As Annabelle turned slightly so as to better regard her companion, she noticed the smeared blood still on the sleeve of her white jacket. Her eyes widened and she tried in vain to brush it away. Was this why they were holding her? Did they think she had been lying about her involvement? She’d told them about the injured man in the president’s booth, whom she’d since discovered was a man by the name of Mr. Rathbone.
She glanced at the other woman and noticed her staring at the copper colored stain. “I tried to help him, but the doctor sent me out,” she said softly.
“Mr. Lincoln?” Miss Taylor asked, her voice threaded with both dread and awe.
Annabelle shook her head. “No, though I tried to help him as well. There was another man in the box who had been badly cut with a knife.” She gestured toward her sleeve. “When he took my arm to ask me to remain outside, he must have had blood on his hand.”
Miss Taylor seemed to relax a bit. “Did you see it, then?”
“I was there. It was…horrible. Poor Mrs. Lincoln…” The woman’s distressed cries had been so wretched. “What about you, Miss Taylor?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m married.”
“Mrs. Taylor,” Annabelle corrected. “Did you see anything?” The woman must know something, or she wouldn’t be here.
Mrs. Taylor clamped her hands in her lap. “All I know is what they were saying on the streets.”
Annabelle frowned. “What do you mean? You were not in the theatre?”
“No, miss. I was just on my way to the kitchens at the boarding house where I work when I heard this big commotion. People were out in the streets shouting about a great tragedy. I was much distressed about it, but I had to get to work, so I hurried on. But just as I got there, some lawmen were knocking on the door to question the matron, and they saw me trying to go around the back way, like I always do.” She twisted her hands together. “They made me come back here.”
“Where is it you work?” Annabelle asked, thinking it rather odd the woman would be heading to work in the middle of the night.
“The Surratt Boarding House.”
Annabelle’s eyes widened, and Mrs. Taylor hurried on. “I make the bread, miss. That’s why I have to be there so early, to get the dough ready for the breakfast. The matron doesn’t tolerate anyone coming late.” She started to wring her hands again. “I for sure have lost my employ now.”
Annabelle chose her words carefully. “So at this place—where you work in the kitchen—there were already lawmen there when you arrived?”
“Yes.”
Annabelle’s thoughts flittered around the implications. “What time was that?”
The other woman answered slowly, as though unsure telling Annabelle such a thing would be prudent. “Around four, miss.”
Annabelle chewed her lip. Four o’clock this morning. That had been about the time they had made plans to come to the Washington police, so the lawmen had already gone to the boarding house before hearing her, Matthew, and George’s story. Who else had tipped them off about the Surratt house? “Well, now, I wonder what they were doing there, so far away from the theatre?” Annabelle mused, making herself seem only mildly interested.
Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “I sure don’t know, miss.” She looked back at the door. “But we need the money I make from that job, times being what they are and all.”
Annabelle reached over and patted the woman’s arm. “Surely your employer will understand, knowing what must have occurred.”
The other woman looked doubtful. “Hope so, miss.”
“Do you have any suspicions about why they would have been there at such an odd hour?” Annabelle prompted.
“As I said, I surely don’t. Maybe it had something to do with one of the matron’s boarders, but I wouldn’t know. I only work in the kitchen for the morning and noon meals. I never go into the main house, and I don’t know anything about who stays on there.”
“I stayed there, once,” Annabelle said, tucking a stray strand back into her hairpin.
“Did you now, miss?” The woman’s brown eyes widened. “Is that why you are here?” She leaned forward.
Annabelle offered a half-hearted smile. How much should she tell? Better keep things to herself, for now. She waved her hand, dismissing the notion. “Oh, no. I was at the theatre, remember?”
“Oh, yes.” Alice Taylor’s face fell, the curiosity in her eyes replaced by a cool indifference. “Apologies, miss.”
“None needed.” Annabelle plucked at a loose thread on the embroidery of her skirt. “I believe being in the theatre is what led to my current detainment, but I did stay for a short while at that very boarding house about a month past, on my way through to visit my family in New York.”
Mrs. Taylor nodded and fell silent. Annabelle drew her bottom lip through her teeth. Why would they detain the kitchen cook from the boarding house? Were there others of the house here as well? Was her talking about her time in the Surratt house the true reason they were keeping her? Perhaps there had been more going on there than they had known.
Annabelle rubbed her temples and tried to push the thoughts aside. It mattered little. She would be here until Booth was caught and then…well, hopefully, then she would be free to go. Her thoughts turned to the others. What about Matthew and George? Were they being held as well? The answer beat in her head, in rhythm with her fluttering heart. Of course they were. At least Grandmother had not come with them to the lawmen. Hopefully, that meant she would remain free.
Trying not to become overly anxious, Annabelle took a ragged breath and reminded herself that the best thing would be to pray for help. She’d told herself to stop doing everything her own way. So far, that approach had done little more than drop her into quite a bit of trouble. Annabelle turned back to Mrs. Taylor and offered a timid smile. “Are you a praying woman?”
Matthew crossed his arms. “What sort of proposition?”
Mr. Fitch did not answer immediately. Instead, he stroked his mustache and regarded Matthew with cautious eyes. “Are you familiar with the law, Mr. Daniels?”
“As much as any man, I suppose,” Matthew answered. Where was the man going with this? Had he broken some unknown Yankee ordinance? His foot began to twitch.
Mr. Fitch cleared his throat. “Well, the law states that an accused cannot bear witness.”
Matthew stiffened.
Mr. Fitch watched him a moment longer then gave a curt nod as though making up his mind on some internal debate. “I think, then, that it will be my recommendation that you would be more useful as a witness than as an accused.”
Matthew relaxed slightly. He opened his mouth to inquire about George and Annabelle, but the policeman continued speaking.
“Of course, you do understand that the words of a known Rebel will naturally be regarded with suspicion.”
Matthew glared at the man, who didn’t seem at all disturbed by the frustration seething in Matthew’s tone. “I have already told you, detective, I had nothing to do with the murder and have offered my information freely to aid in your search. The war is finished now, and you have won. What does it matter if I fought for Mississippi? I have come here to help you.”
The other man said nothing.
“Perhaps that was a mistake,” Matthew said, beginning to rise.
“Of course, if you were to sign allegiance papers….” Mr. Fitch replied, giving Matthew a meaningful look as he twisted his mustache.
Matthew stilled, dropping back into his seat. “The war is over. What would you need that for?”
“Over, perhaps, but not entirely finished.” Mr. Fitch drummed his fingers on the desk, then gave a shrug. “Besides, the words of a loyal Unionist certainly would be more…acceptable… to a military court, wouldn’t you say?”
Military court? The implications swirled in Matthew’s gut, though he tried to keep any emotions from leaping up onto his face.
Mr. Fitch watched Matthew closely.
“Perhaps,” Matth
ew finally replied.
Mr. Fitch ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “However, I can see your point. It’s merely a formality at this point.”
Matthew began to relax. “Indeed.” At least the man could see logic.
“Though, your sincerity would be more solid, of course, if your loyalty was proven,” Fitch said, trampling on Matthew’s hope the man would let the issue drop.
Matthew stiffened again. “Proven?” He forced his voice to lower before he started to yell at the officer. “How much more proof do you need, man? I’ve already given you the information to catch the murderer, and have told you where another would-be murderer is located. For heaven’s sake, I put my own life at risk to save a Yankee general! What more proof could you possibly want?”
Mr. Fitch seemed to consider Matthew’s words for a moment before speaking again. “Indeed, you have.” He tapped a finger on his desk. “But these are all claims that have yet to be proven, unfortunately.”
Matthew clamped his mouth shut, lest it begin to spew forth heated words. He was already at the mercy of the Yanks. He spoke slowly, keeping his tone even. “How else, then, might I prove my intentions, sir?”
Mr. Fitch reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a slip of paper. The words Oath of Allegiance were printed in large letters across the top. “First, you would need to sign the proper paperwork. Then, as a loyal patriot, you would want to aid your country in the search and capture of the conspirators, would you not?”
“What about my brother and my…Miss Ross?”
Mr. Fitch smiled. “Well, we would keep them safe until you return, of course.”
Matthew’s nostrils flared. “And after I return?”
“Then as would be the duty of any patriot, they would wish to give their testimony as well to the military court.” His words were light, but their meaning fell heavy in the room.
Matthew leaned forward. “As witnesses, not as accused?”
“Most likely,” Fitch agreed, and then hastily added, “if they have shown they are not involved with the assassination.”
Matthew’s stomach soured. Annabelle and George had both been at the theatre last night. George, thankfully, had not been present for anything else, but Annabelle had been involved in the abduction plot, thanks to Matthew. That wouldn’t bode well for her.
“Once the assassin has been caught,” Mr. Fitch said, interrupting Matthew’s thoughts, “then we will begin to release people who will not stand as accused.” He tapped the paper. “And Union citizens will be allowed to return to normal life while they wait to testify.”
Matthew eyed the paper sitting between them on the desk and withheld a snort. Normal life. Such a thing no longer existed. He set his jaw. What did the formality of allegiance papers matter now, anyway? The South had already lost the war and would be subject to Union law again. He picked up Mr. Fitch’s pen, twisting it in his fingers. “In what way would I aid in the capture of Booth, Mr. Fitch?”
The man smiled, sensing his victory. “Seeing as you claim to know where the murderer might be going, after you aid the detectives with a few things here in Washington, I’d like for you to go with one of my detectives on the pursuit. You can join up with one of the dispatches, the sixteenth New York Cavalry, I believe.”
Join the Yankee Army? Never! Mathew leaned back, away from the traitor’s papers.
“A mob tried to burn the Old Capitol Prison. Did you know that?” Mr. Fitch said softly, toying with the edge of the paper.
Matthew narrowed his eyes. “And?”
Mr. Fitch lifted his shoulders. “Well, it seems the longer the assassin remains free, the more the people try to take out their anger on the Rebels. With all of our men trying to calm the fighting in the streets, who knows how long we will be able to keep things… under control. Seems to me like the best way to keep everyone in holding safe would be to bring the man to justice as quickly as possible.”
The words were simple, delivered without the first trace of malice. Even still, the underlying threat caused Matthew’s lip to curl. The meaning was clear. Sign and aid the Yanks, or leave his brother and Annabelle to even more dangers than they already faced.
Matthew clutched the pen so tightly he felt it begin to crack, then he dipped it in the well and scrawled his name upon the line.
Mr. Fitch folded the paper away and smiled.
“I firmly believe, that if he had remained at the White House on that night of darkness, when the fiends prevailed, he would have been horribly cut to pieces—Those fiends had too long contemplated this inhuman murder, to have allowed him to escape.”
Mary Lincoln
What an odd way to spend Resurrection Sunday, Matthew thought as he followed men in blue uniforms and a small number of inquisitors down the streets of Washington. It had taken some time, but Mr. Fitch had apparently accomplished whatever needed to be done to place Matthew under the suspicious eyes of the Yankee procession that walked somberly around him. The fact that it was now eleven o’clock at night seemed to have no bearing on their mission.
He’d spent Easter in encampments, and had listened to Army preachers give the same story each time. Not much different from his Easters at Westerly in that regard. But in all of his twenty-five years, he would have never thought to be spending Resurrection Sunday in the company of enemy troops on his way to aid in the questioning of a Washington boarding house matron. One whom, he felt quite certain, would be loathe to lay eyes on him.
Even at this hour, the church bells continued to toll their lament. Matthew had heard some of the Yanks comment that the bells had rung even throughout church services this morning. Services where the preachers compared the loss of Lincoln to the loss of Christ.
Absurd. Though Matthew never claimed to really know Him, even he understood that saying such a thing was blasphemy. They called Lincoln the Great Liberator—the one who would bring peace, restoration, and equality to America. Even if that were all true, which Matthew doubted, it still didn’t make the man on the same plain as the Almighty. The fact that the Yanks would even dare say so was evidence they couldn’t be trusted.
The group came up to the steps of the Surratt house and Matthew focused on the issue at hand. What did it matter what they labeled Lincoln? Liberator or tyrant, he was dead, and unlike Christ, he wouldn’t be coming back. A blasphemous comparison, indeed.
Major H.W. Smith pounded heavily on the door of the Surratt house as Matthew came to a stop at the rear of the inquisition party. The curtains of the window moved, and someone called out just loudly enough for Matthew to catch the words.
“Is that you, Mr. Kirby?” The feminine voice barely penetrated the door enough for Matthew to catch it, but the woman’s tone seemed to harbor no concern.
Major Smith cast a curious look over to one of the detectives, who then scribbled something in a little book that matched the one Mr. Fitch carried. The major leaned toward the door. “It is not, but you are to open the door, madam.”
Presently, the door opened and Matthew saw Mrs. Surratt in the entryway, her straight back and calm demeanor giving no evidence she feared the men who had come upon her home at such an hour.
“Are you Mrs. Surratt?” Major Smith inquired, his stern voice indicating that he already knew the answer to his question.
She dipped her chin. “I am the widow of John H. Surratt,” she answered, her gaze darting from the major and to the men standing behind him.
“And the mother of John H. Surratt, Jr.?” he pressed.
Just then, her gaze fell on Matthew, and fire lit in her eyes. “I am,” she said. Her lip curled, but then, just as quickly as the hatred had colored her features, indifference once again settled. Her gaze slid away from Matthew and returned to the major at her door.
“I have come to arrest you and all in your house, and take you for examination to General Augur’s headquarters,” the man stated bluntly.
Making no inquiry as to why, and giving no indication of distress over the new
s, Mrs. Surratt stepped back from the door and granted the party entrance. The last to enter, Matthew met her eyes as he stepped inside. She regarded him coldly, making no further effort to hide her distain.
What did she think of him coming here, in the presence of the Union Army? She thought him a traitor, most likely, and he couldn’t say that she would be wrong.
Interesting label, Matthew thought. A traitor to one is but a patriot to the other. All a matter of perspective, he supposed. At the moment, however, he wished to be neither. He wanted only to see this thing finished, his brother and lady safe, and to return home. Mrs. Surratt glared at Matthew as he passed, and for a moment he thought she would unleash a string of accusations against him. She didn’t, however, and Matthew stepped aside to watch what would become of her.
The men were seen to the parlor, and Mrs. Surratt, a lady identified as Surratt’s daughter, and a couple of others Matthew had never seen before were rounded up to leave. Matthew watched the goings on with interest, curious at the calm the women displayed. Did they not see the peril of their condition?
After a few moments another man entered, whom Matthew guessed to be another detective. The staunch man stomped his feet and shook off his jacket before tucking his cane-reinforced top hat under his arm. His gaze landed on Matthew and he frowned. He opened his mouth to speak but a knock, followed quickly by the ring of the bell at the door, turned their attention toward the entrance. The newcomer cast one last look at Matthew and then spun and reached for the door.
From his position just inside the parlor doorway, Matthew had a good look at the caller when the door swung open. Surprise settled on them, and for a moment, no one spoke. There in the entryway stood a man dressed in a fine gray coat, black pantaloons, and a polished pair of boots. This in itself might not have been any cause for curiosity, but upon his head the man wore a gray shirt-sleeve, hanging over at one side. Matthew gaped at the man. He’d rolled one leg of the pantaloons up over the top of his boot, and slung a pickaxe across one shoulder. He looked like a man who had tried to hurriedly construct some type of disguise, and had failed quite miserably.
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