Murder on Millionaires' Row

by Erin Lindsey

  “So magic is craft and luck is talent?”

  “That’s right.” Mr. Burrows looked very pleased with himself for explaining it so efficiently. “One needn’t be endowed with luck to learn magic, but the most gifted witches generally are.”

  Mr. Wang said something in a tinder-dry tone, which Mei diplomatically translated as “My father disagrees. And respectfully, so do I. My mother was not lucky, but she was a very powerful witch.”

  “Yes, well.” Mr. Burrows inclined his head in polite acknowledgment. “It’s a very old debate. But the important question is, can you seal the portal, Mrs. Weber?”

  “I hope so. I specialize in opening and sealing things, which is why Mr. Wang sent for me all the way from Lancaster. I have never tried something as big as this, but the same basic principles apply, which means the right alkahest should do the trick. The hard part is getting it into place. The portal is at the bottom of the East River, after all.”

  I had no idea what an alkahest was, but Mr. Burrows and the Wangs looked hopeful, so I chose to follow their lead. I desperately needed a little hope just then.

  “Even so,” Mrs. Weber went on, “the seal will be imperfect, which means we must dispel the ribbon of light. Otherwise, spirits will still find their way out.”

  “Matilda Meyer seeks out the ribbon of light as we speak,” Mr. Smith said. “Hopefully, she will be able to follow it to the caster, and we can stop him and recover the folios.”

  “And save Mr. Wiltshire and Clara,” I added with a frown.

  The medium gave a little bow of acknowledgment. “Of course your friends are our chief concern. All I meant is that once they’re safe and we have the manuscripts in our possession, we can finally put an end to this madness.”

  Something occurred to me then, another branch of hope blossoming in my breast. “Mrs. Weber—”

  “Henny, please.”

  “Henny. Once we have the cipher manuscripts, will you be able to cast any spell you find there?”

  Mr. Burrows understood straightaway. “I think what Miss Gallagher is asking is whether you might be able to use the folios to remove the fragment embedded in her body.”

  “Ah.” Henny’s kindly expression clouded over, and I had my answer. “I didn’t realize you were the girl with the fragment. I’m so sorry, my dear, but I have no skill with necromancy. Unless there is an alchemical formula that somehow helps … but I have never heard of such a thing.”

  “Take heart, child,” Mr. Smith said, putting a hand on my arm. “Death is not the end.”

  I stared at him in mute horror. It may surprise you, but it hadn’t occurred to me until that moment to wonder what would happen to me after I died. It was hard enough to grapple with the idea of my own demise; the thought that I might soon join the ranks of those restless spirits wandering the otherworld was just too terrible to entertain. Would I become a ghost like Granny, or—I shuddered—a shade like Matilda Meyer?

  Mr. Burrows hastily changed the subject. “How long before we know whether the shade will be able to follow the spell?”

  “Her name is Matilda,” the medium said tartly, “and she will return as soon as she’s able, but I wouldn’t expect her for several hours.”

  “What the devil are we supposed to do until then?”

  “Wait,” Mr. Wang said. “Drink tea.”

  I was in dire need of something warm in my belly just now. “Tea sounds wonderful,” I said, “and hopefully Mrs. Meyer won’t take too long.”

  “You’ll want to be well clear of this place before she returns,” Mr. Smith said.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The medium frowned. “That fragment becomes more dangerous with each passing hour, and when the sun sets and Mrs. Meyer manifests physically, the effect will be magnified many times over. I don’t care how much of that special brew you drink, you’re flirting with disaster.”

  “I’m not flirting with it, Mr. Smith, I’m facing it head-on, and it’s not as if I have much choice. I made a promise to Mr. Wiltshire. He needs me, and so does Clara.”

  Mr. Wang muttered something to himself; I recognized some of the same words he’d used yesterday. “Zhànshì,” I said, looking at Mei. “What does it mean?”

  “It means warrior,” she said with a smile.

  I blushed. I didn’t feel like a warrior. I felt like a frightened little girl who’d bitten off far more than she could chew, but there was no turning back now. Clara and Mr. Wiltshire needed help, and since we couldn’t involve the police, that left the people in this room: a medium, a witch, an apothecary, two young women, and a Fifth Avenue gentleman. Not exactly an army. Of the lot of us, I suspected only Henny Weber would be any use in a fight.

  As it turned out, I was wrong about that, and a good many other things besides.

  * * *

  Matilda Meyer returned just after sunset.

  I felt her presence an instant before she materialized, in the now-familiar stab of cold in my breast. This time I was ready for it, downing a cup of special tea before panic could take over and rob me of my senses. I drank a second one for good measure, but even then, a subtle thrum lingered, like the vibrations from a passing train. It’s not working like before, I realized grimly. I brushed the thought aside. There was nothing I could do about it anyway.

  “I followed the ribbon of light,” Matilda reported through the medium. “It leads to a house on the Hudson. I can show you the way.”

  “Mr. Wiltshire?” I asked, my breath clouding in the chill of her presence. “And Clara?”

  “I saw them. They seem well enough, at least for now.”

  “Then we haven’t any time to lose,” Mr. Burrows said, grabbing his hat. “I’ve got the four-in-hand waiting outside. Who’s coming?”

  “Everyone is coming,” Henny Weber replied cheerfully. “Why shouldn’t we?”

  Mr. Burrows hesitated. “We’re grateful for the help, of course, but…”

  “Whom would you leave behind?” the medium asked, gesturing at our little group. “You need Mrs. Meyer to show you the way, which means you need me. But her presence is dangerous for Miss Gallagher, so you ought to have Mr. Wang on hand, just in case. That leaves Mrs. Weber and Miss Wang, and I daresay you’ll find a pair of witches rather useful.”

  “A pair of witches?” I looked at Mei in astonishment.

  She shrugged self-consciously. “I am not a proper witch, but my mother taught me some things.”

  “Well, then,” Mr. Burrows said, “that settles it. It’ll be a trifle cramped, but we’ll manage. Er, Mrs. Meyer, would you mind terribly riding in the boot?”

  “I’ll do what I must,” the shade replied. “Shall I vanish as well?”

  Mr. Burrows’s smile grew strained. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to know where you are.”

  I didn’t blame him one bit.

  It was slow going at first, the coachman having to negotiate a four-horse team through the cluttered streets of downtown. But the farther north we ventured, the more our path opened up, and by the time we reached Central Park, we were thundering along at a pace I would ordinarily have found alarming.

  “It’s just north of here,” Mr. Smith reported. “Among the summer estates on the cliffs overlooking the river.”

  “Not his own property, then,” Mr. Burrows said. “Essex’s summer house is halfway to Albany.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” I said, “if he’s trying to hide from the world. But how did Matilda get all the way up here?”

  Mr. Smith shrugged. “Why, she took the train, of course.”

  That’s right: the shade of a dead woman, whose very touch could be fatal, rode a passenger train from one end of Manhattan to another, as if she were taking a leisurely Sunday trip. Not a comforting thought, is it?

  But I had bigger worries just then. “What will we do when we get there?”

  “Mrs. Meyer had a good look at the property,” Mr. Smith said. “Apparently Clara and Wiltshire are
being held separately, on the first and second floors, respectively.”

  That meant we’d have to split up. The idea didn’t much appeal.

  “How many men are guarding them?” Mei asked.

  “Mrs. Meyer saw five, plus Essex, but there may be more. She doesn’t know if they’re armed.”

  “We’ll have to assume so,” Mr. Burrows said. Patting his breast pocket, he added, “Fortunately, so are we.”

  “I pray it won’t come to that,” I said, feeling a pang of regret as I thought back to the Tub of Blood. I might not have been the best sort of Catholic, but Thou shalt not kill was one Commandment I took very seriously indeed.

  “We’ll do our best to bring this to an end without bloodshed,” Mr. Burrows said, “but I wouldn’t set my hopes too high. Essex has proven how far he’s willing to go to get what he wants.”

  Mr. Burrows was right, I knew. Essex wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  So a fight was just what we’d give him.

  CHAPTER 29

  THE HOUSE ON THE HUDSON—JARS AND CROCKS AND LITTLE VIALS—A SHADE TOO MANY—THE WHITE KNIFE

  The carriage drew to a halt at the bottom of a long, S-shaped drive that wound up through the darkness. We couldn’t see much from this vantage, but the moonlight picked out a cluster of turrets not unlike those of a castle, giving the impression of a vast, sprawling estate at the top of the rise. To our left, the Hudson River was a canyon of shadow.

  We descended from the carriage, each of us shouldering a small pack of supplies. I’d learned from my experience at the gasworks and the Tub of Blood, and this time I meant to be prepared. We each had a knife, a length of rope, and some strips of clean cloth to use as bandages. I’d even packed a needle and thread, just in case. As for Henny Weber and the Wangs, they’d brought along a host of mysterious things—jars and crocks and little vials sealed with wax—whose purpose I couldn’t begin to guess at. No doubt I’d find out soon enough.

  Sneaking through the woods was easy, but slipping inside the house undetected would be another matter. “Someone’s guarding the door,” I whispered, pointing. A man reclined in a chair on the porch, smoking. “He’ll have a gun stashed under that sheepskin, I suppose.”

  “Perhaps one of the other doors?” Mr. Burrows suggested.

  I had a fleeting vision of the five of us creeping about the grounds in search of another door, an image so absurd I almost laughed. “We’ll be spotted for sure.”

  “I can help.” Shrugging out of her pack, Mei retrieved an earthenware crock and sniffed it, as if to verify its contents. Satisfied, she whispered something to her father, and before we could even ask what she was up to, she’d slipped away through the trees, moving so quietly that I soon lost track of her in the shadows.

  For a minute or two, all was still. We huddled among the pines, shivering. Then something sailed through the air, and a moment later the dry clink of broken pottery brought the guard’s head snapping around. He sprang from his chair and started toward the trees, but he didn’t get far. A strange mist curled up from the pavement under the portico, hissing. The guard drew up short. He started to back away from the mist, but his legs buckled beneath him, and he went down hard. Mr. Wang darted out of his hiding place and grabbed the unconscious man by the ankles, dragging him off into the bushes.

  Cautiously, the rest of us crept out of hiding. Mei met us with a shy smile. “Magic?” I whispered.

  “Chemistry.”

  “Very interesting!” Henny declared, patting Mei’s shoulder approvingly. “You must tell me what’s in it sometime!”

  “A pity we don’t know what’s on the other side of that door,” Mr. Burrows said. “Our sleeping friend could be one of a pair.”

  “Mrs. Meyer can help with that,” said Mr. Smith. Already, the spirit was gliding toward the door, passing through it as effortlessly as she had passed through the lamppost that night on Mott Street. “The foyer is clear,” Mr. Smith reported upon her return, “but it looks as though the door is locked.”

  “Can’t she unlock it?” I asked.

  Mr. Smith shook his head. “Some shades are able, with proper instruction, to manipulate physical objects, but Mrs. Meyer has not yet mastered the technique.”

  “That’s all right,” Henny said. “I have a spell that does interesting things to solid objects.” She laughed, loudly enough that I threw a worried glance at the house.

  Henny, I decided, had an interesting definition of interesting.

  The witch rummaged through her pack and produced a glass jar filled with ruby-red liquid. And when I say ruby red, I mean it quite literally: The liquid glittered subtly, as though someone had melted a ruby into a molten state. More rummaging, and this time Henny came up with a paintbrush. “Wait here,” she said, and tottered up to the front doors. She dipped her brush into the jar and painted the outline of a rectangle on the right-hand door, standing on her tiptoes to reach the top, grunting as she crouched to complete the bottom edge. Then she laid a dimpled hand against the door and closed her eyes, concentrating.

  At first, nothing happened. She might as well have dipped her paintbrush in water for all the effect it seemed to have. Then Henny leaned in and blew on the wet paint, and it flared to life as if she breathed on fading embers. A glowing rectangle seared itself into the wood, and the door began to smoke as though it might go up in flames at any moment. And then it was smoke, wavering and insubstantial, offering a clear view of what lay behind.

  Henny waved us forward urgently. “Hurry, it won’t last!”

  Mei reached the door first and didn’t hesitate, ducking headlong through the red smoke and disappearing inside. Mr. Wang followed, and the others, until I found myself alone out there, eyes wide and heart pounding, frozen with fear and astonishment. I’m not sure how long I might have stood there had Mr. Burrows not reached back and grabbed my wrist, dragging me through the smoke, but the next thing I knew I was standing in the foyer along with the others, watching incredulously as the glow faded and the door congealed into ordinary wood once again.

  Henny Weber grinned. “Interesting, no? It doesn’t work on stone, but it’s perfect for wood.”

  I had so many questions, but now wasn’t the time. “We need to get out of sight.”

  “This way.” Mr. Smith pointed. “There’s a drawing room through here.”

  We closed the door behind us and paused to listen, but the only sound was our breathing. We’d made it undetected, at least so far.

  “All right,” Mr. Burrows whispered, “this is it. Does anyone wish to stay behind? This room seems like as good a place as any to wait it out.”

  Nobody spoke up, and I felt a pang of affection for each and every one of them.

  A webbing of frost crawled across the far wall. Matilda Meyer appeared, lips moving animatedly. “Mrs. Meyer has verified the location of our friends,” the medium reported. “There’s only one guard on Clara, but Mr. Wiltshire has three attendants, one of whom appears to be the master of the house.”

  “Essex.” The name tasted foul on my tongue.

  “There’s more,” Mr. Smith said. “They’re all armed, and not just with guns. Every one of them has a baton of ash wood on his person. Our host has been having a spot of trouble with shades, it seems. Mrs. Meyer thinks there could be half a dozen or more on the property, lured here by the ribbon of light.”

  “Fool,” Mr. Burrows muttered. “Meddling with supernatural forces he can’t control.”

  “That’s why he needs Thomas,” I said bitterly. “So he can work out how to use those spells properly instead of blundering about.”

  “Be that as it may,” said the medium, “it makes things rather more difficult for us. Especially for Mrs. Meyer: One touch of that ash wood will send her straight back to Hell Gate.”

  “What we need is a diversion,” Mr. Burrows said. “Here’s what I propose…”

  It was a simple enough strategy: The Wangs would find Clara and get her to safety while the rest of us
focused on Thomas, since he was under heavier guard. Matilda would provide the diversion, luring the guards into the hallway, where the rest of our little rescue party would be lying in wait. The others would keep the guards busy while I freed Thomas.

  That was the plan, anyway.

  “You’ll find Clara in a sitting room at the end of the hall,” Mr. Smith told the Wangs. “As for Wiltshire, he’s in a study upstairs. Mrs. Meyer will show us the way.”

  We took the servants’ staircase, figuring there was less chance of being discovered. I couldn’t help wincing as we creaked our way up the steps, sure that the whole house must be able to hear it, but we made it to the second floor unmolested. The study where Thomas was being held had two doors, one at either end of the hall; we split into pairs to make sure both were covered. Mr. Burrows and Mr. Smith concealed themselves just around the corner at the far end while Henny and I crouched behind a sideboard. Matilda, meanwhile, stationed herself just outside the door at Mr. Burrows’s end of the study.

  This is it, I thought, swallowing down a queasy feeling. Please, God, let this work. One small mistake, even a moment’s hesitation, could cost Thomas his life.

  Cocking the hammer of my Colt, I gave Matilda a sharp nod. Then I watched, breath caught in my throat, as she drifted through the door.

  Muffled shouts came from inside the study. Footfalls thumped along the floor. Matilda reappeared, hovering just outside the door until it swung open, spilling bodies into the hallway.

  I couldn’t tell how many guards she’d managed to lure away, but I didn’t dare wait to find out. Darting out of my hiding place, I slipped quietly through the rear door of the study.

  A moment’s hesitation and I would have been spotted; as it was, I barely managed to duck behind a wingback chair before a well-dressed man at the far end of the study glanced in my direction. I froze, heart hammering in my chest, but there was no reaction. He hadn’t seen me.

  “Another one.” Thomas’s voice, wryly amused. Peering around the chair, I saw him seated behind an ornate desk at the far end of the room, papers spread out before him in a scene very similar to the one I’d found at the gasworks. “It’s Grand Central Depot for the dead in here. Really, Essex, didn’t your mother ever teach you not to leave your toys lying about?”