“A touch. You sound like Mrs. Lincoln. She had a wonderful time last night.” He smiled affectionately. “Didn’t get home until after four o’clock. I reckon her feet’ll be sore as a bad tooth today.”
Adam wondered whether Mrs. Keckley would be relegated to waiting for several more hours until Mrs. Lincoln woke up. “You don’t have any guards stationed around here,” he said. “Anyone could walk in and—”
“I’ve already told your uncle—and Pinkerton and Scott and Loman and everyone else—I’m not going to be watched over and smothered all the time. It will be what it will be. I’ve got to breathe. See this?” He gestured to a stack of packages that spilled over a table and onto the floor. “From some of my well-wishers in the South. Preserved fruit—there’s apricots and plums and even some cherries. A bottle of Kentucky bourbon. Got some cakes and a pie. They’ve been arriving since the election and haven’t stopped since.”
Adam was horrified. “You’re not tasting any of it are you?”
Lincoln laughed, a great, infectious, booming laugh. “Hell no. Though I was tempted to try the pecan pie—it was right sweet looking. But, alas, Josh wouldn’t let me, and Pinkerton had a bottle of brandy tested. Either it was really poisoned, or it was good enough for him to keep for himself.” He laughed again. “And there—see?” He gestured to a rack of pigeonholes behind his desk, many of which contained envelopes or other papers. “That slot up top is for the really bad letters—the ones Nicolay and Hay think I should see.”
Adam pursed his lips grimly. “Mr. Lincoln, I—”
But the other man shook his head, clearly unwilling to hear any further remonstrance. “Now, tell me what you’ve accomplished with the task to which I’ve set you. To my knowledge, Mrs. Lincoln hadn’t heard about the tragedy before she left the ball, and she’s been abed since coming home. That alone is commendable.”
“I don’t have much to report yet, sir,” Adam said, and went on to explain everything that had occurred since he examined the body. He even unwrapped the dagger and Billings’s shoes, and displayed the small jar of the victim’s hair for Lincoln to take a gander.
The president interrupted only once. “A woman dressed as a man? A journalist? How curious.”
Curious was not the word Adam would have used, but he tempered his response. Instead, he went on to list the things he intended to do today, including interviewing Mr. Lemagne and visiting Mrs. Billings to give her the unhappy news. When it came to the topic of Dr. Hilton, he hesitated, then plowed on.
“I reckon I might have misstepped, sir, but I allowed a doctor to take the body to do an examination of it.”
“A misstep? That seems like a sound decision,” Lincoln replied.
“Yes, sir, but . . . the doctor is a black man.”
“Is he? That’s quite remarkable.”
“He appears to be knowledgeable,” Adam said, although he had little to support this opinion other than his instinct and some brief conversations with the young physician.
He went on to explain how Mrs. Keckley had brought George Hilton into the situation, and what had transpired from there. “I’m not certain what sort of condition Mr. Billings’s body will be in once he’s finished,” he ended. “I reckon he means to cut him up and look inside.”
Lincoln nodded. “One can’t argue with that—although the cause of death seems obvious, right? Stabbed in the belly. Still, I remember a case I read about—it happened in Glasgow, I believe—where a man was stabbed three times, but it turned out he’d died from drowning. They wouldn’t have known that if there hadn’t been an examination.”
Adam couldn’t help but feel relieved, yet he had other concerns. “Sir, I can’t help worry that this murder was meant as a warning to you, or, worse, that it was a plot meant for you but that it went awry.”
“Your uncle and Scott and Pinkerton have all said the same, and they in louder, more vociferous voices. I say, if the plot were meant for me—first, it didn’t happen, and so the plot was foiled. And second, if someone meant me harm at my own party, I reckon it would have been with something much louder and wilder than a simple knife blade. After all, they were planning to blow up the platform where I stood to take the oath! But again, that’s why I want the matter investigated, and in a circumspect manner. I trust you’ll find the answer.”
Adam resisted the urge to point out that the boxes of poisoned fruit and baked goods were even less “loud” or “wild” than a knife blade. “Should I be working with or reporting to the constabulary, or Mr. Pinkerton, or—or anyone else?”
“You report to me,” Lincoln replied. “The constabulary in this city don’t have anything resembling a detective agency—their only purpose is to keep the peace during the day. They might look official in their uniforms, but they don’t investigate crimes. They only try to stop them while in progress.
“And the Auxiliary Guard’s responsibility is solely to protect the federal buildings at night.” He gave a derisive snort. “For that, we can thank Congress for their lack of foresight. Yes, I can see that creating an actual police force for the district is yet another task that lies before me, but for now, I’ve more urgent matters. Such as waiting for the Senate to confirm my cabinet this afternoon so I can call a meeting. And tending to the line of people filling up my house.
“Now, where did I put that . . .” He scrabbled around through the papers on his vast desk, and Adam decided it was time to leave the most important man in the nation to his joyless task of keeping it together. His heart squeezed when he imagined what it would be like to walk in Lincoln’s gargantuan shoes . . . yet, at the same time, he knew there was no other person better suited for the upheaval ahead.
“Thank you, Mr. Lincoln,” he said, starting toward the door. “I’ll report to you—”
“I found it. Hold your horses, Adam—this is for you.” He handed him a paper a little larger than the size of a playing card. It was made from heavier stock than most of the other papers on his desk, and the words Office of Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States of America were engraved across the top.
Adam took the card and saw the handwritten words: Please note that Mr. Adam Speed Quinn acts with all authority of the Office of the President of the United States, and that all due courtesies should be afforded to him in any request or action he takes.
It was signed by Lincoln and dated today.
“There are very few people with whom I would entrust such a document,” said the president. “Now, off with you, my boy. I’ve position seekers to placate and a disillusioned Congress to face. Down in Richmond, Virginia’s about to vote to secede, and I reckon things will get even more unpleasant when that happens.”
Feeling both humility and dread, Adam slipped the card into his pocket and left Lincoln to his work.
At the very least, he could alleviate some of the man’s heavy load by fulfilling the task set on him . . . if he could figure out how to do so.
* * *
The home of Custer and Althea Billings was located such a short distance from Willard Hotel, just off Twelfth Street, that Adam stopped at his room in order to drop off the dagger, Mr. Billings’s shoes, and the jar of hair samples.
He didn’t think it would be appropriate to inform the woman she’d become a widow while in possession of a sample of her dead husband’s hair and the blade that had killed him.
Before leaving the Willard again, Adam told Birch, the doorman, about Brian Mulcahey. “If you aren’t on duty at noon or at six, would you be so kind as to tell whoever relieves you?”
“It’s only me, here, sir, from six to six or so, ever’ day. Even on Sundays, and during thunderstorms or blizzards. Then Billy Mudd from six till six, though he sleeps half the night anyway and he don’t like to get wet.” Birch gave a deep, rolling laugh. “But I’ll tell ’im.”
Adam reached the Billings house less than five minutes later. Though it was approaching half past eight, he set aside any qualms about the early hour.
&nb
sp; A middle-aged Negro man opened the door to Adam’s knock. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Billings is not in at the moment.”
“It’s Mrs. Althea Billings I’ve come to see.”
The man shook his head gravely. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Billings doesn’t receive guests. Especially not at this hour. She’s not well.”
“I’m sorry she’s ill, but it’s very important I speak to her.” Since Adam had no need for calling cards of his own, he had nothing to offer but the authorization Lincoln had given him.
The servant was probably illiterate—for it was illegal to teach slaves to read, and even most free blacks had a difficult time finding an opportunity to be taught—but he seemed to recognize the importance of the card. “Yessir.” He moved back and allowed Adam to step inside to escape from the dreary March morning.
As the butler—was that what they called them at fancy houses like this?—went off to speak to Mrs. Billings, Adam looked around the foyer. His first impression was a rush of shame that the Billings home was more polished and fancy than the home where the president of the United States lived.
There weren’t any threadbare rugs or peeling paint here. Everything was shiny and fresh—from the polished wood floor surrounding the thick rug on which his boots dripped, to the sparkling clean glass windows, to the plush furnishings he glimpsed in a room nearby. The walls were covered with paper printed with tiny floral designs, and fresh flowers spilled out of porcelain vases. The wood trim around windows, doors, and along the wainscoting was carved with undulating vines and other organic shapes. Mr. Billings was doing very well for himself and his family.
“Mr. Quinn, if you would please come this way. Mrs. Billings has agreed to see you.” The butler offered back to Adam the placard with the president’s authorization on it. Adam slid the card back into his pocket and removed his hat as he followed the man from the foyer.
Instead of leading him to a sitting room or parlor, the butler started up the grand staircase that swept away from the entrance hall. They walked a short way down the carpeted upstairs hall, and though by now Adam wasn’t surprised when the servant opened the door to a bedchamber, he was hesitant to step inside.
Sunshine poured through the tall windows whose drapes had been hooked back to allow the spill of light. A kerosene lamp sat on each of the tables, and there were sconces on the walls as well. Though the fireplace was filled with unlit logs, the room wasn’t cold, despite the definite March chill. Adam guessed the Billingses had installed a furnace—which, along with indoor toilets, was one of the few modern improvements that had been done to the president’s home.
Mrs. Billings’s bedchamber was quite large and filled with delicate, feminine furnishings decorated in pink, yellow, and pale green. Lace trim traced the hems of tablecloths, bed coverings, and the curtains. Despite the bright light that gave the chamber an airy look, there was a stuffy, medicinal scent that made the space feel close and stagnant.
“Mr. Quinn, please have a seat. I apologize that I’m unable to greet you properly in the parlor downstairs.” The voice, which carried a lilt from the South, came from the bed. As he stepped toward the chair that had been arranged next to it, Adam saw Mrs. Billings for the first time.
She was propped up against a slew of pillows, her slender hands folded over the pink and yellow quilt that came up to her waist. Dressed in a lacy lemon-colored bed gown, she was lovely in an ethereal way, with pale skin as smooth and translucent as the sort of fabric women used for their summertime wraps. She had large blue eyes that followed him as he made his way into the chamber. Her hair was tucked up into a cap, which kept the color of her tresses obscured, and her lips were pale, but not bloodless, pink. Althea Billings was perhaps five or ten years younger than her husband, who, Adam had learned, was forty-five.
As he sat in the chair that had been arranged for him—a wooden one, with a straight back and a thick seat cushion trimmed with the requisite lace—he noticed a black maidservant sitting in the corner. She was doing mending, but obviously she was also present to watch over her mistress and patient. The sight of her alleviated much of his discomfort at being admitted to a woman’s bedchamber.
“I’m sorry you’re ill, Mrs. Billings.” He settled his hat on his lap. “I wouldn’t have insisted on disturbing you if it wasn’t terribly important.”
“The president sent you? Mr. Lincoln?”
Adam rejected all of the more detailed responses and simply said, “Yes.” He was about to speak when Mrs. Billings beat him to it.
“Is it about my husband?”
“Yes. I . . . I regret to inform you that your husband is dead.” He said the words clearly and without hesitation, having learned that was the best way to deliver such news.
“Dead?” The word was neither a shriek nor a whisper. She might simply have been commenting on the condition of a squashed bug. “You’re saying Custer is dead? Are you quite certain of this?”
“Yes, ma’am. He was found, stabbed, at the—near the Union Ball last night.”
“S-stabbed?” Her eyes widened, then suddenly filled with tears. She blinked rapidly, turning away. Now there was a thread of tension and shock in her voice. “You’re certain, then. It’s definitely him? I—I wondered why he didn’t come in last night when he got home. I just thought . . . perhaps it was so late and he didn’t want to disturb me. But I thought for certain he’d come in and tell me all about the ball. He knew how much I wanted to go, but . . .” She unclasped her hands in order to flutter her fingers.
The tears had spilled over during her speech, and without waiting to be asked, the maid brought her mistress a handkerchief. Also lace trimmed.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Billings.”
“Thank you,” she said from behind the handkerchief. He waited patiently until she took it away from her face, revealing watery, red eyes and a pink-tipped nose. If possible, her face seemed to have gone even more pale. “I just . . . I can’t believe it. You’re certain? He was stabbed? How? By who?”
Adam drew in a deep breath. “That’s partly why I’m here, Mrs. Billings. To try to discover who would have murdered your husband.”
“Murdered?” She jolted against the pillows as if she’d been stung. “Do you think someone really murdered him? I thought—I thought you meant it had been an accident. Are you certain?”
Adam could hardly think of any way in which a man might get stabbed by accident, though he supposed it was possible. A duel gone wrong, perhaps? But then that wouldn’t have been an accident, would it? “I don’t reckon it was an accident, Mrs. Billings. He was left to bleed to death in the room just outside the entrance to the ball. Apologies, ma’am, for the details.”
Her eyes widened to circles and she gasped. Now a bit of color pinkened her cheeks. “But why?”
“I’m hoping you might be able to help me figure that out, ma’am. Do you know of anyone who might want to ki—who might have a grudge against your husband? Anyone who hated him, or had a strong dislike for him?”
Mrs. Billings was staring in his direction, but Adam didn’t think she was really looking at him. The brief flush had subsided from her cheeks and now she was ghost white again. “Not . . . not that I can think of . . . no one that I know.”
“What about a business associate? Someone he had a problem with related to the bank?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know.... Custer didn’t talk much about business. He didn’t like to upset me—especially after. . . especially since I became ill.” She brought the scrap of lace to her face once more, but this time, there were soft but audible sobs accompanying her tears.
Adam swallowed and looked down at his hands, uncertain what to do. He wanted to ask about Annabelle Titus, but it seemed terribly unseemly and unfeeling to ask a new widow about her husband’s possible lover—even in the pursuit of justice for his killer.
As Mrs. Billings’s sobs became more pronounced, the maid rose from her chair and came over to her mistre
ss, making soothing sounds and patting the ice-white, fluttering hands with her small dark ones.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, speaking both to the maid and to the crying woman. He felt like a hulking lunk, completely out of place in this bastion of femininity and tears. “I’ll . . . I’ll be on my way now and let you rest a bit, Mrs. Billings. I’m very sorry to have brought such unhappy news.”
The woman sobbed something unintelligible, and the servant nodded toward him as if to agree that he should leave.
“If you should think of anything that might help, ma’am, anything about your husband that might give a clue as to what happened, please contact me at Willard’s Hotel.” He was speaking to Mrs. Billings, but he included the maidservant in the conversation as well. She nodded, then turned back to her grieving mistress.
The butler was waiting in the foyer when Adam came down the stairs, and by the expression on his face, he knew the man had heard the news. How he had done so, Adam didn’t know and didn’t care. Probably had listened at the door, like any normal servant would do, he thought wryly. Despite having grown up in a household without even the whiff of a possibility of a servant, he wasn’t naive about how things worked with hired help.
“Mister,” said the butler as Adam settled the hat back on his head, preparing to leave. “It’s true? The master was stabbed? Killed by someone, purposely?”
Adam paused. A servant who listened might know more than he or she should—and possibly even more than the mistress of the house. Whether he could get the information from the eavesdropper was another issue. “It’s true. I’ve been given the task of finding out who did it, and I’d like to speak with you and all of the other servants in the house. What is your name, sir?”
“James. My name is James. I’m a free man,” he said, answering the question before Adam realized he needed to ask it. “All of us here, we’re free, paid servants, for Mr. and Mrs. Billings. I have my papers.”
“Is there somewhere we can sit, and where I can talk with all of the other staff? One by one?”
Murder in the Lincoln White House Page 9
