by Kat Ross
“Not much. They were both women. He seems to be developing a preference. The one killed in her flat was a housewife whose husband worked nights. The other may have been a prostitute, I’m not sure.”
“But he still took the time to cover the faces,” John pointed out. “The ambivalence hasn’t changed.”
“Other than that they have nothing in common though,” Edward said. “And he’s escalating. The risk of getting caught in the act tonight was twice as high, but it didn’t stop him.”
“But they do have something in common,” I said, feeling a surge of grim excitement. “Look at the map. We couldn’t see it before, because there were only three, and Becky doesn’t fit. But that’s because her murder was different. She wasn’t chosen randomly. The others were. Now if we take away Becky…” I covered Baxter Street with my hand.
John was the first to see it.
“The elevated trains,” he breathed. “They were all killed within shouting distance of the elevated.”
“Except for Anne Marlowe,” I said triumphantly, “who was found on the waterfront, but her crime scene doesn’t count because we know from Mary Fletcher that he first saw her on the train. That’s where he stalked her. I’d thought it was just the one time, but it’s every time. It’s where he finds his victims, John. The perfect anonymous place to watch someone, to follow them when they get off. He dresses as a soldier because it makes them trust him.”
Edward leaned over the map. “You’re a genius, Harry. Union Square—the Third Avenue El. Then Anne Marlowe. Then two in the shadow of the Ninth Avenue El.”
“John, do you still have your notes from the interview with Raffaele’s family?” I asked.
If the organ grinder had taken a streetcar home, my grand theory would collapse like a house of cards.
“Yes, of course.” He rummaged through his coat pockets. “Let’s see…”
We all waited impatiently as he found it and flipped through his notes. When he looked up, I knew from his eyes that I had been right.
“His sister said Raffaele always took the El downtown after he played for the afternoon in Central Park,” he said. “Trying to earn a few more pennies in the evening near the theaters.”
We were all silent for a minute. I hated The Hunter more at that moment more than I ever had before.
“So who is he?” Nellie asked briskly. “Straker? George Kane?”
“Or Thomas Sweet,” Connor ventured.
“Or Temple Kane,” Edward said with a laugh. “I wouldn’t put it past the woman.”
“Or James Moran,” Nellie added. “Why else would his thugs have hassled you? It sounds like they knew exactly who you are, Harry.”
“It could be George Kane and Thomas Sweet,” John said, as if the waters weren’t muddy enough already. “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“Perhaps we’ll find out tomorrow night,” I said, turning to Edward. “You obtained those invitations?”
“Engraved in gilt, on the finest paper,” Edward said, twirling his pocket watch. “Seven o’clock sharp.” He sniffed again. “You might want to take another bath beforehand, Harry.”
“If it is George Kane, he’s not going to admit to anything,” John pointed out reasonably. “So what do we do then?”
I thought for a moment. “Then we turn the tables on him. We know where his stalking grounds are now. We hunt The Hunter.”
13
It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when my friends said their goodbyes. Mrs. Rivers had drifted off on the sofa, and Nellie helped me wake her up and settle her in bed before jumping in Edward’s barouche with John.
It may have been the first time in his life that Connor didn’t object to a hot bath.
I’d forgotten that we were supposed to meet with Uncle Arthur’s demonologist the next day, but John hadn’t. He was clearly looking forward to it more than I was.
As I finally snuggled under my covers, I decided that the somewhat inexplicable aspects of the case were useful insofar as they caught the interest of the powers that be at the S.P.R. In fact, it was fortunate, because the Society had no use for a straight-forward murder investigation. However, despite the strange things I had seen and heard over the last days, I remained firmly in the rationalist camp.
I knew in my heart that this man would be caught not through a bunch of psychic mumbo jumbo, but because he had made a mistake. He had revealed his pattern. And I vowed to myself that I would do all in my power to prevent any more innocents from falling prey to his blood lust.
Perhaps you think I should have gone to the police at this point. And perhaps you would be right.
I could defend myself by saying that we didn’t really have anything concrete, but that wouldn’t be the full truth. We had enough. Sergeant Mallory, at least, would have listened.
No, the full truth is that I still wanted to solve it myself. Despite what I had told Mrs. Rivers, I did care what Myrtle thought, very much. For once, just once, I wanted her to look at me with something approximating approval. I wanted to be the one coolly laying out my unimpeachable reasoning while my audience sat in quiet awe.
And it was nearly my undoing.
I spent the morning catching up with the papers. As I’d suspected, Nellie had coined the colorful moniker “Jekyll and Hyde” in her article on Anne Marlowe for The New York World, and her colleagues had leapt on it like a bunch of hyenas on the body of a dying wildebeest. The coverage was feverish: I counted the phrase “diabolical fiend” no less than nine times. That the killings were connected was no longer a secret, and The Herald declared that “no one was safe from his heinous depredations,” pretty much guaranteeing widespread panic.
Two hours before my appointment at St. John’s College, a knock came on the door. It was my client.
“Miss Pell,” Brady said.
It was raining again, and he shook the water from his umbrella before stepping inside.
“A body has been found,” he said as we entered the parlor and sat down.
“I know. Two actually,” I said.
Brady looked at me in some confusion. “No, I mean Robert. Well, I’m not sure it’s him yet. But after much thought, I decided to do as you suggested and filed a report at the Bureau for the Recovery of Lost Persons yesterday. I didn’t tell them everything, just that my friend had disappeared.” He swallowed. “They contacted me this morning. A body was fished out of the Hudson. It fits Robert’s description. But they said…they said it had been in the water for a while.”
“I’m truly sorry,” I said.
“I’ll go to the morgue this afternoon to try to make an identification. I just wanted you to know.”
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 event, 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. Bu
t 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.”