The Murder of Willie Lincoln Page 19

  “Oh yes, Varina Davis. A hostess of some repute, while they were here. Warm, vivacious—nothing like her husband. When he served in President Pierce’s cabinet, they often hosted at the Executive Mansion, substituting for Franklin and Jane on the occasions the president had overimbibed. Mister Davis was a senator from Mississippi when Missus Keckly came to Washington City and Varina learned of her talents.”

  “How on earth does a woman of … color make herself known?”

  “As in any business—word of mouth. Recommendations from her clients in Saint Louis. That was where her owner’s daughter took her, as I understand it. Her first gown here she made for Missus Lee.”

  “That Missus Lee? The general’s…?”

  “The same. A lavender silk, a remarkable creation. It was still the subject of conversation when we arrived a year ago. Such a silly city this is.”

  This was the most remarkable woman Hay had met here. As down-to-earth as a man. More than her husband was, for certain. Hay decided he would believe anything Mary Jane Welles said.

  “One thing led to another, or should I say, one dress led to another. Eventually, to Missus Lincoln.”

  “From Robert E. Lee’s wife to Jefferson Davis’s wife to Abraham Lincoln’s wife—for a mulatto seamstress, this is fancy footwork.”

  “Not in this small town. It was Missus Keckly’s mention of Varina that persuaded Missus Lincoln to hire her. After some haggling, of course, as to price.”

  “Then I should like to talk to whoever recommended her to Missus Lincoln.”

  Ever so genially, Mrs. Welles said, “You already are.”

  * * *

  “She is never not there,” Hay said, “so nobody notices her anymore.” He picked at his stringy capon. This was not a day that Willard’s deserved its culinary reputation, due to (Hay judged magnanimously) the press of the after-church crowd. “She could easily have left a message in my satchel.”

  “Or two,” Nicolay said.

  “Yes, or two. And she had access both to my satchel and to Willie. And to Tad.”

  “Except Tad ruled her out specifically. Unless there is more than one Yib.”

  “Assuming”—an arch nod at Nicolay—“he was telling the truth.”

  “True,” Nicolay said. “But we are forgetting something, Johnny. Her son. He was killed last summer. Could she kill another woman’s?” Nicolay sipped distractedly at his tea; his sweetbread with peas was growing cold. “Unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “No telling, Johnny, what a death can do to someone. Different people handle it differently. In awful ways, sometimes.”

  “Not that awful, surely.”

  “You have not seen enough of life, my dear Johnny, to know what is possible and what is not.”

  “And you have?”

  “I have.” A look of pain crossed Nicolay’s thin face, and Hay realized with a jolt how little he knew about his friend’s orphaned boyhood.

  “Please forgive me, Nico.” Hay meant it. “So, something like this is possible?”

  “With a human being, anything is possible. Anything wicked, I mean.”

  * * *

  The Island, located south of the canal, was a place Hay ordinarily tried to avoid. The landscape, almost treeless, grew spongy and bleak, like the moors in Wuthering Heights. Colored gangs roamed even in daytime; dead dogs and cats littered the street.

  Hay was riding Hasheesh, to facilitate an escape should one be necessary. To the south of Maryland avenue, signs of civilization resumed, if you counted (which Hay did not) the ramshackle buildings of unpainted boards that a gale could blow away. The occasional passersby had tattered clothes and ebony faces. Hay turned right at C street, coaxing Hasheesh to brave the mud and slush. The houses leaned against one another like drunkards; any that collapsed would drag the rest of them down.

  The house at 263 C street stood third from the corner, on the left. Its exterior was painted carmine, almost crimson. Old Aunt Mary was not in hiding.

  Hay tied Hasheesh loosely to the porch railing and stepped to the door. The coats of paint did not conceal the cracks that radiated through the wood. How many strange doors had Hay knocked on of late? This one sounded thinner, and it swung open right away, as if someone had been watching from the window.

  That someone was a woman Hay had seen many times before but had never addressed. Old Aunt Mary was … sixty, seventy, eighty? An elderly Negress’s age was, to Hay, unfathomable. She was a short, cylindrical woman with sparse white hair and tawny skin marred by yellow splotches across the cheeks. Her features were surprisingly delicate; her gaze, steady.

  “Missus Dines,” Hay said.

  “Oh yessuh, Mistuh Hay, been expectin’ you.”

  “You have?”

  “Please be welcome in my humble home.”

  The crinolines beneath Old Aunt Mary’s long black skirt rustled as she led Hay into the parlor. He expected a dingy interior, the walls speckled with patches of plaster. Instead, the furniture was worn but solid as ballast. The yellow wallpaper and the rag-woven rugs felt relaxing. Hay chose a smoky-brown chair stuffed with horsehair. Old Aunt Mary tottered on her feet, as if taking a seat would show disrespect.

  “Please, sit,” Hay said, uncomfortable with offering hospitality to his hostess, more so when she obeyed. “By what magic were you expecting me?”

  “No magic, Mistuh Hay.” Old Aunt Mary’s face lit up; her smile revealed her two top teeth gone. “Missus Keckly say she gib you my name.”

  “But you knew I was coming now?”

  “Ah s’pose Ah did, yes, suh.”

  “May I inquire how?”

  Her smile was suffused with a grandmotherly understanding. “Yessuh, you may inquire, but dat don’t mean Ah kin explain it.”

  Hay laughed. “Well, then, you must also know why I am here.”

  “Canno’ say dat I do, suh.”

  Hay wished he knew. Where to begin? He complimented the warmth of her home, hoping he did not sound surprised, but she seemed not to hear him at all.

  “Were you on duty that night,” he said, “the night Willie took a turn for the worse?”

  “What night was dat, pray?”

  “February the fifth. The night of Missus Lincoln’s ball.”

  Old Aunt Mary’s brow furrowed. Hay noticed a clutter of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “Oh no, suh,” she said. “Dat was the night of my dear nephew Absalom’s burying time. We was sittin’ with poor Absalom, over on Elebenth street, near to L.”

  “Ah. How often did you work as Willie’s nurse? And Tad’s?”

  “Tad, almost neber.” If that was the case, she was unlikely to be Tad’s dark lady. “Willie, near t’ ebery day. What a fine boy, he be. A fine boy.”

  “Willie, then,” Hay said. “He was taking certain medicines for his … illness. Including gray pills—calomel. Did you happen to give him any of those?”

  Old Aunt Mary shook her head.

  “Or see anyone who did?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Doctuh Stone.”

  “You saw him administering pills to Willie.”

  “Yes, suh. Dat what doctors do.”

  “Gray or blue, did you see? And how many did he give … at a time?”

  “Gray chalky pills. About so…” Her forefinger and thumb moved an olive pit’s width apart. “Three of ’em. No, four.”

  “And Willie swallowed them down without any problem.”

  “A good boy, dat boy was.”

  The attribute that everyone agreed on—the one that got him killed.

  “Did Doctor Stone ever ask you to give any pills to Willie?”

  “No, suh.”

  “Did anyone else?”

  “No, suh.”

  “Did you see anyone else give him those pills?”

  “No, suh.”

  “Missus Keckly?”

  “None Ah seen, suh.”

  “The nurses, were they all white women, besides Missus Keckly and yoursel
f?”

  “Yes, suh. All o’ dem but Eva.”

  “Eva? Who is that?”

  “All Ah knows is Eva. A fidgety girl. Miz Keckly knows her, from out in Maryland somewhe’e.”

  Why had Mrs. Keckly said nothing about an Eva?

  “You also know Missus Keckly, yes? Or knew her before?”

  “Good Lor’, eber’body know Miz Keckly.”

  “In your case, through Missus Davis, Varina Davis, yes? When she was a seamstress and you were a…”

  Hay was unversed in the etiquette of asking someone about her previous condition of servitude.

  “A slave, Mastuh”—there was no mistaking it—“Hay. The Davises were kind t’ me, dey were. Got nuthin’ bad t’ say ’bout ’em. Not a thing. Mastuh Davis is a chilly man, but to white folks, too, and de missus is a kind lady to eberyone.”

  “Your emancipation, Missus Dines, how did that come about?”

  “The kind of people dey are, Mistuh Hay. When dey a-leaving for the South, they gib us a choice, t’ come wid ’em or t’ be free. And Ah choose t’ be free.”

  “As easy as that?”

  “Nothin’ in dis life is easy, Mistuh Hay. Surely youse is old enough t’ know dat.”

  “I am getting there,” Hay said.

  * * *

  Hasheesh sagged back into the stable, relieved to be home. So was Hay. Snow had started, in wet, fluffy flakes. Hay had read recently that every snowflake was unique, which struck him as outlandish enough to be true. He bypassed the Executive Mansion basement, with its confusion of odors, and hurried around to the front.

  Old Edward was just inside. Hay brushed the snow off his shoulders and said, “On a Sunday?”

  “I thought I might be needed.”

  “Always.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Edward, do you know of an Eva, one of Willie’s nurses? A Negress.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know her surname, by any chance?”

  “Socrates, I believe, sir.”

  “You believe?”

  “Socrates. Could hardly forget.”

  “But she was not on your lists, that I recall.”

  “She must not have been here at the times you asked about.”

  “Is it possible she was here and you didn’t see her or remember?”

  Old Edward stiffened.

  “I meant,” Hay hastened to add, “she might have been upstairs all that time.”

  “Of course it is possible,” the doorkeeper said. “She was here the night before last, that I can say for certain.”

  “Oh? As a nurse, do you know?”

  “Talking with Missus Keckly.” He pointed over Hay’s shoulder. “By the conservatory door.”

  “About what, any notion?”

  “I cannot help you with that, sir. But possibly Mister Pinkerton can. He is waiting for you upstairs, in your office.”

  Hay groaned. Old Edward tittered.

  “One last thing,” Hay said. “Do you know where she lives, this Eva Socrates?”

  “It depends what you mean by ‘know,’ sir. In Georgetown, as I understand it. As for a street address, you might look in Mister Nicolay’s personnel files. Or ask Missus Keckly.”

  Upstairs, Pinkerton had seated himself in Hay’s chair, his broad back hiding his hands. Hay cleared his throat, but the detective did not turn.

  “Pinkerton! What in hell are you doing?” Hay took a boxer’s stance, left foot forward, fists raised.

  “Workin’, as usual.” Pinkerton swiveled and showed Hay a smile that bared stained teeth.

  “At my desk?”

  “More interestin’ than most. Ye ough’ to be feelin’ flattered.”

  “I told you last time—”

  “Then ye should put yer correspondence where—”

  “I shall have to.” Hay wondered if a safe would fall through the floor of this worn mansion; maybe a locked drawer would suffice. “And to what do I owe this unsolicited pleasure?”

  Pinkerton moved to the uncomfortable chair. “I have heard from me man in Richmond tha’ William Spauldin’ has arrived. Fer the purpose o’ treason, I can only assume.”

  “Or commerce.”

  “No’ judgin’ from his characte’ and the facts.”

  “What facts?”

  “His known secessionist leanin’s. His earlier meetings with rebel spies. The sudden nature o’ his departure. His use of fraudulent, and apparently forged, papers to pass through the sentry at Long Bridge. By deduction, Mister Hay.”

  More like lazy reasoning, Hay thought. “And what is he doing in Richmond?”

  “No word on tha’ yet.”

  “Very well, then. Please let me know.” Hay half rose to prompt Pinkerton’s departure.

  “Somethin’ else,” Pinkerton said.

  Hay sat.

  “Ye asked me to perform a job, and tha’ I did, and to the customer’s specifications.” This last, obviously meant in jest, told Hay more than Pinkerton had probably intended, in explaining why he exaggerated the enemy’s strength, telling McClellan what he had wanted to hear. (The greater the enemy, the nobler the victory.) “About Mistah Thomas Stackpole. Who the man is.”

  “I am in your debt,” Hay said. “So, who is he?”

  “He is a large”—a smirk—“and rathah accomplished gentleman, and one with a complicated past. He was born in New Hampshire. And his cousin did marry Franklin Pierce’s nephew, which is how he came to the Executive Mansion in the first place. And William Spauldin’ is indeed married to his youngah sister, Abigail. All as you say, Mistah Hay.” Another smirk. “And fer several years, as a boy, for four years and nine months, to be exact”—now, Pinkerton was showing off—“he lived in Maryland. Not fa’ from here, to the east.”

  “Doing what?”

  “His fathah worked on a farm but left abruptly, for reasons a lit’le unclear. They all went back to New Hampshire, where his wife’s family—Thomas’s mother’s family—hails from.”

  “How old was he then—Thomas?”

  “Ten or twelve.”

  “And this was when?”

  “Back in ’twenty-three, give or take.”

  “A while ago, then,” Hay said.

  “To ye more than me.”

  “And Stackpole, our Stackpole, wound up back around here again.”

  “By the grace of President Pierce. And he ha’ been here ever since, as par’ o’ the furniture. An overstuffed divan.”

  Pinkerton did have a sense of humor.

  “What are his … sympathies?” said Hay. “Is he secesh, do you know?”

  “His associates are, no question. About him, no proof. ’Tis a man’s heart ye askin’ abou’.” Hay was impressed at Pinkerton’s capacity for nuance. “But it does seem so. Took as a wife a southern Maryland girl. Nary a Union man or woman lives and breathes in such a place.”

  These were facts? Maybe not, but Hay could see that they counted. Perhaps this business of detection was less a matter of finding facts and arranging them than of filling the gaps in between. That took imagination.

  Hay hoped he had enough.

  “There is more,” Pinkerton said. “With me men, there always is.” Hay bowed his head to show a deference he did not feel; maybe he was learning Washington’s ways. “Those trading permits with the South, our Mistah Stackpole sold them to John Hammack, the restaur—”

  “Yes, that I know.” Actually, Hay was not sure that he did. He understood the pecuniary value, however, of a government license to trade with the enemy.

  “But you may no’ know this. How do ye suppose Mistah Stackpole got those trading permits?”

  Pinkerton was right, and Hay wanted to know. “Tell me, please.”

  The detective—the real detective, Hay thought—smiled without remorse. “The mistress o’ the household,” Pinkerton replied. “Who di’ ye think?”

  “I suppose I might have guessed,” Hay said.

  “In hindsight, Mistah Hay, everyth
in’ is obvious.”

  * * *

  Nicolay had no record of an Eva Socrates, which meant she was not getting paid, at least under that name. Nor could Hay recall having seen the young Negress around the mansion. He might have seen her and not noticed or remembered, of course. He did this (as he pointed out to Nicolay) with white people, too.

  Hay discovered her address by serendipity. It was midafternoon, and Hay was famished; the gnarly biscuit and weak tea he had scrounged for breakfast had burned off. He headed downstairs to the kitchen, angling for a slice of apple pie, until he smelled the oatmeal muffins, freshly baked. The iron black stove sat high, like a throne.

  “Is yer nose dat brings you he-ah, my son?” Cornelia Mitchell said.

  “It is,” Hay replied. “The most dangerous of the sensory organs.”

  “Besides de hands.”

  The cook cackled at her own wit. She was the sort of quiet, wiry old Negress who attracted confidences. Her fierce brow and gray braids belied her dimples and the ease of her smile. According to Old Edward’s lists, she had been in the Executive Mansion after Willie had died but not when the second message was left. Hay accepted the muffin she offered on a maroon-edged plate. Steam rose from the center, and he took a bite. The flavor was subtle yet sublime.

  “Wunnerful,” Hay said with his mouth full. “Does the president eat these?” As far as Hay knew, Lincoln’s indulgence in sweets began and ended with raw apples and the occasional cherry pie.

  Cornelia Mitchell raised her chin, looked levelly at Hay, and said, “How a man chooses to eat is the business of his own private self. I will go to my grave, Mistah Hay, and never tell a soul.”

  Hay accepted the comeuppance with a tasty swallow and a grin. “And how the boys eat—ate? Good appetites, yes? Willie and Tad?”

  “Oh, always. Healthy growin’ boys. Until dey ailin’. And den dey still eat milk porridge or rice boiled in milk or pudding at any hour o’ de day or night. Light on a belly dat’s leapin’ around.”

  Just the thought of it made Hay queasy. “Let me ask you something else, if I might. A young woman named Eva Socrates—do you know her? She was one of the—”

  “I does. And I’se de better for it.”

  “Because?”

  “She a fine young lady what know her own mind. And has the fool courage to tell it, which I admire. And fear. Because Lord, it can bring a bad end.”