Murder on Millionaires' Row

by Erin Lindsey

“Old-fashioned.” A hollow laugh. “You know me better than that.”

  “The Thomas Wiltshire I know is curiously reluctant to show himself in this matter. A self-professed man of science—I’d have thought you’d delight in having a protégé.”

  “It’s more complicated than that…”

  I couldn’t risk lingering any longer. Reluctantly, I peeled myself away from the door and headed downstairs to await Mr. Burrows.

  He didn’t keep me long. Barely five minutes later, he came striding down the hallway wearing his hat, his overcoat, and a very smug grin.

  “What happened?” I asked, feeling more than a little foolish.

  He just winked and breezed out the door.

  Drawing a deep breath, I headed back upstairs. I found Mr. Wiltshire standing at the window, gazing out over Fifth Avenue. “I apologize if I seemed abrupt a moment ago,” he said.

  “It’s for me to be sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, especially after you made yourself clear yesterday. As for Mr. Burrows—”

  “You needn’t apologize for Mr. Burrows. He certainly doesn’t apologize for himself.”

  Smoothing the folds of my apron, I said the words I’d prepared downstairs. “I know you’re in a difficult position, and I didn’t mean to make it worse. I was disappointed, and I’m not always very good at keeping my thoughts to myself. But I wasn’t trying to put pressure on you, I swear. The last thing I want is to be a burden.”

  “A burden? Good Lord, Rose, you’ve been the furthest thing from it.”

  “I’m just saying I know my place, is all.”

  I knew right away I’d said something wrong. He stiffened and turned back to the window, and there was a stretch of silence. “Tell me something,” he said at length. “What is it you want for yourself? For your future, I mean?”

  I sensed there was a lot riding on this question, so I thought about it for a long moment before responding. Even so, the best answer I could come up with consisted of only one word: “More.”

  He nodded slowly. “Well, then, I suppose it’s settled.” Turning back to me, he said, “I can’t promise you more, but I can offer to help you take the first few steps. I think you know they’ll be difficult, and possibly a great deal worse. Are you ready for that?”

  “I am.” I’d been ready my whole life—or so I thought.

  “In that case,” Mr. Wiltshire said, “we have a very long day ahead of us.”

  CHAPTER 18

  THE DRAGON’S DEN—BAD LUCK—A DEVIATION IN THE PLAN

  “Edmund Drake,” Mr. Wiltshire said, offering me a hand up into the coach. “Grandson of Sir Ellery Drake of Surrey. They call him the Dragon.”

  “Because of his surname, I suppose?”

  “And because he always gets his way, at least in business. I doubt we’ll find him very accommodating.” Tapping on the roof with his walking stick, he set the carriage rolling. “Fortunately, you seem to have a good nose for obfuscation, if your assay of Mr. Burrows is any guide. I’ve a certain aptitude for it myself, so between us we ought to catch any chicanery.”

  I gave myself an extra moment to digest this flurry of syllables. “Are we expecting, er … chicanery?”

  “We’re going to have to come at our purpose crosswise. The Brotherhood of Seekers is obviously very good at keeping secrets or I’d have heard of them by now. Even assuming they aren’t involved in anything nefarious, I expect he’ll be evasive on the subject. And if they are…”

  “He’ll lie outright.”

  “Presumably.”

  The rocking of the carriage seemed to help my thoughts fall into place, as if they were marbles rolling about in search of a slot. I had so many questions, but perversely I was more reluctant to ask them than ever. I felt as if I had something to prove now, and I needed to work things out on my own. “The papers those men wanted you to translate … If they do belong to the Seekers, that implies they’re the ones behind your kidnapping, except…”

  His eyes fixed on me expectantly. “Except?”

  “Well, I don’t know much about ciphers, but if cracking it was as simple as you say, it seems to me that kidnapping someone is an awful lot of trouble to go to. Mr. Burrows said the Brotherhood was full of scientists. I’d have thought men like that could work it out on their own.”

  “Sound reasoning, and a perfect echo of my own thoughts. Something doesn’t quite add up there.”

  “Whoever took you knew you’d be able to crack it, so I guess that means they know what you do for a living. That you’re not really a lawyer, I mean.”

  “So it would appear. Not terribly good news, is it?”

  “But it narrows things down, surely? I mean, how many people know the truth about you?”

  “Half the Madison Club, I’m afraid,” he said ruefully. “The paranormal community is terribly incestuous. You heard what Mr. Burrows said about overlapping circles. I try to be discreet, but it’s challenging.” He started to say more, but the carriage began to slow. “Ah, here we are.”

  “Already?”

  “In this line of work, one rarely strays too far from Fifth Avenue. Now, we don’t want to give him anything we don’t have to, so follow my lead and say as little as possible. Ready?”

  The carriage door was opened by a footman in bright red livery, the sort you sometimes see standing outside the Grand Opera House or some other high society place. Accepting his help, I stepped down from the carriage onto a small semicircular drive set back from the avenue. I recognized the property straightaway. Built of the requisite brownstone with the requisite sloping French roofs, the residence of Mr. Edmund Drake occupied an entire block opposite Central Park. A butler stood waiting under the awning, Mr. Wiltshire having sent his card ahead.

  It was the grandest building I’d ever set foot in—grander even than St. Patrick’s Cathedral, if the Good Lord will excuse me for saying so—and I felt awfully self-conscious, even in my Sunday dress with my best hat. As for Mr. Wiltshire, he looked perfectly at home, handing over his fur-trimmed overcoat with an air of such routine you’d have thought he lived in a palace like this himself, or at least that he’d spent a great deal of time in them. Which, I realized belatedly, he probably had.

  He declined to give the butler his walking stick, though, which earned him a disdainfully raised eyebrow. Instead he handed it to me while he removed his gloves. It felt strange in my hands—lighter than I would have guessed, and curiously alive. It thrummed subtly, as if a breath of wind rustled through ghostly branches. And when it brushed against the bare skin of my wrist, a nerve throbbed beneath my rib cage, like a tooth aching with cold. I wasn’t sorry to give it back.

  The butler ushered us through a series of elaborately decorated drawing rooms, each one seemingly devoted to some sort of theme: Chinese porcelain, medieval suits of armor, stained glass and cherubim. One after another unfolded before us, but there was no time to admire any of it; the butler marched us past like an impatient tour guide at a museum, until at last we were deposited in a sort of parlor, there to await our host.

  I say sort of because it didn’t look like any parlor I’d ever seen. Portraits of stern relatives glowered down at us from left and right. A towering bookshelf brandished row upon row of massive leather-bound tomes, each one boasting a title as ponderous as the volumes themselves. The furnishings were sparse and austere, the woodwork polished to an accusing shine. It was about as inhospitable a space as I’d ever been received in, and I’m including those with straw on the floor.

  “My, my,” Mr. Wiltshire murmured, taking in our surroundings. “It’s all very contrived, isn’t it? Even by Fifth Avenue standards.”

  “Contrived?”

  “This room has been meticulously designed to be as intimidating as possible. I daresay there’s a second, more welcoming parlor somewhere.”

  “All those rooms we walked through … I couldn’t work out what they were for. They didn’t seem to be good for anything but looking.”

  He sm
iled. “In that case, you’ve worked out exactly what they’re for: to impress you.”

  “If there’s a nicer parlor somewhere, the fact that we’ve been shown to this one…”

  “Indeed. I’d say we’re in for an even bumpier ride than I thought.”

  “Do you think he’s dangerous?” I asked, gesturing at Mr. Wiltshire’s stick. I couldn’t think of any reason to keep it close at hand unless he thought he might need it.

  He seemed to find that amusing. “I have no reason to think so, but if he were, a walking stick would not be my weapon of choice. I carry a pistol for that sort of thing.”

  “Oh. I just thought since it’s special and all…”

  “Special?” He considered it with a frown. “Against the dead, perhaps, but against a living man, it’s just an ordinary piece of wood.”

  It certainly hadn’t felt ordinary when I’d touched it. I started to say as much, but just then Mr. Edmund Drake entered the room. He was a distinguished-looking fellow, dark-haired and dark-eyed, silver beginning to show at his temples. His clothing was conservative but finely tailored, and he wore a gold tie pin with the same motif as Mr. Wiltshire’s cuff links: a griffin with an emerald clasped in its talons. Mr. Burrows had the same tie pin. The emblem of the Madison Club, I figured. All roads seemed to lead back there.

  “Wiltshire,” Drake said, shaking hands, “this is a pleasant surprise.”

  There was nothing in his tone to suggest actual pleasure, but Mr. Wiltshire pretended to believe him. “May I present my associate, Miss Gallagher.”

  I don’t suppose I have to tell you how sweet that sounded to my ears.

  To Drake, though, it sounded as if someone had unaccountably let an Irishwoman into his home—or so I surmised from the faint look of distaste flitting over his features. “Associate, is it? How interesting.”

  Do you want to know what’s really interesting? I’m actually his housemaid. I managed to hold my tongue on that remark, for Mr. Wiltshire’s sake.

  “I take it this is a business call, then?” Drake gestured for us to sit, lowering himself into a creaking leather chair. As he did so, his glance alighted briefly on Mr. Wiltshire’s walking stick.

  “Unfortunately, yes. You’ve heard about poor Frederick Crowe, I presume?”

  “A terrible tragedy. Though I’m at a loss as to how it brings you to my door.”

  “I’ve been engaged to look into the matter.”

  “So it’s true.” Drake regarded Mr. Wiltshire with detached curiosity. “I’d heard you might be in the private detective game. Pinkerton, is it? I’ve dealt with your outfit in the past.”

  “And how did you find it?”

  “A reliable firm. But I’m afraid I still don’t see how that brings you here.”

  “Making my way through the club roll, you could say. As many known associates as I can find.”

  Drake grunted. “A touch haphazard, isn’t it? The Crowes were very well connected socially.”

  “One has to start somewhere.”

  “Start?” Drake lifted an eyebrow. “It’s been a week or more since Jacob’s murder.”

  “Indeed, but I’m afraid I found myself detained for several days.”

  If I’d had any warning, I’d have watched Drake closely for his reaction. Instead I was looking at Mr. Wiltshire, and the keenness of his gaze told me that the subject hadn’t come up by accident. This was an ambush, cunningly orchestrated, and Drake had walked right into it.

  Cunning though it might have been, however, the snare came up empty. Drake just frowned, as though wondering if perhaps he hadn’t overestimated the reliability of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. “I suppose we all have responsibilities that keep us busy. With that in mind, why don’t we get straight to it. How can I help you, Wiltshire?”

  “How well would you say you knew the Crowe brothers?”

  “Jacob a little, Freddie not at all, except to say hello.”

  “When you say a little…”

  “We dined at the club now and then. We had similar interests.”

  “What sorts of interests, if I may ask?”

  “Botany.”

  I almost snorted aloud, and Mr. Wiltshire’s mouth took a wry turn. Edmund Drake absorbed both of these reactions with a watchful eye.

  That’s when I understood that we’d walked into a snare of our own. Drake had just taken the measure of what we knew about his association with Jacob Crowe, which was plenty.

  Whether Mr. Wiltshire noticed, I couldn’t tell. “Is there anyone who distinguishes himself in your memory as a particular friend of Jacob Crowe’s? Or an enemy, perhaps? Anyone whom I would be remiss not to interview?”

  “Jacob was a studious fellow. He had many acquaintances, but friends?” Drake shrugged. “As to enemies—why should he have any of those?”

  “I couldn’t say, but the fact of his murder would seem to suggest that he did.”

  Drake paused. Once again his gaze fell to Mr. Wiltshire’s walking stick. “A striking piece. Ash, is it?”

  “Well spotted.”

  Their eyes met. That’s when I understood why Mr. Wiltshire had brought the stick. If ash wood was as important as he’d said, a member of the paranormal community would know it at a glance and recognize its bearer as one of their own. Like a Masonic ring, or a griffin with an emerald in its claws, Mr. Wiltshire’s walking stick was a sort of crest. One Drake obviously recognized, which meant he was a member, too.

  “In which case,” Drake said, “I don’t suppose there’s much point in subtlety, is there?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Drake leaned forward, leather creaking beneath him. “Thomas,” he said silkily, and paused. When he judged he had Mr. Wiltshire’s full attention, he went on, “Does this mean it wasn’t the shade that killed Jacob?”

  My surprise at the question was nothing compared with my astonishment at Mr. Wiltshire’s answer. “That’s precisely what it means. Whoever killed the Crowe brothers was certainly human.”

  Follow my lead, he’d said, but I’d understood our plan was to keep our cards close. Now here he was laying them out on the table, right under Edmund Drake’s nose.

  “Very well,” Drake said, “and do you have a suspect?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “There’s a reason you sought me out in particular, I imagine?”

  Mr. Wiltshire hesitated, frowning.

  “Forgive me, that wasn’t direct enough, was it?” Drake leaned in still closer. “Thomas, why are you here?”

  “Because you’re a member of the Brotherhood of Seekers.”

  Was this his idea of coming at the subject crosswise? I glanced over sharply, but Mr. Wiltshire didn’t meet my eye, preferring instead to engage in some sort of staring contest with Drake. I couldn’t read his expression.

  Drake, for his part, was visibly annoyed. “And just where did you come across that name?”

  “Miss Gallagher told me,” Mr. Wiltshire said, gesturing casually at me.

  I must have looked startled, because Drake smiled and said, “No need to worry. We’re all friends here. What’s your name, my dear? Your given name, I mean.”

  I had a sudden, absurd impulse to lie to him. Mary, I almost said, the alias I’d given to Peter Arbridge. But Mr. Wiltshire had asked me to follow his lead, so … “Rose.”

  “Rose,” Drake said.

  His inflection didn’t change, but when he spoke my name, it felt as if I were hearing it for the first time. The word seemed to flow around me, thick and sticky, as though I were sinking into a vat of warm honey. A frisson of euphoria sparkled in my veins; suddenly, all I wanted was more of that voice.

  “Where did you hear about the Brotherhood of Seekers?” Drake asked me.

  “A police officer told me.”

  “What police officer?”

  “Sergeant Chapman of the Twenty-Eighth Precinct.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  I gave Edmund Drake everything I could re
call, down to the last detail.

  “And what is his interest in the Brotherhood?”

  “I asked him to look into Mr. Roberts, and that’s what he found.”

  “Roberts. Damn. I might have known. Very well, Rose, we’re almost through. What other names do you have?”

  “Emmerson. Feldt. The Crowe brothers. That’s all.”

  “Nothing incriminating on any of us?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Thomas?”

  “No,” Mr. Wiltshire confirmed, “not as yet.”

  “Very well, then,” Drake said, rising. “I trust that covers it?”

  “Admirably, thank you,” said Mr. Wiltshire.

  They shook hands, and we trailed the butler back through the maze of drawing rooms and out into the street. “That went rather well, I thought,” Mr. Wiltshire said as we climbed into the carriage.

  “I agree,” I said, still riding little waves of euphoria.

  All was right with the world until about Sixtieth Street, at which point something occurred to me. “Do you think maybe we said more than we should have?”

  Mr. Wiltshire had been quiet for several blocks, and when he looked up his expression was troubled. “Why, what did you tell him? For that matter, what did I tell him?” He shook his head, frowning. “I’m sorry, for some reason I’m having a devil of a time recalling the details of the conversation. Everything feels a bit…”

  “Foggy.”

  Our eyes met. In mine, he saw confusion; in his, I saw a dawning dismay. “My God,” he whispered.

  I could feel the realization creeping up on me, too, like the chill of an approaching shade. Then it hit me. “He drugged us!”

  But no—he couldn’t have. He hadn’t even offered us tea. Then what?

  “Luck,” Mr. Wiltshire said grimly. “I’d bet my estate on it.”

  I stared at him, still not quite understanding.

  “I’d heard rumors that Drake was lucky, but I had no idea of the extent of it.” He shook his head in awe. “That’s one of the strongest powers I’ve ever come across.”

  “What power? What did he just do to us?”

  “Some sort of persuasion, obviously. Almost like hypnosis.” He laughed bitterly. “The Dragon indeed. No wonder his business dealings are so successful! It’s like a drug or a venom. And so subtle! If you hadn’t been here to compare notes, I should never have noticed anything amiss. I’d have put it down to fatigue or distraction or some such.” He grimaced, massaging his temples. “I still can’t remember what I said. Good Lord, we must have given him everything.”