“You may not want to stay for this, Mr. Hunter.”
“I’m not leaving her, Doctor.”
“All right, then. Lower Miss Prudence to the bed, prop her on her side, and hold her there. You got that warm water ready, Tyrus?”
“Yessir.”
“I’m inserting the tube now. As soon as I tell you, start pouring the water into that funnel. Not too much all at once and not too fast.”
“I done this a time or two, Doctor.”
“I’m sure you have. Nice and slow. That’s good. We want to get as much as we can into her before we suction it out again.”
Geoffrey held Prudence firmly in his arms as the warm water passed through the tube Dr. Worthington had inserted into a nasal passage. It wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed or helped with emptying out someone’s stomach, but the procedure was never easy to watch. He listened to the rise and fall of Prudence’s breathing and held one finger against her neck to monitor the steady rhythm of her heart. She was strong, he knew that, but the drug she’d been given was notoriously unpredictable. There was no telling what other substances had been added to the mixture Sorensen had forced into her.
“Again,” Dr. Worthington said. “Once more should do it. We don’t want to cause injury to the esophagus or the lining of the stomach.”
“She might not have all that much laudanum left in her,” Tyrus agreed. “Looks to me like she managed to get most of it up all by herself.” He thought Miss Prudence’s color was better. Mr. Geoffrey was the one who looked like he was knocking on Death’s door.
By the time Ned Hayes arrived with a harried waiter pushing a cart loaded with coffee urns, Prudence had regained consciousness and was on her feet again. Geoffrey and Tyrus resolutely walked her around the suite, while Dr. Worthington packed up his instruments. She wasn’t able to talk coherently yet, but the pupils of her eyes were larger and she seemed to be aware of her surroundings.
Ned paid the waiter, then spun him around and hustled him out of the suite before he caught more than a glimpse of a woman held up between two men. The waiter could have told them it happened all the time, guests overindulging, but then they wouldn’t have paid him as much to keep his mouth shut.
“I caught a glimpse of Mr. Washington at the curb when I was in the lobby,” Ned told them, pouring coffee and drinking it down himself before he remembered to hand it to Geoffrey. “Danny is probably on his way up.”
“What were you doing in the lobby?” Geoffrey ceded his place at Prudence’s side to Peter Worthington.
“The night clerk claims he never saw Miss Prudence come in, but he refuses to admit he ever left the front desk.”
“What about Lydia?”
“Same thing.”
“I let myself in,” Danny Dennis announced from the doorway. “Is Miss MacKenzie going to be all right?”
Beside him stood a small, scruffy boy wearing a set of ragged tweeds meant for a much larger frame.
“I know where the other lady is,” Little Eddie said, doffing his cap, staring openmouthed at the pretty young miss lurching unsteadily around the room. “I saw where they carried her in. She’s still down there.”
“Bartholomew Monroe’s gallery,” Danny contributed. “Eddie says he saw a light come on in the basement.”
“Go,” called out Peter Worthington. “Tyrus and I will see to Miss Prudence.”
“Don’t you worry none,” Tyrus assured them. “She gonna be just fine.”
Resolutely Geoffrey turned his thoughts to Lydia. “How quickly can you get us to Monroe’s studio?” He shrugged into the shoulder holster containing his loaded Colt revolver, nodded in satisfaction when Ned opened his jacket to show he, too, was armed.
“Mr. Washington’s ready to go,” Danny told him. “You know how fast that horse can move when he needs to.”
He wasn’t sure she felt it, but before he left the suite, Geoffrey brushed his fingers lightly along one of Prudence’s beautiful cheekbones.
Whatever else happened tonight, Aaron Sorensen would pay for the life he’d tried to take.
CHAPTER 31
“I don’t understand why you need me for this,” Sorensen said. He looked around at the dank basement, which smelled of photographic and mortuary chemicals, and shuddered. Simple murder never bothered him, but Monroe’s obsessive determination to capture the image of a human soul leaving its body struck him as macabre. Dangerous because it wasn’t logical.
Sorensen didn’t believe in souls, human or otherwise. He had no patience with people who claimed to have heard voices from the beyond, felt the cold breath of the departed, or seen with their own eyes the ectoplasm that made up the ghostly entity. Rubbish. Superstition. The ultimate con. The only thing he had any faith in was the power of money. He enjoyed the women who brought it to him, but only until the uniqueness of a new conquest turned into the boredom of daily living. Pregnancy made every female creature a captive of her own body; it was a tool he used well. The infants he sired to keep their mothers docile meant less than nothing to Aaron Sorensen. He disposed of them with as little emotion as he rid himself of the mothers who bore them.
He didn’t quarrel with killing the woman who had swum out of her laudanum haze and told them her name was Lydia Truitt. She knew too much; if allowed to live, she would ask questions. He thought Monroe’s plan to bury her under another name and in someone else’s coffin was both sensible and amusingly creative. What annoyed him, what had set his teeth on edge, was the man’s maddeningly slow preparations for the taking of her life. And Monroe was infuriatingly verbose, explaining every step of what he proposed to do as though the victim were not there listening, with growing fear and horror widening her eyes.
“The exposure has to be precisely calculated,” he explained. “It’s possible that the image will be blurred, but I think that will be acceptable. As long as it is clearly the soul that’s seen to be in flight.” He fussed with the camera, with the box of glass plates, with the black drape waiting for him to duck beneath it.
Felicia prepared Lydia as best she could, given that her brother had refused to allow anything more freeing than the retying of her hands in front of her body rather than behind her back. The prisoner groaned with relief and then pain when Felicia loosed the cords and massaged some life and blood into her wrists. Tears trickled down her cheeks. She asked for water, which Felicia held to her lips when Bartholomew nodded his permission. Lydia couldn’t hold on to the glass; Felicia tipped the liquid into her mouth as if she were a child.
She retied Lydia’s wrists, but not tightly. Then she smoothed the dark hair and straightened her clothing. Not that it mattered. But Felicia was used to posing a subject as perfectly as possible so as to obtain an image that would please and comfort family members for years to come. That Bartholomew would retouch the photograph to blur parts of Lydia’s face and make her unrecognizable was regrettable, but necessary. Still, Felicia knew her brother would only be pleased with the most presentable model she could provide him. From the box of paints and powders that were the same as those used by mortuary parlors, she chose a faded rose tint for Lydia’s cheeks and a slightly brighter hue for her lips. She was already so pale that powder did not seem appropriate.
“I don’t understand why I have to be a part of this,” Sorensen repeated. The longer he stayed in this wretched basement, the closer it came to the time when Prudence MacKenzie’s body would be discovered in her hotel room. He wanted to be on a train and well out of the city when that happened. He’d removed all of his papers from Catherine’s family home before the last, unproductive trip to Philadelphia, but he hadn’t emptied his box at the main post office yet. Two things had gone wrong: Ethel’s family lawyers had dragged their feet and Miranda Prosper had turned out to be an imposter. Time was running out. He had to disappear for a while. Whatever was in the post office box would have to wait.
“I need you,” Monroe replied. “I’ve changed my mind about the remains. I’m now of the opinion tha
t once the essential photograph is taken, it will be too dangerous to keep Miss Truitt here indefinitely. Felicia tells me we have no prospective match on the books. It could be weeks before one becomes available. I suggest the river. With a piece of Miss MacKenzie’s jewelry snagged in her skirt pocket so the implication is clear.”
“You don’t require me for that.”
“Oh, but I do, Mr. Sorensen. You must earn your daughter’s pillow.”
“The agreement was that you would destroy it. I paid you what you asked.”
“So you did. But the price has gone up. Show it to him again, Felicia.”
Monroe’s sister produced a white silk carrying pillow, lavishly embroidered, with silk tassels attached to each corner. She held it where Sorensen could see, but not touch it. When she was sure he recognized the pillow, she turned it over. Bloodstains had stiffened the white-on-white silk embroidery. They were brown with age, but all the more recognizable for the clear outline of desperate lips and teeth.
“The bitch bit her tongue,” Sorensen complained.
“That’s what my sister and I believe. And so will anyone else who sees it. We photographed your daughter lying on the pillow, but we didn’t see the bloodstains until we turned it over. Fortuitously, I would say. The blood was still fresh. Still red.”
Sorensen reached for the pillow that had been a gift from Catherine’s friend, who had died under the weight of a swiftly descending sandbag. Monroe jerked it out of Felicia’s hand and flung it behind him to land on the steps leading up to the gallery.
“When we’re finished here. When you’ve earned it,” Monroe said.
When you and your fool of a sister are as dead as Prudence MacKenzie’s friend, Sorensen thought. The gun in his pocket that he’d used to capture the two women held six bullets. He’d fired one. Five remained, and he was a very good shot.
* * *
Lydia’s feet were as numb as two blocks of wood; if she attempted to stand on them, she would fall. Escape was impossible, but she didn’t have to die without putting up a fight. Feeling had returned to her hands; she flexed the fingers surreptitiously until the pins and needles stopped prickling and tingling. She thought she could hold on to an object, grip it tightly enough to use it as a weapon. She might do some damage before they wrested it away from her. That’s all she wanted. Not to go quietly like a dumb animal to its slaughter.
She watched Felicia insert a thick needle into the end of a glass-and-metal syringe. Then Monroe’s sister removed the cork from a bottle labeled PERPETUAL LIGHT EMBALMING FLUID and drew enough of the liquid through the needle until the syringe was entirely full. Arsenic. Lydia had listened to enough of her father’s battlefield stories to know that arsenic had been the main ingredient in the embalming fluids used during the war. And still was. If a mortuary parlor owner got to a corpse before an autopsy could be performed, there was often no way to tell if the deceased had been poisoned with arsenic or just well-preserved by it. Death could come quickly, if enough arsenic was used, or slowly, over time, if the intent was to mimic the symptoms of any one of a number of fatal diseases or conditions.
For Monroe’s purposes, if she had interpreted correctly his ramblings about photographing departing souls, the dosage would be enormous. Lydia wondered if her organs would cease to function before the horror of vomiting, cramps, loosening of the bowels, and unimaginable pain took hold of her.
Felicia smiled reassuringly and patted Lydia’s hand. It would be quick then. She returned Felicia’s smile vaguely, as though she were not looking at the face of her killer’s willing accomplice. Her fingers twitched as she imagined them grabbing the syringe and plunging the needle into Felicia or Monroe, whichever of the two picked it up to use on her.
Sorensen remained in the shadowy area by the staircase, waiting to be told what to do next; he’d lost all interest in Lydia as a person. She was an obstacle he was impatient to have removed.
* * *
Danny Dennis reined in Mr. Washington while the cab was still a block away from Monroe’s gallery. His hooves struck sparks from the cobblestones as he pawed the roadway. He was a horse who didn’t like to be halted once he’d set his stride.
“They’ll hear him for sure if we go any closer,” Dennis said, climbing down from his high seat above the passenger compartment. He held a whip in one hand and a club in the other. Little Eddie, who had perched beside him during the furious ride along Fifth Avenue, clutched one of Mr. Washington’s enormous and well-worn steel shoes, thrown just a day or so ago and stowed temporarily in the driver’s well. It didn’t fit his hand like a good pair of brass knuckles, but he figured it could do at least as much damage.
“The entrance to the alley is over there,” Eddie said, pointing with the hand holding the horseshoe. He scampered off without giving anyone the chance to tell him to stay behind with Mr. Washington and the hansom cab. He had a feeling that exciting things were going to happen very quickly.
Both Geoffrey and Ned were armed, each with a repeating revolver. Geoffrey had used the same double-action Colt for years, while Ned had recently bought himself and Tyrus a pair of new Smith & Wessons. Each man carried extra ammunition, though neither thought there would be time to reload. If they lost the element of surprise before they could get to Lydia, they expected a firefight. Little Eddie had reported hearing a shot fired inside Sorensen’s mansion, and half the residents of the city kept arsenals in their basements. Both killers would be armed, neither one willing to risk capture and the state’s brand-new, and as yet untried, electric chair.
Geoffrey’s skill with his picks had the lock to the delivery chute open in less than a minute. If Monroe’s basement was like most of the others beneath businesses, the coal chute would end in a dark and filthy furnace room, with a stout door to separate it from storage areas and keep the coal dust confined. Strips of wood had been nailed to the side of the chute so a deliveryman could descend without slipping and sliding.
Geoffrey led the way, Danny behind him, Ned following. Little Eddie danced his way among the men, his bright blue eyes sparkling with excitement, his feet silent in the rags he’d wound around shoes so worn his skin scraped the sidewalk through holes in the leather. As soon as Ned cleared the ramp, Little Eddie scooted halfway up to ease the delivery hatch down. Except for a faint strip of light beneath the door leading to the rest of the cellar, they were in inky, dusty blackness.
Geoffrey opened the door and stepped out into a storage room lined with photographic props, discarded furniture, and mounted postmortem portraits from past exhibits. A faint murmur of voices led them toward where they hoped to find Lydia. A woman spoke, but Ned shook his head. Not Lydia. Probably Felicia Monroe. They froze, each man readying himself for what came next. Geoffrey’s left hand reached out for the brass doorknob picking up a faint gleam from the light shining beneath the door. He turned it. Slowly and silently.
Then he jerked his head in a quick nod and threw his body against the wood.
* * *
Felicia rolled Lydia’s sleeve above the elbow. She wound a length of cord around the wrist until it was immobilized against the arm of the chair, where Bartholomew had tied her. For the sake of the photograph, the restraints were hidden under a crocheted shawl, and as soon as Sorensen depressed the plunger and sent the arsenic-laced embalming fluid into Lydia’s body, Felicia would draw that corner of the shawl over the exposed arm. Nothing could distract from the flight of the soul escaping Lydia’s body. The death had to look natural.
“Felicia can do this,” Sorensen said, but a furious rumble from under the black cloth covering the camera and the man crouching behind it made him move closer to the tray and its lethal syringe.
“I have to watch her face,” Felicia explained. “I’ll call out her expressions as they change so Bartholomew will know the exact moment to take the exposure. He can’t see as well under the cloth as I can if I stay close to her, but just a step or two out of range.” She spoke in the gently instructive tones
of a patient teacher. “We hope it won’t take long.”
“I don’t think she’s conscious,” Sorensen said.
“She’s drifting in and out, but perhaps that’s for the best. I put a few drops of laudanum in the water I gave her to drink. I could tell by the look in her eyes that she knew what I’d done, but it was too late. She’d already swallowed it.”
“Why? I thought he said he wanted her alert so the soul could release itself without impediment to its essence.” Gibberish, but Sorensen was playing the cooperative conspirator to keep Felicia and her murderous brother at ease and unsuspecting. He’d chosen the moment when he’d pull the gun from his pocket and shoot them both. Right after he depressed the plunger to release the arsenic into Lydia Truitt’s vein. Both of them would be staring hard at their victim, anticipating the instant of death and the flight of the soul. The last place they would be looking would be at him.
One bullet each to take them down. Another to finish them off. They could experience their own souls fly out of their mouths. No more questions. No more mysteries. They’d know it all.
* * *
Geoffrey shot the syringe out of Sorensen’s upraised hand; Little Eddie tackled the legs sticking out beneath the black cloth. Danny raised his club and politely asked Felicia to kindly put her hands up over her head. For a moment it all seemed too easy. It was.
Monroe kicked viciously at the boy, who’d wrapped one skinny arm around his legs and was pounding on his feet with what felt like an odd-shaped hammer. The heel of one heavy boot smashed into Eddie’s mouth, releasing what few good teeth the boy had onto the floor, where they floated in a pool of blood and mucus. He passed out from the pain, still holding tight to Mr. Washington’s large shoe. Danny pulled him away before Monroe could kick him in the stomach and groin, blows that might rupture something inside and kill him.
By the time Danny picked up his club again, Monroe had shaken off the dark cloth and decided he was badly outnumbered. Grabbing a rifle from a full gun rack, he made for the staircase.
Let the Dead Keep Their Secrets Page 28
