A Study in Revenge (48 page)

“That was never part of the plan. Uncle Jason was simply going to pay him for the thunderstone. Then, at the last minute, Marsh had a change of heart. Didn’t want to risk Cosgrove talking. He said there was too much at stake, so he had one of his ruffians shoot the man.” She pleaded her innocence with a long look into his eyes.

“I’m not the criminal here, Perceval. It’s Marsh. You must see that. He’s the one who kills anyone who stands in his way. He’s the one who digs his claws into innocent souls, corrupts them with his madness, and sets them loose to do his killing. He has to be stopped. You know that. Help me do it. I owe Maddy justice.”

“Justice? How, exactly? By killing Marsh? Or your Uncle Jason? The desire for revenge is born of pain, not justice.”

“Killing’s too good for Marsh. Not yet. I’m going to destroy him first. Expose him for the greedy, criminal lunatic that he is. Ruin him, see him paraded about in handcuffs. Ridiculed and despised in the street. And once he gets out of prison, or if he avoids jail, there’ll be time enough to kill him then.”

“Listen to yourself, Phebe. It’s for the law to deal with Marsh and your uncle.”

“They’d never be held accountable for Maddy’s death. There’s no proof of anything that happened with her. And I wouldn’t let her name be stomped down into the mud.”

“With your testimony they could be found complicit in Cosgrove’s death,” he assured her.

“And me as well. I never went to the police afterward.”

“You didn’t know that Marsh meant to kill Cosgrove. I’m sure the city attorney would grant you amnesty in return for your testimony.”

“No. Jason and Marsh need to pay for
Maddy’s
life—not that man Cosgrove’s.”

“How do you propose to accomplish all this?” Grey asked.

“I’ve worked it all out, made all the arrangements. As soon as Marsh and Uncle Jason started this insane alchemy talk and digging up my ancestor’s buried treasure, I knew it would come to this. I knew all along they’d never find whatever they were looking for buried under one of
the old family houses. Eventually they’d have to look in the last possible location. And there was only one way they could ever reach it.

“I’ve long since prepared certain incriminating documents. After tonight, when this is over, those documents will be found among Jason’s papers. They’ll expose his connection to Marsh’s insane magic society. Engineering plans that show the weak spot. Journal entries revealing their plan to use the explosives he stole from Uncle Euripides’ munitions works. The ones they used to finally complete their delusional plan and unearth the hiding place of Thomas Webster’s magical golden formula or whatever foolishness it is that they believe in.”

“Explosives—what explosives? You’re actually arranging an explosion? Where? Don’t you hear how crazed you sound?”

“It’s already set. Jason and Marsh saw to that. All I had to do was go back and increase the amount of the charges.” The firmness in her eyes wavered for a moment, replaced by another pleading look. “It’s the only way. Help me do this, Perceval. You know it’s the right thing. True justice never fully reaches men like Marsh and Jason in a courtroom. Fancy-talking lawyers will spin lies, and they’ll walk free. This is our chance to see real justice done—tonight. Come with me.”

“None of this will give you your sister back.”

“No.” She turned away from him. Her hands slipped into the large pocket of the field jacket, and her shoulders slumped as if she were finally accepting defeat. When she spoke again, there was still desperate hope in her voice.

“It will make them pay, though. All three men responsible for her death. Won’t you help me?”

“Three men?” Grey repeated, confused at that last admission. “I don’t know what madness you intend, but I can’t let you go through with it.”

Phebe turned around to face Grey again. Her shoulders pulled back straight, in defiance. Her right hand slipped out of her coat pocket, holding a pistol aimed squarely at Grey.

“I’m sorry, Perceval. I didn’t wish for things to end this way between us. I was ready to forgive
you
.”

T
OM
D
ORAN FOUND
M
C
C
RINK LURKING IN THE SHADOW OF
a building across the street from the Webster house.

“We’re done,” Doran announced quietly.

“Finally,” the diminutive man answered. He crushed out his cigarette and readied himself to leave. “Thought you said this Grey fellow was smart.”

“What do you mean?” Doran asked.

“Well, he’s been in there a while, with the Webster woman, no doubt. I’m thinking he means to spend the night. One of the servants came out ten minutes back and took off for the day. Even had his luggage with him. And Grey’s still left his driver right out front. Not being too sly about the fact that he’s paying the young lady a long visit.”

Doran decided to linger after he sent McCrink off. He lit a cigar while he stood there watching the house. Quiet minutes drifted past. His cigar was burning down toward the end. That was the deal he’d set with himself. When the cigar was out, he’d do something besides just stand there waiting for Perceval Grey to make an appearance. He took the cigar from his mouth, wanting it to last a few moments longer while he sorted out what to do next. The whole scene was queer. The house was dark. No one was moving around inside. The young Webster woman was still in there. Otherwise there’d be no call for Grey to still be nosing about. That had to be the explanation. They were inside moving about plenty, just not the kind of moving you do in a lit room in front of the window, where peeping Tom Doran can get an eyeful of you.

One big fat problem kept kicking around in his brain. Grey’s carriage and his driver, Rasmus Hansen, were parked right there out front, beneath a streetlamp. Rasmus was reading the evening edition through for the second time. Doran knew the driver from before, when Rasmus
worked for Dr. Steig. It was natural to get used to waiting around when you drove for a doctor who could be called out at all hours. But Rasmus was no fool neither. If Grey was inside with the Webster woman, Rasmus would be discreet. He wouldn’t announce his employer’s presence by parking directly out front.

After a last puff on the cigar nub, Doran tossed it aside and lumbered down the sidewalk toward the parked carriage. The horse whinnied at his approach, and Rasmus glanced past his paper.

“Big Tom Doran,” the driver greeted him, with a crooked but genuine smile. “Wondering how long you were going to wait there, lurking in the shadows.”

“You knew I was there?”

“Mr. Grey had your man pegged down as following us since we left High Street.” The driver folded his newspaper and tucked it beside his seat.

“Well, what’s he on about in there? I’m tired of waiting for him. When you expect him out?”

“Already. But I’ve learned it don’t pay to expect Mr. Grey to do what you expected him to.”

Doran snorted by way of acknowledgment, then asked, “That Webster girl got her hooks in him? You figure maybe he’s in there working up a smile?”

“I don’t reckon that,” Rasmus said as a look of serious contemplation come over him. “He was in one of his gloomy ways when he climbed in. Like he gets when he’s thinking too hard.”

“That’s not good for a fellow,” Doran said.

“True enough, but you know what he’s like. Peculiar. Seems to me the man’s only happy when he’s in a troubled mood.”

“This is a waste of time. How long you mean to wait on him?”

“Don’t know. He should be out by now, or soon anyway. And he don’t like to be interrupted when he’s up to things.” Rasmus took his hat in one hand and scratched his scalp. “Maybe I could peek in or give a light knock. If Miss Webster’s up, there’s bound to be a maid or somebody awake. I could give a light rap, see if I can learn what’s what.”

“Go on, then,” Doran urged him. “My feet are aching with all this standing about.”

He watched Rasmus make his way to the front door and peek in at the narrow side windows. The man gave the knocker a timid rap. Then he pressed his ear to the door and listened for at least twenty seconds.

Doran was about to shout at him to knock louder when Rasmus waved him forward. Doran tromped up the walkway.

“Listen,” Rasmus hissed at him.

Doran didn’t hear anything other than a few faint sounds of carriages passing on the next block. He pressed his ear to the door as Rasmus had done. After a few seconds, he heard it. A faint metallic clanking sound. It almost sounded like heating pipes coming to life, but this was different, more urgent.

“What is it?” Doran wondered aloud.

Rasmus didn’t answer. He stepped away from the door and moved along the front of the house, peering in windows as he went. When he disappeared around the corner, Doran gave in and followed. The windows were all dark and revealed nothing. He didn’t catch up with Rasmus until he reached the back of the house. The driver had his head pressed close to a window that was not fully shut. From the moonlight passing through the window, Doran could make out that they were looking in on the kitchen. The clanking sound was still muffled but louder. It was irregular, several seconds of silence and then a burst of angry rattling.

“Don’t you think this is queer?” Rasmus asked.

“Queer enough.” Doran went to the back door and hammered on it with the side of his fist. There was silence and then, a few seconds later, an even more furious sound of metal clanging and rattling.

Doran returned to the window and lifted it wide. “Here, I’ll boost you through.”

As he readied himself to step into Doran’s interlocked fingers, Rasmus paused. “But what if it’s nothing? What if they’re upstairs and all?”

“Then we hoof it fast around the corner. I was with you and you were with me, together minding our business over at Farrell’s saloon for the past hour.”

Rasmus slipped through the window and unlocked the door for Doran before lighting a wall lamp. The kitchen was neat and orderly, everything set to rights for the night. There was no sound throughout the house.

“Don’t think there’s anyone here,” Rasmus whispered.

The clanging sounds started up again, and Doran led the way down to the end of a short hall. Rasmus loitered behind a moment as he found and lit a candle. Doran opened the door. The room inside was dark, but he could make out the white porcelain sink. It was a small water closet. There was a dark figure lying on the floor next to the sink.

“Shut the gas valve,” the man on the floor growled.

A second later Doran heard it, the low, steady hiss of the gas jet on the wall left open. He glanced over his shoulder to where Rasmus was starting down the hallway with his candle in hand.

“Douse that flame.” The big Irishman ordered before fumbling in the dark to turn the jet off.

“I’m handcuffed,” the voice from the floor said. Doran recognized it now as Grey. “Is the key somewhere?”

Doran shouted the question back to Rasmus and then felt for Grey’s hands. The cuffs ran behind the sink’s drainpipe. Doran gave several strong yanks to see if he could dislodge the pipe and free Grey. The plumbing shuddered but held in place.

Rasmus appeared in the doorway with a key held up in triumph. “This was on the kitchen table. Give it a try.”

It took Doran a moment, but he got the key in and heard it click. They helped Grey to his feet and guided the unsteady man back to the kitchen.

“Did you see her leave? Phebe Webster?” Grey asked them. “Did she meet anyone? Which direction did she go?”

Rasmus shook his head. “Never saw her. Some worker left out the side. Carrying a heavy trunk. Maybe a toolbox.”

Grey pondered this for a moment. “Rasmus, is my bag still in the carriage?”

“Course, Mr. Grey.”

“Right. I need you to get me to Deputy Lean’s house, and quickly. Doran—get to the patrol station. If Lean’s there, have him telephone me at his house. We need to find him. Now.”

“A
RCHIE LEFT THIRTY
minutes ago.” Emma’s eyes wandered out past Perceval Grey, trying to penetrate the shroud of darkness beyond her
front porch. “He was going to check in at the station, and then he had to meet someone.”

“He didn’t perchance say exactly where he was meeting?” Grey tried to keep his tone casually polite, but he noticed his own fingers tapping furiously on the doorframe and had to pull his hand down.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. In fact”—her hand circled in the air near her head as if cranking up her mind—“I don’t think he knew who he was supposed to meet. He mentioned that murdered man from a few weeks ago and Munjoy Hill.”

“Where’s Daddy?” The demanding voice came from the hallway stairs. Beneath a pile of tousled hair were a pair of blurry eyes and the aggrieved face of six-year-old Owen Lean.

“Back up to bed, young man.”

“Has he done something with Daddy?” Owen pointed an accusatory finger toward Grey at the front door.

“Owen, you march right up those stairs this instant. I’ll be up to tuck you back in.” Emma stared after her son for a few seconds, making sure he started his grudging retreat to his bedroom.