He considered stopping at a public house for an ale and a bite to eat, and as he walked south along Tenth Street, he watched for a likely establishment. But by the time he reached the end of the block, he found himself facing the long stretch of open land that was called the National Mall.
Despite its grandiose name, the mall was hardly more than a long, narrow patch of swampland that stretched from the Potomac River to the Capitol Building. There were some rudimentary walkways along one edge of the long rectangular stretch, and despite the damp, chilly evening, a smattering of people—mostly men in hats with walking sticks—strolled along on either side.
In the center of the mall, halfway between the Capitol and the river, and directly opposite the Executive Mansion, was a stunted-looking tower. The simple square projection was supposed to be a monument to George Washington. But, like the Capitol, it was unfinished and rose to only one-third of its planned height.
Construction had ceased some time ago, and now the monument sat there surrounded by scaffolding, forlorn in its abandonment, and reminded Adam far too much of his own dismembered limb. Or, maybe—and more poignantly—the abandonment of the honorarium to the nation’s first president echoed the imminent abdication of the Union for which General Washington had fought so hard.
But it was the castle-like building on the south side of the mall that drew Adam’s attention. Looking unlike any other building he’d ever seen—and definitely nothing like the pale stone and marble government buildings, with columns and broad sweeps of steps—the Smithsonian Institution had been constructed of a rich red sandstone. He counted nine turrets and towers thrusting up from the sprawling, fancy structure. It looked just like a fairy-tale castle, and its construction had only been finished in 1855, although the institute itself had been created in 1846. Even Adam, who’d lived on the frontier, knew the Smithsonian was the preeminent science center of America.
The Castle, as it was called, drew Adam’s attention because it was near there that Agent Hobey Pierce had lost Miss Henry Altman during last night’s pursuit. Adam could understand why—the exterior of the large, long building had many nooks and alcoves. And though there were some gaslights on the grounds, it would have been simple for a slender woman to duck into a corner or cranny and wait in the shadows for the Pinkerton agent to blunder past.
He’d wanted to examine the area Pierce and Miss Altman would have traversed in an attempt to follow her tracks and locate her, but it would soon be dark and shadows were already falling. Still, curiosity compelled him to at least make the effort, and he would use what little light was left. If he was lucky, maybe she’d even dropped part of her false facial hair or some other clue that might help him to follow her.
As he approached the gate surrounding the Smithsonian building, feeling rather like a hound dog ranging back and forth as he scoured the muddy ground looking for footprints and other impressions, he heard the sounds of joviality.
Two men, loud with enthusiasm, were standing at the foot of the low, broad stairway that led into the building. Behind them, light spilled from the windows of one of the first-floor rooms as a third man approached from the southeast side of the Castle. They appeared to be preparing to enter the building, which made Adam curious—for surely the institute closed, as did most businesses, by five o’clock. Most of the other windows were dark, as he would have expected them to be, except on the second floor of the easternmost towers.
“Hurry up there!” called one of them, waving to the third, slighter figure who was walking hesitantly toward them. “Stimpson’s already frying the oysters!”
Though Adam wasn’t usually the sort to insert himself into a group—especially where he didn’t know anyone—he found himself walking closer. There was something familiar about that lone figure, hurrying along from the east side of the building.
Then one of the street gas lamps shone on his face and Adam straightened in shock and delight.
It was Henry Altman himself—or, rather, herself—decked out in the same fake whiskers and male clothing as she’d worn to the ball last night.
“Mr. Altman,” he called, striding toward the group on his long legs.
She looked over at the sound of his voice, and he saw her eyes bolt wide and her steps hitch as she tripped and nearly fell. For a moment, he thought she might turn tail and run, but she was too close to the entrance where the other two men stood, and one of them had already reached out his hand as if to shake hers.
“Altman! So glad you could make it. We’re going to have a roaring time of it.”
The other had turned at the sound of Adam’s voice, then waved toward him. “Are you coming to the meeting then too? The more the merrier!”
Adam decided right then and there that he was most definitely going to be attending the meeting with Henry Altman . . . whatever it might be.
CHAPTER 9
NO. SIMPLY... NO.
Sophie Gates caught her breath, goggling over at the all too familiar man who was just introducing himself to Robert Kennicott and Millard Richardson at the base of the steps to the Castle. She automatically reached up to ensure her mustache was still glued in place. Not that it mattered, for he’d recognized her.
She was stunned into silence—which anyone who knew her would consider a miracle.
“Mr. Altman here invited me,” the tall, rangy man from last night’s debacle was saying. Adam Quinn was his name, she somehow remembered through the shattering of her thoughts and the roaring in her ears.
What on earth was he doing here? How? How did he find me?
“Welcome, then, sir. It’s Altman’s first night at the Megatherium Club too,” Kennicott said. “Nice to have both of you, as Haydn and Torrey have gone off on expeditions, and Stimpson gets ornery when there aren’t enough of us for relay sack races. Of course, he doesn’t like to share his plate of oysters if there’s too many of us, so it evens out either way.”
Sophie bit her lip behind the bristling mustache to hide a sudden grin. The sack races were certainly part of the reason she’d been determined to join the Megatherium Club from the first time she’d learned about it—among other reasons. She’d just had to wait for one of the regulars to leave—which happened all the time, as most of them were naturalists and always going off on expeditions—and use his name as an entree.
Which, apparently, Mr. Adam Quinn had also decided to do . . . using her name. Or, rather, her fake name.
She’d caught on too late to do anything to dissuade him from being welcomed into the group, and so she had no choice but to join the other three as they mounted the familiar steps to the main entrance of the Smithsonian Institute.
Once inside, they were in the main public gallery of the building, which had been converted into a museum of sorts just over two years ago. The Patent Office had turned over to the Smithsonian an entire jumble of inventions, plans, samples, and other items that had been held in its National Cabinet of Curiosities for decades. Some of the more interesting pieces were on display in glass cases in this main hall—which was dark at the moment, as the institute was officially closed for the day. Since Stimpson, Kennicott, and the others actually worked—and lived—in the Smithsonian, they always had access to the building.
“Stimpy!” shouted Kennicott, his voice echoing in the empty chamber. “Billy Stimpson! We’ve got two more! Find some more cups!”
He and Richardson were already through the main hall and heading down the corridor to the Natural History Laboratory. She would have followed them if Mr. Quinn hadn’t used his dratted long legs, beating her to the threshold of the corridor and blocking her way. In the darkness, with a bare frosting of light from the lab down the way, he appeared even taller and more broad of shoulder as he kept her from following the others.
Never one to easily relinquish control she hissed, “What are you doing here?”
“Apparently, I’m attending a club meeting—same as you,” he said in a sort of slow, drawling voice that reminded her of honey. Honey—which was th
ick and sweet and far too slow for the way she was used to living, speaking, and thinking. That easy demeanor and low voice were part of the reason she wasn’t afraid of him—and anyway, all she had to do was cry out or shout if she was threatened. Every noise echoed and carried in this place.
“So, Mr. Henry Altman . . . though your given name probably isn’t Henry, is it?” he continued.
“Henry Altman is my pen name.” She was going to take control of this situation immediately, and the best way to do that was to go on the offense. “And what were you doing, skulking about out there?”
“So you are a journalist.” His doubt was clearly indicated now, and he edged into the light from the corridor. She followed him, wondering if there’d be a chance for her to slip past and get to the laboratory. “You never did say who you write for.”
For whom you write, said her internal editor—but for once she kept such a thought to herself. “It wasn’t as if we had an extended conversation last night, Mr. Quinn. But if you must know, I’ve submitted stories to the New York Times, the New York-Herald, and the Daily Intelligencer.”
Not that they’d been accepted, bought, or printed, but she’d submitted them nonetheless. So far, only the small, mostly unknown District Herald had bothered to print any of her stories—including the one she’d written about the body from last night. She still didn’t know if Henry Altman was going to get paid for it or not.
“That explains it,” he said.
“That explains what?” She glanced down the hall toward the lab, but no one seemed to have noticed they were missing.
“Your accent. I reckon you must be from New York City.”
“Shall I give you a blue ribbon?”
That caused him to crack a smile, which, along with the subtle cleft in his beardless chin, made him look less rugged and more handsome than she’d first thought. This annoyed her even more.
“As long as it ain’t a secessionist cockade,” he replied.
She must refuse to engage with him. He had no right to be here. “You need to leave. I’ll make your excuses to the others.”
“Why, that’s very kind of you, Mr. Altman. But I reckon oysters and sack races—along with whatever they’re pouring in the cups they’re scrambling to find—are much more appealing than walking back to the Willard.”
“Why are you here?” she asked—then immediately regretted it. She already suspected she knew the answer.
“I was looking for you.”
Drat. She’d been right.
“I’m investigating the murder of Custer Billings, and I have a few questions. You’re a journalist. I reckon you’re used to noticing—”
“Aren’t you coming?” a voice reverberated from down the hall. “Altman! Quinn! We’ve got eggnog! And Stimpson needs you to look at—no, fill that one first, Newberry. What? I don’t know what’s keeping them. Altman, what’s the holdup?”
Sophie glanced over her shoulder and saw Mr. Kennicott hurrying toward them, a cup in each hand. She turned back and, without thinking, reached out to grab Mr. Quinn’s forearm. She almost released it when she realized it wasn’t flesh and bone. “Please don’t give me away. Please. I’ll help you in any way I can, but—”
“Here you are! Eggnog for our two new members. Come on, then, brothers. Billy’s getting impatient. He’s got a letter from Haydn he wants to share—all the way from Colorado—and he insists we all have to be there. Even Baird is here already.”
Mr. Quinn took the eggnog and, giving her an inscrutable look, turned to follow Mr. Kennicott down the hall.
Muttering under her breath, Sophie followed—after checking once more to make certain her wig and facial hair were in place. She wasn’t going to let Mr. Quinn ruin the evening.
* * *
Adam hadn’t had eggnog for a very long time, and it tasted good: rich and creamy, and with a glug of whisky to make it mellow.
He discovered he wasn’t quite as fond of fried oysters, but the thick slabs of toasted bread served with the crispy shellfish suited him just fine, and took away the gnawing in his belly. There was also a bowl of peanuts, and a messy pile of shells next to it that grew throughout the evening.
As was his nature, he’d settled into a more observing than participatory role in this room of boisterous men—oh, and one woman. Not to forget the mysterious Miss Altman, with the soft gray eyes that had pleaded with him to keep her secret.
He’d selected a chair near the edge of a space obviously used for scientific research. The plaque next to the door read Natural History Laboratory, and the jars and boxes of specimens that lined the tables and counters—along with magnifying glasses and what he thought must be a microscope—supported this designation.
Henry Altman—Adam was mildly irritated she still hadn’t told him her real name—had also chosen a seat at the fringes of the group of four other men, who clearly knew each other and did not stand on ceremony. An older, more sedate man referred to as Baird looked on in a sort of fatherly, affectionate manner.
Miss Altman refused to look in Adam’s direction except when she thought he wasn’t looking—probably to make certain he wasn’t going to expose her.
Adam wasn’t certain why he’d agreed to keep her secret—curiosity maybe. What was she going to do, and why? After a dark day immersed in the problem of murder, he found the situation slightly humorous and a little fascinating. Besides, she couldn’t get into much trouble if he was there, watching out for her. And as he had a number of questions for her—he reckoned she had to have seen something—he wasn’t going to let her disappear before he had the opportunity to ask.
Yet though he had a crime to solve, a puzzle to put to bed, he wasn’t averse to a bit of society that didn’t revolve around the new president and his security, politics, and the shadow of impending war. And, better yet, he was able to do this while putting something in his belly and having a few laughs.
By now he’d also learned the Megatherium Club was made up mostly of naturalists—their expertise being a topic with which he was quite comfortable, having spent years immersing himself in the natural world with Ishkode. And the fact that he’d been “sponsored” by Henry Altman—who in turn had apparently been recommended by one of the conveniently absent members of the club—meant that he’d been absorbed into the meeting with no questions asked.
So when they gathered around a small, clawed crustacean Stimpson produced, Adam joined in. He caught on that this seemed to be a sort of friendly challenge to club members: produce an unfamiliar specimen, and see what they could surmise merely from observation.
“What can you tell me about it?” asked William Stimpson, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, coat nowhere to be found. If Baird was the mentor or father, Stimpson seemed to be the gang leader of this motley group of scientists, and, from what Adam had gleaned, an accomplished naturalist and artist as well. His careful drawings of labeled sea life specimens were all over the laboratory: framed or curling up in sheaves of paper.
“Come on now, boys—you’ve not had enough whisky to muddle your brains yet. Though I can help you with that!” Stimpson grabbed the bottle and offered a straight pour to each of them in turn as they crowded around the table.
Adam glanced over and saw that Henry Altman was still nursing her cup of eggnog and declined the additional whisky. While he agreed with her decision, he did not choose to do the same and held out his cup.
“I do believe it’s a female,” crowed Richardson suddenly, spinning around with the same exuberance that had accompanied nearly every announcement at this club meeting.
Henry Altman’s eyes flew wide open and her cheeks flushed red behind the beard. She looked as if she was about to bolt from her seat, but Adam merely shook his head at her. Then he smiled when, after that startled moment, she relaxed, having realized Richardson wasn’t talking about her, but about the crawfish specimen.
“A blue ribbon for Mill, then,” said Stimpson as cheers erupted in the small group. He adjusted his spectac
les. “And what more, gentlemen?”
“Five pairs of thoracic appendages, so the order is . . . Decapoda,” said Kennicott, pushing closer for a better look. “But it’s not a Nephropidae. . . . No lobster for us tonight, Newberry,” he added sorrowfully. “We’ll have to stick with oysters.”
“Oysters! More oysters!” cried Richardson, who clearly had had plenty of whisky and who knew what else. “A man needs more oysters!”
Adam found it difficult to keep from grinning at the energy and volume of his companions. They certainly knew how to enjoy themselves. “It’s a freshwater crayfish,” he said, poking at the inert creature. “From the north. Lake Michigan, I would guess.”
“Ring the bell for the newcomer!” cried Stimpson. “And refill his cup!”
“The man needs more oysters!” Richardson joined in, and stumbled a little as he came over to take his seat.
Adam covered his cup with a hand and shook his head smilingly. “I’m fine.”
“Lake Michigan, is it? How did you know it wasn’t from the South?” Stimpson demanded. “These rock heads here wouldn’t have known that. I thought to fool them for much longer.”
Adam shrugged, then pointed to the trace of crusty algae on the bottom of one of the crayfish’s claws. “I see this all the time on the shells in the lakes up there—that green-blue edging with a crimp in it. Never seen it anywhere else.” He grinned as Stimpson smacked him on the back.
“You’re a good man, Quinn. Happy to have you aboard. Kenny, give the man some more in his cup.”
Henry Altman was giving him a sour look across the way. Clearly, she didn’t have any expertise with crustaceans.
After a bit more discussion, the crayfish was put away, and the older gentleman, Baird—who turned out to be the assistant secretary of the institution—bid them good night. “No sack races. And leave the mummies where they are,” he warned with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll see you all bright and early tomorrow.”
He left amid a chorus of boos and sighs, and shortly after that, conversation turned from science and madcap adventures to the obvious: the new president.
Murder in the Lincoln White House Page 15
