The Thirteenth Gate

by Kat Ross

  “You should know that Dr. Clarence murdered an orderly and escaped nearly a week ago.”

  “That’s terrible news, but I still don’t see the connection,” Harry said weakly.

  Harland Kaylock looked genuinely sorry at his next words. “I like you, Miss Pell. You are rational and intelligent. We need those qualities in our agents, now more than ever. You may have deduced there is a struggle within the S.P.R. between those who champion science and reason, and those who blindly embrace the supernatural. Please be assured I stand firmly in the first camp.” He paused. “However, there are also certain unpleasant truths in the world.”

  Harry forced herself to meet his level gaze. “Go on.”

  “There’s no gentle way to put it.” He tapped his long fingers on the desk. “I’m afraid monsters are real, Miss Pell.”

  “I knew it!” John looked as though he might leap to his feet again, but a quelling look from Kaylock nailed him to his chair. “I knew it,” he muttered again.

  “The Underworld is not a theoretical place. It exists. And there are spirits, undead spirits, that sometimes come back. Our colleagues in London call them ghouls.”

  “Ghouls,” she repeated. “Surely you’re joking. This is some kind of test—”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Dr. Clarence is one of these ghouls, isn’t he?” John asked eagerly.

  “Worse than that. We don’t know what he is exactly. Something infinitely more dangerous. In any event, the London office thinks he might be coming here. There’s a connection to the Ptolemy exhibit. They’re sending two of their agents to track him down. I expect your full cooperation.”

  “Of course,” Harry said faintly.

  If anyone other than Harland Kaylock had uttered such madness, she would have stood and walked out without a second thought. But she had researched the S.P.R. and its principal officers for years before being hired, and she had nothing but admiration for him, despite his chilly demeanor. If he claimed these things were true, they likely were.

  “So it wasn’t Mr. Brady’s brain tumor that caused him to murder all those people?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You’re absolutely certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the connection to the museum?” John asked. “It must be the artifact that was stolen.”

  “We don’t know yet. The cable was rather terse, as cables tend to be. Mr. Sidgwick didn’t go into detail. But the London agents are expected to arrive in the next day or two. Their names are Lady Vivienne Cumberland and Mr. Alec Lawrence. I’m sure they can explain in full detail.”

  “Going back for a moment,” John said. “To be perfectly clear: This undead spirit possessed Leland Brady. And when he died, you’re saying it jumped into Dr. William Clarence of the New York Police Department?”

  Harry refused to look at him. Even worse than the fact of ghouls was the prospect of John’s gloating. Throughout the Brady case, he had argued that supernatural elements were at work. Harry had laughed at him.

  “That would appear to be the case,” Kaylock replied in a clipped tone. He clearly found the entire topic of ghouls to be distasteful.

  Then the penny dropped. “Wait.” John’s mouth fell open a bit before he caught himself. “Was Dr. Clarence really the Ripper?”

  “Undetermined,” Kaylock said, in a tone that implied it was, in fact, highly likely.

  “Could the ghoul, or whatever it is, be here already? Could it have killed Dr. Sabelline?”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Kaylock said slowly. “These creatures don’t sprout wings or conjure magic carpets, Mr. Weston. London says it probably took a steamer, either on December 18th or 19th. The Transatlantic crossing has never been made in less than six days.”

  “And Dr. Sabelline was killed on December 23rd. Yes, I see your point.” John thought for a moment. Then he pulled out his notepad and a nub of pencil, rolling up his sleeves in a workmanlike fashion. “So how does one stop a ghoul? Holy water? Crucifix?”

  “They can’t stand iron, that’s all I know. Oh, and it’s best to cut their heads off.”

  “Heads, got it.” He scribbled on the pad. “Is New York quite infested?”

  “No. It’s much worse in London. Scotland Yard was forced to create a special branch just to deal with them.”

  “So Becky Rickard summoned this thing with The Black Pullet grimoire?”

  “We don’t know how it came through, actually.”

  “Through from Hell, you mean?”

  Kaylock sounded funereal. “The official term is the Dominion. It’s a sort of limbo.”

  John nodded. “What about werewolves?”

  “Not real.”

  “Vampires?”

  Kaylock hesitated. “Well, ghouls do consume the blood of their victims.”

  “Vampires: real,” John whispered to himself, writing frantically on his pad. “Mummies? Please say yes.”

  “Not real.”

  “Fairies?”

  “All right, Mr. Weston.” Kaylock leaned back in his chair. “I’ll admit, I’m still coming to grips with the news about Dr. Clarence. The cable only arrived today. Apparently, there was some mistake and it was supposed to have been sent nearly a week ago. Mr. Sidgwick couldn’t understand why I hadn’t responded.”

  He turned to Harry, who had been staring out the window in a daze for the last few minutes. “I understand your reluctance. The mind simply rejects. I felt the same when I was first informed of the existence of ghouls. In the end, I decided there was still room for reason in our work. In fact, it is a necessity. I very much hope you’ll continue with the S.P.R., but I’m afraid I’ll have to recall you both from the Sabelline case. It’s simply too dangerous.”

  She blinked as the import of his words sunk in. “Recall us? But we’re just getting started!”

  “I understand your frustration, but it’s only sensible to hand the case over to London at this point. They have the expertise in this sort of thing.” He added, not unkindly, “I’ll have them contact you when they arrive. You can bring them up to speed.”

  Angry tears pricked her eyes. Harry blinked them away. “So that’s it?”

  “Yes, that’s it. I won’t mince words. We’re in over our heads, Miss Pell. I’ve never dealt with one of these things before and therefore cannot give you adequate guidance on how to protect yourself.” He shuffled the papers on his desk and glanced at the clock. “Frankly, it’s a miracle you survived the Hyde investigation at all.”

  “But this monster will be arriving in New York any day now. What if the agents don’t get here in time?”

  She had a sudden vision of Anne Marlowe, lying in the harsh glare of the police arc lights, her face mottled purple and black. Of Raphael Forsizi, the teenaged organ grinder whose body had been dumped at the base of a statue in Washington Square Park, along with his dead monkey. Of Becky Rickard, the first victim, stabbed thirty-one times and badly bitten on her face and neck.

  Mr. Kaylock stared at her. The solemn expression on his face said he knew what Harry was thinking. “Let us pray they do.”

  “Don’t say it,” Harry snapped at John the moment Joseph closed the front door behind them.

  “But I wasn’t—”

  “Yes, you were. And I’m not in the mood.”

  John narrowed his eyes. “When you’re right, everyone hears about it in excruciating detail.”

  “Excruciating?”

  “That’s right. You’re worse than Myrtle sometimes.”

  They glared at each other.

  John blew out a breath. It clouded white in the frigid darkness. “I’m sorry you got sacked.”

  Harry shrugged, trying to ignore the hard lump of disappointment in her chest. “So am I.”

  “Are you really going to quit the case?”

  “What else can I do? Kaylock’s right, John. We’re out of our depth.” She turned away. “Let London handle it.”

  “And if they don’t get
here in time? If the thing that was in Brady, and then Dr. Clarence, comes for the amulet?”

  Harry rubbed her forehead. “It’s like a third-rate story by Edgar Allen Poe. I can’t believe we’re actually having this conversation.”

  “And I can’t believe there’s a special branch of Scotland Yard just for ghouls. My God, when I tell Rupert—”

  “You can’t tell anyone, John. Remember that contract we signed?”

  “Right.”

  He looked crestfallen. For some reason, it made her angry. “It’s easy for you,” Harry muttered. “You believed all that nonsense to begin with.”

  He gave her a tight smile. “And it’s not nonsense after all. Well, maybe the bit about mummies. I’m not giving up on werewolves though.”

  Harry sagged against the brick wall, the wind going out of her sails.

  “I joined the S.P.R. to expose the fakers, John. Charlatans like the Fox sisters who fleeced desperate people seeking reassurance their loved ones had gone to a better place. I never thought any of it would be true.”

  John patted her shoulder. “I know, Harry.”

  “Well, aren’t you going to gloat?”

  He assumed an angelic expression. “Gloat? That would be redundant, don’t you think? We both know I was right.”

  She considered kicking his ankle but just didn’t have the energy. “I can’t believe Mr. Brady was actually....”

  “Go on. Say it.”

  “Possessed.”

  “Was that so hard?”

  Harry’s mouth twitched. “I hate you. Can’t even let a girl wallow in self-pity without cheering her up.”

  “I’m a right bastard that way.”

  “Ghouls.” She barked a laugh.

  “Poor Mr. Brady. It’s a good thing you didn’t get close to him in the tunnel, Harry.” John extended his arms, hands hooked into claws and eyes rolling back in his head. “He might have turned you into Jane the Nipper.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  He let his arms fall to his sides. “I suppose it’s not. But are you really going to back down?”

  She sighed. “If I disregard a direct order, I might never work for the S.P.R. again. And it’s not what I signed on for.”

  “Chopping off heads?”

  “That’s right. I’m a consulting detective. I don’t belong on this case anymore.”

  John grew serious. “Do what your heart tells you, Harry. You know I’ll take your side.”

  She forced a smile. “I know. And it’s all that matters in the end.”

  They found a cab outside the Astor House and shared it to Tenth Street, after which John continued on to his family’s home on Gramercy Park. He always managed to lift her spirits, but once his cheeky grin was out of sight, they plunged again. As Harry slowly trudged up the front steps, she began to question everything Mr. Kaylock had said. How well did she know him anyway? Who’s to say he wasn’t mad, or simply deluded? He’d offered not a shred of proof to back up his wild claims.

  No, she decided, the entire thing was preposterous. As unhappy as it made her, Harry resolved to tender her resignation the next morning. It was time to move on. If only women could apply to be New York City detectives. They would never take her, though, not in a million years, even though she was smarter than most of the men on the force. It was all abominable! Perhaps she should put her talents to work with the suffragette movement.

  But I don’t like politics, Harry thought glumly, as she hung her coat on a hook. I like crime, in all its infinite, grotesque varieties. I like the thrill of the hunt. The satisfaction of unearthing a clue others have overlooked. I like the speech at the end, where I’ve got the killer dead to rights and he—or she—listens in dumb amazement as I explain exactly how they carried out the murder. My God, do I like that part…

  Harry’s gaze fell on a small black beret sitting on the table next to the front door. She took a deep breath and went into the kitchen. Myrtle lounged in a chair, smoking a cigarette.

  “Harrison.” Myrtle had always refused to call her by her nickname. “You look downright melancholy.”

  The sight of her elder sister inspired the usual awkward mix of feelings: fear, envy, love and a desperate craving for approval. She’d long ago learned not to show any of this, of course.

  “Myrtle,” she said, giving her sister a stiff embrace. “You’re back.”

  They looked nothing alike. Myrtle had long black hair and porcelain skin bordering on deathly. Her features were not classically beautiful, but she had a definite magnetism, a kind of manic mental energy that made her fascinating to watch. Her grey eyes were constantly roving, assessing, weighing, analyzing.

  “As of this afternoon. I hear you’re with the S.P.R. now.”

  “Sort of.”

  Myrtle gave her a rapid once-over and raised an eyebrow.

  “Please.” Harry held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear about what I ate for lunch, every location I’ve been to today, and that my dressmaker is a morphine addict.”

  Myrtle smiled. “I was going to say I like your new hat.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “Let’s have it then. What’s happened with the S.P.R.? I know you’ve wanted that job for years.”

  Harry dropped into a chair and rested her elbows on the kitchen table. She thought of the confidentiality agreement, and how she’d just admonished John about honoring it.

  “I can’t discuss it.”

  “Kaylock made you sign a contract, eh?”

  “Iron-clad.”

  “Yes, the Pinkertons require something similar.” Myrtle’s thin lips twitched. “If it was simply a difficult case, you’d never admit that to me. You would have pretended everything was roses. So it’s something else. From the look in your eye, I’d say you’ve just learned something very unpleasant, something that goes against all you’ve ever believed in.” She blew a series of perfect smoke rings at the ceiling. “Mr. Kaylock told you about ghouls, didn’t he?”

  Harry stared at her sister. “You already knew about this.”

  Myrtle let out a peal of merry laughter. “Oh, Harrison, you poor dear thing. Of course I did. It’s hardly a secret.”

  “It was to me!”

  “I don’t mean that great herd of lowing cattle referred to as the general public.” Myrtle waved a slender hand. “But yes, I’ve known of ghouls for some years now. Do you mean you’re unfamiliar with the Buckingham Palace incident?”

  Harry stonily shook her head.

  “It was July 1886. A ghoul nearly took Queen Victoria in her own chambers. Scotland Yard created the Dominion Branch after that. They specialize in keeping a lid on the undead. It’s not my area of interest, but I’ve heard they’re reasonably competent.”

  Coming from Myrtle, this was high praise.

  “Have you ever seen one?”

  “A ghoul? No. I’ve never seen a Bolivian anaconda either, but it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

  Harry sighed. It was too much. “And how do you reconcile logical deduction with the supernatural?”

  “Look at Uncle Arthur. He believes in Cornish pixies, for God’s sake, but he keeps them out of his detective stories. He understands how to put things in boxes.” She gave Harry a look. “If you’re thinking of quitting, don’t be an idiot. There are agents of the S.P.R. who are trained to deal with the Dominion and its spawn, but there is a place for us as well.”

  “Not for me,” Harry said glumly. “Kaylock’s pulled me off the case.”

  “Why?”

  “Two of those trained agents are coming from London to handle the situation.”

  “I see. Names?”

  Harry told her.

  “I’ve heard of them. They’re good.”

  “I hope so. Otherwise we’ll have more bodies on our hands, very soon.”

  “So Brady was a ghoul?”

  “No. Something infinitely more dangerous, quote unquote.”

  “That’s what Kaylock said?”
<
br />   Harry nodded.

  “Nasty business.” Her gaze took on an intensely focused quality Harry knew well. “Now tell me about this case of yours.”

  “Julius Sabelline?”

  “Yes. Every detail. Omit nothing—”

  “No matter how small or seemingly irrelevant. I know.”

  So Harry told her. And as she talked, she realized she and John had actually gathered a fair amount of information in the last two days. Murder cases were like puddings, she thought. Keep stirring, add a little heat, and they start to congeal into something solid.

  Myrtle fired off a barrage of questions—most of them horribly patronizing—but Harry didn’t mind. She was feeling much better, partly because at the end of her recital, Myrtle frowned and lit another cigarette. She did not say, “Dear God, Harrison, it’s painfully obvious who did it. Have you no imagination? The solution is elementary.”

  Instead, she smoked furiously, threw the butt in her coffee dregs, and said, “You must interview this Count Koháry. It’s a devilish problem, with at least thirty-two possible solutions as far as I can see.”

  “Thirty-three,” Harry corrected, fervently hoping Myrtle wouldn’t ask her to explain any of them. “But I’m off the case, remember?”

  “You’re off the Sabelline case.”

  “Right, that’s what I said.”

  “But the Brady case is yours. It didn’t come through the S.P.R.” Myrtle smirked. “If anything, I could argue that it’s my case, since you took it pretending to be me.”

  Harry thought for a moment. “And you’re saying it’s no longer closed so I owe it to my client, Elizabeth Brady, to pursue a solution?”

  “She paid you a fee, did she not?”

  “A rather generous one.” She grinned. “That’s diabolical logic, Myrtle, but I like it.”

  “As long as there’s a clear connection between the two cases, you’re well within your rights to interview the count. If Mr. Kaylock takes exception to that, refer him to me.” Her grey eyes grew flinty.

  “Thanks, but I’ll fight my own battles,” Harry said mildly, feeling pleased Myrtle cared enough to threaten on her behalf.