Читать книгу A Summoning of Souls - Leanna Renee Hieber - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Mulberry Street Police Headquarters in downtown Manhattan, south of the bustling theatre district and north of the teeming financial district, was a multistoried building situated beside an infamous part of town rife with vice that seemed unperturbed by the law as its neighbor. For so many years the two had existed hand in hand, until now-governor Roosevelt cleaned up the corruption within. There were still cracks in the foundation of the institution, but like everything in New York, it was going through growing pains.

Showing her card at the front entryway, she had to hand over the new access document sent to all the girls by Roosevelt himself after they’d been targeted by threats.

Sending their Ghost Precinct entirely underground, these cards demoted the girls to research and records but allowed them access to any police building in the city. Eve chafed but didn’t argue; having a secret job she was proud of was better than being erased from the books and taken off duty entirely. Even so, she still faced a frowning scowl from the patrol officer stationed at the door, as if her very presence in the building was suspect. She wanted her work to be welcomed as a way to ease the tension between the living and the dead, seeing ghosts as a “help, not a horror,” but the force would need to accept living women as colleagues first. One step at a time. But she didn’t feel patient about it, and she didn’t feel she should have to.

Mulberry Street Headquarters’ interior was less grand than its façade, and it became more worn the further back from the main entrance one got. So, too, did it get more raucous, the walls less stately and the floors plainer.

In the rear guts of the building were some small offices, converted storage rooms cleared out to house a growing but hesitant interest in new sciences, technologies, and manners of mental and physical study. Alienists were a new concept, studying the patterns and possible motivations of the human mind. The new process of fingerprinting was in the stumbling stages of becoming routine. Eve found the possibilities exciting and was glad when any department kept an open mind.

No one was more sensible about all methods and practice than the man whose office sat before her at the end of the hall, his door open.

Eve stared at Detective Jacob Horowitz, framed in the open doorway of his dimly lit room with its well-worn furniture and stacks of collected case material: papers, bound notebooks and the occasional item from a crime scene that the evidence room seemed to have forgotten but he never did.

He wore a finely tailored black frock coat, dark blue waistcoat, and crisp white neckwear tied in a loose knot. Not required to wear the uniform of a patrol officer on a beat, he dressed in elegant simplicity, a gentleman conducting interviews and professional business who could seamlessly disappear into a crowd from one clue to the next. To Eve, though, he would always stand out.

He looked up. His dark eyes, ringed in striking slivers of blue, suddenly lit. His frown of concentration vanished, his sharp-featured face shifting into a devastatingly handsome expression of delight. His smile nearly lifted Eve off the ground. The growing fire in his gaze at the sight of her made her toes curl in her boots.

They had become something that could no longer be ignored. Steady sparks struck between them had caught. They were now a conflagration.

But the work. The cases came first. As they should. But at some point, what they kept pushing aside might drag them over the edge if they weren’t careful. It might become a necessity to let the fire breathe; putting it out didn’t seem possible. Eve couldn’t imagine dousing it.

Floating to his threshold, she wondered if she appeared ghostly in her approach.

“Hello, Whitby,” he murmured fondly, gesturing her forward. “What brings you to me? I’m glad you’re here, as I’ve a lot to share with you, but you look…well, lovely, but worried.”

“Well…for a start, I want to see you, and I have something to confess.”

At this, he rose out of his chair.

Realizing her voice had sounded more sensuous than intended, she continued at a stammer. “I mean…something happened today you need to know about, and you should come by tonight for dinner. And an instruction.”

He came around to the side of the desk and approached her. “Are you all right?”

Reaching out, he cupped her elbow in his hand, running his thumb softly over the wool. He managed to touch her in the most caring of ways. Never possessively or too untoward, he won her with small, delicate gestures. Every one unlocked her further, and she feared she’d simply open; in trust and in desire. Her mind swam. Cheeks scarlet, she was grateful for his dim office. Her knees went weak at the thought of such surrender, and he reached out and cupped her other elbow in his hands, steadying her as he searched her for an answer.

“Yes, I…” Her eyes fluttered closed; the sensation of him so near and holding her in such a gentle touch was overwhelming. She debated about lying, but he deserved the truth. “You…affect me…sorry. I nearly forgot what I was going to say. I woke up…came to…this morning at Sanctuary again. Driven there, mentally, by Prenze. Whatever read and hold he gained on me through his devices, he’s using it and I have to fight it.”

“Why Sanctuary? What does he want with that place?”

“I suppose because Sanctuary is a place where spirits have ultimate control? He seems threatened by spirits. Maggie was one of his prisoners, and she escaped only by Sanctuary’s intervention. I just have to make sure I’m not aiding the enemy by my own connection to spirits. Not having control over myself is the greatest terror I’ve ever experienced.”

“I can imagine,” he said, keeping that soft hold on her. “But you’re strong.”

“Sanctuary itself has a pull on me too; my soul feels bonded to the place, I just have to be sure if I visit it’s on my own terms. So, that’s what dinner will be about: psychic shielding and maintaining control.” She dared look in his eyes. The fear and anxiety of the morning fell away. In its place, all their near misses threatened to bowl her over. She found herself blurting out, “Not that there…aren’t cases when I wouldn’t mind…losing a bit of control, I suppose. In the right place. With the right person.”

“We’ll have to do something about that,” he replied in a murmur. A subtle shudder coursed down her body and an overwhelmed little laugh leapt from her lips. “But not now,” he cautioned. “Not here. Certainly not in this zoo. I can’t be seen embracing you, and I dare not close my door. The higher-ups remain unnerved by me, especially now that I’ve got other precincts cooperating with me, something they never manage to do well.” He stepped closer. “And of course, we’ve a great deal of casework to do. But something has very nearly happened to us. More than once. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

They’d had several, maddening, time-stopping near kisses by this point without actually kissing, and Eve felt sure he was thinking of each and every one of those missed opportunities as she did.

“And at this point,” he continued, “we must plan for it. I don’t want to get caught up in a hasty moment and regret imperfect circumstances. But if we don’t…allow ourselves…a moment of affection…” He stared deeply into her eyes and then shifted his gaze to her lips.

“I won’t be able to stop myself,” Eve breathed.

“And, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t stop you.…”

Her arms itched to seize him, to run her hands through his gentle curls, to press against him so that she could drink him in, feel his wiry strength, press her forehead to his and imagine what he was thinking; one mind to the next.…

“So…we’ll be intentional, then,” Eve said haltingly as noise from the hallway reminded them this was no place for passion, even if she could lose herself in his gaze indefinitely. “Soon.” It was a promise that couldn’t wait forever. But not here, Jacob was certainly right.

She stepped back, and they both took a deep breath. That she seemed to affect him in just the same way made her heart beat with a joyous thrum. Despite all the fear that came with her work and present cases, this fresh pulse was stronger. Yes, the work came first. Work now. Indulgence later: an earned, sweet reward.

He returned to sit behind his desk, safer to put a barrier between them to keep them from colliding against one another like magnets.

“What was that you were saying about dinner before we got distracted?” He chuckled.

“Please come to my side of Fort Denbury tonight, for dinner and a lesson,” Eve said. “The Bishops will be teaching us how better to shield our minds from intrusion and the kinds of projection Albert Prenze has been inflicting on us.”

“I’ll happily go with you, but since it’s many hours until dinner, there are several things I’m sure you’d like to see first.”

He gestured for Eve to sit opposite him as he opened a file.

“I salvaged this before anyone stating that ‘no Whitby works here’ could toss it,” Horowitz said, sliding a telegram envelope across the desk. “Since you’ve gone even quieter about your precinct than before, it seems this circled a bit before alighting here.”

“Oh, thank you for catching it.” Eve glanced at the otherwise unadorned Western Union telegram envelope and then opened the flap.

“If I’m in office,” the detective explained, “I try to be present when the mail arrives. They call it snooping; I call it due diligence, making sure nothing comes in that my colleagues are eager to throw away for not wanting to deal with it.”

“It’s from Houdini!” Eve exclaimed. “I wrote to him about Mulciber’s act, asking if he’s seen it or if he had any thoughts about it.” She read aloud:

Miss Whitby,

Writing to you on English tour.

Met Mulciber once. Set my teeth on edge. He’s not right. Something’s disturbed about that act but can’t put finger on it. Levitation would be done by levers and angles. Mesmerism: harder to say. Not every audience is a plant. Some want to believe, to be mesmerized, to give over control.

Mulciber ran afoul of infamous, underhanded bookers now touring in England. Ask about Snare & Fiddle. M. swindled plenty. They’re the ones still out for him, even though a third party was said to have intervened, they weren’t paid in full.

Had a chat with A. Conan Doyle. He and I may start addressing sham acts that prey upon the vulnerable. “Spiritualist” liars when simply magicians. No betraying a magician’s vow if none claim they’re magicians. I’d be exposing their spiritual lie. Thank you for your inspiration.

H. H.

“Well, that’s something,” Eve said excitedly. They needed any association to crimes they could get, and she was pleased the magician had been so moved by her desire to see genuine Spiritualism lifted up and the charlatans revealed that he wished to take up the cause.

“I was in touch with Fitton to be sure that Jim Boot, Mulciber himself, was to be watched in custody at all times after what happened to Dupont,” Horowitz explained. “Can’t have Prenze coercing his associates to trepan themselves in custody. I’d planned on doing further interrogation, and now we’ve specific names to mention, with no time to waste. Shall we to the Tombs?” He rose to his feet and palmed two official-looking papers. “Then, after that,” he added, brandishing the papers with a sparkle in his eyes, “I’ve more on the case docket if you’d be willing to spend the day with me.”

“More than willing,” she said eagerly, his smile contagious. Any moment with him was a joy, even if working on the most dreadful tasks.

“Good, then,” he said, circling around toward her again.

He held out a hand for her. She took it, and he lifted her up and toward him and the magnetization returned. In this brief moment of closeness, she breathed him in, inhaling his freshness, a pleasant aroma of clean soap and a trace of mint. Her cheeks flooded heat again at the thought of tasting that mint, and as she looked away, he let go. Not here.

Out the office door at a clip, he looked back over his shoulder at her with a tantalizing smile. It was then that she realized how much he was enjoying the temptation of their closeness, testing the boundaries, teasing her at every tense turn, dancing around the edge of control with playful excitement. Driving her endearingly mad. She stared at him incredulously as she rushed to keep up down the long hall and out the headquarters’ wide front door.

A few curious spirits bobbed along beside her as she exited the headquarters; she was grateful their chill cooled her blushing cheeks. Once outside, the spirits, like Eve, were accosted by the myriad sights and sounds of New York and were instantly distracted, especially at this curious Mulberry intersection of a finer neighborhood ahead and a vice-ridden area behind. The city existed all at once and on top of itself, constantly active.

A familiar form in shades of grey appeared at her side. “Take care where you’re going; it’s not a good place for young women,” the elderly Vera warned in the street, drawing her floral shawl over thin, transparent shoulders. “The Tombs.” The ghost shuddered.

Eve only nodded that she understood, not wanting the detective to think she was afraid of the prison. Her ghosts worried too much.

“What’s your angle of attack with Boot?” Eve asked Horowitz.

“Lean on him about a positive identification of Montmartre as Prenze, and to see if he can confirm his involvement in the Arte Uber Alles group as an engineer and architect of suicide. We might not be able to get Prenze directly for murder, but by proxy, perhaps.… But now with Houdini’s clue, we might do better offering Boot a plea and protection in exchange for information, especially if Scotland Yard wants anything to do with money owed across the pond, we might be able to dance around extradition.”

“Smart.”

“Once we’ve hopefully pinned down something damning, we’ve got an appointment.”

“We do? With?”

“Officer Bills and the Irvington area precincts have been surprisingly helpful. All the pretty parts outside the city don’t generally like working with our grubby metropolis, but I’m happy when an officer disproves the pattern.”

He handed her two papers as they walked. Eve’s eyebrows raised at the bold type across the page. “A warrant?”

“Two warrants,” he corrected with a victorious smile, snatching the warrants back before she could read the addresses and tucking them in an interior breast pocket of his frock coat. “But first things first. This work is nothing if not due process one clue at a time.”

Bordered by Franklin, Leonard, and Elm Streets, the Tombs was a massive granite complex of pure Egyptian architecture occupying an entire block, all courts and prison cells. The name arose from its ponderous appearance and funereal associations.

Moving in lockstep, they passed the main entrance on Centre Street, which gave way to a lofty porch supported by numerous stone columns, and turned toward the Bridge of Sighs, so named for the condemned prisoners moving along its path from court of special sessions to the prison itself. Without hesitation, they walked up to the barred and grated door on the Franklin side and, once inside the dark lobby, veered left toward the warden’s office. Eve felt a shudder of unease, but she was sure not to show it.

Eve reminded herself that death was not quite so present here as it had been earlier in the century; executions were once held in the central interior courtyard, but since the advent of electrocution, such punishments were now outsourced to Sing Sing or Auburn. Still, many spirits haunted their last moments along the dark hall. There was nothing she could do for them, and thankfully none of them pinpointed her as a channel to try; the weight of guilt sifted them away from her carefully calibrated Sensitivities that tried to block genuinely negative or violent spirits.

These sad souls hung there as mere echoes of their final moments, not full-consciousness spirits like those who worked for the precinct. She said nothing of what she saw to Horowitz, and he didn’t ask, only spoke to the front watchman and explained his business.

They were seen to one of the three hundred cells, arranged in tiers one above the other, a corridor through each tier.

Rude and lewd comments from the first few cells near the door—from inmates not expecting a woman to grace their path this morning—Jacob entertained none of it. A man who whistled at Eve through opposite bars as they stood before their quarry received a growling reprimand.

“Shut it or you’ll regret it.” The detective’s tone was so ferocious, the prisoner actually turned away, startled.

Before them, Jim Boot flailed toward the front of his cell, reaching out with shaking fingers ragged from nail-biting.

“I didn’t do anything, officer, ma’am,” Jim Boot pleaded, slurring. He’d managed to make a mess of his sparse bedding; everything looked wet and grimy. Boot wobbled on his feet and gripped the bars. “I was just…there.… A body. Everything else moved around me; Heaven and Hell. I was just Purgatory.…”

“Is he drunk?” Horowitz turned to the warden who had seen them to the cell.

The warden nodded subtly and matched the detective’s low tone lest the other prisoners get any ideas. “Your friend Fitton was very clear that we were to keep him preoccupied and clear of any self-violence. Only way we could do that was keeping him…under.”

“I suppose everyone chooses their own form of control or shielding,” Eve muttered. “Perhaps that’s how Boot managed it all.”

“We don’t have much time, Mr. Boot,” Horowitz began. “We need your cooperation, and you’ll fare far better if you give it to us.”

“He’ll find a way to kill me, you know,” Boot said, tapping his head. “I’ve kept him out, drowned him out, but he’s strong sometimes.”

“Then you must be strong too, Mr. Boot,” Eve said. “You’re a commanding performer. We both saw you onstage. You can be that pillar of strength, guiding audiences through Heaven and Hell. Guide us.”

Boot straightened and seemed to sober almost instantly; it was unsettling.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “All I wanted was just to be a performer. I…I fell in with folks I shouldn’t have.”

“Like Snare and Fiddle?” Horowitz asked. Boot paled and pursed his lips shut. “I hear you owe them.”

“I do not. They were paid off.”

“Entirely? Seems some folks in London aren’t pleased with you. We’ve got it on good report from a source in your field.”

“But…Montmartre took care of it.”

“Montmartre paid your debts? To criminals?”

“He paid what I owed,” Boot insisted. “And got me work.”

“Performing?” Boot nodded. “And what about working with Arte Uber Alles?”

“They were devotees of the work and the art. I was just a figurehead. I just did what they wanted me to do, which was perform. I promise you, the darker stuff, the body parts in the set, the blood as paint… I thought things smelled a bit musty but I didn’t know… I guess I didn’t want to know.…” Boot stared off into the distance.

“Did you ever know Montmartre by another name?” Horowitz asked. Boot shook his head. The detective reached in his coat pocket and withdrew a photo from a newspaper clipping, an article about the Prenze company from a few years back, featuring both twins. Jacob folded down Alfred and put Albert before Boot’s face. “Is this Montmartre?”

“Looks mostly like him, but his hair is different. Glasses. Expression.”

Eve nodded; that checked out.

“Did you have any idea Arte Uber Alles was engaged in experimentation, in suicide, in mesmerism and coercion?”

Boot shook his head and began humming. He ran over to a small metal pail and reached in with both hands. Returning, the stink of cheap gin washed over them. “No, no, I was just working the stage.”

“Would anyone in London, say, Scotland Yard, be wanting you for questioning regarding those Snare and Fiddle characters? You say Montmartre took care of it, you, but what if he didn’t, at least, not entirely? Should we let Scotland Yard know you’re in here for collaboration in the desecration of corpses, coercion, and violations of the Bone Bills? Possible accessory to murder? Would they like to trade for you, do you think?”

“They’ll kill me over there, and I won’t let him in here to take me over!” Boot cried, jabbing his finger to his temple. “I want free of this!”

Letting out a sudden shriek, in a bold, startling move, the prisoner slammed his own head against the iron bar between them, causing Eve and Horowitz to jump back. A spurt of blood erupted from the crown of Boot’s head as he staggered back and fell down on the wet ground.

Eve looked back at the warden, who just shrugged, as if it wasn’t the most jarring thing he’d seen today, or any day in the Tombs.

“Well that’s a way to avoid questioning,” Horowitz muttered. “If he babbles anything that might be related to what we asked him, please wire me directly.” The detective handed the warden his card. The somber, unaffected man nodded. “If you have to move him somewhere padded so he doesn’t strike himself dead, do. He’s likely wanted for fraud or worse in England and I’m sure you don’t want Scotland Yard interfering.”

The warden shook his head, holding up his hands. “No, thanks. The more jurisdictions the more confusion.”

A fresh yowl and sundry commotion, a furious clatter of chains against bars started up on the second floor of cells. The warden excused himself to tend to the disruption with a heavy sigh. “You can see yourselves out?”

They were glad to.

Exiting, Eve kept pace toe to toe; even though the detective was nearly a head taller, determination was as good a factor in one’s pace as height.

“At least there’s a solid identification of Montmartre as Prenze,” Eve said. “That will correlate well with the Arte Uber Alles writings you collected from families in the Font and Zinne cases mentioning him, yes?”

“Indeed. And with trails of money as well. We got something out of it.”

“What’s next?” Eve asked as they walked east along Canal Street at their strident clip. The distinct, rich smells wafting out from Chinatown kitchens grounded her to an important intersection of the vibrant community.

The detective pointed ahead toward Broadway, the angling, ever-bustling central artery they most often used as their pathway uptown. They’d made a preferential habit of walking. Constantly hiring carriages was hardly financially sound, and walking was a way to still be alone, uninterrupted by the clutch of fellow passengers on the elevated rail or a crammed trolley car where Eve had to have a hairpin at the ready to defend against stray hands. Walking afforded two professional people who were having a hard time admitting how much they cared time to be together without the pressures of coming calling.

“Would you like to be more specific than generally leading me uptown?” Eve asked with a smile.

The detective patted his breast pocket. “One of these warrants is to get into Dupont’s parlor. After Officer Bills processed Dupont’s charge through the Irvington courts, he helped push for an extension of evidence gathering here. The second one is to gain access to Dupont’s house.”

Eve clapped her hands together. “Brilliant! We went into the parlor, the girls and I, unofficially, but we didn’t dare try to break into the home. This is the key to getting anywhere with Prenze; tie him to Dupont’s bizarre fetishes and the mysterious deaths of Dr. Font and the blood-let Mr. Zinne. What has Dupont been charged with, officially?”

“Theft and abduction with a few counts of desecration, which was a bit of a stretch considering the bodies hadn’t been interred when the souvenirs were taken. There might be a few other charges depending on the Bone Bill statutes, but seeing as those went in to deter grave-robbing full corpses, I don’t know if they’ll cover blood or ‘tokens.’ Though considering Dupont’s current mental state after the trepanning attack, none of his actions will likely go to trial. He’ll be sent to the same island asylum as Heinrich Schwerin.”

Eve sighed. “I hope that is enough to bring the spirits and people Dupont unsettled lasting peace. Good work on the warrant. I doubt anything is left behind as I’m sure Prenze has cleaned it all out, but one never knows. I’m still getting accustomed to a trained physical eye, not just my third eye, and looking at these spaces will do me good.”

“It’s a different way of thinking and seeing, but I know you’ll be just as adept at changing the lens.”

Eve smiled, touched by his confidence. Coming to consciousness at Sanctuary had rattled her so deeply, she allowed for Jacob’s belief in her to reassert her own. This was no time to wither and crumble from within. That was their villain’s hope. Psychological warfare waged its worst when the good and gentle were hardest on themselves. “Thank you for that.”

“I’m grateful they never assigned me a partner at headquarters,” Horowitz said, pausing as they hesitated on the next street corner for a joyful group of lady bicyclists in riding habits to fly by before crossing, continuing north.

“My friend Fitton would have been a great partner,” he continued, “if he hadn’t been reassigned all the way downtown, but it’s worked out for the best.” He glanced at Eve. “I’d like to think it’s you who’ve become my partner, de facto, though I know you’ve a team and precinct of your own.…”

“I can be both,” Eve said. “I work well with my girls and I…work well with you.”

“My liaison between worlds,” the detective said with admiration.

Eve wanted to bask in his sentiment but remained angry at herself about her lapse. Hesitating a moment, she allowed herself to be distracted by watching the sequence of passersby from every walk of life, background, and identity, the city street the true equalizer of humankind.

“Did I somehow say something inappropriate?” he asked after many blocks of silence.

“No, no, I’m sorry. It’s just that maybe I’m too much so,” Eve responded ruefully. “Your liaison between worlds. That’s likely what Prenze hopes of me. I think Prenze was pushing me to Sanctuary in hopes of gaining access himself, to do damage.”

The detective frowned. “As Sanctuary is a place of rescue and respite for ghosts, I can imagine his hatred of hauntings would make him want to strike there, but if he can…”—the detective searched for the term—“astral-project himself, why not just try accessing Sanctuary on his own? Why involve you? Just to try to prove some sort of control over you?” The detective’s frown deepened, a storm in his eyes.

“Yes, precisely that, I hate to say. Not only to remind me I’m under ongoing threat but to make me think I’m a danger to those I love and am called to serve. He wouldn’t be let into Sanctuary on his own. The denizens are careful; they’ve a clear sense of a lurking shadow with malevolent intent. It’s a broach of their rules to let me, a living soul, in as it is, and they’re battening down their hatches. They were literally shuttering their windows against a storm.”

“It’s such a fascinating place, Sanctuary,” Jacob said, recalling his experiences with her at that spiritual precipice. “I can’t say I’ve actually been fully through into it, but trying to reach you there, when I grabbed you, lifted you, and bid you return to me, I was overtaken by a blinding light. For a moment I saw grand onyx columns, with arched capitals of gold, just like in my temple, and I could hear the most beautiful cantor singing. The vision was partial, vanishing when you came to at my side. But it was an incredible awakening to spectral occurrences that honored my culture in turn.”

Eve sighed softly, following him as he turned onto Fourteenth Street. “It is a blessing to hear what you saw. I am affirmed that Sanctuary bends to the sacred architecture and rites most familiar to those who seek it. And it speaks so well of you Jacob, of your heart, that it opened light to you and knew you. Sanctuary did not see you as a threat. Lily Strand, my guide there, did say you were my tether, and that your heart was radiant.”

He beamed, as if showcasing the very quality. Even despite all the fear and frustration of late, the fact that she felt so buoyant in his presence, that he seemed so happy in hers, was something priceless, unfathomable in its scope. Eve was stunned by the magnitude of alchemical magic happening in her heart.

They turned north onto Irving Place, and a chill washed over Eve in a wave.

The parade of ghosts was still there, marching around Dupont and Montmartre’s Viewing Parlor for the Dead in a floating circle of protest.