The Daemoniac

by Kat Ross

  I nodded.

  “Do you have any leads? Frankly, Miss Pell, if it is him, I’m not sure I see the point in continuing. I appreciate all your efforts, but I hired you to find Robert.”

  “Do they think it was a suicide?” I asked.

  “There was no mark of overt violence, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I ask because the same person who killed Becky could have killed Robert as well.”

  “Yes, I see that. You mean this Jekyll and Hyde fellow?” He glanced at the pile of newspapers.

  “The same.”

  Brady sighed. “Do as you see fit, Miss Pell. Of course, if Robert was murdered and there’s a chance to bring his killer to justice, you have my full support. But I don’t wish to speak of him as though he’s dead. I still hold out hope, slim though it may be.” He rose to leave and paused. “Do you smell that?”

  I frowned. “What?”

  “It’s like…burning rubber.”

  I sniffed the air, wondering if the foul odor of the river still clung to my skin. “No, I don’t.”

  He shook his head. “Never mind. Good day, Miss Pell. I’ll let you know what I discover.”

  I showed him out and looked at the clock. John would be here at any moment.

  I found Mrs. Rivers in the kitchen and explained to her where we were going. I reminded her to keep all the windows and doors locked, and not to let in any callers that she didn’t know. Then I showed her how to fire Myrtle’s gun and set it on top of the breadbasket.

  “You just point it at them and pull the trigger,” I said.

  “Oh dear,” she said faintly. “Perhaps I’ll keep the rolling pin handy too. Just in case.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Any more word from Myrtle?”

  “Not a peep.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad.

  “Oh, and you received a cable from Mr. Doyle,” she said. “It’s on the table in the hall.”

  I dashed over and read the single sheet of paper with mounting excitement.

  * * *

  THE WESTERN UNION TELEGRAPH COMPANY

  THIS IS AN UNREPEATED MESSAGE,

  and is delivered by request

  of the sender under the conditions named above.

  THOS. T. ECKERT, General Manager

  NORVIN GREEN, President

  Received at: 10:30 A.M.

  Sent by: Arthur Conan Doyle, Southsea, England

  Received by: Harrison Fearing Pell, 40 west tenth street, new York, ny

  Dated: August 16, 1888

  Contacted Spr re rickard case. Opinion divided but further details requested. Please advise latest developments soonest.

  * * *

  The boy had left a blank form, so I composed a brief response, focusing on the juicier aspects of the investigation. I had just finished when John arrived, as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as if he’d actually slept more than four hours.

  “It seems I have a toe in the door at the S.P.R.!” I told him gleefully, waving the telegram.

  “Nice work, Harry. They’ll have to hire you after this. But we’d better go, it’ll take us at least an hour and it’s a mess out there.”

  I left the message for Connor, who was running errands for Mrs. Rivers, and grabbed an umbrella from the stand. We slogged through the muddy streets to the elevated stop at Third Avenue and Ninth Street. As we waited for the train, water sheeting down from the lip of the platform roof, I thought I caught a glimpse of a soldier’s uniform in the huddled crowd. My heart skipped a beat. But then the man turned, and I realized it was just one of the conductors, with bushy whiskers to boot.

  We got off the train at City Hall, near the Brooklyn Bridge cable car terminus. The span itself had only been open for about five years now, but it was truly a marvel of modern engineering. It was the world’s first steel-wire suspension bridge, and still the only land passage between Manhattan and Brooklyn, so traffic was always heavy.

  As we crossed over the churning grey waters of the East River, I told John about my right hook and he crowed with delight.

  “I might need to call on your services the next time Rupert puts fire ants in my bed,” he said, grinning.

  “Fire ants?” I asked, horrified. “One would think that’s beyond even Rupert.”

  “He bought them at some exotic animal store in Chinatown.” John pulled up the leg of his pants and showed me a series of nasty red welts. “And they’re two weeks old now.”

  “That scoundrel,” I said, suppressing a smile.

  “Yeah. But you have to hand it to Rupert. He’s dedicated to his craft.”

  It was a short walk on the other end to Myrtle Avenue (which John naturally found hilarious), where we caught yet another elevated line, a shiny new one that had just opened for service in April. We got off at Broadway, and two wet minutes later, we stood at the entrance of St. John’s College on Lewis Avenue.

  The college had been founded in 1868 to further the ideals of Saint Vincent de Paul, the patron saint of Christian charity. Its main hall was a stately, grey-brick building with a mansard roof that occupied the entire block. The humble wooden structure of St. John the Baptist Church sat next door, but Bishop John Loughlin had already laid the cornerstone for a grand new cathedral of blue granite modelled after Notre Dame in Paris. Construction had just started that spring, and the site was still little more than a muddy hole in the ground as we climbed the front steps of the college and went inside.

  It took a bit of hunting around to find Father Bruno’s office, which was situated in the far recesses of the third floor. I’d expected an older, godly type, but he was an energetic man in his early thirties with a full head of curly brown hair and muscular forearms more typical of a longshoreman than a priest. We found him at his desk, grading papers. He’d pushed the sleeves of his black cassock up to his elbows, and the little square cap they called a biretta sat somewhat askew on his head.

  “Come in!” he called through the open door when he saw us. “You must be Dr. Weston and Miss Pell.”

  “A pleasure, Father,” John said, shaking his hand.

  “You’re late,” Father Bruno said briskly. He wore little round spectacles, and his eyes were a watery blue. “I have to teach class in half an hour.”

  “We’re very sorry,” I said. “The trip from Manhattan took longer than we expected.”

  “Sit down then, we’d best get started.” He gestured to a pair of chairs covered in books and went back to his grading. John set to work relocating the teetering stacks while I looked around.

  The office was small, but it faced Lewis Avenue, so one could observe the progress of the new cathedral. On a sunny day, I imagined it would be quite bright and cheerful. This morning, however, thick rivulets of rainwater raced down the windows, giving the scene outside a distorted, underwater look.

  Besides the windows, the walls were occupied with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of polished maple. There were the usual volumes on Christian theology to be expected of a clergyman whose main purpose was to prepare boys to enter the ecclesiastical seminary. But Father Bruno’s singular interests could be deduced in the collection of other, stranger titles: Daemonologie. Iamblichus on the Mysteries of the Egyptians, Chaldeans, and Assyrians. Scot’s Discovery of Witchcraft. Strange Newes, Out of Hartford-Shire and Kent. Demonology and Devil-Lore. The History of the Devils of Loudun: The Alleged Possession of the Ursuline Nuns, and the Trial and Execution of Urbain Grandier, Told by an Eye-Witness. The Foot-Prints of Satan: or, The Devil in History. The Dragon Rouge. The Clavicula Salomonis.

  “So you are friends of Arthur Conan Doyle?” Father Bruno asked as I sat down. “We’ve corresponded over one or two matters, but I’ve never met the man in person.” He withdrew a slim volume and handed it me. A Study in Scarlet. “Arthur sent me this last month. His first published novel. I quite enjoyed it, despite its shortcomings. He’s no great fan of the Mormons, is he? Well, nor am I. Though I don’t think they are wicked as all that. In any ev
ent, do tell me what brings you here.”

  “We’re trying to identify a grimoire,” I said. “It was used in a black magic ritual that involved the sacrifice of a rooster.”

  Father Bruno nodded. “Animal and even human blood is a common feature in such rituals. For some practitioners, it represents a mockery of the Eucharist. Other simply believe that blood has a primal power. But there are many grimoires. What else can you tell me about this one?”

  “Not much, except that its purpose was to bring the user great riches.”

  “That sounds like The Black Pullet,” Father Bruno said, leaning back in his chair. “It claims to be written by an officer in Napoleon’s army. He’s wounded near to death, and rescued by a Turk who tutors him in the use of magical talismans. The greatest of these is the Black Pullet. The hen that lays the golden egg.”

  “But that’s just a children’s tale,” John said with a smile.

  “So is the idea that sickness is caused by evil spirits,” Father Bruno replied. “But people believe it nonetheless.”

  “Do you have a copy?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not.” He took a book down from one of the shelves. “I have the Dragon Rouge, or Red Dragon, one of the texts that comprise The Grand Grimoire, which purports to have the power to summon Lucifer himself. But I’ve yet to run across a copy of The Black Pullet. Clever forgeries, yes. But not the real thing.”

  “So it wouldn’t be a simple matter to obtain one?” I asked.

  “I’d think not. These are very specialized items we’re talking about.” He laughed uneasily. “A hundred years ago, you could be burned at the stake merely for owning such a book.”

  “Like Urbain Grandier,” I said.

  “Precisely.”

  “Do you believe in possession, Father?” John asked suddenly.

  “I think most cases of so-called demonic possession are in fact misdiagnosed cases of insanity,” he said guardedly.

  “Most probably are,” John agreed. “What about the rest?”

  “If you’re asking whether or not I’m aware of any authentic cases in which a demon has assumed control of someone’s body…” Father Bruno removed his glasses and began cleaning them on the sleeve of his robes. “There are one or two that appear persuasive. None for at least a century. I’ve certainly never witnessed such a thing myself, I’m only familiar with the phenomenon through the literature. The Church’s official position is that insanity must be ruled out before an exorcism is authorized by the local bishop.”

  “What sort of things would they look for?” John asked.

  “There are certain signs specified in the Roman Ritual. A sudden ability to speak a foreign language, often Latin or Spanish, of which the person had no prior knowledge. Extreme and repetitive blasphemy. Superhuman strength.”

  “But such cases are extremely rare?”

  “Well, yes, of course. And even those are questionable. Take George Lukins, also known as the Yatton Daemoniac. It’s a famous story in England. His exorcism was conducted on Friday the 13th, 1788. He claimed to be possessed by seven demons, and thus seven ministers were summoned to banish them. Lukins was illiterate, and yet he responded to questions in Latin in the same ancient language. The background is that he was a forty-four-year-old tailor from Somerset who had been exhibiting erratic behavior for years—barking like a dog, speaking in different voices, cursing and swearing, even walking on all fours like a beast. Doctors had declared him incurable.”

  “What happened after the exorcism?” John asked.

  “Lukins appeared to be normal again.”

  “Do you think it’s authentic?”

  “It’s impossible to say. The events occurred a hundred years ago.”

  “Suggestion is a powerful thing,” I said. “An insane person could believe they’ve been cured so an exorcism might actually help them.”

  “I don’t dispute it,” Father Bruno said mildly. “That’s why it’s virtually impossible to say for certain whether any of these possession cases have canonical merit.”

  “Have you ever heard of a demon entering through a person’s eyes?” John asked.

  “The eyes?” Father Bruno tapped a pencil on the edge of his desk. “Yes, I think there’s one reference. Hand me the Clavicula Salomonis, would you? Just behind you, fifth shelf down. The black cover.”

  John obliged. Father Bruno leafed through the thin, yellowed pages.

  “The concept of the Evil Eye goes back hundreds if not thousands of years, in nearly every culture,” he said. “That a mere glance, with malevolent intent, can inflict a curse. But I suppose that’s somewhat different. Let’s see… Eyes are frequently described as portals. Oculi quas fenestrae animi.”

  “The eyes are the windows of the soul,” I said.

  “Very good.” Father Bruno looked at me with approval, then continued his search. “Ah, here it is. A passage in one of the conjurations. Let their eyes be darkened when the master comes. Let them see not, lest the demons of the abyss seek them out. For demons are animals of darkness.” His finger slid a few inches down the page. “It seems to imply that demons can exit the body in this way as well. Either to depart at the bidding of an exorcist, or to take possession of another soul.”

  “Have you ever seen this symbol before?” I handed him the scrap of paper I’d copied from Fred at The New York World.

  Father Bruno studied the lines and angles. “It looks like it could be a diabolical signature.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The unique signature of a demon or similar spirit, designed to conceal their true name. They’re usually used to seal an infernal pact for things like eternal youth or power.”

  “Would they be burned into a surface?”

  “According to the books, they are signed in blood. But I suppose anything would do, as long as the signature itself is clear.” Father Bruno traced the symbol with his fingertip. “The Lesser Key of Solomon asserts that there are seventy-two demons, each with their own mark, collectively called the seal of the demons. Most look like this, combinations of circles and lines and inverted crosses.”

  “How difficult would it be to find out about diabolical signatures?” I asked.

  “Not very difficult, I imagine. They’re mentioned in a number of prominent works on the subject.”

  “Have you ever run across someone who believed they were possessed?”

  The priest smiled a little. “I think that describes the vast majority of cases. There is often an element of religious mania. It’s no coincidence, I think, that many of the victims have been nuns.” He hesitated. “I understand that the facts of your inquiry must remain confidential, but may I ask if the person involved is a member of the Church?”

  “No,” I said. “But his upbringing could have been quite strict, perhaps with the threat of going to hell or being tormented by demons. We’re not sure.”

  “I see.” Father Bruno shuffled his exam papers into a pile. “Tempus fugit. Is there anything else? My next class starts in five minutes.”

  “I think that’s all,” I said, standing as John did the same. “Thanks very much for your time.”

  “Say hello to Arthur next time you see him. Tell him I wish him luck with his detective novels!” Father Bruno laughed with genuine mirth. “Perhaps he’ll get rich and famous someday. As it says in Chapter Seven, Book Two of Samuel, The Lord sends poverty and wealth; he humbles and he exalts.” He chuckled again.

  We were walking to the door when I did think of one last thing.

  “Might someone give a grimoire like The Black Pullet to a person they wished to harm?” I asked. “If they truly believed it worked, and that it might summon a demon?”

  The priest raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking whether such a book could be used as a murder weapon?”

  “I suppose I’m asking if someone might think it could.”

  His shrewd blue eyes met mine, and now they didn’t seem watery at all. “In my experience, Miss Pell, people can co
nvince themselves of almost anything if they try hard enough.”

  It took nearly two hours to retrace our journey back to Manhattan. The rain didn’t let up for a single minute, and neither did John, though I managed to mostly shut him out. If he’d harbored a single shred of doubt that we weren’t hunting a daemoniac before, our visit with Father Bruno had obliterated it. I, on the other hand, was more than ever certain that while this case involved Spiritualism, diabolical pacts and murders that seemed both senseless and evil, its solution would be entirely earthly.

  John finally tired of pestering me, and we parted ways with a promise to meet at ten o’clock. That left me five full hours to get ready for the ball. My nerves grew jagged thinking about what might happen that night, so I decided to just let the case simmer on the back burner for a bit.

  Instead, I holed up in my room and took out all the notebooks I had compiled on the Society for Psychical Research.

  I’d been working on them since the S.P.R. was founded six years before. I had just turned eleven, and Uncle Arthur came for a visit. I was supposed to be in bed, but I’d gotten in the habit of spying on the grownups from the second-floor landing. I liked listening to them talk. Arthur was a big bear of a man, with hands like ham hocks and an enchanting Scottish brogue. He was a natural storyteller.

  Anyway, the subject of the S.P.R. came up, and something about it sparked my interest immediately. It was both mysterious and logical, orthodox and radical. Their work sounded dangerous. But exciting too. In imitation of my sister, I started writing down every scrap of information I could discover about them. I soon realized that while the chapter in London sought to engage the public, publishing its results in a scholarly journal, the Americans kept a very low profile. When I had filled ten notebooks, I put them in a box.

  I kept the box hidden at the back of my closet, thinking that would keep Myrtle from finding out. Ha-ha. When you have a sister like Myrtle, you can just give up the idea of having any secrets. She laughed and said she’d turned down a job offer from the S.P.R. because she didn’t like following other people’s rules. I don’t think she even meant to twist the knife, which somehow made it worse.