A Study in Revenge (7 page)

They started to cut across Congress Street heading for Monument Square. While other pedestrians retreated back to the sidewalk or else quickened their steps to dodge an oncoming horse-drawn railcar, the mayor just kept on at his same steady pace. Lean had to restrain his urge to grab hold and rush the man forward. It wasn’t with any arrogance that the mayor forced the trolley to slow and yield to him, just a sense of surety, a purpose in his stride that would not be deflected or delayed.

“Mrs. Prescott’s letter picks up the tale there,” Baxter said. “It rather shocked and saddened me to learn that he was, in fact, murdered. Along with others—a priest, even. Adultery and blackmail, poison and black magic. And to top it all off, Mrs. Prescott herself and her young daughter kidnapped and planned to be murdered in some occult ritual. Only to be saved at the last moment by you and this Perceval Grey.” Baxter gave Lean an appreciative nudge with the back of his hand as they walked.

“It’s all a bit hard to fathom,” the mayor said. “I wouldn’t have believed any of it if I didn’t know Mrs. Prescott and her uncle. She wanted to impress upon me just how much you and this Grey fellow had done to bring the true murderer to justice, that you deserved to remain a deputy marshal when I made my official appointments.”

Lean nodded. His original appointment to deputy under the prior mayor had been unexpected. The increase in salary had allowed him and Emma to purchase their modest home. He’d been incredibly relieved earlier this year to learn that Mayor Baxter hadn’t chosen to replace him. “Very considerate of her.”

“Suppose it was the least she could do for the man she credits with saving her daughter.”

“I’m only thankful we arrived in time,” Lean said. “Of course, I should be quite clear on just how much Helen Prescott assisted in the investigation. She displayed bravery and insight far beyond that which we could have expected from someone in her position. A position I’m hopeful she will soon return to.”

“Of course, I’ll see to that. Whenever she wishes to return, the historical society will be waiting. Her story did have a few gaps in it that interest me. If I understand correctly, the man behind those murders was
obsessed with the occult and was assisted by others, including a woman. And—is this true—she tried to burn Mrs. Prescott’s daughter alive?”

Lean nodded.

“A woman! What kind of monster could attempt such a thing?”

“We never did learn that, Your Honor. She set herself aflame and fell into the ocean. The body was never recovered. She seemed to be similarly obsessed with occult ideas. Obviously, she was very disturbed, not in her right mind.”

The mayor nodded and sighed, accepting the explanation as the only one that could ever possibly make sense in the world. “I understand that the fellow behind the murders also died in the … attempt to arrest him. Though the death was never officially reported.”

“It seemed a full report would have prompted a slew of questions that might have been hard to explain, and perhaps quite damaging to other people and interests,” Lean said.

“Mayor Ingraham’s feelings on the subject, no doubt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the killer’s body was disposed of how?”

“Perceval Grey saw to that in a matter he thought fitting.”

A look of morbid curiosity dawned on the mayor’s face. “Which was what, exactly?”

Lean considered how to phrase his answer and drew in a deep breath. It proved to be poor timing. They were passing Horp Lung’s shop. Bright red letters painted on the window declared “Hand Laundry.” A vent leading out from a small basement window sent waves of hot, steamy air onto the sidewalk. A less-than-pleasant odor of human life enveloped them for a moment, the heavy scent of laundry being pressed by hot irons. Lean’s mind recoiled to the midnight visit to the Western Cemetery and the wall of stuffy, rancid air that had washed over him and Grey as they’d unsealed a heavy metal door.

“He put the body in the same tomb where we’d earlier discovered that the missing woman’s corpse was being hidden.”

“The Marsh family tomb?” Baxter’s normally calm eyes widened. “That brings me to my final question: What exactly was the role of Dr. Jotham Marsh in all this?”

As they rounded the corner and entered the bustle of Monument Square, Lean tried to gauge what the nature of Mayor Baxter’s interest was in the subject of Jotham Marsh, but the man’s voice and expression were completely neutral.

“I can’t honestly say. He had some connection to the murderer through that mystical order he runs. He was a kind of teacher in occult matters. But he denied any knowledge of the man’s activities or murderous interests. He, or at least his followers, did hide that earlier victim’s body, but it seemed less to aid the murderer and more to avoid any scandal.”

They paused before the entrance to the United States Hotel, where Baxter was meeting business associates for dinner. Baxter raised one of his sharp eyebrows and asked, “And your friend Grey thought that action warranted having a murderer’s body dumped in the family’s tomb?”

“Grey suspected that Marsh was more involved than it outwardly appeared. That he had a sort of sinister hand in all of it.”

As the mayor weighed that information, Lean glanced past him to survey the open plaza and its surrounding avenues. Apart from the elegant United States Hotel, Monument Square was also home to the grand Preble House, along with dozens of other restaurants, theater halls, offices, and shops providing the full gamut of products and services. The square had been reconfigured two years prior when the center of the plaza yielded to the erection of a massive Civil War monument.
Our Lady of Victories
, a bronze, laurel-helmeted Athena, towered over the plaza from atop a large pedestal bearing reliefs of soldiers and sailors.

“I’ve met the man a few times,” the mayor finally conceded. “He’s becoming something of a fixture in certain social circles.”

“Well, like I said, Grey had his suspicions. There was no hard evidence of wrongdoing.”

“Don’t worry, Lean. Marsh is not a friend of mine. In fact, I find there’s something about the man that isn’t quite square.” The mayor chuckled. “Mrs. Prescott, on the other hand, strikes me as a person who makes quite a bit of sense. She spoke highly of you and your unofficial colleague Mr. Grey. So go ahead with your hunting expedition to Boston. Utilize Grey’s talents as you see fit. Of course, if you can apprehend
the murderer this time, rather than tossing him off the side of a building, all the better.”

“Understood, sir. Thank you.”

L
EAN RAN THROUGH
the dark, not knowing exactly where he was going, just rushing straight ahead beneath a cloudy, troubled night sky. His trouser legs snagged on the tangled brush as he raced over the uneven ground. Then ahead he saw a flickering flame. He ran harder, closing the distance, watching the flame grow larger as he neared. He reached a rock ledge, a craggy outcropping jutting into dark, empty air. To the sides he saw whitecaps raging on the black water. The flame, a burning torch, was close now. A woman in a white dress held it above her head as she pressed forward, farther out along the rise of the ledge.

Lean bounded up the slope of small, sharply angled rocks. The ocean grew louder; lightning flashed beyond the fleeing woman’s outline. She reached the point and turned to face him. In the light of the torch, Lean saw her teeth bared in a twisted, furious snarl. Her red hair was pulled back, and her eyes were lit with sheer hatred. He knew that face now. He raised the pistol, aiming directly at her chest. Then, remembering the futility of it, he lowered his gun. Her snarl eased into a menacing grin.

“It’s already over,” Lean heard himself say.

“Fool,” the woman hissed. “The Master is rising even now. You can’t stop him. And the stronger the spirit offered up, the brighter the flame calling him back to us.”

The woman’s right arm, the one holding the firebrand, dropped to her side.

“Don’t!” he cried.

The flame touched the bottom of the woman’s dress and blazed upward. Lean stepped forward, his coat in his hand to smother the fire, but her hair was already burning. The woman’s arms shot skyward like two fiery pillars. Lean tried to move in, but the heat of the flames was unbearable, and his nostrils filled with the overpowering stench of oil and burned flesh. He was about to attempt a tackle when she turned and ran headlong off the rocks. She dropped down into the ocean, leaving a sickening hiss in her wake.

The world flashed. Lean’s body convulsed, and he heard his own voice. He wasn’t sure what he’d said. A sweaty film coated his body. He felt all tangled and worked his legs free before sitting up in his bed.

“What’s wrong?” Emma said.

Lean stared at his wife before reality settled back into his mind.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just a dream.”

Emma was silent for a moment then asked, “Not that same one from before?”

A bothered, whimpering sound erupted from beyond his wife’s side of the bed, saving Lean from having to answer.

“Oh, she’s awake,” Emma whispered as she rose and moved to the crib against the wall.

“Sorry,” Lean whispered back.

Emma gave him a tired smile and turned her full attention to their ten-month-old daughter, Amelia. Lean wandered out of the room and downstairs to use the water closet before finding a cigarette in a coat pocket. He eased his way out the back door and walked across their small, fenced-in yard. They’d bought the little house only that spring, and Lean was still getting used to the place. The grass, where it hadn’t yet gone brown or bare, felt refreshing beneath his feet. His thoughts began to wander as he returned to sit on the steps and finish his smoke.

In a few hours, he’d be up and on his way. A train ride to Massachusetts with Grey to track down a man connected to a strange, gruesome murder. He tried to shake the dreams and his thoughts of that former case from his head and focus instead on tomorrow’s task. Just find Chester Sears and they’d find out what Cosgrove was up to. Lean wondered if everyone upstairs was back to sleep yet. Emma would likely forget everything by morning. He wouldn’t have to lie about having the same dream again. He drew in a final breath of smoke. The last bit of paper glowed in the darkness before he dropped the butt on the ground and watched it die.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
L
EAN ARRIVED AT
G
REY
’
S BUILDING ON
High Street and instructed the cabdriver to wait. He knocked and stood there until the door creaked open just far enough for the landlady’s face to reluctantly make its appearance.

“Why, Deputy Lean, you’re a welcome sight.” Mrs. Philbrick actually smiled.

Lean tried to remember if he’d ever seen her do that before. He removed his hat and stepped into the hallway.

“You wouldn’t believe the assortment of characters he has parading through here at all hours. More than a few of the criminal element, I’d say.” Mrs. Philbrick rolled her eyes to the heavens.

“Have you seen Mr. Grey this morning?”

“Seen him? No. Heard him enough. Up there pacing back and forth all night long. In one of his confounded moods.”

Lean headed up the stairs, then paused in the short hallway just long enough to rap on Grey’s door before entering. The main room served as a parlor, library, laboratory, and office. The space usually held some degree of organization and tidiness, but not this morning. Flat sheets of discarded paper competed with those of the balled-up and tossed-aside variety for dominion of the floor, desktop, and every other horizontal surface in the room.

Grey stood near the windows, writing on a chalkboard that must have been a new addition to the room. After noticing Lean, he glanced at his pocket watch. “You’re early.”

“I had a feeling you might need a reminder of our schedule.” Lean saw that Grey was still wearing the suit he’d had on yesterday. The jacket was slung over a chair, and the sleeves of his shirt, from wrist to
elbow, were covered in chalk from wiping the board clean. “Just in case you were preoccupied.”

Lean picked up a sheet of paper and saw
“boy 22 horse 78 dog ink sun”
written across the top. Columns of what looked like random letters and numbers were arranged below. On Grey’s desk Lean noticed an atlas opened to a map of Portland along with the city directory half buried beneath sheets of scribbled notes.

“Have you been at this all night? Trying to decipher the words on Sears’s note. You should’ve gotten some sleep. We’ll have four hours on the train to Boston to consider the code.”

Grey looked at Lean, finally accepting the truth of his presence. “Easier for me to work … here.”

Lean grinned, amused rather than offended by the effort it must have taken for Grey to end that sentence with something other than “alone.”

“I’ll see if Mrs. Philbrick can manage some toast or something while you get dressed and pack.”