Part 27 (1/2)
I knew the way to the back corridor and I remembered where Thea had found Kevin's doc.u.ments on that bookcase. The corridor was deserted, so no one saw me pull the bundle of papers off the shelf. Kevin had requested three doc.u.ments: a historic buildings survey written by someone at the National Park Service: The L'Enfant-McMillan Plan for Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., a dissertation on Pierre L'Enfant's vision for Was.h.i.+ngton, and finally a report from 1909 presented to the Columbia Historical Society: The Re-Interment of Major Pierre Charles L'Enfant.
I stared at the last report. Pierre L'Enfant had been reburied at Arlington? I tried to remember the year he died from what I'd read in ”No Little Plans”-sometime in the early 1800s-but I could look that up later. I skimmed the report. It was just over twenty pages, written in flowery, effusive language describing L'Enfant's genius and patriotism, along with a detailed account of his body being exhumed from ”a lonely and unmarked grave” in Green Hill, Maryland, in 1909 after Congress granted the sum of one thousand dollars to bury him in a more fitting tribute at Arlington National Cemetery. From Maryland, his body had been moved to a vault in Mount Olivet Cemetery in Was.h.i.+ngton before it was carried to the Capitol, where he lay in state in the Rotunda. Finally, he was buried with full honors on a bluff overlooking the city of Was.h.i.+ngton.
At the end of the hall, a door to one of the study rooms opened and a man walked out. I shoved the papers back on the shelf and left. The last thing I wanted to do was get Logan sacked. And thanks to her, giant pieces of the puzzle were slamming into place in my head.
Kevin had been looking into L'Enfant's burial at Arlington as well as the McMillan Plan, plus he connected Senator Francis P. Quincy, a descendant of Francis Pembroke, with Charles Moore, the secretary of the commission that had drafted that plan. I wasn't entirely sure why, but I knew someone who would be able to answer my questions.
The guard in the lobby of the Adams Building lobby checked my bag as I left. I walked outside and called Olivia Upshaw, who answered right away.
”It's Sophie Medina,” I said. ”I'm at the Library of Congress. I've been doing some extra research on Pierre L'Enfant and I've got a couple of questions. I was wondering if I could drop by and talk to you.”
”Sure.” She sounded pleased and a bit surprised at my industriousness. ”I'm at an all-day affiliates conference downstairs in the west wing of the Castle. How about tomorrow, say ten o'clock?”
”I'd really like to do this today. Do you have a coffee break or a lunch break? It won't take long, I promise.”
”We just started a break. We go back in half an hour.”
”I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
”This must be really important.”
”It is.”
”Meet me at the information desk in the Great Hall.”
”I'll be there,” I said. ”Thank you.”
The sudden burst of warm weather three days before the first day of spring had brought out the tourists in droves. Unlike last week, the Great Hall of the Smithsonian Castle was jammed with people milling around the gift shop and filling the tables of a cafe across from the information desk. Olivia wasn't there when I arrived, nor did I see her in the crowded room.
”Are you Sophie?” A woman standing behind the information desk came over to me. ”Olivia asked me to tell you that she had to take a call but she'll be here in just a moment.”
”Thank you.”
I looked through the rack of museum brochures and tourist information while I waited. A pink-and-white pamphlet decorated with cherry blossoms listed spring events at the Mall museums. I picked it up because one exhibition caught my eye: the exquisite blown-gla.s.s sculptures of Dale Chihuly at the Hirshhorn.
”Sophie? Sorry I was detained.”
Olivia stood there, dressed in a black pantsuit and white blouse, stiletto heels, juggling a tablet computer, a phone, and a pack of tissues. She set the electronics on the information desk and reached around with a hand to flip her long blond hair so it fell over one shoulder. Then she blew her nose.
”Are you all right?” I asked.
She gave me a miserable look. ”Allergies. Tree pollen. What can I do for you?”
”I was wondering if you could answer a question. Can you tell me whether the decision to rebury Pierre L'Enfant at Arlington Cemetery had anything to do with the McMillan Plan?”
”That's what you want to know?”
I nodded.
”Strictly speaking, no, it didn't.”
”Are you sure?”
”Of course I'm sure. L'Enfant was buried at Arlington because of a friends.h.i.+p between Teddy Roosevelt and the French amba.s.sador, a man named Jules Jusserand. Jusserand wanted L'Enfant up there in the pantheon of French heroes who helped the Americans during the Revolutionary War just like the Marquis de Lafayette. So he became a huge L'Enfant promoter and eventually, in 1908, I believe it was, Congress approved money to move the grave, and the secretary of war approved the site in Arlington where he's buried today.”
”And this had nothing to do with the McMillan Plan?”
She sneezed and blew her nose again, giving me a pointed look. ”Well, since you read the ma.n.u.script of 'No Little Plans'-”
”I did.”
”Then you know the McMillan Commission essentially rehabilitated L'Enfant a century after George Was.h.i.+ngton dismissed him.”
”Okay,” I said. ”Have you ever heard of Senator Francis P. Quincy? Probably Francis Pembroke Quincy? He knew Charles Moore and he might have been involved with the McMillan Commission, even though he wasn't a member.”
She picked up her tablet computer. ”No, but I'll check our database.” After a moment she said, ”Sorry. No connection between the two.”
”Nothing?”
She continued typing and said, without looking up, ”Charles Moore kept extensive sc.r.a.pbooks of correspondence and news clippings, plus his diaries, but I don't find anything linking him to Senator Quincy. Later Moore became head of the Ma.n.u.script Division of the Library of Congress and was responsible for bringing L'Enfant's original 1791 design for Was.h.i.+ngton to the library so it could be preserved . . .” She kept reading. ”This just goes on about Moore . . . No, there's nothing.”
”Olivia. You're needed in the Commons. We're about to begin the next presentation.” A dark-haired woman wearing a black suit and white blouse like Olivia had joined us.
”I'll be right there.”
”Thanks for the help,” I said.
”No problem. I'll be in my office tomorrow. The conference goes on for a couple of days, but I only need to be here today. I'll e-mail you and we can figure out a time to get together to go over your photos now that you've read the ma.n.u.script.”
I nodded. ”What's this conference about? Thea Stavros from the Library of Congress and Ryan Velis from Monticello are here, too. Are all of you together?”
She seemed surprised that I knew about Thea and Ryan, but she said, ”Oh, yes, the gang's all here. The subject is social networking and new media for museums, historical sites, public gardens, cultural inst.i.tutions. Places that rely on donations to keep their doors open.” She picked up her tablet and phone and stuffed the tissue packet into a pocket. ”They're teaching us all the latest tricks to stay relevant in the digital age . . . I'd better go. See you, Sophie.”
I was halfway to the mall exit when Thea Stavros called my name. I looked up as she came down the staff-only staircase next to the room containing the crypt of James Smithson, the Smithsonian's benefactor.
”What are you doing here?” she asked.
”Just leaving,” I said. ”I had a quick meeting with an editor I'm working with at Museum Press.”
”How was London? Did you learn anything more about Kevin's book and what he was looking for?”
”How did you know I went to London?”
She smiled. ”Ryan Velis told me. He also said he contacted Zara Remington at the Chelsea Physic Garden on your behalf, so I presumed you went there because of Kevin.”
”I went with my stepfather,” I said, ”sort of a last-minute vacation. I figured as long as I was going, I'd stop by the garden.”
The last time we spoke, I'd told Thea about the book, but I hadn't mentioned the Fairbairn letter. At the time I hadn't realized its significance and I hadn't yet met Ryan, who'd told me about the seeds. So Thea didn't know about them, either.