Murder at the Capitol

by C. M. Gleason

  “Well, what is it? Not that I’m in any hurry to get back to work seeing as we aren’t getting paid,” Provest said. “But can’t just let the damned block sit there forever, and I figure the government’s good for it, no matter who wins this damned war. You know Jeff Davis is the one who originally approved the contract for our marble?”

  Adam chose to ignore Provest’s implication that the Union might not remain intact and got to business instead. “You heard about the man found dead in the Rotunda this morning. Name of Pinebar Tufts. Did you know him?”

  “Never heard of him before today. Guess the bastard hanged himself? Why the hell anyone would do a thing like that in the middle of the Capitol, I don’t know. First we had to get the damned soldiers out of the building, now we gotta wait for a body to be cleared out. God rest his soul,” he added mournfully.

  Adam cleared his throat. “Mr. Provest, what time did you arrive this morning? Did you go inside the building, or see anyone leaving?”

  Provest had replaced his cap and now he squinted up at Adam. “Got here at sunrise. Like to watch the way it pours over all the marble there—first it’s nothing but gray and dark lumps, then it goes all soft and brown, then golden, and finally all stark white. Beautiful. You know we mined that up in Massachusetts. Italian marble’s got some pretty colors—pink, veined red, black, and more—but that pure white from up north . . . ain’t nothing like it.” He brushed lightly at his clothing. “I always come home wearing some of it too—like the way she sparkles. Damned impossible to get out of the clothes, though, no matter how hard my missus washes’em. Them little gritty sparkles make me trousers and coat look like the starry sky.”

  “Did you see anyone coming from the Capitol? Or anyone around?”

  “Can’t say that I did. No one else around but me. Even the Auxiliary Guards were off duty by then. That is, if Billy Morris even came on last night. Just as likely he was watching the fireworks with a bottle of whiskey in his hand and slept it off under the tree over there.”

  “Do you have any idea how Tufts might have gotten into the building overnight?”

  “Well, like I said, Billy Morris ain’t really worth the sole of the boots he walks on when it comes to patrolling the grounds and keeping the Capitol safe at night. Since the troops moved out and Morris got assigned here, I can’t say I’ve seen him more than once or twice, though he’s supposed to patrol at night. And I’m here every day, all day, just before sunrise up till after sunset.”

  Adam got the name and address of Billy Morris and thanked Provest for his time. As he walked away, he heard the marble worker referring to the next slab of stone as a “sleek and willing woman, sliding into her bridal bed” and was again thankful Brian wasn’t around to hear.

  But his stomach felt empty and he wondered how soon the boy was going to arrive with the meat pies, for Adam had left the President’s House in a hurry this morning and with nothing in his belly. That had been nearly five hours ago, and truth to tell, he’d had several ales last night during the fireworks. That made a man’s stomach grumbly, especially when it was half a day later and it was still empty.

  As he stood on the portico facing east, overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue, Adam remembered the last time he’d been standing on this very spot: March 4, the day Mr. Lincoln had been inaugurated. That night, a man had been murdered at the celebration ball, and that event had sent Adam into the turmoil of having to find the killer. The president had asked him to help, and then again in April when a soldier was found with a slit throat in the White House, as Lincoln had begun to call the Executive Mansion.

  Adam reckoned he should tell the president about this latest death, especially if the investigation was going to keep him busy and away from the president. He didn’t have a particular job working for Mr. Lincoln—which Adam found both frustrating and liberating—but was usually set to doing special projects the president didn’t trust anyone else to do in a town filled with Southern spies, political maneuverings, and countless people who only wanted Mr. Lincoln to give them a job or grant some other favor.

  Just as Adam started down the steps of the portico, he heard a shout, followed by the shrill, horrified whinny of a horse. He spun in time to see it happen: a two-nag merchant’s wagon overturned, crashing into a smart, sleek but flimsy landau pulled by a single black filly. The nags shrieked and reared, and the filly went down hard onto her tail in a tangle of legs, lines, and bridle. Her driver was thrown out of the open-sided landau, whose red-painted wheel splintered horribly as the small carriage crashed to the street with its driver’s foot caught up in it. The contents of the merchant’s wagon—mostly barrels of flour—tumbled to the ground, rolling into the road beneath the hooves of a pair of chestnuts that almost didn’t stop in time.

  Adam wasn’t the only one running toward the disaster, but he was one of the first to arrive. Seeing that the injured landau driver was being attended to, Adam gave his attention to the filly. He came from behind the downed horse and snagged her reins in an effort to calm her so she wouldn’t kick anyone or injure herself further—a difficult proposition in itself, but made moreso by his handicap. But the filly’s eyes were wild and her elegant, spindly legs worked frantically. Adam was trying to settle her so he could unhitch her and determine how badly she was injured when a small body shoved up next to him.

  “She’s scared,” said Brian Mulcahey, thrusting a warm, aromatic package at Adam as he crouched next to him at the filly’s head, resting a small pale hand between her sleek black ears. He bent close enough to look her in the eye and began to speak in some lilting language Adam didn’t understand—Irish.

  It sounded soothing even to Adam’s ears, and somehow, the words or their cadence penetrated the young horse’s wall of terror as Brian patted her cheek, looking her in the eyes as he murmured on in a lyrical sort of fashion. After a moment, her heaving sides and terrified eyes settled, and she blew out a last agitated snort before she settled on her side, legs sagging to the ground.

  Adam, still holding the packet of meat pies—and, oh, the smell was making his mouth water!—was dazed by his young friend’s calm manner and skill. He patted Brian on the head. “Nicely done, young man. You certainly do have a way with horses. Will you stay with her while I see about her owner?”

  “She’s not hurt bad,” Brian said in a low, confident voice as he continued to stroke the shiny black nose. “She’ll be getting up in a minute. This little lass is a real beauty, she is.” He paused as if to listen, leaning close to the filly. He murmured something else, all the while stroking her over the forelock and down her nose. “She’s hurt, but she’ll be all right. It’s her tail.”

  Adam looked past the filly’s withers, which were flecked with sweat, and saw the odd angle of her tail. It had obviously broken as she fell onto it. If that was the only injury, then he reckoned Brian was correct—the slender girl would be all right in a few months.

  But her driver was likely a different matter. He’d been badly caught up in the accident, his foot wedged between a wheel and the carriage as he was tossed from the vehicle.

  Adam had just pulled to his feet to see if he could be of help with the injured man when he heard a shriek. “Daddy! Daddy!”

  He recognized that voice—Miss Lemagne—and turned in time to see her in a flurry of yellow skirts and trailing ribbons. She flung herself onto the street next to the landau driver, who’d just been extricated from the accident and was now lying in the street.

  “Miss, please,” said one of the men who’d been kneeling next to the man Adam realized was Hurst Lemagne. “I need some room to—”

  “Daddy, are you all right? It’s me, Constance.” Miss Lemagne wasn’t about to be budged from her father’s side. “I’m here . . . I’m right here. Please open your eyes, Daddy.”

  Adam hurried toward her and navigated between the others trying to comfort Lemagne. He bent, offering her an arm. “Miss Lemagne, why don’t we step back and give them some room to see if he can be
moved? Look, he’s opening his eyes—he’s awake. Did someone call for a doctor yet?” he added, looking around at the crowd of people.

  “Yes, they sent for him,” replied a woman, who was helping to keep a small crowd of children from getting too close even while she eyed the goings-on herself.

  “Daddy, it’s going to be all right.” Miss Lemagne had barely glanced at Adam before returning her attention to her parent, who was gray-faced with pain, and panting. “I’m here, and the doctor is coming. He’ll fix y’all up, Ah know it.” As usual, her southern drawl became more pronounced during a moment of high emotion.

  Despite her optimistic words, the situation seemed grim. Hurst Lemagne’s leg was bent at an odd, ninety-degree angle with his left knee toward the other knee, and he was clearly in intense agony. Three men were carefully moving his limbs, trying to find a comfortable position for him—but nothing seemed to ease his discomfort. His daughter took off her shawl and bunched it up, then placed her sketchbook satchel under his head and used the shawl for padding. After, she knelt next to him and refused to leave his side, holding his gloved hand in hers, murmuring to him.

  As there was nothing he could do to assist Miss Lemagne and her father at the moment, Adam helped to roll the barrels back and load them onto the wagon, which had been righted while he and Brian were seeing to the filly. Two of the barrels had split, coating the street, horses, and bystanders with flour, and the owner of the wagon was shouting at someone—apparently whoever had caused the whole accident. Due to their warmth and delicious scent, Adam was acutely aware of the meat pies he’d shoved in his pocket, but now wasn’t the time to pull them out. But his stomach was gnawing, urging him not to wait too long.

  Two constables and one of the provost guards finally arrived and began to try and sort things out while Brian continued to sit with the pretty black horse. She was making signs that she might be ready to stand up.

  “Where is the doctor?” Miss Lemagne cried, looking up with blue eyes filled with tears. “Isn’t he coming? Mah daddy’s in such pain. Can someone bring a drink? He’s thirsty.”

  Adam thought privately that a big swig of whiskey might be more appropriate, but when a young woman offered a jug of water, he said nothing. Instead, he crouched on the other side and helped lift the man’s head enough so his daughter could dribble some into his mouth.

  Just then, a small carriage similar to the one Hurst Lemagne had been driving, arrived with a great clatter of hooves and jingles. A tall, portly man climbed out hurriedly, carrying a medical bag. “I’m Dr. Forthruth. Let me take a look. . . .”

  Now Adam moved around to Miss Lemagne’s side and this time, he took her arm and gently but firmly pulled her to her feet. “I reckon we’d best give the doctor some space to do his job.”

  “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” she asked, looking up at him. Her bonnet was askew and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “He’s awake, and he said my name—so he’s going to be all right.” The second time it wasn’t a question but a statement, and Adam squeezed her arm gently.

  “I’m certain the doctor will do whatever he can.” Adam wasn’t as optimistic. The odd angle of Lemagne’s leg indicated a serious situation. In the best case, the man might be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. And that was the most optimistic.

  “Broken femur,” said Forthruth grimly once he completed his examination. “Right there at the hip. Going to have to set it—”

  “Miss Lemagne, I think it’s best if you step over here with me for a moment,” Adam said, keeping a firm hold of her arm when she would have turned back.

  “No, Mr. Quinn, I-I just can’t. I can’t leave my daddy.”

  “I understand that, but I reckon you don’t want to see what they have to do to put his leg back into position. Please, Miss Lemagne. As soon as they’ve finished, you can go right to his side.” He hoped that while he kept her here—talking, distracted, turned away—the doctor and a few strong men would get the job done.

  He knew what they were going to have to do, and he glanced over just in time to see the doctor at Lemagne’s foot and two men at the other end of the injured man’s body, holding down his shoulders. The physician would have to pull steadily on the shin to get the bones to fit back into place. It was a shame it had to be done on the street in front of everyone, but at least Miss Lemagne wasn’t looking in that direction—

  The doctor moved sharply and Lemagne screamed, arching in agony. Miss Lemagne tore from Adam, crying and running over to her father as Adam spun to go after her.

  Hurst Lemagne was panting and gasping. His face appeared grayer than before and seemed to have shrunken into his skull. His leg was still in the same awful, awkward position it had been, flexing inward, toward the right knee. Miss Lemagne was crying and holding her father’s hand, batting at the three men who’d gathered around to try and set the leg. They stared at her, panting from exertion, when she tried to push them away while huddled next to her father.

  Adam took matters into his own hands. There was no reason to continue this on the street. “Forthruth, we’re going to take him home—or to your office. Your choice. But not here. You’re not doing this again here. We need a wagon,” he added, calling into the spectators, who’d crept in closer as the horrible medical work had begun. “Constable! A wagon to transport this man. Some whiskey too—quickly!”

  Then he turned to Brian, who’d been standing there with the filly—and miraculously back on her feet—holding the bridle and watching with horrified eyes. “Follow us with the girl, all right, Brian? She can walk all right? Here’s your pie.” He dug out the packet and thrust one crumbly, glorious-scented beef pastry at the boy. Then, reluctantly, he shoved the other back into his coat.

  “Miss Lemagne, come now,” he said, pulling her to her feet once more. “Let’s get your father somewhere more private, and something to help with the pain.”

  “They hurt him,” she said furiously. “They just pulled on him—”

  “Yes. They have to do that to get the broken ends of the bone to fit back together or it won’t knit together and heal.”

  “I know that, but why do they have to be so rough?” She began to sob quietly, and Adam realized he didn’t have a handkerchief to offer her as it was still in Mrs. Tufts’s possession. “They were hurting him so badly!”

  “I know,” he said. “It’s an awful thing to watch. We’ll get something to help dull the pain, and I reckon they’ll try again. Surely it’ll work the next time.” Adam held her arm firmly as one of the constables drew a wagon closer. “They’re going to load him in there. Is there a place at Mrs. Billings’s house for him? On the main floor?”

  Miss Lemagne blinked back the tears and seemed to come back to herself. “Yes, yes, I should make a place for him. That’s right, Mr. Quinn.”

  “Constance? Constance, is everything all right? Mr. Quinn, what’s happened?”

  Adam heaved a great sigh of relief when he recognized Miss Gates’s voice. He turned to find her and Clara Barton, whom he’d met previously, standing there with two large satchels bulging with fabric. He remembered she and her friend had been intending to solicit supplies for the military hospital. It appeared they’d found some donations of bandages and blankets.

  “My daddy,” Miss Lemagne said, then burst into tears, her hand waving helplessly at the men loading him into the wagon.

  “Miss Gates,” Adam said, giving her a pleading look. “I reckon Miss Lemagne would appreciate some assistance, as they are bringing her father back to her house. He’s injured quite badly, and she could—well, maybe you could help her.”

  “Of course.” As he’d hoped, Miss Gates stepped up to the problem and took the other woman’s arm. “I’ll be happy to help her, Mr. Quinn.” She gave him a look that indicated she knew exactly how relieved he was to see her—and why.

  Having turned Miss Lemagne over to the capable Miss Gates, Adam went to assist the men settling Hurst into the wagon. The man ha
d fainted again, which was just as well—maybe they’d be able to pull his leg into place before he came to. Adam shook his head as he looked at the patient again. He’d never seen a leg in that position before. Something was very wrong. His optimism, already low, dropped further.

  He was just considering whether to go with the Lemagnes when someone shouted, “Mr. Quinn!”

  Adam turned to see William Johnson, who worked for both the Treasury Department and the president as a messenger, hurrying toward him. The young man had come with the Lincolns and Adam from Springfield as Abe’s valet, and despite his new job, he still went to the mansion every morning to groom and shave the president and lay out his clothing.

  Reading the writing on the wall, Adam gestured to the doctor to take the wagon and his patient on without him, once more thankful that Miss Gates had appeared at a most opportune moment. He would have felt guilty about leaving Miss Lemagne to go on with only strangers to help her. “Hello, William.” He called out and waved so the messenger knew he’d wait.

  As the dark-skinned young man loped up to him, out of breath and hat in his hand, Adam plucked the meat pastry from his pocket and at long last broke his fast.

  “Mr. Quinn, sir, the president is a-wanting you soonest. I been looking for you for more than an hour, sir, and so I think we’d best go back right away.”

  Adam licked his fingers to get the last of the pastry crumbs and nodded, starting off down the Avenue toward the President’s House.

  As he did so, he realized he hadn’t had the chance to ask Brian about a message from George Hilton. He hoped if there was news that it could wait until the president was finished with him.

  * * *

  “Hanging in the Capitol Rotunda, you say?” Mr. Lincoln, whose gray eyes were filled with sober compassion, looked up at Adam from the large table he used as a desk.

  “Yes, sir. He was found early this morning, when they opened up the doors.” Adam glanced out the window of the president’s office, which overlooked an elliptical expanse of grass to the south. The stinky, swampy Canal was beyond the long, broad lawn, down a little incline, and it ran all along the length of the National Mall. One of the troop regiments—he couldn’t remember which one—was practicing a game called baseball there on the lawn.