A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

  “I just want to get out of here.”

  “Of course, but I thought perhaps you’d like to depart in your own clothing, rather than…” He arched an eyebrow at my dress, with the words lunatic asylum stamped on the hem. “You can change just in there,” he said, pointing with his walking stick. “I’ll have your hairpin sent in as well.”

  He was as good as his word, and a few minutes later I emerged, bedraggled but more or less myself, my precious hairpin back where it belonged.

  “Shall we?” Mr. Sharpe stood—and went rigid as I threw my arms around him.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, fighting back tears.

  He patted my back awkwardly. “There, there.”

  Just then, the doors banged open to reveal the furious figure of Thomas F. Byrnes. One of the coppers who’d dragged me from the yard pointed in my direction, and Byrnes stormed down the hall toward us. “What’s the meaning of this?” he roared at no one in particular. “I left clear instructions that this woman was to be—”

  “Calm yourself, Inspector,” said F. Winston Sharpe. “You’ll burst something.”

  Byrnes strode right up to him, taking full advantage of his size to loom over Mr. Sharpe. “I don’t know who you are, old man—”

  “Old? Why, I’m barely sixty. As to who I am…” Calmly, he produced a silver card and handed it over. It was identical to the cards we agents carried, save that it actually had his name printed on it.

  A name that clearly meant something to Inspector Byrnes. The blood drained from his face, and when he glanced up, there was genuine fear in his eyes.

  If I live to be a hundred, I don’t think I’ll ever behold a more satisfying sight.

  “It’s fortunate we’ve run into each other, Inspector,” Mr. Sharpe said. “Now I can tell you in person that if you ever lay a finger on one of my agents again, there will be a reckoning such as even a malignant brute like you cannot conceive. Good day.”

  As we walked away, the only sound was the tap-tap-tap of F. Winston Sharpe’s walking stick along the cold stone floor.

  CHAPTER 30

  THE SPECTACLES AND THE STATUE— A MACHIAVELLIAN MACHINE—FRESH EYES—A VERY BAD FEELING

  “I do hope there won’t be drama,” said Mr. Sharpe as the carriage trundled up Fifth Avenue.

  “Drama?”

  “I despatched a messenger to the Burrows residence with word of your situation. I was concerned that Wiltshire might have the news from Chicago directly, and I wanted to ensure he’d stay well clear of the hospital. He’s an admirably restrained fellow on the whole, but I expect he’ll have taken the news rather badly, and even I would have trouble smoothing over the murder of a police inspector.”

  I gave a strained laugh. “Mr. Wiltshire would never do a thing like that.”

  “Hrmm,” said Mr. Sharpe.

  It was already dark by the time we arrived at Mr. Burrows’s house. Thomas rushed into the foyer, but the sight of F. Winston Sharpe drew him up short; he froze, fingers twitching at his sides. “Miss Gallagher,” he said stiffly. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thanks to Mr. Sharpe.”

  Thomas flinched and glanced away.

  “No, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s over now, and no harm done.” Mr. Sharpe handed his overcoat to the butler. “Miss Gallagher had a firsthand view of our operations at Bellevue Hospital, that’s all.”

  That was hardly all, but I didn’t want to think any more about it, at least not now. So when Mr. Sharpe suggested we get right down to a briefing, I was only too happy to oblige.

  “Mr. Burrows has kindly offered the use of his study,” Thomas said with a curt gesture toward the stairs. He stood aside for us, and I brushed his hand discreetly as I passed. I wanted him to know that I didn’t blame him in the least, and I think he appreciated it, because he relaxed a little after that.

  We called for tea, and I poured out cup after gloriously steaming cup while Thomas brought Mr. Sharpe up to date on the latest developments.

  “Sergeant Chapman didn’t get anything useful from the newspaper editor. He’ll keep trying, but my guess is that whatever role Bright might have played in hatching the plot, he has no idea where Foster is now. For my part, I spoke to Roosevelt this afternoon, but as we anticipated, neither he nor the party leaders were the least bit interested in changing their plans. The rally at Cooper Union will go forward.”

  Mr. Sharpe grunted. “Roosevelt will have an agent beside him whether he likes it or not. I’ve seen to it.”

  “Oh?”

  “With his schedule, it wasn’t difficult to persuade his aides that a new stenographer would lighten their burden. Miss Fox will take up her duties tomorrow.”

  I nearly groaned aloud. After putting up with Ava Hendriks for the past week, now I had Viola Fox to contend with. As stressful as the past few days had been, at least I’d been free of Miss Fox’s sniping, her constant reminders of my inadequacies as an agent. Apparently that reprieve was at an end.

  “Has the War Department agreed to cover the fee for an additional agent?” Thomas asked.

  “They have. Besides, I’d be willing to throw in Miss Fox for free. Theodore Roosevelt has a bright future in politics. Having him indebted to the Agency could come in quite handy someday.”

  “Ah,” Thomas said, and sipped his tea.

  “And what about you, Miss Gallagher?” Mr. Sharpe asked. “How did you get on?”

  You mean before I was thrown in the cranky-hutch? Somehow, I managed to keep that to myself. “Mr. Tesla had a wonderful idea, but…” I trailed off with a gasp. In all the turmoil, I’d forgotten about the inventor’s list. “What’ll we do now? We’ll never get everything together in time!”

  “Slow down,” Thomas said gently. “Get what together in time?”

  I fetched the list from my overcoat pocket and showed it to him. “I promised to help gather these things by tomorrow morning. Mr. Tesla needs them to build a wireless transmitter, but it will take him at least three days to put it together. Where on earth are we going to find that much copper wire, to say nothing of … whatever this is?”

  Thomas glanced over the list. “We’ll find a way.”

  “How? We can’t be in five places at once.”

  “Not alone, perhaps, but we have friends we may call upon. Jackson will help, and Wang. It won’t be easy, but we’ll manage.”

  I nodded, relaxing a little. Though it was sometimes easy to forget, we weren’t alone. We had allies, and plenty of them.

  “What is this transmitter for?” asked Mr. Sharpe.

  I explained about the spectacles. “If it all works as it should, we ought to be able to pick out every lucky person in the place. And with the open design of that hall, there’s nowhere for Foster to hide.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Miss Gallagher.”

  “It sounds as though you know something we don’t,” Thomas said.

  “There is what I know, and what I suspect.” Mr. Sharpe sank into the depths of his chair, folding his hands over the broad expanse of his waistcoat. “This race is being watched very closely, the more so now that there are whispers of a plot against Roosevelt’s life. The young man is well liked, but it was never intended that he should win. His patrons merely thought to have a few thousand votes to trade on election day. As for the Democrats, he makes a convenient foe. Credible, but not quite electable, making Hewitt the logical choice for moderate voters terrified at the prospect of a Labor administration.”

  Thomas hummed thoughtfully. “An assassination would disrupt that calculus.”

  “The rumor alone has done that. Now the Democrats fear a sympathy vote for the Republicans—hence Tammany’s frantic efforts to keep what happened at the convention quiet.”

  “Efforts funded by Andrew Price,” I put in.

  “Indeed. And I’m told he promised Byrnes a considerable bonus for the successful capture of Foster, which might explain the good inspector’s irritation with the two of yo
u.”

  “Miss Gallagher and I had already surmised that the Democrats had no interest in seeing Roosevelt harmed,” Thomas said. “The same logic would apply to the Labor party, presumably.”

  Mr. Sharpe nodded. “The labor movement would certainly be blamed, playing into the hands of those who would brand them dangerous radicals. And here we come to the point. The transition, as it were, between what I know and what I merely suspect. The Republican machine has no love for Theodore Roosevelt. Their motivations in putting him forward were certainly cynical. The question is, how far would they go?”

  I stared at him, aghast. “You think Roosevelt’s own party is behind this?”

  “Not the party as such, no. But certain powerful figures within it? Why not? Politics is a dirty business, Miss Gallagher.”

  “Even so … do you really think they would be capable of something so awful?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps they merely saw advantage in allowing the plot to unfold, knowing it would undermine support for their rivals.”

  “Whoever is behind it,” Thomas said, “they’ll have had no difficulty identifying eager foot soldiers. Men like William Bright and Johann Most who splash their radical views all over their newspapers.”

  “Anarchists working for the evil capitalists?” I was skeptical, to say the least.

  “They might not even be aware of it,” Thomas said. “Perhaps Foster is merely—what was it you called it? A gull?”

  “In which case they can’t control him.”

  “A rabid dog off the leash, then,” Mr. Sharpe said. “Or perhaps I’m the one being cynical, and the conspiracy goes no deeper than Foster and his accomplices. Regardless, they must be stopped.”

  “Which brings us back to the event at Cooper Union,” I said. “Even if we somehow manage to get the spectacles working, there’ll be no shortage of lucky people in that hall.”

  “We’ll need as many eyes as we can get,” Thomas said. “Sergeant Chapman is having our sketch duplicated, but I doubt the party or the police will be eager to have too many officers inside the hall. It will raise questions in the press, and they don’t want that.”

  “We can’t rely on them anyway,” I said. “Byrnes is working for Tammany, but who knows about the rank and file?”

  “Agreed. We’ll need to bring some foot soldiers of our own, people we can trust.”

  Mr. Sharpe grunted. “Jackson and Miss Fox are the only other agents in the city. Aside from myself, of course.”

  “Burrows will help,” Thomas said.

  “And Miss Islington. She’s”—I glanced at Mr. Sharpe—“very observant.”

  “Excellent.” Mr. Sharpe started to rise. “That’s settled, then.”

  “Er, not quite.” I smiled awkwardly. “There’s still the matter of Mr. Tesla’s wireless transmitter.”

  Mr. Sharpe flicked an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to help you build this contraption?”

  “Not exactly. You see, the transmitter has to be stationed on something very tall, and … well, we agreed that the best thing to do would be to mount it on…” I cleared my throat. “The Statue of Liberty.”

  F. Winston Sharpe blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Bartholdi’s statue. On Bedloe’s Island.”

  “My dear child, I know what the Statue of Liberty is. But what the deuce do you need it for?”

  A slow smile spread across Thomas’s face. “Because it’s made of copper.” He shook his head, still grinning. “Brilliant. But how will the signal reach Cooper Union?”

  “Mr. Tesla plans to use the sky as a mirror.”

  “Ah,” he said, as if this made perfect sense.

  “The trouble is, I don’t know how we’ll get anywhere near it. The statue, I mean. The unveiling ceremony is on Thursday, and I’m sure they’re in a desperate rush to have everything ready in time.”

  “Leave that to me,” Mr. Sharpe said with a dismissive gesture.

  Just like that. All I can say is that it must be terribly convenient to be in charge of the special branch of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.

  “If there’s nothing else…” Mr. Sharpe levered himself up with the aid of his walking stick. “You two should head home and get some rest. It sounds as though you have a very busy few days ahead of you.”

  Thomas saw him out, and when he returned, he closed the door of the study behind him. “What happened to you today,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry, Rose.”

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  “Your dread of that place … It must have been a waking nightmare.”

  I shivered at the memory. “To think I actually believed they could help people like my mother. And that was just Bellevue! Imagine what it’s like once you get to the island.”

  “Thank God we have assets in the hospital.”

  The words rekindled a smoldering anger I’d been nursing since the ride home. “But what good are they? The Agency stepped in to help me, but I’m one of their own. What about ordinary people like Mam? The ones who really do see ghosts or some other supernatural thing? We just leave them to their fates? Report back to the Agency and”—I dusted my hands—“job well done?”

  “But what can we do? The Pinkertons can’t possibly screen every incoming patient to see whose story might be genuine.”

  “Maybe not, but we could post a medium at Bellevue. That way, if someone really did have a shade or a ghost attached to them, we’d know it, and we could intervene. It’d be a start, anyway.”

  “It’s an interesting idea, but even if we could find someone to take up such a post … It’s only one hospital, Rose.”

  “So because we can’t help everyone, we shouldn’t help anyone?”

  He considered that. “You’re right. That’s terrible logic, isn’t it? You ought to take it up with Sharpe.”

  “Me?”

  “I’ll support you, of course, but the idea is yours. You should be the one to put it forward.” He paused, the slow smile returning. “The statue was your idea, too, wasn’t it?”

  I blushed and glanced away.

  “I thought so. It has all the hallmarks of Rose Gallagher. It’s one of the things I admire most about you.”

  “Harebrained schemes?”

  “Innovation and resourcefulness. You see the world with fresh eyes, Rose. It’s…” He trailed off, and there was something in his eyes that sent a warm shiver down my spine. “Well, it’s quite wonderful.” He cleared his throat. “Now then, we’d better get on. It certainly does sound as though we have a whirlwind ahead of us.”

  That was one word for it. We had less than seventy-two hours to procure hundreds of pounds of materials, build a wireless transmitter, and affix it to a hundred-and-fifty-foot statue.

  That, and stop a killer.

  * * *

  If someone had asked me before that Wednesday if I was afraid of heights, I’d have laughed. After all, hadn’t I managed to climb down from a third-story window—in the dark, I might add, in a dress—without panicking? And yet as I stood on the narrow platform of Liberty’s torch on that cold October day, I felt as though my knees were made of pudding. My head was a spinning top, my stomach a jar of moths. Only a narrow rail stood between me and the sky. A hundred and thirty-odd feet below, the electric lights that would illuminate the statue were as small as the diamonds in my brooch.

  “Are you all right, Miss Gallagher?” Mr. Tesla regarded me kindly, the wind tousling his hair into little raven feathers. “You look a bit green.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m trying to help, really, but…” I glanced down again and swallowed.

  “But you have a very bad feeling. No need to apologize. It is a perfectly natural reaction of the body. It knows that a fall from this height would pulverize it beyond recognition.”

  With these words of comfort, he went back to work.

  Focus on the antenna, Rose. Turning my back on the sickening sight below, I surveyed our progress—which is to say, the progress of Messr
s. Tesla, Wiltshire, and Jackson, since I’d been all but immobilized with dread since we got up here. They’d managed to affix two of the saucers already, and were now working on a third. The final one would involve Mr. Tesla standing on that thin copper rail (with a rope tied about his waist, but still) so that he could reach the very top of the torch. I had already made up my mind to wait that part out down below, since I couldn’t bear to watch.

  “What do you say, Tesla?” Thomas handed him another loop of wire. “Will we finish before dark?”

  “I hope so, since I have yet to configure the spark-gap oscillator. We are nearing the wire now, that’s for sure.” The inventor smiled, pleased with his pun.

  After the delay at Bellevue Hospital, we’d needed all hands on deck to gather the materials in time. The Wangs had helped, and Mr. Burrows, and even Sergeant Chapman. Mr. Tesla, meanwhile, had worked day and night to get the various components ready for today’s installation. We might finish before dark, but there would be no time to make adjustments. Anything less than perfection and we would fail.

  “If this works,” Mr. Jackson said, “it will be two major scientific breakthroughs in one.” He paused to tighten a screw in the coupling he was working on, giving it an experimental tug to make sure it would hold. “The wireless telegraphy especially … Why, the applications are almost limitless.”

  The inventor made a dismissive gesture. “The theory has been widely discussed for years. Half a dozen inventors of my acquaintance are working on it. The spectacles, however … they are a true original. They will help you find your killer, I’m certain of it.”

  Please, Lord, let it be so. Though I couldn’t put my finger on it, something had been gnawing at me since the newspaper office yesterday. Was it just nerves? A “perfectly natural reaction” to the fact that I was about to face off against an assassin? Or did some part of me recognize a danger my mind had yet to fully grasp?