Murder at the Capitol

by C. M. Gleason

  “That is an excellent point,” she replied thoughtfully as they approached the narrow pedestrian bridge that crossed the Canal. “And there’s something else that’s bothering me. This secret of Felicity Monroe’s—I suppose I should tell you: it has to do with her parentage,” she added, because now that they were neck-deep in this investigation, Adam needed to know all of the details. And she knew Felicity’s scandalous secret wouldn’t make any difference to him. “With who her real mother is. It would be very disruptive if the information came out.”

  “I see,” he replied, and she suspected his quick mind definitely did.

  “The secret has been kept for over seventeen years . . . and now, all of a sudden . . . someone finds out about it and blackmails her father. But how did the blackmailer find out about this very carefully-kept secret?”

  He made a quiet sound of agreement. “Yes, that is curious and an excellent question. When did Miss Monroe learn about the—uh—truth of her parentage? How long has she known?”

  “She only learned from her nanny when she was on her deathbed—back in May.”

  “May. The end of May. That’s about the time the first blackmail letter came.”

  Sophie nodded. “Yes, it is. She said her nanny died in the middle of May. And she saw her father with the letter shortly after. A week or two later.”

  “So I reckon that Miss Monroe’s learning about her parentage just before the blackmailing began isn’t just coincidence.” He looked down at Sophie. “Would she have told anyone about this secret?”

  “No. She didn’t even tell me, but I was able to figure it out.”

  “I reckon someone else must have figured it out.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Felicity knows how devastating this secret would be to her and her family. I’m certain she wouldn’t have told anyone.”

  “Except for you,” he said mildly.

  “Yes, but not really. She didn’t actually tell me. And the only reason she even told me there was a secret was because she wanted to hire you to help her because she knew her father was being blackmailed. So until that happened, she had no reason to tell anyone.”

  They walked a few more paces on the narrow wooden bridge, then he said, “Could she have told her fiancé?”

  “No. Definitely, certainly not. In fact, she’s terrified he’ll find out. He’d call off the wedding, she said.”

  “He would?” Adam said, and Sophie thought he sounded personally affronted.

  “He would,” she replied definitively.

  It was a few moments before he spoke again. “I reckon if we find out how the blackmailer learned the secret, we’ll be much closer to learning who the blackmailer is.”

  “You don’t think it was Pinebar Tufts?”

  He shook his head as they stepped off the little bridge onto soft grass. “It doesn’t make any sense for him to have the blackmail letters if he was sending them. The wax traces on the messages indicate they were sent to him. Unless someone was blackmailing him as well. . . .”

  Sophie stopped sharply. “What if . . . what if Mr. Tufts was only the messenger? The delivery person? What if he wasn’t the blackmailer, but that he was picking up the—the money or whatever it was that Mr. Monroe was leaving for the blackmailer.”

  Adam nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “That would explain a lot. Because Tufts wasn’t acting as if he were being blackmailed, was he?”

  “No, he wasn’t. He was acting optimistic and good-humored.”

  They fell silent as they started across the soft grass to the Smithsonian. Lights winked in the East Tower, directly across the Mall from them. Sophie was fortunate that Uncle Joseph and Aunt Harriet weren’t as concerned about her daily whereabouts as her own parents—or her fiancé—had been. In fact, moving to Washington after the horrible scandal of her broken engagement had been the best thing that ever happened to her, even if she was in the middle of a war.

  A few cattle lowed in the distance, but most of them had settled for the night in the stables built next to the Washington Monument. The smells of butchery and swamp sewage mingled with that of summer flowers, apple blossoms, and coal smoke. The evening was quiet but for distant shouts and a few gunshots . . . and one lone bugle, playing from somewhere across the Long Bridge. It was sad and slow, as if to portend what might soon come.

  Sophie sighed and without thinking about it, curled the fingers of both hands around Adam’s arm. Beneath his coat, she felt warm flesh and muscle as well as the unyielding surface of his false limb. “What’s going to happen?” she asked quietly.

  Somehow, he understood that she was talking about the war and not the murder investigation, and he sighed, long and quiet, and covered her gloved hands with his large one.

  Carefully, as was his way, he replied, “I reckon it’s going to be even more ugly than it was in Kansas. There’ll be more bloodshed and deaths than we can even imagine. More than half the city—and Congress—reckon there’ll be one big battle, and the Rebels will go running. It won’t happen that way, Sophie. I saw the way it was out west. Just like Kansas, the country is torn in two, and it won’t be repaired that easily.”

  She looked at the forlorn stub of the Washington Monument and saw the glitter of troop campfires across the Potomac, and sighed. “I wish you were wrong, Adam, but deep in my heart, I sense you’re right. I pray we come through this.”

  His fingers tightened over hers again, and then they were at the ground floor door of the East Tower. “Good night, Sophie.”

  He looked down at her from his great height, and she tilted her head back so she could meet his eyes beyond her bonnet brim. Her heart gave a funny little trip. “Good night, Adam.”

  Tuesday, July 9

  Five days after Pinebar Tufts’s body was found, Adam finally got to speak with Henry Monroe at his office.

  “Well, come in,” the man said reluctantly when his secretary opened the door.

  The tone suggested that Monroe had been getting the messages that Adam had been trying to reach him, and realized he could no longer avoid a meeting.

  Adam had never been in the office of a congressional lobbyist before. His first thought was that it was far more comfortably furnished—and less busy—than the president’s work space was. There were two dark upholstered chairs made from shiny walnut with a round table between them—something that seemed more appropriate for a study or parlor. On one wall was a built-in cabinet with bottles of whisky and Kentucky bourbon, along with empty glasses. Other walls were lined with shelves holding books, mementos, and even a display case that contained two very old revolvers.

  Monroe’s desk was massive and placed in front of a trio of tall, narrow windows. The surface had only two neat—small—stacks of paper on it, an ink bottle, a pen holder, and a wax seal. The windows looked out onto the street below, which was, of course Pennsylvania Avenue. And if he craned his head enough, Adam reckoned he’d be able to see the Capitol Building itself.

  Henry Monroe was set up in a position that demonstrated his influence with Congress, as well as his own personal wealth. The loss of such prestige due to a family scandal would be significant.

  The man himself was about sixty, with light hair going white and beginning to thin on top. He sported a neatly trimmed beard and sideburns that met at the edges of his squared jaw, and wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that sat high on the bridge of his nose. His clothing was well-made and Adam noted a tall hat hanging on a rack, with a walking stick and coat next to it.

  Monroe was behind his desk as he entered, so Adam couldn’t see his shoes—although he didn’t think he’d be able to tell whether there was a chunk of heel missing from the right side just by sight. He’d need to see a print or the sole of the shoe.

  “I’m here about the murder of Pinebar Tufts,” Adam said, offering him the card from President Lincoln. “And Billy Morris.”

  Henry Monroe took the card silently and perused it, then offered it back to Adam. “Did you say murder
of Pinebar Tufts? I thought the poor man hanged himself. And I’m afraid I don’t know who Billy Morris is, in any event.”

  “Pinebar Tufts’s murder was made to look as if he’d taken his own life, but he didn’t.” Either the man didn’t listen to gossip, or he was pretending to be ignorant. Adam wasn’t certain, yet, which was true.

  “How do you know that?” Monroe’s expression was sharp behind his glasses.

  “Upon close examination of the body, as well as the scene of the crime, it became obvious. Billy Morris was the Auxiliary Guard who patrolled the Capitol grounds at night.”

  “Interesting. I’d like to know how one would go about proving that a suicide is actually murder. In any event, what can I do for you, Mr. Quinn?”

  “I understand that you and Mr. Tufts were acquainted. I’m speaking to everyone who knew Tufts.”

  “Everyone? In the entire city? Well, no wonder it’s taken you so long to get to me.” Henry Monroe laughed, but it sounded forced.

  “I reckon it wasn’t for a lack of trying on my part, Mr. Monroe. How did you know Tufts?”

  “He worked at the Patent Office, which surely you already know. And I assume you already know that he’d been advising me and my brother-in-law Stuart Howard on a patent he—Stuart—had filed—and, shockingly, had approved. I still can’t quite cotton how that happened.

  “My brother-in-law is quite a dreamer, Mr. Quinn. Like Tufts. They both live—or should I say, lived, at least the case of Piney—in their heads: dreaming, planning, inventing, wishing. Just from our brief acquaintance—as well as what I’ve heard about you, because of course I asked around after I learned a Mr. Adam Quinn was trying to see me—I can see that you’re not that type of man yourself. You deal with reality, with what’s in front of you, with specifics and facts and tangibles. Not in fluffy dreams.

  “I’m the same way, Mr. Quinn. However, in the case of my brother-in-law, my wife’s sibling, I was—erm—it was prudent for me to at least entertain the idea that Stuart’s invention could be something quite lucrative. It wasn’t enough that Beverly insisted we allow him the use of the old stable—which I’d intended to get fixed up, as I wanted to keep my own pair on the property instead of having to send off to the livery every day—for his workshop—and what a mess he’s made of the place! Coils and wires and metal pieces everywhere. Noises and stink at all hours of the day and night. And then the wife wanted me to invest in his invention.” His large hand slapped onto the desk as he shook his head in exasperation. “What one does for the woman he loves.”

  Adam had managed to follow this long and winding speech. “And how did Mr. Tufts help you with this potential investment?”

  “Well, I had hired him to advise us, if you follow me. I knew there was no possibility anyone would invest in Stuart’s confounded invention—especially with a war starting up. The only business that’s going to be lucrative now is anything related to weapons and supplies for the troops. That’s obvious to anyone with a head on their shoulders.”

  “And Stuart’s invention wasn’t anything that would be useful in wartime, then.”

  “I should say not! It was a new way to clarify sugar cane juice. He thought the machine was going to make him rich. But Beverly—my wife—insisted I hear him out, so there I was.”

  “And you hired Mr. Tufts to advise you?” Adam tried to steer the man back to the relevant detail. “How, exactly?”

  “Well, Tufts was known to be a sort of adviser to people with inventions. He offered—usually unsolicited and unwelcomed—suggestions for improvement to a variety of inventions. Knowing this, I hired Tufts to meet with us, and to give Stuart all the reasons his invention wasn’t going to be attractive to any investor. Unfortunately, Tufts got far too involved and he actually made several relevant suggestions to Stuart, which of course got my brother even more het up about the clarifier.”

  “Are you saying Mr. Tufts didn’t do what you hired him to do?”

  Monroe wagged his finger at Adam. “Now, don’t try and trap me, there, young man. Just because the man didn’t do what I asked him to do doesn’t mean that I killed him. He made things more difficult for me, that’s sure as hell true, but I wasn’t going to kill the man.”

  “Where were you on the night of July Fourth?”

  The other man reared back into his chair. “Is this an inquisition?”

  Adam merely looked at him.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” He frowned, tapping his fingers on the desk. “Well, confound it, I’ve got nothing to hide. I saw the fireworks on the Mall with my wife and daughter and her fiancé, and of course Stuart. And then we went back to our house and had a glass of whisky—well, sherry for the ladies—and sat and talked until almost half eleven. And then Townsend and Stuart went on their way, and my wife and daughter and I went to bed.”

  “And you didn’t leave the house again,” Adam said.

  “Of course not,” Monroe snapped.

  “You must spend a lot of time at the Capitol, Mr. Monroe.”

  “Of course. I’m there most every day Congress is in session.” He smiled complacently. “I’m quite busy, you know, representing all of the mining companies’ interest to the senators and representatives. Part of my efforts got the Morrill Tariff passed, you know.”

  Adam didn’t know all the finer details of what the Morrill Tariff had to do with mining iron and coal, but he refused to allow himself to be distracted from his series of questions. “Do you ever go down into the bakery they’ve put in the basement of the Capitol?”

  “No. Why on earth would I go down there? It’s dirty and hot, and I have no reason to be there.” He frowned with irritation.

  “Mr. Monroe, was Pinebar Tufts blackmailing you?”

  Adam couldn’t have imagined a more intense reaction. Monroe froze, his face and even his hands draining of all color. Every bit of bluster and bravado and command evaporated from his person. He seemed to shrivel inside his clothing, shrinking into a small, beaten man.

  “How do you know about that?” Monroe’s lips were colorless. “The blackmail?”

  “The same way I know that Pinebar Tufts and Billy Morris were murdered.” Adam waited again patiently.

  “I don’t know who is blackmailing me,” Monroe said after a long moment. “By God, I wish I did. Because if I did . . .” Then he sighed, the fury and desperation shriveling into defeat. His hand shook as he waved it weakly. “No. No, I wouldn’t. Confound it, I’d just keep paying him. I have to. Felicity. And, oh God, Beverly . . .” His eyes shone as he blinked rapidly, looking at Adam. “She’d be devastated. She’s been through so much already.”

  “Mr. Monroe, where were you on Friday night?”

  The other man seemed to try and drum up his previous outrage and bravado, but in the end his response was subdued. “I was—we had dinner. At the Corcorans’. My wife and I and Felicity. We were home by half ten. I went to bed after that.”

  “And you didn’t leave the house that night?”

  “No.”

  “May I see the bottom of your right shoe, please, Mr. Monroe?”

  “What?” The outrage had returned.

  Once again, Adam merely waited. He knew the man could easily have him thrown out, and could deny his request. Not for the first time, he wished he actually had the authority—beyond the placard from the president—to impel people to comply with his requests.

  The older man shoved his chair back and lifted his right foot, thumping onto the top of the desk. The ink bottle clinked. The boot’s back heel was intact, but Adam could see that it was a new heel block that had hardly any wear.

  “Thank you. It looks as if you had some repair work done on your shoe,” he said, rising. “Recently.”

  “Is that a crime now, Quinn?” Monroe slid his foot angrily from the desk.

  “I reckon it’s not, but I’m curious anyway. When did you get the work done?”

  “Damned heel had to be replaced. Got it fixed yesterday, if you must know. Ster
ling’s shop, over on Fifteenth.” He spoke through gritted teeth.

  “Thank you, Mr. Monroe.” Adam offered his hand, and to his surprise, the other man shook it. But that was the extent of any further courtesy. The lobbyist sat back down at his desk without another glance.

  When Adam left, Henry Monroe seemed to be aimlessly shuffling through a stack of papers, unseeing and shaky. Pointedly ignoring his visitor.

  Adam left the office, feeling more than a little unsettled by the devastation Henry Monroe was obviously feeling—the horror he, Adam, had stirred up by asking about the blackmail and shocking him so badly. The man was clearly terrorized by the thought of the scandal coming out.

  But Adam was investigating two murders and he couldn’t afford to dance around the subject. He had to ask the questions that needed to be asked. Two people were dead, and Henry Monroe had confirmed that he was being blackmailed—which meant that he was still a suspect.

  Fear and defeat didn’t absolve the possibility that he’d killed in order to keep his family’s secret.

  No, Monroe could easily have rid the world of his blackmailer—and still be terrified that someone else would take his place. Monroe’s reaction when Adam had brought it up indicated how shocked—and devastated—he was that someone else knew.

  That could make a man even more desperate.

  * * *

  Constance’s hands were damp with nerves, but she was determined.

  Everyone in Washington was talking about how General McDowell was readying the troops to march to Richmond. A few of the regiments had actually begun to start on their way, to the great fanfare of the town, but there were many more who were still gathering themselves together and preparing to leave.