Murder in the Oval Library

by C. M. Gleason

  As Sophie well knew, in any other circumstance, it would have been highly improper and somewhat uncomfortable for her, a young, unmarried woman, to be removing clothing from a man—especially one she didn’t know—but this was an extenuating situation. And as Sophie kept glancing covertly at the female organizer, she saw that the other woman was doing the same thing in assisting her charge to be comfortable. She didn’t seem to give a thought to what anyone might think or whether it was scandalous; she just did it.

  And so Sophie willingly followed suit.

  There was no blood staining Mr. Eldritch’s stocking, and although Sophie wasn’t a trained medical professional, she had had some experience with treating injuries during the course of her life. She glanced at the bloody wound that still seeped and realized she would need to find a clean bandage.

  “And what do you do in Lowell, Mr. Eldritch?” she asked, carefully rolling down his stocking.

  “I work at the livery my father owns,” replied her charge. His voice wasn’t quite as tight now, likely because his poor foot was no longer compressed by its boot. “Twenty years tending to horses day in and day out, and never had my foot stepped on a once.” He tried out a smile, and it worked as a wry comment on the situation. “Are you a nurse, Miss Gates?”

  The stocking was removed, revealing his broken, mottled skin. She’d never seen a man’s bare foot before, but it wasn’t particularly shocking—except for the dark, purple-blue bruising over a third of it. The flesh was hot and taut with swelling, which was part of the reason removing his boot had been helpful in relieving the pain.

  “No, I’m not a nurse,” she replied. “But even I can see that you’re in need of a bandage, and some washing away of that blood.”

  She wasn’t certain whether she should go so far as to completely cut away the fabric of his trousers in order to fully expose the wound, which was high on his thigh. But she could at least clean it up and pull away the blood crusted material that had begun to dry against the wound. Looking around to see where to get a small basin of water and bandages, Sophie stood, then made her way down the row of beds to fetch the supplies.

  When she returned with a small bowl containing a bare half-inch of water—all that was available, for so many needed it—a small bandage, and a cup of water for him to drink, she said to Mr. Eldritch, “Do you want to talk about what happened in Baltimore?”

  The journalist side of her was curious, and it would keep his attention fixed while she dabbed away at the injury on his thigh. She handed him the mug to drink, then turned her attention to his torn leg. The wound was raw and glistened with dark blood, and she fancied she saw the white marble of bone revealed deep within the striations of red flesh, muscle, and whatever else was beneath the skin.

  Feeling a little ill, Sophie averted her eyes and thoughts from the possibility that she was seeing bone down in there, and tried to ignore the stench of blood as well as other smells—waste, sweat, fear—that filled the room. She’d seen the remnants of violence and injury, but she wasn’t immune to it.

  “We got to Baltimore on the train from Philadelphia, and then we had to transfer to the other station in the city for the train that would take us here to Washington.” Still gripping the cup she’d given him, which was now empty, he closed his eyes as he settled back on the cot. “Normally, the train cars get pulled by horses through the streets for about a mile from one station to the other, and the first several cars managed to get through before the mob waiting for us became too big and violent. But by the time ours came up—we were in the seventh rail car—the horse masters had given up and the mob was getting more excited, and so we had to march on foot.

  “We could ignore the name calling and the jeering and even the spitting, Miss Gates,” he said, his hazel eyes earnest. “It wasn’t that. It was when those Seceshes in Baltimore started pulling up bricks and stones from the street and throwing them at us that it got worse. Calling us traitors!” He shook his head on the flat pillow, his eyes shocked and angry now. “They were the traitors—attacking government soldiers as they were! And crying for secession!

  “Then someone from the crowd fired a shot into our regiment, and then some of us fired back. Next thing, there was everything being thrown—stones, pieces of metal, horse shi—beg your pardon, miss, horse dung—and so many of us were hurt. On both sides.” His voice faded away as he settled into silence. “I reckon that was only the beginning of it.”

  “It must have been terrible,” she said, dipping the cloth into what was left of the stingy water in the bowl. Both the cloth and the water were now tinted pink, but his wound looked a little better. She’d pulled the torn pieces of trouser away from the injury, using the water to dampen the blood that had crusted the fabric to his skin over the last few days. “And frightening.”

  “Not so much frightening,” he said stoutly, “but shocking. How can men and women attack their own countrymen like that?”

  Sophie shook her head. That was a question that would likely be asked countless times over the next days, weeks, and months. Surely it wouldn’t be years.

  “The infirmary needs more bandages,” said the dark-haired woman who’d been working next to them. “They’ve run out already. And they don’t have enough blankets.”

  She’d helped her charge take off his shirt to reveal an ugly, circular wound in his arm that appeared to be from a bullet, and now looked at Sophie and Mr. Eldritch. “I’m going to go get some from home. And some food and water for these men. Mr. Martin says they’ve hardly eaten since yesterday.”

  “I’ll go as well,” Sophie said. There were many supplies she could get from the apartment at the Smithsonian. No one was there, and whatever was useful could be brought here to the infirmary. She turned to Mr. Eldritch. “Is there anything you need?” New stockings for one, she guessed, and trousers as well.

  “No, miss, I’m going to be just fine,” he said stoutly. “Won’t be long before I’m lining up to go fight them Rebels.”

  Sophie smiled and bid him farewell, then caught up with the dark-haired woman as she left the infirmary.

  “Thank you for organizing everything as you did,” Sophie told her as they walked out of the place. The Capitol rose on its hill ahead of them to the south, a proud and dominant symbol of what those soldiers were fighting for. And yet its state of partial construction made a poignant statement—as if to remind one that the Union itself was imperfect and in disrepair.

  “Every time I see that unfinished dome, I think it looks like a hoop skirt frame only half covered with crinolines and skirts,” said her companion with a short laugh. “I look at it every day on my way to my job.”

  “Where do you work?” Sophie asked, expecting her to give the name of a shop or private household.

  “I work at the Patent Office,” she replied. “I believe I was the first woman ever hired there. And even now there aren’t many of us women with jobs in the government.”

  “Why, that’s amazing! However did you manage to convince them to hire you?”

  She smiled, revealing a few charming dimples. “I’m not quite certain. Persistence, I suppose. But when President Buchanan was elected, my position was eliminated and I moved back to North Oxford, Massachusetts, until the job came back. North Oxford is my family hometown, and that’s why I knew some of those soldiers who came in on the train. I just couldn’t leave them there struggling,” she said, sobering. “Incidentally, I’m Clara Barton. And I want to thank you for stepping in and helping me right away. Once you did, some of the other ladies did as well.”

  “Of course. I’m Sophie Gates. I live at the Smithsonian Castle. Joseph Henry is my uncle.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you—is it Miss?—Gates.”

  “Yes it is.” Sophie paused, gesturing toward the spires of the castle, which rose from behind the hotels, shops, and houses they passed as they walked down E Street. “I’ll go back to my family’s apartment and get whatever I can find. They’ve all left the city, so
they won’t miss anything. What do you think is most needed right now, Miss Barton?” She wasn’t certain whether the title was correct, or whether the woman was married (that was why it was helpful when someone was there to make introductions, Sophie thought). Clara Barton was about twenty years older than Sophie, but she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “Bandages and food, I expect. I heard the matron say that there were provisions enough for the soldiers who made it to the Capitol, where they’re to sleep, but not enough there in the infirmary. But I would expect some of them will also need clothing to replace that which was damaged, and more blankets as well.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll gather up to bring,” Sophie replied. “Would you like to come with me? It would be far easier with two carrying supplies than one.”

  Miss Barton gave a shy smile. “I would very much like to. I have always been fascinated by the Smithsonian Institute, and although I’ve been in the public areas, there is obviously much more to see. It must be quite strange and exciting to live in a castle.”

  “It is the most interesting place I’ve ever lived,” Sophie replied as they began to walk together. “I’ve been here in Washington only since late February.”

  “Where did you live before?” asked Miss Barton. “If it’s permissible for me to ask.”

  Sophie smiled. “Of course it is. New York City.”

  “Such a busy place. Did you like it there?”

  Although Miss Barton didn’t ask what had brought her to Washington, Sophie found herself elaborating. “I did. It was a very exciting city; always something happening. And so many people! But there was a bit of a . . . well, a—a disruption in our plans, I suppose one could call it . . . and my parents thought it might be a nice change for me to visit my uncle.” Sophie’s cheeks warmed. “Disruption” was a very mild word to describe what had happened. And her parents had been trying to save their reputation more than giving her a “nice change” by sending her off for a “visit.”

  Banishment was probably a better term.

  “How long do you plan to be here in Washington, with the war coming, then?”

  Sophie gave her a little smile, though she had a twinge of sadness inside. “Indefinitely, I hope. At this time, I’ve no desire to return to New York—even if my Uncle Joseph is a Southern sympathizer and I am a confirmed Loyalist.” That, at least, was the bald truth.

  And Miss Barton seemed to appreciate her position, for she smiled back and gave her an affirmative nod.

  Somewhere, a clock struck seven. The sun had just set, and although there was still a comfortable glow spilling over the patch of land called the National Mall, the shadows were long and Sophie knew it would soon be dark. But the street lamps had been lit, and it seemed as if the arrival of the regiment from Massachusetts had brought many people out from behind shuttered doors and windows, enlivening the city once more.

  Still, as they made their way across the Canal to Maine Avenue, Sophie couldn’t help but look toward the Long Bridge. When she noticed several patches of flickering firelight on the Virginia shore, she felt the nervousness she’d suppressed for a time return.

  As if reading her thoughts, Miss Barton said, “Are you fearful of an attack on the city? And you—surely you aren’t staying in the Castle all alone?” Her voice rose with concern. “You said your family had gone.”

  “Everyone says it’s only a matter of when, not if, the Confederates come,” Sophie replied. “So, yes, I suppose I’d be foolish not to be a little fearful. Or more than a little,” she added. “I’m not staying at my home right now. A—er—friend invited me to stay with them, and I’m safe with many other people.”

  She wasn’t certain whether she should mention any of the details about Mr. Quinn’s invitation, or about the happenings at the White House. “I went home to get a change of clothing,” she added, gesticulating with her valise. “And then I got caught up in all of the excitement with the arrival of the train.”

  By now, they were nearly to the red sandstone building. It had eight towers, and between its flagrantly gothic architecture and the fact that it was not constructed of the same white marble as every other governmental building in the city, the castle certainly drew the eye—some more appreciative than others. Beyond, the Long Bridge arched across the Potomac, and the sounds of tromping feet and jangling bridles filtered through the twilight.

  Miss Barton slowed. “The Rebels . . . is that them? Coming across the bridge?” Her voice, though soft, lifted to a higher pitch.

  Sophie hesitated, then continued on. They were nearly to the private door used by the Henrys to access their tower apartment. “I believe those are Union men. See, they are gathering at the edge of the bridge and marching back across now. They did that much of the night last night. But the sooner we’re inside, the better, I think.”

  She unlocked the door and stepped into the foyer of the East Tower, where she took up the lantern hanging by the doorway. After lighting it, she led the way up the stairs to the five-room apartment she shared with Uncle Joseph, Aunt Harriet, and their three daughters.

  It didn’t take long for the two women to pack up some old petticoats and handkerchiefs, along with a sheet, that could be used for bandages. Sophie also found several blankets that had been packed away for guests. She considered her valise for a moment, then upended its contents on her bed and used the satchel to pack the donations for the soldiers. She could always come back later for her clothing.

  “There’s another place I intend to look for clothing and bandages,” she told Miss Barton, handing her the bulging valise. “You said you wanted to see some of the private areas of the castle—well, follow me.”

  Sophie led her mystified companion down to the main floor of the institute, then, still shining the way with the lantern, she took them up another set of stairs to the North Tower.

  “This is where the naturalists who catalog all of the specimens for the institute stay when they’re in residence,” she told Miss Barton as she opened the door to what was obviously the realm of multiple bachelors. “Uncle Joseph allows them to board here free of charge between their trips, in exchange for their work for the museum.”

  “That’s very kind of him.” Miss Barton was looking around the apartment, which consisted of a large sitting room that sprawled into a second chamber.

  Sophie gave a little chuckle. Considering how much work the naturalists did for the Smithsonian, only in exchange for a place to sleep, she thought her uncle probably got the better end of the deal.

  From the doorway, one could see four of the beds lined up in the second chamber. In both rooms, books, bottles, papers, and half-burned candles littered every surface. An inkwell had been knocked over on a nearby table, but it must have been empty, for there was no accompanying stain. Several pencils and sketches had accumulated on another table’s surface, and there were two pairs of boots on the floor.

  The chamber, though messy, and with its windows closed didn’t smell particularly fresh, wasn’t so much dirty as disorganized and cluttered. And more than a little dusty.

  Sophie cast a grin toward Miss Barton. She’d been up here only once before, when her uncle had sent her to fetch a book from one of the men—Stimpson, it had been. The condition of the place had been the same—although at that time, three of the naturalists and explorers had been sitting around arguing with each other about the specifics of some genus or other.

  “Where are they all now?” asked Miss Barton, stepping farther into the room. “Did they evacuate the city? Or are they at the public rooms at the hotels?”

  “Mr. Stimpson and Mr. Kennicott went on a short visit to Philadelphia, but I expect they’ll be back any time now—at least, as long as the railways are open.

  “Some of the others have left to go on expeditions. As a rule, they come and go as they please. Usually there are four or five living here at a time, but they rotate among about a dozen of them, coming and going for months at a stretch. It just happens that the pl
ace is empty at the moment, though any one of them could return any day.” She was particularly aware of the comings and goings of the young men because of the regular meetings of the Megatherium Club—which was what the group of scientists called their informal fraternity. Their weekly meetings, which took place in lieu of visiting a gentleman’s club, were held downstairs in the display rooms after the museum was closed.

  Out of curiosity and boredom—and because, well, she’d already caused one scandal; why not another?—Sophie had actually infiltrated one of their meetings in March when she was dressed as a man. It still tickled her that none of the naturalists, who saw her nearly every day, had recognized the quiet Henry Altman as being Dr. Henry’s niece.

  Except Mr. Quinn.

  He’d just had to show up for that particular meeting—she still didn’t know why or how that happened. The luck of the fates never seemed to be with her. But at least Mr. Quinn hadn’t betrayed her real identity—and for what reason, she couldn’t fathom.

  Sophie walked briskly toward the back room. “I’m sure there are some things here that can be donated to our Union soldiers. Although they might need to be washed.”

  Miss Barton gave a short laugh of agreement, then followed her into the bedroom area. It was a bit of a treasure trove when it came to potential clothing donations: they found several flannel shirts, some stockings, and even a pair of trousers that had been left behind. Sophie ruthlessly dragged blankets from three of the beds, commandeered two feather pillows, and finished her thievery by folding up a large piece of canvas. Surely it would come in handy for some purpose at the infirmary.

  “I’m so grateful to have met you,” Miss Barton said as Sophie locked the door of the Smithsonian behind them.

  It was left to bring their loot to the infirmary—a task which they now learned would be easier said than done, having realized the four bundles they had to manage were heavy and awkward. As it was now well gone an hour after sunset, night had come and it was dark but for a splinter of moon and the few streetlights. Sophie looked around, but she didn’t see any hacks. Drat.