A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

  Mr. Jackson arrived shortly thereafter, and a brief examination of the ledger was enough for him to confirm that it was indeed enchanted. “Keyed to the owner’s fingerprints, most likely,” the warlock said, turning it over in his hand. “Not my specialty, but I’ll see what I can do.” He started rummaging in his black leather doctor’s bag.

  “The drawer was magically locked, too,” I said. “It ate my favorite lockpick.”

  “Ah yes, the vanishing lockpick.” Mr. Jackson smiled wryly. “A simple spell, but effective. Most likely Price bought one of the ready-made varieties, at Wang’s or somewhere like it. Otherwise, he’d presumably have enchanted the drawer itself, if not the entire desk.”

  “Which means he isn’t himself a witch,” Thomas said.

  “That would be my guess, which gives me hope for this.” Mr. Jackson waggled the book. “If the spell were custom-wrought, it would take time, but a stock variety should be quite straightforward.”

  He placed a series of glass vials on the table. Some were filled with liquid, others with crystals, still others with dried leaves and grasses. One vial, shaped like a perfume bottle, held some sort of slug-like creature, which clung to the inside of the glass, trailing a film of pink ooze. “Any sign of the Harlem shade?” I asked distractedly, unable to tear my gaze away from the implausibly colored slime.

  Mr. Jackson shook his head. “Wherever he’s got to, he seems to be keeping to himself. In fact, it’s been quiet enough that I think it might be time for me to head back to Chicago.”

  That was the best news I’d heard in weeks, but I tried very hard not to show it. No reflection on Mr. Jackson, but I was anxious to leave our weekend shade-chasing club behind for good.

  “Here it is.” He selected a vial filled with what looked like black sand. “Wiltshire, can I trouble you for some salt? My stock is running low.”

  “Certainly.” Thomas reached into his jacket and retrieved a little pouch. All of us carried salt on our persons, along with ash wood, since it provided a measure of protection against the dead. Apparently, it helped dispel magic, too, because Mr. Jackson added a few grains to the vial of black sand.

  “Now then…” He arranged his fingertips over the book. As soon as he touched it, the cover acquired a strange, almost liquid sheen, and an embossed symbol reared up in relief. Honey gold against the black leather of the cover, it arranged itself into the shape of an antique keyhole. Mr. Jackson poured a thimbleful of the black sand into the keyhole, and a moment later, the book flipped open. “Hmm,” he said, frowning. “Not quite a stock enchantment after all. The lock has been opened, but not dispelled. I suspect it will reseal the moment the book is closed. Be careful how you handle it or I’ll have to start over, and I’m fresh out of onyx dust.”

  “Duly noted.” Thomas started to reach for the book, but a look from me stopped him short. “Apologies, Miss Gallagher. You should certainly do the honors.”

  I snatched it up and started rifling through the pages. But my eagerness soon turned to confusion, followed by disbelief, then anger. This can’t be all. Please, Lord, tell me I didn’t almost get myself killed for this.

  “What is it?” Mr. Jackson asked. “Not what you were expecting, obviously.”

  “Accounting.” I tossed the book aside in disgust. “Nothing more than a series of balance sheets. It’s as useless as the diary.”

  Thomas took it up. “Don’t be too hasty,” he said, flipping through the pages. “This ledger contains the details of all of Andrew Price’s establishments.”

  “So he’s a meticulous brothel owner. Where does that get us?”

  “This is not information he would like to have put about, which gives us leverage. And then there’s this section.” He turned the book around and showed me. The pages bore a list of names, and against each one, a date and an amount.

  I shook my head; it meant nothing to me.

  “Surely you recognize at least one name on this list,” he said, tapping it.

  Peering more closely, I drew a sharp breath. “Byrnes. And wait, I know this one, too. He’s an alderman, isn’t he?”

  “Here are two names I know well,” said Mr. Jackson, pointing. “New York City coroners, both of them.”

  Understanding dawned. “This is a list of bribes, isn’t it?”

  “So it would seem,” Thomas said. “And see here, there are two separate entries for Inspector Byrnes this month alone. This one is only two days old, as is this payment.” He pointed to one of the names Mr. Jackson had indicated.

  There were any number of reasons a man in Price’s line of work might bribe the chief of detectives or the coroner, but on the day after the convention murders? That was too much of a coincidence to credit. “Price is paying them off for their silence.”

  Of his own accord, or on behalf of the Democratic Party? Either way, the evidence was damning.

  Thomas smiled. “There, you see? Your efforts were not wasted. We’ll need to identify these other names, especially those who received payments within the last few weeks. Our killer might be among them.”

  “Your Mr. Price has gone to a great deal of trouble with this ledger,” Mr. Jackson said. “Surely he’ll miss it?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Thomas said, “but he’s unlikely to connect Burrows and me to its disappearance. In his place, I would most likely conclude that someone mentioned in the ledger didn’t trust me enough to leave such a potentially damaging bit of evidence lying around, magically sealed or no.”

  “Someone like Byrnes,” I said, my gaze falling to his name in the ledger. “Do you suppose I was wrong about him? Maybe he’s doing more than just keeping things quiet. Maybe he knows who the killer is after all.”

  “Sergeant Chapman didn’t think so,” Thomas reminded me. “In addition to which, if the chief of detectives wanted Theodore Roosevelt dead, I’m inclined to think the deed would be done by now. Regardless, it will certainly be interesting to hear the good sergeant’s views on this book.”

  “Just remember,” Mr. Jackson said, “you’ll need to keep it open, at least until you acquire the means to circumvent the enchantment yourselves. I suspect a magical skeleton key will do the trick, but I haven’t got one.”

  “A trip to Wang’s ought to sort us out,” Thomas said. “We’re heading down to Five Points anyway. In fact, we’d better be off. Rose, perhaps you could let Clara know that we’ll be dining out this evening, and that you’ll require her assistance to don your armor.”

  “My armor?”

  “Once more unto the breach, Miss Gallagher. And this time, I’ve a hunch we’ll see action.”

  * * *

  The man who answered the door in Chatham Square was a shadow of the energetic inventor I’d met the day before. Mr. Tesla looked pale and drawn; he’d obviously been up all night working. But he didn’t let that slow him down, offering only a cursory greeting before getting down to business. “I’m glad you’ve come early,” he said as he led us across the laboratory. “It will give me time to address any remaining issues before nightfall. I presume you mean to attend the reception at the Fifth Avenue Hotel?” There was no sign of Mr. Clemens, a fact Thomas registered with visible relief.

  “I do apologize for the pressure we’ve put you under,” Thomas said. “If we had any choice in the matter…”

  “I understand, and in any case, I am accustomed to going without sleep. Now, let me show you what I … Scarlett. Get off.” The otherworldly flame ball sat like an oversize paperweight on the table where Mr. Tesla was working; the inventor shooed it away with a wave. It didn’t go far, however, settling onto his shoulder like a stray bit of lint. He hardly seemed to notice, taking an object from the desk. “I must confess, my friends, I am quite proud of my solution. What do you think?” He held out an ivory cylinder slightly longer than a finger.

  At first I took it for a piece of jewelry. Slim, elegant, with one end slightly flared like the bell of a clarinet, it was rimmed in silver and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and
ebony in the design of a white cherry blossom. “It’s lovely,” I said, “but what is it?”

  “A cigarette holder. Or at least it was. Now it is an electromagnetic radiation probe.” Mr. Tesla smiled. “I do not think the fellow who gave it to me would approve of its being put to such use—I’m sure I was meant to woo some elegant lady with it—but it is perfectly suited to the task.”

  “So small,” Thomas said wonderingly. “Are you sure it still works?”

  “It does not have the range of the original, but the tube still permits ionization of the gas by an electric field.”

  “Electric field.” I peered more closely at it. “But there are no wires.”

  “No need. The power is transferred through resonance. The street current passes through an apparatus that transforms it into electrical oscillations of very high frequency, which, when they come into contact with the silver rim of the cigarette holder, set the molecules of the gas into violent commotion.”

  “I see,” I said, though of course I didn’t.

  He smiled patiently. “It is rather like a tuning fork. If one strikes a tuning fork in close proximity to a crystal glass, it will hum, yes? The vibrations from the fork cause the glass to resonate. The principle here is similar, except that with sufficient power and appropriate manipulation of the magnetic field, proximity need not be an issue. From right here in the lab, I can achieve a radius of several miles.”

  “This apparatus,” Thomas said. “I presume it’s the coil you’ve been working on?”

  “The prototype only.” The inventor gestured at a hulking contraption on the far side of the room, a tower of copper wire and tubing that looked like a giant metal mushroom. “I have yet to perfect a version that doesn’t rely on my luck, but for your purposes, that need not be a concern. I can operate the device from here, and the electromagnetic field will easily reach the hotel.”

  Thomas looked wary. “Is that entirely safe?”

  “Of course. The waves are harmless, and the receiver must be tuned to the proper frequency in order to work. The real difficulty was making sure that the waves would not interfere with the sensitivity of the probe. That took me the better part of the night to resolve, but I have done so. There is just one matter remaining, which is the display.” Mr. Tesla nodded toward the tin box I’d operated yesterday, with the two dials. “I have yet to determine how to provide a display that you can carry on your person without drawing attention. The answer is almost certainly to repurpose something, as I have done with the cigarette holder. But what?”

  I took the ivory wand from Thomas, examining it with narrowed eyes. It really did resemble jewelry … “What about a wristwatch?”

  The inventor’s eyes lit up, and the flame ball on his shoulder flared a little brighter, as if reacting to his excitement. “An excellent idea, Miss Gallagher! I have never seen one, but so long as I can replace the clockworks inside, it will serve admirably.” He started to pace, his willowy frame bent forward in thought. “Now then, how to connect it to the probe? A silver chain, perhaps. Yes, yes. The chain has only to come into contact with the silver band at the base of the cigarette holder, and the natural conductivity of the metal will do the rest. It will be a crude display, but it will serve.”

  “I have just the thing,” I said. “A silver charm bracelet I received the other night as a favor. We can attach part of it to the clasp of the watch. That way, when I hold my arm like so”—I extended it toward the floor—“the charm will dangle over my palm, and I can touch the cigarette holder to it.”

  “And transmit the pulse.” The inventor nodded. “Yes, that will work, provided the silver is pure enough.”

  “How long will it take to fashion?” Thomas asked.

  “Bring me a wristwatch, Mr. Wiltshire, and you shall have it by luncheon.”

  Thomas wasted no time, grabbing his hat and overcoat. “In that case, it’s off to Ladies’ Mile. You’ll manage on your own at Wang’s, Miss Gallagher?”

  “Of course.” And if that gave me a chance to wander by Augusto’s Grocery—well, that was just a happy coincidence.

  “Tesla.” Thomas gripped his friend’s hand. “You really are a wizard. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Well then,” I said after Thomas had gone, “I suppose I’m taking up smoking.”

  “I would not recommend that, Miss Gallagher, unless you wish to explode.”

  I blanched.

  The inventor laughed shyly into his hand. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. Have no fear, helium is not flammable. You may smoke as much as you like.”

  “Lucky me,” I said with a thin smile.

  I felt nauseous already.

  CHAPTER 16

  SPECIAL TEAS AND SKELETON KEYS—A STROKE OF LUCK—ONE DAY AT A TIME—THE SHADOW OF A ROSE

  I hadn’t seen the Wangs in months, and as I neared the Chinese grocery that was so much more than it seemed, I felt a twinge of guilt. After everything that had happened last January, Wang’s General Store would forever be a bold black star on the map of my life. The place where I’d first spoken to the spirit of a dead woman. Where Mr. Burrows and I had planned a rescue mission, aided by an unlikely team of extraordinary people. Where Mr. Wiltshire, the man I’d loved from afar for so long, had first asked me to call him Thomas. Above all, the place where the Wangs had saved my life and offered me their friendship. For which I’d thanked them by staying away, too preoccupied with my own business even to stop in and say hello.

  It’s a poor showing, Rose Gallagher, said Mam’s voice in my head.

  The familiar scent of the shop wafted over me as I opened the door, incense and tea and a dozen more exotic things. I found Mei tucked among the rows of tightly packed shelves, explaining to an Italian customer that the mushrooms he was admiring were not for eating. (This she did in the universal language of Five Points pantomime, gesturing at her guts and making a bodily heaving motion.)

  “For special tea?” I asked with a smile. Mei’s father referred to all his medicinal brews that way, even if they rarely contained actual tea.

  “Good for qi,” she said, putting the basket back on the shelf. “Bad for digestion.” She paused, looking me over with interest. “You have a new coat. It’s very pretty.”

  I glanced down at my overcoat, half expecting to see my familiar old tweed; instead I found a stylish dark gray wool trimmed with blue velvet. I’d slipped so easily into my new cover identity that I barely even registered all the outward changes anymore, but of course old friends like Mei would notice—and wonder how I could possibly afford such extravagant things. “Thank you,” I said awkwardly.

  “How can I help you?”

  Straight down to business. It had been so long since I stopped in that Mei just assumed I must be there for work. That would be embarrassing enough if it didn’t also happen to be true. “Mr. Wiltshire and I were hoping you might have a magical skeleton key. Something that can open”—I consulted the piece of paper Mr. Jackson had given me—“a latent polarization lock with manually triggered manifestation.”

  Mei stared at me, baffled. “My English…”

  “Your English is just fine. It doesn’t mean a thing to me either.”

  “Maybe my father will know.” She called to him through the silk curtain that separated the storefront from the much larger complex of back rooms. That was where the real business took place, and I don’t mean the gambling or the opium. If New York was a vital crossroads of the paranormal world, Wang’s was its unofficial saloon—not to mention its post office, quartermaster, recruitment agency, clinic, and town hall.

  None of which you could tell by looking, least of all at the man himself. Mr. Wang emerged from behind the curtain wearing his usual modest garb, a long black tunic and wide trousers, completely unadorned except for the braided frog button clasps. He looked me up and down, the way Mam did when she was about to ask if I was eating right. “Miss Gallagher,” he said, offering a bow. “Long time.”

  “Too long, M
r. Wang. It’s very good to see you.”

  “Please tell him what you told me,” Mei said.

  I repeated the jumble of words, which Mei did her best to translate into Chinese. “I think the important part is the polarization lock,” I said. “The rest … I suppose it just means that you can’t see the lock until you touch it. Mr. Jackson thinks a skeleton key should do the trick.”

  Mei interpreted for her father, who grunted thoughtfully. “Skeleton key,” he echoed in his heavily accented English. “All-lock key?”

  “Yes, exactly. For magical locks.”

  He waved for us to follow, and we trailed him into one of the stock rooms, where he lit a lamp and started rooting around amid the crates and sacks. While we waited, a soft moan sounded from the other side of the wall.

  “A man who injured himself at his factory,” Mei explained in answer to my questioning glance. “My father is helping with the pain, and also to heal the wound faster.”

  Mr. Wang’s talents as an apothecary were well known in the neighborhood, and not just among the Chinese community. It was here that Thomas had brought me when the fragment of a dead woman buried in my flesh had almost killed me. I’d probably been in that very room, lying on the same cot as the poor man next door.

  A satisfied grunt signaled that Mr. Wang had found what he was looking for: an unassuming brass key, the business end of which was a plain wedge. “All-lock key,” he said, adding something in Chinese as he handed it over.

  “He says it will open simple magical locks such as those he sells here.”

  “That would certainly have come in handy last night,” I said irritably. “If you ask me, these things ought to be standard issue for agents of the special branch.”

  Mr. Wang chuckled. “You tell them. Good for business.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wang. Please put it on Mr. Wiltshire’s account.” I turned for the door, but a thought drew me up short. Tailors hear a great deal, Thomas had said, as do barbers, barkeeps, and bootblacks. If Wang’s was the unofficial saloon of the paranormal community, might its saloonkeepers have heard something useful?