by Ami McKay
“Breakfast,” Beatrice answered, “although I did have a bite or two of apple on the train.”
Fetching a plate of teacakes, Eleanor placed it in front of her.
“Thank you,” Beatrice said, pinching a small, sticky sweet between her fingers. “They look delicious.”
Eleanor smiled as Beatrice gobbled down the cake. Now that the girl was awake and alert, she began to wonder where she’d appeared from. Likely she was just a straggler, a latecomer from the horde of young women she’d turned away outside the shop. But that didn’t explain how she’d gotten inside the place—Eleanor was sure she’d locked the door—or why she’d found the young woman in a dead faint on the floor. Weirdly, the girl seemed familiar to her, yet she couldn’t place her face. “How exactly did you get in here?” she asked at last.
Beatrice nervously cleared her throat. “The door was open,” she stammered. “Well, it was locked at first, but then it was open.” Sheepishly pointing to Perdu, she added, “I know this might sound impossible, but I think the bird let me in.”
Eleanor looked at Perdu for confirmation.
Puffing out his chest, Perdu gave Eleanor a defiant stare.
Eleanor wondered if she should be interrogating him, not the girl.
At least I didn’t imagine the bird, Beatrice thought. At least he’s really here. I saw him before, I see him now. That’s a good sign. “I’m very sorry for causing such a fuss,” she said to Eleanor. “As I said to the woman when I first came in, I was hoping to apply for a position in the shop.”
“What woman?” Eleanor asked with a scowl. Had Adelaide enlisted this girl?
“There was a woman sitting at a table in the back when I arrived,” Beatrice said, “at least I think there was.” The table where the Gypsy had sat was no longer there.
“What did she look like?” Eleanor asked, thinking her suspicions were about to be confirmed.
“She was a fortune teller,” Beatrice replied.
“In a blue silk dress with a matching hat and veil?”
“No, not at all like that,” Beatrice said. “She was a Gypsy, with scarves and bangles and big silver hoops in her ears. She seemed friendly enough at first, but then she changed, or perhaps I was just falling ill, but I swear it looked to me as if she turned into a ghost.”
Eleanor bit her lip, knowing exactly who and what she’d seen.
Pacing up and down the length of the counter Perdu squawked, “Top off the pot! Top off the pot!”
“Perdu!” Eleanor scolded. “Hush!”
Sulking, the raven settled down next to Beatrice’s bag and again began to peck at its clasp.
Hands trembling, cup rattling in its saucer, Beatrice set her tea aside. She wasn’t sure if she was suffering from exhaustion or fear. Perhaps both. “Please don’t think me mad,” she said, wringing her hands. “I believe I might have train brain, or railway spine, or whatever they call it. The passenger train wasn’t running from Stony Point, so I rode the freight train instead. Then we stopped and I fell and by the time I got here, my mind was a complete mess. After that I began hearing things, and quite possibly seeing things too. I don’t know what’s come over me. I usually travel quite well.”
Reaching for Beatrice’s cup, Eleanor filled it to the rim. “Here,” she said, “have more tea, Miss—”
“Dunn,” Beatrice said, realizing she hadn’t given the woman her name. “But you can call me Beatrice.”
“I’m Eleanor St. Clair, half of St. Clair and Thom.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Miss St. Clair,” Beatrice said reaching again for her cup.
Eleanor nodded. “You said you fell?” she asked. “Care to tell me about it?” She couldn’t help but feel there was more to this than a bumpy train ride or a knock on the head. She didn’t think the young woman had it in her to lie, so her talk of ghosts was quite concerning. First the teapot, now this? What was next?
“Yes. I fell when the train got stopped outside the city so the great obelisk could pass.”
“Cleopatra’s Needle? That must’ve been quite something.”
Beatrice nodded. “I got off the train so I could see them move it across the tracks.”
“And that’s when you fell?”
“No,” Beatrice answered. “I fell after it got moved. Right after I touched it.”
“I see,” Eleanor said, gooseflesh blooming up the length of her arms. She’d heard rumours that the obelisk was imbued with ancient magic. As she continued to regard Beatrice, Perdu finally managed to open the girl’s bag. Fishing out a long, knotted string from inside it, he hopped to Eleanor’s side and dropped the thing in her lap. “Remember the girl,” he softly cooed. “Remember the girl.”
“Where did you get this?” Eleanor said, examining the hair and feathers that were tied along the length of it. She recognized it at once for what it was.
“I made it,” Beatrice confessed with a nervous chuckle. “It’s nothing, really, just a childish plaything.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” As Eleanor turned the string between her fingers, the fiery strands of Beatrice’s hair that’d been twisted into the charm glinted in the sun. Eleanor smelled smoke, tasted ash on the tip of her tongue. Remember the girl.
Blushing, Beatrice insisted, “Truly, it’s only a silly charm. They call it a witch’s ladder, or some such thing.”
“I know what it is,” Eleanor replied, her breath catching as she recognized Beatrice for who she was.
“I only wanted to make a wish come true,” Beatrice whispered, embarrassed and ashamed.
With a smile Eleanor placed the charm in Beatrice’s hands. “I think it worked.”
Vinegar Hill, Brooklyn. If there is any person in New York (man, woman, white or black) who can drive out a witch and her affiliated ghosts, let them come and do their best.
Complete success or no pay.
Mr. Robert Beadle.
A Moth Seeks the Light.
NOT WANTING TO go back to the teashop while it was still light—she’d had enough of Eleanor for one day—Adelaide had taken a train to the Fulton Ferry and made her way to Vinegar Hill. As the ferry cut across the East River, passing alongside the Great (yet unfinished) Bridge, Adelaide had stared at the magnificent structure, amazed at the way the labourers skittered like spiders along the network of steel suspension wires attached to the bridge’s main cables. Oh to be so fearless! The last time she’d visited the bridge, they’d barely begun the work of winding the wire cables. She’d stood on the banks of the river that day, still whole and even happy, her hand tucked in the arm of a man who’d insisted upon reciting poetry to her. He was a good person, lovely in every way, which is why she’d cut him loose. She hoped that he’d found happiness, and that he hadn’t used up all his poetry on her. Love had never been in her cards.
Just as on the night she’d met Judith Dashley, today Adelaide was on a search for a true medium. She’d visited countless sideshows, dime museums, lecture halls, theatres and séances only to be met with disappointment. Vinegar Hill was a departure from the usual places she looked, but once she’d read the newspaper notice, she couldn’t resist the chance to seek out Mr. Beadle and his witch. Just in case.
Standing across the street from the Beadle house, Adelaide wondered if she should bother knocking on the door. Perhaps he isn’t home, she thought. From the outside, it didn’t look much like a place a witch or her affiliated ghosts might dwell. The storey-and-a-half cottage was modest, and recently whitewashed. At the end of a side street off a side street, the house was older by far than the many brick buildings that crowded it. As Adelaide walked up the steps to the door, she hoped that Mr. Beadle would be as welcoming as his home appeared. “Here goes nothing,” she said taking hold of the door’s knocker and giving it a loud rap.
A few moments later, an elderly man in a wool sack-coat answered the door. He stared at Adelaide with bloodshot eyes.
“Mr. Beadle?” she asked.
“I’m he,” the man rep
lied, squinting in an effort to see past her veil. “Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to speak with you about the notice you placed in the Times.”
Mr. Beadle wiped his nose with a limp handkerchief and came closer to his visitor. Taking a deep sniff as though to breathe in the scent of Adelaide’s perfume, he fixed his gaze on her décolletage. He smiled a queasy-making smile, and said, “Lilac parfum’s my favourite.”
Adelaide took a step back. “Are you receiving visitors?”
“I can be seen,” he answered.
“Thank you,” Adelaide said, “I won’t take too much of your time.”
Mr. Beadle turned and led Adelaide down a long, narrow hallway. As she followed him, she wondered if he really did have a witch, or if he’d simply placed the ad in order to bring strangers into his lonely little life. In her experience, people who had no one to care for but themselves were either mad, sad or guilty of some unspeakable crime. Her hatpin was quite sharp and could be used to pierce the papery skin of his neck if need be. She’d use the ivory-handled stiletto she kept tucked in a leather sheath on her right boot only as a last resort.
“Here we are,” Mr. Beadle said, opening the door to a small parlour.
Its trappings were as sparse as the hairs on Mr. Beadle’s head. A single tin candlestick, a stub of tallow listing in its well, sat on a table between two windows. A rocking chair had been placed to one side of the table, and a small three-legged stool to the other. In the corner, a pot-belly stove was ticking with heat, a kettle humming on its top, spitting drops of water. Mr. Beadle pulled the windows’ faded paper shades halfway down against the late afternoon sun. Without offering Adelaide a seat, he settled himself in an armchair close to the stove. “So,” he said, rubbing his hands together then holding them out to the heat, “you’ve come to inquire about my witch, have you?”
“Yes,” Adelaide answered, choosing the rocking chair. The room had suddenly taken on the smell of scorched wool, and she hoped that Mr. Beadle wasn’t about to go up in flames.
“Tell me, miss,” Mr. Beadle said, “have you ever been bewitched?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Taking a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from his pocket, Mr. Beadle went about the tuck, tamp and puff of preparing a smoke. “Well,” he said, when the stem was clenched between his teeth, “it’s a very hard thing to suffer. This witch of mine, she got me good. She has me right hexed. Some days I can barely speak nor eat. Every time I put my head down to sleep, I wonder if I’ll wake. I haven’t worked a lick in weeks.”
“How do you make your living?” Adelaide asked, unable to imagine that there was any work he was fit enough to do.
“I’m a carpenter,” Mr. Beadle said. “A coffin maker as of late. I expect to get back to it soon, God willing.”
From the way the man’s pipe was shaking in his hand, Adelaide doubted that Mr. Beadle could hold a hammer, let alone swing one. “How did you come to encounter this witch?”
“How does anyone come to know a witch?” Mr. Beadle replied, shaking his head. “It’s not like I went looking for one. Only a fool would do that.”
“Yes,” Adelaide said. “Only a fool. So she came to you, unbidden?”
“No, no, no,” Mr. Beadle replied. “A witch can’t enter your house unless you invite her in, and that there was my mistake. My wife passed on several months ago, God bless her soul, and I needed someone to do the things she done—cooking, cleaning, fetching things—so I asked around, looking for a maid. Not long after, a young woman came to my door, fresh-faced and sweet, staring at me with the prettiest blue eyes you ever did see.” Taking a puff on his pipe he added, “That’s important, so don’t forget.”
“What’s that?” Adelaide asked, wishing Mr. Beadle’s witch might show up and put an end to the man’s prattling.
“Her pretty blue eyes,” Mr. Beadle replied. “The prettiest shade of blue.”
“So you said.”
“That girl and I,” Mr. Beadle went on, “we talked a good spell, and in the end, I agreed to let her live here in exchange for her service. There’s nine rooms and that’s plenty to spare, so she moved in and took the big room upstairs. She also asked if she might use the cellar from time to time for this and that, and I didn’t see any harm in it. I never had reason to go down there, so why should I care? She said she’d been married to a sailor, but shortly after they were wed, he’d taken a job on that godforsaken bridge and fallen to his death. With her husband gone she’d had to fend for herself. She had no one in the city and no means to get back home to her family in Scotland. She was a Scotch lass, you see. That’s important too.”
“So she was Scotch,” Adelaide said, tapping her foot in time with the ticking of the stove.
After a hacking cough, Mr. Beadle carried on with his tale. “The first strange thing I noticed was the noises. Her room was directly over mine and every night I heard great rackets up there—voices, wails and whispers, along with footsteps that thudded across the floorboards as if someone was being chased around and around and around. One morning when she was out, I went and tried the door so I could see what she’d been up to, but the door was locked. When I looked through the keyhole, I saw she’d traced a great circle on the floor in a white powder what looked like chalk. In the very centre of the circle was a little black book and next to it, a long, twisted stick. Seeing that was too much for me! Witches use circles to commune with demons and ghosts, you know, and I’m certain that was her intent.” Eyes wide, Mr. Beadle added, “I always knew there was witches in the world, but I never thought I’d have one in my house!”
Adelaide guessed it wasn’t the first time he’d looked through that keyhole. “Did you confront her with what you’d found?”
“Of course I did!” Mr. Beadle exclaimed. “And no sooner had I put it to her, than she said to me, says she, ‘Mr. Beadle, I didn’t do it.’ ‘You did,’ says I, holding my ground. ‘I saw it with my own two eyes.’ ‘Mr. Beadle,’ says she, ‘I didn’t. I’ll get my Bible and swear to it.’ Then I says to her, says I, ‘If you swore to it on a thousand Bibles I wouldn’t believe you.’ After that she started crying and talking gibberish about how she’d heard a voice calling to her from the river. The next time she looked at me, I saw that one of her eyes was turning black. If you’ve ever seen a witch, you’ll know that they always have one black eye. No matter what colour their eyes was before, when they get to be witches, one eye goes black. That’s when I knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d be trying to take one of my good eyes from me.” Pointing at Adelaide’s face he asked, “Is that what happened to you? Did a witch get your eye?”
“Not quite,” Adelaide replied. If only she had her bottled treasure with her to show Mr. Beadle. Imagine what he’d have to say about that.
“Count yourself lucky,” Mr. Beadle said with a nod. “This witch tried all she could to do me in. She thought I’d believed her, but the next time she went out to do the shopping, I figured I’d better check the cellar. So I went in very careful, walking on tiptoe, clear to the back of the chimbley. It was there I found a bundle of rags, tied around a bunch of bones, no doubt belonging to a black cat. There was a bigger bundle beside it, so I opened that one, too, and found it was a pair of men’s pantaloons. They was covered with a fine white powder, just like you’d find on a person that’s bewitched. I got some of the stuff on me by accident and everywhere it touched my skin it made little spots like pinheads with little circles around them. They itched like crazy when the sun went down. They nearly drove me mad.”
“I can imagine,” Adelaide said, guessing it was more likely that Mr. Beadle had a nest of bed bugs in his mattress than a witch in his house.
Scratching at his wrist, Mr. Beadle added, “And that wasn’t all I discovered down there.”
“No?” Adelaide asked.
“Just yesterday I found a little bunch of black hair all wadded up and half buried in the cellar floor. It looked as if it was a piece cut off of the witch
’s own plait. No sooner had I brought it up and laid it on the table, than it began to wiggle around, rising in the air before my eyes! It frightened me so much that I threw it in the fire. If I hadn’t done it, I don’t think I’d be alive now. I’ve heard tell that’s the way witches work with hair. To bewitch a person they’ll take a bunch of their own hair and bury it, and as soon as it rots, the person dies. But I burned that hair, so it can’t rot. Thanks be to heaven, I’m still alive.”
“Thanks be,” Adelaide said. She thought this man was ridiculous, but her mother had believed in a similar sort of magic. “Never let a stranger get hold of your hair,” she’d warned young Moth. “Powerful magic can be done against you by the person who has it.” Every night she’d collected the hair from their brushes along with any stray hairs she found on the floor. She kept the hair tucked inside a cloth bag she used as a pincushion, and when the bag got full, she’d cast the hair into the fire while reciting a prayer. Then she’d tell her daughter once again the tale of poor Mrs. Deery, who’d had her hair stolen by an angry sister and then given away to a bird. “The bird wove it into its nest, round and round, back and forth, between sticks and spider webs, causing Mrs. Deery to go mad. The woman walked the streets of the city, afraid of everyone and everything, turning about in circles until she ran right into a delivery wagon and her brains got smashed to bits.” The lady who’d bought Adelaide from her mother had cut off her braid with one terrible snip of her scissors, though eventually Adelaide had gone free and the woman had gotten what she deserved. “So where is your witch now?” Adelaide asked, half expecting Mr. Beadle to say she’d flown away on a broomstick.
“A gentleman came three days ago to take her.”
“What kind of gentleman?”
“A reverend,” Mr. Beadle answered. “He said it’s his speciality to look after such business. When I told him I was certain there’d be trouble in it for him, he said not to worry. Then he asked for me to direct him to the witch so he could take care of the rest. It was going on half past ten, so I told him that I guessed she was down at her usual spot by the river. She went there most every day to mark the time and place of her husband’s passing. Before the reverend left, I gathered up the girl’s things, including what I found in the cellar, and gave it all over to him. He said the only way to be rid of her and her magic was to leave no trace of her in the house. I haven’t heard from either of them since.”
