A Golden Grave--A Rose Gallagher Mystery

by Erin Lindsey

  “Of course you can. You’re the most resourceful person I’ve ever met.” He smiled reassuringly at me. “Now, do you remember how to pick a lock?”

  CHAPTER 14

  EBONY AND IVORY—THE WASHINGTON GAMBIT—A VERY LONG WAY DOWN

  Picking locks, I soon realized, was the least of my worries. The row house I’d come to burgle sat across from Central Park, at the heart of Millionaires’ Row. Though the new social season had yet to begin, there were bound to be any number of soirees planned for this evening, which meant there would be regular traffic along the Avenue. In the few minutes I’d been watching from the edge of the park, four carriages had rattled past, and just now an elegant couple out for an evening stroll was admiring the glass walls of the conservatory through which I’d meant to enter.

  All right, then. Plan B.

  The lower floor sat below street level, and the short wall around the perimeter gave some cover. Harder to get in, but safer from prying eyes. I waited for a break in traffic, then darted across the Avenue. It was a bit of a jump down from the wall, but I’d worn sensible shoes, and I landed quietly.

  I pressed my ear to the door at the bottom of the stairs. No sound, and the familiar smell of Ivory soap told me this was most likely the laundry. As good a place as any, I thought, and drew out my tools. Lockpicking was one area of my training where I’d excelled straightaway, and I made quick work of it. I put my ear to the door once more, but all I could hear was my own nervous heartbeat. The back of my neck prickled, and I imagined eyes in every dark windowpane.

  Heavenly Father, I know it’s awfully fresh to ask this of you under the circumstances, but please don’t let them send me to Sing Sing.

  I plunged inside.

  It was black as pitch in there, and I had to make my way carefully, feeling around corners and bumping softly into unseen obstacles until I found the door leading out to the hall. This too was dark; a good sign, since it meant the servants had most likely gone to bed. I found the stairs and scampered up as quickly as I dared. Reaching the first floor, I quit the shadows of the servants’ domain for the brightly lit foyer, where I paused to scan my surroundings.

  No sign of life from the hallways above. I took the main stairs two at a time, my footfalls muffled by the thick carpeting. I made it to the third floor without pausing for breath (could it be that my training in Newport was worth something after all?) and quickly found the door I sought. It wasn’t locked, which in hindsight ought to have given me pause. In my anxiety, I just celebrated my good fortune and ducked inside, whereupon I found myself in the narrow confines of a perfectly lovely bathroom.

  Jonathan. Bloody. Burrows.

  The guest rooms were supposed to be on the second floor. Which meant his recollection was off. Way off.

  A little too much cognac last time you were here, Mr. Thoroughbred?

  With nothing reliable to go by, I had little choice but to check each room one by one. So that’s what I did, cursing inwardly the entire time, saving the choicest bits of Five Points vernacular for a certain pretty face who couldn’t tell a study from a privy. Nor did Thomas escape my wrath. Not to worry, Rose, you’ll most likely be charged with mischief. Petit larceny at the outside. I’m sure it won’t matter at all that you’re Irish and poor as a church mouse, we’re all the same in the eyes of the law …

  At last, one of the doorknobs refused to budge. Whatever was behind that walnut paneling was important. I took out my lockpicking tools, and after a moment’s prodding, the door swung open to reveal a low-lit room smelling of leather and parchment. I’d found the study. Now all I had to do was look through Price’s papers and see if there was anything incriminating. That, and get out of the house without being seen.

  One step at a time, Rose.

  As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I let out a whimper of dismay. The study was huge—nearly the size of Thomas’s dining room—and positively bursting with paper. Shelves lined with books from floor to ceiling. Mahogany filing cabinets so overstuffed that their glass doors wouldn’t close. Every table, every chair, every pigeonhole crowded with page after page. It might as well have been a library, if the librarian had gone on extended holiday. I couldn’t get through it if I had all night, let alone twenty minutes.

  Deep breath. Start with the desk.

  It was a handsome piece, ebony with intricate brass inlay, polished to such a high shine that I could see my own anxious features reflected on its surface. I began with the correspondence, but found nothing useful. Next came Price’s diary. On the night in question, he’d apparently dined with someone named Reynolds at the Park Avenue Hotel. A dead end, most likely, but I tucked the diary into my satchel just in case.

  The stack of papers at my elbow proved to be a manuscript of some kind, and the little box of calling cards didn’t contain a single name I knew. Tension gnawed at me. This is a fool’s errand, I thought, yanking on the drawer at my left hand.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  Well, now, what have we here?

  The brass escutcheon was shaped like a bat, and well scarred from use. For the third time that evening, I reached for my lockpicking tools. This time, though, things didn’t go quite to plan. The tension wrench slid into the bottom of the keyhole easily enough, but when I inserted the pick, it felt suddenly warm in my hand. I tried to pull it out, but it was stuck, growing hotter and hotter. Just when I was about to let go, it vanished.

  My mouth fell open, a strangled sound escaping my lips.

  Magic. It had to be. Which meant this lock must guard something important, but how could I get to it?

  I expect that if it had been Thomas, he would have found some elegant and arcane solution. As for me, I did what any good Five Pointer would have done: I decided to break something.

  First, I pulled the other drawers out of the desk. That left the bottom of the magic drawer exposed, with a good-size gap underneath. Next, I looked for something in the way of tools. That proved a bit more difficult, but I found what I needed among some bric-a-brac on the mantelpiece, in the form of a bust of George Washington and a bit of scrimshaw carved from the tip of an elephant’s tusk.

  I eyed the bottom of the drawer appraisingly. It didn’t look anywhere near as strong as the outer part of the desk, but even so, there was no doubt I’d be making a lot of noise. The servants’ wing was two floors down and clear across the house, but just to be safe, I relocked the door of the study.

  Whatever is in that drawer, it must be worth the risk. And so, biting my lip in anticipation, I put the tip of the tusk to the bottom of the drawer, grasped President Washington by the face, and struck a mighty blow. The drawer bucked, and a chip flew out of the wood. I froze, listening.

  Silence.

  I repeated the process twice, each time pausing to listen; when nothing stirred, I set to the task in earnest.

  Each fall of my makeshift hammer sounded like a gunshot to my ears, but it was working: The wood began to splinter, then to crack. After about half a dozen blows, the tip of the tusk broke through; another half a dozen and the thing was done, punching enough of a hole in the bottom of the drawer that I could fit a fire iron through and use it as a pry bar. At last I had my reward: a heavy leather-bound book tumbled free, landing on the carpet with a satisfying thud.

  My triumph was short-lived. When I reached for the book, it refused to open. The pages were sealed together somehow, perhaps by magic or—

  Something stirred in the foyer below. Footsteps, followed by voices. Someone was awake.

  “Did you hear a banging sound, like a hammer?” An older man’s voice floated up the stairs.

  “I’m not sure what woke me, but I heard something fall a moment ago. Sounded like it broke. I suppose we ought to…”

  Panic thrummed in my veins. My gaze raked the room, but there was nowhere to hide. The lock on the door might stall them, but not for long. I needed to get out.

  Scrambling, I fetched up the leather book and jammed it in my satchel. I started to
put the drawers back in place, realized I didn’t have time, and shoved them under the desk instead, arranging the chair in front of the gaps in the hopes the shadows would conceal the rest. I replaced the scrimshaw on the mantel. President Washington, meanwhile, went headfirst into a pile of kindling, which I scattered across the floor so it would look like the bust had fallen from the mantel and landed in the woodpile. Then I flew to the bay window, opened it, and leaned out.

  Cold October air rushed up to meet me. I’d expected to find the Juliet balcony I’d seen from the street, but apparently that was the other bay window, because all I saw below me was an eight-inch width of cornice, and below that, about thirty feet of nothing.

  Voices in the hallway, and the jingle of keys. It was too late to change my mind. I slipped out the window, gripping the brownstone pillars until my knuckles went white. Below—far, far below—Sixty-First Street was a canyon of shadow. My stomach tumbled, and for a moment I was sure I would fall. I froze, squeezing my eyes shut and clinging to the wall like a spider. But I needed to move away from the window or I’d be seen, darkness or not. And so, inch by terrifying inch, I shuffled along the cornice.

  This ledge is wide enough, I told myself. Plenty of space. A chill breeze tugged mockingly at the hem of my dress.

  The northwest facet of the bay window, on which I was precariously perched, stood at an obtuse angle to the next window over. The gap between them was less than three feet, but to my eye, it might as well have been the Grand Canyon. There was no help for it, though; the recessed window was the only place I could hide from view. Already, I could hear voices in the room. They had only to glance this way …

  OhGodOhGodOhGod …

  I jumped.

  Funny, isn’t it, how heights turn a simple task into a near-impossible one? On the ground, a hop like that would have been child’s play, even with a satchel slung over my shoulder. From a third-floor window, it felt like a circus act, and I truly believe that if it hadn’t been for my lessons in jujitsu, I wouldn’t have made it. As it was, my foot slipped, and I clawed at the brownstone so desperately that I tore the tips of my fingernails clean off. But I made it, and there I clung, bleeding, trying very hard to gasp without making a sound. Inside, I could hear an elderly pair of servants muttering about a careless housemaid, which I suppose meant that my Washington gambit had worked, at least for now. By the light of morning, of course, the matter would be plain, by which point I’d be long gone.

  Or so I thought. But the cold October breeze had one more cruel surprise in store. It gusted in through the open window, setting the butterfly windowpanes creaking on their hinges.

  Footsteps crossed the room. I flattened myself against the window.

  “Look here,” said a woman’s voice, sounding as if it were right in my ear. “Here’s your banging, Steven. She left the window open on top of it, the silly nit. Probably been knocking away in the wind all night long.” So saying, the servant shut the window … and locked it.

  I was trapped. On a window ledge. Thirty feet above the street.

  I couldn’t tell you how long I stayed there, plastered against the window as I fought off wave after sickening wave of fear. Long enough that my hands were growing cramped with cold, which would make my situation even more precarious. I had two choices: climb or call for help, and I had no desire to spend the rest of the night in the Tombs. Whatever Thomas might say, I had a Five Pointer’s instinctive distrust of coppers, and all the blithe assurances in the world weren’t enough to change that.

  I scanned the wall below. The architectural detail on the building provided plenty of handholds and footholds. So long as I stayed calm and focused, I ought to be able to make it. The windows came in twos, like a close-set pair of eyes, and each one had a ledge at its top and bottom, like swollen eyelids. In between the eyes, another ledge was set a few feet below, like the bridge of a nose; from there, the drop to the next floor was only about five feet. You can do this, I told myself.

  I slid the satchel off my shoulder and let it drop to the ground, aiming for a row of cedars lining the perimeter wall. Then, whispering a fervent prayer, I started to climb down.

  It was a short step from the bottom ledge of the third-story window to the top ledge of the window below, and from there, only another few feet to the bridge of the nose between windows. So far, so good, but the next bit would not be so easy. Pressing myself tight to the wall, I slid down into a crouch. Then I dangled one foot out over the ledge, followed by the other, slowly, carefully easing myself down, scraping my upper body along the edge for support, dragging my overcoat and the hem of my dress in the process.

  I can only imagine what the view must have looked like from below: a woman oozing bodily over a window ledge, dress hitched up around her armpits, offering a bountiful view of her undergarments. Fortunately, it was well past midnight, and there was no one to see. That I know of, at any rate.

  The last few inches were really quite terrifying, but I managed to land on the second-floor ledge. I’d done it. And now I had to do it all over again.

  A few scrapes and some trembling muscles later, I found myself on the bottom ledge of the first-floor window, and here my architectural support was at an end. It was at least a ten-foot drop to the servants’ entrance below street level. Easy enough to break a leg, but what choice did I have?

  I jumped, landing on the balls of my feet and rolling to absorb the impact. I tumbled headfirst into the boughs of a cedar tree, but was otherwise unscathed. (Alas, the same could not be said for the cedar, which now sported a Rose-shaped hole.) I took a moment to thank the Lord—and my training. Maybe falling properly was half the battle after all.

  I climbed unsteadily to my feet. My whole body shook, the cold and the aftershock of terror finally taking hold, but my legs were just firm enough to carry me home. Grabbing my satchel, I fled down the Avenue, heading for Number 726.

  The lights were still on in the house. I found Thomas and Mr. Burrows in the parlor, sipping port and chatting, looking as though they’d passed a very pleasant evening. I had to fight the urge to grab the bottle and down it at a gulp—either that, or upend it over their heads. “I trust you gentlemen enjoyed your supper?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Thomas said, oblivious to my tone. “The duck was particularly splendid. As to our work, it was no easy task, I don’t mind telling you. In fact…” He paused, furrowing his brow. “Rose, what happened to your coat? And your hair. Are those … pine needles?”

  “I’m going to take a bath. Good night, gentlemen.” Tossing the satchel on the floor between them, I marched up the stairs.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE HIDDEN TIDES OF THOMAS WILTSHIRE—THE PRICE LIST—A FILTHY HABIT

  “What do you mean, you climbed? From a third-story window?” Thomas had gone quite pale, butter knife poised above the strawberry preserves. “Good Lord, Rose! You weren’t hurt?”

  “A few scrapes and bruises. Nothing important.”

  “Thank God for that! What on earth were you thinking?”

  I frowned. “Surely you don’t mean to scold me for this? It’s not as though I had any choice in the matter.”

  “You could have called for help.”

  “And ended up in the Tombs, and maybe Sing Sing after that. No, thank you.”

  “Rose, listen to me.” Thomas put down his knife and gazed firmly into my eyes. “You need never put your life in jeopardy like that. If you had been taken into custody, I would have secured your release, whatever it took. It’s well and proper to take your duties seriously, but nothing you found in that house could ever be worth…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Promise me you’ll never take a risk like that again.”

  “I’m fine. It was only—”

  His hand shot across the table and seized mine. “Promise me.”

  I paused, taken aback. His eyes burned with raw emotion—determination, fear, and beneath that, an unmistakable shadow of grief. It brought to mind a conversation we’d had last wint
er.

  You lost someone.

  It was a long time ago. But it will be with me to the end of my days.

  I’d only ever caught glimpses of this side of Thomas—the molten tides beneath the cool, steady surface—and I’d long suspected his well-studied reserve had more than a little to do with his loss. Whatever had happened, he obviously felt responsible. I wanted dearly to take that burden from him, but how could I make a promise I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep?

  “I’ll be more careful,” I said quietly. It was the best I could offer.

  He said nothing for long moments, his hand still gripping mine. A flush crept into my cheeks. Where are you, Thomas? Here with me, or somewhere in the past? There was no way of knowing.

  He let go and sat back. “As to the book you found, you’re quite right—the seal is most likely magical. I’ve already summoned Jackson. He should be here soon.”

  As matter-of-fact as you please, as though whatever had just passed between us had never been.

  My cheeks were still warm, from embarrassment now. Quit projecting your own feelings onto him, I chided myself. You have no idea what’s going on in his head.

  I cleared my throat. “And what about you and Mr. Burrows? What did you find out?”

  “Less than I’d hoped. Andrew Price reads like a man with something to hide, but that’s hardly surprising, given the nature of his business. We had a deuce of a time trying to draw him out, but he did mention that he’ll be attending the dinner reception for Roosevelt at the Fifth Avenue Hotel tonight.”

  I’d seen that noted in Price’s diary. As for the rest of its pages, Thomas had glanced through but found nothing of use. “Why would he want to watch Roosevelt speak? I thought he supported the Democrats.”

  “Indeed. His purported aim is to gather intelligence about the opposing platform, but he hardly needs to attend an expensive supper for that. Roosevelt’s views are well publicized in the papers. Whatever Price’s intentions, Roosevelt will be highly approachable at the event, and therefore vulnerable. We must assume the worst, and be prepared for an attack.”