Makwa didn’t have to tell him what he’d done wrong. They never talked about it after—there was no need, for the lesson had been learned. And Adam still had the reminder of it in the form of scars on his right shoulder.
Now, with that in mind, he looked through the carriage thoroughly, but there was nothing else he could find of importance—especially since dusk was beginning to darken the world.
When he was finished, he eased out of the carriage and, taking the lantern with him, shone it around on the ground. The sun was just above the horizon—he did a quick measurement and figured another three-quarters of an hour before it was gone. Full darkness would fall shortly after on a city ill-defended and prepared to be invaded. He needed to return to the White House before then.
The lantern revealed little outside the carriage—too many footprints from people removing Louis’s dead body, as well as a bit of rain overnight on Monday, had obliterated most of the tracks.
But Adam had a unique handprint to work with now, and he was grateful for that. While there were many men who’d lost hands, fingers or parts of fingers due to farm machinery, misfired guns, or other mechanical accidents, it certainly eliminated the majority of men. And if Miss Gates could remember where and when she’d seen the dark-haired man with the missing knuckle, that could help him along even further.
Replacing the lantern, Adam extinguished it and closed the carriage up once more. He was just beginning to walk down the street when he noticed the house number of the building next to the vacant lot where Louis’s barouche had been abandoned.
430.
430 L Street.
The number that had been on the scrap of paper in Pamela’s pocket.
He dug the drawing of her out of his coat and walked up to the front door. A sign hung next to it:
ROOMS FOR LET
Then below, a hand-lettered addition read:
NO ABOLISHUNISTS NEED APPLY
With a grimace, Adam jangled the bell. Heavy, lumbering footsteps from inside made their way to the door, and it swung open to reveal a large woman with a rosy pink face and a bust that jutted through the doorway whilst the rest of her was inside the threshold. The very strong aroma of onions accompanied her, and her greasy brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said.
“You lookin’ for a room? I’m all full up but one on the top floor. It’s small but it’s all I got. You ain’t no Northerner are you?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m not looking for a room.”
“Well what—” she began in a huff, then clamped her jaws shut when Adam handed her the drawing of Pamela Thorne. “What about it?”
“Have you seen this woman?”
“And what if I have?” she barked. “What you want with her?”
“I’m only trying to find out if she was here, and if she was visiting anyone, that’s all, ma’am.” If it had been anyone else, Adam would have dug out the placard Lincoln gave him—but he sensed if he did so here, it would end up in pieces on the ground again, or worse.
“Well, she might have been.” The woman peered at him through narrowed eyes as if she expected a snake to jump out at her. “You stay here.”
She turned in a swirl of skirts and a fresh gust of onion, and lumbered off into the depths of the house. Adam waited at the door, watching the street and looking around. He supposed he could knock on all the doors in the block and see if anyone else had noticed Pamela—and perhaps a man with a dark beard who was missing part of his finger.
When he heard hurried footsteps coming toward the door, he turned just in time to see Leward Hale fairly running down the hall.
“Quinn? You bastard! What in the hell have you done with my sister?” he shouted, and lunged at Adam.
CHAPTER 16
SOPHIE GAVE A LITTLE SIGH. SHE’D RETURNED TO THE PRESIDENT’S mansion shortly before dusk—after another day visiting the soldiers and helping out at the infirmary by washing bandages and writing letters for the wounded—and here it was: the same glum, impossible evening. And although she’d racked her brain, she couldn’t remember where or when she’d seen the bearded man who was missing half a finger.
After dinner in the Family Dining Room on the first floor, she and the ladies tried to play faro in the Red Room, but no one seemed to be able to concentrate. Every time there was an unusual noise, all heads pivoted in that direction until an innocent explanation for the sound was discovered. Then they returned to their cards, but with a lack of gusto and attention.
At last, feeling stifled and nervous, she rose and excused herself. Perhaps she could find Mr. Quinn and see whether he had any news from his examination of the hackney cab.
“Good evening, Private Ewing,” she said to the sentry guarding the door to the East Room. “Could you tell me if Mr. Quinn is in there?”
“No, Miss Gates, I can’t say he is. I ain’t seen him some time now.”
She started to turn away, then noticed the sliver of light from beneath the dining room door. “Is he in with the president in the dining room?” She certainly wasn’t going to look inside herself.
“No, miss. Only Nicolay and Hay, General Scott, Major Hunter, and Mr. Lane are in there now.”
“Thank you,” she replied, and turned away. She peeked in the Green Room, which was dark and silent even though it was before nine o’clock. The household had learned two days ago that the gas supply was dwindling, so the decision was made that only the most necessary of chambers would have their lamps lit as a matter of course. The Blue Room was also vacant, which Sophie had expected, and so she went out to the corridor.
As she passed through the vestibule, she noticed the stairway leading to the second floor was, for once, empty of people waiting to see the president or someone else with supposed influence.
“And rightly so,” she grumbled to herself. “The poor man needs a break from all of those cloying, demanding people!” Even those from his wife’s family—like the man who’d waved his letter of recommendation from a distant Todd cousin of Mrs. Lincoln the other day as Sophie came by. As if she would be able to make any difference in the president’s decisions. And besides, weren’t Mrs. Lincoln’s relatives all slave-owners and Secessionists—including her brothers?
“And what is it you’re muttering to yourself, then, Miss Gates?” asked Old Ed as she approached the front door.
“Oh, nothing important,” she said. “Have you seen Mr. Quinn?”
“No, miss, I can be sure I haven’t, not since he left earlier today at two o’clock or there’bouts to go down to the Willard for Mr. Lincoln. And then he was about going on to the Treasury, I was hearing, and then some other places.”
“All right then, thank you. But I would like to get some air.”
“Sure thing, Miss. But don’t go far, now.” He opened the door for her and she stepped out into the evening. “Them Confederates are bound to be coming tonight.”
The day had been unusually warm and humid for late April, but now the night air was cooling a bit and it was far more comfortable. She drew in a few clean breaths and wandered alongside the front of the house until she reached the sentry at the corner.
Then she turned around and walked back.
After a few times of doing so, with no sign of Mr. Quinn, Sophie decided to go back inside. She didn’t know why she was so restless . . . well, that was wrong. She knew exactly why she was so restless, and she wished she had something interesting to focus on. Even working on writing a newspaper article didn’t appeal. She seemed to have lost interest in journalism—at least, for the moment.
If she was home, she could find a book to read, or go wander through the museum and look at the exhibits—the mummies were a favorite—or any number of other occupations. When Mr. Quinn came back, she might be able to nudge some more information from him, or at least a rousing discussion about the investigation.
Anything to keep her mind off tonight.
“Thank you, Mr. M
cManus,” she said when the old man let her back inside. “If you do see Mr. Quinn, would you tell him I’m looking for him?”
“Of course I will, young colleen, but in my day, it was always the man who was doing the chasing after of the bonny lass, and not the bonny lass doing the chasing.”
Sophie’s cheeks warmed, but she knew better than to protest. She knew her Shakespeare, and was well-versed in the implication of protesting too much. “Thank you, Mr. McManus, for thinking of me as a bonny lass,” she said with a smile that her disapproving mother would surely have described as cheeky.
She thought about going down to the basement to see if Miss Cornelia would let her have some tea, but changed her mind when a thought struck her. She could go up to the library and see if there was a book that interested her—and while she was there, maybe some new inspiration about the murder of Pamela Thorne, or the man who’d killed her, would strike.
Even though Mr. Quinn had agreed that the library could be cleaned and used again—at least, once the carpet was taken up and the bloodstained furnishings replaced—no one had ventured inside. The family had ceased using it for their evening gatherings for a number of obvious reasons. And Sophie knew the maids, especially Leah, had no interest in going in the chamber. Changing that was not on anyone’s list of priorities, so she expected there would still be the bloodstains and those minuscule wax drops Mr. Quinn had pointed out to her.
Perhaps she could spend some time studying all of that in an effort to see at least some of what he’d discerned from his examination.
To her surprise, at first it seemed the door had been locked. But she jiggled the knob and discovered it had only stuck for a moment, and she was able to turn it with a little effort. Now it opened and she looked inside.
The chamber was still, as if arrested at some point in time and frozen there forever—abandoned and forgotten. She’d thought ahead and brought a candle, and its meager light cast only a small circle around her as she stepped in and closed the door.
The scent of blood still hung in the air, though it was faint—or perhaps even a figment of her imagination. And there was also the aroma of wood smoke from the fireplace—though it hadn’t been lit for several days—and the faint smell of kerosene. The curtains on the far wall were closed, flanking the two armchairs that graced the small table with its writing implements, and everything else seemed just as undisturbed.
Despite the gruesomeness of the space and what she knew had transpired within, Sophie found she wasn’t as affected by it as she had been when the scene was fresh. However, she discovered that, regardless of her plan to reexamine the space for the clues Mr. Quinn had noted, she felt a little less eager to do so now that she was there, inside, alone, in the dark, and with all those bloodstains—and the spirit of Pamela Thorne surely hovering about somewhere.
With a little shiver that she told herself was nonsense, Sophie set the candle on a table near the long sofa and chairs in the center of the chamber, and began to peruse the bookshelves for something that might interest her.
Edgar Allan Poe. . . . She hadn’t read his stories in quite some time; perhaps they’d be a nice diversion. She’d particularly enjoyed “The Purloined Letter” and “The Cask of Amontillado.”
Although . . . his macabre tales tended to be about dark and stormy nights, and sometimes even about murder . . . so perhaps that wasn’t—
Sophie paused. There was something on the ground over there, something on the floor near one of the chairs by the curtains.
It hadn’t been there the last time she was in the room with Mr. Quinn, and since no one had come in (that she knew of), she was, of course, curious.
For some reason, she took up her candle—as if its small, singular flame would somehow banish the ghosts or unpleasant thoughts that might accompany her to the spot where Pamela Thorne had been murdered—and brought it with her. Strangely nervous, she nudged the object with her toe. It seemed to be a bundle of clothing.
She crouched carefully, using the hand not holding the candle to ease herself into position while her corset restricted her torso in protest. Then she reached for the bundle.
There was nothing inside of it—just clothing.
No, they were more like rags.
Rags.
Rags that smelled like kerosene.
Sophie gasped and lost her balance, tumbling onto her rump . . . and that was when she saw the silvery blade of a knife.
Right by the side of her throat.
CHAPTER 17
“YOUR SIS—” ADAM DODGED JUST IN TIME TO ALLOW LEWARD Hale to tumble out the front door of the boardinghouse.
“What the hell have you done with my sister?” bellowed the other man as he swung around. He was holding a revolver. “I’ll shoot your other arm off, Quinn, if you don’t tell me where Pamela is.”
Adam’s shock had already begun to dissipate, but he didn’t have a weapon in his hand and he was looking down the short barrel of one in a wild-eyed, spitting fury. “Put that down, Hale, and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Although he deeply loathed the man and despised the mere sight of him, Adam forced himself to set that aside—just for the moment; only for the moment—in order to deliver what must be terrible news.
“Where is she, Quinn?” Hale had lowered the revolver, but he was fairly shouting through his clenched teeth. “What have you done with her, you bastard? Is that how you exact your revenge, then? On an innocent woman?” His voice had gone high and tight, and his expression was filled with the same hatred and disgust Adam felt toward the other man.
He had only a moment to consider his next move, and decided there was no simple way to put it. “If Pamela Thorne is your sister—which it appears she is—she was killed last Thursday night.”
“Killed?” Hale screeched, the revolver up and pointing at Adam once again. “Why, you—”
“Wait.” Adam held up his hands—including the false one that the bastard in front of him had given him—in a possibly futile effort to calm his adversary, but he couldn’t just stand there and get shot in cold blood—which Leward Hale was more than capable of doing. “Just wait a damned minute, Hale.”
The revolver trembled in the pro-slaver’s hand and his eyes were wild, but he didn’t shoot. And the weapon wasn’t cocked, so Adam figured he had a fighting chance—a moment to make his case.
“Tell me,” Hale demanded. “Tell me now.”
“If Pamela Thorne is your sister—”
“My sister’s name is Pamela Buckthorne, but she’s in that drawing you have there. Did you kill her or not, Quinn? I’ll put a ball in you right—”
“I didn’t kill her. I’m trying to find out who did,” Adam replied, keeping his eye on the finger at the trigger and the thumb that was prepared to cock the hammer. He fidgeted a little, using it as an opportunity to put more space between them.
Hale spat a long stream of tobacco, and it landed on Adam’s boot. “Why should I believe you didn’t kill her? You hate me, and the feelin’s mutual.”
“I don’t kill people in cold blood,” Adam replied evenly. “Especially not women and children,” he added without hiding his disgust, “and certainly not by slitting their throats.”
The gun wavered again. “Someone cut her throat? Is that what yer tellin’ me?” Hale’s eyes were wide with shock and grief, and for a moment, Adam almost sympathized with him.
“Yes. I’m telling you, someone cut her throat in one of the rooms at the President’s House.”
Hale’s expression went blank for a moment, and then a rush of black fury came back into his face. “Lane! Goddamn that bastard! I told her—” He steadied the revolver, which was pointing once again at Adam’s chest. “He cut her throat, that goddamn bastard. Nothing’s too bad to happen to him. When the Confederates come in, I’ll be right there, first in line to cut him to little pieces.” He glanced west, where the pink sky was rapidly turning dark. “It won’t be long now.”
“Lane di
dn’t kill her.”
Hale barked a rough laugh. “He sure did, that goddamned nigger lover—sure as he killed Gaius Jenkins and got off scot-free. Paid the damned judge, I know he did.”
Adam didn’t like the way the gun was wavering about as Hale ranted wildly, and as he spoke, he shifted again to put more space between them. “Hale, I reckon I despise you more’n I despise any other person on this earth for what you and Orin Bitter did to Tom Stillwell and his family, but I’m telling you right now—Jim Lane didn’t kill your sister. I know he didn’t because it was a man who’s missing a finger on his right hand. And he’s got a beard and mustache.”
Somehow, those calm words penetrated Hale’s madness. “What did you say?” Even in the dim light, Adam saw that his blue eyes went from crazed to icy marbles. “What did you say?”
“The man who killed your sister has a black beard and mustache, and he’s missing part of his right forefinger.”
“You’re lying. Goddamn you, Quinn, you’re lying.”
“You know him? Who is he? Hale, he killed your sister—he put a hand over her mouth, then cut her throat in cold blood—and then he stabbed her in the back and held her there while she died. He muffled her voice, held her in place with a damned knife in her back while she died.”
“He wouldn’t. No, he wouldn’t do that—no matter what she—”
Adam dived at the man, ramming into his torso with such force they tumbled to the ground. He landed on top and jammed his left arm under Hale’s throat—having a wooden limb was handy for that sort of movement—then shoved his knee into the elbow connected to the hand holding the revolver. He reached behind him and slammed the side of his fist down into Hale’s knee, which was just coming up to ram into his back.
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