The Illusion of Murder
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To Hildegard,
who doesn’t know the beauty, kindness, intelligence, and wisdom that she possesses. But that is what makes her so extraordinarily special.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As Nellie Bly so adequately put at the end of her book Around the World in 72 Days:
To so many people this wide world over am I indebted for their kindnesses that I cannot thank them all individually. They form a chain around the earth. To each and all of you, men, women and children, in my land and in the lands I visited, I am most truly grateful. Every kind act and thought, if but an unuttered wish, a cheer, a tiny flower, is imbedded in my memory as one of the pleasant things of my novel tour.
I could not have expressed it better, except I would like to add to Nellie’s debt of thanks.
After I wrote The Illusion of Murder, I began my journey to reintroduce Nellie Bly to the public with my first novel, The Alchemy of Murder. To all the countless libraries and bookstores throughout the world who supported my novel, and to all the wonderful people who so graciously bought The Alchemy of Murder, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
There are a few people I want to thank for their kindness and special words of cheer. They are: Richard at Flowers by Richard in Manhattan; Heather Rees; Michael A. Giaquinto; Helena Cordeiro; Laurie and Ian at The Underground Bakery.
To Kareem Jr. and Amy Brogan, my first new Young Adults who sent me e-mails thanking me for introducing them to Nellie, “Thank you, I am thrilled and honored that you love Nellie. She truly is an inspiration to us all.”
I would also like to thank the people “behind the scenes” who are invaluable to me and Nellie: Harvey Klinger, my Maxwell Perkins; Bob Gleason, my editor; Linda Quinton, a very special lady at Tor/Forge; Ashley Cardiff, extraordinary assistant to Bob Gleason, and to Whitney Ross, who so graciously stepped in and helped me—Merci-Merci; Cassandra Ammerman, my publicist, whom I’m very lucky to have; and Helen Chin, my copyeditor, who did an incredible job.
A few new special little critters were born this year … Ella Krische, Arshay Fischer, Dustin Gregory Anderson, and Gavin Si Ying Krische. I want to welcome you to our world and may you learn about Nellie Bly, because her courage and determination are something that I believe will be of great value to you in this crazy world of ours … Good Luck!
In memory of
Kathleen Ann Carr,
a beautiful gal with a heart of gold.
Like Nellie, she left us too soon.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Preface
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Port Said
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part II
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part III
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part IV
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Part V
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Hong Kong
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Part VI
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Part VII
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chicago
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
L’envoi
Historical Note
Forge Books by Carol McCleary
Copyright
PREFACE
I discovered that Egypt is a land of both mystery and magic, an exotic place where trees talk and men turn staffs into snakes, so it should not have come as such a surprise to me that death would also be mysterious in this ancient, haunted land of pyramids, mummies, and the eternal Nile …
JOURNAL OF NELLIE BLY, 1889
Those words were recorded by Nellie Bly, the world’s first female investigative reporter, during the race around the world she made in 1889 to beat the record of Jules Verne’s fictional hero Phileas Fogg in the novel Around the World in 80 Days.
That journey of nearly 22,000 miles by steamship, carriage, and Iron Horse brought her not just into contact with exciting and exotic cultures during Victorian times, but into the intrigues of great nations at a time when ancient magic and a mysterious prophecy of the Sphinx threatened to stain the Nile red with the blood of foreigners.
While Nellie’s adventurous journey was related for the public in her book Around the World in 72 Days, those of you who have read Nellie’s previous accounts of her investigations are aware that she also maintained a secret journal of what actually happened during her investigations, beginning with the murder and mad science she encountered when she spent ten days in a madhouse in order to get a “man’s” job as a reporter.
Many readers are already familiar with the fact that the discovery of Nellie’s secret journals—found in the rubble when the old building that housed her employer, the New York World, was razed—has been the subject of both litigation and accusations that Nellie’s actual accounts were liberally altered to include murder and intrigue.
This accusation is firmly rebutted.
While it was necessary to make modest editorial corrections to the journal, the reader may once again rest assured that they may compare our truth and veracity to that attributed to that lioness of literature, Lillian Hellman, by none other than author Mary McCarthy.
THE EDITORS
NELLIE BLY
SETTING OUT ON HER RACE AROUND THE WORLD WITH A SMALL VALISE
PROLOGUE
19th Dynasty Burial Chamber
Ancient Site of Tanis
Egypt, 1889
I discovered that Egypt is a land of both mystery and magic, an exotic place where trees talk and men turn staffs into snakes, so it should not have come as such a surpris
e that death would also be mysterious in this ancient, haunted land of pyramids, mummies, and the eternal Nile.
That I could suffer a bizarre death in this strange land had not occurred to me until now, as I stand cold to the bone, staring down at the long black snake I’ve stepped on.
I don’t dare lift my foot, I can’t even breathe; I just stand stiffly in place, the toe of my shoe pressing down on the serpent as it thrashes and tries to coil.
Darkness is closing in as a burning torch on the dirt a few feet from me fades. When the bundle of sticks burn out, there’ll be just me and the snake—in the dark.
In the dark where? A burial chamber, for sure. A sarcophagus is off to my right and I can make out on a wall a scene from the Egyptian Book of the Dead—the aged painting of a boat that has the head of a lion, a tail and clawed feet at the stern; aboard are wailing women, some with hands outstretched, others covering their faces—mourners for the dead.
The stone coffin, pillars, and faded hieroglyphics are the only remnants of what was perhaps the magnificent tomb of some long-dead pharaoh. Once filled with unimaginable treasures, it now has dust and cobwebs; thieves have taken everything but the ghosts.
Shouting for help will do no good. No one knows I’m here except the person who imprisoned me; someone with murder in their heart I’ve yet to put a name or face to, but who knows I’m trying to flush them out.
The snake’s tail whips against the side of my leg and I nearly jump out of my skin.
I have no idea of what kind of snake it is, but the country is famous for its asps—deadly horned vipers and cobras. Cleopatra tested their venom on condemned prisoners to find out which killed the fastest and most painlessly before she had one bite her.
How I came to be imprisoned in an ancient tomb with one foot on a snake and the other on my own grave has me wondering how I’ve so quickly managed to offend the gods of this ancient land. A mystifying artifact of Egyptian black magic is the source of my troubles and I had been forewarned—possession of it has already caused blood to soak into the primordial dust of the Nile valley.
It is not the first time I’ve stepped into a snake pit, so to speak, but never before so literally; it’s at times like this that I wonder if there is something about me that attracts the strange and the dangerous.
My name is Nellie Bly and I’m a reporter for Mr. Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World. With too much boldness for my own good, I bullied and bluffed my way into having the newspaper send me on a race around the world in which I must beat the “record” set by Phileas Fogg in Jules Verne’s novel, Around the World in 80 Days.
That it was the thirteenth day of my journey when I made landfall in Egypt should have also told me that this was not an auspicious time to visit a place where priests once made people eternal with dark magic and the land blistered under ten plagues hurtled by the almighty Jehovah.
The snake twists and thrashes violently and I press harder—at least I think I do. My body is blue cold, I can’t feel my toes and my knee is shaking wildly as if it has a life of its own.
Did something move at the sarcophagus?
I’m sure I saw something move.
Dear God, let it be a trick of the light.
The fading torchlight is casting eerie shadows. There couldn’t be anything in the stone coffin, not something alive, unless it’s true that Egyptian priests could embalm in a way that preserved life for aeons.
More snakes?
The thought of being in the dark with snakes, and scorpions, and spiders, and God knows whatever else lurks in ancient tombs causes the shaking in my knee to work its way up to my hip, and my whole body trembles. I want to cry but I can’t spare the strength and instead press down harder on the snake—or maybe I just think I am pressing harder. My foot is so numb I can’t feel anything under it.
The torch flickers and hisses as if it’s burning through the last of the pitch. I have to get to it and somehow keep it going until I can find my way out of this nightmare. There has to be a door somewhere.
My knees and my courage are turning to mush and I keep imagining I’m letting up the pressure on the struggling serpent. Or maybe I’m not imagining it.
I know I can’t keep this awkward stance any longer. I have to do something now before the darkness completely embraces me.
The creature underfoot thrashes violently, whipping its whole body. It starts slipping out from under my shoe and I scream as I push down on it again, my heart pounding so hard that I’m breathless and sway dizzily, almost losing my footing.
Shutting my eyes tightly, I ask God for help. I don’t think He will listen; unfortunately I’m one of those people who never talks to Him unless I’m up to my neck in alligators, but I try anyway though I don’t think that the Good Lord would approve of my present association with the dark side of Egyptian magic.
I can’t be left blind in the darkness with a deadly snake. I need to get both feet on the snake and jump up and down until I’m sure it can’t harm me and get to the torch before it dies.
I start to bring up my other foot up as I look down.
It’s gone.
The snake has slipped out from under my foot.
Mortified, I can’t move, can’t breathe. It could strike at any second.
Mother of God, how did I get myself into this mess? Ancient curses, magic amulets, esoteric mysteries from the Egyptian Book of the Dead, murder and fanaticism—it’s all insanely bizarre for a young woman from Cochran’s Mills, Pennsylvania, population exactly 534.
As the darkness closes in on me and my breathing takes on the hoarse rasp of a death rattle, I ask myself what I could have done differently when I decided to flush out a killer in a land blessed by the sun and damned by ancient curses.
PART I
Day 13
I shall now speak at greater length of Egypt, as it contains more wonders than any other land, and is preeminent above all countries in the world for works that can hardly be described.
—HERODOTUS (450 BC)
1
Port Said, Egypt • November 27, 1889
Thirteen days after I left New York, the Victoria, the ship that will see me all the way to Ceylon in the Indian Ocean, anchors in the bay at Port Said, the gateway to the Suez Canal. The bay is too shallow for large ships to reach the docks and they must lie out and be fed coal for the boiler by coolies on barges.
My effort to beat the eighty days around the world record of Jules Verne’s Phileas Fogg has progressed nicely. By carriage, train, and ships—the Victoria being the third ship to convey me—I have put over five thousand miles under my feet.
Particularly gratifying is that my membership in the female gender has not in the least delayed or otherwise hindered my travels. Mr. Pulitzer had planned to send a newspaperman on the assignment because he believed the race too dangerous and strenuous for a mere woman.* But more about that later.
When I hear the anchor chain clanging, I dress to go out on deck and get my first sight of the ancient land by dawn’s early light.
As I step out of my cabin, a man down the corridor is closing the door of his room behind him. He gives me a studied look as if to judge whether I have come out because of him, then turns away without a “good morning” and hurries to the companionway that leads to the outside deck.
He’s dressed rather oddly for a passenger, more the work clothes of a sailor, and he’s carrying a small sea bag not unlike what I’ve seen sailors tote. Most unusual about his clothing is that the pants are a little too long, the shirt a bit too roomy, striking me as borrowed or bought on short notice.
An intense-looking gentleman perhaps close to thirty years old; I’ve offered a “good day” a couple of times in the passageway since I boarded at Brindisi, Italy, two days ago, but have gotten hardly a nod in return. He takes his meals in his cabin and appears very preoccupied with his own private affairs, so much that he forgets common courtesies. A man on a mission, the boys back in the newsroom would say. Caught up with
his own importance, I’d say.
Had he asked, I would tell him that he’d have more success keeping his own affairs from public scrutiny if he acted less like a nervous squirrel hiding nuts.
Out on deck, the last lingering moments of night along with a fine mist hanging in the air make my first impression of Egypt not the golden land of the eternal sun, but the gloomy outline of a dark city with a line of buildings along the shore appearing as a great serpentine beast with humps that had lain down along the water’s edge.
No gaslights glow in windows or on street lamps, and there is not the telltale bounce of carriage lamps that one expects in a city. When I crossed the Mediterranean, I left behind the world of modern conveniences, of steam-powered engines and Mr. Edison’s newfangled electric lights, and stepped into a land that had changed little over the centuries.
A chant coming from a tall, slender tower silhouetted against the breaking dawn reminds me that I have arrived in the Islamic world. It is a call to prayer made by a muezzin from a balcony near the top of a minaret that rises next to the domed roof of a mosque. Neither spoken nor sang, the summons to face Mecca and pray is strange to my ear—a mournful wail as if a plea to Allah for mercy and bounty in a harsh, dangerous world.
I spot the peculiar passenger from my corridor and realize why he’s dressed in work clothes—he’s standing on a small wood platform being lowered to a rowboat below. He must be in hurry for him not to have waited for the accommodation ladder, a gangplank that will be placed on the side of the ship later to assist passengers in boarding shore boats. Urgent business, perhaps even a family emergency, speeding his exit from the ship? But why the sailor’s garb?
A movement at the railing on the deck above catches my eye. Someone—a man I think, but I’m not sure because the individual is wrapped in a hooded overcoat—is at the rail, watching the passenger being rowed ashore.
My neighbor at least is entertainment on an otherwise dark and gloomy morn.
When the call to prayer ends, a violent gush of wind blows from shore, buffeting the ship and creating an eerie murmuring in the rigging.
“The poisoned wind, the A-rabs call it,” a crewman says as he passes by. He pauses and catches my eye. “They say it comes out of the desert to blow us foreigners back to where we came from and there’s plenty in Port Said who believe it. Don’t go ashore without a good man’s protection, miss.”