by Kat Ross
“This?” Connor dangled it so the end brushed his bare knees.
“Yes, that. Is it…?
“The tail of a Norwegian rat?” He admired his prize with the intense gratification of a prospector who just stumbled over a vein of pure gold. “Yes, it is. And a right beastly rat it was too. Me and the lads found it in an alley by the waterfront. Course it was dead a’ready. But Billy had his knife so…”
“Out!” Mrs. Rivers bellowed.
“But—”
“Now! Harry, take him to the garden and hose him down! See that thing is disposed of.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Come on, Connor.”
Mrs. Rivers was muttering something about the Black Plague as I hauled him out of the kitchen. The moment we were out of earshot, he grabbed my arm and started pulling me up the stairs.
“I knew that would do her,” he whispered. “I got news. We need to talk.”
I followed Connor up to his attic room, where I found a grubby kid sitting on the single bed.
“This is Billy Finn,” Connor said. “Billy, this is Myrtle’s sister, Harry. Tell her what you told me.”
From the gaps in his front teeth, I guessed that Billy Finn was about eight years old. He had a pug nose and curly brown hair.
“Pleased to meetcha,” Billy said, putting away the penknife he’d been using to clean his big toenail, which stuck through a gaping hole in his shoe.
“Did you find Straker?” I asked.
“Maybe tho,” Billy said, the missing teeth giving him a faint lisp. “There’s a feller around matching that description.” He eyed me cagily. “But I understand yer offering a reward?”
“Indeed,” I said impatiently. “Where did you see him?”
“Can’t be sure it’s him,” Billy said. “How much did you say it wath?”
I made up a number on the spot. “Fifty dollars, if it really is Mr. Straker.”
Billy tried to keep a poker face but I could see he was struggling. Fifty dollars was a small fortune.
“That’s before my commission,” Connor interjected smoothly. “Ten percent.”
“Aw, Connor,” Billy protested. “Five percent.”
“Take it or leave it,” Connor said, crossing his arms.
“But I gave you that rattail! Don’t it count for nothin’?”
“Ten percent.”
“Yer worse than a diddle cove, I thought we was friends!”
“We is friends,” Connor said regretfully. “But business is business.”
Billy mumbled something that sounded like “gripe-fist,” but he finally nodded.
“Alright,” he said, spitting in his palm and shaking hands with Connor, who did the same. “Ten percent.”
The negotiation concluded, Billy turned to me. “I’ll need to see a pitcher, if you got one. Make sure it’s the right feller.”
“Hold on.” I ran to my room and brought back the photograph of Brady and Straker in Wyoming. Billy examined it closely.
“The one with dark hair. Is it him?” I asked.
“Dunno. I’ll let you know later. After I go down there.”
“Where’s there?” I demanded impatiently.
“That’s confidential,” Billy said. “A feller’s gotta keep his professional sources to himthelf.”
“Well, this man could be very dangerous,” I said. “Do not approach him under any circumstances. All I want is an address.”
“Got it.”
I stared at him hard. “Be careful, Mr. Finn.”
“Don’t worry, I ain’t no noddle.” Billy stood up and put his cap on, a checkered thing about two sizes too large. “I can thee mythelf out.”
“Wait.” I gave him two quarters. “A feller’s got to eat supper,” I said with a smile.
Billy grinned. “That he doth, Mith Pell, that he doth.”
He slipped out the front door, whistling a cheerful tune. I watched through the window as his small form disappeared into the night.
“Be careful, Mr. Finn,” I whispered again, praying that I hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.
And then Mrs. Rivers called us for supper and I forgot all about Billy as we laughed and talked and stuffed ourselves with lamb stew and blueberry pie.
It was the last time I would do so for many days.
By ten-thirty the next morning, I stood with Edward outside a brownstone at 418 West Twentieth Street. The mighty Hudson shimmered less than a quarter mile distant, its waters bristling with the tall masts of sailing ships and the great steam funnels of the Rotterdam and Atlas Lines. It was a stately street of shade trees and Greek Revival, Italianate and Georgian townhouses, although just a block or so west, the residential neighborhood dissolved into a dodgy patchwork of warehouses, lumber yards and distilleries bounded by the Hudson River Railroad.
Number 418 had been divided into flats, and a small hand-lettered sign indicated that Mr. Charles Dawbarn lived on the top—and thus, the cheapest—floor.
“Ready?” Edward asked me, nervously smoothing his buff waistcoat. He was wearing Hessian boots with tassels over robin’s egg blue trousers and a yellow paisley cravat. The points of his collar were so high and stiff that Edward was forced to lean his head back slightly to accommodate them, but he didn’t seem to mind this at all.
“I’m ready,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We ascended the stairs and knocked on the door of number four. It was opened by a man who looked strikingly like my Uncle Arthur, except that he was older by several decades. He had short dark hair parted on the side and a large, walrusy mustache. He must have been well over six feet tall, with an athletic build just starting to soften into the paunch of late middle age.
“May I help you?” he inquired.
“I certainly hope so,” Edward said heartily. “I read about your talents in the Banner of Light. We were hoping you might be willing to assist us in communicating with someone on the other side.” Edward took my hand tenderly in his own. “My sister, Katie, is to be married, you see. But she desires to confirm that the prospective groom has the complete blessing of our mother, who passed away three years ago.”
Mr. Dawbarn nodded and stood aside. “Of course. Please come in.”
He led us into a small parlor, where a ginger cat perched in the center of a round wooden table. Mr. Dawbarn shooed the cat away and pulled shut the curtains.
“What we embark upon is no less than a journey beyond the physical realm to higher dimensions,” he intoned, lighting several candles and arranging them on the table. “A piercing of the veil between life and death. I myself have personally communed with hundreds of spirits, and each has been a unique experience. I prefer to work with groups of five or more, as the collective energy to summon the desired spirit is greater. But I am willing to attempt it for your sister’s sake, as such a potent connection as parent and child makes such manifestations easier.”
“Yes, we were very close,” I said, pinching the tender flesh inside my elbow so that tears sprung to my eyes. “Now, as to your fee…”
Mr. Dawbarn sighed gently, as though such earthly matters were well beneath him, and gestured to a small plaque that featured the full menu of his services, ranging from written communications transcribed while in a trance to an hour-long communion with “discarnate entities.” Edward and I opted for the last one, which cost $5.
As Mr. Dawbarn prepared for the séance, I took a quick look around. The parlor contained a single bookcase with titles like The Spirits’ Book by Allan Kardec, The Night Side of Nature by Catherine Crowe, and Mysteries by Charles Elliott. A heart-shaped planchette with a pencil attached sat on a shelf, but the layer of dust on top signalled that it had not been called into service for so-called automatic writing in several months at least. A sad vase of wilted flowers and rather threadbare rug completed the furnishings.
“Let us sit and join hands.” Mr. Dawbarn took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “We must ask each question only one time. And once it begins, I must reque
st that you not leave the table for any reason. We must maintain the circle.”
I cast a sidelong glance at Edward, trying hard not to giggle.
“Certainly, Mr. Dawbarn,” I said, hoping he took the quaver in my voice for fear rather than amusement. “I’ve only been to one other séance before. Madame Valentina von Linden. She helped us talk to dear Uncle Albert. He seemed very happy.”
The medium’s eyes opened. He cast a wary look my way. “Von Linden?”
“Oh yes. She was marvellous! Wasn’t she, Frank?” I nudged Edward with my foot.
“Quite,” he said faintly.
Mr. Dawbarn seemed to relax when he realized that we were unaware of “Valentina von Linden’s” fall from grace. “I am pleased you have some prior experience,” he said.
“Do you know her?” I persisted. “I mean, you’re both so well-respected.”
His chest puffed out a bit at this. “We have met. But we moved in different circles. She charged such lofty fees that only the rich could afford her services. I prefer a sliding scale that’s more democratic.” He gave us an oily smile. “All classes should have the opportunity to communicate with their dearly departed, should they so desire.”
Which I took to mean, I’m willing to fleece even the poorest citizens if they’re desperate enough.
“So she catered mainly to society?” I asked.
“One might say that.” And now it seemed I was starting to arouse his suspicions, because he frowned. “Shall we proceed? Or do you wish to spend all morning discussing Madame von Linden? Because I’m afraid I have other clients arriving…”
We assured him that we did indeed wish to continue, and spent the next half hour listening to rapping sounds that Mr. Dawbarn assured me was my mother spelling out a message of congratulations on my impending nuptials, with the proviso that I wear a single white rose in my hair. When the table bucked up and down (at the behest of Mr. Dawbarn’s kneecap), I remarked that mother must have taken up weight-lifting as she was always a skinny little thing, and he swiftly concluded the séance.
“I hope your mind is set at ease,” Mr. Dawbarn said as we forked over a $5 bill.
“Utterly,” I assured him. “Would you care to see a picture of her?”
I’m not sure what came over me. But I had a sudden urge to prove conclusively that this man was a fraud. Would not a true psychic be able to tell whether a photograph was truly of the spirit he had just been allegedly communicating with?
I reached into my bag and pulled out the cameo I’d taken from Straker’s flat, and thrust it into Mr. Dawbarn’s hands.
“This is your mother?” he asked uncertainly.
“Yes,” I replied, shooting Edward a warning look, as he was peering over Mr. Dawbarn’s shoulder with unconcealed curiosity.
There was no doubt that Straker’s mother was a beautiful woman. She had thick raven hair, styled loosely on top of her head so that wisps fell across her bare shoulders. Her eyes were such a dark brown that they appeared black, which complemented her olive skin perfectly. She wore a simple gown with a hint of lace at the bosom. But again, it was her expression that riveted the viewer’s gaze. A certain narrowness to the heavy-lidded, almond-shaped eyes, a slight upturn to the lips that spoke of cunning, even cruelty…
Mr. Dawbarn gazed upon Straker’s mother for a long moment and then a curious thing happened. He gave a shudder; not an ostentatious shudder, but one that seemed to emanate from some primal part of his being.
“She died by violence, did she not?” he asked, pushing the cameo back at me.
“Drowning,” I said. “It was an accident.”
“Something unclean has touched this,” Mr. Dawbarn muttered, wiping his hands on his waistcoat. “There is a…taint.”
“Taint?” Edward asked. “What does that mean?”
For the first time, our host seemed at a loss for words. If it was part of his act, he was better than I’d thought.
“I’m not entirely sure. But I’ve never felt its like.” Mr. Dawbarn suddenly seemed anxious to be rid of us. “Congratulations on your marriage, Miss White.” He herded us toward the foyer like a pair of sheep. “Best of luck to you both.”
“Thank you,” Edward said. “I—”
And with that, the door shut firmly in our faces.
“Well, he could work on his goodbyes,” Edward said as we made our way down the stairs. “Who was that in the picture, anyway?”
“Straker’s mother,” I responded. “We found the cameo hidden under his mattress. Brady seemed to think it proved that Straker had been the victim of foul play, as he would never leave such a treasured item behind. He was an orphan, you know.”
“Did she really drown?”
“That’s what Brady said. Straker’s parents died together in a boating accident.”
“What do you make of all that talk about something unclean?” Edward lowered his voice an octave in a fair imitation of Mr. Dawbarn.
“He’s probably trying to get us to come back and pay him more money to find out,” I said, as we reached the street and Edward called for his carriage, which waited on the corner.
“But he didn’t seem like he wanted us there a second longer,” Edward pointed out. “I think it’s a bit spooky, Harry. There’s something off about that lady.”
“Now you sound like John,” I grumped.
We reprised our act six more times that day, in six different but somehow depressingly alike parlors, with little to show for it but aching backs from sitting in hard wooden chairs for hours on end. None of the mediums we consulted knew Becky Rickard by any of her various names, or wouldn’t admit to it if they did. By the last séance, at a house up in Harlem, Edward actually fell asleep midway through and began snoring, which the medium—a stern old bat with an iron-grey bun and black dress whose style had its heyday thirty years ago—didn’t take well.
I was just starting to despair that the two central figures in the case—Robert Straker and Becky Rickard—would forever remain enigmas when Edward had the idea of calling on the Fox sisters directly. Thanks to his friends who dabbled in Spiritualism, he knew which church they attended on Sundays and suggested that we join the congregation in the morning. I wasn’t at all sure they would talk to us considering the bad publicity they’d been getting, but it was worth a try.
The other encouraging development was that John’s run of poor luck finally broke. He found out that Becky’s body had indeed been claimed from the Morgue at Bellevue by a sister named Rose, and managed to secure her address, which was a town in western New York called Cassadaga Lake. Afterwards, he canvassed Straker’s neighbors, who confirmed that he drank heavily in the last few months, most often at the dive on Baxter Street below Becky Rickard’s flat. They had never seen him in the company of anyone else, and couldn’t recall any visitors. Apparently, Straker was a solitary fellow who spent most of his time at home alone and rarely spoke to his neighbors, which they interpreted as snootiness. Straker was not well-liked, but he never gave anyone trouble either, even when he was dead drunk, which they impressed upon John was an extremely rare quality in the Five Points.
To me, all of this pointed to some catastrophe befalling the man: either he was the victim of foul play, or his already fragile mind had snapped and sent him on a homicidal rampage. I told John about Billy Finn, who should be reporting back to us any moment now. I wish I’d pressed him harder to tell me where he’d gone. The Bowery and Lower East Side were jam-packed with anonymous lodging houses and fifth-rate hotels. Straker could be holed up in any of them, just one of a thousand lost souls in that miscreant’s paradise. If Billy had indeed found him, I hoped he wouldn’t be foolish enough to tip the man off that he’d been discovered. Connor assured me that Billy was the very soul of discretion, but I wasn’t so sure. A full day had now passed, and I couldn’t help worrying that something had gone wrong.
John, meanwhile, was leaning toward the supernatural explanation: that Mr. Straker was possessed by one of the m
inions of Hell. His conviction was starting to infect Edward, who I could see was still troubled by both what we had found in the cellar and Mr. Dawbarn’s strange reaction to the picture of Straker’s mother.
So when a cable arrived from Uncle Arthur that evening expressing interest in the case and offering the name of an expert in demonology and the occult at St. John’s College, I handed that task over to them. At the very least, the man might be able to identify the symbol burned into the grass near Raffaele Forsizi’s body. And while I doubted that we were dealing with otherworldly forces, it was possible that the killer was under the delusion that they were possessed, which made it necessary to understand precisely what such a fantasy might entail.
I’ll admit, I was thrilled that Uncle Arthur had written back so quickly. It put the wind back in my sails, which were starting to sag. Myrtle’s system was to gather as much information as possible before drawing any conclusions. She spent days or even weeks in this phase, refusing to discuss the case except in the vaguest generalities. But her brilliance lay in her ability to sort through the haystack of clues and unerringly single out the needle—the one or two pieces of evidence that pointed conclusively to the solution. This was Myrtle’s true gift.
She had once inferred the guilt of a wife-murdering banker based on a bent hatpin and glass of milk. Another memorable case hinged entirely on the absence of cat hair on a vicar’s socks.
I had tried to mimic Myrtle’s discipline, but instead of the picture becoming clearer, the lines were bleeding into each other like the watercolors of that rebellious French impressionist Claude Monet. Why was the killer remorseful? And why, then, did he kill again? Was it even a single person? Some gut instinct told me it was, but Myrtle would scoff at such a notion. Hard facts—that’s what solved a case. The problem was, I didn’t have any.
As I waited in my room that night for Mrs. Rivers to fall asleep, I resolved to make a trip upstate to Cassadaga Lake and see if Rose Rickard could shed any light on her sister’s final days. For if it wasn’t Straker, Becky’s murderer was someone she knew, and knew well. That I felt sure of.
