He reckoned he hadn’t ever seen a lady look so fresh and pretty. Like a summer flower: willowy and elegant, and all creamy skin and roses in her cheeks and cornflower eyes.
She was dressed in a pale blue dress with tiny white flowers and green leaves sprinkled over the fabric. There was an inordinate amount of lace trimming along the hem of her ungainly skirt, and from beneath the cloak she wore, he saw that the sleeves of her bodice dripped with lace as well. She wore gloves and carried both a parasol and a small reticule. Her hair was piled up beneath a proper hat dripping with false flowers, exposing those smooth golden swoops that covered most of her ears. Miss Lemagne’s cheeks were flushed pink, and her lips matched. To Adam, she looked as if she were going to a party or a formal dinner.
“I declare, I’m delighted to see you on your feet. I was hoping,” she said, easing closer and bringing a sweet scent along with her, “to find out if you had any more information about the . . . er . . . matter related to Mr. Billings.” She glanced at Birch, whose expression was blank as he watched up and down the street. “My daddy has—well, I have been worried sick about all of this.”
“As a matter of fact, I was just leaving to attend to a matter related to Mr. Billings.”
As soon as he said those words, Adam realized he shouldn’t have added the last bit, for her eyes lit up. But those same crystal blue eyes seemed to have loosened his tongue and now he’d put the pan in the fire.
“If it’s related to the investigation, I must insist upon accompanying you,” said Miss Lemagne. “After all, it’s my father who you have put in the sights for this crime.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it would not be advisable for you to accompany me. I’m going to be speaking with a doctor who did a very thorough . . . er . . . medical examination of Mr. Billings’s body. It would not be seemly for a young lady to be present in such an indecorous situation.”
“I wish to accompany you, Mr. Quinn.” All at once, the southern allure was replaced by steel. It was steel covered in velvet, but it was steel nonetheless.
“I must decline, Miss Lemagne. It would be very unseemly, and—”
“And I find it unseemly that my father is suspected of murder, Mr. Quinn.” Miss Lemagne looked at him from beneath an arched brow. “If I can handle the knowledge that he could be imprisoned—or worse—for a crime he didn’t commit, surely I can handle whatever it is this doctor might have to say.” She leaned forward. “And, if you refuse to allow me to accompany you, Mr. Quinn, I promise you I will simply follow on my own.”
Adam resisted the urge to scrub the crease between his eyebrows with the palm of his hand. How on earth would his mother expect him to handle this? He suddenly felt a stirring of sympathy for the haughty Mr. Mossing.
“Very well, then. It’s settled.” She smiled brilliantly up at him before he had the chance to respond, then slipped her fingers around his forearm.
And that explained why, shortly thereafter, Adam Quinn found himself strolling northwesterly along the avenue accompanied by the lovely, chatty Miss Lemagne.
But several blocks north of Lafayette Square, when they turned onto the alley off K Street, Adam felt Miss Lemagne’s fingers tense through his sleeve. Indeed, merely by turning off the main road into the smaller throughway, the entire world seemed to shrink, darken, and simply become gloomier. Miss Lemagne gathered up an even bigger handful of the front of her dress in a vain effort to keep its hem from getting soiled.
He once again observed the ramshackle shanties, sagging roofs, and scraggly buildings anew—this time, through the eyes of a young woman who’d likely never before been exposed to such impoverishment. Though there was muck and refuse lining the main streets and avenues of Washington, the trash and offal here in these putrid, dingy walkways was even worse.
They were only several yards into the short, offshoot alley when Adam came upon the place where he’d been attacked. Releasing Miss Lemagne’s arm, he crouched to examine the ground, hoping to find some new information that might lead him to his assailants, even though the area had surely been trod upon.
“What is it?” she asked, standing close enough that her skirt encroached upon his view.
“Please step back, Miss Lemagne,” he said, ignoring the ache from his battered body as he maneuvered around awkwardly.
But there was little to see. Other than a random chicken feather from the heroic Bessie, the evidence of his attack had been obliterated. Stifling a groan, Adam pulled slowly to his feet, finding it more difficult than usual, missing his prosthetic as he was.
“What was that all about?” Miss Lemagne asked. “What were you looking for?”
“Clues as to who tried to kill me Wednesday night,” Adam said matter-of-factly.
“Oh.” She breathed in a quiet gust of air. “Were they really trying to kill you?” She looked around as if to ensure the thugs weren’t lurking in the shadows.
“I don’t reckon they were inviting me to tea,” Adam replied. “Shall I escort you back now, Miss Lemagne? I can see to my task another time.”
“Certainly not,” she replied. “You’ll not get rid of me that easily, Mr. Quinn.”
But he noticed the way she warily eyed the activity on the narrow street as they continued to Great Eternity Church.
A woman with frizzy red hair and pale skin looked up from where she was scrubbing clothes in a wash basin between two wilting buildings, and where three toddlers sat in a broken-down, wheelless wagon. It seemed to serve as a sort of pen to confine them and keep them out of the muck as they screeched and babbled.
Across the pitiful excuse for a street—barely wide enough for a horse to pass through—a Negro woman wearing a kerchief was hanging laundry on a sagging line. She was accompanied by a young girl of six or seven who handed her the clothespins.
A scrawny man with skin the color of weather-beaten leather was chopping wood next door, and in the distance there was the sound of someone hammering. Beneath it all was the unrelenting stench of waste—human, animal, plant—and smoke.
“Who are these people?” she asked softly. “Why do they . . . ?” She didn’t seem able to form a reasonable question. Because there was a simple answer to “why”: Why did they live in such hovels? Why did they live in such poverty and depravity?
Because they had no choice.
“Some are Irish immigrants,” Adam replied in a similarly low tone. “Others are free Negroes. Some are slaves. Many of the houses—if you can call them that—are for the slaves of the big houses that face the main streets like J and K, and the number streets. They were built by the owners of the mansions to rent out to the free Negroes or immigrants, or to house their servants.”
Miss Lemagne seemed quietly stunned by this revelation, and Adam wasn’t certain whether he should be proud of the lecture he’d given her or ashamed.
“We’re nearly there,” he said as Miss Lemagne paused to adjust her parasol so she could dig into the small drawstring bag that hung from her wrist.
When she extricated a handkerchief and pressed it to her nose and mouth, Adam noticed a fresh wave of floral essence—likely from the scrap of lace-trimmed cloth.
Good luck in keeping the stench away once you get inside Hilton’s office, he thought grimly.
They went around to the backside of Great Eternity Church, with Miss Lemagne once again hiking up her skirt, petticoats, and hoops while managing parasol, handkerchief, and drawstring bag. This necessitated her releasing his arm, as well as giving Adam a pang of fury that he didn’t even have a second hand to offer for assistance.
Damn it.
He put away the surge of pride and, against his better judgment, assisted Miss Lemagne and her attire down the narrow five steps from grass level to cellar door. It was a ludicrous proposition, attempting to manipulate her, her stiff hoops, her wayward parasol, and her dainty, mud-slicked feet down the stairs, especially when she slipped on the edge of one step and nearly took a tumble.
Adam smothered a curse
and easily caught her with his one working arm, but he was still furious: at himself, at the situation, at the damned steps.
“Hilton,” he called, ignoring the sign that said CLOSED. The man had better be there, after all this. He didn’t wait for a response before shoving open the door.
Miss Lemagne walked through, spine-straight and handkerchief over her nose and mouth, and stopped dead still.
“Good heavens,” she said faintly.
Oh yes, Hilton was there . . . and so were Fremark and Billings.
CHAPTER 14
CONSTANCE COULD HARDLY BELIEVE HER EYES, NOT TO MENTION her nose.
But she wasn’t about to admit to Mr. Quinn how much she did not want to take another step into this . . . chamber of horror. Instead, she forced herself to walk in . . . just far enough to let him slip on past as she gaped at the scene in front of her.
Now she understood why Mr. Quinn had been so determined not to bring her.
The place . . . it was beyond morbid. The large, open room with whitewashed brick walls was lit by a remarkable number of kerosene lamps. Shelves and worktables, along with a desk and chair, lined two of the main walls—which were topped by small windows at ground level and near the ceiling. Two forlorn curtains hung at right angles to each other in a corner, effectively cordoning off a private area. Beneath the barrier, she could see what appeared to be the legs of a bed and chair.
But it was the long table in the center of the room that drew—and kept—one’s attention.
The man standing behind it was staring at them—no, at her—with the same sort of shock she seemed to feel, stepping into this makeshift morgue.
He was a Negro, with medium-dark skin and a cropped beard and mustache. His hair was very short, as if it had recently been shaved off and only begun to grow back. He had a handsome face, carved from walnut, with full lips and skin that shone faintly with perspiration. A butcher’s apron covered him from chest to knee, and his shirtsleeves were rolled halfway up his muscular upper arms.
But more shocking than that was the dead body lying on the table in front of him.
Constance realized her mouth was hanging open, and she closed it.
“What on—” the man began, then made a sound of disgust as he flung a blood-stained sheet over the pale, lifeless body on the table in front of him. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said in a strangled voice as his attention snapped to Mr. Quinn. He wasn’t even attempting to hide his vexation. And—good heavens—his hands and most of his exposed forearms were slick with blood, and there was a shiny streak of the same on his face.
She felt a little faint.
“Dr. Hilton, this is Miss Constance Lemagne,” said Mr. Quinn as he removed his hat.
Doctor Hilton? Constance couldn’t contain an audible reaction of disbelief. A Negro doctor? How could that be?
“She insisted on coming with me.” The tone of Mr. Quinn’s voice clearly indicated his own dislike of the situation. And the bruise he’d acquired on one clean-shaven cheekbone, along with a nasty scrape and two-inch cut across his jaw, merely emphasized his displeasure. “And barring the option of Miss Lemagne insisting on making her own way here, I could see no choice other than to allow her to accompany me.”
“I see. Apparently the ‘closed’ sign made no difference to you, either,” replied the man in what Constance felt was a discourteous tone.
But Mr. Quinn didn’t seem to be offended. “I didn’t believe it referred to me,” he said in a mild rebuke. “Considering the work I’ve sent you.”
“Miss Lemagne, there are chairs over there.” The black man—she couldn’t really accept the fact that he was a doctor—gestured to a trio of them lined against the wall next to the door. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
Dr. Hilton spoke with smooth diction and grammar. He didn’t sound like any other Negro she’d ever heard. His grammar was perfect and his diction clear. He even sounded a little exotic, and there wasn’t a trace of southern accent.
But he seemed extremely ill at ease as he stood there in shirtsleeves covered by a heavy butcher’s apron. Both were marred by dark, rusty stains, and Constance averted her eyes when she realized there were more bloodstains on the dirt-packed floor. Big, sprawling stains that appeared to have run off the far edge of the slightly tipped table.
And then there was the stench. The heavy, cloying smells: the metallic essence of blood was so thick she could taste it on her tongue, and there was the wild, meaty aroma of exposed organs—the very beginning odor of age and decay—all mingled with the astringent scent of whisky and the earthy perfume of damp, dark overturned soil.
She didn’t take a seat. Instead, she moved the handkerchief away from her mouth and nose to speak. “Mr. Quinn believes my father killed him—Mr. Billings.”
She hated that her voice shook a little, but this situation was quite untenable. Mr. Quinn had been correct: it was unseemly for her to be there. Nevertheless, she was glad she’d come. She couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. The fear of what would happen if her father was jailed, tried, and even convicted of killing Custer Billings had kept her up at night. “I insisted upon accompanying him today because I want to help prove that my father wouldn’t do any such thing.”
“I haven’t accused your father of killing Custer Billings,” Mr. Quinn said firmly. “Though his knife was found near the body—and seen sticking out of it—I reckon he wouldn’t have been so foolish as to leave it at the place of the crime if he’d committed it.”
“Is that not what I’ve said all along, Mr. Quinn? That my father wouldn’t have been that foolish?”
“Yes. You’ve mentioned it a number of times,” he replied wearily as he lifted his good arm so he could rub the creases between his eyebrows. He’d moved rather stiffly during their walk here, and had emitted an audible groan when he rose from his examination of the tracks in the alley. How badly had he been injured?
“Regardless—I’m not certain what you expect to find here. This place is not fit for a woman, as you can easily see,” Mr. Quinn added.
Though Constance privately agreed, she wasn’t about to admit it. Instead, she edged to a counter at one side of the room—thankfully far from the long table bearing the corpse. There were a number of items laid out on it, including men’s clothing and a pocket watch.
“I heartily concur,” Dr. Hilton replied, sounding slightly relieved. “Maybe you’d like to step outside—”
“Are these his personal belongings?” she interrupted without thinking. “Mr. Billings’s?”
“Yes.” The doctor sounded harassed. “My apologies, ma’am, but I really don’t think you—”
“All of this is his?” Constance frowned as she looked at the articles of clothing: formal trousers, dress coat, waistcoat, shirt, cravat, underbreeches (at least, she assumed that was what they were), gloves, and stockings. In a small pile next to them, there was also an expensive pocket watch, a wrinkled business card with her daddy’s name and address on it back home, an invitation to the Union Ball, a crumpled Union cockade (at which she couldn’t help but sneer), and a few coins.
“Yes,” Mr. Quinn replied. He sounded slightly mollified; perhaps because she wasn’t looking at the body any longer.
“I removed everything that was on the body. It’s all there,” added Dr. Hilton.
“But where are his shoes?” Constance asked curiously.
“I have them,” Mr. Quinn replied. “Back at my rooms.”
She nodded, then picked up the dress coat and brought it closer to one of the lamps. She examined it closely, comparing it to the trousers in the better light, then straightened, frowning. “Are you aware this isn’t Mr. Billings’s coat?”
“What are you talking about?” Now Mr. Quinn was looking annoyed again. Unfortunately, he still looked quite attractive even when irritation was darkening his face. Arthur Mossing, Esquire, couldn’t hold a candle to this tall, lanky, broad-shouldered frontiersman.
“Of course it’s his co
at,” Mr. Quinn said. “Mr. Billings was missing his when he was found, and this coat was in the broom closet with the knife. It’s got blood on it.”
“It’s not his coat,” Constance said clearly. “It doesn’t match his trousers. A man—especially one of Mr. Billings’s wealth and taste—would have trousers and a dress coat made to match for a formal occasion like the Union Ball. Even my daddy did, though he only had a short time to have it done once we arrived here.”
Mr. Quinn strode over and took up the coat and trousers in question, bringing them close to the lamp as she’d done. “What do you mean, they don’t match? They’re both black.” He lifted his eyes, frowning in bewilderment.
“Yes, Mr. Quinn. They’re both black, but they’re not the same black.”
“The same black? Isn’t black . . . just black?”
She found his bafflement amusing. “There are different shades of black, Mr. Quinn. Especially when it comes to fabric. And I assure you, no self-respecting man would wear mismatched black trousers and coat to the inaugural ball. You may trust me on this—these coat and trousers definitely did not come from the same ensemble, but from two different men.”
“You’re certain of this?” Mr. Quinn said thoughtfully, still peering at the two articles of clothing.
“Quite certain.” Constance took back the trousers and turned them over in her hands. “The fabric not only looks different, subtle as it is, but it feels different as well. And—what’s this?” She leaned closer to the lamp by Mr. Quinn. “Look. On the back of the trousers—there’s a faint smear of white on them. Hardly noticeable.”
“Yes,” Mr. Quinn said. “When I saw that, I reckoned Billings was backed up into the freshly whitewashed exterior of the dance hall when he was attacked.”
“But look—it stops suddenly. Where the tail of the dress coat would have hung.” She traced her finger over the area in question, her pulse leaping. This was quite fascinating, this investigating a crime. “Let me see the coat.”
But Mr. Quinn had already picked it up and was examining the back of it, near the hem. “There’s no white smudge here, damn—er, blast it. There should be, if he backed into the wall.”
Murder in the Lincoln White House Page 22