Murder in the Lincoln White House Page 2

  Not that there were any women to speak of on the frontier.

  “Adam Quinn,” he added as he lifted his head from the bow, then brought the young woman’s hand to his lips for a brief kiss. “May I have this dance, then, ma’am?”

  She was a pretty one, without a doubt the sort of young woman who normally had reams of men clustered about, clamoring for a smile, a personal word, a dance. Beneath a fancy headdress of pink roses and blue ribbons, her hair was the color of whisky—somewhere between honey and the chestnut of a horse—and she had fair, slightly flushed skin with a fascinating mark near the corner of her mouth. Her gown was white and had a low neckline decorated with blue and pink flowers. The bell-like skirt that nudged his knee had been trimmed with pink and blue ruffles—or maybe they were called flounces. Some frilly and wavy pieces of fabric that went around the skirt in several rows near the hem, and were anchored by more flowers. Jet black earrings of tiny beads dangled and glittered as she moved.

  “It’s a reel,” she told him, giving a brief curtsy in response to his bow. This caused her skirt to puff out a little at the bottom, bumping against his calves, before she rose. “And I’d be delighted to forgo . . . er . . .” She groped for the little pamphlet that dangled from her wrist—presumably the all-important dance card—and opened it to the center. “Mr. Tallmadge and his dance,” she said with satisfaction. “I’ve only met the gentleman once. He’s a friend of a friend’s, and since I don’t know hardly anyone else here except for my daddy and the Mossings”—a little moue of distaste pouted her lips—“it would never do for me to be a wallflower, so Mr. Tallmadge agreed to sign his name to several of the lines.”

  As if to prove her point, she dragged off the soft golden cord that attached the pamphlet to her wrist like a bracelet and offered the booklet to Adam.

  “I see what you mean,” he replied, looking at the number of times Tallmadge had scrawled his name on the Agenda of Songs. A “Mossing” was on there as well, for several numbers. Having arrived late, Adam couldn’t tell which songs had been played yet, but he saw no reason to argue with the young lady. “Then I reckon I shouldn’t worry Mr. Tallmadge will put a bullet in my arm and rid me of my right hand as well.”

  With a rueful smile, he lifted what remained of his left arm to indicate the gloved prosthetic hand that protruded from his sleeve. Normally, he wouldn’t have made such an overt mention of his injury, but as he’d be dancing with the lady and it would be obvious that his left fingers weren’t flesh and bone, he thought it only appropriate to give fair warning. She’d find out soon enough if she took his hand.

  Her eyes widened, but, to his surprise, with neither dismay nor distaste. “Well, I should hope it wouldn’t come to that, Mr. Quinn. It is, after all, only a reel.” She gave him a warm smile and slipped her hand around the crook of his left elbow with only the slightest glimmer of hesitation.

  But Adam hesitated. “Is there not someone about from whom I should get permission to dance with you?”

  She shook her head, a little crease forming between her brows. “If I knew where Daddy was at the moment, it would be a different story. As it is, he went off to speak to someone and left me here alone to avoid Mr. Mossing on my own, and I haven’t seen him since. My daddy, not Mr. Mossing. Well, I haven’t seen Mr. Mossing since, but that’s mostly intentional.” She gave him a bright smile.

  “Very well, then. There’s only one more matter of business before I lead you out for this reel of ours, ma’am,” he said, edging them toward the lines that were forming. He was acutely aware that her fingers were curled around the sleeve covering both the live part of his skin and the artificial portion of his arm.

  “And what is that, Mr. Quinn?” She smiled up once again, and the southern in her voice reminded him of a particularly fine brandy he’d once shared with Uncle Joshua: rich, smooth, and dusky.

  “The matter of your name, ma’am. I might be lately from Kansas and behind the times on social proprieties, but I don’t reckon I’m permitted to dance with an anonymous lady. Even if her father is absent.”

  She laughed. “Of course not. But I thought you must have known my name, for the way you fairly mowed down the people as you made your way to my side. I’m Constance Lemagne. From Mobile.”

  Good God. Mobile? Alabama? The newly minted capital of the so-called Confederate States of America?

  Adam managed to hide his surprise. At least she wasn’t wearing a secessionist ribbon on her dress. It would certainly stand out from the blue and white ones worn by nearly everyone in the room. It was no wonder she didn’t know anyone here. In a room filled with Northern Republicans and a few former Whigs, a Southerner was more than simply out of place. And why on earth had her father gone off and left her alone?

  More to the point—why on earth was her father even in attendance at a celebration for the president, who was already being demonized by the South? Today during the inaugural parade, he’d heard a Southern lady speak, belying her genteel accents with ugly vitriol: “There goes that Illinois ape—but he will never stay alive.”

  Adam returned his attention to the young woman at his side. “Very well, then, Miss Lemagne,” he said just as the caller announced the final lineup for the reel. “Shall we?”

  Fortunately, he knew the steps to the reel, and also fortunately, the movements required only the basic use of his false hand. Perhaps he hadn’t needed to warn her about it after all. Another misstep here at tonight’s formal occasion to be chalked up next to his mention of an outhouse. His mother would be so proud.

  As he do-si-doed then watched the lead couple promenade down the center of the two lines that formed the Virginia reel, Adam took the opportunity to glance around the room. The journalist had disappeared. The Lincolns seemed to have made their way down to the far end of the hall and were on their way back, still greeting and collecting congratulations from their admirers.

  Adam’s uncle remained on the dais with General Scott and Mr. Pinkerton, seemingly uninterested in joining the celebratory fray. He felt a twinge of uncertainty for having abandoned his own post, but of course he had done so for a valid reason. Still, after this dance, he thought, as Miss Lemagne slipped her arm through his and they swung around gaily, he would return to the dais.

  Besides, his damned feet hurt in their pinching shoes. And he was becoming uncomfortably warm and damp.

  The lineup for the reel stretched nearly the length of the hall, so it was almost thirty minutes before the set was finished. By then, everyone was out of breath, their faces were damp, and Miss Lemagne’s eyes were particularly sparkly and beautiful.

  Adam had a moment of regret as the dance ended and they made their way off the floor, for it was most likely he’d never see her again. Now that the inauguration was finished and the Lincolns would shortly be settled into the President’s House, surely Adam would be returning soon to Kansas. A pang of grief stabbed him at the thought of returning to a place of so much sorrow. How could he even begin to start over?

  “I declare, I’m just parched,” Miss Lemagne was saying as she used her dance card to fan herself. At least it had taken on some useful purpose. “Did I see a table with lemonade and tea?”

  “Shall I fetch you something to drink?” Despite the desire to return to his post, Adam would no sooner ignore a woman’s need than cut off his other arm. And if he did, his mother would help with the maiming.

  “That would be so kind of you,” she replied, gesturing helplessly to her gown with a wry smile. “It’s so impossible to navigate in these hoops, and I’d probably spill the drink all over me. Or, worse, you.” Her nose crinkled delightfully as she smiled.

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Making his way as quickly as he could through the crowd, Adam soon found himself in an even tighter cluster of people who’d had the same thought of refreshment. He was still quite far from the long table manned by black servants who carefully ladled out lemonade, limeade, and cold tea when he realized the Lincolns h
ad finished their promenade around the room.

  They’d ended at the dais where they’d begun, and although the president had stepped up to stand next to Speed and General Scott, Mrs. Lincoln had remained at ground level and was being led out onto the floor in a dance. She waved gaily to her husband, who inclined his head in an affectionate nod for her to enjoy herself.

  That was when Adam realized the president seemed to be prepared to leave the ball. And that he should not be in line fetching a drink for a sweet southern belle, but with his uncle and Pinkerton and the president.

  Adam was a resolute sort, and so he made a swift decision. “Do you see that pretty woman there, with the white gown and the whisky-colored hair? Standing by herself?” he asked the nearest elderly gentleman—assuming he would be the most harmless of persons to send back to the abandoned Miss Lemagne.

  “Quite a picture, quite,” the man replied. “Is she your wife yet, you lucky devil?”

  “No, she is not, but her father has abandoned her and unfortunately so must I, as the president requires my assistance,” Adam explained, doing his best not to sound self-important, while also sounding official. “Would you be so kind as to bring her a lemonade and give her the apologies of Adam Quinn?”

  “Of course, of course,” the man agreed, casting a speculative glance at Adam and then toward Lincoln. Clearly, he was already calculating how this information could be of use to him.

  Adam thanked the man and slipped off into the crowd, narrowly avoiding a walking stick that jutted dangerously from beneath a gentleman’s arm. As he pivoted, it was just by chance that he noticed the mysterious journalist approaching the dais. The man darted as quickly and smoothly through the crush of people as Adam, but the writer was already nearly to his destination.

  The men on the dais—Lincoln, Speed, Scott, and Pinkerton—were all talking together, even as the president continued to respond to greetings and comments from the crowd. But he was clearly preparing to leave after having been at the ball for less than two hours.

  Adam lost sight of the journalist as he drew closer to the dais, and considered trying to capture the attention of his uncle or Pinkerton. Though the reporter seemed harmless with his everyday clothing, notebook, and pencil, there was still something about him that set Adam’s senses awry. It was like being on the plains in the middle of the night, with the broad lands rolling off into infinity and the moon hidden by a cloud, and not a sound or smell or movement . . . and yet knowing there was something waiting just ahead. Something wrong.

  He sensed it. Something was off about that man.

  It took him another five minutes to get to the dais, partly because Adam got trapped behind a party of five bell-skirted ladies who seemed to have neither a destination nor a speed above a crawl. He chafed, edged one way and then another, and just as he was about to make a dash for it between two separating skirts, he saw something happening on the dais.

  Something was wrong. Speed’s expression had gone rigid, and he and Pinkerton were speaking intensely with a third man whom Adam didn’t recognize. Lincoln seemed unaware, for he was conversing easily with Senator Douglas, who’d just approached, and General Scott.

  Adam dodged an oncoming hoopskirt and made for the dais on his aching feet, nearly knocking the walking stick out of an elderly man’s hand as he pivoted to avoid a servant carrying a tray of refreshments. He muttered an apology, but by this time, his uncle had caught sight of him and was frowning fiercely over the heads of people. The message was clear: I need you now.

  Whatever was happening was not good news, and Adam’s trepidation grew as Lincoln turned and thrust himself into the conversation with Speed, Pinkerton, and the newcomer.

  “I apologize for stepping away,” Adam said. He was slightly out of breath as a result of vaulting himself up onto the dais in lieu of maneuvering up the crowded steps. He’d foolishly used his left arm, which meant the prosthetic strapped to the stump just below his elbow had not only taken all of his weight, but had shifted slightly with the movement. Pain shafted up his arm and throbbed angrily as he gritted his teeth to mask it. Even more than a year after being fitted with an artificial limb, he still sometimes forgot in the heat of the moment that all of his parts were no longer intact.

  “We have a situation,” Joshua said to him. Though he wasn’t officially on the president’s staff, he cared more about the man and his well-being than anyone else in the room, save perhaps Lincoln himself.

  Adam nodded, his jaws still set against the lingering pain.

  “I believe now will be the moment where our jack-of-all-trades will step forward and prove himself both versatile and indispensable.”

  With a jolt, Adam looked up at Mr. Lincoln, who’d spoken clearly and gravely. Very different from the relaxed, affectionate man with whom he’d sat at the dinner table and listened to story after story, or argued and joked with in the parlor for years back in Springfield. “Mr. President,” he began.

  Lincoln shook his head, holding up a hand. His eyes were calm yet troubled. “The last thing I want is for anyone out there to know. Especially Mary. She’s been waiting for this for . . . well, years. Decades, really.” His smile was both wry and sad.

  Adam felt a twinge. He and his uncle had spoken long and intimately about the new president—a man whom they both knew and loved—and what a burden he would bear.

  What a dangerous, heavy, important burden.

  “Whatever I can do, of course, Mr. President,” he replied.

  Joshua took Adam’s arm. “A man’s been stabbed here, at the ball. Murdered.”

  CHAPTER 2

  SHOCK ROBBED ADAM OF WORDS, GIVING PINKERTON THE OPPORTUNITY to speak. “The important thing is to tend to the removal of the body without causing alarm or notice.”

  “And even more importantly,” Lincoln said with grave tones, “is to determine how and why it happened. And who was the perpetrator.” He nodded meaningfully at Adam. “While I’m certain it has nothing to do with me—”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Joshua snapped as Pinkerton and General Scott made similar sounds of disagreement. “At your inauguration dance? Of course it has everything to do with you. It’s a political statement, a warning, a—”

  “Josh,” Lincoln said quietly. “If someone wanted to kill me or to make a statement, would they have done so in a back room? With a soundless blade? To someone who has no real connection to me? No, I think it would have been something much more akin to a trumpet blast than the clang of a muffled gong.”

  “Unless they were trying to create a distraction. Just as they planned in Baltimore, Mr. President. Cause a big problem—for that plot, they planned to create a riot; tonight it’s merely a dead body . . . only yards away from you.” Pinkerton’s voice was dry. “Draw away the attention of your security, and when everyone is busy with the problem at hand, they act.”

  Lincoln sighed. “They planned to blow up the platform today on which I took my oath—surely they didn’t have a second plot in mind.” His gray eyes fixed on Adam. “But that is what you’re going to find out—who caused this death and why.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.” Adam said the words readily, but his thoughts were filled with protests. He ventured to voice the obvious one. “Mr. Pinkerton is the detective. . . .”

  “And he is well known for being so.” Lincoln turned, moving closer, so that his words were only for the ears of Adam and his uncle. “I prefer someone less known to the public to carry out this investigation. And I also require someone in whom I have complete and utter trust, whose loyalty and discretion are without question. You are one of the most intelligent and resourceful men I’ve come to know—who is not immersed in politics or the law.” The faintest glimmer of humor lit his eyes, then faded.

  Adam exchanged glances with his uncle and nodded. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you, Mr. President.”

  A faraway look filtered into Lincoln’s gaze. “I have no doubt my future disappointments will not come from you, my
friend.”

  * * *

  Adam Quinn had seen far too many dead bodies in his thirty years, beginning with the time he’d found his father—who’d broken his neck when thrown from a horse—when he was a mere seven years of age.

  It was partly due to that circumstance that he’d been sent to live with his uncle Joshua when he was twelve and his mother married a man who had five children of his own. Those five children, along with Adam’s three other siblings, had their modest home bursting at the seams—not to mention stretching the larder and pantry—and Molly had sent him to stay with her favorite brother in Springfield, Illinois.

  Since discovering his dead father in a field, Adam had encountered a number of other lifeless bodies through a variety of circumstances and had witnessed a sad amount of killings in person—an unforgivable number of them at the hands of pro-slavery men in “bloody” Kansas.

  Thus, when Mr. Fremark, the agitated man who’d brought the alarm to Speed and Pinkerton, took him to the body, Adam felt a surge of pity and sorrow rather than revulsion or shock when he looked down at the dead man.

  Fremark had discovered the body in a small anteroom that had been constructed with just as much speed and simplicity as the rest of the dance hall. It was an entryway with a small utility closet—which probably contained a coal bucket and perhaps a broom—located at the north side of the temporary building. Now that the president had arrived and the ball was in full swing, the room would be traversed only by the occasional partygoer who would walk out of the building and across the muddy square to City Hall, where retiring rooms and lounges had been arranged for the ladies and gentlemen.

  Though the victim was partly covered by a tablecloth with a small bloodstain on it, Adam could see he was dressed in formal clothing like that of nearly every other male at the ball—except he was missing his dress coat. Still uncertain of his approach to this task Mr. Lincoln had set before him, he paused to say a brief prayer over the lifeless body—for both the salvation of the man’s soul and his own guidance—then opened his eyes, steeling himself with determination. If he were to discover how and why this happened, it was necessary for him to actually examine the body—something he’d never had occasion to do in the past.