by Kat Ross
A beam of moonlight caught the glint of metal in the archway. Just a glimmer, but it was at about the height where you’d expect to see a knife if a person held it dangling point-down at their side.
I watched, breath still trapped in my throat like a wild animal clawing to get out, as the blade moved gently back and forth. A grotesque waggling gesture. Like some demented children’s rhyme.
Round and round the mulberry bush
The monkey chased the weasel
The monkey thought it was all in fun…
My fingers scrabbled frantically through the dirt.
The blackness within the archway looked bottomless, infinite, like a hole torn in the fabric of the universe. The words Mrs. Rivers uttered at the séance, in that horrible chorus of overlapping voices, came back to me:
Abyssus abyssum invocat
Deep calls to deep
The figure shifted, moving slowly into the moonlight. I saw a pale hand, and a knife as long as my forearm, mottled heavily with some dark substance. The glint of a brass button at the cuff.
I clenched my teeth and drew a ragged stream of air into my lungs. It wasn’t enough.
You’re going to die here, Harry, I thought dimly. And the killings will just go on and on and on…
And then a small person leapt into the clearing, a horsewhip in his hand and fire in his eyes.
He bent over me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me up to a sitting position. I felt my chest release and the sweet night air of the Ramble pour inside.
“You all right?” Connor asked.
“I think so. Just got my breath knocked out.” I turned fearfully back toward the archway but whoever had been there was gone. Then we heard a soft moan from the figure that lay sprawled across the path. “My God, I think they’re still alive,” I said.
I knelt over the body. It was a woman. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned again. I found her hand and squeezed it.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “They’re gone. We’ll get help.”
I turned to Connor and realized our predicament. We couldn’t leave her alone, but neither could just one of us stay. Whoever had attacked her might not have gone far.
“We’ll have to carry her,” I decided. “Although without knowing the extent of her injuries, I’m afraid—”
Salvation came in the form of a giggle, followed by a resounding slap, in one of the nearby thickets.
“Oh you devil!” A voice declared.
“But Lucy—”
“Help!” I cried. “Over here! A woman’s been stabbed!”
There was silence, and then a young couple appeared, both slightly dishevelled but more than willing to come to our aid. They ran off as soon as I told them what had happened and returned minutes later with two burly policemen who had been stationed near the Boathouse.
I’d managed to find my pistol under a bush and was stuffing it back into my bodice as they came charging up the path. One had a lantern and we examined the poor woman, who was either extremely unlucky or extremely lucky, depending on how you looked at it. She was a ragpicker, as evidenced by the overladen cart parked to the side of the path. I guessed she had been sleeping in the park when she was assaulted.
I ripped several strips of cloth from my gown and one of the policemen, a man named O’Reilly, made a makeshift tourniquet while we waited for the ambulance. She’d been slashed in a dozen places and was bleeding heavily, but it seemed I’d interrupted the attack before any vital organs had been ruptured.
“Where are you taking her?” I asked as the Night Service carriage arrived.
“Bellevue, of course,” O’Reilly said.
“But that’s all the way downtown! She needs help immediately. Mount Sinai is just on the other side of the park.”
The patrolman gave me a weary look. “Bellevue’s the place that caters to her sort,” he said.
“Take her to Sinai,” I said firmly. “I’ll pay the bill.”
He looked me over and seemed to decide that I could afford it. I’d already given them my statement, including name and address. I’d told essentially the truth: that I was at the Kanes’ party and had gone outside for some air. I heard a scream and entered the park, literally stumbling across her body. My driver had followed me, concerned about my safety so late at night. He startled the attacker, who ran off into the trees.
A manhunt had already commenced, although considering the park’s vast size—eight-hundred and forty-three acres, with countless exits—I thought it unlikely the search would bear fruit.
“As you say, Miss Pell. Take her to Mount Sinai, boys!” he called to the white-coated attendants.
They nodded and gently lifted the woman onto a stretcher.
“You think she can identify him?” Connor asked, as the night ambulance drove away.
“I don’t know. It was awfully dark.” I shuddered. “I only got a glimpse of the knife. It was huge, Connor. If you hadn’t come along…”
“That’s twice I’ve pulled your fat from the fire,” he said.
I gave him two kisses, one on each cheek. “My hero,” I said lightly. “At this rate, we’ll be engaged before Christmas.”
Connor blushed.
“I don’t suppose you saw anyone else leave the party?” I asked.
“No, but I was too busy trying to keep out of sight. I hopped over the wall and trailed you from inside the park. Bet you didn’t hear a thing,” he said proudly.
“I had no clue. Thank God you did.”
We started walking back to Fifth Avenue. Groups of patrolmen moved through the trees, lanterns bobbing like huge fireflies. Central Park was the crown jewel of the city, and the authorities wouldn’t take such a brazen crime lightly.
Connor fell silent, and I again went over everything George had said in the garden. I’d been on the verge of understanding something crucial when I’d been distracted by the scream. I felt sure that what nagged at me was a word, a single word.
George’s demeanor had changed like quicksilver, shifting from self-pity to cold fury and then rambling paranoia in a matter of seconds. I wondered if his mother knew everything. Was she protecting him somehow? It must be a terrible disappointment for a woman like Temple Kane to have a son like George. I wondered who had hired Thomas Sweet. Maybe it wasn’t George after all.
I keep seeing things…
In the mirror.
I stopped walking.
What a fool I’d been. A blind, blind fool.
As Myrtle had put it all those years ago, I’d looked but I didn’t see.
I thought I knew now who had killed Becky. Who had lured or coerced Raffele Forsizi and Anne Marlowe and the others to their deaths.
Who had nearly killed me in the Ramble.
The ragpicker had been bait to draw me into a deserted area of the park, I was certain of it. She wasn’t taken from an elevated line, and the timing was too perfect to be a coincidence. I was getting uncomfortably close to the truth. The killer wanted me eliminated.
But could I prove it?
“What is it, Harry?” Connor asked with concern.
I realized I was standing in the middle of the street and shook myself.
“Nothing,” I said, unwilling to share my theory just yet. “I’m fine. Let’s go round up John and Edward. It’s time to go home.”
As it turned out, they were waiting at the barouche when we arrived. The hour was past three, and the party was breaking up. I let Connor tell the story, still wrapped in my own thoughts. They were appalled at my near miss, but I could see John hadn’t yet forgiven me for dancing with James Moran. He sat next to Connor on the way home, and his goodbye when we dropped him off at Gramercy Park was polite but reserved.
Mrs. Rivers helped me remove my torn, stained gown and I crawled into bed, expecting I’d never fall asleep. My mind kept returning to that narrow stone archway, and what lay beyond it, just out of reach of the silver moonlight. Fragments of images slid past. A bowl of bloody water. Bi
lly Finn reading from a book with a black cover made of calfskin, or something even softer. The skin of another kind of animal.
Pop Goes the Weasel! played senselessly in the background, faster and faster like some manic jack-in-the-box. I knew I would never again hear that song without remembering the glimmer of a cruel blade.
But I had barely rested since Monday, and sheer exhaustion soon dragged me down into the depths of a deep and dreamless slumber.
I didn’t wake for sixteen hours. The sun was already descending in its long arc when I stumbled downstairs to the kitchen. It had been eight days since Leland and Elizabeth Brady knocked on my front door. Myrtle would be home tomorrow.
The end game was at hand.
“You look like you could use a cup of coffee, Harry,” Edward said cheerfully, pouring one and setting it before me.
Everyone was there. John, Connor, Nellie, Mrs. Rivers. Even my client.
“I came to tell you it wasn’t Robert,” he said. “The body in the river. They haven’t identified it yet, but the poor fellow at the morgue was at least twenty years older and several inches shorter.” Brady swallowed. “Though it had been underwater for so long the face was…unrecognizable.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” I said, although I wasn’t surprised. “Have you been informed of recent developments?”
“Yes, Mr. Dovington and Doctor Weston told me what happened last night. Thank God your boy came along.” He looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Miss Pell. I never intended to put you in any personal danger.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “But I fear that this person we seek will be enraged that they were interrupted. They will need to kill again right away. Tonight.”
“Perhaps it’s time we went to the police,” Brady ventured. “I suppose I’ll lose my job, or worse, but we can’t put any more lives at risk.”
“He’s right,” Nellie said. “You’ve taken it far enough, Harry. We should bring the authorities in.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get your fair share of credit for solving the case.”
I framed my next words very carefully. I needed their help.
“We could contact the police,” I said. “They would flood the elevated lines with uniformed officers. And our killer would get spooked. I don’t think the murders would stop, but the pattern would change. They’d find a new way to procure victims. It’s not hard, in this city. And we’d lose our one advantage. That the killer doesn’t yet know that we know the hunting ground.”
No one spoke for a moment. Then John surprised me by taking my side.
“The investigation would be back to square one,” he agreed.
I cast him a grateful look, which he didn’t return.
“I’m also certain that the killer has Billy Finn somewhere,” I added. “There’s a slim chance he could still be alive. If this lunatic goes to ground, it’s as good as signing Billy’s death warrant.”
“So what are you proposing?” Brady asked.
I took a deep breath. “That we conduct the search ourselves. We have Connor’s…associates, as well as another auxiliary force I’ve hired to assist. It should be enough to cover the Second, Third, Sixth, and Ninth Avenue elevated lines. We know the killer wears a soldier’s uniform and I don’t expect a deviation from that routine. We watch and we wait. Groups of three, I think. If they try anything, one of us will be there to stop it.”
“And you really think he’ll strike again so soon?” Edward asked.
“I think the killer has no choice anymore,” I said. “The compulsion is too strong.”
“I wish to be there, if you’ll have me,” Brady said quietly, pressing a hand to his forehead. “If it is Robert, I don’t want any harm coming to him. He should be put in an asylum, not handed over to the hangman.”
“Your presence would be welcome,” I said. “So. Are we all in agreement?”
Edward, Harry, Brady and Connor nodded, Mrs. Rivers more reluctantly so. Nellie looked around and threw up her hands.
“So be it,” she said. “Count me in. John Cockerill”—that was Nellie’s editor at The World—will certainly salivate over a first-hand account of the hunt for Mr. Hyde. Though I don’t have a very good feeling about this, Harry, and I’m telling you so for the record.”
I looked around at the unsmiling but courageous group in the kitchen and prayed that I was making the right decision.
“Then we meet back here at nine o’clock,” I said. “So far none of the murders have occurred before sundown, so that should give us adequate time to get in place. And wear your rattiest clothing, we want to blend in as much as possible. I’ll draw up the assignments.”
Everyone left to prepare for what promised to be another long night ahead. I realized that I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d eaten, and Mrs. Rivers volunteered to whip up some pancakes and bacon, which Connor generously helped me devour.
While she washed up, I composed a short telegram. Connor was on his way out to round up the Bank Street Butchers, so I gave it to him with strict instructions to await the response. If I was right in my suspicions, the answering telegram would confirm it.
The trap had been set. Now I had only to spring it.
16
Night fell swiftly as we assembled in the parlor of 40 West Tenth Street.
I had again borrowed a set of Connor’s clothes and stuffed my hair into a cap, pulling the brim down low so it shadowed my eyes.
My friends had followed instructions—even Edward, although I could see it pained him to wear baggy breeches with holes at the knees and a shirt so old it was the sickly grey of New York’s gutters after a rainstorm.
Nellie, whose face was the most well-known, wore a floppy bonnet, while John had somehow managed to acquire the dour vestments of a Catholic priest.
“Rupert’s,” he said when Edward raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Trust me, you don’t even want to know what he used it for.”
The Butchers found the situation highly amusing. They sprawled on the carpet looking at the pictures in Connor’s penny dreadfuls and ribbing each other in some street dialect so riddled with slang I could barely understand a word. I did, however, learn their names: Clyde, Danny, Two-Toed Tom, Kid Spiegelman, Little Artie and Virgil the Goat.
They were all between the ages of six and ten. Clyde was the tallest, Danny the fastest sprinter. Tom had been run over by a carriage when he was five, or at least his left foot had. Kid Spiegelman could pick any lock ever devised in less than thirty seconds. Little Artie was blessed with wide blue eyes and a cherubic face that he used to con charitable institutions for orphans. And Virgil…he had fingers like fishhooks. Twice I’d emptied his pockets of sundry items, including mother’s favorite silver salt cellar. But every time I turned my back, they started bulging again.
The Butchers had descended on the house like a pack of locusts, and Mrs. Rivers was in a lather rushing to and fro with plates of toast and jam that disappeared as fast as she could carry them from the kitchen.
“Where’s Moran?” John asked, his voice tight. “It’s getting late.”
“He’ll be here,” I said. “We had a deal.”
But I was starting to worry. It was ten minutes past nine.
I unfurled the telegram Connor had brought and reread it for the tenth time.
It was the final piece in the puzzle. I had showed it to no one, unwilling to tip my hand until the right moment. It was critical that the killer be confronted in the act. There was no other way.
“What line are we taking?” Brady asked. He’d dressed in plain workingman’s clothes, with suspenders and a bowler hat that emphasized his unfortunate ears.
I examined the map spread on the table before us. “I’m not sure yet. I was waiting on Moran’s boys, but we may as well start divvying them up. Any suggestions?”
Brady shrugged. “Downtown, the Third Avenue El, perhaps? It’s the only line I’m really familiar with.”
&n
bsp; “Alright. You, John and myself will take that one. Nellie, Clyde and Little Artie can ride the Ninth Avenue Line. Edward, Virgil and Tom can cover Second Avenue, and Connor, Spiegelman and Danny can take Sixth Avenue. Remember, use your whistles to summon a patrolman if you see anything. This person is extremely dangerous. If no police are around, at least you can follow and make an identification.”
“There aren’t enough of us,” Nellie pointed out. “Not to cover four lines.”
She was right, but I was unwilling to admit it.
“We can’t just give up,” I said. “The killer is out there tonight. And so is the next victim.”
Nellie sighed. “How will we know if one of the other teams gets lucky?”
“We won’t,” I said. “So we should all rendezvous back here at three a.m. We’ll compare notes then.”
“You really think we’ll find Billy?” Kid Spiegelman asked.
The Butchers looked at each other.
“He were the best stogger we had,” Artie said regretfully. “Dog-nipper too. Billy were a man of many talents.”
“A right bane of the Philistines,” Tom agreed.
“Ah, he’s cocked his toes up,” Virgil the Goat muttered.
“No he ain’t!” Kid Spiegelman said. “Don’t say that. I won’t believe Billy’s a stiff til I see it with my own gagers.”
“He’s not dead, and we’ll get him back,” I said. “I promise you.”
The Butchers quieted down, but their skeptical looks made it clear that adult promises (or even teenage promises) were worth very little.
I was just rising to rally my meager troops when a knock came on the front door.
It wasn’t Moran. It didn’t surprise me that he wouldn’t come himself. A boy like James Moran never got his hands dirty when others could do it for him. He always kept a wide buffer between himself and his subordinates. It’s why Myrtle had never been able to catch him.