by Kat Ross
I pointed to the opposite wall, which was plastered with oil paintings of the Moran clan. An old gent with ferocious white eyebrows must be the grandfather. His pretty black-haired wife came next, and then a wan, ash blond woman, posed with some little yappy dog in her lap. But there was a large gap above the fireplace where a portrait had once hung.
“See the bit of dust clinging to the wallpaper and the empty nail?”
“The father?” John wondered.
“It must be. Moran’s an only child, you know.”
I sat down on an antique chair that felt like it was filled with asphalt. All the furniture in the room was heavy and ornate, with an oddly sterile feel, as if it was rarely used.
“Myrtle says the Morans never entertain at home anymore, though there were lavish parties in the grandfather’s day,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe—”
I cut off at the sound of brusque footsteps in the hall and Moran appeared, dressed in a somber dark suit. He seemed composed, though his eyes were still haunted. “Miss Pell, Mr. Weston,” he said with a bow. “Thank you for coming.”
We nodded warily as Moran took a seat across from us. Two maids entered with a silver coffee service and a platter of tiny, elaborately iced cakes. One of them poured out the coffee and handed it round. The rattle of bone china was the only sound until they silently withdrew.
Moran set his coffee on the low table and seemed to gather his thoughts. “I must have your assurances that what I tell you will go no further than this room,” he said.
“I told you before, we can’t agree to that,” I said evenly. “Our obligation to the S.P.R. supersedes all other—”
“Damn your obligation!” Moran snarled, leaning forward as if he meant to leap to his feet. John tensed, his fists balling, and Moran reined himself in with a visible effort, slumping back in his chair.
“If your confession involves criminal activities, perhaps you should consult your lawyer,” I suggested.
“There’s no time for that. And a confession implies that I’ve done something wrong. I haven’t a clue why . . . .” He trailed off and swore under his breath.
John and I exchanged a look. By unspoken agreement, we stayed quiet and let Moran think it over. I sipped my coffee, reasonably confident he wouldn’t attempt to poison me in his own drawing room. After a moment, John reached for a cake. He’d been eyeing them wistfully since the maids had brought the tray in. For a long minute, the only sounds were John chewing and then brushing crumbs from his trousers. From the sour look on Moran’s face, I thought he was about to throw us both out. Then he began to speak.
“We’ll discuss terms after you’ve heard me out,” he said wearily. “It’s hard to stomach, so better to start at the beginning.” His lips twisted. “I’m sure you’re aware of my history.”
We both nodded.
“I gained admission to Columbia shortly after my sixteenth birthday. I’d graduated from Deerfield that spring, top of my class. In my freshman year, my studies were interrupted.”
“When you killed your father, you mean,” I said.
He nodded. “It was nearly two years before I returned to school. I was notorious. The other students shunned me, all except for a few who were also treated as outcasts.”
“Daniel Cherney and Francis Bates,” John said.
“There were others, but I’ll get to them later. We called ourselves the Pythagoras Society.” He took a metal puzzle from his pocket and began twisting the rings. “We looked out for each other. I knew who the worst bullies were. With my reputation, a few whispered words sufficed to put them in their place. They were all afraid of me, the cowards.”
“What was the Society’s purpose?” I asked.
“Just companionship. We played cards. I helped some of them with money, when they needed it. Sometimes they’d come over to the Avalon.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Nothing related to the occult?”
He shot me a contemptuous look. “No, Miss Pell. I’m not a complete idiot.”
“And the three dead students were all members?” John asked.
Moran nodded. “We found solace in each others’ company. Eventually our number grew to seven, including myself. We kept it a close secret. That was part of the fun. But over the years, we drifted apart. Before this all began, I hadn’t seen any of them in months.” He sighed. “When I heard about Danny, I thought it was an awful accident. But then Francis fell off that scaffold. And Cash came to see me. He was terrified. He said . . . .”
The metal rings suddenly clicked into place, forming a perfect chain, and Moran tossed the puzzle aside.
“What?” John leaned forward in his chair.
“That something was hunting him. He’d seen it. At least three times. When I pressed him, he wouldn’t say what it was. But he was in a panic.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Last Sunday afternoon.”
“Do you think he was murdered?”
“I don’t know. He was so frightened, he might have ended it himself out of pure terror. But that’s not the worst . . . .” Moran trailed off.
“I’ve seen things I can’t explain myself,” John said reasonably. “I believe you.”
He gave a brisk nod and spoke rapidly, as if to get it over with. “On Tuesday, I saw Cash outside the house. I’d swear to it on my life. He was across the street, looking up at my window. I hurried downstairs but he was gone by the time I reached the front door. Then I learned he’d died early that morning.” Moran’s fingers flexed, then began picking at the wool of his trouser leg. “Three days later, I . . . .” His eyes met mine for a brief instant, then flicked away, roving restlessly around the room.
“You saw yourself,” John guessed.
Moran’s gaze locked on John. “Yes. Just beyond the wall of the park. It had its back to me at first. Then it turned and I saw the face. It smiled at me and walked away. Two days later, the same, only this time it was closer. I was leaving the Avalon and saw it leering at me through the window of a passing carriage.”
“Did you give chase?” I asked. “If it’s someone trying to scare you—”
“No!” He stood abruptly and paced to the window. “You’ve no idea what I’m talking about, do you? It’s not just the thing. It’s the way it makes you feel.”
He sounded so lost and alone, I found myself pitying him. “A sense of dread like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Not even the day they sent me to the Tombs and the cell door slammed shut and they left me in darkness.” He let out a long breath. “Have you ever had a night terror?”
My own hands were gripping the arms of the chair and I forced them to relax.
“Yes,” I admitted. “I have.”
“Then you know one-tenth of what it’s like. The feeling that you can’t move a muscle. Your limbs are heavy and cold.” He shivered. “So cold.”
“Did Cashel O’Sullivan tell you he saw Francis Bates outside his house the day Francis died?”
Moran stilled. “No.”
I remembered my brief glimpse of Cashel outside Kaylock’s office. The ashen, shocked look on his face. I’d chalked it up to grief, but it was more than that. “He came to the S.P.R. down on Pearl Street. He seemed like he wanted to cooperate, but he didn’t tell our colleagues that he was being stalked himself.”
Moran pinched the bridge of his nose, as if warding off a headache. “Did he mention my name?”
I shook my head. I felt sure Kate would have told us.
“Thank God for that,” Moran said softly.
“Do you have any idea why this is happening?” I asked. “Any theory at all?”
He drew a deep, steadying breath. “I told you I had proof. Come, I’ll show it to you.”
Moran led us up a curving staircase to the second floor and down a long gloomy hall. He produced a key and unlocked a heavy oak door with engravings of roses and a polished brass knob.
“What are those marks?” I asked, examining a series of shallow scratches in
the wood.
“The damned dogs,” Moran muttered. “They can’t stand a closed door.”
The large room beyond had a magnificent Steinway piano and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the trees of the park. Unlike the drawing room, it felt comfortable and lived in. Moran strode to the window and pointed.
“That’s where I saw it,” he said. “Just beneath the street light on the corner.”
It was full dark outside now and the lamps along Central Park cast a soft glow over the deserted sidewalk. I looked at the spot he indicated and felt a goose walk over my grave.
“But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” He strode to a desk in the corner that was covered with neat stacks of paper. I stole a quick look, but they all seemed to be assignments for courses in advanced economics. Moran opened a filing cabinet – unlocked, I noticed – and took out a document. He thrust it towards us.
“Is that . . . dried blood?” John asked, squinting at the blurry lettering.
Moran looked sheepish. “We were teenagers. What’s a secret pact unless it’s signed in blood?”
“So this is—?”
“The founding charter of the Pythagoras Society.”
John and I moved to a standing lamp to examine the document in brighter light. I was no expert, but I had dabbled in the art of handwriting analysis and could tell at a glance that the signatures were made by different hands. The ink was a brownish substance that could certainly have been dried blood. Beneath some melodramatic assertions about eternal friendship and loyalty, it bore seven names:
Daniel Cherney
Francis Bates
Cashel O’Sullivan
James Moran
Quincy Hughes
Joseph Allen White
Thaddeus Shaw
“Look at the order,” Moran said.
“Yes, I did notice that,” I said thoughtfully. “I’ll need to keep this to show to the other investigators—”
“No!” He snatched it back. “My name has to stay out of it. I won’t put my mother through another scandal!”
His recalcitrance made no sense. “Don’t you want their aid? They’re quite competent, I can assure you.”
“I want your help,” he insisted, his gaze taking in both of us.
“But why do you think we can help you?”
“Because you solved the Hyde case and saved Billy Finn,” he said stubbornly. “Believe it or not, Miss Pell, I have faith in your abilities. I’ve calculated the odds and you’re my best chance.” His lips curled. “If I could hire your sister, I would, but I somehow don’t think she’d be willing.”
“This is about Myrtle, isn’t it?” I exclaimed. “Poking her in the eye.”
“Don’t be stupid,” he growled. “My life is at stake, in case you’ve forgotten! And second-best is still better than nothing.”
I could tell he didn’t even intend it as an insult, which made me more annoyed.
“Assuming what you say is true, why shouldn’t we just let you die? It would save the good citizens of New York a lot of trouble.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “We’ve helped each other before. Have you told your sister about that?”
I said nothing.
“I thought so.” He folded the charter up and gave me a nasty smile. “I’m sure you’d prefer she remain in the dark. I saved you and Mr. Weston from very unpleasant ends. Have you no gratitude?”
“What is it you want us to do exactly?” John demanded.
“Someone must be behind this,” Moran said. “I want to know who.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Nor do I,” I admitted. “The Pythagoras Society. Why did you call it that?”
“Ancient Greek mathematician, wasn’t he?” John mused. “Invented pi.”
“Actually, that was Archimedes,” Moran replied, “though Pythagoras did make important contributions to geometry. He was also a mystic, believed the movement of the planets creates a celestial symphony we humans simply aren’t equipped to hear.”
Moran paused, his eyes distant, as if hearing strains of ethereal music. “I chose the name because Pythagoras presided over a secret brotherhood. Its members took vows never to share his arcane teachings with outsiders. Those who did were expelled and treated as dead men.”
He laughed at the looks on our faces. “Honestly, it was all meant as a joke. We weren’t—”
He cut off as the door opened and a young woman entered, two large dogs at her heels, one black, one brindle. She was attractive and looked very much like Moran, with the same dark eyes and hair, but too young to be his mother. I would have pegged her for a sister if I didn’t know he was an only child.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, drawing to a halt as she saw us. “I didn’t realize you had company.” The dogs crowded against her skirts and she rested a hand on the brindle’s broad head. “Emma Bayard,” she said with a friendly smile. “James’s spinster aunt.” Her tone was light and jesting, but I thought I detected an undercurrent of . . . something.
John bowed and I gave her a polite nod.
“This is Miss Pell and Mr. Weston,” Moran said. “They’re looking into the deaths of Danny and Cash.”
Emma’s face clouded over. “Of course. But weren’t they terrible accidents?”
“It certainly appears that way,” I said with a bland smile. “You knew them?”
She glanced at Moran. “Yes, though not well. We spoke on a few occasions. James would have his friends over for cards, but it’s been an age, hasn’t it?” She studied us with open curiosity. “Are you with the police?”
“Private investigators,” Moran interjected before I could reply.
“I see. Well, I won’t interrupt.” She glanced at her reflection in the gilded mirror hanging over the fireplace and tucked a stray lock of sable hair behind her ear. “We just returned from a walk in the park. I thought I’d look in on Tamsin.”
Moran gave a curt nod.
“It was a pleasure meeting you both,” Emma said. “Best of luck with your inquiry.” She walked over to Moran and rested a hand on his shoulder, speaking softly in his ear though I caught most of the words.
She said, “You’re wasting away, James. I’ll have the cook make your favorite supper tonight. Do join us, won’t you?”
Seeing the two of them next to each other, their heads almost touching, I couldn’t help but notice the stark difference despite their similar looks. Emma glowed with good health, her skin burnished gold by the sun, while Moran was sallow and weary-looking. After she had gone, I turned to him.
“Was your aunt traveling recently?”
He nodded. “Newport Beach. She takes my mother there in the summers. They both love the ocean.” He walked to the window and stared out at the trees. “Emma knows nothing, nor does my mother, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“You must have your own ideas about what’s going on,” I ventured.
He gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, I do. It’s clear to me that it’s one of us.”
“The Pythagoras Society?”
“Who else? None but the members even knew the club existed.”
“What about the bullies you threatened?”
Moran shook his head. “I’ve cudgeled my brain for days and I can’t think of a single one who would go to these lengths. It all happened years ago.” His voice lowered. “I know it isn’t me, so it has to be one of the other three.”
“Motive?” John asked crisply. He’d taken out his notebook, pencil poised above the paper.
“Haven’t a clue.”
I watched his face closely but he seemed to be telling the truth.
“I’ll need to see that charter again,” I said. “John can copy down the names. We’ll find a way to question them—”
Moran knit his hands together. “I can do better than that. I’ve called them together for a meeting at the Avalon tomorrow. Quincy, Thaddeus and Joe. They agreed
to come. They’re frightened, too — or at least pretending to be. I can arrange for you to listen in.”
“You’re assuming we’ve accepted your offer,” I said. “But we haven’t yet discussed terms. I need to speak privately with Mr. Weston for a moment.”
We retired into the hall. “What are you up to?” John asked, crossing his arms.
I told him my idea and he was silent for a moment.
“You said we’d bring everything to Kaylock. It’s not just him who will skewer us for this, Harry. It’s Kate and Wayne. And I like and respect them both.”
“So do I,” I replied with a twinge of guilt. “If the shoe were on the other foot, I’d be furious. But it’s a chance that will never come again.”
John looked troubled, but he finally nodded. “You think he’ll agree?”
I shrugged. “Let’s find out.”
We returned to the music room and Moran rose from the grand piano, where he’d been playing a soft interlude.
“Let’s hear it,” he said levelly. “Anything. Within reason, of course.”
I looked at John, who nodded. “I want an iron-clad promise you’ll do everything in your power to keep my sister from physical harm.”
He laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m deadly serious, Mr. Moran.”
He ran a hand through his black hair. “This is ludicrous.”
“It’s not negotiable,” I said firmly.
He hesitated.
“Well,” I said. “Good luck to you then.”
We moved toward the door.
“Wait,” he ground out.
John and I paused on the threshold.
The words were barely audible. “We have a deal.”
“I’ve heard you’re a man of your word.” I gave Moran my steeliest stare. “If you break this promise—”
“I won’t,” he said curtly. “I’ll put the word out that anyone who touches her will answer to me. Personally.”
“And she can’t know,” I added. “She can never, ever know.”
“Jesus Christ. You drive a hard bargain, don’t you?” He gazed at me with a hint of admiration. “I’ll do my best. Will you make me sign a contract in my own blood?”
“That won’t be necessary. What time is this meeting tomorrow?”