Dead Ringer

by Kat Ross

  Moran looked down at himself in a daze. “Not your fault,” he managed.

  The cabbie went after his wayward horse and departed with a last stream of apologies. I walked over to Moran, who had taken out a handkerchief to wipe the mud off his face.

  “Thank you for that,” he muttered.

  The rain was easing to a drizzle now, the sky starting to lighten. I gave my arms a brisk rub again, remembering the bee that had flown past just before his double appeared.

  “Listen, Moran. I think there are signs. Small signs. If you can only learn to recognize them, it might keep you alive a bit longer.”

  He was silent for a moment. “I sensed it coming. Like an oppressive weight to the air. But I didn’t know what it would be.”

  “What about bodyguards? You have boys at your disposal—”

  Moran vehemently shook his head. “And what exactly do I tell them? No, I can’t allow this to get out. I have flesh and blood enemies, too, Pell. They’d be leaping for my throat at the first sign of weakness.”

  “All right, but you must be sensible,” I admonished. “It’s foolish not to utilize the S.P.R.’s full resources. I need to speak with the investigators working the case. They might have learned something useful.”

  His thick brows knit together. “No! I told you—”

  “You don’t want me to reveal your identity. I understand that. But there’s another way.” I explained to him what I had in mind and Moran nodded slowly.

  “How much time do you think I have left?” he asked, his face impassive.

  “I don’t know. You must stay alert. Listen to your instincts.”

  He gave a hollow laugh. “I doubt I’ll sleep again until this is over, one way or another.” Moran turned away. “I’ll have my lawyer draw it up—”

  “No need,” I replied. “I’m familiar with the language.”

  We crossed the park without further incident. Once at Moran’s mansion, he led me straight up to the room with the grand piano and sat down at his desk, writing in a flowing hand while I dictated. I signed the document and tucked it into my pocket.

  “I’ll take this down to Pearl Street,” I said. “Mr. Kaylock won’t be happy, but I’m willing to risk his wrath. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  As we passed the downstairs drawing room, a high, sweet voice drifted out.

  “James? Is that you?”

  He froze, an odd expression stealing over his features. It struck me as embarrassment and tenderness in equal measure. A blonde woman reclined on the sofa, one of the dogs curled on the carpet at her feet. I recognized her from the portrait next to the fireplace, though thinner and a decade older. She beckoned at us to come inside. Moran sighed and led me into the drawing room.

  “Miss Pell,” he said, his jaw tight. “Allow me to introduce my mother.”

  Chapter 10

  Tamsin Moran was a wraithlike woman with skin so white it was almost translucent.

  She wore a light blue dressing gown and her thick blonde hair was the most robust part of her. The rest looked like it would blow away in a stiff breeze. She bore such scant resemblance to her son I had the fanciful notion that Moran was a changeling left by wicked fairies in the cradle. Her blue eyes were glassy, the pupils tiny pinpricks, and I realized immediately that she was on some sort of opioid.

  “Fearing Pell,” Mrs. Moran said languidly. “I know that name.”

  “My grandfather was Harrison Fearing Pell, the author,” I replied. “I’m named for him.”

  “Ah yes, of course.” Mrs. Moran studied me, her gaze lingering on my fair hair. “Scotch-Irish. Take after your mother’s side, don’t you?” She didn’t glance at her son, but I wondered if the dig had been intentional.

  “So they say, ma’am.”

  “Miss Pell was just leaving,” Moran said, clearly desperate to get rid of me.

  His mother reached down and stroked the dog’s head. “You’re all muddy, James. What have you two been up to?”

  “A carriage splashed me in the park.”

  “Well, do go change before you track it through the whole house.”

  Moran steered me for the door just as his aunt Emmeline came down the stairs. She wore a simple white dress that highlighted her olive complexion and rosy lips. With the delicate cleft in her chin and masses of black hair, Miss Bayard was a rather stunning creature.

  “Tamsin, whatever are you doing out of your room?” she asked gently.

  “I wanted a glass of milk,” Mrs. Moran replied.

  Emma threw a protective arm around her sister’s waist. She cast a quick glance at Moran.

  “I’ll get it for you,” she said. “James, perhaps you’d help me.”

  He frowned, but went obediently to her side. Tamsin took his hand and twined their fingers together. “Darling James,” she murmured. “What would we do without you?”

  The two of them excused themselves and went off to the kitchen. I stood by the door, feeling awkward. Tamsin seemed lost in a drug-induced reverie and I thought she’d forgotten I was there until she patted the couch. “Come, child. Sit down. One ought not to hover.”

  I sat down and folded my hands in my lap, wondering what was taking the others so long.

  “You’re a friend of James?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Moran.”

  “Is he courting you?”

  I suppressed a laugh. “It’s not like that. We’re simply acquaintances.”

  She turned her blue eyes on me and they didn’t seem so fuzzy anymore. “Then why are you here?” she asked bluntly.

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. What was it about this woman that made me tongue-tied? She was even smaller than I was and probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet. But a darkness lurked around her eyes, as if she’d seen things. Bad things.

  “I’m looking into the deaths of your son’s friends,” I said. “Someone must have mentioned it. Daniel Cherney. Francis Bates. Cashel O’Sullivan.” I swallowed. “Or perhaps you didn’t know.”

  She gazed at me with such blankness that I feared I’d just imparted gruesome news in the clumsiest way. Then she tilted her head. “Those poor boys,” she said. “Such a terrible thing. But what do you expect to find?”

  “I’m not sure,” I replied, more or less honestly. “But I do have experience in such matters—”

  “What matters?” Her voice rose a notch. “What are you talking about?”

  I’d gone and put my foot in it. Mrs. Moran was hard to read, childlike one moment and sharp the next. I tried to frame a reply that wouldn’t get me in trouble with Moran when I was saved by his return, bearing a tray with a glass of milk on it.

  Emma trailed behind him, looking anxious. Moran gave his mother the glass and adjusted the blanket over her legs. “Do you need anything else?” he asked in a kind tone.

  She patted his cheek. “Not right now, James, thank you.”

  I rose to my feet. “I ought to be leaving. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Moran.”

  She nodded absently, cradling the milk with her pale, blue-veined hands.

  Emma brushed a bit of dried mud from the lapel of his coat and stepped back. As Moran walked me to the door, I heard the two sisters speaking softly in the drawing room. The whole scene was so uncomfortable, I could hardly meet his eye.

  “I’ll let you know what I learn at Pearl Street,” I said. “It might be best if you don’t go down to the Avalon tonight.”

  “Safer, you mean?” His voice had a derisive edge, but I knew him well enough now to understand that this was due to his own tension. “I doubt that.”

  I gave him a weak smile. “Just stay away from sharp objects and open windows.”

  Moran didn’t laugh.

  The sun was setting by the time I stepped off a street car on Broadway and walked the few short blocks to the S.P.R. offices. I told the butler it was urgent and he led me upstairs to Kaylock’s study.

  “What is it,
Miss Pell?” he asked crisply. “I told you, I’m afraid I don’t have any new assignments just yet.”

  “May I sit down, sir?”

  He gestured absently to a chair. “Have you discovered something new regarding the golem?” Kaylock inquired, his pen scratching away in a ledger.

  “In a way, sir. The two cases are connected after all.”

  Kaylock arched a brow. “Let’s hear it.”

  I drew a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. “Two days before he died, Daniel Cherney and a friend named Joseph Allen White went out for a night of gambling and drinking at a club in the Tenderloin. I believe that Danny was already being stalked by the double at that point. Joseph reported that he seemed frightened of something.”

  “You interviewed this man?” He frowned. “Need I remind you that this is not your case, Miss Pell?”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m aware of that, sir. And I didn’t speak to Mr. White myself. I . . . I overheard him talking about it.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll come to that later.” Kaylock opened his mouth to object, but I plowed onward. “In any event, Danny won big that night. So big the manager of the club thought he was cheating. The boys were ejected. They went to Central Park and continued drinking. Then Danny had the idea of making a golem out of mud.”

  Kaylock looked puzzled. “And it worked?”

  “It worked, sir, there’s no doubt of that, but I think I know why. Before they died, the accident victims twisted chance in some way. They made their own luck, good and bad, to an extreme degree.”

  “And how do you know all this?”

  Here came the part he would hate. “Because I’ve been hired by an individual with a strong personal interest in seeing it resolved.”

  “You’ve been hired,” Kaylock repeated, his voice dangerously soft.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “By whom?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

  “Unacceptable, Miss Pell. You already work for us. It’s your duty—”

  I took the folded paper out of my pocket and handed it to him. Kaylock read it in silence.

  “A confidentiality agreement,” he said flatly. “Signed by you.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Does Mr. Weston know about this?”

  “No, sir. He has nothing to do with it.”

  Kaylock stared at me. “I see. And this private client of yours. Is he or she worth sacrificing both your career and reputation?”

  I raised my chin. “That’s rather severe, sir. I already checked. There’s nothing in my contract with the S.P.R. that specifically says I can’t also work as an independent consultant. I’m willing to tell you all I can, as long as it won’t compromise the privacy of my client. Surely that counts for something. I have no intention of cutting out Miss Prince and Mr. Copperthwaite. I wish to cooperate as fully as I’m able.”

  He stared at me stonily.

  “I didn’t have to tell you at all, you know,” I added. “I could have just quietly taken the case. But I’m trying to do the right thing.”

  Kaylock sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Miss Pell. Don’t throw your future away. I might be indulgent of your eccentricities, but if Orpha Winter hears about this, she won’t be pleased. If she chooses to reprimand you, I would be hard-pressed to stop it.”

  “Understood, Mr. Kaylock.”

  He nodded. “As it happens, the other team is due to give me a progress report. You may wait in the parlor until they arrive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I spent the next hour listening to the monotonous ticking of the mantel clock and wondering what I had been thinking by taking this case in the first place. Orpha Winter, Mr. Kaylock’s co-vice president, was not a woman to cross lightly. John and I had enjoyed her good graces since we helped to solve the museum murders, but she was already predisposed to dislike me since I was hired by Mr. Kaylock and the two of them had been waging a quiet little war for years.

  Mrs. Winter believed heart and soul in the spirit world, while Mr. Kaylock was an avowed skeptic. If she could use me to tarnish her rival’s reputation, Orpha might toss me to the wolves without a second thought.

  Working as an investigator for the SPR had been my dream since childhood. Was I truly going to risk it all for James Moran?

  I thought of the ruthless young scoundrel who preyed on his fellow citizens and the laughing boy in the picture at Cashel O’Sullivan’s house. It was hard to believe they were the same person.

  But if I saved him, he would ensure no one ever harmed my sister again. The city’s most vicious criminals had little fear of the police, but they did fear James Moran.

  I couldn’t tell Kaylock this, of course. But in the end, I knew I would pay the price for Myrtle, not Moran.

  My thoughts turned back to the case. Daniel Cherney turned out to be a frightened young man with no real malice in his heart, but the killer targeting the Pythagoras Society was a different sort. I sensed a wicked hand at work, pulling strings in the shadows . . . .

  “Harry?”

  I looked up with a start. Kate Prince stood there with her partner, Wayne Copperthwaite.

  “I’ve been waiting for you both,” I confessed, rising to my feet. “You’ll likely be angry at me, but I’ve taken on a private client connected to your case. I can’t tell you who it is, but I can share some information.”

  The two looked at each other. “Angry?” Kate replied in a dry tone. “I’d say we’re overjoyed. This case has been at a standstill for days. If you know something useful, we’d be most appreciative.”

  I sagged with relief. “Please tell Mr. Kaylock that. He’s quite put out with me.”

  We entered his office and took seats in front of the desk. Kaylock looked at us each in turn in that schoolmaster way he had, though his gaze lingered on me the longest.

  “You first, Miss Pell. I’m dying to hear what nuggets of gold you’ve extracted from the barren earth of this case.”

  I refused to rise to the bait, smiling sweetly and launching into my recitation. How the victims knew they were being stalked by doubles. The curious twisting of fate in ways both good and bad that ultimately led to their tragic deaths. How it appeared that Cashel O’Sullivan had hung himself rather than suffer the same inevitable fate. I expressed the opinion that someone was in fact orchestrating the bizarre deaths through some kind of dark magic.

  I left out any mention of James Moran or the Pythagoras Society.

  Kate gave a thoughtful nod when I had finished talking. “Well, we had a visit from a medical student named Thaddeus Shaw this afternoon. He said he knew the victims well. He feared he might be next and gave us two names. Persons of interest who he claims were also close to the deceased.”

  “Who?” Kaylock asked, leaning across his desk.

  Kate glanced down at her notes. “Quincy Hughes and Joseph Allen White.” She watched me closely. “Ring any bells, Harry?”

  “I’ve heard the names mentioned,” I said carefully.

  “In what context?” Mr. Kaylock demanded.

  “I’m afraid I can’t say. It would compromise my client.”

  He made a noise of irritation.

  “But I promise, if I had any real dirt on either of them, I’d give it to you.”

  Kaylock sighed. “Continue, Miss Prince.”

  She nodded at Wayne, who took up the thread.

  “Actually, I’m the one who interviewed him. He singled out Quincy Hughes in particular. Mr. Shaw seems to believe Hughes has reason to regret their former association and might be willing to kill to cover it up.”

  “Some embarrassing secret, you mean?” I asked with a frown. Moran had never mentioned anything like that.

  “He implied as much, but clammed up when we pressed for details,” Wayne said. “And frankly, he was an odd one himself. We’re looking into all three of them now.”

  I wondered if the Pythagoras Society was really as innocent as my c
lient claimed. It was also interesting that Thaddeus left Moran out of it. Fear? Or something else?

  Kate gave me a thin smile, as if she knew I was holding back and understood my reasons. “We’ve already done some digging through the victims’ lives to figure out if they had any enemies. None were as squeaky clean as they first seemed. Cherney had a loud row with another student a few weeks before he died, claimed the boy cheated off him during a test. It nearly came to blows. O’Sullivan was in a simmering feud with one of the other stagehands. And Bates had a reputation for poaching other men’s paramours.”

  “But none of them had any enemies in common,” Wayne said glumly. “Not a single one.”

  We kicked around ideas for a while more. By the time I left, the case felt muddier than ever. I’d promised Moran to fill him in on my meeting at Pearl Street, but I had a more pressing errand first.

  I took the Third Avenue elevated to Forty-Second Street and walked north up Madison Avenue to Columbia. I knew the buildings of the medical college well and inquiries soon led me to an empty classroom where John was diligently piecing together a skeleton with bits of wire.

  “Harry,” he murmured, without looking up. “Would you hand me that tibia?”

  I passed him the leg bone and sank into a wooden chair with an attached desk.

  “I saw it,” I said.

  That got his attention. “Moran’s double?”

  “We were crossing Central Park. I saw it clear as day, John. It looked right at me.” I suppressed a shudder. “I chased it, but it disappeared. Then Moran nearly got run over by a carriage. The horse was stung by a bee and bolted.”

  “Crikey.” He sorted through a pile of what looked like toes. “Where are you, my lovely little metatarsal?” he sang.

  “Over there?” I pointed helpfully.

  “No, that’s the distal. I want the proximal . . . . Ah, here she is.” He returned to his labors, his hair falling rather fetchingly over one eye.

  “Then I went to Moran’s house and met his mother. She’s quite a piece of work, John. A laudanum addict, unless I miss my guess.”