by Erin Lindsey
Mei hummed skeptically. She seemed more concerned about the box of salt she’d dropped, which had spilled all over the floor. She scraped at it with her foot as if to sweep it under the doorway, but she did a haphazard job, leaving a thick line of the stuff trailed across the threshold. “Bad luck,” she declared, and headed to the back of the store to light some incense.
“She was right there…” A hint of doubt crept into my voice, and it might have overtaken me completely if I hadn’t glanced at the lamppost: It still glittered with frost, as if gripped in the hand of Winter itself.
I clutched my shovel to my breast and slid to the floor, whispering a prayer against evil and wishing with all my heart that I’d never gotten out of bed that morning.
CHAPTER 6
WANG’S SPECIAL TEA—A SURPRISING VISITOR—CELESTIAL SECRETS—A NARROW ESCAPE
At this point, you’re probably thinking that I belong in the asylum at Blackwell’s Island, or at least that I’d suffered a fit of hysteria. Well, I wouldn’t blame you. In truth, sitting there on the floor of Wang’s General Store, muttering about Jesus and gripping a gardening implement as if it were a spear, I was more than a little concerned for my own sanity.
“Mei.” My voice sounded as if it came from far away. “The lamppost across the street—can you see it?”
She went to the window, moving silently on slippered feet. “I see it.”
“Is there still … Do you notice anything strange about it?”
“Ice. It must be very cold outside.”
Any lingering shred of doubt vanished. I hadn’t imagined it, at least not all of it. I squeezed my eyes shut and resumed my silent discourse with the Lord.
I must have stayed like that for a while, because the next thing I knew Mei’s small form was crouched beside me and she was offering me a steaming cup of liquid. “Here, drink this.”
I took it with shaking hands. An unfamiliar odor pricked at my nose, sweet and faintly cloying. “What is it?”
“Special tea, for calming. My father’s recipe.”
I eyed the brew uneasily. I didn’t want to think too much about what might be in it, surrounded as I was by Mr. Wang’s stock of shark fins and chicken feet and tiny shriveled fish. It was a measure of my distress that I drank it anyway.
“Good for when you see ghosts,” Mei added, cracking half a smile.
“You don’t believe me.”
She shrugged. “Chinese revere our ancestors. We believe in spirits, but I have never seen one. Maybe you did, but I think this would be special.”
“It didn’t feel very special.”
“I thought Christian people did not believe in spirits. In Sunday school they told us we should not revere our ancestors, that this was wicked and false.”
“You went to Sunday school?”
“For a little while. I thought it would teach me to be American, but…” She shrugged self-consciously. “Still Chinese.”
“I can relate. I’ve been here since I was a baby, but to them I’m still Irish, at least in the ways that count.”
“Do Irish people believe in spirits?”
I took another sip of the sweet-smelling brew. It did seem to have a calming effect, which meant I could consider Mei’s question rationally. “Well, I suppose we’re a pretty superstitious lot on the whole. My mother definitely believes in them. Has her entire life.”
“Not you?”
“I’ve never given it much thought, but I guess I’m like you. I’ve always believed in the idea of ghosts, but if someone tells me they’ve seen one…” When Mam tells me she’s seen one … “That I find harder to believe.”
Mei eyed me shrewdly. “What about now?”
“I know what I saw, Mei.”
She held my gaze for a long moment, as if debating whether to pursue the matter. It looked like she was about to say something when a voice called out from behind the counter. “Ah-Mei!”
She answered over her shoulder, and Mr. Wang himself appeared from one of the many back rooms. They conversed rapidly in Chinese, and I could tell Mei was relating the story of my ghost sighting. I couldn’t help blushing, feeling ridiculous even though I was sure of what I’d seen.
“Bad qi,” Mr. Wang said inscrutably. He asked his daughter a question, and she pointed, first at the door and then at the pot of incense burning on the counter. Mr. Wang grunted, satisfied.
“Nobody out there now, anyway,” Mei said, with another glance out the window. “You should go home, Rose. Get some rest.”
“That’s a good idea.” Suddenly, I felt very sleepy indeed, which I suspected had more than a little to do with Mr. Wang’s brew. I accepted Mei’s help to stand and dusted off my overcoat. “But before I do, I was wondering if you might help me. I’m looking for Mr. Thomas Wiltshire.” I said it as breezily as if I were asking after a particular brand of laundry soap, and in fact it didn’t feel much different. Whatever was in that drink, it had soothed my nerves to a degree that would have been alarming if I’d still been capable of feeling alarm. As it was, I punctuated my question with a lazy smile.
Mei glanced at her father. He shook his head; he didn’t understand.
“Thomas Wiltshire,” I repeated. “He’s my employer.”
Mei said something in Chinese. Mr. Wang tugged on his mustache reflectively before answering. “He says he does not know the name,” Mei translated.
“How strange. I’m sure Mr. Wiltshire mentioned they had an appointment on Sunday.”
“What does he look like?” Mei asked.
“About twenty-five years old, slight of build. Well dressed. Dark hair, with a beard. Fine, aristocratic features. He’s really very handsome…” Dear Lord, I was babbling. With a supreme effort, I managed to shut my gob.
Mei frowned. She said something to her father. His answer was swift and curt. They went back and forth for a moment, their volume rising, until Mr. Wang spun on his heel and plunged past the silk curtain separating the back rooms from the storefront.
“I’m sorry,” Mei said. “His memory is not so good, but he does not think he knows this gentleman.”
“Mei.” Throwing a furtive glance at the curtain, I lowered my voice. “You’d tell me if you knew something, wouldn’t you? Because, you see…” I swallowed hard, my breath catching a little in spite of the soothing tea. “I think Mr. Wiltshire might be in the most terrible sort of danger.”
Mei’s gaze fell to the counter. “My father says he does not know this man,” she said quietly.
I don’t believe him, I wanted to say, but in that moment, the sheer weight of my exhaustion dragged me under, and even that feeble protest seemed beyond my power. All I wanted was to go home and sleep.
I headed to the door, my feet feeling as though they were made of lead. I dreaded the climb up the stairs of the el, dreaded even more the screeching, rattling clamor of the train. I paused at the window to survey the street, but everything looked as it should. Even the frost on the lamppost was gone.
As I reached for the door, my boots scraped loudly beneath me; looking down, I saw that the floor was still covered in salt. “Someone could slip on that,” I said, surprised Mei hadn’t swept it up yet.
“I know,” she said. “Good night, Rose.”
* * *
I would have overslept the next morning if Clara hadn’t rapped on my door, rousing me moments before Mrs. Sellers came looking for me. “She’s up and about,” Clara said, “so she’ll be looking for an account of your doings yesterday. Get your story ready. Best make it a good one, too, ’cause she’s in a fine temper. She’s been summoned up to the police station, and none too happy about it.”
I tried to grasp the significance of this, but my thoughts felt strangely sluggish, as though my brain were wrapped in cheesecloth. The aftereffects of Mr. Wang’s brew, most likely. I resolved to avoid accepting unidentified beverages from Chinese grocers in the future. “Have the police found something?”
“No idea. A note came for her last n
ight just before dinner, and that’s all I know. What about you? You find something?” Her voice was a shade cooler than usual; she was still cross with me for leaving yesterday.
Where to begin? Out of everything that had happened the day before, what I blurted out was “Mr. Burrows is a Freemason.”
“All right,” she said with the same disinterested tone Pietro had taken.
“It’s not all right. I think Mr. Wiltshire was doing some work for the Masons and something went wrong.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe he found out something he shouldn’t have. All I know is that I overheard Mr. Burrows talking with another Mason, and the other man didn’t seem very concerned for Mr. Wiltshire’s welfare. I don’t trust him, and I don’t think Mr. Burrows does either.”
“Yesterday you didn’t trust Mr. Burrows.”
“I know, but—”
“If you two are through wasting time,” a voice interrupted coldly, “perhaps you might consider executing the duties for which you are paid.”
Clara drew a deep breath. Calmly, she turned to face the housekeeper. “Last I heard, you was withholding my pay.”
Mrs. Sellers scowled, but there wasn’t much she could say to that. “I’ll be leaving shortly to visit the police station. But first I’ll be taking inventory, so I will thank you two to keep out from underfoot.” The housekeeper always did inventory the day after a bout of illness, to make sure Clara and I hadn’t done any thieving in her absence. “I expect to see you both downstairs momentarily,” she concluded before marching off.
“One of these days, so help me Lord…” Shaking her head, Clara left me to dress.
I set about my duties in an agitated state, still struggling to process everything that had happened the day before. I felt as if I’d learned so much, and yet so little. And then there was the small matter of the ghost …
Mr. Wiltshire’s watch dragged at the pocket of my dress, ticking softly.
“Rose.” Mrs. Sellers appeared at the threshold of the parlor. “Would you care to explain why there’s a Celestial boy on Mr. Wiltshire’s doorstep?”
I stared at her in befuddlement, feather duster poised above a Carcel lamp. “Sorry, who is on the doorstep?”
“I didn’t catch his name,” she said tartly, “since I don’t speak Chinese and he obviously doesn’t speak a word of English. He asked for you. He came to the front door, Rose!” This last in a tone of high scandal.
“I can’t imagine who it could be.”
“I’ve about reached my limit with you. When Mr. Wiltshire returns—”
“I’m sorry,” I said, slipping past her out of the parlor. “I’ll take care of it.”
There was no one waiting for me at the front door, and I paused, momentarily confused. But of course Mrs. Sellers would never leave a Chinese boy standing on the stoop of Mr. Wiltshire’s home in full view of Fifth Avenue. Muttering under my breath, I headed downstairs to the servants’ entrance. There I found a boy of about seven, round-faced and rosy-cheeked, peering past me with shy curiosity at the unfamiliar sights within. “I’m Rose Gallagher,” I told him, whereupon he thrust a piece of paper into my hand and scampered off.
I started to unfold the paper, but a creak on the stairs warned me of someone approaching, so I stuffed it hastily in my pocket.
“Well?” Mrs. Sellers demanded.
“Oh, it’s just … er, a note from the Chinese grocer about an order of my mother’s.” Even as I spoke the lie, I realized it was half true; the note must have come from Wang’s General Store.
“You are not to take personal deliveries here, and certainly not at the front door. This is your place of employment, not your home.”
“Of course,” I said distractedly. The words place of employment had tweaked my memory, bringing to mind something Pietro had asked me yesterday. “Pardon me, ma’am, but what exactly does Mr. Wiltshire do for a living?”
She frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, the police questioned me about it,” I lied, “while you were fixing the coffee. And I realized I didn’t know.”
“He’s a businessman,” she said, and turned to head back up the stairs.
“Yes, ma’am, I know, but—what kind of business?”
A flush colored her cheeks. “The kind that is none of yours, Rose Gallagher.”
She doesn’t know either, I realized, bemused. What sort of man kept his business dealings so quiet that even his own household staff couldn’t say what he did for a living? The sort who belongs to a secret society, a voice inside me whispered.
Could I have misjudged Thomas Wiltshire completely?
I hurried up to my little room in the attic, barred the door, and drew the note out of my pocket. The paper smelled faintly of incense. Unfolding it, I read:
Dear Rose,
I should not be writing this to you. My father keeps his business very private. But you said your friend is in danger and I believe you because my father’s business is very dangerous.
I have seen this man in my father’s store many times. He comes in the back way where people come for other business (not store business). He came to see my father on Saturday afternoon. I did not hear very much but they had a map of New York and they were pointing at the East River. I heard my father say yōulíng many times which means specter or ghost. Last night my father told me that Mr. Wiltshire was supposed to come back on Sunday but he did not come. Another man came to look for him yesterday. My father is worried but as I said he keeps his business very private.
This is all I know and I am sorry I could not tell you before. I hope you find him.
Your friend,
Ah-Mei
I went through the note again from start to finish, and then a third time, my heart rate climbing with each reading. The handwriting was impeccable, the English clear, and yet I was sure I must have misunderstood. My mind was still muddled from Mr. Wang’s tonic, surely. Like a dream that stitches together a patchwork of unrelated memories, my brain had mingled two disturbing but completely unrelated experiences from the day before.
Hadn’t it?
After everything that had happened yesterday, I could no longer doubt that Mr. Wiltshire was involved in dangerous business. Nor could I deny that, whatever they might tell you in Sunday school, ghosts were all too real. But those two facts had nothing to do with each other.
Or did they? I tracked my finger down the letter, singling out one line. “They were pointing at the East River.” Saying it aloud sparked something in my memory, and I flew down the stairs, crying Clara’s name.
“What in the name of…” She stuck her head out of the kitchen. “What’s the matter with you, hollering like that? You’re lucky the old bat’s gone out, or you’d be—”
I grabbed her shoulders, startling her into silence. “The newspaper you kept—those pages from the Times. Do you still have them?”
“The paper the food was wrapped in? The food from last Sunday?” She wrinkled her nose.
“You threw them away.” I groaned, my heart sinking. “Of course you would have.”
“What do you need with those? We already looked them over.”
“But I think I understand something now that I didn’t before. There was a story…” I trailed off. I wasn’t ready to tell Clara about what had happened on Mott Street. She already thought I was being irrational; bringing ghosts into the picture wasn’t likely to reassure her. “There was a story about the East River. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but my investigations yesterday lead me to believe—”
“Your investigations.” Clara shook her head. “You’re a detective now, is that it? Rose, when are you gonna stop playing games?”
I felt myself coloring. “You think this is a game to me? That I’m enjoying myself? You know how I feel about…” My blush deepened. “You know why I’m doing this.”
“Oh, I know all right, but I’m not sure you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her words stung like a slap in the face. “If you had any idea what I’ve been through these past two days…”
She sighed. “I’m not your mama, Rose. You do what you gotta do, but you need to be honest with yourself.” She made a weary gesture at the side door to the kitchen. “You’ll find your papers out there. Stinks to high heaven, too. Somebody forgot to take out the trash. That’s what I get for letting you run off playing detective, I guess.” So saying, she wiped her hands on her apron and left.
I stood there for a moment, fighting back tears. Clara and I had never argued before, not like this, and it felt as if my best friend had abandoned me. Which just goes to show how thoroughly a person can delude herself. Because of course she was right, though it would take me days to see it, by which point I was in way over my head.
And speaking of being in over my head, digging through three days’ worth of garbage is an experience I don’t care to recall, let alone relate. Suffice it to say that I found what I was looking for, though not without considerable trauma.
Once again, it was the little smudge of strawberry preserve that caught my eye. The page was soggy and rank but still legible, and I soon found the headline I was looking for.
A NARROW ESCAPE
~
GHOSTLY ASSAULT IN THE EAST RIVER
TREASURE HUNTER NEARLY DROWNED—GHOST OF AN ENGLISH SEA CAPTAIN BLAMED—VICTIM SAYS HE WILL RETURN TO THE SCENE FOR PROOF
An alleged ghost accosted a Brooklyn man two days ago in the narrow strait known as Hell Gate. Mr. Peter Arbridge, 22, recounted to a TIMES reporter a harrowing tale of being seized by a spectral sailor from HMS Hussar, a frigate of the English Royal Navy that sank on November 23, 1780, while attempting to navigate the treacherous waters between Manhattan and Long Island …
