by Erin Lindsey
Thomas paled. “Is that possible?”
“Who knows? As you said, the light of modern science has never been shined there. What do we really know for sure?”
Much as I’d have liked to avoid flaunting my ignorance in front of Drake, I had to ask. “These fae you’re talking about … Do you mean … fairies?”
“Some have called them that,” Thomas said, “though it’s meant in the Germanic sense rather than the British one.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they’re not pointy-eared sprites,” Drake said impatiently. “They’re immortal creatures of immense power, and more dangerous than anything that’s walked the earth since they vanished.”
“Vanished.”
“The fae once lived among us,” Thomas explained. “Every mythical tradition mentions them in some form or another. The Greeks and Mesopotamians called them demigods. To the Norse, they were elves. The Arabians call them djinn. Even the biblical notion of angels and demons may have its roots in mortal interactions with the fae.”
“Good Lord, Wiltshire, you’re as bad as Crowe. The point is, they’re long gone. They retreated to their respective kingdoms and sealed the portals behind them. They didn’t want to be found, and I imagine they’d take it badly if someone went looking for them. Especially if that someone left a magical rope lying around that allowed shades and ghosts and God knows what else to wander freely about the otherworld, creating chaos. Those realms are kept separate for a reason. To each his place. Man wasn’t meant to go poking around the otherworld, and he certainly wasn’t meant to unlock all the cages and let the entire zoo run riot.”
“And that’s what you think Jacob Crowe meant to do?” Thomas asked.
“I speak of the potential consequences of his actions. As to his intentions, all I can say for certain is that he wanted to explore the otherworld. He spoke of it incessantly to anyone who would listen. That’s probably why Roberts told him about my folios.” Darkly, he added, “Which makes him just as great a fool as the Crowes.”
“Wasn’t that the whole idea behind your little secret society?” I pointed out. “Unmasking the great metaphysical mysteries, or some such?”
“I joined the Brotherhood of Seekers to keep an eye on men like Jacob Crowe. The pursuit of knowledge is well and good, but there are limits—or at least there ought to be.”
“So.” Thomas bowed his head, fingers knitted below his chin in thought. “You mention the manuscripts to Roberts, and he mentions them to Jacob Crowe. Crowe steals the manuscripts, probably with the help of his brother, if not Roberts. They begin experimenting with the spells they find there, inadvertently drawing out Matilda Meyer and at least a dozen other shades from the breach at Hell Gate.”
“So that’s where it is.” Drake shook his head. “God help us.”
“You knew about the breached portal?” I glared at him accusingly.
“How does that indict me, Miss Gallagher? I read the papers—as did the Crowes, obviously. The matter is clear to those of us who know what to look for. To Jacob, it would have presented an irresistible opportunity.”
Thomas ignored us both, continuing to talk it through. “Matilda Meyer appears to Jacob. Two days later, he turns up dead, but not by her hand.”
“Maybe someone found out what he was doing,” I said, “and decided to stop him.”
Drake grunted. “I can certainly understand that. I might have done it myself had I realized he’d finally found a way to implement his disastrous little schemes.” He said it plain as you please, as if it were perfectly ordinary for a man to contemplate murdering his friend.
“Or maybe he lost his nerve,” I went on, taking a page from Thomas’s book and ignoring Drake, “and someone killed him for that.”
“Interesting.” Thomas pressed the steeple of his fingers to his lips. “If Jacob was as frightened by Mrs. Meyer as she claims, he must not have foreseen the consequences of his actions. Once he did, one would certainly hope that he’d begin having doubts. And if he shared them with his brother…”
“He’d start having doubts, too,” I said, “especially once Jacob turned up dead.”
“A collaborator,” Thomas said, speaking with more energy now, “someone who didn’t want to drop the experiments. But no…” He sighed, fading back into his seat. “That doesn’t make sense. I don’t care how passionate you are about science, you don’t kill purely for the sake of knowledge. Not unless there’s something concrete to gain by it, and who gains from risking his life in the otherworld?”
“Dr. Livingstone gained plenty from risking his life in Africa,” I pointed out. “Anybody who’s ever read Harper’s Weekly knows his name.”
“David Livingstone died of malaria in the middle of nowhere.”
“Maybe, but he died famous. Men kill for less.”
“She’s right, Wiltshire. On top of which, there are plenty of other ways a clever entrepreneur might profit. You know what mediums charge to traffic with the dead. Imagine that on an industrial scale. Or perhaps our mysterious collaborator is more ambitious still. If he believes that magical rope can guide him to the fae … Well, I hardly need explain how that prospect might appear attractive to some.”
“But not to you?” I asked sarcastically.
“As I said, the fae have made it abundantly clear that they don’t wish to be found. Ignoring those wishes could put countless lives at risk.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Drake, but you don’t exactly strike me as the sort who frets about the greater good.”
“Very well, I’ll give you another reason. Luck originated with the fae, and since they left this world it’s steadily withered away. Even so, I’ve done very well by such talents as I possess. I have no wish to see that advantage eroded by the sudden reappearance of beings a thousand times more powerful.”
I stared at him. “Just to be sure I understand, your main concern with unleashing a race of all-powerful, possibly very angry immortal beings on our world is that you wouldn’t be special anymore?”
He shrugged. “You asked, Miss Gallagher. I’m simply being honest.”
As I sat there staring at Edmund Drake—with his fancy suit and his emerald tie pin and that unapologetic look on his face—I felt something akin to Pietro’s contempt for the rich. Not all of them, maybe, but those endowed with luck. People who, through a simple accident of birth, had the whole world at their feet, and had the nerve to think it belonged there. Who deceived everyone around them in an effort to make sure it stayed there. When I thought of how hard I’d worked to make a place for myself among their glittering set—learning to speak, act, maybe even think differently—well, I didn’t just feel deceived. I felt cheated.
That is why we keep it secret, Mr. Burrows had said. At last, I truly understood.
“Putting all that aside,” Thomas said, “I suspect we’re giving our killer too much credit. A man who lacks the patience to crack a cipher hardly strikes me as the sort who would harbor ambitions of that scale.”
“His ambitions don’t matter,” Drake said. “As I said, it’s the potential consequences of his actions that signify, and those are nothing short of catastrophic. Miss Gallagher mentioned a ribbon of light a moment ago. If Jacob Crowe or one of his collaborators cast that spell, it has already begun. The shades will keep coming. Dozens will become hundreds, then thousands. And if the rope reaches even deeper into the otherworld, who knows what else might climb out?”
I didn’t care to think about that, so I stuck to the practical. “I don’t see how speculating helps us any. Seems to me we ought to be speaking with Mr. Roberts.”
“Leave him to me,” Drake said. “Roberts trusts me. I ought to be able to catch him unawares. I’ll have the truth from him—in its entirety.”
Thomas looked uncomfortable; I don’t think he much liked the idea of using Drake’s power to our advantage, even indirectly.
For that matter, neither did I. “Can’t we just talk to him? What you did to us this morning �
� Have you got any idea what that feels like? It’s—”
“A violation,” Drake said matter-of-factly. “But physically harmless and wholly effective. Whatever you may think of me, Miss Gallagher, or what I can do, we haven’t the luxury of fretting over it now. The stakes are too high.”
“At least let us try a more … conventional interview first,” Thomas said. “If we fail, you can stop by later and try your luck, as it were.”
Drake frowned. “You’ll only put him on his guard.”
“There’s no reason for him to suspect that the three of us are working together, and besides, all you have to do is get him alone and he’ll be powerless against you. Surely you can manage that?” Thomas arched an eyebrow.
Drake took that as a challenge—just as Thomas knew he would. “I’ll do my part, Wiltshire. You just make sure you don’t ruffle his feathers so badly that he won’t even agree to see me.”
“Good. Now can you think of anyone else who might be involved?”
Drake shook his head. “I’ll look into the other members of the Brotherhood, but I doubt any of them had a hand in this. These men are scientists and scholars. Every one of them would have been able to crack that cipher, given enough time. Whoever kidnapped you is obviously in a great hurry. As should you be, because if he does succeed in translating those folios, he’ll have powerful spells at his disposal, some of which could be turned upon you.”
“What sorts of spells?”
“I couldn’t give you details. I only glanced over the contents, and I’m no witch. What I can say is that the more complicated spells seem to be some form of necromancy.”
“That stands to reason,” Thomas said. “If one planned to explore the otherworld, one would need to be confident of being able to interact safely with the dead. Having a few spells up one’s sleeve would only be prudent.”
“Perhaps, but it also means our killer would have still more dangerous toys to play with. We must recover those folios, Wiltshire.”
“Thomas…” I swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. “When you say interact safely with the dead … Might one of those spells…?”
He understood straightaway. “Yes,” he said, leaning forward eagerly, “yes, why not? If these spells are so rare and powerful, perhaps one of them might do the job!”
“What job?” Drake scowled; he didn’t like being left out. “What are you talking about?”
I’m not sure why I answered him. I still didn’t trust this man, and the last thing I wanted was to look weak in front of him. But the words fell from my lips before I could stop them. “I have a fragment embedded in my chest. A shade—the same one Jacob Crowe saw.”
Drake absorbed this news with a grim expression. “I am sorry to hear that, Miss Gallagher. Very sorry indeed.”
I wanted Edmund Drake’s sympathy about as much as I wanted cholera, but manners were manners, so I forced myself to say, “Thank you.”
“But there is hope,” Thomas said, meeting my gaze and holding it firmly. “With or without these manuscripts, there is hope.”
Whether he truly believed that I don’t know, but I loved him for saying it.
“In that case, Wiltshire, it sounds as if you haven’t a moment to lose.”
It was a dismissal, but neither of us minded; we were only too happy to be out of there. We left with a list of names and a promise to keep each other informed of any new developments.
“What now?” I asked as we stepped into the carriage.
“It’s late.”
“But Drake’s right. We’ve got so little time, and unless we recover the folios, what chance do we have of righting any of this? That magical rope is a lit fuse on a stick of dynamite, to say nothing of the other spells…”
“I don’t deny the situation is grave, but driving ourselves to exhaustion isn’t going to help.”
As soon as he said the word, I could see it in his features: the gray circles under his eyes, the sag of his shoulders beneath his overcoat. So much had happened to me over the past twenty-four hours that I’d all but forgotten about what had happened to him. He’d had only a single night’s sleep since his week-long ordeal at the gasworks. “I’m sorry. Of course you need to rest.”
“We both do. We have another full day ahead of us tomorrow, and after that—”
“After that, I’ll most likely be dead.”
I hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
“Don’t.” He grabbed my hand, looking stricken. “Don’t give up now, Rose, not after you’ve shown such courage. We will find a way.”
I nodded numbly, listening to the tick-tock of the horse’s hooves as it dragged us down Fifth Avenue.
CHAPTER 25
THE SOCIETY FOR PSYCHICAL RESEARCH—THE MYSTERIOUS MR. S—TUB OF BLOOD
The coppers were gone by the time we got back to 726 Fifth Avenue—or at least, most of them were. As we hung up our overcoats, I noticed a battered old hat and threadbare scarf on the bench, and a moment later our grim silence was interrupted by a familiar, grandfatherly voice.
“Making a few after-dinner calls?” Sergeant Chapman lounged against the doorframe of the parlor. “Dodging police statements is becoming a bad habit for you two.”
“I do apologize, Sergeant,” Thomas said wearily, “but we had a lead that needed chasing. I know you appreciate how delicate the timing of these things can be.”
Chapman snorted. “You must think I’m a pretty soft mark, Wiltshire.” When Thomas started to object, the detective raised a hand and said, “Save it. I didn’t hang around to lecture you about civic duty. I think you’ll wanna see this.” He produced an envelope from his jacket pocket.
Thomas took it with a frown, turning it over to reveal a postmark from Boston. “What is it?”
“Take a look. Came for Jacob Crowe this morning, just after you left.”
“Did it indeed?” Thomas ushered us into the parlor and held the letter under the lamplight.
“American Society for Psychical Research,” I read over his shoulder.
“Quite a new outfit, I believe. Modeled after the one in London.”
“Read on,” Chapman said.
Dear Mr. Crowe,
I was delighted to receive your letter. It is always a great pleasure to connect with other persons dedicated to scientific investigation of paranormal phenomena. And thank you for your kind words about my lecture at Harvard University. I am glad you enjoyed it. You ought to have introduced yourself! Any friend of Roberts is a friend of mine.
As to the specifics of your letter, I am certainly intrigued! However did you come by these manuscripts? Are you certain they are genuine? I am flattered that you would seek my advice, but as I have not heard mention of these folios before, I cannot offer an opinion as to the nature of the spells contained therein—their origin, purpose, or probable effects. That being said, I would certainly welcome the opportunity to examine the materials in question. In the meantime, in view of your concerns, further experimentation strikes me as imprudent, particularly since you are not, in your own words, “proficient in the magical arts.” Moreover, if your suspicions are correct and the mysterious “Mr. S” has designs other than those of a purely scientific nature, you may unwittingly be contributing to an agenda of which you would not yourself approve. (I presume your reluctance to name “Mr. S” stems from a concern that I may expose him to censure, but you need not fear on that score. It is not my place to do so, particularly since you say you are not certain of your suspicions.)
At the very least, if I may be so bold, I would suggest that you share your misgivings with trusted members of your Brotherhood. They would be better placed than I to advise on this matter, particularly if any of them is acquainted with “Mr. S” and can offer an informed opinion as to his character. In this regard, may I commend our mutual friend Roberts to you. It seems clear from the contents of your letter that you have not, as yet, consulted him. I must confess that I find this curious, and cannot help but wonder if it signals a concern
that Roberts might disapprove of some aspect of this enterprise. If that is the case, sir, I must warn you that anything arousing Roberts’s disapprobation would be likely to inspire similar sentiments on my part, as I know him to be a man of sound judgment. I do not mean for this to sound harsh; I hope rather that it moves you to seek his counsel, which should be valued at least as highly as my own.
I regret I cannot offer more, but as a man of science, I am not disposed to speculation. However, I would very much welcome the continuation of our correspondence, in the hopes that I am able to be more helpful in future.
Yours very sincerely,
Edwin Marshall
“So,” Chapman said when we’d finished reading. “Got any ideas about the mysterious Mr. S?”
Thomas sighed. “I’m afraid not. And it would appear that our plans to interview Roberts may not prove as fruitful as we’d hoped. The contents of this letter would seem to suggest that he isn’t party to the conspiracy, at least directly.”
Chapman looked thoughtful. “Unless Roberts and Mr. S are the same person, and Crowe was just using an alias to keep his correspondent from guessing.”
The thought had occurred to me, too, but it didn’t feel right. “If Jacob Crowe didn’t trust Roberts, it seems to me this Mr. Marshall is about the last person he’d write to for advice.”
“Agreed,” said Thomas. “It’s clear from this letter that Crowe and Marshall weren’t previously acquainted. If Crowe were going to reach out to a stranger, why choose one who just happens to be a longtime friend of the man you suspect? No, were I to hazard a guess, I’d say that Crowe chose his correspondent precisely because he did trust Roberts, but didn’t dare consult him directly. Telling Roberts the truth would have meant unmasking himself as a thief, so he did the next best thing, writing to another expert whose opinion Roberts valued.”
“Wouldn’t that get back to Roberts eventually?” Chapman asked.
“Perhaps, but by then Crowe would have had time to consider the best course of action.”
“Which he did,” I said, “and it got him killed. He decided to drop the experiments, and Mr. S didn’t like that.”
