by Erin Lindsey
Annie reappeared, smelling of fresh whiskey. “Well, Pink, I done my part. Sorry your man took one in the pipes, but that ain’t on my books.”
Thomas gave her a sour look. “Don’t worry, your reputation is intact.”
“Reputation is everything in my line of work,” the Bloodhound said, without a lick of irony.
“The Pinkerton Agency will see to the remainder of your payment.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Good luck to you, then. Till next time.” Doffing an imaginary hat, she tottered off down the road.
“She’ll disappear for at least a week, I expect,” Thomas said as he watched her go. “That’s usually how long it takes her to drink away a bounty.”
She’ll still outlive me, most likely. I kept the dark thought to myself.
The coppers showed up, and we gave them a quick accounting of what had happened. We may have varnished things a little, casting the incident as a police operation with the support of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, but the coppers didn’t seem much interested in the details anyway. To their way of thinking, four murder suspects had been dealt with, one of whom would be taken into custody if he lived, and that was good enough for them. They took Thomas’s card in case they needed to follow up, and that was that.
By this point it was well after midnight. The longest day of my life was officially over. As for Thomas, he looked fit to collapse. “You need rest,” I told him.
Alas, it was not to be.
“Rose,” said a familiar voice, and I whirled in surprise.
“Pietro? What are you doing here?”
He stepped out from the crowd, scanning the scene warily. “Ricardo fetched me. He recognized you from Augusto’s this afternoon, said you were in trouble.”
“I’m not. That is, I was, but—”
“I watched you talking to the coppers. Word is they killed some Irishmen in there.” His dark-eyed gaze slid to Thomas, and he added, “With a Pinkerton.” For a moment I feared a rehashing of the argument outside Wang’s, but Pietro had bigger worries. “After what happened this afternoon, Ricardo will have gone straight to Augusto with this news.”
I tell you, that just about undid me. Dear Lord in Heaven, is it too much to ask for one lucky break? Just one? “What do you think he’ll do?”
“I don’t know, but after you left the store this afternoon, he went straight to work looking for the Irishmen who attacked you, and he didn’t get back until suppertime. He’s not a fool, Fiora. He will know these are the same men.”
“Very well,” Thomas said, “then we take the news to him ourselves. We explain that in a rare flash of police brilliance, the men who robbed Miss Gallagher were tracked to this location. One of the officers came to the house to inform her of the impending raid, and as her employer, I felt it my duty to come along. A gunfight ensued, et cetera.”
Pietro listened with a wary frown. “And the Pinkerton?”
“Rumor. A bounty hunter who happened to be drinking at the Tub of Blood got involved, but as far as we know, she wasn’t employed by the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”
Pietro’s glance cut between us. He didn’t look convinced.
“Unless you’ve another suggestion?” Thomas said.
“No, I don’t have another suggestion,” Pietro returned coldly. “But if you want to do this, we should do it now, before the rumors get out of hand.”
I groaned. “It’s after midnight. Won’t he have gone to bed?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because he’s Italian. Are we going or not?”
I didn’t really understand what he meant until we hit Mulberry Street. Past midnight on a Saturday, yet lamplight glowed in many a window, and the scent of supper still lingered in the air. Augusto’s, meanwhile, was in full swing. The king himself held court at the back of the store, pouring out little glasses of dark liquor for his subjects. The padrone’s wild eyebrows climbed at the sight of us, and he waved us over. “Come, signorina. Have a digestivo. I think you need it, yes?” He poured out three more glasses and handed them to us. “And who is your friend?”
“This is my employer, Mr. Wiltshire. Sir, this is Augusto, whom I was telling you about.”
Thomas nodded politely. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m very much obliged for your kindness to my … er … housemaid.”
“Your er housemaid.” Crinkles of amusement fringed Augusto’s eyes. Definitely no fool, though I suspect the conclusions he was drawing just then were slightly off the mark. “And what brings you to our neighborhood, Mr. Wiltshire?”
I jumped in before Thomas could answer. “He’s been such a gentleman,” I said, and proceeded to recount the story we’d rehearsed. “It was simply terrifying. Mr. Wiltshire was even wounded trying to protect me.” I gestured at the bloodied handkerchief tied around Thomas’s calf. “I owe that bounty hunter a great debt, wherever she is.”
Augusto regarded me with shrewd eyes. “You didn’t tell me you had gone to the police with this.”
“I’m sorry, I suppose I thought it went without saying. I started shouting for the police the moment those bandits were out of sight. A patrolman came running straightaway, but it was too late. It honestly never occurred to me that they’d find the culprits.”
“They so rarely do,” Thomas agreed. “I could hardly credit it when they came to my door.”
“Well, it’s over now, thanks God,” Pietro said. “Those bastards got what they deserved.”
Augusto grunted and sipped his liqueur.
I did the same; it was bitter enough to make me wince. “I’m so grateful for your help, Augusto. By the way, did you manage to find out who they were?”
I thought poor Pietro was going to choke on his digestivo. As for Thomas, he merely glanced at me, but I read the warning clearly enough: Don’t push it.
“It’s only, I still don’t have my granny’s brooch…”
“I found a man who knows them,” Augusto said, sounding more than a little smug. “They call themselves the East River Gang. This man I know, he says the whole Gashouse District belongs to them, so if somebody rob you there, it must have been one of theirs. We can go to see him tomorrow, if you like, to look for your grandmother’s brooch. He runs a hockshop on Canal Street, and the East River boys sell him things now and then. I looked over his wares, and he has many brooches, but you never told me how yours looks, so I can’t say if he has it or not.” His eyes crinkled again, and he added, “I even saw a pin that made me think of you, signorina. An emerald pin for the lady from the Emerald Isle. A tie pin, though, so maybe not quite right for you.” He laughed and sipped his drink.
“Sorry,” Thomas put in, “did you say an emerald tie pin?”
“Sì. Very handsome. I would have bought it if I could afford it, but I think maybe you can.” Augusto’s glance flicked meaningfully over Thomas’s fine clothing, and his smile was not altogether friendly.
“Actually, I think I may have one just like it. Was it this design, by any chance?” Thomas flashed his cuff links: the golden griffin with the emerald in its talons.
Augusto’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly like that. How strange.”
“Why, it’s the crest of the Madison Club,” Thomas said brightly, as if delighted by the discovery. “Every member has that very pin! Myself, I rarely wear it—a bit flashy for my tastes—but the cuff links suit me well. It sounds as if one of our members has fallen on hard times.”
“Or maybe he died,” Pietro said with an exasperated glare. His meaning was clear: Keep talking and maybe we would, too.
“Possible. We have many elderly members.” Thomas paused, grimacing in pain. “In any case, I think we’d better be off, Rose. It’s late, and I daresay this leg of mine needs stitches.”
Glancing down, I saw that it was only half a lie; the handkerchief was soaked through. “We may have to walk a few blocks before we find a nighthawk. Will you be all right?”
“I’ll manage.”
/> We downed our digestivi, made our farewells, and headed back out to the street. Pietro came to see us off, and when we were safely out of earshot, he rounded on Thomas. “What were you thinking, showing him those cuff links? You might be a very good liar, but that was a stupid risk to take.”
“I needed to be certain.”
“What for? So a man from the same club hocked his tie pin, what does that prove?”
“Nothing. It does, however, strongly suggest that whoever hired the East River Gang is a member of the Madison Club.”
“We might have guessed that anyway,” I pointed out. It hadn’t taken me long to realize that when it came to matters of luck and the paranormal, all roads led to the Madison Club.
“Perhaps, but the circumstances of the pin’s discovery tell us more still. The Madison Club is highly exclusive, its membership invariably wealthy. Why, the annual dues alone…” He trailed off awkwardly. Clearing his throat, he went on, “The point is, members of the Madison Club are not given to pawning their belongings, especially items as prestigious and recognizable as a membership pin. It suggests the pin’s owner has fallen on very hard times indeed. And there is the real clue.”
Now I understood. “Mr. S, who belongs to the Madison Club, is having money troubles.”
“A highly specific profile, wouldn’t you agree? Even if Mr. S is an alias, his financial situation winnows down the list of suspects considerably.”
“Unless it’s a coincidence and the pin doesn’t belong to Mr. S at all.”
“Too much of a coincidence to credit, surely. No, I’ll wager that pin was used to purchase the services of a certain Irish gang.”
Pietro followed this exchange with a sullen look. “So what now? You go to the police?”
“We go home,” Thomas said, passing a weary hand over his eyes. “And we regroup in the morning. Shall we, Miss Gallagher?”
I hugged Pietro in farewell. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. Give Mam a kiss for me. I’ll see you both…” I faltered, my throat closing over the words. “I’ll see you soon.”
We caught a cab on the Bowery and headed back uptown. Thomas was waning fast, but there was still a faint gleam in his eye. “We’re nearly there,” he murmured. “We’ve nearly got him. We’ll have our hands on those manuscripts soon, and all this will be behind us.”
All this. I wondered if that included the fragment of Matilda Meyer embedded in my breast.
Then Thomas glanced at me—a fleeting, haunted look—and I knew that it did. And I also knew that he only half believed it.
Anxious to change the subject, I gestured at his bandaged leg. “That really does need stitches. We ought to wake Clara when we get home.”
He winced. “We’ve imposed on her enough for one night, don’t you think?”
“You need to be in fighting shape. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”
I wasn’t about to take no for an answer, so when we arrived at 726, I bounded up the servants’ staircase and woke poor Clara. She was about as happy as you’d imagine, swearing into her pillow and muttering the whole way down the stairs, but she did the job, neat and steady as a surgeon, while Thomas perched awkwardly with his knee balanced on a chair.
“So,” she said as she snipped the final knot, “you all planning on making a habit of this?”
Thomas surveyed her work approvingly. “One of us ought to.”
She rolled her eyes. “Listen, just because you’re my boss—”
“I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life, Clara. It’s merely my belief that people ought to do what makes them happy.”
“What makes you think I’m not happy cooking?”
“On the contrary, I think your enjoyment shows plainly in the quality of the dishes you turn out. I’m merely applying the same observation to your stitching. I’m not insensible to the difficulties you would face, but you strike me as more than strong enough to overcome them if it’s something you genuinely love.”
Clara didn’t look appeased. “And you love this, do you?” She gestured at the pile of bloody bandages.
“Not every aspect of it, obviously. But on the whole, yes, I find my vocation satisfying.”
“Uh-huh. And how about you, Rose? You fancy living the rest of your life like this?”
God help me, I did, even if the rest of my life were to be measured in hours instead of years. Which probably means I belong in the asylum on Blackwell’s Island, but there it is. Even with the shadow of my own death hanging over me, the prospect of going back to a life of drudgery, of being merely Rose the Maid, was too awful to contemplate.
Clara saw it in my eyes, and she shook her head. “I’m going to bed.”
“As should we all,” Thomas said, rising. “You have my profound thanks, Clara, and my apologies for waking you. And Rose…” He paused, as though unsure how to finish that sentence.
Which was just as well, because whatever he planned to say, I wasn’t in any shape to hear it. “Good night, Mr. Wiltshire. I’ll see you in the morning.”
That night I dreamed of the bloody woman. But it wasn’t until the following morning that the real nightmare began.
* * *
I woke a little before dawn. On any other Sunday, I’d be putting on my best dress and heading downtown to take Mam to church. Belatedly, it occurred to me that I hadn’t told Pietro I wouldn’t be coming; Mam might still be expecting me. The thought of her perched on the end of her narrow bed, bonnet in lap, waiting for a daughter who might never arrive was so gut-wrenching that I nearly burst into tears. I remembered how long she’d waited for my da before finally accepting the truth. He’ll be along, Rose, dear. Just a few more days, you’ll see. It had seemed as if that winter would never end, and in some ways it hadn’t; my father had never come home, and no one had ever explained why. Who would explain it to Mam if I didn’t come home?
Clara was still out doing the shopping when I reached the kitchen, so I went up to the dining room, where I found Thomas flapping restlessly through The New York Herald. He stood when I entered the room, as if I were a proper lady instead of his maid. “How are you feeling?”
“All right, I suppose.” That was a lie. It might have been my imagination, but it felt as if something cold pressed against my heart, like a blade held to the throat—but it would do no good to tell him so. He knew perfectly well I was running out of time, and there was nothing he could do about it. “Clara’s gone out for groceries. I’m sure she’ll be back directly. Shall I bring tea in the meantime?”
“Thank you. You’ll have some, of course? I daresay both of us are going to need a lot of tea to get through the day.”
A soft knock sounded; Mrs. Sellers came in. “I apologize for the interruption,” she said, her tone as stiff as her posture, “but there’s a gentleman at the door. I’m afraid he wouldn’t give his name.”
“I see. Thank you, Mrs. Sellers.” Thomas donned his jacket and headed for the front door, leaving behind an awkward silence. The housekeeper glared at me, her mouth a thin line of disapproval.
“Mrs. Sellers, I know these past few days have been—”
“Don’t concern yourself, Miss Gallagher,” she said coldly, and disappeared.
I lingered in the dining room, torn between fetching the promised tea and following Thomas to the front door. The matter was settled when I heard the unmistakable lilt of an Irish accent, followed by “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you down where you stand.”
Cursing under my breath, I grabbed the nearest weapon to hand: a fire iron from the hearth. So armed, I flew out into the hall to find Thomas leveling his derringer at a bearded stranger in a bowler hat.
“You could do that,” the stranger replied coolly, “if you didn’t get your fill of gunplay last night. But it’d have unfortunate consequences for your cook.”
The sound of my gasp drew the Irishman’s gaze over Thomas’s shoulder. “Ah, here she is, the Irish girl I’ve been hearing so much about. We’d ha
ve preferred to grab her instead, but that turned out to be a bit tricky, what with the two of you being joined at the hips.” He sneered, in case either of us had missed the innuendo.
Blood roared in my ears. I advanced on the stranger, brandishing the fire iron. “What have you done with Clara?”
“Stay back,” Thomas said. “It’s me they want.”
“What do you mean?”
The Irishman’s glance met mine. “It’s simple, love. Your boss here comes with me and translates the papers, nice and quiet and cooperative, and the cook goes free. He refuses, or calls the coppers, or pulls that trigger…” He shrugged.
“Clara goes free,” I said. “And what about Thomas?”
“Well, now, that’s up to him.”
Thomas snorted. “I rather doubt that.”
The stranger just shrugged again. “Not my decision. Makes you feel any better, boss did his best to get on without you, but whatever fish he was hoping to snag on the other end of that line, that ain’t what’s biting. Got a few unwelcome guests about. So here we are.”
My knuckles went white against the fire iron, as if I were throttling it. I wanted to hurt this man so badly I could taste it, a metallic bite on my tongue.
“It seems I have no choice,” Thomas said, lowering his gun.
“Thomas, no!” I grabbed his arm. “You can’t—”
“I’ll come with you,” he told the stranger, “but I need a moment alone with Miss Gallagher. Wait by the carriage.”
“Do you think I’m stupid, Englishman?”
“Eavesdrop if you must,” Thomas said coldly, “but at least have the decency to accord us the illusion of privacy while we say our farewells.”
The Irishman dropped back a single pace and folded his arms.