The Daemoniac

by Kat Ross

  “If you’d confronted him then, he would have killed you too,” Elizabeth said.

  “I could still have gone to the police with what I knew,” Straker said. “But I wasn’t thinking. I was so frightened of him. His eyes, when he saw me through the crack. They looked black. I know now that it was a trick of my fevered mind, that’s what the doctors say, but after the séance, all that talk of demons…I feared that Robert had been possessed somehow. I only wanted to hide from him.”

  “He described a foul wind,” John said. “That he closed his eyes against it.”

  “I don’t recall that,” Straker said, frowning. “But the rest was bad enough. Anyway, I staggered into a flophouse on the Bowery and stayed there until a boy found me several days later.”

  “Billy Finn,” I said. “I sent him to look for you.”

  This part I knew from Billy himself.

  “Yes, I saw him watching me and grabbed him. I feared he had been sent by Leland. He confessed that he’d been offered a reward if he revealed my whereabouts. I begged him to keep it a secret, but I had no money to offer. I finally told him what I’d seen. I gave him Brady’s name and asked him to relay it to you, Miss Pell.”

  “Yes. Well, it seems Billy had other grand plans,” I said, still aggravated with the boy. “He decided that my reward was a paltry sum compared to the money he could make if he blackmailed Mr. Brady. So he found out where his office was and confronted him outside. Not surprisingly, it didn’t go as Billy had planned. Instead of getting rich, he nearly got himself killed.”

  “Billy always did have gumption,” Connor said, laying another log on the fire.

  “I don’t know that I’d call it gumption,” I said. “More like sheer idiocy. Brady was delighted to discover where you were hiding. He forced Billy into the Beach tunnel and kept him a hostage there, in case he needed him to send a message. But in the end, he decided that he couldn’t trust Billy not to run at the first chance he got. So he left it for you himself, along with the uniform, once he’d ascertained that we’d be conducting a search for the Hunter that night. Brady was very clever. He timed it perfectly so we’d encounter you on the Third Avenue Elevated at the appointed hour.”

  “It’s why she let him choose the line,” John said. “She knew what he was up to. Though she could have mentioned that fact to the rest of us.”

  This was still a sore point.

  “I truly believed the note was from Elizabeth,” Straker said. “I’d thought of her so many times. Once I even took a train up to Hastings to tell her everything and bring her someplace safe, but she was already gone to her parents. When I saw that letter, saying she was afraid…Well, despite my own terror of Leland, nothing could have stopped me from meeting her.”

  Elizabeth laid a hand on his shoulder and it was evident they cared for each other as deeply as a brother and sister. I hoped that after all they had been through, they might find happiness one day, someplace far from New York City.

  “I think that explains everything,” I said. “I’m very grateful that you both came today.”

  “Well, not everything,” John interjected. “There’s still the question of why. Why a perfectly ordinary man would suddenly start killing people, even if he did suffer from multiple personality disorder. It makes no sense. Unless he was …”

  “Possessed?” Elizabeth said sadly. “That’s apparently what my husband believed. I found a letter from him a few days ago. He’d placed it in the pocket of a coat I only wear when the weather turns, which I didn’t have occasion to do until this storm blew in. The police must have overlooked it when they searched the house.”

  She took out a single sheet of paper. “I don’t wish to read it again now, Miss Pell, but I’ll give it to you. Maybe it will help you understand him better. I don’t want to keep it.” She set it on the mantle. “He was quite mad. I keep wondering how I could have missed the signs. I’ll admit I was disturbed when I found him in the garden that night. It was just after I came to see you, Miss Pell, when you’d asked me if Robert had suffered from lost time. I found Leland missing from our bed so I searched the house, but he wasn’t there. Then I happened to glance out the window. He was standing in the rain, his eyes wide and staring at nothing. But even then I didn’t believe…couldn’t believe. After all the nightmares, I assumed he’d been sleepwalking. I spoke to him firmly and took his hand and he seemed to come back to himself.” Elizabeth’s face tightened in pain, as though she’d been struck a physical blow. “When I read your cable, I couldn’t deceive myself anymore. I felt so sickened. To think that we lived under the same roof while…” She shook her head. “It’s over now, and I’m trying to put the past behind me.”

  “Actually, I just received something that I think sheds light on why,” I said. “Your husband’s autopsy report. I saw a copy this morning.”

  Nellie had brought it over. She was in a frenzy of logistical planning, having just read Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days and hit on the crazy idea that she could beat Phileas Fogg’s record. Her editors at The World agreed to bankroll the trip. I’d never seen her so excited. But dear Nellie had taken the time to stop by Tenth Street, knowing I’d be eager for the results.

  I could tell from John’s expression that he was irritated I’d kept this tidbit to myself, but I thought Elizabeth should be told first.

  “I didn’t know…” Her face was pale. “What does it say?”

  “Your husband had a brain tumor,” I said. “I doubt he was aware of it. It wasn’t large, but it pressed on his frontal lobe. There are several case histories of tumors that caused psychosis and extreme aggression. It’s rare, but well-documented. I might have guessed it. The last time he came to see me, he said he smelled burning rubber.”

  “That’s a classic sign,” John agreed.

  “Thank you for telling me, Miss Pell,” Elizabeth said slowly. “It does explain things. Would it…would it have been fatal?”

  “In the end, yes, most likely,” I said, reaching into the pocket of my dress. “And I believe this is yours, Mr. Straker. I thought you’d very much like to have it back.”

  I handed him the cameo. Straker opened it and looked at the picture of his mother. His eyes grew damp.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I can’t express what this means to me.”

  Elizabeth helped Straker to his feet and they moved slowly to the door. Then she turned back.

  “I nearly forgot. There’s still the matter of your fee.”

  “Yes, as to that…” I squirmed a bit on the couch and John smiled. My punishment for withholding the autopsy results, I supposed.

  Thanks to Nellie, my name had been kept out of the papers in relation to the Jekyll and Hyde case. Mulberry Street was more than happy to let the police take all the credit. So my remaining client had no clue that she’d been jigged, as Billy might say.

  “I have a bit of a confession to make myself,” I said in a rush. “I’m not Myrtle Fearing Pell. She’s my older sister. I’m terribly sorry I lied to you. It’s just…” How to explain? “It was an impulsive decision,” I finished lamely. “So please don’t worry about the fee.”

  Elizabeth looked startled at this revelation, quite understandably, and took a minute to mull it over.

  “I do feel foolish,” she said at last. “But I don’t suppose your motives were ill-intentioned. You found Robert and you stopped Leland, which is pretty impressive in my books. So I think I’d like to pay your fee anyway.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t expected that. “Thank you.”

  “We can settle it later,” she said briskly. “Send a cable.”

  “I will.”

  We shook hands and her hazel eyes twinkled. “I’m pleased to have been your first client, Miss Pell. What is your first name then?”

  “Harry,” I said, feeling as though an enormous weight had been lifted.

  “Well, I’m pleased to have been your first client, Harry. Try to stay out of trouble.”

  I hea
rd them laughing softly as they went down the stairs.

  “A brain tumor, eh?” John said. “I’d like to see those results myself, if you don’t mind.”

  “Absolutely,” I replied with no small degree of satisfaction. “But let’s have a look at that letter first. I’ll need to add it to my report.”

  John retrieved it from the mantle and we all gathered round. There was no date.

  My dearest Elizabeth, it said. By the time you read this, I will be gone as I have resolved to take my own life rather than exist with the thing I have become. The thing that lives in me. Always whispering, urging. It says terrible things, my darling. Awful things. I don’t wish to speak of them, not to you, but I grow weary of fighting. The struggle is constant now.

  I have made a will, leaving you everything. Our attorney has a copy and he’ll see to its execution. It’s not much, I know, but I hope it is enough to keep you for a little while.

  I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I pray you will remember me as I used to be and not the nauseating creature I am now.

  It was signed “From Hell.”

  “Too bad he didn’t go through with it earlier,” John muttered in disgust. “Would have saved us the trouble…Connor? Are you all right?”

  Connor stared at us. He looked agitated. “Ain’t you seen the papers?” he asked.

  “Not in a few days,” John said. “I’ve been studying for an exam, and Harry’s had her nose buried in that report. Why?”

  “Well, I suppose you’ve at least heard of the Ripper case in London,” Connor demanded.

  “Of course,” I said.

  The news was everywhere. First they’d called him Leather Apron, but now they were calling him Jack. He’d killed four women, horribly, and sent taunting letters to the police. I knew Connor had been following the case, but I personally couldn’t stomach thinking about another maniac at the moment so I’d absorbed only the basic details.

  “George Lusk, he’s the chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee,” Connor said. “He got a letter too. Four days ago. It came with a box that had half a human kidney inside. Look, they reprinted it.”

  Connor grabbed a copy of The Tribune and held it out.

  It said:

  Mr Lusk

  Sor

  I send you half the

  Kidne I took from one women

  prasarved it for you tother pirce

  I fried and ate it was very nise I

  may send you the bloody knif that

  took it out if you only wate a whil

  longer.

  signed

  Catch me when

  you Can

  Mishter Lusk.

  At the very top of the letter were two words. From Hell.

  I tossed the paper aside.

  “And your point is?” I asked briskly.

  “Brady wrote his letter back in early August. Before the Ripper struck. Don’t you think it’s strange?” Connor asked.

  “A coincidence,” I said with a shrug.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences,” John said.

  “I do when there’s literally no other explanation. When all else is eliminated…you know what Myrtle says.”

  “But there is another explanation,” he insisted. “Don’t you remember what Father Bruno told us? That some demons can leave their hosts and enter another body?”

  I threw my hands up. “Not that again. Really, John.”

  “What if whatever was inside Brady knew he was going to die? What if it jumped into someone else?”

  “Like who?” Connor asked breathlessly.

  “Like that police doctor whose scalpel Brady used to kill himself.” He looked at me. “Didn’t you say that Brady was holding onto him, that he wouldn’t let go, even with his throat slashed ear to ear?”

  “I’m finishing my report,” I said, returning to the toasty afghan. “You two can hash out your lunatic theories all day if you like.”

  “I’ll do better!” John jumped to his feet. “Come on, Connor. We’ll conduct our own investigation.”

  “You’re actually going out in that?” I pointed to the window, where horizontal sheets of rain battered the glass.

  “You’re wrong, Harry.” John gave me his serious look, the one he usually reserved for church and funerals. “And we’re going to prove it.”

  “Good luck,” I murmured, picking up my fountain pen.

  John was like a dog with a bone sometimes. His shoulder…

  “And you’re supposed to be convalescing!” I yelled as they pelted down the stairs.

  It was several hours before they returned. I was just writing up the bit about the supposed fingerprints burned into Anne Marlowe’s throat (which I’ll admit troubled me, since no such brand was ever found in the tunnel or at Brady’s home) when John and Connor burst through the door.

  “You’re dripping on me, get away!” I complained.

  “His name is Dr. William Clarence,” John said. He was soaked through but didn’t seem to notice it.

  “Did you ask him if he’s possessed by the ghost of Leland Brady? Or wait, it’s not ghosts, it’s demons, is that the correct terminology?”

  “I couldn’t ask him,” John said. “He quit his post the day after Brady’s suicide and took a ship to England. I found Sergeant Mallory. He told me.”

  “Dr. Clarence was probably upset by what he’d witnessed,” I said. “So he went on holiday.”

  “Look at the timeline, Harry! Brady died on Thursday, August 16th. You figure ten or so days for the Transatlantic crossing. That places him in London just before the first Ripper murder on August 31st. It all fits.”

  I sighed. “What do you want me to do, John?”

  “I want you to put it in your report.”

  “This is insane.”

  “Please. Just put it in the report.”

  So I did. Three lines, at the end.

  In an odd and doubtless insignificant coincidence, Leland Brady used the very same expression (From Hell) as that contained in a letter to Mr. George Lusk of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, unsigned but assumed by Scotland Yard to be from the Ripper. The only (extremely tenuous) connection between the Hyde and Ripper cases appears to be that the doctor who attempted to treat Mr. Brady for his gunshot wound travelled to London in late August. For the record, his name is William Clarence.

  Yours,

  Harrison Fearing Pell

  Epilogue

  I sent off my report to Uncle Arthur. Two weeks later, he cabled acknowledging receipt and congratulating me on the case. I waited anxiously for more. Some response from the S.P.R. There was none. The days shortened. I grew listless, depressed. Myrtle was gone again, hunting a jewel thief in Paris. I watched her pack her little black beret and felt like setting fire to something.

  Elizabeth Brady sent me a generous check, which I used to pay the hospital bill of the woman Brady had attacked in the park. I had just enough left over to treat Nellie, John and Edward to dinner at the Hotel Windsor.

  Nellie had written a long, impassioned story about the poor woman and the plight of the city’s ragpickers, who eked out a living sorting through rubbish for bits of glass or cloth to sell to the mills. She’d convinced Pulitzer to start a fund and donations poured in from kind-hearted readers. Not to be outdone, The Tribune made an appeal for the Forsizi family, and The Sun and New York Times joined in to raise money for the relatives of Brady’s last two victims. Not surprisingly, it quickly became a cutthroat competition among the city’s presses, with new tallies printed daily.

  Rose Mason sent me a brief note of thanks. She and Samuel were the proud parents of an infant girl. They had named her Rebecca.

  There was one final Ripper killing, on November 9th. Then he seemed to stop. No one knew why.

  It was now Christmas Eve. John always spent it with his family. My parents had hoped to be home for the holidays, but a winter storm trapped them in the Canary Islands. I missed them very much.

&
nbsp; Connor, Billy, Mrs. Rivers and I were having a vicious game of whist in the kitchen when a knock came on the front door. My housekeeper went to rise but I knew her rheumatism got bad with the winter weather.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, wondering who could be visiting so late.

  It was a messenger boy.

  “Miss Pell?” he asked, shivering a bit in the cold.

  “Myrtle’s not home,” I said automatically. “You’ll have to track her down in Paris.”

  He glanced at the envelope in his hands. “I’m looking for Harrison Fearing Pell,” he said.

  “Oh. Oh! That’s me!” I grabbed the letter. “Do you want to come in and warm up for a minute?”

  “Sure!” His young face brightened.

  We came into the kitchen and Mrs. Rivers poured him a cup of hot chocolate.

  “What’s it say?” Connor asked, coming to look over my shoulder.

  I read the letter aloud with mounting excitement.

  It was written on rich creamy stationery, embossed with the words Society for Psychical Research, North American Division, 253 Pearl Street, New York, New York.

  Dear Miss Pell,

  Your report on the Hyde case was recently forwarded to my attention. Our colleagues in London wish me to inform you that the subject you mentioned has been located and no longer poses a threat. I also wish to personally commend you for a most thorough and admirable investigation. You appear to have a keen mind, even if your professional training is somewhat lacking.

  Let me get to the point. One of our best agents just transferred to another division and a matter has arisen that requires immediate action. It has certain inexplicable elements of interest to our organization, and perhaps of interest to you. If you are available to discuss this matter at our offices tomorrow morning, I would be most obliged. You may send your answer with my messenger.

  Yours,

  Mr. Harland Kaylock

  Vice President, S.P.R.

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas!” Mrs. Rivers said. “What sort of person works on Christmas?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, dancing gleefully around the kitchen as the messenger boy looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “But I plan to find out!”