by Kat Ross
“Yes.” She gave a trembling smile. “It was taken at Giza two years ago. They’d gone to meet with Gaston Maspero. He’d just embarked on an attempt to clear away some of the sand that had buried the Sphinx and to search for tombs beneath it.”
“And the other gentleman in the photograph?”
“Is Count Balthazar Habsburg-Koháry.”
“Of course.”
“Tell me, Miss Pell.” Her eyes shone with a piteous entreaty. “Have you any idea who could have done this to Julius?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid.” Harry glanced out the window. Sparrows hopped in a patch of melting snow. For a moment, she remembered the crow and its beady, clever eyes. “Did your husband have any enemies?”
“I won’t say he had many friends, but there are none I would call enemies. It’s a cliché, but he was married to his work. Julius had been fascinated with ancient Egyptian culture since he read about Napoleon’s campaigns as a child. From these pyramids, four thousand years of civilization look down upon us.”
“Had he behaved in an unusual manner in the days leading up to his death? Did he seem afraid of anything?”
“Not that I noticed.” Her hand went to a plain gold crucifix hanging around her neck, twisting it nervously. “He was so busy preparing for the exhibit.”
“Father did seem a bit distracted,” Jackson put in. “I chalked it up to nerves about the party. He never enjoyed social affairs. I’m sure he would have found a way to beg off if his presence hadn’t been required.”
“My husband had a stoic temperament, Miss Pell. I doubt he would have let on if he was worried about something.” Araminta threw a glance at her son. “I’m just grateful Jackson is here. I couldn’t imagine staying in the house alone after what happened.”
He took her hand and they shared a tender look.
“What about this supposed curse?” Harry asked.
A shadow passed over Mrs. Sabelline’s features. “Oh, he didn’t take it seriously at all. Though I wonder if he should have.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only that I always wondered why Count Koháry insisted that the amulet be locked up at all.” Her gaze fell on the photograph of the two men at the Sphinx. “He should have kept it himself if it was so valuable. Then Julius would still be alive.”
Jackson laid a hand on his mother’s arm. She didn’t seem to notice. A long moment passed. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, which she’d tried to cover with powder. A tear etched its way down her cheek, cutting through the make-up like rain on a dusty window.
“I was feeling ill that evening,” she said in a subdued voice. “Too much caviar. And I’ve never liked cigar smoke. It makes me light-headed. I left to freshen up in the first floor ladies room. Jackson had wandered off to look at some of the other exhibits.” Her hands knit tightly in her lap. “When I emerged some time later, I encountered Mr. Sharpe in the hall.”
“Of the basement level?”
“Yes, I very much wished to go home. It was a fair journey to Brooklyn and I was tired. I thought I’d see what was keeping Julius.” She drew a deep breath. “He offered to escort me to my husband’s office. You must know the rest.”
“Yes, I saw your statement, you needn’t repeat it, Mrs. Sabelline.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll only ask if you have any personal suspicions about who might be responsible. I assure you, I’ll keep anything you say confidential. But since you know everyone involved, perhaps you have some instinct.”
Araminta Sabelline shook her head. “For what I saw? I can’t imagine any one of them committing such an act, Miss Pell.” Her voice broke. “It was simply inhuman.” Pale fingers twisted the crucifix. “Enough to make one believe the devil is real.”
Jackson Sabelline frowned and put an arm around her.
“Perhaps you should lie down, Mother,” he said. “You don’t look well.”
She shrugged weakly. “I’ll be all right.”
“No, really. I insist. Dr. Welles will never forgive me if I fail in my nursing duties.”
Araminta raised a hand to her forehead and for an instant, her sleeve fell back. Five dark marks circled her frail wrist. Harry looked away before either of them noticed her staring.
She stood. “I’ve taken enough of your time. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you think of anything else.” She put her new hat on—a miniature derby with a dark red velvet band—and gave Mrs. Sabelline a consoling look. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
Araminta barely seemed to hear her. She stared at the mantle, and the sad sprig of holly next to the photograph of her husband and Count Koháry.
“Berte will see you out,” Jackson said, ringing for the maid. “Thank you for coming, Miss Pell.”
As she walked to the door, Harry contrived to pass by the window. Something had caught her eye when Jackson threw open the drapes, and a quick glance confirmed it. That’s interesting, Harry thought.
There was a gleaming new lock on the sash.
She found John ensconced in a corner table of the St. Denis’s elegant dining room, and he wasn’t alone. An animated young woman sat across from him. She was a few years older than John, with a squarish face and short bangs. A black-and-white checked coat was slung carelessly over the back of her chair.
“Nellie,” Harry said with genuine pleasure. “I should have expected you’d be mixed up in this.”
“Harry! I understand you’re coming from the Sabellines.”
“Are you on her payroll now?” Harry asked John with a laugh.
“Pure coincidence,” Nellie said airily. “I happened to be passing by and saw him through the window.”
“I’m sure you did.” Harry sat down and they ordered a round of drinks. “I thought you were busy planning for your trip?”
Nellie Bly was Joe Pulitzer’s star reporter at the New York World. She’d gained a reputation for stunt reporting, pretending to be mad and getting herself admitted to the women’s asylum on Blackwell’s Island where she’d exposed the horrendous conditions there. Her latest scheme, which her editors had recently approved, was to stage a race across the globe by train and steamship, with the aim of besting the time of the fictional Phileas Fogg in Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days.
“I am, but we’ve got until next fall to put everything together. This museum murder is the big news now and John wants a story,” she said, referring to her editor, John Cockerill.
“Perhaps we can trade information.”
“You always were a little mercenary,” Nellie laughed. “All right, sounds fair. Who goes first?”
“Can’t we order?” John complained. “I’m starving.”
A short time later, they were dining on wild duck and salmon, artichokes a la Barigoule, salsify au jus, and paper-thin slices of grilled eggplant.
“I suppose you’ve seen the police report?” Nellie asked.
“Better than that. We’ve been to the crime scene,” John said. He gave a brief account of their time at the museum the day before. “Holland seems like an upstanding citizen. Sharpe is a bit of a drinker, but so are plenty of men.”
“His story doesn’t match Araminta Sabelline’s,” Harry said. “She told me they met in the hallway. He claimed she went to his office.”
“Hmm. Could be an honest mistake,” Nellie said. “Witnesses sometimes misremember details like that. Or they’re in cahoots and got their lies mixed up. Wouldn’t be the first time a wife offed her husband in this town. Do you think she’s capable?”
“Impossible to say. She did seem genuinely grief-stricken. But I’ll tell you one thing. Araminta was lying when she said her husband wasn’t afraid. Someone put new locks on those windows, I’d say right around the same time Julius changed the lock on his office door.”
“Perhaps she worried the killer might come after her,” John offered.
Harry shook her head. “I think Mrs. Sabelline could hardly have arranged for someone to come s
o quickly, particularly since it was Christmas. There was also an extremely fine layer of dust. The new locks must predate the murder.”
“He was afraid of something.”
“Or she was,” John said.
In the pleasant, low-key hubbub of the St. Denis dining room, Harry recalled her nightmare and felt a chill.
“She also had bruises on her wrist, as if someone had grabbed her. No more than a day or two old, I’d guess.”
“Her husband?”
“He’s the likeliest one,” Harry agreed. “Or the son, although they did seem to have a loving relationship.”
“On the surface.”
“On the surface, yes. I was only there for perhaps half an hour.”
“Happy families are all alike,” Nellie quoted. “Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
“You should come to my house sometime,” John muttered as he went in for a third helping of duck. “Even the Russians would shudder when they met Rupert.”
Harry stared at them both blankly.
“Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina,” Nellie said. “I thought you were an avid reader.”
“Only of forensics and chemistry journals,” John said with a grin. “And the crime pages of the newspapers. Otherwise, she’s practically illiterate.”
Harry shot him a look. “What do you know about this Hungarian count?” she asked Nellie. “Sabelline’s patron.”
“Rather mysterious. Appeared on the scene about five years ago from somewhere in Central Europe. No one knows much about him except that he’s terribly rich and an avid collector of anything more than a thousand years old. Unmarried, no children. His money must be old too because I can’t seem to find out where it comes from.”
“Speaking of which, I wonder who gets Julius’s money. I didn’t have the gall to ask the grieving widow,” Harry admitted.
“I can answer that. There wasn’t a great deal and it was divided evenly between the wife and son.”
“Sounds like another dead end.” John took a bite of salmon. “Well, I’ll tell you what I found. The locksmith who made the keys has a shop on Seventy-Second and Broadway. He said there were only two and he gave them both to Mr. Sabelline the afternoon of the party.”
“He could be lying,” Nellie pointed out.
“He could,” John agreed. “But why? I made a few inquiries in the neighboring establishments. He’s been there for years and everyone vouched for his character without reservation.”
Nellie gave a grudging nod. “You’d make a decent reporter, John.”
He grinned. “Afterwards, I tracked down Mr. Jeremy Boot—who also seemed a polite, honest man, by the way. He confirmed that attendance at the museum has been way down since it moved from the Arsenal. You remember what a slog it was to get there, Harry. It’s too far uptown with the elevated ending at 59th Street.” He leaned forward. “Apparently, the trustees have been close to shutting it down. The Alexandria exhibit is critical to reviving the museum’s fortunes. The publicity from the murder would be a sure way to make it a smashing success.”
“What else did Boot say?”
“Not much we didn’t already know. Said he went out for a cigarette sometime between one and one-fifteen. He stood in an alley adjacent to Seventy-Eighth Street. He’d only been outside a minute or so when Mrs. Winter came along loudly demanding to be let out. Boot complied, then went back to finish smoking. He was just returning to his post when Davis Sharpe and Araminta Sabelline came looking for him. He walked them down to the basement and unlocked the office door. You know the rest.”
“Had he been in possession of the key all night?”
“He said it never left his pocket.”
“Which leaves only the key belonging to Mr. Sabelline himself, and that was found in his desk drawer.” Harry chewed her thumbnail. “We’ve spoken to six of the seven people who stayed after the party ended,” she said. “The only one left is Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry.”
“I’d like to know why that particular artifact was locked up in the strongbox,” John said.
“So would I. And if he has any idea what Sabelline was frightened of.” She scowled. “But Orpha has me waiting.”
“Your new boss?” Nellie asked sympathetically.
“You could say that. She won’t let me interview the count without her permission.”
John called for the check with a heavy sigh. “My God, I haven’t eaten that much since I had two Christmas dinners in a row.”
“Which was yesterday,” Harry pointed out.
“I’m working on a respectable paunch. All the best-paid doctors have them.”
Nellie eyed his tall, broad-shouldered frame with amusement. “I doubt you’ll ever be one of those, John, and thank God for that.”
“Fat or well-paid?”
Nellie laughed. “Take it as a compliment.” She rose from the table and put on her checkered coat. “They’ll want me at the office. I’ll let you know if I discover anything interesting about our enigmatic noble.”
“Don’t worry, the Bedbugs are on the case.” Harry grinned. “Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry is about to have an infestation.”
Chapter 17
A brief message waited when they returned to Tenth Street, summoning Harry and John to the S.P.R. headquarters next to Edison’s new Pearl Street power station. Night was falling and the wind cut straight to the bone, so they decided to take a cab.
“What do you think it’s about?” John asked as the driver fought the rush-hour traffic down Broadway.
“Let’s hope Orpha Winter has finally tracked down the elusive count.”
“Or perhaps she’s luring us to our gruesome deaths to conceal her own guilt.”
“That would only make sense if we’d found any real leads.” Harry sighed. “I have a feeling Orpha’s capable of almost anything if it involves self-preservation, but we’re not exactly a threat, are we?”
“Unless you know something but you don’t know you know it.” John gave her a meaningful glance and Harry burst out laughing.
“What would I do without you, Dr. Weston?”
“Suffer unbearable tedium.”
When they arrived, it turned out they hadn’t been summoned by Orpha at all, but by Harland Kaylock. Mr. Kaylock was a rather severe person, tall and narrow with unruly brown hair and a sallow complexion. Before becoming vice president of the American S.P.R., he had been a professional magician. His current expertise was debunking fake mediums, placing him squarely at odds with Orpha Winter, who embraced spiritualism with open arms.
Harry and John were greeted at the door by the ancient butler Joseph, who escorted them to Mr. Kaylock’s inner sanctum. He looked much as they had left him the day before, hawk-nosed and unsmiling in an impeccable dark frock coat.
“Do you have a progress report for me?” he demanded without preamble.
Harry recited all they’d learned, with periodic interjections from John. Mr. Kaylock laced his long fingers together and rested them on his desk.
“The police found the shoes,” he said.
Harry smiled. “I thought they might. Where?”
“Hidden inside one of the stone sarcophagi.”
“How heavy are those lids?” John asked.
“Extremely heavy.”
“Could a single person have lifted it?”
“Not without a lever, and even then it would be difficult, although not impossible.”
“Did the shoes have any distinguishing characteristics?” Harry asked.
“Size eleven, made by Lester Brothers in Binghamton. They appeared to be new. The police are canvassing shoe shops that carry the brand.” He gazed at them with an inscrutable expression. “Do you have any theories?”
“A dozen, but they’re all half-baked. Mr. Kaylock, we’ve spoken to six of the seven people who were there. The only one left is the Hungarian count, and I believe he has critical information, but we’re still waiting for Mrs. Winter to arrange an i
nterview.” She took a breath. “If you have any influence with her, can you press our case? Time is of the essence. You can’t expect a result without—”
Kaylock cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t call you here to rake you over the coals, Miss Pell. You’ve performed admirably. However, there have been new developments that alter the situation.”
Harry frowned. “New developments?”
“You shall be fully informed of them. But first I would remind you both of the confidentiality agreement you signed yesterday.” He patted the desk drawer.
“I’m still waiting for my copy,” John said.
“And I’ll see you receive it. But what I am about to tell you cannot leave this room. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” Harry said. John nodded agreement.
“Very well then. First, I must inform you that the Brady case is now officially open again.”
Harry frowned. “But he’s dead. I saw him commit suicide.”
Kaylock cleared his throat. “That may be true. But you will recall that your report alluded to the police doctor who attempted to treat Mr. Brady’s gunshot wound.”
“Dr. Clarence!” John shot to his feet. “I knew it, Harry! What did I tell you?”
Mr. Kaylock’s brows drew together in disapproval. “Please sit down, Mr. Weston.”
John fell back into his chair, but his eyes gleamed with excitement.
“As I was saying, Dr. William Clarence took a ship to England the day after Mr. Brady’s suicide. That much you know.”
Harry nodded. She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach unlike anything she’d experienced before. It was worse than the day Myrtle returned from a job for the Pinkertons to discover Harry had been impersonating her for nearly two weeks.
“Thanks to your report, agents from the London S.P.R. located Dr. Clarence and took him into custody.”
“Custody?”
“They committed him to an asylum for observation.”
Harry stubbornly clung to ignorance. “On what basis?”
“That he was a suspect in the Ripper murders.”
She stared out the window to Pearl Street, chest tightening as the implication of his words became clear. “But—”
