But what had brought Hale and his friends here, to Washington? Was it simply because they—as everyone—had known war was imminent, and they came to fight for the South?
That was the reason most of the men who made up the Frontier Guard had traveled here: enthusiastic with the prospect of protecting the capital, their president, and the Union. Some of them had been in Washington since the inauguration in early March, hoping to get positions in the army or government.
Adam finished buckling on his arm and reached for his shirt. In the process, he got a good look at the floor of his spot in the East Room in full daylight for once.
When he saw the dark smudge and the drops of pale candle wax there on the carpet—right near the wall where he’d slept the last two nights—he stilled. That stain looked a lot like blood that had soaked into the carpet. And it was accompanied by a few small drips of wax.
Just like there had been upstairs, in the doorway passing from the oval library to the president’s anteroom.
Adam looked down at the marks on the floor, considering. If he could determine whether the stain was, in fact, blood, that would be helpful. And, yes, he reckoned there had to be a lot of candle wax drips around the East Room . . . but the drips were on top of the stain, meaning they came after the blood. Aside from that, the Frontier Guard didn’t have much use for candles with all the gaslights in the room, and the fact that when they were actually in the room and not drilling or marching, the troops were either sitting around talking, cleaning their guns, or sleeping.
Not really a need for candles.
Nor were there any around that Adam could see.
But what he could see was how it might have happened . . .
The killer had left the second floor, carrying the bundle of his bloody coat and the candle, and he’d sneaked into the East Room. A smudge of blood and a few drips from the extinguished candle which had not yet hardened could easily fall on the floor here. And this location was just far enough inside the doorway, and near the wall—away from the others in the room but easy to get to without bothering anyone—which was why Adam had chosen it for himself.
It would have been simple for the killer to slip in, put the bundle on the floor and either sleep here or join the ranks of the other men in their neat lines down the center of the room. Probably no one would have noticed—thinking someone was merely returning from taking a piss or guard duty.
Adam had slept in the East Room Thursday—the night of the murder—but he’d chosen a spot closer to the window that night because he’d been discussing strategy with Major Hunter in that section of the room.
He shook his head, pulling on his shirt, still looking at the stains. He reckoned he didn’t much like what they implied.
Not at all.
And as if his very thoughts had conjured it, the double doors to the big room opened and Jim Lane walked in. It was the first time he’d seen his friend since yesterday, and since he’d hardly talked to him since Sunday, Adam couldn’t help but wonder whether Lane had been avoiding him.
Especially since he wasn’t wearing the coat he’d been sporting when he first came to the White House. The coat he’d showed Adam a week ago—with a burn on the back of it.
But Adam thrust that unpleasant thought away. Jim Lane was not only his close friend, but he was no coward to avoid talking to him. Both of them had been busy doing what they could to shore up the protections of the White House and the city, and the mansion and its grounds were large and everyone was busy, anxious, and determined. It was no wonder they hadn’t often crossed paths.
Nonetheless, Adam rose quickly and started toward the Kansas senator, who strode right down the center of the room to the middle so he could speak to some of the guard.
Adam reckoned it would take one simple question on his part to remove the niggling uneasiness that had lodged in his mind. And then he could put the worry about Jane Thorne’s murder away until things were decided here in Washington—one way or another.
By the time Adam got across the room, Lane had turned and started to make his way out again, deep in conversation with Major Hunter. Adam followed, joining Lane and Hunter as they climbed the stairs to the second floor for a meeting with General Scott and Colonel Stone.
Nicolay met them in the corridor. “Another contingent from Baltimore is in there,” he said in a low voice as he opened the door to Lincoln’s office and nodded them to go in. “They want the president to guarantee that no troops will come through the city or even travel around it.”
Hunter scoffed disbelief and fury as Lane growled, “He’s got to bring troops through. I told him we’d go to the city and raze it if Baltimore needs to be taught a lesson.”
Adam, Lane, and Hunter entered the office to find Lincoln out of his characteristic patience, and freely scolding the messengers from Maryland as General Scott and Colonel Stone looked on.
“You gentlemen express great horror of bloodshed, and yet would not lay a straw in the way of those who are organizing in Virginia and elsewhere to capture this city.” The president’s eyes flashed with intensity. “I must have the troops to defend this capital! It lies surrounded by the soil of Maryland. Our men are not moles, and can’t dig under the earth; they are not birds, and cannot fly through the air! There is no way but to march across Maryland, and that they must do.”
All of Adam’s concerns about Lane faded away when he saw the president’s face. Grave, dark with gloom and doubt, and oh, so sober.
Lincoln had turned to pace across the room and added in a lower but no less vehement voice, “Those Carolinians are now crossing Virginia to come here to hang me. I must have those troops.”
“Well, you’ve received your message,” General Scott said brusquely to the three men from Baltimore. “Take it back to your governor and your mayor, and know that the Union will have the troops through Maryland.”
Nicolay closed the door behind the trio and Lincoln turned back to his advisors. “Have you anything further to report, General?”
Scott, whose gout often prevented him from climbing the stairs, had taken a seat. It creaked now as he moved his large, bulky frame in an effort to find a comfortable position. He sighed and pursed his lips. “Word is a force of up to two thousand troops are preparing to attack Fort Washington. There are another two thousand coming from Harpers Ferry to join the attack on Washington.”
The room was silent for a moment, then the president said, “Can no one bring me any news other than gloom?”
“Some, sir,” Hunter said. “We have reports from our spies that the Confederates in Virginia are in dread of James Lane and his bloodthirsty horde—those are the exact words. That’s surely why they haven’t come across the river yet.”
Lincoln nodded at the Kansas senator. “I reckon you don’t mind keeping that sort of reputation.”
“Not if it makes the city safe.” Lane grinned and his eyes danced with a light that Adam recognized as fervor for battle.
“The Confederates also believe, according to Millard Thompson, who just crossed back over from Alexandria before dawn, that you’ve been planning this defense of the President’s House for months, Senator Lane. They think you’ve been secretly assembling the force here since before the inauguration.”
Lane gave a bark of laughter, crossing his arms over his woolen vest. “It’s working, then. The lies we’ve planted are working. We’ve got less than two hundred men here, and less than a thousand more elsewhere in the city. And they’re afraid of us. That’s why they haven’t come.”
“Yes, the lies are working. In fact, they believe you’ve got enough men to fight off five thousand troops—they just don’t know where you’re hiding all of them.” Hunter’s mustache lifted in a slight smile. “I wager there’s spies all over the city trying to find them.”
Even Lincoln laughed a bit at that, but Adam heard the strain under it. “I reckon the news could be worse, then. But I begin to wonder if there is even any help coming. If our only help is th
ose who are here now, and no more who will come to our aid,” the president said.
“No, sir,” Colonel Stone said. “More will come. I believe it. The response to your request for troops throughout New York and Maine, and Ohio, Indiana, and Michigan was of great excitement. All are proud, patriotic loyalists. They’ll come.”
Lincoln turned from where he’d been contemplating the view from his window—a view that included the sight of smoke from enemy camps and the Confederate flag fluttering from the rooftops of Alexandria. “And yet we hear that the Seventh regiment from New York has been attacked, cut up, and driven back.” He sighed, twirling his spectacles around between two fingers. “Perhaps there is no North, after all.”
“That’s a rumor, sir,” Hunter said. “We don’t know that to be true.”
He stopped twirling his spectacles. “Then why don’t they come?”
The president’s words hung there, low and anguished.
Scott glanced at the others, then with an abrupt gesture, sent them all from the office except Colonel Stone.
Adam, though shaken by the dismay and doubt from the president, seized on the opportunity to speak to Lane once they were in the corridor. “Jim, I reckon I need a word with you.”
“If this is about that damned Thorne matter—”
“It is,” he shot back, suddenly out of patience with all of it. “I need a word with you, Jim. Now.”
His expression and tone must have warned Lane, for the other man gave a curt nod. As there was a group of job-seekers waiting for Lincoln—a much diminished number now that attack was imminent, but listening ears nonetheless—Lane slipped past the sliding door that led to the private side of the corridor, then opened the door to the oval library.
Adam followed, closing the door behind them. He glanced at the spot where Jane Thorne’s body had been found, and saw that the bloodstains hadn’t yet been cleaned. In fact, the room had an air of hesitancy and neglect—as if no one had ventured in since the tragedy. He wasn’t the least bit surprised Mrs. Lincoln hadn’t wanted to use the chamber. He was surprised that it appeared even Tad and Willie had been kept out.
He faced Lane, who was standing near the door wearing a dark glower.
“You knew Thorne was a woman,” Adam said. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe otherwise?”
Lane shrugged. “You’d find out soon enough, and I didn’t have the time to have this sort of conversation. But here I am.”
“A woman is dead,” Adam shot back. “She was brutally murdered. Someone has to take the time to find out what happened.”
“Look, Quinn, I know you’re doing this for Abe, but we’ve got a goddamned war going on. We’re going to be attacked and invaded—and we none of us might even be alive tomorrow. Why in the hell are you worried about one damned body? Tomorrow, there could be hundreds. There’ll be thousands before this is all over. Ours included.”
Adam, who generally had a long strand of patience, barely managed to hold back his rage at Lane’s nonchalant dismissal. Instead, he remained focused and spoke in a cold, even voice. “Did you know from the beginning—when she joined the Frontier Guard—that Johnny Thorne was a woman?”
Lane cut his eyes away, took a deep breath, then looked back at him. “Yes.”
Adam, knowing the power of silence, waited for more. He kept his gaze fixed on Lane, steady and cool.
“Her name is—was—Pamela. She and I were . . .” He looked at Adam blandly, apparently unwilling to put the truth into words.
“She was your mistress.” Adam didn’t attempt to hide his disgust. He remembered what Hilton had told him—that the young woman had recently had relations. Christ Almighty. “You had a rendezvous with her that night. In here. In this room. When you were supposed to be guarding the president.”
Good God. He could hardly believe it.
No wonder Lane had insisted on taking the duty to sleep in front of Lincoln’s door—and without allowing anyone to spell him.
Pursing his lips, Lane nodded. Then his eyes went dark and flat. “I didn’t kill her, Adam.”
“Where’s your coat? The one you told me on Sunday at Willard’s that someone had tried to set you on fire? You showed me the burn.” Adam’s voice was steely, partly to hide the disbelief that a man he’d admired and befriended could have done such irresponsible—and worse—things. The woman had been his mistress—surely he’d felt at least something for her. But thus far he hadn’t expressed even the slightest bit of grief over her brutal murder. All he cared about was the impending war.
And then there was the sad fact that Lane’s wife—the one he’d remarried after she divorced him over previous infidelities and abandonment—had been betrayed once again.
Lane scrubbed a hand over his face, the bristles rasping in the taut silence. “I don’t know.”
Adam’s mouth twisted with derision. “I do. I have it. It’s got the blood of Pamela Thorne on it, Jim.”
Lane’s eyes widened. “What in the hell are you—Adam, I didn’t kill her! Christ. I swear it.”
“It sure looks like you did.”
“Are you calling me a liar, Quinn?” The other man was more than an inch taller, and had full use of all his limbs, but Adam wasn’t the least bit concerned by Lane’s suddenly murderous expression and the wild violence in his eyes. Even if the older man attacked him—which wouldn’t be unexpected; Jim Lane wasn’t called “crazy” for no reason—Adam would handle him.
“I’m telling you the facts: your coat has Pamela Thorne’s blood on it. You hid the fact that you knew her, that she was your mistress, and that you’d been with her in this room the same night she was killed. I reckon that doesn’t make you seem very innocent at all.”
Lane stared at him for a long moment, and Adam saw the way his jaw moved as if he were contemplating what to say—or do. His fingers opened and closed into tight fists. “I didn’t kill her,” he said again.
“What time did you have your rendezvous with Miss Thorne? What time was the president’s door unguarded?”
“Mrs. Thorne. She was married, all right? At least she wasn’t an innocent.” When Adam continued to spear him with his eyes, Lane spoke reluctantly, “Two o’clock. Or thereabouts. We’d made arrangements for her to meet me in here. When I did my perimeter around the mansion that night, I spoke to her then and told her to come up here when she was off her shift.”
Good God. Adam still couldn’t believe it. “No wonder you didn’t hear anything that night,” he said bitterly. “I reckoned it was impossible not to hear someone being killed in the next room, but now I know why.”
Lane started to say something, but Adam pressed on. “So she was alive when you—finished. How long was your rendezvous?”
“Dammit, of course she was alive. And my coat—I took it off when—er—when we were together.” Lane had the grace to look a bit abashed. “I must have left it in here.” He glanced around the room as if hoping the article of clothing would manifest itself. “I—wasn’t paying much mind when I left her at the door.”
“And somehow you didn’t hear her having her throat slit a short time later, while you were in the hallway next to the room? I don’t reckon that’s very believable, Jim. Your coat’s covered with her blood and you were with her around the time she was killed.”
“How do you know when she was—Christ, Adam, you know me better than that. I didn’t kill her.” His voice was tight with anger. “I don’t kill people in cold blood—and not like that.”
Adam looked at him, but was unable to voice agreement. After all, there was the situation of Gaius Jenkins.
“I’m going to find out what happened, Jim. Whatever it was.” He made certain the implicit threat was in his eyes: And if you’re guilty, our friendship won’t stop me.
* * *
It was well past the ten o’clock curfew of the Black Code when George Hilton stopped his wagon on L Street. After a look around to be certain no one was watching, he pulled his hat l
ower to shadow his face and tucked the rifle beneath his long coat. Then he climbed down, tied up his horse, and gave her a feedbag to keep her busy, and quiet, for a while. Only then did he approach the neat, wood-frame home numbered 1806.
This well-kept neighborhood on the northwest outskirts of the city was composed of whites and free blacks. Nevertheless, the scents of coal smoke and refuse filtered through the air, for waste always seemed to collect in the low areas along the walkways and roads.
All along the street, during this night of anxiousness and gloom, the windows were shuttered and dark. Many of the houses had been boarded up when their owners evacuated in advance of the coming Confederate army, and for those who couldn’t leave—or chose not to—they simply remained behind closed doors and prayed.
Except for the contingent of men at 1806 L Street.
George went around to the back of the house where the prohibited comings and goings wouldn’t be so noticeable and rapped quietly. There was a long moment before the door shivered slightly in its moorings, and the peephole slat opened to reveal a faint glow of light.
“The night is dark,” said a quiet voice.
“But dawn, like hope, will always come,” George said, finishing the passcode in a murmur.
The peephole closed and the door shimmied again, then opened into a small anteroom. Beyond was a shadowy kitchen, its windows shrouded to keep the meager light hidden from outside. George could see men gathered in there, and he smelled the remnants of a meal of boiled cabbage and potatoes.
He stepped inside, the rifle still swathed beneath his coat. “Sorry to be late,” he said. “I had a medical call that delayed me.”
“Thought you might have been picked up by the constable,” said Paul Jennings, a Negro who’d bought the house in 1854 when it was just built. He proudly told anyone he could that he’d paid a thousand dollars for it, brand new.
For more than a decade, Jennings had been a free man—ever since Senator Daniel Webster had bought him, then immediately given him his independence. Prior to that, he had been a slave owned by Dolley and James Madison since he was nine. He’d lived in the President’s House with them during the war with England in 1812.
Murder in the Oval Library Page 19