Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  “Like what?” Connor looked up from the carpet, morbid interest in his eyes.

  “Most of it isn’t worth repeating, but I did trace some of the rumors to people who actually knew them.”

  I grinned. “John Weston, you’ve been sticking your nose in, haven’t you?”

  “A bit,” he conceded. “But I gave it all to Kate and Wayne. They were grateful for the information.”

  “That was nice of you. Go on.”

  “Well, both boys were bullied a bit as undergraduates, Daniel for being Jewish and Bates for a large birthmark on his neck. Once he became an actor, he learned to cover it with paste and powder.”

  “Bullied how?” Connor asked, resting his copper curls on one hand as he flipped the page.

  “Nothing too serious, at least not that anyone witnessed. It’s more that they were treated as outcasts. Columbia can be an elitist place.” John’s expression darkened. “If you don’t fit the mold, no one talks to you.”

  “Any other connections?” I wondered.

  “Not really. They were quite different. Daniel Cherney was a serious student, good grades, a bright future ahead of him. Francis Bates was more the creative type, majored in the arts program. In his third year, he dropped out entirely. His family isn’t wealthy so tuition might have been an issue.”

  “And he pursued a career in the theater,” I said.

  “Yes. He never landed any big parts, but from what Kate told me, his cast-mates said he seemed happy just being part of the production.”

  Connor scratched his head. “I wonder if that’s really true. Dreams are dreams. If you want the limelight, how can you be happy in the wings?”

  “He has a point,” I said. “Though I’m not sure it’s relevant to his death.” I frowned. “Did you notice that Cashel O’Sullivan had a stutter? It’s the sort of thing he might have been bullied over. Seems a mighty coincidence, as Kate says. Yet another one.”

  “But what would that have to do with death specters?” John asked.

  I watched the rain trickle down the glass panes, blurring my reflection. It was full dark out now. “Maybe they aren’t death specters at all. Maybe they’re some sort of horrible practical joke.”

  “Bullying even after they’re dead?” John asked skeptically.

  “If the person is cruel enough, they might find it amusing to torment the families,” I said, thinking of James Moran.

  “By what? Hiring a perfect double to imitate the deceased? But they were random accidents, Harry! How could anyone possibly anticipate them ahead of time?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked at the clock and my stomach gave a miserable grumble. “Let’s just go. It’s already eight-thirty and our reservation was for—”

  We all turned at a rap on the door. Mrs. Rivers threw it open, revealing a uniformed patrolman in the hall. He surveyed our evening attire with a trace of pity. “Sorry, Miss Pell, but you’re both wanted uptown right away.”

  “Is it the golem?”

  The officer looked askance at my housekeeper.

  “She already knows about it,” I said impatiently. “Has there been another attack?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  I looked down at the emerald green silk dress I had bought only yesterday at A.T. Stewart’s department store, then out at the dark rainswept night. “Give me a moment, officer.”

  I went upstairs and changed into my sewer garb, grabbing the rubber boots from the coat closet in the hall. John waited at the front door with the patrolman. I eyed his starched shirt, elegant frock coat and perfectly shined shoes.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  John shrugged. “I’ll have to go as is.” A smile touched his lips. “At least I borrowed the shoes from Rupert.” That was John’s youngest – and most incorrigible – brother. “I think I’ll put them straight back in his closet when I’m done and see how long it takes him to notice.”

  The rain drummed on the carriage roof as we headed uptown. At the corner of Twenty-Eighth Street, just down the block from John Chamberlain’s luxurious casino, we found Julius Brach waiting under an umbrella with a group of sodden patrolmen. He nodded a greeting and resumed staring into the manhole at his feet. He looked as eager to go down there as I was.

  “Who did it attack this time?” John asked.

  “Some tourists from Poughkeepsie,” Brach said glumly. “Respectable types and, unfortunately, sober as judges. They’d been at a show and wandered into the wrong part of town. I tried to convince them it was a prank, but I don’t think they believed me.” He registered John’s black tie. “Sorry, it looks like we caught you at an inconvenient time.”

  “Don’t apologize to me,” John said. “Apologize to her. It’s Miss Pell’s birthday.”

  Detective Brach looked stricken and I murmured something reassuring.

  “Is this all we’ve got?” I asked, looking around. There was no sign of Mallory.

  “I’m afraid so.” He lowered his voice. “We had a report of a ghoul down by the Battery and the boys went to check it out.” The Night Squad numbered only five detectives, including Sergeant Mallory, and I knew they were all overworked. “But don’t worry, these fine patrolmen have agreed to help.”

  “Do they know about the shem?” John asked.

  “Aye,” one of the cops replied. “Bit of paper in the mouth.”

  “Exactly. Once it’s removed, the creature should dissolve.” He cleared his throat. “In theory.”

  The patrolman’s blue eyes creased. “Not sure I like the sound o’ that, laddie.”

  “Well, I’m afraid it’s the best I can do.” John folded his umbrella and tossed it aside. The rain instantly plastered his hair to his head. “I’ll go down first.” He sat at the edge of the hole and found his footing on the ladder. “Slippery,” he muttered. A moment later he was gone.

  “I’ll go next,” I said. “Then you can lower the lanterns. I don’t fancy waiting in the dark.”

  The heavy rain made the descent down the ladder worse than usual. I could hardly imagine how John managed it in dress shoes. When I reached the bottom, I waited in rushing water up to my ankles as they lowered the lantern. A few minutes later, we all stood shoulder to shoulder in the tunnel. Besides Julius Brach, there were five patrolmen, each carrying a revolver and billy club.

  “Right,” Brach said. “We’ll search in pairs.” He unrolled the map we had used in our last foray with Mr. Albanesi, the engineer from the Croton Aqueduct Department. “You two must be familiar with the area by now.” He held up the map and gave us a pointed look. “So you won’t need this.”

  I opened my mouth to complain and John stepped softly on my toe. “That’s correct, detective,” he said with a broad smile. “Miss Pell knows these sewers better than her own mother’s face. Isn’t that right?” He turned to me expectantly and I shot him a look that promised retribution once we were alone.

  “At least you won’t be squeaking this time,” I muttered, kicking his shoe away.

  Brach stared at us for a moment, then proceeded to divide his men into pairs and assign us different routes that would intersect at regular junctions. If we found nothing, we would all meet in an hour back at the manhole. Help could be summoned by banging the nightsticks on the tunnel walls. He was brisk and organized, but watching him I realized that he was actually quite young for his rank, no more than thirty.

  The men looked tired already. Most of them worked thirty-six hour stretches with one full day off for every eight on shift. A patrolman’s salary was so low – barely $800 a year – it should surprise no one that the force was notoriously corrupt.

  I wondered how many of them had wives and children.

  “Godspeed,” Brach said, checking the safety on his own revolver. “Let’s finish this business tonight.”

  John gave him a two-fingered salute. “B’hatzlacha,” he said quietly and the Night Squad detective smiled.

  Brach and the patrolmen headed south whilst John and I set off into a no
rthward tunnel. It was the first time I’d been in the sewers during a heavy downpour and it was every bit as bad as I’d feared. The storm drains emptied waterfalls into the tunnel, all carrying the rubbish that people dropped on the streets and hurled from their windows. The flow in the center cut was a raging creek and I wondered uneasily just how high the level might get.

  “What was it you said to Detective Brach?” I asked John, raising my voice over the rush of water.

  “Good luck in Hebrew. I’ve been studying a few phrases that might come in handy.”

  “You plan to have a conversation with the golem?”

  John shrugged. “Maybe it doesn’t speak English. It might turn out to be reasonable if it only understood what we were saying.”

  “Well, I think we ought to just leave it alone,” I said, dodging the bloated corpse of a rat as it sailed past. “It’s not so bad compared to half the cutthroats up there.”

  John laughed. “You have a point, Harry.”

  “Those tourists were lucky, all things considered. They have a colorful story to tell about their adventure in the big city and none of them had their wallets stolen or their throats slit.”

  “They didn’t end up floating in the East River,” John said ruminatively. “Never to be identified or given a decent funeral.”

  “Exactly. I’ll bet if you sold tickets to see the mud man that lives under the Tenderloin, people would buy them in droves.”

  I aimed the beam of my lantern down the center of the tunnel but saw no sign of the golem’s trail and, without the map, I wasn’t even sure where we were. John looked half drowned. I could feel water seeping through a crack in my left boot. I was twenty years old, lacked anything that could be called gainful employment, and might not live to see the dawn.

  Yet I felt oddly content.

  “In the stories, the golem is more of a folk hero than a villain,” John said, shaking wet hair from his eyes. “I keep thinking about Rabbi Loew and how he created the golem to protect the Prague ghetto from pogroms against the Jews. What if there’s something we’re missing—”

  Faint shouts echoed down the tunnel, along with the banging of nightsticks. We shared a wordless look of alarm and started running, but sound carried strangely and we took several wrong turns before we finally reached the source of the tumult. Lantern beams swung wildly at one of the junctions, where the golem was tossing the patrolmen about like scarecrows. They were covered in muck and yelling incoherently.

  The creature didn’t seem afraid of the lanterns at all. As we ran up, it seized one of the men by the throat and hurled him down the tunnel. He bounced off the brick wall and lay still. John ran over and quickly felt for a pulse. “He’s still breathing, just unconscious. Help me, Harry!”

  We dragged the officer to the relatively dry ledge of an adjacent tunnel just as the golem smashed its huge fists into the ceiling, unleashing a hail of dust and shards of brick. The other policemen regrouped. A storm of bullets ricocheted off the walls and we ducked back around the curve before we got shot.

  “What do we do?” I hissed, shuttering my lantern until only a thin beam came through.

  John shrugged helplessly. “We have to get the shem.”

  “But how? I don’t think it wants to give it up!”

  Things had gone ominously quiet around the bend of the tunnel.

  “I’d better have a look,” he whispered.

  “Be careful.”

  John crept forward, sliding a little in Rupert’s dress shoes, and peered around the corner.

  “Do you see anything?” I whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  He turned back to me. “Run!”

  John grabbed my hand just as I heard the golem storming towards us down the tunnel. We took off like a pair of greyhounds and I soon lost all sense of direction. It made no sound except for heavy, thudding footsteps and the occasional tantrum, when it would pause to batter the tunnel with its huge fists.

  It was getting more violent. The first few times we entered the sewers, it had avoided us completely. The creature was growing bolder — or it somehow knew we intended its destruction and refused to go quietly.

  We took turnings at random, running flat out until my lungs ached and my legs trembled with exhaustion. The sounds of pursuit grew fainter and gradually faded away.

  “Should have brought a net,” John panted, bracing his hands on his knees as we paused to catch our breath. “It’s too damned strong.” He shook his head. “What were they thinking, trying to shoot it? That just made it madder.”

  “At least we still have the lantern,” I said, leaning back against the wall. “We might be lost, but there’s bound to be a way out somewhere.”

  John let out a sigh. “Sorry your birthday turned out this way, Harry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I’m still sorry. Do you want your present?”

  I looked at him in surprise. “You have it?”

  “I do.”

  “Is it something to eat?” I asked hopefully. “I’m ravenous.”

  “Afraid not.”

  He stood so close I could see the water beaded on his eyelashes. I reached out and fixed his bedraggled black tie with a rueful smile. “I’ll take it anyway, dear friend.”

  John regarded me with a serious expression. It seemed that we held each other’s eyes a few moments too long. My pulse picked up a tick as he leaned forward . . . and handed me a small package wrapped in brown paper.

  “Happy birthday, Harry,” he said.

  I tore off the wrapping and read the title in the lantern light. Records of Washing Away of Injuries by W.A. Harland, M.D.

  “I ordered it from Hong Kong,” John said. “It took six weeks to arrive. I was afraid it might not come in time—”

  “It’s the most perfect gift!” I eagerly scanned the pages. “I’ve heard of it, but the English translation is impossible to find. Oh, John. How did you know?” I gazed at him fondly.

  “You mentioned it last year when you had that argument with Myrtle about the origins of forensics. You said you’d give your eyeteeth for a copy because Song Ci was a pioneer in the field. Don’t you remember?”

  “Vaguely.” I cleared my throat, feeling unaccountably reckless. “I think you deserve a kiss for having such a prodigious memory.”

  “Do I now?” His brown eyes warmed and my stomach gave a flutter, never mind that we stood in a filthy sewer with a vengeful golem not far off. John tilted his head. “Tell me, Harry. When do I get to collect on this alleged—”

  The odor of spoiled meat hit at that instant, followed by the drone of flies. The creature must have crept up on its toes because neither of us heard it coming. Suddenly it was simply there, looming like an oak tree. I glimpsed a crude face tightened into lines of implacable fury and then John shoved me aside and yelled something in Hebrew, but this only seemed to enrage the creature more.

  It lunged and started throttling him around the neck. John’s legs kicked a foot above the rushing waters, his arms flailing against the mighty chest. One of Rupert’s dress shoes flew off and vanished into the flood. The golem squeezed harder. I knew it would kill him in another minute.

  With no other recourse, I smashed the lantern across the golem’s broad back. Flaming kerosene splattered its face, though luckily none hit John. It opened its mouth in a silent shriek. I saw a scrap of parchment deep inside.

  Stuffing my fingers into that gaping maw was the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

  Whoever made the golem had inserted sharp little pebbles to serve as teeth. I had no doubt it could snap its jaws shut and leave me with stumps, but it still had John by the throat and his gasps were growing weaker.

  My fingertips brushed the edge of the paper.

  Kerosene burned hot and fast and darkness pressed in around us. I heard the splash of a body hitting the water and then a giant hand closed around my hair, yanking it painfully by the roots.

  I stretched a
s far as I could. The paper tore loose and I closed my fist around it. By the light of the last dying flames, I saw the golem’s features melt like hot wax. There were grotesque squelching sounds, followed by silence. I thrust out my arms and encountered only air.

  The flies were gone and so was the golem.

  “John,” I cried, falling to my knees in the water and groping blindly. “Where are you?”

  I heard a cough to my right and crawled over. He was sitting up against the wall. I ran my hands over him and assured myself he was in one piece. A flush of triumph warmed my face.

  “It worked! Your plan worked. I got the shem and the golem returned to dust.”

  “Do you still have it?” he croaked.

  I pressed the muddy paper into his hand. “Right here.”

  “The present.”

  “Oh!” Everything had happened so quickly, it was all a blur. “John, I’m so terribly sorry. . . .” I paused. “What are you doing?”

  “Checking your pockets.” He gave another hoarse cough. “Found it.”

  John curled my fingers around the book and I blinked in surprise. I remembered smashing the lantern across the golem’s back, but I must have tucked the book into my pants first without even thinking about it.

  “Thank you for rescuing me,” he said. “Do I get my kiss now?”

  I grinned in the darkness. “Not until you’re clean.”

  He sighed. “Then let’s escape this dungeon, shall we, Porthos?”

  “As you say, Aramis,” I replied in the gruff voice of a Musketeer.

  I hauled John to his feet and we started walking, trailing our hands on the brick wall. At first I was optimistic that we would find an escape route, but long minutes passed and the water steadily rose higher, a rushing river in the darkness. It tugged at our soaked garments and I had moment of pure terror when I stumbled and fell headfirst into those turbulent waters, but John’s strong hand pulled me upright again.

  Onward we waded. The water surged around my knees, then my hips. John unhooked his suspenders and tied our wrists together so we couldn’t be torn apart. Neither of us wasted time bemoaning the situation, but it was clear that if we didn’t find a way out soon, we were doomed.