Murder in the Oval Library

by C. M. Gleason

  Mr. Quinn didn’t seem to recall that Sophie was there, and she stood quietly, nibbling on a slice of ham laid over a piece of crusty bread. Both were spread with baked apples. The fruits were soft and slightly sweetened, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, and their juices soaked into the edges of the bread just enough to flavor it without dripping through. Though he was talking about blood, she was somehow surprisingly hungry enough to eat without hesitation.

  As long as she didn’t picture the scene he was describing too closely in her mind.

  “He held her in place, hand over her mouth, until she died. He had to,” he muttered, “or she would have woken the house. So there was more blood on his right sleeve from when he stabbed her in the side.”

  Sophie blinked at this bit of information, but again chose not to speak. It was rather fascinating to watch Mr. Quinn’s face as he told the story, for he seemed to actually see the events happening in front of him. He spoke as if he were actually there.

  “The killer was calm—and yet desperate to have the strength and ability to hold her while she struggled and fought and died. He stabbed her, and used the knife in her body to help hold her immobile. What did he do with the knife after?” he muttered. “Where did he put it? He must have taken it with him.”

  Mr. Quinn reached for his coffee and drank it without slurping while continuing to contemplate the clothing. From the hallway came the chimes of different bells, calling for servants to the upper floors, and the sounds of them passing by on the way upstairs to their various tasks.

  “He was quite taller than she. At least five inches.”

  “How can you tell that?” Sophie asked when he lapsed into silence again. “His height?”

  Mr. Quinn looked at her in surprise, and she tried not to be amused or offended that he seemed to keep forgetting she was there. “His height? Ah, yes. Look at the way the blood stained his left arm—the one that held her over the mouth. It’s all along the bottom of the coat sleeve, and under the armpit. Shows that the angle of his arm was coming down to cover her mouth and hold her still because his arm was more open from the shoulder, due to his greater height. It gave more area for the blood to spray. See how it’s not the same on the other sleeve?”

  “What if she was sitting down and he came up behind her? He’d be taller then, no matter what. Oh, right. There’d be blood on wherever she was sitting. And there isn’t.”

  He nodded absently, still staring down at the clothing. Then suddenly, he turned to look at Sophie. “Where did you say this coat was found?”

  “In the furnace room, in an empty trash bin. Bridget, one of the chambermaids, found it. She was surprised someone would throw away good clothing, so she was going to clean them up for her husband.”

  “He threw it away—or hid it—because he couldn’t be caught with bloody clothes. But what did he do after he took them off? Where did he find new clothing? Where did he change? And when did he find the time to hide these clothes?”

  “I spoke to Bridget and the two men, Larriman and Tool, who see to the furnace room. Based on their duties and schedule—she cleans it, and they keep the furnace running, of course—the clothes would have had to have been hidden sometime yesterday between eight o’clock and ten o’clock in the morning. That’s the only time that room was empty.”

  He looked at her again, this time with a glint of admiration. “Well, that’s quite helpful, Miss Gates. Thank you.”

  “Did you see Dr. Hilton? Did he tell you when he thought Johnny—er, Miss—Thorne was killed?” Sophie began to stack their empty plates on the tray. “Where shall I put the coat when you’re finished looking at it? Oh—I didn’t get to look in the pockets.”

  “Questions. Always questions, Miss Gates,” he murmured, bending over so as to anchor the coat with his half-arm while he dug in the pockets with his hand. “I reckon I should put this with the other—”

  The way his voice cut off had Sophie looking up sharply. He’d turned the coat over during the process of digging in the pockets, and his expression could only be described as stricken.

  “Did you find something important?” She moved toward him in hopes of seeing.

  He looked at her as he flipped the coat in half to bundle it back up, then in half again. “A few coins and a button. Not much else.”

  She tamped back the urge to question him further, mainly because the look on his face wasn’t one of subterfuge, but one of arrested thoughtfulness. And shock.

  He’d found something that bothered him, and, true to form, he was being reticent about it.

  For now.

  * * *

  Pennsylvania Avenue was even more deserted than it had been yesterday when Adam left the White House. Nonetheless, it was another beautiful spring morning that belied the unease that had settled over the city’s occupants.

  Or, most of them at least.

  There were those who proudly wore their Secessionist cockades, overtly waiting for the Confederate army to come. Leward Hale was certainly one of them.

  Although he had much on his mind—and Jane Thorne’s murder, along with the unpleasant theory that was beginning to form, was only part of what concerned him—Adam remembered to maintain a pace slow enough for Miss Gates not to have to run along to keep up with him. It also helped that she’d slipped her fingers around the crook of his elbow.

  “So Johnny Thorne is a woman,” she said as they passed the Treasury building. “Therefore, one must consider why she would dress up as a man and pretend to be a soldier.”

  He cast her a look. “I reckon you’ve got some opinions on the matter, Miss Gates.”

  She smiled up at him, her gray eyes dancing from within the shelter of her bonnet. “Well, you did ask me for my thoughts.”

  “I allow I did.” He smiled back, permitting himself to push away the burdens of the day for just a few minutes. After all, it was beautiful weather and he was in the company of an intelligent and interesting—if not challenging—companion with an infectious smile. And she was quite nice to look at as well.

  “A woman might dress in man’s clothing for several reasons,” she began in a tone that reminded him unpleasantly of a schoolteacher. In general, he much preferred his learning to take place outside, among the elements of nature, or by doing things on his own—rather than to be talked at.

  Nevertheless, Miss Gates, however much she might remind him of a teacher, was clear and concise in her thoughts and reasoning. “She might want to be mistaken for a man in an effort to go about doing business that women don’t do—or aren’t allowed to do. Such as being a soldier.”

  “Or a journalist.”

  “Or a journalist,” she replied, smiling again. “Or, she might want to go about some activity or business simply without drawing attention to herself—thereby blending into the crowd as a man, and being less likely to be noticed if she were in feminine clothing. Or,” she said, tightening her fingers on his arm for balance as she hopped aside to avoid a swampy, smelly puddle on the walkway, “she might want the comfort and ease of not wearing eight layers of restrictive clothing.”

  “Eight layers?” Adam had never actually counted, but he supposed it was possible.

  Her cheeks turned slightly pink, making him grin even more. “I could enumerate them for you, Mr. Quinn, but I don’t think that would be strictly proper. Perhaps you could simply trust that I am aware of the number of articles of clothing the average woman is required to wear.”

  “Most assuredly, Miss Gates, I’ll take your word for it.” He became serious again, mulling over her points.

  “Oh,” she said after a few more steps. “There’s one other reason I can think of for a woman to dress as a man—and that would be in order to remain near her husband or some close male relative when he went away. To go with him, I mean.”

  “Away—as in, to war. Or joining the army.” He chewed on that as they walked another block. A woman who wanted to stay with her husband—or some other man she was close to. A brother. A
father. A lover. He was beginning to feel an unpleasant sense of inevitability.

  “And if that’s the case, at least one person must have known she was really a woman,” Miss Gates added unnecessarily. “The husband, of course.”

  Based on Hilton’s revelation that Miss Thorne had had sexual relations near the time of her death, that meant someone definitely had known Johnny was a Jane.

  Dammit.

  Adam did not like the way his thoughts were going. It was possible Jim Lane knew Johnny Thorne was a woman in disguise because the husband—or lover, he reckoned he’d best be open to all possibilities—had told his commander about it, for some reason. That could be true.

  He might have been able to dismiss his growing concern if he hadn’t seen the burn on the back of the bloodstained coat. If anything, that made him even more determined to speak with Lane at the earliest possibility.

  But he’d been unable to talk to his friend since yesterday afternoon, when he’d informed Lincoln and the others about Thorne’s masquerade. They’d both been too busy and working on too many different tasks in order to keep the president and his family safe.

  And he’d made no progress in discovering Miss Thorne’s identity—although Adam was beginning to fear that Jim Lane might be the one to help. Even so, he intended to stop at the St. Charles to see whether Miss Lemagne had finished her drawings.

  “I don’t know how you’re ever going to discover her real identity,” Miss Gates was saying, uncannily following his train of thought, “unless there was someone who knew she was a woman. If she’s not from the city here, how would you ever identify her?”

  “I reckon that’s one of the things that’s been keeping me up at night,” he said wryly. He felt her attention slip to his empty sleeve, and wondered if she’d somehow guessed that was why he wasn’t wearing his prosthetic today. The pain from his amputated arm had nagged at him, lingering from last night’s dark dream, and he’d decided not to buckle on the false limb this morning. Instead, he’d rubbed his favorite lavender-scented balm on the end of the stump and gave his arm what he considered a refreshment.

  Despite missing the utility of the prosthetic, Adam also felt a little lighter and a little less restricted without all of the Palmer arm’s straps and ties that fit around his torso and over his shoulder.

  “I don’t know how you’ll ever find out who did it,” Miss Gates said. “With all of the people who walk in and out of the mansion, and so many rooms where anyone could hide . . .” She shrugged, looking up at him with those big gray eyes. “It seems impossible. Unless you can somehow trace the owner of the coat.”

  Adam’s mouth tightened, but he replied, “I reckon that’s a good start. And I haven’t yet been able to examine the clothing she was wearing. Hilton gave it to me yesterday, but I left it with him.” That was another thing worrying at him—another thing he’d had to set aside due to the current military operation in which he was involved.

  “Mr. Quinn! Mr. Quinn!”

  He and Miss Gates turned to see Brian Mulcahey flying down the street toward them, his face flushed pink from running. He wore his boots and a tweed cap that appeared new.

  “Mr. Quinn, mister-doctor sent me to find you again,” he panted as his feet slapped to a halt on the cobblestones. “He’s been done with the examination.”

  Adam, who still held Miss Gates’s arm, felt her interest and curiosity blossom as if a sign had been painted on her face. Submerging a sigh, he reckoned he’d soon have another female invading Dr. Hilton’s office—or at least thinking up reasons to do so. But first, there were manners to attend to. “Brian, you’ll want to bid Miss Sophie Gates a good morning now that you’ve come up and interrupted her on her way.” He looked pointedly at the boy’s cap, then watched with amusement as Brian realized his error.

  The boy’s face turned darker red and he yanked off the head covering, twisting it in his hands as he stood up straight. Adam could almost imagine Brian hearing his own mother’s voice, reprimanding him over his rudeness.

  “Begging your pardon, Miss . . . uh . . . Gates?” He glanced at Adam for confirmation and received an encouraging nod. “And top o’ the morning to you, miss. I hope you’re about having a nice walk today.” He seemed to struggle for what to say next, and Adam, exchanging glances with her as she smiled at the boy, took pity on him.

  “Miss Sophie Gates, may I introduce Brian Mulcahey. He has been a very useful aide and runabout to both me and Dr. Hilton, as well as for Mr. Lincoln.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young sir,” she replied, inclining her head. “Am I to understand that Dr. Hilton has finished his examination and there might be more information about our murder victim?”

  “He’s a she,” Brian informed her as Adam winced over her use of “our” in relation to the murder victim.

  But he supposed he had no choice at the moment. Miss Gates had been involved almost since the body had been found, and she had provided some much needed assistance.

  Brian was still describing his experience effusively. “Yesterday, we didn’t know he was a she, but when doctor-mister showed Mr. Quinn, I saw her b—”

  “Brian,” Adam choked out just in time, and felt his own face grow warm. Blast it. He didn’t dare look at Miss Gates, who seemed to be shaking with—he hoped—suppressed laughter, and instead focused on the boy . . . who’d just realized his near mistake. Now his face was bright red, and even his freckles seemed to be blushing. “Did Dr. Hilton say whether it was urgent that I come, Brian?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Quinn. He said I was to tell you to come when you can, but if it’s tomorrow that’s all right, too. He’s put the body on some ice to keep it fresh. Are the Sech—Seck-sess—the She-sesh-onists,” he finally managed, “really going to attack us tonight?” His green eyes were wide. “Miss Lemagne said so. She said they’re going to take over the whole city.”

  “Miss Lemagne?” Adam didn’t know why, but he was compelled to glance at Miss Gates, who by now had gotten her giggles under control.

  “Miss Constance Lemagne?” she said, sweeping a look from Adam to Brian and back again. “Is she still in the city then? I thought she might have evacuated with the rest of the Southern sympathizers. Isn’t she from Alabama?”

  “She’s still here, miss,” Brian said, still with his most polite demeanor. “She was at Dr. Hilton’s yesterday, drawing a picture of the body.” His voice was rich with relish that Adam wished he could eradicate.

  “Was she?” Miss Gates’s voice was strangely devoid of inflection. “At Dr. Hilton’s, was she?”

  Adam rushed to speak, realizing he needed to fix something . . . but he wasn’t exactly certain what needed fixing. “Miss Lemagne’s maid was in need of a doctor, and I reckon she felt Dr. Hilton would do a fine job seeing to her.” He congratulated himself on his quick thinking to explain the inexplicable. “And while she was there, Miss Lemagne suggested that a drawing of Thorne’s face might assist with the identification—so I would have something to show around.”

  “How enterprising of Miss Lemagne,” replied Miss Gates in that same tone that seemed normal, but there was something about it that made the hair on the back of his neck want to prickle.

  “She’s very pretty and very nice,” Brian said helpfully. “Even though she likes the Sesh—those rebellious traitors!”

  “I’d be happy to show around Miss Lemagne’s drawing,” said Miss Gates. “While I’m at the infirmary this morning, and possibly Miss Barton would help as well. She’s been living here in Washington for longer than I have, or Miss Lemagne has. Or even you, I suppose, Mr. Quinn. Of course, Miss Thorne—I do wish we knew whether that was her real name or not—might not even be from Washington.”

  “If she was here because she wanted to be near her—er—hus-band,” Adam said, without giving an explanation as to why that was very probable, “and she was in the White House with the Frontier Guard, then I reckon it’s most likely she’s not from Washington. Most of the men garrisoned
there are from Kansas or other places out west.”

  “So perhaps Miss Lemagne’s drawing won’t be all that helpful after all,” Miss Gates said with a bland smile. “Oh, and speak of the devil. Miss Lemagne!” She released Adam’s arm in order to wave. “Wasn’t she staying there at the St. Charles? It looks as if she’s packing up to leave town.”

  He looked over and saw Miss Lemagne standing next to a barouche in front of the hotel. Her maid Jelly was there as well, and Miss Lemagne was supervising the driver, who was loading trunks onto the luggage shelf on the back of the carriage.

  “I didn’t realize you knew Miss Lemagne,” Adam said as the Southern woman looked over. She spoke to the driver, then began to make her way down the block toward them.

  “Oh, yes. Recall that we met briefly at the levee at the White House—on that awful night when you and Dr. Hilton caught Mr. Billings’s murderer. And I’ve seen her several times since then on a number of social occasions—dinners, salons, even once at the theater. She’s very amiable.”

  “Mr. Quinn! And Sophie Gates. Oh, and young Mr. Brian,” said Miss Lemagne gaily as she arrived in a vacillating swirl of broad yellow skirts and a tall, arching bonnet adorned with green leaves and yellow flowers. Its matching ribbon fluttered in two untied pieces over the front of her bodice, and she wore a pair of pale yellow gloves.

  “I was so hoping y’all would call today, Mr. Quinn. After I saw you yesterday, I got myself right to work and I’ve completed two more copies of my drawing of the poor woman’s face. They’re very good likenesses, I think, and I’m certain it will be helpful when we begin to show them around the city. The poor woman,” she said, looking at Miss Gates. “What a terrible thing to happen—or perhaps y’all hadn’t heard about it, Sophie, darling?”