The Daemoniac

by Kat Ross

  “You look but you don’t see,” I said. “That’s what she told me. I had no idea then what she was talking about.”

  Mrs. Rivers shook her head in a long-suffering way. “I tried to explain to her how inappropriate, even cruel, her lessons were. She just looked at me with those pale eyes. Then she said, ‘You don’t care if Harrison grows up to be a blind fool, but I do. She’s not as smart as me, but she’s not hopeless. There’s potential. I won’t see it wasted.’”

  “Well, that sounds like Myrtle,” I said. “Even her compliments manage to somehow be insulting.”

  “I tried to keep a closer eye on her after that. It took you weeks before you could sleep in your own bed again, even after she’d shown you how the tricks were accomplished. Of course, you followed her around more than ever. You seemed grimly determined to please her. And I’ll give her one thing. She never lied, not even when she should have. Myrtle didn’t understand social niceties.”

  “Or didn’t care,” I said. “Well, I’m not doing this to gain her approval, if that’s what you mean. Once, I would have. But like Myrtle, I don’t care, not anymore.” The lie came easily. “I’m doing it because I want to.”

  And that was also the truth.

  “Do you think you can solve it?” Mrs. Rivers asked.

  The question surprised me. “Yes. Yes, I do. Given enough time. We’ve made progress in the last day. Something’s going to break, I can feel it.”

  “Well, I’m afraid time is the one commodity you’re running short of, Harry,” Mrs. Rivers said. “More toast?”

  “No, thank you. What does that mean?”

  “I received a cable from your sister this morning.”

  “Really? What did she say?” I rinsed my plate and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “She concluded her work for the Pinkertons. There was a counterfeiting ring operating out of western Illinois and eastern Missouri. The Secret Service has known about it for years but they were very careful. No one could catch them at it.”

  “But Myrtle did,” I said.

  Of course she did. The poor things didn’t stand a chance.

  “It’s in The New York Times. Front page, Saturday. She’s still seeing to a number of final details, but she expects to be home within four days.”

  This was bad news indeed. I had no idea what she’d do if—when—she caught me impersonating her. There was a possibility she would find it funny. Myrtle was often amused by the most inexplicable things.

  But there was a good chance she wouldn’t.

  And frankly, Myrtle scared me.

  “Four days?” I echoed, the plate forgotten in my hand.

  “Within four days. So perhaps sooner. Do turn off the tap, Harry, you’re wasting water.”

  “Right, sorry.” I obeyed, my hand moving like a mechanical claw.

  “We’d better get busy then,” Mrs. Rivers said. “What’s the next step?”

  I stared at her. “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

  “Not in the least. I’m going to help you. I’ve been waiting years for someone to bring Myrtle down a notch or two. It’ll be good for the girl.” She rubbed her hands together in something very close to glee. “Don’t get me wrong. I love her. But…”

  “I know,” I said. “I know exactly.”

  Mrs. Rivers was very excited when I told her we were all going upstate to Cassadaga Lake to interview the dead medium’s sister. She said she would commence packing for both of us immediately, leaving me free to meet Nellie at Niblo’s Theatre. Connor would stay with Mrs. Rivers’ sister, Alice, who had a flat on Forty-Third Street. I didn’t want him sleeping in our house alone, and we needed him close by in case Billy turned up. Connor did tell me that some of Billy’s few possessions were discovered missing from the Butchers’ lair, implying that the boy had rabbited for some reason. It gave me hope that he was still alive, but I wondered what could have frightened him so much that he’d forgo the chance to earn $50.

  In any event, things were looking up. Four days would be plenty of time, I told myself. Why, Myrtle had once solved the poisoning death of a zookeeper in sixteen minutes.

  And yet it was with a quickened step that I made my way to Western Union to send a cable to Uncle Arthur. I told him about the third body and the possible society connection. I made sure to include the taunting message and strange fingerprints, as I knew it was the occult aspects of the case that most appealed to him, and which would pique the interest of the S.P.R.

  That accomplished, and with an hour yet before I had to meet Nellie, I settled myself in the parlor and began to methodically go through the newspapers in search of any crimes that could be related to the case. I’d neglected this duty for several days, but it seems I hadn’t missed much. There was no mention at all of Raffaele Forsizi. Becky Rickard merited three quick updates, none more than a paragraph. All said essentially the same thing: the police were baffled. Anne Marlowe’s murder had occurred too late to make the presses, but I imagined it would be everywhere by tomorrow. An actress found strangled, even if she wasn’t a star, was the type of story that sold newspapers, and even the less sensational ones like the Times could hardly resist splashing it on the front page.

  Then there was the usual array of garden variety crimes and human interest stories. A guest was robbed of his luggage at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. A woman killed her husband and sister after they ran off together to Jersey City. A fisherman caught a man-eating shark in the Hudson River at Cornwall, and some ten thousand people turned out for the final performance of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show at Erastina in Staten Island.

  In more serious news, Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton had electrified a large audience at Jamestown’s Allen Opera House on the topic of women’s right to vote, a volcano erupted in Japan, and General Sheridan was laid to rest at Arlington Cemetery.

  I rubbed my eyes, still a bit bleary from lack of sleep.

  Mors me solum potest prohibere.

  Only death can stop me.

  A far cry from God forgive me.

  He was getting worse.

  A tap at the window gave me a start.

  My hand twitched towards the revolver on the table. I kept it always within reach now. But it was just a crow. A quite large one. It perched on the sill, its shiny doll’s eyes fixed on me. Then it pecked the window again.

  “Hungry, are you?” I said. “No crumbs left from breakfast, I’m afraid.”

  The crow just watched, still as a stone.

  I liked birds. I thought they were beautiful, and despised people who kept them in cages. This one was a deep, glossy back, with a long, sharply pointed beak.

  “Wait here,” I said.

  I ran downstairs to the kitchen, where I found a crust in the garbage. I carried it up to the parlor, half expecting the crow to be gone. I’d never seen one around here before. Pigeons and sparrows by the boatload, and the occasional seagull, but never a crow.

  It was still there. And it was still staring through the glass, at exactly the spot in the doorway where I’d appear.

  I took a step into the room and stopped.

  I knew I was being foolish. But there was something strange about it. About the way it sat there, so still. As though it had come here just for me.

  It’s only a bird.

  Myrtle would die of laughter if she could see me now, I thought. The great detective, jumping at her own shadow. Afraid to give a crust of bread to a starving crow. I forced my feet to move. Maybe it was someone’s pet that escaped. That’s why it’s not spooked by the fact that I’m walking towards it. That’s why it’s stepped closer to the window.

  I reached for the sash and again, I hesitated, my fingers brushing the glass just inches from that curved beak. It was utterly irrational. But I had the sudden conviction that it would be a very bad mistake to open the window.

  “Miss Pell?”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin as a female voice called through the
parlor door, accompanied by a light knock.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Elizabeth Brady. I’m sorry to call without warning. But we must speak!”

  My guilty conscience perked up immediately, wondering if my ruse had been discovered. But it wasn’t anger or accusation I heard in her voice. It was fear.

  “Of course, do come in,” I said, quickly slipping the revolver into a drawer.

  I was walking to the door when I remembered the crust in my hand. I turned back to the window.

  The crow had vanished.

  Chapter 8

  I settled Elizabeth into the armchair that John always favored to study his medical books, an overstuffed mountain of green plush that made its occupant look like Alice after she drank from the mysterious bottle. Or was it the cake? I could never remember. In any event, I was glad to see her, as I’d been wanting to speak with her myself.

  Mrs. Brady was a handsome woman, with a wide, well-formed mouth and prominent cheekbones. She wore a rather austere dress of navy blue silk and her auburn hair was caught up in a small matching hat trimmed in maroon velvet. Her posture was composed, but the paleness of her skin and ragged fingernails told a different story. They had been chewed to the quick, a fact she tried to conceal by folding her hands in her lap.

  “I’ll be frank, Miss Pell,” she said calmly. “My husband has no idea that I am here.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ll hold this meeting in the strictest confidence.”

  “Thank you. I would have come sooner but it was impossible to get away. Then, yesterday, Leland happened to mention what you found at Robert’s apartment—the ash. I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.”

  “What is it?” I schooled my face to stillness, but my heart gave a little thump.

  “About four months ago, I ran into Robert, purely by chance. I had gone shopping with some friends in the city. We went out to lunch afterwards, a place not far from here called Selari’s.”

  “Yes, I know it.” Selari’s was a bohemian café at University Place and Tenth Street that Edward and his pals often frequented after the races.

  “It was just a few weeks after the storm. We were sitting near the window when I saw Robert pass by. He looked like a ghost. I hadn’t seen him since the wedding, and he appeared much changed, but I knew it was him. I made some excuse to step outside and caught him a block away.” She took a deep breath. “Leland doesn’t know of our encounter, but only because Robert made me swear not to tell him. He was very distraught. I asked him what the matter was and he told me he had been wronged by a business partner.”

  “I can’t say if he was intentionally wronged, but we did learn that he lost a good deal of money on the Exchange when it was shut down,” I said.

  “Poor Robert.” Elizabeth picked at the seam of the chair’s arm. It was an unconscious compulsion, an outlet for her anxiety. I wondered what other destructive habits she had acquired.

  “The ash?” I prompted.

  “Yes, he was talking about this man and he complained that when they would meet at his office, he could hardly stand the stench. I asked what he meant, and he said the man reeked of cigarette smoke, which Robert could never abide.”

  “I don’t suppose he mentioned what brand of cigarettes it was,” I said.

  “No, he didn’t. And before you ask, he didn’t tell me his full name. But he did refer to him as Gerald. Does that help?”

  “Very much,” I said, although I wasn’t so sure. “I suppose half a name is better than none. We’ll certainly pursue it. Did he tell you anything else?”

  “Not really. The whole thing lasted less than five minutes. I told him I had to get back to the table before my friends wondered where I had gone, and that’s when he asked that I not tell Leland I had seen him. He was clearly ashamed. I replied that it’s not my habit to lie to my husband, but he begged so piteously…I finally relented. I couldn’t really see the harm in keeping it to myself.” Her hazel eyes grew sad. “Until a week ago. I knew I had to tell you, but I couldn’t, not with Leland there. Tell me, Miss Pell. Do you think Robert is still alive?”

  “I don’t know. But we haven’t found his body, so there’s a good chance. I wish I could be more encouraging but I think you’re the sort of woman who prefers the truth.”

  “I am, and I appreciate your honesty,” she said stiffly.

  I then proceeded to ask Elizabeth the same questions I had put to her husband: whether Straker had suffered from lost time, if he ever seemed confused or volatile, and who else he might have known in the city. I even showed her the symbol from the Forsizi killing. But she had nothing more to offer on any of it.

  “You should know that there’s been another killing,” I told her, glancing at the clock. It was 11:45. I needed to leave to meet Nellie, but I had to warn Elizabeth first. Hastings-on-Hudson was just a short train ride from the city. Clearly, she wouldn’t even consider the idea that Straker was our man, but I could. And it was hardly outside the realm of possibility that he would return at some point to his childhood home.

  “Oh God.” Elizabeth shuddered as I summarized the details. “I’ll tell Leland. But he’s already asked that I stay at my mother’s house. He worries that this maniac might go after him and find me at home instead. He’s been so busy at work lately, even sleeping in his office when he has to show a property late. He frets endlessly over my safety. We both decided that it’s easiest if I go to Connecticut for a few days. I won’t tell my parents what’s happened. Just that I thought I’d visit for a bit.”

  “That would be for the best,” I agreed. “And just as a matter of form, do you know where your husband was last night?”

  Elizabeth seemed puzzled at this question. “Why?”

  “I have to ask.”

  “I see.” Elizabeth inclined her head coolly. “Well, yes, of course I know where he was last night. I’m not in the habit of losing my spouse, Miss Pell.”

  “I apologize if I’ve offended you.”

  “It’s just that I really can’t imagine why you’d suspect Leland, of all people. But I don’t mind telling you. He was home, with me. And he couldn’t possibly have gone out, so you can just cross him off your list.”

  “How can you be sure he couldn’t possibly have gone out?” I asked. “Just for the sake of argument. Did you stay up all night?”

  “No.” She seemed annoyed. “But our dog has taken to sleeping directly in front of the bedroom door, which is on the third floor of the house. She’s quite protective. If she’s disturbed in any way, she barks. Leland’s always shushing her.”

  “And I take it she didn’t stir last night?”

  “Not a whit. And our window looks down on a sheer drop. But this is all ridiculous, Miss Pell. You don’t seriously suspect either of us, I hope?”

  “No,” I said with a sigh. “I don’t. What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Osa. It means she-bear in Spanish. Leland picked up a few words during his time out west. She’s a husky, quite a lovely dog. I feel much safer having her around when Leland is at work.”

  “I can imagine,” I said. “Well, if you remember anything else, even if it seems unimportant, anything Robert told you or some impression you had, please send a cable. I’ll do the same, if I can think of any more questions.”

  Elizabeth gave me her parents’ address in Danbury and I walked her to the door.

  “Find him, Miss Pell,” she said, and I wasn’t sure if she meant Robert or the mysterious smoker. “If anyone can, it’s you. I fear Robert has gotten involved in something very dark. Oh, how I wish they had never gone that night! But it’s too late now.” Her reserve seemed to melt and she seized my hands in hers. “Thank God we have you on our side. If it were anyone else, I would despair of ever knowing the truth. But Myrtle Fearing Pell has never failed to cut to the heart of the matter.”

  I gave a sickly smile. “That’s not exactly—”

  “Oh, don’t be modest.” She released me but her eyes searched my
face for a long moment that, to me at least, felt horribly awkward. “And I apologize for what my husband said, but he can hardly be blamed. You do look quite young. I imagine it’s hard to get people—men—to take you seriously, despite your reputation.”

  “Er, yes,” I said. “Comes with the territory, I suppose.”

  “Yes. I suppose so. Well, good day, Miss Pell.” She turned for the stairs. “Be safe.”

  “Good day, Mrs. Brady.”

  Four days.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Before she was brutally murdered, Anne Marlowe was beautiful. The photograph in my hand showed a woman who looked strikingly like Lord Leighton’s muse Dorothy Dene, with faint shadows beneath her dark brown eyes that lent her an aura of tragic glamour. Her face was a perfect oval, capped by a mop of chestnut curls. She had flawless skin and a small but expressive mouth. It was hard to reconcile this person with the horror that had been left at Neidlinger, Schmidt & Co.

  I handed the photograph to Nellie and turned back to the young lady who had given it to us. Her name was Mary Fletcher. She was twenty years old and one of the ballet girls. Mary lived on East Forty-Eighth Street, while Anne lived on East Fifty-Ninth, so they would usually go home together after the performance on the Third Avenue Elevated.

  We were in the dancers’ dressing room of Niblo’s Theater. I’d remembered rightly; the current show was Mathias Sandorf by Jules Verne, whose plot resembled The Count of Monte Cristo. Sandorf is a Hungarian patriot who is betrayed and condemned to death by the Austrian government. He escapes, and spends the next fifteen years plotting his revenge. Anne played his daughter. Her big scene was at the very end, when the two are reunited.

  This particular performance had soldiers and Indians and cowboys and acrobats, and an actual waterfall on stage. It was produced by Bolossy Kirafly, that impresario of musical extravaganzas. Like most of the cast, he had an iron-clad alibi for the previous night: a party to celebrate the play’s glowing reviews. Mary was tired and Anne had a toothache, so they had left early.