A Study in Revenge: A Novel

by Kieran Shields

  Lean shrugged and began walking again. “Maybe. If it’s not a Viking rune, what is it?”

  “I can’t say. Though it does strike me as vaguely familiar.”

  “Well and good, Grey, but I fear it will take a sight more than vague familiarity to breathe any life back into this case.”

  The pair had only just rounded the corner from the Athenaeum, passing along the final bend in Beacon Street, when Walt McCutcheon came striding up behind them.

  “Evening, gents. Was that the sound of defeat I heard in your voice, Lean?”

  “There you are, McCutcheon,” Grey said, without breaking stride. “So I take it you didn’t have any luck tracking down Chester Sears?”

  “Not while he was alive, no.” McCutcheon chuckled as he paused to light his cigar, then hurried to catch up. “Saw him lying dead in the old boneyard. Heard the commotion earlier around the back, but Inspector Greeley was already arriving so I steered clear.”

  “Had some trouble with the man, have you?” Lean asked.

  “Let’s just say the fellow lacks a certain appreciation for some of my more … imaginative investigational tactics.”

  They crossed to the corner of School and Tremont and paused near a vacant and blemished lot. McCutcheon identified it as the site of the Tremont Temple before its fiery destruction months earlier. The charred space looked darker and more desolate than Lean could have imagined possible for a space in the heart of Boston. Several doors ahead stood the Parker House, where Grey and Lean would each stay for the night. McCutcheon meant to part ways there.

  “Is that it, then? The end of the line for you along with Sears?” McCutcheon asked as a trolley passed by them.

  Grey turned and stared down street where, a stone’s throw away, stood the Tremont House. He nodded toward the hotel.

  “We could try to gain entry to his room, see if he’s left any evidence behind,” Lean suggested.

  “I’m one step ahead of you, Lean. After seeing the scene at the burying ground, I came back here directly, paid for his room number, and conveniently found his door not entirely locked. All for naught, though. Room looked like he hadn’t even set foot in it.”

  “He checked in alone?” Grey asked.

  “Alone and under the name of Leadbetter,” McCutcheon said.

  Lean’s surprise blossomed into a grin as he turned to Grey.

  [ Chapter 17 ]

  INQUIRIES THE NEXT MORNING TO THE ARCHDIOCESE OF Boston revealed no Catholic priest in the city or the surrounding towns with the name of Leadbetter. However, the voice on the other end of the telephone line did mention, with a certain tone of disapproval, remembering an Episcopal rector by that name some years ago.

  Not long after ten o’clock, Lean and Grey descended the short flight of stairs from the sidewalk down to the door of the basement apartment on a nondescript side street in the North End. After finding no name or number posted, Lean shrugged and banged on the door. Annoyed barking and several muffled words came in reply before the detectives heard the latch release. The door split open a crack from its frame to reveal a cautious face surrounded by an unkempt white beard and matching shock of hair.

  “Father Leadbetter? I’m Deputy Marshal Lean.”

  The man gave an unsure shrug. “Again? I’ve already answered your colleague’s questions. I really don’t know what else I can tell you.”

  “So I take it you’ve heard the news about Chester Sears.”

  “Horrible. Such an unnecessary tragedy.”

  “I’m not actually with the Boston police. I’m from up the coast—Portland.”

  Confusion registered on Leadbetter’s face as he worked through that bit of information. “Oh, a Down-Easter. I always enjoyed a trip up that way whenever I had the chance. Been a while, though. Well, you’ve had yourselves a journey—why don’t you come in?”

  Leadbetter’s slippered feet shuffled forward into his cramped apartment. A grizzled old dog, white around the eyes and whiskers, started to rise from his place on a low-lying sofa. Leadbetter made some reassuring sounds, and the dog flopped back into position, though it continued to watch the visitors through clouded eyes. The L-shaped room was a decent size for a single human resident, but so stuffed with books that it felt cramped.

  “Thank you, Father,” Lean said once they were inside. “That’s correct, isn’t it—‘Father’? Or do you prefer ‘Rector’?”

  “I’m no longer a part of the ministry, actually. So you can just call me William. After all, we don’t stand on formality around here, do we, Rufus?” The dog made a halfhearted effort to respond but produced nothing more than a deep sigh.

  “Yes, I understand you were defrocked.” Lean lowered his voice a notch, as if the lessened volume would ease the accusatorial sting of the question.

  “Deposed,” Leadbetter corrected. The look in the older man’s eyes spoke of regret, but a hint of defiance lingered there as well. “If you’ve heard that much, I can only assume you’ve heard the whole bit. Don’t you believe it. I left the ministry for professional reasons. A difference of opinion with others in the ministry regarding fundamental matters of belief and learning. There were those on the periphery of the matter who came to despise me, and they were not above smearing my name with every manner of inappropriate and distasteful rumors regarding my personal conduct. All lies.”

  “I didn’t mean to rankle you. We’re not here for anything to do with your past, except as far as it relates to Chester Sears.”

  Leadbetter puttered about the room, picking up small items of trash and making attempts to straighten up the place. In his long brown robe, with its faded pattern and threadbare cuffs and collar, he reminded Lean of some old hermit living away his quiet days in a cave or a shack deep in the woods. Only here the background of stalagmites or trees had been replaced along the perimeter of the room by waist-high stacks of books.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” the old man asked, though his heart was really not in the offer.

  Leadbetter’s outfit was rather slovenly, and he carried his shoulders in a hunch that would have done Atlas proud, but Lean hadn’t detected anything in the man’s behavior or physical appearance to suggest insobriety. Lean glanced about. There was a sink against the far wall with a few paltry cups and dishes set out to dry. He saw a teakettle, but few other signs that Leadbetter was equipped to extend much in the way of sustenance. The man himself was rail thin. Grey denied any thirst, and Lean followed suit.

  “Have a seat, please,” their host said.

  Apart from a chair pushed away from the writing desk, the sofa was the only seat available. Leadbetter’s hound stretched over half the cushions. A small throw pillow and a decorative but worn tartan quilt cast over the back gave Lean the impression that this was likely the older man’s bed. He preferred to remain standing but felt obliged to accept the only offer of hospitality that Leadbetter appeared able to provide. Lean sat down on the edge of the sofa, and the old mutt immediately jostled and wiggled his way around to rest his head by Lean’s leg. Grey remained standing and wandered by to casually inspect a full bookshelf.

  “As I mentioned, the city police were here earlier—an Inspector Greeley, I believe. Rather gruff fellow. He said Chester was in the midst of some sort of theft at the time he died. He mentioned something about further trouble up your way. I suppose that’s why you’re here.”

  “Mr. Sears was in Portland recently,” Lean said. “And yes, we have reason to believe that he was somehow mixed up with some trouble there. A close friend of his was shot and killed.”

  Leadbetter’s head recoiled, shocking his spine fully upright for the first time since the detectives had entered. “Chester had his faults, serious ones, I won’t dispute that. But he was not a killer.”

  “We agree,” Grey said. “And we were hoping he might know who actually did shoot his friend. But we weren’t able to get to him in time. Now we’re left to grope about, rather in the dark, I’m afraid. Chester Sears wasn’t abl
e to tell us much before he passed.”

  “Except my name.” Leadbetter plopped down into the desk chair as if he’d suffered a sudden loss of air. “Yes, the police mentioned that. Asked if I had any information about why he was trying to steal something from the Athenaeum.”

  “And do you?” Lean asked.

  “He came to see me recently. Seemed rather upset—frightened, even. I asked him what was the matter, but he wouldn’t say. He only asked that I say some prayers for him.”

  “Even though you’re no longer in the ministry.”

  “He assumed I was. A reflection on Chester’s absence from services as much as my own. I hadn’t seen him in years—the last time I was still a rector at his family’s church. The one he attended in his youth. I explained the situation, but he didn’t care. To him I was still Father Leadbetter. So I prayed for him, and it seemed to put him at ease.”

  “And that was the extent of it? He didn’t say anything more about who or what had frightened him?”

  “Nothing particular—he wouldn’t say. Just that he feared for his soul.”

  “In the sense of dying in a state of sin? Or was it more than that? Did he think that somehow someone out there was a threat to his soul?” Lean asked.

  There was a long pause. Lean guessed Leadbetter was weighing whether to speak and how much to say. Lean scratched the lolling dog’s neck and casually said, “The reason we’re interested is that we’re trying to figure just why Chester might bother to steal the material he was after at the Athenaeum. Not the kind of stuff you might expect him to risk life and limb for.”

  Grey drew the stolen page from his pocket, unfolded it, and set it on Leadbetter’s desk for the man to see the circle with the short, upward-facing arc set atop. “This is one of the pages he was attempting to take from a book. Did he mention anything to do with books or symbols such as this one?”

  Leadbetter stared at the page for a moment, and then his eyes darted back and forth between the two detectives.

  “What is it, Mr. Leadbetter?” Lean asked. “Do you recognize this symbol?”

  Leadbetter went to a stack of books. Grey stepped back to make room for the man but caught sight of the book title that mentioned Rosicrucian secrets.

  “The Rosicrucians,” he said.

  “What are Rosicrucians?” Lean asked.

  Leadbetter flipped through the pages of the book as he spoke. “That’s not a straightforward question to answer, seeing as historically they were a secret hermetic society. Many scholars doubt that they ever actually existed. Think that it was all a hoax of sorts. There has been a renewed interest in the Rosicrucians in recent times, but it’s not clear how much of a similarity, if any, these modern organizations have to the original group. The Rosicrucians first became publicly known in the early seventeenth century when three anonymous manifestos appeared in Germany. Supposedly the founder of the order, Christian Rosenkreuz, was born three hundred years earlier, but his name never appears until the final of the three pamphlets appears, The Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreuz.”

  “Chymical?” Lean repeated.

  “ ‘Chymical’ is just a variation of ‘alchemical.’ The wedding story is an allegory, a sacred wedding, the joining of opposites to create a new, unified element.”

  “Are the Rosicrucians heathens of some sort?” Lean asked.

  “No, just look at his name—Christian Rosenkreuz. The symbol of the order, the Rosy Cross. They were definitely proponents of Christianity, but with a belief in ancient esoteric truths that over the ages have become lost to mankind. They thought that if they could decipher these ancient teachings, through the kabbalah and other means, they would bring about a reformation in human understanding of the physical and the spiritual aspects of the universe.”

  “Rather grandiose ambitions,” Grey said.

  “The early seventeenth century was a period of religious warfare, with terrible suffering and instability in Europe. People were entranced by the thought of an elite group: scholars, philosophers, and alchemists who claimed to be ready to usher in a new era of enlightenment.”

  “We’re still waiting,” Lean said.

  “Which is why, in time, other groups took inspiration from the Rosicrucians,” Leadbetter said. “The movement influenced the practices of the Freemasons and the evolving Scottish Rite. In recent years new hermetic societies have claimed to be the true heirs to the secret learning of the Rosicrucians.”

  “Even though it all may have been a hoax, you said, and this Rosenkreuz may have existed on only a few anonymous pamphlets,” Grey said.

  “Perhaps. Though some oral accounts claim to support the truth of Rosenkreuz’s life. They say that as a young boy Rosenkreuz was the last descendant of a doomed noble family all put to death as heretics by the German Inquisition. He was spirited away to the safety of a monastery, where he was educated in the beliefs of the Cathars. According to legend, Rosenkreuz went along on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, where he discovered esoteric wisdom from a variety of Arabian and Persian mystics and sages.”

  “Seems I’ve heard a story along those lines before.” Lean cast an uneasy glance toward Grey, who ignored him.

  “He created the secret Fraternity of the Rose Cross upon his return to Europe, spreading his teachings to an elect group during his lifetime. It is said that one hundred twenty years after his death his body was discovered by one of the Rosicrucian brothers in a sarcophagus hidden in a secret underground chamber. The body was still perfectly preserved. He’d had the interior of the stone door to his tomb engraved with the very year that his hidden chamber was to be discovered.”

  “According to unsubstantiated reports, of course,” Grey said.

  “Of course,” Leadbetter agreed. “Most scholars dismiss such tales and assume that the anonymous authors of the manifestos were actually prominent historical figures, such as Francis Bacon, wishing to espouse certain doctrines without fear of retribution.

  “Yet others, including the modern occultists, take the more fantastical position that not only did Rosenkreuz truly live, he later reappeared in various guises. Most notably these folks point to the Count de St. Germain. A nobleman, adventurer, and alchemist, he appeared in the royal courts of Europe throughout the 1700s, never aging, always decked out in gold and jewels, speaking with firsthand knowledge of events from centuries earlier. He was rumored to have achieved the ultimate alchemical goal of producing the philosopher’s stone.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” Lean asked.

  “The one true goal of alchemy, the supreme achievement. The azoth, the alpha and the omega unified, the substance that grants mastery over the ability to turn base metals to gold. The elixir of life.”

  Leadbetter continued to turn pages as he spoke. “Here we go—Rosicrucian symbols. Not strictly speaking, since most of these are old alchemical designs and not specific to the Rosicrucians. The symbol you have there is that of mercury, one of the most important alchemical symbols. The ideal of transformation, mercury is both the one thing while containing all things. A dual nature unified in one element.”

  Leadbetter’s finger landed on a small image that looked exactly like the one on Grey’s paper. “So there’s your answer, though I’m not sure why Chester would ever be interested in that page.”

  “We think someone else put him up to it. Either for pay or by threat. Likely the same person who’s responsible for the murder of his old friend up in Portland,” Lean explained.

  “In that murder some rather ominous occult markings were left in conjunction with the dead body, and Chester Sears knew that. It could explain why he was nervous when he came to you. Occult markings would seem to be within the realm of your academic interests, Mr. Leadbetter.” Grey motioned to the nearby stack of books. “Rather a surprising number of titles among your collection relating to spiritualism, ancient religions, and the occult.”

  “I told you I was removed from the ministry over a matter of fundamental disagreements with my
superiors in the church. Show too much interest in a topic, dare to believe there might be some questions worth asking instead of dismissing everything out of hand, and you’re deemed some sort of heretic.”

  Grey drew a pencil and a small notebook from his pocket. He sketched quickly, then presented the drawing to Leadbetter.

  “How about this figure?”

  Lean recognized it as the charcoal face marked outside the room where Frank Cosgrove’s burned body had been deposited. “The devil?” he suggested.

  “A common misconception. No, that’s not Satan. It’s Baphomet.”

  “Beg your pardon?” Lean said.

  “Baphomet. Don’t be surprised never to have heard of him. He’s essentially a fabricated pagan deity.”

  “As opposed to what?” Grey asked. “A genuine pagan deity?”

  “Point taken,” Leadbetter said with a chuckle. “I suppose it’s all a matter of pedigree. The name didn’t appear until the eleventh century. The Crusaders mention the Saracens calling upon Baphomet before battle. It’s not difficult to recognize the origin of the term as European ears mistaking the name of the Muslim prophet Mahomet.

  “Two hundred years later, King Philip IV of France wanted to break the power of the Templar Knights. He ordered their simultaneous arrest, without warning, throughout the country on October thirteenth, 1307. The original Friday the thirteenth, just so you know. Most of the accusations against the Templars were the same sketchy charges routinely made against Philip’s political enemies: heresy, idolatry, spitting on the cross, and sodomy. The name Baphomet comes up, under severe torture, in several of the Templar confessions. It becomes one of the primary accusations—that they worshipped a pagan idol in the form of a preserved head or skull they called Baphomet. The name would have remained as something of a historical footnote if not for Éliphas Lévi.”

  “The occult author,” Grey said aside to Lean.

  Leadbetter nodded. “Yes, one of the most prominent of the modern ceremonial magicians. Helped spur on the revitalized interest in magic and the occult this past half century. Around 1850 or so, he wrote his first of many books on the occult, Dogma and Ritual of High Magic.”