“I believe that Mrs. Bradwell out in Illinois means to sit for the bar next year,” said Abigail, secretly hoping to impress.
But Kate was never topped. “Her husband is probate judge of Cook County,” she said, stirring her soup. “He handed down the opinion holding that children born to slaves who are married to each other can inherit the property that their parents acquire once emancipated.”
“I had not imagined that anyone would doubt it.”
“I am afraid that, where the colored race is concerned, someone doubts nearly everything.” She looked up, smiled. “I beg your pardon. I fear that I am now doing it.”
“Doing what?” asked Abigail, tearing a dainty piece from the crusty roll, hoping she had the etiquette right.
“Telling you what it’s like to be you. What those women did at the Eameses’. Forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive.” She touched the water goblet to her lips. “Mrs. Sprague—”
“Kate. I keep telling you, Abigail. To my friends, I am Kate. Only Kate.”
“Yes. Sorry. Kate.” Still unaccustomed to addressing by Christian name one of the most prominent women in America. “May I have a turn now, and ask you a question?”
An amiable smile. “Please.”
And Abigail, in turn, tried to put as much warmth as possible into her words. “You are a friend of Miss Lucy Hale. Known as Bessie.”
The smile began to fade. “We are acquainted, as you know.”
“Do you know why she has left the country?”
“Her father is minister to Spain.”
“Yes.” Another careful sip. A servant materialized and filled her glass, then vanished again. “But her departure was rather … precipitous.”
“Was it?” Kate frowned. “I suppose it was. I understand that she canceled two dinner invitations she had already accepted. That is not done.”
Abigail sensed the uneasiness her questions were provoking. She had to act delicately. Whatever Mrs. Sprague was concealing, she would surely divulge only to a friend.
“No,” Abigail agreed. “That was quite rude of her.” She hesitated. “Was Miss Hale often rude?”
“I am not sure what you mean.”
Gambling. “It is my understanding that one of the dinners she canceled was with Mr. Grafton and his lovely wife.”
Kate laughed nervously. “Oh, but that means nothing. Her family and Mr. Grafton’s are very close. She saw them on many occasions. Missing one would make little difference.” A glance at the door, as if to ascertain how closely the servants were listening on the other side. “To be sure, Mr. Grafton lives mostly in Philadelphia. His wife rarely joins him at Washington.” She made a show of dabbing her lips with her napkin. “Mr. Grafton usually stays at Brown’s Hotel. Bessie stays at the National. The two hotels are right across the street from each other. That is rather convenient, don’t you think?”
So that was it. Kate had confirmed their theory without realizing it. It was indeed Bessie Hale who was in regular contact with David Grafton, the man at the heart of the conspiracy that she and Jonathan had come to believe in but were unable to prove. And what better way to conceal the true nature of their relationship than by pretending that they had another reason entirely to sneak about? A reason entirely consistent with the reputation Bessie had so assiduously cultivated?
“That is very interesting indeed,” Abigail said. “Do you happen to know when Miss Hale will be returning to America?”
“It is my impression that Bessie plans an extended European tour.”
“Extended?”
The two women locked eyes. The ticking of the grandfather clock was all at once the loudest sound in the world. “Indefinite,” said Kate.
They understood each other: Katherine Sprague knew. Perhaps she had known for a very long time. Whatever Bessie’s secrets, they had not been secrets from Kate. Abigail wondered, with a chill, whether there was anything of which this brilliant woman was unaware.
Kate’s smile once more grew mischievous. “And now, dear, you must tell me what you think of Miss Margaret Felix.”
Abigail put her glass down so hard she had to look to be sure she hadn’t broken it. “I beg your pardon.”
“Miss Felix. The young lady sitting on your right all day.”
“Yes, yes, I know who she is—”
“So, then, what do you think of her?” Chewing thoughtfully. “You must have an opinion.”
“She seems very … intelligent.” Abigail felt cornered. “And very … lovely.”
“Faint praise indeed,” mused Kate. “I suppose I should not be surprised. She is, after all, your rival.”
“She is in no sense my rival—” Abigail began hotly, but she got no further, because the door swung open, hard, and the butler hurried in to whisper in his mistress’s ear; and Kate in turn went if anything paler still.
Kate Sprague rose shakily to her feet. “Something has happened,” she said.
III
“This is a disaster,” said James Speed, once more stating the obvious. “A disaster.”
Dennard had his head in his hands. “By some mysterious magic,” he said, “the blame for this outrage will indeed fall on the head of our client.”
But Dan Sickles, the third lawyer in the common room, was serene. “I wouldn’t call it magic,” he said. “It’s politics. In politics, whenever something bad happens—violent death most of all—the first thing you do is figure out how to blame your opponents. You don’t need any facts. You just need friends.” A wink at Abigail. “Reporters, say. Editors. That kind of friends.”
It was Saturday morning, March 23, and Representative James Blaine was dead. Sliced up, just like Lincoln’s lawyer. Unlike Arthur McShane, the congressman did not die in the company of a colored woman, but he did die near a brothel—in Hooker’s Division, as a matter of fact—and the newspapers had already found two slants on the story, each rather clever. The pro-Lincoln press gave the tale plenty of space, making the point, often explicitly, that it was not Lincoln’s supporters alone who were unusually decadent; it was the entire class of men who went to Washington City to run the country. The anti-Lincoln papers, on the other hand, had to tread more carefully, telling their side mainly by implication: Congressman James Blaine, longtime Lincoln supporter, changes his mind and, as a matter of principle, votes with the Radicals for impeachment. Weeks later, in the midst of trial, Blaine is murdered. The message to those wavering in their support for Lincoln could hardly be clearer.
Said his enemies.
“No matter whom we blame,” said Dennard, “the sensationalism of the event will redound to the benefit of the prosecution.”
“But there are arguments both ways,” said Jonathan. He glanced uneasily at Abigail, who had been sitting silently all morning. Usually, she would be energetic, alive, full of probing questions, or wonderful advice for which others took the credit. Today she remained hunched into herself, as if guilt was eating at her from the inside. Her eyes were red, and he wondered whether she had been weeping; and why.
“True enough,” said Sickles. Jonathan noticed that his eyes, too, kept straying toward the silent Abigail. “But when one side has a single public face and the other doesn’t, it’s the one with the public face that suffers more.”
“Fine,” said Speed, on his feet and striding. “Now, what are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” said Dennard.
The former attorney general stopped. Spun. “I beg your pardon?”
“We do nothing. Our legal strategy remains the same. Neither the quality of the evidence nor the nature of our arguments will change.”
“I agree,” said Sickles, from the divan. “Why, I’ll bet the trial doesn’t even get postponed. Well, maybe one day for the funeral, but that’ll be it.”
“But a man is dead!” said Speed.
Sickles spoke crisply. “A man whose vote they no longer need. If he were a Senator, they would postpone for weeks if necessary,
so that a replacement might be found to vote against Mr. Lincoln. But for a mere congressman? Not a chance.” He subsided again. “The President has sent his condolences to the widow. Both Houses will adopt resolutions. And that will be the end of the matter.”
Dennard nodded. “There is work to do, preparing for next week.” His drawl was more pronounced than usual. He had known Blaine well. “Hilliman. You will come with Sickles and myself to see the President. Speed and Rellman will be on Capitol Hill, trying to work out a deal on these documents. Miss Canner …”
“I will hold the fort,” she said, and even managed a smile, but Jonathan could tell that the mask was barely able to contain more painful emotions.
Sickles surprised them all. “I have work to do here,” he said. To Dennard: “Tell the President, please, that I will be along shortly. He will understand.”
IV
“The blame does not rest on you,” said Sickles as she stomped around the common room hunting for something to break. “Put the responsibility on my shoulders if you like. I was the one who decided to approach Blaine. I was the one who kept pushing. If they were afraid that he might talk—afraid enough to kill a congressman—then I am the one who created the fear. Not you.”
Abigail looked at him, resplendent, on a chair this morning rather than the settee, exuding confidence from every pore: a man who was never defeated. A man who took a perverse pride in having been the indirect cause of another man’s death.
“Make your conscience free,” she said, sourly. “I am not blaming you, Mr. Sickles.”
“Do not blame yourself, either.”
“And how should I not? The congressman would have disclosed the identity of the hand behind the conspiracy, but for whatever Inspector Varak told him about me.”
“Actually, I think it was his fear of what his fellow conspirators might do to him that made up his mind. Turns out he was right to be afraid.” Although the words were chilling, Sickles yawned. “But you’re right that Blaine could have helped us a lot. Most of these fellow up on the Hill—Wade, all that crowd—they don’t need a conspiracy to make them hate Lincoln. Blaine might have been the only one in the whole Congress who knew who was behind the thing.”
“You are saying that there are two conspiracies.”
“Of course there are, Miss Canner. What the Radicals are doing is just politics. Lincoln could have handled them fine, if not for these other fellows. The real conspirators. The ones who killed Blaine.”
Abigail was silent for a moment. “At least no one can deny the conspiracy now.”
“Everyone will deny it, Miss Canner.” Sickles made no comment on the mess. Or its cause. “Everyone will deny its existence, and everyone knows it is there.”
“No. This time they have slain a congressman. Surely the House of Representatives will protect one of its own.”
“What I said before is true. It will not even slow the Radicals down.”
“The police will investigate—”
“And decide that it was the same madman or highwayman that killed McShane. Or a different one. But not a conspirator.”
“Inspector Varak—”
“Has taken leave from his position. It is my understanding that he has gone to visit relatives in New York City, and his cases have been reassigned.” She said nothing. Standing near the shelf, she could feel her body trying to fold up again. She made herself straighten.
“I am sure Varak is not afraid, Miss Canner. He is simply frustrated.” She nodded, not looking up. She was working now to unclench her fists. “On the other hand, a reaction of this magnitude suggests how badly we have frightened them. Perhaps the conspiracy is smaller and weaker than we thought. To panic this way is not a sign of strength or organization. Remember that.” Sickles stood. “Mention none of this to Speed, and certainly not to Dennard. It will only disturb him, and his only answer will be that we have a trial to win. He does not care for these flights of fancy, as he calls them.”
“I understand.”
“For now, better not tell Hilliman, either.” He took up his cane. “I must get to the Mansion, Miss Canner. If you want to take the rest of the day—”
When she turned, her face was calm once more. It cost her blood, but she was, outwardly, her old self. “I, too, have my tasks to perform, Mr. Sickles.” She waved a hand. “For one thing, cleaning this room.”
Alone again, she took up the Chanticleer materials. There were four major witnesses to come, and Chanticleer had provided information about two of them. She did not know who he was, or why no more packages had arrived; but as she read through the folders, she took comfort in knowing, especially after Blaine, that somebody out there was still on their side.
V
A small epilogue was provided by Plum, from David Grafton’s offices down on the first floor. He and Abigail passed each other on the stairway to the lobby: he was arriving as she was on her way out to pick up some books from a firm a few blocks away. He seemed more agitated than usual, and she asked whether all was well.
“Oh, no, well, yes. It’s Mr. Grafton, miss. Not to speak ill of one’s employer, naturally, but he has been increasingly anxious these last few days.” The hands were making the familiar washing motion. “It’s just, well, he hasn’t been himself, you see. He’s been ignoring urgent client matters, racing all over town for secret meetings and I don’t know what else. It’s getting so bad, it’s even making me nervous. Me. And one prides oneself on one’s calm in all circumstances. Oh dear.” Turning his face bashfully away. “Only, if things continue this way, and one has to seek another position, it would be helpful, you see, were one to know whether there might be something available, say, at Dennard’s firm. Hypothetically. Have I said too much?”
He hurried away up the stairs. When he was gone, Abigail leaned against the wall and, for the first time in what felt like years, laughed and laughed.
CHAPTER 36
Books
I
“I BELIEVE THAT I have solved your cipher,” said Octavius Addison.
Abigail, beside him on the sofa, looked up sharply from the Shakespeare. “Truly?”
He flushed. “I do not mean that I can translate it. Not yet. But I do know now what kind of code it is. I also know what is needed in order to solve it.”
She made no effort to conceal her delight, or her eagerness. Octavius felt the force of her passion; looked away. It was Sunday, March 24, the third consecutive Sunday on which the young man had come courting. Last weekend, as planned, they had gone riding together, and Octavius had impressed her with his knowledge of the minutiae of the city’s history: he knew when the lockkeeper’s house on Seventeenth Street had been constructed, and that Robert Mills, the designer of the still-unfinished monument to George Washington, had intended a structure that would be visible from miles around and thus would be the centerpiece of the young capital city.
Now Abigail said, gushingly but truthfully, “I knew you could do it.” Added: “Tell me what else is needed.”
Octavius smiled, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “What I need to know, Miss Abigail, is the context. What I mean is, I need to know something about where it was found.”
She hesitated. “Let us say that it formerly was in the possession of a certain gentleman, now departed.”
“Was the gentleman in question well read? Might he have had a library?”
Abigail was surprised; and freshly impressed.
“Why do you ask?”
From the inside pocket of his jacket, the young man drew a piece of fine paper, folded crisply along two axes. He flattened it on the table, beside the tea tray. “Because this”—he tapped the page—“is definitely a book code. And it contains within itself a clue to the book.”
Abigail looked.
“I tried several different ways of dividing the message,” Octavius was saying. “This seems to me by far the one most likely to be correct.”
“Why?”
“Because all the others yie
ld inapposite results,” he said; not showing off, stating facts. “Symmetry is lost.”
Abigail leaned over the paper, on which Octavius had written the same string of figures, but with slashes dividing them into groups.
13 / 163 / 222 / 232 / 121 / 244
Again he tapped the page. “I think this is the most likely division. I have tried it other ways, but this one is the most sensible. I believe that the ‘13’ identifies the book. The other figures are either page numbers and line numbers, or, more likely, a page number, a line number, and a word number. So, for example, the ‘163’ would mean page one, line six, word three. Understood this way, the message consists of five words. That’s what the slashes are for.” He frowned. “It is also possible, I should explain, that the first number is a line, the second a word, and the third a letter, so that ‘163’ would mean line one, word six, third letter. In that instance, however, the cipher would represent only a single word, five letters long, which seems unlikely.”
Abigail found his pedagogy delightful. “Which book is number thirteen?”
“I don’t know.”
Her face fell. “What?”
“I apologize, Miss Abigail. There is no way to tell from the cipher alone which book is number thirteen. It may be that the sender and the recipient have worked out a separate method of choosing books. So—book number one might be the Bible, book number two a play by Shakespeare, and so forth.”
“Then we’ll never get it.” From the heights of excitement, she felt herself cast into the pits of despair.
“Well, yes. If the sender and recipient worked out a sequence, we will never solve the cipher. That is what makes book codes so useful. But I am skeptical.”
“Why?”
“Because thirteen is a fairly large number of books to remember in the proper sequence. The recipient can’t write them down somewhere. That would defeat the purpose. So I suspect that book number thirteen is identifiable in some other way. Say, thirteenth from the end of a particular shelf. Or thirteenth on a list of books that exists for some other purpose and is easily accessible.”
The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Page 36