The Witches of New York

by Ami McKay

  “Lunacy,” Mr. Kimball offered.

  “Or suicide,” Mr. Osmund said.

  “Abduction.”

  “Or seduction.”

  “Or succumbing to the drink.”

  “Or a wily madam.”

  “Or religious fervour.”

  “Or some other nefarious scheme.”

  “Did she have cause to run away from her family?”

  “Or a bad situation?”

  “Do any of these things ring a bell?”

  Eleanor glared at them both and shook her head.

  “The police need to know what they’re looking for, my dear,” Mr. Kimball pressed.

  “A slobbery fool.”

  “A degenerate girl.”

  “A dead body.”

  “Any guess as to whether or not she was in her right mind?”

  “When?” Eleanor asked.

  “At the time of her disappearance?”

  “Or any time for that matter.”

  Eleanor took a deep breath, trying to hang on to her temper.

  Georgina placed a supportive hand on her arm.

  “It’s important to get the details right,” Mr. Osmund chided.

  “For our records,” Mr. Kimball said.

  “And these cards,” Mr. Osmund added, taking a stack of small notecards from atop a tall crooked pile, one of several that sat precariously on a shelf near his desk. “They’re used to alert police and press.” Handing the stack to Georgina he said, “Here’s this week’s missing, Georgie. I put the best ones on top.”

  Briefly thumbing through them, Georgina handed them back. “These are last week’s.”

  Scratching his head, Mr. Osmund looked them over himself. “So they are,” he said, exchanging them for a different, larger stack. “My mistake.”

  With a shrug Mr. Kimball offered an excuse. “A ship went down in the harbour last Friday. We had twenty missing husbands in one night alone.”

  Mr. Osmund lifted the left leg of his trouser to reveal a wooden peg. Pounding the end of his false limb on the floor he teased, “Missing…my foot!”

  Eleanor stood. She’d had enough. Handing Mr. Kimball one of the teashop’s cards, she said, “Please contact me at this address should any news come to light. Thank you for your time.”

  “Don’t forget your picture,” Mr. Osmund said, waving Minnie Stevens’ photograph in the air.

  Teary-eyed, Eleanor snatched it from his hand and rushed out of the office.

  Georgina followed. “Wait,” she called. “I think I can help.”

  “How?” Eleanor asked, stopping short, her voice sharp with hurt.

  Guiding Eleanor to an empty bench in the hallway, Georgina sat beside her and pulled a sketchbook from her bag. “I’d like to include Beatrice in this week’s column. I’ll include a drawing of her if you’d like.”

  Eleanor was grateful for the offer, but confused as to how it might work. “I don’t have a photograph of Beatrice. How can you draw her if you’ve never seen her face?”

  Georgina opened her sketchbook to a blank page. “I don’t necessarily need a photo, in fact I prefer not to rely on them exclusively. Most are just fantasies anyhow, created by a photographer working in a room filled with painted clouds and stuffed peacocks. I’m guessing that you have a picture of Beatrice in your mind that’s truer than any carte-de-visite. If you share the details of it with me, I can put it on the page, and that just might be enough.”

  Down the hall, a couple of roughs were harassing a prostitute. “I was minding my own business!” she yelled. “Why can’t you mind yours?” A group of sad-looking beggars filed past and out the door. They were returning to the streets after spending the night on the police station floor.

  “All right,” Eleanor said, “what do you need to know?”

  Head down, pencil in hand, Georgina began the process of piecing together Beatrice’s likeness. “What would you say is the shape of her face? Round, oval, square, heart-shaped?”

  “Somewhat round,” Eleanor said, looking over Georgina’s shoulder. “But not full like a child’s. Apple cheeked, yet ladylike.”

  “What about the length of her hair? Or its style?”

  “It’s quite long,” Eleanor answered. “Down to her waist. But I think she planned to wear it up last night. She was supposed to wear that headdress that’s pictured with the gown, but it got left behind.”

  “And this was the gown she was wearing?” Georgina asked, pointing to the card.

  “Yes,” Eleanor answered, holding it steady as Georgina continued her work.

  “And what about her eyes,” Georgina asked. “Are they round, narrow…close together, wide apart?”

  “They’re quite large and round and blue.”

  Bit by bit, the image began to take shape.

  “Are her brows heavy or thin, flat or arched?”

  “Heavy, but arched.”

  “Her nose?”

  “Narrow. Slightly upturned.”

  “Is her chin rounded, pointed, dimpled?”

  “Round, but firm.”

  Georgina paused and tapped the end of her pencil against her lips. “You mentioned she has red hair…is she freckled as well?”

  Eleanor smiled. “Her skin is speckled everywhere, like a bird’s egg.”

  “Was she wearing the necklace that’s pictured in the photo? Any rings on her fingers, earrings perhaps?”

  “No,” Eleanor replied. “She didn’t want to borrow Miss Stevens’ jewels for fear she’d lose them.”

  “Did she have anything else of value that might have been taken from her person?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Making a few notes beneath the sketch, Georgina asked, “What was her business at the hotel?”

  Eleanor bit her lip. “You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

  “Try me,” Georgina said.

  “She was there to demonstrate her ability to speak with ghosts.”

  Underlining the word “ghosts” three times, Georgina asked, “Truly?”

  “Cross my heart,” Eleanor replied.

  “That’s good, actually,” Georgina said with a thoughtful nod.

  “It is?”

  “People love stories about ghosts.”

  Eleanor gave a tired smile.

  “We’re almost done,” Georgina assured her. “Just a couple more questions. Does she have a sweetheart?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know of any unusual circumstances surrounding her disappearance? Was she acting out of character? Did she leave anything behind?”

  “No and no,” Eleanor answered. “I have nothing that could serve as a clue.”

  “What would you say is the most common expression she wears on her face? Quizzical, coy, shy?”

  Closing her eyes, Eleanor thought of Beatrice standing at her side in the shop, always asking questions, always keen to learn. “Curious,” she said, “but determined.”

  “That’s excellent,” Georgina said as she put a few final touches on the sketch. “One last question. Can you offer a reward?”

  Wringing her hands Eleanor paused to think. She supposed she could count on Judith to contribute. “Yes, I think so,” Eleanor answered. “Would five hundred dollars be enough?” It was the first number that came to mind.

  Georgina whistled through her teeth. “That should do it.” Turning her sketchbook towards Eleanor she said, “What do you think?”

  “That’s her,” Eleanor said, shocked by the likeness. “That’s Beatrice.” A wave of worry suddenly came over her. All the questions she’d been keeping in check nagged at her heart. Where was the dear girl? Had she taken ill? Fallen into the wrong hands? Was she whole? Was she safe? “When will the notice appear in the paper?” she asked.

  “Not until Saturday, I’m afraid,” Georgina replied.

  “I see,” Eleanor said, disappointed.

  Noticing Eleanor’s dismay, Georgina said, “But I can go to the press and print up some handbills in a
dvance so you can post them at the hotel and any place else you like.”

  “How soon can you have them finished?” Eleanor asked, fishing in her pocket for something to offer as an enticement. “I’m willing to pay.”

  Georgina waved the offer away. “No need for that,” she said. “You’ll have them by tomorrow.”

  You must know, Achilles, that Prayers are the Daughters of Jupiter. They are crippled by frequent Kneeling, have their faces full of Cares and Wrinkles, and their Eyes are always cast towards Heaven.

  —Joseph Addison, Essays, Moral and Humorous: Also Essays on Imagination and Taste

  Prayers Are the Daughters of Jupiter.

  AFTER A LONG day of searching for Beatrice, Dr. Brody went home and retired to his study. He’d informed Mr. Pryor, the hotel detective, of the girl’s disappearance, then talked to every maid, porter and attendant he could find. After walking the streets for hours visiting every place he’d thought she might go, he’d decided it best to call it a day. He wasn’t sure what else he could offer Eleanor and Adelaide short of what steps to take should Beatrice’s body be found. That was advice he hoped he wouldn’t have to give.

  Sitting at his father’s desk he contemplated taking out his opium pipe. Having dabbled without becoming addicted, he’d managed to stay away from it for some time now, but in his current state of mind, the allure of the poppy was strong. Mrs. Stutt had gone to bed and he had no other plans for the night. The pipe and the glow of its attendant oil lamp seemed better company than sitting alone with his guilt—for he didn’t count himself blameless in this terrible mess. On the contrary, he felt he’d been the worst offender. Eleanor had always been the voice of reason; Adelaide, even in her overwrought enthusiasm, had been honest about her intentions; and he’d…well, he’d held back from taking too firm a stance on any of it, never willing to admit his hopes for where things might be headed, fearing it might make him seem arrogant, presumptuous, unfairly ambitious. Perhaps if he’d spoken up, laid out a plan for the future, Beatrice wouldn’t have felt the need to run.

  As he tripped the lock of the desk’s hidden compartment, a knock sounded at the front door. Quinn found Alden Dashley standing on his stoop.

  “Dashley,” he said. “Do come in. Have you news to share?”

  Alden stepped inside and removed his hat and overcoat. “No news, I’m afraid, but I thought I might remind you of a possible diversion. Heaven knows I could use one while we’re waiting for Miss Dunn’s safe return. Judith took to bed early, exhausted from pacing the floor, so I thought I’d take a walk and wound up here. The skies are clear and both Jupiter and Saturn are in the southeast sky. I was wondering if I might nip up to your father’s observatory to have a look.”

  “Of course,” Dr. Brody said, thankful for Alden’s company. He couldn’t think of a better interruption unless it was Beatrice herself. “I think that’s an excellent plan.”

  They climbed the spiral staircase to the tower Tobias Brody had built atop his house, and stood side by side in the modest cupola.

  Alden waited patiently as Quinn cleaned the lenses on the telescope in preparation for viewing the planets. “According to the Clipper Annual tonight’s the best night to see Jupiter’s bands,” Alden remarked.

  “Is that so?” Quinn asked, adjusting the scope’s height, angle and focus.

  “It’s in Pisces,” Alden directed, “with Saturn below to the left.”

  Squinting through the eyepiece, Quinn soon announced, “I’ve got it.” Taking a step back he motioned to Alden. “Here, have a look.”

  Alden peered through the telescope. “Isn’t that something!” he exclaimed. “The mighty Jupiter and its four moons as well.”

  “I Explore God’s Creation,” Quinn recited under his breath—a saying his father had taught him to help him remember the order of the Galilean moons.

  “The sight that Galileo saw that changed the World,” Alden mused. “Would you like to have a go?” he asked, stepping back from the instrument.

  Quinn took his place. Staring into the heavens, he thought of the Romans who’d named the heavenly object, and how they’d seen it as something brilliant and mighty, worthy of bearing the name of their greatest god. How wondrous and strange it seemed to him, that men, himself among them, could now view the planet with such clarity and discernment, and yet still understand so little about it. Through his father’s telescope, this overgrown spyglass, the mighty Jupiter appeared inconsistent—wobbling, flawed, wounded. A fitting sight for this night, he supposed. Men strove so hard to become godlike, forgetting that the world, God’s world, would never allow them to be anything but less than perfect. Did that mean that they should stop their striving? No, but perhaps it meant that he should’ve paused to remember his place, to consider not just Jupiter, but its moons too. Fixed and faithful, Io was closest, then Europa and Ganymede fell into line, and this night, at this moment, poor Calisto was far on the opposite side, lonely and distant and seeming terribly out of reach.

  The teashop was quiet except for Twitch, who was regaling Cleo with talk of Beatrice’s goodness and beauty, and Eleanor, who was reciting an incantation to bring about her safe return.

  Upon the wind,

  Within the air,

  I send my thoughts to Beatrice Dunn.

  I prick my thumb,

  I draw my blood,

  I send my heart to Beatrice Dunn.

  As above

  So below

  Let all kindly spirits know

  By foot and flight they now must go

  To find our Beatrice Dunn.

  Perdu stood guard, perched over the door, ready to alert his mistress to any change, any news, any danger.

  Adelaide had chosen to walk past the hotel and through the park one last time before giving up for the night. Spotting the Bird Lady sitting alone near the fountain, she’d settled next to her to keep her company.

  The ragged-looking old woman was silent as Adelaide confessed her guilt, her worries and her fears. Extending her hand, she took Adelaide’s in hers and gently stroked it, but never said a word.

  Taking her last calling card from her pocket, Adelaide tucked it under the ribbon that ran around the Bird Lady’s hat. It seemed the safest place to put it. “If you see her, or if you hear anything about her, come find me at this address.”

  On the streets surrounding the park, word got passed from guttersnipes to whores, from roughs to carriage drivers.

  “Did you hear about that girl gone lost?”

  “The girl from the teashop?”

  “The one-eyed soothsayer?”

  “No, the pretty young one. The ginger.”

  In the corridors of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, word got passed from scrubber girls to bootblacks, from chambermaids to porters.

  “Do you suppose she’s run off with a dandy?”

  “Do you suppose she’s met her death?”

  “Do you suppose they’ll offer a reward for the one who finds her?”

  “Anything’s possible, I guess.”

  In the basement below Frank Leslie’s Illustrated News, Georgina Davis was tucked away in the back corner of a cavernous cellar, treadle pumping, flywheel spinning as she lost herself to the give and take of the platen on an old Franklin press. She’d spent the evening sitting at a bench, working to carve Beatrice Dunn’s image out of a square piece of boxwood, curled shavings piling around her, clinging to her skirt. She’d set the finished engraving, along with several rows of type, in the press’s bed, making a wish as she went, that her work might conjure up the girl whom Miss St. Clair had lost. The creaky tick and ping of the machine seemed to sing to her as it churned. “You may delay, but time will not.”

  Beatrice was still bound and gagged and lying on the floor of the parsonage cellar. Reverend Townsend had come and gone several times throughout the day to chastise her, to pray over her, to make certain her bonds were secure. There was never any mention of food or drink or kindness. There was much talk of God and sin and
judgement. No indication he ever planned to let her go.

  The ghost of Lena McLeod had come and gone as well. The lonely spirit had hovered near, to tell Beatrice tales of her own plight and to give her advice. “Deny all, but believe in your heart.”

  With what little strength she had, she tried to wriggle free from the ropes, but her attempts only managed to make her wrists raw and bloody. The cold damp of the cellar seeped into her bones, causing her to shiver and shake. Upon Reverend Townsend’s last visit for the night, she looked to him with pleading eyes and thought the word, mercy.

  Lantern in hand, he’d turned from her and left her in darkness.

  He who knows the Daughters of Jupiter, when they draw near to him, receives great Benefit from them; but as for him who rejects them, they entreat their Father to give his Orders to the Goddess to punish him for his Hardness of Heart.

  NOTICE TO VACATE.

  The Landlord of this property hereby gives notice of intent to raze the structure hereupon.

  The tenants of said dwelling, namely the owners of the business ST. CLAIR AND THOM are advised to vacate the premises by NOVEMBER 1ST, 1880.

  As of that date, any possessions, goods or effects remaining on said premises shall be confiscated and disposed of according to the landlord’s discretion.

  Let this notice serve as an official, binding document.

  It shall not be removed from view.

  Issued this day, OCTOBER 11, 1880

  Cecil Newland

  SIGNED: Mr. Cecil Newland, landlord.

  E. M. Withrow

  WITNESSED: Mr. E. M. Withrow.

  Come, the Croaking Raven Doth Bellow for Revenge.

  ON MONDAY MORNING, three sharp raps sounded at the teashop door. Eleanor held her breath as she went to answer it.

  Mr. Withrow was there, hammer in hand.

  “What’s this?” Eleanor asked, of the notice now tacked to the door.

  “It’s your walking papers,” Mr. Withrow answered with a smirk.