Murder in the Lincoln White House

by C. M. Gleason

  Her cheeks were hot with fury, and she drew in a deep breath—ready to explode—but he trundled on.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I’m not the least bit certain he is the culprit. But I’m not going to hold back on doing my duty simply because it upsets you—or your father. Two men are dead, Miss Lemagne. I reckon finding out who did that is more important than upsetting a man by asking him some serious, reasonable questions.”

  She was calming down a little now, slightly mollified by his admission that he didn’t truly believe her daddy would have killed a man. But still, the fear that her father would be arrested, taken off to jail—maybe even hung... she couldn’t bear it.

  “I thought you’d given up on my father after our—after the visit to the—to Dr. Hilton,” she said stubbornly.

  “There was more information that came to light after that,” he told her. “I spoke with your father about it, and I’ll continue to do so until I’m either satisfied he isn’t guilty or I find the murderer.”

  “Constance.”

  A low, furious voice made her heart plunge and her stomach flip. Oh, dear. Oh, no.

  She turned to her father, who’d stormed up to them. He certainly didn’t look like a murder suspect—for he was dressed in smart, formal evening clothing with pristine gloves, shiny top hat, and the requisite walking stick gripped in his hand—almost like a weapon. But his demeanor was anything but sleek, slick formality.

  He nearly shook with rage as he spoke to her. “I instructed you not to speak to Mr. Quinn, did I not?”

  “But, Daddy,” she began, then clamped her mouth shut. Her cheeks were burning, and once again the restrictions of her corset made it difficult for her to draw a breath.

  “Mr. Mossing and I have been looking everywhere for you.” His grip on her arm was firm and very nearly painful, but she supposed she should have expected it after so blatantly disobeying him.

  She shouldn’t have approached Mr. Quinn in such a public place—where she could be seen.

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Quinn, clearly desirous of making his escape. “Good evening, Miss Lemagne. Mr. Lemagne.”

  Neither of them bothered to respond. Constance was near tears. She hated upsetting her father, especially when he was already upset. But didn’t he see? Someone had to do something.

  Someone had to figure out who was behind the murders, and who had framed him.

  She blinked rapidly and suddenly a handkerchief was thrust into her line of vision.

  “Wipe your eyes,” her father muttered.

  “Daddy, I’m sorry I disobeyed you, but I’m just so angry with Mr. Quinn. He has no right—”

  “I told you before, Constance, this is none of your affair. You need to stay out of it.” His voice was firm, but the blazing anger had eased.

  “But, Daddy, I’m afraid—what if they arrest you?” She looked up at him, not caring that her eyes were filled with tears—in fact, glad they were. He needed to understand how much she’d had this worry bottled up inside her, how much she feared what could happen here in this unfamiliar city where they hardly knew anyone. “What will happen to you—and to me? How will I pay for your lawyer, and where will I stay? And what if the war comes?”

  His face softened a little more and he chucked her under the chin. “I won’t be arrested, poppet, because I didn’t do it. That damn—er, that blasted Mr. Quinn is a smart man—too smart for his own good—even if he’s working for the damned rail-splitter. He’s not going to make a mistake like that.”

  “But, Daddy . . . the knife. They found your knife there. And—and you won’t tell me what’s wrong. What’s going on. I know there’s something wrong, and you won’t tell me. Why not?” Her eyes stung again and now her nose was beginning to run—which was not attractive, even on her.

  He sighed. “It’s nothing you need to be concerned about, Constance. It’s something that happened a long time ago. You needn’t worry about anything. But,” he said, holding up a hand when she would have argued further, “if the worst should happen and I am arrested—which I won’t be—you know Arthur will take care of you.” He smiled affectionately at her. “I know you aren’t all that fond of Mossing, but he wants to marry you.”

  “And you want me to marry him because he’s the son of your friend,” she added dryly.

  “Constance, please. You know it’s more than that. And you’ve hardly given the man a chance. We’ve been here hardly more than a week, and you barely know him. A few walks down the street aren’t enough to know.”

  She drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t really understand your reasons for wanting me to marry Arthur. Yes, he comes from a good family and you were friends with his father. I know you always talked about merging our families, and creating an empire—but you already own the business Mr. Mossing started. And doesn’t it matter what I want? Shouldn’t I get to choose my husband? You and Mama got to make your own decision, your own choices. I shouldn’t be forced into marrying someone I don’t love simply because you want me to. Please don’t take away my choice. Please don’t force me to marry someone I don’t want to.”

  Her father had stilled, the ruddiness in his cheeks fading to pale. “Constance . . .” His voice trailed off. “Of course, I wouldn’t ever force you. I only . . . I won’t force you. I never meant you to think that.”

  He reached for her hand, squeezing it softly—but, as was his way, he wouldn’t actually say soft words or apologies.

  But the hand squeeze—it was enough.

  * * *

  Adam gave the Lemagnes the space they obviously needed, but he lingered within sight of them. Just to make certain.

  He didn’t reckon Hurst would do anything to hurt his daughter; despite the anger and bluster he showed, it seemed wrapped around sincere concern and affection for her. And the fact that the man still desperately loved a woman from his youth gave Adam the impression that Hurst Lemagne’s adorations were firmly and deeply rooted, and that he was more bluster and bark than anything venomous.

  Which was why he really didn’t believe the man had killed either Custer Billings or Lyman Fremark.

  But someone had, and standing in a corner tucked behind two large urns of graceful palms (he had no idea where Mrs. Lincoln had obtained them on such short notice, but there they were), Adam was grateful for a quiet moment to think about all the possibilities. Including what Pinkerton had told him.

  It seemed that some members of the 1860 Association were no longer content with merely printing pamphlets and convincing states to secede. The Black Dot faction of the group—which seemed to include the men Miss Lemagne had overheard in the courtyard, plus the other one seen by the groom—had planned a distraction at the Union Ball in order to make their move to assassinate Lincoln.

  The next question was: Why choose Billings?

  Was he a random choice as victim? If so, then that put Adam even further away from solving the murder . . . unless he could figure out the clue of the oil smudges. Based on what Miss Gates had told him tonight, he’d become certain that the weapon had somehow been secreted in the walking stick she’d seen—the walking stick the murderer had come back to retrieve. And that the oil drips were related to it.

  It made sense. There had to be some sort of mechanism, for the oil appeared only at the approximate time and location where the murder was committed. And there had been an oil stain on the floor near the closet—just where Miss Gates said the walking stick was leaning against the wall.

  So he could follow that trail—somehow. Not that it would be easy—every man of the upper class carried a walking stick.

  But back to Billings. If he as the victim hadn’t been a random choice—if it was a purposeful one—what would the reason be?

  Well . . . Billings was a staunch abolitionist. It would be a strong statement to kill him at the ball celebrating an antislavery president. That alone could be the reason—and perhaps Wellburg and Littleton had known more than they were telling, and the death of Billings in p
articular had been the plan all along.

  Or . . . Hurst Lemagne could have killed him in retribution for the way Billings treated the woman he’d loved for decades. And left the knife purposely, so as to make it appear that no one would be so foolish as to leave such blatant, identifying evidence behind. That would make Lemagne a very clever man, and Adam . . . well, he wasn’t certain Lemagne was that clever. But it was a theory that couldn’t be dismissed.

  Or someone could have known about the bad blood between Lemagne and Billings—after all, Miss Lemagne had heard them arguing, so others may have as well—and decided to use their history as a cover for the murder of Billings. And then framed Lemagne for the crime.

  But if that were the case, then the choice of Billings couldn’t be completely random. Someone would have had to have brought Lemagne’s dagger in order to plant it near the scene.

  Once again, that could lead back to the Black Dot Association . . . but there were other reasons to kill Billings.

  Mortimer Titus, for example. If he’d learned that Custer Billings was dallying with his wife, he might have decided to take matters into his own hands. And if he were also a member of the Association . . . that would make everything nice and tidy.

  Adam stood on his toes, looking for a man with pasty skin and insignificant eyebrows in the hopes that he might find Titus himself.

  Who else would benefit from Billings’s death? There was always the motive of money. That and love, the members of the Megatherium Club seemed to have agreed on, were two of the most common motives. Love and money.

  He’d already figured if Billings died, his wife would inherit all of his money.

  Adam’s eyes widened. And if Billings was dead, that would leave Hurst Lemagne free to marry Althea Billings . . . and then he would have Billings’s wealth along with his own.

  He shook his head. Either Lemagne was very, very clever, or someone really knew his history and had set him up very neatly.

  He frowned. Althea Billings was weak and ill. Would she even live long enough to marry Lemagne after her required period of mourning—at least a year or two? Or would she even want to marry him, after so many years? Adam only had Lemagne’s word that Althea had loved him all those years ago.... Maybe that wasn’t true after all.

  He rubbed the crease between his eyebrows and tried to make sense of the whirlwind of thoughts. Who else might benefit from Billings’s death?

  Then it struck him. The brother. Althea Billings’s brother. Because when she died, Orton would be her heir, and—

  “Mr. Quinn.”

  His eyes flew open—he hadn’t even realized they were closed—and he found himself looking down at Miss Gates.

  “I see you came through your interview with Miss Lemagne unscathed,” she said.

  “Most of my hide remains intact,” he managed to say with a rueful smile.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” she began, “but I wanted to make certain you didn’t have any more questions for me—since we were . . . er . . . interrupted.”

  He thought for a moment. “Only if you can remember what the walking stick looked like; I reckon that would be helpful.”

  “If only I could,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve been racking my brain trying to picture it in my head, but I can’t.”

  “I appreciate your persistence. And I want to remind you, Miss Gates, that there is still a murderer wandering about. Please don’t go anywhere alone, especially at night.”

  “I’m not a fool,” she retorted, her eyes flashing.

  “I cannot argue with that,” he replied gravely.

  She lifted her dainty, pointed nose as if she wasn’t certain whether he was joshing her or not. But before she could speak, they were invaded—which was the only word to describe it—by William Stimpson and Robert Kennicott, their full cups, and their laden plates.

  Miss Gates threw him an apologetic farewell, then slipped away as the two new arrivals began to pepper Adam with questions. Clearly she wanted to take no chance they’d recognize her as Henry Altman.

  “Where’d you get off to? We were looking for you. Had a question, and now can’t remember what it was. What was it, Stimpy?” Kennicott rattled off.

  “Damned if I know,” replied the other, then popped what looked like a fried oyster into his mouth. “Must not have been important.”

  “You set us up with that challenge on Tuesday, didn’t you, Quinn?” said Kennicott good-naturedly. “Nice job on that. There wasn’t a hair swatch to match after all, was there?”

  Maybe it was that he had so much information in his head that Adam decided to tell them the whole of it.

  “The truth is,” he said, yanking them closer into the corner that had seemed secluded but kept being invaded, “I’m investigating the murder of the man who was stabbed at the Union Ball.”

  “You’re mad,” Stimpson said, crumbs flying from whatever he’d just stuffed in his mouth.

  “What’re you, a Pinkerton?” jumped in Kennicott. “That’d be a great time, being a detective, Stimpy. It’d be like following tracks in the woods.”

  Adam laughed, because that was exactly what it was like . . . and yet it wasn’t. And because the two slightly inebriated, very enthusiastic men were willing to hear more, he told them all of what he knew about the way the murder had actually happened. He didn’t name the names of any suspects, however, simply sticking to the way the murder had been committed.

  “It has to be a walking stick,” agreed Kennicott, after tossing back a big gulp of ale. “With some kind of mechanism in it.”

  “I reckoned for a time it might have been part of a prosthetic,” Adam said, gesturing easily with his half-arm. “An implement that was, maybe, inserted in the end of the prosthetic. That made sense for how Billings died—as the wounds came from below and went up. But Fremark was killed with blows from slightly above, stabbing down.”

  “He could have been sitting,” Stimpson said. “Or bending over.”

  Adam considered that, then shook his head. “No, even that wouldn’t help. And the location is wrong. But it’s the way the weapon would have to be—sticking straight out from the arm like this.” He demonstrated. “You’d always be stabbing up from that angle. Impossible to make it angle down without really contorting yourself.”

  “So it makes sense it’s part of a walking stick. Easier to handle and hide, anyway, I reckon,” Kennicott said. “I mean to say, a man wearing an ice pick for his hand would be noticeable.”

  The three of them chuckled a little, then sobered.

  “Wouldn’t be difficult to put a sword tip inside a walking stick. It’s been done before,” commented Stimpson.

  “Agreed. But it’s the getting it out unnoticed—the motion of unsheathing a knife of any size is broad and obvious—and using it without the victim realizing it—and reacting—that bothers me,” Adam said.

  “There was a man—saw him earlier tonight,” Stimpson said slowly. “He had his hands full, with a plate and a drink, and what do you do with a walking stick then? Can’t slide it under your arm, or it sticks out from behind and snags on the skirts or sleeves of anyone walking by, trips ’em, and causes a problem. Imagine if everyone did that.”

  “What’s your point, Stimpy?” Kennicott said.

  “Right. The man’s stick was standing next to him, upright all by itself. I noticed because, well, hell, it looked strange and yet useful.”

  “How was it standing up?” Adam asked, feeling a strange little buzz in his belly. “Did you notice?”

  “Hell yes I did—I was curious. He was stepping on a small metal plate that had flipped out from the bottom of the stick. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  “Neither have I.” The buzzing in Adam’s middle became stronger. “I think that’s it,” he said, his voice tense with excitement. “There’s a mechanism that causes the plate to flip out—maybe in the handle or on the side. The murderer steps on the metal clip and then only needs the one hand to pull off the t
op of the walking stick and expose the weapon.” He showed them how it could be done with spare, hardly noticeable movements.

  “And if he does it as he’s moving forward to, maybe, embrace Billings, or speak to him in a low voice, then it wouldn’t be noticeable at all. He’d pull out the top half or top third of the stick, his arm moving slightly behind him as he angles forward . . . then as he steps back, jabs his arm up and forward—ugh! Right in the gut.”

  Adam could see both enthusiasm and confirmation from his companions.

  “And the oil smudge is from the plate flipping open—it has to move quickly and silently in order to be effective,” Stimpson said. “So it must be lubricated.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Right you are,” Kennicott said, his words uncharacteristically sober. “And how many walking sticks are like that? Such a useful invention, though—it should become quite popular. Age-old problem of what to do with your walking stick while at a party.”

  Invention.

  Adam stilled, his brain fumbling for something he’d heard, something someone had said—

  Mr. Orton. Althea Billings’s brother. He was a lawyer—who worked with inventors filing their patents.

  Althea would inherit Billings’s money, and Orton would inherit from Althea when she died.

  Which was likely to be sooner rather than later.

  And Alan Orton lived in Baltimore. It came to him in a flash—the groom at the St. Charles mentioned the fourth man didn’t have a southern accent. He sounded like he was from the North.

  “Where’s the man you said you saw with the walking stick like that?” Adam said, looking around. “Would you know him again? Did you see his face?”

  He hadn’t noticed Orton present himself, but there were probably at least a thousand people here, and he’d been cloistered in corners and alcoves for most of the evening.

  “Yes, of course.” Stimpson, obviously anticipating the demand, had already begun to look around, turning in a slow sweep as he scanned the room. “I don’t see him . . . at the moment.”