The Truth of All Things (47 page)

“What’s your plan, then?” Lean waited. “Grey.”

Grey stared into the distance as the car moved on, passing by the open space of Lincoln Park, originally called Phoenix Park when it was built as a firebreak after the Great Fire of ’66.

“Hmm? Oh, it would be best if you could claim total ignorance of my actions. Though a glance into the cells first thing tomorrow might be appreciated. Just in case things go awry and some Roman Catholic patrolmen decide they ought to be violently offended by my efforts.”

Before Lean could offer any further objection, Grey shifted around at the back of the car, muttered something about making preparations, then hopped down from the slow-moving trolley and made his way to the sidewalk without a glance back.

A few minutes after midnight on Thursday, August 18, Sam Guen was finally rewarded. He felt the last of the tumblers click. He opened the door to the dark walnut bookcase.

“There’s nothing in here.” The disappointment had caused his voice to rise above a whisper, and he quickly corrected himself. “Nothing but books.”

“It’s a bookcase,” said Grey as he scanned the contents. “What were you expecting?”

“Something better than books.”

Grey reached in and carefully removed a thin book of black leather. “You can’t put a price on knowledge, Guen.”

Guen moved across the floor. “Exactly. You don’t know how much to sell it for. The fence will rob you blind. Not worth the effort of stealing it in the first place.” He listened at the door for any hint of movement outside the room.

Grey chuckled. “We’re not stealing it.” He drew the curtain on the window, lit the lamp on the writing desk, and produced a blank page from his coat pocket.

“What are you doing, Mr. Grey?”

“Making a copy of the information I need.”

“But we should be going. Just take the book.”

“The book is a secret. No one knows it’s here, and I’ve been asking the priests about it recently. It wouldn’t take long for the police to be at my door. I don’t need to make enemies of the police or the Catholic Church.”

“Breaking in here, picking the lock, just to read a book? I don’t understand why you do this.”

“But you understood how. And so long as I continue to understand why, you will always remain a very useful and well-paid man.”

Mr. Grey had not bothered to look up. Guen knew he would get no more of an answer. He closed his eyes; his hearing always seemed more focused in complete darkness. It also saved him the anguish of watching Mr. Grey slowly copy the page from the black leather book. Guen pressed his ear to the door again and silently willed the hallway outside to remain free of any approaching footsteps. Yes, he knew how,
that was true enough. Still, if he went to jail or died for this, and had to explain himself later, it would be nice to know why.

At nine in the morning, Lean stood by the windows in Dr. Steig’s consultation room, his hands clutching the transcribed page behind his back, waiting as the maid set out coffee for four, then took her leave. He brought the paper around front, then glanced at the faces of the doctor and Grey, who sat waiting for him to begin. He had already pored over the page, familiarizing himself with the contents and with Grey’s hurried but neat handwriting.

“ ‘In the fourth month and the last of my travels, I came to Smyrna and the end of my journey, where on the day the Master died, where his blood flowed. There, by the light of the firebrand, I could see the father who would not burn. He asked me would I quench the flames, and with blood I did. There the fourth, there the last offering taken. There was the cup finally emptied, and there was the vessel held ready for the Master once more.’ ”

The silence that followed was interrupted by the sound of an arrival in the front hall. Seconds later Helen rushed into the room, dropped her handbag on the table, and let out a sigh.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Dr. Steig leaned forward at his desk, studying his niece intently. “You look rather fatigued.”

“Well, I did receive a surprisingly early note this morning requesting some immediate research.” Helen shot an accusing glance at Grey.

“I do apologize. Though I should hope if my life ever depended on it, you wouldn’t mind losing a few hours of sleep.”

“We’ll see,” mumbled Helen. Then, in a stronger voice, she stated, “Here’s what I found. Information on the actual Salem executions. So will he strike next in Salem? What does the next page say?”

“It provides the three crucial pieces of information we were lacking,” Grey said.

Lean handed Helen the copy and let her digest it.

“It’s the end of his journey,” Dr. Steig said. “The final killing will be where the master died and his blood was shed.”

“Well, that’s easy enough, then,” Helen said. “George Burroughs died in Salem, at Gallows Hill. Though, technically speaking, his blood wasn’t shed; he was hanged.”

“Fire is noted as the method in the riddle. And blood is the only thing mentioned for the part of the body. So presumably there will be wounds inflicted and the body burned,” Lean said.

“Stands to reason.” Grey nodded his agreement. “If the worst comes to pass and we can’t intercept the killer before the act, at least the fire will reveal his exact location.”

“We mustn’t let it come to that. Location and method.” Lean held up two fingers. “You said there were three bits of information to consider.”

“The date.”

“Date? The twenty-second, of course. The new moon.” Lean could feel himself frowning. It had to be the new moon. “The last paragraph mentions no light other than the fire. It will be complete darkness out. He started on the full moon, he’ll end on the new. What else could it be?”

“Look closely at the text. ‘In the fourth month … where on the day the Master died.’ The wording’s awkward, yet the reference is clear. The date of import is that of his actual death.”

Helen was working her fingers together, over and over. “The opening of the Black Book does emphasize the hundred-year cycle of the master’s death.” Her eyes shot back and forth between Lean and Grey. “And Burroughs was hanged tomorrow, August nineteenth.”

“I don’t know, Grey. You said yourself the wording is odd. How can you be sure?”

“I’m not. But we can’t afford to take a risk. If I’m wrong, then we’ve merely wasted a night. We’ll still have another chance on the new moon, three days later.” Grey dug in his pocket and took out a small sheet of paper. “And there’s something else.”

Lean recognized it as a telegram, and a stone settled into his gut. “McCutcheon?”

Grey nodded. “He went to check in on Geoffrey Blanchard at the lunatic hospital the day before last but was told the man was unavailable.

He went back yesterday and again this morning and was turned away each time in no uncertain terms.”

Lean tapped his knuckles on the desk. Either something was wrong with Blanchard or he’d escaped or bought his way out again. “If Blanchard managed to leave the asylum at least two days ago and hasn’t returned yet,” Lean said, “then he’s had plenty of time.”

Grey nodded his agreement. “Enough to find his victim and arrange the details of his final sacrifice.”

“They’ve been women so far, but we never ruled out that Blanchard may still be fixed on revenge. Old Stitch and now, maybe, her son,” Lean said.

“Father Coyne is willing to meet with us this afternoon. There’s still hope that we can locate Jack Whitten if, indeed, he is the intended victim.”

F
ather Coyne’s retreat was a simple clapboard structure, little more than a summer cottage, overlooking a small cove on the Stroudwater River. Grey knocked several times until the door cracked open. Above the chain lock, Lean saw a pair of squinting eyes set in a pale, homely face topped by close-cropped dirty-blond hair.

“What?”

“You must be Peter Chapman,” Lean said.

“And you must be a bloody genius,” answered the man.

“Deputy Lean, actually. This is Mr. Grey.”

“And?”

“I believe that Father Coyne’s expecting us.”

The man grumbled something unintelligible and closed the door.

“Did I insult the man’s mother?” Lean asked.

“Someone ought to. Did you notice the way his forehead—”

The door opened again, and Peter Chapman set himself in the
doorway. He was small but scrappy-looking and doing his best to show the unwelcome guests he meant business. He spoke in a sort of shouted whisper, trying to intimidate without causing a ruckus.

“He ain’t well, y’know. So I won’t stand for no funny business. No getting him riled. And ya can’t stay long.”

The whole debate on Lombroso’s theories of criminal anthropology aside, Lean couldn’t shake the impression that the little troll of a man simply had a miscreant’s face. Lean was sure if he dug, he’d find a history of arrests for petty crimes. But, apparently, he was one of the reformed. Sometimes even a lifer managed to find true religion. Kept his thief’s sense of fellowship and loyalty but traded in his little gang for a great big one. It didn’t always hold, but at least Peter Chapman seemed sincere in his concern over Father Coyne.

They followed the scrawny man through the kitchen and into the den. The drawn curtains allowed only a sliver of light. Despite its being a warm day, there was a fire in the small woodstove. Father Coyne sat nearby with his eyes closed and his feet up on a stool. A small table, holding a closed book and a magnifying glass, straddled his outstretched legs, which were covered by a tartan throw. He wore a house robe drawn tight. His head was wrapped in white fabric rolled round and round the crown and held on with a few loops under his chin, leaving the area from forehead to bottom lip revealed. If the priest weren’t so pale, Lean thought he might have passed as some type of Bedouin trader suffering a massive toothache. The floor creaked with their approach, and Father Coyne’s eyes popped open.

“Father Coyne?”

“Yes, gentlemen, come in, come in.” His raspy voice hinted at a pleasant disposition. “Forgive me if I don’t rise. Peter, some chairs, please.”

The priest’s assistant brought two straight-back chairs from the kitchen.

“I have Bishop Healy’s letter” — Father Coyne looked under his book — “somewhere.”

“Yes, thank you for having us,” Lean said. “We understand it’s a difficult time.”

“All this” — the priest gave a small wave around the room — “is doctor’s orders. Seem to think they can steam it out of me. Once a day with the heat, they say. Wrapped up like some dead Egyptian pharaoh.” He paused frequently to draw breath. He sounded as if he was unable to fill his lungs. “Sweating is supposed to have a recuperative effect, invigorate the blood or some such. But enough of my troubles. You’ve come about Jack Whitten. What’s he doing these days?”

“We were hoping you might be able to tell us,” Lean said.

“Afraid not. We haven’t spoken in many years. I tried, but …”

“I understand there was some sort of falling-out, an incident where he stole something,” Grey said.

“He never stole anything. I’m not sure what there would have been to steal in the church library.” Father Coyne barked out a sharp cough. “Only a bunch of old records. Nothing worthwhile.”

“Then what was the problem?” Lean asked.

“Oh, there was another boy involved.” The priest wiped spittle from his lips with a well-used handkerchief. “Just boys being boys, really. But this other family blamed Jack for everything. He’d misled their son and all that.” He paused for another harsh cough. “Demanded we send him to the reform school.”

“And you did?”

Father Coyne nodded. “I should have pressed harder for him to stay.” The rasping sound of his breathing became more noticeable. “But I was new then. It wasn’t my decision. Still … he never forgave me his being sent away.” His throat erupted with a coughing fit. Peter came bustling into the room with a glass of water, then glared at the detectives on his way out. “I think I was the first adult he’d ever really trusted. If I’d had more time, maybe I could have reached that boy. A failure … on my part. There was good in him.”

Another coughing spell shook the priest’s body, and Lean moved forward to retrieve the man’s glass of water for him.