Sharp, fiery pain roared through his arm, radiating up through his shoulder and torso as he cried out—
“Adam.”
His eyes bolted open and he looked up into his uncle’s concerned face. Adam’s mouth was dusty, and his body damp with sweat. Deep beneath the skin, his muscles trembled, and he felt shamefully nauseated from the sudden jolt back to reality.
Adam shook off the dream, sitting up too quickly for his ratcheting heartbeat—but the expression on Joshua’s face had made him determined not to show how boggled his mind had gone. How hard his heart was pounding.
“I reckon I got pretty deep in my sleep,” he said with a laugh. His legs were a little shaky when he stood, but that was due to the residual of the dream. And his arm—the one that was missing—hurt like a son of a bitch. So much so that he found himself gritting his teeth.
But he wasn’t about to show that either.
“I reckon there’s no sense asking if you’re all right,” Joshua said. He was still watching him with fatherly eyes, and that made Adam feel even more foolish.
“I’ll be right back.” He left the room with no other explanation, going down the narrow hall to wash up.
Splashing cold water on his face and on other important areas of his body did wonders to shock away the lingering disorientation. He ran his hand through the ragged mop on his head, reflecting that it was almost as thick and wild as Lincoln’s more famous one, which was part of the reason people called the man an uncivilized rail-splitter.
Adam didn’t mind the comparison himself. But he desperately needed a shave—and though he briefly considered the option of just letting his beard grow in, he once again decided not to bother. He’d get a proper shave tomorrow, for there was simply no time to maneuver that now. Shaving himself was one of the more difficult things he’d had to contend with since losing his arm, and so whenever possible, he paid for it to be done for him.
Yet he hated facial hair: the way it itched, the way food and other debris got caught in it, the way a man had to shave around the edges to keep its shape neat. A man might just as well shave off the whole of it instead of dancing around the edges.
His opinion might have had something to do with Mary Elizabeth Letterman from back home in Springfield. She’d had a particular liking for the cleft in his chin, and had told him so when he was fourteen. She’d even touched it, ever so lightly sliding her fingertip over the little depression. And since she was the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on, with her dark brown eyes and coronet of raven black braids—and the fact that a girl who wasn’t his sister or mother had touched him—he surely wasn’t going to disappoint her.
Though she and her family moved away shortly after, Adam had never quite gotten over the idea of Mary Elizabeth liking the dent in his chin. And since his facial hair was very sparse right at the front, and his chin looked, to his eyes, like nothing more than the behind of a porcupine when he did grow in his beard, he figured that was enough reason to keep his face bare.
Adam drew in a deep breath, looking at himself in one of the clearest mirrors he’d ever had the pleasure of using. The memory of Mary Elizabeth had helped to banish the last bit of pain from his missing arm, as well as the swirl of ugliness from his dream.
* * *
Despite the pall that hung over the house, due to the horrible death in the second-floor alcove, supper at the President’s House turned out to be more enjoyable than Adam had anticipated.
Meals with people he didn’t know, or didn’t know well—especially formal ones—could be uncomfortable due to the awkwardness of manipulating his false hand and arm in order to cut his food and feed himself. However, he’d dined with the Lincolns and the others many times during the trip from Springfield, so there wasn’t the least bit of discomfort to be had.
Despite the fact that the living arrangements for the Lincoln family were still in some disarray, the cook and serving staff hadn’t been disrupted when the Buchanan household moved out on Inauguration Day. Thus, though it was by no means as expansive as the dinner at Monday night’s Union Ball, the meal was as complete and delicious as anything Adam had eaten since joining Lincoln’s entourage.
The family dining room was located on the first floor, just down the hall from where Mrs. Lincoln had been measuring the parlor this morning. And the group that surrounded the table in the State Dining Room was a relatively small one, considering the number of people who had been crowding and lining up to obtain entrance to the Executive Mansion since the oath had been administered. The diners included only Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln, her sister Mrs. Edwards and her cousin Mrs. Grimsley, the two secretaries Nicolay and Hay, Joshua Speed, Adam, and Ward Loman, a close family friend of the Lincolns.
The first course was a local specialty Adam hadn’t yet sampled: terrapin soup, made from the turtles that flourished in the nearby Potomac River. There were also smoked ham, roasted potatoes, candied carrots, and hunks of pale yellow cheese and dark, fresh bread. He wasn’t surprised to see a bowl containing polished red apples that had surely been retrieved from a cellar somewhere.
That simple, basic staple was one of Lincoln’s favorite foods, and he used a small knife to cut one unbruised apple into thin slices as he said, “Did you happen to take note of the great pearls of wisdom President Buchanan shared with me on our final meeting Monday, John?”
The president was speaking to Hay, and when Adam looked up he saw a glint of humor in Lincoln’s eyes—one that hadn’t been there earlier today in his office.
John Hay, who was the more gregarious and less formal of the two young secretaries, grinned back. “Indeed I did. And I waited with such wonder and credulity to hear what momentous counsels were to come from his gray and weathered head when he pulled you aside, just before leaving for the oath taking.”
Lincoln laughed uproariously at this and speared a piece of apple with the tip of his knife. “Surely it was to have been a valuable moment indeed—one of great wisdom and the passing on of the torch of knowledge, isn’t that so? From one president to the next. But you were paying far better attention than I to what the president was saying—I confess, my mind was somewhere else.
“Therefore, I cannot remember, dear John, whether President Buchanan told me it was the water on the right-hand well or the left-hand one that is better.” By now, Lincoln’s laugh had subsided to chuckles as the others at the table looked at him with expressions ranging from confusion to shock to outright horror. “Do you remember? Tell me true now—don’t mislead me on this matter of great importance!”
“It was the right-hand well,” Hay replied gravely, though his lips twitched.
“Do you mean to say the ex-president’s parting advice to you was to use the water in the right-hand well over the water from the other?” Joshua said incredulously. “That’s all the—that’s all he said?”
Adam was also grinning by now, and he knew from his uncle’s expression that if there hadn’t been ladies present, he would surely have said something quite emphatic that included a curse. And Adam likely would have joined him.
“Indeed it was,” Lincoln replied, chewing thoughtfully on an apple slice. “And there was quite a list of information about the running of the pantry and the cellars and kitchen.” He shook his head. “How fascinating that the quality of the water here at this grand house was the last thing on his mind as he left it.”
“That’s no surprise,” Joshua grumbled. Adam knew how much he—not to mention most of the Republicans and a growing number of others—despised the former president for doing little to attempt to repair the growing schism in the nation. “He did nothing but squawk mildly in protest over the secessionists and their threats, while patting them on the head and saying that he couldn’t stop them even if they went.” His face was set in harsh lines as he exchanged looks with his friend.
“Now then . . . all that talk of good water does put me in mind of a murder case I once worked on—back in Illinois, near Peoria. The Goings case,” L
incoln continued, clearly settling into storytelling mode, which was one of his favorite pastimes. It was fortunate he was as good at telling yarns as he enjoyed doing so, for it would have been tortuous otherwise considering how often he chose to spin them.
But since Adam had been the recipient of the older man’s tales since he sat cross-legged on the floor in breeches by the woodstove, he merely reached for another hunk of bread and slathered it with butter—despite the fact that the word murder had been a sharp reminder of his own looming task.
“Melissa Goings—oh, she was seventy years old if she was a day—had been indicted for murdering her husband, and I was an attorney for her defense. Now, by all accounts, Mr. Goings was a hard quarreler, and an even harder drinker, and he wasn’t much liked by many, including his wife. Now, I’m certain no one at this table would know anything about strife between husbands and wives, would they?” Lincoln sent a twinkling smile down the table to his own mate, who gave a delicate little sniff as she smiled demurely.
There were people who didn’t care for Mary Lincoln and her political aspirations, but no one could say she wasn’t devoted to her husband, nor he to her. Adam himself most often found her charming and witty, not to mention quite well versed on things many women—Mrs. Fremark, for example—didn’t generally speak on, such as politics.
“As the story went, Mr. Goings, the unpleasant farmer who was, incidentally, quite well-to-do and seventy-seven years old himself, was choking his wife when she managed to free herself. She stumbled away and took hold of a stick of wood for the stove and gave him a good, hard whale—as good, I reckon, as a rail-splitter might have done, driving a spike into the railroad tie.” Lincoln’s voice was grave, but his eyes were lit with self-deprecating humor. “She fractured his skull and he managed to say, ‘I expect she has killed me,’ just before he did indeed succumb, thus fulfilling that prediction.
“Mrs. Goings had the public in her favor—for who could blame her for defending herself, and from a brute such as he?—but who could tell what the judge and jury would say. And what a shame to put an elderly woman on public trial after such an experience. And so I had myself a talk with the prosecutor one day. Just the two of us.
“Now, when the day of Mrs. Goings’ trial finally came about, she was granted time to have a short conference with me, her trial lawyer.” Lincoln’s expression became as innocent as a baby’s.
“What happened then?” asked Mrs. Grimsley.
“Why, she left the courthouse for our meeting, and was never seen again.” Lincoln looked around the table with satisfaction as he took up his glass of milk.
Adam knew the game, and so he obliged by asking, “And what did the bailiff say when she didn’t return?”
“He accused me of running her off, if you can credit that,” replied the president. “I said to him, ‘Oh, no, Bob. I didn’t run her off. She wanted to know where she could get a good drink of water, and I told her there was mighty good water . . . in Tennessee. ’ ”
“Good for you, Father,” said Mrs. Lincoln with a smile as everyone else laughed.
“Why, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mother,” he replied, still chuckling as the servants brought in an apple pie as deep as the Mississippi.
That treat took up the attention of the diners, including the president—who normally hardly remembered to eat unless the food was put in front of him.
They were just finishing dinner when there was a loud thud from out in the corridor, followed by the pounding of feet.
Adam was up, spinning to ward off the threat as his hand went to the pocket where his Colt would be—but currently wasn’t, as he’d left it with the doorman. He glanced at Joshua, who’d turned and bolted to his feet as well, as had Loman, just as the door slammed wide.
Two small bodies hurtled through the opening, shrieking and laughing, and began a mad dash around the dining table.
Adam’s heart settled back to where it belonged and he sank into his seat as the two Lincoln boys, Tad and Willie, continued their merry chase of tag. As they wove around and under—but thankfully not over—the table, its chairs, and their occupants, the boys’ father merely watched them with an indulgent smile.
“Now, if only we all had that much energy,” Lincoln said, managing to pat Willie on the head as he streaked by.
Even Mrs. Lincoln, though she murmured an admonishment as one dashed past to “take care of the shoes, loves,” didn’t seem bothered by the energetic interruption.
Then, by some unknown signal, the chase changed course and the two urchins made their mad exit back into the hall just as the doorman appeared. Mr. McManus barely missed being mowed down, pivoting to the side with only a whisker of space to spare.
Nevertheless, nearly being flattened by the two little devils did nothing to rattle the doorman’s composure, and he announced, “I have a message for Mr. Adam Quinn. It come by way of the Willard.”
Adam began to rise, but the doorman gave him a horrified look at this apparent breach of etiquette. “Allow me, sir,” he said, bringing a small folded paper to him.
“Thank you, Mr. McManus.” Adam unfolded the note and read the very short and neat message: Come soon. Hilton.
CHAPTER 12
ADAM DIDN’T TAKE HIS LEAVE IMMEDIATELY, BUT WHEN THE MEN rose to seek out the study for after-dinner cigars and brandy, he explained the message to Lincoln.
“Of course, you must go when you like,” the president told him, waving his knobby hand easily. But his eyes were sober. “No need to stand around jawing with us. How does the investigation go? I must ask how is Mrs. Fremark, though I reckon I know the answer.”
“She’s not very well, I’m afraid, sir. Her sisters and daughter were coming to stay with her when I left.”
“Family is important at a time like that,” said the president. “I’ve already asked Nicolay to help prepare letters of condolence to both her and Mrs. Billings. I would that I could do more.” He looked at Adam closely. “But that is a task that’s fallen to you, young sir. And I’m grateful for your help in the matter. Now, is there anything more with which you can enlighten me?”
“I’m flattered by your trust, sir. And I’ve identified the owner of the dagger used to kill Billings—a man named Hurst Lemagne—but he claims he misplaced the dagger the day of the ball, and therefore someone else must have used it.”
“A logical response. What sort of damned fool would leave his own signature embedded in another man’s gullet? Either a very stupid one—or a very smart one, I think.” Lincoln’s deep-set eyes were grave with seriousness. “But I see you’ve already come to that conclusion.”
“Yes, Mr. Pres—sir. And I discovered something else interesting. Billings was stabbed outside of the dance hall, and then dragged inside and left to be found.”
“How curious. You’re certain of it?”
“Yes, sir. It was no difficulty to track that movement once I had broad daylight to see the footprints in the mud of construction.”
“Oh, yes, the mud. It does tend to be everywhere, don’t it? At least the ease of tracking one’s footmarks is one benefit to living in a city as dirty and filled with offal as a hog’s pen.” His eyes twinkling again, he added, “And I mean that in more than one way.”
“Yes, it does,” Adam replied with a grin. Though the president was tall, Adam was one of the few who hardly had to look up at him. “But there were oil smudges too, on the bottom of the killer’s shoe—and he left marks from that as well. I can’t reckon what that would be from.”
Lincoln frowned. “Oil implies the presence of some mechanism, and one that must run smoothly and without hesitation. Not to mention silently.”
“I agree. Interestingly enough, I found the smudges only in the area where Billings was stabbed, and then when he was dragged into the building. And one also near the wall in the anteroom where the body was found. They were newer and darker near the location of death. There are no other oil marks anywhere that I could find, either
on the plank walkway, inside the anteroom, or even in the foyer of City Hall.”
“So the mechanism is related to where and how the murder took place. Or so it seems.”
“Even more telling, there were no drops or puddles of oil. Just smudges, from a shoe. As if he’d stepped on something right around the time he attacked Billings. And, most importantly, I found an oil smudge on the threshold of the doorway leading to the alcove where Fremark was stabbed.”
“Well, that’s something, I reckon. Something that definitely connects the two.” Lincoln shook his head and rubbed the beard he’d only recently begun to wear. “I must say, I am relieved it’s you, young man, who’s trying to fit these puzzle pieces together, and not this weary, old brain.”
Adam nodded grimly, forbearing to remind him just how that had come to be. “Yes, sir.”
“Now I suppose you’d best see what this Doc Hilton is after, and why he’s sending for you so urgently. Oh,” Lincoln said just as Adam turned to go. “Did you happen to find the whereabouts of the fascinating young lady dressed as a man newspaper reporter?”
“In an—er—matter of speaking, sir, I did. I understand her article about Billings appeared in the District Herald under the name H. Altman, but I haven’t been able to obtain a copy myself.”
“The District Herald, is it. Hmm. I’m not familiar with it, but I reckon I’ll have to take a gander at the story then, to see how she spins her yarns. A female journalist who dresses as a man.” Lincoln seemed particularly tickled by the thought. “Perhaps some day I shall have the pleasure of meeting this unique young lady.”
Adam rather hoped he’d have the dubious pleasure himself first—and sooner, rather than later.
“Good night, Mr. President.”
“Good night. And, Adam . . . we will see you Friday night, won’t we? Dressed in your fine clothes once more, and possibly even shaved again?”
Murder in the Lincoln White House Page 19