The Daemoniac

by Kat Ross

  Elizabeth made a small noise and took her husband’s hand in her own delicate, small-boned ones. John and I waited awkwardly while Brady composed himself.

  “I asked Robert what sort of legitimate business transaction he could possibly conduct in such a place, at such an hour. Why, we’d be lucky if we weren’t both murdered for the boots on our feet! Robert responded that he was aware of the dangers and that is why he did not wish to go alone, but he would if he had to. He was very composed and resolute as he told me that he understood perfectly if I declined and would not hold it against our friendship. Oh, he had me over a barrel, Miss Pell. As I said, I have no other siblings, and Robert occupied the place of a brother to me, despite our recent estrangement. As long as it would not impinge on my own honor, I could hardly see my way to refuse him anything. I told him I would be there, along with a pistol I often carried when passing through less savory portions of the city.

  “Once I acquiesced, he seemed to relax and his demeanor changed yet again. He became quite chatty, almost grandiose, and confessed that he had by chance made the acquaintance of a medium who hinted that she was privy to some occult ritual which would bring untold wealth to those who performed it to the letter. He pretended to find the whole thing amusing, but I could see he had fallen entirely under her spell. I reminded him that such women were famous for luring the unwary into traps whereby their confederates would first rob and then slit the throat of their victim, discarding the body in the nearest river. He responded that that was why he preferred not to go alone. I could see that it was hopeless to dissuade him, so we agreed to meet the following evening and parted ways. I must say, I felt my own good fortune most keenly that night,” Brady added, looking with quiet but profound adoration at his wife. “Seeing Robert penniless and alone…Well, it made me view my own circumstances with fresh eyes.”

  Elizabeth spoke up for the first time. She had a pleasant contralto and firm, confident manner that I admired. “Leland confided in me what had occurred that day. Perhaps another woman would have begged her husband not to keep such a sordid appointment, but Robert is like a brother to me also.” Her eyes flashed. “And I have the utmost confidence in my husband’s abilities. I bade him to go, and to keep both of them safe.”

  I sensed that we were approaching the crux of the matter and said nothing, waiting patiently for Brady to resume his narrative.

  “At the appointed hour, I found my way to the address Robert gave me,” he said. “It was a grim dwelling, even by the low standards of the neighborhood. A gang of vile-looking youths lounged on the corner, but I gave them a glimpse of my pistol and they turned their attentions elsewhere. Robert was waiting for me in the doorway. He led me down a flight of narrow, pitch-black stairs to the lowest level of the tenement, a dungeon with only thin slits at street level to admit fresh air from the outside, if the air in that pestilential place could be called fresh.” Brady’s mouth twisted in distaste. “I’d heard tell of such hells, but to actually stand in one, amid the damp and the stench…It had rained heavily the night before, and there was a stagnant pool of water on the floor. It soaked right through my shoes. Well, I came close to turning tail and running, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Robert must have sensed me quail, for he laid a steadying hand on my sleeve. And then a candle flickered to life. It was the medium.”

  “Did you catch her name?” I asked.

  “Santi, she called herself. Madame Catarina Santi. A battered wooden table and three chairs had been placed in the center of the room. She told us to sit down. I just wanted to get the whole thing over with, so I obliged. I suppose I expected some knocking about of the table, moaning noises, the usual chicanery of her profession. The woman, Santi, took out a book and began reading from it. I can hardly remember a word now, but it seemed perfect nonsense at the time. I nearly laughed, for she was so drunk, she could hardly form a coherent sentence.” Brady swallowed. “My amusement soon turned to disgust when she suddenly produced a rooster, I know not from where, and proceeded to tear it apart with her bare hands. The table was awash with blood and feathers. I looked at Robert and saw that he was as shocked as I at this savage turn of events. I was rising from my chair to leave when a foul wind extinguished the candles.” Brady paused and gave John and me a level look. “You may decide for yourselves whether to believe the final part of my story. All I can say, and my wife will attest to it, is that I have never been a man of vivid imagination. I always thought the Spiritualist rage to be a load of bunkum.”

  “And you’ve revised your opinion?” John asked eagerly.

  Brady didn’t answer right away. Finally, he sighed. “I don’t know. I can only tell you what I saw and heard that night. Robert was to my right. He cried out once and then went still. I cannot explain the wind since as I said, the only air came through mere slits in the wall, but I would swear to it on my life. It had a faint smell of sulphur or creosote.” He stopped talking abruptly and placed the glass of iced tea back on the table.

  “What happened next?” I asked.

  “I felt a…presence in the room. A subtle displacement of the atmosphere. Santi screamed for us to close our eyes. She was quite hysterical.”

  “I thought the room was dark,” I said.

  “It was. I didn’t understand what she meant. But I did it anyway. Some small voice inside told me that as pointless as it seemed, it would be wise to listen.”

  John was fairly falling off the edge of his seat at this point. He believed in everything, the more mystical and macabre, the better.

  “What do you mean by a presence?” he asked.

  “I mean that we were not alone in that room,” Brady snapped. “I don’t know who it was, what it was. But the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up, and every primal instinct screamed run, you fool, run.” He visibly collected himself. “It seemed to go on for hours, but I think it was only a few minutes. Finally, the wind died and I heard Santi fumbling around for the matches. I realized that I had my hands pressed tightly against my face and let them go. I had not even been aware of it. She relit the candles. All appeared to be the same. I won’t say normal, as she was stained with gore down the front of her dress, but I could detect no difference in the room. Please leave now, she told us, and I was more than happy to comply. Robert was staring into space with a vacant look on his face so I shook him until he came back to his senses. I put an arm around his shoulders and led him out of that loathsome place, up the stairs and onto the street. Oh, to see the stars again! It was like emerging from a tomb. I looked at my pocket watch and was surprised to see it was only just past midnight. Of course, it was too late to catch a train home to Westchester, so I escorted Robert to his flat and then I returned to Maiden Lane, where I spent the night on a couch in my office.”

  “Did you discuss what had happened?” I asked.

  “Not then. Robert barely spoke a word, except to thank me for accompanying him. He was quite subdued. My mind was still reeling from the strange things I had experienced, and I had no wish to speak of them either. I kept thinking that it must have been a hoax, albeit a rather frightening one. By the next day, as I ventured into the sunshine for a strong cup of coffee, the whole thing seemed like a bad dream. However, I feared for Robert’s state of mind. I knew he had put all his hopes in it, and those hopes would now be dashed. So I went back to call on him.”

  “And found him gone?” John interjected.

  “No, he was at home. But he was very agitated. Robert was normally a man of calm, level-headed disposition, except for his poor judgment in business matters. We had been through a good deal together, in the army and as young men with a thirst for adventure. He was just the sort of fellow you would wish to have at your side when the seas got rough. But that morning…I scarcely recognized him. All the blinds were drawn tight and there was an unpleasant, close odor to the room. When I tried to open a window, he stopped me, almost violently. He was ranting.”

  “About something in particular?” I asked.
>
  “Yes. He kept saying that ‘it is loosed’ and seemed to be under the delusion that something was stalking him. He blamed Santi. I tried to persuade him to come home with me, but he declined. He said he didn’t want to put Elizabeth in jeopardy. I could hardly make heads or tails of his tirade.”

  “Are you certain he said it?” I said. “That he wasn’t referring to a person?”

  “I’m certain. It struck me at the time as odd. He also said, ‘It comes through the eyes.’ He was looking at himself in a shaving mirror as he said this. I came forward and laid a hand on his shoulder but he shook it off. I asked him what he meant, but he refused to elaborate. I was anxious to get home and reassure my wife that I was fine, so when it became clear that Robert would not come with me, I left. That was the last time I saw him.” Brady put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it wearily. “I returned the following day, determined to make him see reason. Clearly, he was unwell. I knocked, but he failed to answer. I have returned thrice more, to no avail.”

  Brady trailed off, as though reluctant to continue. Elizabeth’s hands were clasped so tightly, the knuckles had turned white.

  “John,” I said quietly. “Would you fetch Tuesday’s papers?”

  He gave me a confused sort of look but complied. Brady and his wife sat on the sofa, stone-faced, while I picked the World off the pile and opened it to page four.

  “I believe I know why you’re here,” I said. “Madame Santi’s real name was Becky Rickard, was it not?”

  Brady didn’t respond, but the look he gave me was an answer in itself.

  “It seems she was a well-known spiritualist who had suffered public humiliation when her tricks were revealed,” I said, scanning the brief article. “Her clientele abandoned her and she disappeared. This was about six months ago. We know where she ended up. She was like your friend, Mr. Straker. One may ascend to great heights in this city, but lose your grip on the rungs and the fall will be steep and swift.”

  John tentatively raised a finger. “Pardon, but did you say was?”

  I tossed the paper on the table so he could see the headline. “Yes. Someone stabbed her to death three days ago.”

  Chapter 2

  John snatched up the paper and began devouring the gory details, at least, those few the reporter had managed to coax out of the police. The murder was described as “savage” and “brutal,” although the article glossed over the specifics. Most of it was devoted to breathlessly recalling Becky Rickard’s earlier career as a darling of New York Society and her plunge into destitute anonymity when two of the Fox sisters of Rochester in upstate New York—virtual founders of the Spiritualism movement—had admitted that the mysterious rapping sounds they had long claimed were messages from beyond the grave were actually Margaret cracking her toe joints. As their protégé, Becky, who then called herself Valentina von Linden, was equally tarred with the brush of fraud and disgrace.

  The article was accompanied by a sketched portrait of a blonde woman with very large eyes and a small, petulant mouth. It claimed the “fiend” had “mutilated her beauty” in some way. The police had no suspects.

  Myrtle always said that a good detective ought to familiarize herself with the criminal mind, for there is nothing new under the sun that hasn’t been done already. For this reason, she had all the papers delivered every day. She would lounge around in her dressing gown and scan their pages for potentially intriguing cases, filing it all away in her photographic memory. I did my best to imitate this habit, and recalled the Rickard murder well, as it was only a few days past.

  The World reported that she had been discovered in her flat on Baxter Street above the Bottle Alley Saloon, after a neighbor reported a foul odor. Apparently, the windows of the single room had been sealed and the extreme heat had hastened decomposition. Robbery was ruled out as a motive, since a gold locket was found with the body, along with two hundred dollars in a purse on the bed.

  “Ms. Rickard was killed on Sunday, or more accurately the early hours of Monday, sometime after your encounter with her,” I said. “The large sum of money is certainly worth noting. Did you or Mr. Straker pay for her services?”

  “Absolutely not!” Brady rejoined. “And Robert barely had two cents to rub together.”

  “She must have just come into it then. It could be a coincidence. Or not.”

  Brady stood and paced to the window, where he stood with his back to us, arms rigidly clasped behind him. That left me and Elizabeth, who leaned forward entreatingly.

  “Please, Miss Pell, I beg you: reserve judgment until all the facts have been gathered. You don’t know Robert like I do. Lord knows he has his faults, but he is incapable of such a crime. It is simply not within his character, even if he has become…unhinged. And I worry that if the killer is still out there, Robert’s own life could be in danger!” She lowered her voice a notch. “It is I who talked Leland into coming here. He has been in an agony of indecision. If we go to the police and wind of my husband’s involvement reaches his employers, he would almost certainly lose his position. Robert’s name would be dragged through the mud however it turns out. And there’s not a shred of real evidence linking him to the murder.”

  “That you know of,” I said.

  She shrugged this off. “I’m aware of your reputation. That you take cases which seem on their face to be…bizarre…and unravel the truth. Perhaps it is women’s intuition—”

  “I prefer the term logical deduction,” I said.

  Elizabeth gave me a small smile. “Indeed, I apologize. But I think what you do is wonderful. Please, Miss Pell. Robert is an orphan, without family to aid him. There is, quite literally, no one else we can turn to.”

  “Do you believe your husband’s story?” I asked.

  “I believe he believes it,” she responded.

  Privately, I agreed. When Brady had rubbed his forehead, it caused his coat sleeve to brush against his hair, picking up a small amount of pomade. In fact, the sleeve had a significant stain, only slightly darker than the fabric’s regular color but visible to a keen observer, indicating that he had performed this anxious gesture numerous times in recent days. He had also neglected to clean his boots, and a small white chicken feather adhered to the left sole.

  Elizabeth and I looked at each other for a long moment. A rush of nervous excitement coursed through me. I could say no and send them on their way. It would certainly be the wiser course of action. The truth is I wasn’t Myrtle. I lacked her contacts, in both the police force and criminal underworld. I was still quite young and frankly, I looked it. It was a measure of the Bradys’ desperation that they believed otherwise. I supposed they wanted to believe.

  I’d have to be mad to even consider taking on this case.

  “My fee is payable only upon a successful conclusion, but I may require reimbursement of expenses during the investigation,” I heard myself say.

  “Oh yes, that is perfectly acceptable,” Elizabeth said, eyes shining. “Thank you, Miss Pell!”

  “You won’t thank me if I find your friend is indeed a murderer. And we must be clear on the terms. If I uncover evidence proving his guilt, I will take it to the police.”

  “Agreed,” she said. “I only ask that you look into the matter for one week. After that, if it remains unresolved, we will break our silence to the authorities, for what it’s worth.”

  “I think that’s fair,” I said. “Can I keep the photograph of Mr. Straker? I may need to show it around.”

  “Of course. I’ll get it from Leland right now.”

  Elizabeth ran over to the window to inform her husband they were now officially my clients, as John finished the article and started sifting through the papers to see if he could glean any additional details from the coverage.

  “So they hired you,” he said under his breath. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Harry?”

  “No,” I said. “Quite the opposite.”

  John shook his head. He’d willingly gone along wi
th more than one hare-brained scheme—if he wasn’t the one who’d hatched it himself. Still, this was another league entirely. I wondered, not for the last time, what I’d gotten myself into. If Myrtle found out…

  Brady strode over and shook my hand and then John’s hand, expressing his gratitude, and I thought I’d better buckle down and think about how to start.

  “I’ll need to see Mr. Straker’s rooms immediately,” I said. “Who knows? He could have returned.”

  “I already hunted down his landlord,” Brady said. “A sour, pinch-faced man, he wouldn’t give me the time of day until I said I would pay all of Robert’s back rent plus two weeks ahead. The greedy fellow quite lit up at that.” He frowned. “It’s an outrage what they charge for such squalid lodgings. In any event, I insisted that he give me a key.” He patted his pocket. “I’ll admit, I haven’t gone yet. I was hoping you’d accompany me, Miss Pell. And you too, Dr. Weston. I suppose I’m more than a little afraid of what we might find.”

  John agreed immediately. He had boxed and wrestled through high school and was physically fearless. I had seen him best men twice his age at the club where he trained.

  “Would an hour from now suit you?” I said. “We can meet there, if you’ll give me the address.”

  Brady scribbled it on a scrap of paper, and John escorted him and Elizabeth to the front door. He returned a few moments later with a thoughtful look on his face.

  “What do you make of it, Harry?” he asked.

  I should mention that my Christian name is actually Harrison, after a paternal grandfather, although no one calls me that except for my mother, and then only when she is very cross.