The Daemoniac

by Kat Ross

  It was such a pleasure to be out of the city, breathing clean, cool air that I soon shook off the weariness of our long trip. John had booked three rooms on the second floor, each with a small balcony. We split up to bathe and change our clothes, and met on the veranda feeling much refreshed an hour or so later. Mrs. Rivers had donned her “country bonnet,” an enormous thing of black lace that made her seem as if she was speaking out of the mouth of a cave. I opted for a simple cotton shift and left my head bare, provoking John to twirl a bit of hair around his finger and pretend to wear it as a mustache. I slapped his hand away but couldn’t help grinning. When he played the fool, it was quite impossible to stay annoyed at him.

  At first glance, the village was like any other quaint rural community, with Victorian gingerbread houses laid out in neat rows. But as we strolled to the address John had obtained for Rose Rickard, I began to notice certain singular features. The first was a clearing with rows of benches facing a sort of pagoda bearing the words Forest Temple. This was empty. But a quarter mile later, we came across a large auditorium, whose crowd overflowed out the open doors. The speaker was an attractive middle-aged woman, and she seemed to be criticizing Darwin’s theory of evolution.

  As we passed, I slowed down to catch a few words of her speech.

  “—but atoms are not intelligent! Molecules are not intelligent! When the physical scientist declares that he has discovered the process of creation, he omits the one power of creation that alone is capable of solving the mystery!”

  “Who is that?” I whispered to a man in a bowler hat, who seemed mesmerized.

  “Cora Scott,” he whispered back. “Isn’t she marvellous?”

  I made a noncommittal noise and we continued on our way.

  “It’s an odd place, Harry,” John said.

  “Yes, it is. Did I tell you Myrtle is on her way home?”

  His eyes grew wide. “No, you neglected to mention that.”

  “She solved her case. We have three days to do the same with ours.”

  Neither of us spoke for a minute. Mrs. Rivers had gone ahead to admire some primroses in the garden of a clapboard house.

  “And if we don’t?” he said finally.

  I sighed. “We’re probably mincemeat either way. But at least we’d have the satisfaction of catching a murderer.” An image of Anne Marlowe, her face purple and bulging, flashed before my eyes. “To be honest, I don’t care about myself anymore. I just want him stopped. And I’m not confident the police can do it.”

  “Maybe Myrtle can help,” John ventured cautiously.

  “I’m sure she could. But would she? I know my sister better than anyone, but I still haven’t a real clue what makes her tick. She can be almost human sometimes. And then she’ll turn around and say or do something that makes me wonder if she has any empathy at all. But don’t worry your pretty head about it.” I chucked him under the chin. “I can handle Myrtle.”

  “It’s all right, Harry,” John said solemnly. “I’m a little scared of her too.”

  “I am not scared of her.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Oh look, here we are.” He steered me over to the house where Mrs. Rivers had stopped. The garden was indeed lush and beautiful, a riot of flowers and fragrant herbs. “This is it. Number Seven, Library Street.”

  A curtain twitched as walked up the path to the front door. It opened before we had a chance to knock.

  A blonde woman stood there. I scanned her features and saw no resemblance to Becky. But the signs of a powerful grief were writ large in her red-rimmed eyes.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” she said.

  “Miss Rickard?” I asked.

  “It’s Mason now. I’m married. Won’t you come in?”

  “I’m Miss Pell, and this is Dr. Weston and Mrs. Rivers. Yes, thank you. We’ve come a long way.”

  We entered a small parlor with a round table in the center covered with a cloth. The curtains were of a heavy, dark velvet, but they had been pulled wide to admit the daylight. A cold fireplace occupied the far wall, next to a sideboard topped with what I guessed was a mirror, but this too had been covered in a black mourning cloth.

  Four cups of coffee had been laid out on the table, alongside a tempting array of sandwiches.

  Rose Mason bade us to sit and began pouring the coffee.

  “Your first time at Cassadaga?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. “Have you lived here long?”

  “About three years. My husband Samuel and I met here. He’s a teacher.”

  “At the school in town?” John asked, methodically ploughing his way through the plate of sandwiches. It’s a good thing his father was wealthy, I thought, because between John and his brothers, the Westons must have spent a fortune just keeping them all fed.

  “Yes, the Lyceum.”

  “How lovely!” Mrs. Rivers said.

  “He should be home any minute,” Rose said, examining us, and something in her face seemed guarded, wary even. “In fact, I believe I hear him now.”

  The garden gate rattled and a moment later the door was opened by a handsome black man, tall and slender in a white shirt with suspenders and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His short, curly hair was greying at the temples, although he couldn’t have been more than thirty-five. He stopped when he saw us and then broke into a smile, revealing a set of even white teeth.

  “Hello,” he said to me. “You must be Miss Pell.”

  “And I’m John Weston,” John said, jumping up to shake his hand. “A pleasure, sir.”

  The rest of us followed suit with a warm greeting, and Rose’s tense expression relaxed a bit.

  “They’ve just arrived,” she said, standing next to her husband, who wrapped an arm around her waist.

  “You must come to the picnic by the lake later,” he said. “The whole camp turns out for it. It’s a summertime tradition after we host a speaker.”

  “Oh, that sounds nice,” Mrs. Rivers said.

  “Thank you, we’d love to,” I said.

  There was an awkward silence. The spectre of Becky’s death, and why the three of us were here, hadn’t yet been touched upon, but we all knew it couldn’t be put off much longer.

  “Shall I stay?” Mr. Mason asked his wife quietly.

  “It’s all right, I know you have work to do. I’ll be fine.”

  He gave her a searching look and she nodded firmly.

  “I’ll be in the study,” he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “See you all at the picnic.”

  Samuel Mason retired upstairs and we sat down again.

  “Perhaps I should explain our role so there’s no misunderstanding,” I said. “We’re not part of any official investigation. Have you heard of my sister, Myrtle Fearing Pell?”

  “Of course. Her reputation is known even in the hinterlands.” Rose gave a small smile.

  “Myrtle’s client attended a séance with Becky shortly before her death. It’s rather complicated, but a friend of his has also disappeared and he fears that it could be connected.” I’d already decided I just couldn’t pretend to be Myrtle to this poor woman. It felt wrong to lie any more than I had to. “I’m terribly sorry about what happened. I’m just hoping you can tell me something about Becky’s life.”

  Rose nodded. “I begged her to leave the city. There was nothing for her there. But she refused.” Rose paused and her expression darkened. “There was a man involved.”

  “What about your parents?” John asked. “Couldn’t they have intervened?”

  “I don’t even know if they’re still alive,” she said shortly. “We’ve been estranged since…well, for several years now.”

  I got the impression this had more than a little to do with her marriage.

  “As far as I know, Becky didn’t speak with them either. But here, I have something to show you. I sent a copy to the police in New York, but I never heard anything back.”

  Rose w
ent to the sideboard and fetched a letter from a drawer. “It’s postmarked the very day she was killed.” Her lips tightened. “I had no idea as I read it that she was already lying in the morgue.”

  She spread the letter flat on the table and we all leaned over to read it.

  Dearest Sister, it said in a looping script. I pray that you and Samuel are well. The heat here has been dreadful, but I am happy to say that I have come into a sum of money which will allow me to come see you for a visit in the countryside soon. It is long overdue! I miss you very much, and the Spirits tell me that I may soon be an aunt. I pray this is indeed true, as I plan to spoil him (or her!) terribly.

  Now, I have a confession to make and I hope you will not hold it too much against me, but as you are my only sister, and more than that, my closest friend, I wish you to know everything and ask only that you withhold judgment until we are again reunited.

  Two nights ago, I was approached by a man in the Bottle Alley Saloon beneath my flat. He is known to me, and he made me a proposition that I was hard-pressed to refuse. You see, I have not been so well lately, Rose. I don’t wish to worry you overly, as things are brighter now, but this city is not a kind place to a single girl without means of support. I tried a job in the garment factories, but the work is very hard and the hours long, for so little recompense it is a bitter joke. So when he offered me two-hundred dollars for a night’s work, I leapt at the chance. He gave me a book of great Power, and asked only that I find someone willing to join me in carrying out a mystical ceremony described within its pages.

  He assured me that the intent was not to bring harm upon anyone, only to bring wealth to the user. I was very firm on this point, as the magic seemed dark to me and I would never willingly go along with a ritual that went against our Religion. But I consulted the Spirits and they told me that all would be well, so I am reassured that this is the correct path. As it happens, I know such a man as would be willing, a fellow who lives nearby and who is a gentleman through and through, although fallen on hard times by no fault of his own. He stood up for me once when some rough boys were bothering me, and I thought I would do him a good turn by asking him to join me this evening, which he has agreed to do.

  He is a fine-looking fellow, Rose, and did my poor heart not already belong to another (the Spirits curse him!) I might look on him with some favor. But that is another story, which I shall fully relate when I come to see you.

  Please send my regards to Samuel, and be consoled that things are looking up for me and I shall soon quit this wretched city.

  Your loving sister, Becky

  The pathos of the letter left everyone quiet. We knew now how Becky had come by the book, but not who had given it to her, or why. Rose folded the letter up again, very gently, and returned it to the sideboard. Her gown hung loose, and just before she turned back to the table, she laid a hand across her belly.

  “The man Becky refers to is named Robert Aaron Straker,” I said after a minute. “I mean the one who agreed to join the ritual, not the one from the bar. He lived near to Becky and was a close friend of Myrtle’s client. We’re trying to find him.”

  “Do you think he had something to do with Becky’s murder?” Rose asked.

  “Inadvertently, yes,” I said. “But I don’t think he did it.”

  “Who do you think did then?”

  “We’re still working on that,” I said, rather lamely. “But I’m curious about the book. We believe it’s a grimoire. Did she ever talk about things like that? The darker aspects of the occult?”

  Rose shook her head. “Becky was a sweet, simple girl. I still find it hard to believe she was involved in black magic.”

  “How about this man who broke her heart?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me his name.” Rose’s expression hardened. “The scoundrel. He promised Becky all sorts of things, including marriage, but of course as soon as he had what he wanted, he lost interest and tossed her aside. I warned her but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Margaret Fox thought he was rich,” John said.

  Rose sniffed at the mention of Margaret. “Those women…it’s shameful the way they dragged Becky down with them, just to get back at Leah. Like a bunch of squabbling hens, without a thought of who they’d hurt in the process. It’s amazing how many people in this community still hold them in high regard. As if none of it ever happened.” She shook her head in disgust.

  “But yes, Becky’s lover had money, lots of it. He bought her all sorts of things when they first met. She came up for a visit last Christmas and I couldn’t help but notice all the new dresses and expensive jewellery. That’s when she admitted she had a gentleman. She referred to him as her ‘fiancé,’ but I didn’t see any ring on her finger. She became annoyed when I pressed her about it.”

  I shared a look with John.

  “She never told you anything specific, anything at all we can follow up on?”

  “No.” Rose poured herself a cup of coffee but didn’t drink it. “I’ve gone over our time together in my mind so many times. Every word she said. She was just so careful. His warnings—or threats—had clearly made an impression.”

  I tried to suppress my frustration but I felt like kicking something. Hard. We would never find this man, I thought. There was no one left to interview. He’d covered his tracks too perfectly.

  And then Mrs. Rivers spoke up for the first time.

  “Why don’t we ask Becky?” she said.

  Chapter 10

  We all turned to look at my housekeeper, who looked blandly back.

  “Well, Mrs. Mason is a medium,” she said, toying with the strings on her bonnet. “She’s also Miss Rickard’s sister. That’s a powerful connection. And we may not have known Becky personally, but we care very much what happened to her. Why not hold a séance and ask her ourselves what happened?”

  I opened my mouth to politely object but John cut in before I had a chance.

  “I think that’s an excellent idea,” he said. “If Mrs. Mason is willing, of course.”

  Rose looked at each of us in turn, although I can’t say what she was searching for.

  “I’ve considered it,” she said. “Of course I have. But there are dangers in reaching out to spirits that died by violence. They’re unpredictable. Angry. And if they’ve failed to go on to the other side, if they linger in the twilight plane between our world and the next…Suffice to say that the restless dead are not the only ones who dwell in that place. There are other entities, far more dangerous. We run the risk that they too will answer the call.”

  I didn’t trust myself to say anything, so I kept quiet. The poor woman had been through a great deal and I had no wish to insult her beliefs.

  I also had had enough of séances. Just the memory of that day with Edward made my back ache.

  But John was determined, and he had a staunch ally in Mrs. Rivers.

  “We have to try, don’t you think?” he said. “I know it’s unorthodox”—this comment was aimed at me—”but we might actually find something out. Open mind, Harry.”

  “I’ll confess, the idea does make me a tad nervous, but I’m willing,” Mrs. Rivers said.

  “Are you certain?” Rose asked. “As I said, the risks are real. Most of the mediums here wouldn’t even attempt it. Not so soon.”

  Privately, I felt the biggest “risk” was to my self-respect, but with the others staring at me, I finally nodded assent. It couldn’t do any harm, at least. And maybe John would be forced to admit that the whole thing was a load of eye-wash.

  “We’ll hold it tonight,” Rose said decisively. “After the picnic. It’s only been a week since she died. Her spirit won’t have gone far from the first gate yet.” She stood. “I’ll begin the preparations.”

  We made our goodbyes and walked back to the Grand Hotel. My feet felt heavy as lead. The more I considered it, the more reluctant I was to take part in the séance. It was ridiculous. The other séances hadn’t bothered me in the least. I’d found them by tu
rns silly and boring.

  The difference, I realized as we climbed the steps to the shaded veranda, is that we hadn’t been trying to summon a real person. A person who had been viciously stabbed and bitten. Who had died in just about the worst way it’s possible to die.

  “Are you all right?” John asked, concern in his eyes. “You look awfully pale.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I think I’ll just rest for a bit.”

  We had two hours before the picnic, so I sat down at the writing table in my simple but comfortably furnished room. I added what Rose had told us to my notes and copied down Becky’s letter, which I’d memorized.

  Rose was clearly pregnant, just as her sister had predicted. Her sorrow couldn’t dim the glow in her cheeks, and her dress had recently been let out to accommodate a swelling belly.

  A lucky guess, I supposed, although it gave me an uneasy feeling.

  Becky was without doubt a fraud. Margaret Fox had confirmed it.

  But she was also a true believer.

  Human beings are complicated creatures, I thought, looking out over the still, dark waters of the lake. We have the ability to hold two perfectly contradictory ideas at the same time, with untroubled consciences. Take the slave owners and their accomplices. They inflicted unimaginable horrors on their fellow man, and blithely went to church on Sunday like good, pious men. Those same slaves had been freed by the North’s victory in the war, and yet the highest court in the land refused to enforce the Civil Rights Act, explicitly placing its stamp of approval on racial discrimination.

  The way I figured it, the people of Cassadaga Lake might be eccentric, but if they allowed Rose and Samuel Mason to live in peace, they were all right by me.

  I reviewed my notes again, searching for something I may have missed, some connection I’d failed to make. Maybe it was just imagination, but I could feel it. A niggling sense that the break I sought lay right in front of me, written in my own hand.