Fates and Traitors (46 page)

Mary felt a chill. If that were truly the sentiment in Baltimore, Confederate sympathizers would be even more despised in Washington City and elsewhere across the North.

Louis fell blessedly silent for a few moments, but then he cleared his throat and peered at Mary. “You will be happy to know, I think, Mrs. Surratt, that they provide here a very detailed description of Booth's fellow fugitive, and he in no way resembles your son John.”

“That is because the man could not possibly be my son,” she said shortly, passing the bread basket to the center of the table. “Junior is in Canada on a courier assignment for the Adams Express Company.”

Louis studied her curiously for a moment, then deliberately folded the newspaper and set it on the sideboard. “Mrs. Surratt, everyone,” he said, “I want you to know that after breakfast I am going directly to
police headquarters to tell them all that I know about this terrible crime, although I admit that I do not, at this moment, clearly understand what it is precisely that I do know.”

Mary gave him a thin smile. “Perhaps you should wait until you've figured that out before you waste the detectives' time with idle rambling.”

Louis frowned. “I tell you this not to threaten or boast, but to make you aware—” He looked around the table. “To make
all
of you aware, that there will likely be a more thorough investigation of this house if—”

“Stop talking,” Anna snapped, setting down her fork with a clatter. “Just stop talking. I cannot bear the sound of your voice another moment.”

Silence descended over the table. Louis gave Anna one long, wordless look that she either did not see or willfully ignored. She took up her fork again and resumed eating. After a moment, Louis pushed back his chair, rose stiffly, and strode from the room without looking back. They all heard him climb the stairs to the second floor, and after a few minutes of tense quiet broken only by the sounds of cutlery upon china, they heard him leave the boardinghouse.

•   •   •

L
ucy stayed in bed until well after noon—dozing, brooding, praying, going over every detail of her last encounter with John. He had been so pleasant at supper last night—had it only been last night?—chatting cordially with her parents, indulging the loquacious Mrs. Temple without so much as a flicker of an eyebrow in annoyance. How could he have been a perfect gentleman at table, kissed her hand, bade them all good night, and then dashed off to murder the president? It made absolutely no sense. He was a fine actor, to be sure, but only a madman could have enjoyed a delightful meal with his sweetheart and her family and then gone off and coldly committed the most atrocious of crimes.

She knew John as well as she knew anyone, and she knew he was no madman.

Her father was out, she knew not where, and her mother and sister were conversing in hushed voices in the sitting room. Suddenly inspirited, she threw back the covers, rose from bed, washed, and dressed,
growing more determined with every moment. She loved John, and she knew he was innocent. He probably
had
been at Ford's Theatre, and why not—he knew nearly everyone in the cast and the crew and likely wanted to show his support for Miss Keene's benefit. Someone had glimpsed him or someone resembling him near the State Box, and someone had misunderstood and shrieked his name, and the rumors had spread and the crowd had turned ugly, violent—of course under such circumstances he had considered it necessary to flee for his life. He had, no doubt, found refuge somewhere in the capital, and was waiting for the uproar to subside so he could make his way through the city and report to the authorities. What if at that very moment he were pacing in a tiny room somewhere, peering out the windows and praying that his devoted Lucy would plead his case to her father, rendering it safe for him to emerge from hiding and clear his name?

Emboldened, Lucy quit her bedchamber and briskly crossed the room to the window where her mother and sister sat, their grave expressions turning surprised as she approached. “I know John is innocent,” she declared, but the scene outside the window abruptly silenced her. The sidewalks were nearly empty of people, and those few whom Lucy did see moved about as if in a daze, their heads lowered, bands of black crepe around the gentlemen's arms, ladies clinging to their escorts as if they grieved too deeply to walk unassisted. Flags that had waved proudly in victory the day before had been lowered to half staff. The brass bands that had played stirring martial tunes from dawn until well after twilight had fallen silent. Government offices and shops that only days before had been illuminated by the light of thousands of candles and gas jets were darkened and closed, and every doorway, every window, every storefront up and down the street as far as she could see had been draped in the black crepe of mourning.

“Lucy, come away from the window,” her mother urged, rising and taking her hand.

“No,” said Lucy, slipping her hand free. “I will be heard. I know John, and I know that he is innocent. Where is Papa? I must speak with him. He must appeal on John's behalf to—to whomever is leading this investigation.”

“Your father is out,” her mother said in steady, measured tones meant to calm her. “He attended Mr. Johnson's swearing in ceremony at the Kirkwood House this morning, and he only briefly returned before setting out again.”

“Where is he now?”

Her mother hesitated, and then, exchanging a glance with Lizzie, she said, “He's downstairs in the salon.”

“I will go to him.”

“Lucy, wait.” Her mother caught her by the arm. “You cannot interrupt him. He's busy assisting with the preparations for a meeting of citizens of Illinois. They have much to discuss, much to arrange regarding Mr. Lincoln's funeral.”

The word hit Lucy like a fist to the heart. Of course there would be a funeral, and terrible mourning to follow for months, years, throughout the land. Oh, poor Robert. Her courage faltered, and she turned away from the door. “When will Papa be back?”

“I don't know,” her mother replied. “Why don't you sit and wait with us?”

“Do you want something to eat?” asked Lizzie. “You haven't had a bite since supper.”

Lucy's stomach rebelled at the thought of food. “I'm not hungry,” she said. “I'll just sit and—” She glanced about and spied the disorderly pile of newspapers. “I'll read while I wait for Papa.”

She snatched up the
Evening Star
and carried it to an armchair farthest from the window. “Perhaps you shouldn't,” said Lizzie, but Lucy sat down and fixed her gaze on the page. She nearly flung the paper aside when she glimpsed one horrifying report after another, lurid descriptions of her John firing a pistol at the back of Mr. Lincoln's head, of his slashing a young major called Rathbone with a knife, of John leaping from the State Box to the stage, brandishing the dagger, and shouting out the dramatic line from Shakespeare's
Julius Caesar
, from the state motto of his beloved Virginia.

Her heart plummeted. Those words, those dreadful words. How like John in his rages they sounded—how exactly, shockingly like him.

Then her gaze fell upon another bold headline, and her throat constricted until she could not draw breath.

THE MISTRESS OF BOOTH ATTEMPTS TO COMMIT SUICIDE.

Ella Turner, mistress of John Wilkes Booth, at No. 62 Ohio Avenue, attempted to commit suicide this morning by taking chloroform. About 11 o'clock, some of the inmates of the house entered Ella's room and found her lying upon the bed apparently asleep. Efforts to rouse her proving fruitless, several physicians were called in, when it was discovered that she had taken chloroform. The proper remedies were immediately applied, when Ella soon revived and asked for Booth's picture, which she had concealed under the pillow of her bed, at the same time remarking to the physicians that she did not thank them for saving her life. The house, No. 62 Ohio Avenue, is kept by Ella Turner's sister.

“The mistress of Booth,” Lucy murmured, and the newspaper fell to her lap.

John had a mistress, apparently of longstanding ties, a prostitute rendered so distraught by his death that she sought to take her own life. And Lucy had never known, nor even suspected.

Who was this strange, vile, monstrous John Wilkes Booth emerging from the horrid tales in the paper?

•   •   •

O
n Saturday evening, a full twenty-four hours after her brother had shot President Abraham Lincoln, Asia lay awake in her darkened bedchamber, agonizing over her brother's terrible act while Clarke snored quietly beside her. If only she had known, if only she could have prevented him, if only she had warned the president—but for all her beloved brother's tirades and invective, she never would have imagined him capable of murder.

And yet, when she wasn't praying for her brother's soul and wondering frantically where he was, her mind ceaselessly churned over conversations they had shared over the course of their intertwined lives, sifting his words for clues, for the telling phrase that should have warned her of his intentions.

Then, suddenly, she remembered the packet.

Wilkes had last come to see her in the second week of February. Clarke had been away—in Washington, she remembered with a jolt, performing in
Everybody's Friend
at Ford's Theatre before an audience that had included the president and Mrs. Lincoln and General and Mrs. Grant. Wilkes had stayed only two nights in Philadelphia before departing for New York to visit their mother and Rosalie, and late in the evening of the second day, he had suddenly said, “Let me show you the cypher.”

“No, Wilkes,” she had immediately replied, knowing he must mean a code he used in his smuggling activities for the rebels. “I shall not consent to any knowledge of that kind.”

“But I might need to communicate with you about my financial affairs, and I don't want to let everyone know what I'm worth.”

“No, Wilkes. I'm sorry, but I must refuse, and you must never ask me again.”

He had frowned but had nodded acquiescence. Rising, he had left the room and had returned moments later with a thick, sealed packet with her own name written on the outside. “Lock this in your safe for me,” he had instructed. “I may come back for it, but if anything should happen to me, open the packet—alone—and send the letters as directed. The money and papers, give to their owners.”

She had accepted the packet, not liking such talk but not finding it unusual either, considering the tumultuous times they lived in and the inherent dangers on road, rail, and sea he was exposed to as a traveling actor. “I'll do as you ask,” she had promised, studying the envelope, “but I would prefer that you keep yourself safe.”

“I would too,” he had said, smiling. “Let me see you lock up the packet.”

“Now?”

“Yes, dear sister, now.”

So she had led him to the safe, and with Wilkes's help she had unfastened the heavy wooden door, then had unbarred the inner door of iron and had placed the packet within the safe. Afterward she had carefully secured both doors behind them and had returned the key to its hiding place. “Satisfied?” she had asked Wilkes, smiling indulgently at his curious insistence, and he had declared himself thoroughly so.

Recalling that night, Asia felt a strange prickling on the back of her neck and down her spine. She climbed awkwardly from bed, threw on her dressing gown, and made her way to the safe, and before long, among Clarke's papers and documents, she found the packet Wilkes had entrusted to her.

She seated herself behind Clarke's desk and held the packet in her lap, tracing her name with a fingertip, tears welling up when she realized that these could be the last words she would ever know from her beloved brother. Then she cleared her throat, blinked the tears away, and carefully opened the envelope.

Inside she discovered a thinner envelope addressed to a man whose life would be destroyed if his name were linked to her brother's, so she set that aside and quickly leafed through the rest—a smaller envelope addressed to their mother in her brother's familiar hand, another for her brother's friend and fellow actor Sam Chester, some federal and city bonds, and several documents regarding his oil wells.

The creak of a floorboard gave her a start, and she held perfectly still and silent until she decided it was only the sound of the house settling or someone upstairs turning over in bed. Quickly she returned all but the first letter to the packet and back into the safe, and then she carried the incriminating envelope to the kitchen, set fire to it, and scattered the ashes as an extra measure of caution.

Relieved for that man's sake yet deeply troubled for her family, she left the kitchen to return to bed, but when she reached the foot of the staircase, she discovered Clarke standing at the top.

“Why are you wandering the house at night?” he asked, descending the stairs. “You ought to be sleeping.”

“I was hungry.”

He halted on the step above her. “Then you should have woken me. I would have brought you something.”

“I wanted to let you sleep.”

“Next time, wake me.”

He offered her his arm, and she took it, and she allowed him to lead her to their room.

“Clarke,” she ventured as they returned to bed, “I would like to telegraph my mother and Rosalie and have them join us here.”

“I think the less we associate with the Booths, the better.”

I am a Booth
, she was tempted to declare, but instead she said, “Edwin is traveling, and I don't like to think of them alone and unprotected. They will not be recognized here, but in New York, coming in and out of Edwin's house, they will be known to all. It would be a great relief to me to have them near and safe.”

She clasped her hands over her belly again, and the gesture seemed to remind him of her delicate condition. “Very well,” he grumbled. “I'll send a telegram in the morning.”