The Sabellines lived in a Greek Revival townhouse on Cranberry Street in Brooklyn Heights, with wrought-iron railings and a well-kept garden. A uniformed housemaid answered Harry’s knock and seemed to be expecting her. The girl led the way down a short hall to a generously proportioned rear sitting room with tall windows that would have admitted wintry daylight had they not been sealed tight with heavy curtains. All the mirrors were likewise draped with black mourning cloths, giving the house the gloomy atmosphere of a medieval keep.
“Please to sit while I fetch the master,” the girl said in a thick German accent.
Harry nodded and dropped obediently into a chair. The moment the maid left, she leapt to her feet and took a quick survey of the room, hoping to find some clue to Julius Sabelline’s character. There were few souvenirs from the archaeologist’s travels, but a framed photograph above the mantel showed two men standing shoulder to shoulder in the desert, the legendary Sphinx crouching in the background.
The first was rather severe-looking, with a harsh mouth and flinty eyes. He had thinning grey hair and a visible paunch. Harry guessed this was Sabelline. The other man was much younger, no more than his mid-thirties, with dark hair parted on the side and combed back from his forehead. He wore a simple white shirt, open at the neck to reveal sun-darkened skin. Too old to be Jackson, Harry thought. There’s something arrogant about him, but also a bit melancholy. A strange combination….
“Miss Pell?”
Harry spun around, trying not to look guilty. The photograph was on display, after all.
A young man in his twenties stood just inside the doorway. He was handsome, with a rugged build and thick, wavy brown hair, but red-rimmed eyes marked him as in mourning.
“Jackson Sabelline,” he said, offering a hand by way of introduction. “Please do sit down.”
“Thank you for having me. I hope it’s not an intrusion. I suppose Mrs. Winter explained I’m from the Society for Psychical Research.”
They took seats opposite each other. Jackson called for coffee. His demeanor was not precisely cold, but nor did Harry sense an enthusiastic welcome.
“She told mother you’d be coming, but perhaps you can explain,” he said once the maid had left the coffee service on the table between them and closed the door behind her. “Forgive me if you find my question rude, but what exactly is the Society for Psychical Research? I don’t see how it pertains to my father’s murder.”
Harry cleared her throat. “Well, the S.P.R. was first formed in London in 1882. The mission was to apply rigorous scientific principles to the investigation of supernatural phenomena. An American branch was founded a few years later.”
“Supernatural?” he said in some confusion. “As in ghosts?”
“Among other things.” Harry decided not to mention ancient reanimated mummies. “But I assure you, Mr. Sabelline, I have no intention of sensationalizing this tragic event. My sister, Myrtle Fearing Pell, is a consulting detective—”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard of her,” he rejoined in a friendlier tone.
“She trained me according to the principles of logical deduction, which I intend to apply in this case as best as I can. I only wish to help the police, in an informal capacity.”
He nodded slowly. “That sounds rather admirable, Miss Pell. I imagine they can use all the help they can get at this point. It’s been two days and the only real suspect was released. I can’t describe how upsetting it is to us that father’s murderer is still out there, running loose.”
Harry laid her empty coffee cup on the table. “Perhaps we can begin by going over what you remember from that night.”
“Of course.”
“I understand you weren’t with your mother when the body was found?”
“No. I’d grown tired of waiting in the main hall for father to return, so I went off to explore the exhibits on the second floor. I’m studying anthropology at Harvard and the museum has a fine collection of pre-Columbian tools. I was only visiting for the holidays, you see.”
The younger Sabelline sighed, his gaze falling on a single sprig of holly on the mantle. All other signs of Christmas had been purged from the house. Harry supposed yuletide decorations would only make the family feel worse.
“The next thing I knew, Mr. Sharpe was yelling for help. He sounded...well, panicked. I knew something was terribly wrong. I rushed down the stairs and found him in the main hall with Count Habsburg-Koháry. Sharpe told us what he’d seen, though not all of it. I didn’t hear the worst of the details until later, when we were all questioned.
“I wanted to see my father but Sharpe wouldn’t let me. I suppose I should be grateful for that. He said I’d regret it for the rest of my days and there was nothing we could do for him now except fetch the authorities.” He swallowed. “We got the key from Boot and unlocked the front doors. There are always policemen in the park, even late at night, and Count Koháry found one quickly.”
“Mrs. Winter had left at that point?”
“The last I saw her, she was speaking to the count. I suppose she went home sometime while I was in the upstairs galleries.”
“And Nelson Holland?”
“To be honest, we’d forgotten all about him until he came wandering down from his office. The police had already arrived at that point.”
“Did you see anyone else while you were on the second floor?”
Jackson shook his head. “I was gone perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“And your mother? I understand she fainted.”
“Yes, quite understandably, the poor thing. Boot and Sharpe carried her out to the hallway. Boot stayed with my father’s body while the others went for help.”
“So no one could have gone in or out after the murder was discovered?”
“Not without being seen. I’d say it was no more than ten minutes between the time Mr. Sharpe raised the alarm and we returned with a police officer.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sabelline,” Harry said. “You’ve been most clear and forthcoming in your answers. I wonder if it might be possible to speak with your mother?”
He hesitated. “She’s resting. It’s all been such a terrible shock.”
“I understand perfectly. But—”
His face hardened a fraction. “The doctor has given her a sleeping draught. She’s always been a fragile person, Miss Pell, and I fear the toll this will have on her psyche. Perhaps in a few days, when she’s feeling stronger.”
Harry nodded, sensing a lost battle and unwilling to impose on his grief any more than she already had. “Of course. I—”
“Jackson?”
They turned at a soft voice in the doorway.
“Mother.” He stood immediately, looking stricken. “You shouldn’t be up.”
“It’s all right.” Mrs. Sabelline waved a pale hand. “I heard voices.”
“This is Harrison Fearing Pell,” he said with some reluctance. “She’s informally involved with the investigation. I was just answering some questions.”
Araminta Sabelline looked very much like her son, with the same generous mouth and lush hair, although her figure was small-boned and petite. Harry was a bit surprised to see she was a good twenty years younger than her deceased husband. She had pale skin, which looked even whiter against her long-sleeved black dress. There was something tragic about her features, as though she’d been born to wear a widow’s clothes.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Pell,” she said. “I’m happy to assist in any way I can.” She turned to Jackson. “Won’t you open the curtains? It’s so gloomy in here.”
“Certainly, Mother.” He crossed the window and threw back the heavy drapes. Thin light poured into the room.
“Is that your husband?” Harry asked, pointing to the picture above the mantel.
“Yes.” She gave a trembling smile. “It was taken at Giza two years ago. They’d gone to meet with Gaston Maspero. He’d just embarked on an attempt to clear away some of the sand that had buried the Sphinx and to search for tombs beneath it.”
“And the other gentleman in the photograph?”
“Is Count Balthazar Habsburg-Koháry.”
“Of course.”
“Tell me, Miss Pell.” Her eyes shone with a piteous entreaty. “Have you any idea who could have done this to Julius?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid.” Harry glanced out the window. Sparrows hopped in a patch of melting snow. For a moment, she remembered the crow and its beady, clever eyes. “Did your husband have any enemies?”
“I won’t say he had many friends, but there are none I would call enemies. It’s a cliché, but he was married to his work. Julius had been fascinated with ancient Egyptian culture since he read about Napoleon’s campaigns as a child. From these pyramids, four thousand years of civilization look down upon us.”
“Had he behaved in an unusual manner in the days leading up to his death? Did he seem afraid of anything?”
“Not that I noticed.” Her hand went to a plain gold crucifix hanging around her neck, twisting it nervously. “He was so busy preparing for the exhibit.”
“Father did seem a bit distracted,” Jackson put in. “I chalked it up to nerves about the party. He never enjoyed social affairs. I’m sure he would have found a way to beg off if his presence hadn’t been required.”
“My husband had a stoic temperament, Miss Pell. I doubt he would have let on if he was worried about something.” Araminta threw a glance at her son. “I’m just grateful Jackson is here. I couldn’t imagine staying in the house alone after what happened.”
He took her hand and they shared a tender look.
“What about this supposed curse?” Harry asked.
A shadow passed over Mrs. Sabelline’s features. “Oh, he didn’t take it seriously at all. Though I wonder if he should have.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only that I always wondered why Count Koháry insisted that the amulet be locked up at all.” Her gaze fell on the photograph of the two men at the Sphinx. “He should have kept it himself if it was so valuable. Then Julius would still be alive.”
Jackson laid a hand on his mother’s arm. She didn’t seem to notice. A long moment passed. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, which she’d tried to cover with powder. A tear etched its way down her cheek, cutting through the make-up like rain on a dusty window.
“I was feeling ill that evening,” she said in a subdued voice. “Too much caviar. And I’ve never liked cigar smoke. It makes me light-headed. I left to freshen up in the first floor ladies room. Jackson had wandered off to look at some of the other exhibits.” Her hands knit tightly in her lap. “When I emerged some time later, I encountered Mr. Sharpe in the hall.”
“Of the basement level?”
“Yes, I very much wished to go home. It was a fair journey to Brooklyn and I was tired. I thought I’d see what was keeping Julius.” She drew a deep breath. “He offered to escort me to my husband’s office. You must know the rest.”
“Yes, I saw your statement, you needn’t repeat it, Mrs. Sabelline.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll only ask if you have any personal suspicions about who might be responsible. I assure you, I’ll keep anything you say confidential. But since you know everyone involved, perhaps you have some instinct.”
Araminta Sabelline shook her head. “For what I saw? I can’t imagine any one of them committing such an act, Miss Pell.” Her voice broke. “It was simply inhuman.” Pale fingers twisted the crucifix. “Enough to make one believe the devil is real.”
Jackson Sabelline frowned and put an arm around her.
“Perhaps you should lie down, Mother,” he said. “You don’t look well.”
She shrugged weakly. “I’ll be all right.”
“No, really. I insist. Dr. Welles will never forgive me if I fail in my nursing duties.”
Araminta raised a hand to her forehead and for an instant, her sleeve fell back. Five dark marks circled her frail wrist. Harry looked away before either of them noticed her staring.
She stood. “I’ve taken enough of your time. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you think of anything else.” She put her new hat on—a miniature derby with a dark red velvet band—and gave Mrs. Sabelline a consoling look. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
Araminta barely seemed to hear her. She stared at the mantle, and the sad sprig of holly next to the photograph of her husband and Count Koháry.
“Berte will see you out,” Jackson said, ringing for the maid. “Thank you for coming, Miss Pell.”
As she walked to the door, Harry contrived to pass by the window. Something had caught her eye when Jackson threw open the drapes, and a quick glance confirmed it. That’s interesting, Harry thought.
There was a gleaming new lock on the sash.
She found John ensconced in a corner table of the St. Denis’s elegant dining room, and he wasn’t alone. An animated young woman sat across from him. She was a few years older than John, with a squarish face and short bangs. A black-and-white checked coat was slung carelessly over the back of her chair.
“Nellie,” Harry said with genuine pleasure. “I should have expected you’d be mixed up in this.”
“Harry! I understand you’re coming from the Sabellines.”
“Are you on her payroll now?” Harry asked John with a laugh.
“Pure coincidence,” Nellie said airily. “I happened to be passing by and saw him through the window.”
“I’m sure you did.” Harry sat down and they ordered a round of drinks. “I thought you were busy planning for your trip?”
Nellie Bly was Joe Pulitzer’s star reporter at the New York World. She’d gained a reputation for stunt reporting, pretending to be mad and getting herself admitted to the women’s asylum on Blackwell’s Island where she’d exposed the horrendous conditions there. Her latest scheme, which her editors had recently approved, was to stage a race across the globe by train and steamship, with the aim of besting the time of the fictional Phileas Fogg in Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days.
“I am, but we’ve got until next fall to put everything together. This museum murder is the big news now and John wants a story,” she said, referring to her editor, John Cockerill.
“Perhaps we can trade information.”
“You always were a little mercenary,” Nellie laughed. “All right, sounds fair. Who goes first?”
“Can’t we order?” John complained. “I’m starving.”
A short time later, they were dining on wild duck and salmon, artichokes a la Barigoule, salsify au jus, and paper-thin slices of grilled eggplant.
“I suppose you’ve seen the police report?” Nellie asked.
“Better than that. We’ve been to the crime scene,” John said. He gave a brief account of their time at the museum the day before. “Holland seems like an upstanding citizen. Sharpe is a bit of a drinker, but so are plenty of men.”
“His story doesn’t match Araminta Sabelline’s,” Harry said. “She told me they met in the hallway. He claimed she went to his office.”
“Hmm. Could be an honest mistake,” Nellie said. “Witnesses sometimes misremember details like that. Or they’re in cahoots and got their lies mixed up. Wouldn’t be the first time a wife offed her husband in this town. Do you think she’s capable?”
“Impossible to say. She did seem genuinely grief-stricken. But I’ll tell you one thing. Araminta was lying when she said her husband wasn’t afraid. Someone put new locks on those windows, I’d say right around the same time Julius changed the lock on his office door.”
“Perhaps she worried the killer might come after her,” John offered.
Harry shook her head. “I think Mrs. Sabelline could hardly have arranged for someone to come so quickly, particularly since it was Christmas. There was also an extremely fine layer of dust. The new locks must predate the murder.”
“He was afraid of something.”
“Or she was,” John said.
In the pleasant, low-key hubbub of the St. Denis dining room, Harry recalled her nightmare and felt a chill.
“She also had bruises on her wrist, as if someone had grabbed her. No more than a day or two old, I’d guess.”
“Her husband?”
“He’s the likeliest one,” Harry agreed. “Or the son, although they did seem to have a loving relationship.”
“On the surface.”
“On the surface, yes. I was only there for perhaps half an hour.”
“Happy families are all alike,” Nellie quoted. “Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
“You should come to my house sometime,” John muttered as he went in for a third helping of duck. “Even the Russians would shudder when they met Rupert.”
Harry stared at them both blankly.
“Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina,” Nellie said. “I thought you were an avid reader.”
“Only of forensics and chemistry journals,” John said with a grin. “And the crime pages of the newspapers. Otherwise, she’s practically illiterate.”
Harry shot him a look. “What do you know about this Hungarian count?” she asked Nellie. “Sabelline’s patron.”
“Rather mysterious. Appeared on the scene about five years ago from somewhere in Central Europe. No one knows much about him except that he’s terribly rich and an avid collector of anything more than a thousand years old. Unmarried, no children. His money must be old too because I can’t seem to find out where it comes from.”
“Speaking of which, I wonder who gets Julius’s money. I didn’t have the gall to ask the grieving widow,” Harry admitted.
“I can answer that. There wasn’t a great deal and it was divided evenly between the wife and son.”
“Sounds like another dead end.” John took a bite of salmon. “Well, I’ll tell you what I found. The locksmith who made the keys has a shop on Seventy-Second and Broadway. He said there were only two and he gave them both to Mr. Sabelline the afternoon of the party.”
“He could be lying,” Nellie pointed out.
“He could,” John agreed. “But why? I made a few inquiries in the neighboring establishments. He’s been there for years and everyone vouched for his character without reservation.”
Nellie gave a grudging nod. “You’d make a decent reporter, John.”
He grinned. “Afterwards, I tracked down Mr. Jeremy Boot—who also seemed a polite, honest man, by the way. He confirmed that attendance at the museum has been way down since it moved from the Arsenal. You remember what a slog it was to get there, Harry. It’s too far uptown with the elevated ending at 59th Street.” He leaned forward. “Apparently, the trustees have been close to shutting it down. The Alexandria exhibit is critical to reviving the museum’s fortunes. The publicity from the murder would be a sure way to make it a smashing success.”
“What else did Boot say?”
“Not much we didn’t already know. Said he went out for a cigarette sometime between one and one-fifteen. He stood in an alley adjacent to Seventy-Eighth Street. He’d only been outside a minute or so when Mrs. Winter came along loudly demanding to be let out. Boot complied, then went back to finish smoking. He was just returning to his post when Davis Sharpe and Araminta Sabelline came looking for him. He walked them down to the basement and unlocked the office door. You know the rest.”
“Had he been in possession of the key all night?”
“He said it never left his pocket.”
“Which leaves only the key belonging to Mr. Sabelline himself, and that was found in his desk drawer.” Harry chewed her thumbnail. “We’ve spoken to six of the seven people who stayed after the party ended,” she said. “The only one left is Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry.”
“I’d like to know why that particular artifact was locked up in the strongbox,” John said.
“So would I. And if he has any idea what Sabelline was frightened of.” She scowled. “But Orpha has me waiting.”
“Your new boss?” Nellie asked sympathetically.
“You could say that. She won’t let me interview the count without her permission.”
John called for the check with a heavy sigh. “My God, I haven’t eaten that much since I had two Christmas dinners in a row.”
“Which was yesterday,” Harry pointed out.
“I’m working on a respectable paunch. All the best-paid doctors have them.”
Nellie eyed his tall, broad-shouldered frame with amusement. “I doubt you’ll ever be one of those, John, and thank God for that.”
“Fat or well-paid?”
Nellie laughed. “Take it as a compliment.” She rose from the table and put on her checkered coat. “They’ll want me at the office. I’ll let you know if I discover anything interesting about our enigmatic noble.”
“Don’t worry, the Bedbugs are on the case.” Harry grinned. “Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry is about to have an infestation.”