A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

  “I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  “In that case, shall we celebrate with a glass of champagne? We’re not far from the Astor House, and I’m famished.” Without waiting for an answer, she looped her arm around mine once more and began steering me toward Broadway.

  Which was a pity, because I’d felt someone’s eyes on me just then, but by the time I turned around, there was nobody there.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE TALE OF ROSE GALLAGHER—PROTECTING THE NEIGHBORHOOD—THE WISDOM OF JANE AUSTEN

  “After that,” I said, “it was clear to both of us that we made a good team, and so Mr. Wiltshire asked if I would like to join the Pinkerton Agency. Of course I said yes straightaway.”

  Edith stared, her half-forgotten champagne glass cocked at a perilously jaunty angle. (I myself had opted for tea, since I needed to keep a clear head.) “Simply amazing,” she said. “The stuff of yellow-back novels.”

  I laughed. “I don’t know about that, but it is a very unusual tale.”

  “And now here you are eating cucumber sandwiches in the Astor House, and no one the wiser. You fit in as easily as if you were born to it. You might have taken up a career in the theater, with your talent for playing a part.”

  “Now I know you’re buttering me up. I don’t fit in at all. Ava Hendriks knew me for a counterfeit straightaway.”

  Edith gave a ladylike little snort. “Ava Hendriks considers the Vanderbilts counterfeit, my dear. As for the rest of us, we were quite convinced.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, but it doesn’t feel that way. I’m so terribly clumsy and out of place.”

  “No one feels at home in a new environment. Why, I was awkward as a goose at that rally this afternoon.”

  “You weren’t.”

  “I was! You just didn’t notice. And if you seemed a little self-conscious at the affair for Lord Barrington, you were hardly alone in that. There is nothing quite like a society event to make a young lady feel inadequate.”

  I couldn’t imagine what could possibly make Edith Islington feel inadequate. She was clever and comely and elegant and self-assured … On top of which, she was an Islington, and lucky to boot.

  “You needn’t waste a thought for fitting in,” she went on. “You’re made of better stuff than the Ava Hendrikses and the Betty Sanfords, and unlike them, you’ve actually earned your place.”

  “That’s a nice way of saying I have no pedigree. You can’t deny that matters in society circles.”

  “It does,” she admitted, plucking a cucumber sandwich from the plate, “but that’s changing. New York is slowly coming around to the idea that success is nearly as admirable as birth.”

  Unless you’re Irish. I kept that thought to myself. “I’ll never be a Hendriks, and I’ll never be lucky.”

  “Didn’t you just finish telling me that you could sense the presence of shades?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How? It’s an extraordinary talent nobody else possesses, at least no one I’ve ever heard of. What is that if not a form of luck? Not inherited, perhaps, but earned, just like the rest of it.”

  Well now, that gave me something to chew on.

  We went our separate ways after tea, and I left the Astor House feeling contemplative. Edith hadn’t reacted to my confession at all the way I’d expected. She even considered me lucky, after a fashion, which made me an honorary member of the most exclusive club of all. I hope it won’t sound too shallow if I admit that meant a lot to me.

  Even if she does have an ulterior motive, a cynical part of me whispered. She wants you to think well of her, because she’s spoony for Thomas.

  Thomas. What to make of the exchange we’d had that morning? I shouldn’t presume, he’d said. What exactly had he been presuming?

  I carried on that way for most of the walk back to Five Points—tormenting myself with speculation and grumbling over the reserve of the English—until I was only a couple of blocks from Wang’s, at which point I thought about dropping in at Mam’s. It wasn’t yet dusk, and it would be a while before the Bloodhound came calling. I stopped, undecided, and that’s how I happened to hear the scrape of shoes on the pavement behind me.

  I turned, but there was nobody there.

  You’re imagining things. Even so, I changed course, turning up Baxter. A moment later, I heard it again: footsteps behind me, hurrying to catch up.

  My heart fluttered unpleasantly. A copper. It has to be. I hadn’t noticed any as I walked, but I’d been preoccupied. I ducked into Bottle Alley, zigzagging to keep out of sight and pretending not to notice the curious gazes of the loafers idling on stoops or leaning out of tenement windows. I didn’t think they’d snitch to the coppers—that’s just not how we do things in Five Points—but then again, I didn’t look much like a neighborhood girl anymore. Better not take any chances, I decided, and when I came across a quiet spot where nobody was looking, I crouched behind a rain barrel and waited.

  I listened, straining to hear over the thudding of my heartbeat. Distant chatter in Italian, the cluck of a chicken from one of the rear yards. A moment later, footsteps, fast and purposeful. Someone rushed past me, heading north.

  It was only then, crouched behind a rain barrel trying to calm my racing pulse, that I remembered the feeling of someone watching me at the rally. I’d noticed only one police officer there, and I was fairly certain he hadn’t seen me. But if someone had followed me all the way from the Battery, that meant—

  Pain blazed across my scalp as someone grabbed me by the hair, dragging me out from behind the rain barrel. Hands seized the back of my collar and twisted. I shrieked and writhed and wriggled out of my overcoat—and then I remembered that I knew jujitsu. Throwing an elbow into my attacker’s ribs, I planted my hip and threw him over my shoulder; he landed flat on his back with a whuff. He lay there for a moment, stunned, and I got a good look at him. It was the waiter from the Fifth Avenue Hotel—not Foster but the other one, the man from the pharmacy. He groaned and rolled onto his side, at which point I blasted a kick into his stomach, which is not something they teach you in jujitsu but is something they teach you in Five Points, at least if you’ve seen your share of street brawls.

  He folded over himself—and suddenly there was a gun in his hand. I barely had time to duck before the shot went off, punching a hole through the linens drying on a line overhead. I went for my own gun only to realize that it was in the pocket of the overcoat I’d thrown aside. The waiter cocked the hammer again, and all I could do was run.

  The bullet slammed into the clapboard siding of a shack, missing me by inches. I fled up the alley, bumping into stoops and stumbling over crooked paving stones until I spilled out onto Mulberry, where I collided with someone and went down. The man I’d blundered into went down, too, sending a pistol clattering across the sidewalk. I scrambled to my feet, but the man was faster, snatching his gun back up and pointing it at me. I didn’t recognize him, but he clearly knew me, and the cold purpose in his eyes told me he had every intention of pulling that trigger.

  He never got the chance. The crack of a gunshot sounded from up the street, and the air hissed. The man turned and fled; moments later, a familiar figure charged past: Marco, the rough from Bandit’s Roost, trailed by another of Augusto’s men. People scattered, screaming.

  “Rose!” Someone grabbed me. I flinched, but it was only Pietro, shoving me toward the sidewalk. “What are you doing? Get out of the street!”

  He started after Marco, but I blocked his path. “Not that way! There’s another one in the alley—”

  The waiter burst into the street, revolver raised. I did the only thing I could think of, tackling Pietro to the ground as the gun went off. Pietro rolled away and fired back—a wide, clumsy shot that sent the waiter scurrying for cover.

  “This way!” I helped Pietro to his feet and dragged him into the stairwell below the hardware shop. Somewhere down the block, another gunshot sounded.

  Pietro looked me over, b
reathing hard. “Are you all right?” When I nodded, he cocked his gun and peered over the top of the stairwell.

  “Don’t.” I grabbed his arm. “Just stay out of sight.”

  “You must be joking! He’s shooting at us!”

  “He’s shooting at me. These aren’t random street thugs.”

  “I’m not stupid. I know this is Pinkerton business. Your boss has got you in trouble again, and—Là!” Uncoiling from his crouch, he fired. “Merda! Missed again!”

  “Stop it! I need him alive, Pietro!”

  “What?”

  The waiter leaned out from his hiding place. Before Pietro could react, I wrenched the gun from his hands and shoved him down. The waiter took his shot, ringing it off the pavement, and then it was my turn. I sighted down the barrel, took a breath, and fired.

  The waiter went down with a bullet in his thigh. I’d taken a leg shot once before and it had gone terribly wrong, but this time I’d had hours of target practice and I knew just where to aim. There would be no bleeding out and no running away.

  I bounded up the stairs, gun raised and ready, but the man writhing on the pavement wasn’t going to be any more trouble. He’d dropped his weapon, both hands clamped feebly against his leg. I kicked the gun away and stood over him, trying very hard to keep my hands steady while the rest of me shook. “Where is he? Where’s Foster?”

  He didn’t answer, too busy howling over his leg. I thought about kicking him again, but that didn’t seem very Christian, and besides, more pain wasn’t likely to help him think clearly. It occurred to me then that of all the lessons we’d had, interrogation wasn’t one of them, which felt like something of an oversight. Inspector Byrnes would know what to do, I thought sourly.

  I was still debating how to get him to talk when I heard someone approach. Pietro, I assumed, and by the time I knew otherwise it was too late. Marco walked right up to my suspect, looked him over, and shot him in the head. “Cazzo.”

  I dropped to my knees, but there was nothing to be done. Blood spilled from the wound in the waiter’s forehead, pooling in the cracks between the paving stones.

  You let him die. Our best way to find Foster and you let him be executed right in front of you.

  Mistaking my reaction for hysteria, Marco put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right, signorina. You are safe now. We got them all.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Marco and his partner wasted no time getting rid of the evidence, grabbing the waiter’s body and dragging him away. They’re right, I thought. This place will be crawling with coppers any minute now.

  A shadow spilled over me; I recognized its lean outline. Wordlessly, I handed the revolver back to Pietro.

  “That was a very good shot,” he said, his tone strangely flat. “A perfect shot, even, since you needed him alive.”

  There was no point in denying it. Shakily, I got to my feet. “I needed to ask him something.”

  “I heard. You were looking for someone named Foster.” He gestured at my arm. “You’re bleeding.”

  I looked down; there was a deep gash in my forearm. I hadn’t even noticed the pain until now. “Must’ve caught it on a nail while I was running.”

  “You’re one of them.”

  The words were all too familiar, a near-perfect echo of what I’d said to him when I found out he was working with Augusto’s thugs.

  Don’t look at me like that, he’d said. Now I understood what it felt like.

  “I thought you were just helping your boss, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? Nobody shoots a gun like that on their first try. Nobody stands over a man who was trying to kill them and doesn’t even shake. Especially not a woman.”

  But I was shaking, I thought. I’m still shaking. I looked down at my hands, but they were steady, as if they belonged to someone else.

  “How long have you been lying to me, Rose? To your mama?”

  The hurt in his voice, the disappointment, was more than I could bear. I squeezed my eyes shut, ashamed. “I wanted to tell you.”

  “But you didn’t,” Pietro said, and he walked away.

  Just like Clara.

  My vision swam with tears, but I blinked them back. I had to get away from here before the coppers arrived, but I knew better than to leave without paying my respects to the man who’d saved my life. That was how Augusto would see it, at any rate, and besides, I had some explaining to do. I had no fear of Pietro’s revealing my secret, but Augusto was no fool; it was best not to take chances.

  I fetched my coat from the alley and headed for the grocery. The aging padrone was there, standing under the awning with his arms folded, his wild salt-and-pepper eyebrows drawn into a frown. He’d come out to survey the aftermath—he and every other merchant on Mulberry Street, not to mention half the tenants of the surrounding tenement buildings. I wondered how much he’d seen. “Signorina,” he said as I approached. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just a scratch, though it does seem to be bleeding quite a bit. Do you by chance have a handkerchief I might borrow?”

  He called out to one of his underlings, but his keen-eyed gaze never left mine. “You seem to have a lot of trouble, Miss Gallagher. The last time we spoke, you had stitches. It looks like maybe you need some more, eh?”

  “Yes, well…” I hefted my soiled overcoat. “That’s what I get for wearing something this trig. They tore it right off my back.”

  “Was it the same man who attacked your boss yesterday?”

  “No, but they were working together.” A young man came out of the store and offered me a handkerchief. Pressing it to my arm, I glanced up the street. “Here come the coppers. Do you suppose I might come inside? I really don’t want to talk to them.”

  “Why not?”

  “You see, I might have … That is, I’m not entirely blameless in this, and I’m afraid…” I trailed off, letting the tears I’d been holding back brim in my eyes.

  I know, I know. But I’d learned long ago that Augusto had a soft spot for damsels in distress, and you did what you had to in this line of work.

  “What if they arrest me?” I whispered, and this time, the fear in my voice was perfectly genuine.

  “They will not dare, not without my permission. They know the rules.” Even so, he brought me inside, and the next thing I knew I had a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and a glass of wine in my hands. “Good for the nerves, sì? Now”—he waved his minions off—“why don’t you tell Augusto what happened?” He said it in a grandfatherly way, but I knew better. I’d have to be very careful here.

  I sipped my wine, composing my thoughts. “I’m afraid I started all this business. The men who jumped us yesterday stole Mr. Wiltshire’s watch. It was precious to him, and he was terribly upset about it, so I decided to go looking for the thugs myself. I brought a gun.” Making sure my hand trembled, I drew the little derringer from my overcoat pocket. “I thought they were just common thieves. I was sure they’d hand it over once they saw that I was armed. It never occurred to me they would have guns of their own…”

  “Why did you not bring this to me?”

  “I can’t come running to you every time I get into trouble. Besides, it was my fault the watch got stolen. We should never have been in that alley, only I said it was a shortcut. It was my mistake, so I wanted to be the one to make it right. Mr. Wiltshire is…” I faltered, drawing a blank.

  “You love him,” the padrone said with a shrug.

  I blinked, taken aback. I had no idea when or how he’d come to that conclusion, but it offered a convenient explanation for my actions. “I do,” I said, letting my gaze fall.

  Augusto was silent for a moment, giving me a long, calculating look. “This story you tell me, signorina … I don’t know what to make of it. It was a very stupid thing you did.” Tilting his head, he added, “You don’t seem like a stupid girl.”

  “We are all fools in love,” I said, which was very stupid indeed, since I doubted Augusto was an avid reader
of Jane Austen.

  “True. Young Pietro is about to learn this, I think.”

  I bit my lip; I’d forgotten that Pietro and I were meant to be sweethearts. “Will you tell him?”

  “It’s not for me to interfere. He will find out on his own, eventually. You will break his heart, but that’s all right. A young man likes to be crossed in love now and then.” He smiled, enjoying the startled look on my face. Apparently even Five Points padroni can’t resist Jane Austen.

  “That hasn’t been my experience,” I said dryly.

  Augusto shrugged. “Maybe not. But disappointment builds character, sì? It will make him stronger in the end.”

  He didn’t fool me for a second. He wasn’t going to tell Pietro because it gave him something to hold over me, or so he thought. I don’t think he entirely believed my story, but now that he’d found his leverage, he was satisfied. The fact that it was false leverage meant I was satisfied, too.

  “Thank you for the wine,” I said, rising. “And the handkerchief. I’ll have it cleaned. Now, er…” I glanced out the window into the street, where the coppers were gathering. “Do you suppose I might use the back door?”

  CHAPTER 26

  HEAVENLY HUMOR—CONFESSION IN A CARRIAGE—FACTIONS AT THE FACTORY—ON THE MEND

  By the time I got to Wang’s, the whole neighborhood was talking about the bag of nails in the street. Which probably explains why Mei didn’t look very surprised to find me at her back door. “We heard the shots,” she said, ushering me inside. “Are you all right?”

  “I am, though I can’t say the same for our suspect.”

  “The neighbors are saying it was the Mulberry Street Gang.”

  “Sort of. It’s complicated.”

  “We’d better have the details, then.” Thomas appeared in the hallway, looking grave.

  “It was the waiter from the hotel,” I told him. “The one we saw bringing medical supplies to Foster yesterday. He must have tailed me from the rally, waited until I was alone in an alley to jump me.”