The Truth of All Things (51 page)

“Just wish we’d have caught him alive,” Lean said. “Could’ve gotten a confession.”

“Perhaps he was thinking the same thing. Jumping in front of that train was his choice—as was all this. Besides, other than ourselves, who would have taken much joy in hearing that confession, having to wrestle with the realization of all that has happened here?”

“People want to know the truth,” Lean said.

The train began to move forward in lurching bursts.

“The truth?” Grey said. “For most people the truth is more a matter of opinion than fact. No, they only want the sordid details. Preferably spun into some terrible, fascinating story they can repeat. A grisly account of sin and death, vengeance and madness is always popular. But the whole truth of it all? Good citizens hanging children. Human sacrifices going undetected by the police. War heroes paying off smugglers to keep murders quiet. No one would believe it all.”

Lean’s eyelids began to sag. He opened his mouth to speak but then noticed that Grey, seated across from him in the compartment, was absolutely still, eyes shut, his breathing low and regular. Images of the past twelve hours floated through Lean’s mind. After the incident at the station, the remainder of the night and the morning were all a blur of movement and questions from the Salem police. He only vaguely remembered locating McCutcheon and dealing with his medical needs. Then he’d led the Salem police up Gallows Hill and was surprised to find the body of Geoffrey Blanchard lying flat, with no evidence of the primitive cross he’d been tied to. After a moment he realized his gratitude to Grey for altering the scene. There were enough questions to answer about a dead body, even without the indications of a ritual murder.

A few hours of sleep at the police station had been followed by a
trip to the telegraph office this morning, where he’d sent a note to Officer Bushey in Portland to check on Father Coyne’s well-being. Another round of discussions with the police and several high-ranking administrators from Danvers Lunatic Hospital followed. They were clearly none too happy about the news, and Lean quickly figured that their displeasure had as much to do with their inability to explain how Blanchard had obtained his freedom as it did with the fact that he’d gotten his throat cut. They were gnashing their teeth over what the newspapers, Colonel Blanchard, and a potential flock of lawyers might say about the insufficient security at the asylum.

The Salem police were at something of a loss as to how to explain the entire situation any other way than how Lean had laid it out for them. He had followed Peter Chapman there from Portland in connection with the disappearance of Lizzie Madson earlier that summer. Chapman had a violent streak, and it was suspected that he and Geoffrey Blanchard had known each other in Portland years earlier. The exact nature of their relationship, and why Chapman would want to slash the man’s throat, was unknown to Lean. In any event, the man was clearly deranged. McCutcheon confirmed that he was in Salem to help Lean apprehend Chapman, who had shot him during the pursuit. The statements of the other witnesses from the station confirmed that Chapman had jumped to his death before the train. In the end, the Salem police were quite happy to chalk it up to a lunatic committing suicide at the station.

As for Geoffrey Blanchard, the Danvers Lunatic Hospital officials were quite adamant in establishing that Lean had not actually seen Chapman kill Colonel Blanchard’s son. So there was no actual proof of a murder. A knife had been found on the ground near Blanchard’s body. It could easily have been dropped by Blanchard after he’d killed himself. And, if so, it provided a much less compelling news item. By the time Lean had been able to extract himself from the police station, it seemed in all likelihood that the police and the hospital administrators were reaching a consensus that it would be for the best if the whole event was rendered down to no story at all. It was not necessary, and could even be publicly demoralizing, to disclose the manner of
Blanchard’s reported suicide and the exact location. It would certainly be less problematic, and there would be fewer questions asked, if it was publicly assumed that Geoffrey Blanchard had simply died while still located properly in his cell.

After finally finishing up with the police, Lean had found Grey in attendance at the hospital bedside of Walt McCutcheon, who was looking surprisingly rosy-cheeked for a man who’d been shot the night before. As it turned out, the bullet had passed right through the ample flesh at the side of McCutcheon’s midsection, striking no vital organs. While he would remain at the hospital for the next few days, there was no indication that he could expect anything other than a full recovery. Grey apologized that he would not be able to stay and look after his friend, but McCutcheon would not hear of it. In fact, he seemed quite eager for the Portland men to be on their way. He had an eye on one of the nurses and didn’t need a couple of haggard, smelly detective types lurking about and interfering with whatever series of lies he intended to tell the young woman.

The thought of Walt McCutcheon’s injured body failing to restrain his overly amorous sense of optimism brought a faint smile to Lean’s face as his eyelids closed. His right hand slipped from his lap, landing with a soft thud on the seat. The telegraph response, which had been waiting for him at the train station, dropped from his fingers. Anyone passing by who happened to pick up the paper would have read Officer Bushey’s reply to Lean’s inquiry: “Fire yesterday. Father Coyne’s house destroyed. His body pulled out this morning.”

“W
ell, Grey, I’m in the awkward position of being extremely grateful for all your help in this matter, yet hoping to God I never have to see you again. Professionally, I mean.”

Grey turned away from the hackney’s window and the sights of the Portland streets. The faintest of smiles threatened his face. “It will
likely be some while before we cross paths again; I still plan to return to Boston next month. I should thank you as well, though. This has certainly been an interesting summer, one of the most intriguing inquiries I’ve ever conducted.”

“
One
of the most intriguing?” Lean chuckled. “I only wish we’d guessed the killer’s identity sooner. Might have saved Father Coyne.”

“Yes, terribly regrettable, though I doubt we could have saved the unfortunate man. I suspect that Whitten’s poison would have finished the job even if we had, as you say” — Grey cleared his throat for emphasis — “
guessed
the truth and apprehended our man earlier.”

“Maybe so.”

The carriage drew to a halt on High Street. Grey reached for the handle.

“Anyway,” Lean said, “again I … that is—”

“Understood. Good day, Deputy.” Grey departed, and the carriage moved on.

Lean sat back into the seat and let his eyes close. The respite was short-lived. Not a half block on, a shriek made him bolt upright.

“Driver!”

Lean shot his head out of the open window. Back on the steps of Grey’s building, the landlady, Mrs. Philbrick, was standing with Grey’s arms around her for support. Lean jumped down to the street and raced back. Grey had already steered the hysterical woman up the steps and inside the doorway. Lean bounded up the stairs after them. Grey was urging her to lower her voice and speak slowly, to tell him everything. She nodded but continued to rant incoherently as she fought to keep her voice at something near a hoarse, panicked whisper.

“I didn’t know what else to do but pray for your swift return,” she said. “He wouldn’t leave. There was no talking to him. Of course, I didn’t try much—the way he looked and all. I mentioned the police, but he looked like he’d kill me on the spot. Oh, he’s horrible, something horrible has happened. I don’t know what he’s done, but it’s terrible. Should I telephone for the police now?”

The woman’s face was pale. And her eyes widened even further
when she finally noticed Lean standing nearby. “Oh, thank goodness, Deputy. You have to go up there. Arrest him. But be careful, he’s all a bloody devil, he is!”

Grey took her by the shoulders. “My good Mrs. Philbrick. Everything will be perfectly fine. I want you to stand right here. The deputy and I will go upstairs and see to the man. If you hear signs of a struggle or a gunshot, you must flee at once. Run to the druggist across the street and have him telephone for the police. Do you understand me?”

She nodded and pressed her back to the doorframe as if trying to will herself into a stone pillar supporting the lintel. Lean drew his pistol and followed Grey up the stairs, each man treading lightly, although anyone waiting for them had certainly been alerted to their arrival by Mrs. Philbrick’s screams. Upon reaching the entry to Grey’s sitting room, Lean stood back a step, facing the door with his pistol arm stretched forward. Grey turned the knob and pushed the door inward.

There was no sound from within, and everything in the room appeared in perfect order. Grey stepped into the room, looked around, and then his head jerked backward slightly in surprise. Lean hurried forward and turned to face Tom Doran, who sat motionless in a tall-backed leather chair. His coat was open, and his white shirt showed dark red smears. Recognition dawned slowly in Doran’s heavy, bloodshot eyes as he stared at the two men.

“What have you done, Tom?” asked Lean as he let his pistol slowly drop to his side.

“He’s dead.”

“Who?” asked Grey. “Doran! Who is dead?”

Tom Doran just raised his massive hands and stared at the dried blood caked over his palms and fingers.

Helen sat in a chair in the corner of Dr. Steig’s spacious study, her puffy, red eyes turned away from the scene laid out before the heavy
maple desk. Lean regretted sending for her before they had a chance to make the room more presentable. Tom Doran’s huge form stood blocking the door to the hall. He had buttoned his coat high to cover the bloody stains on his shirt.

Dr. Steig lay facedown on the wooden floor. The wounds were not readily apparent due to his black coat, but the blood had pooled under him. Dried stains trailed across the hardwood floor, showing his attempt to drag himself toward the door before he died. An S shape, written in blood, marked the floor just inches from his face. A larger patch of blood was smeared on the floor in front of his desk. The desktop was a mess of strewn papers, and the drawers had been pulled out and emptied.

Lean stood a few steps away. He tried to obscure from Helen the sight of Perceval Grey, down close to the floor, examining the minutest details of her dead uncle’s body. Finally, Grey stood and took several steps back. He folded his left arm in front, supporting his right elbow. A fingertip moved in small circles, caressing his temple. After a few more moments, Grey crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“You’ve drawn your conclusions, I take it?” Lean said.

“The doctor was stabbed here, a couple of feet in front of the desk. He was facing the assailant, presumably Jack Whitten. He was in front of the desk, not taking shelter behind it. He didn’t have time to react; the attack caught him off guard. He must have let Whitten into the house; the servants were off, and there were no signs of a break-in at any door or window. Whitten would have introduced himself as Peter Chapman, Father Coyne’s helper. The doctor might have recognized him from our description of our earlier meeting.”

Grey stepped just in front of the desk and then bent down on one knee. “He fell here and tried his first message. You can see there, his fingertips are stained. The doctor would have instinctively felt his wound. Then he must have thought to make some mark, perhaps an attempt to identify his killer. From the size of this smeared area of blood, I would say the first message was more complete. Whitten was distracted. Likely tearing through the doctor’s desk at the time. He
took the doctor’s copy of the Black Book pages and whatever notes he’d made. Only after disposing of them, there in the fireplace, did he return his attention to the doctor. He destroyed the bloody message with his sole, stabbed the doctor a second time in the back—”

Helen let out a small, pitiful gasp.

“My apologies, Mrs. Prescott.” Grey locked eyes with Lean for a second, then looked at Helen. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable in the kitchen.”

Helen forced her features into some semblance of control. “No, thank you, Mr. Grey. Please, I need to know what happened.”

“Whitten then continued on his way. Note the faint portion of a bloody shoe print there as he stepped over the doctor. He must have assumed that the doctor was dead at that point. Although, obviously, our good friend had a bit more sand than the killer gave him credit for. He retained enough strength to make this last mark.”

“An ‘S,’ I think. But what does it stand for?” Lean asked.

“The doctor may have been in such a poor condition at the time that he was quite unaware of exactly what mark he was leaving. He obviously died almost immediately thereafter.”

Lean looked at Helen, who was on the verge of tears again. He wished to direct her thoughts somewhere more helpful, and he was also eager to confirm her version of the prior day’s events again, before she became too emotional.