“I didn’t find any hairs on the body that didn’t match the color of Tufts’s own hair,” George replied. “But I didn’t examine his clothing carefully.”
Adam wandered over to the neat stack of clothes and shoes. A brief study of Tufts’s boots told him that he hadn’t made the footprints on the crane—his feet were smaller than the longer, narrow marks. Another confirmation of their conclusion.
One by one, he picked up each article of clothing and examined it with the same care and lantern illumination George used for the corpse.
The pockets of his coat were empty but for a few coins, a key, a handkerchief, and a small pocketknife—the sort of things most men carried. Adam also found a tattered receipt from the Willard, along with an order from a tailor. Nothing unusual—except the note that someone had pinned to his coat.
When he was finished, he refolded the clothing. The strong, distinct smell of blood and internal organs indicated that the doctor had continued his own work. Adam glanced at the corpse just long enough to see that flaps of skin had been pulled away, exposing the glistening, smelly insides of a man.
“What are you looking for in there?” he asked.
“Nothing in particular,” said the doctor cheerfully. “But as much information as I can find. I may be able to tell you what he ate for his last meal, and possibly when. By examining the organs like the heart and liver and lungs, I may also be able to see if he had any medical conditions.”
Adam nodded. Though it might not be important, he reckoned an investigator could never have too much information in the case of a crime. It was his task to pare through the details and determine what was helpful and what wasn’t.
He should take his leave, but for some reason, Adam wasn’t ready to go. Instead, he stood back, not exactly watching but not really ignoring him as George continued about his business. Adam didn’t need to see the details as the doctor carefully removed the stomach and set it on a wooden countertop. All the while, the smell of death filled his nostrils and Adam mulled over what he knew about Pinebar Tufts and his murderer.
“He had to have planned it,” Adam said after he’d let his thoughts stew for a while. He’d become mostly used to the raw, ironlike scent of the corpse. “The murderer. He brought the rope with him. And the note.”
George looked up at him with hands still plunged inside the abdomen of the corpse. Adam tried to ignore the squishing sounds the doctor’s fingers were making. He wondered if his friend ever got the smell and blood completely washed away.
“Not necessarily,” said George. “He could have found the rope at the Capitol. It’s a construction site. All sorts of tools and supplies lying around. And there’s paper in offices too.”
Adam scratched his bare chin. “On the grounds, yes, there are a lot of tools and supplies. I didn’t see anything like that inside. I reckon if he found the rope on the grounds, he took them inside for that purpose, and then bashed Tufts on the head.”
“Or he bashed him then decided he needed to finish the job and kill him. So he went back outside to get the rope.”
Adam shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. I think he planned it from the beginning. Tufts was hit from behind. That means the killer sneaked up on him with the intention of doing harm. Killing him or at least wounding him. It wasn’t a fight gone bad.”
“I’d agree with you there,” George said, nodding. “No other marks on the body that might have been from a fight. And it means the killer knew Tufts was going to be there. Either he followed him, or he somehow knew.”
“Right. They could have had an appointment to meet there, or he knew for some other reason that Tufts was expected to be there. But inside the Capitol Building? After midnight? Why?” Adam shook his head and George grunted his implicit agreement that it was a strange prospect.
“I reckon if we find out what Tufts was doing inside the Capitol after midnight, we’ll have a good idea why someone did this—and who it was.”
“And how he got inside,” George put in. “Isn’t it guarded?”
Adam curled his lip. “The Auxiliary Guard is supposed to be responsible for patrolling to keep the government buildings safe at night, but since the war started, more than half of the Night Watch ran off to the South. Not that they did much good before. I’ve got to talk to Billy Morris—the one assigned to the Capitol—and find out whether he saw anyone. Either way, Tufts and the killer got inside. The killer sneaked up behind him and smashed him on the head. And there was a walking stick left behind in the corridor where Tufts’s hat was found. It could have been his walking stick, or it could have been the murderer’s.
“And think about this—if you’re clear-headed enough to strangle a man and then go to such lengths to make it look like a suicide, you’re not acting in a fit of rage or in a moment of high emotion,” Adam went on, musing aloud. “You’ve planned it out for some reason. Otherwise, why not just hit him on the head a few more times and leave him there to be found? Why go through all the trouble to make it look like suicide anyway? Why not just kill him then leave?”
George lifted out a shiny, floppy organ Adam thought might have been the liver, but he averted his eyes before he could be certain. The smell of blood and raw flesh was thick in the close air. “You’re making a good point. People—they kill in anger, and they’re not thinking clearly. That’s us’ally why they kill in the first place.” He set the liver down carefully and picked up a scalpel. Adam looked away again before the blade sliced into the organ.
“Whoever did it meant for people to think Tufts had hanged himself—but why would he do that? In the middle of the Rotunda? Such a public place.” Adam couldn’t understand it.
“Sounds like a lynching.”
The words hit Adam like a blow and it was a moment before he could speak. “A lynching. By God, that’s what it was, wasn’t it? A type of lynching.”
Adam tasted bile at the back of his throat. He’d seen such things—the violent results when a man—most often a black man—was hanged from a tree as the pro-slavers in Kansas gathered around with their rifles and jeering voices and blazing torches.
Eerie and ugly and dark. Those were memories he didn’t care to revisit.
“Seems to me if you hang a man in a public place like that—even if it’s meant to look like he done it himself—you’ve got a reason. A real hatred for him.” George’s voice was steady and low, but Adam sensed the undercurrent of emotion there.
“And the note could have been meant to be written by Tufts, or it could have been a judgment on him by his killer. ‘For my sins,’ ” Adam said slowly.
Yes. Whoever hanged Pinebar Tufts had loathed the man, and, he thought, either wanted to make a point by making it appear as if the man had done it to himself, or was hanging him in judgment. Or hatred.
A lynching. A public statement of hatred and judgment.
Right in the center of the Capitol.
In the most important building in a country torn in half by war.
Adam felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle.
Yes, there had to be a message there. Some sort of ugly, dark message in the murder of Pinebar Tufts.
* * *
Constance didn’t know what to do.
The doctor and Miss Monroe were long gone. Evening was approaching, and now there was only herself, her daddy, and Mrs. Billings—besides the servants, of course—left in the house, and she didn’t know what to do.
Dr. Forthruth had tried to fix her daddy’s leg, but to no avail. Her father was still in incredible pain, and every time the doctor tried to pull it straight to set the bones, the limb refused to cooperate and it sprang back into the awkward, angled position with one knee curving toward the other. It made Constance queasy every time she looked at it.
At last the doctor had left in a swirl of frustration and defeat, but not before mentioning the dreaded word: amputation. Constance hoped her father hadn’t heard him say that, for despite the chloroform the doctor had given him, p
oor Daddy had been in and out of consciousness during the ordeal of trying to straighten his leg. In fact, Constance had been the one to call off the physician after his fourth attempt; she couldn’t bear it anymore.
But Dr. Forthruth’s pronouncement sent shivers down her spine and made her skin clammy. Amputation.
“There’s nothing more I can do but that,” the physician said. “He’ll not walk again without a crutch, because the break is so close to the hip and we’ll have to take the whole leg. And even that’s only if he survives the amputation. But something’s got to be done soon, Miss Lemagne.”
She didn’t disagree. The shocking change in her father’s face—not only the color of his complexion, going from a healthy pink to a pasty white to a dull gray, and now there was an ugly blueish tinge to the gray—but also the way his skin sagged in places, as if the skull and bones beneath it were shrinking from the pain, retreating from life. And the manner, in other places, in which the flesh tightened to a shiny, unhealthy pallor, molding so tightly at his cheekbones and eyes.
The smell of chloroform hung in the air, as well as heavy perspiration rolling off her father’s inert body. His breathing was unsteady and rasped at times, while other times, it seemed to stop completely, bringing Constance to his side at a dash. Her maid, Jelly, had sponged him off as much as possible, but the barest touch near his torso or legs had him moaning and shuddering.
Constance was cold with fear.
Back in March, she’d worried that her father would be put in prison for the murder of Custer Billings—and if he did, what would happen to her, in this Southern town that was now becoming a Union stronghold, where she knew very few people—and even fewer with her political inclinations—in the middle of a war.
But if Daddy died, that would be far, far worse. How would she get back to Alabama? Would she even be able to go? Mrs. Billings was kind enough, but she was quite sickly and rarely rose from her bed. Constance didn’t know anything about how her father accessed money here in Washington when everything they had was back in Alabama, let alone how to get back to Alabama. She didn’t think one could take a carriage or a train when there was a war going on.
But she wasn’t going to dwell on that right now. Daddy wasn’t going to die. She just couldn’t let that happen.
But how could she let them cut off his leg?
She paced the small dining room, grateful that the cook, who was also the housekeeper, had left her a supper, then gone back to her own little house for the night. The two black women who worked here—one was Lacey, the upstairs maid who saw to Mrs. Billings as her nurse, and the other was Louise, the cook and housekeeper—and the one black man, James, who acted as groom and a sort of butler now that Mr. Billings was dead—were all hired help. They weren’t slaves—unlike her own dear Jelly, who was more of a mother to her than a maid since her mama had died when Constance was young.
It had come as a shock to Constance when she learned that the servants in the Billings house had some nights off and returned to their little houses in the back alley for the evening well before everyone went to bed. Back home, the slaves were up before she was, and there to make certain she had everything she needed as she went to bed. It was strange. The whole arrangement was different than what she was used to, but Mr. and Mrs. Billings had been abolitionists and they refused to have slaves.
Constance could hardly believe that her father—a staunch Southerner—was planning to marry a woman who thought all blacks should be freed. What on earth was he thinking?
From where she paced in the dining room, Constance could see the little fenced-in yard behind the house—just like there was behind every other house on Mrs. Billings’s street. Beyond those little courtyards were rows of shacks and lean-tos where the servants lived. The space between the house and the alleys was called “the area” and that was how the servants and slaves traversed to their place of work—from the back, through the rear entrance.
It reminded her of the alley where that Negro doctor had his office. Dreary, crowded, dirty, ramshackle.
But George Hilton’s office—if you could call it that—she remembered, had been neat and clean and surprisingly well-lit. She still couldn’t think of him as a doctor, although she’d seen plenty of evidence that he thought himself one. And Mr. Quinn apparently did as well.
The thought crossed her mind—then was immediately dismissed, of course—that perhaps George Hilton could set her daddy’s leg. He looked strong enough. He was far more muscular than Dr. Forthruth; she’d seen his bare arms once when his shirtsleeves were rolled up. That was why darkies were such good workers. They were strong and could work long hours like horses or mules.
She sighed and tried not to think about how ragged her daddy’s breathing sounded. And how weak it was. How he hadn’t even opened his eyes the last time she went to sit next to him and hold his hand. Instead, she allowed herself to reflect on her surprise visit from Miss Monroe. Or, Felicity, as she’d asked Constance to call her.
That was the only—the only—good thing that had happened today. And even the chance to get to know the sweet, beautiful, and socially connected Felicity Monroe better didn’t come close to making up for the horror of what happened to her daddy.
And Felicity had been so kind and sympathetic, even going so far as to asking Constance if she wanted her to stay and sit with her all evening. “I can send word for Carson—Mr. Townsend—to pick me up at eight o’clock,” she said.
Constance found it quite adorable the way Felicity blushed every time she stumbled over saying her fiancé’s familiar name and then corrected it to his formal title. It was as if she herself couldn’t believe she was about to wed such a catch. “Oh no, thank you, Felicity, that’s not necessary. But it’s so kind of you to ask.” She was hoping that Mr. Quinn might call later, and she confessed that to her new friend. “And then we might be able to . . . well, to talk privately for a while.”
Felicity’s dimples—they were just as adorable as the rest of her—danced as her eyes lit. “I understand completely, Constance.” Then she frowned, a charming little line appearing between her delicate brows. (Was everything about the woman so simply perfect?) “Mr. Adam Quinn? Isn’t that the man who helped find the killer at the President’s House in April? He’s like a detective—like a Pinkerton, but he’s not a Pinkerton, is he?”
“Why, yes, that’s who I mean.” Constance didn’t realize people knew about Mr. Quinn and his investigative abilities. “And no, he’s not a Pinkerton. He works for Mr. Lincoln.” She managed to say the name without too much of a sneer.
“Do you know him well? Mr. Quinn, I mean.” Felicity appeared to want to say more, but then paused and looked down.
“What is it? Why do you ask about Mr. Quinn?” She had no need to worry that the other woman’s interest might be romantic; clearly she was madly in love with her Mr. Townsend.
Her new friend shook her head, her head still bowed. “It’s just . . . someone like him might be able to help me. I was going to see about hiring Mr. Pinkerton himself, but he’s so busy, and he travels back and forth to Chicago so much. And . . .”
“Felicity, is something wrong?”
She nodded her head mutely, and when she at last looked up, her eyes glimmered with tears. “I just don’t know what to do, Constance! I’m just so afraid that something will happen and—” Her voice broke and she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.
“What is it?” Constance said again. “You can tell me. And I’d be happy to introduce you to Mr. Quinn. I’m certain he could help you—with whatever it is.” She wasn’t exactly certain, because she didn’t quite know what was bothering her friend, but she did have confidence in Adam Quinn.
“It’s just so horrible.” Felicity’s voice was so choked with tears that Constance could barely understand her.
And then, before she could press her further, a knock at the front door announced the arrival of none other than Mr. Carson Townsend, come to fetch his fiancée.
Felicity quickly dried her eyes and held her breath to help the flush fade from her cheeks. But there was nothing she could do about the pink tinge to her nose—again, charming and adorable—so when Mr. Townsend saw her, he immediately asked what was wrong.
“It’s just so terrible for Miss Lemagne,” Felicity said, tucking her hand through his arm. “Her father is in such pain, and there’s not much that can be done for him.”
Constance accepted Mr. Townsend’s sympathies as well, along with his offer of assistance if there was anything she should need. The handsome young couple took their leave, with Felicity giving her friend a last pleading look over her shoulder as they went out the front door.
If nothing else, Constance thought, Felicity’s problem would give her a chance to contact Mr. Quinn—if he didn’t call on her himself.
A knock on the front door startled her from her reverie, and Constance drew up her sagging shawl. It wasn’t chilly, but she was so very cold.
She opened the door to find Bettie Duval standing there, and although Constance had to submerge a twinge of disappointment that it wasn’t Mr. Quinn, she was glad to see her. She smiled and invited her in. She’d met Bettie, who was about her age, several times at Mrs. Greenhow’s house and they were becoming friends.
“Oh, Constance, I’m so terribly sorry to hear about your daddy. And Rose is too,” said the pretty young woman, who was holding a small basket. “She sent me on over to bring you this bread and to give you her love. We both feel terrible. Is there anything I can do?”
“That is very kind of her,” said Constance, taking the basket. “Let’s sit in the kitchen, shall we?” She didn’t want to take the chance any of their conversation might be overheard by Mrs. Billings, whose bedroom was at the top of the stairs. “I was just about to make a cup of coffee. Would you like some?”
Murder at the Capitol Page 10