Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  There was a long, terrible silence. The blood drained from his face, save for two spots of color high on his cheeks. “Get out,” he said finally.

  “Moran—”

  “Get out!” He rose to his feet and stabbed a finger at the door. “Our contract is hereby terminated, Pell.”

  I shook my head. “You can’t see it, can you? Because you don’t want to—”

  “Get out.” His voice had sunk to the almost inaudible level that meant Moran was on the verge of losing control.

  I stood and stalked to the door. A few choice words sprang to mind, but I didn’t utter them.

  He still had the gun, after all.

  The house was silent as I made my way to the front door and out into the sunny afternoon.

  I met John at seven o’clock at Seighortner’s restaurant on Lafayette Place, a favorite haunt of New York’s bon vivants. It occupied the old Astor mansion and was one of the best meals to be had in the city outside of Delmonico’s. The Swiss restauranteur everyone called “Papa” escorted us to our table himself and reeled off the day’s specials with his famous bland smile.

  We ordered terrapin soup and Dover sole with a bottle of Räuschling. Papa kissed his fingertips and promptly conveyed the selection through the speaking tube connecting the dining room with the kitchen. A pleasant buzz of conversation drifted through the restaurant, which retained the atmosphere of a luxurious private home. John had requested a corner table so we could converse in privacy, but I still made sure to keep my voice pitched low.

  “It’s one of those women,” I said to John once the wine was poured. “The family is riddled with secrets like a wormy apple. I took a close look at the door to Moran’s music room. The marks weren’t made by dogs. I can’t say with total certainty, but if I had to guess, I’d say they were from a woman’s hairpin. Someone broke into that room not long ago and I very much doubt the burglary was unrelated.”

  John tapped the cork against the snowy white tablecloth. “So they were after the charter?”

  “I can’t think of another reason, though I’m not yet sure why.”

  I had decided it would be unwise to tell him our client had climbed into my bedroom the night before. I had a strong feeling John wouldn’t take the news well, even though nothing improper had occurred. In all fairness, if the tables were turned, I probably wouldn’t, either.

  “So you think Emma . . . or his mother . . . .” John took a sip of wine. “What exactly do you think, Harry?”

  “If Moran is the product of an affair between Emma and Declan, then it’s possible Tamsin despises him for it. Emma was thirteen when he was born. It’s young to give birth but not unheard of. The man sounds like a beast. I wouldn’t put rape past him.” I bit my lip. “Or Emma harbors some kind of unrequited passion for Moran that’s turned to spite. Or the nurse hates him because she was loyal to the father.”

  “The Three Furies,” John mused. “Could be all of them scheming together.”

  I met his gaze. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “The nurse?”

  I nodded.

  “Didn’t Moran fire you?”

  “Yes, but when has that ever stopped us?”

  We stopped talking as the waiter brought out two bowls of steaming soup and a basket of fresh brown bread with butter. I dug in with gusto and for a time we focused entirely on the splendid meal before us.

  “Listen, we only have Emma’s word that Klara Schmidt went back to Germany,” I said, when our spoons had scraped up the last of the savory broth. “Honestly, they both seemed more than a little afraid of her. Have a look.” I fished in my pocket and took out the photograph. “Moran was so mad he forgot to ask for it back.”

  John studied it. “Good God, she looks like a fairytale witch. The sort that bakes children into pastries.”

  “Klara Schmidt was totally dependent on the Morans. She wouldn’t have had much money of her own. I got the feeling that neither Emma nor Tamsin wanted her around, but Declan wouldn’t hear of her leaving. Once he died. . . .”

  “They saw the chance to be rid of her.” He took a last glance at the picture. “Can’t say I blame them, Harry.”

  “So where would you put someone you wanted out of sight but you’re too scared of to boot onto the street?”

  We looked at each other.

  “A home for the aged and infirm,” John said.

  “My thought exactly. Can you start making a list? Stick to Manhattan for now.”

  “And what will you be doing?”

  I smiled. “Paying a visit to the morgue.”

  It was after nine o’clock by the time I reached the offices of The New York World on Park Row and hunted down my friend Nellie Bly. She was one of the paper’s top investigative reporters and I had turned to her for help before. Nellie was in the midst of planning a race around the globe, aiming to beat the fictional Phileas Fogg’s record of eighty days. She had a rival from The Cosmopolitan magazine named Elizabeth Bisland, a refined southern beauty, while Nellie was a brash muckraker from Pennsylvania coal country. Bisland intended to set out toward the west, Nellie to the east. Whoever won, their contest promised to rivet readers of both publications.

  Clouds of steam drifted through the sidewalk gratings from the underground printing presses as I passed the muddy hole in the ground at the corner of Frankfort Street where Joseph Pulitzer planned to build the paper’s new headquarters. Construction wasn’t due to begin until October, but The World’s flamboyant owner had already vowed it would be the tallest skyscraper in the world.

  Nellie’s desk in a far corner of the newsroom was a jumble of lists and manifests and timetables. She gave me a smile and beckoned me over for a warm embrace.

  “When do you leave?” I asked, clearing off a chair and sitting down.

  “November 14. I’ll catch a steamer from Hoboken bound for Southampton,” she replied with a low chuckle. “Joe wanted me to go earlier, he’s obsessed with the number ten.” She glanced at the train, bus and ferry schedules. “I told him the math didn’t add up. We’ll be tight enough as it is. The slightest delay could derail the whole thing.”

  “It sounds exciting,” I said with a touch of envy.

  “I’ve been waiting a year for this,” she said, pushing the short bangs from her eyes. “I plan to do it with a single dress and one small bag, though at least they’re sending me first class.”

  I smiled. “No collection of gigantic steamer trunks?”

  “If one is traveling simply for the sake of traveling and not for the purpose of impressing fellow travelers, the problem of baggage becomes a very simple one,” she replied. “Now what brings you to our humble offices so late on a Friday night? Something tells me this isn’t a social visit, Harry.”

  “I was hoping to have a look in the archives,” I admitted. “In particular, the coverage of James Moran’s murder trial. Everything you’ve got.”

  Nellie gave me a curious look. “Research for Myrtle?”

  “No, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to her.”

  She stared at me for a long moment. “The back issues are in the basement. Come on, I’ll walk you down.”

  After the frantic bustle of the newsroom, the hushed, yellowing archives did have the feel of a morgue. Reporters cheekily called it that because they delved into the material when they needed to write obituaries of famous people, but it was a trove that I hoped would shed some light on the crime at the heart of the matter. My instincts told me Declan Moran was the key, yet he remained a question mark.

  Nellie quickly located the editions starting in the summer of 1887 and piled them on an empty desk. I was already familiar with most of the coverage, but a few salient facts jumped out. Moran was convicted of manslaughter because no one actually witnessed the shooting. He confessed to the crime, but said his father had come at him in a drunken rage and the gun went off during a struggle.

  Both Emma and Tamsin were home at the time but said they saw
and heard nothing. Ditto the servants.

  “There’s something the editors wouldn’t print,” Nellie said in a low voice. “I didn’t cover the trial, but I know the reporter who did. He told me over drinks one night that there was a private meeting in the judge’s chambers toward the end of the trial. Moran’s lawyers could see the jury was leaning towards a first degree murder conviction. Their client hadn’t come off well on the witness stand.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” I said softly. “Cold and arrogant, I imagine.”

  “Extremely. Well, it took some convincing, but the lawyers finally got Moran to remove his shirt. He had scars on his back from being whipped with a leather strop. Terrible scars, Harry. When the judge saw it. . . . Well, I think he might have let Moran off the hook if only he’d showed some remorse. But he couldn’t quite manage it so the charge was knocked down to manslaughter and he got eight months.” She shrugged. “Still a bargain if it was premeditated. He could easily have hanged.”

  I wondered what might have happened if James Moran hadn’t been sent to the Tombs. It was in that dank cell that the seeds of his criminal career were planted. Myrtle said he made crucial gangland connections in prison. What if he had been acquitted of all charges? Would his life had taken a different turn?

  It was an unanswerable question and I set it aside.

  “Is there a picture of Declan Moran anywhere?” I asked.

  “I think so. He was a private man, but we commissioned a sketch . . . . Ah, here it is.”

  Nellie handed me the page. I stared in wonder as the last piece fell into place.

  “Striking resemblance, isn’t it?” she said.

  “More than striking,” I said softly. “He’s the spitting image of his son.”

  I thought of the blank hole on the wall where Declan’s portrait used to hang.

  “Anything else, Harry? I’ve got a deadline.”

  “No. You’ve been an enormous help, thanks.”

  Nellie nodded. “Tell Myrtle I’ll come pay a visit before I sail. She must be ready to kill someone sitting around at home.”

  I gave her a weak smile. “You’ve no idea.”

  13

  It took most of the next morning to work our way through John’s list. We claimed to be searching for a long lost great-aunt and the orderlies were more than happy to pocket a few dollars in exchange for allowing us to view the registers. But none recognized the photograph of Klara Schmidt.

  “It’s this one or bust,” John remarked wearily as we climbed the steps to the Association for the Relief of Respectable Aged Indigent Females on Amsterdam Avenue and Ninety-First Street. The building was a heap of crumbling brick identical to the last four and I had a sudden premonition that it was all a wild goose chase.

  Moran might already be dead. If he wasn’t, he would probably kill me for interfering in his affairs.

  The man behind the front desk had large rabbity teeth and looked so bored I had to suppress a yawn just looking at him. He greeted us with an obsequious smile. “How can I help you?”

  John related the usual story and the attendant heaved a regretful sigh. “I’m afraid the names of our residents are confidential. We must protect their privacy at all costs.” He lowered his voice. “There are villains who would take advantage of these poor souls if they could. I don’t mean it as an insult, I’m sure you’re perfectly honest, but rules are rules.”

  It was a familiar refrain. John laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. “That’s admirably diligent of you,” he said. “But if our dear Aunt Klara ended up here, she’d be glad to know she had family looking for her, don’t you think?” He drummed his fingers on the bill. “A small tip for your trouble.”

  The man’s ennui evaporated and he looked thrilled at his good fortune. “Well, since you put it that way. . . .” He neatly palmed the bill. “As a matter of fact, Miss Schmidt has been with us for two years now. She’s just had her supper. I’ll take you up to see her right now if you’d like.” He came around from behind the counter and started for a flight of stairs.

  John and I shared a triumphant look. “Oh heavens, it’s been so long!” I exclaimed. “I do hope she remembers us.”

  “Yes, Cousin Gretel,” John replied loudly. “You were just a girl when last we saw dear Aunt Klara. It was at . . . Hansel’s wedding in Dusseldorf, wasn’t it?”

  I shook my head violently and mouthed at him to be quiet. John sucked his lips in made a dramatic pantomime of twisting a key and hurling it away. The attendant spun back as we reached the staircase and the two of them eyed each other for a long moment.

  “Is something amiss?” John asked innocently.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “No. I just thought I heard . . . Never mind.”

  He led us up a cramped flight of stairs to the third landing. The place wasn’t as bad as some of the other homes we’d visited that morning, but it had an air of benign neglect. Cobwebs festooned the corners and the smell of boiled potatoes seemed to have soaked into the walls. As we started down the hall, a door opened and an old woman with a cloud of unruly white hair stuck her head through the crack like a tortoise peering out of its shell.

  “Mr. Forsythe?” she called out in a high, wavering voice.

  “Back to bed with you, Miss Castle!” he sang out in a not unkind tone. “I am currently occupied escorting visitors for Miss Schmidt.”

  “Ooooh, how exciting,” Miss Castle said with a touch of envy. “I only wanted seconds of that pudding, if you might, Mr. Forsythe. It has raisins.”

  He nodded sagely. “I’m well aware of your rabid fondness for raisins, Miss Castle.” He made a courtly gesture, bending one knee with a flourish. “Your desire is my command!”

  She tittered at the plummy voice.

  “Go on, dear.” He made a whisking motion. “I’ll be back in a tick.”

  Miss Castle withdrew and Mr. Forsythe reverted to his usual voice. “Here she is,” he muttered, giving a desultory rap with his knuckles on a door at the very end of the hall. “I’m sure the old bird’ll be thrilled to see you. She hasn’t had a visitor in ages.”

  John and I exchanged a nervous glance as a muffled voice sounded from within.

  “Relations, Miss Schmidt,” Mr. Forsythe crooned in the sticky-sweet tone he seemed to reserve for the residents. “May we come inside?”

  He didn’t wait for a reply but opened the door and admitted us to a surprisingly large, airy room facing the avenue. A tall, skinny woman sat by the window, grey hair ratcheted into a severe bun. I could only see her profile but she looked ancient. Her old-fashioned dress was flat black crepe, accentuating her extreme pallor and the blue veins snaking along the skin of her throat. A tray of half-eaten supper sat at her elbow.

  As we entered the room, she shifted in her chair and I thought I saw a spark of knowing malice in her eyes, but then it was gone.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, the consonants hardened by a slight Teutonic accent.

  The cold voice dried my tongue, but John seemed unaffected.

  “You remember us, don’t you?” he asked, approaching her chair. “From when you worked for the Morans.”

  Klara Schmidt regarded him impassively. I hadn’t been able to tell her eye color in the photograph. Now I saw that they were a dark, rich blue. Her body looked wasted beneath the black dress, but I sensed a powerful strength of will.

  The attendant hovered in the doorway. “Don’t you know these people, Klara?” he asked.

  “I’ve never seen them before in my life,” she said with contempt.

  He cast us a genuinely upset look and I realized that Mr. Forsythe wasn’t a bad egg. He felt responsible for his charges and assumed we were swindlers hoping to steal whatever little money she had hidden away.

  “Klara’s not dotty like some of the others,” he said coldly. “If she knew you, she’d say so. I’m afraid you’ll have to go before I summon the police.”

  Klara Schmidt started to turn away and I walked up to her, determined t
o speak my piece before she threw us out.

  “Hey!” Mr. Forsythe called out in exasperation. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  John murmured something appeasing, but my attention was all on the wizened creature who sat before me dressed like a mourner at a funeral. Like a crow, Moran had said.

  “We know about the curse,” I said in a low voice. “It’s killed three people so far.”

  It was impossible to tell what she thought of this news. Her face might have been carved from marble.

  “James is still alive, but he won’t be for much longer,” I said. “Please. Won’t you give us five minutes?”

  Her thin lips clamped into a line. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She was lying, I knew it. “Listen,” I said in mounting desperation. “I don’t think you did it, but I’ll bet you know who did.”

  Something sparked in those cold eyes.

  “That puts you in danger. Surely you can see that. We can protect you.”

  She reared back in her chair like I was the Grim Reaper come to drag her down to Hell. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Harrison Fearing Pell. This is my colleague John Weston. We only want to stop it. Please help us.”

  Klara Schmidt’s gnarled hand went to a gold crucifix around her neck. “You said three are dead?” she whispered.

  I nodded. “Daniel Cherney. Francis Bates. Cashel O’Sullivan. All friends of James.”

  She fell silent for a moment. “I remember them. They would come to the house.” She sniffed. “Very loud, ill-mannered boys. I would never have stood for it if I was the mistress, but Tamsin never had any backbone. And Emmeline . . . .” She trailed off. “What do you want from me?”

  “Those boys died horribly. I think I know who’s behind it, but I still don’t know why.” I regarded her steadily. “But you can tell us, can’t you?”

  Klara said nothing. I decided to switch tacks. “You were at the house when James killed his father.”

  This time she gave a reluctant nod. “The Moran blood runs strong,” she muttered.