Murder in the Lincoln White House

by C. M. Gleason

  “So Mr. Billings did a lot of business with Southern and secessionist businessmen. Did he loan money to Mortimer Titus? Or were their differences only of a political nature?”

  “Titus is a hothead. And a die-hard Democrat. Loathes the Republicans, especially the rail-splitter and his followers. But he’s also got a very handsome wife named Annabelle.” Orton settled back into his chair and lifted his brows as he set his drink on the table next to him. “My sister’s been poorly for over a year now, Mr. Quinn. And my brother-in-law . . . well, he’s always been one for female companionship. Of all sorts.”

  “I see.” Adam didn’t look toward the hallway beyond the door, which had been left open, but he could hear the sounds of movement out there.

  Orton leaned forward, his voice dropping. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Titus got mad enough to run Custer through with a sword over being cuckolded. Wouldn’t be the first time a man had to take matters into his own hands. You ask me, Barton Key was asking for it—being shot down by Senator Sickles for tupping his wife. Was a year—no, two years ago. Shot him right on the street.”

  “Are you saying Custer Billings was . . . er . . . dallying with Mortimer Titus’s wife?” Adam said.

  “I’m saying it’s more than possible. They socialized in the same circles—with the upper crust of Washington. The elite of Lafayette Square.” There was the slightest sneer in his tone. “They certainly had the opportunity to know each other.”

  Adam wondered how a man like Orton, who didn’t live in Washington, would know this gossip with such certainty, when hardly anyone else Adam spoke to had given off even a whiff of it. “Mr. Orton, did you like your brother-in-law?”

  “What sort of question is that?” He straightened up in his chair, the drink sloshing on the table next to him. “Are you accusing me—”

  Adam held up a hand and shook his head. “I reckon if I thought my sister’s husband was stepping out on her, I’d not be very pleased with my brother-in-law.”

  “Oh, yes, right. Well, Mr. Quinn.” Orton had eased back in his seat with a wry smile. “I don’t know if you’re married, and I’m not one to cast judgment on the actions of a man who is, but I suppose if a husband’s going to look elsewhere, he’d best do it on the sly and not call attention to it. Use a fancy girl or visit Mrs. Hall’s.” He shrugged. “But if you’re going to be bold about it, embarrass your wife and friends, then you deserve what comes your way.”

  Adam was finishing his brandy when Orton said those words, and that last sip almost went down the wrong way. That was, he supposed as he swallowed hard, one way to look at it.

  “I’m much obliged for your time, Mr. Orton,” he said and rose. All of a sudden, he felt a little dirty.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll want to know anything you learn about who killed Custer. If I’m not here, I’ll be at my office. Four-fifty K Street, third floor.”

  Adam picked up his hat and made his way into the hall, leaving Orton and his rather flexible morality sitting in the office of his brother-in-law.

  Something Orton had said stuck in his mind. Embarrassing your wife and friends.

  Could Althea Billings have known about her husband’s philandering? And told her brother? Perhaps that was how Orton knew something others only conjectured on.

  James had taken Stanley’s place in the foyer to see him out. Adam was just about to request a meeting with Mrs. Billings when he glanced out the front window. Hurst Lemagne’s carriage and remarkable pair of horses was gone.

  “Who was Mrs. Billings’s visitor?” Adam asked in a low voice, setting the hat on his head.

  James merely shook his head, flattening his lips as if they were sealed. “Good day, sir.” He opened the door and lifted his brows meaningfully.

  “Why was it a secret Hurst Lemagne was here?” Adam pressed. “Why didn’t she want her brother to know?”

  James’s eyes flared with surprise, and he stepped closer to the door—and farther from the hallway leading to the study. “It’s Mrs. Billings’s business, sir. I ain’t going to talk about that. She’s had enough grief this past year, Mr. Quinn.”

  Adam stood on the threshold and looked out at the gray March afternoon. “At least tell me this: Do you think Mr. Billings was romantically involved with a woman not his wife? Maybe a Mrs. Titus, the wife of the man with the fancy carriage?”

  James’s eyes were dark and sober. “I never saw nothing like that, Mr. Quinn.”

  Adam nodded, hiding his frustration. He was certain the man was lying. “Very well. Thank you, James. My best to Stanley and Louise, and also to Mrs. Billings. Please tell her that when I have any news, I’ll be back.”

  As he left the black-draped house slightly warmer and less achy, due to the brandy, Adam pondered what he’d learned. The staff was trying to hide Lemagne’s visit to Althea Billings from her brother. Why? Did Orton know Lemagne? But how could he? Orton lived in Baltimore; Lemagne lived in Alabama.

  But they both traveled to business in Washington. So they could know each other.

  Orton stayed at the Willard sometimes—as well as the St. Charles—and Lemagne was at the St. Charles.

  Was Orton simply trying to protect his weak and ill sister from Lemagne for some reason? He didn’t seem to be a particularly warm and sympathetic person. In fact, he made Adam feel as if he needed to wash his hands.

  He sighed. Thanks to the brandy, he might feel warmer now, but Adam was certainly more concerned and confused with the puzzle than when he’d arrived.

  * * *

  Though Adam knew he needed to speak with Mortimer Titus, he had to wait until tomorrow. It was getting late, and he was expected to be shaved and formally garbed, and at the levee, in less than three hours.

  However, he stopped at the St. Charles Hotel after he left the Billings household. He reckoned he and Mr. Lemagne needed to have another talk—and hopefully without the assistance of his daughter.

  It was late in the afternoon, approaching supper time, and the hotel entrance and lobby were filled with guests coming and going. The St. Charles seemed as busy with the crème de la crème of Washington as the Willard did.

  Down the hall from the gilt and red lobby was the bar room, and loud voices and laughter spilled out from there into the rest of the corridor. Beyond was the restaurant, which was quieter so early in the evening.

  Instead of stopping at the front desk where the palmetto cockade–wearing manager was busy shuffling keys, mail, and guest requests, Adam strode past and toward the sounds of revelry. If he was lucky, Lemagne would have stopped in the bar for a drink before collecting his daughter for dinner, and that meant Adam could corral him alone.

  The room was filled with people—mostly men, but a few well-dressed women sat at tables with their companions—noise, and cigar smoke. The underlying scent of liquor fought with smoldering tobacco and balsam pine cologne. In the corner, a pianist attempted to provide entertainment, but his efforts were dampened by bursts of laughter, amiable shouting, and loud bellows to the bartender for more rounds, or “a tall one, if you please.”

  As Adam skimmed the room with his eyes, he recognized several people he’d seen or met over the course of the two weeks he’d been with the president’s entourage in Washington. There were some he avoided eye contact with, such as Browning and Thatcher—for they’d be the ones to presume upon Adam’s relationship with Mr. Lincoln, and he reckoned the president already had enough people lining up asking for favors.

  There was a group of men who’d met with the president the morning after his arrival in the city. Wellburg, Martindale . . . and the third one’s name escaped him. They’d been asking about his stance on import taxes, and now that Adam thought about it, he remembered seeing one—Martindale—at the Union Ball. He’d had the impression the three men were from somewhere down south, but he reckoned he must have been wrong about Martindale, for the man had been wearing a blue and white Union ribbon.

  Adam navigated around two tiny tables and past a pro
minently placed spittoon that, despite its central location, seemed to have been ignored, and sidled up to the bar. Adam purposely squeezed in next to Martindale and his friends, then set to work on getting the bartender’s attention.

  “Worse ’n trying to snatch a leaf in a windstorm,” Martindale commented amicably after he jolted Adam with his elbow in the close quarters. “Trying to get Bradley’s attention at half past five on a weekday. But he pours ’em tall and replaces ’em fast, and I ain’t got no complaints about that.” His eyes narrowed with recognition, then cooled as he looked up at Adam. “Name’s Quinn, ain’t it?”

  “For thirty years and change.” He gave a brief grin and removed his hat. “Evening, Martindale. Wellburg, is it?” Adam turned so he edged into their little trio. He nodded at the third man, whose name suddenly dropped into his memory. “Evening, Littleton. What tall and fast pour do you recommend?”

  “A Kentucky bourbon always hits me right,” Wellburg replied, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re the one working for the rail-splitter, ain’t you?” He fairly spat the reference to Lincoln, giving the words an ugly, pejorative flavor. “Something about a murder.”

  “Not a very pleasant way to occupy a gentleman’s time,” Martindale added with a faint sneer. He’d made no effort to adjust his position to allow Adam to join their group. Hmm. So much for the Union sympathies. Maybe Adam had been wrong about his ribbon at the ball. “Murder.”

  “I reckon Custer Billings and Lyman Fremark both feel the same about now—each having been right in the thick of a murder himself.” Adam caught Bradley the bartender’s eye and said, “Bourbon. Whatever he’s drinking.” He nodded toward Wellburg.

  “Make it a full round for the gentlemen here,” he added, wondering briefly how much it was going to cost him. The way these men were dressed, he reckoned they didn’t hold back on their liquor expenses either. Between this, the possible expense for a new prosthesis, and his hotel bill at the Willard, he might find himself plowing through funds faster than a drunken cowhand.

  “Playing Pinkerton don’t sound like much fun. In fact, it could be downright dangerous,” Littleton said, swiping a hand over lips glistening with whatever he’d been drinking. He held Adam’s eyes a trifle too long.

  Adam looked at him blandly. “I reckon it depends what you call dangerous. Searching out the truth of who killed a man in his prime is worth the risk. Standing up for what’s just and right.” He lifted his drink in a brief toast and watched them all over the rim as he sipped. “I reckon I’d rather be on that side of things than be a coward who kills an unarmed man like Custer Billings . . . or anyone else he might have a political disagreement with.”

  “There’s a whole hell of a lot of people who don’t see it that way, Quinn,” Wellburg said. “People who got to make a change in this country. Do what needs to be done even if it causes bloodshed and division.”

  “There are those types—hiding behind packages of dried apples laden with arsenic, and adding castor bean oil to a bottle of rum, then sending them off to the president. Trying to get their way on the sly, instead of the way this nation was meant to be run.” Adam stood, sensing the growing ire from the others. He wasn’t about to get into a brawl here, with only one functioning arm—and possibly losing his chance to talk to Hurst Lemagne. “I’d happily meet my enemies face-to-face, hand to hand—if they’ve got the stones to do it. Too damned bad Custer Billings didn’t have that chance.”

  He looked around at them and finished, “It leaves me wondering who might’ve given the man a hand into his grave—staunch abolitionist he was, and celebrating the oath-taking of the man who means to preserve this country.”

  Wellburg’s hand moved as if to an invisible weapon at his waist, but Littleton nudged him aside. His eyes were filled with a dark light as he looked at Adam. “It would be one hell of a statement, that’s for damned sure. One I’d happily sign for.”

  Adam tossed a half-dollar onto the counter, hoping it was enough to cover four bourbons. Cocktails were ten cents at Willard’s, but who knew what the price was at the St. Charles. He kept his half-finished drink in hand as he gave a brief bow. “Evening, gentlemen.”

  He felt their six eyes on him as he made his way across the bar room. Nothing prickled over his shoulders like his skin would have done if someone had made a move on him, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think he hadn’t set out a challenge—and a warning.

  Yet, somehow, he felt more exhilarated than he had for days. There was something about calling out a coward—and the three had made it clear they were just that sort—that made a brave man feel alive.

  He was just walking out of the room when he came face-to-face with Hurst Lemagne.

  “What are you doing here?” the man demanded after a moment of shock. He looked as if he wanted to brush past Adam and seek solace in the bar room.

  “Time’s past gone for us to have a private talk, Lemagne,” he told him, and set down his drink. “Might be best for it to happen somewhere we aren’t seen together.”

  “If you don’t stop harassing me, I’ll—”

  “You were visiting Althea Billings today. Secretly. And I reckon there’s more to the story than you’ve been telling me. I suppose you’d better take a few minutes to talk to me now, because the next time I see you, your daughter might try to interfere. I don’t reckon either of us want her involved.”

  Lemagne’s jaw moved as he ground his teeth, but he stepped back from the threshold of the room. “All right. There’s a small parlor around the corner.”

  They’d barely stepped into the room in question and Adam had closed the door when Lemagne began to talk. “Yes, I was with Althea today. And the night of the ball.”

  Adam was only mildly surprised by this revelation, and he remained silent.

  “She and I . . . we . . .” The normally blustering man was suddenly at a loss for words. He paced the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Custer Billings didn’t deserve her!” he exploded. “He didn’t deserve to touch the pinkie of her gloved hand. I told her that, years ago—but she chose him. Or I thought she did. I found out later—when it was too late—her father forced her into it. She told me she chose Custer, but really she didn’t have a choice—and she didn’t want me to do . . . to do anything about it. So she lied.” He shoved both hands into his hair. When he removed them, his wiry, brown-gray curls stood out like a wild nimbus. “Dammit, I need a bloody drink.”

  “You and Mrs. Billings were . . . involved?”

  “Yes, dammit. Yes, we were in love—grew up in the same parish. But my family had only a small tobacco farm, and cotton was the crop of choice. The one of wealth and success. Althea’s father wouldn’t approve the match, and he wanted her to marry Custer. She agreed, and . . . that was it.”

  “But it wasn’t it,” Adam prompted. “You saw her the night of the ball. And you were heard arguing with Custer Billings earlier that day. You even told me Billings hated you.”

  “Damned right he hated me. He knew Althea never loved him, and he knew I knew how he’d been mistreating her. Carrying on while she lay wasting away in her grief. Month after month after month.” His voice had grown rough and unsteady, and Adam wished he’d bought this man a drink instead of wasting his money on three secessionists back in the bar room. “How dare he treat her that way.”

  “How did you find out Billings was involved with another woman? If you live in Alabama? Did her brother tell you?”

  “Her brother? Alan? No. I’ve . . . I’ve been in touch with Althea for months now. I was here in November, just after the election, and I learned Custer was out of town. So I called on her. My sister is her close friend, and they write each other all the time. When Althea lost the baby”—his face became pained—“I heard about it, but I didn’t contact her. It just wasn’t right. But I made certain I asked my sister about her—casually—whenever I had the chance. So when I was here on business, I found out Custer was gone, and nothing could keep me away.
I knew she was hurting. I just didn’t know how much.” His voice broke and he turned away.

  But when he looked back up, his eyes glittered with hard fury. “How could he do that to her? Leave her to waste away, leave her to grieve—and be out skirt chasing?”

  “Mr. Lemagne, did you kill Custer Billings?”

  “No. But I damned well wish I had.”

  * * *

  Adam’s feet in their fancy shoes didn’t hurt quite as much as he feared they would by the time he walked up the incline to the President’s House—or the White House, as Mr. Lincoln had begun to call it.

  It was almost eight o’clock as he passed through the opening in the big iron fence, striding past the statue of Jefferson. He was right on time.

  However, everyone else seemed to be early. The entire drive and avenue leading up to the house was so packed with carriages, he reckoned they’d been lining up and jockeying for position for at least an hour, maybe even longer. The sheer number of people spilling out of carriages and moving up the walkway made him wish he could turn around and slip away, unnoticed and anonymous, and head back to his hotel room.

  However, duty called, and he pressed on. Adam had misplaced his top hat on Monday night—left it in City Hall during his questioning of James Delton and had never bothered to retrieve it, so he was one of the few—perhaps only—hatless men. Since he was also missing his fake arm, and had pinned up the bottom third of his left sleeve, he couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious.