Murder at the Capitol

by C. M. Gleason

  Bettie accepted her offer, and Constance—who’d only recently learned how to actually brew coffee, now that she was staying at Mrs. Billings’s house and had to do for herself sometimes—turned up the flame on the stove. As she poured water from the pitcher Louise had left into the kettle, she said in a low voice, “I’m terribly disappointed I won’t be able to attend Rose’s meeting tonight.”

  “Of course she understands,” Bettie said. She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “She’s going to send me instead.”

  Constance suppressed a bump of disappointment, along with a trickle of relief, and replied, “Thank goodness. I was so terribly afraid Daddy’s accident would ruin it all. But I simply can’t leave him now, or anytime soon.”

  “Rose completely understands. After all, she is still mourning Gertie—she knows how difficult it is when someone is ill, or worse. She wanted you to know that she would have come here herself, Constance, but Senator Wilson had sent a message that he was coming to call.”

  Constance nodded and sat at the table. “Oh, that’s splendid. I’m certain she’ll be able to get any information she needs from him. He’s completely besotted.”

  The two laughed softly, clasping hands on the table. “Unionist fool,” said Bettie. “Speaking of Unionists . . . Rose was wondering if you had gleaned anything from that handsome Mr. Quinn.”

  Constance shook her head. “I hadn’t seen the man for weeks until today—we were there at the Capitol when that man was found, hanging there. And then Daddy’s accident . . . no, I’ve hardly had the chance to talk to him. But he doesn’t talk much anyhow.”

  Bettie nodded. “I’ll tell Rose you don’t have anything to add.” She squeezed Constance’s hand. “I’m both terrified and terribly excited she’s trusting me to do this! I do hope they’ll let me cross over the river.”

  “Of course they will,” Constance replied, once again quelling a pang of disappointment. She’d wanted to go, wanted to somehow do something exciting and dangerous to help her Southern boys—but of course she simply couldn’t leave Daddy, even to deliver such important information. “You’re young and pretty, and you look very innocent. All you have to do is bat your eyelashes and look confused and worried about getting to see your old granddaddy down in Alexandria, and those soldiers will let you pass right on by.”

  “I know. Rose and I have been talking about it all day. She wanted to wait until you could do it yourself, Constance, but the information has to get to General Beauregard right away.”

  “Shhhh,” Constance hissed, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “Don’t say the name.”

  “Right.” Bettie winced. She dropped her voice to a bare whisper. “If there really is going to be a battle at Manassas, this could make a big difference.”

  Constance nodded, smiling. “If he gets the information in time, he’ll be ready for those dratted Yankees. And then the war will be over.” And Daddy and I can go home.

  Then everything will be the way it was.

  * * *

  It was well into the afternoon before Billy Morris peeled open his bleary eyes and crawled out of bed. His head was pounding, as it often did when he woke to bright sunshine—or really, when he woke most every day—and he was already anticipating getting his hands on a big mug of frothy ale.

  But first he would have something to eat, and maybe some coffee, because his belly was empty and gnawing and tasted a little sour. He and the rest of the Auxiliary Guard didn’t have to report for the Night Watch until the bottom of the sun was at the top of the Treasury Building, so he had a few hours to see about getting some food and maybe even have time to play a little poker with some of the other men who were part of the Guard. He was particularly good at poker, because he knew how to bluff and how to lie and how to keep a blank face when necessary.

  When Billy stepped out in to the bright, warm sunshine, he almost turned around to go back inside and catch a few more winks. But that gnawing in his belly was insistent, and he smelled sausage cooking in Mrs. Melody’s kitchen. His dry mouth somehow managed to water at the delicious scent.

  He considered the possibility of going around to the kitchen door and trying to sweet-talk her into a link, but Mrs. Melody was strict when it came to her boarders following the rules. And one of her rules was: no breakfast after eight o’clock.

  Another of her rules was that her boarders needed to shave before sitting at her table—something he hadn’t managed to do today either—and comb their hair and wash their hands. He supposed he could manage that last one, but Mrs. Melody was pretty damned frightening when people didn’t obey her rules. Hell, she was pretty damned frightening all the time. There was no Mr. Melody that he’d ever heard of, and he suspected he knew why. The only reason Billy rented from the giant, red-headed harridan was because she did his laundry once a month and would sew on a button if he needed it (for an extra fee, of course).

  Still, since it was nearly three in the afternoon, Billy wondered if he might be able to convince her that he was following the rule, because it was before eight o’clock . . . in the evening . . . but he didn’t think she’d find that amusing. She’d probably go after him with a frying pan, like she did to Jim Westley the time he asked her for a piece of bread and cheese to take with him on his walk to work—at quarter past eight one morning.

  Billy was just about to walk on by when Mrs. Melody herself came rushing out of the front door he’d just exited. Her fiery red hair was bundled into a tight bun at the back of her head, and her dark brown eyes snapped with excitement. Her tall, large-boned body was dressed in a dark blue dress with a pinstripe apron over it. The apron was covered with flour all down the front. She had the largest feet he’d ever seen on a woman, and therefore he could hear her whenever she moved about the house.

  “Mr. Morris! I was hoping to see you this morn—erm—today,” she said, wiping her floury hands on a towel. “Why don’t you-all come into the kitchen and set yourself down and have a piece of breakfast? I’ve got some sausage cooking, and I can fry up an egg with some toast. And how about a big cup of coffee?”

  Billy blinked and resisted the urge to rub his eyes. Was he still sleeping? Was this a dream?

  Was she actually smiling at him?

  “Well, all right then,” he said warily, following her back into the house. “That sausage smells good,” he ventured as she squeezed through the doorway into the kitchen.

  She was all business as she plunked a metal platter down in front of him with a glistening piece of sausage and a lightly browned piece of toast. He nearly fell off his chair when she stuck a small ceramic pot of apple butter—something she’d never offered anyone in the four years he’d lived there—on the table in front of him, then turned to the stove to fry him that egg.

  “Ma’am, could I please have some of that coffee?” he asked, then hunched his shoulders nervously as she spun around.

  “Oh, lands, of course! Silly me, to forget all about that. A man’s gotta have something to wash it all down with, now, doesn’t he?” She poured the drink into a speckled blue metal mug and set it next to his plate.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Billy said, still unable to believe his good fortune. The sausage tasted like heaven, and he nearly moaned as he bit into it and the juices exploded in his mouth. The toast was crunchy and warm, and the apple butter a delicious addition. He was just gathering up his nerve to ask for another piece of toast when Mrs. Melody slid two fried eggs and that second piece of toast onto his plate.

  And then she sat down across from him with such a great thunk that the table moved half an inch toward him. For some reason, the expression in her dark eyes made Billy’s hair stand on end and the rest of him want to make a quick escape.

  “Now, Mr. Morris,” she said in a brook-no-nonsense tone, “Tell me everything you know about it.”

  He looked at her blankly, and her eyes widened, then narrowed. “You ain’t heard yet about what-all happened up to the Capitol this morning?”

  He
swallowed the last bite of sausage and shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

  “But you were there last night, then, weren’t you?” she said, leaning closer across the table. “Patrolling the grounds. So surely you seen something.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am. I mean . . . yes, I was there all night”—it wasn’t a lie, because even when he was sleeping under the portico roof, he was still there—“but no, ma’am, I don’t know if I saw anything because I don’t know what you’re talking about happening up there.” In self-defense—for surely she was about to swipe that plate away from him at any moment—he forked up one of the eggs and stuffed it plus an entire piece of toast in his mouth.

  Mrs. Melody’s expression flickered with irritation, but she smoothed it out immediately and said, “There’s a man was found hanging by his neck up inside that big room under the Dome this morning.”

  Billy just managed not to choke on the ungainly mouthful he was chewing. His eyes bulged as much as his cheeks did, and his mind began to race. What did this mean? Why was she telling him this?

  “At first they said he done it to himself, but now they’re saying someone else hung him up there to die,” Mrs. Melody went on. “That means murder.”

  The large swallow of food nearly stuck in his throat, but he gulped a big draught of coffee to help it go down. “Murder?” he managed to say.

  “That’s right. If they’re right about it anyway,” she said. “I don’t know how they can tell if a man killed himself or if someone else strung him up—there was even a note on himself, pinned to his coat!—telling why he did it—but if someone did kill him, then there’s a murderer loose around the Capitol. And I’m thinking to myself this morning, ‘Why, Janie, you know someone who might just have seen that murderer last night,’—that being you, Mr. Morris, and the fact that you’re responsible for patrolling around the Capitol Building and all every night, I just knew I had to talk to you about it.”

  Billy nodded, and all at once his comfortably full belly felt queasy and unsteady.

  “Now, Mr. Morris, tell me what you saw.” That avidity in her eyes dared him to disobey, and her large, strong hands rested on the table as if ready to reach out and grab him by the coat if he didn’t answer the way she expected.

  His thoughts wheeled in all directions and Billy tried to corral them so he could say something she’d want to hear. But the truth was, he didn’t remember much of last night. He’d drunk a whole bottle of whiskey—it was Independence Day, after all—and he only vaguely remembered making his rounds about the building once or twice.

  Then he realized how he could salvage his breakfast and his relationship with Mrs. Melody. He manufactured a great sigh. “Ma’am, can I be frank with you?”

  Her eyes widened with surprise and she leaned even closer. “Yes. Yes, of course you can, Mr. Morris.”

  He hemmed and hawed for a long moment, drawing out the suspense and making it seem like he wasn’t sure he could trust her. It was like when he held a full house in poker and he was pretending to be nervous over his bet. “I ain’t supposed to say nothing to you or nobody because it’s a big investigation. I could lose my job if they found out.”

  “That’s why you didn’t let on you knew about it!”

  “That’s right,” Billy replied immediately. He took another gulp of coffee while he pretended to consider her.

  “I won’t tell a soul,” Mrs. Melody said with nearly believable sincerity. “I swear it, on Mr. Melody’s grave.”

  “Well,” he said, leaning toward her and still pretending to be reluctant. “There was a man. I saw him, and he was sneaking around the building. I thought he looked suspicious at the time.”

  She leapt on it. “You did? Where was he? What did he look like?”

  “He—now, Mrs. Melody, I’m not supposed to be saying all this. Are you sure I can trust you?” He lifted the coffee mug again to hide his smile as she stammered out her assurances. “All right, then. The truth is, I been wantin’ to tell someone about it . . . and seeing as I can trust you . . .”

  “You can. You truly can.”

  “All right, then. Well, he wasn’t too tall, and he wasn’t too short. And he wore a hat—a top hat it was,” he said, still making things up. “And a long, flowing cloak.”

  “Was he carrying anything with him? The rope he used to hang him up with?”

  “Mrs. Melody, how could you know about that?” He acted impressed. “That’s exactly what I saw—the man was carrying a bundle of rope over his shoulder, tucked under his arm. The moonlight shone over him, and I started to follow him when he went into—well, now I really can’t say anything more. Right now I mean,” he added hastily when she drew herself up. “But,” he continued as a brilliant idea struck him, “I wager I’ll be able to talk some more about it—to someone I can trust, I mean, like you—tomorrow. After my shift tonight, of course.” Then he realized the last thing he wanted was to be met at the front door by his landlady when he came stumbling home at dawn. “When I wake up, after my shift tomorrow, I mean.”

  “Lands,” Mrs. Melody said, appeased. “Imagine that! My own boarder being the one to see the murderer—and being involved in the investigation too! Why, that old crone Mrs. Craskey is going to be swamp-green with jealousy when I—when she hears.” She smiled innocently at Billy.

  He decided now was the best time to make his escape, and rose. “The truth is, Mrs. Melody, I’ve got to be on my way now. I’ve got people to talk to—”

  “Like those Pinkertons?”

  “That’s right. They’re waiting for me. I’m going to see if I can find out what they know about the situation.” He slapped his bowler hat onto his head. “After all, it can’t be just me telling them what-all I know—it’s only fair they give me information too.”

  “That’s only fair,” she agreed, standing to tower over him. “After all, if there’s a murderer lurking around the Capitol Building, you need to know all there is to know in case you might run into him. He might even come back tonight, you know.” Her eyes gleamed with delight.

  “Right,” Billy said, and thought about the fact that he would be by himself, patrolling around the Capitol all night tonight. Where a murderer might be lurking.

  All at once, his breakfast didn’t feel quite so satisfying.

  CHAPTER 6

  After Bettie left, Constance felt even more alone. She’d wanted to be Rose Greenhow’s messenger—it had given her something to do while trapped in this horrible city where most of the interesting people had left, and chickens and goats wandered the streets. And the mud caked her shoes and hems and splattered up every time a wagon or carriage went by.

  She loathed Washington.

  And there were soldiers everywhere. Yankee soldiers, who foolishly talked about how easy it would be to put down the rebellion. Constance knew better: the men and women of the South wouldn’t lay down easily. No, indeed. They had grit and determination, and the Yankees were in for an unpleasant surprise if they thought they’d whip the Confederates so easily. Their entire way of life was at stake, and if the states wanted to leave the Union, she didn’t understand why it was worth going to war over. Just let them leave!

  Thus, meeting Rose Greenhow had been a turning point in Constance’s life, and had made the necessity of staying here almost pleasant—and it had given her purpose.

  She was looking forward to the triumphant return of President Jefferson Davis and his lovely wife, Varina, when they took over the President’s House.

  But now . . . Daddy. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them back. Sitting in the chair next to his bed, she looked down at him and felt such a range of emotions—fear, affection, worry—and, suddenly, resolve.

  Something had to be done. She was a woman of the South. Though she dressed in frills and carried on superficial, giddy conversations, and allowed men to assist her (so they felt capable), she was far stronger and more intrepid than she let on. Mrs. Greenhow and even Sophie Gates had taught her t
hat a woman could be feminine and charming, but also have steely conviction to make things happen.

  Someone had to help her daddy. Someone had to set that bone.

  Constance stood, all at once resolved and hopeful.

  She was going to send for that George Hilton. Surely he had enough brute strength to do it, and she could tell him where the bone was broken and how to pull it into place. It just needed more strength than the portly Dr. Forthruth could muster.

  Almost giddy with relief, she rang the bell for the servants, then paced rapidly from the kitchen to the front door and back while she waited. Her skirts swirled and her shoes clicked as she imagined what George Hilton would say when he was summoned to her house. She’d pay him of course—which was probably more than he ever got from the other patients he treated.

  And then Constance stopped abruptly. Would he even come?

  That man was uppity enough to ignore such a message, wasn’t he?

  She gritted her teeth. It would be mortifying if she sent for him and he didn’t come, the dratted man.

  And where were the servants? She reached for the bell again just as Jelly appeared at the top of the stairs. She’d been in Constance’s bedroom, doing her mending.

  “Yes, Miss Constance?”

  “I need James,” she said. “I can’t imagine why he hasn’t responded yet. It’s only eight o’clock.”

  “He went on home, Miss Constance.”

  Constance ground her teeth. Drat. She’d forgotten about that. “Well, I need him to go somewhere to get help for Daddy. To that doctor—that Negro doctor, the one who was looking at your foot?—we went to before. Go and fetch James for me, and I’ll send—I’ll ask him if he’ll go.”

  Jelly lumbered down the stairs. “I’ll go’n ask him, Miss Constance.”

  It took more than ten minutes before Jelly returned—without James.

  “He not there in his house. Nor Louise nor Lacey neither. Ain’t no one there.”