by Erin Lindsey
She laughed bitterly. “Help yourself,” she said, grabbing her coin purse and tossing it at me.
By the time I’d paid the driver and returned to the kitchen, Clara had assembled a basin of water and washcloths, a little bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a needle and some thread. “What happens when the housekeeper hears us and comes down here?”
“That’s the least of my worries right now.”
She took a cloth to my temple, shaking her head as she dabbed the blood away. “Quite a mess you got here. I don’t even have proper thread for this. For all you know, I’ll make it worse.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine. Thank you, Clara.”
She wasn’t in the mood for thank-yous. “Robbed, huh? Big surprise, wandering around at night. Where was it? Five Points?”
“I wasn’t robbed,” I said wearily. “I mean, I was, but that’s not why I was attacked. I was at Mr. Wiltshire’s office, and somebody grabbed me. He had a pistol, and…” I trailed off, shuddering. Saying it out loud made me realize just how close I’d come to being put in the ground.
Clara paused, cloth suspended halfway between the bowl and my forehead. “A pistol.” She shook her head and resumed dabbing. I could see her anger draining away with each wring of the cloth, but I almost preferred it to the look she was giving me now. “Jesus Lord, Rose.”
“I know.” I felt the prick of tears behind my eyes. “And I would quit, I swear I would, but it’s a matter of life and death. I heard Mr. Burrows talking to another man yesterday about a murder, and—”
“Murder?” She froze again.
“Mr. Wiltshire is mixed up in it. I don’t know how, exactly, but Mr. Burrows was afraid it would get him killed. He might already be…” The word disappeared down my throat in a breathy gulp, the tears finally breaking free. “So I went to his office, but when I got there, the place had been turned inside out, and there was a man—”
“Shh. Rose, honey, calm down. You’re all right now, and I’m sure Mr. Wiltshire is all right, too. We’ll figure this out.”
I paused, sniffling. “We?”
“Well, you obviously ain’t gonna quit, so it seems to me my choices are to help you or let you be, and if this is what comes of letting you be”—she gestured at my bloodied temple—“I don’t see the upside.”
I nearly sobbed in my relief. “Oh, thank you, Clara!”
“That don’t mean I forgive you for putting me in this position. But since I’m in it, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” Taking up the needle and thread, she added, “Don’t skip the details, neither. Hopefully it’ll keep your mind off what I’m doing, ’cause this is gonna hurt like hell.”
It did hurt like hell, worse than anything I can recall, but Clara’s needlework was as tidy in flesh as it was in fabric, and when she’d finished and I had a glass of cooking sherry in my belly and a slab of cold meat from the icebox against my face, I felt better.
“The murder Mr. Burrows was talking about,” she said, “you think it’s this Jacob Crowe fella?”
“That’s what I was hoping to find out at the law offices, but all I got for my trouble was a smashed head and a silver button.”
“What? A button?”
I drew the little silver knob from my pocket and tossed it on the table. “I found it under the desk. I must’ve torn it loose when I was trying to fend him off.”
Clara picked it up. “Purple thread. That’s some color for a waistcoat. Did you find what you was looking for?”
I shook my head. “I was only there for a few minutes. It was a strange place, though. Didn’t look like much of a law firm, if you ask—”
A knock sounded at the front door. Clara and I frowned at each other. Who could be calling so late in the evening?
I started to get up, but Clara waved me off. “I’ll do it. You keep that cold press going.”
I did as I was told, holding the slab of cold meat against my head and ruminating. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I didn’t hear the approaching footfalls, so when I glanced up to find a man darkening the door of the kitchen, I started violently and sprang to my feet, grabbing the nearest thing to hand and brandishing it like a weapon.
“Well,” said Mr. Burrows, “that’s the second time in as many days I’ve startled you out of your skin.” Looking me over, he added, “But I think perhaps I understand why. Are you all right, Rose?”
Clara appeared behind him, shrugging helplessly. He must have barged right past her. Hardly appropriate behavior for a high society gentleman, but I’d come to realize that Mr. Burrows wasn’t your typical Fifth Avenue swell.
“I’m fine,” I told him stiffly.
“Then perhaps you might set the skillet aside for now?”
I glanced at the frying pan in my hand, still cocked threateningly over my shoulder. “Sorry,” I muttered, putting it down.
The sight of him brought a confused jumble of emotions—fear, guilt, suspicion, and more than a little anger. Part of me wanted to confide in him like an ally; another part wanted to ring that skillet off his pretty golden head. I did neither, hovering behind my chair with a look that probably wasn’t all that welcoming.
“Shall we sit?” Without waiting for a reply, he lowered himself into a chair, arranging his gloves and hat neatly on the table. “Please, Rose, don’t just stand there. I feel uncivilized enough as it is, and you look like you could use the rest. And you, Clara. I expect you should hear this, too.”
“Should I fetch Mrs. Sellers?” she asked.
“Not unless you’d like to explain a great deal more than I care to.”
Clara dragged a chair near to mine—and a notable distance from Mr. Burrows’s. The two of us faced him across the table in tense silence.
“First things first,” he said, his clear blue eyes settling on mine. “What happened to your head, Rose?”
“I was attacked.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know.”
He waited for more; when it wasn’t forthcoming, he sighed. “This is going to take a very long time if I have to draw you out with questions.”
“I’m sorry, is that inconvenient? I wouldn’t want you to think I was being deliberately uncooperative.”
His mouth quirked just short of a smile. “I deserve that, I suppose. But I’m not sure what I’ve done to earn your mistrust.”
“I hardly know where to begin, Mr. Burrows,” I said coldly, well past caring about propriety.
“I do apologize for not having been more transparent,” he said, his own voice cooling several degrees, “but if I’d had any notion of how far you meant to take this, I’d have spoken more plainly. I trust you realize by now that our mutual friend Mr. Wiltshire is embroiled in some very dangerous business.”
Thanks to you, I nearly retorted, but I held my tongue. I didn’t want him to know I’d overheard his conversation with Mr. Roberts. I didn’t want him to know anything, I decided, not until I could be sure that Detective Ward was wrong about him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Like you might be a murderer?
The silver button sat between us on the table; casually, he picked it up. “Because of what you saw, I suppose, or what you think you saw, when you followed me yesterday.” He glanced up, meeting my gaze. “What did you imagine you were about, Rose?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He gave me a wry look. “A word to the wise: If you want to be secretive about something, don’t do it in the middle of Fifth Avenue. The world has never known a more densely packed collection of busybodies, and they delight in nothing so much as embarrassing their neighbors.”
“You’ll have to forgive me. I’m obviously not as accustomed to secrecy as you are.”
“No,” he said flatly, “nor shall you ever be.” He was quiet a moment, toying with the button. Then he said, “I came here for your own good. Whether you believe it or not, I’m a friend, to Thomas Wiltshire and to you
, and as a friend, I implore you to stop this at once. Thomas would say the same, as should anyone who cares for you.” His glance slid meaningfully to Clara. “I know you’re only doing what you think is best for Thomas, but unlike you, he has gone into this with his eyes open. He knew the risks, and he chose to take them. I haven’t given up on him, nor should you, but please, leave this to me from now on. Will you do that, Rose?”
I scowled and drew little circles on the table.
“Please,” he said, dipping his head to catch my eye. “No more following me about. Five Points is a dangerous place, and the Tenderloin, to say nothing of the sorts one finds skulking around derelict gasworks. Though”—his glance shifted to my stitches—“I suppose it’s a bit late for that advice. Are you sure you’re all right? I can have my physician look at that if you’d like.”
“It’s fine,” I said distractedly, my mind snagging on something. “What do you mean—”
“Rose? Clara?” Mrs. Sellers’s voice floated down the servants’ staircase. “What’s going on? I thought I heard a man’s voice…” She appeared on the steps and froze in her tracks. “Mr. Burrows!”
“Good evening, Mrs. Sellers.” Rising, he dropped the silver button back on the table. “I was just leaving.”
“But what are you…?”
“Please excuse the hour, but I came as soon as I heard about poor Rose’s frightful ordeal. In Mr. Wiltshire’s absence, I felt it was my duty to check in and make sure she was well.” Sweeping up his belongings with casual grace, he went on, “Do let me know if you change your mind about the doctor, Rose. Anytime, day or night.”
“Ordeal?” Mrs. Sellers echoed blankly.
“Shocking, isn’t it?” Mr. Burrows shook his head. “Robbed in broad daylight. What is the city coming to? Good evening, ladies. I’ll show myself out.” With that, he donned his gray silk hat and was gone.
Mrs. Sellers stood rooted to the spot, staring like a startled cow. Eventually, she blinked her way out of her stupor and said, “Well, are you all right, Rose?”
“I’ll be fine, thank you. Only … I don’t think I’ll be able to work tomorrow.” Smiling meekly, I added, “I think I ought to follow Mr. Burrows’s advice about seeing a doctor, don’t you?”
It was a trap, of course; Mrs. Sellers wouldn’t dare disagree with a man of Mr. Burrows’s pedigree.
“Yes, of course, you should certainly do as Mr. Burrows says.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said sweetly, and smiled at her until she’d disappeared back up the stairs.
We waited until we’d heard the muted sound of Mrs. Sellers’s bedroom door shutting. Then Clara said, “What in the hell just happened?”
I shook my head. “He’s a very good liar, isn’t he?”
“Smooth as a baby’s backside. Had more than his share of practice, I’d say.”
He’d admitted as much, one of several extraordinary things about the conversation. The one that stuck out most in my mind, though, was this: “What did he mean about a derelict gasworks?”
Clara shrugged. “Probably went there after you lost him yesterday and just assumes you was still tailing him.”
“He must mean the Consolidated Gas factory on Twentieth—the one that had that awful spill.”
“What would he be doing down there? That place is poison.”
“Looking for Mr. Wiltshire, I suppose.” I took up the button again, toying with it as Mr. Burrows had done. “I wonder…”
“Here we go. Didn’t you listen to a word that man said?”
“I’m not quitting, Clara. Nothing Mr. Burrows said changes that. Maybe he’s the friend he claims to be, but I don’t need his protection.”
“You sure about that?” Before I could answer, she held up her hands. “Fine. I am not going over this again. It’s too late and I’m too tired. So what’re you gonna do?”
“Sleep.” Suddenly, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. “After that, I guess I’m visiting the gasworks.”
CHAPTER 10
RECONNOITERING THE GASWORKS—OF WAISTCOATS AND REVOLVERS—THE MAN IN THE CHAIR
I don’t know what I expected to find at the gasworks. I think some part of me was convinced Mr. Wiltshire was dead, and my way of coping was to go through every motion, no matter how futile, so that when the news came I would at least have the comfort of knowing I’d done everything I could. Either that or my instincts were keener than I gave them credit for. Whatever the reason, Friday morning found me standing across the street from the grim gray compound of the Consolidated Gas Company, huddled under an umbrella and wondering what on earth to do next.
The gates were padlocked, a rusted KEEP OUT sign hanging crookedly above a knot of chains. I might be able to climb the wall, but what for? The compound looked empty. Whoever Mr. Burrows had come here to see was obviously long gone. And Clara was right—the place was poison, literally; even two years after the disastrous leak that had shuttered the factory, the fumes felt like sandpaper on the inside of my throat. But I’d come down here in the freezing rain, enduring the stares of my fellow train passengers as I tried to hide Clara’s tidy but undeniably grotesque stitches. I wasn’t going to give up until I’d at least given the place a once-over.
I approached the gates, giving them an experimental shove. They rattled a little but didn’t come apart far enough for me to peek between them. All I could glimpse of the factory was the great hulking cylinders of the gas tanks and the blackened tip of a smokestack jutting into the sky. I walked the length of the block and around the side, but there was nothing to see but wall and more wall. I was about ready to admit defeat when the sound of a heavy tread sent me scurrying like a rat behind a cluster of old barrels; I folded my umbrella away just in time to avoid being seen by a man striding purposefully toward the river. At first I took him for security—who else would be prowling around the perimeter of an abandoned gasworks?—but as he neared my cluster of barrels, I saw that he wasn’t wearing a uniform. Instead he wore a flashy overcoat unbuttoned over an even flashier waistcoat …
… of purple silk.
I couldn’t see his face under the umbrella he carried, but his stride had a thuggish rhythm, and as I scanned the full length of his figure I glimpsed the butt of a revolver at his hip.
My breath caught. I clamped a hand over my mouth, sure he must be able to hear it, but he continued past without breaking stride.
It can’t be him. It can’t be. But there was no mistaking that purple silk.
Frightened as I was, the emotion that gripped me most in that moment was outrage. I would not be scared off by some rough in a gaudy waistcoat. I’d grown up with brutes like that loafing on every street corner. And this time, I was the one with the element of surprise on my side.
I waited until he’d disappeared around a corner, then waited a little longer for good measure. I wasn’t worried about losing him; the smoke from his cheap cigar left a trail almost thick enough to see. When I judged he was well out of range, I came out of hiding and followed.
The wall zigzagged a little near the river, and I flattened myself against it, peering around the corner to make sure the way was clear. I wasn’t surprised to find a hole in the brickwork about twenty paces ahead, just large enough for a man. I ducked through as furtively as a kitchen mouse, scampering to the nearest cover and listening for any sign of movement. Nothing. Emerging cautiously from my shadowed corner, I surveyed my surroundings.
The compound was huge, a bleak jumble of buildings covering well over a city block, and I quickly despaired of finding my man. I’d been sure I could follow the cigar smoke, but I’d failed to account for the effluvium of the place, so harsh that it nearly brought tears to my eyes. And now the rain was really coming down, pattering loudly against my overcoat. I scurried to the nearest building, but the door was locked. Cursing a salty streak any Five Pointer would have been proud of, I moved on to the next. This one had a padlock, too, but it had been broken open and lay half buried in the mud. Warily
, I nudged my way inside.
I paused on the threshold, letting my eyes adjust. A vast space littered with rusting bits of junk spread out before me. A small office stood in the far corner; that seemed as safe a place as any to warm up while I worked out what to do next. Throwing another quick glance around, I made for it.
I didn’t notice the lamplight under the door until it was too late. I stopped so abruptly that my foot scraped against the grimy floor, and I froze, cringing.
“Good,” said a voice, “you’re here. The lamp is nearly out of oil.”
I’d have recognized that voice anywhere, but hearing it speak such familiar words drove it home with a force that nearly made me swoon. With a strangled cry, I lunged at the door.
I burst in to find a small, dimly lit office, at the center of which sat Thomas Wiltshire. He looked up, startled. “What the devil? Rose?”
I stood there like a stunned rabbit, struggling to process the sight before me. He sat behind a desk, pencil in hand, papers spread out before him, as if he were merely passing an ordinary day at work. His clothing was disheveled and his beard unkempt, and he was the single most beautiful sight I’d ever laid eyes on.
I wasn’t the only one struggling with shock. I can’t imagine what must have gone through Mr. Wiltshire’s mind when he looked up to find his housemaid standing in the doorway. But he mastered it swiftly. “Quickly, Rose!” He shoved his boot into the desk and sent himself skidding back, and that’s when I saw the ropes binding his elbows to the arms of the chair. “They’ll be back any moment!”
I started to ask who they were—and then I realized what I was looking at. “Sweet Jesus, they’ve kidnapped you!” I rushed to his side. It was all I could do not to throw my arms around him, but the urgency of the situation cut through even my relief. He wasn’t safe, not yet. “I don’t have a knife. I’ll have to untie you.”
“That won’t be easy, I’m afraid. They’ve done a good job of it or I’d have dispensed with their hospitality days ago.”
I could feel his eyes on me as I worked, which didn’t exactly aid my concentration. The air was thick with unanswered questions, and I sensed he was restraining himself as much as I. Yet he was also remarkably composed under the circumstances. I hoped he could keep it up, at least until we were well clear of this wretched place. “You’re handling this very well,” I said in the way of a nurse, or a parent comforting a child.
