by Kat Ross
It was said, only half jokingly, that if the law was not on the Commodore’s side, he would simply go to the Legislature and have a new law put in place.
But I had to admit, the station was impressive. It was like standing inside the airframe of a zeppelin, and I felt a thrill of excitement as we stepped aboard and the steam locomotive gave a great belching whistle, slowly gathering speed as the tracks veered northwest toward the Hudson River.
We deposited the luggage in adjoining first-class compartments and then settled ourselves in the dining car. John had spent the morning doing basic research on our destination, and over lunch he told us about the curious community called the Cassadaga Lake Free Association.
“It was founded forty-odd years ago by a group of people interested in mesmerism,” John said, diving into a plate of roast chicken.
“Mesmerism?” Mrs. Rivers asked. “What on earth is that?”
“A rather cock-eyed theory that there’s an invisible force surrounding the body which can be manipulated to heal sickness. The fellow who invented it would wave magnets around and induce his subjects to do very silly things. It was all the power of suggestion, really. It’s largely discredited now, but had a strong following for decades.”
Mrs. Rivers gave a sniff, but I could see she was intrigued. This was a woman who embraced quackery with open arms. When Myrtle and I were little, she would dose us with vile concoctions on a daily basis. She owned no less than three of Dr. Scott’s Electric Belts, swore by Dr. Scott’s Electric Foot Salve, and regularly chugged the contents of a brown bottle with the ominous label Microbe Killer. It claimed to “cure all diseases,” and she refused to renounce it even after Myrtle took it into her chemistry laboratory and discovered that Microbe Killer was in fact diluted sulfuric acid, colored and made palatable with a healthy measure of red wine.
“Anyway, in 1873, a bunch of them got together and bought twenty acres of land, calling it the Cassadaga Lake Free Association,” John went on. “It became a hub for Spiritualists and Freethinkers. They hold regular séances and claim to communicate with the dead. Rose Rickard is a medium there. I received a cable back just before we left. She’s willing to speak with us about her sister.”
“I wonder if they were very close,” I said, nibbling on some tasty fried oysters. “And why she didn’t go to Cassadaga after the whole Fox sisters fiasco.”
“Maybe they wouldn’t welcome her there,” John mused. “Not after her reputation was destroyed.”
“Poor child,” Mrs. Rivers murmured.
“I also received a response from that professor at St. John’s College, the one recommended by Arthur. His name is Father Bruno Alighieri. I have an appointment to meet with him on Thursday afternoon. He may be able to shed some light on the grimoire.”
“And that symbol,” I said. “It has to mean something, to the killer at least.”
“I did some reading on demonology while I was at the Lenox Library looking into Cassadaga,” John said. “I know you refuse to credit it, Harry, but there have been cases of possession that appear to go far beyond the bounds of simple abnormal psychiatry. Take the case of Jeanne Fery, a twenty-five-year-old Dominican nun. She claimed her father made a pact with the Devil, and that she was inhabited by a demon called Namon. She injured others and herself, and spoke in different regional dialects that she wouldn’t have known. Two exorcisms were conducted, and she got better.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“The 1580s.”
“Yes, they were very enlightened back then. I’m sure we can take their word for it.”
John threw his hands up. “Just because Myrtle traumatized you as a child—”
“You told him about that?” I shot an accusing look at Mrs. Rivers, who shrugged.
“—you refuse to even consider the possibility that what we’re facing is something…more than a man. Look, when that wind came, Becky screamed at them to close their eyes. Brady obeyed. But what if Straker didn’t? What if he opened himself somehow?”
“To what?” I stared out the window. We’d left the city behind, and the view now was of thick forest and rolling farmland. The barracks of the West Point Military Academy rose up on the far shore. In the middle of the river, a southbound steamboat trailed a perfect v-shaped wake, its bright blue flag snapping in the breeze.
John pushed a lock of hair from his eyes. He had such long lashes. I’d never really noticed them before.
“To a fallen angel,” he said.
9
The conversation quieted for a moment as a waiter came and cleared the plates away. The moment he left, Mrs. Rivers leaned forward.
“You really should listen to him, Harry,” she said in a stage whisper that was probably audible to the cooks in the next car. “I’ve always thought it quite likely that there are demons walking among us. Remember the Benders!”
“Not you too.” I crossed my arms defensively and tried not to think about the crow. “I believe you’ve both gone mad.”
“What about the brimstone?” John persisted. “The backwards Latin, which is a hallmark of diabolical pacts? When they burned Urbain Grandier at the stake for witchcraft in 1634, it was one of the chief pieces of evidence against him.”
I stared at John. “Are you actually siding with the Inquisition?” I asked.
“That’s not the point. Alright then, how about the chain? And the fingerprints? They were burned into her throat, Harry! I saw it.”
“Oh my,” Mrs. Rivers said faintly, raising a hand to her neck.
“Well, I can’t explain those—”
“Aha!”
“—yet. But I will.”
We glared at each other for a moment. Some of the other diners had turned to look at us.
Mrs. Rivers made a soothing noise. “I have an idea!” she said with forced cheer. “How about a lovely game of whist?”
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Fine,” John said, beaming his brightest, fakest smile at me.
So we played cards until Albany, and both got trounced by the ruthless card sharp that lurked beneath Mrs. Rivers’ benign old lady façade.
The New York Central train pulled into the tiny station at Cassadaga early the next morning. John coaxed a farmer into giving us a ride into town on his wagon, and I think half my teeth were loose by the time we finally arrived at the Grand Hotel. Its name was a bit of an exaggeration as the hotel looked like nothing so much as a large, whitewashed barn. But it was situated near the shore of the lake and surrounded by tall elm trees that cast welcome shade across the front porch.
It was such a pleasure to be out of the city, breathing clean, cool air that I soon shook off the weariness of our long trip. John had booked three rooms on the second floor, each with a small balcony. We split up to bathe and change our clothes, and met on the veranda feeling much refreshed an hour or so later. Mrs. Rivers had donned her “country bonnet,” an enormous thing of black lace that made her seem as if she was speaking out of the mouth of a cave. I opted for a simple cotton shift and left my head bare, provoking John to twirl a bit of hair around his finger and pretend to wear it as a mustache. I slapped his hand away but couldn’t help grinning. When he played the fool, it was quite impossible to stay annoyed at him.
At first glance, the village was like any other quaint rural community, with Victorian gingerbread houses laid out in neat rows. But as we strolled to the address John had obtained for Rose Rickard, I began to notice certain singular features. The first was a clearing with rows of benches facing a sort of pagoda bearing the words Forest Temple. This was empty. But a quarter mile later, we came across a large auditorium, whose crowd overflowed out the open doors. The speaker was an attractive middle-aged woman, and she seemed to be criticizing Darwin’s theory of evolution.
As we passed, I slowed down to catch a few words of her speech.
“—but atoms are not intelligent! Molecules are not intelligent! When the physical scientist declares that h
e has discovered the process of creation, he omits the one power of creation that alone is capable of solving the mystery!”
“Who is that?” I whispered to a man in a bowler hat, who seemed mesmerized.
“Cora Scott,” he whispered back. “Isn’t she marvellous?”
I made a noncommittal noise and we continued on our way.
“It’s an odd place, Harry,” John said.
“Yes, it is. Did I tell you Myrtle is on her way home?”
His eyes grew wide. “No, you neglected to mention that.”
“She solved her case. We have three days to do the same with ours.”
Neither of us spoke for a minute. Mrs. Rivers had gone ahead to admire some primroses in the garden of a clapboard house.
“And if we don’t?” he said finally.
I sighed. “We’re probably mincemeat either way. But at least we’d have the satisfaction of catching a murderer.” An image of Anne Marlowe, her face purple and bulging, flashed before my eyes. “To be honest, I don’t care about myself anymore. I just want him stopped. And I’m not confident the police can do it.”
“Maybe Myrtle can help,” John ventured cautiously.
“I’m sure she could. But would she? I know my sister better than anyone, but I still haven’t a real clue what makes her tick. She can be almost human sometimes. And then she’ll turn around and say or do something that makes me wonder if she has any empathy at all. But don’t worry your pretty head about it.” I chucked him under the chin. “I can handle Myrtle.”
“It’s all right, Harry,” John said solemnly. “I’m a little scared of her too.”
“I am not scared of her.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Oh look, here we are.” He steered me over to the house where Mrs. Rivers had stopped. The garden was indeed lush and beautiful, a riot of flowers and fragrant herbs. “This is it. Number Seven, Library Street.”
A curtain twitched as walked up the path to the front door. It opened before we had a chance to knock.
A blonde woman stood there. I scanned her features and saw no resemblance to Becky. But the signs of a powerful grief were writ large in her red-rimmed eyes.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said.
“Miss Rickard?” I asked.
“It’s Mason now. I’m married. Won’t you come in?”
“I’m Miss Pell, and this is Dr. Weston and Mrs. Rivers. Yes, thank you. We’ve come a long way.”
We entered a small parlor with a round table in the center covered with a cloth. The curtains were of a heavy, dark velvet, but they had been pulled wide to admit the daylight. A cold fireplace occupied the far wall, next to a sideboard topped with what I guessed was a mirror, but this too had been covered in a black mourning cloth.
Four cups of coffee had been laid out on the table, alongside a tempting array of sandwiches.
Rose Mason bade us to sit and began pouring the coffee.
“Your first time at Cassadaga?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “Have you lived here long?”
“About three years. My husband Samuel and I met here. He’s a teacher.”
“At the school in town?” John asked, methodically ploughing his way through the plate of sandwiches. It’s a good thing his father was wealthy, I thought, because between John and his brothers, the Westons must have spent a fortune just keeping them all fed.
“Yes, the Lyceum.”
“How lovely!” Mrs. Rivers said.
“He should be home any minute,” Rose said, examining us, and something in her face seemed guarded, wary even. “In fact, I believe I hear him now.”
The garden gate rattled and a moment later the door was opened by a handsome black man, tall and slender in a white shirt with suspenders and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His short, curly hair was greying at the temples, although he couldn’t have been more than thirty-five. He stopped when he saw us and then broke into a smile, revealing a set of even white teeth.
“Hello,” he said to me. “You must be Miss Pell.”
“And I’m John Weston,” John said, jumping up to shake his hand. “A pleasure, sir.”
The rest of us followed suit with a warm greeting, and Rose’s tense expression relaxed a bit.
“They’ve just arrived,” she said, standing next to her husband, who wrapped an arm around her waist.
“You must come to the picnic by the lake later,” he said. “The whole camp turns out for it. It’s a summertime tradition after we host a speaker.”
“Oh, that sounds nice,” Mrs. Rivers said.
“Thank you, we’d love to,” I said.
There was an awkward silence. The spectre of Becky’s death, and why the three of us were here, hadn’t yet been touched upon, but we all knew it couldn’t be put off much longer.
“Shall I stay?” Mr. Mason asked his wife quietly.
“It’s all right, I know you have work to do. I’ll be fine.”
He gave her a searching look and she nodded firmly.
“I’ll be in the study,” he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “See you all at the picnic.”
Samuel Mason retired upstairs and we sat down again.
“Perhaps I should explain our role so there’s no misunderstanding,” I said. “We’re not part of any official investigation. Have you heard of my sister, Myrtle Fearing Pell?”
“Of course. Her reputation is known even in the hinterlands.” Rose gave a small smile.
“Myrtle’s client attended a séance with Becky shortly before her death. It’s rather complicated, but a friend of his has also disappeared and he fears that it could be connected.” I’d already decided I just couldn’t pretend to be Myrtle to this poor woman. It felt wrong to lie any more than I had to. “I’m terribly sorry about what happened. I’m just hoping you can tell me something about Becky’s life.”
Rose nodded. “I begged her to leave the city. There was nothing for her there. But she refused.” Rose paused and her expression darkened. “There was a man involved.”
“What about your parents?” John asked. “Couldn’t they have intervened?”
“I don’t even know if they’re still alive,” she said shortly. “We’ve been estranged since…well, for several years now.”
I got the impression this had more than a little to do with her marriage.
“As far as I know, Becky didn’t speak with them either. But here, I have something to show you. I sent a copy to the police in New York, but I never heard anything back.”
Rose went to the sideboard and fetched a letter from a drawer. “It’s postmarked the very day she was killed.” Her lips tightened. “I had no idea as I read it that she was already lying in the morgue.”
She spread the letter flat on the table and we all leaned over to read it.
Dearest Sister, it said in a looping script. I pray that you and Samuel are well. The heat here has been dreadful, but I am happy to say that I have come into a sum of money which will allow me to come see you for a visit in the countryside soon. It is long overdue! I miss you very much, and the Spirits tell me that I may soon be an aunt. I pray this is indeed true, as I plan to spoil him (or her!) terribly.
Now, I have a confession to make and I hope you will not hold it too much against me, but as you are my only sister, and more than that, my closest friend, I wish you to know everything and ask only that you withhold judgment until we are again reunited.
Two nights ago, I was approached by a man in the Bottle Alley Saloon beneath my flat. He is known to me, and he made me a proposition that I was hard-pressed to refuse. You see, I have not been so well lately, Rose. I don’t wish to worry you overly, as things are brighter now, but this city is not a kind place to a single girl without means of support. I tried a job in the garment factories, but the work is very hard and the hours long, for so little recompense it is a bitter joke. So when he offered me two-hundred dollars for a night’s work,
I leapt at the chance. He gave me a book of great Power, and asked only that I find someone willing to join me in carrying out a mystical ceremony described within its pages.
He assured me that the intent was not to bring harm upon anyone, only to bring wealth to the user. I was very firm on this point, as the magic seemed dark to me and I would never willingly go along with a ritual that went against our Religion. But I consulted the Spirits and they told me that all would be well, so I am reassured that this is the correct path. As it happens, I know such a man as would be willing, a fellow who lives nearby and who is a gentleman through and through, although fallen on hard times by no fault of his own. He stood up for me once when some rough boys were bothering me, and I thought I would do him a good turn by asking him to join me this evening, which he has agreed to do.
He is a fine-looking fellow, Rose, and did my poor heart not already belong to another (the Spirits curse him!) I might look on him with some favor. But that is another story, which I shall fully relate when I come to see you.
Please send my regards to Samuel, and be consoled that things are looking up for me and I shall soon quit this wretched city.
Your loving sister, Becky
The pathos of the letter left everyone quiet. We knew now how Becky had come by the book, but not who had given it to her, or why. Rose folded the letter up again, very gently, and returned it to the sideboard. Her gown hung loose, and just before she turned back to the table, she laid a hand across her belly.
“The man Becky refers to is named Robert Aaron Straker,” I said after a minute. “I mean the one who agreed to join the ritual, not the one from the bar. He lived near to Becky and was a close friend of Myrtle’s client. We’re trying to find him.”