Murder on Millionaires' Row

by Erin Lindsey

  Thomas turned to me. “Rose—”

  “You can’t,” I said again, fighting back tears. “They’ll kill you.”

  “They’ll certainly kill Clara if I don’t. This is my fault. I have to do everything I can to fix it.”

  “But—”

  “Listen.” Laying a hand against my cheek, he leaned in close, as though comforting a distraught lover. “Listen to me carefully, Rose. What I said last night—I meant every word.”

  I gazed back at him vacantly … and then I understood. He was sending a ciphered message of his own, under cover of a lover’s words. What I said last night …

  “About the emerald,” he prompted, his thumb drifting along my cheekbone.

  “Yes, the emerald. I remember.” There is the real clue, he’d said. The tie pin would lead us to Mr. S.

  “You’ll have it soon. We’ve narrowed it down already. Now all you have to do is pick it out. Burrows will help you.”

  I heard the message all too clearly, and it terrified me. He was counting on me to work out the identity of his kidnapper. To come to his rescue, and Clara’s. “But what if I can’t … find one I like? There’s so little time.”

  Cupping my chin in his hand, he leaned in closer. “You found me once,” he murmured. “You can do it again.”

  The Irishman growled impatiently. “I haven’t got all day. Just kiss her and be done with it.”

  Thomas obliged, brushing my lips with his. “Burrows,” he whispered, his mouth barely grazing mine. “No police.”

  To this day I wonder if, had he known of my feelings, he would have imposed upon them so cruelly. As it was, I had all I could do to hold it together. I stood there mute and shaking, my insides buffeted by waves of emotion I couldn’t name, let alone give voice to.

  “I’ll do everything I can to protect Clara, I swear it.”

  I believed him, and that was the problem. Any way I looked at it, I couldn’t see an outcome that didn’t involve one of the people I cared about most in this world ending up dead. Even if I managed to work out the identity of the kidnapper, there was no guarantee it would lead me to Thomas and Clara in time to help them—or myself.

  It was in that moment, I think, that the reality of my own situation truly sank in. I could die. Nor were his prospects of survival any better. In all likelihood, we would never see each other again. “Thomas…”

  I love you.

  The words were on my lips, but I didn’t dare speak them. I couldn’t add to his burden now.

  His pale eyes held mine for a heartbeat longer. “Good-bye, Rose.”

  “Remember,” the Irishman called as they climbed into the carriage, “you try following us, the cook dies. You call the coppers, she dies.”

  He twitched the reins, and they were gone.

  I stood trembling in the doorway for a solid minute, maybe two. Then I grabbed my overcoat, Mr. Wang’s special tea, and my Colt .45, and I hailed a cab.

  CHAPTER 27

  TIE PIN IN A HAYSTACK—FISHING FOR PHANTOMS—GOOD NEWS

  Mr. Burrows listened to my tale in silence, his expression keen but composed, only the tension of his posture betraying any emotion. I spared him the details, but even so there was a lot to get through, and I couldn’t help marveling at how much had happened since I’d seen him last, barely twenty-four hours ago. Maybe that explained why I felt as if I’d aged a decade since then.

  When I’d finished, Mr. Burrows sprang from his seat and started to pace. “The Irishman gave no clue as to where he might have taken them?”

  “The carriage was headed up Fifth Avenue, but beyond that…” I shook my head. “The East River Gang used to make its headquarters in the old Consolidated Gas factory, but they’ll have cleared out by now, what with the police poking around. Our best hope is working out the identity of the man Jacob Crowe mentioned in his letter. Mr. Wiltshire thought you would be able to help with that.” I could still feel the thrill of Thomas’s lips as he’d whispered that advice—hand cupping my chin, mouth warm against mine. For how long had I dreamed of his kiss? To have the moment finally arrive—but only as subterfuge, in what might very well have been our last moments together … It tasted more of cruelty than joy.

  “Whoever he is, he’s a ruthless bastard,” Mr. Burrows growled. “Kidnapping, murder, and for what? To translate a bunch of papers?”

  “Papers that may hold the key to entering the otherworld, not to mention a host of other powerful spells. Mr. Wiltshire and Mr. Drake were both adamant that we recover those folios.”

  “Recover them? We ought to destroy them!”

  “We can’t, at least not yet. They might be able to help me…” I trailed off awkwardly.

  “Help you how?”

  “There’s something else. I didn’t mention it before because I didn’t want you to worry. I won’t slow you down, I promise.”

  “Why should you slow me down?”

  “The shade … when she touched me…”

  “Oh, no. Oh, Rose.” He sank back down onto the sofa. “A fragment?”

  I looked away. I couldn’t face the pity I saw in his eyes. “But there’s hope. Mr. Jackson is on his way from Chicago, and Mr. Wiltshire thinks the folios might contain something that could help me. Anyway I feel fine, at least for now. I won’t be distracted by it.”

  “Good God, Rose, you’d be superhuman if you weren’t.”

  Clearing my throat, I continued. “In any case, it seems to me we have two possible paths to Mr. Wiltshire and Clara: Mr. S and the Bloodhound.”

  Mr. Burrows sighed. “I doubt Annie will be an option. She usually disappears after a job, crawling into some horrid little den or another until she’s drunk her bounty dry. We can always ask, but … I don’t suppose One-Eyed Johnny’s will have a telephone, will they? I’ll send my coachman down.” He rang a bell and, after a hurried conversation with his butler, dispatched the coachman on his errand. “Now, as to the identity of Mr. S, it’s not quite a needle in a haystack, but it’s not obvious, either. Let me see … There’s Sanford, but as far as I know, his finances have recovered from the crash. Sturgeon? No, he’s in France for the winter. Summers, but he’s rich as Croesus…”

  And so on, dismissing each name as soon as they occurred to him. He tried telephoning Mr. Roberts and even Edmund Drake, but they were both at church. “I’m sorry,” he said at length, “I’m afraid I’m thoroughly confounded. We could head down to the club and ask for the members’ roll, but I’m quite sure I’ve exhausted all the S’s. It must be an alias.”

  At which point I made a rather emphatic remark that doesn’t bear repeating. Suffice it to say that it qualifies as one of the more colorful examples of Five Points vernacular. Mr. Burrows observed this lapse without comment, which I took as a sign that he was just as upset as I.

  I racked my brain for a moment. “Maybe we’re coming at this backward. Instead of trying to think of a Mr. S who’s broke, what if we focused on the broke part first? Mr. Wiltshire seemed to think it very strange that a member of the Madison Club would be obliged to hock his tie pin.”

  “Quite shocking, in fact. Even in ’84, such behavior would have been extreme—but that’s just the problem. A man in such embarrassing circumstances isn’t likely to telegraph his situation too widely.”

  “Weren’t you the one who told me that Fifth Avenue loved nothing better than gossip? Surely somebody knows?”

  His eyes lit up. “Of course, I know exactly whom to call! She ought to be at home, the old goat. Too fat to go much of anywhere these days…” He stalked out of the parlor, and a few minutes later, his familiar merry tones floated down the hallway, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. To listen to him, you’d think nothing whatever was amiss. I envied him that talent just now. I’d done my best to pack my fear down into the pit of my stomach, but I could still feel it churning away like a supper that didn’t quite agree with me. Nearly an hour had passed since Thomas had climbed into the Irishman’s carriage. I could feel t
he time ticking by as surely as if I still had his watch tucked into my breast pocket. My hand went to my mouth, fingertips drifting across my lips. You should have told him. You might never get another chance …

  Mr. Burrows returned, his expression smooth as marble. He walked over to the mantel, picked up an engraved Carcel lamp, and hurled it against the wall. Glass exploded, and the heavy base met the floor with a desultory thunk, sending a pool of oil spreading over the parquet. “Please forgive the outburst,” Mr. Burrows said, straightening his waistcoat, “but my telephone conversation was a trifle discouraging.”

  “What happened?”

  He sighed, throwing himself onto the sofa. “Old Mrs. Phipps didn’t disappoint. Once I mentioned the Madison Club, she had Mr. S picked out straightaway. You were right, it was an alias. For Mr. Danforth Essex, of Barber, Essex and North. Do you know it?” When I shook my head, he went on, “A Wall Street firm of some repute. At least until recently, when Mr. Barber disappeared with rather a lot of his clients’ money. That left Essex and North in a tricky spot. Completely ruined, in point of fact. Assets seized, possible charges pending. I’m a fool not to have worked it out, except that I was so distracted by the damned initial.”

  “S,” I murmured. “Essex. You’re sure it’s him?”

  “Quite sure. I’ve seen him in Jacob and Freddie’s company more than once.”

  “Why, but isn’t that good news? Now that we know who he is, we can find him and—”

  “That’s just it. We can’t. In good high society fashion, Essex has fled in the face of scandal, hoping to hide away until the storm passes. No one has heard from him in days. I suspect he’s in the country somewhere, but that doesn’t narrow it down much. It would be one thing if we could go to the police—”

  “We don’t dare. If Essex finds out—”

  “He’ll kill Thomas and Clara. Yes, you made that clear—hence my outburst.” He gestured at the lamp. “Immensely satisfying, by the way. Would you care to have a go with the other one? Not much point in keeping only one of a pair.”

  The sick feeling in my belly reared up, like a pot coming to a boil. At last we knew who was behind everything—the murders, the kidnappings, the stolen folios, all of it—and it didn’t do us a lick of good. We had no idea how to find Essex or where he’d taken Thomas and Clara. We didn’t know how to seal the portal or cut the magical rope or …

  I paused.

  “Now there’s a look I recognize.” Mr. Burrows leaned forward eagerly. “I’ve seen it on Wiltshire’s face a dozen times. Tell me.”

  “Something the Irishman said. Whatever fish he was hoping to catch on that line, or something to that effect. He mentioned unwanted guests, which I took to mean shades.”

  “So?”

  “When we spoke to Matilda Meyer, she said she’d followed the ribbon of light to Jacob Crowe. If Essex has been fiddling with that spell, might she be able to follow it to him, too?”

  Mr. Burrows was on his feet before I’d even finished speaking. “Rose Gallagher, when this thing is done, if Wiltshire doesn’t marry you on the spot, I’ll have him committed. Get your coat.”

  * * *

  “Rose?” Mei Wang came out from behind the counter, visibly surprised to see me. “Are you all right? Where is Mr. Wiltshire?”

  Before I could answer, Mr. Wang came flying out of the back rooms, waving his arms frantically as though trying to shoo a stray hog. “Go away! Not safe!”

  “I know, but—”

  Mr. Smith appeared from behind the silk curtain. “I say, Wang, what’s all this—”

  The medium’s presence struck me like a tuning fork. I doubled over, ears ringing, body thrumming. White light flared in my vision; every beat of my heart sent ripples of cold pulsing out from my core. The pain was unbearable, and I very nearly blacked out, but somehow I managed to pull the little pouch of tea leaves out of my pocket. Mei grabbed a pot of green tea from behind the counter and tossed the contents of my pouch inside, and a moment later I had a cup of hot liquid to my lips. I gulped it down—only to throw it back up again. My chest grew tight. I could hardly swallow, hardly breathe for the panic.

  If it hadn’t been for Mei, I don’t think I would have made it.

  She steered me away from the others and sat me on the floor, like a mother comforting a squalling child. “Breathe,” she murmured. “It’s only pain. Your body still works. You can breathe.” Putting her arms around me, she sang softly in my ear. Dimly, I recognized the song from yesterday.

  Breathe, Rose. The voice in my head was Mam’s. Just breathe. Gradually, I managed to drag a little more air into my lungs.

  “Now drink.” Mei held the cup to my lips.

  This time I managed to hold it down, and a moment later, the fragment subsided. The ringing in my ears faded, leaving only the soft, sweet sound of Mei’s singing. I’m not sure if it was the lullaby or Mei’s arms around me or the lingering sound of Mam’s voice in my head, but it was all I could do in that moment not to cry like a baby.

  “It’s my fault.” Mr. Burrows’s voice sounded strangely distant, though he stood only a few feet away. “I shouldn’t have brought her. I didn’t realize the shade was still in the store.”

  “And I didn’t realize Miss Gallagher was out here,” Mr. Smith said, “or I’d have stayed in the back. Will she be all right, Wang?”

  “For now.” Mr. Wang sounded angry, and when I looked up he was scowling at me like a furious father. He said something in Chinese, then made a sharp gesture at Mei, instructing her to translate.

  “My father says you are…” She paused, looking embarrassed.

  “Stupid?”

  “Careless.”

  “Close enough.” I struggled to my feet, leaning heavily on Mr. Burrows. “I’m sorry for scaring everyone, but I didn’t have much choice. Mr. Burrows, maybe you could…?”

  “Of course.”

  Propping myself against the counter, I downed two more cups of special tea while Mr. Burrows explained the situation. By the time he was through, I felt a little stronger. “Believe me, Mr. Wang, I wouldn’t be here if I could have avoided it, but Matilda Meyer may be our only hope of finding Mr. Wiltshire and Clara.” Glancing uncomfortably at Mr. Smith, I asked, “Is she…?”

  “Right here.” The medium gestured at the empty air beside him. “That’s why the fragment resonated as strongly as it did. She cannot physically manifest until sunset, but she can see and hear us well enough. And I can hear her.”

  “Can you ask her … Does she still see the ribbon of light?”

  Mr. Smith tilted his head, listening. “Not here. She would have to return to Hell Gate.”

  “Is she willing?” Mr. Burrows asked, looking only slightly flustered at the idea that he stood mere feet from a shade.

  Another pause. Mr. Smith nodded gravely. “She is. But it will take time.”

  Desperation arced through me, as bright and cold as a flaring fragment. “Time is the one thing we don’t have.”

  “We can only do so much, my dear,” the little man said. “If it makes you feel any better, Mrs. Meyer has already put herself to the task. She is gone.”

  A gray silence settled over the store, broken only by the low groan of wind through the hastily boarded front door. Then Mr. Wang clapped his hands, saying something in a businesslike tone.

  “My father asks that you join him in the back,” Mei said. “There is some good news, at least.”

  “Thank God for that,” Mr. Burrows muttered, and we trailed the Wangs through the warren of back rooms.

  CHAPTER 28

  HENNY WEBER, WITCH—A VERY OLD DEBATE—DEATH IS NOT THE END—ZHÀNSHÌ

  The good news turned out to be a witch.

  She didn’t look like a witch—or so I thought at the time, my expectations having been molded by storybook tales of wizened old crones and black cats. Plump, golden-haired and ruddy-cheeked, with deep dimples and sparkling blue eyes, she looked more like somebody’s favorite auntie, the
kind who’s always baking cookies and slipping you peppermints when your mam’s not looking. “Henny Vayber,” she said in a thick German accent, shaking my hand. “Pleased to meet you.” She gave me a little embossed card. It read HENNY WEBER, WITCH.

  “Mrs. Weber is an alchemist,” Mei said.

  “Best in America,” Mr. Wang added.

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Weber flushed with pleasure. “I don’t know about that, but I have learned a trick or two in my long years.” Her long years couldn’t have added up to much more than forty, I reckoned, but it was hard to be sure with such a cherubic face.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m afraid I don’t know what an alchemist is.”

  When Henny Weber smiled, her eyes all but disappeared behind the rosy apples of her cheeks. “It is nearly the same as a chemist,” she said, gesturing at a collection of glass bottles and vials arrayed on a nearby table. “It starts with the science of mixing things together. Then, with a bit of luck and a lot of magic, I can bend the laws of nature just enough”—she held her thumb and forefinger half an inch apart—“to do some very interesting things.” She laughed merrily, as if she’d told a joke.

  “Luck and magic?” I glanced at Mr. Burrows, confused. “I thought those were two different things.”

  “They are. Let me see, how shall I explain it? Do you attend the opera at all?”

  “Why, of course. I have my very own box right next to the Duke of Buckingham.” I gave him a flat look, in case he’d missed the sarcasm.

  “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I imagine it’s the same for any type of music. That is to say, there are those with raw talent who can simply pick up an instrument for the first time and create beautiful music, even if it’s not very complicated. And there are those who, through studious application and practice, learn to play proficiently, but without any real…” He paused, searching for the right word.

  “Soul,” Henny Weber supplied.

  “Exactly. Soul. That intangible thing that transforms a sequence of notes into something genuinely moving. The true virtuoso has both of these things: craft and talent.”