Murder on Millionaires' Row

by Erin Lindsey

  “You look nervous,” he said. “Should I be?”

  My laugh sounded strained. “It’s just been a while, that’s all.”

  “How long is a while?”

  “About eight years.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that, I could tell. But he was too much of a gentleman to risk hurting my feelings, so he just flashed a tense smile and said, “Well, I’m sure it will come back to you.”

  “It will,” I said, more for my own benefit than his. “Do you have a sturdy book in here?”

  “A book?”

  “I used to stand on a chair with my da, but a nice thick book ought to do it for us.”

  “Yes, of course. Let me see…”

  So there I stood, perched on The Collected Works of William Shakespeare, trying very hard not to tremble as I laid my hand against the side of Thomas Wiltshire’s face. His eyes were level with mine, but I didn’t dare meet them; it would have undone me. Instead I focused on the outline of his beard, trailing lather along the inside edge where I would begin the shave. “Ready?” I asked, laying the blade against his jaw. His breath ghosted along the inside of my wrist, thrilling the delicate nerves of my skin like a whisper of wind through grass.

  “Ready,” he said.

  I worked in silence, mostly because I didn’t trust myself to speak. I had to remind myself just to breathe. My hand rested against his cheek; my face hovered inches from his. If anyone had walked in, it would certainly have looked like I was about to kiss him—or kill him. The blood rushing through my veins made me dangerously light-headed. (To this day, I wonder if he noticed the glassy look in my eyes. If so, it must have struck terror into his heart.) But somehow my hand was steady and sure, and gradually the soft rasp of the razor coaxed my breathing back to a normal rhythm.

  “What happened this morning—” he began.

  “Er, maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  I moved on to the other side. The drift of the razor slowed, and my touch grew feather light. My reluctance vanished; now all I wanted was to draw this moment out for eternity.

  “You’re putting me to sleep,” he murmured, closing his eyes. I let my glance roam over those long lashes, yearning to press my lips to his eyelids.

  “You must be exhausted,” I said.

  “Mmm.” His throat thrummed beneath my touch.

  It was time to move on to his neck, and that meant I’d have to unbutton his collar, something I’d pictured myself doing more times than I care to admit. I lingered over the task, letting my imagination take flight as one onyx shirt stud after another slipped through my fingers, exposing another inch of throat. I could have told him to put his chin up, but instead I indulged myself, threading my fingers through his hair and giving a gentle tug. He tipped his chin obligingly.

  I paused for a moment, overcome. I was in very great danger here. His hair was luxuriant between my fingers, thick and soft and damp. His skin smelled of soap and something else, the unmistakable scent of Thomas Wiltshire. How often had I brought something of his—a silk tie, a handkerchief—to my face and inhaled that scent dreamily? And now here he was, eyes closed, head tipped back, my fingers tangled in his hair … I had only to move an inch or two to brush his lips with my own.

  He would forgive you, a treacherous little voice in my head whispered. You saved his life.

  I wet my lips with the tip of my tongue. Closed my eyes fleetingly.

  I grabbed the soap brush and started lathering his neck.

  The razor did its work again. I took as long as I dared to finish, but sooner or later all things must end, and with an inward sigh I released him and dismounted from the volume of Shakespeare. My limbs were as unsteady as if I’d downed a pint of whiskey.

  “Thank you, Rose,” he said, dabbing his face with a towel. “I do believe that was the most relaxing shave I’ve ever had.”

  I’d found it somewhat less relaxing, but it wouldn’t do to tell him so. Instead I just smiled and said, “I’m glad. I’ll just go wash up. Where shall we…?”

  “My study, I think. It should be private enough in there.”

  I shambled back to my room and threw myself facedown onto the bed, and there I stayed for a good five minutes or more, until I felt fully in control of my faculties. Then I got up, smoothed my dress, and went downstairs to confer with my employer.

  CHAPTER 12

  REVELATIONS

  He was waiting for me in the study. “I’m not quite sure where to begin,” he said, pouring himself a glass of sherry. He hoisted the decanter inquiringly, but I shook my head. I wanted to be perfectly lucid for this conversation. “I suppose the first thing I ought to ask is what happened with the Irishman.”

  “He hit me with the butt of his pistol. Last night, at your office.” I managed to say it without blushing, having already resigned myself to the fact that more than a few of my actions were going to raise his eyebrows.

  One of them was climbing his forehead already. “My office? How did you come to be there?” Then, in a distracted voice: “For that matter, how did the Irishman? Searching for something to help break the cipher, perhaps.”

  “Cipher?”

  He sighed. “I’m not sure how much I ought to tell you, for your own safety. I know that sounds terribly unfair, but—”

  “You’re working for the Freemasons. On a murder case.”

  He paused, visibly taken aback.

  “It has something to do with Peter Arbridge,” I went on, “though I’m not sure what. Mr. Wang knows, though, doesn’t he?”

  There was a stretch of silence. Mr. Wiltshire gazed at me with frank astonishment. “You are full of surprises today, Rose.”

  I tried very hard not to look pleased. “So you see, there’s no point in trying to protect me. I know too much already.”

  “I can vouch for the first part at least,” said a voice, and I turned to find Mr. Burrows leaning on the doorframe. “I let myself in, Wiltshire. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Ah, Burrows. Good.” Mr. Wiltshire waved him in. “Sherry?”

  “Please.”

  So much for the study being a private place to talk. I found myself scowling as Mr. Burrows tossed his hat aside and arranged himself on the sofa with an air of perfect insouciance. “Welcome back, dear fellow. I was beginning to think I’d seen the last of you.” He was smiling, but there was just enough edge in his voice to convince me that his nonchalance was feigned. He was relieved, though for some reason reluctant to show it.

  “You had the house under watch, I suppose?” Mr. Wiltshire asked.

  “Since this morning. I had a feeling your enterprising housemaid wouldn’t be deterred by our little talk last night. My man arrived too late to catch her on the way out, but it appears that’s all to the good.”

  That just made me scowl harder.

  “She’s been giving me that look for days,” Mr. Burrows remarked languidly.

  “Yes, well, I think she half suspects you had a hand in my kidnapping.”

  Mr. Burrows’s eyebrows flew up. “Does she now?”

  “Excuse me,” I said coldly, “I’m right here.”

  “Apologies, Rose,” Mr. Wiltshire said. “You’re quite right, we’re being terribly rude. And after you’ve been so patient.”

  I hadn’t been remotely patient, and now at last I had a target for my frustration. “I’ve been giving you that look, Mr. Burrows, because you’ve done nothing but thwart me at every turn. If you’d been more straightforward, I might have found Mr. Wiltshire sooner.”

  “Found him?” Mr. Burrows glanced at his friend. “Thomas, have you just been rescued by your maid?”

  “Indeed I have.”

  Mr. Burrows laughed. “How wonderful! Was it luck?”

  “You have a great deal of nerve, sir.”

  He just laughed harder. “Obviously not. My mistake.”

  Mr. Wiltshire regarded me with a sigh. “I’m afraid I don’t quite know what to do here.”

/>   “I think you’d better tell her, Thomas. She looks fit to explode. Besides”—Mr. Burrows sobered—“she’s already paid the price for knowledge she doesn’t yet have. Seems only fair to balance the books.”

  “I know more than you think,” I said. “For starters, you’re a Freemason.”

  Mr. Burrows received this accusation with a grave nod. “I am.”

  “And you?” I glanced at Mr. Wiltshire, fearing his answer.

  “No, but I am, as you say, working for them.”

  “As their lawyer.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not an attorney, Rose. That’s merely a cover. Have you ever heard of the Pinkerton Detective Agency?”

  “You’re a Pinkerton?” On my lips, the word sounded even more accusing than Freemason—a fact that didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Oh, dear,” said Mr. Burrows, laughing again. “Safe to say she has.”

  Of course I had. Where I came from, the only creature more despised than a copper was a Pinkerton agent, owing to their reputation for strikebreaking, union meddling, and sundry other dirty tricks on behalf of the money men. Spy, bodyguard, detective, rough-for-hire—a Pinkerton would do any and all of it so long as the price was right.

  “You’re disappointed,” Mr. Wiltshire said. “Well, I suppose that’s understandable, given your background, but I am sorry for it.”

  “I’m not disappointed,” I lied. “I’m just … surprised.” Though maybe I shouldn’t have been. After all, I’d just witnessed him smoothly dispatch three hard-bitten thugs using only my cheap umbrella for a weapon. No wonder he was so cool under pressure, I thought. This is nothing new to him.

  Which made him as big a liar as Jonathan Burrows.

  And speaking of that gentleman … “Something I don’t understand,” I said, turning to Mr. Burrows. “Last night, you mentioned a derelict gasworks. Did you know I would find Mr. Wiltshire there?”

  “Where? At a gasworks?” He glanced at his friend, puzzled.

  “The Consolidated Gas factory on Twentieth,” Mr. Wiltshire said. “That’s where I was being held. The man who attacked Rose last night was the same one who grabbed me. She managed to get hold of one of his buttons during the struggle.”

  “Oh, for the love of…” Mr. Burrows scowled. “Why didn’t you tell me, Rose? I could have brought help! We’d have these bastards in irons by now!”

  “Why would I tell you anything after the way you’ve acted? Could someone please explain the bloody button?”

  That outburst ought to have earned me a stern reproach, but the two men just exchanged a look. Then, grudgingly, Mr. Burrows said, “Luck.”

  I clucked my tongue in disgust.

  “Not that kind of luck, Rose,” Mr. Wiltshire said. “In certain circles, luck means something very specific. It’s what we call a breed of extraordinary abilities that some people possess. People like Mr. Burrows.”

  That didn’t make a lick of sense to me. “What sort of talent lets you handle a button and guess where its owner has been?”

  “Luck,” Mr. Burrows said with a shrug. “Of the earth variety, if you want to be specific.”

  Mr. Wiltshire perched on the sofa beside me, his expression lighting up. “You see, Burrows has the ability to sense the chemical composition of things, down to the elemental level, simply by touching them.”

  “The elemental level?”

  “How shall I explain it? Everything around us—every rock and tree, every animal, even the very air we breathe—is made up of different combinations of the same handful of ingredients.”

  “Everything physical, at any rate,” Mr. Burrows put in.

  “Let’s not start out too complicated, shall we? This is a lot to take in. Are you with me so far, Rose?”

  I wasn’t remotely with him, but I nodded anyway.

  “Good. Now, Burrows is able to identify each of these ingredients simply by touching them. Were he to pick up this vase, for example, he could tell you exactly where it comes from.”

  “Baccarat,” I said. “In France.” I should know; I dusted it three times a week.

  Mr. Burrows laughed. “She’s got you there, Wiltshire.”

  “Yes, all right, but that’s not what I meant. He can tell exactly what minerals the glass is made of. Not only that, but where the sand came from, based on the precise blend of its constituent elements—the silicon, calcium carbonate, and so on—presuming he’s encountered it before.”

  Mr. Burrows tsked. “And he accuses me of being complicated. Don’t bother about the science, Rose, I certainly don’t. Think of it like your sense of taste. When something hits your tongue, you can describe the flavor, and draw certain conclusions from there. Some foods you’d know blindfolded, because you come across them all the time. Strawberry jam, say. Others you might not have tasted before, but you can still make a fair guess as to what’s in it. So if I gave you a slice of apple pie, even if you’d never had it before, you’d still be able to identify many of the ingredients. Sugar, apples … whatever else they put in pies.”

  “Coal gas is as commonplace as strawberry jam,” Mr. Wiltshire said, gesturing at the gas lamp on the wall, “so when Burrows touched the Irishman’s button, he recognized it immediately.”

  “Not just gas, but rotten gas.” Mr. Burrows wrinkled his nose. “The thread was positively pickled in it. I couldn’t for the life of me work out what you were doing poking around a place like that.”

  “But”—I glanced back and forth between them, still utterly lost—“how is that possible?”

  “Luck,” Mr. Burrows said again, maddeningly.

  “His particular brand of it, at any rate,” said Mr. Wiltshire. “Luck is simply a generic term for any type of extraordinary ability. There are many different forms of it, all of them hereditary, and they behave like any other family trait: Some offspring inherit it and some do not, and each child born with the trait exhibits it in his own unique way. So while there is always a family resemblance, no two forms of luck are exactly alike.”

  “They say my great-grandmother could smell gold from a hundred paces,” Mr. Burrows said idly. “Put my family in rather good stead in the Carolina gold rush.”

  “Fascinating, isn’t it?” Mr. Wiltshire’s eyes were bright and eager, like an inventor explaining his latest creation. “One fellow of our acquaintance has an uncanny mind for patterns. Another can predict a storm weeks ahead of time. Just last month, I met a woman who can perceive entire spectra of light as yet unknown to science, if you can imagine such a thing.”

  I couldn’t, but that didn’t bother me too much. When your world is as small as mine, it doesn’t take much to go beyond the limits of your experience. I came across wondrous things in Harper’s and Frank Leslie’s all the time. But this was something different altogether. “I once read about a man who could make perfect scale models of St. Peter’s or Westminster Abbey out of matchsticks,” I said, “just by glancing at a photograph.”

  “Matchstick cathedrals?” Mr. Burrows laughed. “And I thought my talent was useless.”

  “Every now and then, tales of luck do crop up in the papers,” Mr. Wiltshire said, “though the phenomenon is rarely referred to by name.”

  “But smelling gold? I’ve never heard of anything like that.”

  “Nor will you, outside of certain highly exclusive circles,” Mr. Burrows said. “Families like mine have gone to a great deal of trouble over the centuries to keep it that way.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, plenty of reasons,” he said with a dismissive wave. “In the old days, I imagine it was the fear of being branded a witch. These days we have more modern concerns—being prodded at by doctors for one. Mostly, though, it’s because secrecy has proven extremely advantageous for people like me.”

  “How so?”

  He eyed me shrewdly. “Do you play cards at all?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Then you know that a trump concealed is ten times more powerful than the one your opponent knows
you’re holding.”

  “Less of a concern for your family, I should think,” Mr. Wiltshire put in. “Secrecy or no, the earth would have surrendered her bounty regardless.”

  “Perhaps, but gold is one of the rare forms of wealth that can be plucked directly from the ground. Most of the time it has to be plucked from another man’s pocket, and most people don’t take kindly to that. Nevertheless it’s true—my family probably has less to fear from exposure than some others. A modest gift like mine isn’t likely to alarm anyone. But some other forms of luck out there … What would people make of what Rockefeller can do, or Van den Berg, or even Roosevelt?”

  My mouth fell open a little. “You mean those families…?”

  “Along with half of Fifth Avenue.”

  “So luck is very common, then.”

  “On the contrary,” Mr. Wiltshire said, “it’s exceedingly rare. Fewer than one percent of people have luck. That’s among the general population, of course; among high society, it’s closer to twenty percent.”

  The shock must have shown on my face, because Mr. Burrows shrugged and said, “It’s not so surprising, surely? Our gifts may be subtle, but they’ve been with us for generations. We’ve had centuries to work out how to use them to our advantage.”

  So the rich really are different from the rest of us. Generation after generation of luck, advantage piling on advantage …