by Erin Lindsey
Mr. Burrows gave a wry smile. “That stab of outrage you just felt? That is why we keep it secret.”
“But how? How do you keep a secret that enormous?”
Hearing the note of hysteria in my voice, Mr. Wiltshire sighed. “I’m afraid the world is a great deal more complicated than most people realize, Rose. There are things we can’t explain, things we’re told we shouldn’t believe in.”
“Tell me.” The words came out in a whisper. I felt as if I stood on the edge of a precipice; one small step would send me tumbling over, and everything I thought I knew would tumble with me.
“If you’re sure that’s what you want,” Mr. Wiltshire said, “but take care: I daresay life is a good deal simpler not knowing.”
This, incidentally, was very good advice, which anyone reading this tale ought to consider. Ignorance is bliss, the cab driver had told me, and I guess for some people that’s true. If you’re one such, well, I’m certainly not going to judge you, but you should probably put this tale aside and forget you ever saw it. Because trust me, you’ll never see the world the same way again.
CHAPTER 13
A PARANORMAL PROBLEM—SHADES OF MURDER—SPECIAL SKILLS
“I’ll let you continue enlightening your new protégé later, Thomas, if you don’t mind,” Mr. Burrows said. “I have somewhere to be, but before I go, there are a few matters I’d like to get straight. Like who took you captive, for starters.”
Mr. Wiltshire shook his head. “I wish I knew. The men I saw were merely hired thugs, working for whom I couldn’t say. I’d have trussed one of them up for questioning if I could have, but I’m afraid that was impossible under the circumstances.”
“They grabbed you on Saturday, I presume.”
“After he spoke with Peter Arbridge,” I put in, not wanting to feel left out.
Mr. Burrows frowned. “Who?”
“Do you remember the story in the Times,” Mr. Wiltshire said, “the one that brought me to your door on Saturday morning? Peter Arbridge is the young man who gave that account to the newspaper.”
“Ah, yes, I remember now. But I still don’t understand what that has to do with the case.”
That was a very good question, one I’d wanted an answer to for a long time. “Did he know Jacob Crowe?”
Mr. Wiltshire regarded me with the same fascinated expression he’d worn at the gasworks. “You’ve conducted a thorough investigation, I see.”
“I tried to, but there’s a lot I don’t understand. Where does Peter Arbridge come into it, or for that matter, Mr. Wang?”
“Yes, Thomas.” Mr. Burrows leaned forward with interest. “Where does Wang come into it? There are cheaper places to procure a medium.”
“Not a medium. A witch.”
“A witch? Good Lord, what for?”
“That shade, whoever she is, is only part of the picture. Something else is going on here, something much bigger. I can’t be certain, but I think we may be dealing with a portal.” Raising his eyebrows, Mr. Wiltshire added, “A leaking portal, Jonathan.”
“What, here in New York?” Mr. Burrows looked startled. “Surely not.”
“I asked Wang to find me a witch that could help confirm my hypothesis. Whether he’s managed it or not, I don’t know.”
Mr. Burrows flopped back against the sofa. “Christ.”
“I hope to be proven wrong, but the signs are not encouraging. That’s the fifth sighting in as many weeks.”
“I know. The whole club is abuzz with it.”
“And those are just the ones we know about. I daresay there are more. Regardless, if I’m right about the portal, it would appear to support Rollins’s Theory of the Outer Realms.”
Mr. Burrows rolled his eyes. “Only you would find a scientific silver lining to a paranormal storm cloud.”
“I’ll not apologize for intellectual curiosity, Burrows. It does nothing to diminish my dismay at the potential consequences. Either way, it seems clear that poor Jacob Crowe is the least of our worries.”
By this time, I had the heels of my hands pressed against my forehead. “Gentlemen…”
“Yes, all right,” Mr. Burrows said, “the very short version. Shortly after Jacob Crowe’s murder, his brother approached his friends at the Madison Club for help—”
“Burrows,” Mr. Wiltshire interrupted with a frown. “Discussing general matters is one thing, but as to the details of the investigation, I’m not altogether sure—”
“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Thomas. What harm can it do? Besides, it sounds as if she knows half of it already.”
“Be that as it may…”
“It will be on my head,” Mr. Burrows said with an impatient gesture. “Your professional ethics are intact. Now then, as I was saying, Frederick Crowe believed his brother’s murder to be at the hands of a shade—that is, the spirit of a dead person, what you would probably call a ghost—and Freddie was afraid the spirit might mean him harm as well. But that isn’t the sort of thing one goes to the police with, so instead he approached a man called Roberts—”
“The Freemason.”
Mr. Burrows paused, a smile hitching one corner of his mouth. “Rose, Rose. One day, we shall have to have a meal together, and you can regale me with the details of your morning following me about.” I felt myself coloring, but he didn’t seem angry, just amused. “Like the Crowe brothers, Roberts is something of an authority on all things paranormal, but even so, he had his doubts about Freddie’s theory. So he sought me out.”
“Why you?”
“Roberts, like myself, is a man endowed with luck. Men with extraordinary abilities tend to believe in extraordinary things. He thought I might be a good source of advice.”
“And you suggested he consult Mr. Wiltshire, because he’s a Pinkerton.” Something occurred to me then, and I looked sidelong at my employer. “Are you lucky, too?”
“Alas, I have only my wits to rely on.”
“That’s not what it looked like at the gasworks.”
He smiled. “Very well, my wits and a few tricks I picked up in the Far East.”
“So you started investigating Jacob Crowe’s murder, and when you came across Peter Arbridge’s story, the circumstances seemed similar.”
“Which led him to Wang’s, and after that up to Hell Gate.” Mr. Burrows nodded, as if it all made sense now.
“And on my way home, I was kidnapped. There, I believe we’re all caught up.” Mr. Wiltshire clapped his hands in a gesture of finality.
He obviously wanted to drop the subject, but I had so many more questions. “After you left Peter Arbridge, you were supposed to go to the opera. Did that have something to do with the case?”
“Ah, yes. Wagner. I can’t honestly say I’m too much aggrieved to have missed that, though I would have liked to hear more from Mr. Crowe.”
Mr. Burrows cocked his head. “You arranged to meet Freddie at the opera? That seems an odd place to…” He trailed off, eyes narrowing. “I see. A casual setting, is it, to put him at his ease? I take it there’s something about his story you don’t quite like.”
“Maybe he’s the one who did it,” I said, unable to hide my enthusiasm.
Tasteless, I know. Poor Jacob Crowe was dead, and here I was speculating—baselessly, I might add—on his own brother’s involvement in his murder, as if I were guessing the ending of a yellow-backed novel instead of discussing a real person’s life. What can I say? The juicier the mystery became, the more I wanted to sink my teeth into it. “Maybe he was afraid you’d found him out, so he had you grabbed.”
“Doubtful,” Mr. Wiltshire said. “If Frederick Crowe were guilty, he’d be a fool to involve the Pinkerton Agency.”
“Then what’s your theory?” Mr. Burrows thumped the arm of the sofa. “Come on, man, don’t keep us in suspense!”
A knock sounded at the door. Mr. Wiltshire looked relieved.
“Beg your pardon, sir.” Clara poked her head in. “The luncheon is ready.” If she w
as surprised to see me in Mr. Wiltshire’s study with the men, she didn’t show it.
“Ah, good, I must admit I’m famished. Thank you, Clara.”
She started to go, but the sight of his hand drew her up short. “What happened?”
“Ugly, isn’t it? I’m afraid I took rather a hard blow to the knuckles earlier.”
“You oughta to let a doctor take a look at that,” Clara said. “One of those fingers could be fractured.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Just a nasty bruise,” he said, sounding suddenly thoughtful. “By the way, Clara, was it you who stitched up Rose?”
Clara and I exchanged an uncomfortable glance. “I asked her to,” I said hastily.
“Tidy work. Where did you get your medical training?” When Clara’s eyes widened, he added, “If your word choice hadn’t given you away, the quality of the stitching would have.”
She shifted on her feet self-consciously. “There was a clinic down the road where I grew up. I used to help out some in exchange for Doc Morris looking in on my mama when she needed it.”
“More than some, I’d say.”
I felt my mouth hanging open a little. As for Mr. Burrows, he just laughed. “Your maid is a detective and your cook a nurse. Really, Wiltshire, you must give me the name of your recruiting agency.”
“Have you considered formal training?” Mr. Wiltshire asked. “You seem to have a knack for it.”
Clara snorted softly. “I’ll have luncheon on the table directly,” she said, and disappeared.
“That sounds like a no,” Mr. Burrows said, rising. “I’ll leave you to it, Thomas.”
“You won’t stay for a late luncheon? There’s a good deal more we should discuss.”
“It’ll have to wait, I’m afraid. I’ve a full dance card today.” Fetching his hat and stick, he added, “Someone should inform Roberts of your return. Shall I send word?”
“Please do, but hold off mentioning the portal yet. No need to alarm anyone unnecessarily.”
“Agreed.” Mr. Burrows started toward the door, but not before taking my hand and pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Miss Gallagher. I look forward to future entanglements.”
“I must apologize for Mr. Burrows,” Mr. Wiltshire said when his friend had gone. “I’m afraid he’s quite incorrigible.”
That was one word for it. “I don’t understand him. He was so worried about you, but for some reason he’s going out of his way to make it look like he wasn’t.”
“Yes, he’s rather adept at concealing his true feelings. I suspect he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it much of the time. One disadvantage of being lucky, I suppose; you never really let your guard down.”
“That sounds like a very tolerable downside.”
He smiled. “I daresay.” Gesturing at the door, he added, “Shall we? You must be nearly as famished as I.”
“You’re … inviting me to luncheon?”
“Certainly. I don’t know about you, Rose, but my curiosity is not remotely satisfied. Besides, it’s only prudent that I hear the details of your investigations before resuming my own. It’s quite possible that you turned up something I haven’t.”
In its own way, this was every bit as terrifying a prospect as the shave. But there was nothing for it, so with an awkward smile and a muttering of thanks, I accepted his offer.
CHAPTER 14
SCRATCHING THE SURFACE—A COCKROACH IN THE SOUP—SHADE AND SHADOW
Mr. Wiltshire listened intently as I related the events of the past five days. The keenness of his gaze unnerved me, so I spent much of the time staring into my soup, dunking bits of fish with my spoon and watching them bob to the surface again. I skipped only a few details, and by the time I’d finished, the soup had gone cold and the winter sun slumped low in the sky.
“It must seem like a very strange thing to do,” I said by way of conclusion, “but the police just seemed so … disinterested, and I would never have been able to forgive myself if I hadn’t done everything I could to help.”
“I quite understand. It’s terribly frustrating, isn’t it, when you’re the only one who can read the signs? But you did read them, for which I’m eternally grateful—not to mention impressed. You have a keen eye, Rose.”
“I have so many questions,” I said. “I know it isn’t my right, but…”
“But they claw at you, and you must have answers.” He sighed. “I know the feeling well. You remind me of myself not so long ago, before I was shown the gears inside the watch. But I meant what I said earlier: that innocence is not lightly parted with.”
“And I meant what I said. I don’t want to go through life with a veil over my eyes.”
“A veil, yes.” He leaned forward with sudden intensity. “That’s exactly what it is. You deserve to have it torn away, Rose, and I would very much like to be the one to do it—”
I swallowed, feeling unaccountably light-headed.
“—but I worry it would be unethical,” he finished, his light dimming as quickly as it had flared. “You’re young, and as your employer, it’s my duty to protect you.”
That got my back up. His duty to protect me? Had I not just rescued him from mortal peril? “Respectfully, Mr. Wiltshire, I manage just fine on my own.”
“Of course, and you’ve done brilliantly, but you’ve barely scratched the surface.”
“That may be, but I don’t see how not knowing what’s really out there keeps me safe. The world is the world, isn’t it?”
He sighed. “Ignorance certainly brings dangers of its own. More to the point, the choice is yours to make. I could refuse to help, but even were I so inclined, it’s clear to me that it would be a futile gesture. You’d simply go elsewhere to learn what you wished to know, and that might lead you down an even more dangerous path.”
“So you’ll tell me the truth, then? All of it?” I’m not sure what excited me more—the idea that this other, secret world existed or that he would be the one to show it to me.
He started to answer, but just then the door opened to admit Mrs. Sellers with the second course. Clara obviously hadn’t told her that I would be joining Mr. Wiltshire for luncheon, because the sight of me drew her up so sharply that she very nearly upset the tray she was carrying, and she paled in horror, as if she’d just discovered a cockroach in his soup. Her glance darted to Mr. Wiltshire, practically begging for an explanation for this outrage, but he just said, “Ah, right on time.”
She crossed the room in clipped strides, the heels of her sensible shoes striking out a stern rhythm against the parquet. Setting her silver tray on the sideboard—the one she’d made me polish to a high shine only days ago—the housekeeper proceeded to serve us both. Mortification rose from her like steam from a gravy boat, and I hope you won’t think me too petty if I say that it tasted even sweeter than Clara’s cooking.
“By the way, Mrs. Sellers,” Mr. Wiltshire said, “I have taken the liberty of giving Rose the rest of the day off. She performed a great service for me this morning, and the least I can do is allow her a bit of rest. I do hope you’ll forgive my interference. Also, if you wouldn’t mind, when we’re through with luncheon, please run up to the police station and inform them of my safe return. They can call off the search.”
It was all I could do not to snort into my soup. The only thing Detective Ward was searching for was a whiskey bottle. Still, I wondered what he would make of Mr. Wiltshire’s return …
My spoon froze halfway to my face. I’d forgotten all about my clumsy questions at the Twenty-Eighth Precinct. “There’s something you should know,” I said once Mrs. Sellers was safely out of earshot. “I’m afraid the police think Mr. Burrows was involved in Jacob Crowe’s murder, and your kidnapping, too.”
“Oh?” he said distractedly, his glance cutting between his injured hand and the slices of duck Mrs. Sellers had arrayed artfully on his plate. He seemed more worried about how he’d manage a knife and fork than the possibility that his best friend might be arrested for
murder.
“You don’t seem very concerned.”
“Nor should you be. A man of Jonathan Burrows’s stature has little to fear from law enforcement.” Gingerly grasping a fork, he went on, “As to your question a moment ago, I will do my best to explain the state of the art, as it were, but you should be aware that much of what we think we know is speculation. For the moment at least, the study of paranormal phenomena remains as much a discipline of philosophy as hard science.”
“Paranormal. Mr. Burrows used that term, too. I’ve never heard it before.”
“It refers to phenomena that lie beyond ordinary experience and accepted scientific explanation.”
“Like ghosts.”
“Exactly.”
I hesitated. I hadn’t yet told him about the bloody woman on Mott Street. I was fairly sure ghosts weren’t on Mam’s list of approved topics for dinner conversation, but then again, was there ever an elegant time to bring something like that up? “Speaking of ghosts—”
He raised a hand. “Soon, Rose, I promise, but not just yet. I’m knee-deep in a murder investigation. But as soon as my duty to the Freemasons is discharged, we can spend some time in the special vaults of the Astor Library. I’ll need to do some research, and what better way to begin your education in the paranormal?”
“That sounds lovely, but … How long will that take?”
“I shouldn’t think more than a week or two.”
A week or two? It might as well have been a year. “What’ll I do until then?”
“Why, go on as usual, I suppose.”
I nearly choked on my duck. After spending the better part of a week investigating his disappearance—of tailing Mr. Burrows like a bounty hunter, posing as a reporter, fleeing from a ghost, getting walloped over the head by a pistol-wielding rough—was I really supposed to go back to being merely Rose the Maid, dusting his Baccarats and polishing his silver?
Then again, what had I expected?
My dismay must have shown, because Mr. Wiltshire frowned and said, “What would you suggest?”
“I could help with the investigation. I know I’m not a professional, but—”