by Kat Ross
“Lost time,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s one of the principal symptoms. The sufferer experiences lost time. They may find themselves in places with no recollection of how they got there, or simply awaken from a fugue state with hours having passed.”
“That happened to me just the other day,” Connor said. “Course it was after a few of the lads nicked a bottle of the old Rattle-Skull from a drunk on the Bowery…”
I opened my mouth to lecture the boy on the evils of liquor in general, and Rattle-Skull (whatever that was) in particular, but John rode right over me.
“If the two murders are related, and I’m still not sure they are, it’s conceivable that he doesn’t know he’s doing it,” he said. “Or he wakes up after the deed is done and feels compelled to metaphorically hide his actions by covering the face. We should ask Brady if Straker had any history of lost time.”
“Yes. And I have another question for my client.” I tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress the glee in my voice. I’d been saving the best for last.
John’s eyes narrowed. “What is it, Harry?”
“I’m just wondering what happened to Straker’s things from the army,” I said, as Mrs. Rivers bustled in with a steaming mug that she pressed into my hands. “Thank you.”
“Of course, dear.”
I took a sip and waited for her to leave.
“Because what? Oh, do get on with it!” John exclaimed.
“Because,” I said, “what Fred told me, but that hasn’t been reported yet, is that something was found just next to the body, as if it had fallen from the boy’s hand: the button from a soldier’s uniform!”
Chapter 4
John was intrigued when I told him this, but it didn’t have quite the dramatic effect I was hoping for. As much as he enjoyed tales of the supernatural, he had a strong pragmatic side as well and insisted that it really didn’t prove a thing. In fact, in his view, it made it less likely that Straker was involved, in the Union Square killing at least. Should we not consider the simplest explanation: that it was someone actively serving in the military? Multiple personality disorder was certainly a sensational explanation, John argued, but it was also extremely rare, with less than a hundred reported cases in the world. And while a few patients, including Vivet, had alter egos that were impulsive and even criminal, none had committed murder.
There was also the ash to consider. Without doubt, a second person had been in Straker’s flat. And the strange symbol burned into the grass, which resembled a capital X alongside a number four, with a short line drawn through the slanting part of the four. I showed it to John and Connor, but it meant nothing to them either.
We ate supper and batted some ideas around for a while, most of them pure speculation. As I’d hoped, Connor was more than willing to offer his assistance. He seemed happy to have a new case to puzzle over, and it dawned on me that he had been just as bored as I was with Myrtle gone. He’d gotten used to a life of adventure and intrigue, and thought it hilarious that I was pretending to be the Great Detective.
A little too hilarious.
“Alright,” I said crossly, as he rolled on the floor, clutching his sides. “It’s not that funny.”
“No offense, Harry,” he groaned, catching his breath. “But if Myrtle catches you…I hear there’s a ship leaving for Brazil from Pier Twenty-Nine next week. You might want to start packing your—”
Connor let out a whoosh of air as I whacked him in the head with a pillow. John, who had loyally kept a straight face until this point, finally crumbled, and I was forced to threaten him with the pillow as well, which only made them both worse.
Then Mrs. Rivers burst in demanding to know what all the racket was about, and even I succumbed to a fit of the giggles.
“You’re daft, the lot of you!” she exclaimed. “And it’s nine o’clock. Time for John to go home, and young Connor to brush his teeth.”
This brought a chorus of hisses and boos from “Young Connor,” mostly under his breath. As much as he complained about Mrs. Rivers, he didn’t dare to openly defy her.
The two of them acted like mortal enemies, but it was thanks to her that he was fed and clothed and had a place to sleep at night (the spare bedroom in the attic). I doubt it would even have occurred to Myrtle to do more than give him a few coins for his services, but once Mrs. Rivers had ascertained that Connor quite literally had no one and nowhere to go, she insisted that we take him in. My mother was hesitant. “Isn’t the boy a professional thief?” she’d asked diffidently. But Mrs. Rivers had been adamant and Connor was wise enough to recognize a good thing when he found one. Four months later, the silverware was still intact, although I’d caught him eyeing it longingly on a few occasions and from his mutterings I gathered that he’d already priced the contents of the entire house down to the penny.
“Sorry, Harry, force of habit,” he’d responded when I’d found him in the dining room one day, admiring a gold-filigreed serving tray. “A man’s got to keep in practice or his skills get rusty!”
So in theory, Connor was reformed. But I had a feeling his extracurricular activities remained unsavoury, to put it mildly.
We walked John to the door. His assignment for the next day was to visit the Hell’s Kitchen address Fred had given me for the Forsizi family and find out all he could about Raffaele’s habits and his final hours. Connor would keep combing the streets for Straker. He seemed confident that if the man was lying low in a cheap boarding house or fleabag hotel, the Bank Street Butchers would cross his path eventually. As for myself, I would go to see Brady, and then pop over to the Astor Library to ask if anyone there was familiar with the symbol.
We said goodnight and Connor succumbed to the gruff mothering of our housekeeper, which I don’t think he minded half as much as he claimed. It was a lovely night, warm and with a faint glow lingering in the sky over the Hudson. I stood in the doorway as John walked away backwards, giving me a final wave before turning east for home.
He lived on Gramercy Park with so many brothers that he claimed the only peace he ever got was at my house. As the youngest, he’d led a rough and tumble childhood, and I think his brothers were the chief reason he’d so enthusiastically embraced boxing. In lieu of bare knuckles, the boys sometimes wore ladies’ lace gloves, which I thought ridiculous and told him so. I also told him that I’d inform his parents (his father was a district court judge) if he didn’t teach me the pugilistic arts.
“That’s blackmail, plain and simple!” he’d objected. “Plus you’re a lady.”
This was when we were both fifteen.
I’d promptly punched him in the nose, which silenced his objections.
So John taught me to box, although he insisted we wear the padded gloves mandated by the Queensberry Rules and, despite my vocal complaints, refused to hit me in the face.
Anyway, since he’d gained early admission to medical college the previous fall, John was spending more and more time at Tenth Street. I think it was the only place he could get any studying done. Fortunately, it was summer and classes didn’t begin for another month. With any luck, the case would be wrapped up well before then.
Because the truth was, I needed his help. Badly.
Oh, I was clever. In fact, in any other family, I’d be considered the brainy one. And thanks to my persistent nagging, Myrtle had taught me some of her craft. But I lacked practical experience and I knew it. If I failed, I’d have more than my new clients to answer to. I very much doubted that my sister would take kindly to my impersonation. Our parents, despite their thoroughly modern view of women’s place in the world, might do something rash like refuse to leave me at home again. My mother thought I should enroll in Vassar or Wellesley, but I chafed at the thought of spending all day in a stuffy classroom listening to the droning of an elderly professor. I wanted to be in the thick of things, pitting my wits against an adversary, as Myrtle did. So I had followed her lead and set a course of self-study that focused e
xclusively on subjects relevant to forensic science, such as chemistry, anatomy, and the rich and bountiful history of crime in the city. I had a decent store of theoretical knowledge, although it had never been put to the test until now.
All of these things worried me. But they weren’t what kept me awake that night.
I lay in bed for a long time studying the photograph of Leland Brady and Robert Aaron Straker in Wyoming. They seemed so young, more boys than men. Brady was looking directly at the camera, but Straker stared off into the middle distance, as though his mind were elsewhere. Perhaps it was my imagination, but his gaze had a certain hollow, empty quality. I wondered if it was taken before or after the Rock Springs massacre.
They both wore dark single-breasted uniforms with five brass buttons down the front and colored piping on each cuff. I couldn’t help staring at Straker’s buttons in morbid fascination. Had one of them been seized by the Forsizi boy in his final death throes?
As I tossed and turned, visions of Becky Rickard morphing into the strangled corpse of the child organ grinder, I feared that one thing was certain. If we didn’t stop it, there would be more to come.
Straight after breakfast, I took a trolley downtown to Brady’s office at 90-94 Maiden Lane, two blocks from the controlled frenzy of the New York Stock Exchange. Harding & White occupied the top two floors of a handsome cast-iron building built for an investment banking firm. The rest of the narrow, curving street was devoted to retail stores advertising watches, chains and engagement rings. As one of the first streets to be illuminated with gas lamps, Maiden Lane had become popular with evening shoppers, and was now the center of the city’s jewellery district.
A young secretary escorted me into Brady’s small but tastefully furnished office, where my client was sorting through a stack of documents. Several large maps of Manhattan and Brooklyn were pinned to the wall behind him, next to a gleaming wooden telephone. I admired it with envy; my parents’ modern sensibilities didn’t extend to what they considered frivolous inventions whose sole purpose was to promote idle rumor and gossip.
“Miss Pell!” Brady looked up with a strained smile. He wore a light linen suit that was already hopelessly wrinkled from the humidity, and dark half-circles shadowed his light blue eyes. “Do you have news to report?” He gestured to a couch near the window. “Please, sit down.”
I placed my hat on the couch but remained standing. “I won’t be long, Mr. Brady. There have been some developments that you might be able to shed further light on.”
I gave him a summary of what we’d learned from Nellie and Fred, except for certain details, like the bit about the button. At the mention of a second body, Brady paled.
“Do you really think it’s connected?” he asked.
“Yes, I do. This symbol was found burned into the grass near the body.” I showed him the paper. “Do you recognize it?”
Brady examined it closely and shook his head. “I’m sorry, no.”
“You didn’t see it anywhere at the séance? On the floor, perhaps? Or the table?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s all right. Now I know we went over this yesterday, but I’d like you to think back once more. Are there any more details you can recall about the ceremony itself? Words or phrases the medium used? I’m hoping to track down the book she had.”
Brady shuffled his papers into a neat pile, then laid them down with a sigh. “I’ve thought about that night many times since, wondering if I really heard and saw what I did, and if so, what it all means. It hardly seems real, and yet part of me is certain it was.” He gave an embarrassed chuckle. “I was never much of a church-going man, but recently—well, our little village chapel is the only place I truly feel at peace. I prayed for Robert there, prayed for his eternal soul…” Brady trailed off, then shook himself and picked up a fountain pen. “I’m sorry. You were asking if I remember any details, other than the wind and…what came after. I’m afraid the answer is no. The whole thing was in Latin, and while I studied it a bit in school, that was many years ago.”
He said this casually, unaware of the significance of his words.
“Could it have been backwards Latin?” I asked, thinking of the message in blood left by Becky Rickard’s killer.
Brady frowned. “I really don’t know. It sounded like Latin, but as I said, she was clearly intoxicated. It struck me as unintelligible. So…yes. I suppose it’s possible.”
I decided to try a new tack. “Did your friend ever suffer from episodes of lost time?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Did he complain of finding himself places with no memory of going there? Did he ever seem to forget conversations or experiences? Or simply behave in a manner that was markedly different from his usual personality?”
Brady didn’t need to consider question this long. “No, never. Not that I can recall.”
“You said you hadn’t seen Mr. Straker in more than a year before he approached you last week, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“So you have no idea what other friends and acquaintances he may have made since moving to the city?”
“None.”
“Places he went regularly?”
“I’ll be honest. Since we parted ways, Robert’s life is a perfect blank to me. He spoke in vague generalities about his finances, and referred to a business deal gone sour, but he provided no details and I didn’t press him. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” Brady glanced at his watch. “I hate to be abrupt, Miss Pell, but I have a business meeting in just a few minutes. And it’s best if, er, I don’t introduce you.”
“I understand perfectly.” I retrieved my hat, a confection of black silk with a daring spray of glossy ebony feathers that I’d bought for myself on the Ladies’ Mile, and set it on my head. “You’ve been more helpful than you might imagine.”
I turned toward the door, then stopped as if I’d just thought of something. “Oh, one last question. Do you happen to recollect what Mr. Straker did with his uniform after he left the army?”
Brady perked up at this, his oversized ears making him look like a kid hoping to please a favorite teacher. “Well, that’s one I can answer with certainty!” He scribbled on a document with great flourish and tossed it to the side. “Robert kept it. I believe he thought it would impress the ladies.”
“Have you seen it recently?”
“Oh, not recently. Not since we lost touch.” Brady looked up with a musing expression. “Now that I think of it, we didn’t see it among his effects, did we?”
“No, we didn’t,” I replied with a smile. “Good day, Mr. Brady.”
As I stepped out into the late morning sunshine, I briefly wondered if my client realized that the noose was tightening around his friend’s neck. I also wondered if he was being entirely forthcoming in his assertion that he knew nothing about Straker’s activities in the past year, and what had led his friend down such a dark path. I wasn’t quite ready to break my promise about going to the police, not yet, but my conscience was starting to whisper that it might not be such a bad idea. Deep down, I found the prospect of Straker’s guilt disappointing. I’d hoped my first case would present more of a challenge.
Perhaps it was a technicality, but I’d told Elizabeth that I would wait for proof and in my view, there were still loose threads to follow. The book, for example. I wanted to know where Rickard had gotten it, and why she had the princely sum of $200 in her miserable flat. So while I waited to hear about John’s trip to the Forsizis’ apartment, I headed over to the best place in the city to conduct research: The Astor Library.
Built at Lafayette Place by the immensely rich fur trader turned real estate magnate John Jacob Astor, the library contained more than two hundred thousand volumes on history, art, science and literature. I passed through the elegant entrance hall, with its Italian marble pedestals supporting busts of ancient sages, and found a librarian. A young man with a bushy mustache that turned up at the
ends like the grin of the Cheshire Cat, he seemed slightly taken aback at my request, but dove into the stacks and returned a short while later with three books.
“I don’t know about that symbol you showed me, but you can try these. It’s all we have on grimoires,” he said, as I filled out the required slips.
“Grimoires?”
“Yes, I presumed that’s what you wanted when you said it was used at a séance.” He lowered his voice a fraction and leaned across the counter. “You know, books of magic. How to communicate with angels, devils, spirits, that sort of thing. I’m afraid we don’t have much on the occult, but perhaps these will be of some use.”
I thanked him and settled into a chair in the main reading room, which had large rectangular tables arranged in the middle of a double-height gallery topped with a glass skylight. Not surprisingly, none of the books were grimoires themselves. Two were tomes of history, with a few paragraphs devoted to folklore and witchcraft, and one was a biography of the eccentric English metaphysician Francis Barrett. But I managed to learn a few things.
Most grimoires promised spells or incantations to make the user wealthy, or to construct items of black magic such as a Hand of Glory (the dried and pickled paw of a criminal who had died on the gallows). They often, but not always, involved a pact with the devil or his chief minister, Lucifuge Rofocale. And the most popular grimoires, at least in the last century, were the Key of Solomon, the Dragon Rouge, and the Black Pullet.
Could the book Becky Rickard read from have been one of those three? And what exactly was she trying to accomplish? Did she think the ceremony would lead to a great treasure? Or was she attempting to raise a demon? Perhaps it was both. And what of the wind Brady described? Did Rickard have a confederate whose job was to create the impression of a supernatural presence? And if so, to what end? Brady insisted they hadn’t paid her any money for the performance. She was already disgraced, with no hope of returning to her former life. What was the point of it all? And why had she chosen Straker?
