She groaned. If there was one thing she hated, it was politicking.
Glad she had worn one of her more businesslike dresses in folds of gray linen and black detailing, she needed to be elegant but serious. She needed to be considered a woman, not a frilly young thing, she didn’t need to waste time on apparel—how much of a woman’s day could be spent changing dresses?—but she did finish her look by affixing a small boater hat to the side of braids she piled atop her head with enough pins to withstand a storm, and took out her best pair of seed-pearl-adorned gloves. It would do neither her nor Bishop any good if she were not considered a consummate lady.
For the rest of the day, with the help of their diligent but bored driver, Leonard, Clara made the rounds of all the congressmen with whom Bishop had an even remotely cordial relationship.
Her first call, on Congressman Connor, was unfortunately indicative of how far she’d get with anyone.
“Well now, dear miss,” said the portly man, who wore a suit more fine than his Fourth Ward district could possibly afford, “what might I be able to do for you?”
“Congressman, I am here on behalf of Senator Rupert Bishop to ask for your help in intervening on behalf of companies in your district that may have been infiltrated by a serious threat to national security.”
The congressman made a face. “What threat is that? Why don’t I know about it?”
“I’m afraid I am unable to discuss many of the details, at the senator’s order,” Clara said, aware that most politicians had no knowledge of the supernatural—nor any interest in it.
“Then I’m unable to authorize anything. I think Bishop’s a fine man, but I don’t put any of my men on any kind of payroll without just cause.”
That was patently untrue. Tammany put countless men on countless pointless payrolls all over the city.
“Miss Templeton, tell the senator to come asking for things himself. If he wants something done in Washington, he can’t send a girl to do his job.”
“No, of course not, I don’t suppose he can,” she said with a distinct bite as she rose.
Clara thought of dear Emily Roebling, who, after her husband became ill, was left with the task of convincing both engineers and city officials of the needs of that glorious bridge that would someday connect Brooklyn and Manhattan. At a society function earlier in the year, they’d discussed being the go-between, a pendulum between sets of stubborn men, doubly dismissed. Clara was exceedingly tired of not being heard or seen. Only one man seemed to truly see her for herself—and he was dead and haunting her.
Stopping at a telegraph office not far from her own, she dismissed the driver, then shot off a message to Bishop at the usual Cincinnati hotel where he stayed when on business.
B: NO LUCK. TAKE CARE OF THEM YOURSELF. YOUR POWERS ARE THE ONLY WAY.
When Clara turned the corner onto Fifth Avenue again, a spot of yellow on the sidewalk caught her eye. Her hand went to her mouth at the sight of a small, unconscious songbird, with beautiful yellow, gray, and black detailing on its tiny body.
Clara had always been fond of birds. She’d identified every species that frequented Green-Wood Cemetery where the Templeton clan was buried. Birds were symbols of the spirit, of transcendence, of delicate beauty. She bent over the northern warbler, to see if she could help.
The little creature was dead.
Clara’s frustrated, beleaguered heart quivered at this fresh assault. But she could not leave the poor darling there, so ignominiously on the sidewalk, unheeded by Manhattan’s busy passersby.
She gently scooped the body into her gloved palm. It was so light, a magical little being. She wondered how it had died—perhaps it had flown senselessly against a window, the ever climbing skyscraper invading the territory of the winged.…
It was more than she could bear. Clara cried over the dead soul. Her larger task could wait; she had to bury the tiny singer. She crossed the street into the park. Her tears fell onto its bright feathers as she unbuttoned and slid off her right glove to scoop earth aside under a flowering bush. She set the nearly weightless body in the shallow grave and covered its bright plumage—how soft and delicate were the feathers—with honest brown dirt.
“May you sing joyously in heaven, you beautiful little thing,” Clara whispered through tears, “watched over by Saint Francis forever.”
If she wasn’t careful, such would be the souls of New Yorkers, of northerners, southerners, all made equal in the end, leveled under the eyes of a vengeful violence, all of them little birds against windows. She felt as fragile as the warbler, yet she knew she had to be as strong as the building that had inadvertently struck it down.
Her walk back to her offices was a solemn funeral march for that lost bit of feathered song.
Clara let herself into the building with her new set of keys for the multiple locks. The guards, who knew her to be one of four allowed admittance whenever they pleased, did not get up to help her in. She was glad not to be made a fuss over, as it kept the building from attracting more interest should the guards be outside, though she had yet to determine whether their presence made her more or less nervous.
As she entered, the smaller of the two men, dark haired and dark eyed, handed her a bright white square envelope.
“This came through the mail slot,” he explained, “A tall … flamboyant woman, in a bright teal dress, slipped it through. She didn’t ask for entrance and I don’t believe due to the angle of the windows she should have been able to see us, and yet she blew us both a kiss as if she knew we were there…” The young man’s voice trembled a bit. The other guard, a stockier, paler gentleman, adjusted his collar and cleared his throat.
It was clear these guards hadn’t been briefed, either by Bishop or Lavinia, as to the psychic nature of those who might be drawn to this building, or perhaps they were merely in awe of finely dressed women. She thanked the men and walked away with the envelope, down the hall toward Lavinia, who was seemingly in the last nail-biting throes of her novel and so Clara did not disturb her friend.
Withdrawing the interior card as she climbed the stairs, impeccable penmanship loudly declared:
YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO A PRESENTATION OF MAGIC,
DARING FEATS, FIRE, AND CLAIRVOYANT SPIRITUALIST SPLENDOR!
PRESENTED BY THE WORLD-FAMOUS CIPHERS
Free today only at City Hall Park—High Noon
ALL ARE WELCOME.
MAY THE SPIRITS GUIDE YOU.
She turned right back around.
“I’ll be at City Hall Park, Lavinia.” Her friend jumped, made a sound of acknowledgment, and hurriedly turned a page. Clara chuckled, wishing she could still lose herself in wild fiction. While life entwined with the supernatural had deprived her of that pleasure, Clara was glad Lavinia refused to give it up. Tapping the invitation against her gloved hands, she bobbed her head to the guards and walked back out into the fine, bright day.
The invitation fell entirely under Clara’s purview. Their offices were known to be “patrons” of the Spiritualist community, and this wasn’t the first such advert left at the premises.
Most expeditions had turned up fakes and con artists. The real mediums and clairvoyants of the city knew that she, Bishop, Franklin, and Evelyn all had specific gifts of their own and would shut down those who didn’t, quietly and without any fuss. Seeing for herself whether these Ciphers were legitimate or poseurs would be a nice break from the press of the Eterna Wards, her lingering grief, and the overall disappointments of the day. Even if the Ciphers were phonies, their show would likely be entertaining.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
The Ciphers set themselves up, red-and-white-striped tent and all, in City Hall Park, a grand plaza at the fore of the fine white municipal edifice, Federal styled with French flair, about a mile up the angling Broadway from the tip of Manhattan Island. The location was carefully selected so that the whole of the playing area rested over turf and soil while the place for the audience remained
on the park’s flagstones.
The Wilsons erected their elaborate pulley system, which would hold them airborne as they performed acts of strength and dexterity. Poles, staves, trick gloves, and chemical compounds were prepared for Blakely’s various fire plays.
Outside the tent was a station with a table and crystal ball for Miss Knight. Dressed in a lavish turquoise gown and towering plumes—a veritable psychic peacock—she put on her own show for those waiting in line. She put out Blakely’s top hat for donations, seeking, as ever, to keep herself “in the gowns to which I am accustomed.”
Inside, deep in preparation, Blakely strutted about in shining black boots that added inches to his short frame and a red tailcoat. His silver ascot was adorned with a shining skull and crossbones that were mirrored in the buckle across the wide ribbon of his top hat. He tapped the silver tip of a black staff that was as tall as he was on the flagstones as he paced and periodically made flourishes in the air, practicing the choreography of his flamethrowing.
There were no seats for attendees, as Blakely intended to keep their shows short. If the Ciphers had been on a full tour, not on Omega’s directives, they’d have brought along their musician, Samson, and perhaps an additional act or two. But the sea voyage, though brief, had made these four, the Wilsons and the Blakelys, so comfortable in this smaller dynamic that Rose was confident the audience would feel entertained.
Besides, the point of the show wasn’t about the general spectators; their aim was to lure the Eterna Commission out of their offices.
Rose, having no specific task, and dressed in a plain blue wool skirt and cream shirtwaist with a smart blue double-breasted vest, blending into the city as the middle-class clerk she was, seated herself on a wooden box to study paperwork gathered thanks to Black’s orders to the British embassy in New York. She scanned lists of various Manhattan companies and industries, looking for any reference to Apex. From what she could see of the Edison company, there was no direct involvement as of yet, though it had to be a matter of time. Electricity seemed a magical, strange property; the wiring that she’d seen attached to the bodies in Tourney’s cellar showed that current was part of his ghastly process. Mary Shelley would be horrified.
Apex seemed to be focused at the moment on shipping, delivery, and warehousing—of, Rose assumed, the dead.
The long history in both America and England of “Burke and Hare” type of grave robbing—and, in some such cases, murder for profit—a riot over which had occurred on the very grounds where they now sat, had Rose wondering. Perhaps she needed to determine if Apex provided bodies to medical schools, but that would call for a different set of files, procured by a different set of staff at the British embassy.
The list of Cipher showtimes had been tacked to the exterior of the tent, but the word “free” had already drawn a crowd. Miss Knight was hard at work at divination. Some of what she said, Rose knew from her performances on the boat, would be true, but some perceptions she toyed with, for her own amusement or to shield listeners if necessary.
At long last, Blakely, once he was assured the Wilsons were in place, whipped back the tent flaps with a flourish and a huzzah, welcoming everyone with a deep bow and a wave of his top hat, admitting an excited audience. Rose watched the tent fill, studying their clothes and accessories. From finery to pauper’s near rags, the diverse downtown population seemed out in force.
The Wilsons, entirely shrouded in black, mysterious and masked, clad in tight tunics and trousers, wore their leather harnesses like decorative armor. Soon the pulley system—new and more elaborate thanks to Lord Black’s war room investments—would raise them into the air, and their astonishing performance would begin. Miss Knight came into the tent, looking a bit baffled, and stopped beside Rose.
“There’s another tent being erected next to ours,” the psychic said. “Don’t you find that a bit odd?” Cocking her head, Rose could hear the murmurs of the crowd outside and the sound of hammering.
“Terribly odd indeed,” she replied.
“Is it some kind of holiday we didn’t know about?” Knight wondered.
Rose shrugged and walked to the entrance. Looking out, she saw the off-white canvas tent that had sprung up beside theirs.
“Any idea what their show is?” she asked Knight, who had followed her.
“The sign out front says ‘Electricity Demonstration.’”
“Oh,” Rose scoffed. How ironic. “That Thomas Edison. It has to be Edison’s men. I’ve heard of them doing things like this, putting on all kinds of outlandish displays, especially if there’s something they can upstage. We provided just the bait. The man has exploded as many homes as he has lit them; nothing but a showman.”
“Careful what you say about showmen,” Blakely said as he came up to them and winked at Rose. “Never mind rivalry. It brings a far bigger crowd, so we’ll get a good look at all kinds of New Yorkers today. Might even lure out some city officials.”
He left her to take her own seat out of the way and bounded to the fore of the playing space.
Small, and often nervous in appearance, Blakely grew larger than life when he stepped into the role of ringmaster. He gathered everyone’s attention with one strike of his staff on the resonant flagstone. At the impact, a spurt of sparking fire erupted from the upturned mouth of the silver skull that topped it. The crowd gasped in surprise, then applauded.
“Ladies and gentlemen of New York City! We are the Ciphers! From around the world, we bring you a range of delights: a bit of magic, a bit of mysticism from our dear Miss Knight. Wasn’t she impressive, ladies and gentlemen, as she answered all your most important questions?” he boomed. A round of applause for their resident mystic. Knight was all too happy to curtsey and blow kisses.
“I am your host, Mr. B, and these”—he stepped aside to reveal the black-clad Wilsons—“are my Cipher seraphs! Ready to take veritable flight, they shall cast you into amazement as they soar to great heights and perform amazing feats!”
He pressed a lever on the pulley system, and the Wilsons rose in careful unison thanks to a weight lowering across the tent. When the acrobats were about four feet above the heads of the crowd, Blakely locked the pulleys into place. Miss Knight struck a metal chime, an act she would repeat for each new pose, and the performance began.
The crowd was truly captivated by the Wilsons’ graceful forms entwining artfully, forming living sculptures. There were oohs and ahhs aplenty.
Then there came a dreadful humming, whining noise. A crackling filled the air, and people started murmuring uncomfortably when any hair that was not constrained by braid or ribbon or hat, or kept in place by wax or pomade, began to rise from around ears and necks.
Rose heard a crack and a boom. The audience’s concern grew more obvious—they shifted in place, spoke louder, began looking for the exit. A sizzle rose, sounding like it was hurtling toward them.
Many things happened at once: a flash of searing light; an even louder hum; the whole tent vibrated; and sparks shot from the wires of the Wilsons’ pulley system. Rose heard a cry from above.
“Fall, Adira!” Mr. Wilson cried as he flipped the latch that kept the wires taut and secured to the safety system. Mrs. Wilson’s smaller body plummeted down, accompanied by the zing of the wire, and hit the grass with a thud, limbs out in what Rose hoped was a practiced emergency-landing pose. Her wire released upon impact. Sparks crested and an arc of white-blue light shot along the wires, all the way up to where Mr. Wilson hung.
The screams in the tent were overshadowed by the aerialist’s horrible shriek of agony as his body convulsed. Rose hoped desperately that he could reach his release latch. Blakely stretched his hand for the pulley lever, but a spark leaped from the metal. Rose heard the zap of electricity singe Blakely’s hand. The ringmaster yelped in pain, and at last Mr. Wilson fell to earth—without the practiced grace of his wife. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, wisps of smoke rising from the top of his hood and the soles of his boots. St
eps away, Mrs. Wilson struggled to get up, one shoulder slumping unnaturally.
The audience fled.
Adira cried out in Arabic, whipping off Mr. Wilson’s hood. His skin was reddened as if burned, his eyes were closed, and he seemed unresponsive. Blakely rushed to their side. Rose and Knight stared at one another.
“Go see what’s happening next door,” Blakely barked.
The women moved swiftly, ducking into the next arena, which was packed with spectators.
Rose and Knight gasped in tandem at the horror that greeted them. Across a sea of bowlers and top hats, bonnets and feathers, on a raised stage platform, four bodies were laid out on metal tables that were raked slightly so their burdens could be seen by the crowd in full splendor.
“The bodies of the missing British scientists,” Rose murmured. “They have to be.”
All four were dressed in white linen coats and dark trousers, and matched the heights, weights, and general descriptions Rose had detailed. Strange markings covered any visible flesh: necks, cheeks, the tops of their hands. Large silver coins were laid over their eyes.
Each limb of every corpse was attached to a wire, and these, as if they were the reins of horses, were held by a trembling, scrawny young man with a thin mustache and mousy hair. He stood over the dead bodies like an uncertain angel of death, petrified by the crowd before him.
This creature under duress was not there of his own volition, of that Rose felt sure. Sweating profusely, he was dressed in an ill-fitting white coat, similar to those worn by the bodies, and a none too clean gray waistcoat, his perspiration-stained collar open and uneven at his throat.
This man may be the second part of their investigative mission, Rose thought. Perhaps this was the young Mr. Mosley, the citizen of the Crown so affected by electrical current that he had fled to America. Her heart lurched. All their quarry in one sickening display.
Eterna and Omega Page 15
