The Lincoln Conspiracy Read Online Free Page B

They weren’t alone any longer. A Union soldier was standing in the doorway.
    “There is a man downstairs to see Mrs. McFadden,” the soldier said.
    “Do you know him?” Fiona asked.
    “No, ma’am. He is well dressed and says he is a friend. His name is Augustus Spriggs. He said it is urgent.”
    “Please, show him up.”
    “Ma’am?”
    “Show him up.”
    “He’s contraband, ma’am.”
    “He most certainly is not.”
    Springer went to the window and gazed down.
    “He’s a nigger, certainly,” said Springer. “In a bowler. A nigger in a bowler, and your lady doctors in pants. Mrs. McFadden, you are inventive. And you choose inventive associates, no doubt.”
    “I’ll be leaving for the day,” said Fiona, picking up her bag and removing her smock. “I found our conversation today enlightening, Dr. Springer. Thank you for indulging me.”
    “My pleasure, Mrs. McFadden.”
    Fiona accompanied the soldier downstairs and pushed through the Patent Office’s doors onto F Street. Augustus was pacing; despitethe heat, his bowler was in place and his collar was crisp. Fiona waited for the soldier to go back inside before uttering a word.
    “What’s wrong, Augustus?”
    A coachman sitting atop a carriage across the street was staring at them. His jacket was torn and dusty. Augustus leaned in toward Fiona, his hands trembling.
    “If Pint and I had caught up to Temple at the train station, we might have protected him.”
    “Augustus, is Temple alive?”
    “He’s alive, but he’s been shot. He’s at Pint’s in Foggy Bottom. We’re to go there at once.”
    Fiona stared blankly at Augustus, absorbing what he had told her.
    “Where was he shot? Who shot him?”
    “In the Center Market. We don’t know yet who shot him. We should go.”
    “Who’s tending to him?”
    “Pint is with him.”
    “But who is tending to his wounds?”
    “He told us to wait for you.”
    “Where are the wounds?”
    “I don’t know. He’s lost blood.”
    “Augustus, wait here a moment.”
    “Fiona, we should go.”
    But Fiona had already dashed back into the Patent Office. Augustus watched the door swing closed behind her, thinking of how many times Temple had told him that he prized Fiona’s spirit in much the same way that he prized Augustus’s education (“Tell me about Homer again, Augustus. We’re in a time of war. You have to steer me right, you and Fiona”). Still, the longer it took Fiona, the more exposed all of them were. Whenever he came to the Patent Office before, he had always waited for Fiona with Temple, never alone. They were a threesome, and Augustus took comfort in that, intheir dinners, in their small group of friends, in his books and students, in prayer, in his tiny patch of order in a place tilting mad.
    Now there was disorder, the kind that Temple liked to plunge into when he became restless (“Off to figure it all out, Augustus. See you when I see you”). Disorder only made Augustus anxious, and anxiety, whenever it arose, tugged at him and made him hungry for the dens and calmer, dreamier places.
    He shook off the thought and glanced at the coachman, whose eyes were still fixed on him and the door of the Patent Office. He held the reins firmly with his left hand. His right was slipped inside his jacket, where, Augustus suspected, a gun sat ready.
    When Fiona returned, her bag bulged with bottles. A fine line of sweat crossed the ridge above her eyes, which, even in the sunlight, were a translucent blue.
    “Dr. Springer was surprised to see me back so soon. I think I startled him. I borrowed some of his cures,” she said.
    “And?” Augustus asked.
    “I told him I wanted to bring them home to experiment. He’ll fancy it witchcraft.”
    They looked up at the window above them, which framed Springer’s face as he looked down on them, unamused. Fiona turned toward the carriage.
    “We can’t ride in a carriage together, Fiona,” Augustus said.
    “We are
going
to ride in a carriage