Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  I nodded wearily.

  Quincy stared at the house with a quiet horror that struck me as unfeigned. “Do you know if James is inside?”

  I nodded again, not trusting my own voice.

  “Dear God.” We stood in silence for a minute. “I live just around the corner. When I heard the commotion, I was afraid . . . .” Quincy glanced at me. “Why are you here?”

  I was suddenly tired of secrets. Weary to the bone of them. “He told me about the Pythagoras Society, Mr. Hughes. The charter you signed. Danny and the golem. All of it.”

  His eyes widened in shock. Then they went distant for a minute as he puzzled it out. “Fearing Pell . . . You’re that private investigator he mentioned, aren’t you?”

  “I failed him,” I muttered. “And now it’s too late.”

  Quincy stared at the fire, his jaw working. “He paid Cashel’s tuition at Columbia. Some of Danny’s, too. James could be a righteous bastard and I know what they say about him, but he didn’t deserve this.”

  “No,” I agreed. “Not this.”

  I thought of the seven names signed in blood. The next one was Quincy Hughes.

  I was about to offer the Night Squad’s protection, for all the good it would do him, when the front door flew open. A figure stood silhouetted against the fierce orange light, a woman dangling over one shoulder. Soot streaked his face. His coat was charred and smoking.

  My hand flew to my mouth. We watched in silence as he limped down the walk and through the tall wrought-iron gates.

  It seemed impossible that anything could have survived the inferno raging beyond.

  The firemen evidently thought the same thing for they paused with expressions of blank astonishment. The figure halted at the curb. I tried to swallow but my throat was too dry.

  I had just remembered something.

  The next victim always saw the doppelgänger of the last victim at the moment of his death.

  It had happened three times, with Danny, Francis and Cashel.

  Signs and portents.

  Quincy Hughes stiffened. “James?” he croaked.

  For a moment, the only sound was the hungry roar of the flames. It was as if a portal to Hades had been thrown wide.

  Then the figure scowled. “What the hell are you all goggling at?” he snapped. “My house is on fire. Put it out!”

  I saw a blur of movement among the dark trees in the park. The brindle dog leapt forward with a joyous bark and hurled itself at Moran, licking his fingers.

  A slow, happy grin spread across my face. It was my client, all right.

  Three firemen rushed forward to take Emma, whose face looked badly blistered. Moran seemed relieved to be free of his burden, but when they tried to lead him to an ambulance wagon he shook them off. The men finally shrugged and let him be.

  Quincy moved first, rushing over to Moran and clapping him on the shoulder. They spoke for a minute and then Quincy left, his expression both confused and relieved. I crossed the street, unsure what I planned to say but too curious to stay away. Moran stood alone in the midst of the chaos with his hands stuffed in his pockets, watching the house burn. He didn’t look angry or upset. No, he looked meditative.

  “You could have left her up there,” I said in a low voice. “No one would have questioned it.”

  The shouts of the firemen resumed as they redoubled their efforts to extinguish the blaze. Three horse-drawn pumper trucks were fighting it now and a dense plume of black smoke reached into the sky.

  “She was mad. What’s the point in punishing a madwoman?” He gave me a faint smile, then turned his gaze back to the fire. “Besides which, I didn’t think you’d approve, Harrison.”

  I glanced past his shoulder as a police wagon slowed at the corner of Fifty-Eighth Street and was admitted through the barricades. Sergeant Mallory stepped out with Detective Brach. Moments later, Harland Kaylock emerged, stooping from the carriage door like a dark bird of prey. My heart sank as he spotted us and began to stride purposefully in our direction.

  “When did you ever care about my approval?” I muttered.

  “Since you saved me.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You did.” Moran met my eye. He looked older and wiser and a little sadder. He looked changed, in some indefinable way. “I don’t mean the times at Central Park or Division Street, though I’m grateful for that, too.”

  I smiled. “Your everlasting soul?”

  Moran laughed outright. “I’m still destined for Hell and I plan to enjoy every minute of the ride down.” His grin died. “But right now I need you to honor our agreement.”

  “Honor our . . . ?” I stared at him in disbelief. “You said we could call in the Night Squad! Now they’re here and they’re going to want answers. From me.”

  “That was before.” His jaw tightened and I saw the deep mistrust in his face. “I hate coppers. More than you can possibly imagine. They never did a single thing when my father—” He bit off the rest of the sentence. “They have no right to pry into my affairs. If Declan taught me one thing, it was to keep my mouth shut. I’m asking you to do the same.”

  A chilly gust sent whirlwinds of sparks into the darkness. I pulled John’s coat closer around my shoulders. “Are you asking or ordering?”

  His face softened a fraction. “Asking.”

  If Moran had bullied or threatened, I would have refused him, but the plea in his eyes got me. So did the memory of two laughing boys with parasols.

  “All right.” I straightened my back as Mr. Kaylock bore down on us like an avalanche. “Just tell me one thing. Why did it let you live? Is that all it wanted? To speak to you alone?”

  Moran didn’t reply.

  “Tell me,” I hissed, reaching for his lapels to shake an answer loose. “Damn you—”

  “Miss Pell.” Kaylock’s gaze swept over me and I saw relief in his eyes. “Thank God you’re unhurt. Weston’s message sounded dire. What exactly happened here?”

  I hesitated, glancing at Moran. My client crossed his arms and arched an eyebrow.

  “There’s been a fire, sir.”

  The stained glass windows of the turrets shattered as the frames buckled, yellow flames leaping from the breach. Firemen shouted and frantically pumped the water trucks. Kaylock glanced at the inferno raging across the street.

  “I can see that, Miss Pell. Quit stalling. Mr. Weston’s cable said it was connected to the doubles case. That you required urgent assistance at the home of Mr. James Moran. A matter of life and death.”

  I was saved from replying by the arrival of Julius Brach and Sergeant Mallory. Brach gave me a searching look but held his peace.

  “Was it arson?” Mallory asked, squinting at the house.

  “An accident,” Moran interjected. “I was burning some personal papers and carelessly left the window of my study open. The wind must have blown cinders out of the hearth.”

  He reached into his shirt and found Klara Schmidt’s crucifix. Moran held the rosary in his fist for a moment, eyes closed in an attitude of prayer. Then he sighed and met Mallory’s stare.

  “Thank God no one was killed. My mother is staying at a hotel and the servants were dismissed for the evening. Only my aunt was home, but I managed to get her out.”

  “I’ll still need your full statement,” Mallory said with a frown. “All of your statements. If it has a bearing on the other so-called accidents—”

  “Pardon, but I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re talking about,” Moran said with a puzzled expression. Any trace of the Irish brogue was gone, ditto the salty slang. He sounded exactly like the other privileged sons of Mansion Row. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  Mr. Kaylock and Sergeant Mallory exchanged an irritated look.

  “You must be Miss Pell’s mystery client,” Kaylock said, studying Moran. “The one with a strong personal interest in the case.”

  “And who the hell are you?” Moran asked tightly.

  “Harland
Kaylock of the Society for Psychical Research. Miss Pell’s nominal employer.”

  “Indeed. Well, I’ll gladly reimburse any expenses you’ve incurred in coming here. In fact, I would write you a check right now except that I’m afraid my checkbook was in my desk.”

  “Money is not the point—” Mr. Kaylock began.

  “But I must insist that Miss Pell not face retribution. You should be grateful to have her considerable talents.”

  “You’re in no position to insist on anything,” Mallory said, his moustache bristling. “This is an official police matter and you have to answer my questions.” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t scare me, Moran.”

  “I’m not trying to, sergeant.” He shrugged. “Interrogate me if you must. What does Commissioner Byrnes call it?” Moran gave a dry smile. “Oh, yes. The third degree.” He held out his wrists. “You can arrest me and kick me down as many flights of stairs as you like, but I don’t know anything useful.”

  “Miss Pell,” Kaylock said. “If we may speak privately?”

  I swallowed. “Of course.”

  We stepped to the side. “He’s insufferable,” Kaylock seethed.

  “Trust me, I’m well aware of that.”

  My boss looked troubled. “Will there be more deaths?”

  I knew the answer, though I couldn’t explain how. “I don’t think so, no.”

  He nodded slowly. “What was it?”

  I sighed. “Kate and Wayne are solid investigators. Once they have hold of a thread, the whole story will unravel.” I gazed at the burning mansion. “That’s the first thread, but you didn’t need me to tell you that. I can’t say any more. I promised.”

  “I hope you understand that Mallory will be the least of our problems. He recognizes your value and might overlook the liberties you’ve taken. But this is going to get ugly before it’s over, Miss Pell. Uglier by far if you refuse to speak.” Kaylock shook his head. “Why are you loyal to him?”

  It was a good question and one I didn’t entirely understand myself. “Because he’s my client.”

  Kaylock nodded. “I admire your fortitude, Miss Pell.” He gave a grim smile. “And here’s Mr. Weston.”

  John strode up. He was soaking wet and his white shirt was covered with soot and ashes. He blinked in surprise when he saw Moran bantering with Sergeant Mallory. “Jesus, he’s alive,” John muttered.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to explain the cable you sent from the Nineteenth Precinct, Mr. Weston?”

  John turned to me. I gave him a tiny shake of the head. John blew out a breath, hooking his thumbs into his suspenders and rocking back on his heels.

  “Cable?” he echoed.

  “Yes. The desperate plea for assistance that dragged us from our beds in the middle of the night.”

  “Right. I’m afraid I sent that rather prematurely.”

  Kaylock sighed. “Prematurely? The house is being reduced to ashes as we speak.”

  “I wasn’t here when the fire started, sir. I was at the Nineteenth Precinct.” He glanced at me. “It took longer than expected because a raccoon got inside somehow and the officers thought it might be rabid. . . .” John trailed off under Mr. Kaylock’s withering stare.

  “A raccoon?”

  “Yes, sir. Probably wandered out of the park.” He jerked his chin at a group of policemen. “I swear it’s the honest truth. You can go ask them.”

  Kaylock raised a weary hand to his forehead. “Oh, I will, Weston. Cover-ups are bad enough, but I simply cannot abide baldfaced lying.”

  “Sir?” I ventured.

  “What, Miss Pell?”

  “I can affirm that a very unlikely chain of events occurred tonight that you probably wouldn’t believe even if I told it to you, which I can’t. So perhaps we can wait for Miss Prince and Mr. Copperthwaite to conduct their investigation. As for the Ninth Detectives Division, Mr. Moran is on his own. If they want to lock him up, it’s no business of mine.”

  “Fair enough.” Mr. Kaylock’s lips quirked in a rare smile. “I somehow doubt they will, despite Mallory’s threats. Moran hasn’t committed any crime. And spending the night in a cell down at the Tombs isn’t exactly the terrifying prospect it would be for another spoiled rich boy.”

  Indeed, as we looked over, Sergeant Mallory stormed off, Brach at his heels like a slender shadow. Moran sank to one knee and scratched Blue behind the ears.

  Both boy and dog were grinning.

  18

  Kate Prince cleared her throat. She wore a smart yellow pinstriped dress and matching jacket, threadbare at the cuffs but neatly pressed. Wayne sat next to her in a somber coat that made his bright red hair and pasty skin look positively garish.

  “In reference to Case No. 462901, Kate Prince and Wayne Copperthwaite acting as primary investigators, the following report shall be read into the record of the Society for Psychical Research this 31st day of October, 1889.” She glanced around. “Present are Mr. Harland Kaylock, Vice President, Mrs. Orpha Winter, Second Vice President, Miss Harrison Fearing Pell and Mr. John Weston, Agents at Large.”

  We sat in the spacious library at Pearl Street. A fire burned in the hearth, but my hands were still ice cold. My fate had been delayed for the last month while the two agents completed their inquiry. Now I had a strong feeling the axe was about to fall.

  “Summary first, if you will,” Mr. Kaylock said, steepling his fingers.

  “Allow me,” Orpha Winter cut in with a smile. An attractive blonde in her middle years, she had a penchant for dramatics and scant tolerance for dissent. “James Moran’s maternal aunt, Emma Bayard, sought revenge for the murder of his father by summoning doppelgängers of Mr. Moran and his friends.” Mrs. Winter looked at me expectantly. “Is that correct, Miss Pell?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

  Her green eyes narrowed.

  “Let’s hear from Miss Prince,” Kaylock said hastily. “Please proceed.”

  Kate glanced down at her report. “This case involved a heretofore unknown entity described in German folklore as a doppelgänger. It is the exact double of a living person, though from another plane of existence.”

  “The Dominion?” Kaylock asked with a frown.

  Kate and Wayne exchanged a quick look. “It is our opinion that they do not come from the land of the dead. Some accounts claim they are spirits, but others assert that they are alive and the evidence supports that. It is possible they come from a world that is a mirror reflection of our own.”

  “Interesting hypothesis. Continue.”

  “Based on interviews with various experts, it is our opinion that doppelgängers are not inherently evil,” Kate said. “However, as the victims of Emmeline Bayard discovered, they distort the laws of probability in our world to such an extreme degree that it is nearly certain the twin will meet with a freak accident, usually within days of the initial encounter.

  “That is precisely what happened to Daniel Cherney and Francis Bates. Mr. Cherney was struck by an omnibus when a gust of wind blew a newspaper into his face, obscuring his vision as he stepped off the curb at Herald Square on August 13th. Cherney’s doppelgänger was seen by Francis Bates, who then died of accidental suffocation at the Union Square Theater on August 31st, the same day Miss Pell and Mr. Weston unmade the golem Mr. Cherney had summoned to protect himself.”

  “Good Lord, that’s convoluted,” Orpha Winter remarked. “I wondered about the golem. How did Mr. Cherney raise such a creature?”

  “It was undoubtedly his ability to warp chance,” Wayne Copperthwaite replied. “Mr. Cherney had displayed a run of extraordinary luck the same evening at the faro tables.”

  “So anything he attempted, no matter how unlikely, would have been successful?”

  “Or a complete and utter fiasco. The golem can be viewed in either light.”

  Orpha Winter looked thoughtful. “Indeed.”

  “Moving on to the third victim, Cashel O’Sullivan,” Kate said, “it is our opinion that his death wa
s a suicide, but one driven by extreme terror and therefore also attributable to Miss Bayard.”

  “And she hasn’t spoken since the fire?” Kaylock asked.

  Kate shook her head. “She remains in the critical ward at Bellevue. We went there yesterday. Her burns were superficial and they’ve mostly healed, but the doctors say the brain damage from her aneurism is severe. Emmeline Bayard will likely require constant care for the rest of her life.” Kate paused and glanced at me. “Rather surprisingly, Mr. Moran has agreed to pay for that care.”

  “Yes, let’s talk about Mr. Moran.” Orpha leaned forward. “He refused to say a single word, but you deposed his mother, I believe?”

  “She agreed to an interview. Tamsin Moran admitted to knowing about the affair between her half-sister and husband, but claimed she despised him and didn’t care.”

  Orpha looked amused. “In fact, she said, and I quote, ‘It spared me the necessity of warming his bed.’ Is that correct?”

  Kate nodded. “Mrs. Moran referred us to the former nursemaid Klara Schmidt, who in turn gave us the name of an alleged black witch named Hannah Ferber. Unfortunately, Mrs. Ferber had already left the city by the time we located her lodgings on West Twenty-First Street. Further inquiries proved fruitless.”

  “She’s vanished,” Wayne said glumly.

  “I would too if I had helped to put a curse on James Moran,” Orpha said dryly.

  “Yes, what about the curse?” Kaylock asked. “I find the fact that Moran survived to be the most puzzling aspect of this case.”

  “It is our opinion that he found a way to break the chain,” Kate replied. “We can’t adequately explain why, but none of the surviving members of the Pythagoras Society have reported anything unusual and it’s been a full month. We interviewed all three.”

  Orpha turned to me, her green eyes sharp. “No doubt Miss Pell can shed some light. She was there that night.”

  “So was I,” John said evenly. I could see he was trying to keep a tight rein on his temper. Weston was slow to ignite but once he did . . . beware. “And you know we’re not at liberty to discuss it. Mr. Moran was a private client and according to her contract with you Miss Pell had every right—”