A Golden Grave--A Rose Gallagher Mystery Page 9

  “Pardon?”

  He tucked his face into my neck, so close that his breath was warm against my skin, his voice purring just below my ear. “Laugh. Go on.” I did as I was told, awkwardly at first, until he murmured, “You sound like a strangled cat,” at which point I really did laugh. “That’s better.” He drew back, his gaze going over my shoulder once more. “What was Wiltshire thinking, throwing you to the wolves like that?”

  “He thought I could manage it, and I should have. It just caught me off guard, that’s all. I expected them to be cold, but not so uncivil as that.”

  “It’s the only thing they’re truly good at, I’m afraid. None of them has a thing to say for herself, except Edith Islington.”

  “The brunette?” I cast a discreet glance in her direction as we spun past. “She seemed a touch arch to me.”

  “Well, I’m hardly one to criticize on that score. These sorts of functions are difficult enough for a sensible man to endure. For a clever woman, they must be torture. My mother used to say that society doesn’t know what to do with a clever woman, so she makes her amusements where she can. I daresay that for Edith Islington, that means stirring things up. And for Ava Hendriks, it means tormenting anyone she deems beneath her. Which is just about everyone.”

  “Never mind.” I meant the words at least as much for me as for him. “I’m a professional, and I have a job to do.”

  “That’s the spirit. Though if Miss Hendriks should happen to take a tumble by way of some mysterious Japanese wrestling technique, I promise not to tell a soul.”

  This time, my laugh was perfectly genuine.

  I left the dance floor feeling lighter, if a little foolish that I’d let myself be distracted by such trifles. I was only glad Thomas hadn’t been there to see it. I’d spotted him out of the corner of my eye while I danced with Mr. Burrows. He’d returned with my champagne, but finding me otherwise occupied, headed off to pursue his investigations. I needed to do the same.

  I spied my target across the ballroom floor. Mrs. Gilbert Walsh was making her way to the dining room, and fortunately, she was alone. It was time for my first interview.

  CHAPTER 10

  THOROUGHBRED—CHASING THE WHITE RABBIT—DEE-LIGHTED—A SOLEMN VOW

  Mrs. Gilbert Walsh was a bore.

  That sounds unkind, I suppose, but really—how else to describe a woman whose conversation revolves entirely around other people’s frocks? Listening to her was like reading the society pages of The New-York Times, without the benefit of tea. She offered a running commentary on each costume that passed her by, except she insisted on calling them confections. She had a silk-stocking name like that for everything. Nobody wore just yellow or blue; instead their dresses were jonquil or cerulean. (Mine, if you want to know, was vermilion.) I was educated as to the fine distinctions between Brussels and Valenciennes lace, and between pompadour and Catherine de’ Medici necklines. There are only so many ways one can fake an interest in this sort of thing, even if one is a professional liar. And when I finally managed to herd her toward the subject of the Republican Convention, she just shrugged and said, “I’ve no idea if my husband was there, but I doubt it. Fridays are for the mistress, you know.”

  By this point, it was after one o’clock, and my stomach was growling audibly. Figuring I wouldn’t be much use if I fainted from hunger, I headed for the supper table.

  I never made it.

  “He thinks he was being terribly chivalrous, I suppose.”

  I turned to find Edith Islington wearing her arch little smile, a fresh glass of champagne in each hand.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Jonathan Burrows. Earlier, when he swooped in to rescue you.” She handed me a glass. “One has to admire his loyalty to your cousin, but he’s just sealed your fate.”

  “I had the impression my fate was sealed upon being born Irish,” I said coolly.

  She made a dismissive gesture. “That was a test. Ava wanted to see how you’d react. Whether you’d be a meek little thing, or venture a riposte.”

  “Well then, I suppose I failed.”

  “You didn’t have the chance. Mr. Burrows whisked you away and then made a great show of flirting with you. Which makes you the enemy.”

  “The enemy of whom?”

  “Why, of every unmarried woman in New York. You do realize Mr. Burrows is one of society’s most eligible bachelors?”

  “I could hardly fail to notice his crowd of admiring females.”

  “Those poor besotted creatures are not the ones you need to worry about. It’s the Ava Hendrikses and the Betty Sanfords. They’re far more calculating, and they’re not after his money or his charm. It’s his pedigree they want.”

  “His pedigree?”

  She smiled wryly. “Jonathan Burrows is a thoroughbred, darling. The competition to put him in harness is fierce.”

  “I can assure you I’m not a competitor.”

  “I believe you.” She considered me with a curious tilt of her head. “Which makes you very interesting.”

  The remark brought to mind what Mr. Burrows had said about a clever woman making her amusements where she could. Well, I had no desire to be this woman’s entertainment. Taking a page from Thomas’s book, I said, “I’m pleased to be of service, Miss Islington.”

  She sighed. “You think I’m one of them, I suppose. Well, I can’t blame you. I should have said something to distract Ava from her prey, only I was curious to see how you’d respond. It’s a poor excuse, I know. So … a peace offering.”

  Thinking she meant the champagne, I took a polite sip. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, but that’s not what I was referring to.” Lowering her voice, she said, “I noticed your hairpin. It’s very beautiful. That bit of white peeking through—is it ash, by any chance?”

  Instinctively, I reached up to touch the hairpin holding my chignon in place. A gift from Thomas, it was fashioned from ash wood and jade. Terribly handy for fighting off shades—and for telegraphing my membership in the paranormal community. Edith Islington was telling me that she’d received the message.

  “Good eye,” I said warily.

  “A gift of mine. I notice things, and I never forget them.” Then, meeting my gaze deliberately: “It runs in the family.”

  I blinked in surprise. No one, not even my fellow Pinkerton recruits, had ever divulged their luck to me so bluntly. “That’s … a lot of trust to place in someone you’ve just met.”

  “It is, and I hope I haven’t misjudged you. But I really do feel awful about letting Ava get away with that nonsense. And besides, I trust your cousin, so why shouldn’t I trust you?”

  That didn’t make much sense to me, but it wouldn’t do to say so. Instead, it seemed only right to return the gesture. “As for me, I haven’t any gifts.” It wasn’t quite a fair trade. There’s nothing special about admitting you’re nothing special.

  “The same cannot be said of Ava. Be careful, Miss Gallagher. After that business with Mr. Burrows, she’ll make a point of trying to put you in your place.”

  “Thank you for the warning, but…” I trailed off, my gaze snagging on something in the ballroom. A lanky fellow in an ill-fitting jacket had appeared among the dancers, milling about the dance floor as though searching for someone. Searching for Theodore Roosevelt, perhaps?

  “Miss Islington, do you know that gentleman?” Before she could turn around, he’d disappeared into the crowd. “I’m terribly sorry,” I said, thrusting my champagne at her, “could you excuse me?” And with greater haste than was strictly dignified, I gathered up the hem of my dress and hurried into the ballroom.

  I paused on the threshold, my gaze raking the crowd. The man in the ill-fitting jacket had been nearly a head taller than anyone else; if he had been among the dancers, he would have been easy to spot. I headed for the nearest drawing room and was just in time to see him slip past the portiere. I hastened my steps, muttering excuse mes and I do beg your pardons as I side-
slipped my way through the bodies.

  I lost sight of him in the next room, caught a glimpse in the one after that, only to lose him again—on and on through the endless enfilade of drawing rooms. It was maddening, and I felt more than a little like Alice chasing the White Rabbit through a labyrinth of silk and velvet.

  Eventually the maze disgorged me into the entrance hall. The room took my breath away all over again, and I couldn’t help letting my gaze climb the magnificent staircase. That’s how I happened to be looking to the second floor when the tall man rounded a corner of the hallway and disappeared.

  I paused, allowing myself a quiet sound of dismay as I contemplated trying to climb the stairs at speed while draped in several pounds of satin. There’s a reason the Bloodhound wears men’s trousers, I thought sourly, thinking back to Annie Harris’s bounty hunter garb. But there was nothing for it, so I hitched my hem to the scandalous height of my calves and began the climb.

  Reaching the top, I found a pair of carved wooden doors standing ajar. Cigar smoke and masculine laughter tumbled out through the gap, and I hesitated. This was clearly no place for a woman, but what else could I do? Squaring my shoulders, I went inside.

  The room was thick with gentlemen, most of them gathered on the far side of a pair of billiard tables. None of them so much as glanced in my direction, too absorbed in conversation to notice an interloper in red satin. A strange current of energy crackled among them. They all faced inward, fixed upon the same subject, clustered like iron filings drawn by a magnet. The crowd was so dense that I couldn’t see who stood at its center, but a high, hoarse voice carried over the laughter.

  “Come, gentlemen, let us be serious. This is most unbecoming.”

  Through a gap between the bodies, I spied a young man holding court. Finely dressed though he was, in a trim cutaway with satin lapels and tails that nearly reached the tops of his shoes, he made an unlikely-looking king. Brown hair, sturdy build, middling height … there was nothing remarkable about him, yet his companions gathered around him like elderly men around a hearth, basking in his glow. I recognized the figure that had them all so transfixed, having seen his likeness in the papers. Not a king holding court after all, but a mayoral candidate campaigning.

  “I tell you this, Roosevelt, and take no offense, but your odds are longer than your person.”

  The candidate’s teeth flashed in a smile. “You venture little there, sir, for I have never been accused of towering.”

  A ripple of laughter. “Longer than your years, then.”

  “And here you venture still less! Though as to the charge that I am a boy, they said the same in Albany, though I daresay they’ve forgotten it by now.”

  Motion at the edge of my vision. The tall man in the ill-fitting jacket stepped out from a shadowed corner of the room. He paused for a moment, looking anxious; then resolve hardened his features, and he started making his way toward the cluster of gentlemen. Making his way toward Roosevelt.

  He was too far away. I’d never reach him in time.

  “Excuse me! Mr. Roosevelt!” I waved a white-gloved hand, frantic to get his attention.

  The tall man pushed his way through the others. He slipped a hand inside the breast pocket of his jacket, then reached for the candidate—

  “Mr. Roosevelt, you’re in danger!”

  Everyone froze.

  Theodore Roosevelt blinked at me from behind a pair of pince-nez. “Madam?”

  Silence. I looked around me. Twenty gentlemen were staring at me as if I were a madwoman—including the tall man, who stood motionless beside the candidate, an envelope bearing the name Roosevelt in his hand.

  A message. He’d been delivering a message.

  Rose Gallagher, you ridiculous nit.

  The candidate took the envelope distractedly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Danger, madam?”

  “Y-yes. Er, that is, you are in danger of…” Think, damn it! “… of usurping Lord Barringsdale’s place as guest of honor!” Having finally spat out this masterful bit of buffoonery, I smiled for all I was worth.

  Mr. Roosevelt’s brow puckered fleetingly; then he smiled the indulging smile of the politician. “You’re very kind, madam, but I rather doubt that. All the truly glamorous persons are downstairs, isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

  “Well,” I said, still scrambling to smooth over my blunder, “as for me, I couldn’t help but come up here to meet you. I’ve been reading all about you in the papers, Mr. Roosevelt, and I just had to tell you that if I were allowed to vote, you’d certainly be my choice.”

  “Why, thank you. I’ve always been in favor of women having the vote, and now I see that I was entirely correct.” More laughter from his appreciative audience.

  “Sir,” said a familiar voice, and Thomas separated himself from the others. I’d been so busy preventing assassination by envelope that I hadn’t even noticed him. “May I present my cousin, Miss Rose Gallagher?”

  “Dee-lighted!” Blue eyes crinkled behind the pince-nez, and he offered me a hand, not in the manner of a gentleman, but of a politician greeting a constituent.

  I took it—and nearly jumped out of my skin as a sharp tingle ran up my arm. It was as if his very flesh were charged with energy. Even through two pairs of gloves, it made my skin buzz all the way up to the elbow. I didn’t need Thomas to tell me what that meant, and when I glanced over at him, he gave an almost imperceptible nod. He’d felt it, too.

  Theodore Roosevelt was lucky.

  Of course he was.

  “Sir,” the tall man interrupted, “forgive me, but I think you’ll find that note is rather urgent.”

  The candidate scanned the letter with a frown. “Hmph. Well, I suppose there’s no getting around it. Gentlemen, it seems I am called away. Please accept my regrets.”

  Thomas and I exchanged a look of dismay. If we didn’t catch him now, there might not be another chance.

  “I do beg your pardon, sir,” I said, “but before you go, I wonder if we might … that is, I would be so grateful…” I flailed about for a reason to speak with him in private, but couldn’t think of a single decent excuse. And then:

  “Roosevelt! I thought I heard you in here.”

  For the second time that evening, Mr. Burrows had come to my rescue.

  “Burrows, my dear fellow, how are you keeping?” The candidate seized his hand and pumped it so vigorously that Mr. Burrows was in danger of spilling his cognac.

  “Oh, passing well. Delighted to hear of your nomination, of course. You’ll make a wonderful mayor. Which, by the way, would you mind…?” Mr. Burrows motioned the candidate aside.

  “Certainly.”

  Thomas and I followed, and the four of us withdrew to a discreet remove.

  “Now then.” Mr. Roosevelt turned to me. “This young lady was about to tell me why I’m in danger.” Seeing my surprise, he added, “Not to disparage your skill in subterfuge, madam, but I know genuine fear when I see it.”

  I blushed. “I’m sorry if I alarmed you. As it turns out, it was nothing.”

  “You do yourself a disservice, Miss Gallagher,” Thomas said. “If you hadn’t intervened, I certainly would have.” Reaching into his pocket, he produced a silver card and presented it to the candidate. “We’re with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

  Mr. Roosevelt peered at the card and grunted. “Special branch, is it?”

  Thomas blinked in surprise. The card bore no lettering of any kind, just the single staring eye that was the symbol of the Agency. Even members of the paranormal community would be hard pressed to identify it, yet the candidate had known it at a glance.

  Aren’t you just full of surprises, Mr. Roosevelt?

  “I see you’ve encountered our kind before,” Thomas said. “In that case, I’ll come straight to the point.”

  Mr. Roosevelt gripped Thomas’s shoulder and drew close, bowing his head with a studious frown. “Tell me.”

  “You may be aware that there was an unfortunate incident
at the convention the other night.”

  “I heard. A number of my supporters were taken ill.”

  Clearing my throat delicately, I said, “In fact, they died.”

  “Died?” He looked up, aghast. “Why, surely not all of them?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  His astonishment quickly hardened into a grim expression. “Suspiciously, I take it?”

  “Murdered,” Thomas said, “and though we aren’t certain of the killer’s motives, there’s a chance you will be his next target.”

  “I see.” Mr. Roosevelt straightened. “And what would you have me do?”

  His matter-of-factness took me aback. I glanced at Mr. Burrows, but he just shrugged, as if to say, What did I tell you?

  “For the moment, nothing,” Thomas said. “We merely thought it prudent to warn you. We believe the murderer may be capable of killing at a touch.”

  “Good heavens. And the police? Where are they in all this?”

  Where indeed? Aloud, I said, “They’re claiming the delegates died of typhoid. We tried to persuade them to help our investigation, but…”

  “But they have stressed the need for discretion,” Thomas said, in what was certainly the understatement of the evening.

  Mr. Roosevelt sighed, looking suddenly older than his twenty-seven years. “It seems I have some condolence calls to make.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I suppose you knew some of them.”

  “Good men, every one.” His eyes grew cold then, and he seemed to take up a little more space in the room. “I trust the Pinkerton Detective Agency will find the man responsible.”

  Though I couldn’t say why, I felt the weight of those words like a physical burden, as though a charge had been laid upon me by the highest authority. “We will, sir. You have my word.”

  “Very well, then. Thank you for informing me, and I wish you the best of luck in your investigation. Now if you will excuse me, I’m late for another engagement. Burrows.” Shaking hands once again, Mr. Roosevelt withdrew.