The Thirteenth Gate

by Kat Ross

It also pleased her that Myrtle had said “a place for us,” meaning she considered Harry to be a real consulting detective and not simply her grubby, half-bright little sister. That was as good as it got with Myrtle as far as compliments went, but Harry didn’t complain.

  When Mrs. Rivers came home from her sister’s house later that evening, she found the two of them in Myrtle’s laboratory setting fire to a stuffed moose head to see how long it took for the glass eyes to melt.

  “I’m writing a monograph on the use of accelerants by arsonists in the context of taxidermy,” Myrtle announced. “There’s probably six people in the world who’ll read it, but I don’t really care.”

  “I’ll read it,” Harry said stoutly, brushing a bit of singed fur from her dress.

  Mrs. Rivers wiped away a tear. “How lovely to see the girls together again,” she said.

  Chapter 18

  Thursday, December 27

  Harry awoke the next morning determined to follow Myrtle’s advice and get her interview with Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg‎-Koháry. It was obvious he held the keys to certain inexplicable aspects of the Sabelline case. Since Orpha Winter had failed to arrange it, she would simply call on him unannounced and see what he had to say.

  I’m within my rights to pursue the case, she told herself firmly. Even if it turns out I was hired by an undead monster with a thirst for human blood. Who may be arriving in New York at any moment.

  The museum murder was now splashed across every front page. As Nelson Holland had predicted, reporters pounced on the curse angle with unbridled delight. The World, Herald and New York Times all ran sketches of the museum’s president, Morris K. Jessup, which they probably had on file. Nellie’s article was the most thorough and accurate, although the headline hardly took the high road: Discovery of cursed tomb ends in museum bloodbath!

  Harry ate breakfast with Connor. Myrtle had retreated into her laboratory with several buckets of water and a bag of sawdust.

  “I want you to round up the Butchers,” she said. “Tell them I’ll pay them for whatever they’ve found on that Hungarian count, including his address. I want results by tonight.”

  “Sure thing, Harry. I’m meeting the lads shortly anyway.”

  “Do you miss the old life, Connor?”

  He considered the question for a moment. “Well, I hate school. And I hate wearing those Little Lord Fauntleroy suits Mrs. Rivers stuffs me into. But I don’t miss being cold, and I don’t miss being hungry.”

  “What about the other boys? There ought to be a way we can help them too.”

  Connor shrugged. “They got each other. And you help ‘em out with the odd job, like this one. The lads are all right.”

  Harry didn’t see how a bunch of little boys could be “all right” living on their own in the streets, but she let it drop for now. “Well, tell them to come by later.”

  Connor had barely swallowed the last bite of toast before he was out the door. Harry had a feeling he wanted to dodge Mrs. Rivers, who probably had errands for him to run. At the least, she didn’t approve of him hanging around with the Butchers, even if classes were on break until the following week. Quite accurately, Mrs. Rivers assumed Connor would be tempted by the multitude of sins on offer. Harry herself had once caught the boy with a bottle of something he called Rattle-Skull that smelled absolutely lethal.

  A knock on the door raised her hopes that it might be word from Orpha. Instead, Jackson Sabelline stood on her doorstep. A brisk west wind tugged at his chestnut hair.

  “I’m sorry to drop in on you like this,” he said. “But I’ve found something I thought you might be interested in.”

  “Of course, please do come in.” Harry stood aside and took his coat. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t have much time. The funeral is this afternoon.”

  “Oh.” Harry wasn’t sure what to say. She hated clichéd words of comfort, their false familiarity and empty sentiments. She thought Jackson Sabelline must be tired of hearing them himself. “Won’t you come sit down for a moment?”

  They went to the front parlor and Harry put more coal on the fire.

  “I was going through Father’s things and I found this.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over. “It was balled up in his shaving kit. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  Deep creases lined the paper as though Julius Sabelline had crushed it in a fist. Harry smoothed it out on her lap and began to read.

  Dear Sir,

  I write this from the most wretched place one can imagine. I suppose you would say I deserve my fate and that my Everlasting Soul is going to Hell. That is the truth and I do not pretend to have a chance at Salvation, but you must believe me. You must! If you would only come to hear it from my own lips, you will hear the ring of Truth.

  I have done a terrible thing, Sir. Not the one they put me here for, something else. It cannot be undone, but I hope my warning to you will go some way to make amends. For now, I can only say that there is an object in your possession of certain particular value to my Master. This is a most urgent matter. If you would be so kind as to arrange to visit me, I can explain matters further. If you will not, at least throw it away. You know what I speak of. Throw it away, sir, or the consequences shall be dyre.

  Yours,

  Mary Elizabeth Wickes

  Harry sat still for a long moment, trying to make sense of it.

  “What do you think?” Jackson asked. “I’ve never heard of this woman. But it’s a queer letter indeed.”

  “Yes, it is. Was there an envelope to go with it?”

  “No. Only the letter.”

  “Why did you bring it to me and not the police?”

  “Mother wanted to come to you first. She knows you solved those awful murders over the summer.” He gave a somewhat bleak smile. “I think she believes you stand a better chance of catching Father’s killer.”

  Harry nodded. “I’m flattered. But I also don’t want to be accused of obstruction. If you’ll allow me to keep this for a day, I’ll return it and you can hand it over to the police.”

  “That seems reasonable.”

  “I see the letter is dated one week before Dr. Sabelline’s death. I don’t suppose you know if he acted on it?”

  “That’s why I came, Miss Pell. I don’t know if he went to see this woman or not.” He gave her a hard look. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “Then you must tell me!”

  Harry held up a hand. “Give me one day. I will look into it and report back to you all I discover. But I don’t wish to speculate now.”

  Jackson twisted his gloves in his hands. “I suppose I can agree to that, though I don’t like it much.” He stood. “I hope you’ll keep whatever you find confidential.”

  “Of course, although I think you’ll need to share it with the police.”

  “You’d best come to me first. Poor mother’s been having nightmares. I don’t wish to upset her further.”

  Outside the door, he turned back to Harry. The unguarded sorrow and desperation in his face made her feel sorry for him.

  “A dark shadow has fallen over our house, Miss Pell. As if the Sabelline name is indeed cursed in some way. I only pray you can help us.”

  The next hours passed with excruciating slowness. Harry waited impatiently for Connor to return, then sent him straight back out again with a note for John, asking him to come to Tenth Street as quickly as possible. She paced up and down in the parlor, thinking furiously. The case was taking a strange turn and she wasn’t sure what it meant yet, only that they might be close to discovering the source of Julius Sabelline’s fear.

  The clock was just striking four when John arrived.

  “What’s happened?” he asked. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I was out with Bill—”

  “Look at the signature,” she said, thrusting the letter into his hands.

  John read it and shrugged. �
�Sorry.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Harry paced to the window. “Assuming it’s the same person, this letter was written from one of the death cells at the Tombs.”

  “What?”

  “Mary Elizabeth Wickes murdered more than a dozen children in her care. Poisoned them over long periods of time with arsenic.”

  John frowned. “Wait. That nanny? What did they call her?”

  “The White Rose.”

  “Oh God, yes. I remember now.”

  “She would bring her poor charges to the brink of death, then nurse them back to health. When the game grew tiresome, the child would take a sudden turn for the worse. After he or she died, Mary would move on to the next household. She got away with it for longer than you’d imagine possible.”

  John nodded. “Death from arsenic can be difficult to detect if the coroner isn’t looking for it. It often imitates the effects of a natural disease like cholera.”

  “Yes, the timetable is different in each victim. Some succumb in days, others can linger for weeks. You can’t smell or taste it either. That’s why it’s so popular with poisoners.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Mary’s luck finally ran out at the Clinton home in Staten Island. She was recognized by a family friend as the same caretaker who had been present at the death of another child the year before.” Harry stared out the window. “After the police arrested her and started looking into her background, they found her parents had also died under suspicious circumstances.”

  “She was from a wealthy home herself, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, and I believe it’s one reason she got away with it for so long. No one thought an educated, well-bred young lady—and a tragic orphan to boot—could be capable of such monstrous acts.”

  John shook his head. “Why did they call her the White Rose again?”

  “She wore one pinned to her dress every day at the trial. It was held in Albany because they were afraid they wouldn’t be able to control the angry mobs outside the courthouse if she was tried on Centre Street. Anyway, the evidence against her was fairly iron-clad. When the police exhumed the children’s bodies, they all tested positive for arsenic. The jury returned a guilty verdict and sentenced her to death in less than two hours.”

  “Let’s see that letter again.”

  Harry handed it over.

  “The object she refers to. Could it be the amulet of Osiris? But why on earth would Mary Elizabeth Wickes be writing to Julius Sabelline?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  “It won’t be easy.” He gave her a hard stare. “And I thought we were off the case.”

  “Myrtle talked me back in.”

  “She did, did she? When did she get home?”

  “Yesterday. Listen, John, we can’t just sit around. I’ve been thinking about Brady’s victims. All those murdered women in London and what was done to them. We both know there will be more when this thing in Clarence arrives in New York.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.”

  Harry felt a rush of warmth at his loyalty. She took his hand. “We’ll just quietly follow the leads we have. Like Myrtle said, it’s all connected to the Brady case anyway, which was ours. And when the London agents come, we’ll give them everything.”

  “So we’re off to see the White Rose. I’m sure that’ll make for a pleasant afternoon. Will they let us in?”

  “Let’s ask Connor. I’ll bet he has some idea of how to go about it.”

  They found the boy up in his room, reading a penny dreadful about Spring-Heeled Jack, a devilish figure from English folklore with claws and fiery eyes.

  “You want to go to the Tombs?” he said. “Whatever fer?”

  “We need to speak with one of the prisoners there,” Harry explained.

  “Shouldn’t be too difficult. They’re allowed visitors.”

  “The person we wish to see is in one of the death cells.”

  Connor’s eyes widened a fraction. He scratched his head. “That’s a wee bit more complicated. Which one?”

  “Mary Elizabeth Wickes.”

  Connor let out a whistle. “The one that poisoned all them kids?”

  “The very same.”

  “I heard she’s due to be hung in a week.”

  “Just tell us who to bribe,” John said impatiently.

  Connor laid the magazine aside and scrambled to his feet. “I’d best go with you.”

  Harry laughed. “Not on your life.”

  “Good luck, then.”

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  “Fine, but you wait outside while we see Miss Wickes,” she said. “Mrs. Rivers would skin me if she knew I’d brought you to such a place.”

  Connor laughed. “I been there plenty of times, in the boy’s wing. The Tombs ain’t no mystery to me.”

  “We’d best go straightaway then.” Harry tucked the letter in her dress pocket.

  There is an object in your possession of certain value to my Master.

  “It’s either a sick prank or the break we’ve been waiting for,” she muttered.

  John nodded absently.

  “What is it?”

  “I was thinking Mr. Kaylock was right when he said monsters are real, Harry.” He put his Homburg on. “It’s just that some of them are perfectly human.”

  Chapter 19

  They took a streetcar downtown to the grim building on Centre Street formally named the Halls of Justice, but known to all as the Tombs. Constructed of granite and occupying the entire block, the Tombs had sat at the intersection of Leonard and Franklin Streets for fifty years. To the east stretched the crumbling tenements of the Five Points, that most infamous of New York City slums.

  Over the decades, the Tombs had become crowded, dank and decayed, housing twice the number of prisoners it was built for. Now it was widely considered one of the worst prisons in the country.

  “It does look like a mausoleum, doesn’t it?” John observed as they walked up to the main entrance.

  “That’s what the architect intended,” Harry said. “Myrtle told me he modeled it after an Egyptian tomb described in a memoir called Stevens' Travels. I must say, the overall effect is certainly bleak.”

  They ascended a wide flight of steps into the shadow of a massive portico supported by towering columns with lotus flower capitals. Just beyond the entrance doors was a large rectangular courtyard. The male prison sat in the middle of it, and was connected to the main building by a covered passage.

  “The Bridge of Sighs,” Connor said in a low voice. “Them poor buggers condemned to death must cross it on their way to the gallows. I reckon they’ll be putting the scaffold up for Miss Wickes soon.”

  The outer building held the female prisoners. It was dark and gloomy, with mere slits for windows that let in so little natural light that gas jets were required even during the day. Connor took them straight to the Sisters of Charity, who ministered to the women and boys at the Tombs. Although more than a year had passed since Connor began living at Tenth Street, they remembered him well and with a good degree of fondness. The matron of the prison, a woman who clearly took guff from no one, chucked him under the chin. She was about fifty years old with dark hair showing threads of grey and the sort of strong, large-featured face that would politely be called handsome.

  “In school, are you? I never would have imagined it, young Connor Devlin. But I’m glad to see you looking well.” She turned to John and Harry. “All too often, the men awaiting trial in the main prison first came to us as boys in the detention house, scrubbing floors and doing laundry.”

  Connor made a face. “I thought my hands had gone to prunes for the rest of my days, Sister Emily. The sight of a pail of soap and water still gives me nightmares.”

  “So what is it you’re here for?” she asked, a slight sharpness to her words. “I somehow doubt this is a social call.”

  Harry laid a
hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Time for you to head home.”

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  He scowled but didn’t argue. “Nice to see you again, Sister Emily.”

  “I hope it’s the last time,” she said with a smile, watching as the boy left her office. “Now, what’s all this about?”

  “We’d like to see Mary Elizabeth Wickes,” Harry said.

  The matron’s eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “Who are you, reporters? I thought you lot would have had enough by now. What are you after, her last words? Repentance? Well, you won’t get it. The creature hasn’t a human emotion in her.”

  “We’re with the Society for Psychical Research,” Harry said, displaying her badge. “We’re investigating the death of a man whom Miss Wickes recently wrote a letter to. We’d like to ask her about it.”

  “A murder?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The matron frowned. “Do you think Mary had something to do with it?”

  “Not directly. But she might know something.”

  “Either way, she’s headed to her maker in a week’s time. What’s another stain on Mary’s conscience? Not that she has one.” She sighed. “I suppose you’re welcome to ask. Her family’s all dead. No one comes to see her. But we frown on men entering the women’s side unless they’re husband or son.”

  “Mr. Weston is a medical doctor,” Harry said. “Perhaps we can compensate you for the inconvenience?”

  The matron had no strenuous objections to this proposal. Ten dollars changed hands and Harry and John followed her toward the far end of the corridor. The cries of infants and general hubbub of more than a hundred women echoed through the courtyard, clanging off the wrought iron railings and damp stone floors. They continued past the first turning to the far side of the building, a walk of about three city blocks.

  “Here she is,” Sister Emily said. “You can have ten minutes.”

  The cell they stood before measured ten by six feet. Besides a single cot, it contained a water closet, with a pipe sticking out of the wall several feet above to flush the waste away. There was neither table nor chair.