by Erin Lindsey
An electric shock ripped through me. White light flared in my vision, and my heart broke into a galloping, erratic rhythm. Every nerve in my body buzzed. My veins felt like they were on fire. My head swam, I couldn’t breathe …
The hand released me and I swooned. A galaxy of sparks swam before my eyes. I staggered and would have collapsed had a strong arm not slipped under mine.
“It appears the young lady had a bit too much champagne,” said a hoarse voice, and I found myself leaning against the sturdy frame of Theodore Roosevelt. The candidate ushered me to a chair, tutting and shooing away aides and bystanders. “Not to worry, I’ve got her. No, no, I insist. Give the lady some space, now.” And then, in a low murmur: “What’s happening? Are you all right?”
I tried to nod, but in truth I wasn’t sure. I yanked off my gloves and cradled my head in my hands, letting it fall between my knees while the dizziness passed. Dimly, I registered that my wristwatch wasn’t pulsing anymore. Overloaded, I thought. Just like me.
“Is Burrows with you?” Mr. Roosevelt straightened, calling over his shoulder. “Has anyone seen Jonathan Burrows?”
“Here.”
And then Thomas was kneeling before me, pale and stricken. “Are you all right? Was it him? Did he touch you? Rose, say something.”
“I’m not … my heart…” Still short of breath, I brought a hand to my chest.
Thomas tore off his glove and tucked two fingers under my jaw. “It’s racing. We need to find a doctor…”
“I think … it’s passing,” I managed. “It’s settling down, isn’t it?”
He paused, head bowed, concentrating. He gave a short, convulsive nod. “Yes, it’s slowing, but—”
I drew a deep breath, then another. My vision was clearing; over Thomas’s shoulder, I could see Mr. Burrows and Mr. Roosevelt in whispered conference. Behind them, the New York elite pretended not to gawk at the spectacle of an outrageously inebriated woman accosting their candidate for mayor. Edith Islington was there, too, looking anxious and confused. But there was no sign of the killer. “Thomas, the waiter…”
“Waiter?” he echoed blankly.
“He’s gone.” This from Mr. Roosevelt. “Fled. I saw a policeman giving chase, so I left the business to him. I was quite sure you were going to faint, madam.”
“I almost did. Thank you.”
“I believe it’s for me to thank you. Are you all right?”
“I think so. Whatever he did to me, it seems to be passing.”
“Even so, it’s best to be sure.” Squinting behind his pince-nez, he scanned the dining room. “Arthur Gibbons is here somewhere…”
“I’ll find him.” Mr. Burrows vanished into the crowd.
“You’re in good hands with Dr. Gibbons,” Mr. Roosevelt said. “Now, I think I’d best not draw further attention to the matter. I’ve a speech to give.”
“Forgive me, sir,” said Thomas, “but are you sure that’s wise? The assassin could still be in the building. Or perhaps he’s not acting alone…” He trailed off, since the candidate was already shaking his head.
“I appreciate your concern, but I am not the sort of man to flinch. One must get on with the business. So unless there’s anything you can tell me about the identity of the fellow who just tried to murder me…”
Thomas glanced at me, but I shook my head. “All I know is that he’s one of the waiters here. We’ll have to make inquiries.”
“Well then, I trust you’ll keep me informed. And of course, let me know if you need anything from me. I got a good look at him, and I should certainly know him if I saw him again.”
“Perhaps you would at least consider hiring some protection,” Thomas said. “The Pinkerton Agency has an excellent roster of—”
“No, thank you. I’ve managed to take care of my own hide until now.” He patted his broad chest. “There’s more than a few roughnecked fellows in the Badlands can attest to the fact.”
“Zhànshì,” I said with a weary smile. When he arched an eyebrow, I added, “Just something a friend of mine taught me. It’s a compliment.”
“In that case, I thank you. And now I really had better get on. I have two more speeches after this. Miss Gallagher.” He reached for my hand as if to shake it, but then hesitated. “Perhaps not, until we’re sure you’re well.”
“It’s all right,” I said, taking his hand. I’d already felt the effects of his luck when he put his arm around me, and it had been a mere frisson compared to the thunderbolt I’d experienced a moment before. “It’s comforting, actually.”
“I’m glad. Rest now, and I’ll see you soon. Take good care of her, Mr. Wiltshire.” He patted my hand once more and was gone.
Thomas was still kneeling before me. “Rose…” It was scarcely a murmur. Even now, he was aware of the eyes on us.
“Don’t. This isn’t your fault, any more than it’s mine. This is my job.”
He gave a slow, grave nod. “Yes, it is.” I could tell he wanted to say more, but this wasn’t the time or place. Instead, he took out his watch and wrapped his fingers around my wrist, taking another measure of my pulse. Satisfied that it was safe for us to move, he led me into the lobby, away from the crowd and the noise.
Edith followed timidly. “Is she all right?”
Thomas tried for a reassuring smile. “Her heart rate is quite elevated, but it seems to be calming down.”
“That’s a relief. How are you feeling, Rose?”
“Like I’ve just run the length of Manhattan, but the worst seems to have passed.”
“Miss Gallagher has a heart condition,” Thomas began, but Edith held up a hand.
“You needn’t trouble yourself, Mr. Wiltshire. Perhaps one day you’ll feel you can tell me the truth, but for now it’s enough to know that she’s all right.”
Thomas sighed and nodded. “Thank you for alerting me.”
“That was quick thinking,” I said. “I must have looked awfully strange rushing off like that.” And then, because I couldn’t help myself, “I don’t suppose you saw where the waiter got to?”
Edith shook her head. “He ran off as soon as he realized Mr. Roosevelt had spotted him. Inspector Byrnes went after him, but he was on the other side of the room, so the waiter had a good head start.”
How fortunate for him. Somehow, I had a feeling that if Byrnes caught him, he wouldn’t see the inside of a jail cell.
Mr. Burrows arrived shortly thereafter with the plump Dr. Gibbons in tow, who examined me and pronounced that I was recovering from something called tachycardia. He recommended laudanum. Meanwhile, we could hear sporadic laughter and smatterings of applause from the dining room as Mr. Roosevelt got on with the business.
By this point, fatigue was crashing over me in waves, and I guess it must have shown, because Thomas said, “Time to go.”
“But the waiter,” I protested. “We should interview the hotel staff—”
“Tomorrow. I’m taking you home, Rose.” The look in his eyes brooked no argument.
“I’ll have them call your carriage,” Mr. Burrows said. As for Edith, she made me promise that she could come by to visit tomorrow.
Thomas helped me to stand. I leaned on him gratefully as we made our way to the door, and by the time the carriage pulled out into the street, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open. Thomas, meanwhile, was silent as the grave, staring grimly out the window. With only the sway of the carriage and the clip-clop of hooves to fill the silence, I soon fell asleep.
I opened my eyes once more that night, and then only for a moment. I was lying in bed, fully clothed. Thomas leaned over the lamp, his profile brushed in amber. I tried to speak, but the sound wouldn’t come. I couldn’t even keep my eyes open.
As I sank into darkness, I felt something brush across my forehead. And then I knew nothing more.
CHAPTER 20
THE SILENT TREATMENT—SWAPPING SECRETS—A SKETCHY PLAN
“What do you mean, you woke up in bed? He carried you al
l the way upstairs?” Clara arched an eyebrow. “He’s stronger than he looks.”
I’d seen Thomas without a shirt, and the subject of exactly how strong he looked would normally have inspired an energetic response, but this morning all I could muster was an uneasy feeling. Something had changed last night, and not for the better. “He was so withdrawn on the way home, and he barely said two words to me at breakfast. I think he’s angry with me.”
“He’s something, that’s for sure.” Clara paused to blow on her tea. “I had trouble falling back asleep after you all came in, so I went down to the kitchen to warm up some milk. The light was on in his study, and it was still on when I went back up. Must’ve been two o’clock in the morning.”
I picked restlessly at a loose bit of varnish on the kitchen table. “I understand he had a scare last night, but what does he expect? If the situation were reversed, he’d have done exactly the same thing. Only I wouldn’t be giving him the silent treatment this morning.”
“There you go, being dramatic again. Just talk to him, why don’t you?”
“I try, but he’s so … English.”
Clara shook her head. “You can’t go on like this. One of these days you’re gonna have to tell him the truth.”
“That would be as good as saying goodbye.”
“Maybe.”
“There’s no maybe about it, Clara. We’re partners. He’ll say it’s inappropriate. On top of which, he’s a high society gentleman and I’m…” I gestured dismissively at myself.
“What? Don’t you dare say nothing.”
“A former housemaid with no money and no connections. The Irish immigrant daughter of a schoolteacher and a day laborer. He’d never be able to show his face in society again.”
“Look, I’m not disagreeing with you on the particulars. I’m just saying that what you got going on between you right now—the silence, the half-truths—you can’t keep it up forever. Pot’s gonna boil over sooner or later and make a great big mess. In the meantime, it’s eating you up inside. Him too, maybe.” When I scoffed at that, she frowned. “Rose, the man’s not a fool. Did it ever occur to you that he knows exactly how you feel?”
It hadn’t, and the idea was terrifying. “Why? Do you think he does?” Then I remembered something. “I think he might have kissed my forehead last night. What do you think that means?”
Clara shook her head and took our teacups to the sink. “Talk to him, Rose.”
I headed up the stairs half intending to take that advice, but when I reached the study and saw him sitting there—gaze abstracted, slender fingers drumming the desk, intense and brilliant and beautiful—my heart gave a tug of longing, and I knew I couldn’t tell him how I felt. Not if it might mean giving him up forever.
He glanced up at my knock. “Please,” he said, gesturing for me to sit.
I perched on the sofa opposite him, trying and failing to catch his eye. “The waiter. I remember him from the Reading Room. He brought Dayton’s coffee.”
Thomas nodded slowly. “That explains a great deal. He would have overheard all manner of Republican business in that room.”
“Like the fact that Roosevelt was going to be nominated, and who planned to support him. Dayton himself mentioned that he’d tried to talk the victims out of voting for Roosevelt. Right here in this room, he said.”
“I remember.” Thomas took up a pen and wrote something down.
“I wonder if Inspector Byrnes managed to catch him.”
“He didn’t. I’ve just been on the telephone with Sergeant Chapman. Apparently Byrnes lost him on Fifth Avenue, but not before taking a shot at him. The waiter was wounded but he escaped. The police have no idea of his whereabouts.”
“What about the hotel?”
He shook his head. “Apparently he gave them a false name.”
Damn. Hiding something in his past, or preparing for the future? Both, maybe. There was one piece of good news, at least. “Chapman’s back on the case, then?”
“So it would seem. My guess is that after last night’s events, Byrnes has decided that we might be of some use after all.”
“How magnanimous of him.”
Thomas didn’t respond. He still hadn’t met my eye, apparently dividing his attention between me and the note he was scribbling. Sighing, I said, “Are we going to talk about this?”
“Talk about what?”
“You’ve been distant all morning. You’re angry with me, but I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve it.”
He wilted a little, closing his eyes with a sigh. “I’m not angry with you, Rose. I’m … processing.”
“What does that mean?”
“Please, just give me some time.”
Time for what? But I sensed it would be a mistake to press him, so I got back to business. “Did you tell Sergeant Chapman what I found out yesterday? About the man Mr. Wang treated?”
He shook his head.
“His symptoms sounded very similar to what happened to our victims. Wouldn’t Sergeant Chapman want to hear about that?”
“We still don’t know what Byrnes’s stake is in all this, and until we do, it’s best to be circumspect about what we share with the police.”
“That doesn’t seem fair. Chapman brought the case to us, remember.”
“Our primary objective is to keep Roosevelt safe. With that in mind, I’ve wired the Agency in Chicago. Hopefully they can convince him to accept a security detail.”
“Good luck to them.”
“F. Winston Sharpe is extremely persuasive.”
I’d learned that for myself following the Hell Gate incident, when the head of the special branch had somehow managed to convince every newspaperman in New York that a magical fire in the sky had been an unusually southerly occurrence of the aurora borealis. Not that I had a great deal of faith in the newspapers anymore. I’d spent this morning’s awkward silence perusing the papers for any mention of last night’s incident at the hotel, but of course there was none.
“In any case,” Thomas went on, “Chapman is headed to the hotel now, and we can only hope he finds something useful. In the meantime, we ought to follow up on your lead from Wang’s.” Sighing, he passed a hand over his eyes. “I just wish I knew where to start.”
“About that,” I said, and the doorbell rang.
I’d been about to say I have an idea, but as it happened, my idea had just appeared in the foyer. “Miss Edith Islington,” Louise announced from the threshold of the study. “Here to call on Miss Gallagher.”
Impatience flickered across Thomas’s features, and I think he was about to tell the maid to decline on my behalf, but I stayed him with a gesture. “Thank you, Louise. Please tell Miss Islington I’ll be right down.” When the maid was out of earshot, I added, “Let me speak to her alone for a minute, if you don’t mind. I’ll fetch you when it’s time.”
Edith greeted me warmly when I came into the parlor. “Look at you, hale and hearty. I’m so glad.” She squeezed my hands. “You gave us all quite a fright.”
“Starting with myself. I’ve never experienced anything quite like that before.”
“Even with your heart condition?” She gave me a wry smile.
“Yes, well…” I blushed a little, gesturing for her to sit. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually. I’d very much like to fill you in, but it would need to go both ways. You’ve been kind enough to share your secret with me, about your luck, but I haven’t told Mr. Wiltshire. I’d like to, with your permission. Once I do, I think he’ll agree that it makes sense to…” I trailed off awkwardly.
“To share your secret with me? Very well, you have my permission.”
“Good. I’ll be right back.”
Thomas was already on his feet when I returned to the study, jacket on, tie straightened. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“Now that I have Miss Islington’s permission. She’s lucky, you see, and I think she could be of some help to us.”
&n
bsp; He tilted his head, curious. “How so?”
“We ought to discuss it together, but that would mean telling her about us.”
“I see.” He didn’t sound very happy about it.
“I trust her, if that matters.”
“Of course it does.” Sighing, he added, “And if it will help us find our killer, then I don’t see that we have much choice.”
“I think it will.”
He nodded resignedly and we headed downstairs.
“All right,” I said once we were all together, “we’re agreed. But I should warn you, Miss Islington, what we’re about to tell you must remain in strictest confidence, for your safety and ours.”
She paled a little, but she nodded. “You have my word.”
“Thank you. Er, Mr. Wiltshire, would you care to…?”
Not particularly, his eyes said, but he took his cue anyway, producing a silver calling card and handing it over. “Miss Gallagher and I are detectives, with the Pinkerton Agency. Are you familiar with it?”
Edith couldn’t have looked more astonished if he’d slapped her. “The Pinkerton Agency. You?”
“Indeed. Both of us.”
“We’re with the special branch,” I explained, “which means we focus on cases of a paranormal nature. What you witnessed last night was an attempted assassination. Mr. Wiltshire and I were there to prevent it, but we didn’t know who the killer was. As you saw, we were very nearly too late.”
“I was entirely too late, in point of fact,” Thomas said. “Fortunately, Miss Gallagher is a good deal more observant than I.”
I didn’t much care for his self-recriminating tone, but we didn’t have time for that conversation. “The waiter is lucky. What he did to me, making my heart race like that … it’s how he kills. He’s already murdered six people that we know of.”
“Good God!”
“He gave the hotel a false name when they hired him, which means the police will have trouble tracking him down. But there may be witnesses in Five Points who can identify him, if only we had a likeness. Which is where you come in. Or more precisely, you and I together.”