Murder in the Lincoln White House

by C. M. Gleason

  But once inside the house—after being greeted, of course, by a bright-eyed McManus (did the man ever sleep?)—Adam found himself swept up in the society of hundreds of people who only seemed to care about Mr. Lincoln, not a different rough-looking man from the frontier.

  “Adam, darling,” said Mary Lincoln when he came through the receiving line. She stood on her tiptoes to embrace him—something she was obviously used to doing, considering the height of her husband. “I’m so glad you could make it tonight. Mr. Lincoln says you’re healing up nicely from your accident, but I daresay that cut on your chin looks painful. And those bruises!”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lincoln,” he said, bowing. “You look lovely. I understand Mrs. Keckley made your gown.”

  Mrs. Lincoln was wearing a bright pink dress made of some fabric he thought was called antiqued silk. Regardless of its name, the material seemed luxurious and shiny, and was probably very rich to the touch.

  “She did indeed, although it was a very close thing.” Mrs. Lincoln leaned closer. “She didn’t arrive here with it until it was just time to get dressed—and I feared she had fallen back on her word!”

  “Well, it is certainly beautiful. Quite worth the wait, I reckon.” Adam moved on to greet the president, who stood next to his diminutive wife. “Mr. President.”

  As he shook his offered hand, Lincoln peered owlishly at Adam’s face. “I reckon you’ve looked better, my boy, but I’ve also seen you look worse. Reminds me of the time you fell off the apple wagon when you were reaching round back to steal a nice red one, and the wagon hit a big bump.”

  Adam laughed ruefully. “That was a painful moment—in more than one way.”

  “As I recall, you were showing off for that pretty young girl. Mary Elizabeth Letterman, wasn’t that her name?”

  “It was indeed. I was heartbroken when her family moved to Kentucky.” Adam was still grinning.

  The president’s chuckle was loud and free, and Adam was relieved to see that at least some of the tension had ebbed from his craggy face. “Before you disappear into the jam,” said Lincoln, “Pinkerton needs a word.” He jerked his bushy eyebrows toward the man in question, who was standing with the wall behind him, watching the proceeds with sharp eyes.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  When he approached Pinkerton, the man nodded as if to confirm that he needed to speak with him. After a few brief words with the two men standing next to him, the detective asked Adam to follow him.

  “Evening, Quinn. I know you have other things on your mind—as do I—but I wanted to take a moment to thank you for your assistance today.”

  Adam looked at him curiously. “I’d be happy to take your thanks, but I reckon I don’t know what for.”

  Pinkerton grinned. “That’s a good answer, my boy. Very good. You see, you helped us make two arrests today in relation to an assassination plot against the president.”

  “Again,” Adam said, thoroughly baffled, “I’m obliged, but—”

  “But you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. And that’s all right. You weren’t intended to. You see, one of my men—who’s been working here in Washington for two weeks now to help expose some of the plots against the president—was witness to a conversation of yours at the St. Charles today. You might remember him. His name is Martindale.” Pinkerton grinned proudly.

  “He’s one of your men?”

  “Indeed he is. It worked so well in Baltimore, when I sent Kate Warne and Harry Davies into the city to pretend they were Lincoln haters and secessionists, that we did it again here. Martindale befriended Wellburg a few weeks ago, and he’d been sticking to him and Littleton as they made their violent plans for our president.”

  “They were going to blow up the platform where Mr. Lincoln was being sworn in,” Adam said.

  “No, no . . . that was a different plot.” Pinkerton laughed, but it was rueful instead of jolly. “There’s more of ’em than I can count, unfortunately. This one that Wellburg and Littleton were involved with was a little less crude than setting dynamite under a scaffolding. They meant to take advantage of a distraction at the ball, and then use the resulting disarray to make their move on Lincoln.”

  “If the distraction was the murder of Custer Billings, that didn’t work,” Adam said. “It didn’t cause a fuss because we kept it under wraps, and the president left early.”

  “Precisely.”

  “But are you saying Littleton and Wellburg were responsible for the murder of Custer Billings?” A bit of the tension he’d carried for days started to dissipate.

  Pinkerton shook his head. “Can’t pin that on them, no. From what my agent Martindale got, the ‘distraction’ was being carried out by a fourth person whose identity we haven’t been able to determine.”

  Another person. The fourth person the groom at the back of the Willard mentioned he’d seen. While Miss Lemagne had seen only three. “Did they give any indication, any clue about who that person was?” he asked.

  The detective shook his head. “All Martindale was able to learn was that the culprit was an acquaintance of Wellburg’s, but not involved in their so-called organization.”

  “What sort of organization?” Adam asked. “Was it the group known as the Association?”

  “Well, there’re more than a few springing up, to be honest, there, Quinn. Secret clubs or societies that want to break—or preserve—the Union. At any cost. There’s one called The 1860 Association. It started last autumn, after the election in South Carolina. It’s an organized group promoting secession among the Southern states. They’ve published pamphlets and written letters to the state legislations in the South arguing for secession. And possibly creating militias in that support as well, but we’ve seen no evidence of that yet.”

  “The 1860 Association. The men who attacked me claimed they were sent by ‘the Association.’ I reckon that’s no coincidence,” Adam mused.

  “But there does seem to be an offshoot of the Association that leans more toward the violent route. They call themselves the Black Dots because they secretly identify themselves to each other by wearing cockades—Union or Southern.”

  “Everyone in the city is wearing a cockade,” Adam said dryly.

  “Exactly. But the members of this branch of the Association put a black ink dot somewhere on their ribbon—regardless of which sympathy they are wearing. Apparently, a number of them wear the blue and white of the Union, further obscuring their sympathies. But the black dot—it’s not very noticeable, unless you’re looking for it. That’s one of the most important things Martindale was able to learn for us.”

  Adam nodded. “Martindale was wearing a Union cockade at the ball. I reckon it had a dot on it.” Then he frowned. “You arrested Littleton and Wellburg. But how was that possible, since they didn’t actually carry out their plot to murder the president?”

  “As I said, we have you to thank. It was because of your conversation with Littleton and Wellburg. We were able to arrest them afterward. From what Martindale told me, you were practically baiting the two men into admitting what they intended to do, but after you left, when they were still furious and rattled, was when they spilled their guts—about both the previous plan at the ball and the next steps they had in mind since the first plan hadn’t worked out. See, they’d been careful about saying too many things—maybe they’d learned from what happened in Baltimore.

  “And it seems they never run out of ideas, or the zeal to carry them out. Of course, they were complaining with loose tongues, not knowing, you see, that they were talking to a Pinkerton agent.” The detective slipped his thumbs behind the lapels of his dress coat and pulled on them proudly. “That was the last bit of evidence we needed, and I had my man and some of the federal marshals pick them up around half past six today.”

  “Congratulations,” Adam told him, and they shook hands.

  “If we get any information from them about who killed Billings, I’ll be sure to pass it on as soon as possible.�
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  “Thank you, sir.”

  As he and Pinkerton finished their conversation in the hall, Adam noticed Mrs. Keckley standing a short distance away, lingering outside the East Room. She smiled at him but remained where she was.

  He made his excuses to Pinkerton, who was ready to return to his post, and walked over to meet her.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Keckley. Congratulations on such a fine turnout for Mrs. Lincoln. She seems very pleased with the gown you sewed for her.”

  She beamed up at him from beneath a hat that was almost as fancy as her client’s dress. Mrs. Keckley was also wearing proper white gloves and a pale gray dress decorated by zigzag black ribbons. “I just had to peek into the room and see how things were lookin’. She is turned out beautiful, ain’t she? And all the people! Laws, I don’t think I ever seen so many people packed in one room before. Some of them are other customers of mine, too. I know pride’s a sin, but it makes my heart warm to see Mrs. Blair and Mrs. Titus—”

  “Mrs. Mortimer Titus?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s a very handsome woman, and it’s a pleasure to sew for her.”

  “Mrs. Titus is here tonight? Did you see Mr. Titus as well?” Perhaps he’d be able to speak to the man after all.

  “Why, yes, sir, he just walked in with her not thirty minutes ago, Mr. Quinn. An odd-looking couple, they are, with her so beautiful and him so . . . well, not. It’s the lack of eyebrows and his pasty skin, I think, that does it. Makes him look like a—oh.” Mrs. Keckley’s eyes went wide and shocked as she realized how she was speaking. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Quinn. How I do ramble on. . . .”

  Adam merely smiled. Now that he knew the Tituses were here, he’d be able to find them. But in the meantime, he thought it best to alleviate the seamstress’s discomfort. “I reckon I don’t mind your rambling at all, Mrs. Keckley. And did I mention I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Mrs. Lincoln look so fetching—and I’ve known her for many years.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Quinn, and also very kind of you to be keeping my George busy.”

  Adam was mildly surprised. “I reckoned he was busy enough with all the patients he has. I was feeling rather guilty about adding to his responsibilities.”

  She laughed, her cheeks curving like plums beneath mirth-filled eyes. “Oh, he’s busy all right, but that boy allus needs something else to occupy his mind. Haven’t known him more than two years, but that boy’s brain never stops working. You give him a puzzle or so and he’ll work ’em between all his other patients.” She stepped closer, her eyes now glinting with some other emotion. “He’s honored that you and Mr. Lincoln should trust him with what you done. He’s honored and humbled. Thank you.”

  There were layers upon layers of meaning and emotion in her words, and Adam found himself feeling a little soft inside.

  “He’s been a great help to me, Mrs. Keckley. I’m only obliged that he’s been willing to do so.”

  She smiled up at him as if it were her own son she was speaking of, and then her expression became more serious. “Have you come any closer to identifying the man who killed that Mr. Billings? And the other one?”

  “A little closer every day,” he replied, thinking of how many pieces of information he had, and how none of them fit together quite perfectly yet.

  Would they ever do so? Love, revenge, power, greed—

  Adam stilled. Greed. Money. Billings had a lot of money, which his wife would inherit when he died. But what happened when Althea Billings died? She was surely not long for this world herself.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. George told me that if I saw you, I was to tell you Marcus done fixed up your arm and he’ll be bringing it tonight when he picks me up to take me home. Fine boy, insisting on driving me.”

  “That’s very good news,” Adam replied, resisting the urge to touch his empty sleeve. “Thank you.”

  He made his apologies, then returned to the reception, wondering how difficult it would be to locate Mr. Titus in this crush. In the meantime, having a bite to eat sounded like a good diversion.

  As he began to weave his way through the crowd, he glimpsed William Stimpson and Robert Kennicott standing near one of the long food tables—no surprise there. He was surprised and pleased to see that neither of them were wearing a top hat, or, for that matter, the same type of formal dress coat and trousers Adam had donned. For the first time since arriving, Adam felt like he might actually find a way to enjoy the evening after all.

  “Quinn!” Stimpson greeted him readily, though he didn’t shake his hand because he had a drink in one and a plate in the other. “Darned pleased to see you. I was just saying to Kenny here how you and that Altman fellow were a nice addition to our club. Hope you’ll come back again.”

  “Without a doubt,” Adam replied. “Do either of you happen to know a man named Mortimer Titus?”

  “Can’t say I know the man, but I’ve seen him. High up at the Treasury’s what I know,” Kennicott said. “Guess he likes to fondle the money.”

  Stimpson laughed, then choked it off. “Oh, blast, here comes the big gun, and here I’ve got my hands too full to shake his.”

  Adam turned to see a distinguished-looking man of about fifty pushing through the crowd toward them.

  “Good evening, Dr. Henry,” chorused Stimpson and Kennicott. The latter snagged Adam’s arm before he could slip away.

  “Dr. Henry, meet Adam Quinn—quite a raucous, er, I mean, interesting fellow who has a very strong knowledge of the flora and fauna in Lake Michigan. Quinn, allow me to introduce you to Joseph Henry, the director of our fine Smithsonian Institution—or the king of the castle, as we often call him.” Kennicott spoke lightly, but as soon as Adam turned to greet the older man, he and Stimpson gave him unapologetic smiles and slipped off into the crowd.

  As Adam shook Dr. Henry’s hand, he wondered if he was aware of the meetings of the Megatherium Club late into the night—or if he didn’t, and that was why the two naturalists had dodged off.

  “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said.

  And it truly was, for Joseph Henry was known as the preeminent scientist in the United States, and his appointment as director of the institution had come as no surprise. His name was as familiar to the masses as Eli Whitney, Jefferson Davis, and Abe Lincoln himself. In fact, although he’d not been publicly or professionally credited for it, Joseph Henry’s experimentation with creating powerful electromagnets at Princeton University had paved the way for the invention of the telegraph. Though Samuel Morse had invented the telegraph machine, he couldn’t have done so without Dr. Henry’s work.

  “Quinn, you say?” Dr. Henry frowned slightly as he looked up at him. “Adam Quinn. Yes, yes, I thought that name was familiar. I understand you were at the meeting Tuesday night with the other boys. Who, I see, have just slipped off—to find more food, if I know them.”

  Well, that answered one of Adam’s questions. “I was, sir. It was quite enjoyable—and enlightening. I wasn’t certain you were aware of the . . . er . . . club.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing that goes on at the institute that I don’t know about—even Baird’s little gimmick. I suppose I should have no real complaints, considering the amount of work those boys do—all for free. I merely give them a place to bunk and a lab in which to muck about with their specimens, and Baird keeps them in line. Most of the time.”

  He looked beyond Adam as a female voice spoke right at his elbow. “Uncle Joseph, thank goodness I found you. Mr. Farley was asking about—oh. Excuse me.”

  Adam politely edged back to allow her to ease into their group as Dr. Henry said, “You’ll have to excuse my niece, Mr. Quinn. She’s smart as a whip, but rarely remembers to think before she barges in to speak.”

  Adam looked down at the young woman, whose face was blushing very pink. She had mink-like brown hair, a pert nose, and startled gray eyes that he recognized immediately.

  “This is my niece, Sophie Gates,” Dr. Henry was saying.

>   Or, as Adam knew her, Henry Altman.

  CHAPTER 17

  OH . . . FIDDLESTICKS.

  Sophie caught her breath, goggling up at the all too familiar man standing before her.

  Of all the bad, bad luck.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Quinn,” she managed to say. She might have tried to bluster her way through by pretending there was nothing out of the ordinary, but the moment their eyes met, she’d seen the flare of recognition therein. Her only hope was that he’d be as circumspect tonight as he’d been on Tuesday at the Megatherium Club.

  And considering the fact that she’d dodged him then, she doubted the chances were high.

  Fiddlesticks.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Gates.” He spoke in that sort of easy drawl that was different from a southern accent, but much slower and more deliberate than the way people spoke back in New York.

  Uncle Joseph had turned away to greet Mr. Farley—who, drat it, had caused this whole thing in the first place, since he’d had a box of rocks or bones or some such thing he wanted to donate to the institution—and Sophie decided her best course of action was to slip away and find her cousins, the Henry girls.

  But Mr. Quinn was too quick and he stepped directly in her path, then took her arm. “Although you do remind me of a young man I’ve met once . . . or twice. What was his name again? Ah, yes, Henry Altman. He seems to always be sneaking off whenever I want to speak to him. Shall we?” he said in a tone that warned her not to argue. “It’s a bit less crowded over yonder.”

  “I think it’s fine right here,” she said, just as someone pushed past behind her, fairly shoving her into his tall, lanky body.

  That caused him to crack a smile, which, along with the subtle cleft in his clean-shaven chin, made him look less rugged and more handsome than she’d first thought—even with the cuts and bruises on his face. He hadn’t had them at the club meeting, and she wondered how he’d obtained them. And why his sleeve was pinned up. She’d touched his arm at the club and realized it was a prosthetic—but now it was missing.