Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  He looked with resignation at the deluge outside the window. “Go for a swim, you mean? Of course not. December drenchers are my favorite. Especially without an umbrella.”

  “I’ll take that for a yes,” Harry said, buttoning her coat.

  “Should I wait fer ya here?” Connor asked.

  “No. Go straight to the S.P.R. offices. It shouldn’t take long. The bridge ramp is only a few blocks from Pearl Street and traffic should be lighter heading back to the city. Tell Harland Kaylock where we’ve gone. Tell him it’s nearly over.”

  Connor hesitated. “Yer sure, Harry? Seems a bit reckless to leave you two here alone.”

  “Maybe you should listen to the ten-year-old,” John said. “He’s actually making sense.”

  Harry gripped the Colt in her pocket. The feel of the cold metal gave her courage. “There’s no time, Connor. Just go as fast as you can. We’ll look after ourselves.”

  “What about the police?”

  “There’s things they wouldn’t understand.”

  “If you say so.” He gave them an encouraging nod, though doubt was plain to read in his young face.

  They jumped out. Within moments, the carriage was speeding back toward the river. John turned his collar up, tugging the Homburg low over his eyes. Harry shivered as chilly droplets slid into the neck of her gown and straight down her spine.

  “What’s the plan now?” John asked. “Storm the castle with torches?”

  “We’ll go round to the back garden.”

  They hurried the two blocks to the Sabelline house, splashing through small lakes at the corners. The cobbled street was deserted, though cracks of light could be seen through the heavy curtains on both the first and second floors. Harry and John slipped through the front gate and crept around to the side. They crouched beneath a window. It was closed, but they could just make out voices inside. One belonged to a woman. Harry felt certain it was Araminta. The other had a cracked, whispering quality.

  “Can you tell who that is?” John whispered.

  Harry shook her head.

  “Jackson?”

  She pressed her back against the bricks and risked a quick peek inside. The room was empty. Whoever had just been there was gone.

  “Let’s give it a few minutes. Maybe they’ll return.”

  The eaves of the house offered partial shelter from the rain. No sparrows today, but no crows either, which Harry took as a good sign. The last of the daylight bled away. They heard nothing more from inside the house, which was still as a grave.

  “I’m going to knock,” Harry whispered.

  “But—”

  “Just follow my lead.”

  She seized John’s hand, dragged him around to the front door and gave it three smart raps. When no one came, Harry banged again, harder this time. They shared a quick glance as tumblers spun and the door swung open.

  “Miss Pell?” Araminta Sabelline clutched the doorframe, her face pale as chalk. She wore the same black dress as before. She seemed surprised to see them, but not angry or upset.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sabelline. I’m sorry to trouble you but I have some news. This is my colleague Mr. John Weston, also of the S.P.R.”

  John touched his hat in greeting. Araminta smiled uncertainly.

  “May we come in?”

  “Of course.” She stood aside so they could enter. “What foul weather we’re having. You can hang your coats over there.” She gestured to a small mud room off the hallway, with racks for boots and pegs for outerwear. “Our maid Berthe’s taken sick. She lives with her mother in Williamsburg. It’s just as well she stayed home today, I imagine the streets are a mess.”

  “It took ages to get over the bridge,” John said, hanging up both of their coats. “I must say, this is a charming house.”

  “Thank you. We bought it when Jackson turned five. I prefer Brooklyn to the bustle of the city. A much healthier environment for children.”

  Somewhere in the depths of the house, a clock chimed five. The echoes faded into perfect silence.

  “Is your son at home?” Harry asked.

  “I’m afraid he’s gone out.” She looked at them anxiously. “Did you follow up on the letter he found, Miss Pell? Is that the news you’ve brought?”

  “I did. And we’ve discovered some other things as well. Perhaps we should sit down to discuss it.”

  Araminta took a steadying breath. “I wish Jackson were here. He said he had to meet someone, but wouldn’t tell me who. I’m certain he keeps things from me, simply out of natural protectiveness, you understand. He means well. But the not knowing is maddening too.” Araminta rubbed her arms as though she felt a chill. “This whole tragedy has shattered my nerves. Nothing seems quite real anymore.”

  She led them down the hall to the same sitting room at the rear of the house. Araminta lit the lamps. It was nearly dark as night outside. Rain beat against the windows in a soothing rhythm. Beyond them, the garden was a misty blur.

  “Can I offer you anything?”

  “Thank you, no,” Harry said, settling herself in an armchair. Araminta took the sofa, and John stood by the mantle, discreetly examining the photograph of Julius Sabelline and Count Habsburg‎-Koháry.

  “I’ll begin with the author of the letter, Mary Elizabeth Wickes. She’s a prisoner at the Tombs.”

  “The Tombs?”

  “The city jail on Centre Street. She’s due to be hanged for murder in a week.”

  Araminta drew a sharp breath and put a hand to her throat, fingering the crucifix. “Whatever did she want?”

  “To warn your husband about the amulet of Osiris. She knew it placed him in danger and that someone would kill to get their hands on it. Mary told us he never replied, but I think her letter frightened him enough to put new locks on the windows and to change the one on his office door.”

  Araminta looked away. “My husband didn’t order those locks,” she admitted. “I did. The ones on the windows, at least.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought I saw someone looking in. A man. It frightened me.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a month ago. I told Julius. He was dismissive. I’ve always been high-strung and he thought it was my imagination.” She passed a hand across her eyes. “I can’t be sure it wasn’t.”

  “You didn’t recognize him?”

  “No. I’m certain it was a stranger.”

  “Not Nelson Holland?”

  Araminta gave her a sharp look. “Why on earth would it be Mr. Holland?”

  Harry let the silence lengthen for a few beats. “I may as well be blunt. Davis Sharpe said he saw you together in Mr. Holland’s office.”

  “Oh.” Araminta’s voice was barely audible, but she didn’t bother trying to deny it.

  “Did your husband give you the bruise on your wrist, Mrs. Sabelline? Or was it Mr. Holland?”

  “Neither,” she said dully. “It was Davis. He confronted me after the party. He must have been waiting in the corridor when I excused myself to freshen up. He was very upset, and of course, he’d had too much to drink as usual.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He said he was tired of being falsely accused by my husband. That it was ruining his career. I begged him to keep quiet. Not that it mattered in the end.”

  “What happened next?” John prompted.

  “He stormed off to his office. I went to the ladies’ room. I was rather shaken by the encounter and stayed in there for ten or fifteen minutes. I didn’t want Julius or Jackson to see me that way. They would have known something was wrong.” She stood and walked to a sideboard. “Are you sure I can’t offer you anything? I don’t usually drink before dinner, but I could use one now.”

  John opened his mouth. Harry answered for both of them.

  “No thank you, we’re fine,” she said.

  Araminta poured herself a glass of red wine and took a long sip. It seemed to steady her.

  “I know you must think me an
awful person, but my husband was a cold man, Miss Pell. I’m not sure he ever really loved me. I suppose I should be grateful he took us in.”

  “After Jackson’s father died?”

  She nodded. “Julius was a good provider. I hoped he’d be more—a father figure—but he simply wasn’t capable.” She set her glass down. “I don’t care if you believe me or not, but I held no ill will toward Julius. And I certainly didn’t kill him.”

  “No one says you did.” John sounded sorry for her. “Do you know when Jackson is returning?”

  “He didn’t say.” She took another sip of wine.

  “It’s a strange case,” Harry remarked. “Nearly everyone involved has lied about something. But it all comes down to two facts. The rest is window dressing.”

  Araminta stared out at the rain-soaked garden, now shrouded in darkness. “I fear there is devilry at work, Miss Pell. Forces beyond our understanding.”

  “That may indeed be so, but it was clear to me from the very beginning that this case revolved around the key and the seemingly impossible fact that the door was locked from the inside after the deed.” She leaned forward, blue eyes bright. “Let us say for the sake of argument it was not Jeremy Boot. We will rule him out.”

  Araminta Sabelline tilted her head and nodded.

  “Nor was there a third copy of the key. The locks had been changed that day and the reputation of the locksmith is above reproach. So how could it be done?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “We all know the order of events prior to the discovery of the body. Your husband left first, followed by Holland and Sharpe. Shortly after, Jackson claims he went to view the second floor exhibits, though no one actually observed him there.” Harry looked at Araminta. “You left and encountered Mr. Sharpe in the hallway. The count and Orpha Winter were the only ones remaining in the main hall. Am I correct so far?”

  “I believe so.”

  “At some point during this time, your husband was murdered and his strongbox looted. The act itself would have taken no more than five to ten minutes. Let us now arrive at the discovery of the body by yourself, Mr. Sharpe and Jeremy Boot. Before this moment, all is clear. The facts are unchallenged. But now things become a bit murky.”

  Araminta bridled ever so slightly at this. “How so?”

  “Well, we have poor Mr. Boot vomiting on his shoes. Mr. Sharpe standing in the doorway, no doubt transfixed by the scene of horror before him, and perhaps going to Boot’s aid. And you, Mrs. Sabelline, taking several steps into the room and fainting.”

  “Your point?”

  “We all made an erroneous assumption from the start.” She turned to John, who knew just what she was up to and was watching her closely. “That since the key was found in his desk, it had been there all along.”

  “Oh damn.” He slapped his thigh. “You mean someone put it back afterwards?”

  “Precisely. It’s the only possible explanation.”

  Araminta didn’t speak, but her face had gone deathly pale.

  “If that’s the case,” Harry continued, “it could only have been done by one of the first people to enter the room. We know Mr. Sharpe didn’t actually come inside, but instead went for help. Mr. Boot was busy getting sick at the sight of the mutilated body. He also had his own key. Replacing the one that belonged to the victim would only cast suspicion on himself, which is just what happened.” Harry smiled unpleasantly.

  “Which leaves you, Mrs. Sabelline. When you pretended to faint, you no doubt caught yourself on the edge of the desk. It would only be a matter of seconds to return the key to the drawer before anyone noticed.”

  Araminta laughed dismissively and placed her empty wine glass on the table. “That’s where you’re mistaken. Mr. Sharpe did come inside. Both he and Mr. Boot assisted me into the hallway. Assuming all this wild supposition is even true, he could easily have returned the key himself.”

  “But Mr. Sharpe didn’t have access to the murder weapon,” John interjected, light dawning in his eyes. “We’ve learned what it is. A madu. Quite an exotic item. And we know Jackson borrowed one from Count Koháry’s collection.”

  “Perhaps you thought that in the unlikely event the police figured it out, suspicion would fall on your son.”

  “I’d say that’s a bit cold,” John muttered.

  Araminta lifted her chin. Dark purple stains streaked her lips from the wine. “You have no proof of anything.”

  Harry ignored her. “The ruse with the footprints makes sense if it was someone who had small feet and wished to throw off the investigation by wearing a large pair of shoes. Your husband was also a size eleven. I wonder if you recently purchased dress shoes for him? I think you did, and I also think they’d be missing from his closet.” She leaned back in the chair and steepled her fingers the way Myrtle did. “As for the proof, you must have the amulet stashed away somewhere. The police are on their way and I have no doubt they will find it.”

  “Bravo,” John said under his breath.

  Araminta snorted. “You’re a fool, Miss Pell.”

  “I’m not sure why you did it, or why you cut out his eyes. Further misdirection, I suppose,” Harry said, although the certainty in her voice faltered. “Perhaps you intended to sell the amulet on the black market. Perhaps he refused to divorce you—”

  “You know nothing.”

  “Or perhaps you had an accomplice,” John said. “We heard two voices through the window. Who’s here, Mrs. Sabelline? Is it Jackson?”

  “I sent him away.” A shadow crossed her face. “It’s not safe.”

  “Why?” Harry frowned, her mind racing through parallel possibilities. “Is it Nelson Holland?” She wished she hadn’t given John her coat. The Derringer was in the pocket. Sloppy, Harry.

  “The police are on their way,” she repeated in a louder voice, wishing it were true.

  That’s when Araminta Sabelline began to chuckle. It was a horrible sound, half-mad and full of despair.

  “Nelson Holland? Why, it’s the master who’s come.” She smiled coyly. “You know him, don’t you? Mr. Hyde.”

  Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked.

  “I’ve dreamt of him. He promised me eternal youth and beauty. Everlasting life. Oh, the things he showed me.” She cocked her head. “The master tried to show Julius things, but he wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t look. Kept his eyes shut tight. We didn’t like that, so we took them. The eyes are the windows of the soul, you know.”

  “Where is the amulet?” John said, grasping her arm. “Where?”

  Araminta looked at the ceiling. She slowly raised a pale hand. “Upstairs. In Julius’s study.” She grinned and yanked free. “Come and get it.”

  John staggered back as she gave him a hard shove and ran from the parlor. Footsteps pounded up the stairs to the second landing. Harry made to follow but John blocked her way.

  “Are you mad?”

  She squared her shoulders and tried to look down her nose at him, which wasn’t easy since he was about a foot taller. “We have to get that amulet, John.”

  He shook his head in amazement. “Something’s up there, Harry. A daemon. The same one that possessed Mr. Brady. We’ve no idea how to stop it.”

  “James Moran shot it before,” she said stubbornly. “Bullets do have an effect. The thing is in a mortal body. We’ll just have to stay back.” She looked at him. “Give me one moment first.”

  “What?”

  “I left my gun in the mud room.”

  John sighed. He was swigging from the bottle of red wine when she returned.

  “Want some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  John took a last gulp and tossed the empty bottle aside. “So the plan is we take the keys to Hell and walk out of here?”

  “Yes. Run, probably.”

  He sighed again. “Hang on.”

  John disappeared. A moment later he came back with a heavy iron frying pan in his hand.

  “Only thing I could fi
nd, but it’s better than nothing. Lead the way then.”

  They ascended the stairs to the second floor. The hall was dark save for a door at the end, which showed lamplight through the crack.

  “I expect it’s in Dr. Clarence,” Harry whispered, cocking the pistol. “Just don’t get in front of me, I’d hate to shoot you again.”

  “Yes, that would be inconvenient.”

  Harry put her hand on the knob. “Ready?”

  John nodded, eyes huge and frying pan poised to swing.

  Harry eased the door open. Julius Sabelline’s study was more cluttered than his office at the museum. Boxes of books and papers were stacked haphazardly around the room. A single standing lamp in the far corner cast a dim pool of light. The windows had all been thrown wide open and the curtains fluttered as rain swept inside.

  A figure sat behind the desk. It seemed shriveled, shrunken, its face hidden in shadow. Araminta crouched on the floor next to it like a faithful dog. Harry brought up the pistol and aimed it at the faceless thing in the chair.

  “I will not hesitate to shoot you,” she said, trying hard to keep her hand steady. “We’re agents with the Society for Psychical Research, fully trained to deal with your sort. Where is the amulet of Osiris?”

  The creature leaned forward into the light. Harry drew a sharp breath. It wasn’t Dr. Clarence at all but one of the oldest women she’d ever seen. Even her wrinkles had wrinkles, like the underbelly of an ancient sea tortoise. She wore a ragged dress that had been washed so many times it seemed to have no color at all. Stringy white hair drew back into a tight bun atop her head.

  “Harrison Fearing Pell,” the thing said in a paper-thin voice. “And Mr. Weston.”

  Harry felt vaguely disappointed when she failed to add, So we meet again.

  “Where is it?” John demanded, brandishing the frying pan.

  “The key? It belongs to us.” This time, the old woman and Araminta spoke in simultaneous, overlapping voices.

  “It belongs to Count Balthazar,” Harry said.

  The old woman made a wheezing sound that might have been laughter.

  “He paid someone to dig it up. That doesn’t make it his.”

  “It doesn’t make it yours either,” John said.

  Light glinted in the hollows of her eyes. “Claudius Ptolemy promised me passage in exchange for knowledge, but he abandoned me. He was a liar and a cheat.” The daemon sounded almost petulant. “Few men travel to the Dominion and fewer still leave. He owes me a debt.”