CHAPTER 1
JAILBIRD—GREASING PALMS—A PIECE OF THE PAST—THE WRONG KIND OF GOOSE BUMPS
When you’re a detective, certain things come with the job. Getting shot at, for example, or tossing a man twice your size over your shoulder. From time to time, there might be a little light burglary. If you’re with the special branch of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, you can add to the list the occasional tussle with a ghost or a shade, or a person endowed with the sorts of uncanny powers that people in my line of work refer to as luck. These things come with the territory. You expect them.
One thing you do not expect is to spend the night in jail, and I can’t say that I much care for it.
I’d never set foot in the Tombs before that night, not even for work. Even though I grew up a stone’s throw away, in the heart of Five Points, I harbored a slum dweller’s natural suspicion of the law, and I’d always given the place a wide berth. I’m not sure what I expected it to be like, but as it turns out, the name says it all. That’s not its real name, of course—officially, it’s the New York City Halls of Justice—but I’ve never heard a soul refer to it that way. Even the coppers call it the Tombs, and a more dismal place you’d be hard-pressed to find, at least on the island of Manhattan.
As to how I ended up there, I blamed Thomas.
My partner was a brilliant investigator, but he had a peculiar affection for breaking and entering—or, more precisely, for getting me to sneak onto premises where my presence was not strictly legal. This time, it was the home of a certain prominent businessman whose name was often in the papers. Like many of New York’s elite, this gentleman was lucky, though of course that particular detail never made it into print. The existence of the paranormal was a closely guarded secret, known only to a few thousand New Yorkers, most of whom were lucky themselves. That exclusive list did not include the coppers who arrested me, or the chief matron who came by every so often to shine a lantern between the bars of my cell and scowl at my degenerate ways. How could I explain to them that my theft—or rather, my attempted theft, since I’d been caught before I could finish the job—was for the public good? The thing is, ma’am, that artifact is magic. Powerful magic that shouldn’t be in the hands of a ruthless shark like Edmund Drake. The Pinkertons will take good care of it and see that it can’t do any harm.
No, that sort of speech would land me straight back in the cranky-hutch, and one visit to the Lunatic Pavilion at Bellevue Hospital was quite enough for me. (That, dear reader, is a whole other story, one I would rather forget.)
I might have tried to plead my case by pointing out that the artifact in question didn’t belong to Edmund Drake, either, having been stolen earlier that week from Wang’s General Store. But the odds of a pair of immigrants like Mr. Wang and me being believed over a man as powerful as Edmund Drake were slim to none. So there I sat, huddled on the damp floor as far away from the flea-riddled mattress as I could get, scratching myself raw and thinking very dark thoughts about my partner, Mr. Thomas Wiltshire, whose grand scheme had landed me in this horrible place.
Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to endure it much longer. An echoing boom sounded at the far end of the corridor, followed by approaching footsteps. I sat up a little straighter, listening. No jingle of keys, which meant it wasn’t the matron. I felt a flicker of hope, followed by a flood of relief as I recognized the familiar rhythm of the footfalls coming down the corridor. A moment later, Thomas appeared on the other side of the bars, looking very sheepish indeed.
“Hello, Rose.”
I stayed where I was, scowling up at him and trying very hard not to show how glad I was to see him. He looked wildly out of place in that grim dungeon, trimmed in his usual elegant tailoring, silk hat on head and griffin-headed walking stick in hand, dark-haired, pale-eyed, and irritatingly handsome. I wasn’t the only one who thought so, apparently: a wolf whistle sounded from one of the nearby cells, followed by peals of feminine laughter up and down the cellblock. Thomas lifted an eyebrow but didn’t turn his head.
“Good morning,” I said. “At least, I assume it’s morning. It’s hard to be sure, what with the lack of windows in this cell.”
He sighed. “I can’t tell you how sorry—”
“You can and you shall, but right now I’d quite like to leave.”
“Yes, of course.” He fidgeted with his jacket in his very English way, casting an awkward glance down the corridor. “The matron is coming just now.”
She grunted when she arrived at my cell, shaking her head as though she considered it a terrible mistake to set me loose on the world. “Got yourself a real fancy lawyer here, Miss Gallagher,” she said, indicating Thomas with a jerk of her chin. “Can’t imagine why he’d have truck with the likes of you.” She took her displeasure out on the door, clanging and banging her way through the business until the bolt shot aside and the squeal of rusting hinges signaled my freedom. “You should look to a more savory breed of client, sir,” she opined. “Thieving Irish are surely beneath you.”
“Reckon she’s making it worth his while,” a voice called from the cell above me, to more laughter. “Hey, mister, I’d be happy to trade too, if you get me outta here.”
Thomas pretended not to hear, but I could tell he was annoyed. I wondered if he’d ever been catcalled before. I don’t suppose most men have had the pleasure, especially not wealthy Fifth Avenue swells like Thomas. The laughter followed us all the way out of the women’s prison and into the courtyard, only to be drowned out by the grim clatter of timber hitting the flagstones as workers took down the gallows from the morning’s hanging. Thomas and I hurried past, and we didn’t slow until we’d reached the entrance, where I paused in the shadow of the faux-Egyptian columns to let my eyes adjust to the sunlight. Morning was well under way, from the look of things. Centre Street was crowded with pedestrians, and the streetcar that rumbled past was full of New Yorkers on their way to work. That meant I’d spent at least ten hours in that wretched place.
“We’re over here.” Thomas gestured at a carriage parked across the street. Not our usual battered hack, I saw, but a shiny new brougham—an awfully fancy way of getting around in this neighborhood. He must have been feeling very guilty indeed. A clutch of ragamuffins had already gathered around the vehicle, waiting for its presumably rich owner to return; I shooed them away gently before accepting a hand up from the coachman. Thomas climbed in beside me, and we were off. “I presume you wish to head home?”
“Yes, please. Mam will be worried sick.” My mother was still in the dark about my new life as a Pinkerton agent. As far as she knew, I was still Thomas Wiltshire’s maid, and for now at least, I saw no good reason for that to change. My mother’s health was fragile, mentally and physically, and it wouldn’t do her any good to know that her only child was breaking into homes or spending nights in jail. “I have no idea how I’m going to explain not coming home last night.”
“You needn’t be concerned about that. As soon as I left Drake’s, I sent a note to your mother explaining that I was giving a last-minute soiree and needed you to work overtime.”