Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  “If we’re all here, I suggest we begin,” Dr. Levis said briskly. “Mr. Eidman will be taking notes.” He drew back the sheet from the body. Harry swallowed hard.

  You knew it would be bad, she thought, digging her nails into her palms and taking a deep breath. The only way to help now is to catch the one who did it, and you won’t manage that by fainting.

  “We’ll begin with a visual inspection,” Dr. Levis said. “The body is that of Mr. Julius Sabelline, stated to be sixty-two years old. Weight is one hundred and seventy pounds, height seventy inches from crown to sole. Rigor mortis is fixed, confirming that death occurred within the last twenty-four hours. The decedent is wearing a long-sleeved white shirt which is bloodstained. It has multiple tears that correspond with injuries consistent with sharp force trauma to the neck and back.”

  Dr. Levis leaned over the body for a closer look. “The decedent’s eyes were removed post-mortem. There are scrape marks on the supraorbital ridges. Not a metal blade though, I daresay. There are no cuts to the malar bone. Some kind of blunt tool.”

  “Could it be the same that was used to stab him?” Eidman asked.

  “Yes, I’d say that’s possible.”

  With Eidman’s assistance, Dr. Levis removed Sabelline’s shirt and trousers.

  There’s nothing more bereft than a naked corpse in a room full of strangers, Harry thought. Sabelline looked both bloated and shrunken in that strange way of dead bodies. The terrible injuries he’d suffered only made it worse. There was no way of telling what his face had been like in life.

  “I observe no deformities, old surgical scars or amputations,” Dr. Levis said. “Before moving on to the stab wounds themselves, I would note that there are unusual defensive injuries to the right palm. Striated bruising in six parallel lines, three of which superficially broke the skin.”

  “What could cause that?” one of the detectives asked.

  “I can’t say. It appears he gripped something in his fist which caused the injury. An object with raised ridges.” Dr. Levis let the hand drop. “We need to roll him over, Ferdinand,” he said to the coroner.

  Sabelline was not a small man and it took a minute or two of minor struggling before they got him on his stomach. Dr. Levis took a steel probe from a tray. “I count five stab wounds on the back, one on the side of the neck that penetrated the left carotid artery. This is a fatal wound that would have caused loss of consciousness within one to two minutes.

  “The next is located twenty inches below the crown of the head and five inches from the front of the body. It is vertically oriented and measures five-eighths of an inch in length. Inferiorly, there is a squared off or dull end approximately one-thirty-second of an inch in length. Superiorly, the wound is tapered to a sharp point.

  “The pathway of the wound passes through the skin, the subcutaneous tissue, and through the right seventh rib. Estimated length of the total wound path is four inches, and as stated the direction is right to left and back to front with no other angulation measurable.” He paused. “I would say this is also a fatal wound associated with perforation of the right lung.”

  “There is a second stab wound in the back, also on the right side, twenty-one inches below the crown of the head and two inches from the front of the body,” he continued. “It penetrated the lungs without striking rib. There is fresh hemorrhage and bruising noted along the wound path as well as the hemothorax described above. The direction is right to left, with a total depth of four to five inches. In my opinion, this wound was also a fatal stab wound associated with perforation of the lung and hemothorax. Essentially, his lungs filled with blood.”

  Dr. Levis continued for another twenty minutes, meticulously measuring each stab wound as Eidman recorded the results. Any one of them would have been fatal.

  “I conclude it most likely that the decedent was seated when his assailant came up behind him and stabbed him once in the neck, then five times in the back. Sabelline turned and seized the weapon at some point, possibly grappling with his killer for it. This would account for the bruising on the decedent’s palms.”

  “But what was he stabbed with, doctor?” the older of the detectives asked. Orpha had introduced him as Michael Jones. “You said it wasn’t a knife.”

  “No, the edges of the wounds are ragged and they taper to a very fine point. I’d say something more akin to an icepick.”

  “And the handle?”

  “It will have sharp but shallow ridges.”

  The detectives shared a quick glance. At least they had a distinctive weapon to look for.

  “Mr. Sabelline would have bled out quickly, within two or three minutes. Removal of the eyes occurred shortly after death, most likely with the same object he was stabbed with. It appears to have been done in a rushed, frenzied manner. The eyes were found approximately six feet from the body. The assailant did not cleanly sever the optic nerve, but rather tore the eyes from the sockets using brute force, with accompanying injury to the corneas and vitreous humor.” Levis consulted briefly with the coroner. “We’ll move on to the internal examination now.”

  The body was again flipped onto its back and Dr. Levis made the classic Y incision in the chest, using a bone saw to cut through the ribs. Julius Sabelline’s organs were weighed and measured. The bloody fluid in his lungs confirmed the cause of death, but no other unusual findings were made. He had been a healthy, if slightly overweight, middle-aged man.

  Dr. Levis and Mr. Eidman stayed to talk further with the detectives, who made it clear the civilian contingent from the S.P.R had exhausted their welcome. Neither Harry nor John had any desire to remain. It had been a long day, beginning at the S.P.R. offices downtown and ending in this gruesome amphitheater. Catching whoever had wreaked such terrible destruction on the famous Egyptologist, now mercifully under a sheet again, would not be a simple matter, Harry feared. The killer was organized and cunning. If he was also mad, it wouldn’t be the stark raving sort, but a quiet, twisted malice that was far more dangerous.

  As they passed the table with Dr. Sabelline’s personal effects, Harry had a final thought. She eyed his shoes intently, picking one up and reading the label inside. A disapproving harrumph from Dr. Levis made her drop it back onto the table.

  Curiouser and curiouser, Harry thought, a hard gleam in her eye.

  When they reached First Avenue, Orpha Winter turned to them both with a peremptory tone. “Once you’ve spoken to everyone, please compile your findings in a report and submit it to me. Naturally, I’ll share it with the police.”

  “Certainly. But the interviews are only the beginning of the investigation,” Harry said. “There will be leads to follow up—”

  “I’ll make that determination. And Mr. Kaylock, of course. But we wouldn’t want to put you in any danger.”

  “Why would we be in danger?”

  Orpha studied her for a long moment. Was that a spark of worry in her eyes? Or something else? Harry couldn’t tell if it was real or feigned.

  “I think Dr. Sabelline may have waded into deeper waters than he intended. There are things in this world you know nothing of, Miss Pell. Matters that defy rational explanation.” She held up a gloved hand. “I know. You’re a skeptic, like Mr. Kaylock. Don’t believe in all that supernatural rubbish. And you think I’m a naïve fool because I do. But even Harland can’t deny certain realities.” Orpha’s mouth curved in a tiny smile. “He’ll have to come clean with you eventually if you’re to work for the S.P.R.”

  Harry frowned and began to reply. Orpha cut her off.

  “I’ve arranged for you to interview the Sabellines in the morning,” she said, handing her a piece of paper. “Here’s the address.”

  “And Count Koháry?”

  “I’ll keep you informed.” Orpha stepped to the curb just as a shiny black barouche pulled up. The uniformed driver leapt down and opened her door. “My God, this has been the strangest Christmas,” she said over her shoulder. “I do hope you enjoy the rest of yours.”<
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  They stood there watching the carriage speed away uptown, followed by the pathetic sight of an anxious-looking woman in tattered clothing entering the Morgue, her face a mixture of hope and despair. Hope that it wouldn’t be the one she sought, despair because if he or she wasn’t in the Morgue, they’d still be missing and their fate might never be known.

  “What was that all about, do you think?” John asked.

  “I’ve no idea. But she won’t bully me off this case until I get a result. That I promise.”

  Harry was just looking for a cab when a loud squawk made her jump. A crow, perched on the lintel of the Morgue entrance. It was a large bird, dull black, with a sharp, curving beak. Something moist and red dangled from its mouth.

  “Dirty carrion-eaters,” John muttered. “Let’s go, Harry.”

  She let him take her arm and lead her to a waiting hansom, but all the while, Harry had the peculiar sensation that the bird’s unblinking gaze was fixed on them both.

  15

  The sun hung in a red ball over the Hudson by the time they arrived at the Fearing Pell townhouse on West Tenth Street near Washington Square Park. Harry’s motherly housekeeper, Mrs. Rivers, greeted them at the door in a cloud of delicious cooking smells.

  “I thought you’d miss Christmas dinner,” she said reprovingly. “It’s been ready for half an hour.” She sniffed. “You smell rather awful. Where have you been?”

  “The Morgue.” Harry hung her red coat on a peg by the door. “They just performed the post-mortem on Julius Sabelline.”

  Mrs. Rivers drew her shawl closer around her shoulders. “How perfectly morbid. Are you joining us for dinner, Mr. Weston?”

  “If you’ll have me.”

  “Of course, dear. But they’re not expecting you at home?”

  “We hold our family dinner on Christmas Eve,” John explained with a wink. “And if that’s your famous Apple Jonathan I smell in the oven, I’m not above celebrating the birth of our Lord and Savior twice in a row.”

  “I imagine you’re not.” Mrs. Rivers shot a harried glance at the kitchen. “The Butchers are here. I told Connor to round them up and give them a scrub. Nasty little rascals, but we can’t have them going hungry on Christmas, can we?” This was said with fondness.

  The Bank Street Butchers were Connor’s old gang: Clyde, Danny, Two-Toed Tom, Kid Spiegelman, Little Artie and Virgil the Goat. Despite their fearsome moniker, not one was a day over eleven years old. The police in the Ninth Ward mockingly called them the Bank Street Bedbugs—pests who had proven impossible to eradicate. They lived by their wits on the unforgiving streets of New York, pooling various talents for pickpocketing (Clyde), defrauding charitable institutions for orphans (the cherubic Little Artie), larceny (Danny and Kid Speigelman), gambling (Virgil) and acting as a gopher for older delinquents (Tom).

  Connor himself had been rescued from the streets by Harry’s sister, Myrtle, who took him into her employ as an informant and general errand boy. He had saved Harry’s life twice during the Hyde investigation, and now lived in a small garret on the top floor of the house. She’d come to think of him as a little brother and he’d done his best to fit into his new household, although when the Butchers came around, he tended to fall back into his old ways.

  The boys greeted Harry and John with rowdy enthusiasm from the rear parlor, where they lay sprawled under the Christmas tree playing a fast-paced card game they called Jewish Faro.

  “Hooked a new case, Harry?” Tom called out.

  “Oh yes, and it’s a humdinger,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  “It’s got Egyptian mummies,” John put in. “And fatal curses.”

  “Yer jokin’,” Kid Spiegelman said, turning over a ten of diamonds to the groans of his companions.

  “Not in the least,” Harry said. “And there may be a job in it for you boys.”

  “Minus my ten percent commission,” Connor added absently, copper curls gleaming in the lamplight. He eyed the thirteen cards laid out in a row on the carpet, muttering something about the hock.

  “Call the turn, Spiegelman,” Virgil said.

  “Hang on, Clyde ain’t bet yet.”

  Connor’s nose wrinkled. “You smell pretty ripe, Harry.”

  “So I hear. Give me ten minutes to wash up.”

  Mrs. Rivers had raised all the leaves on the dining room table and they just managed to squeeze everybody in. She ordered John to say Grace, which the boys piously clasped their hands for, though they fell on the food like a school of piranhas before the final syllable of Amen had been uttered.

  “I’ve been thinking about the removal of the eyes,” John said, heaping buttery mashed turnips on his plate. “Don’t you think it’s telling they were ripped—”

  “I won’t have murder talk at the dinner table.” Mrs. Rivers shot him a stern look. “I simply won’t have it!”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled contritely. “Of course, it’s perfectly savage of me. What about curses?”

  That earned a disdainful sniff, but Harry could tell it wasn’t a veto. Like John, Mrs. Rivers had a fascination with the occult.

  “Pass the ham, would’ya pleeze?” sang out Two-Toed Tom from the far end of the table. Harry complied and the platter of meat traveled through a series of slightly grubby hands, growing a bit smaller with each encounter.

  “What do you mean by curses?” Mrs. Rivers demanded.

  “Oh, there’s a doozy associated with the case,” John said blandly. “But I wouldn’t be so crass as to recite it now.”

  “I should hope not.”

  For many minutes, the only sounds were the clanking of cutlery and enthusiastic chewing of the Butchers. Finally, Mrs. Rivers could no longer contain herself.

  “Is it connected to a particular object?” she inquired. “I only ask because I just finished reading about Thomas Busby’s Dead Man’s Chair. Do you know of it?”

  “Why, no.” John leaned forward, a gleam in his eye. “By all means, tell us.”

  “Well,” she began in a conspiratorial tone. “Thomas Busby, a Yorkshire man, murdered his father-in-law in 1702. Strangled him for daring to sit in Busby’s favorite chair. I think there was some bludgeoning too. Well, just before they hung him from the gibbet, he put a curse on the chair.”

  “And?”

  “Sixty-three people who have sat in the chair met with untimely deaths,” she whispered loudly.

  “Oh God,” Harry said. “Where did you read this?”

  “One of Connor’s penny dreadfuls,” she said, still in that booming stage whisper. “You know I confiscate them from the boy whenever I find them. Absolute filth!”

  “Filth,” John agreed, suppressing a grin. “In fact, the curse in the Sabelline case is connected to an Egyptian amulet. Claims that anyone who touches it will die in about a dozen unpleasant ways.”

  “Oh dear. Is that why the S.P.R is interested?”

  “Partly,” John said evasively. He raised his glass. “I must say, this is a smashing dinner, Mrs. Rivers. The glazed ham is a work of culinary art. I’d say we earned it, don’t you think, Harry?”

  “I’m just glad you’re all here.” She looked around at the eccentric gathering with a warm smile. “It would be awfully lonely otherwise.”

  “Indeed it would,” the housekeeper said. “I know your parents are stuck in the Canary Islands, Harry, but far be it from Myrtle to send a telegram letting us know if she’s dead or alive, let alone whether she’ll be home for Christmas.”

  “No word from Paris then?”

  Harry’s older sister had departed two weeks before, hot on the trail of a jewel thief who’d been plundering the boudoirs of wealthy women in the exclusive 16th Arrondissement. She usually solved her cases within a few days; Harry wondered (with a degree of jealousy) if Myrtle had decided to stay and enjoy the sights. More likely, another case had come along to catch her attention and she hadn’t bothered to send a letter home. Although she often complained that “there was nothing new un
der the sun” when it came to crime, Myrtle was always on the lookout for cases of sufficient complexity and weirdness to challenge her formidable intellect.

  “Not a peep,” Mrs. Rivers said.

  “Just as well,” John chimed in. “Myrtle would be second-guessing us every step of the way.”

  “True. But she might have some valuable insights.” Harry stirred her oyster soup. “Do you think the police have a hope of solving it?”

  “Of course not. Unless the killer has an attack of conscience and confesses, which seems unlikely considering the savagery—”

  “Oh no, you don’t.” Mrs. Rivers put on a bright smile. “How about dessert?”

  They talked of more cheerful things after that. John regaled them with stories about his brothers that had Mrs. Rivers red-faced and laughing. The Butchers cleared the table, bantering amongst themselves in street flash barely recognizable as English. Harry didn’t mind, as she had a feeling their conversation touched on criminal activities she would prefer to be in the dark about.

  Once the Apple Jonathan had been consumed down to the last sugary crumb and they sat before the fire in the drawing room, Mrs. Rivers relented and the talk turned once again to the strange death of Julius Sabelline.

  “There are two possibilities as I see it,” Harry said. “The theft of the relic in the strongbox was the reason for the murder, or it was intended as misdirection to make the scene look like a robbery, when in fact the true motive was entirely different.”

  “And the eyes?” John said quietly.

  “Strongly imply a personal hatred. Punishment for some perceived sin.”

  “I agree. The stabbing had a clear purpose—to cause death, quickly. Six wounds. The killer didn’t mutilate any other part of his anatomy. It wasn’t torture, as Sabelline was dead already. Gouging out the eyes seems pointless.”

  “Clearly not to whoever did it. It required an extra minute or so to accomplish. Someone could have walked in at any time. Quite a risk, but one the killer was willing to take. The question is why.”