“The Smithsonian has a collection of Lee artifacts that are currently off display,” Sterling interjected.
“That’s true. It’s a small collection. Is there something in particular you’re interested in?”
“A journal,” Maddock said.
“I’m sorry. If Lee kept a journal, it was lost over the years. There’s no journal in the collection and no one in the family has mentioned one.”
Maddock didn’t miss the way her eyes flitted downward and her fingers twitched. She might not be lying, but something wasn’t quite right.
“The journal we’re looking for belonged to George Washington. We think he entrusted it to Billy on his deathbed, possibly to be passed along to Lafayette.”
Acie froze, panic filling her eyes.
Bones reached out and took her hand. “Someone we care about is in danger because of this journal. If there’s anything you can tell us…”
Acie’s eyes moved to the open door of her office. “Close the door.” When Bones had complied, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal of this. It’s just not something the family talks about.”
Bones nodded. “Sort of like my great uncle’s third…”
“Focus, Bones!” Maddock snapped.
Acie managed a grin. “You’re right. Before he died, Washington entrusted a journal to Lee with instructions that it be passed along to Lafayette, but Lee only passed along a few pages and kept the rest for himself.”
“Why?” Bones asked.
“Bitterness. Billy Lee was a trusted confidant, a friend to Washington. He stayed by Washington’s side while this country fought a war in the name of freedom, yet he remained a slave until Washington’s death. ‘All men are created equal’ my ass,” she added under her breath.
“Makes sense,” Bones said.
“Not entirely. Lee claimed that Washington broke his promise. He told his descendants that he actually remained enslaved for several years after Washington’s death, but that doesn’t make sense, since he was freed in Washington’s will. The family just chalked it up to his alcoholism.”
Maddock wished he could tell her that it did make sense, but now was not the time or place. Besides, Acie seemed to trust them. He didn’t want to change that by revealing what would likely sound like a conspiracy theory.
“One historian said, ‘If Billy Lee had been a white man he would have had an honored place in American history because of his close proximity to George Washington during the most exciting periods of his career. But because he was a black servant, a humble slave, he has been virtually ignored.’” She shook her head. “Anyway, according to family tradition, the journal was written in code. Lee referred to it as his inheritance, and swore that one day he’d use it to give his family a better life. But, between his struggles with alcohol and the debilitating injuries he’d suffered in Washington’s service, he declined fast and didn’t leave Mount Vernon until he died.”
“Did he pass the journal along to his descendants?” Maddock asked.
Acie nodded. “He did, but not until his death, almost thirty years after Washington died.”
“What was in it?” Bones pressed. “What made it an ‘inheritance’?”
“Again, all I know is the lore passed down through generations of our family. The journal was written in some kind of code, and by the time Lee’s death approached, he was so far gone he claimed he couldn’t remember why it had been so important. His descendants were poor and uneducated. Even if some of them wanted to decipher it, it’s doubtful they would have been able to. And if they succeeded, what would they do with the information? Black freedmen held a station little above slaves.”
“Could they have asked for help?” Maddock asked.
“Sure,” Bones said. “Ask a white man for help. When has that ever gone wrong?”
Acie flashed a smile. “You know what I’m saying.”
“Any idea what happened to the journal?” Bones asked.
Acie nodded. “Shortly after the end of the Civil War, one of my ancestors donated it to the Grand Army of the Republic.”
“Never heard of it,” Bones said.
“It was a fraternal organization of veterans of the Union army. They lobbied for causes related to patriotism and veterans’ affairs. They even fought for voting rights for black veterans. My many-greats uncle was a veteran and admired the organization. He donated it with the condition that it be placed beneath the foundation of the memorial to Lincoln. That’s all I know.”
“Lincoln? Not Washington?” Sterling asked.
Acie shrugged. “Lincoln was the Great Emancipator. Washington set some slaves free, but not until he was dead and no longer had any use for them. Maybe that was it.”
Sterling rose and offered her hand to shake. “Thank you for your help. We’ll let you get back to your work.”
“My pleasure.” Acie handed a card to Bones. “Call me if I can be of further help.”
“My schedule’s tight just now, but I get back to DC from time to time.” He gave her a wink, turned, and led the way out.
“I don’t suppose your park service connections can get us access to the building records of the Lincoln Memorial?” Bones asked Sterling.
“I think they can. I’ll take it from here. If I need you I’ll get in touch.” She pushed her way into the crowd of tourists and hurried away, her red hair marking her route.”
“I guess that’s it,” Bones said. “This must be what chicks feel like when I make my early morning exits.”
“Oh, this isn’t it.” Maddock turned to Bones and grinned. “I think Sterling’s looking at the wrong monument.”
NINE
“What do you mean Sterling’s got the wrong memorial? There’s only one Lincoln Memorial,” Bones said.
“Want to bet on that?” Maddock enjoyed the confused look on his friend’s face as they made their way out of the museum.
“All right,” Bones said when they reached the sidewalk, “you’ve enjoyed your moment in the sun. Does this have something to do with all that useless history trivia you’ve got knocking around in that undersized head of yours?”
“It’s hardly useless, at least, not right now.”
“Get to the point, Maddock.”
“The timing is all wrong. The Lincoln Memorial opened in the early 1920s. Now, it’s possible that the Grand Army of the Republic held on to the journal for almost sixty years until the Lincoln Memorial was built, but I don’t think so. I believe the journal was given for a specific monument that was in the works at the time. We’ll have to check it out to be sure.”
They rounded the museum, turned right on Constitution Avenue, and made the short walk to the District of Columbia Court of Appeals. There, gleaming in the sun, stood a white marble statue of Lincoln. The president, left hand resting on a fasces, a bundle of wooden rods, gazed out into the distance. It was a simple representation of the great man; not the massive, Olympian-like Lincoln that looked out onto the National Mall from the throne inside his famed memorial.
“It’s not very big,” Bones noted. That thing’s not much taller than I am.”
Indeed, the statue itself couldn’t have been much more than seven feet tall, and the pedestal on which it rested not much taller than Maddock’s almost six feet.
“It’s big enough to hold a journal, but this pedestal worries me. It looks new.”
They moved closer to the shiny granite base. LINCOLN was engraved on the front, while the back gave more information.