CHAPTER 22
“ARTHUR MOSSING?” SAID MR. LINCOLN. “OF MOSSING TEXTILES? That’s quite a reputable company, if memory serves.”
Adam nodded. “Yes, sir, although his family no longer owns that business. Mossing is currently a partner at the law firm Strubert, Blackmore, and Mossing.”
It was the morning after the levee, and he’d insisted George Hilton come with him to report to the president in his office, bright and early.
“None of your kind is up this early,” Hilton had grumbled good-naturedly as they met at the front door of the White House. Lincoln had been heard calling it by that moniker, and the name had begun to stick.
But then the doctor had fallen into almost reverent silence as the ever-present McManus waved them across the threshold. He paused, just over the entrance, and looked up and around in all directions.
Because of the levee last night, no one had come this early, and the foyer, for once, was silent and empty.
He gave a brief nod to Adam, as if letting him know he was finished with whatever had halted him, and started toward the stairs.
“There’s one more expected,” Adam said to McManus as he followed.
“Yes, sir,” replied the doorman with a little salute. “I’ll send him up.”
Now, they were in the office with the president. Hilton had caught his breath audibly as they entered that chamber as well, and Adam could feel something like tension, and perhaps wariness, reverberating from him as he introduced the two men.
Mr. Lincoln shook Hilton’s hand and cordially patted him on the arm. “I’m obliged to meet you, Dr. Hilton, and I’m all ears, waiting for Adam here to explain what happened last night.”
“Pinkerton and I thought it best if we didn’t disrupt your evening, sir, and so we took care of everything on our own. I reckoned morning would be soon enough to tell you the tale.”
“Indeed. My hand—actually, both of them—appreciate it. I’m told I shook hands without pause for three hours last night. I do know I had to use my left hand occasionally, because this one was getting sore from all the congratulating,” he said, lifting his right paw. He looked meaningfully at Adam’s restored prosthetic arm but didn’t mention it. Instead, he commented, “And from what I understand, it was a damned mess in the coat room last night. No one could find their wraps or overcoats, so they just took what they wanted.” He shook his head. “But that’s going to be Mrs. Lincoln’s problem, I think, for future parties.”
“I think it’s best if that sort of thing is left to her, sir,” Adam said.
“Well, now, why don’t you tell me more about it. The only information I was able to squeeze from Pinkerton was that the events of last night didn’t involve a threat to me—happily—and that Arthur Mossing—the son, was it?—was involved.”
“Yes, sir. Mossing killed Custer Billings and Lyman Fremark. He also framed Hurst Lemagne for the first murder.”
Lincoln merely lifted his brows, waiting for Adam to continue.
“Mossing was angry that his father had been forced to sell the textile business to Lemagne. Apparently there were some bad investments in eighteen fifty-eight, and Mossing senior had borrowed against the business to pay them—coincidentally, using Billings Bank & Trust. Lemagne bought him out, leaving Arthur Mossing with no choice than the lowly option of practicing law. Apparently, he felt that was a step down from his previous situation.” Adam gave Mr. Lincoln a wry smile. “Mossing wanted revenge on Lemagne for what he considered the theft of the business from his father, as well as to regain the company—and Miss Lemagne’s hand in marriage. Mossing knew if her father was imprisoned and in trouble for the crime, she’d have no choice but to turn to him for help—knowing no one else here in Washington, and being far away from home.”
The president shook his head. “Well, I reckon that’s one way to get a wife. Rather risky one, though, if you ask me. Flowers or a bit of pretty lace generally work better, I’m told.” Then he became grave. “But to kill two men over it? Appalling.”
“I agree, sir. Appalling is not a strong enough word,” Adam said. He glanced at Hilton. “I couldn’t have solved the crime without the assistance of Dr. Hilton, sir. He was invaluable, sir, in helping to determine how the two men were killed—what sort of weapon, which was very unusual—as well as certain information about the killer.”
“What sort of information?” Lincoln asked.
Adam let Hilton explain about the different blades used on Billings’s body and how he determined the real cause of death, as well as the fact that the killer was right-handed.
“Quite remarkable,” the president said once Hilton had told his story. “An excellent example of perseverance and creativity. Thank you again, Dr. Hilton.”
“I agree, Hilton. Thank you again for your assistance.”
“And this weapon. Tell me about it, and how you came to solve the mystery because of an oil smudge.”
Adam smiled. Apparently, Lincoln had gotten a little more information from Pinkerton than he’d let on. He explained about the walking stick. “And if it weren’t for a witness who actually saw it, and helped me put the details together—”
He stopped when there was a knock at the office door. Nicolay stuck his head in. “Mr. President? This young woman says she is expected.”
The door opened and Miss Gates came in—a little hesitantly for her, Adam thought. She was dressed neatly in a medium blue dress with a skirt of reasonable circumference, a fairly subdued hat, and gloves.
“Mr. President,” she said in a clear voice. “It’s an honor to be here. Thank you for having me.”
“Well, come in, Miss Gates.” Lincoln squinted at her a little. “Have we met before?”
“Yes, Mr. President, very briefly. My uncle—Joseph Henry—introduced me to you last night.”
“And you’re the young woman who fancies herself a reporter, and has been known to dress in trousers in order to do so?”
Miss Gates flung a mortified look at Adam, who swallowed a smile. Then she looked back at the president. “It’s much easier to move about in trousers and a coat than in skirts and a corset. And editors tend to take male journalists more seriously than female journalists.”
“I cannot argue with that,” Lincoln said in his calm, serious way. “When Adam told me about a female journalist dressed as a man, I was intrigued. And now, I’m having the opportunity to meet you. I’m much obliged, young lady, for your assistance in the matter of the Billings and Fremark murders—and you as well, Dr. Hilton. I set Adam to the task, knowing full well he’d succeed at it. Part of what makes a man successful at his undertakings is surrounding himself with men—and in this case, women, as my dear wife would remind me—who complement his own skills and abilities. It sounds as if you have done precisely that, Adam.”
“Yes, sir. I reckon I did my best. Some of it was just pure luck, though,” he replied candidly.
“Luck simply means you’re aware of and prepared to take advantage of whatever comes your way,” Lincoln said. “Which you did.”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked around at the three of them. “I’d like to thank you all again for your help in putting this matter to rest. Arthur Mossing will stand trial, and, presumably, be sentenced for the murders of Custer Billings and Lyman Fremark and the attempted murder of Constance Lemagne. Justice will be served, and I cannot thank you enough for that.”
They took this little speech as the gentle dismissal he obviously intended and said their farewells.
“Adam, a word, please.”
Once Hilton and Miss Gates were gone, Adam closed the door.
The president steepled his hands together, looking at Adam closely. “So now I reckon you’re wanting to return to Springfield with your uncle and aunt.”
“Yes, sir,” Adam replied. “I’ve had enough of Washington and the crowds.” Although he meant it, he felt a little pang over not seeing Brian Mulcahey and his Bessie again, or meeting with Stimpson, Kennicott
, and the others at the Smithsonian at night.
“Hmm.” Lincoln walked to the window and looked out over the lawn. “And what if I asked you to stay.”
Adam straightened at this unexpected request. “I’d . . . I’m not sure, sir.”
“Adam, I need someone like you. Someone who doesn’t want anything from me,” he said, flexing the fingers of his sore right hand. “Someone who doesn’t give a damn about politics. Someone who’s loyal and whom I can trust. I need someone I can call on for . . . whatever comes along. Hopefully, it won’t be something as terrible as murder next time . . . but one can never tell—especially over these next few months.” He sighed quietly, as if trying to hide his sadness. “I would consider it a great favor if you would stay here in Washington and continue to work for me.”
Adam couldn’t say no.
In light of what this man was sacrificing, in light of what changes would soon come to this country—this city—in light of all the hatred and vitriol directed at this one man, who nevertheless would put the good of the nation and his people ahead of himself . . . in light of all that, and the fact that Adam loved and respected Abraham Lincoln, of course he couldn’t say no.
“I would consider it an honor to remain in your employ,” he said, his voice rough with a sudden onset of emotion. “As long as you need me, Mr. President.”
Lincoln’s shoulders lowered a bit, and he turned from the window. “I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say that, Adam. Thank you.” He smiled—and it was a genuine smile, almost lighthearted. “But you cannot afford to continue to live at the Willard.”
Adam gave a short bark of laughter. “No, I reckon I can’t.”
“I could put you up here, like I have with Nicolay and Hay—but I suspect you’d prefer not to be in such a busy place. So may I suggest Mrs. Sprigg’s boardinghouse? She would welcome you as a boarder—I’ve already put in a word for you. Mrs. Lincoln and the boys and I lived at Mrs. Sprigg’s when I first came to Washington, as a congressman in ’47. It’s a fine location, and close to this old white house.”
“Yes, sir,” Adam said. “I reckon I can’t do any better than that.”
“Not unless you want to bunk in the North Tower at the Smithsonian. I hear it’s quite drafty, and a little loud, but then again, you might enjoy that.”
Adam hid his surprise, then laughed. “Well, sir, I suppose I’ll have to look into both options.”
“Excellent, then, Adam. Now, I have one more question for you, if you have a moment.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” he replied.
“Can you explain to me how it happened that a chicken saved your life?”
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Researching this book was a complete joy and eye-opener—if not sobering—at times. I’ve done my best to re-create the world of early March 1861 in Washington, D.C., as authentically as possible—even when the facts seemed unusual or surprising.
For example: Yes, there was a Megatherium Club in the Smithsonian Institution, and William Stimpson and Robert Kennicott, as live-in naturalists cataloguing specimens, were the ringleaders. Their parties, though raucous and wild, were permitted by Dr. Joseph Henry as long as the “boys” didn’t serenade his daughters—who did live with him and his wife in the East Tower of the Castle. (As far as I know, Dr. Henry did not have a niece residing with him at the time.)
The information about the free woman and seamstress Mrs. Elizabeth Keckley, who eventually became one of Mary Todd Lincoln’s closest confidantes, is also true—drawn from her autobiography. Although Dr. George Hilton is a figment of my imagination, the story about how he became a physician is based on the experience of Dr. Alexander Augusta, who was eventually appointed surgeon of the United States Colored Troops by Abraham Lincoln.
Additionally, the description of alley life in Washington, whereby the more wealthy lived facing the streets and the poor (generally Irish and German immigrants, free and enslaved blacks, often jumbled together) lived behind them in hidden alleys, is as accurate as I can make it.
Many of the slaves from elite families, as described herein, were allowed to negotiate their own rates for rental—and keep whatever was left over. I found it most interesting that their owners allowed them to handle all of the business related to that subleasing.
Allan Pinkerton and his staff of agents were instrumental in getting Lincoln safely to Washington, and the description of their unveiling of the Baltimore Plot is accurate—including the fact that Pinkerton employed the first female detective, Kate Warne, as part of that undercover work. As well, the number of constant death threats made to Lincoln—both overtly and through “gifts” in the mail—are both accurate and eye-opening. Especially when taken into account that the White House was, in fact, open for pretty much anyone to walk in at any time.
The 1860 Association was a real entity of legislators and other movers and shakers who were determined to organize secession from the Union after Lincoln was elected. Its actions were mostly limited to letters attempting to garner support for that movement. Thus, the Association’s violent offshoot and its black dot identification process is my own creation and was in part inspired by the Knights of the Golden Circle—the most famous of secessionist secret societies during the Civil War.
And, finally, until Lincoln came into office, the president’s home was known as the Executive Mansion or the President’s House. It was he who began to use the term White House, and eventually the name stuck.
I hope you enjoyed this slice of life in antebellum Washington, D.C.! I’m already beginning work on the next Adam Quinn mystery.
—C.M. Gleason
Murder in the Lincoln White House Page 31