by Kat Ross
Harry assumed this was meant as a compliment. “She is indeed. So where does he live?”
“Uptown. Sixty-First and Fifth. And he’s home right now.”
Harry took a sip and felt the fog in her head begin to clear. “What else have you learned?”
Little Artie smirked. “Lots of lady visitors.”
“A rake, eh?”
“Regular Romeo. We been watching from the park cross the way. Ain’t seen many servants though. Just one who looks like trouble, but he ain’t savvied us.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Go fetch Mr. Weston and bring him here. He lives on Gramercy Park. Number 15. I’ll pay you when you get back.”
Little Artie tipped his hat and slid off the chair.
Upstairs in her room, Harry put on a forest green silk dress and dug out matching gloves with pearl buttons and ivory lace trim. If she had to venture into the lion’s den, she might as well look her best.
Harry’s pale reflection swam in the vanity mirror. Her freckles had faded since last summer, leaving a scattering across the bridge of her nose. She’d been named after her paternal grandfather. His Scots-Irish blood had bypassed Myrtle completely, but Harry had gotten it in spades. She dusted a bit of powder across her face and examined the results in the mirror.
Does it really matter, Harry? A little voice asked. You’ll be permanently sacked after this stunt anyway. And then what will you do? Sit around in the upstairs parlor while Myrtle goes off solving cases, just like you used to. John will become a doctor, he’ll marry some nice girl—not one of the Sloane-Sherman monstrosities, please God—and Connor will grow up and leave, and then it will just be you and Mrs. Rivers. You can sip dry gin and read the penny dreadfuls together, won’t that be lovely?
Harry sighed and ordered the voice to shut up. She could always travel with her parents, they’d be thrilled to have her along. Wouldn’t they? Well, of course they would. Except that her well-meaning mother would find any opportunity to introduce her to suitable young men and Harry didn’t want to get engaged, let alone married, maybe not ever. She wanted to continue doing what she was doing now, even if meant the rabbit holes she’d stumbled across during the Brady case were deeper and darker than she’d ever imagined.
There’s a shadow world, Harry. Right alongside our own but hidden just out of sight. Most people don’t know about it until it’s too late. But now you do know. Can you really walk away?
She arranged a mother-of-pearl comb in her blonde hair. Then she went to the table beside her bed and took out the gun John had given her for Christmas. She studied it for a long moment, her heart beating a touch faster. She slipped it into a pocket.
Harry found Connor scrubbing the second-floor hallway.
“I’m going to need you today, if you’re willing. Go to that livery stable on McDougal Street and hire a carriage.”
He pushed a sweaty lock of hair from his eyes. “But Mrs. Rivers—”
“I’ll explain it to her. But you do work for Myrtle. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed you for the morning. Official business.” She winked. “We’re going to go interrogate that count. Unless you’d prefer to stay here and wash floors?”
Connor grinned and threw his brush into the pail of hot water. “No, Miss!”
An hour later, she, John and Connor pulled up before a grey limestone mansion on the east side of Central Park. A fresh wind had blown in overnight from the south and the day was unseasonably warm, with temperatures hovering in the mid-fifties. A heaviness to the air promised rain.
“Not Vanderbilt excess, but not shabby either,” John remarked as they climbed down from the carriage.
In fact, the palace—and there really was no other word for it—built by the second Cornelius Vanderbilt sat only four blocks away on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street. By contrast, the abode of Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry looked downright tasteful. It was only two stories with little ornamentation except for a wrought-iron fence. Light spilled from tall French windows.
“Are you sure about this, Harry? Orpha will be furious if she finds out, and I can’t imagine Kaylock would be pleased either. He specifically ordered you to back off until London gets here.”
“I know. And I don’t care anymore.” This wasn’t entirely true. Harry did care, quite a bit. But she’d come too far to sit on the sidelines now. And they couldn’t punish her if she exposed Dr. Sabelline’s killer, could they?
“If we’re not out within an hour, summon the police,” she told Connor.
“Do you really think this aristo is the one who done it?”
“I don’t know. But I won’t underestimate him.” She gazed at the house. “It’s often the people with the most to lose who will do anything to keep it.”
A youngish man in a blue morning coat answered John’s knock. He had close-cropped hair going prematurely grey at the temples. An old scar, faded nearly to white, bisected his jaw. This must be the manservant Little Artie said looked like trouble, Harry thought. He eyed them coldly.
“May I help you?” He had a gruff voice, with a hint of a French accent.
“We’re here to see Count Habsburg-Koháry,” Harry said pleasantly.
“I’m afraid he’s not in at the moment.”
“I was given to understand that he is.”
“Begging your pardon, but I fear you’re mistaken.”
At that same instant, a peal of delighted feminine laughter erupted from somewhere inside the house. A deeper voice, silky as mink, said something too low to make out.
Harry smiled at the servant. She handed him her card, which he accepted with obvious reluctance.
“Please inform the count that we will wait on his doorstep until he invites us inside. Tell him we’re acquaintances of Mrs. Orpha Winter who humbly request a few minutes of his time.”
The man scowled and closed the door in her face. Footsteps retreated down the hall. Several minutes passed. Harry was starting to think her bluff had been called and they’d be left standing there when it opened again.
“The count has just returned,” the manservant said with a wintry smile. “If you’ll follow me, please.”
They entered a cavernous entrance hall. The mansion was much larger than it appeared from the outside, with soaring barrel-vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows, as if an Old World castle had been dropped into the middle of Manhattan. The décor was unremittingly gothic, dominated by dark oil paintings and heavy claw-footed furniture.
After plodding down miles of thick carpeting, the servant opened the door to a mahogany-paneled library. A fire crackled in the oversized marble fireplace. There were no windows at this end of the long, rectangular room, which was lit only by a series of lamps with green glass shades. A man sat in a leather chair before the flames, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
“Hello. Do come in.” He rose to greet them with a small bow. Harry recognized the velvety voice she’d heard through the door. “I’ve heard of you, Miss Pell. And you, Mr. Weston.”
The count looked exactly as he had in the photograph at the Sabelline house. No more than thirty-five, with broad shoulders and a slightly crooked aquiline nose. Dark hair and an olive complexion completed the picture. He wore evening clothes, impeccably tailored if somewhat rumpled.
He’s been up all night, Harry thought, though he doesn’t look tired. The guest he’d just been entertaining must have slipped away. The count met Harry’s gaze and she had to admit he had an unmistakable magnetism it was easy to imagine women finding attractive.
“I’m sorry I didn’t extend an invitation sooner,” he said. “But the last two days have been rather hectic. As you can imagine, I am extremely anxious to have my property returned to me. And to find Dr. Sabelline’s killer, of course.”
His English was flawless, his welcome seemingly genuine. Harry suddenly felt awkward. She hadn’t expected him to be cordial.
“Of course. Thank yo
u for seeing us. I didn’t mean to barge in on you, but I’ve been tasked by the S.P.R. to investigate this case, and there are questions we believe only you can answer.”
He nodded. “I’ll do my best. Would you care for coffee or tea?”
Both Harry and John demurred.
“You may leave us, Lucas.”
His manservant gave a deep bow and backed through the door.
“Please.” The count gestured to a pair of matched wing chairs by the fire. “I blame myself for Julius’s death. As I told the police, that amulet was a rare and valuable object.”
It was just the opening Harry had hoped for. “Why is it so valuable, Count Koháry? I understand it came from Ptolemy’s tomb, but so did other objects in the exhibit.”
He gazed at them for a long moment. “You’re with the S.P.R. so I assume you have knowledge of certain sensitive topics and we can speak frankly.”
“Oh, you mean ghouls,” John said casually, as if he’d known about them for years.
The count drained his glass. “And other things. The amulet of Osiris is very old, far older than Claudius Ptolemy. I’m not sure how it fell into his hands, but it’s a most dangerous object.” He stared into the hearth. “I never should have permitted it to go on public display, even with the extra precautions we took.”
“Dangerous?” Harry repeated. “In what way?”
“I think I can guess,” John said. “It truly is a key to the gates of Hell, isn’t it?”
The count gave him an appraising look. “Who told you that?”
“Nelson Holland.”
“Of course. He believes it’s all myth and metaphor. Sadly, it’s not. There are twelve gates to the Dominion, Mr. Weston. They’re all locked, have been for centuries. Only one key existed and it’s in safe hands. Until now.”
“So the amulet you dug up in Alexandria is the second key,” Harry mused. “Who has the first one?”
“The London S.P.R.”
John gripped the arms of his chair. “Do you think whoever stole the amulet means to open these gates?”
“That’s the question none of us wish to contemplate, although we must.”
“I assume the undead would come through?”
“By the boatload.”
“Have you ever seen a ghoul yourself?”
The count smiled, though there was little humor in it. “More than you can imagine.”
“Where?”
“Europe, mainly, and the Near East. The North American continent never had a gate so it’s been spared.” He spun the empty tumbler in his hands. “They’re all in cities of the ancient world.”
Harry and John exchanged a quick look.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” she said, “but I’m curious how you know so much about all this, Count Koháry?”
“Please, call me Balthazar. It’s a hereditary title and one that’s not much use since the revolution.” He glanced at an oil portrait over the fireplace of a man who looked strikingly like the count, but in a dark velvet doublet and cloak of the medieval era. “That is my great-great-grandfather, Count Ferenc Jozsef. For generations, the House of Koháry has devoted itself to protecting the world from the undead. To safeguard the talismans that bestow the power to travel between worlds. I wanted the amulet of Osiris not to use it myself but to keep it from others who would. There is evil in the world. I do my best to oppose it.”
“Do you have any idea who took it?” Harry asked. “Or what they intend?”
“If I did, I would already have it back, Miss Pell,” he said in a steely tone.
Harry decided to take a chance and trust him. “There’s an additional complication. Mr. Kaylock told us that something from the Dominion might be searching for the amulet. Worse than a ghoul, he said.” She drew a breath. “We fear it’s the same creature that committed the Hyde killings last summer. It went to London in the form of a doctor named William Clarence. The Ripper murders began shortly after and might be his work as well.
“Now Kaylock says it’s taken a ship for New York and agents are coming from London to track it. A Lady Vivienne Cumberland and Mr. Alec Lawrence.”
A strange expression crossed the count’s features, there and gone in an instant. It looked almost like guilt.
“I know of them. They’re quite capable.”
“Well, that’s good, but what if they don’t arrive in time? It seems to me rather urgent to find the key before this thing gets here.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” The count didn’t sound the least bit surprised.
“You knew this already,” Harry said flatly.
“Orpha Winter told me,” he admitted. “I believe the creature you refer to is known as a daemon.”
“You mean like a…devil?” John asked.
“Not in the Christian sense. It’s an undead spirit, but one that is ancient and powerful.”
“How is it different from a ghoul?”
He thought for a moment. “Ghouls aren’t difficult to identify. They react strongly to iron. It burns them. And while they might superficially appear human from a distance, they rarely speak and wouldn’t pass even moderate scrutiny. Daemons have no corporeal body themselves. Rather, they must possess a living host.”
Harry thought of Leland Brady. How perfectly normal he’d appeared until the mask fell away.
“Yes, I think I see. Mr. Kaylock also said there was a connection between this particular daemon and the exhibit. Do you know what it is?”
“I know a little. My European sources say the daemon has obtained a set of rare maps revealing the locations of the gates. Now it needs a talisman of opening.”
“The amulet of Osiris.”
“Precisely.”
“And once it has both—”
“It can open one of the gates,” John finished.
“Or all twelve,” Balthazar said grimly.
They were silent for a moment.
“There’s something else we need to ask about,” Harry said. “It pertains to your collection. Davis Sharpe said it was quite extensive.”
He stared into the fire. “I like old things. They speak to me. My family goes back a long way, Miss Pell. A very long way. Perhaps I live in the past too much, but I feel at home there.”
“Mr. Sharpe said you also collected weapons,” John said.
The count’s dark eyes narrowed a touch. “Indeed I do.”
“We still don’t know what was used to kill Mr. Sabelline, but it’s something exotic. The doctor who conducted the post-mortem described several peculiar characteristics of the wound. Perhaps you can shed some light on what the weapon might have been.”
“I’m happy to be of assistance in any way possible.”
“It wasn’t a metal blade. Whatever it was tapered to a sharp point, and the rest of it had rough edges that abraded the wounds. Dr. Sabelline also had unique bruising on his palms. Parallel lines. I believe he might have seized the hilt or shaft of the weapon in grappling with his killer.”
Balthazar thought for a long moment. “What you are describing sounds like a madu.”
John leaned forward. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“Few people have. It was used by Indian fakirs primarily as a defensive weapon, although it can be quite lethal. A madu is constructed from two antelope horns connected perpendicularly by a crossbar. I’ll show you a drawing of one.” He strode to one of the bookshelves and chose a volume bound in grey cloth with two blades crossed on the cover. “The Book of the Sword by Richard Francis Burton.” He flipped through the pages and turned it around so they could see the illustration. “Here it is.”
John studied the drawing. “That could certainly have made the wounds. I’d say it’s consistent in every respect.”
Something flickered in Balthazar’s eyes.
“Do you own such a weapon?” Harry asked quietly.
He stared at her for a long moment. “I do.”
Harry felt the hair on her arms rise up. Had they unwittingly walked
into the lair of a murderer? She thought of the manservant. He was young and strong. More of a bodyguard than a butler.
But then why would the count admit to owning it?
“May we see it?”
“I don’t have it anymore. I lent it to Jackson Sabelline for study several months ago.” He rose and walked to a writing desk. “I have the paperwork to prove it, if you think I’m lying. I lend items from my collection frequently and I keep meticulous records.” He shuffled through the drawers. “Ah, here it is. You’ll note the date and his signature at the bottom.”
“Jackson! Why didn’t you tell the police about this?”
“It was one of more than two dozen items. And I wasn’t told about the post-mortem. I had the impression Julius was stabbed with a knife.”
“Jackson Sabelline,” John said slowly. “But why would he kill his father?”
Balthazar frowned. “I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Julius wasn’t Jackson’s natural father. He married Araminta as a widow. Her first husband died in the war for the Union when Jackson was an infant.”
John shot Harry a look. “We had no idea.”
“How did Jackson feel about his adopted father?”
“To be honest, I don’t think they were particularly close. Julius was a brilliant archaeologist but not a very kind man. He ignored the boy mostly, although he paid for his schooling and did his duty by them both.”
“Did you know Araminta Sabelline was having an affair with Nelson Holland?” Harry asked.
“No,” Balthazar said dryly.
“When I spoke to her, she had a bruise on her wrist. Could Julius have confronted her about it? Gotten physical? If the son saw, he might have felt a need to protect his mother. They seemed close.”
Balthazar looked dubious. “I don’t know Jackson Sabelline well, but he struck me as a decent young man.”
“I’d say it’s rather damning that he borrowed the murder weapon from you,” John said with feeling.
“That’s hardly been proven beyond the shadow of a doubt.”
“Well, it’s highly persuasive. Don’t you think so, Harry?”
She nodded absently. She still had the crumpled letter from Mary Elizabeth Wickes in her pocket. Jackson had never returned to ask for it.