Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  “Sounds nice.”

  He laughed. “Not exactly. One of them was Santa Claus with a cudgel in his hand about to beat a disobedient child. I never forgot that one.”

  Klara Schmidt.

  She was there when he killed his father. She had served the family for years. And I’d wager she knew what a doppelgänger was.

  “We have to find her, Moran. Tomorrow,” I said firmly. “And you have to leave.”

  The fear surged back into his eyes. “In a little while.”

  “No, now. You’re lucky I haven’t summoned the police.”

  His voice sank to a rough whisper. “Don’t make me go out there. Not in the dark.” He swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair. “Please. I’m begging you.”

  Moran turned his face away but not before I saw what it cost him to reveal vulnerability to another person. To place himself at my mercy.

  I suppressed a sigh and tossed him the extra quilt at the foot of the bed. “Just for tonight.”

  He wrapped it around his shoulders and tipped the chair back so he could rest his head against the wall. I left the candle burning. After a minute, his eyes slipped shut.

  “Pell?” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “I’ll keep my promise. No matter what happens.”

  Moran did not speak again and his even breathing signaled that he had finally fallen into slumber. With the lines of his face relaxed, he looked closer to his age.

  Nineteen.

  I dozed fitfully, waking every time the house creaked. I wasn’t sure how I would stop it if it tried to come inside, but I knew I wouldn’t let it have him without a fight.

  When the soft light of dawn came, I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The candle had burned down to a stub. My spare quilt was folded at the end of the bed.

  The window was open and James Moran was gone.

  12

  The temperature had dropped overnight and dead leaves skittered along the sidewalk as I crossed Fifty-Eighth Street, driven by a wind that cut straight through my thin coat and forced me to clutch my hat with one hand. The Moran mansion looked even more grim and forbidding than usual. All the blinds were pulled shut. Not a gleam of light shone through the windows.

  It seemed sentient, that house, as if it were waiting for something, and I felt a twinge of uneasiness as I passed through the iron gates and sounded the knocker.

  The door was opened by a uniformed maid, who curtsied and took my coat.

  “Miss Pell to see Mr. Moran,” I said briskly.

  She led me to the downstairs drawing room. Moran sat near the fireplace, his legs stretched toward the cold hearth. He looked nothing like the frightened boy who had begged to sleep on my floor hours before. He wore an immaculate dark suit and somber tie. His hair was combed, his beard shaved. The only telltale sign anything was amiss lurked in his eyes, which were red-rimmed and guarded.

  Tamsin and Emma sat side by side on the couch. Emma sipped a cup of coffee.

  “Miss Pell,” Moran said in a neutral tone, rising to his feet.

  “I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Not at all. I hoped you’d join us.”

  I took a chair opposite to Tamsin and Emma, again struck by how different they were in appearance. Both women were beautiful, but Tamsin was wan and ethereal while Emma smoldered with dark fire.

  “We were just discussing Klara Schmidt,” he said. “Apparently, she returned to Germany two years ago.”

  I kept my face smooth, but the news surprised me. “Is that so?”

  “She had a niece in Cologne,” Emma said. “Klara always spoke fondly of her. Her name was. . . .” Emma trailed off with a frown. “What was it? Hannah, I think. Yes, Hannah. She sent letters at least once a month. Don’t you remember, Tamsin?”

  Moran’s mother looked up with a vague expression. “What?”

  “Hannah Schmidt. She pressed Klara to return to Germany and live with her.” Emma laid her cup in the saucer. “James won’t tell me why you’re so interested in Klara. Are you afraid something’s happened to her?”

  “She’s a person of interest,” I said. “I’m afraid I can’t say more than that.”

  “But she didn’t even know those boys,” Emma said. “The woman hardly left her room for years. She was older than Rip Van Winkle. I can’t imagine her hurting a fly!”

  “I can,” Tamsin said darkly. “Klara was an odd duck. I have a picture somewhere.” She rose to her feet, brushing off Emma’s attempts to help her. “I’m not a complete invalid,” she snapped. Emma flushed and looked hurt. “Come,” Tamsin said to me in an imperious tone. “There’s a trunk up in the attic.”

  I thought Moran would insist on joining us, but he stayed in his seat, staring at Emma, as I walked his mother to the door. She led me up three flights of curving stairs, clutching the rail the whole way, her legs wobbling like a newborn fawn. I feared she might collapse, but at last we gained the top floor and she opened the door to one of the round turret rooms. Stained glass windows admitted soft light. The space was filled with boxes and furniture under white sheets. Mrs. Moran rummaged through a trunk and took out a small photograph in a silver frame.

  It must have been taken in the nursery because a painted rocking horse was visible off to the side. A severe-looking woman with her hair in a tightly braided bun stared at the camera, her mouth set in an unsmiling grimace. A dark-haired child stood next to her in a white dress with lace trim. The impish nose and pointy chin told me it was little Emma.

  “That’s her,” Mrs. Moran said with a dry cackle. “The witch herself!”

  Klara Schmidt stared at the camera and I had the eerie sensation she was looking directly at me.

  “May I borrow this?”

  “You can have it,” Mrs. Moran said firmly. “I never liked the woman. Kept her away from my James.”

  “Why didn’t you just dismiss her?”

  Tamsin laughed. “Declan wouldn’t stand for it. She was like a second mother to him. For all I know, she raised his grandfather, too. He wouldn’t hear a word against her.”

  I tucked the portrait in my pocket and we started back downstairs. When we passed Moran’s music room, I paused and bent down to examine the lock. I had finally managed to wade through Myrtle’s monogram on tool marks and it proved quite enlightening. Moran thought the shallow gouges had been made by the dogs (“They can’t stand a closed door”) but the nails of a large animal would be wider and leave longer, deeper scratches. These were most likely—

  “What are you doing?” Mrs. Moran was staring back at me with a queer expression on her face.

  I hastily stood up. “Nothing. Sorry! My boot came untied.”

  I fussed with the laces as she eyed me for another moment, then hurried to follow her down the stairs. When we reached the drawing room, Moran and Emma were in the same places, but the air between them felt charged. I wondered what they’d been talking about while we were gone.

  “Did you find it?” Emma asked, bounding to her feet.

  I showed her the picture.

  “Oh, my Lord,” she murmured, studying it over my shoulder. “I haven’t seen that in years. Where did you find it, Tamsin?”

  “Trunk in the attic,” Moran’s mother replied.

  “I remember that day,” Emma said slowly. “It was just before Christmas. I was so excited to have my portrait taken. You gave me that dress, Tamsin. It had little pearl buttons.”

  “Actually, I seem to recall that Declan bought it for you.”

  “Did he?” She glanced at the bare place on the wall where his portrait had hung, then looked at Moran. “You were just a little boy, James. I don’t suppose you remember Klara.”

  “Not well.” He slouched in the chair with his ankles crossed, an unreadable look on his face.

  “I’m tired,” Tamsin announced. She looked ghostly and I wondered if our brief trip up to the attic had exhausted her. “I’m afraid I must lie down. James, would you help me to my room?”
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  “Of course, Mother.” He rose and gave her his arm.

  The two of them disappeared up the stairs and I turned back to find Emma Bayard watching me with a thoughtful expression.

  “Why are you so interested in Klara Schmidt?” she asked.

  I shrugged apologetically. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it. You ought to ask your nephew.”

  She made a noise of irritation. “I have, Miss Pell. Several times. Not just about Klara, but about what the devil is happening! James tells us nothing. He pretends everything is normal. I doubt Tamsin is capable of noticing, you’ve seen her condition, but anyone who knows him can see he’s deeply troubled.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “He hardly eats or sleeps. He jumps at the smallest sound. I won’t ask you to betray a confidence, Miss Pell, but if there is anything I can do to help, you have only to ask. He’s more like a brother to me than a nephew. I care for him deeply.”

  “I can see that,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral.

  “You think we’re a sorry bunch, don’t you?” Emma said defensively. “And perhaps we are. But at least we have each other!” She passed a shaking hand across her eyes. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “I think we’ve been shut up in this house for too long. I have forgotten my manners, please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I wish I could tell you more, but if you wish to be of use, you could tell me what you remember of Klara.”

  A shadow crossed Emma’s face. “To be perfectly honest, I was glad to see her leave. She was not a warm woman. I don’t think she liked children very much.”

  “She cared for you?”

  “Yes, until I was sixteen or so. She had been Declan’s nurse, too, you know. Doted on him.”

  “How did she react when . . . ?” I diplomatically cleared my throat.

  Emma gave me a sharp look. “I don’t know. It wasn’t discussed. We were all in a state of shock. She left for Germany not long after the trial ended.”

  “Do you have the address of her relatives?”

  “I might.” Emma frowned in thought. “I believe she did send us a single letter that first Christmas, assuring us she had arrived safely and settled in. I can look for it.”

  “Would you have saved the envelope?”

  “Yes, I always do. Do you want the return address?”

  I nodded.

  “Of course.” Emma gave me a rueful smile. “Allow me some time, Miss Pell, I’m not a paragon of organization like James. My writing desk is a frightful mess. But I’ll give it to James if it turns up.”

  “Give me what?”

  Moran leaned against the doorframe. His posture was relaxed, but something inside seemed wound to within an inch of breaking. I could see it in the watchful stillness of his features.

  “The letter from Klara,” Emma said, rising to her feet and walking to him. She smoothed the hair at the nape of his neck. “Don’t be angry with me, but I confessed to Miss Pell that I’m worried about you.”

  Moran sighed. “I’m fine, Emma. Tamsin wants you to read to her. She says you’re on Chapter Sixteen of Bleak House.”

  Emma gave him a last cow-eyed look and departed. Moran walked to the mantle, staring off into space.

  “Do you think Klara is still alive?” I asked.

  “That old vulture’s too mean to die,” he muttered. “But if she is in Germany, we’ll never get to her. Not in time.”

  “I can make enquiries with the London office—”

  He rounded on me with sudden savagery. “Don’t you see, Pell? It’s over. Klara Schmidt is another dead end. If she is the one who cursed me, she’s already won. I’m on the verge of dying in some bizarre manner and there’s not a thing either of us can do about it.”

  “If you just hold on a little longer—”

  He gave a despairing chuckle that chilled me. “Have you ever heard of Paris Green?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s a particularly vivid dye that used to be all the rage. The Empress Eugenie wore a gown to the opera in ’63 that was the talk of the French papers the next day. A green so deep and vivid it was unchanged even by gaslight. Turns out it was loaded with arsenic.”

  Moran sat down across from me. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from his trouser leg. His fingers moved restlessly, as if itching for a pencil or the keys of a piano. “They used it for wallpaper, clothing, artificial flowers. The little girls who made those flowers started dying, the whites of their eyes turned green, but no one gave a damn. Not until Queen Victoria finally got wind of the rumors and ordered the wallpaper removed from Buckingham Palace.” He chuckled again. “Paris Green fell out of fashion after that.”

  I poured myself a cup of lukewarm coffee. “Your point?”

  He leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Ask most men what they fear and they’ll say it’s getting snuffed in a dark alley. But there are worse ways to go and I know them all.” He sprang to his feet and stalked to the window. “What would you say the number one accidental death is? Take a guess, Pell.”

  “I don’t know.” I thought of poor Daniel Cherney. “Run over by a cart?”

  “Fire,” Moran said softly, his back to me. “Burns account for well over half. Mostly women, since they spend more time at home.”

  I glanced at the cold hearth. “At least it’s still September.”

  “Falls from a height are number two. About 13,000 per year.”

  “Stay away from windows.”

  He laid his palm against the glass, fingers spread wide. “Your first guess is number three. The ever popular road accident. Includes collisions of all sorts involving carriages, railways and horses.” Moran turned and smiled horribly. “Oh yes, I’ve already encountered that one, haven’t I?”

  I set my cup back in the saucer. “Then you can cross it off the list.”

  “Ah, but we don’t know that for a fact. In fact, we know nothing.” He rubbed his hands together in manic glee. “Let’s move on to accidental poisoning, a perennial favorite. There are two subcategories: lethal intoxication by gases and vapors – a fair degree of overlap with fire deaths there –and poisoning by solids and liquids, for example, the splendid Paris Green!”

  “Pull yourself together, Moran,” I advised sternly.

  He didn’t seem to hear me. “One mustn’t forget drowning. Fairly straightforward, though it can occur in the bath if you’re drunk enough.” He frowned. “I suppose one could also trip and fall headfirst into a well. The odds would be long, but in my case that’s not a factor.”

  “Choking,” I said, thinking of the book by Song Ci. “That ought to be its own category.”

  Moran beamed at me. “Now you’re getting into the spirit, Pell. Choking is, in fact, a distinct cause of death, defined as ingesting any object that blocks the airways.”

  “Speaking of which, do you think the maid could bring some of those iced cakes?” I ventured. “You don’t have to eat any.”

  His lip curled. “Very amusing.”

  “I wasn’t joking. I missed breakfast this morning—”

  “Industrial accidents.”

  “Pardon?”

  He ticked the list off on one hand. “Explosions, equipment malfunctions, mining disasters, falling objects, et cetera.”

  “I don’t think you’re in much danger there unless you plan to get an actual job.”

  “No?” He collapsed into an armchair. “What about Francis? Suffocating slowly in that webbing of ropes, feet kicking in the air thirty feet up while everyone watched. I’d rather have my throat slit and be done with it!”

  “Are you finished?” I asked with a sigh.

  “Almost.”

  I thought for a moment. “What’s left?”

  Moran smiled. “Firearms. Not as popular as fire, but a thriving little niche nonetheless.” He reached into his coat and took out a pistol, examining it with detachment. “Accidental discharge while cleaning one’s weapon. A few hundred dea
ths a year, I’d reckon.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” I snapped, eyeing the gun uneasily. A chill swept through me. “Put it away.”

  “It isn’t loaded—”

  The gun went off at that precise instant, blasting a hole through his grandfather’s portrait. I shrieked and covered my head. Moments later, I heard running footsteps in the hall and the anxious voice of a footman through the door.

  “Are you all right, sir?” he called.

  Moran stared at the gun for a long moment, shock on his face. Cordite hung in the air. Then he blinked and seemed to come back to himself. “Fine, Carmichael. Everyone’s fine. Please inform the ladies it was an accident.”

  We looked at each other and suddenly we were both laughing like ghouls. I could hear the footman hesitating in the hall, then walking away. He must have thought we were mad.

  “Stop playing the fool,” I said once I’d managed to sober up. “Put that gun away. We need to talk.”

  Moran’s face darkened. “I’ll have my boys pick up Quincy, Thaddeus and Joseph. One of them will start talking once they’re tied to chairs down at the Avalon. I’ll question them one at a time, make the others watch through the one-way glass—”

  “You’re not torturing anyone,” I said firmly.

  “Why not? I should have done it days ago!”

  “Because it’s not any of them.”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously. “How do you know?”

  “I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am. Listen, Moran.” I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “What if Klara Schmidt didn’t go back to Germany after all?”

  “You still believe it’s her?”

  “I think it’s someone close to you. Do you ever. . . . ” I hesitated, all too aware of the treacherous currents swirling around me.

  “Ever what?” His face was tense. “Say it!”

  “All right.” I met his angry gaze. “Have you noticed how Emma looks at you?”

  “What exactly are you implying?” he snapped.