Murder at the Capitol

by C. M. Gleason

  He could make out the white, pencil-like stub of the unfinished Washington Monument out on the Mall. Next to it was the slaughterhouse that had been constructed in order to provide food for the troops. About a month ago, an entire herd of cows and steers—which had been left to graze on the Mall—had fallen into the Canal. It had taken a dozen men more than a day to herd the cattle out of the sludgy water, and even then, they lost six of them.

  “A terrible thing, to be sure. And a shock to those who found him,” the president said. “Poor man.”

  “Yes, sir. There was a small crowd of people just coming inside—apparently to hear the Senate this morning.”

  Lincoln nodded and reached for a bowl of peanuts among the papers on his desk. “They found him hanging, and someone called you in to investigate.” A glint of satisfaction flared in the president’s eyes. “Your reputation begins to precede you, Adam. Mr. Pinkerton might soon have a competitor to contend with.” He chuckled and swiped up a scoop of peanuts in his knobby hand. Twisting, cracking, and then popping the shell apart, Lincoln tossed a few nuts into his mouth. Adam suspected that was the extent of the man’s meal for the day thus far, as Mrs. Lincoln was out of town and not there to badger him into eating. “Who was it that thought to send for you?”

  Adam gritted his teeth, though he wasn’t certain why he was hesitant to answer. “It was Sophie Gates and Constance Lemagne, sir.”

  “Both of them?” The president’s dark bushy brows rose into the shock of unkempt hair that flopped on his forehead. Adam was reminded that he himself wasn’t the only scruffy, uncouth frontiersman attempting to live among the society of Washington, D.C. “How fortuitous that both young ladies were present.” Lincoln chuckled as he twisted, cracked, then liberated several more nuts, popping them into his grinning mouth. “I reckon you’ve got some admirers, Adam. Not an untenable place to be for a handsome young man.”

  “They’re both very nice young ladies,” Adam said. As he did so, it came as a mild shock to him that one of them seemed to intrude on his thoughts more often than not—and at unexpected moments. It had been a long time since he’d even thought about wooing a woman, let alone met one that was appropriate to woo. Especially since he’d lost his arm.

  “Not the least bit hard on the eyes, neither of them, if I recollect right—and I’m sure I do.” Lincoln grinned, then picked up a pen and stabbed it into the ink bottle. “Well, I must say I fully support the idea of you sparking one—or both of them,” he added with a sudden twinkle. “There’s something to be said for a soft, warm, sweet-smelling woman in a man’s life—and, one hopes, eventually in his bed. I highly recommend it, Adam.”

  Adam’s face warmed, not because of the sentiment so much as the fact that it was the President of the United States who was making a lewd comment—and because Lincoln’s very circumspect secretary John Nicolay was sitting at a nearby table, scritch-scratching at some document or other. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to be paying any attention.

  Or at least, Adam didn’t think the sober, correct Nicolay was paying attention until he saw the man’s mouth curve in suppressed laughter behind his mustache. “Mr. President, might I remind you that General Scott and General McDowell will be here at any moment.”

  “Damn. I suppose that means I’d best drag myself down the stairs. Scott can’t make the trip up them anymore, the plagued old goat. Couldn’t even stand at yesterday’s parade. ’Course that made me easiest the tallest man on the stand, even without my hat, so I’m not complaining.” Lincoln chuckled to himself and unfolded that long, angular body from its chair. “Especially since I was the recipient of a kiss from a handsome woman.”

  Adam frowned. Unlike his secretaries and bodyguards, Lincoln had found it amusing that yesterday, during the Independence Day parade of soldiers past the Executive Mansion, a woman had run from the crowd, somehow bounded up the steps of the stand in her skirts and crinolines, and given the president a large, smacking kiss on the cheek before turning and slipping back into the crowd. And no one had stopped her.

  “Let’s be thankful she wasn’t carrying a knife or a pistol she meant to use,” Adam said flatly. “She got close enough to do either—and easily enough. Abe—”

  “And let’s make certain Mrs. Lincoln don’t hear about that,” the president added hastily, looking at Adam with a jaundiced eye. He hated getting lectured about the lack of security around himself and refused to do a thing about it, and he knew the rare moments Adam called him by his familiar name meant he was about to call upon their friendship and history and pressure him. “Never can tell what will set that woman off.”

  As Mrs. Lincoln’s fits and moods were a common topic among those who lived in the President’s House, Adam was inclined to agree. Knowing it was a losing prospect to continue the conversation about the president’s safety and that he would have to leave for his meeting, he said, “There’s something I must tell you about Mr. Tufts—”

  The door flew open and two bodies hurtled themselves into the room. With them came a flurry of white cards that fluttered into and around the chamber, landing on every surface as the boys shrieked and spun in circles.

  “Look, Paw! We made a blizzard!” lisped Tad, Lincoln’s eight-year-old son as he dumped over a pail with even more white papers in it. “It’s snowing!”

  Willie, who was ten and not quite as exuberant as his younger brother, nonetheless laughed and lunged to the ground, scooping up a handful of what Adam recognized were calling cards and tossing them back into the air with glee. “It’s snowing in July!” he cried.

  “And so it is,” their father replied gravely, an affectionate twinkle in his eyes. “And now someone had best shovel all this snow from my office before it melts and gets my papers all wet.” Seemingly nonplussed by this interruption and the ensuing mess, the president began to shuffle through one stack of papers among many on his desk. He used a long, bony hand to flick a pile of cards to the floor, then kept on digging.

  Tad shrieked and swung his bucket around and the last few fluttered out. Then he reluctantly began picking up the mess, then tossing them into the air again, muttering, “Snow! Snow!” Willie bent and got a few handfuls, but they’d only retrieved a small portion of the calling cards when the office door opened again.

  “General Scott’s carriage is here,” Hay, the other John who was a secretary to the president, said as he poked his head into the office. He was younger and not quite as staid as the German Nicolay, and he gave the boys a wink then backed out of the way as Tad and Willie charged out of the room—leaving the “snow” to “melt” all over their father’s desk.

  “Damn,” said Lincoln again, seeming to sink down into himself despite his tall stature. “I reckon it’s going to be another fight about whether the soldiers are ready to move out yet. Blast it all. We’ve got the press and the public who want this war over, now—and most of our mustered troops, well their subscription’s over end of July. They’re wanting to finish this up before then.”

  Adam had heard all of this before—multiple times; in fact, daily, over the last three months—but he only nodded. His friend and mentor had few people to whom he could rail about these things, and he felt honored to be one of them. He also considered it part of his patriotic duty to listen and to offer support and advice as appropriate.

  “Scott and McDowell—they’re saying the boys aren’t ready. Though I think they’re looking better, myself,” the president said thoughtfully. “Washington—nor anyplace here in this country—never saw such a vast army together as we had marching down the street yesterday.” He sighed and scratched his head as he continued to shuffle through his desk. “You ever hear of Manassas, Adam?”

  “Yes, sir. Isn’t in Virginia?” Adam had most definitely heard of the small town that had seemed to come up more and more as the place that would be a decisive battle against the Confederates. The “big” battle that so many people were hoping for.

  Lincoln nodded as he stuffed a sheaf of papers
under his arm, then surveyed his desk as if looking for another set. “Thirty miles from here. Near a creek called Bull Run. Now, what were you saying about Mr. Tufts? Nicolay, find that map for me, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Adam followed Lincoln, who now had a thick wad of paper under his arm, a bundle clutched to his chest, and another sheaf in his big hand. As he reached the door, which led into the hallway where several people waited to see the president—though not as many as there used to be only three months ago—he said, “Mr. President, I reckon there’s one thing you should know about Mr. Tufts’s death.”

  Lincoln stopped with his hand on the knob. He was only an inch taller than Adam, but his presence made it seem much more; particularly with the aura of responsibility around him. “Don’t tell me—let me guess. He didn’t do it to himself. It was murder.”

  Adam nodded grimly. “I believe it was.”

  “Well, then, I reckon you’d best see to it. Who else is there to do it?” Lincoln shook his head as he opened the door. “And that’s yet another problem requiring my attention—Mayor Barret’s still complaining about the clashes between our soldiers and his residents here in the city. Even the Provost Guard hasn’t helped keep the military in line enough for him. I’m certain the city’s going to need a new police force to help keep the peace. But that’s for another day.”

  “Mr. President,” Adam said quickly, following him out into the corridor. “You sent for me hours ago—what was it you needed?”

  Lincoln paused. “Oh yes, I did, didn’t I? Damned if I can remember what it was. Too many thoughts in this old head of mine, Adam.” He smiled wryly. “It mustn’t have been as important as the investigation of a murder—ah, yes. I remember now. It was regarding some missing rifles.” He glanced at the cluster of people in the hallway, most of them visitors to the mansions and hoping for something from the president. “Best if you ask Stoddard about it—he was there when Stanton and I were discussing the problem.”

  Adam nodded, but Lincoln probably didn’t notice. He was off on his long legs, striding down the corridor past the oval library and the bedrooms he and Mrs. Lincoln used, to the stairway which led to the main floor—all the while nodding and acknowledging, but not stopping for, the line of people waiting for him.

  Watching him go, Adam, burdened by the responsibility of finding justice for Pinebar Tufts, knew that the president felt such a weight a hundredfold more than he.

  * * *

  Sophie felt for Constance Lemagne. She really did. Her father was gravely injured and in incredible pain. She was living in a home that wasn’t hers—although, apparently, Mr. Lemagne was going to be marrying Mrs. Billings, assuming he recovered from the accident—and therefore she was attempting to settle her father into an unfamiliar place where she had no real authority over the servants. Mrs. Billings was mostly bedridden, so she was of little help.

  But as sympathetic as she might be to the other young woman, Sophie did have her limits. And one of them was when Constance ordered her—she didn’t ask, she ordered, as if Sophie was a servant, and that was the whole reason it got Sophie’s back up—to run around to Mrs. Greenhow’s house and tell her what happened, and to give her Constance’s regrets for the salon that evening.

  “Run off and tell her, Sophie” were the exact words Constance used, even as she sat in the wagon next to her unconscious father, holding his hand, tears glittering in her eyes, waiting for the house to be readied for him.

  It was Sophie’s opinion—which she kept to herself, of course, considering the situation—that sending regrets to a friend’s weekly meeting was not a priority when there was a bed and linens to prepare for a first-floor sickbed, as well as an entire rearrangement of the parlor in order to make room for the patient and what would surely be a prolonged rehabilitation.

  Not only that, there were servants to be managed—especially since Mrs. Billings was upstairs, and Mr. Lemagne would be downstairs, and ne’er the twain should meet, at least in the near future. And aside from all those perfectly reasonable considerations, there was Brian Mulcahey, who waited patiently for direction in the front of the Billings house with the elegant black filly that had somehow emerged relatively unscathed from the disaster but still needed medical care herself.

  It was young Brian who helped Sophie make up her mind that it was more important for her to stay and assist Constance than to take a message about news that she suspected Mrs. Greenhow would hear all on her own, considering the size of the crowd around the accident and how quickly news did travel in Washington. She wrote a brief letter on the notepad she always carried and sent the boy off with the paper after he relinquished the horse—whose name predictably turned out to be Midnight—to James, one of the servants.

  The housekeeper, Louise, was dispatched to the closest livery stable to obtain the name of a veterinarian to call for Midnight, and then Sophie turned her attention to Constance.

  “What did Mrs. Greenhow say?” asked the distraught young woman, grief and shock glazing her eyes as she looked down from the wagon, which was parked in front of the house while they waited. Clearly, she had no concept of how little time had passed since she ordered Sophie on her errand.

  The poor thing. Sophie’s annoyance ebbed a trifle, and she fibbed. “She was horrified at the news and said that of course she expected you would stay with your father tonight. And she hoped for all to be well, soonest.” She was confident that the actual response would be along the same vein when it arrived. “Now, it should only be another moment before the bed is ready for your father. How is he doing? Has he opened his eyes again? Do you think he could drink some whiskey? I’m certain the doctor will give him chloroform once they move him inside, but a little whiskey might help until then.”

  Dr. Forthruth and the man who owned the wagon they’d borrowed to move Mr. Lemagne had been conferring in a grave manner near the front of the cart. Everyone had agreed that they didn’t want to move the injured man more than once, and that he should wait until the parlor was readied for him. Sophie had been the one to speak to the servants after an initial appearance by Constance before her father arrived in the slower wagon.

  “He’s in so much pain,” the other woman replied. “Where is Mr. Quinn? I thought he would be here too.” She looked around through tear-filled eyes.

  “Mr. Quinn was called away. He said he’ll call as soon as he’s able.” That also was a fabrication, but again, Sophie was all too certain such an event would come to pass. Surely nothing, save an invasion, would keep the affable, utterly responsible Mr. Quinn from checking on the southern belle and her father.

  Constance appeared ready to speak again when her maid, a motherly black woman—and, Sophie assumed—a slave, appeared at the front door and waved them to come inside. Apparently all was in readiness for Mr. Lemagne.

  It was a painful and difficult process to carry the injured man inside on a board. Sophie was glad she was there for Constance, as it was terrible to watch the trio attempt to maneuver him through the narrow front door without jarring the awkwardly bent leg. Whenever the doctor did his best to shift it to a different position, Lemagne arched and cried out, even screaming at times.

  Constance burst into tears after the first outburst and cried, “Can’t you be careful? You’re hurting him!” She was squeezing Sophie’s hand so tightly Sophie feared she might lose the use of her fingers for a while.

  At last, Lemagne fainted again and the determined men thrust him as determinedly—but as carefully as possible—through the doorway.

  Before Sophie could follow them and Constance inside, a small barouche pulled up in front of the house. She saw two women passengers: one about her age, and another who was probably a servant or other chaperone.

  The younger woman rose impatiently, and the driver hurried to help her down as she managed her abundance of skirts and crinolines. Sophie recognized the expensive quality of her frock and, just as immediately, unashamedly coveted the fetching bonnet
of sky blue trimmed with airy pheasant feathers and tiny forget-me-nots. The new arrival was a stunningly beautiful woman with a perfect nose, a full, bow-shaped mouth, and a dusky rose complexion. She had slashing dark brows that still managed to make her look elegant, and her coloring along with thick, inky hair suggested she was French or Italian.

  “Hello,” Sophie said, moving forward to greet the visitor as she started toward the house. She wasn’t certain how to announce that this wasn’t the most appropriate time for a social call, but the young woman spoke before she had the opportunity.

  “Is Constance Lemagne home? I heard about her father, and I wanted to come and see if there was anything I could do to help.” She spoke in a smooth, dulcet voice with a swath of the South.

  “I’m afraid he’s in a very bad way,” Sophie replied. “And Constance is with him. They’ve just managed to bring Mr. Lemagne inside and I expect the doctor will be seeing to him for quite some time. My name is Sophie Gates. I’m—a friend of the family.” She went on to explain what she knew of the injuries. “It will be a long recovery, I fear.”

  “I’m Felicity Monroe. Miss Lemagne and I were supposed to meet for coffee this afternoon, but when I heard about the accident—well, everyone heard about it; it was all anyone’s been talking about besides the man they found in the Capitol this morning. I just wanted to find out if there was anything I could do to help.”

  This was the young society woman whose wedding Constance had been “frothing” to get an invitation to. Sophie supposed her chances had just increased, considering that Miss Monroe had made a specific trip to call on her and offer support and assistance. Unless she merely wanted to fill up her gossip bucket so she could be the one touting the latest news among her group of friends . . . but that wasn’t the impression she got from the young lady. Miss Monroe seemed genuinely concerned by the situation.