Murder on Millionaires' Row

by Erin Lindsey

  He was already shaking his head. “That is quite impossible, I’m afraid.”

  “But you said I was resourceful. That I had a keen eye.” Oh, how I hated the sound of my voice in that moment. Like a spoiled child.

  “And I meant it, but that isn’t the point. I have a duty to my client and my employer. I cannot divulge the private details of a case, let alone take on an apprentice, however talented. It would be quite inappropriate.”

  “Mr. Burrows didn’t seem to find a problem in it.”

  His mouth took a wry twist. “He rarely does, but that does not release me from my obligations. Only Frederick Crowe can do that, or the Pinkerton Agency.”

  “I see.” I set my fork down; suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore.

  He sighed. “I know you’re frustrated, Rose, and I’m truly sorry. But I hope you can understand my position.”

  What did it matter if I understood? I was his maid. He didn’t have to explain himself to me. He didn’t owe me anything except gratitude, and that he’d offered freely. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said. “I got carried away, is all. It’s just that after everything that’s happened, I thought … Well, never mind. It won’t happen again, sir.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. Several, really. Then he said, “I’m afraid I must ask you to keep the nature of my work and all that you’ve learned in the matter of Jacob Crowe between us. But if you like…” He hesitated, as if casting about for a peace offering. “I’ll be heading downtown later, to Wang’s General Store. I could give you a lift if you wish to spend some time with your family.”

  That, I decided, was a grand idea. After everything I’d been through, a little time with Mam would do me good. “Thank you, I would.”

  “Good.” He sounded relieved. “I’ll have a livery cab ordered for half five.”

  I stuffed a few desultory forkfuls of food in my mouth. Then, abruptly, I reached into my breast pocket and yanked out the Patek Philippe. It was warm in my hand, and heavy, still ticking softly. I felt a gaping hole where it had been, as if something had been torn out by the roots. “Here, this belongs to you.”

  “Ah, excellent! Where did you find it?”

  “In Mr. Burrows’s parlor. You must have left it there. I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you sooner—I’d forgotten about it.”

  That was a wretched lie, of course, and I think he sensed it, because his brief smile vanished.

  We passed the rest of the meal in silence.

  * * *

  I was dangerously near to tears as I trudged up the servants’ staircase to my room. It was more than disappointment. I felt betrayed, though I wasn’t sure by whom. The rational part of my mind understood Mr. Wiltshire’s position. He was a professional detective, duty bound to provide the best possible service to his clients. I would only get in the way. And there, I suppose, was the sore spot. I’d been so proud of myself, so flush with victory and light-headed with praise, that I’d let myself lose sight of the truth, which was that when all was said and done, I was still just Mr. Wiltshire’s housemaid. I’d been fortunate, maybe even clever, but that didn’t change the basic facts. The world is the world, isn’t it? My own words; how bitter they tasted now.

  My little room in the attic seemed smaller than ever, as though the walls had crept inward in my absence. Even so, it felt drafty and cold. I could still feel the empty space in my pocket where Mr. Wiltshire’s watch had been, and the silence seemed heavier somehow without its constant ticking. Outside my narrow window, the world had gone dark.

  I started to light a lamp but instead reached for my shawl. It really was cold in there, so much so that I glanced at the window to make sure it was firmly closed, and as I did, something in the mirror caught my eye. Turning toward it, I stiffened in horror.

  Frost bristled over the surface of the glass. A thin web at first, growing denser as I watched, until the mirror clouded over in an icy cataract. My breath steamed, and before I could make a sound, a chill unlike anything I’ve ever known pierced my hide straight down to the bone, stealing the air from my lungs. For a moment I stood paralyzed, every nerve in my body thrumming. My nose pricked; my eyelashes glittered with frost. The cold sank its roots into me as if I were rich soil, branching out into tiny veins of ice …

  Somehow, I tore myself free and lurched out into the hallway. My lungs still bucked under the shock—I could barely breathe, let alone scream—and I stumbled along using the wall for support. I reached the stairs and made it as far as the first landing before I saw my tormentor. She stood several steps below me, cutting off my escape, her thin frame draped in horror.

  The bloody woman.

  She looked exactly as she had that night in the street: hollow-eyed and desperate, blood matting her hair and caking the side of her face. Only from this vantage I could see the hideous wound at the crown of her head. The skull was caved in, leaving a gory pulp from which blood still oozed in a thick, dark syrup.

  With a cry, I flung myself through the door on the landing, spilling out onto the mezzanine. I had to get to the front door. Had to get out …

  “Rose?”

  Mr. Wiltshire’s voice startled me so badly that I flattened myself against the wall with a gasp. I must have looked like a savage creature in that moment, wild with terror; for a moment I didn’t even know him.

  “Good God, what’s the matter?” He leaned out the doorway of his study, glancing about for the source of the trouble.

  “G-g-ghost.” It was all I could do to push the word from my still-numb lips.

  His eyes flared, but he didn’t hesitate; he lunged into the hallway, seizing my hand as he passed. “This way!”

  We flew down the main staircase. “Clara,” I slurred, but he didn’t slow, dragging me all the way to the foyer.

  But instead of fleeing out into the street, he grabbed his walking stick with his good hand and wheeled back toward the stairs. “Behind me, quickly!”

  I stumbled a little in the dark. I forgot to light the lamps, I thought, too dazed to remember that I’d been given the evening off. It was cold down here, too, so cold I could actually see my breath.

  “Here it comes.” Mr. Wiltshire glanced frantically about the room. “The lamps. Damn. Rose, grab that mirror. Take it down from the wall and point it over there.”

  I did as I was told, moving as mechanically as in a dream.

  “Now, whatever happens, don’t drop it. If you break the mirror, we won’t be able to see the spirit, and that will make it very difficult for me to defend us. Understood?”

  I didn’t understand, not remotely, because as far as I could see the only thing he had to defend us with was a walking stick.

  The mirror was heavy and awkward in my hands, but I managed to pivot it around. I’d just finished angling it toward the stairs when the bloody woman appeared in its frame—at which point I very nearly dropped it.

  Heaven protect us.

  She filled the glass, as terrible in two dimensions as she was in three. But though the reflection placed her at the base of the stairs, I saw no sign of her there. Whatever the mirror was showing us, it was invisible to the naked eye.

  “Stay where you are,” Mr. Wiltshire called, brandishing his walking stick. “This cane is made of ash. One touch will send you straight back to your point of origin. Nod if you understand me.”

  The reflection in the mirror shifted. The bloody woman nodded.

  “Good. Now, I assume you came here for a purpose other than terrorizing my domestic staff.”

  The bloody woman opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her figure wilted momentarily in defeat. Then a look of pure despair twisted her features, and she clutched at her hair, just as she’d done that night in the street.

  I started to back away, but Mr. Wiltshire put a restraining hand on my arm. “There’s no point in trying to speak,” he called to the spirit. “We won’t be able to hear you, not without the help of a medium.”

  By this point I was shaking so badly t
hat the mirror rattled in its frame. “She’s dangerous,” I whispered. “S-she attacked me.”

  He whirled. “Did she touch you? My God, she did. Rose…” He took my face in his hands and peered intently into my eyes. Cursing softly, he threw a look over his shoulder as though debating whether to risk trying to get past the ghost. Then his arm was around me, threading between my waist and the mirror and drawing me flush against his body. “God, you’re freezing,” he murmured in my ear. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize … Stay close.”

  As though I was going anywhere.

  “Listen to me, spirit.” His voice was taut with anger. “I don’t believe you have ill intentions, but you must never, ever touch the living, not even for a moment. It can be fatal, do you understand? You could have stopped her heart. As it is, she’s half an icicle.”

  The woman in the mirror fell back, hands flying to her mouth. She shook her head, and when her hands dropped away again, her lips were moving as though in speech. Her eyes locked with mine, pleading.

  “As I thought,” Mr. Wiltshire said. “You didn’t know, did you? I presume you haven’t been long in this state?”

  The bloody woman shook her head again, still begging my forgiveness with her gaze.

  For my part, I didn’t know what I felt. Terrified. Confused. Chilled to the bone. Acutely aware of every contour of Thomas Wiltshire’s body pressed against mine. “I’ve seen her before,” I managed. “On Mott Street.”

  I felt him tense in surprise. “When was this?”

  “The day I followed Mr. Burrows.”

  “That can’t be a coincidence.” To the ghost, he said, “You were attached to one of the Masons, I suppose.”

  She nodded.

  “And now you’re following Rose. Well, you can stop that. It’s me you want, or rather, we want each other. You’re the spirit the Crowe brothers saw, aren’t you?”

  Another nod.

  “We have much to discuss, but we won’t get far like this. We’ll need a medium. Meet me at Wang’s General Store tomorrow night at sunset. You know it? Good. Now, if you don’t mind, I think that’s quite enough excitement for one evening.”

  The bloody woman met my eye one final time in the mirror. Then she vanished.

  We stood there a moment in silence, Mr. Wiltshire and I, my breathing ragged against the slow, steady rhythm of his. He was so close that I could feel the Patek Philippe pressed against my back, and when he spoke, his breath thrilled against the nape of my neck. “You’re still shaking.”

  That wasn’t all. Every hair on my body was standing straight on end, and never before had they had more reason for it. But the weight of the mirror was becoming too much; I was obliged to abandon his warmth to set it down. “I’ll be all right,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” His pale eyes scanned me with concern. “You feel no lingering cold at all? As if there were a sliver of ice, perhaps, just below the skin?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “This is important, Rose. If you feel even a hint of frost—”

  “I’m nearly warm again, thank you.”

  “Good. There’s nothing like body heat to banish a chill, except perhaps a hot bath. Are you certain you wouldn’t rather—”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  A creak of floorboards sounded, and Clara poked her head out of the dining room. “Everything all right out here? Thought I heard a ruckus.”

  “Everything’s fine, Clara, thank you. Rose and I were just on our way out. Would you be so good as to inform Mrs. Sellers that we’ve gone? She’ll be back from the police station any moment.” Consulting his watch, he added, “Look, it’s time for our carriage. Let’s be off, then, shall we?”

  What could I do? With an apologetic glance at Clara, I wriggled into my overcoat and let myself be herded out the door.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE SPECIAL BRANCH—SALT AND ASH—AN OVERDUE APOLOGY

  “Just what kind of Pinkerton are you?” I blurted as the carriage juddered into motion.

  He winced. “Please, Rose, the driver…”

  “Oh, no. I will not be put off a third time. I don’t care if he sells his story to The New York World. I want answers, and I’d say I’ve bloody well earned them by now.” I still had a touch of the shivers, which gave this little outburst an added edge of hysteria. “What sort of person handles a ghost like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean. Like you’ve done it a hundred times.”

  “Nowhere near that many, but it’s certainly not my first encounter.” Raising an eyebrow, he added, “Nor yours, apparently. You neglected to mention that.”

  “I tried to, but you cut me off.”

  “I certainly regret that. I didn’t realize your instruction was quite so urgent. I’ll do what I can to redress it now. Sotto voce,” he added, with a meaningful gesture at the window of the carriage. “Ask away.”

  I wasn’t sure where to begin. It was like standing on the threshold of a messy room, trying to decide which bit to tidy up first. “What you did back there—where did you learn that?”

  “The Pinkerton Agency. Special branch, to be precise.”

  “Special branch?”

  Reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, he produced a calling card made of glossy silver paper. Or at least, it looked like a calling card, but when he handed it to me, I saw that it carried no name, nor any lettering at all—just the embossed image of a single human eye. “A small unit dedicated to cases of a paranormal nature. Generally, that means something to do with luck, but we do get our share of shades, ghosts, and so on.”

  And so on. I shuddered to think what sorts of evils those three little words might include. “I thought luck was supposed to be some great secret.”

  “Indeed—hence the rather cryptic nature of my card. Only a select few understand what it means. The paranormal community is highly discreet, and the Pinkerton Agency is a key instrument in maintaining that discretion.” I must have looked skeptical, because he added, “Consider, Rose: When I told you I was a Pinkerton, you were disappointed. Why?”

  I glanced out the window, avoiding his eye. “Because Pinkertons are nothing but a brute squad for the money men.”

  “My, that is … direct.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Nevertheless, essentially accurate. We are the private security firm most relied upon by the wealthy, and as Mr. Burrows explained earlier, luck and wealth go hand in hand. Many of our nation’s most powerful institutions have an inner circle run by individuals endowed with some form of luck. In the case of the Pinkertons, that person is F. Winston Sharpe, my direct superior.” Sighing, he added, “Who will be wondering what’s become of me.”

  “Then why didn’t he come looking for you?”

  “He would have sent someone eventually, but these things take time. He’s based in Chicago, you see. For the moment, I’m the only agent of the special branch operating full-time in New York, though I imagine that will change very soon.”

  I frowned, but on the face of it I was obliged to let F. Winston Sharpe off the hook for now. “When you say powerful institutions…”

  “Government, unions, fraternal organizations, corporations … even churches. Where you find power, you will invariably find luck. And where you find luck, there is secrecy and therefore danger. People with luck are not to be trifled with, Rose. That may be the most important advice I could ever give you.”

  Maybe, but I had more immediate concerns. “That ghost—”

  “Shade.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The woman on the stairs was a shade. A damaged spirit, one who can’t properly enter the otherworld until she finds a way to repair the damage, usually by redressing some sort of grievance. In this case, she looks to have met a violent end, and my guess is that until the identity of her murderer is brought to light, she will remain as she is, trapped in a sort of anteroom between the worlds.”

  “When she touched me�
�”

  “Yes. In fact, if you’ll allow me…” He took my face in his hands and peered into my eyes, first one, then the other, just as he’d done in the foyer. “It seems all right, but we should keep an eye on it, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with my eyes?”

  “Your left pupil is dilated. It happens when you’ve seen a shade, but the effect is more acute if you’ve been touched, especially if…” He paused, his expression turning grim. “You’re fortunate to have survived, Rose. If she’d held on to you a moment longer…” He closed his eyes fleetingly. “I would never have been able to forgive myself. As it is, I cannot apologize enough for everything you’ve been through on my account. I never intended for any of this to happen.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You mustn’t blame yourself. I put myself in harm’s way, after all.”

  He started to protest, but I grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. A shockingly bold gesture, but it felt right. And I guess he thought so, too, because he squeezed back.

  “We’re in this together,” I said.

  Pale eyes met mine. “I suppose we are at that.”

  For a moment it felt as if we were in a novel, all velvet upholstery and soft clip-clop and silver moonlight, and I might have done something even bolder had the carriage not chosen that moment to hit a rut in the pavement, jostling us both.

  “Broadway paving,” he said dryly.

  I glanced out the window, but the glare of the streetlamps was too much for me.

  “The dilated pupil,” Mr. Wiltshire said. “For a time, it will be more sensitive to light.”

  “Your eyes look fine.”

  “Because I didn’t see the shade, only her reflection in the mirror.”

  “I couldn’t see her in the foyer either, but she was clear as day on the stairs.”

  “Shades are only visible by certain sources of light, namely moonlight and flame. Since the lamps weren’t lit in the foyer, we were obliged to use the mirror to reveal the spirit.”

  That explained why I couldn’t see her in my bedroom; I hadn’t yet lit the lamp. “Who do you think she was?”