The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

“Fitch the Bitch!” Andersen said with a laugh. “Hand to God, one of the loonies at the asylum is the spitting image of her. You gotta see it to believe it.”

  “Perhaps another time,” Brody offered.

  Handing Brody his card, Andersen said, “God, it’s great to see you. Let’s get together soon, eh St. Nick?”

  “Soon,” Brody replied, tucking the card away. Rising from his seat he gave Andersen a polite bow. “Be well,” he said as he headed for the door.

  Andersen bellowed after him, “You too, you old stumpy!”

  In the lobby, Brody stopped to check his watch—twenty after ten. His breakfast with Alden’s wife and her interesting friend, Miss Thom, was almost upon him. He’d hoped to have time to conduct a brief experiment of psychical research before their arrival. “Damn Andersen,” he mumbled under his breath. How could one person talk so much without saying anything of interest? Never mind all that now, he thought. He needed to make the most of the minutes he still had.

  Taking a small brass compass from his pocket, he held the instrument in the palm of his hand. Walking towards the Ladies’ Entrance, he kept his eyes fixed on the compass’s needle. Judith Dashley had told him that every time she got to the end of that corridor, she felt as if she was surrounded by beings she couldn’t see: “The air grows cold, even when the door’s shut, and I get gooseflesh up and down my arms.” Surprisingly, she hadn’t seemed the least bit troubled by it. On the contrary, she’d been downright giddy when she’d explained that she suspected the beings were the ghosts said to inhabit the hotel.

  Like her, Brody was intensely interested in what remained after someone (or something) had been lost. If a phantom of his arm remained after his limb was taken, it stood to reason that a shadowy figure of a whole person might be left behind after death. If he could sense his missing arm, then why wasn’t it possible for Mrs. Dashley to sense the presence of beings who’d passed? Sensing the spirits of the dead wasn’t enough to prove they existed, of course, but surely such sensations shouldn’t be dismissed. What was needed was measurable evidence. He liked Alden’s wife well enough, but she wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, well versed in the scientific method or, for that matter, true mediumship.

  Dr. Brody paused at the end of the corridor. No sooner had he stopped than the needle on his compass began to spin with wild abandon, moving so erratically he thought the instrument might break. Oh, ho! This was better than he’d hoped! He’d guessed that if there were any ghosts near, the compass would register an electromagnetic disturbance, but he’d never imagined the sign would be so blatant. Smiling broadly, the doctor stared at the whirling needle and whispered, “Would you look at that!”

  Mr. Stevens’ ghost flew to the doctor’s side and peered over his shoulder.

  The spirits of three scrubber girls raced down the corridor towards them pursuing a smaller, younger ghost—that of a little boy. He was new to the hotel, but not to the afterlife. “Master Dashley!” they sang in unison. “Get back here you little imp! If you don’t do as we say, we’ll put you in the dumb-waiter and send you through the wash!”

  Scampering like a scared rabbit, Billy Dashley’s spirit slipped between Dr. Brody’s legs and ran towards his mother who was coming down the corridor from the main staircase.

  Judith Dashley felt a chill rush up her spine. “Dr. Brody,” she said, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. “Weren’t we supposed to meet in the dining hall?”

  Quickly stowing his compass, Dr. Brody said, “You’re quite right, Mrs. Dashley. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

  Placing her hand on the doctor’s arm, she whispered, “You can’t fool me. I saw what you were up to.”

  “You did?” Brody answered. He couldn’t recall discussing his theory of ghostly energies and electromagnetic forces with her the other night at dinner. In fact he was positive they hadn’t. Was she as much of a mind reader as she claimed her friend to be?

  “Of course I did,” she replied with a wink. “You were hoping to catch a glimpse of Miss Thom upon her arrival. I knew I shouldn’t have pointed her out to you through the teashop window. It doesn’t seem fair that you can recognize her when she knows next to nothing about you.”

  “It seems perfectly fair to me,” Brody teased. “How else am I to believe in her abilities as a seer? I put my trust in you, Mrs. Dashley. I hope you haven’t deceived me.”

  Cheeks turning pink, Judith stammered, “I assure you, I haven’t!”

  “And I can assure you that I wasn’t attempting to ambush poor Miss Thom. If you must know, I was hoping to cross paths with a ghost.”

  Judith’s eyes lit up. “So you believe what I told you about my encounters here?”

  “I believe you felt something, yes.”

  “Am I to take it that you believe in ghosts?”

  “I neither believe nor disbelieve, but I hope to settle the matter for myself very soon. I envy your confidence when it comes to detecting spirits.”

  “You shouldn’t,” she said, shaking her head. “While it might be fashionable for a lady to attend a public lecture on the afterlife, or participate in a séance from time to time, claiming to have seen a ghost yourself does not go down well in polite circles. I confess I’m rather envious of you and Alden and the rest of the Philosophers. You men of science, you possibilitists, as my dear husband would say, can engage yourselves in the pursuit of the unknown around the clock and no one bats an eye. If a woman of social standing dares to speak of what can be felt but not seen, or unwittingly mutters to herself under her breath, why, it’s off to the doctor to have her head examined! I suppose by confessing my experiences to you I’ve given you my trust, dear doctor. I hope you’re the man I think you to be.”

  “What sort of man is that?” Dr. Brody asked.

  “A man who believes women.”

  Quinn Brody had certainly encountered plenty of men who didn’t, Dr. Mitchell being foremost among them. After the war, he’d studied with Mitchell at the Infirmary for Nervous Diseases, and as a result he’d quickly discovered the full measure of the man. In nearly every case that involved a female patient, he’d witnessed Mitchell chastising them (often quite severely) for “thinking, day-dreaming and fretting, too readily and too much.” He’d diagnosed every woman who had a stray feeling, craving, desire, wish, interest, worry, affection, inkling, suspicion, knowing, predilection or ability, with nervous exhaustion. In an attempt to cure these “poor creatures” he’d ordered them to be shuttered away at home, or committed to an asylum. There was no strenuous activity prescribed, no adventure-filled trips to the West—only bed rest and boredom leading to loneliness and desperation.

  When Brody had tried to discuss the matter, the cranky neurologist had insisted, “They’ve got no one to blame but themselves. They’ve taxed their minds into a state of nervous exhaustion. Someone needs to tell them enough is enough. Women’s minds are weak and fragile, invariably prone to shock, disorder, delusion and hysteria.” Finding Mitchell’s methodology woefully lacking, Brody had chosen to go to Paris in search of more progressive thought. He’d had no idea that once he got there, he’d discover something far worse.

  As the chimes in the lobby announced the half hour, Judith said, “Miss Thom will be here any minute. Shall we head to the dining hall and wait for her there?”

  “After you,” Dr. Brody replied.

  Adelaide arrived ten minutes late, wearing a scarlet promenade dress trimmed with jet buttons, swirling soutache, and a fluted silk flounce elegantly circling the hem of her skirt. Her matching veiled bonnet was topped with a cluster of crepe roses, and a single black ostrich plume poised like a jaunty question mark atop her head. Her tardiness had been calculated so she might catch sight of Dr. Brody before they met face to face. Pausing behind a potted palm inside the dining hall entrance, she scanned the room for Judith.

  She spotted her friend at a secluded corner table a few yards away, giving her full attention to a gentleman Adelaide assumed was the
doctor. Taking a long look at him, she decided that perhaps he did warrant the blushing Judith had done when she’d mentioned his name in the shop. His dark hair was swept to the side and slightly unkempt, yet his face was freshly shaven. This said to Adelaide that although he wasn’t one to fuss over his looks, he liked the feel of hot towels on his neck and the scrape of the barber’s blade against his chin. Looking on in some amazement, she watched as Judith gestured enthusiastically (no doubt telling the poor man every last detail of the ongoing renovations at Marble Row) while Dr. Brody nodded and smiled, and barely spoke. How refreshing it was to see a man sit contentedly, free from the urge to dominate the conversation. Each time he took a drink from his cup, his movements were thoughtful, refined, exact.

  Before she could appraise him any further, she caught Judith glancing impatiently towards the door. Better get moving, Adelaide thought, straightening her skirts. There was a fine line between running late and being rude, and when it came to Judith Dashley, it was best not to cross it.

  Gliding past three Boston ferns, a cluttered teacart and a handful of waiters, Adelaide approached the table with a friendly smile. “Good morning,” she said.

  “My dear Adelaide!” Judith turned in her seat, the wires of her bustle softly creaking in protest. “So lovely to see you at last.” (Judith’s way of saying, “You’re late, but you’re forgiven.”)

  Dr. Brody had risen from his chair and was waiting to be introduced.

  Adelaide stared at him, biting her lip.

  Commanding. Proper. Shoulders back. A military man.

  Eyes, blue. Long lashes. Faded handkerchief, monogrammed.

  Nose freckled, shoes dusty. He likes a good walk.

  Crow’s feet. Dimple in the chin (the Devil is within).

  “Miss Adelaide Thom,” Judith announced, “allow me to introduce Dr. Quinn Brody.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Brody,” Adelaide said, ready to extend her hand in greeting should the gentleman offer his.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Brody replied, keeping his hand at his side.

  Adelaide drew her hand back as if she were a cat with an injured paw. How stupid am I? she thought. Why didn’t I notice the slight tick in his right shoulder, the stiff false fingers at his cuff? Why didn’t Judith share this important detail instead of leaving it as a surprise? Flushed with embarrassment, she stumbled slightly as a waiter offered her the chair next to Brody’s. “Thank you,” she said, relieved to take her seat. It wasn’t the doctor’s lack of an arm that had unsettled her, it was being caught unawares. She was the one who was supposed to take people by surprise. She was supposed to have, as it were, the upper hand.

  The waiter stood at attention, pressed towel draped over his arm.

  “Are we ready to order?” Judith asked, breaking the awkward silence.

  Brody handed Adelaide the menu card. “I’ve already made up my mind,” he said.

  Adelaide gave the card a cursory glance. “Shirred eggs, and tea, please,” she said, before passing the card to Judith.

  Judith handed it to the waiter. “Just toast and tea for me.”

  “I’ll have the shirred eggs as well,” Brody said, “and another cup of coffee.”

  Adelaide lifted the dark swath of her lace veil and pinned it to the top of her hat. No need to hide, she thought. Let’s see what other secrets Judith may or may not have kept.

  There was no moment of shock when Brody looked at her face, no revulsion, no wide-eyed stare, no uncomfortable downward gaze. Only a warm, kindly smile, as if he were seeing an old friend.

  Adelaide knew this had to mean that Judith had somehow arranged for the doctor to catch sight of her before their meeting. Perplexed, she wondered, Dear Judith, what are you playing at?

  Judith was watching her with smug satisfaction. Giving her friend a sideways glance, Adelaide got a sly, encouraging wink in return. Ah ha! she thought. Judith means to make a match. All that blushing, all that talk about the handsome Dr. Brody wasn’t meant to be a confession, but an enticement. How many times had Judith boasted of her talent for matchmaking—describing in great detail the joy she’d felt in swapping place cards at this or that soirée in order to kindle the flames of desire? Adelaide had never dreamed she’d be on the receiving end of one of Judith’s romantic schemes. What nerve! Step right up and see the one-armed man converse with the one-eyed girl! Well Mrs. Dashley, if it’s a show you want, you’re about to get one.

  “Would you like me to pour your tea for you?” the waiter asked, returning to the table with breakfast.

  “Yes,” Judith answered with a polite nod.

  “No,” Adelaide said, shaking her head. Staring at Judith she added, “I can help myself.”

  Judith frowned and spooned a generous helping of orange marmalade on her toast.

  Dr. Brody stirred sugar into his coffee, one lump at a time. Turning to Adelaide, he gamely said, “Mrs. Dashley tells me you’re a mind reader by profession. A seer of sorts.”

  “I am,” Adelaide answered.

  “Fascinating,” Brody said, taking a sip. “I’m curious to know, what exactly does that entail?”

  “A little of this, a little of that.”

  Judith wiped a few stray crumbs from the corner of her mouth. “Come now, Adelaide, that’s not much of an answer.”

  Adelaide pierced the quivering yolk of one of her eggs with her fork. “It wasn’t much of a question.”

  Judith forced a laugh. “Why be so coy? Dr. Brody won’t give your secrets away.”

  “He can do whatever he likes with my secrets. I’ll happily tell them to him right now.” Staring at Brody she said, “One: I don’t play tricks. Two: I don’t entertain skeptics.”

  At that, Judith dropped her cup, spilling tea down the front of her dress. “Oh dear!” she exclaimed, dabbing at her skirt with her napkin. “If I don’t see to this right away, the stains will never come out. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?”

  “I’ll come with you,” Adelaide offered.

  “No, no,” Judith protested. “You stay and enjoy your breakfast. It wouldn’t be right to abandon the good doctor.”

  Looking puzzled, Brody said, “If you both must go, I’ll be fine alone—”

  “Nonsense,” Judith said, standing. “Adelaide will stay. I insist.”

  Dr. Brody stood, as per good manners.

  Adelaide stood, too, wishing she could give Judith a piece of her mind. “We’ll catch up later, then? Perhaps at the shop?”

  “Yes,” Judith answered, “at the shop.” Then moving close to Adelaide she gave her a kiss on the cheek. In a soft whisper she said, “Stop making everything so difficult. He’s really a lovely man.”

  Pulling away from her friend, Adelaide said, “Good day to you, Judith.”

  —

  After Judith had made her farewells, Adelaide and the doctor sat down and ate their eggs in silence.

  Once Adelaide had thought things through, she realized that Brody had been as much in the dark as she as to Judith’s scheme. Furthermore, it had been quite a long time since she’d shared a meal with a polite and handsome man. Before the attack, she’d had no trouble making small talk with any gentleman she met; in fact, she’d prided herself in being a flirt. That part of her now felt distant and foreign, but she supposed she could make an attempt at being interesting, at least. There was nothing left to do then but be herself. Saying the first thing that came to mind, she asked, “Did you keep it?”

  “Hmm?” Dr. Brody asked, looking around as if there was something he might’ve missed.

  “Your arm?” Adelaide said. “Did you keep it? Maybe give it a proper burial?” She wanted to see how far she could take things before the gentleman flinched. “I once met a man who paid to have the bones of his left leg extracted after his limb was taken. He keeps them on display in his house.”

  “Interesting,” Dr. Brody replied. “But no, I lost it in the war. It was too…well never mind what it was. Suffice to say, there wasn’t muc
h left to keep.”

  Adelaide poured herself another cup of tea. Maybe this wouldn’t be a complete wash after all. “As you may have gathered, I’m not squeamish,” she said, pointing to her scars.

  “Ah, well then,” Brody replied. “I’ll put the same question to you. Did you keep it?”

  Laughing, Adelaide answered, “Yes. It resides in a lovely little bottle beside my bed.”

  Dr. Brody laughed, too, then held up his cup to show the waiter he wanted more coffee. Turning back to Adelaide he said, “I’d like you to know that I’m not a skeptic.”

  “What are you then, Dr. Brody?”

  “A man of science.”

  “Aren’t they the same?”

  He shook his head. “A skeptic is only interested in being right. I’m only interested in finding truth.”

  “Even if there’s a chance your theories are wrong?”

  “Especially then, because it means I might be on my way to discovering something new.”

  All Adelaide could think was that the doctor’s eyes were a beautiful shade of blue. (And, if she wasn’t mistaken, there was a shade of interest in them, too, keen and real and the slightest bit improper.) Maybe Judith’s matchmaking powers were greater than she’d guessed. There was only one way to find out. “Scientists occupy themselves with theories, tests and demonstrations, do they not?” she asked.

  “Largely, yes.”

  “Then why bother discussing my occupation when I can treat you to a demonstration.”

  “Here?”

  “Why not?” Adelaide said. “I’m willing if you are. The proof will be in the doing.”

  “If you like,” Dr. Brody said, “although I’m not quite sure how you wish to go about it.”

  Moving her chair so close her knee brushed against his, she said, “Give me your hand.”

  Brody did as he was told.

  Elbows resting on the table, Adelaide cradled the doctor’s hand in hers. Tracing the lines on his palm with her finger she asked, “Past, present or future—which would you like me to see?”

  “Past,” the doctor quickly answered, as if he’d made the choice ahead of time.