Murder in the Lincoln White House

by C. M. Gleason

  And yet . . . somehow, despite the trouble he was stirring up, the frontiersman fascinated her, with his large, tanned hand; stubbled chin; and rough manners.

  “I see to my own horses, Quinn, as often as I can. Especially Samson and Delilah. They’re worth more than the house you grew up in.” Constance was familiar with her father’s haughty tone, and felt it was fairly directed at Mr. Quinn in exchange for all of the unpleasantness he was causing.

  “And so you used the knife to remove the stone . . . and that was the last time you saw it?”

  The frontiersman was dogged and determined if nothing else. She had to give him credit for that. And the way his eyes remained so serious and steady. She could imagine him out on the frontier riding a horse, instead of sitting in a plush carriage, the wind blustering through his too long hair, and his strong hand holding the reins as he sat astride, tall and powerful in the saddle, moving as one with the horse....

  All at once, she had the desire to fan herself. Stridently.

  Constance forced her attention back to her father, whose expression had gone from haughty to one filled with concentration.

  “I picked the stone out of Samson’s shoe, and must have set the knife down on the ledge in the stable, because I needed two hands to examine his leg, make sure he hadn’t pulled anything. I don’t remember picking up the dagger again. And that’s the last time I remember using it. This morning I looked for it, but it was gone.”

  “Someone took it from the stable,” she said quickly. Her heart was pounding, for the stable was adjacent to the courtyard where she’d heard the men threatening to split the rail-splitter down. “That’s what happened, and they used it to stab Mr. Billings—and tried to lay the blame on my father.”

  She was feeling warm and light-headed again. The timing was right: her father had gotten back from his trip in the carriage only a short time—maybe a half hour—after she’d overheard the conversation in the courtyard garden.

  “Who was around the stable at the time, Mr. Lemagne?”

  “I don’t know. There was a groom, and maybe some other people. I don’t remember seeing anyone in particular—except, oh yes, there was a man just arrived on the train from Baltimore. Was looking for someone he was supposed to meet, or something. I didn’t pay attention, damn—er, excuse me, poppet. I was more concerned about Samson than anyone standing around.”

  “But don’t you see, Mr. Quinn? Someone took the knife. Someone who wanted to frame my father for murder.” Constance looked at Adam, willing him to believe her.

  He nodded. “It is possible. I’ll go and speak with the grooms and see if anyone remembers anyone hanging around the stable yesterday. About what time was this?”

  “I was coming out for my walk around four o’clock and Daddy had already gone for his ride in the carriage,” Constance replied before her father could speak. “That was about the time I saw three men standing there in the courtyard. They seemed to be discussing something very serious. Maybe they’re involved.”

  She looked at her father, whose face had set into something pale and tight. His eyes were dull with concern and shock, so she reached over to pat his hand.

  “Do you know of anyone who might want to get you into trouble, Mr. Lemagne? Someone who might have taken the knife and used it to frame you for murder?”

  “There’s only one person I can think of who hated me that much.”

  Constance looked at him in surprise. The idea that someone hated her father enough to frame him for murder was shocking, and almost beyond belief. “Who was that?”

  “Custer Billings.”

  * * *

  I went to visit a lady friend.

  That was the answer Hurst Lemagne had given Adam about where he’d really been during the ball. And he’d spoken it only moments before the man’s daughter had slipped back into the parlor.

  So Mr. Lemagne had lied to everyone—including Constance—about where he’d been. But he’d finally told the truth to Adam. Supposedly.

  Yet, when Adam had pressed him for the name of the woman he’d visited—for, it seemed, several hours—the man had clammed up. And then his daughter had walked in, effectively ending that portion of the conversation.

  Adam reckoned he could have pursued the topic, but decided it was best not to do so in front of the young woman, for clearly her father wanted her kept in the dark. But that also meant he might be able to use that to his advantage, if he cornered Lemagne alone later.

  Thus, after Adam excused himself from the father and daughter, leaving them in the small parlor, he went directly out to the back of the hotel where Constance Lemagne had overheard the conversation among three men. There was a service entrance near one side, facing the alley. Servants and delivery people were coming and going along the narrow walkway, which was separated from the hotel’s courtyard by the fence Miss Lemagne had described.

  Garbage and other refuse were piled in the alley, and Adam’s presence disturbed a scrawny cat that slinked off as soon as his shadow fell onto the hard-packed ground. The stink of sour milk and other rotten food tinged the cool afternoon air, along with urine and wood smoke.

  Along the walkway to the service entrance was the wooden slat fence that kept the hotel guests from having to witness the drudgery that went on in order to keep their stay comfortable and clean: refilling coal bins, receiving butchery deliveries, emptying chamber pots....

  On the other side of the fence was a generous, landscaped courtyard. Generous by city standards, but stamp sized to a man who’d lived on the plains. The yard was closed in on two sides by the L-shaped hotel and the fence, and the far side was bordered by the entrance to the stable. The fourth was made up by a narrow side street. In the grassy yard were two small wooden benches beneath a rose arbor. Of course, it was too early for roses to bloom, but there were spring flowers beginning to poke from beneath the dark earth. Adam was fairly certain they were daffodils.

  The stable was small and sturdy and would hold only three or four horses and maybe one carriage at a time. Likely, the hotel had a livery several blocks away where it rented space for its guests’ horses and buggies. Higher-paying guests might be able to pay for a stall in the on-site stable for easier access to their transportation. The small barn would also be used as a holding place for the horses between transfers to and from the livery.

  As Adam walked out of the hotel and looked around, he automatically paused to examine the ground for footprints near the servants’ entrance. While there was a well-trodden path where foot upon foot had pressed into the ground in layers and layers, obliterating all but the freshest ones, there were also outlying shoe marks off to the side. As he imagined Miss Lemagne standing here, next to the wooden fence, he reckoned she would move off to the side and away from the main travel pattern, if for no other reason than to distance herself from slopping chamber pots or dusty coal bins. And if she was eavesdropping on a conversation that was happening on the other side of the fence, surely she’d want to get closer. . . .

  And there they were—not exactly where he’d expected, but close enough. The footprints of a female with wealth and style. Servants didn’t wear shoes with small high heels that made a distinct foot mark, and they certainly didn’t have the opportunity to stand in one place for very long.

  So that confirmed at least part of Miss Lemagne’s story: that she’d come outside and ended up in the path of the servants’ entrance instead of the guest side.

  She claimed to have heard the men speaking in the courtyard—or perhaps she was merely fabricating the story in order to help her father save face. Although, to be fair, Miss Lemagne had told him about the conversation she’d overheard before she knew her father was suspected of murder.

  Either way, the tracks would tell. They always did. So Adam walked back and forth across the courtyard and examined the ground. If what Constance had said was correct, he should find evidence of two or three men talking. According to her, it had not been more than twenty-four hours ear
lier. And although there had been some drizzle, nothing that would have wiped away the footprints.

  It didn’t take long for Adam to realize Miss Lemagne had been telling the truth. He found three sets of footprints clearly indicating a small group conversation very close to the wooden slat fence near the servants’ entrance. Adam reflected for a moment, remembering the tense look on her face as she told him about someone threatening to split the rail-splitter. She might be a secessionist, but she didn’t appear to be a violent one.

  The possibility that a participant in an assassination plot meant to take place at the Union Ball had been standing in the courtyard, and then discovered the knife Lemagne had left in the stable, grew stronger in Adam’s mind. It would be beyond foolish for a man to stab someone in a public place and leave his personal, easily identifiable dagger at the scene of the crime.

  Hurst Lemagne did not strike him as someone who was stupid enough to do something like that.

  Either that . . . or Lemagne was very, very clever and assumed Adam—or anyone else—would think just that: that a murderer would never leave his weapon at the scene of the crime.

  Thoughtful, Adam went over to the stable to see if he could glean any other information. A groom was inside currying one of the horses. He was spare and wiry, with flyaway gray hair unmoored by a hat, and a low, soothing voice that spoke to the gelding he was brushing. His skin was a tan-gray color and his hand was small and knobby.

  “Afternoon, there, sir,” said Adam as he stepped farther into the stable. A rush of sweet-smelling hay and that of horse assaulted his nostrils. That brought Adam’s thoughts to Stranger, back in Springfield. Hopefully, he too would soon be home and back with his horse, now that he had helped get the president safely inaugurated and into his new home.

  It was also time for Adam to decide whether to return to Kansas or to remain in Springfield. Or even to go somewhere else, new and interesting. Colorado, maybe. California?

  The groom had not ceased brushing the broad chestnut he was looking after, but he glanced up as Adam approached. “Afternoon, there, mister. You need something, sir?”

  “I seem to have lost a dagger of mine. It was so long,” Adam said, demonstrating, “and had a blue stone at the end of the hilt. I reckon I might have left it here in the stable yesterday afternoon. Did you happen to see it?”

  “No, sir,” replied the groom. “I don’t remember seeing nothing like that.”

  “I reckon one of my friends noticed it and took it to return to me. Did you see any well-dressed man around here yesterday afternoon, late afternoon? Four o’clock or thereabouts?”

  “There was Mr. Lemagne here, bringing his horses back after he took out his buggy. Had a stone in one of the shoes, and he insisted on digging it out himself—didn’t want me to touch it.” The groom spat out a hunk of tobacco, seeming to underscore his opinion about Hurst Lemagne. “After that, I had to take the pair back over to the livery. When I got back, I seen some other men, talking there in the courtyard and smoking cee-gars. Maybe it was around that time. I dunno. I warn’t paying that close attention—had to muck out the stalls and see to the tack. Joey don’t ever hang things up in the way I taught him, and I always gotta go back and rearrange it.” He squirted another stream of tobacco into the corner of the stall, filling Adam with relief that the stalls got mucked out regularly.

  “Do you remember what the three men looked like? Or did you recognize any of them?”

  “I didn’t say there was three men.” That got the groom to pause with the curry brush and squint up at him. “Why d’you wanna know?”

  “If they were my friends and one of them found the knife, I’ll know who to ask,” Adam replied smoothly. “How many men did you see?”

  That seemed to satisfy the groom, for he returned to his work. “They was four of them, standing there talking, holding up the fence. And they all looked the same to me. One of ’em, he was from way down in Dixie. His accent was so thick I could drive a buggy over it.”

  Four men. Had Miss Lemagne been wrong, or had the fourth man joined the group later? “What were they talking about?”

  The other man stood, groaning a little when he straightened up from his position. “I’m gettin’ too old for this.” Scrubbing his lower back with a fist, he gave Adam another sharp look. “Why you asking so many questions there, mister?”

  “I told you—I’m trying to figure out what happened to my knife.” Adam gave him an easy smile and, on a whim, dug in his pocket for a half-dollar coin. He set it on a small shelf at eye level with the groom. When the older man looked at him in surprise, Adam was still smiling. “Just call me curious.”

  The man snatched up the coin and stuffed it down his shirt. “I didn’t hear nothing what they were talking about, and I didn’t see no knife. One of the guys was shorter than the others. Two of ’em, they had dark beards. The other two had lighter ones. That’s all I can tell you. And they was all dressed fine. Mebbe guests here; I dunno. I don’t see much of them; they just send out a footman when they want me to go get a horse from the livery. Mr. Lemagne, he’s different. He don’t want anyone to touch his horses.”

  “Did he say where he was going when he took his buggy out?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Was there anyone else here in the stable when Mr. Lemagne was fixing his horse’s shoe? Or afterward?”

  “Yah. Mighta been. Man standing there smoking a cee-gar.” He pointed vaguely toward the door of the stable that opened onto a busy side street. “I seen him before. Might be he stayed here. Musta come in from somewhere up North; he didn’t have no Dixie accent.” Another brown stream of tobacco.

  “There was no one else?”

  “Look, sir, I got a lotta work to do because that blasted Joey don’t know his hand from his hind end, and that ain’t no exaggeration. I ain’t got time to watch who’s coming in and out and standin’ on the street there. People is always standing there, waiting for a hansom or meetin’ someone.”

  “All right, then, sir. One more question. Is there anything else about the men who were talking you noticed? Would you recognize them again if you saw them?”

  “Yessir, I reckon I would.”

  “I’d sure like to know if you do see them again. Or remember anything else.” Adam would have shown the groom his paper from Mr. Lincoln, but as it was in pieces and he doubted the man was literate, he didn’t. Holding the man’s eyes, he placed another coin—this time a quarter—on top of the shelf. “You can send word to me at the Willard. Name’s Quinn.”

  * * *

  After Adam left the St. Charles, he set about tracking down the men on the list James Delton had given him—ones Custer Billings had done business with. He debated visiting Mr. and Mrs. Titus, but decided to wait and see whether Brian Mulcahey learned anything from his mission. And it wouldn’t hurt to see if any of Billings’s other associates had noticed he and Annabelle Titus being particularly close.

  Locating each of the contacts created a frustrating and exhausting rest of the afternoon, as Adam had to first try each man at his office—once he located the address—and if the man had left for the day, he had to find his home and visit there.

  The worst part about it was Adam didn’t seem to learn anything new, even after tracking down and interviewing three different business associates. They each said the same variations on a theme: expressed sorrow and surprise that their acquaintance or friend had been killed—at such a public venue—and that Billings was an honest and admired businessman with an amicable personality. He didn’t have any enemies or rivals of note. No one mentioned Annabelle or Mortimer Titus.

  “Other than what one normally encounters in business—beating out someone for a contract. But that’s not something to hold a grudge on,” said the last person Adam spoke to—an Elmer Garrett, a tea and spice importer who was quite pleasant and forthcoming. “And I don’t know anyone who holds a grudge against Billings—except maybe a secessionist.”

  Adam l
ifted his brows in question and waited for more.

  “Billings was a pure abolitionist, no question. Didn’t affect his business, but it certainly did his politics. He grew up somewhere in the South . . . was it Alabama? Arkansas? I don’t right remember, but it was far south of the Mason-Dixon. But something must have happened down there that made him hate slavery.” Garrett shrugged. “But, like I said, he didn’t let it affect his business. He loaned money to the Southerners who came knocking—and there were plenty of ’em. Too many cotton plantations down there, and not enough financiers, he’d say—then he’d take their money and charge his fees and laugh all the way to his bank.”

  “Althea Billings has been doing poorly for over a year,” Adam said, choosing his words carefully. “I reckon that must have left Mr. Billings with a lack of . . . well, female society.” Acutely uncomfortable, he stopped there and waited to see if Garrett would take the bait.

  The other man looked at him in surprise, then a lopsided smile ticked his mouth. “I’d say Billings wasn’t missing out on female companionship. He cared for Althea, but a man’s got needs, right, Quinn?”

  Though Adam gently pressed, he learned nothing further and he dared not mention any names, for fear of tarnishing a woman’s reputation unnecessarily.

  By the time Adam left Elmer Garrett’s modest row house on F Street, it was well past supper time. The sun was low in the sky, brushing the tops of distant trees beyond the Potomac. Drawing on a trick he’d adapted from something Ishkode had taught him, Adam raised his fist vertically toward the sunset, positioning it so the bottom of his hand aligned with the horizon. He counted three knuckles between horizon and sun, which meant there would be about three quarters of an hour left of light.