The Salem Witch Society (26 page)

“What’s all this rubbish about? Coming here, threatening me with lies and accusations. I should have you both bound and dragged. You ought to mind yourselves and be on your way.”

Lean fought back the urge to smile. It was clear that Colonel Blanchard was used to being in command. “And good morning to you, Colonel. I’m afraid we can’t do that quite yet. You see, we’ve looked into some matters at the Maine Savings Bank. And there’s reason to believe that some parties associated with your union have provided funds for the benefit of a Mr. McGrath. He’s rumored to run some illegal drinking establishments.” Lean threw a look at Simon Gould. “Which, we can all agree, would be very perplexing to members of the public, especially those who provide financial support for your efforts.” Lean paused, offering the colonel the chance to bluster, but the man didn’t take it. He simply stood there staring at Lean with ice in his eyes.

“Furthermore,” Lean said, “we have information which seems to indicate an interest being taken in the whereabouts of a woman commonly known as Boxcar Annie.” Lean thought he detected the briefest crack in the frozen gaze of the colonel. “She was a prostitute who had found her way into McGrath’s … care. That is, until she turned up dead.”

“What do I care about a dead whore?”

“You tell me.”

The colonel’s hands balled into fists. “I could have your job, Deputy.”

Grey cleared his throat. “Yes, but not before your supporters hear about all this. And by the way, I don’t work for the city. Someone here was paying McGrath to keep him informed about this woman and what she knew about the death of Maggie Keene. Perhaps you heard about that one. It was in all the papers.”

“What’s your name again?” Simon Gould asked.

“Perceval
Grey.”

“I’ve heard of you.” Gould’s milky right eye seemed to linger on Grey while his good one shot an unspoken warning toward the colonel. “That Keene woman was killed by a degenerate drunk. Two more victims of the demon alcohol.”

“There was probably a nice rise in donations to the cause after that,” Lean said.

“There are always casualties in war,” said the colonel. “Her death, though brutal, at least served to remind the public of just what’s at stake and why the tolerance of liquor must be abolished. Maybe in dying she lit the path to abstinence for a few other young women. If so, her death was probably the most honorable thing she ever accomplished. It teaches a lesson too valuable to be lost. That was my only interest in that matter.”

“Which doesn’t explain the later interest in Boxcar Annie, or money heading from here to McGrath, a known whiskey smuggler.”

“I do not associate with either of those types of individuals. No society can prosper in which the ignorant, the depraved, and the vicious associate on equal terms with the sober, the virtuous, and the learned. I associate strictly with a distinct class in society to which neither McGrath nor those women belong.”

“All men are equal under the law, Colonel,” Grey said.

“The laws of man are written by men beholden to the politics of the day. But there is a deeper truth, a law beyond any authored by man.”

“Gentlemen, you must remember. Some of our soldiers for temperance are just that, soldiers.” Simon Gould’s one living eye flashed between the detectives’ faces. “They are not saints. So it is not outside the imagination to think that one of our men, in a moment of weakness, acting as soldiers do, might have shown some personal interest in this Annie woman. A soldier’s simple indiscretion. There may have been some action taken to keep the embarrassing episode quiet. Colonel Blanchard would know nothing about that, of course.”

Lean looked at the colonel and watched the internal struggle play out for a few seconds. It was distasteful to admit such conduct by one of his
men; it reflected directly on him as the commanding officer, a role he was unable to abdicate. Finally, however, Blanchard concluded that it was less damning than whatever the truth was, and he nodded his agreement.

“If there was some type of indiscretion, I don’t see why it needs to be made public. I would find the man out myself and deal with him personally. A bit of military justice is much more efficient than that offered by the demands of a misinformed public.”

“I must say it sounds as if you have taken a more militaristic tone than many of the temperance speakers I’ve heard,” Grey said.

“Make no mistake, Mr. Grey, there is a war on, and the stakes are the greatest imaginable: the souls of our children and the fabric of our country.”

“Your own son assists in your work, I take it,” Grey said.

The colonel folded his arms across his chest, his chin pointing at Grey. “I have no son.”

“Then who’s the young man in the photographs?” Grey picked up one of the framed pictures on the shelf in which the colonel and a boy displayed poles and hooked fish.

“He is no longer with us.” Colonel Blanchard walked over to the shelves, took the picture, and set it facedown without looking at it.

“I’m sorry to hear that. How did he die?” Lean asked.

Simon Gould started to object, but the colonel silenced him with a raised finger. “My son suffered from a weakness of character. He was given to flights of fancy, unwilling to accept certain difficult realities. Let’s just say that this inability to bear up against the hard truths of life proved his undoing.”

“With all due respect,” Grey said, “you display a less-than-sympathetic regard for the boy.”

“It is the nature of things. I take it you are of a scientific bent, Mr. Grey.”

Grey nodded.

“Well then, you will be glad to hear that I share an appreciation for the theories of Mr. Darwin. Nature’s promulgation of those most worthy to carry on the species and all that. The weak are necessarily culled from the
herd. This is a point where science and faith need not argue; the theory applies to the slow of foot and also to the morally unfit. Unpleasant to hear, perhaps, but vital to the continuation of our race.” He looked at Grey with a smile. “By which I mean the civilized races of mankind, of course.”

Grey returned the smile.

“As a gangrenous foot must be taken to save a leg, so must degenerates be removed from society. And so it is true of the political body—the cancer of slavery, that moral blight that so tormented our nation’s very soul. There was no alternative to war if our country was to be saved. And thus it is now with liquor, the greatest threat our society has ever faced.”

Grey selected a text from the shelf. “Then you agree with Mr. Darwin’s cousin as well. Galton’s ideas about the inherent deficiencies of certain peoples. Some have argued in favor of the forced sterilization of habitual drunkards, imbeciles, and the like. I’ve even heard the argument advanced in the case of certain races—say, American Indians.”

“The developments out west over the past fifteen years lend credence to Mr. Galton’s theory on the ultimate fate of the Indian. Of course, that destiny need not apply to every individual. Take you, Mr. Grey. You obviously have been blessed to inherit the stronger traits of your white ancestry and would clearly fall within that class of Indians who are properly integrated into the civilized population.”

“How kind of you to say.”

“Colonel?” Simon Gould held his pocketwatch in his hand.

“Yes, thank you, Gould.” Blanchard turned his attention back to the detectives. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I have important matters to attend to. And an hour’s idleness is as bad as an hour’s drunkenness.”

As they went downstairs to the exit, Lean asked, “What was all that about Indians?”

Grey waved his walking stick in the air. “Just a sample of the unchecked idiocy common to parlor philosophers. Those who have trouble distinguishing between windows and mirrors.”

“Ahh,” said
Lean with a nod that gave no hint of understanding but indicated an agreement to move on. “What do you make of the colonel’s explanations?”

“For such a sober man, he can lie as well as any drinker I’ve ever questioned.”

“You know, Grey, it’s just that sort of keen perception that warrants your inclusion in the civilized population.”

Grey chuckled. “Do
I
have a say in the matter?”

L
ean sat with his son on the parlor floor. He could hear his wife talking to someone at the front door, but any details were lost in the explosions issuing from Owen as his troop of blue-coated wooden soldiers proceeded to massacre Lean’s line of red-coated ruffians.

“Archie”—Emma leaned in through the doorway—“there’s a woman here to see you. She won’t come in.” Then she added in a whisper, “Amelia Porter.”

Lean threw on a waistcoat and buttoned up as he made his way to the door.

“Mrs. Porter. What a surprise,” he said with complete honesty. He hadn’t expected to see the medium again so soon after the séance. “Would you like to come in?”

The woman shook her head, though by the way she glanced about, Lean could tell she was not altogether comfortable outside the door either.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he asked.

“Yes. That matter you came to see me about.”

“We’re still investigating.”

“I know. You see, I … I haven’t been sleeping well since you came. There are”—she gave a little shrug—“things that remain unresolved, that have not been allowed to rest.”

“Have you seen anything else? Anything you think might help us?”

“Nothing
specific. Just a feeling, a sort of dread.” Her gaze dropped to the floor, and Lean suspected she was holding something back. “It’s like … have you ever knocked on a door and no one comes to answer? But you stand there because you know they’re just inside, waiting for you to go away. That’s sort of how it is for me. Only in reverse. I’m the one inside the door, waiting for the person outside to knock. And afraid of opening the door when they do.”

“Mrs. Porter, are you sure you won’t come inside? Have a cup of tea or something?”

“No. I’ve only come to give you this.” She pulled a folded paper from her coat pocket but did not yet hand it over. “I was at my kitchen table this afternoon, had just put the kettle on and was making my shopping list. The next thing, the kettle’s steamed itself dry and I’d written this. Maybe it will mean something to you.” She forced the note into his hand, then turned away. She made it five steps before he called to her. He saw her shoulders hunch together slightly, tensing for his question.

“Yes, Mr. Lean?”

“I know you’re not active as a medium. But in the past year or so, have you been visited by a man, maybe smallish with dark hair, wanting to learn about occult matters, witchcraft? Maybe the Salem witches in particular?”

Mrs. Porter thought a moment. “No, I’m sorry.”

“That’s quite all right. Thank you anyway. You’ve been most helpful.”

Mrs. Porter retreated several more steps, then stopped again, not turning back to face Lean.

“I’m sorry. I lied earlier.”

Lean said nothing, and the night stretched out between them, silent and empty.

“I
have
seen something else. I’ve seen
you,
Mr. Lean. And there’s death all around you. Promise me to God you’ll be careful.”

Lean set
Mrs. Porter’s paper on a table in Dr. Steig’s study, and the others gathered around.

“‘The darkness rising beware the Good woman and her child,’” read the doctor. “What do you suppose it means?”

“I don’t know,” answered Helen, “but it certainly is disturbing.”

“I’ll say,” added Grey as he pointed above the cryptic message to where Amelia Porter had begun to write her shopping list. “‘Five pounds of parsnips.’ I mean, honestly, how many parsnips can two people eat?”

Helen’s head sagged toward her shoulder. “They could be having people for dinner. People do that sometimes—socialize, talk about things other than murder and dismemberment.”

“Ghastly business,” said Grey.

“Returning to the note,” Dr. Steig said. “She was unaware what she had written?”

“Automatic writing. Some mediums do it while in a trance,” Helen said.

“Still doesn’t explain all those parsnips. It’s not as of you can serve them as an entrée.”

“Can you please be serious for a moment, Grey?” Lean said. “I find this message, and the obvious concern displayed by Mrs. Porter, alarming.”

Grey nodded, and Lean took this as the closest he would receive to an acknowledgment of his concern.

“The ‘darkness rising’ bit. She mentioned that in the séance,” said Dr. Steig.

“It’s vague. So is the part about the good woman and her child. Why ‘beware’? Does this ‘good woman’ pose some threat?” asked Helen.

Grey glanced at the note again. “Good is capitalized. Perhaps it’s not a description but a name.”

Dr. Steig went to his bookshelf and pulled down the 1892 Directory of Portland and Vicinity. He flipped through the pages. “Here we go. There’s only one woman by that name, Miss Nellie, a laundress boarding at
56 Maple, which appears to be the home of her father, William, a shoemaker. And the last name is spelled with an ‘e’ on the end.”

“Wait just a minute.” Helen bolted up from her seat and moved to the table. She began riffling through pages of stacked research. “Given that the killer enjoys using names of Salem victims, it just seems a bit of coincidence that … Here we are. Sarah Good. No ‘e’ on the end. She was in the first group of women accused as witches. Hanged on July nineteenth, 1692.”