The Alchemy of Murder (53 page)

“May I show you to your compartment?”

“Thank you. I’ll—” I stop and gawk at a man standing at the end of the platform as the train rolls by.

“Is something the matter?” the conductor asks.

“Did you see that man on the platform?”

“What man?”

“The bearded man dressed all in black, wearing a red scarf. He’s on the platform.
Stop the train!
”

“What?”

“
We’ve got to stop the train!
”

“Stop the train?”

“
Yes!
Stop the train. We have to catch that man.”

“That is impossible.” He stands erect, his backbone stiffening. “Mademoiselle. Follow me immediately to your compartment. You need to lie down and rest.”

I look back at the platform. The man is gone.

I get my breathing back into order. I have to calm down and not let my imagination run wild. The inspector said no one could have survived the balloon crash.

He is dead and that’s that.

I just hope he stays dead.

POSTSCRIPT

FROM

The Editors

I
T SHOULD COME
as a surprise to no one that Nellie Bly took up the challenge Jules threw at her.

Back in New York, she proposed a race around the world to beat Phileas Fogg’s eighty days record to Pulitzer. Once again he told her that what she proposed was no job for a lady …

That was all he had to say to ignite a storm. It took her all of three days to plan the trip, throw a few things into a small valise, and start a race around the world on ships, trains, and carriages.

She stopped in France, of course, to say hello to old friends. And later wrote a book about her adventure:
Around the World in Seventy-Two Days.

Although she received international acclaim for her incredible feat, to prevent worldwide panic she was forced to omit from the book certain strange and mysterious events that occurred when she went around the world in those seventy-two days.

However, the editors are pleased to announce that they have obtained Nellie’s original manuscript and it will soon be ready for public viewing.

CAROL MCCLEARY AT NELLIE BLY
’
S GRAVE
2009

PROLOGUE

19th Dynasty Burial Chamber Ancient site of Tanis Egypt, 1889

I discovered that Egypt is a land of both mystery and magic, an exotic place where trees talk and men turn staffs into snakes, so it should not have come as such a surprise that death would also be mysterious in this ancient, haunted land of pyramids, mummies, and the eternal Nile.

That I could suffer a bizarre death in this strange land had not occurred to me until now, as I stand cold to the bone, staring down at the long black snake I’ve stepped on.

I don’t dare lift my foot, I can’t even breathe; I just stand stiffly in place, the toe of my shoe pressing down on the serpent as it thrashes and tries to coil.

Darkness is closing in as a burning torch on the dirt a few feet from me fades. When the bundle of sticks burns out, there’ll be just me and the snake—in the dark.

In the dark where?
A burial chamber, for sure. A sarcophagus is off to my right and I can make out on a wall a scene from the
Egyptian Book of the Dead
—the aged painting of a boat that has the head of a lion, a tail and clawed feet at the stern; aboard are wailing women, some with hands outstretched, others covering their faces—mourners for the dead.

The stone coffin, pillars, and faded hieroglyphics are the only remnants of what was perhaps the magnificent tomb of some long-dead pharaoh. Once filled with unimaginable treasures, it now has dust and cobwebs; thieves have taken everything but the ghosts.

Shouting for help will do no good. No one knows I’m here except the person who imprisoned me; someone with murder in their heart I’ve yet to put a name or face to, but who knows I’m trying to flush them out.

The snake’s tail whips against the side of my leg and I nearly jump out of my skin.

I have no idea of what kind of snake it is, but the country is famous for its asps—deadly horned vipers and cobras. Cleopatra tested their venom on condemned prisoners to find out which killed the fastest and most painlessly before she had one bite her.

How I came to be imprisoned in an ancient tomb with one foot on a snake and the other on my own grave has me wondering how I’ve so quickly managed to offend the gods of this ancient land. A mystifying artifact of Egyptian black magic is the source of my troubles and I had been forewarned—possession of it has already caused blood to soak into the primordial dust of the Nile valley.

It is not the first time I’ve stepped into a snake pit, so to speak, but never before so literally; it’s at times like this that I wonder if there is something about me that attracts the strange and the dangerous.

My name is Nellie Bly and I’m a reporter for Mr. Joseph Pulitzer’s
New York
World.
With too much boldness for my own good, I bullied and bluffed my way into having the newspaper send me on a race around the world in which I must beat the “record” set by Phileas Fogg in Jules Verne’s novel
Around the World in Eighty Days
.

That it was the thirteenth day of my journey when I made landfall in Egypt should have also told me that this was not an auspicious time to visit a place where priests once made people eternal with dark magic and the land blistered under ten plagues hurtled by the almighty Jehovah.

The snake twists and thrashes violently and I press harder—at least I think I do. My body is blue cold, I can’t feel my toes and my knee is shaking wildly as if it has a life of its own.

Did something move at the sarcophagus?

I’m sure I saw something move.

Dear God, let it be a trick of the light.

The fading torchlight is casting eerie shadows. There couldn’t be anything in the stone coffin, not something alive, unless it’s true that Egyptian priests could embalm in a way that preserved life for aeons.

More snakes?

The thought of being in the dark with snakes, and scorpions, and spiders, and God knows whatever else lurks in ancient tombs causes the shaking in my knee to work its way up to my hip, and my whole body trembles. I want to cry but I can’t spare the strength and instead press down harder on the snake—or maybe I just think I am pressing harder. My foot is so numb I can’t feel anything under it.

The torch flickers and hisses as if it’s burning through the last of the pitch. I have to get to it and somehow keep it going until I can find my way out of this nightmare. There has to be a door somewhere.

My knees and my courage are turning to mush and I keep imagining I’m letting up the pressure on the struggling serpent. Or maybe I’m not imagining it.

I know I can’t keep this awkward stance any longer. I have to do something now before the darkness completely embraces me.

The creature underfoot thrashes violently, whipping its whole body. It starts slipping out from under my shoe and I scream as I push down on it again, my heart pounding so hard that I’m breathless and sway dizzily, almost losing my footing.

Shutting my eyes tightly, I ask God for help. I don’t think He will listen; unfortunately I’m one of those people who never talks to Him unless I’m up to my neck in alligators, but I try anyway, though I don’t think that the Good Lord would approve of my present association with the dark side of Egyptian magic.

I can’t be left blind in the darkness with a deadly snake. I need to get both feet on the snake and jump up and down until I’m sure it can’t harm me and get to the torch before it dies.

I start to bring up my other foot up as I look down.

It’s gone.

The snake has slipped out from under my foot.

Mortified, I can’t move, can’t breathe. It could strike at any second.

Mother of God, how did I get myself into this mess?
Ancient curses, magic amulets, esoteric mysteries from the
Egyptian Book of the Dead,
murder and fanaticism—it’s all insanely bizarre for a young woman from Cochran Mills, Pennsylvania, population exactly 534.

As the darkness closes in on me and my breathing takes on the hoarse rasp of a death rattle, I ask myself what I could have done differently when I decided to flush out a killer in a land blessed by the sun and damned by ancient curses.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Hildegard Krische, who was sent to me by the heavens above—she is my guardian angel—you will never know what you have done for me and what you mean to me.…

To Doctor Pasteur, who saved my life—

as a child I was bitten by a rabid dog.…

To Nellie Bly, who gave me life.…

and

To Cenza Cacciotti, my incredible soul sister,

who keeps me sane and very happy, and

I truly don’t know what I’d do without you.…

Thank you very much.

As always, there is a host of people who deserve to be acknowledged for their help and support and just being fabulous friends who understand and put up with me. The list would be endless, and I hope there will be more books so I can give each of them their just deserve. With this first one, I want to thank Ghyontonda Mota for giving me immense support, encouragement, and, most important, helping me survive this crazy journey—thank you a million times. To David Young, who kept my hands and body functioning, Nellie might have not been written if you hadn’t spun your magic—thank you. Harvey Klinger, an amazing man who has always given me a chance and believed in me—thanks for not only being my agent, but also an extremely true-blue friend. My sis, Gen-Foxey, who gave me faith in fairy tales—love you. My mother, who not only gave me the opportunity to write Nellie, for which I will always be thankful, but also a deep, precious understanding of life. I will always be extremely grateful to Bob Gleason, my editor, who made this happen—thank you. And to Ashley Cardiff, who kindly kept me on track—you’re a real trooper—and Eric Raab, who took a helpful interest in Nellie. Then there’s my copy editor, David Stanford Burr, who did an absolutely incredible job—wow! Linda Quinton, I wish I could say the right words to let you know how much I appreciate you—you are not just a wonderful person who took a bold chance with me, but someone I consider a true friend, always. Last, but by far not least, Tom Doherty, a gentleman and a man who has given countless opportunities to so many writers whose voices would never have been heard—thank you for letting Nellie’s voice be heard again.

P.S.
I feel it’s very important to acknowledge people who give you a smile when you so desperately need it and a kind word that keeps you moving forward. They are little gestures that turn a crappy day into a happy one. This is to some very special people in the village of Dennis, where I live, who did this for me when I most needed it—thank you from the bottom of my heart.… Sarah Humphrey; Brad Tripp; Tony Itri; Paulo Murta; Laurie Desso; Lorraine Steele; Stephany Hutchinson; Maureen Costa, who always had such a beautiful smile on her face; Emily Hennigan; Roseanne Smith; Dr. Kristine Soly; Dr. Jamie Nash; Sasha Reljic; Suzie Maguire; Deb Leo; Cathy Connolly; Su Pratt; Barbara Wells, our incredible librarian; Dr. Blake and Judy Blake; and my new friends at Pilates Plus, Michelle Mashoke, Kerstin Holve, and Chrissie Mashoke. And a couple of people not on the Cape, but who need to be here, Carlo Trinidad and Elvin Alvarez.