“Henry Monroe didn’t write the letters to Pinebar Tufts about where to deliver and pick up whatever it was he was picking up—I reckon it was the blackmail money, but we don’t know for certain.”
“How do you know he didn’t write the letters?”
“Because they were written by a left-handed person, and if Monroe’s inkpen and bottle are on the right side of the desk, he’s not left-handed.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “That’s brilliant. Of course. So obvious, but I didn’t even think of that. I probably would have, given time, but—well.” She smiled up at him. “We didn’t really think Mr. Monroe wrote the letters Mr. Tufts had, but it’s good to know that he didn’t. So what do we know?” She mulled for a minute, then began to list the items she knew.
“We know that Mr. Monroe is being blackmailed. We know that Pinebar Tufts received letters written by a left-handed man telling him certain dates and times to pick up something and where to deliver it. The pickup times seem to coordinate with the times Mr. Monroe received blackmail letters, so I really do think it’s possible Mr. Tufts was involved somehow. Maybe just as a messenger.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Whoever was—or is—blackmailing Henry Monroe was having someone else do the dirty work by picking up the money. Could be so that if Monroe decided to watch the pickup location—where he was directed to leave the money—Tufts would be identified as the blackmailer instead of whoever is really doing it.”
“Which means he would be killed by the person being blackmailed, instead of the blackmailer being killed.”
“Yes. And Tufts told his wife that he was ‘being careful.’ And that things were going to change—to get even better. As if he expected to be getting even more money later. Could be . . . could be he discovered what the blackmailer was doing and wanted more money from him.”
“Blackmailing the blackmailer? Why, that’s so smart!” Sophie slapped her hands together, the sound dulled by her gloves. “That’s got to be it. Tufts figured out what was going on, and tried to extort more money from the blackmailer, and the blackmailer killed him. But who is the blackmailer?”
“Whoever he is, I reckon he’s also our killer. He was protecting himself by murdering Tufts, and then Billy Morris.”
Sophie shuddered. “If whoever came into the study was him, I was right there. I saw him—or part of him anyway.”
“All right. What do you remember about him?”
“I only saw his legs from just above the knee to his shoes. The boots were polished, but they weren’t new. The stitching was very tight all around the edge of the sole, but on the left shoe, there was one loose thread. I couldn’t tell if he left a funny footprint with a piece missing out of the heel—but we’re outside, Adam, maybe he left a mark here.”
“It’s mostly grass, and he might not be wearing the same boots, but there’s a chance to find a good print.” He nodded. “I’ll look around. Did you notice anything else about him? What color were his trousers?”
“Dark. Either black or dark blue. The fabric has a little bit of a shimmer to it—something I hadn’t seen before.”
“A shimmer?”
“Like tiny, tiny sparkles on it.”
“Sounds pretty fancy for a man to be wearing trousers with tiny sparkles. How high were his knees, could you tell?”
Sophie showed him by measuring off the ground, and he nodded again. “That would make him tall enough to be the killer.”
“So what we know about the killer is that he’s left-handed, light-haired, not old, and has a funny shoe print. The man in the study today could have been him, or not. Oh, did Dr. Hilton find anything enlightening about Billy Morris’s body?” Sophie asked.
“Nothing that gives us any more information about the killing. Morris had a lot of ale and gin in his belly, which was no surprise. But there was nothing else to lead us to the killer.”
She mulled quietly for a moment, then said, “I was thinking about the fact that he hung up Piney Tufts. Why would a man do that? Why not just leave him on the ground like he did Billy Morris, if he was already dead?”
“That’s a good question, Sophie. I reckon when we figure that out, we’ll have a better idea who it is.”
“And if we can figure out how he learned there was a family secret to use as blackmail, that will also be a big clue. That’s why I’m suspicious about Stuart Howard. He’s Mrs. Monroe’s brother and he’s here all the time in his workshop. Maybe . . . well, maybe he overheard Dodie, Felicity’s nanny, when she made her confession when she was dying.”
Adam nodded, and was just about to say something when a very familiar voice scorched over Sophie from behind. “Why, Mr. Quinn, I didn’t see you until just now. And Sophie, dear, we’ve hardly had a chance to talk since you called the other day, but I do believe Felicity was looking for you. She wanted to show you something . . .” Her voice trailed off uncertainly as she looked over the party. “My stars, she was just right there.”
Adam sprang to his feet for Constance to sit and dutifully said, “I was about to fetch Miss Gates a lemonade. Would you like one as well?”
“Oh, Mr. Quinn, that would be marvelous. Thank you so very much.” No sooner had he started off than Constance continued. “Felicity was standing there just a moment ago, with her Mr. Townsend, Sophie.” She gestured vaguely toward the crowd of people.
Sophie, who had no desire to remain with Mr. Quinn and Constance, gladly took the excuse offered to her and walked away.
Now that she and Adam—Mr. Quinn—had compared notes, she could get on with the investigation and leave him to Constance.
* * *
When Adam returned with two glasses of lemonade, Sophie was nowhere to be found. Instead, her seat on the bench had been taken by another young woman whom Miss Lemagne introduced as Miss Turner.
He offered one glass to Miss Lemagne and stood uncertainly for a moment until she said, a trifle impatiently, “If you’re looking for Sophie, she’s gone off somewhere.”
“Miss Turner, would you like a glass of lemonade?” he asked belatedly, offering her the drink. She accepted, smiling up at him with a warm look. When two more young ladies approached—each attractively dressed and perfectly coiffed—Adam found himself reluctantly drawn into conversation with them before he could determine how to make a polite exit.
While they prattled on about the sunshine, the flowers, and the war—talking about the latter as if it were a theatrical performance they were watching—Adam dutifully listened and responded as required. At the same time, he was watching the rest of the party and trying to formulate an excuse to leave.
This was precisely why he disliked formal gatherings like this: he had to make conversation about things he knew nothing of and cared about even less, he was wearing uncomfortable clothing, and he always had to be on his guard in order to make certain he didn’t step in any unpleasant societal puddles.
He was just about to excuse himself when one of the ladies shrieked and launched herself directly off the bench. She slammed into him, and he barely managed to catch her using his false arm.
“Oh my goodness!” The young woman in question—he’d forgotten her name—spun away and was dancing around, swishing her skirts and gasping, “It was a bee! A bee landed on me! Is it still there? Is it?”
The other ladies bolted from their seats as well, backing away carefully as Adam gingerly looked over the distraught woman from bonnet to hems. He thought her name was Miss Upton, but wasn’t certain.
“I don’t see any bees on you, miss,” he said. “But there’s a—er—a bug on your bonnet.”
“Oh! Please take it off,” she squealed. “I do abhor outdoor parties for this very reason. My auntie was stung by a bee and she up and died from it, and ever since then I can’t bear to sit outside.”
Adam gingerly removed the spider that had landed on the top of her bonnet. He considered it a good decision on his part that he hadn’t mentioned it was a spider. Having three siste
rs, he had an idea of what sort of reaction that would have caused.
The spider safely removed from the brim of Miss Upton’s bonnet, Adam seized the opportunity to make his escape. He wondered if Sophie was afraid of bees, and decided that even if she was, she’d be more likely to merely shoo one away than to shriek and dance around like a mad person.
And then he remembered their excursion in the tunnels beneath the Capitol—the cobwebs, the spiders, the rats and mice and other unpleasant items—and decided that Sophie Gates was definitely made of sterner stuff than Miss Upton and her friends.
As if he’d conjured her up, suddenly there she was, walking across the lawn in that pretty lemon yellow dress. She’d done something different to her dark hair today, and it made fetching little curls around her face beneath the bonnet. Her small hands were enclosed in delicate white lace gloves, and a little drawstring bag dangled from one of her wrists.
He wondered what was in the bag, for by the way it swung to and fro, he could tell whatever it contained was heavier than a handkerchief and a comb. What else would a woman put in a bag like that anyhow?
“Mr. Quinn, I don’t believe you’ve had an opportunity to meet the future bride and groom,” Sophie said as she approached.
Adam dragged his eyes away, noticing for the first time that she wasn’t alone and had brought the party’s two honored guests with her. Close on the heels of that, he realized that he’d been there for over an hour and hadn’t greeted his hosts. He grimaced inwardly. Another reason he should never attend formal gatherings.
“Mr. Quinn only arrived a short time ago and was kind enough to wait for me while I went upstairs to fix one of my rosettes,” Sophie said, neatly excusing him for his unintentional rudeness. “It was dangling by a thread, and I didn’t want to lose it, for then my sleeves would be asymmetrical.” She went on to introduce him to Felicity Monroe and Carson Townsend, the soon-to-be-married couple.
They were a handsome pair—quite attractive together, Adam thought, even though that was hardly the type of thing he normally noticed. Miss Monroe’s secret heritage was quite obvious once one knew it existed, with her dusky complexion and thick, coarse black hair. She was a stunningly beautiful woman, and he understood why a man could easily fall in love with her—at least as far as looks went. Townsend was the opposite in coloring—tall, fair, and solid.
As she introduced them, Adam sensed a reserve beneath Sophie’s normally easygoing personality. He wondered what was bothering her, but there was no opportunity to ask as they conversed in the center of the yard.
“Have you met Miss Monroe’s uncle?” Sophie interjected at one point, looking over his shoulder. “He’s an inventor.”
Following Sophie’s hint, Miss Monroe hailed her uncle and Adam was again subjected to introductions and even more pointless conversation. But he paid closer attention to Mr. Stuart Howard in consideration of Sophie’s suspicions of him. The man was tall enough to be the killer, and although he was slender, Adam thought he could easily have carried and strung up the more slight Pinebar Tufts.
Howard didn’t say much until Adam asked him about his invention, and then the man had plenty to say. Too much, in fact. He had a moment of sympathy for Henry Monroe, who likely had to listen to the finer details of clarifying sugar cane far more often.
“Townsend, so sorry to have disappeared for a bit. Did you find my pipe?”
Adam turned as Henry Monroe himself ambled up to their little group. The older man didn’t notice him at first, as he was speaking to his future son-in-law.
“Yes, sir,” replied Townsend, pulling a tobacco pipe from his pocket. “It was right on your desk, as you said.”
Sophie’s eyes widened and she met Adam’s gaze. He saw her look down—probably at Townsend’s boots—then back up. She nodded and he understood: yes, Townsend had been the one in the office while she was hiding under the desk, apparently at Mr. Monroe’s request to retrieve his pipe.
Well, that explained that.
Monroe took the pipe, tapping it against his palm as if to loosen any tobacco inside. “Didn’t know if you were looking for me—Mrs. Monroe had me seeing to something in the dam—er, the confounded—kitchen to see about making the cherry-bourbon punch, and I had to go down and unlock the cellar for the servants to get the bourbon. Apologize for my absence.” Turning, he noticed Adam for the first time, and his demeanor cooled sharply. “Mr. Quinn. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Daddy, I invited Mr. Quinn. He’s a friend of Sophie Gates and Constance Lemagne,” Miss Monroe said, quickly covering up the awkward moment. “I thought it would be nice to have a few more gentlemen to round out the numbers, especially if we play croquet—it’s a game Daddy heard about when he was in England last summer,” she added, looking around at the group. “You play it on the grass outside and it sounds quite fun. Anyhow, Daddy, Mr. Quinn works with Mr. Lincoln up at the White House, you know.”
“So I’ve heard,” Monroe replied, his voice still cool.
“It’s a very nice party,” Adam said. “Thank you for inviting me, Miss Monroe. And thank you for the hospitality, Mr. Monroe.”
“Of course,” she replied, giving him a dazzling smile as her father excused himself. “Don’t mind Daddy,” she said after he walked away. “He’s always annoyed when he doesn’t know about something.”
“No mind at all,” Adam said, resisting the urge to shift from foot to foot.
Sophie must have noticed, for she said, “Mr. Quinn promised me a glass of lemonade ages ago, Felicity. Do you mind if I take him up on it?”
Her friend laughed and waved her off, slipping her hand around her fiancé’s elbow. “Have fun, darlings. Do try the bourbon punch when it comes out—it’s not too strong and Daddy puts dried oranges and bourbon-soaked cherries in it.”
“Thank you,” Adam murmured at the top of Sophie’s bonnet as they walked away, arm in arm. He wished women didn’t have to wear those things—the brims were so high they made it difficult to lean close enough to speak and be heard. He felt foolish talking into a curve of straw and fabric flowers. And it was irritating that he couldn’t see her face unless she was looking up.
“Well, that was informative,” she said as they made their way toward the beverage table. “Mr. Townsend was in the office with a perfectly reasonable excuse. Although it certainly sounded as if he were snooping around, looking at the papers on Mr. Monroe’s desk. I suppose he left in a hurry because he didn’t want anyone to see him being nosy.”
“You don’t like him, do you?” Adam said, suddenly realizing that was what had bothered him when Sophie introduced them. There’d been a subtle, cold reserve when she looked at Carson Townsend. “I didn’t realize you’d met him before.”
She was silent for a moment as they approached the table and he selected two cups of lemonade. Each had paper-thin slices of lemon and strawberry floating in it. It wasn’t until they strolled away that she said, “No. I don’t like him. I wish Felicity wasn’t going to marry him.”
Adam knew he didn’t have to prompt her to explain, so remained silent, waiting for her to go on. Of course she did.
“He beats his slaves,” she said quietly, fortunately tipping up her face so he could hear her. “He beat one of them to death.”
Adam couldn’t help but recoil. A sour feeling settled in his stomach and he glanced over at the handsome man, who was talking and gesturing gregariously with several other partygoers. One would never guess that about him.
“I can’t decide whether I should tell Felicity or not. She might already know. How could she marry someone who’s so horribly violent?”
Sophie didn’t say it, but Adam silently filled in the rest of her thoughts: If he beat his slaves, what would he do if he learned his wife was part black?
“I suspect she might already know because she’s so terrified that he’ll find out about . . . you know.”
He nodded, glancing over yet again. “I—”
“Oh there yo
u are, Mr. Quinn.” Miss Lemagne was suddenly there in a flurry of pink skirts and her own high-brimmed bonnet. “Is that lemonade for me?” She fluttered her lashes prettily and he obliged by handing her the glass he hadn’t yet touched.
“Of course,” he said gallantly.
“I need to speak with Felicity,” Sophie said. “Excuse me, Constance. Mr. Quinn.” She was gone before he could say a thing.
“I understand that Mr. Monroe is about to bring out his famous cherry-bourbon punch,” Miss Lemagne said. “It’s legendary here in Washington.”
Adam murmured something noncommittal, still trying to understand why Miss Lemagne kept seeking him out—considering the last time he’d seen her, he’d threatened to report her if she was a spy. He thought she’d been subdued and even afraid of him that night, having been caught red-handed.
But perhaps his instincts were wrong, for once, and she wasn’t a spy after all. If she had nothing to hide but the secret visit she was making to a friend—who clearly was a gentleman friend—perhaps it was her way of making sure he knew that she had no reason to avoid him.
In that case, he reckoned he should be apologetic for accusing her of being a spy. But at the moment, he really just wanted to be somewhere alone, where he could think about this murder investigation.
“Miss Lemagne, it’s been a pleasure to see you again. I hope you’ll excuse me, for I’m just about to take my leave from the Monroes.”
“Why, Mr. Quinn, how very convenient, as I was just about to do the same thing myself.” She beamed up at him and had his elbow in her gloved hands before he could react. “I told my daddy I’d be home before dark to see to him, now that Jelly’s gone. This way I don’t have to try and find a hackney all by myself. Surely you could help?”
Adam had no choice—he couldn’t refuse, and he certainly wasn’t going to suggest using the Monroes’ footman—or whatever the position was of the servant who’d greeted people at the door and taken their horses or carriages around. Even though helping to hail a hackney was part of the young man’s duties. “Of course I’ll help you find a hack.”
Murder at the Capitol Page 27