Murder in the Lincoln White House

by C. M. Gleason

  “Find him,” Adam said flatly. “Find him before he kills again.”

  And then he began to search for Miss Gates. Just in case.

  CHAPTER 19

  “IS EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT, CONSTANCE?”

  She looked up into the concerned eyes of Arthur Mossing, Esquire, and tried not to be irritated that he’d taken to calling her by her familiar name. He clearly assumed their marriage was a foregone conclusion, regardless of her lack of interest in him. She couldn’t completely cut him off socially, but couldn’t he tell she didn’t care for him? At all?

  “I’m just a bit warm,” she lied, seizing on a handy excuse. She noticed that he’d not offered to obtain any refreshment for her tonight—likely due to an effort to keep his waistcoat from getting drenched with lemonade again—and that he’d stuck to her side like a burr since her father had returned her to their group after their conversation with Mr. Quinn.

  She’d gotten the definite impression that Arthur Mossing didn’t like Mr. Quinn. The one day she’d been unable to politely extricate herself from going for a walk with her unwanted suitor, she’d manipulated it so they stopped by the Willard for luncheon. She’d hoped to see Mr. Quinn, but she learned he’d been injured by an attack by thugs the night before. And Arthur had seemed almost smug about the fact that the man was laid up. He was such a prig.

  But Mr. Quinn. Now if he were interested in her sticking to his side all night, she wouldn’t dream of spilling lemonade on him. For all his rough manners and less than polished dress—and even his lack of wealth—he was far more attractive to her than the prim lawyer stuck to her side.

  “It is rather warm in here,” Mr. Mossing agreed. “But I am still hoping to shake the president’s hand.”

  He frowned as he adjusted his coat sleeve and the shirt cuff beneath it, looking along the line that had been never-ending since their arrival. He’d jockeyed them into place near the curve in one corner. “All those foreign dignitaries. You’d think the president’s first levee would only be for his countrymen.”

  “I’d be very grateful for something to drink, Mr. Mossing,” she said firmly. “Even just a cup of water.”

  He sighed. “Very well, but promise me you’ll wait here and save my place in line. The table is only right there; I won’t be gone long.”

  “Of course,” she replied, mostly meaning it. She wouldn’t mind shaking the hand of the president—even though she was a Southerner. Her father might despise him and the Republicans, but Constance didn’t have such strong opinions. Besides, he was, no matter how you looked at it, the president of the United States.

  From everything she’d heard and seen about Mr. Lincoln, he was a fine man. A little rough and uncivilized like someone else she knew, but that wasn’t all bad.

  The line had hardly moved by the time Arthur returned (Constance supposed it was permissible to think of him by his familiar name at this point), carrying two cups, and with his walking stick stuck under his arm.

  As he slid into place back in line, handing Constance her cup, he bumped the person behind them with the end of his walking stick, and turned to offer his apologies.

  When he pivoted, Constance noticed a subtle streak of white on the back of his coat. “You’ve got a bit of chalk on the back of your dress coat,” she murmured as he turned back around, walking stick safely back in hand, cup in the other.

  It would be awkward for her to brush it off—considering where the dirt was located—but it was here in public and he couldn’t remove his coat nor reach it.

  “How noticeable is it?” he asked, then drained his drink and set the cup on a nearby table. “Should I leave and find a lounge so I can attend to it?”

  He sounded tense and concerned, which was no surprise. He was all about appearances and propriety. She doubted he would risk meeting the president with chalk stains on his coat, even though Mr. Lincoln would surely be oblivious.

  In fact, she rather hoped he would go off and take care of it, so she could be rid of his company. Perhaps she could help him on his way....

  Doing her best not to appear to be staring at his behind, Constance angled around to take a better look. And that was when she noticed something strange.

  “Your dress coat is different,” she said without thinking.

  “Pardon me?” Arthur turned abruptly, spearing her with his eyes.

  Constance suddenly felt as if she couldn’t draw in a breath—then she expelled it. How silly. “I just noticed—your coat . . . it’s different. From your trousers.” Even as she said the words, icy disbelief and confusion gripped her.

  No.

  Don’t be a goose.

  She couldn’t contain a shiver.

  “What on earth do you mean?” Arthur had stepped very close to her, and somehow, over the dull roar of the packed room and the louder roaring in her ears, she heard a faint, metal click.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. But her head felt light, and her cheeks were clammy, and her insides were churning. “I need—”

  “I think you need some air, Miss Lemagne,” he said, taking her by the arm and drawing her very close to him. “Right now.”

  She would have declined, pulled away, made some sort of protest, but all at once, she felt something sharp poking her between the boning of her corset.

  “Now, Constance,” he said quietly. “Walk with me now, and everything will be all right. I promise.”

  CHAPTER 20

  ADAM LOOKED EVERYWHERE FOR MISS GATES, BUT THE RECEPTION was so crowded it was like wading upstream while the fish were all swimming down—and it was made even worse by obstacles such as stray walking sticks and stiff, broad skirts.

  He was also watching for Orton as he pushed through the people. He noticed Miss Lemagne standing in the reception line with Mr. Mossing, waiting to shake the hand of Mr. Lincoln, but she didn’t notice him.

  Pushing through the crowd left him sweaty and irritated, as it seemed as if he could only take three steps at a time, then had to change his direction to get past nonmoving obstructions—usually a cluster of skirts—and then take only a few more steps. He didn’t think the Union Ball had even been this crowded. He wondered how everyone was going to retrieve the coats and wraps they’d left in the coat room when the party was over. It was going to be a mad scramble.

  “Quinn!”

  He heard his name over the constant buzz of conversation and laughter, and turned to see Stimpson and Kennicott plowing their way through the crowd toward him. The two of them seemed to pay no mind to the ladies as they pushed and inserted themselves between and around gossiping partygoers.

  “I saw him,” Stimpson said when he got close enough. “He was just over there, getting something to drink.”

  Adam turned to look where he’d pointed—a futile effort, for it was on the other side of a decorative screen that was intended to help break up the room—and then started off in that direction. The other two remained with him. “Where is he? Do you see him now? What does he look like?”

  Stimpson brayed a laugh. “Like every other damned man here—wearing a top hat, a black dress coat, and carrying a walking stick. Brownish beard, light brownish hair—he was right there, getting two cups of lemonade. I don’t see him anymore.” He paused, stopping stock-still in the middle of the room so that someone bumped into him from behind.

  “Stimpy, here,” called Kennicott. He’d somehow obtained a chair, and he wrestled it through the crowd, plopping it right where his friend was standing.

  Adam waited impatiently as Stimpson climbed up and looked around the room, making a small circle on the chair. “Why didn’t we think of this before?” he asked, still circling—and oblivious to the stares and comments he raised from the spectators around him. “I don’t . . . wait. Is that him? No . . . damn.”

  The chair was jostled by someone walking past, and Stimpson barked down at Kennicott, “Hold it steady, will you?”

  Adam chafed at the delay and was just about ready to knock the man off
so he could look himself—for both Orton and Miss Gates—when Stimpson said, “There he is. Right there. Looks like he’s got a very pretty lady on his arm too—saw you talking to her earlier tonight, there, Quinn,” he said, sending Adam’s heart into a sharp lurch.

  A lady he’d been talking to earlier? How had Miss Gates gotten herself into such a mess?

  “Let’s go,” Adam said.

  Stimpson leaped down from his perch without regard to the crowd that had begun to fill in around the chair. As he landed, he bumped into a man who knocked into another man and sloshed his drink all down the back of a woman’s gown.

  Adam didn’t wait to see how that mess was resolved. He took off in the direction Stimpson had indicated, hoping he was behind him—but now he was more terrified that Miss Gates was in the hands of the murderer.

  “Where is he? Do you see him?” he asked, stopping when he was nearly across the room. He hadn’t seen either Orton or Miss Gates, and he was getting concerned.

  When no one responded, he turned to look and realized he’d lost Stimpson and Kennicott during his breakneck crossing of the room. Dammit. Dammit.

  He was balancing on his toes, turning in a small, desperate circle, when someone bumped into him from behind.

  “Mr. Quinn!”

  He staggered, catching himself, as he turned to find Miss Gates standing there. He had a moment’s rush of relief that she was there, and safe, before he registered what she was saying. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were pink with excitement, and she was holding a slender black dowel decorated with brass fittings.

  He knew immediately that it was the bottom half of a walking stick. The walking stick.

  “I’m so relieved I found you,” she gasped, out of breath with exertion. Worry and fear shone in her eyes as she thrust the wooden object toward him. “This is it, Mr. Quinn. I recognized it; I saw it and I recognized it. Because of all the decorative fittings—see?”

  “Where did you get this?” he demanded, looking around. “And where’s the other part?”

  “I just saw it on the floor, just now, over there,” she said, pointing in the direction Stimpson had indicated.

  “Did you see who had it? Who was holding it?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but I found it near where Miss Lemagne was standing in the receiving line. She was with a gentleman.”

  “Quinn, they’re gone.” Kennicott pushed through the crowd, his eyes dark and concerned. “Stimpy saw them—they just went out that door. He was walking with that blond woman you were speaking with. They were walking quickly, that way.”

  That blond woman he was speaking with?

  Miss Lemagne.

  “Get Pinkerton.” Adam started toward the door, still holding the bottom half of the walking stick, pushing rudely between the guests.

  The murderer had the top half of the walking stick—and Adam feared he knew exactly what he was going to do with it.

  Cold fear rushed through him, but his mind was clear. He had to find her.

  * * *

  It was well past the ten o’clock curfew, but that didn’t stop George Hilton from parking his wagon on the muddy, straggling grass down the hill from the President’s House. There was nowhere else to park, for the roads and areas along them were clogged with vehicles for at least a mile in every direction.

  He’d driven Miss Lizzie earlier today, when she came to deliver Mrs. Lincoln’s dress—she could never have managed the beautiful, bulky garment without a ride—and now he was here to pick her up.

  But she’d never find his wagon in the dark, amid all the other carriages and barouches and landaus, he reasoned. And he didn’t like the idea of her walking out by herself, at night, after curfew, and around a lot of men who’d likely been drinking.

  So he tied up his horse to a tree and turned to his companion. “Stay here.”

  Brian Mulcahey, the twelve-year-old Irish boy who’d been befriended by Quinn, looked up at him with mutiny in his eyes. “But can’t I come and look at the house, mister—I mean, Doctor?”

  Somehow—George wasn’t certain precisely how—he’d acquired a shadow in Ballard Alley.

  He and Brian had first encountered each other on the night Quinn was beaten up, and then, the next day when he came to see to his patient at the Willard, the boy had been loitering about. He’d been desperate to see how his mentor was faring, and George didn’t have the heart—or the strength, because the kid was damned determined—to turn him away.

  Since then, he’d seen the kid around the alley and had given him a few things to do to earn a few coins. Mainly so he’d quit bothering him. George thought tonight he’d leave Brian with the wagon and horse while he went up to get Miss Lizzie, but now that was in jeopardy.

  “Someone’s gotta stay here with Hellman,” he told the boy. His voice was gruff because, well, hell, he knew how the kid felt. He wanted to see the house too.

  “Fine,” said Brian, sulking and scooching down in his seat in the wagon. “Thank you, mister-doctor,” he added belatedly, as if the thought of his mother had reminded him.

  “I’ll be back soon.” George tucked away the slight bit of guilt—the horse really wasn’t going anywhere—and started his way toward the majestic house, raised up on a small incline.

  Though it sprawled like a scattering of wooden blocks at either end, the main part of the mansion was just about one of the most awe-inspiring things he’d ever seen. Its white exterior picked up an ice-blue shine from the moon, making it look pristine and powerful. Even pure, though he knew, of course, that nothing related to politics was pure.

  Still. He sure would like to have a look inside someday.

  A look inside the house of the man everyone said would free the slaves.

  Because there’d been no room to park on the main driveway that led up on the north side of the house, from Lafayette Square, George was approaching the mansion from the southwest—an angle that was dark and deserted, for everyone had entered from the north, main side of the house. He hoped that would help keep him in the shadows and unnoticed by anyone who wanted to give him a hassle.

  But as he drew closer, he saw the shadows of two figures coming from around the far side of the mansion. It was easy to discern the shapes of a man and a woman in the moonlight.

  George hesitated, keeping to the shadows of the beautiful landscaped gardens that surrounded the house. It was best if he wasn’t seen . . . and likely the couple would prefer not to be observed as well—for there was only one reason a man and woman sneaked out from a party, into the dark by themselves.

  He smiled, suddenly reminded of the sweet and soft Marie-Louise Carpier from . . . well, from years ago in Montreal. He didn’t like to think about her too much because it made his heart hurt, but there had been good memories too.

  As he made his way closer, he could hear that the couple was in a fervent conversation. Once again, he hesitated. He didn’t really want to be privy to anyone’s personal conversation—or private activities.

  That never led to anything good, his mama always told him.

  Yet there was something about the couple that drew his attention. Something was wrong.... It was the way they were moving. She seemed agitated, and the man with her seemed almost threatening.

  George swallowed his concerns and edged around a low brick wall, moving silently and carefully. The last thing he needed was to be caught—a black man, after curfew, sneaking around the President’s House, spying on someone—but his instincts urged him on.

  “It was you,” said the woman in a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. Hers was a southern accent, cultured and with a hint of gentility despite what seemed to be a moment of tension. “All along, it was you. And you made it look like my father was guilty of stabbing that man.”

  With a shock, George not only recognized her voice now—it was Quinn’s Miss Lemagne—but he also realized what she was talking about.

  Oh, Christ Jesus. His heart nearly stopped.

  “They wou
ldn’t have hanged him,” said the man roughly. “I’d have stepped forward and given him an alibi when he needed it. And then I would have been a hero. Your hero.”

  “But why did you do it, Arthur?” Miss Lemagne’s voice shook, and it was high and tight, but it wasn’t hysterical.

  “Partly because of you, Constance. You weren’t giving me the time of day, and you’ve been promised to me for years.”

  “Me, and all my father’s money,” she said in a bitter voice that wafted to George’s ears from across a bed of low-cut shrubs.

  “Your father.” His voice was bitter. “Half his money belongs to me. If they hang him, I won’t shed a single tear.”

  “What—what do you mean?”

  “He forced my father to sell the textile business to him, instead of letting me keep it. I should have been running Mossing Textiles, instead of being a drudge-working lawyer. But my father made some bad investments in ’58—with the financial help of Custer Billings—and your father bought him out and obtained a controlling interest in Mossing Textiles. I didn’t even know about it—that my future, my inheritance, was caught up in Hurst Lemagne’s pockets—until my father was on his deathbed. Father said it would be fine, that I’d get the business back when I married you. So, yes, I’d been promised you—and my inheritance—for years. But don’t misunderstand, my dear. You are a fetching reason to marry, all on your own.” He pulled her close and kissed her so roughly she bent backward.

  George curled his fingers into furious fists and took the chance of dashing across an exposed expanse of garden path while the couple struggled. His movement brought him closer . . . close enough to see that this man named Arthur had a long, slender, shining blade pressed against Miss Lemagne’s side, just above where her broad skirts erupted.

  Which meant that he couldn’t just lunge out of the dark for fear of startling the man, for that blade could slide home in an instant.

  He knew. He’d seen the man’s work on two dead bodies.