“I wanted to speak to that Mr. Adam Quinn,” she said, startling Sophie.
“Mr. Quinn? Why, whatever for? And he’s not here at the moment anyhow. I came to see him as well.” Sophie realized how that might sound, and the last thing she wanted was anyone—including Old Ed, who apparently already had the idea—to think she was chasing after Adam Quinn. Good grief. That was the last thing she would do.
“He’s not here?” Miss Monroe’s face fell. “Oh dear. I was hoping he could help me. He’s the one who does all the investigating—like a Pinkerton?”
Sophie, spurred on by curiosity and her intrinsic need to advise others, said, “He is. But perhaps I can help in his stead.”
Miss Monroe looked at her, and Sophie was shocked to see tears glistening in her eyes. Whatever was bothering the young woman was clearly weighing heavily on her. “Let’s walk together,” she said, slipping her hand inside the crook of the other lady’s arm. “We can talk and you can tell me about it. I work with Mr. Quinn on his investigations, you know.”
“You do? You? A woman?” Miss Monroe seemed both shocked and delighted by this fact. “Why, that’s wonderful!”
Sophie thought so too, but she suspected it was for a different reason. “Do you want to send your carriage on home? Or have them follow us? I prefer to walk whenever possible, because it helps keep one in good health.” She remembered how Miss Lemagne was out of breath after climbing up the steps of the Capitol yesterday and was glad she kept her own corset as loose as possible.
Miss Monroe seemed intrigued by the idea of walking as well, and did as Sophie suggested. “Besides,” she said as they walked away from the White House, past the statue of Andrew Jackson in Lafayette Square, “this way, no one will hear what I have to say. Even Vancy and Bitty shouldn’t hear this.”
My goodness. Now her curiosity was truly piqued. “What is it?” Sophie asked, her interest and impatience warring with the need to treat her companion with kid gloves. “What’s bothering you, Miss Monroe?”
The other woman stopped and looked at Sophie. “Please call me Felicity. It’s—it’s only right, for what I’m going to tell you is—is—” Her dark eyes filled with tears and she shook her head so suddenly and violently that her bonnet bounced. “No. I can’t. I shouldn’t. Yet it’s a secret I can’t bear to keep, because I don’t know what to do! It’s just . . . awful.” Her whisper broke with emotion. “I have no one to talk to about it. I can’t talk to anyone about it.”
The tears were coming faster now, and Sophie dragged a handkerchief out of the small drawstring purse that hung from her wrist. “Well, dear Felicity, perhaps you don’t need to actually tell me what the secret is, but why you’re so upset about it. And how I or Mr. Quinn could help.”
Felicity took the handkerchief and looked at Sophie with stunned eyes. “Why, that’s . . . that’s such an unexpected thing to say. Most people are so salacious, they would only want to hear the gossip, and they would try and convince me to tell them.”
Privately impressed by her use of the word salacious, Sophie shrugged. “I know what it’s like to have a secret—and how difficult it is to trust anyone. Or even whether you should. A secret is meant to be kept. Why don’t you just tell me what you can without actually telling me what it is?” She automatically swished her hems out of the way of a muddy, smelly dog trotting past.
They’d left the President’s House and Lafayette Square behind and were walking along the Avenue, just approaching the Willard. Although they passed people, the walkway was fairly clear. There was no one close behind them, so it was unlikely they would be overheard.
“My nanny died,” Felicity said, sniffling a little. “Just in May. I loved her so much. She took care of me from the time I was a baby until April, when she got very sick. We did everything we could do for her; even Mr. Townsend sent Deucy—his manservant, that is—over with a home remedy,” she said with a bashful smile. “She was like a member of the family . . . but she died anyway. And she—she told me something on her deathbed. A very big, terrible, shameful secret. Something I can never tell anyone. It’s a matter of life and death.” Felicity’s eyes were downcast and she was fairly trembling as she bumped against Sophie while they walked.
Sophie’s heart squeezed, for it was clear that whatever burden her companion was carrying, it was horrendous. Or at least, she thought it was horrendous. Sophie had enough experience to know that perception was not always reality. “Did you tell anyone?” she asked.
“No. But I think someone else knows. Or—or knew.”
“Why do you think that?”
But here Felicity stopped talking and shook her head. They walked past the hotel and continued on down the Avenue with Sophie’s hand tucked through the crook of Felicity’s arm as if they were old friends. It hadn’t escaped her thoughts—for Sophie’s mind was always whirring—that she’d resisted the idea of doing so with Constance at the Capitol yesterday morning, but now, here she was with a woman she hardly knew but felt comfortable enough to do so.
Or perhaps it was simply that she knew Felicity was in desperate need of support, and Sophie was willing to give it, just as she had ended up doing for Constance yesterday after her father’s accident.
“I’m getting married on August the first,” Felicity said. “Carson Townsend is the most wonderful man I’ve ever met—after my father, that is.” She managed a smile through her tears. “He even looks a little like him—I’ve always thought of my papa as a this big, friendly, golden giant, and my mama is this sweet angel hovering over me, a little dark-haired girl. And Carson is handsome and kind and I’m so very lucky to be marrying him.”
“But this secret . . . you’re afraid if it comes out, it’ll make him call off the wedding?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
Sophie forbore to explain how obvious her conclusion was, and instead replied, “Does Mr. Townsend love you? Or is this more of a family arrangement?”
“Oh yes, yes, he loves me. I know he does. We met at a fete last summer, and it was—it was love at first sight. That’s what he said.” Her dusky cheeks had grown more pink and some of the grief had faded from her eyes. “He knew my daddy from some business arrangement; I don’t really know what it was. His family owns a big flour milling company, and—oh, I’m not certain. I think they were talking about investments and such. Incidentally, my mama is beside herself with happiness.”
“But you’re afraid if Mr. Townsend learns about this secret, he’ll decide not to marry you. He’ll cancel the wedding.” Sophie was beginning to have an ugly suspicion about what Felicity’s nanny had told her on her deathbed.
“Oh yes. He definitely will. He—he couldn’t marry me, if he knew. He just couldn’t.” The tears were back in eyes that were dull with grief. “No one could,” she added in a whisper.
And that was when Sophie figured it out—what Felicity Monroe’s secret was.
Her insides clutched, because the young woman was exactly right. It was a matter of life and death, and her entire world would change if the information became known—the information Felicity’s black nanny had told her when she was dying.
All of this conversation in conjunction with Felicity Monroe’s dark hair, dark eyes, and dusky skin suggested for Sophie that the woman standing next to her must be part Negro. And, likely, that the dying nanny, who’d raised her from a child, was in reality her mother. Not just her nanny.
That information would indeed be enough to not only destroy Felicity’s social standing—as well as that of her family—but could make her eligible for being sold into slavery. Surely her father would never do that, but if someday he weren’t there to protect her . . .
Sophie shivered at the thought, and said, “Felicity.” Her voice was sharp and urgent. “You can never tell anyone the truth. About what your nanny told you. Never. You understand that, right?”
“You . . . you know?” Her companion seemed shocked, stumbling to a halt. “But—how did you know?�
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“I figured it out from what you were saying. And if I could, someone else could as well. And that would be so very dangerous to you.” She squeezed her new friend’s hand and thought about how awful it must be to discover that you weren’t who you thought you were—who you’d been told you were—all your life.
“That’s the problem,” Felicity cried softly. “I think someone has found out. I believe someone has been threatening my father with it. Threatening to tell the truth.”
Sophie’s mind whirled with this new information. “What makes you think so?”
“Papa has been so different lately. Over the last few months. He used to be so jovial and happy, and so pleased about the wedding and proud of me, but not as of late. It was a sudden change too. And it’s the way he looks at me—like he’s afraid. For me. It’s—it’s in his eyes. He’s afraid of something. He’s afraid someone knows.”
“What about your mother?”
“She’s the same as she always has been. She doesn’t seem any different. I don’t think she knows . . . I mean to say, I don’t think she’s worried that someone else knows the truth. Of course she must know about—about me. My nanny—Dodie, was her name—she said no one in the world knew except herself and my parents. None of the other s-slaves knew because I was born when we all three were away somewhere, and when my papa came back, he sold all of the house slaves and bought new ones. And then six years ago, Papa moved us here so he could work as a lobbyist. And we got all new servants then too—free ones. So no one else could know. But now I think someone does.”
She dashed away a new spate of tears. “I wanted Mr. Quinn to help me find out who it was—who is threatening my papa—so we could just pay the money and he’d leave us alone. That’s what they call blackmail, isn’t it? When you pay someone to keep from telling a secret about you?”
Sophie’s heart broke a little more for Felicity Monroe. Not only was the young woman in a tenuous position—and would be for the rest of her life—but she was also determined and intuitive, while at the same time being terribly naive about certain things.
Sophie didn’t know herself exactly how blackmail worked, but she suspected if someone demanded money from a person in order to keep their secret, that once they received the money, there would at some point be the desire to demand more. If it worked once, it would work again.
And if the person paid, they would pay again. And again.
Until they ran out of money or patience. And when the victim ran out of patience, what would he do?
“Do you have any proof that your father is being blackmailed? Any specific reason to think so?”
“There was a letter.” Felicity started walking again, this time a trifle faster, as if she needed to put the situation behind her. “I didn’t think anything about it at the time except that it upset my papa. But the last week, when another one came, I remembered before. Both times, my papa took the letter and—and his face. When he read it. Do you know how people say that someone’s face turned white? Like they’d seen a ghost? That was exactly what happened to Papa the first time.
“I was standing there in the foyer with him when he was flipping through the mail our butler put on the front table. He was teasing me about all the bills for my trousseau—there were some in the pile—and how I was going to put him in the poorhouse.” From the side, Sophie could see Felicity’s lips curve softly at the memory. “And then when he opened this particular letter, he got very still and I actually heard him gasp. His face drained of all color, and all of a sudden he looked as if he’d been hit by an anvil. I thought he was going to drop dead right there, Sophie. It was so awful. It was like his whole self had gone away, but left his body.”
“I suppose you didn’t get to see the letter.”
“No, he just turned around and walked away without saying anything to me. He went into his study and shut the door and he didn’t come out for a long time. He wouldn’t even open the door to Mama when she knocked. He didn’t eat dinner with us that night either.” Felicity’s voice was so lost and woebegone, but she went on speaking as if she could no longer keep it pent up.
“I didn’t really think much about it after that,” she confessed. “Mama and I were going to New York for my dress and to buy more clothes for my trousseau, and I was missing Dodie so much that I allowed myself to get distracted. And then another letter came. I remember, because it was on July the first and that was the day some of the congressmen were expected back in town. Papa was entertaining some of the senators at the Willard that night, and he was in a fine mood.
“And the mail came. I brought it to him in his study where he was reviewing some papers. When I handed it over and he saw the letter on top, he did the same thing as before—he seemed to freeze, and his face turned gray. He took the mail and told me to leave. But it was his voice. It was so dead and—and quiet . . . Papa is never quiet. He has a big personality and a powerful voice, and this was just so . . . different. It was awful. He was so defeated.”
Somehow, they’d reached the foot of Capitol Hill, and now stood beneath a large oak tree at the foot of the broad steps. It was almost the same location of the accident that had injured Hurst Lemagne yesterday. There were people and carriages milling about. Sophie glanced around quickly in case Mr. Quinn was in the vicinity—hadn’t he been called to investigate another death at the Capitol?—then returned her attention to her companion.
“All right, Felicity, let’s think about this. Your father could have received bad news about any number of things. What makes you think those letters were someone blackmailing him about—about you?”
The other woman paused, stopping right there on the sidewalk so quickly that Sophie kept going and jerked her arm. “Well,” Felicity said, “I hadn’t really thought about why. I just . . . knew. But how did I know?” She was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “I remember now. I could tell it had to do with me, because he sort of looked at me with those haunted eyes and said my name. Felicity. As if he were about to deliver to me the worst news ever. Then he shook his head and said no in this sort of agonized whisper.”
“That was the first letter.”
“Yes.”
“And that was after Dodie told you about . . . everything.”
“Y-yes. It was just before we were leaving to go to New York. So it would have been May twenty-fifth.”
Sophie mulled on this. “And the second letter that came—that made him react that way—was only on Monday. When you gave your father the mail, you must have seen the letter on top—the one that caused him to react so strongly. Do you remember anything about it?” she asked, pulling Felicity gently away from the middle of the sidewalk to make room as a group of three men strode toward the Capitol steps.
To her credit, Felicity didn’t respond immediately. After a moment of quiet, she said, “It was smaller than the other letters. That’s why I put it on top. And the color of the paper was a little darker than some of the other envelopes.” She closed her eyes as if to picture it. “Black ink, not pencil. The writing was a little smudged on the left. I noticed that because Papa’s name—Henry—looked like ‘Benry’ and I thought it was amusing.”
Sophie nodded. “Do you think there’s any chance your father kept the letter? Or the envelope? If we could look at it, maybe we could learn something more.”
“It was almost a week ago,” Felicity said slowly. “I don’t know. Papa’s study is usually very cluttered, and he doesn’t like the servants to move things around in there. But they do clean, and we do reuse old paper, of course. It might still be there.”
“Do you think we could look around his study and see if we can find the envelope—or even whatever was in it?” Sophie tried to tamp down her enthusiasm for such an exciting prospect. “Would you recognize it if you saw the letter again?”
Felicity gaped at her. “Search my papa’s study? Oh my goodness, I don’t think so. He wouldn’t like that.”
Sophie privately thought Mr. Monroe pr
obably liked being blackmailed even less, but she didn’t say so. Instead, she was trying not to think about the logical conclusion of her previous thoughts: what happened when a blackmail victim no longer wanted to—or could afford to—pay?
Was it only a coincidence that Mr. Monroe had received a presumed blackmail demand on July first, then four days later, someone he knew named Pinebar Tufts was found murdered?
Yes, there were many people who died every day in Washington City. Even more than one who might be killed on a given day. Sophie knew that. But there was something about this coincidence that made her feel prickly all over.
Mr. Monroe must know the inside of the Capitol well, for he conducted his business there, meeting with members of Congress as he lobbied on behalf of the mining industry. He’d know how to get inside the huge building undetected, and where to go to remain unseen. How to stalk someone . . .
Sophie did not like where her thoughts were going. At all.
“Did you and your family watch the fireworks on Independence Day?” she asked. If Mr. Monroe was otherwise accounted for that night, he couldn’t have been killing Pinebar Tufts.
“Oh yes!” Felicity seemed relieved at this change of subject. “We were spread out on a blanket on the National Mall under a tree—just over there, beyond those marble blocks on the other side. It was a wonderful display.”
“And your parents were with you?”
“Yes, and Carso—I mean, Mr. Townsend. And my mama’s brother, too, my uncle Stuart. He lives here in Washington as well. He’s an accountant and Mama teases him about being so boring he can’t find a wife. So instead he makes things—all sorts of contraptions. When I was little, he made me a little dolly that had arms that waved when I pulled a string. He doesn’t live with us but Papa lets him use part of the stable for his workshop.” She smiled. “And there were some of Mama’s friends as well sitting with us because Ursula—our cook—makes the best fried chicken and cornbread, and no one ever wants to miss that. Even Miss Corcoran and her beau stopped by to say hello when they were out driving before the display. They just wanted some of Ursy’s cornbread.”
Murder at the Capitol Page 16