Murder In the Lincoln White House

Book 1: Lincoln's White House Mystery

by C.M. Gleason

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

On March 4, 1861, the air at the inaugural ball is charged with hope and apprehension. The last thing anyone wants is any sort of hitch in the proceedings, so Lincoln's trusted entourage is on their guard: Allan Pinkerton, head of the president's security team, is wary of potential assassins, and Lincoln's oldest friend, Joshua Speed, is by his side, along with Speed's nephew, Adam Quinn, a jack-of-all-trades who's been called back from the Kansas frontier to serve as Lincoln's assistant.

But despite the tight security, trouble comes anyway: a man is found stabbed to death in a nearby room, only yards from the president. Not wishing to cause alarm, Lincoln dispatches young Quinn-instead of the high-profile Pinkerton-to discreetly investigate. Soon enough, Quinn is relying on the observation skills he developed as a scout and on unexpected allies - a determined female journalist and a free man of color - as he navigates high society, political personages, and a city preparing for war in order to solve the crime.

Release date: November 28, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Inauguration ballroom, March 4, 1861,10:45 p.m.

“PLEASE WELCOME . . . AT LAST . . . THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED States. Mr. Abraham Lincoln!”

The five-piece Union Band slid swiftly into the tune of “Hail Columbia” as nearly three thousand people stood, applauded, and cheered the entrance of the newly inaugurated president.

The grave, imposing man stepped up onto a dais and into the hall. The building had been erected as a temporary structure behind City Hall and was crafted with fine yellow pine flooring perfectly suitable for dancing. Lincoln, who removed his stovepipe hat to give a brief bow amid thunderous applause and violent cheering, was flanked by his vice president, Mr. Hamlin, and Senator Stephen Douglas—the man with whom he’d argued politically for years, as well as being a former suitor of Mr. Lincoln’s wife, Mary. A low murmur of appreciation and surprise swept the room when the attendees realized the president’s escort also included Mr. Seward, one of the men he’d beat out for his party’s nomination.

Though many of the ball attendees had seen the swearing-in earlier today in front of the half-completed dome of the Capitol Building, and still others had waited in long lines at the Executive Mansion to personally congratulate him afterward, there was still an arresting sort of sigh that overtook the room when he came into full view.

Taller than nearly every man in the area, with a head of incorrigibly thick walnut hair, a long, carved face, and heavy beard, Lincoln should have appeared austere and homely. Perhaps even off-putting. But to a man, those who met or spoke with him since his election in November registered not the angularity of his face nor the prominence of his forehead but the intelligence, warmth, and compassion in his eyes. They felt the intensity of his personality and the personal connection he made with most everyone he met.

As Mr. Lincoln and his wife, who’d entered with Senator Douglas and now walked holding her husband’s arm, promenaded down one side of the hall, the sense of hope that had simmered among the Republicans since his election swelled into something almost tangible. Despite the ugliness between the Northern and the Southern states, and the almost certainty of war, the people who filled the hall tonight—and, indeed, most of those 30,000 people who’d thronged the streets of the District of Columbia earlier to witness the inauguration—were relieved that the day had gone off without a hitch; that the man they hoped would somehow keep the Union intact had been installed in the highest office in the land; and that he, now here in the flesh, was the humble, friendly, and calm individual they wanted him to be.

While Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln took their time greeting and shaking the hands of everyone possible as they made their way along the length of the hall, chatter and laughter buoyed the air. The band moved into a new piece, continuing to play the schedule of songs listed on the dance cards. Though the presidential couple had not officially “opened” the dancing, many couples eased onto the floor and began to waltz as the Lincolns greeted their admirers.

The enthusiasm and activity of those in the room were vigorous enough to cause the buntings and flags decorating the walls to shift and billow and flutter. It was as if the decor itself, along with the dancing gaslights studding the ceiling, was celebrating this new president as a new hope. A last chance for unity.

Beneath all of the celebration, however, was an underlying nervousness. A sense of stark awareness of how easily things could go wrong—not only here tonight, but beyond the limits of this capital city that represented a Union threatening to shatter.

In silent acknowledgment of this, most of the guests had pinned ornate blue and white cockades to their evening dress. The flower-like ornament with trailing ribbons indicated loyalty to the Union and was a response to the growing number of secessionist cockades being sported on coats and bodices throughout Washington.

Adam Speed Quinn, recently from the frontier city of Lawrence, Kansas, and now installed in what he understood to be a temporary role on Mr. Lincoln’s staff, had brought up the very rear of the inaugural party as it made its way into the ballroom. He stood on the entry dais next to his uncle, Joshua Speed, who was the new president’s oldest and most trusted friend. Along with them was the aged and withered General Winfield Scott, commander of the military, and Allan Pinkerton, the head of the president’s security team. The four watched as the crowd parted below to allow the Lincolns to make their way in a sort of promenade along the edge of the hall.

This making way for the inaugurated couple was easier said than done, for the room was crowded enough with mere individuals but was made even more of a crush because of the wide, inverted teacup skirts worn by every woman present. Each skirt, held to its shape by a cage-like frame, created a circle around its wearer that made her take up a space three to four times wider than she was without her gown. The ladies in their skirts looked like a mad collection of handbells in pink, yellow, blue, and white.

Adam, who’d come from the rough and bloody Kansas frontier, hadn’t ever seen this many hoopskirts in a room—and certainly not packed in as closely as they were now. He watched with both amusement and amazement as whenever a woman attempted to move or was jostled a few steps in one direction or another she was forced to tame her stiff, willful skirt. The hoops tipped, tilted, swayed, and required the pressure and direction of her hands to keep it from revealing too much ankle, or from being crushed between other skirts, persons, or, even worse and less yielding, a table or doorway.

“How the hell do they manage it in the outhouse?” he muttered. “How do they even get through the door?”

Unfortunately, Pinkerton heard him and bellowed out a great laugh as Adam grinned with chagrin at being overheard. Fortunately, his uncle and the general were engaged in their own conversation and hadn’t seemed to notice.

“Still carryin’ on with frontier manners I see,” Pinkerton said, clapping him on the back even as his eyes continued to survey the room. “Not too many outhouses here in the city anymore—except for those for the slaves. The indoor necessary’s a luxury you’ll get used to, Quinn, and I reckon you won’t complain about not having your stones froze off in the middle of winter.”

Now that the inauguration was concluded and the party had begun, Pinkerton’s tension had eased considerably from earlier today when they had been outside—in gunshot range, with people crowded elbow to elbow for streets on end. Nevertheless, there’d been a barricade constructed between the Capitol Building and the street to put distance between the president and his admirers, and any detractors that might also be in the area. General Scott had even ordered watchful sharpshooters onto rooftops to be at the ready.

All of this had been done in light of the many death threats Lincoln had received since his election. The platform on which Lincoln had taken his oath had been guarded since the night before, due to a rumor that secessionists planned to wire explosives to it.

In fact, the president-elect’s arrival in Washington had been a day early and unexpectedly furtive because Pinkerton had been alerted to a well-planned assassination attempt in Baltimore. With difficulty, he’d convinced Mr. Lincoln to circumvent his route and come into town two days early on a midnight train. The press had gleefully latched onto the story that Lincoln slinked secretly into town out of fear, instead of boldly and in the midst of great fanfare—but today’s festivities had certainly put those criticisms to rest.

“Well, Honest Abe’s a frontier man himself, which I reckon explains a whole hell of a lot about your connection,” Pinkerton commented to Adam.

Actually, it explained only a small portion of the reason Adam Quinn had been suggested by Joshua Speed to become an aide to the new president. Adam’s uncle had pointed out that Lincoln could employ the thirty-year-old Adam to act as a “jack-of-all-trades” during the travel from the Lincoln home in Springfield to Washington. And that Adam, who had recently recovered from a tragic injury sustained on the Kansas frontier, could use something to “do.”

“One only knows what tasks or eventualities might cross your path,” Speed had said to his good friend Abraham Lincoln. “You’ve never been president-elect before; therefore, how can you know everything that must be done? And after what happened in Kansas . . . well, I need say no more, do I, Abe?”

Lincoln obviously had concurred, for he’d offered Adam a job—but likely for a number of considerations he kept to himself.

The fact that his duties had not been particularly well defined caused Adam no small concern, though he had a number of excellent motivations of his own for accepting such a position. He was relieved Lincoln hadn’t expected him to be his social and correspondence secretary, for though Adam was well educated, writing anything was no longer his strong suit. Thus, he happily left the president’s letter writing, social engagements, and documentation organization to the organized and enthusiastic Misters Nicolay and Hay.

Adam was about to reply to Pinkerton when he noticed a person—a man—edging along the side of the hall behind the crowd. Something about the figure struck a false chord with Adam. The way he moved, the way his attention fixed on the president. The furtive way he seemed to scan the room.

“Excuse me,” Adam said, as the same instinct that had once saved a man’s life—though cost Adam an arm—propelled him to act. That time, he’d dove to push his best friend out of the way of a pro-slavery thug, just as the man raised his rifle to shoot. The bullet had missed Adam’s torso, but lodged in his left forearm, shattering the bone.

This time, a sense of foreboding about the man edging along the side of the room lifted the hair along Adam’s remaining arm in a warning, prickling sensation.

He stepped off the dais, right hand moving smoothly to touch the pistol he’d been allowed to wear beneath his open coat. The heavy, tailored dress coat, which was a cutaway and worn unbuttoned and open, was a formality he found unpleasantly restrictive in the shoulders and chest after the soft, loose buckskin jacket he’d worn out west. His new black shoes were tight and shiny, and they reminded him of their virginity as he pushed his way through the field of hoopskirts and stray walking sticks—which were prevalent and nearly as much an obstacle as the framework skirts.

Down here among the crush of revelers, it smelled of tobacco and flowers, for the women not only seemed to bathe in floral scents, but most of them wore elaborate headbands decorated with roses, lilies, and other blossoms. It was also uncomfortably warm and very loud. Despite the crush, because he was nearly the tallest person in the room (besides Lincoln), Adam was able to keep his eye on the suspicious-looking gent who had paused at the edge of the crowd.

The man was slight and wiry and sported a large golden-brown mustache and generous sideburns that met at his chin in a neat beard. It was only as Adam drew closer—with a mere two dozen people between them now, instead of the hundred when he’d stepped off the dais—that he realized why the figure had caught his attention. It was his attire. Every other man in the room was wearing the requisite white shirt, dark neckcloth and waistcoat, topped by a black, cut-away dress coat with long tails. Each wore or carried a top hat of varying heights as well as a walking stick. They also wore gloves.

And if a male wasn’t dressed in the stark black of formal wear, he was a servant or slave, hatless and wearing a white coat. Or he was a man in military uniform.

This man who’d drawn Adam from his bird’s-eye view was none of the above. In a sea of formal finery, he wore a daytime derby hat of brown, a white shirt, plain dark waistcoat and neckcloth, but no dress coat. Instead, he was garbed in an informal topper—such as the coats worn by the office seekers and well-wishers who had been calling on Mr. Lincoln during the days leading up to the inauguration.

And there was something else: the way his eyes darted around, the way he seemed to be trying to stay out of sight of someone. Yes, the man’s movements were furtive, as if he were constantly repositioning himself to stay unnoticed by someone.

The president?

Or someone near him?

Now there was a clear path of sight, if not mobility, from Adam to his quarry, thanks to a sea of hoopskirts lined up so that he could see between the shoulders of their wearers, all the way to the wall. His remaining five fingers tightened as he saw the man sliding a hand beneath his coat, eyes fixed in the area of the president. Behind his mustache and sideburns, the man’s face was shiny and flushed with determination.

Adam’s heart surged. He squeezed past two ladies in pale pink and yellow, stepping over their companion’s walking stick as he eased his own pistol free, while doing his best to keep it out of sight. He didn’t want to cause a scene, but he’d do whatever he deemed necessary.

The man’s arm moved and he withdrew it from beneath his coat. Adam halted in midstride.

It was a notebook. The man had retrieved an innocent notebook, and as Adam watched, the strange gent slipped out a pencil from beneath his hat. Even as his eyes continued to dart about, he began to write feverishly. A journalist.

Feeling more than a little foolish, Adam took a side step and suddenly realized he was at the edge of the dancing floor, surrounded by people who only a moment earlier had been nothing but obstacles in his path to be avoided. Now, as if he’d been dropped back onto the earth after an abrupt ascent into a dream, he looked around and discerned individuals. Faces.

One of them—right there, suddenly close—was looking at him with a bemused expression even as she forced her wide, stiff skirt into demure submission when a couple passed by. “Why, and here I thought you were rushing your way through the crowd to get to little ol’ me before the next song,” she said with a delightful southern lilt. “But apparently I must be mistaken, for you haven’t so much as asked to see my dance card, let alone introduced yourself.”

As Adam reckoned he’d never actually seen a dance card and could only guess at its purpose, he found himself at a momentary loss. But he recovered immediately, discreetly shoving his pistol back into place before taking the slender gloved hand the belle offered in a smooth motion. “That is simply because I intend to ignore whatever might be on the card and invite you to dance with me nonetheless,” he replied.

Her smile sparkled, reaching blue eyes as he bowed briefly. At least he’d learned formal manners in his mother’s home before rushing off to the wilderness where no one carried walking sticks or wore gloves, and any woman on the frontier would laugh at the sight of a hoopskirt.

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 had 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 a. . .