by Erin Lindsey
“Coffee?” I echoed stupidly.
“There’s a joint around the corner—maybe we could talk there?”
I eyed the detective warily. He was a middle-aged man with prominent ears and sagging, thoughtful eyes. He’d probably been imposing in his youth, but though still tall and broad-shouldered, he was visibly past his prime. Not, in short, the sort of man I typically received invitations from, unless you counted catcalling. “I drink coffee,” I told him, which was patently untrue, “but if you’re planning on interrogating me about my friends, you needn’t bother.”
“I’m not planning on interrogating you at all, Miss—?”
“Gallagher.”
“Sergeant Chapman,” he said, doffing his hat. “I ain’t looking to cause you any trouble, I promise. Just hear me out?”
For reasons I can’t fully explain, I made a great show of consulting Mr. Wiltshire’s gold pocket watch before saying, “All right, but only for a minute,” and following him to a lunch joint two blocks away.
“How do you take it?” Chapman said as we sidled up to the counter. “Your coffee?”
“Just black, please,” I said, since that’s how I took my tea.
“Draw two in the dark,” he called to the waiter. “So, Miss Gallagher, let me get straight to the point.” There was a grandfatherly growl to his voice, and he had a slow way of speaking, as if to make sure his words didn’t get ahead of his thoughts. There was something reassuring about that. “First off, I’m sorry for Ward. He’s a good detective, but he’s just come to us from the Sixth Precinct, and they do things a little different down in Five Points.” Glancing at me, he added, “Could be you know something about that.”
This wasn’t crack detective work; the boy behind the counter could have guessed it just as easily. My heritage was plain enough from my name, and there’s only so many neighborhoods an Irish girl my age was likely to come from. I made sure my expression said as much. I didn’t want him thinking I’d be easily impressed—or intimidated.
“He’s also…” Chapman paused. “Well, he’s an experienced officer, but when you been on the job as long as I have, you see a thing or two…” He trailed off as the coffee arrived, waiting until the boy behind the counter was well out of earshot before continuing. “Maybe every now and then you even see something that changes the way you look at the world.”
I curled my fingers around my coffee while I processed that. The steam rising from the cup smelled wonderful, but I knew that for a cruel trick. Coffee is the one American tradition I simply cannot adopt, no matter how hard I try. It invariably tastes awful; I imagine hot water strained through the dregs of an opium pipe would have a similar flavor. Even so, I made a polite show of sipping at it while I tried to work out what Sergeant Chapman was hinting at. “What sorts of things?”
He studied me a moment before replying. “Do you read the papers, Miss Gallagher?”
“Now and then.”
“I’m an avid reader, myself,” he said in his unhurried way. “Plenty of us at the precinct are. Helps keep abreast of the local goings-on. Anyways, I come across a story on Saturday in The New-York Times that caught my interest. Maybe you saw it? About a treasure hunter in Hell Gate?”
My hands twitched, rattling the coffee cup in its saucer.
Chapman glanced down but didn’t comment. “Most people would laugh at a story like that.”
There was a stretch of silence. I realized he was waiting for me to respond. He didn’t want to go too far out on a limb until he knew what sort of person he was dealing with. I knew just how he felt. I hadn’t even been willing to tell Clara about the ghost, and now here I was, on the brink of telling a copper. But there was something in Sergeant Chapman’s eyes that made me trust him, at least this far. “I laughed at first,” I admitted. “But now I think … Well, I spoke to Peter Arbridge myself, and I’m not laughing anymore.”
He nodded and took a long draw of his coffee.
“What about you, Sergeant?”
“The same. I’d heard my share of ghost stories on the beat. Far as I was concerned, they was all bull. Till one day, some years back, I had a case changed my mind about that. Sort of thing you’d never believe till you saw it with your own eyes, and then … Well, you can never unsee it, can you?”
“No,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “No, you can’t.”
“Maybe one day you’ll tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine. For now, I think we understand each other well enough.”
I nodded at my coffee.
“So,” he said, “you spoke to the fella from the paper. Not just for curiosity’s sake, I’m guessing.”
“I thought he might know something about my employer, Mr. Wiltshire. Are you working on his case, too?”
The detective shook his head. “Never heard the name before today. What sorta rub is it?”
“He’s been missing since last Saturday.”
“Sorry to hear.”
“Yes, everyone’s very sorry,” I said bitterly, “but nobody seems to be willing to do a thing about it.”
“Sorry about that, too. Whole precinct’s pretty tied up with this Jacob Crowe business. Got the mayor breathing down our necks. Not every day a Fifth Avenue swell turns up murdered.” Glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, he added, “Sounded like Ward figured your boss was mixed up in that somehow.”
I scowled. “He figures a lot of things that aren’t true.”
“Don’t get a bee in your bonnet, Miss Gallagher. Not saying he’s right or wrong, I’m just trying to figure how it all fits together.”
“That makes two of us,” I muttered, daring another sip of my coffee. It tasted like the contents of an ashtray.
“What’s your theory?”
“Sorry?”
“You asked Ward a bunch of questions. Talk me through ’em. What’re you thinking?” He leaned against the counter, head cocked expectantly.
I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d dropped to one knee and asked me to marry him. In all my encounters with the police, I’d never met one who was the least bit interested in my opinion, let alone my theory. Until that moment, I’d have thought myself about as likely to encounter a leprechaun riding a unicorn. “I … I’m not sure,” I stammered. “I’m just following Mr. Wiltshire’s trail as best I can.”
“Sensible place to start in a missing person’s case. So how does that get you to the fella in the paper?”
“I think Mr. Wiltshire read that story just before he left the house on Saturday morning, and he seemed to be in an awful hurry. So I decided to speak with Mr. Arbridge myself, and sure enough a gentleman matching Mr. Wiltshire’s description went to see him last Saturday, asking all sorts of questions about the ghost he saw.”
Chapman frowned. “He some sort of enthusiast, your boss?”
“Not that I know of. From what I saw, it seemed to be connected to his business somehow.”
“He’s an attorney, right?”
“So I’m told, and I think he’s working for the Freemasons.”
“What makes you say that?”
“A conversation I overheard between someone named Roberts and … another man.” I decided to leave Mr. Burrows out of it. I’d laid enough suspicion at his doorstep for one day.
“Roberts. Heard you mention the name. What can you tell me about him?”
“Nothing, apart from his being a Freemason. I wondered if Mr. Wiltshire might be defending a Mason against … some sort of criminal charges.”
Now, a responsible citizen would probably have mentioned having overheard the word murder, but I couldn’t bring myself to spill everything just yet, not until I was sure it wouldn’t send Mr. Wiltshire and his best friend up the river.
Chapman grunted thoughtfully. “Haven’t heard of any charges being laid against a Mason, but maybe they’re bracing for some. Could be your boss was investigating the crime.”
“Investigating? An attorney?”
“Happens
sometimes, when they think their client is innocent. Looking for exculpatory evidence, or maybe even the real culprit.” Wryly, he added, “Sometimes folks just don’t trust the police.”
“Imagine,” I said, just as wryly.
“Rich family like the Crowes, usually they’d hire themselves some Pinkertons for a job like that, but maybe they hadn’t got around to it yet. If your boss was looking into the crime, that might explain what happened to him. He finds out something he shouldn’t…” Chapman trailed off, looking grim. “Don’t explain what none of it has to do with a ghost in the East River, though.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
He straightened and donned his hat. “I’ll look into it, provided that don’t step on too many toes at the station. Roberts, right?” He took a ledger from his pocket and wrote it down.
I nodded, feeling a rush of relief. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
“It’s for me to thank you, Miss Gallagher. Sounds like a solid lead. Hopefully it turns up your boss and our murderer both. Now if I can give you a piece of advice…”
“Stay out of it?”
“Hard for me to say that. He’s obviously important to you or you wouldn’t have come this far. But if your boss’s disappearance is connected to Jacob Crowe’s murder, you oughta watch your step. No offense, but anybody willing to murder a high society fella with connections like Crowe’s ain’t gonna think twice about hurting a working-class girl such as yourself.”
“I understand,” I said, and I meant it—not that it would change anything. “Thank you for the coffee, Sergeant.”
“You’re welcome.” As he walked away, he added over his shoulder, “Next time, we’ll make it tea.”
* * *
The sun was setting by the time I hopped on the train, but that was just as well. Breaking into a law office, I reasoned, was probably best done after dark.
Finding out where Mr. Wiltshire worked was the one scrap of success in my otherwise disastrous visit to the Twenty-Eighth Precinct—that, and my conversation with Sergeant Chapman. I could only hope the detective would find something to clear up the cloud of suspicion I’d managed to cast over Mr. Wiltshire and his best friend. In the meantime, I’d have to try to put things right myself, which in my mind meant sneaking into the offices of Locke, Banneker & Associates.
Detective Ward had been helpfully precise in his description of Mr. Wiltshire’s workplace, having situated it, in the typical way of New Yorkers, in relation to a landmark. Across from the Equitable Life Building, he’d said, which ought to have made matters simple. Except when I got there, I saw no masthead bearing the name of the firm, and none of the passersby I stopped had heard of it. Then I spotted a New York Cab Company livery just down the street. I’d watched Mr. Wiltshire climb into their distinctive yellow carriages every morning for two years. Might one of the drivers recognize a description?
“Sure, I know him,” said a young man lounging against the side of his cab. “We call him His Lordship—you know, on account of the accent.”
He pointed me to an economical brick structure with nothing much to distinguish it. The front door was unlocked, and inside, I found Locke, Banneker & Associates among the engraved nameplates on the wall. Must be a small firm, I thought, a suspicion that was confirmed when I arrived on the third floor and saw the modest-looking door bearing the same name.
A modest-looking door that stood ajar.
I hesitated. Grateful as I was not to have to try my hand at lock-picking, I had no idea how I’d account for my presence to Mr. Wiltshire’s business associates. They must know of his disappearance by now, but somehow I doubted that my intrepid tale of amateur police work would impress an office full of lawyers.
Then I noticed something odd. Though the gas lamp on the landing was lit, the office itself was shrouded in darkness. They’ve forgotten to lock it, I thought. How irresponsible. I was sure Mr. Wiltshire would disapprove of his clients’ private affairs being left to the mercy of anybody that should happen along.
Cautiously, I pushed the door open a little farther. I couldn’t see much, but the glow of the gaslight sketched the outlines of a small, barren room. A floorboard groaned under my foot; I froze, but nothing stirred. Satisfied the place was empty, I went inside.
I walked to the center of the room and turned full circle, taken aback by my surroundings. From what I could see, the law offices of Locke, Banneker & Associates consisted entirely of that small, barren rectangle of space, plus a tiny office at the back. The furnishings in the waiting room, if you could even call it that, consisted of two plain wooden chairs and a threadbare rug in dire need of a beating. The smell of dust tickled my nose; I had to pinch it to keep from sneezing. This can’t be it, I thought. There must be some mistake. Surely a gentleman of Mr. Wiltshire’s station belonged somewhere a little more … impressive? Someplace with plush leather armchairs and engraved Carcel lamps and thick Persian rugs? Someplace with a desk?
Small wonder nobody had heard of Locke, Banneker & Associates. Who would be represented by such a firm? Not the Freemasons, surely. Nor a rich man like Mr. Burrows, or Mr. Roberts, or the unfortunate Jacob Crowe. Something was certainly off here, and I felt a prickle of unease as I made my way to the little office at the back.
The door creaked as I pushed it open, loud enough to drown out the sound of my gasp.
Papers littered the floor. An inkbottle had been upended on the desk, and the chair lay on its side in a corner. The dim light from the hallway picked out shards of broken glass from the filing cabinets. Someone’s been here. Someone who shouldn’t have been …
An arm snaked around my neck, crushing me against the bulk of a man. I tried to cry out, but my lungs wouldn’t draw air; I writhed and kicked, clawing ineffectually at the band of hard muscle clamped across my throat.
“Who are ye?” An Irish voice, hard.
I couldn’t have answered if I wanted to. I made a choking sound, and when my attacker loosened his grip to let me speak, I twisted under his arm and lunged for the desk. A blinding pain exploded at the back of my skull, sending a flare of white light across my vision. I braced myself against the desk, dazed.
Boot heels rang out on the floorboards behind me. I hauled myself clumsily along the desk, trying to get away, my arm trailing a thick smear of ink. The inkbottle lay a few inches from my fingers.
“I’ll ask again—”
I spun and slammed the inkbottle into the side of his head. Glass shattered; the man cried out and stumbled.
He hung back a moment, head bowed, hand clamped against the side of his face. Then he laughed. “I’ll say this, darlin’, you’ve got sand.” He advanced on me, still laughing, and I heard the click of a pistol being cocked.
The room seemed to grow even darker, the shadows threatening to swallow me. Even so, I’ll never forget the face that loomed over me in that moment: long, craggy, with a thick auburn mustache and the hardest eyes I’d ever seen. I grabbed at his waistcoat, but he batted me away; the last thing I saw was the butt of his revolver swinging at my temple.
* * *
I don’t know how long I was out. Something more than a minute and less than an hour. All I know is that by the time I stirred and brought a hand to my head, the blood had slowed to a trickle and it felt as if someone had driven a railroad spike into my skull.
I dragged myself to my feet. It wasn’t until I stood propped against the desk that I thought to be afraid. But as my vision cleared, I saw that the room was empty; my attacker was gone.
Glass crunched under my shoes. I reached for my handkerchief to stanch the bleeding, and that’s when I realized that my dress had been torn, the breast pocket ripped open at the corner. Mr. Wiltshire’s watch was gone. I gave a strangled cry, patting myself down and dropping back to the floor to look for it. (I know what you’re thinking: I’d just been attacked and knocked out cold, and I was worried about a watch? It sounds silly, but the Patek Philippe had long since ceased to be just a watch to me. It was a piece
of him, and if I lost it, it would be as if I’d lost a piece of him, too.)
As it happened, though, I hadn’t lost the watch. It had rolled under the desk when I fell. Anxiously, I held it up to my ear: still ticking. The Swiss really do make miraculous watches.
I found something else down there, too: a silver button with a bit of purple thread still attached to it. I slipped it into my overcoat pocket without really thinking, along with Mr. Wiltshire’s watch.
I took a few minutes to sift through the papers scattered about the office, but all I found was law books, blank ledgers, and some documents that looked like patent filings—nothing mentioning Jacob Crowe, Peter Arbridge, or the Freemasons. My head throbbed, and I felt nauseous. It would be a trial just making my way to the hack stand. So with a final, rueful glance around the ransacked office, I headed for home.
CHAPTER 9
THE SURLY SEAMSTRESS—DARKENING THE DOOR—A LUCKY GUESS
“Clara.”
She didn’t come to the door straightaway, and for a moment I hovered there in the hallway, bleeding, wondering what I should do next. I knew I needed stitches, but I also knew that I would rather spend the rest of my life with a terrible scar than ask for help from Mrs. Sellers.
Happily, I was spared that choice. Clara opened the door, looked me up and down, and nodded, as if this were exactly what she’d expected to find. Which, come to think of it, it probably was. “Well,” she said. “Look at you.”
“I need—”
“You need a doctor, is what you need.”
“I can’t afford a Fifth Avenue doctor, and I’m not going all the way back downtown with this.” I gestured at the trickle of blood still working its way down the side of my face. “I just need a stitch or two, and you’re handy with a needle and thread.”
Clara sucked on a tooth, her eyes hard with anger. “All right, then. We’d best get you to the kitchen.”
“Thank you. But first…” I felt myself coloring. “The cab that brought me home is waiting outside. My reticule was stolen and…”