However, he noticed, hardly any women or children were out today, even though the weather was fine and it was after noon. Either they were hidden away behind shuttered doors and windows, or they’d been part of the mass exodus that had clogged the roads out of Washington over the last two days. Those whose only means out of the city would be by train, however, had been forced to remain, due to the destroyed railway.
These observations explained why he was so startled when he heard a feminine voice exclaim, “Why, Mr. Quinn . . . what a pleasant happenstance to encounter you on this fine day.”
It was a dulcet voice, smooth and sweet as honey, and dripping with the South.
“Miss Lemagne.” He made no effort to hide his pleasure and surprise, smiling as he greeted the lovely young woman. “Good afternoon.”
She had just emerged from a small shop—an apothecary and general store—and was holding a paper-wrapped parcel along with a small handbag. With her was an attractive woman in her forties that Adam didn’t know.
Constance Lemagne was dressed, as she’d been every time he’d ever encountered her, in clothing that looked very expensive and was far fancier than anything he’d seen on the frontier—or even back in Springfield. Today’s dress was light green with white polka dots bumping all over it, and a cascade of white lace dripping from her sleeves, hem, and around the bodice. The skirt’s underlying cage of hoops and crinoline was not only as wide as a doorway, but also far too impractical for simply wearing about the house.
Her hair, the color of fresh honey, was arranged in some complicated twist beneath a dark green bonnet trimmed with pink roses, a whispery white feather, and more lace. The hat’s brim rose high above her hair, creating an oval frame for her face, and did little to hide the delightful sparkle in her eyes and the attractive shapes of her dainty mouth and nose.
He’d met Miss Lemagne at Mr. Lincoln’s inaugural ball—an event that had catapulted Adam into this strange new vocation of solving murders. As he’d done that night, today Adam found himself wondering why a woman from the Deep South—specifically Alabama—remained in the city.
“Good afternoon,” Adam said to the other woman.
“Mrs. Rose Greenhow, may I introduce Mr. Adam Quinn.” Then Miss Lemagne added with a wry smile and an exaggerated pout, “Mr. Quinn has the misfortune of knowing Mr. Lincoln personally.”
Mrs. Greenhow gave Adam a very warm look as she raised her gloved hand. He knew enough to take it in his, lift it, and bow briefly. “It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Greenhow.”
“Mine as well,” she said in a voice that reminded Adam of a feline purr. Her dark eyes gleamed with interest. “So you’re likely a Loyalist then, are you, Mr. Quinn?”
“I reckon I am, ma’am.”
“What a pity, Constance, dear,” she said. Then, with a little laugh, she inclined her head toward Adam, then kissed Miss Lemagne on her cheek. “Good-bye, darling. I’ll see you and Althea soon, I hope. And with any luck, Varina as well.” Then Mrs. Greenhow turned away to a waiting carriage and was assisted inside.
“Why, Mr. Quinn, I can’t think of anything that’s been so delightful in the last week than this very moment.” Miss Lemagne said with a warm smile of her own. “Fancy meetin’ you right here on the way to my hotel.”
Before he could think better of it, he said, “You’re still here in Washington. What are you—what a surprise.”
She patted his arm with her gloved hand. “I declare, Mr. Quinn, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think y’all weren’t nearly delighted enough to see me.”
He’d already recognized his error and grinned at her unabashedly, appreciative of her good humor. “I reckon it’s always a pleasure to see you, Miss Lemagne. But the streets are so empty, I thought for certain you and your father would have returned to Mobile.” Weeks ago, he added privately.
The flirtatiousness disappeared from her demeanor and she became more serious. “My daddy wouldn’t leave Althea,” she told him. “And of course, she’s not strong enough to travel. So we’re still here in Washington. Staying at the St. Charles, of course. You can walk me there, Mr. Quinn, if you like.” She dimpled up at him again.
Although Adam didn’t know all of the details, he was aware that Mr. Lemagne had recently reunited with a woman he’d loved many years ago. Her husband had been murdered at the inaugural ball, and it was his death Adam had been charged with investigating.
“I’d be honored to escort you to the hotel—and not only because I was already heading there myself,” he said with a smile as she tucked her gloved fingers into the crook of his false arm. “But surely you know the city isn’t safe.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard all the rumors. Mrs. Greenhow knows everyone, and they’re all talking about how many soldiers are coming, and that the invasion is going to be any day now. This morning, right at dawn, we heard the sounds of loud thudding, marching, and rattling over the bridge, and Daddy and I were certain it was the Confederate Army. We were all gathering in the hotel lobby, waiting to welcome them in . . . but it was only the barrels of flour being brought over the bridge on those wagons.” She smiled up at him. “But what have I to fear if our Southern boys take the city?”
Adam was torn between exasperation about her naiveté and frustration with her father for risking her safety. He’d seen firsthand how wild and vicious men could be when caught up in the passion of battle. The fact that she had the accent and demeanor of a Southern belle wouldn’t necessarily protect her—from either side of the conflict.
“I reckon there’s no telling what might happen, Miss Lemagne. I would urge you to take no chances and don’t go about alone—even during the day. And,” he added, thinking of Lane’s strategy to impart exaggerated information, “I wouldn’t be so certain your Southern boys will even take the city. There’s a fierce army of frontier fighters at the President’s House and another at the Willard. Still more at the Capitol. Those men are used to violent conflict, and I reckon you wouldn’t want to be caught in the middle of it.”
She seemed to take his warning seriously, for the challenging light faded from her eyes. Nevertheless, she replied airily, “There’s not so many men there, from what I’ve heard. Hardly a hundred. Not nearly enough to stand up to the Confederates.”
Adam knew he had to play his cards delicately, so he kept his expression sober and spoke as if choosing his words with care. “Miss Lemagne, the last thing I want is for you to be taken by surprise or be caught up in a dangerous situation, so trust me when I tell you: there’s a far sight more barracked in the Executive Mansion and Capitol than your Southern boys know. And more signing up every minute. If the Confederates try to invade, they’ll be unpleasantly surprised. Which is why I urge you to convince your father to leave the city. Today if possible.”
She managed to hold his gaze for a long moment, even as they continued walking along the Avenue. When she turned away, he saw that the fine muscles of her face had tightened in a grave expression. She believed him.
Adam pressed a bit harder. “If you need help with the evacuation, I’m certain I can arrange for a comfortable carriage for your father and Mrs. Billings. And any of your other friends,” he added, thinking of Mrs. Greenhow.
“I’ll speak to Daddy,” said Miss Lemagne as they approached the door to the St. Charles. “Now, Mr. Quinn, you never did tell me why you were visiting my hotel. Sadly, it appears it wasn’t to call on me.” She lifted her face and though she smiled and fluttered her lashes, he saw with some regret that her expression wasn’t as soft and flirtatious as it normally was. There was a layer of worry in her face that hadn’t been there before.
He reckoned that was because she really did believe him about the great army lodged in the mansion. He didn’t want to be too specific by giving numbers for fear she—or, more likely, her father—would realize he was planting the details, but if given the chance, he’d feed her more wrong information. He was certain it would get to the right ears through Mr. Lemagne, or even Miss Lemagne h
erself.
“Had I known you were still lodging in town at the St. Charles, I certainly would have,” he replied gallantly. “But I was certain you’d already left to return to Alabama.”
“But Mr. Quinn . . . surely you didn’t think I’d have gone without saying good-bye,” she replied. “After everything that happened after Mr. Billings’s murder.” What pretty, clear blue eyes she had. With long, dark lashes and black flecks in the irises, and a depth to her gaze that threatened to distract a man.
“I hoped that would be the case, but I reckon it’s best not to assume, Miss Lemagne. After all, many people have left the city very quickly in the last few days.”
He gestured for her to precede him through the door into the hotel lobby, then nodded to the doorman who’d opened it for them. Once inside, Miss Lemagne turned to him.
“Mr. Quinn, rest assured I wouldn’t leave Washington City without bidding you farewell. And I thank you for your warning. I’ll—I’ll speak to Daddy about it.”
He tried to appear hesitant, yet grave. “I only gave you that information for your own benefit, Miss Lemagne. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Quinn.” She smiled at him and, to his shock and pleasure, used his forearm for leverage as she rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek. The edge of a feather from her bonnet brushed his temple, and she brought with her a wave of floral sweetness and the rustle of skirts, but it was the soft buss of her lips on his skin that made the strongest impression.
“Thank you, Miss Lemagne,” he said, smiling back at her, then sobered once more. “Please be safe.”
She looked up at him as if loathe to let him go. “Do you intend to be here long? Perhaps I could—perhaps Daddy would be more apt to listen to you if you told him directly.”
Adam wasn’t certain he agreed with that, but he was too polite to say so. Hurst Lemagne had been the one to tear up his authorization placard from the president. “I’m not certain how long I’ll be here, but perhaps you could be of help. I’m looking for information about a young man named Johnny Thorne. He had a piece of stationery from the hotel here in his pocket, so he might have been staying here, or visiting someone here.”
“Had a piece of stationery? You’re looking for information about him, not looking for him?” Miss Lemagne looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “Mr. Quinn, are you investigating another murder?”
He exhaled a surprised laugh. “Well, I reckon there’s not much I can put past you, Miss Lemagne. I’m afraid you’re right. Johnny Thorne was murdered last night, and I’m looking for information about him so we can notify his family, and try to find out who would want to kill him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope . . . I hope he didn’t suffer too much.”
“It was very quick,” was all he said.
“Where was he killed?” she asked.
Adam hesitated, but decided it was best to answer truthfully. “At the President’s House.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Miss Lemagne’s face was a picture of horrified shock. “How terrible.”
“It was indeed. I’m hoping to find out who he was.”
“Of course. So . . . Johnny Thorne. I don’t believe I’ve heard that name, but we can ask the manager—no, perhaps I should ask the manager,” she said swiftly. “I suspect I’d have better luck getting his assistance.”
Adam looked over and recognized the haughty desk clerk who’d been here on his last visit. He was still wearing the same South Carolina palmetto cockade, proudly displaying his sympathies. Although Adam had no qualms about wresting cooperation from the man—however he’d have to go about doing so—he was forced to agree that his feminine companion would probably get the information he needed far more easily than he could.
“I reckon you might be right.”
“Now what else do you know about him? This Johnny Thorne? What does—did he look like? In case the manager doesn’t know him by name,” she added unnecessarily.
“He was young. No more than seventeen. Clean shaved—no beard or mustache. Medium brown hair. This tall.” He measured a height just below his shoulder. “Thin. I don’t know much else about him except he was quiet and shy, and when he did speak, he seemed to have a Southern accent. Big feet. Small nose. Eyes were brown.”
“All right, Mr. Quinn. That could describe quite a few men, but I can’t say I recall seeing anyone around here who meets that description. Anyone that young . . . What was he wearing?”
Adam described Thorne’s baggy, worn clothing, and though her brows rose at the description of someone who didn’t seem able to afford the St. Charles, Miss Lemagne nodded. “Very well. I’ll speak to Mr. Perkins, but . . . perhaps if you stepped over here,” she suggested with a smile, gesturing to a location out of sight from the front desk.
With a wry grin, he did, taking a seat in one of a pair of high-backed, mahogany chairs upholstered in gold brocade. Perfect for a private conversation, they were screened from the rest of the lobby and the front desk by a thick plaster column, a man-sized potted fern, and a discreetly positioned spittoon. While he waited, Adam pulled the scrap of St. Charles Hotel stationery from his pocket to take a closer look.
430.
The numbers were neatly written in pencil. A room number, perhaps? Here at the St. Charles?
Or an address. But there was no street, unless it had been torn off.
Or, he reflected, it could be a time. Half-past four. Most often a man would write out the words, but he’d seen it noted with numbers as well. He peered at it closely. Was that a comma between the four and the thirty? Or simply a stray mark?
It could be a date. April 30—that was in less than two weeks.
What about the page number of a book? But what book? The Bible?
Shaking his head—for any of those possibilities, and probably more that he’d yet to think of, could be correct—he turned the paper over in his hands, looking for any other sign that might give him further information. But the reverse side was blank and clear of stains or smudges.
The rustle of skirts and a waft of sweet scent announced Miss Lemagne’s return before he saw her.
He stood politely, then sat back down when she took the chair opposite his and waved him into his seat.
“There was no one here registered under the name of Thorne—Johnny or anyone else. I tried to describe him to the manager, but it was difficult. I think we need a likeness of him; then I can show it around and—”
“Pardon me?” Adam wasn’t quite able to keep a crack of surprise from his voice. “Miss Lemagne, while I’m obliged for your assistance just now, I don’t see any reason for you to involve yourself in this matter.”
She merely reached over to pat his hand. “That’s very kind of y’all to be worried about little ol’ me, Mr. Quinn,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound as if she really meant it. Adam knew that kind of tone, and it usually preceded something unpleasant when it came from his sisters or mother. “But there’s absolutely nothing for me to do in this empty, barren city right now—I’ve no friends, no parties, no luncheons . . . and, alas, not even one charming, handsome beau to keep me occupied. Therefore, I’d be very grateful to have something to do. And showing around a picture of a young man is the least I can do—especially since someone murdered him.”
“We don’t have a painting or photograph of Johnny Thorne,” he said in what he knew would probably be a vain effort to stifle her interest.
“Not to worry, Mr. Quinn,” she replied with a bright smile. “I’m quite handy with a pencil. In fact, Daddy has a collection of pencil sketches I’ve done hanging in his office. I’m particularly good at likenesses, as a matter of fact.” Her smile became even brighter. “I can draw two or three images of Mr. Thorne’s face, and then you and I can show it around to see if anyone recognizes him.”
The way her eyes—the color of cornflowers—narrowed on him told Adam he’d walked right into a pile of pig muck. If he stayed in, he was going to be st
uck, and if he walked out, the muck would stick with him. There was no clean way out of the mess.
Still, he protested, and rightly so. “That’s a very kind and generous offer, Miss Lemagne, but I don’t reckon you’d need to draw a portrait of a dead man.”
“Whyever not? How on earth do you expect to identify him if no one knows what he looked like?” She reached over and rested her hand on his false arm, giving it a little pat. He had a flash of regret that it wasn’t his real limb. “The description you gave me could fit any number of men in the city.”
“Miss Lemagne, I’m very appreciative of your offer, but I reckon your father would have my head if he knew you were consorting with dead bodies—even for such a well-intentioned reason.”
She withdrew her hand and gave him a considering look, then curved her lips into a sweet smile. “You’re very kind to be so concerned about little ol’ me, Mr. Quinn. And quite stubborn as well, I see. Very well, then. I suppose there’s nothing I can say to change your mind.” She tilted her head and the feather arching from her bonnet wafted delicately above her forehead. “At least tell me whether you have any suspects—or any ideas why he might have been murdered.”
When he opened his mouth to speak, she held up a hand to forestall his negative response. “Mr. Quinn, do have a heart! I’m utterly bored with nothing to do, locked up in this stuffy hotel and nowhere to go! At least you could tell me something interesting.”
“The fact that the war will likely be coming to your hotel’s doorstop isn’t interesting enough for you?” he replied mildly.
She folded her arms beneath the sleek curves of her bosom, forming a moue with her lips. “I declare, I thought you were a gentleman, Mr. Quinn. And a gentleman,” she continued in a steely voice, “never leaves a lady in distress.”
Murder in the Oval Library Page 8