by Kat Ross
“Oculi quas fenestrae animi. The eyes are the windows of the soul. Do you remember, Harry?”
“Bruno Alighieri, you mean. The demonologist we consulted in the Brady case.”
“It’s an odd parallel.”
Harry kicked her shoes off and wiggled her stockinged toes at the fire. “It’s useless to speculate until we know more about the amulet itself. I’ll ask Sabelline’s wife about it tomorrow. Any other ideas?”
“Here’s one. What if it isn’t an enemy of Dr. Sabelline, but of the museum?” John said. “Someone who wanted the exhibit to fail.”
Connor had been listening quietly the whole time. Now he shook his head.
“Yer not thinking it through,” he said patiently.
“What?”
He spread his arms wide. “Just pitcher it. Famous explorer gets his candle snuffed inside the museum just before the exhibit opens. Cursed object nicked! People will come in droves. They’ll be beating ‘em off with a stick.”
“He’s right,” John said. “Which presents another possible motive.”
“Nelson Holland killed Dr. Sabelline in a spectacularly gruesome fashion to revive the museum’s attendance?” Harry asked with a smile. “Or maybe it was Morris K. Jessup himself?”
“I know it sounds far-fetched. I just think we should consider everything.”
“Fair enough.”
“What about the money? You ought to find out if there was an inheritance involved.” Mrs. Rivers sipped her dry gin with a happy sigh. “At least half the murders in this city have profit as a motive.”
“Half?” John snorted. “Try ninety percent.”
“I’ve no idea if he was wealthy,” Harry said. “The address Mrs. Winter gave me is in Brooklyn Heights. A respectable neighborhood but hardly Mansion Row.” She grinned. “It’s not far from that roller skating rink on Fulton and Orange Streets you dragged me to a couple of years back.”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t have a good time,” John laughed.
“I think I still have the scars.”
Harry wandered into the kitchen, where the Butchers were drinking mulled cider and practicing some sort of cheating strategy that involved attaching a nearly invisible silk thread to the cards and dragging them to different piles in the faro deal. Virgil the Goat, the undisputed wizard of gaming sleight-of-hand, watched the others’ efforts with a jaundiced eye, offering pointers in a bored tone.
“I have a job for you,” Harry said. “All of you.”
They perked up at this.
“There’s a man named Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry. I need you to find out where he lives and keep an eye on the place. Discreetly. That means without getting caught. We’ll all be in the soup if you muck this up.”
“Please,” Little Artie said with quiet dignity. “Yer talkin’ to professionals. We won’t get nicked. What’s the feller’s name again?”
Harry repeated it, more slowly this time. There was no point in writing it down as she doubted any of them could read. “He’s very rich.”
“Probably lives uptown with the other swells then,” Danny said. “Don’t worry, Miss Pell. We’ll track him down fer ya.”
“Excellent. Keep me informed.”
At ten o’clock, the Butchers thanked Mrs. Rivers for a “lov-er-ly dinner” and cleared out for their shared flophouse by the docks. Harry gave them each a quarter and a ham sandwich from the leftovers. She and Mrs. Rivers stood on the front stoop and watched as the six small forms melted into the shadows along Tenth Street.
“New York is no place for children,” Mrs. Rivers said, an edge of anger in her voice. “Those boys can’t be blamed for what they do, when they have no one to take care of them.”
“No, they can’t,” Harry agreed.
When they went back inside, they found John going over his notes from the day, adding details while his memory was still fresh.
“What about Jeremy Boot?” he said. “I know the charges against him were dropped for lack of evidence, but that’s not the same as being proved innocent. At the least it could be useful to get his story firsthand.”
“Is that an offer?” Harry asked with a smile.
“His address is in the police report. I’ll pop over tomorrow.”
“Perfect. I’ll see the Sabellines and we can meet afterwards for lunch at the St. Denis.”
The clock chimed and Harry suppressed a yawn.
“Don’t you think we ought to exchange presents now?” Mrs. Rivers said. “It’s getting rather late.”
“Oh no.” John looked stricken. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Ignore him.” Mrs. Rivers gave John a playful swat. “He dropped them off days ago. Swore me to secrecy.”
Connor passed the gifts around and they took turns opening them. Harry had bought John the latest edition of Grey’s Anatomy and a cashmere scarf. For Mrs. Rivers, whose love of the macabre was only surpassed by her love of quackery, Harry had ordered a Dr. Scott’s Electric Flesh Brush. Dr. Scott was a great favorite of Mrs. Rivers, and she seemed pleased with it.
“And this is yours.” John handed her a rectangular box. Harry opened it. Her breath caught at the object inside, gleaming in its velvet lining.
“Oh, John. You shouldn’t have. But it’s lovely.”
“Well, so are you,” he said lightly. “A good match then.”
Harry pointed the gun at the fireplace, admiring its sleek curves.
“It’s a Colt Derringer,” he said. “Walnut grip with an engraved silver barrel. Perfect for a stocking, muff or bodice.”
She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “You’re not afraid I’ll shoot you with it?”
He grinned. “I’ll just have to stay on your good side.”
Harry laughed. “I won’t have to swipe Myrtle’s anymore. Oh, thank you!” She leapt to her feet and fairly bowled him over with an embrace. John grinned, his cheeks reddening.
“All right. I’m glad you like it. There’s no point in telling you to stay out of trouble, so I figured you might as well be armed.”
Connor received some useful but boring items such as new socks and coat, but his eyes lit up when John gave him The Legacy of Cain, Wilkie Collins’ new horror novel. From the way Mrs. Rivers eyed it covetously, Harry had a feeling the book would end up among her extensive collection of confiscated penny dreadfuls.
John left at a little before midnight and they all toddled off to their rooms, warm and replete with food and camaraderie. Harry curled up in bed but as exhausted as she was, her mind kept running through the crime scene and the odd bits of evidence that didn’t add up. Keys and shoes and missing weapons.
More akin to an icepick…sharp but shallow ridges.
Harry threw the blankets off, rolled over. Got cold and pulled them back on. She felt she was missing something. Something important. But what?
The eyes were found approximately six feet from the body.
They nagged at her, those eyes. Like John said, unsettling echoes of the Brady case.
Pervadunt oculus.
It comes through the eyes.
Harry felt a chill. She thought of the crow she’d seen outside the Morgue that afternoon. Just like the one that had perched on her windowsill when Elizabeth Brady came to visit that summer, staring in such a queer, un-birdlike way through the glass. They all looked the same. It couldn’t possibly be the same bird.
Could it?
Don’t, she ordered herself sternly. Leland Brady is dead. You saw him die. The Hyde case is closed. You caught him in the act, about to kill Billy in the tunnel. Don’t look for connections that don’t exist.
No, the simple truth was someone wanted Julius Sabelline dead, and that someone was almost certainly one of a small number of friends or acquaintances. She had only to eliminate them one by one, by gathering as many hard facts as possible. The amulet of Osiris seemed a promising line of inquiry. Why take that particular artifact when far more valuable ones would have been easier to
steal?
Deep waters, Orpha Winter had said.
It was of water that Harry dreamt when she finally fell asleep. Dark and still and fathomless. Tall grey reeds swayed in the murk. Harry drifted among them, her bare toes brushing the muddy bottom. She had a strong sensation of being watched by hidden eyes. She flapped her arms to move quicker. Light shone in the distance, and in the way of dreams, she knew the edge of the queer forest lay not far ahead, if she could only reach it. But the not-water (for she breathed it easily) seemed to thicken the harder she tried to swim.
And then her heart froze as a larger shadow moved in the reeds. In an instant, the watchers scattered, a school of barracuda before a great white. She leaned forward, trying to dig into the muck, but every movement was painfully slow and labored.
He’s been looking for you. The Hunter. The man named Hyde.
And now he’s found you.
Harry opened her mouth to scream, and suddenly she was back in her bed. Paralyzed and sticky with sweat.
The night terrors.
Some part of her remembered, although she hadn’t had them since she was a small child. The unshakeable conviction that someone—a man—was climbing the stairs and coming toward her room. She couldn’t stir, couldn’t draw breath to scream, and when he opened the door….
Harry woke up, truly this time. Her eyes flew to the doorknob, heart clawing at her chest. But it didn’t turn. Ever so slowly, the panic ebbed. She lit a candle with shaking hand. She wished her parents would come home. At nineteen, she considered herself an independent woman, but the house felt awfully empty with just Connor and Mrs. Rivers.
Harry opened the drawer to her bedside table and confirmed that the gun John had given her lay inside, loaded and ready to fire. She took a drink of water and picked up the latest edition of the Journal of Forensic Botany.
Dawn was still hours off, but she knew there would be no more sleep that night.
16
Wednesday, December 26
The Sabellines lived in a Greek Revival townhouse on Cranberry Street in Brooklyn Heights, with wrought-iron railings and a well-kept garden. A uniformed housemaid answered Harry’s knock and seemed to be expecting her. The girl led the way down a short hall to a generously proportioned rear sitting room with tall windows that would have admitted wintry daylight had they not been sealed tight with heavy curtains. All the mirrors were likewise draped with black mourning cloths, giving the house the gloomy atmosphere of a medieval keep.
“Please to sit while I fetch the master,” the girl said in a thick German accent.
Harry nodded and dropped obediently into a chair. The moment the maid left, she leapt to her feet and took a quick survey of the room, hoping to find some clue to Julius Sabelline’s character. There were few souvenirs from the archaeologist’s travels, but a framed photograph above the mantel showed two men standing shoulder to shoulder in the desert, the legendary Sphinx crouching in the background.
The first was rather severe-looking, with a harsh mouth and flinty eyes. He had thinning grey hair and a visible paunch. Harry guessed this was Sabelline. The other man was much younger, no more than his mid-thirties, with dark hair parted on the side and combed back from his forehead. He wore a simple white shirt, open at the neck to reveal sun-darkened skin. Too old to be Jackson, Harry thought. There’s something arrogant about him, but also a bit melancholy. A strange combination….
“Miss Pell?”
Harry spun around, trying not to look guilty. The photograph was on display, after all.
A young man in his twenties stood just inside the doorway. He was handsome, with a rugged build and thick, wavy brown hair, but red-rimmed eyes marked him as in mourning.
“Jackson Sabelline,” he said, offering a hand by way of introduction. “Please do sit down.”
“Thank you for having me. I hope it’s not an intrusion. I suppose Mrs. Winter explained I’m from the Society for Psychical Research.”
They took seats opposite each other. Jackson called for coffee. His demeanor was not precisely cold, but nor did Harry sense an enthusiastic welcome.
“She told mother you’d be coming, but perhaps you can explain,” he said once the maid had left the coffee service on the table between them and closed the door behind her. “Forgive me if you find my question rude, but what exactly is the Society for Psychical Research? I don’t see how it pertains to my father’s murder.”
Harry cleared her throat. “Well, the S.P.R. was first formed in London in 1882. The mission was to apply rigorous scientific principles to the investigation of supernatural phenomena. An American branch was founded a few years later.”
“Supernatural?” he said in some confusion. “As in ghosts?”
“Among other things.” Harry decided not to mention ancient reanimated mummies. “But I assure you, Mr. Sabelline, I have no intention of sensationalizing this tragic event. My sister, Myrtle Fearing Pell, is a consulting detective—”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard of her,” he rejoined in a friendlier tone.
“She trained me according to the principles of logical deduction, which I intend to apply in this case as best as I can. I only wish to help the police, in an informal capacity.”
He nodded slowly. “That sounds rather admirable, Miss Pell. I imagine they can use all the help they can get at this point. It’s been two days and the only real suspect was released. I can’t describe how upsetting it is to us that father’s murderer is still out there, running loose.”
Harry laid her empty coffee cup on the table. “Perhaps we can begin by going over what you remember from that night.”
“Of course.”
“I understand you weren’t with your mother when the body was found?”
“No. I’d grown tired of waiting in the main hall for father to return, so I went off to explore the exhibits on the second floor. I’m studying anthropology at Harvard and the museum has a fine collection of pre-Columbian tools. I was only visiting for the holidays, you see.”
The younger Sabelline sighed, his gaze falling on a single sprig of holly on the mantle. All other signs of Christmas had been purged from the house. Harry supposed yuletide decorations would only make the family feel worse.
“The next thing I knew, Mr. Sharpe was yelling for help. He sounded...well, panicked. I knew something was terribly wrong. I rushed down the stairs and found him in the main hall with Count Habsburg-Koháry. Sharpe told us what he’d seen, though not all of it. I didn’t hear the worst of the details until later, when we were all questioned.
“I wanted to see my father but Sharpe wouldn’t let me. I suppose I should be grateful for that. He said I’d regret it for the rest of my days and there was nothing we could do for him now except fetch the authorities.” He swallowed. “We got the key from Boot and unlocked the front doors. There are always policemen in the park, even late at night, and Count Koháry found one quickly.”
“Mrs. Winter had left at that point?”
“The last I saw her, she was speaking to the count. I suppose she went home sometime while I was in the upstairs galleries.”
“And Nelson Holland?”
“To be honest, we’d forgotten all about him until he came wandering down from his office. The police had already arrived at that point.”
“Did you see anyone else while you were on the second floor?”
Jackson shook his head. “I was gone perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“And your mother? I understand she fainted.”
“Yes, quite understandably, the poor thing. Boot and Sharpe carried her out to the hallway. Boot stayed with my father’s body while the others went for help.”
“So no one could have gone in or out after the murder was discovered?”
“Not without being seen. I’d say it was no more than ten minutes between the time Mr. Sharpe raised the alarm and we returned with a police officer.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sabelline,” Harry said. “You’ve been most clear an
d forthcoming in your answers. I wonder if it might be possible to speak with your mother?”
He hesitated. “She’s resting. It’s all been such a terrible shock.”
“I understand perfectly. But—”
His face hardened a fraction. “The doctor has given her a sleeping draught. She’s always been a fragile person, Miss Pell, and I fear the toll this will have on her psyche. Perhaps in a few days, when she’s feeling stronger.”
Harry nodded, sensing a lost battle and unwilling to impose on his grief any more than she already had. “Of course. I—”
“Jackson?”
They turned at a soft voice in the doorway.
“Mother.” He stood immediately, looking stricken. “You shouldn’t be up.”
“It’s all right.” Mrs. Sabelline waved a pale hand. “I heard voices.”
“This is Harrison Fearing Pell,” he said with some reluctance. “She’s informally involved with the investigation. I was just answering some questions.”
Araminta Sabelline looked very much like her son, with the same generous mouth and lush hair, although her figure was small-boned and petite. Harry was a bit surprised to see she was a good twenty years younger than her deceased husband. She had pale skin, which looked even whiter against her long-sleeved black dress. There was something tragic about her features, as though she’d been born to wear a widow’s clothes.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Pell,” she said. “I’m happy to assist in any way I can.” She turned to Jackson. “Won’t you open the curtains? It’s so gloomy in here.”
“Certainly, Mother.” He crossed the window and threw back the heavy drapes. Thin light poured into the room.
“Is that your husband?” Harry asked, pointing to the picture above the mantel.
“Yes.” She gave a trembling smile. “It was taken at Giza two years ago. They’d gone to meet with Gaston Maspero. He’d just embarked on an attempt to clear away some of the sand that had buried the Sphinx and to search for tombs beneath it.”
“And the other gentleman in the photograph?”
“Is Count Balthazar Habsburg-Koháry.”
