Murder in the Lincoln White House

by C. M. Gleason

  The fact that she cared enough to wonder annoyed her even more. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Quinn, but I—”

  “Come now, Miss Gates. I did you a favor—quite a favor—on Tuesday night. I reckon you can spare me a bit of your precious time in return.”

  Sophie sighed. She was nothing if not fair, and he did—blast him—have a point. “Very well, Mr. Quinn,” she replied primly. “And I suppose it is in my best interest as a reporter to speak to as many people as possible.”

  “Ah, yes. Your story for the District Herald, is it? The paper no one seems to know about? I begin to wonder whether it even exists—other than in your imagination.”

  She snapped a startled look at him, then couldn’t hold back a grin. “Well, it’s a very small paper. With low circulation.” Which was mortifying, but true. With those words hanging there, she took his arm and allowed him to lead her to a far corner of the packed room.

  Was there a small part of her that was disappointed Mr. Quinn didn’t attempt to take her to a more private place—such as the corridor, or even the far side of the main foyer? No, there certainly was not. He was being quite proper, keeping them both in full view of everyone at the levee.

  “I wanted to speak to you, Miss Gates, because I’ve been asked to discover who killed Custer Billings at the Union Ball, and I—”

  “By whom?”

  He hesitated. “Mr. Lincoln.”

  Sophie couldn’t control her reaction. “The president? Why would the president ask you to investigate?” She couldn’t help but glance in the direction of the man himself, the tallest one in the room, and boxed in by so many people it was a wonder he could breathe.

  Too late, she realized how rude she sounded, and held up a hand to ward off Mr. Quinn’s response as she fumbled to explain herself. “What I mean to say is, how do you know the president that he should put you on such a delicate task? Who are you?”

  Any journalist worth his—or her—salt knew all of the major (and most of the minor) political players in Washington, along with those people with whom the president surrounded himself. In fact, Sophie had been testing herself by identifying as many people here tonight as possible—which was a great number—and mentally reviewing their politics, occupation, and connection (or lack thereof) to the president.

  But before Monday night, when he’d accosted her, she’d never seen nor heard of a man connected to the president named Adam Quinn. And even afterward, there’d been no mention of him in any of the papers, though he’d been at the president’s side during the ball. Who was he?

  Mr. Quinn gave her a small smile that was almost embarrassed. “I don’t reckon it matters who I am, Miss Gates. Nevertheless, the president has set me to the task, and I won’t disappoint him.”

  His prevarication didn’t bother her. Sophie had ways of finding out. She wouldn’t be much of a reporter if she didn’t, would she?

  “So,” she prompted, looking up at him, “you’re working for the president—are you a Pinkerton agent, then?”

  “No, I’m not. But I’m recently from Kansas.” Again he almost smiled, and Sophie realized he was gently teasing her.

  “Very well, then. Enough about you. You’re investigating the murder of Custer Billings and you need my help.”

  “And Lyman Fremark. Were you aware that a second man has been killed?”

  Sophie covered her mouth with a gloved hand. “No, I didn’t know. That’s horrible.” Her last bit of lightheartedness evaporated. “Absolutely horrible.”

  “He was stabbed in this very house. I believe—I’m quite certain—it was the same man who killed Custer Billings.”

  She nodded, suddenly fully cognizant of how serious and dark the situation was. “I’ll assist you however I can, Mr. Quinn. But it might be helpful if you were to tell me what you know. I’m . . . well, I’m rather good at puzzles.” She half expected him to pat her on the head, at least figuratively, and tell her to leave the puzzles to the men—but he didn’t.

  And perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised her, since, after all, this was the man who—for some unknown and happy reason—had not only not dissuaded her from attending the Megatherium Club meeting, but also hadn’t given her away during the whole event.

  Which had been, she had to admit, one of the most fun and enlightening, and even eye-opening evenings she’d ever spent.

  “I reckon there’s no reason not to tell you what I’ve learned, Miss Gates. It might even help me to unravel the twisted ties of this crime a little faster.

  “Custer Billings was stabbed when standing outside the entrance to the dance hall by City Hall. And then his murderer dragged or carried him inside the building, where he was found. Which is why,” he said, looking at her with a glint of humor in his expression, “I’ve eliminated Henry Altman from suspicion—although he was found with the bloody knife and Billings’s coat in the closet. Mr. Altman was far too slight of a person to have been able to hold up, let alone drag, the dead weight into the building without a lot of difficulty.”

  Sophie huffed. “Well, I should say so. I told you I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “But you also told me your name was Henry Altman.”

  She scowled. “Go on.”

  “I’d like to know what you saw when you came into the room, and what happened—how you came to be hiding in the closet with the murder weapon and the man’s coat.”

  “All right. Let me see . . . I left the ball, and I had just left the ballroom to go back through the hallway that led to the anteroom when a man came running toward me. Nearly knocked me over, and he was babbling something about a body. So, of course, I wanted to find out what he was talking about—”

  “Being the journalist that you are—or aspire to be.”

  “Yes, of course.” She shot him a dark look. It was hard enough being taken seriously as a reporter, but it was impossible to be taken seriously as a reporter who was also a woman. “I wasn’t going to miss the chance for a story like that.”

  “I reckon I can understand that. What did you see when you got there?”

  “He was lying on the floor, off to the side. I didn’t see a lot of blood, so I thought perhaps the man who ran past me had made a mistake. I went over to him and knelt down to see if I could help him. Then I saw that the front of his waistcoat had two bloodstains on it. The man wasn’t breathing. I put my ear next to his mouth to check, and then I felt for a pulse. There was nothing.”

  “Where was the knife?”

  She shook her head. “There was no knife. I told you, I saw the bloodstains on his chest, but there wasn’t a knife anywhere.”

  Mr. Quinn was looking at her as if he didn’t actually see her. “Lyman Fremark—the man who found Billings, and who was stabbed Tuesday night—said he saw a knife sticking out of the man’s chest. Are you certain there wasn’t one anywhere?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Mr. Quinn. I do believe I would have noticed if a dagger hilt was sticking out of a man’s chest, especially since I knelt over him. I didn’t see a weapon anywhere, and as I said, I didn’t even think there was all that much blood for a man to be dead.”

  Mr. Quinn’s voice dropped as if he were speaking only to himself. “Then someone—probably the murderer—had time to take the knife out of Billings’s chest and hide it, along with his dress coat, in the closet between when the body was discovered and when you came on the scene. Did you see or hear anyone before you came into the room?”

  “No.” Sophie thought for a moment, trying to relive the moment. “I was running—astonishingly enough, one can actually run when one isn’t encumbered by hoops, petticoats, and high-heeled shoes,” she added, purposely tilting the ungainly cage that exploded out from her waist, “and both my feet and the other man’s feet were making pounding sounds as we ran down the hall in opposite directions. And, of course, the party was very loud.”

  “You tried to determine whether Mr. Billings was really dead . . . and then you hid in the closet
.”

  She nodded. “That’s right. I heard you—someone—coming down the hall, and I wanted to . . . well, I didn’t want to lose my chance on the story, but I also couldn’t . . . didn’t . . . want to be recognized.”

  Mr. Quinn nodded, but his expression was grim. “Miss Gates, didn’t it occur to you that whoever killed him might still have been nearby? Even hiding in the closet?”

  Sophie felt her face lose color. A faint queasiness that had no business living in the belly of a good reporter bubbled up. He had a point. She could have really stepped into the fire. “No. I-I just wanted to hide, and I was hoping that I’d overhear enough to get enough details for the story.”

  She’d seen her opportunity and taken it—as any journalist would have. To be the first (well, second) on the scene of a big story, to have the chance to scoop all the other papers. The Daily Intelligencer or even the New York Times would have to pay attention to Henry Altman then. She’d imagined the headline on the front page of the Times: MURDER AT THE UNION BALL, BY WASHINGTON CORRESPONDENT H. ALTMAN.

  Of course, they wouldn’t know—at least not for a while—that H. Altman was really Sophie Gates. She’d have to write more than one good story to prove that a woman could be just as solid a journalist as a man.

  “Miss Gates, Lyman Fremark is now dead—and I reckon it’s because he saw or thought he saw something that might help identify the murderer.”

  He didn’t need to say any more; Sophie’s belly was already churning—and that just made her even more light-headed and breathless beneath her corset.

  “If there’s any chance he saw you—even in your disguise—”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Quinn. You’ve made your point quite clear. However, there was no one there when I went into the room. I’m certain no one saw me.”

  “So, when you went into the closet, did you notice where the knife and coat were? Did you step on them?”

  “There were other things in there—a broom and mop, a coal bucket and its shovel, and it was all a jumble, so, no, I didn’t notice them.” She’d knocked over the broom and mop, barely catching them before they fell to the ground with a clatter. “Nothing unusual. And the rest of the room was empty—only the body and the walking stick.”

  “A walking stick.” Mr. Quinn’s eyes narrowed. “There was no walking stick in the room when I got there.”

  “Right. Well, there was a walking stick leaning against the wall by the door. I assumed it belonged to Mr. Billings.” She frowned, thinking, remembering. She’d rushed into the room, seen the dead body, tried to revive him . . . then when she heard the sounds of voices coming down the hall, she bolted into the closet—

  “Oh! That’s what happened.” It was clear now. “I heard you coming down the hall—voices, footsteps—and I ducked into the closet. But then I thought I heard the outside door open. I remember expecting someone was going to scream or shout from seeing the body . . . but they didn’t. And I thought, well, maybe whoever it was already knew about the body—like you did—and was just coming from a different direction. To help. But then I nearly knocked over the broom and I had to grab it, and the pail, because I didn’t want to make any noise. It—er—took me a minute to settle things down.” Including the roaring in her ears and the pounding of her heart. She opened her eyes to find Mr. Quinn looking steadily at her. He had very dark brown irises, almost black, and his eyes were ringed with blond-tipped lashes. That made her heart beat a little faster now.

  “And then?” he prompted.

  “And then you and Pinkerton came into the room—quite loudly and obviously, I must say. There was no mistaking your entrance. So I thought maybe I hadn’t heard the outside door after all, or that the person was part of your group. But I’ll bet I was right—he took the walking stick,” she said. “He opened the door, reached in, and retrieved his walking stick.” She suddenly felt a little light-headed. “It must have been the murderer.” What if he’d opened the closet? What if he’d needed to hide in there—when she was already there?

  After a beat, Mr. Quinn nodded. Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. “Miss Gates, you’ve been extremely helpful.”

  “It was my pleasure, Mr. Quinn. I only wish I’d realized it sooner—but when you found me and pulled me out of the closet, the moments following were a bit . . . untenable.” She gave a rueful smile.

  “Thank you,” he said again, then lapsed into that thoughtful silence once more.

  Sophie knew she could make her excuses and return to the party, and he’d no longer detain her, but . . . She drew in a deep breath. “Mr. Quinn, I want you to know I’m grateful for your confidentiality on Tuesday, at the club meeting,” she said quickly.

  “It was quite an enjoyable evening,” he replied, looking down at her with those serious dark eyes once more. “But I intended to see you home. Miss Gates, it’s not at all safe for a young woman—even dressed as a man—to be wandering all about the city at night, alone. Especially with a murderer on the loose.”

  She bit her lip and looked down, then supposed it didn’t matter any longer if he knew the truth. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Quinn. Will it ease your mind to know that when I left the club meeting in the laboratory, I merely went down the institute’s corridor to the East Towers and took the stairs to the second floor—where I live with my Uncle Joe and his family?”

  His eyes widened. “Well, I reckon it would, Miss Gates. Quite a bit, in fact. And that explains why you were able to throw off Agent Pierce on Monday night when he was following you after you . . . er . . . got away from me. You were just going home.”

  “Exactly.” She smiled up at him and felt a surprise stab of warmth when he smiled back. Her heart did a little off-rhythm thump.

  “Your uncle had just finished saying he knew everything that goes on inside the Smithsonian, but I reckon he didn’t know about Henry Altman, did he?”

  Sophie shook her head. “And I beg of you not to tell—”

  “Mr. Quinn.” A female voice filled with the South spoke behind her. Even before Sophie turned, she recognized a layer of steely fury beneath it. “I must have a word with you.”

  Sophie turned to see a strikingly beautiful blonde whose hair was twisted into an intricate design that must have taken hours to create, and a dress that had at least twice as many rows of flounces as it needed. The woman’s broader hoops bumped into Sophie’s as she pushed closer, requiring Sophie to step aside and give the other woman space to move closer to Mr. Quinn.

  “Miss Lemagne,” he replied, then glanced beyond as if he expected someone else to be with her. “Good evening.”

  The woman looked at Sophie with a cool blue gaze. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said, sounding as if she definitely did, “but I must speak with Mr. Quinn. Immediately. About a private matter.” She was pushing the words out from between her teeth.

  Mr. Quinn, for his part, seemed baffled by and yet acquiescent of the blond woman’s rudeness. “Miss Sophie Gates, this is Miss Constance Lemagne. She’s visiting from Alabama.”

  But though she would have given anything to stay and hear what the vibratingly angry southern belle wanted to say to him, Sophie decided to take matters into her own hands before Mr. Quinn could ask her to leave—which would be mortifying.

  “Oh, thank you, Miss Lemagne—I need to speak with Mr. Stimpson, and I was loathe to leave Mr. Quinn alone. I’m certain he’ll be content to speak with you. Good evening, Mr. Quinn. And good luck—with everything.”

  Without a backward look, she flounced off.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE IRRITATINGLY PRETTY MISS GATES HAD HARDLY TURNED AWAY when Constance launched into her attack. “Mr. Quinn, how dare you continue to harass my father! Why, it’s unconscionable the way you’ve been questioning him—accusing him and hounding him day after day.”

  Despite her fury, he kept his expression blankly polite. This made her even angrier, causing her to curl her fingers tightly into her gloved palms. Her breath was short, thank
s to the tight lacing of her corset, and she knew she had to get control of it before she became light-headed and swooned in front of him.

  That would be the worst.

  “Miss Lemagne, as you know, I have a task set before me, and, unfortunately, your father is a suspect in this case.”

  It irked her that he didn’t even try to appease her like any normal gentleman would.

  “I told you we could easily prove he wasn’t the murderer by checking his clothing from that night. To make sure he had the same dress coat,” she said from between gritted teeth. “But you still have to keep nagging him, questioning him, stirring up everything! He came back to the hotel room tonight devastated and angry—practically livid—and it’s all because of you!” She wasn’t going to confess how upset her daddy had been, how he seemed beside himself—not so much with anger, but with sorrow and grief. And those were emotions she didn’t understand, coming from him.

  But despite her pleadings, her father had refused to tell her what was wrong—and where he’d been all afternoon. The only information she was able to glean from him was that Adam Quinn was involved, and that he’d just come from an upsetting conversation with the frontiersman.

  Therefore, Adam Quinn was going to feel the sharp side of her tongue as she skinned him with her words.

  At least that would make her feel a little better.

  “Miss Lemagne,” he said, glancing around as if to make sure no one was close enough to hear, “like it or not, your father has a very strong motive for killing Custer Billings. He was missing during the time of the murder, so he had the opportunity to do so. His knife was found at the scene—and was used to stab him. And he as much as admitted to me that he would have liked to have done it.” He held up a hand when she would have started back at him, shocked that her father would have made such an admission. “He lied to me several times about this situation—and if he had nothing to hide, why would he do so? And although we can look at his clothing, there’s nothing to prove what I’m shown is what he was actually wearing the night of the Union Ball.”