The Truth of All Things (22 page)

“A witch-hunt?” Dr. Steig set his coffee cup down and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “He’s two hundred years late. Real-live witches, today, in our city? Why, it’s preposterous.”

Lean gave him a questioning look. “No doubt it all sounds utterly mad. But is it any less mad to learn that someone is assuming the name of Salem witches, traveling hundreds of miles, singling out women for no reason at all, and actually murdering them as witches? Just like in the Salem trials.”

“Mrs. Prescott,” Grey said, “you are our resident expert on the Salem witch trials. Please confirm for the deputy that those Salem victims, like ours, were not in fact real witches.”

“Of course not. At least not in the common understanding of witchcraft—standing around the kettle casting spells and all that. That’s not to say that people back then weren’t engaged in certain activities that were considered witchcraft at the time. Things that today we view as harmless superstitions, charms and such.”

“That’s more of what I was getting at,” Lean said. “I’m not suggesting Maggie Keene spent her nights flying about on a broomstick.”

“We know for a fact that is not how she spent her nights,” Grey said.

“But she may have been involved in something, some occult group or activity that could have gotten her named as a witch and killed for
it. After all, those Salem witches didn’t need to be casting real black-magic spells, yet how many of them died?” He turned to Helen and shrugged, showing that his question was more than rhetorical.

“Nineteen hanged, one pressed to death, and some others died in jail during the months of waiting for trials,” she said.

“See?” Lean wagged a finger. “Nearly two dozen dead all the same, because they were thought to be witches. And now our man apparently believes the same of these women. Why?”

Grey pondered this for a moment, while his right eyebrow arched upward, like the hammer of a rifle being drawn back. “What do you think, Mrs. Prescott? Is it plausible that Maggie Keene could have been involved in something perceived as the practice of witchcraft?”

“I’m certainly not an expert on modern witchcraft,” Helen protested, “although while gathering materials for our Salem lectures I did speak with some of the women around town who work as spiritualist mediums. So yes, I would have to say that there are people, even today, who are actively interested in ideas such as black magic.”

H
elen unlocked her front door and entered, followed by Dr. Steig and her daughter, who was still waving the small flag from the earlier Independence Day celebrations. Helen glanced at the clock and saw it was half past seven.

“Oh my, Mr. Grey will be here in thirty minutes. Hurry upstairs, Delia. You can help me get changed into something for the evening.”

“Can’t I come too, Mother? I’m old enough to stay up and see the fireworks.”

“Not tonight, dear. This isn’t to see the fireworks. This is some business we’re working on. Next year I promise to take you. Now, hurry on. I’ll be right up.”

The girl pounded her way upstairs with heavy steps to emphasize her disappointment. Dr. Steig glanced out the curtains and lit a cigarette.

“Are you certain about that? This is just business?”

Helen stared at her uncle. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You’ve had a spring in your step all day. Now you’re practically beaming about Grey’s arrival.”

“Certainly it’s business. Of course, it
will
be rather nice to spend an evening out, see the fireworks, with music and dancing and all. Heaven knows it’s been an awfully long time since I’ve done that.”

“So your excitement isn’t caused by Grey himself.”

Helen’s cheeks reddened a bit. “It should be quite an enjoyable evening to be escorted out by such a cultured, intelligent gentleman. Do you think otherwise? You’ve always spoken highly of him.”

Dr. Steig waved away the idea. “It’s not that. He’s a perfect gentleman, of course. A brilliant man. It’s just, well …” The doctor began to pace as he struggled with a tactful choice of words. “He’s just quite different from other men.”

“Then he’s to be congratulated.”

“Don’t be glib, Helen. I can assure you that whatever your interests and expectations are for this evening, they bear little resemblance to his.”

Helen studied her uncle’s face for a moment, noting a mix of warning and discomfort in his eyes. “Is this because he’s Indian? Are you embarrassed to have me seen with him?”

“What? Of course not. I only mean to say that there is a single-mindedness to him. He’s not one to be overly concerned for the feelings of others.”

“I think you underestimate him. After all, we’re going there tonight to see if I can identify those men who chased me in the alleyway. I believe that Mr. Grey has a genuine interest in apprehending those brutes who meant to harm me.”

“He thinks the men who chased you outside of McGrath’s place came from the Temperance Union. They’re likely some of Colonel Blanchard’s old soldiers, acting on his orders. There’s a connection between the Temperance Union and what Boxcar Annie knows of the murder at the Portland Company. Grey wants you to identify those men so he can use that information as leverage against Colonel Blanchard, find out his connection to Maggie Keene’s death. That’s his only interest.”

Helen waited, making sure her uncle had stated his piece. “Of course we’re doing this for the murder investigation, Uncle. I’m perfectly aware of that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She moved to the stairs. “I have to get ready.”

The crowds of pedestrians and carriages on Congress Street blocked any further progress toward the Eastern Promenade, so Rasmus Hansen dropped Grey and Helen at the corner of Vesper Street and arranged to wait for them a block east. From there the pair walked the final two blocks arm in arm. Grey was sharply attired in his full-dress evening suit, silk-faced to the edge, and double-breasted tattersall white vest. Helen looked dazzling in a blue suit of plain material trimmed with lace. The skirt had three rows of lace flouncing and
puffed back drapery. She had looped the short front drapery at the side with white ribbon bows. The night was hot, so she had forgone a hat in favor of an elaborate ribbon wound through her plaited hair, the red silk completing her patriotic color scheme.

Congress Street ended at the Cleeve and Tucker Memorial, a granite pillar erected in honor of the 1632 arrival on the peninsula of the first two English settlers. Each of the square-based monument’s four sides was engraved with one of the names the city had held in its history, from the original Indian title of Machigonne to Casco, Falmouth, and finally Portland. Normally an expanse of green park space, over half a mile long and five hundred feet deep, sloping sharply down toward Casco Bay, would be visible before them. Tonight, however, there were almost ten thousand people crowded into the area. The sun was setting behind them as Helen and Grey made their way toward the eastern terminus of the Promenade, where the old site of Fort Allen’s earthworks battery was now marked by a large bandstand. For the Fourth of July festivities, a long white tent had been raised to house a temporary wooden dance floor.

Nearby was a platform and podium, decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, where Colonel Blanchard was to give his temperance speech. A line of chairs set at the back of the platform was occupied by various civic and business leaders who, publicly at least, supported the Maine Temperance Union. The site of the colonel’s speech had been well selected; Fort Allen Park recalled his military service while also being located within eyeshot of Fish Point. That easternmost corner of Portland Neck was a favorite locale of vagrants and drunken tramps and would highlight the immediacy of the colonel’s message.

Blanchard walked onstage and exchanged pleasantries with several of the seated men. These weren’t the ones Grey wanted Helen to get a look at. The men they sought would likely be in their old uniforms in one of the ceremonial guard formations positioned around the grounds of the park. Or they might be lingering in plain clothes at the sides and front of the platform, ready to break up any trouble or roust any drunks. The colonel’s views on drinking were not appreciated by a significant share of the city, and his speeches brought a good chance of getting one
or two men well into a bottle and itching for a livelier debate on abstinence and the evils of alcohol.

A wave of applause greeted Colonel Blanchard as he stepped to the podium. The colonel held up his hands, gesturing at the crowd to ease its volume. He was a tall man with a stern face, heavily lined, that looked like it could have been chiseled from a block of New Hampshire granite.

“My dear friends, I know that most of you already enjoy the blessings of sobriety. But today, on this Day of Independence, I come here to see if I can add but one more person, one father, one mother, or even one child, to the rolls of those who already bask in the glorious freedom of temperance.

“Those of you who know me know that I have borne witness to that glorious terrible conflict wherein our generation was called upon to honor the laws of heaven and be our brother’s keepers. To free our fellow men from the unholy yoke of servitude. And yet I declare that all the pain I saw inflicted in my three years of war is but a cup when measured against the ocean of suffering which deluges our communities every day.”

From where they stood on the Promenade, slightly above the speaking platform, Helen and Grey had difficulty identifying anyone in the crowd. Daylight was fast fading, and most of the people below wore hats that shaded their faces. Grey took Helen’s elbow to assist her as they moved down the grassy hillside and worked through the crowd to observe the area surrounding the platform. Helen hoped he was getting a decent view, since her shorter vantage point was useless in the sea of feathered bonnets and top hats. Many of the men in the crowd smoked cigars or cigarettes, but past those hazy covers Helen detected whiffs of whiskey and rum.

They slowly maneuvered around in a circle, heading to the side of the stage where Colonel Blanchard had entered. When the two of them had woven their way close to the left front of the stage, Grey started pointing out possible suspects, some of whom he recognized and others he was simply guessing at, from their bearing and location, as being the colonel’s men. Helen repeatedly denied recognizing anyone, noting
that it had been rather dim and hectic in the alleyway, so she hadn’t gotten a good look at her pursuers.

As the colonel’s speech neared its conclusion, his voice continued to boom out over the heads of the crowd. “The hard facts support us in showing that the practice of drinking spirits, thought by so many to be a harmless indulgence, results in greater misery to more individuals than any other custom or event that has ever existed or occurred in the history of man. By comparison, war is the cause of but little misery, especially as the combatants have nobly sacrificed their lives for the sake of their country. The true War for Independence, the war for our nation’s very soul, is still being fought, and you are all called to be soldiers in this righteous army.”

The colonel waved to the crowd and left the stage to a roar of applause, as well as a decent chorus from those offering their sincerest wishes that he spend a long time as a houseguest of the devil. Blanchard, followed by his retinue, made his way from the stage area to the nearby tent, shaking hands and offering thanks to his supporters.

After casually strolling around the grounds, past several groups of uniformed veterans, Helen and Grey came to the edge of the great white tent that housed the temporary dance floor. Many of the side flaps were removed, allowing breezes and enabling the dancers to hear the music from the adjacent bandstand. Gaslights attached to the support poles lit the interior.

“There, in the corner,” Grey said, and motioned with a tilt of his head.

Helen glanced into the tent, past the twirling figures of waltzing couples. On the far side, she spotted Colonel Blanchard engaged in conversation with a circle of men. The bandleader announced there was time for one more song before the fireworks were scheduled to begin.