Murder on Millionaires' Row

by Erin Lindsey

  “Hmm,” I said. “We could ask Drake for help, I suppose, but frankly—”

  “Please, don’t worry yourself. I have all the assistance I require. You need only rest and regain your strength.”

  I frowned. “You ought to know me better than that by now. After everything I’ve been through to get to this point, I’m not about to quit.”

  He sighed. “Rose—”

  “I’ll take things easy, I promise.”

  “The doctor prescribed a week’s bed rest.”

  “I won’t tell him if you don’t.”

  “Good Lord, you’re as bad as Burrows. Who’s been asking after you, by the way. He’s expressed a desire to visit when you’re feeling up to it, as has Mei Wang. Which reminds me—shall I contact your mother?”

  Mam. I wasn’t ready to tell her about all this. I wasn’t sure I ever would be. “I sent her a note yesterday while we were waiting around at Wang’s, saying that I was feeling under the weather.”

  “I can stop by this afternoon if you’d like. It will give me a chance to check up on her, see how things are getting along with her own mother. I’ll tell her you’re feeling better but not quite up to heading downtown just yet.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s the very least I can do,” he said, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. “You saved my life yet again, and Clara’s. I can never fully express my gratitude.”

  Gazing into those pale eyes, I could think of any number of ways he could express his gratitude, but of course nothing like that would occur to him.

  Then again, the look he was giving me now, so full of warmth … The way his thumb drifted absently across the backs of my knuckles …

  “Thomas.” I swallowed a nervous lump in my throat. “What happened yesterday morning on the stoop…”

  “Ah. Yes.” He straightened awkwardly, his hand slipping away. “Please accept my apologies. I hope you know I would never have presumed upon you that way had I not been compelled by the circumstances. It shan’t happen again, you have my word.”

  The wound just below my heart gave a little twinge, as if in answer. But really, what else had I expected? “Of course,” I said, forcing a smile. “Think nothing of it.”

  Rising, he consulted his watch. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

  That, I decided, was a grand idea; all of a sudden, I felt completely, shatteringly exhausted.

  Thomas closed the curtains, and I promptly fell asleep.

  * * *

  I woke to an empty room. Gingerly, I rolled out of bed and drew open the curtains to find the winter sun slung low in the sky. Fresh clothes had been laid out on the window seat, and a pitcher of water stood beside the washbasin, still warm. There was even a spray of roses on the dressing table, courtesy of Mr. Jonathan Burrows (from Klunder, naturally). Lifting a corner of the bandage on my chest, I found a bright pink scar, still tender to the touch. It hurt to twist or bend—to draw air, really—but it wasn’t as bad as I might have guessed, all things considered. Pronouncing myself fit for duty, I set out to find Thomas.

  Lamplight spilled under the door of his study. Good, I thought, he hasn’t left without me. But the voice answering my knock wasn’t his, and when I opened the door, I found a pair of strangers poring over a familiar set of manuscripts. “Oh,” I said, “excuse me. I didn’t realize Mr. Wiltshire had company.”

  The men stood, as if I were the lady of the house. One was a tall, splendidly dressed colored man, the other a stout, balding white man with a mustache and exuberant side-whiskers. “Ah,” said the latter, “this must be the infamous Miss Gallagher. Wiltshire said we might have the pleasure of your company. Tell me, have you any facility with cryptography? We’re having a devil of a time.”

  “Speak for yourself,” the other man said. “I do believe I’ll have it cracked soon.”

  My gaze shifted between them, my hand still on the doorknob. “I’m sorry, you seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Of course,” said the stout man, “do forgive me. F. Winston Sharpe, at your service.” He handed me a calling card—the same as Thomas’s, silver with a single staring eye. Except this one had his name printed across it, and beneath that, in bold letters, CHIEF OF DETECTIVES. “And this is my associate, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Jackson? The witch?”

  The tall man inclined his head. “I prefer warlock, but yes, I am he.”

  “Pleased to meet you both. And deeply indebted to you, Mr. Jackson. I’m sorry you had to come all this way on my account.”

  “Not at all. I was glad to hear you no longer required my assistance.”

  F. Winston Sharpe gestured for me to sit. “Please, my dear, you must be terribly uncomfortable, what with your injuries.”

  I lowered myself carefully onto the sofa opposite the two men. “Is Mr. Wiltshire here?”

  “He’ll be back presently,” Mr. Sharpe said, eying me with a gaze that lived up to his name. “So this is the young woman we’ve heard so much about. I must say, I was expecting someone a little more … formidable. You’re just a wisp of a girl, aren’t you?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Sleuthing takes all types, to be sure, but still.” He looked me up and down. “Gallagher. Irish, isn’t it? And you’re from Five Points?” His brows came together disapprovingly.

  I glanced at Mr. Jackson, but if he was surprised by his superior’s atrocious manners, he didn’t show it. He was too busy making notes in the margins of Drake’s folios.

  “You don’t know a thing about me, sir,” I said coldly, “and you’re very rude.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “I don’t find that in the least difficult to believe,” I said, springing to my feet. “If you’ll excuse me…”

  Mr. Jackson stood, but Mr. Sharpe stayed where he was, still fixing me with that strangely appraising look. “Extraordinary, he called you. Remarkable. Wiltshire isn’t given to superlatives, and yet…”

  “And yet what? Do you suppose you can take the measure of a person just at a glance?” Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Mr. Jackson smile.

  “People take the measure of each other at a glance every day, my dear. Especially in New York.”

  “I hardly need you to tell me that. I’ve been dealing with it my whole life. I just expected more from a detective.”

  “Tell me, why did you take it upon yourself to go looking for Wiltshire when he disappeared? Why not just leave it to the police?”

  It took a supreme act of willpower not to blush. “Because I knew I could find him.”

  “That’s not much of an explanation.”

  “It’s more of an explanation than you’re owed.” I spun on my heel, fixing to flounce out of the room in righteous indignation.

  “Please, Miss Gallagher, don’t go.” I turned back to find F. Winston Sharpe on his feet. “Forgive me. I’ve been a detective for so long, I’ve forgotten that not every conversation is an interrogation.”

  His manner hadn’t seemed reflexive to me. In fact, it seemed like he’d gone out of his way to insult me. I started to say as much, but just then Thomas arrived. He still had his overcoat on and carried a long roll of paper tucked under his arm. “Ah, Rose. How are you feeling?”

  “Well enough,” I said coolly.

  “Miss Gallagher and I were just becoming acquainted,” Mr. Sharpe added with a most peculiar smile.

  Thomas’s glance cut between us, but he kept his questions to himself. “Our associates await us in the parlor. Shall we?” He gestured behind him, and Messrs. Sharpe and Jackson filed past.

  “Is Clara here?” I asked him on the way out.

  “No, thankfully. It took some doing, but I convinced her to take a couple of days off. She seems all right, but our nerves are sometimes more delicate than we think. As are our bodies,” he added, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

  “I’m fine,” I said in a tone that made it clear I considered the matter closed.

  W
e arrived in the parlor to find Henny Weber and Mr. Smith waiting. The kindly witch exclaimed when she saw me, embracing me delicately in her dimpled arms. “I’m so glad to see you well, my friend! It was a very hard night, wasn’t it?”

  “Thank you for the part you played in that. My being well, I mean.”

  “I’m not much of an alchemist if I cannot seal a wound, eh? I have bigger things to seal these days, that’s for sure!” She laughed merrily, as though the task before her were no more consequential than a challenging bit of baking.

  Thomas made the introductions, though in one case at least, they didn’t seem to be necessary.

  “I am a great admirer of yours, Mr. Jackson,” Henny said, shaking his hand.

  “You’re very kind. I’m familiar with your work as well. Pennsylvania, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps we could save the pleasantries for later,” Mr. Sharpe said, lowering himself into a chair. “We have a great deal to discuss. Let’s begin with the portal, shall we?”

  Thomas unfurled a large map of New York and smoothed it on the coffee table. “We believe the site of the breach to be here,” he said, tapping a finger on a spot between Ward’s Island and Astoria. “The tiny island you see here, known as Flood Rock, was obliterated this past autumn in a controlled explosion. Shortly thereafter, shades began appearing in greater numbers in the city. These facts, combined with what we know from Matilda Meyer, lead us to believe that Flood Rock was the seal. When the army destroyed it, they breached the portal.”

  Mr. Sharpe grunted thoughtfully. “When you say breached…”

  “Not catastrophically, thank heavens, or the entire city would be swarming with shades by now. Just enough, according to Mrs. Meyer, to permit a slow, steady leak.”

  “Urged on by the ribbon of light,” Mr. Jackson put in.

  “Precisely. That spell appears to create a direct line between the caster and the portal. Jacob Crowe hoped to use it to enter the otherworld, but instead he found himself on the business end of a fishing pole, inadvertently drawing out shade after shade.”

  “And you tracked these shades to a house on the Hudson,” Mr. Sharpe said.

  The question had been put to Thomas, but it was Mr. Smith who answered. “Say rather that the shades did the tracking. Miss Gallagher here had the rather brilliant suggestion of asking Matilda Meyer to follow the ribbon of light to its caster.”

  “Did she?” Sharpe’s dark eyes shifted to mine. “How unconventional.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Smith. “Most of us regard shades as merely a threat, but they are human spirits with desires and agency, just like the living. Many people forget that, but fortunately Miss Gallagher did not.”

  “Fortunate indeed,” Thomas echoed distractedly, his gaze suddenly far away.

  Mr. Sharpe tapped a thick finger on the map. “Assuming you’re right and the breach is here, how do you propose to seal it?”

  “That is where I come in,” Henny Weber said. “I will use my strongest alkahest.” She drew a flask from her satchel and gave it a little shake.

  I eyed the flask dubiously. Made of unvarnished pottery and stoppered with wax, it couldn’t have held more than half a pint of liquid. I couldn’t see how something so humble could seal a crack in the pavement, let alone a portal to the otherworld.

  Judging from his expression, F. Winston Sharpe had similar misgivings. “How does it work?”

  “By itself, it doesn’t, but when you smash it against this one”—she drew out a second, identical flask—“something very interesting happens. When the liquids combine, a powerful solution is formed, one that dissolves anything it touches. It will begin to melt the matter around the portal. Then, when the water starts rushing into the breach, the solution will be diluted, the breach will harden back into stone, and then”—she smashed her palms together—“sealed! Like cauterizing a wound, no?”

  “I would be very curious to know what’s in it,” Mr. Jackson said, “if you don’t mind my asking.”

  Henny smiled. “We shall trade recipes. We’re not in the same line, but I think we could learn interesting things from each other.”

  “I’ve no doubt. This alkahest sounds quite remarkable. But are you sure it will be enough? If adding water dilutes it as quickly as you say, it may harden before the portal is completely closed.”

  “That’s true. The seal will certainly be imperfect, which is why we must dispel the ribbon of light.”

  “And quickly,” Mr. Smith put in. “From what we saw at the house on the Hudson, spirits are drawn to that spell like moths to a flame. So long as it remains active, even the tiniest of cracks in the seal will be dangerous.”

  “Well, Jackson?” Mr. Sharpe demanded. “Can you manage it?”

  The warlock frowned, his pride evidently piqued. “If a trio of amateurs can manipulate that spell, I daresay I’ll manage. It’s merely a question of decrypting the cipher, and the sooner we’re finished here, the sooner I can get back to it.”

  “Fine, fine,” said Mr. Sharpe, “so we’ve a plan. There’s just one tiny difficulty: How do you propose to place the alkahest at the site of the breach if it’s at the bottom of the East River?”

  “That,” Henny sighed, “is the problem.”

  Our little group traded dejected glances—all except Thomas, who still wore a faraway look. “Actually,” he said, “I think perhaps Miss Gallagher has given us the answer.”

  All eyes swiveled to me, but I just stood there, blinking in astonishment. I’d been no more than a mute witness to the conversation. How could I have answered anything?

  “What Mr. Smith said a moment ago is perfectly true,” Thomas went on. “We so rarely think of shades as human beings. It frankly never would have occurred to me to ask Matilda Meyer for anything more than information. But it occurred to Miss Gallagher, perhaps because she’s new to all this. She saw Mrs. Meyer not merely as a problem to be solved, but as an ally with a valuable contribution to make.”

  “Is there a point here, Wiltshire?”

  “The point, Mr. Sharpe, is that I believe Matilda Meyer may yet have a part to play in this. None of us here can hold his breath indefinitely, nor resist the powerful currents of the river…”

  “… but Mrs. Meyer can,” Mr. Smith finished, nodding. “I see. Very clever, sir. Very clever indeed.”

  “The credit properly belongs to Miss Gallagher. As I said, it would never have occurred to me had she not led by example.”

  “Do you think she’ll be willing?” Mr. Sharpe asked.

  Personally, I had no doubt Matilda would be willing. But would she be able? “I thought she couldn’t manipulate physical objects. Isn’t that what you said last night, Mr. Smith?”

  “More precisely, I said that she had not yet mastered the technique. But with proper instruction, she ought to be able to do so. I could teach her, given a little time.”

  “Time is rather precious at the moment,” Mr. Sharpe said.

  “Jackson and I still need a few hours to decrypt that cipher,” Thomas pointed out.

  “And I must procure some waterproof pouches to carry the liquids in,” Henny added.

  “Well, then.” Mr. Sharpe hauled himself to his feet. “Let us get to it, my friends. As for you, Miss Gallagher, I suggest you get some rest. It sounds as if tomorrow will be a rather big day.”

  CHAPTER 31

  BATTLE SCARS—NECROMANCY AND ALCHEMY—AURORA GOTHAMIS

  The following afternoon found the same collection of people assembled in the same room, only this time we were ready for action.

  “It was clear from the outset that we were dealing with a polyalphabetic substitution cipher,” Thomas was saying as I brought in the tea. “A devilishly tricky one, too. It wasn’t until we referred back to Alberti’s work from the fifteenth century that we—”

  “Yes, all right, Wiltshire.” F. Winston Sharpe cut him off with a wave. “My brain hurts already. The point is, you’ve cracked it.”

  “We have,” Thomas said,
looking a little hurt.

  “And I was right,” Mr. Jackson added. “The spell Jacob Crowe was meddling with is relatively simple. Ingenious, in fact, when you consider—”

  “Excellent,” Mr. Sharpe said. “And you’re confident you can dispel it?”

  “I didn’t even have to make a trip to Wang’s. I have everything I need right here.” Mr. Jackson patted his black leather satchel, which looked a lot like a doctor’s bag.

  “And what about you, Mrs. Weber? Were you able to procure a waterproof receptacle?”

  “An oilskin,” she confirmed with a nod. “Mrs. Meyer has only to mix the two solutions and the alkahest will be complete.”

  “She ought to be able to manage that,” Mr. Smith said. “We spent most of last night reviewing various techniques for manipulating physical objects. It was slow going at first, but by dawn she was able to lace up a pair of shoes without any trouble.”

  “Well then,” said Mr. Sharpe, “it sounds as if everything is in place.”

  “Everything except the sun,” Henny said with a laugh. “We will have to wait until it sets.”

  “Not long now,” Thomas said, consulting his Patek Philippe. “We should get going if we’re to reach the docks by dusk. Mrs. Meyer will meet us there, I presume?”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Smith, “nor will she be alone. I watched half a dozen spirits climb out of the river last night, following the ribbon of light. So long as the spell remains active, they will keep coming.”

  Mr. Sharpe grunted and tugged on his mustache. “Will they give us any trouble?”

  “I doubt it. They’ve only just stepped into the mortal world, some of them for the first time in centuries. Most of them will be far too disoriented to worry about us.”

  “We needn’t be concerned in any case,” Mr. Jackson said. “I have more than enough spells at my command to keep them at bay.”