Page 19 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

Saturday

HUGH MOSELEY WAITED INthe darkness of the small point of land jutting out from Blackwell’s Island, directly across the river from the coal pier of Murray Hill. It was quarter past eleven according to his pocket watch, and traffic on the East River was light. This section of Blackwell’s, far from any buildings and sheltered by a thick stand of chestnut trees, had been agreed upon the night before as the place he should meet his strange new employer and the Irishman she’d referred to as Murphy. But they were late, and his agitation was increasing. He had arranged to take the night shift this evening—an easy enough task, given all the nocturnal vices that beckoned the workers from across the river—but he had only forty-five minutes left until he had to report. Instinctively, his hand reached for the vest pocket that usually contained a small vial of laudanum. But the pocket was empty, and foreswearing the tincture—at least for now—was one promise he didn’t dare break.

For maybe the thousandth time, he wondered who the young woman was that he’d met, first in the Rathskeller and then, the following night, in his own lodgings. On both occasions she’d been dressed in male clothing, but even so, her beauty could not be concealed. Despite her youth and stature, she displayed a calmness of mind and singleness of purpose that was nothing short of remarkable. Her eyes had sparkled with keen intelligence as well as determination. It was obvious she was extremely wealthy: she treated money with something close to indifference. He could almost believe she was a figure out of some Gothic romance, a noblewoman or even a princess in disguise…were it not for this urchin she was bent on saving.

His thoughts were interrupted by the low crunch of a keel upon the shingle beach. Looking upriver, he made out the dim form of a rowboat, two figures emerging from it. Clouds covered the moon, and the vessel had made use of the darkness to approach almost invisibly. As he began walking toward it, he saw the brawny silhouette of Murphy, quietly pulling the boat up and shipping the oars. The mysterious woman came toward Moseley, and he received a fresh surprise: she was dressed from head to toe in a close-fitting black garment, attire more appropriate for an acrobat or trapeze artist than for a woman of means. A leather belt such as a soldier might use had been fitted around her waist, and from it hung a variety of pouches and an antique dagger with a hilt of gold. As he stared, she removed the dagger for a brief inspection, and as she tested its readiness he realized it was a stiletto, its razor-sharp blade gleaming faintly in a brief patch of moonlight.

Now Murphy came up. He, too, appeared ready for bloodshed: he held a policeman’s lead-spined billy club in one hand, a dark lantern in the other, and in his belt he’d stuck a foot-long, bayonet-like blade known as an “Arkansas toothpick.”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Moseley,” the woman said in her curious low tone. A black knitted cap was pulled low over her forehead. “These weapons are for persuasion only.”

“Aye,” said Murphy, pulling his massive blade free with the singing sound of steel. “I won’t tickle anybody with this unless necessary.”

Moseley watched him brandish it. For some reason, the young woman’s stiletto, so much smaller and more elegant, was what made him most uneasy. Had he been deceived in their true purpose? If the boy was innocent, why these preparations for violence? It was not the first time he’d considered this possibility—and he’d come prepared.

“If there’s bloodshed, it will go the worse for me,” he said. “So I took the liberty of obtaining this.” He pulled a large vial from his battered satchel—not laudanum, more’s the pity. “Chloroform. You can use it to incapacitate the keepers.”

The woman took the proffered vial. “Thoughtful and clever of you,” she said. “But unnecessarily dangerous. Chloroform can all too easily cause airway collapse and death.” She handed it to Murphy, who pitched it out into the river. “I’ve come with my own admixture.” And she patted one of the pouches on her belt.

“You have?”

She nodded. “A variant of ACE.”

“I…I see.” Moseley had heard of this drug, which had recently come into favor among anesthetists. What surprised him more was that she would be familiar with it.

“Let’s proceed,” she said. “Last night, you told us the basement entrance beside the south wing affords the quickest and quietest access to the workhouse cells. We’ll go in through there.”

He nodded.

“Before we do that, please repeat for me the plan.”

“I’ll report to work as usual. The cook, chaplain, and physician should all be off-island. There is a guard outpost at the Octagon, and a barracks at the penitentiary, but at night there’s usually only a keeper or two in the south wing of the workhouse—along with the handful of resident employees which, as I said, are likely to be off-island. At twelve thirty, I’ll unlock the basement door, then distract the superintendent with something that will require his presence in the women’s wing to the north. That should leave you with the one keeper on the first floor of the south cell block, and perhaps another on the second or third floors, to deal with. The key you made from the wax impression should open all the cells. Joe Greene is in the first cell, first floor right. As far as I know, there haven’t been any new inmates transferred to that cell.”

The young woman listened to this recitation, then nodded. “Very good.” She reached into another pouch, drew out a short stack of double eagles, and held them out to him.

“Begging your pardon, but I can’t take those at present,” he said. “If I’m found with them on my person, once the alarm is raised…”

“Of course. I admire your trusting nature—I’d assumed you would simply bury them somewhere.” She returned them to the pouch. “We’ll get them to you later.”

“Just…please, no violence.” And with that, Moseley turned and hurried off into the darkness, toward the grim institutional buildings that lay to the south.

Half an hour later, he’d covertly returned the passkey the woman had made an impression of and made sure his presence was noted. To his great dismay, the cook was not off the island, as anticipated, but rather in his foul-smelling chambers, snoring, face flat on the table beside an empty bottle of gin. Moseley’s heart sank: much as he hated the man, he couldn’t countenance being party to his death.

At quarter past twelve, he made a cursory round of the north wing, where the women were housed. Keepers weren’t assigned to this wing, and he’d hoped and expected to find something amiss. He was not disappointed: a brawl was underway in a cell near the far end of the second floor. One streetwalker had accused another of thievery, it seemed, and the argument had spread to all six occupants, now shrieking and cursing at blows both given and received.

After making a cursory attempt to stop it, Moseley retreated to the administrative building between the two wings. Slipping into the basement and ensuring his movements weren’t detected, he unlocked the door to the outside. Then he glanced at his pocket watch again: twelve twenty-five.

He returned to the first floor and knocked on the superintendent’s door.

“Yes?” came the voice from within.

“It’s Moseley, sir.”

A sound of shuffling, and then the door opened. Bottle in one hand and glass in the other, Cropper looked him up and down. “What in the living hell do you want?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a fracas taking place in the north wing.”

“A what?”

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