Robert Bruce Stewart [Stewart - Psi No More…

This is an account of a decidedly odd set of events which occurred during the spring of 1902. It involved not one mystery, but four. Or, perhaps more correctly, three mysteries and a conundrumwhich was, at first, masquerading as a mystery. I had just finished what I felt was my finest literary effort to date, an account of the famed European jewel thief Madame B____.

Its no exaggeration, nor mere conceit, to say this was a tale worthy of Dumas. For in addition to filching the gems of noblewomen, Madame B____ also made off with a good many noble hearts. She quite regularly had dukes, counts, and earls dueling over her fickle affections. And enough baronets groveled before her that her boots need never to have touched the grounda great convenience during the winter months.

The piece was finished in late February. In truth, it had been completed two weeks before, but the damned parrot that Harry, my husband, bought me for Christmas had managed to eat a good part of my manuscript and left the results on the remainder. However, now restored, my work was at last ready for the publisher.

And had I a publisher there would have been no need to visit Mr. Sackett, of Baily & Sackett, Literary Agency. Mr. Sackett (there was, in fact, no Mr. Baily) had placed some articles of mine in English periodicals the previous year. They had achieved a certain recognition, particularly in the county of Lancashire, and I was sure he would welcome the opportunity of marketing my new work. His office was just at the Manhattan end of the bridge, right on Park Rowthe Fleet Street of New York. I dropped my manuscript off with him on a Thursday and returned, as instructed, on Monday. Mr. Sackett had read my piece and pronounced it a masterpiece, though perhaps not in so many words.

Then you think you can find a publisher? The Strand , possibly? I asked.

Yes, possibly. But what the magazines most want are serials, something that entices the reader to buy the next issue. Then, later, we can find a book publisher.

Oh, I already have plans for just such a book, The Queens of Criminality . It would serve as a companion to Lady Carburys Criminal Queens . I was imagining that each profile would appear sequentially in some magazine of note.

Ah, an admirable aspiration, he said. But the key to a successful serial is that no installment be finite. For instance, the Madame B____ piece should end with the hint that her true identity will be revealed at the beginning of the next installment.

But I dont reveal her true identity.

Quite. However, you do know it?

Yes, but Im pledged never to reveal it.

Mrs. Reese, if you wish to get anywhere in this game, you must be willing to make compromises. Im sure your promise was sincere when you made it, but circumstances change.

It isnt merely a matter of honor. If I were to break my word, I would fear for my safety, and yours, Mr. Sackett.

I knew he thought I was being overly dramatic, but if Id related to him the truth of Madame B____s nature, I felt sure hed want nothing to do with my project. Finally, he suggested that the piece end with the promise that the great womans identity would be revealed in the next installment, and that we leave off worrying about the resolution until the time came. I agreed, and told him I would begin work on the next queen of criminality. My intended subject was Sophie Lyons, the notorious blackmailing seductress of the previous century. Much had been written about Mrs. Lyons, so I only needed to liven it up with detail and color to come up with my next installment.

Just a week or so after visiting Mr. Sacketthaving finished a wonderful, if somewhat fanciful, portrait of Mrs. LyonsI found myself at loose ends. One Sunday afternoon, for want of something more purposeful, I attended an outing organized by a fellow alumna of my college. Like myself, the others were all recent graduates. And then there was Fanny. Fanny Baum had entered with my class back in 95, but after a year of struggleduring which she had learned little beyond the fact that Latin and Greek were two separate and distinct languagesFanny surrendered to the inevitable and gave up her academic ambitions. However, she found college life quite agreeable otherwise. She persuaded her very wealthy father to make arrangements of some sort so that she was allowed to stay on in one of the houses. She was given some silly title, social coordinator, I believe, but no real duties. Fanny attended chapel every morning, sang with the glee club, and kept herself popular by hosting innumerable bunny parties. Bunny being Welsh rabbit, as ambrosia to the gods to college women of my era.

We were taking a cruise up the Hudson and on the way back Fanny more or less forced her company on me. We had known each other only remotely in school. I didnt even know her real name, nor did I ever see any reason to learn it. Fanny seemed such a fitting moniker for one so thick-headed.

Did you know Id married? she asked.

No. Congratulations, Fanny.

Oh, its over now, she said without emotion. I hear you live out in Brooklyn, Emmie.

Yes, we have an apartment just above the park.

I heard its a rather large place.

Certainly for the two of us, I told her.

The conversation proceeded in this desultory way until Fanny confided that her interest in our living arrangements was motivated by the fact she was not getting along with her father and hoped to find temporary rooms until she could set up house for herself. I didnt like the manner in which she had maneuvered me into offering her accommodations, but I did so neverthelessfor three reasons. First, we did have a large apartment with two bedrooms sitting empty. Second, Harry was out of town quite a bit of the time and Fanny, whatever her faults, did offer diversion.

But the primary reason was Psi . This was a literary journal of her former husbands which she had taken possession of in the divorce settlement. Actually, it was the mere conception of a journal. It was meant to be one of the little magazines, like The Chap-Book , or The Lark . But the staff had never managed to publish even a single issue.

Was it a matter of money? I asked.

Oh, we had plenty of that. Or too much. My husband and his friends spent so much time discussing the thingover endless dinners and what they called symposiathat they never had time left for working. He told me there was no use starting the thing until they had the decadence down pat.

But then what is it you have?

Oodles of paper, mostly. In a warehouse somewhere. And theres a cute little hand press.

On hearing this, I issued an immediate, and most gracious, invitation. This was the answer to any writers dreams: a press, plenty of paper, and a wealthy dupe living in the next room. With these three things, I would be released from the tyranny of publishers and their petty demands. Still, there was one small matter of concern. What Fanny had neglected to mention was the reason for the disharmony in her fathers house. That would be Fannys manservant, Michel.