Murder in the Lincoln White House Page 12

  Brian frowned. “Ain’t no schools up in Ballard’s Alley, sir. My mam, she’s about learning me some lettering, but she don’t always have time with little Benny and Megan, and my papa being gone. But I can make my name and I can read that sign there. Louisiana Avenue. See?”

  “That’s a very good start.” Adam was just about to give him his instructions for the St. Charles when a sleek black landau caught his eye.

  It had an ornate gold design on its door that looked like a T. The vehicle was forced to stop behind an omnibus, which was coming from a different direction from the other they’d seen earlier. It met the description of the vehicle owned by the man Billings had been arguing with in his study. And, he reckoned, it probably belonged to one Mortimer Titus.

  “Brian, do you see that carriage there? With the letter T on it in gold painting?”

  “Gor. That’s one right beautiful buggy,” the boy whispered as the vehicle in question began to inch forward. “It looks like a king would ride in it. And look, there’s a beautiful lady inside too,” he added, straining to see.

  Adam had seen the woman too. Annabelle Titus. He’d wager his last dime on it. “Can you follow that carriage and see if you can find out who the owner is? Learn his name, and the lady’s name, and where they live if you can. Do you think you can do that?” Adam reckoned the boy would be able to travel just as quickly down the busy street on foot as the carriage would travel making its way through the clogged traffic. “If you lose sight of it, you just come back to the Willard and tell Birch at six o’clock, all right then?”

  “Yes, mister. I can do that easy. What was your name again? My mam asked me, and I forgot.”

  “Adam Quinn.”

  Brian looked up at him, shifting from one foot to the other, the paper bag with the extra food crinkling with each movement. Adam was just about to point to the nearest outhouse when the boy asked, “Is it true you know the president? Mr. Lincoln? That man at Willard’s, Mr. Birch . . . he was all about telling me you did.”

  “It’s true. And the task I set you,” he said, gesturing to the street toward the carriage, “is related to a secret job I’m doing for him. So you want to do your best, and don’t tell anyone else about what you’re doing. You got that?”

  “A secret job?” Brian looked like he was about to explode. “Gor.” But this time, he whispered the exclamation on an exhale. “I will, mister. Mr. Quinn. Thank you.” He was just about to dash off on his mission when Adam stopped him.

  He just couldn’t let the kid keep running around in those damned boots.

  “Mr. Lincoln can’t abide by people working for him who don’t have good shoes—never know when you might have to run, or sneak up on someone. You can’t be tripping over your own big toe there, son. A man’s got to have a solid pair of shoes if he’s going to work for the president.”

  The boy looked stricken again, those maple syrup freckles standing out starkly against dead-white skin. He nodded.

  Adam was digging out some money for the boy when Brian shuffled his ill-clad feet. “I understand, mister. Thank you anyway.”

  “Wait a minute,” Adam said, feeling stricken himself. “I only meant to give you this—go buy yourself a pair of boots to wear. Mr. Lincoln always equips his men.” He handed him four silver dollars, which would more than cover the cost of proper footwear and a new coat too. “Next time I see you, you’d better have new boots. You got that?”

  Brian nodded vigorously, the paper bag crinkling under his arm. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now off with you.”

  Adam turned away as Brian dashed off down the street in the wake of the fancy carriage; otherwise, he’d be watching him with stinging eyes. He was bemused—and hoping the kid wouldn’t trip over his toe. At the same time, he was suddenly nostalgic, missing his godson Carl—who was an angel in heaven now—as well as his own little brother Danny . . . who was probably not so little anymore.

  Damn it all. He wasn’t certain what he was doing here—even more of a misfit than Lincoln—in Washington, among all of this ugly muck of a world.

  The muck being both literal and figurative.

  With a sigh, he checked his pocket watch. Nearly one o’clock: time to meet Miss Lemagne.

  CHAPTER 7

  “I CANNOT APOLOGIZE ENOUGH FOR MY DADDY’S RUDENESS THIS morning, Mr. Quinn,” said Miss Lemagne, offering him a slender, gloved hand.

  She wore a hat stuffed on the underside of its circumspect brim with pink and blue nosegays woven with lace. The wide ribbon that tied beneath her chin made her eyes look the color of a clear summer sky over the plains: bluer than blue. Her dress, though its skirt hung over a frame that kept it stiff and bell shaped, was not nearly as wide and ruffled as the one she’d worn last night, and the fabric wasn’t silky or shiny, but a lightweight dyed wool. She wore a heavy cloak of dark blue that fell to her shoes, its hood hanging over her back. A rabbit fur stole covered the tops of her shoulders and crossed over the front of her throat and was pinned by a large pearl brooch.

  She smiled a little bashfully when he lifted a brow at the fur. “It’s much warmer back home, Mr. Quinn, and this cold dampness chills me to the very bone. It hardly ever gets this cold in Alabama, especially in March.” Then, just as quickly as it had come, the sweet, demure demeanor faded into a more serious one. “Thank you for meeting me.”

  “What is it you have to tell me?”

  She slipped her hand from his fingers and took his arm, bringing with her a waft of something light and floral as her skirt and cloak brushed his trouser leg. “Over here, where we won’t be heard.”

  He allowed her to lead him to a small alcove in one of the public rooms of the Kirkwood Hotel. “You were beginning to tell me that your father didn’t return to the hotel until early this morning.”

  She sat on one end of a divan upholstered in gold brocade, swiftly and expertly arranging layers of skirts, then patted the space next to her. Adam had no choice but to acquiesce, though he felt strangely awkward sitting so close to a woman he hardly knew, and in such a public place—a woman whose father had already made a scene, and whose self-proclaimed fiancé had done the same.

  The last thing he wanted was to compromise her reputation in any way.

  “Yes, although that’s not the most important part.”

  “But I’d like to know about your father first,” Adam said, thinking of Lemagne’s business card found in Billings’s pocket. “Had he been at the ball all that time?”

  “I hadn’t been able to sleep, so when I heard him, I came out of my room. He was walking unsteadily and I thought he was drunk—or maybe hurt. Of course, I went out to find out what happened, and to see if he needed help. It’s not like him to stay out that late, or to drink too much.”

  “What had happened?”

  “He said he went to the chambers at City Hall to wash up, and then he was standing outside having a cigar. Then something—or someone—hit him in the back of his head. The next thing he knew, he woke up alone in one of the offices in City Hall and it was almost dawn. He had no idea how he got there.” Miss Lemagne’s eyes were filled with worry. “I’m afraid someone tried to kill him too, but was somehow interrupted.”

  “I reckon he had a big lump on the back of his head,” Adam said.

  “I—well, he wouldn’t let me look at it. He became gruff and grumbly when I tried, and said he just needed some rest. That’s why he was so rude this morning, I’m sure. His head still hurt him.”

  “He told you his head hurt? And there wasn’t any sign of a lump that you could see?”

  Miss Lemagne pulled back a little and her expression cooled. “Are you suggesting he might have made up the story, Mr. Quinn?”

  “No, of course not,” he replied quickly. “It’s just that if he was blacked out for several hours, he should have a big bump on the back of his head.” And most likely one on the front, if he fell forward—which was likely if someone had struck him from behind.

  Adam didn’t r
emember seeing anything like a cut or bump on Hurst Lemagne’s forehead, and the man had a receding hairline that exposed a good portion of his temples.

  “He could have died,” Miss Lemagne said tightly. “Whoever killed Mr. Billings might have wanted to kill him too. And I think I know who it was.”

  “You do?” Now she had his full attention.

  “I think I overheard something important.” She had a hint of chastisement in her voice. “Yesterday, after the inauguration and before it was time to get ready for the ball, I walked around the hotel to the rear-facing side. There’s a little courtyard there for the guests, and I wanted some fresh air. The servants’ and delivery entrance is right next to it, but it’s separated by a wooden wall made from crisscrossed slats. I got a little turned around and ended up on the wrong side, by the servants’ entrance, not in the courtyard. And that’s when I heard some men talking.

  “Of course, I wouldn’t have dreamed of eavesdropping if I hadn’t heard one of them say something about everything being set for tonight. Meaning, last night—not tonight.”

  “Yes, I follow you.” He looked at her keenly. “Why did that phrase catch your attention? It wouldn’t be a surprise for someone to be talking about the ball last night and everything being prepared.”

  She gave him a satisfied smile with a dimple that winked near the corner of her mouth. “Because, Mr. Quinn, he was speaking with a deep southern accent. A Mississippi or Alabama accent, one from way down in Dixie—not just hoverin’ near it like the ones that do up here. And why would a very deeply Southern man be talking about everything being set for the ball that celebrated the swearing in of a president he surely despises?”

  “I see. So you’re suggesting there was no reason for a man—or men—from the Deep South to be looking forward to the Union Ball unless there was some other reason? But by that same logic, then, Miss Lemagne, I reckon I could wonder the same about you and your father.”

  Again she drew back a little. “Mr. Quinn, I’m not certain I like your implication.”

  “I’m not implying anything, Miss Lemagne,” he replied, unable to subdue his male appreciation for the way her eyes flashed and her cheeks turned pink with unfeigned outrage. “I admit to being curious as to why the two of you bothered to attend the celebration for a man your father obviously despises.”

  “It’s very simple: I wanted to go. I wasn’t about to miss the most excitin’ event in the city, and Mr. Mossing was invited, of course, and he graciously agreed for us to be his guests. Daddy consented to attend in order to make some business contacts—and because I begged him to go.”

  That was a reasonable explanation, Adam reflected, and it made sense as to why Lemagne spent hardly any time in the ballroom himself. But who would have hit him on the head? And why?

  “You were saying, Miss Lemagne . . . about what you overheard. Was there anything else?”

  “Oh, yes.” Her eyes were still sparkling, but not quite as furiously as they had been. Her temperature seemed to have gone up along with her ire, for she pulled off her gloves and unfastened the fur stole from around her neck, setting the three items between them on the divan.

  And then she leaned closer to Adam so he was distracted for a moment by the scent of her, and the proximity of her full, pink mouth. “First one man said things were set for the night, and then the other said something about ‘splitting that damned Illinois rail to the ground.’ ” Her voice was low and mellow.

  Adam went still, curling his right hand into itself. “You’re certain that’s what they said?”

  “I was standin’ right there, Mr. Quinn, with only a flimsy fence between us. There’s not a thing wrong with my ears.”

  He couldn’t help but glance at the tease of white earlobe peeking from beneath the smooth wing of her hair. There were no earbobs today. “Did you hear anything else at all? Or did you see any part of them through the wooden slat fence? How many men were there?”

  “Three,” she replied. “I could see a little bit of them through the holes. One of them was very tall, and the other two not as much. They were all of slender build. I’m afraid I couldn’t make out much more; they were all wearing hats and dark coats. And, of course, they weren’t exactly shouting their conversation. I did hear them say something about—what was it? About the fools in Baltimore letting the cat out, so this time they made sure the sack was tied tightly.”

  Baltimore. Adam’s suspicions that there had been a plan to assassinate the president last night—and that Custer Billings was somehow involved—grew stronger.

  Back in early February, Pinkerton had sent two of his agents to go undercover in Baltimore to flesh out rumors of a deadly attack on the president-elect when he traveled through the city on his way to Washington.

  It was the thorough, patient work of Pinkerton, as well as his associates Harry Davies and Kate Warne, that gave the detective enough ammunition to go to Lincoln and convince him to secretly change his travel plans at the last minute. The president-elect’s reluctant agreement caused Lincoln to arrive at Willard’s in the middle of night—to the delight of the press, which had made much hay out of the way the “cowardly” man had “crept” and “slinked” into town in the dead of night.

  Adam knew all of this for he’d been there when the detective had laid out for Mr. Lincoln all the details of the Baltimore Plot he’d gleaned, and had helped convince the man not to take the risk of keeping to his schedule. Although Lincoln never completely believed in the severity of the threat, he’d acquiesced to the pressure from Pinkerton and the others.

  The plan in Baltimore had been simple: When the president-elect arrived at the train station from Philadelphia, he had to disembark and be taken by carriage to a different station for the train to Washington. The stations were several blocks apart, and the plan was for the plotters to cause a riot in the streets as the carriage approached. It would create havoc and distract and weaken the local police—as well as Lincoln’s own security team—giving the assassins an opening to kill the president-elect.

  Perhaps that same concept had been in play last night. Finding a dead body at the Union Ball might have caused great distress if Pinkerton and Joshua hadn’t handled things differently and kept the news quiet.

  “Mr. Quinn?” Miss Lemagne’s gentle voice, and the brush of her cool, bare hand against his returned him to the moment.

  He blinked, and as his attention skittered back to the woman next to him, his gaze swept up from their two touching hands and the jumble of skirts in her lap, along her spine-straight torso . . . and stopped. He stared—not at the black and white cockade attached to her bodice, but at the brooch pinned to the center of her neckline.

  The simple pin had been hidden by the fur stole, as had the cockade, but now it was fully revealed and terribly familiar: the opaque blue hemisphere of a stone veined with black, surrounded by tiny black beads. It was the same design as on the handle of the dagger that had been found near Custer Billings’s body.

  Miss Lemagne made a soft noise, and her slender hand came up to caress the petal-like edges of the secessionist cockade. “Are you so shocked to see this, Mr. Quinn? Of course, I must support my Southern brethren.”

  “I was more interested in the other pin you’re wearing,” he said, keeping his voice casual as a number of thoughts bombarded him. “I’ve seen it somewhere before. What sort of stone is that?”

  “This?” She fingered the brooch, her voice light with surprise. “It was my grandmama’s. It was sort of a family heirloom her father brought over from Ireland. The stone is from the land he grew up on in Kilkenny and he had several pieces made in the same way.”

  “What other sort of pieces?”

  Miss Lemagne seemed confused by his interest, but she replied, “Earbobs, for one, and I believe a belt buckle at one time, but it’s long gone missing. There was an eating set too and a goblet with the stones set around the base. A dagger. Oh, and a horsehair brush.”

  Adam stood abruptly. “I
need to speak with your father, Miss Lemagne. As soon as possible.”

  “Why? Whatever is wrong?” She gathered up her gloves and fur, then stood.

  But Adam just shook his head, keeping his lips pursed tightly. He offered her his arm as she refastened the stole around her throat, then said, “I’ll escort you back to the St. Charles. Do you reckon your father will be there?”

  “I have no idea, Mr. Quinn.” She pointedly didn’t take his arm, frowning at him instead as she yanked on her gloves. “Just as I have no idea what’s come over you with all of these unmannerly questions.”

  He considered telling her, but something held him back. There was something so very convenient about the way she’d overheard just the smattering of a conversation between three men—and yet there was enough detail that it wasn’t ambiguous. It all could be true, but then again . . .

  “I beg your pardon if I seem uncivil,” he said, reminding himself that he was still his mother’s son, and she still expected him to be a model of politeness in the company of a woman—even if his manners weren’t as smooth and perfect as those of the society men of Washington. “But it’s important that I speak with your father, and though he was unwilling this morning, I’m hoping you can convince him to give me a few moments. The president may not be his choice, but he is the president, and what I do is at his direction.”

  Miss Lemagne gave a little huff and spun away to start walking out of the Kirkwood—but not before she shot him a dark glare. “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.”

  Adam escorted her back to her hotel, promising to return in twenty minutes to speak with her father. That would give him enough time to retrieve the dagger from his rooms at the Willard and give her the opportunity to convince Lemagne it was in his best interest to speak with him. He wasn’t certain what he would do if the man refused.