Murder in the Oval Library

by C. M. Gleason

  “Thank you, Miss Gates.” He wanted to say something more, but nothing seemed right. His mind was filled with so many other things.

  They’d reached the front door, and Old Ed was there to let them in.

  “Miss Gates,” Adam said as she started off to, presumably, the second floor. “In the future if you leave the property here—at least for the time being—I reckon it would be a good idea for you to at least tell someone—and even to take someone with you.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” she replied with a tired smile, and then she started up the grand stairway—sagging shoulders, dragging steps, cattywonker bonnet and all.

  The day was sunny; so bright it hurt the eyes. Adam wore a hat low on his forehead to keep the glare from blinding him as he scanned the never-ending prairie of dry, straw-colored grass. It swooned and shimmered with each breath of breeze, like the waves of a dun-colored ocean.

  It was a beautiful afternoon. His heart was full. His grandfather’s fiddle sat in its case, roped to the back of his saddle, ready for tonight’s shindig. He couldn’t wait to see Tom, Mary, and little Carl and all their other friends.

  The Skilltons’ house was a neat log cabin on the edge of cleared land Tom meant to farm. Wheat, he said. Some oats, and he reckoned a bit of alfalfa too. A winding brook cut through a stand of willow trees. It was just down a small incline from the house and its stable so Mary could easily get water until the well was dug. And the stable, Adam remembered with a grin, had been built even before the house because Tom’s precious horses and cow needed shelter.

  As he drew near the dirt track that led to Tom Skillton’s cabin, he heard the sounds.

  Shouts. Screams. Gunfire. Whinnies.

  Then a roaring noise that somehow filled the ears, though he could see nothing to cause it.

  And smoke. Thick and choking, it suddenly enveloped him. Everything became a blur, and black and thick, and Adam’s world was suddenly hot and bright, filled with a fire, laced by screams and terrified whinnies. Shots. More cries.

  Pain. Searing, blazing.

  And suddenly, there was Leward Hale, dancing and laughing in his face. He held Adam’s left arm, and he waved the limb along with his rifle in wild victory as he mounted his horse. He rode down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House, leading a group of men carrying rifles.

  Blood spun and splattered on the street behind Hale and his cronies, and it splashed against the pristine white of the President’s House . . . dripping down the sides as if buckets of red paint had been spilled from the roof.

  And Jane Thorne was there, dancing and twirling in a skirt and crinoline as the slit in her throat yawned like a wide, ugly grin. It came closer to Adam, bright red and shiny, thick with evil and heavy with rust, until it overtook him: wet, dark, thick, smothering—

  Adam clawed awake, his eyes bolting wide, his chest heaving, his body damp and tight. His missing arm screamed with remembered agony, and his mouth was parched.

  He lay there, panting, fighting himself back to normal as he focused on his surroundings. On reality.

  The world was gray with light as dawn spilled through a tall window of the East Room. Thankfully, Adam slept on the floor near the wall. He’d chosen a corner just inside the door, but away from the two long rows where the Frontier Guard slept, bisecting the room. No one was near enough to feel him struggling and shaking in his dream. He hoped he hadn’t cried out . . .

  Adam cradled the elbow of his left arm, holding it and the stump angling from it, against his abdomen and tried to slow his breathing. Tried to fight off the pain from a limb that no longer existed. Wisps of the dream still caught at his mind, and he willed them away.

  It had been months since he’d had a nightmare so violent and gripping—one that had taken him back to such detail of that day. Most often, he merely dreamed of fire and pain and screams.

  But he’d come face to face with Leward Hale yesterday. It was no wonder he’d fallen into such an ugly nightmare.

  Adam pulled to his feet just as the clock struck six. The man standing guard at the door—it was Garland, he thought—gave him a brief nod as he slipped through to find the water closet.

  It wasn’t until he splashed cold water on his flushed face that the last remnants of the nightmare faded. Only then did the realization struck him: another night had passed, and the Confederates hadn’t come.

  Saturday April 20

  They didn’t come, was the first thing Sophie thought when she realized it was past dawn. Her eyes were gritty and there was a crick in her neck, but the house was calm and the noises from beyond were the normal ones of servants and residents.

  She had slept only slightly better than her first night in the White House, but that was to be expected considering the amount of physical activity she’d done yesterday. She and three wives from members of the Frontier Guard shared the same small bedroom and had slumbered fitfully.

  When she woke, Sophie was a bit sore from her effort helping Mr. Eldritch limp his way to the infirmary, along with his rucksack and her valise—and she did, in fact, have a bruise on the side of her hip from the latter—not to mention the second trip she’d made, carrying a heavy bundle of donations back to the hospital. Yet, despite the fact that she was hungry and a layer of exhaustion settled over her like an ever-present cloud, she was also relieved the night had passed without incident.

  But that meant they had another long day and night of wondering and worrying ahead of them. Would any reinforcements come from the North? Would tonight be the night the Secessionists crossed over into Washington with their rifles and determination?

  Aside from all of that, Sophie realized that it had only been yesterday morning that Johnny Thorne had been found in the oval library.

  It seemed as if much more time had passed than a mere twenty-four hours.

  And another long, anxious day loomed.

  The bedrooms in the White House each had a marble sink with running water, a luxury Sophie took advantage of to wash up and clean her teeth. Then, her stomach growling, she collected the bundle of clothing that presumably belonged to the murderer. With a last bit of regret that she hadn’t brought the fresh clothing for herself from home last night, she left the room in hopes of breakfast—and finding Mr. Quinn.

  A clock struck eight as she made her way down the main staircase—already filling with the never-ending line of job-seekers and self-proclaimed Union loyalists. Her crinoline, though not nearly as wide and stiff as it could have been, brushed over the rows of walking sticks, shoes, and boots as she descended. At one point, it snagged on a buckle, and she nearly tripped when the hem was yanked backward and caught under her foot.

  “Drat,” she muttered, grabbing the railing to catch herself. The owner of the boot bent to unhook the lace edging. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Of course, miss,” he replied, but another man further up the stairway—well-groomed and dressed in fine clothing—said, “Blasted skirts are more trouble than they’re worth. Ought to be outlawed!”

  Another man spoke up. “I’ve pleaded with my wife not to wear them, but she insists. Her hem almost caught fire when she stood too close to the grate one night.”

  This began an energetic discussion among the men in relation to the dangers and inconveniences of crinolines and hoop skirts—with which much Sophie had to agree, although she knew men caught their clothing on fire at times as well. Even the bloodstained coat she currently carried had a small burn at the back hem.

  But despite the fact that the comments followed her all the way to the first floor, she declined to engage. And fortunately, she didn’t catch her crinoline on anyone or anything else on the way down, for that would have been a mortifying underscore to the men’s argument.

  As Sophie reached the bottom of the stairs and came through the glass screen’s door into the vestibule, she stumbled to a halt. Mr. Lincoln was standing there speaking to three men she didn’t recognize, along with General Winfield Scott, whom she did know base
d on his crusty age, towering height, and impossible girth. Fortunately, none of them seemed to take notice of her, and she edged into the shadows so as not to disturb their conversation—and because she felt odd interrupting the president during a meeting, even though he was standing out in the open.

  “It’s not possible for us to allow more Union soldiers to pass through Baltimore,” one of the men was saying in an arrogant tone. “Unless you, Mr. President, are willing to bear responsibility for the bloodshed that will follow. And there will be bloodshed.”

  Mr. Lincoln looked down at him, for he was much taller. “Very well. You may return to Baltimore and advise Mayor Brown and Governor Hicks that I’ve received their message.”

  “And there will be no other response at this time,” General Scott added gruffly. He nodded at Ed McManus, who opened the door for the three men from Baltimore.

  No sooner had they gone and Mr. Lincoln fell into conversation with the general than the front door was opened again by the elderly doorman. Sophie, who’d begun to step out from the corner, eased back in an effort to stay out of their way—but also because she was curious.

  “Mr. President, sir. General Scott. Major Thomas Cole sends news from the War Department.” The uniformed man who came in was out of breath as he stood ramrod straight and saluted.

  “What is it then?” growled the general as he snapped a return salute. “Report, Private.”

  “Yes, sir, General. All the bridges on the rail lines to the north and west of Baltimore have been destroyed by the Secessionists. They’re burned up and torn down and completely impassable. And the telegraph lines that run alongside them have also been cut. The mob has pulled down many of the poles as well, so it will take that much longer for the telegraph to be repaired.”

  General Scott and Mr. Lincoln exchanged looks. “Is there any other news, then?” asked the president.

  “Yes, sir. There’s also word that the militias in Maryland are gathering up to attack any Union troops that try to move through Baltimore or Annapolis. There won’t be any reinforcements coming through without a fight—if at all.”

  Sophie’s fingers opened and the bundle of bloody clothing nearly fell from her hands.

  We’re trapped.

  There was no way in, and no way out of the city for people, food, or supplies. Or soldiers.

  She’d heard enough murmured discussion since her arrival at the president’s home to know that with the city cut off by rail, telegraph, and river, it wouldn’t be more than a week or so before Washington would starve due to lack of supplies. And in such a weakened state, and with no military reinforcements, it would be ever so simple for the Southerners to take it.

  And that would be the end of the United States of America. The Confederacy would permanently break the Union.

  The Rebels would take Mr. Lincoln, and surely they would kill him.

  CHAPTER 9

  SOPHIE’S HANDS WERE COLD AND HER INSIDES TIGHTENED SO SHE FELT nauseated. Yes, she’d been afraid of invasion. But this news made the situation even more dire. More real.

  Especially now that she saw the long grooves lining Mr. Lincoln’s face, and the dull weariness in his kind eyes.

  He was just as anxious as she was. More.

  Before Sophie could decide whether to slip away before she was noticed, or to boldly walk across the corridor to try and locate Mr. Quinn, none other than the man himself stepped through the glass door from the main corridor.

  “Mr. President,” he said, striding past without seeming to notice her. “I heard there’s news from Cameron at the War Department.”

  “I reckon it can’t be much worse,” replied Mr. Lincoln, sinking Sophie’s stomach even more as he confirmed her direst fears. “We’re completely cut off from every form of communication and transportation from the north and west. And Baltimore threatens bloodshed if we attempt to bring any reinforcements through there, the devils!” His voice rose a little. “How dare they place the blame for bloodshed on me when they mobbed and stoned our men from Massachusetts. Traitorous devils!”

  Sophie could see how sober Mr. Quinn’s unshaven face had become. “I’ll get with Lane and we’ll scare up some more recruits. Ed McCook arrived yesterday from out west, and he’s a good man. We fought in Kansas together. His father’s here in Washington already—” He stopped and shook his head. “I reckon you don’t need the details, sir. You need the men.”

  “As many men as you can muster,” the president replied. “Anyone who can manage a rifle. And as many rumors as you can spread.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Quinn said, and just as he turned to leave, he caught sight of Sophie. His step hitched and she stepped away from the corner, still holding the bundle of clothing. “Miss Gates.”

  “I was looking for you,” she said in an attempt to forestall any comment he might make about her eavesdropping. But fortunately, Mr. Lincoln seemed not to notice, for he was in deep conversation with General Scott and yet another arrival who’d just been given entrance via the front door.

  She heard the word Gosport—which she knew was a naval yard in Norfolk—but could discern nothing else.

  Mr. Quinn shook his head. His eyes were dark and veiled with weariness, and he too had deep lines in his face. She noticed he wasn’t wearing his prosthetic today, and his sleeve hung empty from just below the elbow, instead of being pinned up as men often did. “I reckon I don’t have much time to talk with you now, Miss Gates.”

  “Of course not,” she said briskly, unaffected by his tone, which was much more clipped than his usual drawl. She struggled to keep pace with his long stride as he was obviously so distracted he didn’t think to slow for her shorter legs. “I heard what Mr. Lincoln said.”

  “I need to find Lane,” he continued in that terse tone. Then suddenly, as if remembering she was there, he stopped. “Miss Gates, don’t leave this house unless you take someone with you.”

  “I’m going back to the infirmary today,” she told him firmly. “Miss Barton needs my help gathering up more donations, and there’s nothing else for me to do but sit around here and worry. There aren’t even any newspapers coming in for me to read. I’m not going to be useless. But I doubt there’s anyone who can accompany me; I’ll not take any of the Frontier Guard from their duties.”

  He drew in a breath, hesitated, then expelled it. “All right, then. I reckon I can walk you over there because I’ve business on the Avenue. At Willard’s,” he said, more to himself than her. “And if I stop by the St. Charles, I reckon I . . .” He stopped and looked at her as if seeing her for the first time again. “Is that blood on those clothes?”

  She clutched them tighter. “Yes. It’s a coat that was found yesterday, and I’m certain it belongs to Mr. Thorne’s killer. I was hoping you’d look at it to see if you agree.”

  He shook his head, and she fairly saw his thoughts slow, settle, then organize as his eyes focused on her with clarity. “Not Mr. Thorne. Johnny is a woman. Or so Dr. Hilton discovered yesterday.”

  “A woman?” Sophie blinked. “That’s . . .” She couldn’t think of a word to describe her shock and fascination.

  “I reckoned if there was anyone I knew who’d have an opinion about a woman dressing as a man, it would be you, Miss Gates.” A flicker of humor flashed in his dark eyes, then was gone and replaced by that worrisome gravity. “I meant to get something to eat from Miss Cornelia in the kitchen, then take care of my business in town. Can you be ready to leave for the infirmary in thirty minutes?”

  “I’m ready now. I wanted to show the coat to you and ask where I should keep it, then I was prepared to leave.”

  “Will you bring it? I reckon I can look at it while I eat. Have you eaten this morning?”

  “Not yet.”

  They went to the kitchen where Mr. Quinn was greeted by the cook as if he were a long-lost son who’d been starved for years. Obviously, he’d come scrounging for food in the past.

  More quickly than Sophie had imagined, she and M
r. Quinn were situated in the servants’ dining room at the same table where she’d interviewed the staff yesterday. They’d hardly sat down when a scullery maid appeared with a tray of fried ham, toasted bread, and baked apples. She also had cups of coffee and a small bowl of peanuts.

  Sophie, sensitive to the fact that Mr. Quinn wasn’t wearing his prosthetic, laid out the coat on one end of the table while he worked quickly but awkwardly to make up his plate.

  “It’s not of particularly good or expensive quality,” she said, mostly to herself. “I suppose that tells us something about him.”

  The amount of blood on the coat made her empty stomach want to turn, but she steeled herself. There would be much more bloodshed before the year was over, and, thanks to Miss Barton, she’d already realized she’d be doing something about the war effort.

  Mr. Quinn moved to stand next to her. He held a plate balanced on what remained of his bad arm, and, without any appearance of self-consciousness, fed himself with his right hand.

  “Blood on the sleeves as expected if it belonged to the killer,” he murmured after a moment. “And down the front. If he stood behind her and grabbed her by the mouth . . . Otherwise she’d have made noise. And then he held her very tight and cut her throat. One quick slice.” He paused, picking up one of the sleeves to reveal a long, dark stain on the bottom of it.

  “See, there’s a great deal of blood staining the bottom of the left coat sleeve . . . and it would have seeped through to the shirt beneath it. Hmm.” He paused as if to think over that possibility, then continued. “That large amount of blood was from when he held her there, hand over the mouth, and the blood spurted up and over the bottom of his sleeve from the fresh cut. We know for certain he sliced with his right hand and held her with his left because of the marks on her face. It bears out.”