A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

  “You’re hurt,” Mei said, gesturing at my arm.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I have some poultice for that. To help it heal faster.” She headed off to fetch it.

  Thomas took my wrist, examining the wound. “This will need more than a poultice.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rose. I should have been there.”

  “It’s my own fault. Edith and I climbed up on an elevated pier to get a better view of the crowd. I didn’t stop to think about how conspicuous that would make us to unfriendly eyes.”

  “How did the Mulberry Street Gang come into it?”

  “They were making their daily rounds. I’d already kicked the hornet’s nest yesterday when I told them you were attacked by bandits. They took that as a slight against Augusto, so when the waiter started shooting…”

  “They intervened to protect their territory.” Thomas nodded. “That was fortunate.”

  “Was it? They executed our best lead.”

  “Our best lead wasn’t worth your life, Rose.”

  The words drove home just how close I’d come to being killed, and I shuddered. “The second man, whoever he was, nearly got the drop on me. If Marco hadn’t shot at him…”

  Thomas drew a long breath before responding. “Second man?”

  “I didn’t recognize him. There may have been more, come to think of it, but I only saw two. Marco and his boys killed them. And…” I paused, sighing. “Pietro was there. He … well, he knows the truth about me now.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you think he’ll tell anyone?”

  “No, but I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”

  “Give it time.” With a faint smile, he added, “You forgave me, didn’t you?”

  That was different, of course. We are all fools in love, I thought wryly. “Either way, I can’t worry about it right now. Things are moving too fast, and I have a feeling it’s only going to get worse.”

  “Agreed. It would appear our killer is growing impatient. Even allowing that we caught him by surprise yesterday, he and his accomplices have attempted murder three times in as many days. And they’ve obviously concluded that you and I are obstacles in their path, which means they’ll be looking for us.”

  “We won’t be hard to find.”

  “No. I imagine every shopkeeper in the neighborhood knows you. Do any of them know where your mother lives?”

  The question was like a bucket of ice water in my face. “I don’t know,” I said, my voice skirling upward in alarm. “Maybe. What should I do?”

  “We can’t bring her to the house. The police will be looking for us there. A hotel?”

  “She can’t be on her own. Her dementia…”

  “With Burrows, then? I’m sure he can accommodate us all.”

  I shook my head. “The best way to keep her safe is to get her as far away from us as possible.” I bit my lip, thinking. “There’s Clara, or the Wangs, but they’re complete strangers. How would I explain that to her?”

  He sighed. “There is one obvious choice.”

  “Pietro.” Dear Lord, you have a cruel sense of humor. As if being a Pinkerton weren’t bad enough in Pietro’s eyes, I’d put my own mother in danger, and now I’d be asking him to take responsibility for protecting her. “He’s sure to hate me now.”

  “He’ll look after your mother. That’s what’s important.”

  “I can’t even ask him in person. The streets are crawling with coppers. I don’t dare go back out there. Just ducking into a carriage will be risky enough.”

  “Miss Wang can deliver a letter, along with the funds to pay for a hotel. It’s only for a few days, and there are plenty of excuses he might use to explain it to your mother. A problem in the flat, say. Something that needs to be repaired.”

  It was hard to imagine what kind of problem would inspire a Five Points landlord to dig into his pockets, but I’d think of something.

  “You’ll make it up to him, Rose,” Thomas said gently. “In any case, it’s not as though we have a choice. You’re right, things are only going to get worse. We’re under attack on two fronts, and meanwhile, Roosevelt is more vulnerable with each passing day. It’s a race, and we’re falling behind.” He consulted his Patek Philippe. “And speaking of time, we’d better get on. I’ll telephone Clara while you’re working on your letter. She can meet us at Burrows’s and take care of that arm.”

  Yet another favor from a friend who was angry with me. “Is that really necessary?” I asked, glancing away. “Tomorrow’s her day off. She’ll be heading home soon.”

  “It won’t take long. Besides, it’s good practice for nursing school, and I’ll certainly compensate her for the work.”

  “Couldn’t we just call a doctor?”

  “I thought you preferred to have Clara do it.”

  “What I prefer and what Clara prefers are two different things. Especially lately.”

  Thomas gave me a quizzical look but otherwise let that pass. He headed for Mr. Wang’s office to use the telephone, while I penned a hasty—and extremely contrite—note to Pietro asking him to check into a hotel with Mam until I gave the all clear. Mei took the note, gave me a jar of foul-smelling poultice, and went out to fetch us a cab. She’d have a long walk, cabs being scarce in this part of town, but we didn’t have much choice.

  When we were safely shut in the carriage heading uptown, Thomas said, “Have you and Clara had words?”

  So much for him letting it go. Sighing, I said, “She’s certainly had words with me.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  I shrugged awkwardly. “There’s not much to tell. She thinks I’m putting on airs.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “That’s just it. She thinks I’ve changed. That all this”—I hefted my fancy overcoat, soiled but still beautiful—“has gone to my head.”

  “I suppose a degree of change is inevitable, given how drastically your life has transformed. Must that be a negative?”

  “If it pushes my family and friends away.”

  A pause. “Is that what you believe is happening?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe it’s me who’s drifting away from them. I feel … caught between two worlds, I guess.” It should have been awkward admitting this to Thomas—he’d been the one to set me on this path, after I’d practically begged him to let me be a part of his world—but instead it felt good to confide in him. “I don’t know if Clara’s right, but she’s not entirely wrong either. I don’t recognize myself half the time. You once told me that Mr. Burrows never really lets his guard down, and I think maybe I’m learning what that’s like. I’ve been doing so much pretending lately that I sometimes feel as if I don’t remember what the real me looks like.”

  “Give yourself time. If it helps, I went through a similar transition when I joined the Agency. I felt completely unmoored at first. Disconnected and alone, as if I no longer recognized the world around me, and it no longer knew me. But you’re not alone, Rose. I hope you know that.”

  I glanced over at him. His face was half sketched in shadow, but I could still see the spark in his eyes, that quiet intensity that had first drawn me to him. “Sometimes I feel as if we’re the only two people in the world, but I know I’m not alone.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad.”

  There followed the most perfect silence. We clip-clopped up Broadway, each of us lost in our own thoughts, separate but together. I felt more peaceful, more centered, than I had in months. I guess it’s true what they say: Confession really is good for the soul.

  “Thomas?”

  “Mmm?”

  “You’re a very good listener.”

  He laughed, a little ruefully. “If I sometimes have trouble saying what’s on my mind, at least I can listen to what’s on yours.”

  A short while later, the carriage deposited us in front of Mr. Burrows’s house. Clara was already there, her shiny new medical bag at the ready. “Least we got proper catgut t
his time,” she said, examining the cut on my arm with an appraising eye. Then, over her shoulder to Mr. Burrows: “Where do you want us?”

  “The kitchen, I think,” he said, gesturing in that direction. “At the risk of making a poor host, I’ll leave you to it. I’ve no desire to watch. Do you have everything you need?”

  “Got any gin?”

  “I’m not much of a gin man, I’m afraid. Can I offer something else?”

  “It’s for Rose, for the pain. Any grog’ll do.”

  “I don’t believe I have any grog,” Mr. Burrows said dryly, “but I do have a century-old Martell.”

  “Well, la-di-da.”

  I took a generous swig of the stuff while Clara cleaned me up, and I can honestly say I prefer good Irish whiskey.

  Thomas stayed with me, sipping a glass of brandy while he watched Clara work. “You’re getting better,” he observed. “More confident.”

  “I suppose I oughta thank you for the practice,” she said, snipping a knot. “Does this mean you all found your man?”

  “We did, but”—I hissed as the needle bit again—“he got away. Now we’re back where we started.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Thomas said. “A great many red herrings have been thrown in our path, it’s true. First the shade, then Price and his friend Fitz. But we have a name, a face, and a motive. And we have the Bloodhound.” Sighing, he added, “What we don’t have is time. If we could investigate these labor organizations one by one, I’m almost certain we could track him down, but as it is…” He tossed the Knights of Labor pamphlet I’d been given at the rally onto the table. “There are just too many of them.”

  Clara glanced at it and grunted. “These fools again. They’re everywhere, ain’t they?”

  “You’ve heard of them?” I asked, surprised.

  She tugged gently on a thread. “Everybody at the factories knows ’em. Half the workers are members, or used to be. Been after Joseph to join for years. Say they need more coloreds, and women, too.”

  The young man who’d given me the pamphlet had said something similar. “I heard they’re desperate for recruits because their membership is deserting them.”

  “Can you blame ’em, after that business in Chicago?”

  “They claim they had nothing to do with the bombing.”

  “Maybe, but there was more than a handful cheering in private, or so Joseph says. That’s why he never joined. Too many fanatics, he said. Always talking about the Cause this, the Cause that. ’Specially after Haymarket.”

  Thomas glanced up from his brandy. “What do you mean, especially after Haymarket?”

  She shrugged. “It’s like Rose said. Lotta folks quit after that. Didn’t wanna be associated with that sort of thing. The ones that stayed … well, I guess they was the ones who really meant it.”

  “The most zealous,” Thomas said, his eyes sharp with interest.

  “I don’t know about that. From what I heard, the real zealots went their own way. Left in a huff, or got themselves tossed out.”

  “There was bad blood?”

  “Guess you could say that. Everybody got caught up in it, too, even if they never joined. There’s fellas Joseph’s known for years don’t even talk to each other no more. Reckon it’s the same at all the factories.”

  “I heard something similar from William Foote,” I told Thomas. “That the anarchists and socialists formed their own splinter groups after Haymarket.”

  Clara paused, her glance cutting between us. “What’re you all fishing for?”

  “We believe Jack Foster and his accomplices might be ideologues,” Thomas said.

  “The sort who might have sympathy with the Haymarket bombers,” I added. “Do you think Joseph might know anything that could help us?”

  She frowned. “Joseph’s no anarchist.”

  “Of course not,” Thomas said in a mollifying tone. “But if he or any of his coworkers were courted by these splinter groups, he might have useful information.”

  “You wanna question him?”

  She didn’t look too pleased with the idea, and I can’t say I blamed her. “Not question,” I said. “We’d like to ask for his help. For anything he might know that could point us in the right direction. Even the smallest detail might be important. Do you think he’d be willing?”

  “What, now?”

  Thomas shook his head. “You’ve already donated enough of your evening, and Rose and I need our rest after everything that’s happened. This can wait until morning. I know tomorrow is your day off, but would you be willing to exchange it for Sunday?”

  “Guess so, but I can’t promise he’ll come. No offense, but he’s got no love for Pinkertons.”

  “Fair enough,” I said wryly. Pinkertons had been providing muscle for the robber barons for years. The special branch was different, but try telling that to a man who’s been clubbed over the head for demanding an eight-hour workday.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Clara said. “Just remember, he don’t know about all this paranormal business, and I aim to keep it that way. It’d give him the jimjams, and I don’t see the upside.”

  “Understood,” Thomas said. “Would you prefer to bring him here, or shall we come to you?”

  She paused. “Now you mention it, I wouldn’t mind him getting a glimpse of how I spend my days up here.”

  “It’s settled, then. We’ll expect you in the morning.” Draining his brandy, he stood. “I’ll bid you ladies good evening. Thank you again, Clara, for everything.”

  “Really,” I added when he’d gone, “thank you. I know it’s a lot to ask, all of this.”

  “It’s all right.” She snipped her final knot. “There. That oughta hold you. We’ll bandage that up with the poultice Mei gave you, and you’ll be on the mend in no time.”

  “Clara.” I reached for her hand. “I’m sorry about earlier, with Edith. You were right, I should have introduced you properly.”

  She sighed. “I’m sorry, too. I s’pose I came off as jealous, and maybe I am, a little. But mostly I’m worried about you. I thought all this would make you happy, but it sure don’t seem that way.”

  “I’m just having a little trouble adjusting. I’ll find my feet eventually.”

  “I know you will,” she said, squeezing my hand back. “But the first thing you gotta do is relax and just be. Quit worrying about what other people think and just accept yourself for who you are. Because, Rose, honey, who you are is amazing.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes, and I threw my arms around her. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

  She laughed. “We working girls gotta stick together, don’t we?”

  I turned in early that night, but not before saying a prayer of thanks. God had not only spared my life that day, but reminded me over and over that I was surrounded by the most wonderful friends anyone could ask for. I’d taken so much for granted, let myself be weighed down by my own insecurities, but no more. “That’s enough whinging now, Rose Gallagher,” I murmured into my folded hands. And then, taking a page from Theodore Roosevelt’s book: “Time to get on with the business.”

  * * *

  I awoke to the sound of an unfamiliar doorbell. For a moment I couldn’t work out where I was, and then I remembered. Mr. Burrows’s. Hiding from the coppers. Sunlight streamed in through a gap in the curtains. I’d overslept.

  Heading downstairs, I found we had a visitor in the front parlor. “Miss Islington. This is a pleasant surprise.”

  She took my hands in greeting. “I thought I’d stop in and see how Mr. Wiltshire was faring after his terrible ordeal.”

  Thomas inclined his head in polite acknowledgment. Then he handed me a note. “This came for you this morning.”

  Opening it, I found the messiest handwriting I’d ever seen. “It’s from Pietro,” I murmured in relief. “They’re at the Bowery Hotel.”

  “I’m glad. They’ll be safe there. Please, take a seat.” Thomas gestured at the sofa beside him, while Edith an
d Mr. Burrows arranged themselves in a matching set of wingback chairs.

  “How did you know where to find us?” I asked Edith.

  “It wasn’t difficult. You told me you needed to keep a low profile, and where else would you stay?”

  I didn’t much like the sound of that. “I hope it’s not that easy for the coppers to figure out.”

  Mr. Burrows shrugged. “I doubt Inspector Byrnes knows much about your personal lives, but even if he did, he wouldn’t dare show up on my doorstep.”

  “Mustn’t offend royalty,” Edith said, sipping her coffee.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but the family name does carry considerable weight. A wily fellow like Byrnes wouldn’t want the bother. Better to take you out in the streets.”

  “Oh, good,” I said, “that makes me feel so much better.”

  “Why has he got it in for you, anyway?” Edith asked.

  “We threatened him. Openly challenged his authority. A bully like him … he won’t let that stand.”

  “In addition to which,” Thomas said, “Tammany has paid him a handsome fee to take care of the Foster problem quietly. It would be highly embarrassing if the Pinkertons caught him first.”

  “Well,” said Edith, “I’m just relieved to see you so well, Mr. Wiltshire. You seem to be recovering admirably.”

  “He really is,” I said, smiling. “Why, only two days ago, he could hardly sit up in bed. Not that it stopped him from trying to work. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Wang, I think he’d have insisted on accompanying us to the Battery.” I arched an eyebrow at Thomas, daring him to deny it.

  He laughed quietly. “I know better than to trifle with Mr. Wang. If I’d tried to defy him, I daresay he’d have knocked me out for a week.”

  Edith observed this exchange with a polite smile, her glance cutting back and forth between us. “And what about you, Miss Gallagher? Are you wholly recovered?”

  Thomas’s gaze shadowed over. “She was, until she was nearly shot last night.”

  Edith gasped.

  “Nearly, but I’m fine,” I said, mainly for the benefit of Thomas, who was still giving me that look.

  I’d just started to explain when we were interrupted by the doorbell. I figured it must be Clara and Joseph, but it was another visitor who appeared in the parlor.