Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  “Like who?” Connor asked breathlessly.

  “Like that police doctor whose scalpel Brady used to kill himself.” He looked at me. “Didn’t you say that Brady was holding onto him, that he wouldn’t let go, even with his throat slashed ear to ear?”

  “I’m finishing my report,” I said, returning to the toasty afghan. “You two can hash out your lunatic theories all day if you like.”

  “I’ll do better!” John jumped to his feet. “Come on, Connor. We’ll conduct our own investigation.”

  “You’re actually going out in that?” I pointed to the window, where horizontal sheets of rain battered the glass.

  “You’re wrong, Harry.” John gave me his serious look, the one he usually reserved for church and funerals. “And we’re going to prove it.”

  “Good luck,” I murmured, picking up my fountain pen.

  John was like a dog with a bone sometimes. His shoulder…

  “And you’re supposed to be convalescing!” I yelled as they pelted down the stairs.

  It was several hours before they returned. I was just writing up the bit about the supposed fingerprints burned into Anne Marlowe’s throat (which I’ll admit troubled me, since no such brand was ever found in the tunnel or at Brady’s home) when John and Connor burst through the door.

  “You’re dripping on me, get away!” I complained.

  “His name is Dr. William Clarence,” John said. He was soaked through but didn’t seem to notice it.

  “Did you ask him if he’s possessed by the ghost of Leland Brady? Or wait, it’s not ghosts, it’s demons, is that the correct terminology?”

  “I couldn’t ask him,” John said. “He quit his post the day after Brady’s suicide and took a ship to England. I found Sergeant Mallory. He told me.”

  “Dr. Clarence was probably upset by what he’d witnessed,” I said. “So he went on holiday.”

  “Look at the timeline, Harry! Brady died on Thursday, August 16th. You figure ten or so days for the Transatlantic crossing. That places him in London just before the first Ripper murder on August 31st. It all fits.”

  I sighed. “What do you want me to do, John?”

  “I want you to put it in your report.”

  “This is insane.”

  “Please. Just put it in the report.”

  So I did. Three lines, at the end.

  In an odd and doubtless insignificant coincidence, Leland Brady used the very same expression (From Hell) as that contained in a letter to Mr. George Lusk of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, unsigned but assumed by Scotland Yard to be from the Ripper. The only (extremely tenuous) connection between the Hyde and Ripper cases appears to be that the doctor who attempted to treat Mr. Brady for his gunshot wound travelled to London in late August. For the record, his name is William Clarence.

  Yours,

  Harrison Fearing Pell

  Epilogue

  I sent off my report to Uncle Arthur. Two weeks later, he cabled acknowledging receipt and congratulating me on the case. I waited anxiously for more. Some response from the S.P.R. There was none. The days shortened. I grew listless, depressed. Myrtle was gone again, hunting a jewel thief in Paris. I watched her pack her little black beret and felt like setting fire to something.

  Elizabeth Brady sent me a generous check, which I used to pay the hospital bill of the woman Brady had attacked in the park. I had just enough left over to treat Nellie, John and Edward to dinner at the Hotel Windsor.

  Nellie had written a long, impassioned story about the poor woman and the plight of the city’s ragpickers, who eked out a living sorting through rubbish for bits of glass or cloth to sell to the mills. She’d convinced Pulitzer to start a fund and donations poured in from kind-hearted readers. Not to be outdone, The Tribune made an appeal for the Forsizi family, and The Sun and New York Times joined in to raise money for the relatives of Brady’s last two victims. Not surprisingly, it quickly became a cutthroat competition among the city’s presses, with new tallies printed daily.

  Rose Mason sent me a brief note of thanks. She and Samuel were the proud parents of an infant girl. They had named her Rebecca.

  There was one final Ripper killing, on November 9th. Then he seemed to stop. No one knew why.

  It was now Christmas Eve. John always spent it with his family. My parents had hoped to be home for the holidays, but a winter storm trapped them in the Canary Islands. I missed them very much.

  Connor, Billy, Mrs. Rivers and I were having a vicious game of whist in the kitchen when a knock came on the front door. My housekeeper went to rise but I knew her rheumatism got bad with the winter weather.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, wondering who could be visiting so late.

  It was a messenger boy.

  “Miss Pell?” he asked, shivering a bit in the cold.

  “Myrtle’s not home,” I said automatically. “You’ll have to track her down in Paris.”

  He glanced at the envelope in his hands. “I’m looking for Harrison Fearing Pell,” he said.

  “Oh. Oh! That’s me!” I grabbed the letter. “Do you want to come in and warm up for a minute?”

  “Sure!” His young face brightened.

  We came into the kitchen and Mrs. Rivers poured him a cup of hot chocolate.

  “What’s it say?” Connor asked, coming to look over my shoulder.

  I read the letter aloud with mounting excitement.

  It was written on rich creamy stationery, embossed with the words Society for Psychical Research, North American Division, 253 Pearl Street, New York, New York.

  Dear Miss Pell,

  Your report on the Hyde case was recently forwarded to my attention. Our colleagues in London wish me to inform you that the subject you mentioned has been located and no longer poses a threat. I also wish to personally commend you for a most thorough and admirable investigation. You appear to have a keen mind, even if your professional training is somewhat lacking.

  Let me get to the point. One of our best agents just transferred to another division and a matter has arisen that requires immediate action. It has certain inexplicable elements of interest to our organization, and perhaps of interest to you. If you are available to discuss this matter at our offices tomorrow morning, I would be most obliged. You may send your answer with my messenger.

  Yours,

  Mr. Harland Kaylock

  Vice President, S.P.R.

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas!” Mrs. Rivers said. “What sort of person works on Christmas?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, dancing gleefully around the kitchen as the messenger boy looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “But I plan to find out!”

  I composed a quick response saying I would come at nine with my associate, Mr. John Weston, who had played an indispensable role in the Hyde investigation and had extensive knowledge of the occult.

  And so it was that on the morning of December 25th, 1888, John and I stood on the corner of Pearl and Fulton Streets. A light snow had fallen overnight. It made the cobblestones slippery for walking, but I always liked how clean the city looked clad in fresh snow—for the first hour at least, before all the carriage wheels churned it into a brown, mushy mess.

  As it was Christmas Day, the streets were empty.

  “I told you he was the Ripper,” John said again. He’d been insufferable ever since I’d shown him the letter. “The subject you mentioned has been located. What else could it mean?”

  “I’ve no idea,” I said. “But you’re jumping to conclusions. As usual.”

  He smiled magnanimously. “Why don’t we just agree that we were both right? You figured out that it was Brady, and I figured out that Dr. Clarence was a homicidal killer.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, I think so. Didn’t Edward say that medium you went to…what was his name?”

  “Mr. Dawbarn,” I said stonily.

  “Mr. Dawbarn! Didn’t he say something unclean had touched Straker’s cameo? Well, guess who else you handed it to
at the flat? Oh right, that was Brady.”

  I scooped up a handful of snow and threw it at him.

  John ducked away, laughing. “You just can’t stand the fact that I figured out something you didn’t.”

  “I think you might benefit from a few weeks at that sanatorium Straker stayed at,” I said.

  John rubbed his hands together, breath puffing white in the crisp air.

  “Where is number 253 anyway?” he said, looking around.

  In front of us sat the Pearl Street power station. Edison had purchased adjoining buildings at 255 and 257 for his great experiment. They were four-story brick structures with three tall smokestacks. I was surprised at how quiet the engines and whirring dynamos inside were.

  We walked down the block to a decrepit looking tenement just next door.

  “This must be it,” John said dubiously.

  There was no plaque, nothing to signify that we were in the right place, except for the crooked number on the front door.

  I knocked. We heard the slow shuffle of feet, the click of numerous locks tumbling open, and an ancient man in a butler’s uniform poked his head out.

  “Um, Merry Christmas,” John said. “Sorry to trouble you. We have an appointment—”

  “This way, sir,” the man intoned. “Mr. Kaylock is expecting you.”

  We stepped inside. John and I exchanged a startled look. The building’s drab exterior gave no hint of the lavish furnishings and fine art that decorated the inside. A fire roared in an enormous hearth, and the space seemed much larger than the structure should be able to accommodate, like its dimensions had expanded somehow.

  “Please follow me,” the butler croaked.

  We went up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway, to the fourth door on the left. John and I followed him into a panelled study, our boots sinking into overlapping Persian carpets.

  “Shall I bring coffee, sir?”

  This was directed at a tall, gaunt man sitting behind a mahogany desk.

  “No, just leave us, Joseph,” he said brusquely.

  “Very good, sir.”

  Joseph retreated, breath wheezing with each ponderous step.

  We sized each other up.

  Mr. Harland Kaylock looked much as I remembered him from that day I’d shadowed him around. He had a sharp beak of a nose and thin lips that he held drawn into a straight line. His attire was dark and formal. The only undisciplined thing about him was his hair, which he wore in a wavy tangle that swept back from his pale forehead.

  Mr. Kaylock gestured to a pair of wing chairs in front of the desk with long, fluttery fingers.

  “Please sit,” he said.

  We did. A clock ticked. It was very loud. I started to feel a bit like the jittery narrator of Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart.

  My eyes wandered to a pair of tall glass cabinets flanking the windows, and the array of strange objects displayed inside. A milky eye floated in goo, of average size but sporting three golden irises. On the shelf above it perched a shrunken head, the tiny horns serrated like shark’s teeth…

  “Well then, Merry Christmas!” John ventured, flashing his dimples.

  Mr. Kaylock eyed him in distaste. “I don’t celebrate holidays. They’re an excuse to be lazy. Now. I presume you are Mr. Weston and you—” he looked at me with keen eyes—”are Miss Harrison Fearing Pell.”

  I nodded. Don’t mess this up, Harry, I thought. He’s an odd one all right, but you didn’t really expect different. Just play along.

  “I’m sure you’re familiar with the London S.P.R., so you know that their primary focus is psychical phenomena,” Mr. Kaylock said. “Spiritualism, ghosts, that sort of thing. The American branch…well, our interests are more wide-ranging, one might say. But before we go any further, I’ll have to ask you to sign some documents. This is an extremely sensitive matter and I can’t have you running off and blabbing about it. Is that acceptable?”

  “I wasn’t planning to blab about it,” I said, trying to keep my temper in check. “But I suppose it’s fine.”

  Mr. Kaylock slid a thick sheaf of papers towards us. I took them and started scanning the tiny print.

  …both during and after contact with the Organization, Agent will not disclose or deliver to anyone, whether employed by the Organization or not, except as authorized by the Organization, or use in any way other than in the Organization’s business, any information or material… There is a risk of danger, bodily harm, injury, emotional distress, or death... there is the potential for risks and dangers that may not be obvious or reasonably foreseeable at this time...I do not have any medical ailments, physical limitations, or mental afflictions that will affect my ability to...Organization undertakes no direct legal or financial responsibility for my personal safety or well being when I am participating in… I assume the risks, including, but not limited to, those outlined in Section 3 of this agreement… In the event that any one or more of the provisions of this agreement shall be held to be invalid, illegal, unenforceable or in conflict with the law according to the jurisdiction of the state of New York, the remaining portions will not be invalidated, and shall remain in full force and effect…

  Mr. Kaylock gave us a thin smile and slid a fountain pen across the desk.

  “Perfectly standard,” he said.

  “And if we don’t sign it?” John asked.

  “Then I wish you a pleasant morning,” Mr. Kaylock said.

  I let out a sigh and signed it. John shot me his Oh, Harry, what are you getting us into now? look, but he took the pen and scrawled his name next to mine at the bottom.

  “Excellent!” Mr. Kaylock said, snatching up the papers and shoving them into a drawer, which he locked.

  “Don’t we get a copy?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said smoothly. “I’ll send it over with my messenger boy.” He steepled his long fingers. “Now, we get to the heart of the matter. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Egypt Exploration Society?”

  “Vaguely.” In fact, I hadn’t a clue, but wasn’t about to admit it to my new employer.

  “It’s been around for about six years now,” he said. “Bunch of archaeologists based in London. In any event, they were recently involved in a joint expedition with the American Museum of Natural History. A dig in Alexandria. It turned up several quite valuable items that were acquired by the museum.”

  “Like what?” John asked politely, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.

  “I’m sorry, am I boring you, Mr. Weston?”

  “Not at all.” John sat up a little straighter.

  “Please go on,” I said.

  “The find included items believed to belong to Claudius Ptolemy.”

  “The mathematician?”

  “Precisely. An armillary sphere as described in the Syntaxis, for example.”

  “That must be quite a coup for the museum,” I said.

  “Indeed. The expedition returned almost five months ago, but it took time to properly catalogue the new acquisitions. Therefore, the gala to celebrate the opening of the special collection only took place two nights ago.”

  We nodded, waiting for him to explain why the S.P.R. was interested.

  “Dr. Julius Sabilline led the expedition to Alexandria. Educated at Harvard and Oxford, degrees in art history, linguistics and archaeology, et cetera. One of the museum’s brightest lights.”

  “Was this light…snuffed out?” I guessed from his funereal tone.

  Mr. Kaylock gave me an appraising look. Then he unlocked his desk and removed two sheets of paper, sliding them across to us. “A copy of the police report. It was just after midnight and the party had wound down. Only a few guests remained. Dr. Sabelline excused himself and went to his office to fetch something.”

  I took the pages and scanned them, then gave them to John. “Stabbed in the neck?”

  “Yes, but with a murder weapon no one has seen before.”

  “In New York?” John raised an eyebrow.

  “Apparently
so.” I thought I detected a glint of humor in Mr. Kaylock’s dark eyes but his face remained stern as a schoolmaster. “That is not the most inexplicable thing about the death, however. The door was locked from the inside.”

  “Windows?”

  “There are none.” Mr. Kaylock tapped his fingers on the desk. “And here’s the best part. Dr. Sabelline staggered across the room, bleeding profusely. He collapsed near a bookcase. There are footprints approaching and entering the pool of blood, but not leaving it.”

  “That’s odd,” John ventured.

  “It’s more than odd,” Mr. Kaylock said.

  “Suicide has been ruled out?” I asked.

  “Definitively.”

  “What do you think?”

  “That we have rather a mystery on our hands.” He gazed at me blandly. Whatever private theories he held, Mr. Kaylock had no intention of sharing them, at least not yet. “Our involvement has been requested. Informally, but at the highest levels. Rumors are already circulating that the objects taken from Alexandria are cursed.”

  John snickered.

  It had to be another killer, didn’t it? I thought glumly. Couldn’t be a nice haunting, or vampires, or even a good old-fashioned sewer beast.

  And then I realized that Kaylock hadn’t mentioned Myrtle’s name. Not once. I decided that I liked him, even if his manner was off-putting.

  “Is something the matter, Mr. Weston?”

  “No, I’m fine, it’s just that Harry here—”

  “Would be delighted to take the case,” I said, smiling.

  About the Author

  Kat Ross worked as a journalist at the United Nations for ten years before happily falling back into what she likes best: making stuff up. She's the author of the Fourth Element and Fourth Talisman fantasy series, the Gaslamp Gothic paranormal mysteries, and the dystopian thriller Some Fine Day. She loves myths, monsters and doomsday scenarios. Check out Kat’s Pinterest page for the people, places and things that inspire her books.

  www.katrossbooks.com

  kat@katrossbooks.com