The Cabinet of Dr. Leng Read online

  She needed to collect herself and devise a plan. She knew now she could not remain Mary Ulcisor. A young, single woman, traveling alone, would attract attention of the wrong kind. She regretted she had caused a scene at the House of Industry—she should have been more careful. Luckily, she had not given her name, but what had happened there would not soon be forgotten by that iron-fisted woman.

  Turning from the window, she walked over to a nearby writing desk and took a seat. Several items lay upon it: an afternoon newspaper, her atlas of New York, the stiletto—and the bag of gemstones and two folded parchment sheets that had never been far from her side during the last few years.

  The Fifth Avenue Hotel would be an acceptable abode—for her and her two nonexistent maids—over the coming week. But for what she had in mind, she needed a secure base of operations, a place she could retreat to, where she would have privacy and security for herself and others. She also needed a persona and a history that would explain her presence and allow her to be accepted in New York society without stirring up unseemly gossip. And she needed accomplices she could trust. Murphy was a good start. But she would need others to carry out various assignments and to help her navigate her way through this strange, barely remembered time.

  Money would make all this possible. An intriguing young woman of great wealth and beauty, with a mysterious past, could enter society—if she was clever and careful.

  A mysterious past. She opened the newspaper, leafed through it quickly until she found the article she’d noticed earlier about a tragic shipwreck. Dipping a pen into the inkwell, she circled it. As she put the pen back, she drew the bag and parchment sheets closer.

  Mary would be safe for now. Her own younger self, Constance, would be easy enough to find and was in no immediate danger. It was Joe who was her priority: Joe, who right now was being brutalized at Blackwell’s Island in ways she could only imagine.

  But even before that, she had to create her own rebirth. She had to rise phoenix-like from the ashes of her future. Such a curious transformation required a plan of great subtlety—one that, in fact, she had already anticipated.

  5

  November 29, 1880

  Thursday

  GEORGE FREDERICK KUNZ SAT in his private office on the second floor of Tiffany & Company. The noise and bustle of Union Square were muted by the thick stone of the building, and tall, narrow windows—north-facing, of course—cast an indirect light over a row of glass-fronted display cases. The cases were filled, not with diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires like those on extravagant display in the showroom below, but instead with dull, ugly minerals. Not a single gleam shone in any of the gray, brown, and beige-colored chunks of rock behind the glass. The brilliance of precious stones passed through Kunz’s fingers every day, like water. The trophies within the case, by comparison, were his and his alone. Nobody save Charles Lewis Tiffany himself had ever inquired about them, and the customers who entered his office were too preoccupied with their own business to pay much attention to their surroundings. But Kunz himself knew their true worth, because he had discovered them, had dug them out of the gneiss of New Hampshire mountains and the igneous rock of the North Dakota batholiths. Each one had its special place in his self-taught mastery of mineralogy, and the accumulated field research they represented had been sufficient to make him, at twenty-three, a vice president at Tiffany—and its Chief Gemologist.

  Now Kunz shot his cuffs and opened his appointment book. Most of his late mornings and early afternoons were given over to gem examinations and acquisitions, and today was no exception. It had proven rather a boring morning: an uncut black opal of 7 carats—Kunz was a strong proponent of the new decimal metric system of gem grading, and frequently made private use of it in his work—and a group of inferior freshwater pearls that he had turned away, unpurchased. The only item of interest was an unfaceted ruby of twelve grams, brought in from Ceylon by a Belgian ship’s captain. Although Kunz had not challenged the captain’s insistence it was a ruby, its isometric crystallization as well as other factors made Kunz fairly certain it was in fact an example of the variant known as a spinel. Quite rare, and of a beautiful pigeon’s-blood color, so deep it reminded him almost of Tyrian purple.

  He smiled to himself, his thoughts returning to the showroom on the first floor and those who worked there. Under Charles Tiffany, the establishment had gone from being a “fancy goods” store to the most fashionable emporium of jewelry in the country. The cream of society came here to purchase rings, timepieces, bracelets, and rare jewels; the salespeople who waited on them were the best in the business and were paid accordingly. But—although they were peddling diamonds—at the end of the day they were still just peddlers. When he passed them in the mornings and evenings, on his way to and from his office in this “Palace of Jewels” situated at 15 Union Square West, they nodded and smiled at him as they tended their counters. But Kunz doubted it ever entered their minds that this young man was responsible for the merchandise they displayed. He purchased it, sourced it, and—on particularly gratifying occasions—designed and created it.

  Just six weeks after he was taken on as the store’s gemologist, he sailed to Paris, where a stone was awaiting him—a huge, rough, yellow pebble from the Kimberley diamond mines of South Africa. Charles Tiffany, who had an understandable weakness for yellow diamonds, had purchased it for a monumental sum, and it was his new gemologist’s job to ensure that Mr. Tiffany had made a good investment.

  It was the responsibility of a lifetime. Perhaps his youth allowed him to make choices an older, more experienced man would have considered reckless. Mesmerized by the stone’s unique color saturation, he decided to cut it to maximize not size but radiance. Instead of employing the fifty-eight facets of the traditional “brilliant” cut, Kunz called for an unheard-of eighty-two facets. This daring decision had resulted in the Tiffany Diamond: a canary-yellow gemstone unique in size and depth of color. It cemented Tiffany as a brand—and it made Kunz’s career.

  Kunz knew that he might well never top this early success. His skills were now in great demand, and he knew he could make more money doing appraisals at Sotheby’s or even Lloyd’s of London. But Charles Tiffany had a dream he’d shared with Kunz. He wanted to become known as the King of Diamonds—not just by hoarding the most stones, but by discovering the most interesting and most rare. And he was not afraid to risk enormous amounts of money to do it. So, although Kunz knew that foundational work of some sort lay in his future—perhaps a consulting position at the American Museum—Tiffany’s dream was one he eagerly wished to be part of.

  With a sigh, he turned to his book. One last appointment for the day—just moments away, in fact. It promised to be interesting: a woman of noble birth, from an eastern European duchy, or fiefdom, or the Lord knew what—territorial wars broke out there so often, and countries changed names so frequently, Kunz had no interest in keeping up with it all. Of course, such places were good at spawning fraudulent princesses and counts, eager to sell their equally imitation gems of paste or inferior stone. However, Kunz had a capable, discreet assistant named Gruber who, in addition to keeping his schedule, acted as a gatekeeper—or perhaps gold panner was a more apt metaphor, sieving nuggets from ordinary mud. Gruber had recommended he see this woman, pronouncing her to be the genuine article, although a bit of a mystery. He’d even gone so far as to say that he thought Kunz would find her “remarkably interesting.” Coming from the phlegmatic Gruber, this was a favorable introduction indeed. Given that—and given the lady was offering fine diamonds, among other gems—Kunz had made the appointment for one o’clock: any later, and the quality of daylight coming in the north windows would be insufficiently white for accurate evaluation.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, Gruber gave his distinctive knock on the rippled glass front of his office door. “The lady is here, sir.”

  “Please show her in,” said Kunz.

  Gruber opened the door, and after a few moments a woman stepped into the office. Immediately, Kunz stood up—compelled by instinct more than courtesy. Her overall appearance was striking. She was of average height, slender, with a fur wrap across her shoulders, of which Gruber relieved her. Beneath, she wore a stylish dress of pink silk—that year’s color—with basque bodice sleeves edged in Mechlin lace. Despite the exquisite fit and style of the dress, it was unlike most Kunz saw passing in and out of Tiffany’s. It had no bustle and showed rather more of the woman’s figure than was customary. Overall, it was a little…daring might be too strong a word, but certainly more commonly seen in the salons of Paris than New York. She was a very beautiful woman.

  Gruber cleared his throat. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Inow…Inow…”

  “Inowroclaw,” the woman finished for him. She had a low but pleasantly modulated voice.

  Kunz stepped around his desk and pulled out an overstuffed chair. “Please, Your Grace. Be my guest.”

  She thanked him, came forward, and took a seat with a movement that managed to be both demure and lithe. Gruber closed the door, then quietly took a seat beside it. In addition to being Kunz’s secretary and gatekeeper, he was also his bodyguard, with pistol at the ready should anyone be of a mind to attempt a robbery. Kunz himself carried a two-shot derringer in his coat pocket; it was almost a requirement of working at the Palace of Jewels.

  Kunz offered her refreshment—which she declined—and returned to his place behind the desk. He smiled and engaged in a few pleasantries, which also served as a subtle test of authenticity. The woman spoke very good English, with just a trace of accent, and there was nothing in her manner, bearing, or behavior to suggest she was not nobility. And yet, there were certain irregularities that gave him pause. She lacked the usual retinue. Her address was that of a hotel—admi
ttedly the finest in the city—and Gruber suspected she had employed an alias in taking those rooms. All this might require further investigation. Of course, the greatest proof of all would lie with the remarkable jewels she claimed to have on her person.

  Now he smiled again, nodded, and placed his hands palm down on the desk. “I understand, Your Grace, that you have in your possession certain gemstones you are interested in proffering to us.”

  The woman inclined her head.

  “Very good. This being the case, I wonder if you’d be so kind as to describe their background, and how they came to be in your possession.”

  There was a pause. This moment was often awkward.

  “You understand,” he continued, “that as the preeminent purveyor of gemstones, we are required to take the most complete measures to ensure the quality and provenance of what we sell—and thus, what we buy.”

  “I understand,” the duchess replied. “And I shall be happy to grant your request to the best of my ability. However, I would like a favor in return: to speak to you in confidence, which should not only satisfy your curiosity, but also help assure the safety of my person.”

  Kunz considered this a moment, then nodded discreetly to Gruber, indicating he should leave. It was certainly proper to be alone with this woman in a place of business. As for her motives, what devilry could she hope to accomplish: leap upon him, perhaps, a dagger gleaming in her hand? Preposterous: this was New York of the 1880s, not some penny dreadful. Nevertheless, he pressed his right elbow against his side as Gruber left, confirming the presence of his derringer.

  Kunz caught his breath involuntarily when his eyes met the noblewoman’s: a most unusual shade of violet, and with a depth that gave an indelible impression of intelligence, experience, and self-confidence. This was a woman who had seen more than her age would imply.

  “I will tell you my story,” she said. “I must ask you to keep this in the strictest confidence, because by telling you this I, quite literally, place my life in your hands. And I do it only so that, when you see the gemstones, you will understand.”

  When she paused, Kunz gestured for her to continue. “Please, milady.”

  “My name is Katalyn,” she began. “I come most recently from the former Principality of Transylvania, where my family was in hiding, but my ancestral home is the duchy of Inowroclaw in Galicia. I am of the house of Piast, and trace my lineage back to Casimir IV, Duke of Pomerania. He died, supposedly childless, in 1377 whilst in battle against Wladyslaw the White, and was succeeded by Wladislaus II, who was excommunicated in 1380—apparently, the last duke of Inowroclaw. However, unbeknownst to the territory-hungry Wladislaus, Casimir had a son—Casimir V—who, in return for aiding Louis I of Hungary during the turbulence that followed Wladislaus’s death, was allowed to claim his rightful duchy, lands, and jewels. Louis demanded unwavering fealty, and my family survived and gained wealth by keeping faith with our kings and valuing loyalty over ambition: a băga mâna în foc pentru cineva. However, this tradition was interrupted when the territory was annexed to Prussia in 1772. My ancestor, then duke of Inowroclaw, fled to Transylvania. Unfortunately, unrest followed: my grandfather died in 1848 during the Hungarian Revolution, and my father in the Ausgleich of the Seven Weeks’ War, thirteen years ago. Only my mother and I remained, the last of the once-proud duchy of Inowroclaw. Our title remained intact—transferred down from my father through the female line—as did our considerable fortune. However, when my mother died last year, my existence became known to certain other members of the old house of Piast, a line stemming from the adopted son of Boleslaw V the Chaste. If I were to die without heir, their line would inherit my title and my wealth.” She paused. “I knew that, if I stayed in Transylvania, my life would not be worth a guilder. And so after my mother’s death, I secretly left Europe, traveling alone and under an assumed name. My household, with all my possessions, were to follow me to America six months later—at which time I would make my existence, and my birthright, known.”

  Now she fell silent, having apparently concluded her tale.

  “And have those six months passed?” Kunz asked. He had gotten totally lost in this tangle of titles and events.

  She nodded.

  “May I be so bold as to ask: why this need for secrecy?”

  “Because my eight servants, along with all my household goods and family possessions, sailed from Liverpool earlier this month…on the SS City of London. It took much of my fortune to the bottom, with the exception of my jewels.”

  It took a moment for Kunz to make the connection: a passenger steamship of that name, he remembered, had vanished a few weeks ago while en route to New York. Forty-one souls had perished.

  “Dear God,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

  Instead of replying, the young duchess reached into a large handbag, took out a soiled leather envelope, and handed it across the desk. Just as wordlessly, Kunz took it, opened it, and withdrew a folded piece of parchment from within. He laid it on his desk, then unfolded it with great care.

  He had seen any number of similar letters patent, real and forged. Across its top were three crests, illuminated, with heavy gilt shading, now as crazed as ancient porcelain. The rest of the document was in black ink, beginning with the words Louis Király Nevében in large calligraphic letters of the Roman Rustic style. At the bottom was a tricolored ribbon, attached with a large wax seal, itself cracked across the middle. Kunz examined the parchment, the crests, and the wax, employing a powerful magnifying glass that he took from his desk—after securing the permission of the duchess to take such a liberty. Although he didn’t understand a word of what he assumed was Hungarian, or perhaps Romanian, he was expert enough in patents of nobility to have no doubt this was genuine. Any qualms Kunz had harbored about this lady, her history, or the provenance of her family treasures were now satisfied.

  He folded the document carefully and replaced it in the envelope, which he handed to the duchess. “Thank you, milady. With your permission, we shall continue?”

  “I wait upon your pleasure,” came the reply. “I understand that, in these matters, you speak for Tiffany and Company. For reasons I hope are obvious, I require a line of credit from a banking house as soon as possible to cover my expenses. Assuming that we come to terms on the gemstones, I would ask you to provide me with a letter of credit, drawn against Tiffany’s, made out to the Wall Street branch of the Bank of New York, effective today. That will serve as partial payment. No doubt you or Mr. Tiffany will wish to bring in your firm’s personal banker to complete the transfer of the full sum; we can also draw up the legal paperwork to set a date for this, convenient to both you and myself.”

  While Kunz understood the first stipulation, the second left him amused. Being a foreigner, she evidently didn’t know that Tiffany’s, the city’s greatest jeweler, had in its basement vault many thousands in ready cash, sufficient, he was sure, to cover the cost of her gemstones.

  “I believe you may rest easy, milady,” he replied. “No doubt we can reach an agreement on disbursements—if our, ah, appraisal merits such a step—without difficulty.”

  The woman nodded.

  “In that case, shall we proceed? I hope you’ll understand that bright natural light is required.”

  “I understand,” the duchess replied.

  Kunz called out to Gruber, who came back, locked the door behind him, raised the window blinds to their highest extent, then took up his earlier position. Putting the magnifying glass to one side, Kunz opened his desk again and brought out a variety of tools, a beaker of mineral oil, a loupe, and two large squares of the finest black felt, which he laid next to each other on the center of his desktop. Then, pulling on a pair of fine white gloves and smoothing the lapels of his vest, he turned to the woman sitting across from him.

  “Your Grace,” he said with a deferential nod. “Shall we begin?”