Murder on Millionaires' Row

by Erin Lindsey

  For the second time that day, I felt my heart rate climbing. It was impossible to read the account without being thrown back to Mott Street and the pale woman covered in blood. The tale still sounded ridiculous—an English sea captain?—but after what had happened yesterday, I could no longer dismiss it out of hand. On top of which, it was somehow connected to Mr. Wiltshire’s disappearance, and that meant I had to take it seriously, whether it was true or not.

  But how was it connected? I needed to find this Mr. Arbridge, I decided, and hear the tale for myself. The Times story said he meant to return to Hell Gate to search for the ghost, and it gave the name of his vessel, Goldrush. That was enough to go on.

  I took a bath and changed my dress. I didn’t bother asking Clara to cover for me. After yesterday, I was convinced beyond any doubt that something terrible had befallen Mr. Wiltshire, so what did I have to fear from Mrs. Sellers? If I found him, he would surely be grateful, and if I didn’t …

  I opened the drawer of my little desk, seized by a sudden need to look upon his likeness. “Hold on just a little while longer,” I whispered to those charcoal eyes. “I’m coming.”

  CHAPTER 7

  MR. PETER ARBRIDGE, TREASURE HUNTER—THE HIDDEN TALENTS OF DETECTIVE WARD—A SWELL MURDER

  Finding Mr. Peter Arbridge proved to be even easier than I’d hoped, since he was going to rather a lot of trouble to make a spectacle of himself.

  The Times hadn’t printed a photograph of the self-styled treasure hunter, but I knew him the moment I saw him—or rather, the moment I heard him, spewing his gapeseed at passersby like a newsie with too many papers to sell. “See the very spot the Hussar sank!” he cried from his perch atop a post on the pier. “Experience the terror for yourself, as reported in The New-York Times! Who’ll be next to glimpse the ghost of Captain Pole? Will it be you, sir?” The fisherman at whom this was directed laughed and continued on his way. “What about you, miss?” He gestured in my direction. “Step aboard the Goldrush and visit the site of the famous sunken treasure?”

  I glanced at the vessel in question, a small fishing boat bobbing between the looming hulls of a pair of more seaworthy-looking craft. What could anyone possibly expect to salvage in a tub like that? Mr. Arbridge’s apparent change of career from treasure hunter to tour operator hinted at the answer. I tried not to judge him too harshly. It could just as easily have been Pietro up there, perched like a seagull on a post, peddling whatever came to hand. You did whatever it took to make a living in New York.

  “Whaddya say, miss? Experience the terror for yourself?”

  I’ve experienced more than enough terror in the last twenty-four hours, thank you. Aloud, I said, “I don’t think so—but I’d be interested in hearing your tale, Mr. Arbridge.”

  “How’d you … Oh, you read my story in the Times!” He grinned, visibly pleased.

  “I did indeed, and I’d very much like to hear your version firsthand.”

  “And I’d be delighted to tell it!” He hopped down from his perch and stuck out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss…?”

  “Mary Pierce. I’m a reporter with Harper’s Weekly.” The words seemed to speak themselves, and I felt myself smiling that same wooden smile Mr. Burrows had used on me.

  Rose Gallagher, what are you doing? There was no need to lie to him. Hadn’t he just finished saying how delighted he’d be to tell his story? Clara’s words about playing games rang uncomfortably in my ears.

  “That so? A lady reporter. Well, now, you don’t come across one of them too often. Sure I can’t convince you to take the tour?”

  “No, thanks. I’m terribly afraid of the water, you see.” Heaven help me, the lies were just rolling off my tongue.

  “Sorry to hear it.” Then, brightening: “But you’d like to put my story in Harper’s?”

  “I would, very much.”

  His glance flicked over my obviously empty pockets. “You, uh, bring something to write with?”

  “I have an excellent memory,” I said, wincing inwardly.

  “Well, all right then. Where should I start?”

  “At the beginning, I suppose. When did all this happen?”

  “Last Thursday, just after sunset. I’d been out on the water all day, hoping to find some trace of the wreck.”

  “The wreck. You mean the Hussar?”

  He nodded. “You know it?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “British naval ship, twenty-eight guns. She sank out there”—he gestured across the river—“on the far side of Ward’s Island during the Revolution. They say she was carrying the Redcoats’ payroll. Hundreds of thousands of pounds in gold. Figured what with storms and such, not to mention all that blasting they been doing around Hell Gate, some of that gold musta been pushed in closer to shore. So there I am, trawling around, and that’s when I seen him out on the water.”

  “The ghost.”

  “Well, I didn’t start out thinking that. At first I thought some poor soul was drowning. There was all this arm-waving and carrying on, so I started paddling over. I was hollering at ’em to hang on.”

  The unsettling resemblance to my own encounter made me a little queasy. Luckily, Mr. Arbridge was too absorbed in his tale to notice.

  “So I’m rowing, and I turn around to see how far I got left to go, only there’s nobody there. Just … vanished. For a minute there, I thought I’d imagined the whole thing. Like maybe I was just tired from a long day, and here it was getting dark…”

  “I understand.” I’d had the same moment of doubt. Any rational person would have.

  “And then just … wham”—he slapped his hands together, startling me—“up outta the water like he’s shot from a cannon! Grabs onto the side of the boat and starts thrashing around. I can see his face in the moonlight, and he’s like a rabid dog, wild eyes and teeth bared. Hold on there, fella, I says, you’re gonna tip us! And that’s just what he does.”

  “You tipped?”

  “Sure did. Straight into the water. Cold enough to blast the air outta my chest. And then he’s on me, arms around my neck like this—”

  “Sweet Jesus.” I crossed myself instinctively.

  “—and I’m trying to grab the boat, but it’s too slippery and I think, This is it, I’m done for … And then somehow I manage to get hold of one of the oars and I jab at him with it and he just…” Mr. Arbridge spread his hands, fingers fanned. “Gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone? Disappeared?”

  “All I know is one minute he’s dragging me under and the next he’s gone, and it’s just me and my boat. Had a hell of a time flipping her back over. Lucky I didn’t freeze to death out there.”

  “The boat,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “It was slippery, you said. Was there ice on the hull? Or maybe frost?”

  His eyes widened. “How’d you know? Don’t recall as I mentioned that to the fella from the Times.”

  “Yours isn’t the first ghost story I’ve heard.”

  “So you believe me, then?”

  I did, Lord help me, but where did it get me? “Besides the reporter you spoke with, has anyone else come around asking about this?”

  “A few, after the story in the Times, but nobody professional. Your story will be the only one, I promise. Other than the first one, I mean.”

  “The others who came asking … Was one of them an Englishman, by any chance?”

  “As a matter of fact.”

  My heart skipped a beat.

  Mistaking my reaction for dismay, Mr. Arbridge said, “He with one of the other papers? Didn’t tell me if he was. That story’s yours rightwise.”

  “Was he about so tall, finely dressed, maybe a little older than you?”

  “Sounds like him.”

  “What day was this?”

  “Saturday.” Leaning in conspiratorially, he added, “Didn’t much care for him, to tell the truth.”

  “Oh?”

  “Didn’t like the way he asked his questions.
Where was I precisely, what time precisely—he used the word precisely a lot, like he was trying to catch me out or something. Bit of a know-it-all, too. Told me it couldn’t’ve been Captain Pole I seen.” He snorted, incredulous.

  “Did he by chance mention any other names to you? A Mr. Jonathan Burrows, for instance, or a Mr. Roberts?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Not to me,” he said, growing impatient. “Is he the competition or not?”

  “I … I don’t think so.” I forced myself to smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  He jammed his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels awkwardly. “So … a big magazine like Harper’s … Don’t suppose there’s any money in a story like that?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  He sighed in disappointment. “Well, maybe there’ll be some business behind it, at least. When’ll it be out?”

  “Oh, soon,” I said, feeling guilty all over again. “Thanks for your time, and … good luck.”

  I headed back to the train with my head whirring. Mr. Wiltshire had to be the Englishman in question, but what was his interest in Peter Arbridge and his ghost story? If I was a long way from finding the answer to that, at least I was piecing together a picture of what had happened to Mr. Wiltshire after he’d left home on Saturday.

  Whatever he’d been about, it must have had something to do with his business with the Freemasons. The trouble was, I still had no idea what that might be. If only I knew what he did for a living, maybe it would help me figure out the nature of the services he was providing—and what it had to do with murder.

  I couldn’t ask Mr. Burrows, not now that I knew he was one of them. Think, Rose. Who else would…?

  I stopped cold. The coppers would know, wouldn’t they?

  I consulted Mr. Wiltshire’s watch. Three o’clock—still plenty of time to get down to the police station on Fifty-Ninth.

  Sweeping up the hem of my dress, I broke into a run.

  * * *

  “She’s over there, sir,” the young officer said, pointing.

  Detective Ward didn’t bother to hide his irritation, heading toward me in long, ringing strides. “Come to see how we’re getting along, have you?” he said, without so much as a how-do-you-do. He didn’t offer me a seat, either. Apparently we were going to have this conversation in the middle of the crowded police station.

  “What’s wrong with that?” I said. “Shouldn’t I be concerned?”

  “You can be concerned all you like, darlin’, so long as you do it someplace else. I got a job to do here, and I’ve already had to account to you people once today.”

  It took me a moment to work out who he meant. “Mrs. Sellers? I thought you were the one who called her.”

  “So did I, but you wouldn’t’ve known it to listen to her. I could barely get a word in edgewise. Felt like I was back in Sunday school facing that shrew of a teacher.”

  “Oh, really? That doesn’t sound at all like the Mrs. Sellers I know.”

  That earned me an amused snort, at least. “Must be a real treat working for her.”

  “I don’t work for her. I work for Mr. Wiltshire, and I’m very worried about him.” I looked the detective straight in the eye as I said it, daring him to make fun.

  He couldn’t be bothered even with that. “Wish I could help, but we ain’t found him yet, so…” He started to turn away.

  “Just a minute, please. I came here to—”

  “Look, we’re doing everything we can, but it ain’t like this is the only case I’m working. I’m up to my neck in thieving and murdering and suchlike, so quite frankly—”

  “Did you say murder?”

  “Sure,” Ward said impatiently. “Every week. It’s a big town, love.”

  “Were any of them in or around Hell Gate, by any chance?” It was a stab in the dark, but there had to be some connection between the story in the Times and Mr. Wiltshire’s business with the Masons.

  “Come again?”

  “The murder victims—recent ones, I mean—were any of them found in the East River?”

  “Only half of ’em,” he said dryly. “The other half was in the Hudson.”

  “Or maybe … Does the name Peter Arbridge mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing. Should it?”

  I almost stamped my foot in frustration. “Look, can you at least tell me what Mr. Wiltshire does for a living?”

  Ward growled under his breath. “Christ Almighty, you’re all the same!”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant women or Irish or housemaids, but I supposed it didn’t matter.

  “I ain’t got time to stand here answering whatever question comes into your idea-pot, lady.”

  “Just answer this one and I’ll go. I need to know what he does for a living, and where.”

  “You mean to tell me you live in the man’s house and you don’t know what he does for a living?” Ward paused, eyes narrowing. “Well, now. He never told you a thing about his business?” A different quality to his voice now: soft, casual. Too casual.

  “I never asked.” Feeling suddenly defensive, I added, “We weren’t exactly on close personal terms.”

  “But you know he don’t like Wagner.” His gaze snagged on mine, sharp as a fishhook.

  That’s when I knew I’d made a mistake.

  I’d dismissed Detective Ward as a buffoon, but I’d been wrong. Lazy he might be, and rude besides, but he was obviously no fool. He’d paid closer attention to our last conversation than I’d thought, and after the fuss I’d made about how well I knew Mr. Wiltshire, here I was admitting ignorance of one of the most basic aspects of his affairs. If that weren’t suspicious enough, I’d just finished peppering him with questions about murder.

  Oh, Rose, what have you done?

  “He’s an attorney,” Ward said, watching me carefully.

  “Yes, of course, that makes sense.”

  So Pietro had been right after all. But how did Mr. Wang fit into it, or any of the other stops on Mr. Burrows’s slumming tour?

  “His office is near Wall Street,” Ward went on, still watchful. “Locke, Banneker and Associates. Right across from the Equitable Life Building. Ring a bell?”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I shook my head.

  “Well, howdya like that? Almost like he was hiding something.”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t.” I was suddenly very aware of the crowded room; it felt as if every pair of eyes were on us.

  “Now I got a question for you, same one I had for the housekeeper this morning. Ever hear of a swell called Jacob Crowe?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You was asking about murders—here’s one for you. Ol’ Jacob turned up dead last Monday. Funny thing: he belonged to the same club as Jonathan Burrows. City this size, that’s quite a coincidence.”

  Swallowing past a dry throat, I said, “New York may be a big city, but high society is a very small world.”

  “So they say. Could be if I take another look at that members’ list, I’ll find some other names I know. Thomas Wiltshire, for example.”

  Of course he would. Mr. Wiltshire and Mr. Burrows met at the Madison Club several times a week. I’ll bet Roberts is a member, too. They were all connected—Mr. Burrows, Mr. Roberts, the dead man, the Freemasons … and Thomas Wiltshire.

  My distress must have shown on my face, because Ward leaned in and said, “Anything you wanna tell me, sweetheart? About Jonathan Burrows, maybe?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” But that was a lie, and he knew it.

  “Maybe Wiltshire got in over his head, eh? Crossed a certain powerful man of his acquaintance, just like poor ol’ Jacob?” The detective was so close that I could smell the whiskey on his breath.

  I felt ill. I’d come here hoping to put the pieces together, but instead I’d helped Detective Ward put together a picture of his own—one of Jonathan Burrows as a murderer. “You�
��re wrong. It’s not like that at all.” I’m not sure which of us I was trying to convince.

  “You’re a good girl, but trust me, these plutes ain’t worth protecting. You really think either of them would stick their necks out for you?” He shook his head, as if to say, Poor, silly thing.

  Maybe it was the condescending look on his face, or the stench of whiskey on his breath. Maybe I’d just reached the end of my emotional tether. All I know is that in that moment, something snapped. I’d had enough of being patronized—by the police, the housekeeper, Mr. Burrows, even my own best friend. I’d had enough of sweethearts and honeys and darlin’s and loves, and I’d had enough of Detective bloody Ward. “What I am is clever,” I said coldly, “so you should listen carefully. If you want to look into someone suspicious, his name is Roberts. He’s a Freemason. You can find him at the temple on Twenty-Third and Sixth.”

  The detective frowned. “And what’s so suspicious about him?”

  “See for yourself. Maybe you can start by asking him if he knows Jacob Crowe. Good day, officer.”

  I made it all the way out into the street before my knees buckled. I clutched the side of the building, shaking, wondering if I’d just bought Mr. Wiltshire and Mr. Burrows a pair of one-way tickets to Sing Sing. I was so distraught that I didn’t even hear the footsteps behind me.

  “’Scuse me, miss.” The voice belonged to an older man—another detective, from the look of him. “I think we’d better have a talk.”

  CHAPTER 8

  COFFEE WITH A COPPER—AN UNEXPECTED ALLY—LOCKE, BANNEKER & ASSOCIATES—BLOOD AND BUTTONS

  “I’ve said everything I have to say,” I told the copper, thrusting my chin out defiantly. “I’m not going to be bullied by you or Detective Ward or anybody else.”

  “I ain’t here to bully you, miss. Thing is, I couldn’t help overhearing what you said in there—”

  “You and the whole station, thanks to your colleague.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but…” Sighing, he glanced over his shoulder. “Look, would you be willing … Do you drink coffee?”