out and alone at seven o’clock in the morning. At least it wasn’t dark any longer.
She was puffing a little, for her legs were much shorter than his. She was at least a decade older than he and also carried what looked like a heavy satchel. Her breath left little white clouds, for the morning hadn’t grown any warmer and was quite damp and windy.
“Well, now,” she said, looking at the sedate mansion that was bookended by stables on each end. “There it is. The president’s house.” She paused as if to take it all in.
Adam didn’t mind, for he was able to get his first good look at what resembled little more than a large country house—certainly much larger than anything in which he’d ever lived, but nothing all that grand. There were outbuildings, stables, and what looked like a greenhouse, with the new sun glinting off walls of glass.
A large iron fence ran along the north side of the property, and there was another on the south side. But the sides of the landscaped lawn were open with interior walkways to the Treasury on the east side, and the Army and Navy buildings on the west. He tensed a little, noticing how unsecured the grounds were.
“I have an appointment with Mrs. Lincoln,” Mrs. Keckley told him without waiting to be asked. “I was supposed to come on Sunday so I could help dress her for the inauguration, but I didn’t get the message from my patron, Mrs. MacLean, in time, and when I visited her at Willard’s yesterday morning before the ceremony, it was almost too late. But Mrs. Lincoln told me to come first thing this morning.” Still puffing some, Mrs. Keckley gave him a smile. “I think it’s because she heard I used to do work for Mrs. Davis before she left to go back home.”
Adam had slowed his pace and walked along companionably with the older woman as they passed a bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson that stood in the large circular drive. Her breathless chatter reminded him of his mother. “Is that so?”
Varina Davis was the wife of Mississippi Senator Jefferson Davis. From what he’d heard, the couple had been the cream of Washington society, and Mrs. Davis a very popular hostess—until she and her husband left town, along with all of the other senators and congressmen from the seven states that had seceded since Lincoln’s election. Now, Jeff Davis was the president of the Confederacy.
“Mrs. Davis asked me to come with her back home,” Mrs. Keckley confided as they began to climb the steps. “To Mississippi, to be her modiste. She said even though there’s going to be a war, it won’t last very long, and it would be a good opportunity for me.” She shook her head, still a little out of breath—but that didn’t seem to keep her from rattling on. “But even though I’m a free woman now, I didn’t think that would be a good idea, to go down south. I decided to stay, and—Lawsy, will you look at that?”
He couldn’t help but see: there was a line of people coming out of the main entrance of the sprawling white house.
“Are they all here to see Mr. Lincoln?” Mrs. Keckley asked.
“I would say. It’s been like that since he arrived in the city. They’re lining up all day long—people wanting a position or help from him.”
“Laws.” She shook her head, then stumbled a little because she wasn’t watching her step. “And standing there with the door open wide like that, letting all the damp and chill in.”
Adam walked past the line, ushering the seamstress through the door ahead of him. The people standing there were of all walks of life: some in stylish clothing with high, stiff collars and neat neckties. They carried walking sticks and wore hats and gloves, while others waited in more casual working garb like loose trousers held up by braces, plain white shirts, and no waistcoat. Still others were dressed in items that were as poor and ill fitting as Brian Mulcahey’s.
Unfortunately, as Adam looked around, he realized that although the furnishings and decor of the President’s House were of good quality, they were also just as shabby and worn out as the young Irish boy’s clothing. The carpets were threadbare, and nearly every wall or wainscoting needed a coat of paint. The portraits that hung on the walls were dusty, and their frames nicked and scratched.
The queue of people extended through the foyer and down the hallway of the first floor, where it curled back around and then snaked up the stairs to the second level, which, presumably, was where Mr. Lincoln was receiving them.
“Heaven help us,” Adam muttered, realizing how simple it had been for himself—and the hundreds of other people—to enter the home of the president unchallenged. He hadn’t seen any sign of the tight security that had been in place since Lincoln had left Springfield.
Perhaps there were guards on the second floor. But why weren’t there ones on the grounds, or even at the door? What was Pinkerton thinking?
“Good morning, sir,” said a tiny, wrinkled man in a nonmilitary uniform. He stood just inside, in the center of the foyer, and seemed to be the only house staff member in sight. “I’m Mr. McManus—been the doorman here since President Taylor. And you’re here to be seeing the president, are you?” He might have been in Washington for years, but he hadn’t lost his Irish accent.
“I’ve an appointment with Mrs. Lincoln, sir,” said Mrs. Keckley.
“I’m Joshua Speed’s nephew, and I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Lincoln as well. At least he’s expecting me.” Adam raised his brows as he looked toward the line of people.
“Aye, then.” McManus turned and pointed in the opposite direction of the queue that led upstairs. “If you walk down this corridor past the East Room—that’s the big one—you’ll find another stairway that leads up.”
The second floor showed no more sign of security than the first, and Adam scowled as he walked down the corridor with Mrs. Keckley. Last night his uncle had said it would be a miracle if Lincoln lived out the year; with this lax arrangement, it would be a miracle if he lived out the month.
“Nicolay!” He called out when he caught sight of one of the president’s secretaries darting from one doorway across the hall to another, evading the line of office seekers that wound up the stairs.
Up here, the queue ended with a row of chairs lined up in the hallway just outside a door, and the lucky few who sat in them seemed anticipatory as their time drew near. The chatter and conversation was slightly quieter up here, now that those waiting were closer to the man they’d come to see, but they had all turned to look when Adam spoke.
James Nicolay poked his head out from inside a room and motioned f
or him to approach. “He’s been expecting you,” he told Adam, pointing to a closed door.
“Mrs. Keckley here has an appointment with Mrs. Lincoln,” Adam said. “Do you know where she’d find her?”
Nicolay gestured again, this time indicating farther down the corridor. “The family’s private quarters are down there. Hay and I are bunking next to his office, if you can believe it. I don’t know where Mrs. Lincoln is right now—everything is still being moved in and unpacked—but the housekeeper can help Mrs. Keckley.”
Assured that the seamstress would find her way, Adam knocked on Lincoln’s office door, and was immediately bid entrance.
The president was standing behind a large mahogany desk. He wore glasses perched near the end of his nose, and his long wrists stuck out from the cuffs of his shirt. He’d changed from the formal clothes of last evening—though Adam wouldn’t have found it surprising if he hadn’t taken the time to do so, well knowing the man and his determined work ethic.
“Adam. Come in.” Lincoln gave a wry smile as he looked around the small office, which was cluttered with chairs, a long walnut table, books and boxes of more books, and stacks of paper on every surface. “Looks worse than the henhouse after a dog got in, don’t it?”
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Good God, man, there’s no need for formality. I spooned parsley soup into your mouth when you had the ague and I’ve seen you bare-assed naked stumbling out of the outhouse the morning after too much whisky,” he said. “Sit down.” He gestured vaguely to a chair near the desk.
“Have you had any sleep?” Adam asked, noting the grooves that lined his face seemed even deeper than they had been only a day ago. But of course they were—the man before him had taken an oath to preserve a Union that was splintering as they stood there.
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