Free The Curse of Jacob Tracy: A Novel by Holly Messinger Page B

dissuade him, but he swore he would kill her, too, and Miss Herschel ran for help. She claims her father was still alive when she left him, though “not in his right mind” and can offer no explanation for how he was killed or ended up in the well.
    Anna Herschel is being held at Four Courts jail pending further questioning.
    “I can’t believe it.” Jameson shook his head. “I’d hate to think any child could turn on her parents like that.”
    “You can’t think Miss Anna did it?” Boz said.
    Jameson looked uncomfortable. “Well, you gotta admit it looks funny—her being the only survivor, and blaming her old man when he ended up dead like the rest of ’em. Herschel was worth some tin, you know. It wouldn’t be the first time the heirs thought to inherit early.”
    “It wasn’t Anna,” Trace said, folding the paper. He looked at Boz, inclining his head slightly in the direction of the waiting Chinaman. “I’m gonna…”
    “Yeah,” Boz said. “I’ll see you at home.”

 
    CHAPTER NINE
    Miss Fairweather’s neighborhood was genteel but aging, built by well-to-do German families before the war. It was not a street where roughnecks typically rode up in work clothes and left their shaggy quarterhorses on the curb. But Trace had not been raised in a barn, either; he touched his hat to the two young ladies who dawdled on the sidewalk, looking him over with a mixture of terror and fascination. Their mother gave him a well-bred eyeballing herself, before hastening her charges along.
    The Chinese, who had trotted the whole way uptown like a hound at Trace’s stirrup, let him into the house. He took Trace’s coat and hat, said, “Miss Fairweather will see you in the laboratory,” and set off across the foyer.
    Trace followed the man up the grand staircase, past the quiet and richly carpeted second-floor landing, to the narrow and dimly lit third-floor hallway. The place was eerily quiet—not even the muted bustle of servants at work. The silence made him uneasy, as if the house were holding its breath, listening back at him.
    At the north end of the hall was a rough stair leading up, and a trapdoor opening into the attic. The Chinese gestured for Trace to go ahead. He had to duck to avoid the trapdoor, and the sudden onslaught of daylight made him blink.
    The back half of the attic rolled out before him, as big as a ballroom. The entire north face of the roof was glass, braced by girders and sealed with lead between the panes. The clouds rushing overhead teased his balance and he grabbed the nearest cabinet for support.
    There were a great many cabinets and shelves along the wall, all of them packed to bursting with intriguing objects: jars of preserved specimens, bins and boxes, glassware and iron armatures and rubber hoses. There were several large trestle tables, most of them painted black, but one was a solid slab of white marble, and another supported a tin basin the size of a wagon bed. The wall behind the trapdoor was stacked with cages and tanks, in which small creatures flopped and fluttered and whistled.
    In spite of himself, Trace was impressed. He’d seen Miss Fairweather’s library, and he’d guessed she had a capable and curious mind, but this was no mere dilettante’s parlor. This was a place of serious work. He moved farther into the room, trying to look at everything at once.
    Built into the central wall of the house was a massive fireplace, onto which was grafted a network of ovens and ductwork. Copper pipes ran down from the roof to a large heating drum, and from there more pipes snaked overhead to feed valves above the tin basin and the marble table. Above the water drum, a vent opened every few seconds to let out a puff of scalding vapor.
    Trace eyed the water line leading to the tin basin. He touched a porcelain valve handle marked HOT with the tip of one finger and it turned easily, letting a spill of water into the tin basin beneath it. He felt the heat of the steam against his