by Ward Parker
“What is it you want?” she asked in a German accent.
He explained his mission and presented the letters of recommendation, apologizing for not making an appointment. The truth was, he didn’t make one because he didn’t want to give them advance warning and help in evading him.
“Madame is not feeling well. She will see no one today.”
“Let him in, Helga, damn you!” The voice shouted from upstairs. “Didn’t you hear that he’s a doctor? Let him in.”
The woman upstairs sounded drunk.
Helga sighed and stepped out of the way. A tall woman with a huge mass of red hair slowly walked down the staircase opposite the foyer. She wore an elegant gown of a fashion that hadn’t been in style since the ‘80s. Follett was afraid she’d stumble on the hem.
“Hello, Doctor,” she said in a deep, resonant actress voice. “Please join me in the parlor.”
He followed her and her trail of gin fumes into the room, kept dark by heavy window drapes. Even in the darkness, the dusty, unkempt condition was impossible to ignore. The oriental carpeting smelled faintly of urine. The room had the typical Victorian clutter of pillows and objects d’art, but there were no family photos or paintings anywhere.
Mrs. Stockhurst turned on an electric lamp and sat down. Follett looked closely at her face. Her eyes were glassy and her pupils unnaturally constricted. He suspected that she had consumed some laudanum in addition to the alcohol. Her makeup was sloppily applied. She was probably still in her forties but the vestiges of her beauty were losing the battle to alcoholism.
“Mrs. Stockhurst, I have letters from two acquaintances of yours, Mr. Henry Rogers and Mark Twain.” He started to hand them to her.
“Oh, no, that will be unnecessary. Did the gentlemen send you to check on my health, the dears? I’ve been having horrible leg cramps and bloating recently. Quite horrible. What do you recommend?”
“Actually, madam, I’m a researcher.” He didn’t know how to more gently broach the subject, so he jumped right in. “I’m a teratologist. I study birth defects.”
“Oh no. I don’t want to discuss this topic.”
“Yes, I’ve been studying Darryl down in Palm Beach. He’s having some trouble.”
Her entire body tightened. “I do not wish to speak about him.”
“I study the ways in which genetics, as well as environment, alter the normal development of a child and on to adulthood. It’s very important to my research that I speak with you.”
“I have no idea why Darryl turned out that way. It certainly wasn’t from my family. It must have been from William’s parents, whoever they were. You see, William was an orphan adopted by Mr. Stockhurst. There’s no record of who his real parents were.”
“I’m certain that environmental factors alone could not have caused his condition. That leaves genetics. Now, I can see why you believe the genetic defects did not come from your side of the family.”
She nodded emphatically.
“But we cannot be certain,” he added.
She blinked. “I assure you, my mother and father were normal. The Gleason family is well respected both in Dublin and New York.”
“Can you assure normalcy among your grandparents on both sides, as well as uncles and aunts? And since many genes are recessive, and will skip generations, are you certain that no nieces or nephews have any similar deformities?”
“Quite certain,” she said with indignation. “Helga! Where is that sherry?”
“Of course I’d have to interview them all. Each and every one of them. It’s such a pity we can’t investigate William’s side. If we could, we might, with finality, be able to rule out your family.”
Helga hurried in with a tray topped with a sherry decanter and two glasses already filled. She handed one to Follett before Gloria seized the other and downed it in two gulps. Without being asked, Helga refilled it and returned it to her employer who then sipped it with more restraint. Helga placed the decanter on a serving cart and left the room.
“Now, let’s say you had Darryl in a previous marriage, then that would open up a whole new world for my research. I’d have the father’s entire lineage to examine. It might end up taking all the burden off your side of the family—and all the suspicion that society may harbor against you, hiding it just beneath the surface so that you never know the questions and accusations they make about you behind your back. All of this is just hypothetical, of course.”
She took another sip of sherry and licked her lips, tongue darting in and out like a lizard’s.
“In my specialty, I also come upon married women, who—I’m speaking now as a physician with no moral judgment—engendered children with men other than their husbands, without the knowledge of the husbands, who go on to raise the children as their own. As a physician, all I care about are the genes, not the marriage papers. These women confide in me in complete faith that I keep their secrets. The bond between a physician and patient is as sacred as that between a priest and parishioner. I’m not implying that any of the aforementioned situations relate to you; I bring this up to illustrate how important it is that I know the true bloodline of the subject I study.”
She remained silent. Follett had expected her to act more offended by his prying into her personal matters.
“What about rape?” she said suddenly.
“You mean if a patient were a result of a rape?”
She nodded.
“Well,” he said, “it’s no different than what I already explained. I would wish to locate the rapist, if possible, and I would keep the entire matter confidential.”
“What if the rapist were a man too powerful to identify?”
“But—”
“Pour me another glass of sherry and close the parlor door. Please.”
Follett did as she asked. As he slid the pocket doors closed he saw Helga standing in the hallway, pretending to dust a painting on the wall.
When he sat down again, Mrs. Stockhurst said, “He slipped into my bed one night and at first I thought it was William but by then it was too late. He held a pillow on my face—it almost smothered me! That was right after William and I were married and we lived in the big house, before William’s mansion was completed.”
“Do you mean…”
“Yes. Benjamin Stockhurst raped me. There, I said it.”
“I’m very sorry, madam. So he is the true father of Darryl?”
She nodded.
“How can you be certain?”
“I’d rather not say. But I will tell you this, because it’s important for you to know: Benjamin Stockhurst is a monster.”
“Of course, to commit such a deed.”
“No, Doctor. He is quite literally a monster. You can call it what you like, give it some medical term. But he changed while he was assaulting me. He became something…not human. A huge, hairy beast. Like Darryl.”
Follett paused to calm his thoughts then said, “Darryl’s abnormal features have all been documented in patients before, however not occurring all together in one case. Are you saying that Benjamin had the same features?”
“Yes. But there is a difference: Benjamin changed back to a normal man afterwards. But Darryl just stayed that way since the day,” she shuddered, “he was born.”
Tears ran down her face.
“I’m sorry,” Follett said.
“He threatened to kill me if I ever said anything. Or allow me to live in peace and luxury if I stayed silent. He bought this house for me and gives me a monthly allowance.” She wiped her eyes with a silk handkerchief. “I had to move away from the house on Fifth Avenue that William built for Darryl and me. But not because I’m a bad mother. That’s not why the sight of him horrifies me.”
“I understand.” Follett finished his glass of sherry and glanced around again at the room. He understood now why it seemed so uninviting: it was decorated to look like a family lived here but in reality no one did except for this shell of a woman.
“Have yo
u observed Benjamin ‘changing’ on any other occasion?”
“No. Only that one horrible time.”
“Are you absolutely sure he—”
“Yes, I’m sure he changed. I didn’t imagine it. I was fully awake and a candle was lit in the room. I experienced it with my eyes and my flesh. In case you’re wondering, I didn’t drink or anything back then. I didn’t have to.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Years ago, shortly after I moved into this house. We want nothing to do with one another. He sends the checks and I stay out of sight and out of mind.”
“Do you know how I can get a meeting with him?”
“The only way is if he wishes to see you to fulfill a business need. Otherwise, don’t bother.”
The housekeeper, Helga, let Follett out. He descended the steep stairs to the sidewalk and turned toward Park Avenue to get a cab. He didn’t notice a man lurking in the shadows around the servants’ entrance of the house next door. The man waited a few seconds and then followed him.
* * *
Clemens entered the calaboose. Though all the windows were open it was stiflingly hot and smelled of mildew and perspiration. Once his eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside he saw the marshal sitting at his desk, his left leg encased in a plaster cast and propped up on a chair.
“Good morning, Marshal DeBerry.”
“Mr. Clemens. How can I help you?”
“It’s about the disappearance of the Negroes. I met one of them before she disappeared.”
“You must mean the girl they called Angel Worm. A lot of the society folk have been falling for that game.”
“It’s not a game, Marshal. My deceased daughter spoke through the child’s mouth. It has truly haunted me.”
“I can’t believe in it myself, but I’ll respect your account of it.”
“How gracious of you,” Clemens said with a sarcastic smile. “The reason I mention her is that she has given me a personal stake in this. I want to continue to help searching for her, if she’s still alive.”
DeBerry chuckled. “I know I’m short-handed, and with this leg I can barely get around, but I don’t need any more amateurs. You do write an amusing detective tale,” he opened up a drawer in the desk and held up a recent issue of Harper’s, “but that doesn’t mean you’re a detective yourself.”
Clemens couldn’t contain his pleasure at seeing one of his short stories with a most unexpected reader. He said, “Oh, ‘A Double-Barreled Detective Story.’ I’m impressed, Marshal. To be honest, that story was intended as more of an exercise in literary irony than a clever mystery puzzler.”
“I enjoyed it.”
“Thank you. But let me get to the point of my visit. When, exactly, did the abductions of the colored people begin?”
DeBerry looked annoyed at being the one interrogated.
“While they may have occurred earlier, the first official reports of missing persons began in 1895,” he replied. “And that includes two Seminole Indians taken from seasonal encampments nearby.”
“Have you examined the registers of the Palm Beach hotels?”
“I haven’t been allowed to. Mr. Flagler says he wants to protect his guests’ privacy. I went to the judge for a warrant and he refused me. No one here wants to cross Mr. Flagler.”
“I took the route of subterfuge myself,” Clemens said. “I claimed I was working on biographical sketches for some of the prominent guests and the clerks at both hotels were fooled thanks to my alleged celebrity status. I went through the rolls of the Royal Poinciana since it opened in ninety-four and The Breakers in ’96 and you know what?”
“I’m waiting.”
“William Stockhurst and his son, Darryl, did not check into either hotel before ninety-nine, confirming what Stockhurst had told me. That’s four years after the disappearances began.”
“They could have stayed at another hotel.”
“Marshal, you know as well as I do that for the wealthy there are no other hotels in this area. Mere inns and rooming houses would never suffice.”
“They used to before Flagler came.”
“But the truly wealthy didn’t come until then.”
“Why are you trying to protect Darryl Stockhurst? Are you a friend of the family? Are you a member of one of his grandfather’s social clubs in New York City?” He said the city’s name with contempt.
“And why are you so convinced Darryl is your abductor? Do you resent the privilege the moneyed elite have in this Gilded Age of ours? You wouldn’t be the first to feel that way.”
“And I wouldn’t be the first to suspect Darryl. Let’s just say there are a lot of people who don’t want him to winter in Palm Beach anymore. Now that he’s murdered two men, those people will get their wish.” With his hands he gingerly moved his leg cast from the chair and let it rest upon the floor, rubbing his left hip. “Now don’t forget, the Angel Worm’s blanket was found in the suspect’s closet.”
“It could have been placed there by someone else,” Clemens said. “But please indulge me for a moment. Imagine that Darryl was cleared of all suspicion for the abductions,” Clemens said. “Who then would you suspect?”
“I’m still running on my hunch that it’s a seasonal visitor—”
“And not a local timing his crimes to make it seem like a seasonal visitor?”
“A murderer like this doesn’t work that way, Mr. Twain. I mean, Mr. Clemens.”
“Either name works for me.”
“Abducting that many people is an obsession. You can’t control that. Or schedule it.”
“Perhaps. But you didn’t answer. Who would you suspect besides Darryl?”
“Well,” DeBerry said, rubbing his hip, “if someone else did put the blanket in Darryl’s closet as you believe, who would that be? The murderer or someone covering for him. It wouldn’t be so easy for just anyone to break in there, with all the servants around. So it would have to be one of the servants, someone in the family or someone working for them.”
“Or a local provisioner delivering, say, ice or groceries. Perhaps a butcher delivering meat.”
The earlier conjecture about a cannibalistic killer hung in the air during a long moment of awkward silence.
DeBerry cleared his throat and gave a curt smile. Clemens realized the interview was over. After he said good day and almost reached the door, DeBerry cleared his throat.
“Oh, Mister Clemens, one more thing. They had a yacht.”
“Who?”
“The Stockhursts. Benjamin Stockhurst has always owned yachts and he brought his son, and, later, his grandson down to this area to fish and hunt. They did this every year until the great hotels were built. So, yes, they were here prior to when they first began staying in the hotels in 1899. And they were here before the abductions began in ninety-five. Thought you’d want to know.”
* * *
Follett had to at least make the attempt. Amalgamated Chemicals had its offices in a six-story building bearing its name at the top. He passed through the large, marble lobby where echoes of voices and footsteps rang out, stopping at a large reception counter.
“I’m here to see Mr. Stockhurst.”
“Do you have an appointment?” the unfriendly male clerk said without even looking up.
“Yes, I do,” he lied.
“Sixth floor.”
Follett hadn’t yet gotten used to elevators and probably never would. His stomach was in knots when the operator closed the outer doors and then the metal-cage inner door. He turned a knob and the claustrophobic cell jerked then rose, passing closed doors with round windows at each floor, with a disconcerting rattling of a chain beneath them.
Follett finally exited to a comfortable waiting area with leather chairs and electric lamps with green shades. A large oil painting of Benjamin Stockhurst glared down at him from behind the receptionist’s desk.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist said. The speaker was a thin man in a black suit
and spectacles. His starched collar appeared to be too high for him and forced his chin aloft to add even more disdain to the large amount he already had.
“I’m Dr. Frank Follett, here to see Mr. Stockhurst if he is available.”
“You don’t have an appointment, do you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“If you had bothered to make an appointment, you would have known that he’s out.”
Follett tried to control his temper. The little snit was right, after all.
“When do you expect him back?”
“Not for several weeks. He’s headed south to pick up supplies and is bringing them to the troops in the Philippines. Mr. Stockhurst is a very patriotic man.”
“Of course, everyone knows that. Let me then leave my card and perhaps he will contact me when he returns.”
“Perhaps he will.”
“It’s regarding a family matter of great importance. He will want to contact me.”
The secretary’s bearing suddenly became even haughtier.
“If this is about some sort of financial claim,” he said with no effort to hide his condescension, “perhaps you should contact his attorneys.”
“No, it’s not. I told you I am a doctor. Mr. Stockhurst’s grandson is my patient and his life is currently at risk. It’s urgent that I speak with Mr. Stockhurst as soon as possible.”
“I’ll be sure to pass this along.”
Follett thanked him and left. Avoiding the elevator, he took the stairs down to the lobby.
He caught a hansom cab and rode it to Fifty-Ninth Street and Central Park South, alighting at the Plaza Hotel where he had a room reserved. But when he went to check in, the clerk handed him a telegram that had been recently delivered.
“PLEASE RETURN AT ONCE,” it read. “WILL EXPLAIN UPON ARRIVAL.” It had been sent by Sam Clemons.
* * *
Follett had managed to secure a Pullman berth for the longest leg of the journey home, hoping to catch up on some of the sleep he missed on the way up to New York. But he was unable to sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Stockhurst’s description of the “monster” that had assailed her.
