by Erin Lindsey
“I am,” I said with a bit too much feeling.
She eyed me sidelong. “That the Irish in you, or ain’t you having much fun out there in champagne country?”
“You know perfectly well which it is. I’ve done nothing but complain about it for weeks.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“One of the privileges of being my best friend.”
Clara gave me a wry look but otherwise let that pass. “If it makes you so miserable, why do you keep going back?”
“It’s not as if I have a choice. The Agency has put a lot of resources into this first big expansion of the special branch. They want to make sure we’re well trained.”
“I don’t see where shooting arrows and jumping little fences with your horse is much use. This ain’t Camelot.”
She had a point. Learning to fire a pistol or throw a punch was one thing, but it was hard to see how horseback riding and dancing the waltz came into it. “The worst of it is, I’m starting to wonder if any of it will be useful. These past few months, what we’ve been doing … what if that’s all there is to the job?”
“I thought you liked all this ghost business?”
“Shades.”
“Come again?”
“Ghosts are projections of spirits from the otherworld,” I said, reflexively reciting from Pullman’s Guide to the Paranormal, the little handbook we’d been given as a reference. “Whereas shades are still tied to the physical world. They’re similar, but not the same.”
Clara planted a flour-coated hand on her hip. “Why, thank you. It’s a good thing you straightened me out. I might’ve gone my whole life without knowing the difference, and then where would I be?”
“Sorry,” I said with a guilty laugh. “Habit. Between the training and the shade-hunting, it’s hard to remember what it was like before we knew any of these things existed. Back when life was—”
“Normal?” She sprinkled another pinch of flour on her dough. “Ain’t hard for me. Tell the truth, I’m half sorry I learned about any of it. All this keeping secrets … Feels like I’m keeping part of my life locked away from my family. From Joseph, especially. Ain’t right, keeping things from your fiancé. On top of which, the whole business gives me the jimjams. I liked it better when ghosts and magic was nothing but children’s stories.”
“I know what you mean.”
There must have been something in my voice, because Clara paused, dusting flour from her hands. “What’s wrong, honey? Something happen out there?”
“Nothing that hasn’t happened a hundred times before. I humiliated myself in jujitsu, and the other recruits—”
Clara clucked her tongue impatiently. “Weren’t you the one said they was just jealous ’cause you already out there doing the real work?”
“But that’s hardly my fault. Thomas only needs me because I can sense shades.” I’d been able to do it ever since the incident at Hell Gate, when a fragment of a spirit had become embedded in my body. It had nearly killed me, and when we’d finally found a way to banish it, I discovered that I could still sense it when shades were nearby. Even if they were invisible, a shiver down my spine would always warn me of their presence. Handy if you were in the business of hunting down escaped spirits of the dead, but otherwise … “Hardly something to wish for.”
“Maybe it ain’t what you’re doing they’re envious of, but who you’re doing it with.”
“Meaning?”
“Didn’t you tell me there was lots of folks lining up to be Mr. Wiltshire’s partner, and now here you are stepping in? Maybe you’re stepping on some toes while you’re at it.”
“I don’t see how they can blame me for that.”
“Rose, Rose.” Clara shook her head. “And you a detective and all.”
I started to ask what she meant, but just then Thomas appeared on the stairs. “Good evening, Clara. Supper smells wonderful.”
“It’s ready if you are, unless you’re dying for biscuits.”
“Excellent. Jackson has just arrived. Shall we, Rose?”
“I’ll be right there.” I blew out a sigh as I watched him head up the stairs. “Another day, another shade.”
“You could always come back to work here,” Clara said, gesturing vaguely at the kitchen.
She was joking, of course. Clara knew better than anybody how unhappy I’d been as a housemaid. “Thanks for the offer,” I said dryly, “but I’d feel terrible about displacing the new girl. How’s she working out, by the way?”
“Who, Miss I Don’t Work Weekends?”
“Poor Louise. You’re being unfair. That was Thomas’s idea, remember? To keep her out from underfoot?” The strategy had largely worked. With Thomas and me away at Newport most of the week, we rarely crossed paths with my replacement.
“If he hadn’t asked for it, she would have, believe you me. Thinks about as much of this job as you did.”
“Oh, dear.” I laughed. “Now I really do feel sorry for her.”
Clara eyed me pointedly. “Maybe you oughta remember that next time you’re fixing to complain about your new job. Now get on upstairs. Don’t wanna keep Mr. Wiltshire waiting.”
“And Mr. Jackson.”
She made a face. “That one can eat his soup cold for all I care.”
I tsked. “Why do you dislike him so? I thought for sure you’d get along.”
“Why, ’cause we’re both colored?”
“Of course not!” I felt myself blushing. “It’s just … he’s a very nice man.”
“He’s a witch.”
“He prefers warlock.”
“I don’t give two bits what he prefers. Call it what you like, witchcraft is the devil’s business.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ye sound like me ma,” I said in my thickest Irish accent.
“Off with you,” she said, brandishing a spoon at my backside.
The gentlemen stood when I arrived in the dining room, a formality I still hadn’t quite got used to. Only a few months ago, my entrance would have earned nothing more than a glance, maybe a distracted smile, and then I’d be left to get on with whatever chore had brought me into the room. But you’re not a housemaid anymore, I told myself firmly. Thomas pulled out my chair—another gesture I had yet to get used to, resulting in more than one awkward incident—and I lowered myself down with perfect dignity. Hopefully.
“Good evening, Mr. Jackson,” I said, inclining my head in the demure nod they’d taught us in etiquette class. “And where are we off to tonight?”
“Harlem.” He poured a glass of wine and set it before me. “The shade that eluded us in Central Park last month has been spotted again.”
I tried to look delighted.
“We’d best be on our guard this time,” he went on, helping himself to a glass. “He’s a crafty one. I do believe if you hadn’t warned us he was near, he might have got the better of us.”
And that, right there, was the only reason I wasn’t spending my weekends in Newport along with the rest. I wondered how the others were passing their Friday night. Playing billiards, maybe, or whist, or trading tales over cognac and sherry. Whatever they did, I wasn’t a part of it and never would be.
“Come now,” Thomas chided, “there will be plenty of time to discuss business after supper.”
“Forgive me, you’re quite right.” Mr. Jackson took a sip of his wine. “Tell me, Miss Gallagher, how is your mother keeping?”
“Better, thanks. She’s getting out of the flat a bit more these days. She still gets confused now and then, but she’s lucid more often than not.”
“I’m glad to hear it. She lives in Five Points, does she not? Troubled times in that part of town, with all these recent break-ins.”
“Break-ins?” I cocked my head.
“Haven’t you heard? Half a dozen businesses in the past week alone. Some new street gang, according to the papers.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been too busy to read the papers lately.”
Mr. Jackson
looked slightly taken aback, as though the idea of not reading the papers was very bizarre indeed.
“Understandable,” Thomas put in smoothly, “with all the reading materials they’ve been inundating you with at Newport. Which reminds me, Jackson, did you see Fillimore’s essay in the Journal of Paranormal Studies?”
“On the lost domains?” Mr. Jackson nodded. “Interesting. Electromagnetism sounds plausible enough, but where’s the empirical evidence?”
“Still, the theory is altogether fascinating.”
I braced myself for the question I knew was coming.
“And you, Miss Gallagher?” Mr. Jackson turned to me. “What did you think of Fillimore’s paper?”
Both men looked at me expectantly. I tried to think of some vague reply, but there was no point in trying to fake it. “To tell the truth, I didn’t understand much of it.”
“Ah. Well.” Mr. Jackson smiled blandly. There was an awkward pause; the clock on the mantel ticked through the silence. “In any case,” he said, turning back to Thomas, “I’m sure we haven’t heard the last of the idea. In fact…”
I didn’t even bother trying to follow the rest. Even by the standards of the paranormal community, Thomas and Mr. Jackson were of a scientific bent, and here I was barely an initiate. Deciphering their conversations was like trying to read Shakespeare while you were still learning the alphabet.
Watching the two of them—one full of energy and imagination, the other practical and methodical—it was impossible not to be reminded of Clara and me. They were two peas in a pod, just as Clara and I had once been, back before we barely saw each other. I’d given that up, and for what? To try to make my way in a world that wasn’t my own?
Oh, quit blubbering in your bonnet. The voice in my head was Mam’s.
After supper, we readied ourselves for another long night on the streets. I’d headed upstairs to fetch my warmest gloves, and that’s how I happened to overhear Thomas and Mr. Jackson talking quietly in the foyer.
“I’m not questioning your judgment, Wiltshire. I just wonder if perhaps you’re pushing her too hard.”
I stopped cold on the stairs.
“Because she had difficulty parsing Fillimore? Be reasonable, Jackson. The man’s syntax is impenetrable at the best of times.”
“It’s not only that. She seems…” The next few words were too muffled to make out, as if Mr. Jackson had lowered his voice still further.
She seems … A dozen possible conclusions to that sentence ran through my mind, none of them flattering.
“… a mistake,” Mr. Jackson said.
The word hung there, polluting the air like the smoke of a cheap cigar.
I didn’t want to hear any more. “Ready!” I called, tromping my way conspicuously down the remaining steps.
They stood in their overcoats and hats, walking sticks in hand. Mr. Jackson wore an oddly grave expression, while Thomas flashed a tense smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Jackson and I have been talking it over, and I wonder…” He paused, clearing his throat. “That is, we thought perhaps you might fancy taking the evening off.”
I stared.
“Such disagreeable weather,” he went on. “On top of which, you’ve been working so hard.”
My glance cut between them. “I don’t understand. You don’t want me to come?”
“We just think you’ve earned a bit of rest, that’s all. Isn’t that right, Jackson?”
“But you need me. You said it yourself, that shade is dangerous—”
“You needn’t trouble yourself about that,” Mr. Jackson put in. “We’ll get along just fine without you.”
That stung.
“Spend some time with Clara, or curl up with a good book. Jackson and I will take care of this. Enjoy your evening.” So saying, Thomas touched his hat and the two of them stepped out into the night.
For a moment, all I could do was stand there staring at the door. Numbly, I replaced my overcoat on the rack, my umbrella in the stand. My hand trembled ever so slightly, and a lump gripped my throat.
Cabot Fisk, Viola Fox, even Mr. Jackson—their disapproval might wound my pride, but it didn’t really matter in the end. But Thomas … He’d told me only this morning that he had great faith in me, but apparently I’d disappointed him one time too many.
She seems … a mistake.
I felt the prick of tears behind my eyes.
“Tea,” I whispered. “You need tea.”
I headed for the kitchen. Clara had already turned in for the night, having finished the tidying up while the rest of us worked out our plan of attack. I didn’t even bother to light the lamp, staring vacantly into the shadows while I waited for the kettle to come to a boil.
It had just started to whistle when a knock sounded at the front door; answering it, I found a familiar grandfatherly face. “Sergeant Chapman! How lovely to see you!” We hadn’t crossed paths since last spring, when a greengrocer had been killed by a shade in the Gashouse District. “It’s been too long.”
“Miss Gallagher.” The aging detective doffed his hat.
“Please, come in. I’ve just put the kettle on, if you’d like some tea.”
“What, no coffee?” Mischief crinkled the corners of his watery eyes. He knew well enough how I felt about coffee. “Can’t stay long. Your boss around?”
Partner, I started to say, but for some reason the word stuck in my throat. “I’m afraid not, but is there something I can help you with? I’m … Well, I’m a full-fledged agent myself now.”
More or less.
“That so? Well, good for you. How’s the ghost-hunting coming, anyway?”
I didn’t bother to correct him. Clara was right: The difference between ghosts and shades only mattered to people like me. “Well enough. We’ve caught most of the spirits that escaped through the portal, and we’re closing in on the two or three that are left.”
“Glad to hear it.” His gaze did a slow scan of the foyer. “But if you ain’t the help no more, what’re you still doing living here?”
I felt myself blushing. “Yes, well. Our work is a secret, as you know, and we haven’t figured out a cover story just yet. We moved my things down to one of the guest rooms, but that’s about as far as we’ve got.”
Chapman grunted. “Anyways, you mind telling Wiltshire I stopped by? We got a real bag of nails down at the Grand Opera House, and I got a feeling it’s more your type of work than mine.”
“The Grand Opera House?” I’d heard something about that. “The Republican Convention, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. Wrapped up a few hours ago, but not before we had six dead delegates on our hands.”
“How awful! What happened?”
“Coroner’s saying typhoid, but that don’t add up, least not in my ledger. I got a greenback dollar says it’s foul play. And not the ordinary sort, neither.”
“I see. And you think—what? A shade?”
“That’s my guess. Either that or we’re looking at something new.”
A shiver of excitement ran through my bones. (Beastly, I know, but what can I say? After nine straight months of chasing shades, something new sounded positively heavenly.) “What makes you think it’s supernatural?”
“Twenty-eight years on the job. Every instinct I got tells me that coroner is lying, and his boss, too. Trouble is, I got no way of knowing for sure, seeing how I ain’t a doctor.”
I paused, an idea already forming in my head. “And if you could know for sure?”
He shrugged. “It’d be a start, anyways.”
“In that case, just give me a moment.”
Chapman watched me grab my overcoat and hat, one sleepy eye narrowed. “What’re you up to, Miss Gallagher?”
“Why, Sergeant, I’d have thought it was obvious. I’m taking your case.”
CHAPTER 3
SOMETHING STICKY—THE WORST KIND OF LUCK—A MORBID REQUEST
Sergeant Chapman regarded me with a paternal sort of amusement
. “Taking my case,” he said in his unhurried way. “Is that so?”
“Why not? Have you forgotten that I was the one who found Mr. Wiltshire when he went missing?”
He shook his head. “You was a big help with the Jacob Crowe case, too. I’m not doubting your capabilities, Miss Gallagher.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t much fancy explaining myself to your boss.”
“Thomas is no longer my boss,” I said, deliberately using his given name to emphasize the point. “He’s my partner. The senior partner, to be sure, but I don’t answer to him. I am my own woman. My own agent.” I’m not sure which of us I was trying harder to convince.
Chapman sucked on a tooth, a sure sign he was mulling over something he didn’t like. “Why do I get the feeling I’m stepping in something sticky?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
He gave me a long, shrewd look. “Well, I guess that’s for you two to sort out. If I don’t get some answers in the next few hours, I got a feeling I’ll never get ’em.”
“So I’m hired?”
“Guess so. Best grab yourself a mushroom, though. It’s still raining out, and—”
“Right here,” I said, plucking my umbrella from the stand, and before he could change his mind, I hustled him out the door. “It’s a bit of a walk, but hopefully we’ll find a nighthawk.”
“No need. That’s my cab across the street. Came here straight from HQ.” He started across the rain-glazed cobbles, moving with a purposeful stride that belied his age. “So, where we headed? The morgue, or you want a peep at the crime scene first?”
“The morgue, I think, but we need to fetch someone first. He lives just a little way up the Avenue.”
Chapman stopped dead in his tracks. “Just a minute. I ain’t sure—”
“Not to worry, Sergeant. The man we’re going to see is perfectly discreet.” In fact, he was the most guarded man I’d ever met, though he did a very good job of hiding it. “Seventy-Third Street,” I told the cab driver, and hopped in.
* * *