The Alchemy of Murder

by Carol McCleary

  Drawn to the verbal duel between Oscar and the anarchist, I only catch the movement out of the corner of my eye as the girl pounces on Oscar.

  He stumbles backward, going down on his rear as the bomb goes up in the air and the girl falls with him.

  I grab the bomb, getting it with both hands, but fly forward over a crate as the girl’s brother comes alive and slams into me.

  I carry the bomb down with me, but as I hit the pavement it slips out of my hands.

  The trapeze artist’s momentum carried him over the same crate and he adroitly twists in midair to avoid falling on me.

  Screaming, I roll over on my stomach and grab my head with both hands to protect myself from the explosion. My ears are ringing and I realize what I hear are the police wagon bells. And not an explosion.

  I raise my head and look around, my mouth gaped open. Everyone has frozen in place again. Oscar is on his rear, staring at me. The girl is straddling his legs. Her brother to my left still looks confused and scared.

  Perun is halfway into the basket. He pauses for only a second and makes up his mind to go for the hand bomb rather than get into the basket.

  Police wagons can now be heard loud and clear, rolling into the area. As I rise to get up Oscar knocks the girl off his lap with a blow to her head.

  As Perun leaps for the bomb I scramble for it on hands and knees. He kicks me, his foot catching me in the side and sending me over onto my back with a cry of pain.

  Perun stops and points his pistol down at me. “Die, bitch.”

  Oscar is suddenly on him. The big man literally picks Perun up and carries him, slamming him against the side of the basket, knocking the breath from the man. He wrestles the gun from the man’s hand as Malliot leans out of the basket and swings at Oscar, catching the side of his head with a glancing blow from his steel fist.

  The gun goes off as Oscar stumbles backward, the bullet hitting the rigging and ricocheting harmless into the wood of the basket.

  Malliot casts the ropes off from inside the basket as Perun bellies into it. The trapeze brother starts to board and Malliot hits him in the face with his steel fist, knocking him off.

  “Too much weight,” Malliot shouts.

  Screaming like a wild animal, the trapeze girl jumps over me and grabs the hand bomb off the ground. As she straightens up, Oscar’s big arms go around her, grabbing the wrist of the hand holding the bomb so she is unable to throw it. He raises her in the air and pitches her forward, slamming her down on top of her brother.

  An explosion sends me reeling backward as I’m struck by stinging bits of debris.

  It takes me a second to realize that I’m still in one piece. Stunned, in shock, but on my feet.

  The shadow of the balloon falls across me as it rises and I look up, expecting to see Perun’s taunting sneer or a gun pointed at me.

  I can’t see either Perun or Malliot. Shots are fired from behind me. The two anarchists must be ducking down in the basket to avoid the police fire.

  Over the din of shouted commands and guns firing, I hear Jules’ urgent plea, “Shoot the balloon, don’t shoot at the basket!”

  Oscar is lying next to me. He’s covered in blood.

  70

  How bittersweet life can be. I have a train to catch and my head is buzzing with conflicting emotions—I want to get back to America and my work, but I don’t want to leave Jules. But I must. And even though the French government thanked me profusely for my assistance, they declared me persona non grata because the fair is still running and made me, and my partners in crime, swear to secrecy about the incident.

  Police bullets had damaged the balloon, but it had kept rising, spinning out of control. The saving grace was the wind—it carried the balloon away from the city where it crashed south of the city in a river.

  Malliot’s body was recovered. He had taken a police bullet in the head as the balloon rose. Perun’s body was not recovered, but the police were satisfied the anarchist leader had met his just end.

  “No one could have survived the balloon crash,” Inspector Morant had told us.

  I hope he’s right. Perun seems to have more lives than a cat.

  And dear-sweet Oscar. He was only covered in what he named “malevolent blood”… the blood of the two trapeze artists. They didn’t survive, but the girl’s body had protected Oscar from the blast. At least she did one good thing in her life.

  Jules and Oscar are my companions and guards, escorting me to the train station in a grand carriage sent by the Chief Inspector himself … making me wonder whether the carriage driver was there to see I actually got onto the train.

  Since my mother raised me to always be a lady and constantly drilled into my head, “a lady never kisses and tells,” I have nothing to say about my last night in Paris—except, never did I image a night could be so romantically beautiful and a morning so bittersweet.

  Jules asked me during breakfast to stay a few days longer. Never in my life did I want to say “yes” so badly, but I knew the longer I stayed the more painful it would be to leave. Jules has a life I can never really adapt to. And I have a career I love and want to continue. I have to go back to America. I almost ask Jules not to accompany me to the train station. The thought of him standing there waving good-bye …

  That morning I did something I normally don’t do. It’s not in my character. I cried. Mind you, not in front of Jules. As I was getting ready in the bathroom, I cried. I had to splash my face with cold water because my eyes were so red.

  Thank goodness for Oscar. Having him along saved me from another cry. Who could be melancholy when the songbird of the spoken word sits across from you in a carriage?

  * * *

  “WELL, HERE WE are.” Oscar looks out of the carriage.

  I sigh silently. We have arrived. I have only a fleeting moment left with my friends. I take a deep breath and force a smile, while Jules takes out his pocket watch. I smile because it reminds me of that rocky time at the café the first time we spoke. I had pleaded for his help as he kept looking at his watch and acting as if I was a madwoman.

  Tears start to well in my eyes and I scramble to get out of the carriage.

  “Hold on. Not so fast, Nellie girl.” Oscar pulls out a bottle of champagne. “We’re early, I made sure of that. We can’t leave without having a toast to you … to Nellie, a grand gal who will always be in our hearts.”

  As we lift our glasses, Jules says, “I want to add that she is a woman of indelible courage and resourcefulness. I never knew a woman could function so well in a man’s world. Not only will she live in our hearts, but someday I will immortalize her in print.”*

  “I’m speechless … and honored. I only have one request.”

  “Yes?”

  Oscar leans over to Jules, “Be prepared. Remember, this is a very modern woman.”

  “Make her the main character. You have never had a woman as the main character in your stories. And I’ve been meaning to ask you, why?”

  “Because, my dear Nellie, women are not capable of performing the feats my heroes have to do.”

  “That’s not true. Women can do anything a man can do. She just has to put her mind to it.”

  Jules scoffs and says to Oscar. “Can you imagine a woman making it around the world in eighty days as Phileas Fogg did?”

  “Now you listen—”

  “The train’s leaving!” Oscar grabs my glass of champagne as I struggle with my temper.

  Jules once again takes out that damn pocket watch of his. “He’s right. Let’s go.”

  I hurry out of the carriage and walk away, fighting to keep from showing unladylike temper on this parting that should be poignant, not blistery. Oscar races to keep up with me.

  The whistle blows and I stop right at the boarding steps. I fought hard to not cry. This was really it. I was leaving.

  “Nellie,” Oscar turns me around and gives me a warm hug. I have learned that this big bear who talks and dresses as no ordinary human be
ing on the planet has the courage of a lion. “I’m really going to miss you. You saved my life.”

  “No, it was you who really saved my life.” I can’t help but hug him again.

  Jules pats Oscar on the back. “And for that I will always be grateful. Not to mention your astounding courage in the face of the enemy.”

  Oscar gives him a look that questions whether Jules really means it.

  “I absolutely mean it. I’m impressed not only with your intelligence and physical bravery, but your moral courage.”

  Ah … moral courage. During breakfast we had a discussion about Oscar. I pointed out to the conservative Frenchman that Oscar has the courage not only to dress and talk as he pleases, but to suffer the stings and arrows of people who condemn his sexual preferences as immoral. “Who are we to throw the first stone?” I asked him.

  Jules had shook his head and advised me, “Slings, Nellie, not stings. ‘The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.’ It’s from Hamlet. Slings, like arrows, were medieval weapons. And in the Bible, stones were cast, not thrown.”

  “Last call! All aboard! All aboard! Last call!”

  A porter takes my valise and as I start to step onto the boarding steps Jules grabs my arm and gives me a hug. I hugged him back. I believe neither of us wanted to let go.

  “Last call! All aboard! All aboard! Last call!”

  “Good-bye Jules. Thank you for…”

  “No, it is I who must thank you, Nellie Bly. You brought me back to life.”

  As I board the steps, Jules smiles to Oscar and speaks loud enough for me to hear, “She’s quite a woman, but as I said a woman could never make it around the world in eighty days as Phileas Fogg did.”

  I can’t believe I heard what I heard. How dare he say that again about women after I followed a killer halfway around the world and exposed the most heinous anarchist plot imaginable? I can’t leave without expressing my ire. Thank goodness Jules and Oscar are still on the platform in yelling range.

  “Jules!” I shout at the top of my lungs.

  Jules has turned away and Oscar taps him on the shoulder and points to me.

  I shout, “Why did you choose eighty days for Phileas Fogg’s trip around the world?” Having read the book, I already knew the answer.

  “I timed it! That’s the fastest any man can do it.”

  As the train moves, I yell, “That’s right, that’s the fastest any man could do. But I’m a woman and I’m going to do it in less time! Do you hear me? I’m going to beat Phileas Fogg’s record! Do you hear me?”

  Oscar waves his bright orange handkerchief, while Jules just stands there with an enormous grin on his face as my train gains speed.

  I shake my head. “Oh, if only I were on that platform, Jules Verne, you wouldn’t be so smug.”

  * * *

  “YOU PUZZLE ME, old boy.” Oscar continues waving good-bye, as he speaks to Jules. “Why did you say such a thing to Nellie? You know by now how she will react. To her it’s a slap across the face, a red flag to a bull.”

  “It’s my best book and it can use another run with the public. Can you imagine how many copies will sell if that wonderful young woman takes up the challenge? Besides, France will be in her path and we’ll see her again.”

  * * *

  “YOU DON’T FOOL me, Jules Verne. You do want to see me again.”

  “Mademoiselle…?”

  A conductor addresses me cautiously. I’m sure he’s from the school who thinks that people who stand at the window of a moving train and hold a conversation with themselves belong in an insane asylum.

  “May I show you to your compartment?”

  “Thank you. I’ll—” I stop and gawk at a man standing at the end of the platform as the train rolls by.

  “Is something the matter?” the conductor asks.

  “Did you see that man on the platform?”

  “What man?”

  “The bearded man dressed all in black, wearing a red scarf. He’s on the platform. Stop the train!”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got to stop the train!”

  “Stop the train?”

  “Yes! Stop the train. We have to catch that man.”

  “That is impossible.” He stands erect, his backbone stiffening. “Mademoiselle. Follow me immediately to your compartment. You need to lie down and rest.”

  I look back at the platform. The man is gone.

  I get my breathing back into order. I have to calm down and not let my imagination run wild. The inspector said no one could have survived the balloon crash.

  He is dead and that’s that.

  I just hope he stays dead.

  POSTSCRIPT

  FROM

  The Editors

  IT SHOULD COME as a surprise to no one that Nellie Bly took up the challenge Jules threw at her.

  Back in New York, she proposed a race around the world to beat Phileas Fogg’s eighty days record to Pulitzer. Once again he told her that what she proposed was no job for a lady …

  That was all he had to say to ignite a storm. It took her all of three days to plan the trip, throw a few things into a small valise, and start a race around the world on ships, trains, and carriages.

  She stopped in France, of course, to say hello to old friends. And later wrote a book about her adventure: Around the World in Seventy-Two Days.

  Although she received international acclaim for her incredible feat, to prevent worldwide panic she was forced to omit from the book certain strange and mysterious events that occurred when she went around the world in those seventy-two days.

  However, the editors are pleased to announce that they have obtained Nellie’s original manuscript and it will soon be ready for public viewing.

  CAROL MCCLEARY AT NELLIE BLY’S GRAVE

  2009

  PROLOGUE

  19th Dynasty Burial Chamber Ancient site of Tanis Egypt, 1889

  I discovered that Egypt is a land of both mystery and magic, an exotic place where trees talk and men turn staffs into snakes, so it should not have come as such a surprise that death would also be mysterious in this ancient, haunted land of pyramids, mummies, and the eternal Nile.

  That I could suffer a bizarre death in this strange land had not occurred to me until now, as I stand cold to the bone, staring down at the long black snake I’ve stepped on.

  I don’t dare lift my foot, I can’t even breathe; I just stand stiffly in place, the toe of my shoe pressing down on the serpent as it thrashes and tries to coil.

  Darkness is closing in as a burning torch on the dirt a few feet from me fades. When the bundle of sticks burns out, there’ll be just me and the snake—in the dark.

  In the dark where? A burial chamber, for sure. A sarcophagus is off to my right and I can make out on a wall a scene from the Egyptian Book of the Dead—the aged painting of a boat that has the head of a lion, a tail and clawed feet at the stern; aboard are wailing women, some with hands outstretched, others covering their faces—mourners for the dead.

  The stone coffin, pillars, and faded hieroglyphics are the only remnants of what was perhaps the magnificent tomb of some long-dead pharaoh. Once filled with unimaginable treasures, it now has dust and cobwebs; thieves have taken everything but the ghosts.

  Shouting for help will do no good. No one knows I’m here except the person who imprisoned me; someone with murder in their heart I’ve yet to put a name or face to, but who knows I’m trying to flush them out.

  The snake’s tail whips against the side of my leg and I nearly jump out of my skin.

  I have no idea of what kind of snake it is, but the country is famous for its asps—deadly horned vipers and cobras. Cleopatra tested their venom on condemned prisoners to find out which killed the fastest and most painlessly before she had one bite her.

  How I came to be imprisoned in an ancient tomb with one foot on a snake and the other on my own grave has me wondering how I’ve so quickly managed to offend the gods of this ancient land. A myst
ifying artifact of Egyptian black magic is the source of my troubles and I had been forewarned—possession of it has already caused blood to soak into the primordial dust of the Nile valley.

  It is not the first time I’ve stepped into a snake pit, so to speak, but never before so literally; it’s at times like this that I wonder if there is something about me that attracts the strange and the dangerous.

  My name is Nellie Bly and I’m a reporter for Mr. Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World. With too much boldness for my own good, I bullied and bluffed my way into having the newspaper send me on a race around the world in which I must beat the “record” set by Phileas Fogg in Jules Verne’s novel Around the World in Eighty Days.

  That it was the thirteenth day of my journey when I made landfall in Egypt should have also told me that this was not an auspicious time to visit a place where priests once made people eternal with dark magic and the land blistered under ten plagues hurtled by the almighty Jehovah.

  The snake twists and thrashes violently and I press harder—at least I think I do. My body is blue cold, I can’t feel my toes and my knee is shaking wildly as if it has a life of its own.

  Did something move at the sarcophagus?

  I’m sure I saw something move.

  Dear God, let it be a trick of the light.

  The fading torchlight is casting eerie shadows. There couldn’t be anything in the stone coffin, not something alive, unless it’s true that Egyptian priests could embalm in a way that preserved life for aeons.

  More snakes?

  The thought of being in the dark with snakes, and scorpions, and spiders, and God knows whatever else lurks in ancient tombs causes the shaking in my knee to work its way up to my hip, and my whole body trembles. I want to cry but I can’t spare the strength and instead press down harder on the snake—or maybe I just think I am pressing harder. My foot is so numb I can’t feel anything under it.

  The torch flickers and hisses as if it’s burning through the last of the pitch. I have to get to it and somehow keep it going until I can find my way out of this nightmare. There has to be a door somewhere.