A Summoning of Souls Page 5

  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 m
ost 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.

  Chapter Four

  “Why are you still drawn to haunt this place?” Eve asked the parade, troubled by this lack of resolution. “I’m so confused.”

  Eve had sincerely hop
ed they’d put to rest the spirits haunted by what had happened in and around Dupont’s work, but then again, the spirits so affected by the theft of body parts and tokens of their death were all children. The assembly remained of several adults and elderly souls. What else had the spirit world so unsettled about this place?

  They ascended the stoop, reading the letters painted on the front bay window indicating funerary services and the viewing parlor.

  The detective plucked a set of keys from his pocket and began trying each one in the lock.

  “You managed to get a key with this warrant?” Eve asked, incredulous.

  “Bills was so unnerved by Dupont’s work he has proved helpful. He handed me Dupont’s keys when we were at the theatre to separate the body parts from the stage set, thorough about the evidence of remaining parts. His cooperation with me, directly, insisting on me alone and not my superior, has me additionally suspect in the captain’s eyes. But the people who know the case must remain the ones working it. So many things get lost in a hierarchy of ego and superiority.”

  Horowitz emitted a small laugh of victory as one long brass key turned in the lock with a resonant clang and the glass door swung open.

  “Agreed. You’re good about creating rapport, and the results follow. It’s one of your best qualities,” she said with a smile that he shared.

  They entered the empty white entrance hall and the open, plain doorway that led into the long white-walled viewing parlor, empty save for the dais where a coffin would have been laid out for those who had become interested in separating death from their own home.

  “I was inside briefly with the girls so this part is familiar to me,” Eve said. “Jenny broke in through a back window, and we looked around quickly before anyone could report us as intruders. We didn’t have a warrant. In our haste I realize we didn’t check the rear exit, and I didn’t know yet to look for a box near the electric, keeping the ghosts out like in other venues.”