Adam couldn’t help but agree, and a pang of sorrow filled his heart as he thought of their friend’s dear, craggy face. He’d seen the vitriolic letters and posters that had been sent to Lincoln since the election had ended. Threats of assassination were everywhere, even here in the capital.
Especially in the capital.
Washington was a thoroughly Southern city, filled with slave owners and secessionists, and sandwiched between the two slave states of Virginia and Maryland. And though Lincoln had given no indication that he intended to free the slaves in his new city, the fear and expectation that this was a foregone conclusion bubbled everywhere.
With a heavy heart, Adam went off to find Mr. Billings’s business associate, a man named James Delton, who he’d been told was waiting for him in one of the offices at the City Hall.
“What’s going on here?” said Delton when Adam introduced himself. “Who are you? Why did that Pinkerton man tell me to wait here? My wife is going to yank my ears off if I don’t get back to dance with her.” He gestured with a walking stick to emphasize his frustration.
“Mr. Lincoln has asked me to speak with you about Custer Billings.”
“Mr. Lincoln? What’s this about Billings? Is he even still here? I thought he went home, left early. Not much of a dancer without his wife to insist on it, and—did something happen?” Delton seemed to read the gravity in Adam’s face, for he calmed a little.
“Mr. Billings was killed tonight. Here, at the ball. I reckoned you should know, being his friend.”
Delton’s eyes widened and he sank back into the chair he’d vacated during his vociferous speech. He removed his top hat and thrust a hand into thinning light brown hair, making it stand on end. “Dear God. Poor Custer. He was killed? How? Carriage accident? Poor Althea.”
“He was murdered,” Adam told him.
“Murdered? How? Here?” Delton’s face flushed above his mutton chops, then drained to the color of chalk.
“Unfortunately, yes. He was stabbed.” Adam saw no reason to hide the truth; he suspected it wouldn’t be long before the news got out anyway. “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill Mr. Billings?”
Delton shook his head, his eyes still bulging. “No,” he whispered. “I can’t think of anyone.”
“When did you see him last?”
“Um . . .” The other man’s eyes lost focus as he concentrated. “It wasn’t long after Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln arrived. I shook the president’s hand and introduced my wife, and then Billings and I were talking for a bit before he excused himself. Dear God. That was the last time I’ll ever speak to him.”
Adam had arrived with the president’s party just before eleven, and it had been hardly more than an hour later when the body was found. That was a fairly small window of time.
“Did you see Mr. Billings leave the dance hall? Was he with anyone?”
“No, I didn’t notice anything like that. It was so crowded in the room. I lost track of him after a while—so many people to talk to, you know.”
“Did he seem upset or agitated at all?” Adam had the same sensation he did when feeling his way through an unfamiliar room in the dark: unsure of where he was going, but determined to get there without stubbing a toe.
Delton shook his head. “He seemed the same as always—a little quiet, but cordial.”
“Thank you. And—I reckon I should have asked you this first—how do you know Mr. Billings?”
“I’m a lawyer. I’ve handled his business arrangements. Paperwork, contracts, the like.”
“And Mr. Billings? He’s a banker?”
Delton looked surprised. “Why, yes. He’s the Billings of Billings Bank & Trust—over there on Seventh Street. Been in business since the city was rebuilt after the Brits came in and burned it down. He liked to tell how his father financed some of the construction of the new Treasury Building.”
“You said you don’t know of anyone who might have a grudge against him, but I reckon I should get the names of his other close friends and colleagues. Along with people who might be in arrears with the bank, or anyone you know who did a lot of business with Mr. Billings.” Adam realized belatedly that he had neither paper nor a pencil with which to write the names.
Fortunately, they were in a clerk’s office, and he was able to locate a sheaf of paper in the desk drawer as well as a pencil. The lead tip was dull, but it would suffice, and Delton took it to note down the names of the people. He paused after a few lines, staring down at the list.
“Is something wrong?” Adam asked.
Delton pursed his lips but didn’t look up. Then he sighed, as if making a formidable decision. “I’ve . . . well, I’ve noticed that Custer was . . . shall we say, friendly . . . with Annabelle Titus—she’s married to Mortimer Titus—but I don’t know that it’s anything more than that. It’s not even a suspicion on my part. But they—well, I’ve seen them together quite often. Even tonight, earlier, I saw them together.”
“And if what you saw might be more than simple friendship, Titus might have had a grudge against Billings. Was he here tonight as well?”
Delton sighed and nodded, and Adam watched as he wrote Mortimer Titus roughly on the paper, as if it was the last thing he wanted to do. “But even if it was true, he wouldn’t kill him. I know Titus. He’s not—he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do that.” He thrust the paper at Adam. “I don’t know that this is going to help. It was probably some random thug who saw Custer walking back to the dance from City Hall and thought he’d rob him. It’s dark out there in the square, and once the president arrived, hardly anyone left the dance. They didn’t want to miss anything. A thug could have sneaked up and jumped him. Custer wasn’t a very big man. He’d be easy to overpower.”
“Thank you. And if you think of anything else, send word to me, Adam Quinn, at Willard’s Hotel.” When Delton looked at him curiously, he felt compelled to add, “Mr. Lincoln has asked me to investigate the murder.”
“Better you than the damned constabulary,” Delton said, standing. His face was set with grief and anger. “Nice enough uniforms, but worthless for hardly anything other than whipping niggers and accepting bribes. Did you know my wife and I were almost late for the ball tonight because our driver wanted to stop so he could help the constables whip a black man?”
Adam didn’t know what to say to that, but something soured in the back of his mouth. What sort of city was this? “Thank you, Mr. Delton. I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”
Delton paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Does Althea—Mrs. Billings—know?”
“Not yet. I’ll be paying her a visit in a few hours.”
“Sad business,” he said, shaking his head. “My wife will want to visit her tomorrow, I’m sure. So tragic, for both of them.” He was just about to walk out the door when he hesitated once more. “Give Mr. Lincoln my regards, will you? James Delton, attorney at law.” He dug out a business card and offered it to Adam. “Maybe you could pass this on to him too. Never know if he might need a Unionist lawyer who knows his way around Washington City—even being one himself.” He offered a crooked smile.
“I’ll do that. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
Once Delton left, Adam looked at the list of business associates he’d provided. None of the names were familiar to him—but there was no reason they should be. Adam had been in the district for only two weeks, and he’d been cloistered with Mr. Lincoln and his personal security team—most of whom were close friends, such as Adam and his uncle—at Willard’s since arriving. He’d not even ventured out to visit a pub, instead staying mostly inside at the busy hotel, which was lavishly decorated with brass, crystal, and red velvet.
With a flash of annoyance, Adam realized he’d forgotten to ask James Delton if he knew Hurst Lemagne, and why Billings would have had his business card in his trouser pocket. Lemagne’s name wasn’t on the list Delton had left.
Adam realized he had no choice but to brave the crush of the dance hall
once again. He had to find Hurst Lemagne. The sooner, the better—for all he knew, Lemagne could be planning to follow in the exodus of his fellow Southerners and return to Alabama right away.
Which meant, Adam reckoned with a surprising niggle of interest, that he had a very good excuse to seek out the blue-eyed southern belle once again.
* * *
Constance Lemagne had the feeling something was wrong.
It wasn’t just that she hadn’t seen her daddy since supper—which had been served in the room adjoining the dance hall—and that he’d left her almost to fend for herself in this jam of a party. And it wasn’t that he’d been so . . . tense and ill tempered lately—even for him.
No, her feminine intuition told her there was something else happening, and the back of her bare neck prickled.
Something was wrong. Something had happened.
That something had caused the very interesting and almost handsome Mr. Quinn not to return with the lemonade for which she’d actually been quite desperate, along with the excuse to keep him at her side for a little longer. Whatever it was had taken him and his rangy self to the dais where the president and his entourage had entered, and where a cluster of men still stood.
Constance was tall for a woman, and because of that, she’d been able to watch the even taller Mr. Quinn abruptly turn from his path to fetch her lemonade.
Instead of navigating to the drinks table, he’d turned and begun to push his way through the crowd toward the dais. The man had very nearly been running, his long legs eating up the space quickly and efficiently.
When he’d levered his lanky body up and onto the platform with hardly a hitch in his step, her stomach had given a little flutter of appreciation for the graceful movement. And when he had been quickly absorbed into the group of men standing there with grave expressions, including that of the new president, she had been even more intrigued.
Who was he?
Everyone back home in Alabama said that Abraham Lincoln was an uncivilized rail-splitter (and they used that term with derision) who would destroy the Union, and that he hadn’t the first idea of how to move about in society or to entertain properly—let alone work with Congress and lead the country. The topics of secession and war had been a source of conversation at dinner since the man was elected, along with laughter and insults about the strange-looking frontiersman who thought to be president.
If the new president was considered uncivilized, Constance wondered what the ladies back home would think about Mr. Quinn. At least Lincoln didn’t look as if he were choking behind his tall, tight collar, and the new president appeared quite at home—though a bit awkward in appearance—dressed in the fine clothing he wore. Constance’s dance partner, on the other hand, had seemed as uncomfortable in his dress coat and top hat as a yellow-striped snake about to shed its skin.
Mr. Quinn had mentioned coming from the new state of Kansas, and his appearance was just like Constance imagined a man recently off the frontier would look: with too long, almost shaggy hair; a tan, rugged face that obviously spent much time in the sun; and an unpolished manner. The only thing that surprised her was that he sported neither a mustache nor a beard.
Why a man would make the effort to shave his face but not to cut his hair, Constance couldn’t imagine. But she could also admit it suited him, with his square jaw bare, a subtle dimple in his chin, and an upper lip free of the fringe of hair common on most every other man.
He’d talked to the president and the other men up there, and then he’d left the platform. She’d stood on her toes and tried to catch a glimpse through the curtained entryway through which he’d disappeared, but she couldn’t see anything. And though she had been tempted to follow Mr. Quinn, Constance had been unintentionally dissuaded by an elderly man who’d arrived with a glass of lemonade for her.
He had cotton-like white hair and a formal, erect carriage, and he’d wielded his walking stick expertly. After gallantly introducing himself as Mr. King, he’d offered Mr. Quinn’s regrets at being pulled away from a “very delightful task to a less pleasant one.” Constance had suspected those were Mr. King’s words, not Mr. Quinn’s.
But now it was more than an hour since Mr. Quinn had been summoned to the platform and disappeared, and to her regret, she still hadn’t seen the dark-haired frontiersman return to the ballroom.
Mr. Lincoln had left his own celebration already—why so soon?—and she couldn’t help but wonder if the elusive Mr. Quinn had gone with him.
Why had the president left so early? Something was definitely wrong.
“Miss Lemagne, I’ve been looking all over for you!”
As she spun, Constance nearly lost her balance, for she’d been standing on her tiptoes in hopes of seeing her quarry.
“Have you truly?” she managed to say, though inside she was berating herself for having been distracted long enough to let Arthur Mossing sneak up on her.
Mr. Mossing was the son of the man who’d been her father’s close friend and business associate. Mr. Mossing Senior had died several years ago, and Daddy had bought the man’s robust textile business. That was why they were here in Washington, for he made regular trips to meet with contacts in Congress and other associates in the government. It had something to do with trade and tariffs. This was Constance’s first trip accompanying him, and she’d almost begun to regret coming—for Daddy had been very blunt about his desire that the Lemagne and Mossing families should be united through marriage in the same way their businesses had become one.
That was a desire with which Constance did not concur.
Oh, drat it. Why couldn’t it have been the rangy, interesting, almost scruffy Mr. Quinn who’d sought her out—instead of the prim and perfect Arthur Mossing?
“Why, Mr. Mossing,” she said, “I’ve been here the whole time. You seem to have been the one who disappeared.” She exaggerated her accent and even simpered a little, snapping open her fan to wave it briskly while she considered escape options.
“Well, it is quite a jam,” Mr. Mossing said a little more firmly. He frowned suddenly and adjusted his coat sleeve, yanking it down and straightening his shirt cuff. She’d come to learn this was a man very particular about his appearance. Perhaps it was because he was a lawyer, and often spoke in front of judges and juries. Or perhaps he simply wanted to give off the impression he was richer than he was. Thus, it had been with almost malicious delight that she’d pointed out during their first (and only) dance that his Union cockade had a small stain on the white ribbon. She was only slightly mollified that he’d removed it, but why he’d even worn it in the first place while escorting them when he knew her father was a secessionist—and of course Constance was as well—she didn’t know. Even though tonight was a celebration for the new Unionist president, Mr. Mossing didn’t have to be so blatant about his sympathies.
As Constance was a Southerner through and through, his political sympathies were yet another check mark against him when it came to marriage. Well, besides his position as merely a lawyer, and the fact that his hair was always pomaded into helmet-stiff waves, and the fact that he always dominated the conversation, speaking over her. . . . There were far too many check marks against Arthur Mossing to consider him for her husband.
Having finished straightening his coat, Mr. Mossing offered her an arm—which she ignored. “I told your papa I’d watch over you tonight, and I’ve hardly had the chance to speak to you.” His pale blue eyes glinted with irritation; then the annoyance faded as he swept his gaze over her, lingering a bit too long over her bosom and not bothering to hide the fact.
“Oh, yes, of course. I had to visit the ladies’ tiring room to fix my hem,” she lied, opening her fan in front of her bodice to obscure his view. “Perhaps that was when you were looking for me.”
“By my count, you’ve missed two of our dances already.”
“I didn’t see you when it was time for either of them,” she replied primly—not even sure when the supposed dances were.
“And who was that man you were dancing with during the reel a while back? The tall one? I was supposed to have the third dance—”
“Why, Mr. King! How kind of you to remember my lemonade!” Constance waved a little wildly, then fairly bolted toward the elderly man, heedlessly squeezing herself and her hoops between two startled gentlemen. She felt the cage holding her skirts tip up a bit and welcomed the brief gust of fresh air under the layers upon layers of fabric she wore.
Mr. King—who more than an hour ago had brought her the lemonade Mr. Quinn had originally promised—was no doubt startled, and possibly confused, by her exclamation.
But his sharp gray eyes gleamed with unabashed delight as he handed her the cup of lemonade that had, most likely, been for himself. “Of course, Miss Lemagne. How could I forget? And who is this young man forging through the crowd in your wake?” Though surely older than seventy, with gnarled hands that shook a trifle, Mr. King obviously possessed a mind that was as crisp as a January night in Mobile.
“I’m Miss Lemagne’s fiancé,” Mr. Mossing said, taking her arm firmly. “Arthur Mossing, Esquire.”
Constance was so shocked by his bold pronouncement that she gaped for a moment, then quickly took a sip of lemonade to collect her thoughts. Before she did, her mama had drilled southern, ladylike manners into her head. And so instead of calling him a liar outright, she contented herself with pulling out of his grip.
“Mr. Mossing, though I’m honored you should think of me that way, I do believe it’s a bit premature to make such an announcement.” She hooded her eyes so he wouldn’t see the ire flashing there. Her mama insisted that a lady should never countermand a gentleman in public, no matter how politely she might do so, but Constance wasn’t going to ignore his presumption. The pompous duck hadn’t even asked her to marry him, let alone courted her.
Not that she was interested in entertaining either option.
“Now, now, darling . . . you know it’s only a matter of formality until we do make an announcement.” He smiled down at her with affection, though there was a bit of steel behind his eyes. Apparently, he sided with her mama when it came to having his statements countermanded in public. “Your father and mine talked about joining our families for years before my father died.” His mouth compressed slightly as it always did when the subject of his father came up. She wondered, not for the first time, why the younger Mossing hadn’t wanted to take over the family business. Perhaps he thought it would be more beneficial to be a lawyer in a city of politicians and power.
Murder in the Lincoln White House Page 5