by Kat Ross
“What was it you said to Detective Brach?” I asked John, raising my voice over the rush of water.
“Good luck in Hebrew. I’ve been studying a few phrases that might come in handy.”
“You plan to have a conversation with the golem?”
John shrugged. “Maybe it doesn’t speak English. It might turn out to be reasonable if it only understood what we were saying.”
“Well, I think we ought to just leave it alone,” I said, dodging the bloated corpse of a rat as it sailed past. “It’s not so bad compared to half the cutthroats up there.”
John laughed. “You have a point, Harry.”
“Those tourists were lucky, all things considered. They have a colorful story to tell about their adventure in the big city and none of them had their wallets stolen or their throats slit.”
“They didn’t end up floating in the East River,” John said ruminatively. “Never to be identified or given a decent funeral.”
“Exactly. I’ll bet if you sold tickets to see the mud man that lives under the Tenderloin, people would buy them in droves.”
I aimed the beam of my lantern down the center of the tunnel but saw no sign of the golem’s trail and, without the map, I wasn’t even sure where we were. John looked half drowned. I could feel water seeping through a crack in my left boot. I was twenty years old, lacked anything that could be called gainful employment, and might not live to see the dawn.
Yet I felt oddly content.
“In the stories, the golem is more of a folk hero than a villain,” John said, shaking wet hair from his eyes. “I keep thinking about Rabbi Loew and how he created the golem to protect the Prague ghetto from pogroms against the Jews. What if there’s something we’re missing—”
Faint shouts echoed down the tunnel, along with the banging of nightsticks. We shared a wordless look of alarm and started running, but sound carried strangely and we took several wrong turns before we finally reached the source of the tumult. Lantern beams swung wildly at one of the junctions, where the golem was tossing the patrolmen about like scarecrows. They were covered in muck and yelling incoherently.
The creature didn’t seem afraid of the lanterns at all. As we ran up, it seized one of the men by the throat and hurled him down the tunnel. He bounced off the brick wall and lay still. John ran over and quickly felt for a pulse. “He’s still breathing, just unconscious. Help me, Harry!”
We dragged the officer to the relatively dry ledge of an adjacent tunnel just as the golem smashed its huge fists into the ceiling, unleashing a hail of dust and shards of brick. The other policemen regrouped. A storm of bullets ricocheted off the walls and we ducked back around the curve before we got shot.
“What do we do?” I hissed, shuttering my lantern until only a thin beam came through.
John shrugged helplessly. “We have to get the shem.”
“But how? I don’t think it wants to give it up!”
Things had gone ominously quiet around the bend of the tunnel.
“I’d better have a look,” he whispered.
“Be careful.”
John crept forward, sliding a little in Rupert’s dress shoes, and peered around the corner.
“Do you see anything?” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“And?”
He turned back to me. “Run!”
John grabbed my hand just as I heard the golem storming towards us down the tunnel. We took off like a pair of greyhounds and I soon lost all sense of direction. It made no sound except for heavy, thudding footsteps and the occasional tantrum, when it would pause to batter the tunnel with its huge fists.
It was getting more violent. The first few times we entered the sewers, it had avoided us completely. The creature was growing bolder — or it somehow knew we intended its destruction and refused to go quietly.
We took turnings at random, running flat out until my lungs ached and my legs trembled with exhaustion. The sounds of pursuit grew fainter and gradually faded away.
“Should have brought a net,” John panted, bracing his hands on his knees as we paused to catch our breath. “It’s too damned strong.” He shook his head. “What were they thinking, trying to shoot it? That just made it madder.”
“At least we still have the lantern,” I said, leaning back against the wall. “We might be lost, but there’s bound to be a way out somewhere.”
John let out a sigh. “Sorry your birthday turned out this way, Harry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I’m still sorry. Do you want your present?”
I looked at him in surprise. “You have it?”
“I do.”
“Is it something to eat?” I asked hopefully. “I’m ravenous.”
“Afraid not.”
He stood so close I could see the water beaded on his eyelashes. I reached out and fixed his bedraggled black tie with a rueful smile. “I’ll take it anyway, dear friend.”
John regarded me with a serious expression. It seemed that we held each other’s eyes a few moments too long. My pulse picked up a tick as he leaned forward . . . and handed me a small package wrapped in brown paper.
“Happy birthday, Harry,” he said.
I tore off the wrapping and read the title in the lantern light. Records of Washing Away of Injuries by W.A. Harland, M.D.
“I ordered it from Hong Kong,” John said. “It took six weeks to arrive. I was afraid it might not come in time—”
“It’s the most perfect gift!” I eagerly scanned the pages. “I’ve heard of it, but the English translation is impossible to find. Oh, John. How did you know?” I gazed at him fondly.
“You mentioned it last year when you had that argument with Myrtle about the origins of forensics. You said you’d give your eyeteeth for a copy because Song Ci was a pioneer in the field. Don’t you remember?”
“Vaguely.” I cleared my throat, feeling unaccountably reckless. “I think you deserve a kiss for having such a prodigious memory.”
“Do I now?” His brown eyes warmed and my stomach gave a flutter, never mind that we stood in a filthy sewer with a vengeful golem not far off. John tilted his head. “Tell me, Harry. When do I get to collect on this alleged—”
The odor of spoiled meat hit at that instant, followed by the drone of flies. The creature must have crept up on its toes because neither of us heard it coming. Suddenly it was simply there, looming like an oak tree. I glimpsed a crude face tightened into lines of implacable fury and then John shoved me aside and yelled something in Hebrew, but this only seemed to enrage the creature more.
It lunged and started throttling him around the neck. John’s legs kicked a foot above the rushing waters, his arms flailing against the mighty chest. One of Rupert’s dress shoes flew off and vanished into the flood. The golem squeezed harder. I knew it would kill him in another minute.
With no other recourse, I smashed the lantern across the golem’s broad back. Flaming kerosene splattered its face, though luckily none hit John. It opened its mouth in a silent shriek. I saw a scrap of parchment deep inside.
Stuffing my fingers into that gaping maw was the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
Whoever made the golem had inserted sharp little pebbles to serve as teeth. I had no doubt it could snap its jaws shut and leave me with stumps, but it still had John by the throat and his gasps were growing weaker.
My fingertips brushed the edge of the paper.
Kerosene burned hot and fast and darkness pressed in around us. I heard the splash of a body hitting the water and then a giant hand closed around my hair, yanking it painfully by the roots.
I stretched as far as I could. The paper tore loose and I closed my fist around it. By the light of the last dying flames, I saw the golem’s features melt like hot wax. There were grotesque squelching sounds, followed by silence. I thrust out my arms and encountered only air.
The flies were gone and so was the golem.
“John,” I cried, falling to my
knees in the water and groping blindly. “Where are you?”
I heard a cough to my right and crawled over. He was sitting up against the wall. I ran my hands over him and assured myself he was in one piece. A flush of triumph warmed my face.
“It worked! Your plan worked. I got the shem and the golem returned to dust.”
“Do you still have it?” he croaked.
I pressed the muddy paper into his hand. “Right here.”
“The present.”
“Oh!” Everything had happened so quickly, it was all a blur. “John, I’m so terribly sorry. . . .” I paused. “What are you doing?”
“Checking your pockets.” He gave another hoarse cough. “Found it.”
John curled my fingers around the book and I blinked in surprise. I remembered smashing the lantern across the golem’s back, but I must have tucked the book into my pants first without even thinking about it.
“Thank you for rescuing me,” he said. “Do I get my kiss now?”
I grinned in the darkness. “Not until you’re clean.”
He sighed. “Then let’s escape this dungeon, shall we, Porthos?”
“As you say, Aramis,” I replied in the gruff voice of a Musketeer.
I hauled John to his feet and we started walking, trailing our hands on the brick wall. At first I was optimistic that we would find an escape route, but long minutes passed and the water steadily rose higher, a rushing river in the darkness. It tugged at our soaked garments and I had moment of pure terror when I stumbled and fell headfirst into those turbulent waters, but John’s strong hand pulled me upright again.
Onward we waded. The water surged around my knees, then my hips. John unhooked his suspenders and tied our wrists together so we couldn’t be torn apart. Neither of us wasted time bemoaning the situation, but it was clear that if we didn’t find a way out soon, we were doomed.
Finally, the current became so strong and swift it lifted us up and carried us along. I could feel things bumping my legs and shuddered. It had been bad enough when I saw what ended up in the sewers, but to be both submerged and blind . . . . I clung to John’s shirt, trying hard to keep my mouth closed.
The arched ceiling was only two feet above our heads when I detected a faint light ahead. We swept around a curve in the tunnel. It was a storm drain, roughly six inches high. We clung to the bars, shouting our lungs out, but there was no response from above.
“Hang on,” John said, his face grim. “I think I see something. You stay here, Harry, just hold on tight.”
He started to untie the suspenders and I grabbed his arm.
“Don’t go.” I couldn’t keep the tremor from my voice. “You know how I feel about holes in the ground. I will never, ever go into one again, not for any reason, but don’t leave me here, all right, Weston?”
John gave a firm nod. “’Course not. Come with me, then. On the count of three.”
I took a last look through the bars of the storm drain. Then I let go.
The current took us again, but as we entered the next curve John’s hand shot out and seized a rusty iron bar fixed to the wall. I would have missed it in the gloom, but he always had keener eyesight. It turned out to be the top rung of a ladder. Above us was a closed hatch. He found his footing on one of the submerged rungs and braced a brawny shoulder against the iron lid.
“Cross your fingers, Harry,” he said softly.
John grunted and heaved and the cover rolled to the side with a loud clang.
We crawled out shoeless and blinking like troglodytes in the sudden light of the street lamps. I was astonished to discover that it had stopped raining in the real world, though a lake of water stretched out at the curb. The storm turned out to be one for the record books – 8.28 inches of rain over the course of a few hours – but I wouldn’t learn that until the next day. At the moment, I was thrilled just to be alive.
I took my bearings and saw that we had journeyed a good two miles from our starting point. In fact, we were directly in front of the Metropolitan Opera House on Thirty-Ninth Street and Broadway, where the well-heeled audience was emerging from the front entrance. A jewel-encrusted matron – possibly a Vanderbilt – gazed at us with haughty disdain, but this being New York, the rest of the crowd ignored us completely.
We made our way back to the original manhole and found Detective Brach supervising the evacuation of the injured officers. Three had minor cuts and scrapes, but one cradled a broken arm and the man the golem had thrown down the tunnel remained unconscious. He was lifted out on a stretcher and bundled into an ambulance wagon.
John pulled the crumpled shem from his pocket.
“That’s it?” Brach squinted at the soggy mess. “The ink’s run. I don’t think we can make out what it said.”
“I’d better give it to Kaylock anyway,” John muttered.
“Do you need us to stay?” I was beyond famished and entering the realm of hallucinatory, having skipped lunch thinking I would gorge on paprika chicken and dumplings at the Hotel Hungaria.
Brach shook his head with a smile. “Go salvage what you can of your birthday, Miss Pell.”
An officer from the Twenty-Ninth gave us a ride downtown to Tenth Street, where I washed and changed into dry clothes while John donned one of Mrs. Rivers’ dressing gowns, despite her protestations. My sister had still not returned, but Connor served up slices of chocolate birthday cake and we ate together at the kitchen table, laughing and talking about the mud man and other adventures late into the night.
I woke the next day eager for a new assignment. The way I saw it, Mr. Kaylock owed us a decent case – something challenging but not repulsive. John was waiting for me outside Kaylock’s office when I arrived at Pearl Street. We gave him our report and John handed over the bedraggled shem, which he locked in the strongbox next to his desk.
“Mayor Grant is pleased with you,” he said. “As am I.”
“Any new cases?” I asked hopefully.
“Not at the moment, I’m afraid—” Kaylock cut off at an urgent rap at the door. “What is it?” he called out.
Kate Prince stuck her head inside. Her face was tense.
“Cashel O’Sullivan, sir,” she said. “He’s dead.”
Chapter 5
Kaylock gestured for Kate to enter. “Another accident?” he asked with a frown.
“No, sir,” she replied. “This one appears to be a suicide.”
Cashel O’Sullivan, she explained, had hung himself with a red scarf from the ceiling fixture in his bedroom early that morning – apparently the same scarf Francis Bates used to wear. Cashel lived at home and the body was discovered by his mother. No note had been found.
“Guilty conscience?” Kaylock wondered.
“We wondered that too, sir,” Kate said. “It seems a strong possibility. Mallory says there’s no sign of foul play. The bedroom door was locked from the inside. The police had to break it down. Pity he didn’t leave a note.”
“Any connection with the college?”
“Yes, sir. He attended Columbia at the same time as Francis Bates and Daniel Cherney. That’s how he first met Bates. Mr. Copperthwaite is at the house now with Sergeant Mallory interviewing the parents.”
“Did anyone see him elsewhere?” John wondered.
Kaylock turned his stern gaze on John. “I appreciate your work on the golem case,” he said. “I’ll admit, I had my doubts when you first came to the S.P.R., but you’ve earned my confidence.” From Kaylock, this was high praise indeed and John looked pleased.
“Thank you, sir.”
“That said, you’re both excused.”
I shifted in my chair. “If you need anyone to help question witnesses, I’d be happy to—”
“This is not your case, Miss Pell.” He made a shooing motion.
I sighed and rose to my feet. John did the same.
“I heard you killed the golem,” Kate said.
“Yes,” I replied. “Though we don’t know who made it.”
&
nbsp; “Well, congratulations are still in order,” she said, a touch glumly.
I heard Kaylock grilling her as we closed the door.
“What do you think?” John asked me. “O’Sullivan saw Bates’ death specter—”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“And now he’s dead, but unlike the first two, it’s by his own hand. If O’Sullivan was behind it—”
“Never mind, John, they don’t want our help. What do you say to some celebratory sausages at the Atlantic Garden? I’m buying.”
He glanced at the clock. “Wish I could, Harry, but I have to get to class,” he said apologetically.
“It’s all right.” I forced a smile. “Come by later if you can manage it.”
Despite my words, I hung about for a while hoping Kate might emerge, but it soon became clear that I was neither needed nor wanted, so I finally headed back to Tenth Street.
The house was quiet. I went to the upstairs parlor and took out my birthday gift from John. I had set it near the coal stove to dry out; the spine was swollen and the pages wrinkled, but happily the writing was still legible.
It was a translation of the handbook for coroners written by the Chinese bureaucrat Song Ci in 1247 – the first written work on forensic science. I started reading and quickly became engrossed in the case of a murder victim who had been hacked to death by a hand sickle. He was a peasant and it seemed certain the killer was one of his fellow villagers, but which one?
The clever local magistrate gathered a dozen or so suspects in the square and ordered them to place their hand sickles in a line on the ground. Then he waited for the blow flies to come.
I imagined the scene. The men standing around in the hot sun as the bright green flies began to gather and swarm over a single sickle whilst ignoring the others. Of course, the tool the flies took such an interest in was the one with traces of blood and bone on the blade. The owner stammered denials, but it was too late. Everyone knew who had committed the crime.
Using the behavior of insects to guide the inquest into a suspicious death was one of the many techniques codified in the handbook, titled The Washing Away of Wrongs, or Collected Cases of Injustice Rectified. It was a morbid but fascinating volume, and the hours flew by as I immersed myself in the grim mechanics of death.
