by Erin Lindsey
We arrived at Wang’s to find it bustling as usual. Mei was up to her ears in customers, but she extracted herself for long enough to give me a quick hug. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” she said. And then, of course, she pressed a pouch of dry tea into my hands.
“Let me guess—your father’s recipe?”
“My recipe,” she said with a smile. Turning to Thomas, she added, “The item you ordered is ready. The red lacquer box on the counter.” Then we heard the sound of pottery breaking somewhere, and Mei shouldered past me, scolding someone roundly in Chinese.
“Ah,” said Thomas, “look, there’s Jackson.” His fellow Pinkerton was examining some of Mr. Wang’s wares; as we approached, he sniffed at what looked like a jar of dried mushrooms.
“Morning, Wiltshire. Miss Gallagher.” He hefted the jar of mushrooms, shaking his head in admiration. “How does Wang manage it? I’ve been after these for six months.”
“Some sort of spell component?” I asked, peering at them warily.
“Not that I know of, but they’re quite wonderful in soup.”
“If you’re so enamored of the local shops,” Thomas said, “perhaps you ought to consider relocating to New York.”
“So I can molder away in that horrible hovel you call an office? No, thank you. Speaking of which, I spoke to Sharpe, and he approves of your suggestion. Thinks it’s a tremendous idea, in fact. He also asked me to tell you that your services have been requested in Colorado, so we’d best be quick rounding up those shades.”
“In that case, we ought to get started. Shall we?” Thomas gestured at the silk curtain separating the store from the back rooms. On our way past the counter, he paused and picked up the red lacquer box. “You go on ahead, Jackson. I just need a moment with Miss Gallagher.”
“Is Matilda back there?” I folded my arms against a sudden shiver. “I think I can sense her.”
Thomas nodded. “We won’t be able to see her until after dark, of course, but we can still communicate with her through Mr. Smith. In any case, it seems like an appropriate moment to give you this.” He handed me the red lacquer box.
“You’re giving me a gift?”
“Call it a replacement, rather. Open it.”
The box creaked open to reveal the most magnificent hairpin I’d ever seen. Six inches long and bone white, it was topped with a beautifully carved jade rose. My breath caught in my throat; for a moment I couldn’t even speak. “It’s exquisite,” I managed eventually. “Is this … ash?”
“Magically treated by Mrs. Weber, for added strength. I promised I’d think of something, didn’t I? Not quite as easy to use as a walking stick, but you can carry it with you wherever you go without attracting notice, and it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve brandished a hairpin as a weapon. I felt terrible when I saw the state of yours after you used it to free me, so this seemed an elegant solution.”
Elegant. It was so much more than that. For a moment I was quite overcome, and I very nearly threw my arms around him. I caught myself just in time, arresting my momentum so abruptly that I swayed a little on my feet.
“Are you all right?” He put a steadying hand on my elbow.
“Fine. I’m just…” I swallowed, fighting down a blush. “Thank you, is all.”
“You’re very welcome. It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me. In fact…” His grip tightened on my elbow, but then he hesitated, his pale gaze doing a quick tour of the crowded room. “No, not here. We’ll discuss it later.”
We found Mr. Wang and Mr. Smith waiting in the back. I hugged them both, which embarrassed them, but I didn’t care. I was in a wonderful mood, and I meant to share it—that is, until we got down to the grim business at hand.
Thomas spoke to Matilda Meyer as if she were any other client of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, updating her on the particulars he’d managed to dig up with the help of Sergeant Chapman. “I’m sorry I don’t have more for you at the moment, but at least you know your children are safe.”
“I can’t tell you what a relief that is,” she said. “Thank you, Mr. Wiltshire.”
There was a brief, hopeful pause. Then Mr. Smith sighed in disappointment. “She’s still here, alas.”
“I was afraid of that,” Thomas said. “It would appear that until your husband is brought to justice, you will remain a shade. I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Meyer.”
“It’s all right,” the medium said on her behalf. “I was prepared for that. Anyway, it’s not as bad as it was, now that I have someone to talk to.” At which point we were treated to the bizarre sight of the medium acknowledging himself with a nod.
“I’ll keep searching for evidence,” Thomas said. “For as long as it takes.”
“Thank you,” the medium said, and a moment later: “She has left us.”
“Right,” said Mr. Jackson, “shall we discuss our plans for the rest of them?”
Our plans. That didn’t include me, I supposed. “I’ll leave you to it, then. It’s time for me to head home.”
Past time, I thought as I headed up Mott Street. I wondered if Mam would be angry with me. Pietro certainly would, but there was nothing I could do about that.
As it turned out, though, I needn’t have worried; when I apologized for not turning up for church, Mam just creased her brow and said, “Oh, didn’t you?” She didn’t remember any of it, not even the note I’d sent from Wang’s telling her that I felt ill. That settled it, of course. There was no way I could burden her with everything that had happened to me over the past two weeks. It would only upset and confuse her, and she’d just forget it all anyway. So we drank tea and ate Clara’s scones with strawberry jam, and when Pietro came home later that afternoon, we both pretended nothing had changed.
At least until Mam headed off for her nap. As soon as we were alone, Pietro said, “So. Feeling better, are we?”
“Much better, thank you. Mam seems to be as well. She told me Granny hasn’t visited since she asked her to stay away. Is that true?”
“I haven’t heard her talking to herself lately, anyway. It seems all right for now.”
“Listen, Pietro, I’m—”
He cut me off with a weary gesture. “Just tell me this: Is it over, whatever it was?”
“I think so.”
“Thanks God. And what happens now?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Are you staying with him, your boss? I don’t like him, Rose.”
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.” I fiddled with one of Mam’s doilies, avoiding Pietro’s eye. Of course, what I really wanted to avoid was his question, to which I had no answer. “What about you? Are things all right with Augusto?”
“For now. He has me working on a few projects. Nothing illegal, don’t worry.” Sourly, he added, “For now.”
“I guess for now is the best we can hope for sometimes.”
“Especially in New York,” Pietro agreed.
A knock sounded at the door. Answering it, I found Thomas, looking grave. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid our appointment at the Tombs has been moved up a few hours.”
“Oh?”
He glanced over my shoulder. “Good afternoon, Pietro. I’m afraid I have to steal Miss Gallagher away again.”
I half expected another storm, but Pietro just shrugged. “I have to get back to Augusto’s anyway. Don’t forget your coat, Fiora.”
Thomas’s carriage was waiting for us outside. “What’s going on?”
“Danforth Essex has just been found hanged in his cell.”
“What?” Catholic or no, I couldn’t bring myself to feel sorry for Essex, but it was certainly shocking. “Why would he do that?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Maybe after everything that happened with his Wall Street firm, he just couldn’t take it anymore. Or maybe…” I trailed off, remembering something. “Edmund Drake mentioned that he had a man on the police force, didn’t he?”
> Thomas frowned. “Are you suggesting that Drake had Essex killed?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he didn’t even need to. Suppose all he had to do was visit Essex in prison and use his luck?”
“His powers of suggestion are strong, I’ll grant you, but there’s no evidence they extend that far. On top of which, why bother? Essex doesn’t have his folios anymore.”
“You heard what he said about Jacob Crowe. If he was willing to murder his own friend to stop him experimenting with the otherworld, why would he hesitate to do the same to someone else?”
Thomas mulled that over. “I still think it’s a stretch, but your instincts have proven themselves time and again. If you are right, that would make Drake one of the most dangerous men in America.”
“Should we tell Chapman?”
“Without a lick of evidence? No, that would be unfair, not to mention unwise. It does make me think twice about returning the manuscripts to him, however.”
“At least Essex got what was coming to him.”
Thomas arched an eyebrow. “I prefer a more legal brand of justice, myself.”
“In that case, maybe you should have become a police officer instead of a Pinkerton.”
“Touché.” Thomas took out his watch. “One thirty. We’d better get on. But before we do, Rose, there’s something I’d like to ask you.” His gaze fell, and he shifted on his feet, suddenly awkward. “We’ve been through a great deal these past few days, you and I, and it’s given me cause to reevaluate the nature of our relationship.”
Could it be? My heart started thudding in my breast.
“The last thing I wish to do is pressure you, but I’ve given it a great deal of thought, and I think perhaps…” He glanced up, his eyes searching mine as if for signs of encouragement. “I think perhaps I need you. What I’m getting at is … Would you be willing to join the Pinkerton Detective Agency?”
I stared.
“I’ve spoken to Sharpe, and he was very impressed with you. And as I say, I need you. We need you. There’s a desperate shortage of Agency assets in New York, and as a native, you know this city better than an outsider ever could.” Mistaking my stunned silence for reluctance, he went on, “I know you have your reservations about the Agency, but I think you’ll find the special branch different. We have a number of female agents, so you wouldn’t be alone. And I think we make a tremendous team, you and I.”
Finding my voice at last, I said, “I agree, but, Thomas…”
I almost told him then, I really did. The words were on the tip of my tongue. But Thomas Wiltshire had just laid at my feet the one thing I wanted even more. I didn’t dare put it at risk, not even for him.
“I’m sorry to catch you off guard like this. I ought to have found a better way to ask.”
“It’s not that. I’m flattered, and grateful. I’m just…” Terrified. “A bit overwhelmed.”
“But you’ll consider it?”
Get ahold of yourself, Rose. Drawing myself up a little straighter, I said, “I don’t need to consider it. I would be very pleased to work alongside you.”
His pale eyes lit up brighter than one of Mr. Edison’s lamps. “Excellent. In that case, you’d better have some of these.” He handed me a little book of calling cards—silver, with a single staring eye. Hopping up onto the step of the carriage, he said, “Shall we?”
I hesitated, still reeling. Could I really do this? Become like him and Mr. Jackson and Henny Weber and the others? You know this city better than an outsider ever could. A few days ago, I would have agreed with that. But the city Thomas knew wasn’t the New York I’d grown up in—or rather, it wasn’t the New York I’d thought I grew up in. “This world you move in … There’s so much I don’t know. So much I don’t understand.”
Thomas smiled and held out his hand. “Come, then. Let me show you.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The section of New York’s East River known as Hell Gate is just about the perfect setting for a work of fiction. It’s been the backdrop of fierce battles, shipwrecks, murders, Nazi conspiracies, hauntings, and sundry other bizarre and notable incidents throughout New York history, only a handful of which are mentioned in this novel. The immediate vicinity was also populated with some of nineteenth-century America’s most chilling locales, including quarantine hospitals, potter’s fields, and the infamous insane asylum on Blackwell’s Island (now Roosevelt Island).
Undoubtedly the most dramatic moment in the strait’s history was the annihilation of Flood Rock on October 10, 1885. The explosion shattered windows from midtown Manhattan to the Upper East Side and was heard as far away as Princeton, New Jersey. The New-York Times breathlessly described the spectacle as a “momentary but magnificent display of upheaved waters” in which a “solid wall of water [hung] trembling in mid-air.” It was the single largest controlled explosion ever undertaken, and remained so until testing began for the atomic bomb decades later. The incident reportedly served as the inspiration for the climax of Bram Stoker’s The Lair of the White Worm—and, of course, this story.
Another real-world locale to inspire this novel was Wo Kee’s General Store, which stood at 34 Mott Street in the heart of Chinese Five Points and served as the blueprint for Wang’s General Store. Mr. Wang himself borrowed his entrepreneurial spirit (and his mustache) from the real-life Wo Kee, though I suspect the similarities end there.
The character of Matilda Meyer is loosely based upon an unfortunate New Yorker whose body was discovered floating in Long Island Sound just north of Hell Gate in January 1884. While the coroner originally suspected foul play, he eventually concluded that Mrs. Meyer met with an unfortunate accident. I have no reason to believe this to be anything other than the case; the version of her story presented here is purely a work of fiction.
Sergeant Chapman is very loosely based on one Officer Chapman (given name unknown), who, according to a trio of articles in the archives of The New York Times, investigated a series of hauntings at 131 West Fourteenth Street in June of 1881.
The Cipher Manuscripts, a collection of sixty folios containing a syllabus of instruction in magic, were brought to light by Wynn Westcott in London in 1886, though their true origins are in dispute. They formed the founding scripture of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, an offshoot of Masonic Rosicrucian tradition that still exists today. The manuscripts were a compendium of known “magical traditions,” though some claimed they also contained information on how to contact the “secret chiefs”—supernatural beings of immense power.
HMS Hussar, a twenty-eight-gun frigate of the British Royal Navy, sank in Hell Gate on November 23, 1780, reportedly carrying up to £960,000 in bullion. For the next century and a half, treasure hunters scoured the East River in hopes of salvaging the gold, rumored to be worth anywhere between $2 million and $576 million. Somewhat less romantically, historians have since concluded that the Hussar’s remains probably lie beneath a landfill in the Bronx.
The American Society for Psychical Research was founded in 1885 by a group of scholars in Boston and still exists today. According to their website, their mission is to “explore extraordinary or as yet unexplained phenomena that have been called psychic or paranormal, and their implications for our understanding of consciousness, the universe and the nature of existence.” Their modern headquarters can be found on West Seventy-Third Street in New York.
The cover of Harper’s Weekly that so enchanted Rose is a faithful description of the actual illustration from January 2, 1886. Readers interested in admiring it for themselves can find it on the web courtesy of the Hathi Trust Digital Library.
The supper-stained headlines Rose and Clara peruse in chapter II are actual headlines drawn from the archives of The New York Times—with the exception of the story of Mr. Peter Arbridge, which is entirely fictional. Two of the articles referenced in this author’s note appear in abbreviated form on the following pages. I hope you find them as enlightening and entertaining as I did.
Brooklyn,
NY
October 2016
The New York Times
June 18, 1881
TWO SPECTRAL LODGERS
GHOSTS IN A FOURTEENTH-STREET BOARDING HOUSE—BOARDERS FRIGHTENED AWAY AND SERVANTS IN TERROR—WHAT PERSONS WHO HAVE SEEN THE PHANTOMS SAY
Two alleged ghosts have been engaged in the unholy business of making day and night alike hideous for some time past in the house at No. 131 West Fourteenth-street. During the past year the house has been occupied by Mrs. Mary Carr, a widow lady, as a boarding house, and at times it has been completely filled. The ghosts, however, have played sad havoc with Mrs. Carr’s business of late, and her boarders have been gradually leaving her as the fact dawned on their minds that the house was haunted.
Those who have seen the unearthly visitors all agree in their descriptions of their personal characteristics, so that it may be set down as certain that only two ghosts have taken up their abode up to this time in the Fourteenth-street house. The man is described as tall and slightly stooping, with English side whiskers, mustache, and very large black eyes, which strike terror to all upon whom they are turned. The woman is a maiden lady, who seems to have just passed the age of 20, and her face, though beautiful, is disfigured by marks which would seem to indicate a life of dissipation. Both the ghosts differ from those with which we have been familiar from childhood in that they seem to be restricted to no hours in the regulation of their appearances. They are apparently permitted to roam at will in the apartments of the house whenever it suits their convenience, whether it be high noon or at the solemn hour of midnight, the latter time being that usually affected by the ghost species.
On Tuesday night the male ghost created such an excitement that the facts of the mystery could no longer be kept from all the inmates of the house. On that night the chamber-maid retired at about 10 o’clock. Just before midnight she awoke, experiencing a peculiarly cold feeling. As she awoke she saw a man standing a few feet from her bed, with his back toward her. It was the male ghost of No. 131 West Fourteenth-street. The girl gave one scream and fainted. When she recovered the figure was still in the room, but it had moved to a corner and stood there eyeing her. She fainted again and again recovered. The ghost was now at the foot of the bed, but he seemed to have diminished in height about one-half. He gradually grew smaller and smaller, until finally he disappeared altogether. The girl jumped from the bed and ran screaming down the stairs to her mistress, to whom she told her story. The whole house was aroused, and people in the streets, attracted by the girl’s cries, congregated around the door. Officer Chapman was on post at the time, and Mrs. Carr called him into the house. He says that the excitement was tremendous. The chamber-maid sat in the basement, trembling with fright, and rocking herself to and fro. The cook, who is a Catholic, was sprinkling holy water on the floor and every article of furniture in the room. Accompanied by Mrs. Carr, who is a woman of extraordinary nerve, the policeman searched the house from the top floor to the basement, but found no man answering to the description of the ghost.