by Erin Lindsey
“Ragpicker!” Pietro thrust his dark head through the doorframe. “Please, Fiora. I am a purveyor of fine secondhand clothing.”
“Since when?”
“Since yesterday,” he said brightly.
I shook my head, maybe even smiled a little. Pietro Avanti (not, I strongly suspect, his real name) had been my mother’s boarder for a little over a year, and in that time he’d been a bottle collector, a newspaper wholesaler, a pushcart man, a day laborer, and a lumber thief (though he preferred the term scavenger)—and those were just the most recent chapters in a fourteen-year career of curbstone trades going all the way back to his days as a street fiddler at the tender age of six. To say he was adaptable would be putting it politely. So long as he paid his share of the rent, I didn’t mind—though in truth it wasn’t so much about the money. It was a comfort to have somebody keeping an eye on Mam, and as Pietro was fond of reminding me, nobody looks after Mama like an Italian boy.
I glanced over at her bedroom, the only part of the tiny three-room flat boasting its own door. Just now that door stood closed, wooden crucifix hanging slightly askew. On the other side, Mam would be napping on a narrow cot scarcely bigger than a bunk on a steamship. “How is she?” I asked.
“Not a good day,” Pietro said. “She spent most of it talking to Nonna.”
I sighed. My mother had been talking to my dead granny for years. I hadn’t worried about it much back when she’d still been working—so long as she’d had school to fill her day, her evening chitchats with Granny had seemed harmless enough. But when her health started to decline and she quit teaching, Granny became her constant companion, and lately it seemed as though she spent more time conversing with her dead mother than anything else. These days, as often as not, I’d come home to find her perched on the edge of her bed, hair disheveled, arguing with the air while the laundry piled up and the dirty dishes sat abandoned on the stove. If it weren’t for Pietro’s cooking, she’d have starved long ago.
So much for running to Mam for comfort. Just as well, probably—it would only have upset her.
“Rose? Bella, what’s wrong?” Pietro gave me a worried look. “You’re pale as a ghost. What’s happened?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I could explain what I’d just seen, let alone what I’d overheard. All I really knew for sure was that something terrible was going on and Thomas Wiltshire was at the center of it. I wanted nothing more than to talk it over with Clara, but suddenly I dreaded going back to the house on Fifth Avenue. Even the weight of Mr. Wiltshire’s watch in my pocket felt … dead.
“Come,” Pietro said, motioning me into the sitting room. He tossed an armload of clothing onto his mattress and drew the curtain separating his “bedroom” from the “parlor.” Then he dragged a chair from the corner and patted it. “Here. Dimmi tutto.”
Tell me everything. But if I did, might it put him, or Mr. Wiltshire, in danger?
“Are you in trouble?” Pietro wore the grave expression of someone who knows all too well what trouble looks like.
“Yes,” I said, sinking into the chair. “I think I am.” And before I could stop myself, the tale was pouring out of me—every bizarre, horrifying detail, right down to the moment when I very nearly retched on my boots outside the Freemasons’ temple on Sixth Avenue. Pietro listened to it all with a bemused frown, but he didn’t interrupt, not even when I said the word murder. I guess there isn’t much you can say that will shock an orphan from Five Points.
When I’d finished, he got up and put the kettle on. He’d lived in an Irish household long enough to know when tea was called for. “So this Mr. Burrows, the friend of your boss—he was looking for him in the neighborhood.”
“That’s what it sounded like, but I can’t imagine why. What could possibly bring a man like Mr. Wiltshire down here?”
“Well, what kind of work does he do?”
“He’s a…” I trailed off, realizing belatedly that this was the one subject relating to Mr. Wiltshire that I knew almost nothing about. “I’m not sure, actually. He’s a businessman of some kind.”
“There is business in Five Points.” Then, with a wry smile: “Some of it is even legal.”
“But is it the sort a wealthy young gentleman might practice?”
“The sort that might get him killed, looks like.”
He hadn’t meant to be cruel. Pietro knew nothing of my feelings for Mr. Wiltshire; he couldn’t have guessed how those words would drive into me like a body blow. I gripped my chair, feeling suddenly dizzy.
Pietro didn’t notice; he was too busy pouring the tea. “Maybe he is the lawyer for these men.”
I drew a deep breath, forcing myself to think rationally. It had sounded as though whatever Mr. Wiltshire was mixed up in, Mr. Burrows and the man called Roberts were part of it. And if he were their lawyer, it would take much of the edge off the word murder. Could he be defending one of the Freemasons against a murder charge?
Oh, how I wanted to believe it, but … “What about the suppliers Mr. Burrows mentioned? And the informants? Those don’t sound to me like the business associates of a lawyer.”
“I’m sorry, Fiora, I don’t know.” Pietro handed me my tea. “Maybe this argument sounded worse than it was. Maybe Mr. Burrows is a dramatic sort of man.”
It reminded me of something the detective had said two days before, when he’d asked if Mr. Burrows was the nervous type. But I’d watched Jonathan Burrows striding through some of the roughest streets in New York with a silk hat and an ivory-handled walking stick. I’d looked him in the eye while he’d lied—smoothly, his smile never wavering—even though he’d obviously been terribly worried underneath. “Actually, he seems awfully composed, all things considered. And then there’s the fact … Well, look who we’re dealing with.”
“Who?”
“Freemasons.” I said it in a whisper, my eyebrows raised significantly.
Pietro raised his eyebrows back at me. “So?”
“A secret society.”
He laughed. “Rose, bella, half the men in New York belong to a secret society. It’s obbligatorio if you want to be fashionable these days.”
“Maybe, but this is different. Did you know the Masons were run out of the neighborhood in the seventies?”
“Sì, I remember. People used to throw stones at them. I even did it once or twice myself, just for fun. But this is just politics, no?”
I considered that. Paving stones and politics went together like carrots and peas, especially in the Sixth Ward. “But that wouldn’t explain why Mam hates them. She’s never cared much about that sort of thing.”
“Your mama doesn’t hate nobody.”
“She hates Freemasons. I just don’t know why.”
“Because they’re devil worshipers.”
I turned to find Mam standing in the doorway to the kitchen, face pale, hair a fright. She wore only a thin cotton shift; it hung limply from her bony shoulders, one strap drooping nearly to her elbow. Below the hem, her blue-veined calves looked almost translucent. Even her feet were bare.
“Sweet Mary and Joseph!” I sprang from my chair and grabbed my overcoat, sweeping it over her shoulders. “You’ll catch your death of cold! Put some slippers on, will you?” In good Fifth Avenue fashion, I pretended to ignore the impropriety of her appearing in front of her boarder in such a state. Besides, I suspected it was nothing Pietro hadn’t seen before.
“The Freemasons are devil worshipers,” she said again, severely.
“Oh, Mam. That’s a bit Catholic, even for you.”
“These secret societies, eh?” Pietro said in the playful tone he always took around Mam. “Sprouting up like mushrooms. Everybody has one except the Italians. I am feeling a little left out.”
“You have your padrones,” I said, playing along.
“Padroni,” he corrected. “Now, those are devil worshipers.”
“You two can make light all you like,” Mam said, “but you’ll do as I say, Rose Gallaghe
r, and keep away from anything to do with Masons. They are devil worshipers.”
There was no point in arguing with her. My mother was the sort of Catholic who saw wickedness and sin on every corner, and that was before she’d started succumbing to dementia. “Never mind that now,” I said, bringing her a cup of tea. “This’ll warm you up.”
As I leaned over to put her teacup on the table, she grabbed the sleeve of my dress and sniffed it.
“Mam!” I twisted away, annoyed. “I washed this dress yesterday. It’s perfectly—”
“Where’ve you been?” Before I could answer, Mam sniffed at the collar of my overcoat, still draped around her shoulders. “You smell like them. Rose, why do you smell like them?”
“Stop that. Smell like who?”
She gazed up at me with pale, watery eyes. “The dead.”
Silence drifted over the little kitchen.
“You smell just like Granny,” my mother said, as matter-of-fact as you please.
I stared at her helplessly, a great sadness welling up inside me. For years now, I’d done everything I could to look after her, and for the most part we’d managed. But this …
Pietro sprang up from his chair. “Mama, I have a special treat! A gift from Augusto—some nice salami. Here, try…” Before she could protest, he’d flipped out his pocketknife and sliced off a generous piece of cured sausage. “Maybe this is what you smell, eh? More than enough garlic to wake the dead!”
Mam wrinkled her nose as she took it. “My word. Why would you bring that into the house, Peter?” (Mam insisted that Peter was the version preferred by the Lord. If so, He doesn’t seem to have mentioned it to the fellows at the Vatican.) “Is it safe to eat?”
“Mama, you hurt my feelings. You will love it, trust me. Just try.” Pietro looked over at me and winked.
And just like that, Mam forgot all about dead people and devil worshipers, swept away in that most New York of subjects: national cuisines. “You Italians and your garlic. Is this even cooked?”
“Ah, sì. Sort of.”
“It’ll be havoc with my colon,” Mam said mournfully, and took a nibble.
“A little garlic never hurt nobody.”
“Never hurt anybody, Peter.”
He growled good-naturedly. “Always with the grammar lessons. When you gonna give up on me, eh?”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Never. She’ll keep on you until you speak like a proper English lord.” I should know—she’d been badgering me my whole life.
“Language skills are the most important thing you’ll ever learn,” Mam said, and just for a moment, she sounded like her old self.
Now that she was back on terra firma, I was able to convince my mother to put on some proper clothing and brush her hair. I took advantage of her brief disappearance to thank Pietro, and also to warn him against breathing a word of what I’d told him. “The Masons might not be devil worshipers, but I do believe they’re dangerous.”
“Powerful men are always dangerous. Promise me you’ll be careful, Fiora.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going to keep looking for him, yes? Your boss?”
“I suppose I am,” I said, realizing it in that same moment. “I can’t just abandon him, especially now that I know for certain he’s in real danger.” If you’ve gotten him killed … I pushed the voice away, shuddering.
“What will you do?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose I’ll have to confront Mr. Burrows, and—”
Pietro was already shaking his head. “No, no, that is not the way. Too dangerous.”
“Dangerous? But he’s Mr. Wiltshire’s friend.”
“He’s a Mason. He will protect their secrets.”
I paused uncomfortably. I hadn’t really thought about it, but of course Pietro was right. The way Mr. Burrows had strolled through the front doors of the temple, the words that had been exchanged on the steps … He must be a Freemason, or at least mixed up with them. And everyone knew what happened to people who exposed Masonic secrets. The disappearance of Mr. William Morgan was another well-known New York legend, and though there were many versions of the tale, they nearly all ended the same way: with the brutal murder of that gentleman. “So you think I should let it go?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s good to want to protect people, but you must be smart. Try something a little more subtle.”
“Such as?”
“Mr. Burrows went into Wang’s General Store, yes? They know you in that place. Why not start there? You don’t have to tell them you saw Mr. Burrows, only that you are looking for your boss, and you know he had an appointment with Mr. Wang.” Pietro shrugged. “Who’s to say how you know that? Maybe Mr. Wiltshire told you himself.”
“That,” I said, “is an excellent idea. Thank you.” Impulsively, I threw my arms around him.
He laughed. “Ah, mia cara, don’t let poor Mama see you hugging an Italian boy. You will give her a stroke.”
“I mean it, Pietro, thank you. For everything.”
“You’re welcome. Now, don’t go until you eat something…”
I left my mother’s flat feeling a little better, and not just because I had a belly full of cured sausage and flaky Italian cheese.
The gas lamps were just beginning to bloom along Mott Street as I headed for Wang’s General Store. I shopped there often, Wang’s being the most comprehensively stocked establishment this side of Macy’s. Aside from the usual American goods and a typical assortment of Chinese ones—jade jewelry and tea sets, silks and sandals—Wang’s carried an astonishing array of exotic wares, some of them so mysterious that I couldn’t even tell if they were animal, vegetable, or mineral. A visit to Wang’s was like strolling through a museum of curiosities. More than once I’d found myself wandering aimlessly among the shelves, trying to guess the purpose of the enigmatic items on display. That was how I’d met Mei. She was about my age and spoke good English, and she’d always been willing to indulge my curiosity about her father’s merchandise. Hopefully she’d be just as informative about Mr. Wiltshire.
My breath steamed like a locomotive as I hurried along. It was noticeably colder than when I’d called in at Mam’s—near to freezing, judging by the sting of my cheeks and the sharp bite of the air in my nostrils. Small wonder the street was deserted; everyone with any sense had fled inside. Up ahead, the Church of the Transfiguration started to ring out five o’clock.
What happened next is seared forever in my memory. For a long time afterward, the sound of church bells tolling the hour would send a shiver of dread down my spine.
The peal of the bells drew my eyes briefly to the tower, an elegant silhouette against the last wisp of a winter sunset; when they fell back to the street, I noticed a woman loitering on the sidewalk just a little up the way. She hadn’t been there a moment ago, I was sure of it. She stood directly in my path, gaze fixed on me so resolutely that I wondered if I should know her. She looked to be a little older than Mam and about the same height, which is to say not very tall. She’d come outside with her apron on, but no overcoat, not even a shawl to protect her from the cold. Even stranger was the look in her eyes—haunted, almost desperate.
I slowed, an uneasy feeling warning me not to get too close. “Are you all right?”
The woman stepped into the muted glow of a streetlamp, and I sucked in a sharp breath. “Sweet Jesus!”
Her dress was covered in blood. Not the sort you got from butchering meat, either; there was too much of it, and in all the wrong places. Her collar was soaked through, and her left shoulder. Even at this distance, I could see that her hair was matted with blood, as though she’d taken a hard blow to the skull.
She’s hit her head on the pavement, I thought. Or maybe she’s been attacked. I didn’t know what to do. “Just … stay right there. Father Francis will know what to do.” I started for the church—but the pale woman moved to intercept me. I circled out into the street, but she followed, advancing toward me so det
erminedly that she didn’t even seem to notice the lamppost directly in her path. I shouted a warning—nothing. All I could do was cringe in anticipation of the inevitable collision.
It never came.
The woman strode into the lamppost—and passed through it like it wasn’t even there. Or rather, it cleaved through her as though she wasn’t there.
For half a heartbeat, I stood frozen in disbelief, certain I must have imagined it. Then a layer of frost bristled over the lamppost where she’d touched it, and the hem of her skirt billowed out in the draft of her passing, a wisp of vapor trailing after her like a bridal train.
With a cry of terror, I flew across the street and burst into Wang’s General Store, nearly tearing the door off its hinges in my haste. I slammed it shut and braced my back against it. (Yes, I know—what good would that do when I’d just seen her walk straight through a lamppost? You try being accosted in the streets by a dead woman and see how rational you are.)
“Hey, what are you doing? You almost break the door!”
The voice barely registered. Blood roared in my ears, and I was shaking so badly I could hardly breathe. I glanced around wildly for something, anything, I could use as a weapon, and spied a gardening trowel on a nearby shelf.
“Rose?” Belatedly, I recognized Mei’s voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Ghost.”
“What?”
“There’s a ghost out there!” I didn’t stop to think how crazy that sounded; I was too busy trying to keep my heart from bursting out of my chest. I started to reach for the trowel, but then I saw a spade leaning up against the wall. This was clearly an upgrade; I grabbed it two-handed and wheeled back to the door.
Mei emerged from between the shelves, her arms loaded down with inventory. “Ghost? Where?”
“Right outside! Look!”
I lurched toward the window. Mei moved at the same moment and we collided, sending one of her parcels flying. She stooped to retrieve it, but I grabbed her elbow. “Never mind that! Look, she’s right—” I pointed, but the street was empty. “She was … I saw…” I leaned up against the windowpane until my breath fogged the glass, scanning the street from end to end, but there was no sign of her. “She was right there.”
