Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  “It’s not a matter of taking on a private client,” Orpha Winter said, an edge to her voice. “It’s a matter of loyalty. You threw a few breadcrumbs our way, but you withheld everything of actual importance.”

  She returned her wrath to me. “Your behavior is a slap in the face to your fellow agents and a disgrace to the Society as a whole.”

  “If I may, Mrs. Winter—” Kate ventured.

  “You may not,” Orpha responded. “So, Miss Pell. Let’s see if I have my facts straight.” She shuffled a stack of papers but didn’t look down at them. “Mr. Moran was a member of a secret club at Columbia College called the Pythagoras Society, is that correct?”

  “I’m afraid I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

  “And he induced his fellow members to sign a document in blood, which was then used by his aunt to curse the lot of them?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

  She stared at me with disgust. “In fact, your illustrious client is suspected of involvement in organized crime and corruption of public officials, is that correct, Miss Pell?”

  “I can neither confirm—”

  “Oh, yes,” she said acidly, waving a piece of paper at me. “The infamous confidentiality agreement.” Mrs. Winter tore it in half and dropped the pieces to the floor. Even Kaylock frowned at that.

  “Just because you rip it up doesn’t make it invalid,” he muttered.

  Orpha Winter snorted. “It was never valid to begin with. Miss Pell accepted a case that was already under the jurisdiction of the S.P.R. and Ninth Detectives Division. And her client is a notorious convicted murderer!”

  Kaylock sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Weston is right, Orpha. There is nothing in her contract that explicitly precludes taking other work.”

  “A technicality. It’s a miracle no one else died. Am I the only one troubled by her actions?” Orpha frowned at John. “Yours too, Mr. Weston. Honestly, I expected better of you.”

  John gave her a flat stare. “Miss Pell is my partner and I support her wholeheartedly. Please note that for the record.”

  “Oh, I will, Mr. Weston.” Orpha brandished a piece of paper. “Speaking of the record, this is a letter from Mr. Moran’s attorneys. They’re threatening to sue us for slander and harassment if any of these allegations are publicly repeated. It’s ridiculous considering the amount of evidence corroborating Miss Prince and Mr. Copperthwaite’s report, but there you have it. Such a legal battle could bankrupt us. I’ve been advised by our own attorneys that the files must be sealed once this inquiry is concluded. The Moran name is not to be mentioned in connection with the case under any circumstances.”

  “Agreed,” Mr. Kaylock said wearily. “Let’s just bury this one.”

  “But there remains the question of how Miss Pell should be disciplined.”

  “She’s already been put on unpaid leave for a month,” Kaylock protested. “I think that’s more than adequate.”

  “Do you? Well, I don’t, and nor does the Board of Directors.” Orpha Winter rose to her feet. “I hereby exercise my prerogative as a vice president of the Society to suspend Miss Pell for one year—”

  “A year!” John exclaimed. “That’s excessive.”

  “For one year,” she continued, “at which time the issue will be revisited.”

  “I strongly object, Orpha,” Kaylock said. “This was a remarkably peculiar and complicated case. There is a high likelihood that Miss Prince and Mr. Copperthwaite would never have learned the truth without the information unearthed by Miss Pell, although I give them full credit for their subsequent investigation. Everything hinged on James Moran and it is eminently clear that he would never have come to us willingly. Why he chose to place his confidence in Miss Pell and Mr. Weston, I don’t know, but I think they acted to the best of their abilities under trying circumstances.”

  “I second that,” Kaye Prince said quietly, and her partner gave a grudging nod.

  “Moran reversed the curse, his aunt is in no position to harm anyone else, and the Society has a new entity to add to the archives—” Orpha opened her mouth and Kaylock rode over her. “And it hardly matters if those archives are sealed, we can still share them with the London branch. So I fail to see what great harm Miss Pell and Mr. Weston have done.”

  Orpha sighed. “And what sort of precedent will this set, Harland? That our agents can sell their services to the highest bidder regardless of how it might undermine our own active investigations?”

  Mr. Kaylock opened his mouth and closed it again. He raked a hand through his unkempt chestnut hair.

  “And what about confidentiality? You trusted Miss Pell with intimate details of the case under the rightful assumption that she worked for us. In fact, her loyalty lay with James Moran, who, without beating a dead horse, is a man of tarnished reputation and dubious character. In truth, I find it rather inexplicable that Miss Pell would risk her future on such a client, and that in turn speaks to her own judgment and character—”

  “Don’t you dare!” John erupted, leaping to his feet, and then the two of them were yelling at each other and Mr. Kaylock was scowling and I felt the whole situation sliding irretrievably over a cliff.

  “Stop!” I shouted, and the room fell silent. I looked at Orpha Winter, who lifted her chin defiantly. “You raised some valid points, I can’t deny it.”

  “Harry—” John began, spots of color burning in his cheeks.

  “No, she’s right. It does set a poor precedent for the organization. I never planned it this way, but I ought to take responsibility for what I did.”

  Orpha listened with an expression that was hard to read, but she didn’t interrupt.

  “I can’t break my agreement with Moran, I just can’t, but I hope you believe me when I say I had my own reasons and that they are of a personal nature.” I sighed. “That’s all. I don’t blame you for being angry and I’m willing to accept a year’s suspension. Frankly, I expected worse.”

  Orpha Winter gave a slow nod. There was a new respect in her eyes. “Thank you, Miss Pell. I appreciate that you have your reasons, although without knowing what they are, it is impossible for me to gauge whether they constitute extenuating circumstances that could modify this disciplinary action. Therefore, if Harland withdraws his objection, I move that we proceed with the penalty as previously endorsed by the Board of Directors, with the proviso that Miss Pell will be reinstated in one year’s time barring any new outrages.” The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “The same goes for you, Weston. Don’t think you’re off the hook.”

  “You don’t have to suspend me,” John said coldly. “I intend to stand by Harry and in fact, I would insist on sharing her penalty.”

  “Very good.” She straightened her skirts and reached for the sheaf of papers. “That’s settled then.” Mrs. Winter’s gaze fell on me one last time. “I don’t dislike you, Miss Pell, whatever you might think. In fact, I admire your chutzpah, as the Hebrews say. But you invited a snake into the garden and I’m not sure we’ve seen all the consequences of that yet.”

  With those words, she donned her ostrich plume hat and swept out the door, leaving Kate and Wayne to shake our hands and offer commiseration. Mr. Kaylock sat down by the fire, a weary look on his face.

  “I warned you, Pell,” he said softly.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “And now I’m down two investigators.” He gave me a sharp look. “Don’t get any ideas about taking other work. Do what you must to stay occupied, but I fully expect you to return next autumn.”

  I suppressed a smile. “Don’t worry, I will, sir.”

  He studied me for a moment. “That sister of yours. I don’t suppose she’d ever . . . .”

  “Probably not,” I replied. “She doesn’t have much interest in the supernatural.”

  He nodded glumly. “How’s her leg?”

  “Healing cleanly, sir.”

  Kaylock let out a long sigh. “That was such a terrible thing, Pell.
I read about the trial in the paper. Those thugs were vicious, thank God they’re behind bars.” His lips thinned. “Though there are always more waiting in the wings, aren’t there?”

  I held his gaze. “Indeed, sir. But I don’t think Myrtle will be troubled again. In fact, I’m certain of it.”

  We stared at each other for a moment. His eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. “I’m glad, Miss Pell,” he said quietly. “Very glad.”

  It felt awkward to hang about at Pearl Street — and, quite frankly, depressing — so John and I took our leave.

  “If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask,” Kate Prince said, taking my hands. She gave me an encouraging smile. “The time will go quickly, Harry, you’ll see.”

  “Hang in there, Weston,” Wayne Copperthwaite said. “You, too, Pell. No hard feelings.”

  I nodded my thanks and we went down the staircase, nodding at Joseph on the way out. Outside, the sun was shining like any other day, though my feet felt made of lead. Despite my words, I wondered if I should have fought harder.

  “That underhanded woman,” John muttered as we walked past the adjoining brick buildings of Edison’s power station. “I can’t believe she went to the Board of Directors behind our backs. She must have planned it all from the beginning.” He glanced at me. “I’m sorry about how it turned out.”

  “It’s all right.” I forced a smile and tucked my arm through his. “You were lovely back there, John. Thank you.”

  He patted my hand. “At least Kaylock understands and he’s your direct superior. Mrs. Winter always had it in for you, Harry.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” I said slowly. “She comes off a bit harsh, but I think she does have the S.P.R.’s best interests at heart. If I were her, I might have done the same.”

  We reached Centre Street in the vicinity of City Hall, with its hubbub of Chinese cigar sellers and aggressive newsboys hollering “Extra!” As we started to cross the park between the courthouse and the post office, I saw a young woman standing with her back to me. She was oddly still, staring into the distance. Wisps of strawberry blonde hair had come loose from her hat. She was a few inches over five feet tall and wore a coat identical to my own.

  My heart started to race. My knees grew watery.

  Then the woman turned and I saw her face. Large brown eyes and a pert, upturned nose without a single freckle. Her coat, I noticed on closer inspection, was in fact a slightly darker shade of red.

  “Are you all right?” John asked, scrutinizing me. “You’re not. Of course you’re not. Who would be after being pilloried like that? Let me take you out to lunch at the Atlantic Garden, Harry. We’ll plot our comeback and Mrs. Winter’s demise over a giant platter of German sausages.”

  I loosed my clenched fingers and forced a smile. “Agreed. But John?”

  “What?”

  “Let’s make it Chinatown instead.”

  19

  It was a cold, bright morning in late October when a knock came on the front door at Tenth Street.

  The first hard frost of autumn had arrived overnight, withering the purple and gold asters in their window boxes. Mrs. Rivers had gone shopping, dragging Connor along to carry her baskets. John was at school taking yet another midterm examination. And I was sitting at the kitchen table staring into a cold cup of coffee, wondering what would become of us.

  Myrtle had accepted a few small cases that she pondered from the confines of her bed, but she was far from fully recovered – and growing more unbearable by the day. After the debacle of the S.P.R. hearing, I’d holed up to lick my own wounds. John came over for dinner most evenings, undeterred by the miasma of gloom hanging over the house. He told stories about peculiar medical conditions and his visits were the best part of my waking hours, which had started blurring together.

  I raised the cup to my lips, wincing at the acid dregs but too listless to make a fresh pot.

  Tap-tap.

  It was a gloved hand rather than the knocker; I could tell by the sound.

  The thought occurred to me that it might be a new client, but they would invariably want Myrtle and I could hardly impersonate her when she was only a few rooms away. So I ignored the summons, hoping whoever it was would give up and leave.

  The knocking came again, harder this time.

  “Answer it, Harrison,” my sister screeched from the depths of the house, “or I’ll shoot whoever’s standing there!”

  I trudged to the door and opened it.

  James Moran stood on the stoop, a black silk top hat on his head and a silver-headed cane in his hand. He wore kid gloves in maroon leather that matched his staggeringly expensive fur-trimmed cashmere overcoat.

  “Jesus Christ, Pell,” he remarked. “You look like you’ve been dragged through the gutters of Bottle Alley. Backwards.”

  I glanced down at my wrinkled dress and stocking feet. My big toe poked through a hole and the ragged nail was black with dirt. Mrs. Rivers had given up hounding me about my unkempt appearance, though she clucked in dismay every time our paths crossed, which was as rarely as I could manage.

  “What do you want?” I asked. “Myrtle just offered to shoot whoever was banging on the door and now that I know who it is, I might let her.”

  He squinted, his thick black eyebrows furrowing. “Are those coffee grounds?”

  I ran an exploratory tongue across my teeth.

  Yes, they were coffee grounds.

  “Who is it, Harrison?” Myrtle called down from her room.

  I drew a deep breath. “Mormon missionaries!”

  I retracted my bare toe into the stocking — it was getting cold from the draft blowing through the open door — and took a moment to study my former client.

  Moran had gained weight and looked as buffed and polished as the floor of Mrs. Astor’s ballroom. Gone were the shadows under his eyes and the hollows in his cheeks. His complexion was ruddy with health, his mouth curved in the arrogant smirk I recalled so vividly from days of yore.

  I resisted the urge to reach out and knock his top hat off. Or perhaps to flick the end of his aquiline nose.

  Moran seemed to read my thoughts for he smiled nastily. “Have birds been nesting in your hair, Pell? Or do you simply no longer comb it?”

  “Once again,” I said with dignity. “State your business or be gone.”

  Moran tipped the hat to a rakish angle so he could scratch his ear. “Well, now, I just thought you might want to know how dear Auntie Emma found out about the charter.”

  Despite myself, I felt a spark of interest. I absolutely loathed loose ends.

  “Talk fast,” I said, dropping my voice. “My sister just graduated to crutches. She’s mobile to a degree, not to mention armed. It would be most unfortunate for both of us if she found you here.”

  “Ah, Myrtle.” He spoke the name with fondness. “I’ve missed her at the Avalon. I think I’ll send over a bottle of our finest champagne once she—”

  “Auntie Emma and the charter,” I hissed, throwing a quick glance over my shoulder. Myrtle had trouble with stairs, but she couldn’t stand missionaries and might come down to shoot them on principle. “I haven’t time for your inane prattling, Moran.”

  He held his gloved hands up. “All right, all right. It seems Quincy Hughes told her about it. He came to the house a few months ago hoping to nick it from my room. He had some notion that I might try to blackmail him once he gained public office. Threaten to make him look like a fool who befriended misfits and oddballs, not to mention convicted murderers.” Moran sighed. “I told you Quincy was too ambitious.”

  “What a mad notion,” I said flatly. “Why would he ever think such a thing?”

  Moran shook his head with an expression of bewildered innocence. “I haven’t the foggiest, Pell. Anyway, Emma caught him trying to jimmy the lock to the music room and pried the whole story from him. She knew the other boys were my friends from school but not that we called ourselves the Pythagoras Society. She promised Quincy
she’d destroy the charter and he went away. Of course she didn’t.”

  “She stole it herself.” I thought for a moment. “It explains the third set of scratches I found on the door. And it also explains why it took her so long to get revenge after she bought the spell from Hannah Ferber. The dried blood of the signatures must have been the missing ingredient, the one thing she couldn’t get her hands on.”

  “Indeed. I remember now that she offered to give me a shave when my valet fell sick last spring. Happily, I declined.” He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “No doubt the razor would have slipped.”

  “Well, that is all quite enlightening,” I conceded. “Thank you for telling me. How did you learn the truth?”

  His eyes darkened. “I thought it rather strange when Quincy turned up at the fire so quickly. Turns out that’s where Emma had gone — to meet him. He was starting to suspect she had used the charter for a wicked purpose and threatened to expose her.” Moran gave a regretful sigh. “So I invited him to the Avalon for a little chat. He admitted everything.”

  “We both know Quincy Hughes isn’t the confessing type. What did you do to him, Moran?”

  “Nothing he didn’t richly deserve, Pell.”

  “Oh God.” My hands knit together. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Not dead.” Moran leaned forward and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Merely in the hold of a galley bound for Shanghai. The crimps of the Fourth Ward were more than happy to oblige me.”

  I thought of Quincy’s haughty manner and aristocratic drawl and couldn’t help laughing, but my mirth soured at Moran’s next words.

  “I heard they suspended you.” He gave me a level look. “I’m sorry for that.”

  I shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “I can still take private clients. Perhaps Myrtle and I will hang out a shingle together.”

  “Well, good luck. I hope I never require your services again,” he said with a dry laugh.

  “Mr. Moran.” I smiled. “All the gold in Egypt wouldn’t induce me—”