The Murder of Willie Lincoln Read online

  The upper stories of Mrs. Keckly’s house, halfway along the block on Twelfth street, showed the bright lights a seamstress needed. Hay was a few houses away when a hooded figure bolted from Mrs. Keckly’s doorway. From the rear, a familiar shape leapt into a carriage.

  “Follow her,” Hay whispered to Hasheesh, caressing her mane. “At a distance.”

  The mare bobbed her head; she understood.

  Even along Vermont avenue, the procession of vehicles carrying men to their homes after work gave Hay and Hasheesh some cover. But as the carriage rolled on, habitation gave way to long blocks of brush and trees. Darkness settled in, and Hay imagined pairs of eyes peering through the leafless limbs. Hay edged to the side of the roadway, hoping to remain out of the carriage driver’s notice.

  Hay had ridden this way just two days earlier. Suddenly, he realized Mrs. Keckly’s destination was the same. The Soldiers’ Home.

  He thought of breaking into a gallop and heading her off before she could reach Tad. But he forced himself not to hurry. He had no grounds for suspicion—and no evidence. Hay wanted to know her intentions, to catch her in the act—preferably, just before.

  Hay kept a loose hold on the reins, staying a hundred feet behind the carriage. The mud in the roadway, now empty of other travelers, muffled the sound of the hoofs. Across Boundary street, into Washington County, the road’s gravel gave way to dirt. Thick-trunked trees lined both sides.

  As they climbed into wilderness, the temperature dipped, and the air felt heavy, thick. Hay cursed himself for not bringing a scarf. The mare’s breathing grew labored, and it was a relief when at last Mrs. Keckly’s carriage turned right. The sky had grown lighter—the moon was rising behind the clouds—as Hay followed the carriage beneath a canopy of bare-branched trees and onto the Soldiers’ Home grounds.

  The carriage halted in front of the cottage; other carriages were parked farther on. As the cloaked figure alighted and climbed onto the porch, Hay waited behind the trunk of a maple. The door opened in the Crusader-arched doorway, and Mrs. Keckly went in. For surely it was she; her posture unmasked her.

  Her carriage stayed put, and Hay made up his mind. There was a gathering of some sort in the cottage. He would never manage to reach the front door unnoticed, nor pass through it without being seen from inside. He could not let Mrs. Keckly know he was here. Another route into the house—this was paramount.

  Hay dismounted and lashed Hasheesh to the lowest branch, swearing her to silence. Kneading his sore rump, Hay crossed to the stucco wall, then crept along to his right. Thorny leaves pulled at his coat. He darted around the corner and saw a portico that protruded from the house. There was a door underneath it. Four, five, six strides, and Hay arrived.

  The door was locked.

  For Tad’s protection.

  Ahead, just above eye level, was a veranda, which (best Hay could reconstruct) ran along the dining room, the drawing room, and the parlor. Instead of doors, it had tall windows that, in wintertime, were sure to be latched. Around to the right side, underneath the veranda, Hay spotted steps that led down to a plain wooden door.

  The stairway was short but steep, and Hay felt his way. Prickly vines crisscrossed the sidewalls that rose up around him. At the bottom, Hay stepped on something angular and unforgiving. His heel landed hard. Only by leaning into the fall did he not twist his ankle. But his palm thudded into the doorjamb. He shook off the pain and pulled himself up into a pugilist’s crouch and stepped to the door.

  The doorknob felt cold, even to Hay’s gloved hand. Stiffly it turned—rusted, for certain—and yet it did turn, and kept turning, screeching, until Hay heard the click of a release. He leaned into the door, which gave way; its hinges squealed like a panther’s prey. The momentum hurled him into a dark, fetid room.

  He caught his breath and tried to gauge his surroundings, without much success. Shuffling ahead, Hay bent his forearms in front of his torso, as if preparing for a flurry of blows, hoping not to bump into a scythe or a plow—or a person. How many double eagles would he pay right now for a penny candle? Slowly, his eyes grew used to the dark. By his mental map, he needed to press ahead and to the right, to reach the staircase that led to the first floor, then to the second. Where Tad slept.

  You can work your way through any maze—Hay had read this somewhere—by placing your fingertips on the wall at the entrance and never lifting them, until the twists and turns lead, eventually, to the exit. This was not the time, he decided, to test the truth of this. The room stank of damp animals and rotting wood; there were things he preferred not to touch. A trickle of perspiration rolled down his spine.

  An opening in the far wall led into another low-ceilinged room, which smelled even worse. It was empty, as far as Hay could see, which was not very far. To his right, above eye level, a horizontal line of light looked like the crack under a door at the top of a staircase.

  Hay rushed toward it and thwacked his right knee against a hard object poking up from the floor. The pain radiating through his leg made him sick to his stomach. Squeezing his eyes shut, Hay reached to steady himself on the blackguard of his misfortune—a wagon wheel, Hay determined by feeling the spokes. He waited for the pain to pass, as in the ring, and it did. Once the nausea ebbed, Hay straightened himself and tottered to the foot of the stairs, glaring up at the door as if the fire of his attention could open it.

  Hay climbed the stairs and, at the top, turned the door handle—soundlessly, to his relief—and pushed. No give. Swearing to himself, he leaned his shoulder into the door. Not a hairsbreadth did it move. He pressed on the door at his waist, and it bowed. The door was not locked; it was stuck.

  So, could be unstuck.

  Hay stooped and shoved his shoulder, and the door popped open. It sounded to Hay like a cannon shot. He froze, listening for footsteps.

  Blessed silence.

  Slowly he pushed on the door; a third of the way open, it creaked. Hay heard a high, thin voice, and a second, then a third, all cooing at once, at a distance. Meaning, the owners of the voices were listening to no one but themselves, surely not to any intruder at the cellar door.

  Intruder? Who was the intruder here? And where had Mrs. Keckly gone? He assumed one of the voices was hers but couldn’t be sure. If so, then whose were the others? And what were they doing here?

  Inch by inch, Hay pushed open the door. He bent his torso around the doorframe, glancing down a corridor with a diamond-patterned tile floor. Halfway along, near the front entrance, a half dozen cloaked or coated figures huddled. They moved as one, toward the far end of the corridor. Trailing them, and unhooded now, was Mrs. Keckly.

  Hay followed.

  The mysterious figures disappeared through a door, which closed behind them. Now, the corridor was empty but for Hay. As he crept closer to the door, he heard a man’s mellifluous voice from inside. Hay wondered what was going on—and feared that he knew.

  He considered his options. He could remain in the corridor, to be seen by anyone who came late or left the room. Or he could retreat to the staircase and assure himself that Tad was safe upstairs. Or he could slip into the room of the mellifluous voice and find out … what?

  First things first. Hay rushed upstairs and stole into Tad’s bedroom. Mrs. Pomroy jerked awake, raising her double chin from her ample bosom. She nodded toward Tad and smiled at Hay, before returning to slumber.

  Hay retreated down the stairway, his fingers brushing the banister touched by presidents, and heard a low, guttural wailing beyond the closed door. The crack under the door was dark—this was his chance. Hay twisted the knob ever so slowly and pushed the door open a crack. The wailing continued, and the darkness was absolute, except for the gaslight that flicked on—with regularity, Hay noticed. Seven or eight seconds of black, then a moment’s glitter of gaslight, and then the afterglow, fading to darkness. Then, again.

  Hay waited until the next flare of light fizzled, then slipped inside. He stepped behind the door and backed into the wall. I
n the moments of light, Hay saw that every surface in the room—floor, walls, ceiling—was paneled with wood. Must be the library, as comforting as a cocoon.

  Abruptly, the wailing ceased. The heavy silence was broken by coughs. A drum began to thump, with a hypnotic beat that slipped into syncopation. Then a banjo twanged, and a bell began to tinkle.

  “Music in the air,” the manly voice purred. The accent was British, cultured—too cultured, Hay thought. “And to-night, we shall hear from the loved ones we have lost. Loved ones.”

  The gaslight flared again, and Hay caught a glimpse of a slope-chinned silhouette standing across a table. Lord Colchester—that was his name. Lord—ha! Claiming to be the illegitimate son of an English duke. A charlatan, more like it. Hay had heard of him in many a salon—a suave and dashing fraud who made the city’s matrons swoon, and shrewd enough to deliver what people wanted. All over the capital, and in other places, too, mediums were popping up like mushrooms after a rain, offering séances for grieving mothers and anyone in fear of death—that is, everyone.

  The round table was empty but for a bowl of roses. Around the perimeter, heads bobbed up and down, resembling Jews at prayer. Once the music ended, Hay heard a sniffling along to his right.

  “Is there anyone here with us? From the other side?” The earthbound voice was whining. “Is there someone who wishes to speak to us? We are here to listen. We are here, awaiting thy pleasure. In supplication to our Lord, who knoweth of the souls beyond the grave…”

  Trying not to snicker, Hay scolded himself for a closed mind. Until he heard the feathery voice wafting from the wall to his left, by a white fireplace flanked by floor-to-ceiling cabinets. “Oh, my mama, my mama, my mama…” The voice was a young man’s, a simpering young man’s, with British diction.

  There was a gasp at the table and a strangled cry, “George! Oh, my George!”

  “Oh no, Mama, Mama, no crying, please. I am here with you now. It is I, it is I. I am fine, more than fine. I am happy, Mama. Please do not cry!”

  “But, George … George … where are you, George?”

  “In good hands, Mama. The best. Rest assured, please to God.” The voice was fading. Hay supposed it was hard to sustain a pretense for too long.

  “George, George, George, please, please do not go. Stay. I beg of you, please…”

  So painful was this to hear that Hay was almost grateful when Mrs. Keckly burst into sobs.

  “Your George shall return, if not to-night, another time—that, I can promise you, my dear.” Lord Colchester’s unctuousness reminded Hay of the Reverend Gurley’s. “For our Lord, who in His eternal kindness is kind to His children and to the mothers we bless. May we be fortunate this night of our Lord to reach another soul whom He has taken to live beneath His eaves. I speak of your son William Wallace Linc—” A shriek muffled the final syllable. “If you would make your presence here known.”

  Hay could not believe his ears—what was she doing here? Was the Hell-cat not confined to her bed?

  A scratching on the wainscoting accompanied a tapping behind the wall. The figure in front of Hay rose from the seat and pushed the chair back with such force that it tumbled over, landing at Hay’s feet. As Hay pressed harder into the wall, the person to the Hell-cat’s left—a man, judging by height and breadth—pulled the chair aright and pressed a hand onto her shoulder, forcing her down into the seat. A rasping: “This is why you are here, Mother.”

  Mother. Robert clasped his hand over hers.

  As if on cue, a childish voice wafted from near the hearth. “Mama, I am here, dear Mama, here I am. I am your Willie, Mama, your dearest boy.” An angelic voice, of indeterminate gender.

  “Oh yes, Willie, my favorite boy!” Mrs. Lincoln cried. The gasp came from her left. “Are they feeding you all right?”

  “Oh yes, Mama, I am eating well indeed. And feeling ever so fine. I am cured, dear Mama, and I can run and play with the other boys whenever I like. But, oh, I do miss Taddie terribly much. Oh, and you, Mama, you! And Paw.”

  “Willie, my Willie, my Willie, my dearest boy, we miss you ever so much.”

  “But I am here, Mama. And here I shall stay. And someday, you shall come, and we shall be together again. With Taddie and Paw. I promise you, Mama, I do.”

  Robert jumped from his seat and hurtled through the door. His Hell-cat of a mother tore herself away from her dead son and careened after the one who still lived.

  While the assembled sat stunned, Hay sidestepped out the door. Mother and son were propping each other up by the wall of the corridor. They paid no attention as Hay hastened past.

  Chapter Thirteen

  TUESDAY, MARCH 4, 1862

  Hay was stumbling across the waiting room barely after dawn, making a beeline for the WC, when Allan Pinkerton accosted him.

  “He is gone!” the detective shouted.

  Was no act sacred?

  “Gone!” said Pinkerton.

  Hay suppressed the desire to punch him—a hard hook would suffice. Instead, he said, “Who is? And what damn time is it, anyway?”

  “Late enough. Stackpole.”

  “He never comes in before eight. Later, often.”

  “No, he is gone. South. We go’ word.”

  Hay felt the press of his bladder and willed himself to ignore it. “From?”

  “The sentry at the Long Bridge. Stackpole wen’ across last night, supposedly on official business. Flashed a pass.”

  “No business I know about. Maybe Nicolay does—though he is asleep.” Hay’s eyes bored into Pinkerton’s, but the detective was oblivious. “Or ask the president.”

  Pinkerton’s beady black eyes lit up.

  Hay snapped, “Not now!”

  * * *

  “The Ancient said nothing to me.” Nicolay was awake when Hay returned, spitting into the porcelain basin. “So, how did he get across?”

  Hay clambered back into bed. “I doubt he waddled. And no horse could hold him. A carriage, then.”

  “Brilliant deduction, Johnny.”

  “Oh, just a skill, Nico, like any other.”

  A snort. “You should say something to the Ancient. Better you than Pinkerton. Maybe he did send Stackpole on some secret mission. He is a man of secrets, you know.”

  “Who—Stackpole?”

  “Him, too.”

  In pursuing the dark lady, Hay had almost given up on the notion of a secessionist conspiracy. But Thomas Stackpole was up to no good—that seemed clear. The only question was: of what sort?

  * * *

  “Who is this Eva? And where on earth did she go?”

  “What does it matter, Mister Hay?” Mrs. Keckly’s dismissiveness struck Hay as near to arrogance. Then he realized she meant: Why should you care?

  “Please allow me to be the judge of that. And why was this Eva missing from your list of nurses?”

  “An oversight, nothing more. I am getting old, Mister Hay.” Mrs. Keckly tried a sheepish smile. Hay guessed she looked older than she actually was—in her forties, more or less. An erect posture must take its toll. Even seated, as here in her parlor, Mrs. Keckly did not permit her back to touch the divan. A Renaissance sculptor might have found his masterwork.

  Hay had planned to surprise Mrs. Keckly in her dressmaking chambers, but she was a hard person to surprise, not after everything she had overcome in her life. Which was literally beyond his imagining—to have been born into slavery, in a hut with dirt floors, and ravished by her master’s neighbor (for such was the talk), leaving her no recourse but to worship her son. Gaining her freedom, losing her only child—a visit from an urchin like Hay should cause her nary a quiver.

  And yet, she seemed shaken. Something in her demeanor had shifted—the lift of an eyebrow, perhaps, or a twist in her neck.

  Hay had resolved to say nothing about the séance. There was nothing he needed to know—he understood why she had gone. Truly, he did. Nor, beyond the Hell-cat’s presence, did it seem to touch on Willie’s death. But Hay
found it curious that a direct question about the missing nurse had met a stone wall.

  “We are all getting older, Missus Keckly, even the young,” Hay said. Then: “Do you know where she went? I must say, you seem … unsurprised she is gone.”

  “Why should I not be? People like her come and go.”

  Like her? “How did she happen to come? You hired her, yes?”

  “I did. She came highly recommended.”

  “By … whom?” With Mrs. Keckly, Hay wanted his grammar pristine.

  “An old friend, whose judgment I trust.”

  “All right. Then where did she go? You must have some notion.”

  “I cannot help you, Mister Hay, I am sorry.”

  “No doubt you are. Still, I implore you. Who is your old friend, then?”

  “Her name is Sally.”

  “Sally what?”

  A pause, then a whisper: “Sally Socrates.”

  “Ah,” Hay said. “Eva’s … mother?”

  No response.

  Hay said, “How do you know her?”

  “From long ago—long ago.”

  So, she had hired her old friend’s daughter, someone she felt she could trust. Nothing wrong with that. That was how Hay got here.

  “Where is your friend—here in the city?”

  “Oh no. Out in Maryland. A place called Riversdale. The Calvert estate.”

  Hay had heard of the Calvert plantation, spread over ten thousand acres in Maryland, beyond the District of Columbia’s northeastern line, and he remembered why: Its owner was Charles Calvert, a sanctimonious congressman (was that redundant?) who was a member of “Bowie Knife” Potter’s secesh-hunting committee. Even as Calvert urged the president to create a Department of Agriculture, he had likened him to a tyrant.

  “She lives there, your friend?” said Hay.

  Mrs. Keckly squirmed. “Yes.”

  Then it struck Hay: This was a plantation. With slaves. Mrs. Keckly’s friend was a slave. Meaning that Eva was …

  “A fugitive!” Hay cried out. “A slave—Eva. An escaped slave.”