A Golden Grave--A Rose Gallagher Mystery

by Erin Lindsey

  “As do I, alas,” said Thomas. “There are two difficulties. First, that it requires an electrical charge, and second, that it’s too large to be hidden on our persons.”

  “On top of which, we can’t very well go around waving a telephone earpiece in people’s faces.”

  Thomas sighed. “Three problems.”

  Mr. Tesla made an impatient gesture. “There are always problems until there are solutions. Give me a few days.”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t got a few days,” I said.

  He tsked, muttering something in an unfamiliar language. “I will do what I can, my friends, but I am not a magician.”

  “You certainly are,” Thomas said, “and we are in your debt, truly. The Agency will of course compensate you for your expenses and labor. And now I’m afraid we must be off. Mr. Clemens, always a pleasure.”

  “Oh, indeed.” Mr. Clemens shook hands, his eyes twinkling.

  “And for me,” I said. “It was a great honor to meet you both.”

  “If I may beg a favor,” Mr. Clemens said. “I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention my half of that great honor to anyone. I promised my dear Olivia that I would refrain from further investments of this kind, at least for a little while. But some vices”—he waggled his cigar—“are just too difficult to give up. I’d hate to disappoint her.”

  “Mum’s the word,” I assured him. “And speaking of mums…” I turned to Thomas with a guilty smile. “Would you mind if I took the opportunity to visit mine? I feel terrible about missing church yesterday, and since we’re just a few blocks away…”

  “Certainly. Will an hour give you enough time?”

  “Perfect,” I said, and headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 13

  SUNDAY DRESS, TUESDAY TROUBLES—PIETRO FINDS A NEW JOB—FELONIOUS INTENT

  It was nearly ten-thirty by the time I arrived at my mother’s flat, and I was surprised to find it quiet. Mam should have been up hours ago, but the curtains were still drawn and the kettle was cold. I busied myself for a few minutes, pulling laundry down from the line in the kitchen and tidying up the newspapers in the tiny sitting room, but when there was still no sign, I started to worry. “Mam?” I knocked gently on her bedroom door. “Mam, are you awake?”

  I heard her stirring, and a moment later, the door opened. Mam peered up at me with bleary eyes, her hair sticking out every which way. “Rose? Have I overslept? What time is it?”

  “It’s going on eleven.”

  She gasped in dismay. Rushing to her cupboard, she flung open a drawer and pulled out her best dress. “How could this have happened? We’ll never make it in time! Oh, why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

  “Make what in time? Mam, what’s the matter?” As far as I knew, she never had anyplace to be except—

  “Mass, you silly thing! Hurry up and help me!”

  “Mam.” Gently, I took her Sunday dress from her hands. “It’s Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday?” She frowned. “Are you sure? I don’t remember going to church the day before yesterday.” Then, slowly, her brow cleared. “Ah yes, that’s right. Peter took me.”

  A blade of guilt twisted in my belly. “I’m glad Pietro could help. I’m sorry I couldn’t come myself, but I had work.”

  “You used to have Sundays off.”

  “I know, but I have new responsibilities now.” I hadn’t told Mam or anyone else about joining the Agency. It would only have worried her, and besides, it would have meant explaining all sorts of other things, like luck and magic and fae. Mam believed in ghosts—she said she communed with my dead granny, and I believed her—but that didn’t mean she’d have an easy time accepting the rest of it. Even if she did, she’d put it down to devilry, and I didn’t fancy arguing with her about the state of my immortal soul. It was easier on both of us to keep things simple.

  “We always went together,” she said. “Every Sunday. Now, when you don’t come…”

  It confuses you. “I’m sorry, Mam,” I said, swallowing a lump in my throat. “Really. I’ll try harder to get away.”

  “Well, never mind. Put the kettle on, will you?”

  I made tea and helped Mam tidy the flat. It didn’t take long, its three tiny rooms together being smaller than the foyer of Thomas’s townhouse. As usual, there was no food in the cupboard, but the lingering smell of garlic told me that Pietro had been cooking for them. “Do you want me to go out for some things? Bread and some eggs? Maybe a little cheese?”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  I scanned her tiny frame worriedly. She looked as frail as ever, pale and thin, her skin like parchment over the sharp angles of her bones. At least she was lucid. Things had undeniably gotten better since we’d started following Thomas’s advice about the ghost. Visitations from Granny’s ghost had done terrible things to my mother’s health, both mental and physical, but Thomas had helped us put a stop to that with a few simple measures. “You’re taking your mineral water?” I asked her. “Every day, like Mr. Wiltshire said?”

  “I’m not a child, Rose.”

  “I’ll take that for a yes. But you still need to eat.” Grabbing my coat from the rack, I said, “I’m going to Augusto’s. What kind of cheese would you like?”

  “Really, you don’t need to—”

  “What kind, Mam?”

  Grudgingly, she said, “I don’t mind about the cheese, but if he has any of that salami…”

  “Good. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  It was drizzling again when I stepped outside. I could have shortened my journey by slipping through one of the alleyways connecting Mott Street with Mulberry, but I’d learned long ago to avoid them. You never knew what you might step in, or what might come raining down from one of the tenement windows above. Walking the extra half block was worth it. It also gave me time to work out what I’d say to Augusto if he happened to be in the shop. That, too, was a precaution I’d learned from experience.

  Augusto was a shrewd man, and the very last person I wanted accidentally finding out what I did for a living. He’d think of a way to exploit it. He had a knack for such things, which was how a penniless immigrant from Bologna found himself the owner of a successful business in New York. (That a good deal of that business wasn’t strictly legal was neither here nor there.) If he learned my secret, it would give him leverage over me. That was assuming he didn’t just kill me outright. Pinkertons were even more despised than coppers in my neighborhood, and that went double for men like Augusto, who didn’t need detectives sniffing around their business.

  Approaching the grocery, I found a familiar figure sheltering beneath the red-and-green awning, his lanky form huddled against the chill. “Good morning, Pietro.”

  He didn’t look all that happy to see me, a suspicion that was confirmed when he said, “Hello, Rose.” Pietro rarely called me Rose unless something was wrong.

  “Thank you for taking Mam to church on Sunday.”

  “Somebody had to.” There was more than a hint of accusation in his dark eyes, not that I blamed him.

  “I’m sorry. I had to work.”

  “On Sundays now, too. What a wonderful boss you have.”

  I tsked. Pietro never missed an opportunity to criticize Thomas, whom he’d disliked from the first. “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “Ah, sì. The silver probably needed polishing very badly.” He shifted from foot to foot, his hands jammed deep in his pockets.

  I scowled. “What’s got into you? It’s not enough to mock Mr. Wiltshire, you have to insult me, too?”

  He sighed and looked away. “Sorry. It’s just not a very good day. Are you here for shopping?”

  “Just to pick up a few things for Mam. Why is it not a good day?”

  “No reason. You should hurry inside, it’s cold.”

  In the nearly three years since he’d been my mother’s boarder, Pietro had never been this terse with me. He was one of the most reliably pleasant people I’d ever known, warm and kind and quick
with a joke. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just about my missing church. “What’s going on?”

  “Please, Fiora, go away.” He cut a nervous glance up the street. “I don’t want anybody to see us talking. I’ll explain later. Just … buy your groceries and go.”

  “What do you mean? Why—”

  He gripped my shoulders, gazing firmly into my eyes. “Go. Away.”

  The last time somebody had grabbed me like that was in jujitsu training; Pietro was lucky he didn’t find himself thrown to the pavement. Instinct very nearly took over, but I was distracted by a flash of metal in the depths of his pocket. “Is that … Pietro, are you carrying a pistol?”

  “Cristo.” He grimaced and looked away. “If you shout a little more, maybe they hear you in the Tombs, eh?”

  I lowered my voice to an angry whisper. “When did you start carrying a gun? Do you bring that into the flat?”

  “Rose, I am begging you…” He pressed his hands together as if in prayer and shook them at me. “Go home. We’ll talk later.”

  I stood there a moment, frozen with indecision. I didn’t want to leave him, but instinct told me that I was making things worse by staying put. “Promise me you’re all right and I’ll go.”

  “I promise.”

  What choice did I have? I walked away, turning the corner as if I meant to head to Constantino’s Grocery—and promptly circling back through the alley until I had a clear view of Augusto’s from the north. Keeping out of sight, I watched Pietro loitering under the awning, stirring like a restless animal and casting furtive looks across the street at Mulberry Bend. Both of us, it seemed, were waiting.

  We didn’t wait long.

  A trio of roughs emerged from Bandit’s Roost. The alleys of Mulberry Bend regularly coughed up specimens like these, and I might not have taken any notice of them were it not for the effect their appearance had on Pietro. His whole body tensed, and though he smiled, it was taut as a fiddle string. The men started toward the grocery, and I got a good look at them as they passed. Brutish and swaggering, they were the sort that would send you scurrying across the street if you saw them heading your way. When they converged under the awning, Pietro looked scrawny and boyish in comparison, especially when one of them threw an arm around him and jerked him close, laughing like a boorish uncle who’d had one too many.

  The thug pointed down Mulberry and made a gesture to take in the rest of the block. Pietro nodded, and they headed out together, all four of them, Pietro walking with his right hand jammed so far down into his pocket that it looked fit to burst through. It was a gesture I knew from experience. Gripping his gun for reassurance, I thought grimly. I didn’t know what to make of it, but one thing was clear.

  Pietro was in trouble.

  * * *

  “You sure that’s what you saw?” Clara asked, knife flashing as she peeled potatoes with mechanical efficiency. I’d run straight down to the kitchen after I got home, anxious to relate what had happened on Mulberry Street. I couldn’t tell Mam, of course, and I didn’t want to confide in Thomas either. He’d feel obliged to help me, and he had more important matters to attend to. That left Clara. She’d never met Pietro, but she’d heard enough about him to know how much he mattered to me. Which was why her next words were: “Whatever it is, you oughta stay out of it.”

  “Well, this sounds familiar.”

  “Don’t it just. And in case you’ve forgotten, the last time I gave you that advice, you didn’t take it, and you wound up nearly getting yourself killed.”

  After I saved Thomas’s life. I kept that remark to myself; it would only have irritated her. “I remember perfectly well what happened.”

  It’s hard to forget being clubbed over the head with a revolver, or having your heart nearly stopped by a shade, or being stabbed in the chest by your best friend at your own request.

  “I’m not about to rush to anyone’s rescue. For one thing, I’m too busy trying to catch a killer, and whatever is going on with Pietro, it doesn’t seem to be an emergency. But I can’t just ignore it either. I owe him more than that, for Mam’s sake if nothing else. He’s been like a son to her these past few years. If it weren’t for him…”

  “I know. He does for your mama what Joseph does for mine, and that makes him family. I understand you wanting to help, but are you even sure he needs it? Sounds to me like you’re making a whole lotta assumptions.”

  “Maybe I am, but the way he was acting … He wasn’t himself, and now he’s carrying a gun? On top of which, I know the padrone he works for. If I’m making assumptions, they’re more about Augusto than Pietro.”

  Clara tossed a naked potato aside and grabbed another. “How about instead of jumping to conclusions, you sit down and talk to the man?”

  “I tried. He ran me off.”

  “He lives with your mama, Rose. I’m sure you can find a way, you being a detective and all.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Just promise me you won’t go off half-cocked.”

  “I promise. I did learn a thing or two from last time, believe it or not.”

  She gave me a wry look but otherwise held her peace.

  “I’d better head upstairs. Thomas is expecting me. Thank you for listening, Clara.”

  “You can thank me by being careful with yourself for a change. I don’t need to be stitching anybody up again. Got enough needlework needs doing around here, thanks to Miss I Don’t Work Weekends…”

  I left Clara to her grumbling and headed up to Thomas’s study. Voices murmured on the far side of the door; entering, I was only half surprised to find Mr. Burrows occupying the sofa across from Thomas, a crude drawing spread out on the table between them.

  “Ah, here she is, our felon of the hour.” Mr. Burrows saluted me with a glass of sherry.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Please,” Thomas said, gesturing for me to sit. “Burrows and I were just going over the floor plan of Andrew Price’s home.”

  “What I know of it, at any rate,” Mr. Burrows said. “I’ve never set foot on the fourth floor, and I imagine that’s where all the fun is had.” He flashed a wicked smile.

  I ignored him, sinking onto the sofa beside Thomas. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to catch me up. Do I take it you have an engagement at Price’s?”

  “Not quite. That would have been terribly difficult to arrange at short notice without arousing suspicion.”

  “Even I am not so presumptuous as to invite myself over to someone’s home,” Mr. Burrows said. “But I did manage to arrange a supper at Delmonico’s tonight. Price is meeting us at eight o’clock.”

  “But why the floor plan, if you’ll be dining out?”

  Thomas sighed. “I am sorry to put you in this position, Rose, but I don’t see another option. I’ll get what I can from Price, but I doubt he’d be careless enough to implicate himself. And even if he did, we’d still need proof.”

  I glanced between the two of them, feeling suddenly wary. “And how do we get that?”

  “Larceny,” Mr. Burrows said brightly. “Or is it robbery? I can never tell the difference.”

  It took me a moment to understand; when I did, I blanched. “You want me to break into the man’s home?”

  “It’s not my first choice, certainly,” Thomas said. “One prefers a more delicate touch where possible, but as I said, I don’t see any alternative. We need to look through his study, or wherever he keeps his papers, to see if there is anything that points to his involvement in the murders.”

  “Such as? Even if he hired the killer, I doubt he got a receipt.”

  “Most likely not,” Thomas said dryly, “but you may find other documents that point to his involvement. Correspondence, ledgers, a journal. Details about his investments. A calendar if he keeps one. Even a train ticket could be useful.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time I’d sneaked into a building without permission, but still. “If I’m caught, I’ll be sent up the river.”

  “Yo
u won’t be caught,” Thomas said, “and besides, it’s only a felony if you actually steal something of value. Making off with a bundle of papers would most likely earn you a charge of mischief. Petit larceny at the outside.”

  Mr. Burrows laughed. “You’ve been posing as an attorney for so long that you’re starting to sound like one.”

  I scowled at both of them. “It’s all very well being glib about this when you’re not the one doing the breaking in.”

  “Apologies, Rose.” Thomas inclined his head gravely. “I don’t wish to sound cavalier. Sometimes, however, in our line of work, we are called upon to…”

  “Break the law,” Mr. Burrows supplied.

  “… operate at the margins of the penal code. This is one such occasion.”

  I wondered what Sergeant Chapman would make of that. “So you want me to break in, search the study, and get out before Price comes back from supper.”

  “Exactly. Burrows and I will try to stretch the evening out as long as possible, but you’ll want to be in and out within half an hour. I’d suggest sometime between eleven and twelve o’clock. The streets will be quieter, and hopefully the servants will have gone to bed.”

  I groaned. Of course there would be servants. “Are there many of them?”

  “Oh, about the same number as I have.” Mr. Burrows began ticking them off on his fingers. “Butler, housekeeper, two footmen, cook, two housemaids, coachman…”

  “Yes, all right, that’s very helpful.” I massaged my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “Please tell me he’s a bachelor.”

  “No,” Thomas said, “but his wife and daughter are still in Newport, so you won’t have to worry about them.”

  “Mistress?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Obviously,” said Mr. Burrows, “but not in the house.”

  My gaze fell to the sketch they’d drawn up. Five full floors of drawing rooms and libraries and conservatories and God knew what else, every one of them potentially concealing a pair of eyes. I’d have to memorize the layout, and even then, I’d be relying on Mr. Burrows’s memory to guide me. “Thomas…” I swallowed hard. “I don’t know if I can do this.”