The Daemoniac

by Kat Ross

  The Daemoniac

  Gaslamp Gothic #1

  Kat Ross

  The Daemoniac

  Copyright © 2016 by Kat Ross

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Damonza

  ISBN: 978-0-9972362-5-5

  New York is a great secret, not only to those who have never seen it, but to the majority of its own citizens.

  * * *

  —James D. McCabe Jr., 1868

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Gaslamp Gothic #2

  The Thirteenth Gate

  About the Author

  Also by Kat Ross

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  When I think back on the grisly events of that summer, the first thing I remember is the heat. Spring was late and short, following on the heels of the worst blizzard New York City had ever seen. What began as a blustery March thunderstorm turned overnight to two feet of snow. The papers called it the Great White Hurricane. By the time we dug out, more than two hundred souls had perished, some with their frozen fingers sticking up pathetically from the mountainous drifts.

  In typical New York fashion, just a few months later, we did nothing but complain of the humidity. By mid-June, the mercury had soared up to the nineties and lingered there, like a fat dowager in her favorite armchair. It was an evil sort of heat, driving men to beat their children and carriage horses to drop dead in their traces. We kept waiting for a rip-roaring thunderstorm that never arrived. The wealthy fled to mansions in Newport or Long Island’s North Shore, while the thousands of wretchedly poor tenement dwellers resorted to sleeping on rooftops or even in the filthy streets in hopes of catching a stray breeze.

  Being somewhere in the middle of those two extremes, I opted for an iced tea and open window. Which is how, on Thursday the ninth of August, 1888, just three weeks before the Ripper began his reign of terror in London, I came to see a young couple walking slowly down West Tenth Street, eyeing the house numbers as they went. The woman looked wilted in a long-sleeved striped gown over petticoat, knickers, chemise and bustle. Her husband was blonde and clean-shaven, with hair neatly parted on the side and the erect bearing of a military man.

  “New clients,” I said.

  “Really…”

  “You’re not listening, John.”

  “Sorry!” He looked up from a thick medical textbook and grinned. “Clients. New ones. Too bad Myrtle isn’t home. You’ll have to send them on their way.”

  “It was the wife’s idea to come,” I said, following their progress with interest. They had paused in front of number fifty-one, better known as the Tenth Street Studios, a sprawling work and exhibition space that had helped turn once sleepy Greenwich Village into a mecca of the city’s art world. “He’s reluctant. In fact, he’s very close to scrapping the whole idea. They’re arguing about it now. Let’s see…He was definitely in the army at some point, but he’s in civilian clothing with a respectable paunch so most likely discharged. Far too young to have been in the war. Aha! They’re crossing the street now.”

  The townhouse where I lived with my sister Myrtle was situated at 40 West Tenth Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Myrtle was seven years my senior, and our parents had left her in charge while they gallivanted around Europe on an extended tour. Their trust was well-intentioned, if misplaced. Within a fortnight, Myrtle had gone haring off on a mysterious assignment for the Pinkerton detective agency, and life since then had been very dull.

  Normally, I relied on John Weston, my closest friend since we were both children, to keep me company. But he had just enrolled at Columbia’s College of Physicians and Surgeons, and now his nose was stuck in a book more often than not. Frankly, I was bored silly.

  “Let’s just hear them out,” I suggested.

  John looked up, a lock of straight brown hair falling across his forehead in a way that certain girls of our acquaintance seemed to find irresistible. Not that the attention went to John’s head. Overly.

  “What do you mean?” he said, eyes glinting with mischief. “Why, Harry, are you suggesting we lie—”

  “Of course not,” I replied primly. “It’s probably some trifling matter anyhow. But I can at least do them the courtesy of relaying the facts of the case to Myrtle when she returns.” I sighed. “Whenever that is.”

  John shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Alright,” he said, laying aside a well-thumbed copy of Gray’s Anatomy. “I suppose I could use a break. It’s like learning a foreign language.” He squinted at me. “Now you, Harry, have a lovely skull. Phenomenal supra-orbital development—”

  “And there’s the front doorbell.”

  I jumped to my feet, pulse quickening. Moments later, a knock came on the parlor door. I hastily arranged myself in an armchair near the cold hearth and rested my chin on one hand.

  “Come in!”

  The door flew open, revealing Mrs. Rivers, our housekeeper, and just behind her, the man and woman from the street. He looked flushed and uncertain, she grim and determined.

  “Are you Miss Fearing Pell?” the man asked doubtfully.

  “Oh yes, she most certainly is,” Mrs. Rivers said, beaming.

  It’s one of the reasons I loved the dear, dotty old creature. She never seemed to realize that when callers asked for Miss Pell, it was never, ever me they wanted.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” I said, gesturing to the sofa. John gathered up his textbooks and piled them on an end table as Mrs. Rivers retreated back downstairs, shutting the door discreetly behind her. “This is my associate, Mr. Weston. I can assure you, anything you say will be held in the strictest confidence. Although I should explain that—”

  “Yes, yes, I know, your services are in great demand. But we have nowhere else to turn.” An edge of desperation crept into the man’s voice. “Nowhere.”

  “You misunderstand,” I said firmly. “What I mean is that—”

  “Your fee is not an issue,” he cut in, taking a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and mopping his forehead. He had pale blue eyes and prominent ears that made him look boyish, though I placed his age somewhere in the late twenties. “But I must be assured of complete discretion. Miss Pell, the story I wish to tell you could destroy a man’s reputation if it ever got out. Two men, since I ought to include myself.”

  This was the point at which I should have stated plainly that I was not, in fact, Myrtle Fearing Pell, the Great Detective, but her nineteen-year-old sister. I’m still not sure what possessed me. But I was intrigued. And they seemed like good people in dire need of aid. I didn’t have the heart to send them away empty-handed. What happened next was impulsive and foolish, but then I’ve never been lacking in either of those qualities.

  “You have my word,” I said, looking at John.

  “Mine as well,” my friend added, and he had such an open and honest face that I could see our visitors relax their guard a little. “And actually, it’s Doctor Weston.”

  He flashed a bland smile that dared me to contradict
this claim. Well, if I was getting a promotion, I guess John deserved one too.

  I walked to the sideboard and started pouring glasses of iced tea. “Doctor?” I inquired sweetly, holding one up.

  John demurred.

  “Please,” I said, pressing refreshments into the hands of our guests. “The heat’s enough to drive one mad.”

  The wife looked at me sharply at this, but she accepted and took a tiny sip. “Tell them, Leland,” she murmured.

  Her husband seemed to gird himself for a very unpleasant task. He drew in a deep breath, eyes darting around the room as if searching for some kind of deliverance. He opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking.

  “Just start from the beginning,” I said gently.

  He nodded once. Cleared his throat and placed the tea on the table. “My name is Leland Brady. For the last two years, I’ve worked as a real estate agent at the firm of Harding & White on Maiden Lane. My wife Elizabeth and I live in Hastings-on-Hudson.”

  “The village in Westchester?”

  “Yes. We grew up there.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “Along with our dear friend, Robert Aaron Straker.” He paused. “It is Robert that brings me here, you see. He has vanished.”

  “Please go on,” I said, steepling my fingers the way I’d seen Myrtle do it.

  “Pardon me,” Brady suddenly exclaimed, “but you look awfully young! Are you really twenty-six years old? They say you’ve solved cases the police deemed hopeless. The mad chemist who poisoned those schoolchildren…the Bowery bank robberies…I’d never fathom such a thing, a little girl—” He seemed to catch himself and had the decency to look slightly abashed.

  I swallowed and dropped my eyelids to half-mast. I supposed there was no turning back now. “Indeed, Mr. Brady. I have consulted with the police force on occasion when they were hard-pressed to cope with crimes beyond the scope of mundane experience. But I remain an independent consultant, at liberty to pick and choose those cases that offer unique or outré features that interest me.” I could do Myrtle in my sleep. “Perhaps you would best be served by filing a report at the Bureau for the Recovery of Lost Persons.”

  Located at Police Headquarters on Mulberry Street, the Bureau handled some seven hundred missing persons cases a year. Each day, the descriptions of the lost would be checked against the returns of the morgue. It was a sad catalogue of suicides, murder victims and, in even greater numbers, those whose fates would forever remain a mystery.

  But Brady shook his head vehemently at this suggestion. “No, I don’t wish to involve the authorities, not yet. That is absolutely essential. Not until all other avenues are exhausted. And if it is outré that you seek, then what occurred four days ago will certainly fit the bill!”

  “Pray continue then,” I said.

  He nodded. “First, I must tell you a bit about Robert. He’s always been impetuous and headstrong, a dreamer who imagined that he would strike it rich someday. Robert was orphaned at a young age. My family took him in, and we became like brothers. We were country boys, Miss Pell, and keen for adventure. When we were both eighteen, Robert talked me into enlisting and we joined the Army on the Frontier.” Brady rummaged through his pockets and produced a photograph, which he handed to me. It showed two federal soldiers, one of whom was clearly Brady, the other a darkly handsome young man with a mustache and thick black hair. They stood side by side against a dramatic backdrop of open prairie, with snow-capped mountains in the distance.

  “This was taken three years ago in Wyoming. We had been called out to restore order in the town of Rock Springs after the rioting there.”

  “You refer to the massacre of twenty-eight Chinese miners by their white counterparts,” I said.

  The episode was one of the more shameful ones in the long history of simmering racial tensions in the Western states, where immigrant laborers—both Chinese and European—formed the backbone of the Union Pacific Railroad’s operations.

  “Yes. Our orders were to escort the survivors from Evanston back to their homes.” Brady’s expression grew troubled. “We arrived a week after the violence. There were still bodies lying in the streets. Some had been burned. Others appeared to have been literally torn apart. Many of our fellow soldiers didn’t seem too bothered, but Robert was quite affected by it.”

  “A decent man, then,” John said quietly, but with force. He despised bigots of all stripes.

  “Yes, despite his failings, Robert was always kind-hearted. Which makes what occurred later even more inexplicable.” Brady took Elizabeth’s hand. An attractive woman with a strong jaw and piercing, intelligent hazel eyes, she nodded encouragingly. “Rock Springs soured us both on army life, and neither of us reenlisted when our tour was finished. We returned to Hastings, where I asked for Elizabeth’s hand and she happily obliged.”

  They exchanged a quick smile. “Robert served as the best man at our wedding. Thanks to a family connection, I managed to secure a position with my current employer. The future appeared bright. Robert’s parents had left him a small but adequate sum with which to make his way in the world. As a single man with no pressing attachments, he decided to take lodgings in the city and seek his fortune here. I suppose it was inevitable that between the duties of domestic life and my new position, which entails long hours and frequent travel throughout Manhattan, we fell out of touch. A year or so passed, in which I scarcely heard a word from my old friend. Until two weeks ago, when he arrived unannounced at my office on Maiden Lane.

  “I’ll be honest, Miss Pell, I was shocked at Robert’s appearance. He had lost a good deal of weight, and his clothes were ill-fitting and shabby. His cheeks had become as hollow and sunken as an old man’s. There was a pathetic tremor in his hands that spoke of heavy drinking. I didn’t wish to embarrass him by drawing attention to the fact that he had fallen on hard times, for Robert was prideful. But I insisted on taking him out to lunch, and he finally relented.

  “At first we spoke of small, inconsequential matters, as old friends do. He inquired after Elizabeth, of whom he was always quite fond. But after a while, I steered the conversation around to what he had been up to since leaving Hastings. Robert was cagey, but I persisted in my questioning and eventually got it all out of him.”

  Brady picked up the glass of iced tea, turning it round and round in his hands without taking a sip. “It seems that within just a few months of his arrival, Robert had managed to squander his modest inheritance on a series of failed business ventures. He was forced to abandon lodgings in a respectable part of town and move to a flat on Leonard Street in the Five Points, that squalid little patch of earth where it seems even the Almighty has turned away His face in shame.”

  I looked over at John, who had a soft streak and was clearly moved by the story. Mr. Straker had indeed fallen far. It was no exaggeration to say that the Five Points, bounded by Anthony, Cross and Orange Streets on the Lower East Side, was the most notorious slum in America, and possibly the world. It had even managed to thoroughly shock Mr. Charles Dickens, that hardened chronicler of social ills, when he visited in 1842 accompanied by two policemen, and the place had scarcely improved since. It was claimed that a single tenement, the Old Brewery, saw a murder a night for fifteen years running.

  “You might wonder why Robert didn’t simply concede that his gamble had fallen flat and return to his hometown, where my wife and I would have been more than happy to take him in until he got back on his feet,” Brady continued. “His was a story all too typical of this city, where vast fortunes are won and lost on an hourly basis. There was no shame in it.”

  “New York is most effective at taking the conceit out of a man,” John agreed wryly.

  “But as I mentioned before, Robert was prideful, excessively so. He couldn’t bear the thought of others knowing his defeat. And so he had clung on to what seemed barely a life, hoping for some miracle to occur that would provide his salvation.” Brady sighed.

  “And did he find it?” I asked.

  B
rady gave me an even look. “He found something, but it was not salvation. Quite the opposite, Miss Pell.”

  At this point, Brady turned his palms up beseechingly, looking in turn from John to me as though seeking absolution himself. “You must understand, all that I did, I did at Robert’s request. For it seems that his visit to my office that day had an ulterior motive. It is not my habit to drink spirits during working hours, but Robert ordered brandy after the meal and I could hardly refuse to join him. To be honest, I felt in need of a stiff jolt myself. When he asked for a favor, I assumed he wanted a loan. I told him I would be happy to give him as much as my modest income allowed. Robert appeared offended at this. He said he didn’t need my money, but rather my assistance with a delicate business matter. I must admit, I groaned inwardly at this, imagining that he wished me to invest in yet another hare-brained scheme, or worse, take advantage of my employer in some way. I expressed my reservations and Robert laughed long and hard, as though he found it terribly funny. It was quite irritating. I was on the verge of paying the check and leaving when his demeanor became quite serious again. There was a wild, desperate light in his eyes. He insisted that what he asked of me would in no way compromise my honor, nor would it strain my purse. I had only to meet him at a certain address the following evening at eleven o’clock. He said an opportunity had presented itself to turn his ill-fortune around.”

  “The salvation he had been waiting for,” I murmured.

  “Precisely. I could see he was extremely excited and attempting to suppress it. What could I do but agree? Of course, when he gave me the address, I almost changed my mind. It was near to Robert’s rooms, an infamous alley of brothels and disorderly houses.” Brady suddenly seized a chunk of his own hair in a paroxysm of guilt and regret. “Would that I had followed my own instincts and turned him down then! None of it might have happened!”