The Daemoniac

by Kat Ross

“Miss Pell,” he said, taking my hand and offering up a little bow. “I know your sister by reputation. It’s truly a pleasure.” He turned to Edward. “And Mr. Dovington. We’re always delighted to have your patronage.” His voice was soft and cultured, a voice that guaranteed discretion and promised to satisfy any whim, no matter how small. “Won’t you join me in one of the private dining rooms?”

  John Chamberlain seemed to instinctively understand that we weren’t there to gamble. I took his proffered arm and we went through a second door that led to a dining room with a long table at which several dozen men in evening wear were eating, drinking and talking. It groaned under the weight of enough food to feed a regiment. I saw platters of roast pork, roast beef, rack of lamb, broiled trout, jellied eel and goose liver pâté. Mounds of creamy potatoes and buttery asparagus and bowls of aspic salad, that revolting gelatinous concoction that Mrs. Rivers so adored. There were loaves of steaming bread and silver tureens of savory soup. Most of the men were already red-faced from the wine that flowed freely from waiters bearing crystal decanters.

  In that first moment that we walked through the door, before the din of conversation died abruptly, I spotted the salt-and-pepper beard of Boss Croker, head of the well-oiled political machine known as Tammany Hall, alongside the balding pate of Mayor Hewitt and fiery red hair of the industrialist George Kane, Sr. The three men were laughing at some joke when Croker’s eye landed on me and his face suddenly collapsed in on itself, as though he had sucked on a lemon.

  One by one, every single man at that long table turned and stared at us. Their hostility was palpable, almost animal in its intensity. Edward stepped up to flank me on the left as we walked down the length of the enormous table toward another door on the far side of the room, which seemed to recede with every step I took.

  “Gentlemen,” Mr. Chamberlain said, smiling pleasantly as if nothing was amiss.

  I kept my head high but couldn’t help the flush in my cheeks, which burned hot with embarrassment. To this day, I’m still not sure what a bunch of grown men, most of them rich and powerful, found so threatening about a teenage girl, but I swear you could have heard a pin drop in Chamberlain’s that night. I realized how brave Edward had been to bring me here, what a good friend he was, because I had no doubt that he would pay a steep social price for violating the sanctity of their boys’ treehouse.

  About halfway down the whispers began. My corset felt horribly tight by the time we made the door, and it wasn’t until we were through and it was shut firmly behind us that I felt I could breathe again.

  “I apologize if that was awkward for you,” Mr. Chamberlain said as we ascended a flight of stairs, and he appeared to actually mean it. “I’ve been intending to make alterations, but it’s an old house and I’m afraid there’s no other way through.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize, sir,” I said. “I knew what to expect, and I wouldn’t have come if my mission wasn’t one of the utmost urgency.”

  I had a brief, glorious image of myself solving the case that had stumped the police and what that sea of pinched old faces would look like then, but Mr. Chamberlain’s smooth voice brought me back to reality.

  “Of course. No one will disturb us in here,” he said, entering a small private dining room with a cold hearth. Snowy white linen covered the table, although no places had yet been set. “May I offer either of you refreshments?”

  “I—” Edward began.

  “No thank you,” I said firmly. “We won’t take up more of your time than is strictly necessary. The question is a straight-forward one.” I nodded at Edward, who sighed and took out the photograph.

  “We’re looking for this man,” he said. “Have you seen him?”

  Mr. Chamberlain took the picture and examined it, but his expression gave nothing away.

  “We found one of your checks in his flat,” Edward added.

  Our host smiled, but it didn’t reach his black eyes. “You understand that complete discretion is the cornerstone of my business?” he asked. “The men who come here expect their identities to be protected. Betting on games of chance is still technically illegal in the State of New York.” He handed back the photograph. “Of course, the police are paid a fortune to look the other way. But it would still be considered very bad form for me to divulge the names or activities of my patrons.”

  “We already know his name,” I said. “It’s Robert Aaron Straker. The problem, Mr. Chamberlain, is that he has vanished, and may well be the victim of foul play.” I decided I’d better not play up the homicidal maniac angle as we hadn’t yet gone to the police. “A friend has asked us to look into the matter. All I wish to know is if he was here.”

  Chamberlain considered this. “I have no desire to get involved in any official investigation,” he said. “That would be exceedingly bad for business.” He gave me a hard look. “Is there currently such an investigation?”

  “No,” I said. “And if you help us, there may never be.”

  He nodded. “Alright. I don’t see the harm in answering a few simple questions. Yes, he was here. Only once.”

  “Was he alone?” Edward ventured.

  “No, he was with another man. No one I knew personally. As you know, I’m quite selective about who passes through the front door. But both appeared to be gentlemen of adequate means, so I let them in.”

  I shared an excited look with Edward. Finally, we were getting somewhere.

  “May I ask what this other man looked like?”

  “There was nothing remarkable about him. I’d say he was about Mr. Dovington’s height, light brown hair. I can’t recall his eye color.”

  “What happened next?”

  “His companion retired to the faro tables, while Mr. Straker chose roulette. He quickly proceeded to lose a large sum of money. They began to squabble.” Mr. Chamberlain adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. “I’m not in the habit of eavesdropping on my patrons, but when their argument became disruptive to my other clientele, I was forced to intervene. From the little I heard, my impression was that the other gentleman was a stockbroker who had invested money for Mr. Straker and lost it when the Exchange was closed down during the blizzard. He had advanced him a sum to gamble with, and Mr. Straker wished for another advance which the man refused to give him. It all became rather ugly.”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “I requested that they leave, which they did.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Several months ago. Not long after order was restored following the storm.”

  “Oh.” I bit my lip in disappointment. It seemed too long ago to be connected to the Rickard killing and all the rest.

  “I thought I’d seen the last of them,” Mr. Chamberlain said. “Until Straker returned. Two weeks ago.”

  I leaned forward. “Indeed?”

  “Yes. I almost didn’t recognize him, so much had he changed in just a few short months. I’ll put it this way: he was not a man I would welcome to my table, simply because he clearly couldn’t afford to lose a single cent.”

  Somewhere in the house, a clock struck midnight. I imagined all those paragons of business and politics had finished stuffing themselves and were now well occupied with being fleeced by the house dealers. It was a satisfying thought.

  “Mr. Straker was much the worse for drink,” Chamberlain went on. “He demanded entry and said he was looking for the gentleman he had been here with before. He seemed quite angry and upset. I told him that I’d never seen the man before or since, which was the truth. Finally, he left. That’s all.”

  “So he never mentioned the man’s name?” Edward asked.

  “Never.”

  “Was either of them by chance a smoker?”

  “Not Mr. Straker. But the other one, yes.”

  “Did you happen to notice which brand?”

  “I’m sorry, no. It’s just a vague recollection.”

  “I see. Well, thank you, Mr. Chamberlain. You have been more
forthcoming than I could have expected.”

  Chamberlain graciously inclined his head. “It’s my pleasure to assist a lady, Miss Pell. And if I ever have need for you or your sister’s services, I won’t hesitate to call. Unlike certain others of my sex, I have no objection to women in any sphere of life. I believe change is coming, and we can either get out of the way, or be knocked down flat.” He smiled. “I’ll escort you out.”

  As I had guessed, the dining room was empty when we passed through it a second time except for several black servants bearing the wreckage of the banquet into the kitchens. They studiously avoided eye contact as we walked by. I knew that many of the black people hired in the finer establishments, like Chamberlain’s, had come originally from the plantation houses of the South, where simply looking a white person in the face could be a lynching offence. Not that the North was a great deal better. We just pretended to be.

  Mr. Chamberlain kissed my gloved hand at the front door and wished us a good evening. Since we were in the Tenderloin, there were plenty of revellers still out and about. Morrissey’s, Chamberlain’s only real rival in high-class gambling, was just a block away on Twenty-Fourth Street, and the rest of the neighborhood was a profusion of nightclubs, saloons, bordellos and dance halls.

  “Nice job staying quiet, Harry,” Edward said with a laugh as we climbed into the barouche and headed downtown toward Greenwich Village. “Actually, you handled him perfectly. John’s a decent man, underneath. And the implicit threat of bad publicity did loosen his tongue.”

  “If only he could have given us a name,” I said. “Now we have two mystery men instead of one. But it does seem as though Straker had an enemy. And a smoker, too, although that describes half the men in New York.”

  “So he lost his money during the blizzard, poor fellow,” Edward said. “Rotten luck.”

  “That seems to be Mr. Straker’s curse,” I replied, angling the photograph in my lap so it caught the light of a passing street lamp.

  Was it possible that a series of unfortunate circumstances had caused his mind, even his entire personality, to fracture? We knew now at what point things had taken a sharp turn for the worse. The blizzard had struck on March 11th and lasted for three days. It engulfed the entire Eastern Seaboard, leaving death and ruin in its wake from New Jersey to Rhode Island. Commerce ground to a standstill, and it was during this time that Straker lost his inheritance. I imagined him lying that first night in the room on Leonard Street, listening to the drunken screams and shouts drifting from the cheap whiskey bars, and wondered what sort of dark thoughts ran through his head.

  It was now five months later. According to Chamberlain, he had come in just two weeks ago, apparently still seeking to settle the score with the nameless broker who squandered his money. What else had befallen Straker during that time we could only guess at.

  As I looked at those dark, slightly dreamy eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder: were they the eyes of a martyr, or a madman?

  Chapter 6

  I woke late the next morning to bright sunshine streaming through my bedroom window. I lay there for a moment, still pleasantly half asleep, when I remembered that Edward, John and I were supposed to attend the eleven o’clock service at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church.

  Sundays in New York are less of a religious observance than an opportunity for the gentry to parade in their Sabbath finery. Except for the Bowery, which can’t be bothered to put a lid on sinning for even a single day, the whole town shuts down and a social, festive atmosphere takes over.

  I jumped out of bed and threw on a high-necked dress suitable for church. Holy Trinity sat at the intersection of Madison Avenue and Forty-Second Street. I recalled it as having a large, handsome steeple, and being a bit swamped by the tidal flood of passengers heading to and from Grand Central Depot on Lexington.

  Mrs. Rivers raised an eyebrow when I told her where I was headed, as she knew well how restless I became when sentenced for an hour to a hard pew, but I guess she thought a little of the Holy Spirit might leak into me for she raised no objection. She seemed unaware of my trip to Chamberlain’s the night before, and I’d taken great care not to make a sound as I crept back to my bed. If she noticed a slight puffiness around my eyes at breakfast that morning, Mrs. Rivers didn’t remark on it.

  I found Connor in his room and learned that none of the Bank Street Butchers had seen or heard from Billy since Friday evening, when he’d come to the house.

  “I want them all looking for him straightaway,” I said, my stomach twisting with guilt. “Do nothing else. If he’s not found by this evening, we’ll need to report him missing. And see if anyone knows where he went the day before he came to you. It might give us some clue as to where he thought he saw Straker.”

  Connor nodded in a businesslike fashion. “We’re on it, Harry. But Billy goes off sometimes. To clear his head, he says.”

  “When there’s $50 to collect?” I asked grimly.

  “Minus my—”

  “Yes, yes, your ten percent commission. Just find him!”

  I grabbed a hansom cab on Fifth Avenue, but as it was nearly 10:45, the traffic was already heavy. An overturned cart at Thirty-Second Street provoked further yelling and cursing and general mayhem. My driver did his best to gallop the last few blocks (ignoring the outraged fist-shaking of a group of old ladies attempting to cross), but it was no use. I was still late to the start of the service.

  Disapproving faces turned my way as I scurried to a rear pew, trying not to step on too many toes in the process, although after running the gauntlet at Chamberlain’s, I figured it would take more than a few scowls to faze me.

  I scanned the congregation for John and Edward and finally spotted the backs of their heads about halfway toward the pulpit, where the minister was holding forth about The Gospel of Matthew. My eyes instantly glazed over. There was something about the soft creaking of people shifting in the pews, the dim light and the echoing, sonorous sermon that always made me want to curl up and go to sleep.

  So I spent the next few minutes trying to find the Fox sisters. It wasn’t easy since I was in the very back of the church, but when we stood up to sing Come, Thou Almighty King, I got a quick glimpse of two women who seemed to fit the description. They were middle-aged, with dark hair and a close enough resemblance to each other to be related. Neither was exactly pretty, and you might even say that Margaret was downright plain, but they had a charismatic quality that drew the eye.

  There were actually three of them—Kate, Margaret and Leah—but from what I’d read in the papers, Kate and Margaret were feuding with their elder sister. This had led them to publicly confess that their decades of supposed communication with the spirits had all been an elaborate hoax. According to Margaret, they had started at a very young age (Margaret was fifteen, Kate was twelve) by using an apple on a string to make bumping sounds that their mother believed was a ghost. Encouraged by the success of this deception, the girls then claimed they had made contact with a murdered peddler named Charles B. Rosna. When shards of human bone were discovered buried in the cellar, their reputation as psychics began to grow.

  It was now some forty years later, and the very same women who had ignited the Spiritualist movement had just brought it crashing to its knees. Would they be willing to talk about Becky Rickard, whose terrible end could be traced back, at least in part, to the Fox sisters’ confession?

  I waited impatiently for the service to conclude, leaping out of my seat before the final “amens” had faded away, and met John and Edward at the door.

  John broke into a wide grin when he saw me. “Late to church again, Harry? What was it this time? Broken clock? Lame horse? Overturned cart blocking the road?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “The last one. Listen, I think I saw Kate and Margaret before.” I craned my neck to see over the crowd surging through the front doors. “But they’ve disappeared.”

  We hurried outside, where the parishioners were milling around, the
ladies sporting their fanciest hats, the gentlemen brandishing silver-headed walking sticks. It was a pleasant day, with a fresh breeze coming off the East River. I searched the chattering crowd in vain. Evidently, the Fox sisters didn’t socialize much anymore.

  “Over there,” John said.

  Two figures in black were walking arm in arm toward Fifth Avenue, not exactly rushing along, but not dallying either. We caught up with them at the corner of Bryant Park.

  “Excuse me,” I said, stepping in front of them. “I’m awfully sorry to bother you, but my name is…Miss Pell. Am I correct in presuming that you are Margaret and Kate Fox?”

  The sisters’ faces instantly became guarded.

  “Are you a reporter?” Kate asked.

  “Not at all. I’m a consulting detective. I’ve been hired to look into the murder of Becky Rickard.”

  The women shared a quick look. “What do you want with us?” Margaret asked. “We had nothing to do with it.”

  “I know that,” I said. “I’m just trying to learn a little more about her and who her clients might have been.”

  “And who are they?” Kate pointed to John and Edward, her dark eyes wary. She was thinner than her sister, with a pointy nose and long, almost mournful face.

  I gave my friends’ names, making sure to introduce John as “Doctor Weston.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but we can’t help you,” Kate said, turning away.

  “Please!” I called after them. “Just a few minutes of your time. Becky’s killer deserves to be caught and punished, but the police aren’t getting anywhere. It’s not even in the papers anymore. No one cares.” I swept up my skirts and ran after them. “She was only twenty-five!”

  Margaret stopped. She whispered a few words to Kate, who shook her head in vehement disagreement, then stalked off alone.

  “I’ll talk to you for Becky’s sake,” Margaret said at my approach. “Come, let’s walk in the park.”

  I waved over John and Edward and we found a shady spot near the imposing fifty-foot-high wall of the Croton Distributing Reservoir. Perhaps it was my morbid streak, but whenever I passed by this place, I always thought of the thousands of bodies that used to lie in a potter’s field beneath our feet, and whose eternal rest was cut short in 1840 when they were all dug up and relocated to Ward’s Island.