by Erin Lindsey
“So you’re convinced it was a shade, then?”
“As of now, it remains the most likely explanation, assuming Chapman and Burrows are correct about the lack of wounds and the absence of poison, respectively.”
“I didn’t see anything on the bodies last night, but I didn’t do a thorough check.” That felt like an oversight now, but Thomas waved it away.
“Sergeant Chapman would have exhausted all other explanations before referring the matter to us. It’s possible that you might have caught something he missed, but not very likely, given his experience.”
“But you’re hoping one of the coroner’s assistants might have noticed something.”
“It doesn’t hurt to try.”
I wasn’t too excited about heading back into the morgue for the second time in as many days, but happily I didn’t have to; Thomas went in alone. He came out that way, too, directing us to a lunch joint nearby. “Our informant will meet us there. He can’t be seen talking to us, obviously.”
We sidled up to the counter to wait. The coroner’s assistant must have been the paranoid type, because he took his time, and when he finally did appear, he lingered in the doorway throwing such suspicious looks around that he might as well have worn a sign saying shady character. He looked to be a year or two older than me, short and thin as a reed, with a complexion not much rosier than the folks he worked on.
“Mr. Walker,” Thomas said, and the young man flinched, even though there was nobody else within earshot. “Thank you for coming. May I offer you something to drink?”
He shook his head. “I can only stay for a minute. If anyone saw me…”
“Of course. Just a few questions. You were on duty last night, you said?”
“Called in. Thought we would have to do a bunch of autopsies at once, so we needed all hands.”
“You thought you would,” I echoed. “But you didn’t?”
He shook his head again, his gaze still darting around the room. “We started on the external, but before we got to the cutting, we were told to stop. The coroner said he would see to it personally, that we should head home.” He hitched a shoulder. “So that’s what I did.”
“How many victims did you examine externally?” Thomas asked.
“Two. Didn’t turn anything up on the first one. No sign of injury, unless you count the bruised knees from his fall. Nothing under the fingernails, no pathology I could see. The second one, though, I thought he might’ve shown signs of sudden cardiac failure.”
Thomas narrowed his eyes. “What signs?”
The young man touched the base of his neck. “Swelling in this area. You see that sometimes with sudden cardiac death.”
Sudden cardiac death. Such as might be caused by the touch of a shade, for example. I wasn’t sure if Mr. Walker was an initiate in the paranormal community, so I kept the thought to myself.
“How confident are you in that diagnosis?” Thomas asked.
Walker gave a high-pitched, nervous laugh. “From an external alone, without a medical history? Not very. More of a hunch, really. No way of knowing without a look inside, and maybe not even then.”
“And the official finding of typhoid? What is your opinion of that?”
The young man started to answer—and then his gaze dropped. “Coroner must’ve had his reasons,” he mumbled. “Guess I missed something.”
I scoffed quietly, but there was no point in pressing him on it. We already knew the coroner was corrupt; forcing his assistant to admit it wouldn’t accomplish anything. “Before he sent you home, did you see him talking to anyone?”
“There was a police detective there. Older fella, balding…”
Chapman. “Anyone else?”
“If there was, I didn’t see ’em.”
“So you have no idea why the coroner sent you home?” Thomas asked. “Whether someone instructed him to, for example?”
The young man shook his head. “It was late. I was just happy to get out of there, so I didn’t ask questions.”
Thomas sighed. “Very well, Mr. Walker, thank you. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.” The assistant didn’t look too happy about that prospect, but he nodded and went on his way.
“So,” I said when he’d gone, “where does that leave us?”
“Not very far up the pitch, I’m afraid. It looks as though we’ll have to arrange to speak with Inspector Byrnes after all, though I’m not hopeful we’ll get much from him. I just wish we could work out whether we’re dealing with a shade or a man. The answer greatly affects our strategy from here. In the meantime, we’ll have to keep operating on the assumption that it is indeed a spirit.” With another sigh, he added, “Which means we’ll be spending a very dull afternoon looking through those police records. If we do find a likely candidate, perhaps we’ll be able to track him.”
“Speaking of tracking shades, what will we tell Mr. Jackson?”
“About this evening? Why, that we’ve another case, of course.”
“And Newport? We’re not likely to have things wrapped up by Monday.”
He shook his head. “We’ll have to convey our regrets. Your training is nearly complete, in any case, and Miss Fox can take over jujitsu instruction in my absence.”
“But won’t they object? After all, if the police are denying a crime even took place, I don’t suppose they’ll be paying us for our trouble.”
“I shouldn’t worry about that. If the police refuse to pay, the Agency will simply refer itself to the War Department. There’s a discretionary fund for sensitive cases such as these, a holdover from the days of the Agency’s services to Lincoln during the war. Besides, given the urgency of the matter, I don’t think we can ethically turn away.”
I was quiet a moment as the significance of those words settled in. “You think he’ll kill again.”
“We can only speculate at this point, but the mere prospect of it is too terrible to contemplate. A shade targeting politicians at the height of a mayoral race…” He shook his head grimly. “Think of all the events, Rose. The crowds. A shade whose very touch, even accidental, can be fatal, wandering loose among all those people…”
“He could kill dozens.” I crossed myself instinctively.
“Under the eyes of every newspaperman in the city, no less. We can’t let that happen. We have to track this killer down, and quickly. Because if he does kill again, I’ll wager it will be soon.”
CHAPTER 6
THE CHIEF OF DETECTIVES—MEET THE PRESS—A CASE OF BAD OYSTERS
“I’m sorry to rush you,” Thomas said, handing me my overcoat, “but we’ll need to hurry if we’re to make our engagement.” A look of distaste crossed his features, and I wondered whether it had more to do with the appointment itself or how we would be getting there. A little of both, maybe.
Our engagement—or rather our audience, as I had come to think of it—with Inspector Byrnes had been arranged under false pretenses, and only confirmed by messenger moments ago. To get there in time, we’d have to take the el, something I’d never seen Thomas do before. The Sixth Avenue line was the cleanest of the lot, but even so, a gentleman of Thomas’s elegance stood out rather awkwardly amid the courser flesh of New York, and he couldn’t have looked forward to the idea of being packed in with the rest of the cattle, choking on black smoke as we shimmied and lurched our way down Sixth Avenue. But good Englishman that he was, he made no complaint—except perhaps a silent protest in the form of an extra-thick pair of gloves.
We arrived at our destination at a little before nine in the morning. Mulberry Street was quiet; aside from a single copper lounging on the steps, police headquarters looked quiet as well. Even so, a small audience had gathered across the street, a flock of reporters roosting like pigeons on the stoop of the newspaper offices opposite. Even on a Sunday morning, the hungriest of them assembled here like clockwork, anxious to be the first to hear the telegraph wires hum. Thomas touched the brim of his hat with his stick, and more than a few nod
ded in return. I recognized one or two faces myself, our work having brought me here on several occasions.
None of those occasions promised to be as tense as this one, though. “He’s going to lie to us, isn’t he?” I murmured as we climbed the steps.
“I expect so, though he may inadvertently provide a clue, if we’re quick enough to catch it. But we must take care. By all accounts, Byrnes is not a man to be trifled with.”
With that warning ringing in my ears, we strode into the lion’s den.
Inspector Thomas F. Byrnes, chief detective of the New York City Police Department, received us in his office. He stood when we entered, revealing an imposing figure with close-set eyes and receding hair, brass buttons and badge gleaming against the deep blue of his uniform. “Well,” he declared upon seeing me, “I was going to say gentlemen, but here’s a surprise. I was told to expect a pair of Pinkertons. Or does that include you, darlin’?” He spoke in a Dublin accent worn smooth with time, his words filtered through a mustache of such magnificent proportions that his mouth was all but obscured. Even so, I could see the amused quirk at its corners, and that rankled me.
“Rose Gallagher of the Pinkerton Detective Agency,” I said coolly.
“And a compatriot in the bargain. Or are you American-born?”
“From Cork. We left when I was a baby.”
“And you, sir?” Byrnes extended a hand to Thomas.
“Thomas Wiltshire, Inspector. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. I thoroughly enjoyed your book, by the way.”
“You’re very kind.” Byrnes gestured for us to sit and arranged himself behind his polished rosewood desk. An expensive cigar burned in an ashtray between us, throwing up a thin veil of smoke. “We ought to be in church, the lot of us, but my people tell me you’ve some important information regarding the unfortunate business the other night.”
“Oh?” Thomas feigned confusion. “There must be some mistake. We were rather hoping to be on the receiving end of that information.”
Byrnes’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes went cold. “I have the note right here.” He picked it up off the desk, Thomas’s card still attached. “Relevant facts to bring to the attention of the Department, it says. Clear as day.”
“I do apologize, Inspector. It would appear that my errand boy misunderstood.”
Byrnes’s mustache crooked wryly. He didn’t believe a word of it. Not that we needed him to. We’d got our foot in the door, and that gave us a chance to ask our questions.
Or so we thought, but Byrnes was too much of a detective himself to let us take the initiative. “And how is it that the Pinkertons came to hear of Friday’s troubles? There was no mention of it in the papers.”
“Yes, we noticed that. Rather curious, is it not?” Thomas smiled blandly, crossing one impeccably tailored trouser leg over the other.
Byrnes, for his part, took up his cigar and leaned back until his chair creaked. “Nothing curious about it. I saw to it myself, on the advice of the president of the Board of Health. We’d an eye to avoiding panic.”
So the Board of Health is in on it, too. Somehow I wasn’t surprised. “You’re still claiming it was typhoid, then?”
“It’s not a claim, miss, it’s a fact. We’ve a new strain on our hands. But until we know more, it’s best to keep it out of the papers. Wouldn’t want to alarm people unnecessarily.”
“And if this mysterious strain of typhoid strikes again? Shouldn’t people be prepared?”
“Hard to prepare for what we don’t understand, miss. The first step is to work out what we’re dealing with. So I’m letting the Board of Health do its job. You should do the same.”
Thomas adopted a thoughtful expression. “Medicine is fascinating, isn’t it? We know so little of bacilli and other parasites. Where they come from, what they do. This one, for example, seems to have a particular taste for Republicans. Quite unusual.”
Byrnes gave Thomas a long, appraising look. A detective’s look, taking in every detail—the elaborately carved walking stick, the emerald cufflinks, the pale gaze sparkling with intelligence. The end of his cigar glowed as he took a long, meditative puff. He seemed to come to a decision then, because his next words struck me as highly deliberate. “You’re right, sir. This parasite has made its preferences clear. But as I said, the first step is to work out what we’re dealing with, and in the meantime to avoid panic. So unless you can help us on either count, I’ll bid you good morning.”
“It’s difficult to help without the facts,” I said. “The real cause of death, for instance.”
“On that score, you have all the facts at my disposal.”
Maybe it was the grim look in his eye, or the sudden weariness in his voice, but I believed him. Whatever else he was keeping from us, Inspector Byrnes had no idea what had killed those men. Which meant the situation was out of his control—and yet he was covering it up anyway.
That got my back up. “We know it wasn’t typhoid,” I said rashly, “and we can prove it. Then there’s the small matter of the witness, who saw a tall man grab the victims by the scruff of the neck.”
The inspector’s gaze hardened, and he leaned forward ominously. “I don’t know anything about a witness, but I do recall a fellow being packed off to the insane asylum at Blackwell’s Island sometime early in the morning. He’d been nattering the sort of nonsense that gets people all stirred up, so we had to shut him away. For the public good.”
I stiffened, and even Thomas paled.
“Such a shame, isn’t it, when madness takes over good sense? Have you ever seen the inside of an asylum, miss?”
“You’ve made your point, Inspector,” Thomas said coldly, “and I see that you deserve every bit of your reputation.”
Byrnes’s lip curled. “Just another Irish thug, eh, Englishman?”
Thomas snorted and donned his hat. “I think you’ve insulted my partner enough for one day. Miss Gallagher?”
By the time we reached the street, my whole body was shaking, and I had to lean against the rail to steady myself. Thomas put a hand on my arm. “Are you all right?”
“Do you think he’d really do it?” My voice was barely above a whisper.
“Have us thrown in the asylum? I daresay he might. He’s known for being ruthless.” When I didn’t respond, he squeezed my arm again. “Rose, what is it?”
I hardly knew how to answer him. The force of my reaction surprised even me. Though Blackwell’s Island had been a source of nightmares for years, it wasn’t until that moment that I understood how deeply my dread of that place ran. I didn’t think I could explain it, but I tried anyway.
“I almost sent her there. My mother.” I clamped my eyes shut, trying to banish the images I’d seen in Frank Leslie’s: wild-eyed lunatics frolicking with dogs, or being dragged away by stone-faced guards, or grasping pitifully at visitors, like some Renaissance painting of souls trapped in hell. “I didn’t know what else to do. I had to earn a living, but her dementia … She could barely even cook a meal for herself. If I hadn’t found a boarder to stay with her … If it hadn’t been for Pietro, I would have…” I was shaking so badly that I couldn’t even finish a sentence.
“But you didn’t,” Thomas said gently. “And even if you had, no one could fault you for it. There are no easy answers with illness of the mind.”
I drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just … that place, the very thought of it … The evil of the man, to even threaten such a thing! All to cover up a crime he barely understands!”
“What do you mean?”
“Byrnes has no idea what killed those men.”
“Oh?” Thomas cocked his head. “What makes you say so?”
“It’s hard to put into words. Something about his demeanor, I suppose. And the way he looked at you … I could have sworn he recognized your cane.”
Thomas glanced down at his walking stick. It was a striking piece, fashioned from ash wood and topped with a griffin head.
Anyone would admire it for being handsome, but members of the paranormal community would recognize it as something more: a sign that its bearer was one of their own. Ash wood had important spiritual properties that made it handy for fighting off ghosts and shades, so most of us carried some of it on our persons at all times. Mine came in the form of a hairpin; Thomas’s, a stick. Like a masonic ring, it marked him as a member of a secret tribe. If Byrnes had recognized it, it meant he was a member, too.
“Interesting,” Thomas said. “It would make sense that a man in Byrnes’s position would know the truth about the paranormal world. Perhaps he’s even lucky himself. Well spotted, Rose. As to the rest…”
“I think he was trying to tell us something, right before I lost my head and provoked him.” Sighing, I added, “I’m sorry about that. You warned me, but my temper ran away with me.”
“Never mind. What I’d like to work out is, if he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with, why go to such lengths to cover it up?”
“Maybe it’s like he said. To avoid panic.”
Thomas hummed thoughtfully. “The parasite has made its preferences clear. Wasn’t that what he said?”
“Near enough.”
An idea sparked in his eyes. “Come with me,” he said, and started across the street. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he called to the flock of reporters on the stoop. Then, in an undertone: “Remember, these men don’t know what we do for a living. They think I’m an attorney.”
I nodded my understanding. The fewer people who knew we were detectives, the easier it was for us to do our jobs, and that meant having a cover identity. Thomas’s had been in place for years, but we hadn’t yet worked out one for me—an oversight I would rue shortly.
“What’s the word, Wiltshire?” one of the reporters said in greeting. “Got a client in there, I s’pose?”
“Something like that. Miss Gallagher, may I present Phillip Greeves of the World. Tell me, Greeves, who handles the political beat for your paper these days?”
