A Study in Revenge: A Novel

by Kieran Shields

  The older man merely nodded. “I see.”

  “Odd that you wouldn’t make the connection at once.”

  “I was viewing it through the prism of what someone like you would see or what the likely culprit intended. Even if someone had ever seen Éliphas Lévi’s figure of Baphomet, the common man has had his mind so greatly indoctrinated throughout modern times that he is incapable of grasping the crucial distinction between that vital symbolic figure and the devil so popularized in Christian mythos.”

  “I don’t believe I take your meaning, Dr. Marsh,” Grey said absentmindedly as he allowed himself to be distracted by one of the more macabre paintings on the wall.

  The work was a copy, smaller than the original, showing the devil in the profiled form of a black-robed he-goat lording over a coven of fearful witches. They cowered before him with contorted faces and poorly formed bodies. Grey had seen the painting in the course of his varied studies as a younger man and recalled it as an early-nineteenth-century work by the Spanish master Goya. He remembered a museum lecturer speaking of it as the artist mocking the fearful irrationality of the masses, welcoming their own captivity at the hands of kings and priestly inquisitions.

  “The devil, as he is conceived of in the popular imagination, does not exist,” Marsh said. “Satan is a false name invented by the church to imply a unity in its ignorant muddle of beliefs. A devil who possessed a unity would be a god. And he is not, but neither is he the true enemy of Man. He is only painted as such to satisfy the needs of the church, a symbol of fear to oppress and control the ignorant. Even within such a flawed framework, we ought to thank this so-called devil. He who gave Mankind the potential to themselves become gods. For it is only with the knowledge of good and evil that Man can ever truly know himself and receive initiation.”

  “An interesting take on Man’s fall from grace,” Grey said.

  “What else would you have Mankind be—a race of drones at work and play in the garden, never questioning, never seeking the truth, just existing in ignorant bliss? Despicable creatures, never yearning to attain the fullness of spiritual being that God meant for us?”

  “But you say this Baphomet represents something different from the Christian devil. So why is he painted with the same brush?” Grey asked.

  “He needn’t be, but any power perceived as different from your own god is always perceived as evil. Simple men have always viewed the world thus. Baphomet’s true identity is far removed from the idea of the devil. He is the hieroglyphic figure of arcane perfection. He represents Life and Love. He is the Eye that allows us to see, and he is the Light; Baphomet represents the Union of Opposites. The uniting of the soul with God, of the microcosm with the macrocosm, of the female with the male. All of it is the stuff of the Great Work.”

  Marsh paused for a moment. He ran his fingers over his forehead, pushing the mostly dark hair back from his sharp widow’s peak.

  “The quest for the Holy Grail, or the Golden Fleece, or the philosopher’s stone—by whatever symbolic name we choose, whatever mythical parable we tell, the Great Work is an endless pursuit. Success would only reveal even greater possibilities, rendering the entire universe the mere plaything of the newly crowned and all-conquering child that is Man.”

  “I see,” Grey replied in a flat tone. He searched his memory for the details shared by Father Leadbetter. “So this work, it’s never been obtained or perfected. Not even by the notorious Count de St. Germain?”

  Marsh chuckled, though his eyes remained stony, seldom even blinking. “A controversial figure, to say the least. The subject of many tales and rumors. Though if he had perfected the philosopher’s stone, whatever became of him? Why don’t the masses in the street know his name today? Maybe he’s dead, or else his attainment of cosmic understanding made him retire from the world. Or perhaps he simply forgot that he was not supposed to die.” Marsh gave a resigned shrug. “I think we both have better things to do than spend our time debating the ultimate fate of such a fantastical character as that.”

  “Yes, in fact I do have one other item for consideration. What about this symbol?” Grey again took out the sheet showing his drawing of Baphomet but turned it over to reveal the symbol of a circle topped with an arc, sketched from the one he’d recovered after Chester Sears’s deadly fall.

  “Is that meant to be a child’s version of the Baphomet figure? Did your policeman friend sketch that one for you?” Marsh said with a dismissive smile.

  “I thought it might be an attempt at the alchemical symbol for mercury. What can you tell me about it?”

  Marsh tilted his head. “It signifies azoth, which was originally a term for an occult formula, the universal solvent, sought by alchemists. Over time azoth became a more poetic word for the element mercury.”

  “The key transformative element,” Grey said.

  “Yes, mercury or azoth is the essential agent of transmutation in alchemy. As the universal force of life in the cosmos and within each of us, the azoth is that divine, mysterious force responsible for the relentless drive toward physical and spiritual perfection.”

  “Whatever in the world would simple men, the likes of Cosgrove and Chester Sears, be doing, risking their lives over alchemical symbols?” Grey watched Marsh for a reaction to the latter name, but the man didn’t take the bait.

  “Another name you assume has some meaning for me.”

  “Sears. Before he died, he made a comment about fearing for his soul. Implying that someone was actually threatening his very soul. As if someone—a living, breathing person—had the power to accomplish such an inconceivable act.” He stared into Marsh’s cold, somber eyes.

  “I must say, Grey, I find your attitudes perplexing. You seem to think the worst of me, that I’m some sort of monster. And all because of what? One student, who took my teachings, warped them about in his obviously unstable mind, and committed a horrible act. Would you blame the shopkeeper for murder because he sold a man a fishing rod? Only because later that fisherman, in his misguided fervor, comes to fatal blows with another over a favored fishing spot?”

  “Of course not. But what of the shopkeeper who fills a young man’s head with tales of a magical fish who swims in a mystical pond and will grant wishes to any angler who catches it. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ whispers the shopkeeper, ‘the only bait that works is human flesh.’ ”

  “You seem a reasonable man, Mr. Grey, but I think you have an overly active imagination. It can be quite a worrisome thing, to let such fanciful ideas get the better of you.”

  “The danger of fanciful ideas—at least we agree on that much. Quite worrisome indeed.”

  The two men regarded each other for a long moment.

  “It would be for the best if you didn’t feel the need to come here again, to speak of things you cannot understand,” Marsh said.

  “A shame. I’ve so enjoyed our little talks.”

  Marsh moved across the study and opened the door. Grey followed him out of the room.

  “Farewell, Mr. Grey.” Marsh looked past him and called out, “Jerome!”

  A door along the hall opened immediately. A slender man with dark, slicked-back hair and wearing checked suit pants with a matching vest came into the sunlit hallway. Grey recognized Marsh’s youthful lackey as Jerome Morse. The pale young man regarded Grey with a cool indifference. He motioned with a sweep of his arm for Grey to follow him back down the staircase.

  Grey folded his paper and slipped it back into his pocket. He gave Marsh a slight tip of the head. “Another day.”

  “Perhaps,” Marsh answered in an unconvinced tone.

  Grey strode down the hall and past Jerome, not bothering to wait for the pale-faced man to show him the way out. He heard the thin, sickly-looking fellow’s footsteps hurrying down the stairs to keep up with him.

  Grey reached the front door first, opened it, and stepped out.

  “Be sure to give my regards to your friend Deputy Lean,” Jerome said.

  Grey pa
used and turned; he hadn’t expected any parting comments from Jerome, who had never struck Grey as more than a spineless minion who warranted little regard. He studied the man’s face. He had the same sly, weaseling look about him as always, but now there was a self-satisfied edge to the man’s pointed smile. He looked rather like a stupid man who thinks he’s about to do something cunning.

  “We haven’t forgotten him,” Jerome said as he laid a finger to the side of his nose, “or you.”

  It was a prominent nose that hadn’t fully recovered its original line in the year since Archie Lean had broken it and put Jerome on the floor with a single punch.

  Grey didn’t reward Jerome with any response other than a dismissive flick of the eyes before he turned his back and walked away.

  [ Chapter 20 ]

  GREY SAT ON A PADDED BENCH IN THE OFFICES OF DYER & Fogg. For the fifth time in the past five minutes, his eyes settled on a grandfather clock on the far side of the room. Two rolltop desks against the walls were manned by smartly dressed law clerks, eager men of twenty years or so. The clerk who had welcomed Grey ten minutes earlier noted his glances.

  “Mr. Dyer shouldn’t be much longer.” The young man looked down the hallway leading off to the firm’s offices, but no evidence emerged to support the veracity of his claims. Instead he offered an overly toothy smile and held it for an undue length of time, inviting a return effort from Grey that would implicitly grant forgiveness for being kept waiting.

  Grey remained stone-faced and returned his attention to the grandfather clock. Its faint ticking fell into rhythm with the far-off but constant clacking of a typewriter. Grey imagined its operator to be some humorless woman, a modern-day galley slave, hidden away in some windowless closet that held no distractions from her tedious work. Albert Dyer’s voice seeped down the hall to reach Grey, a muffled droning from which no distinct words could be rescued. The voice paused, and a door opened.

  “Emery!” Dyer called from down the hall.

  The young clerk’s eyes lit up. He checked the knot of his tie before scurrying off to answer his employer’s summons. When the clerk came back, he had a key in hand, which he used to open a solid-looking door in the corner of the firm’s front room. Grey listened to the tinny clanks and scrapes of Emery fumbling around out of view. The clerk returned carrying a long metal lockbox in both hands. He began an awkward attempt to secure the box under one arm while battling the door’s stubborn lock. Grey stepped forward and offered to hold the lockbox, which Emery gratefully handed over. As he did, the white, heavily starched cuffs jutted farther out from his coat sleeves. Grey noticed pencil marks, notations, scribbled on the inside left cuff, a short list of various numbers followed by combinations of w, p, and s. Emery finished locking up and took the box back.

  “The final bit of business,” he assured Grey before hurrying down to Mr. Dyer’s office.

  By the time Grey renewed his vigil on the bench, the lawyer’s drone resumed for a mercifully brief announcement. This was followed by a loud, unintelligible interjection by another male voice, which Grey suspected belonged to Horace Webster’s eldest son, Euripides. Grey assumed that the entire family was inside, and he’d made out multiple voices since his arrival but hadn’t yet detected Phebe’s, although it was possible that hers simply didn’t carry far enough. At the very moment he was recalling the pleasant tenor of Phebe’s voice, a sudden eruption of noise came rolling out of Mr. Dyer’s office in a jarring blend of shock, dismay, and recriminations.

  “Please, please, everyone. A moment!” called out Mr. Dyer. The lawyer’s voice descended back to its usual subdued tone, though a new urgency flowed through the words.

  Grey made out a series of plaintive denials and assurances in the higher voice of young Emery. The door to Dyer’s office opened just enough to spit out the clerk. He came down the hall with an uncertain, shuffling gait, like a man not yet accustomed to his newly fitted leg irons. The clerk made no attempt to meet Grey’s gaze. He found his way to his desk and took out a sheet of paper. Rather than write anything, Emery could manage only to hold his head aloft with one hand while the fingers of the other tapped the desktop at a furiously nervous pace.

  The office door opened again, revealing the thin, suave form of Jason Webster, wearing a dark suit with a golden check pattern. Behind him stood his older brother, Euripides, in a simple black suit more appropriate to the occasion.

  “I want to hear from you the moment you’ve rectified this situation,” Euripides barked into the office.

  “I understand your frustration, Euripides. However, legally speaking, the only aggrieved party here is Miss Phebe. I will of course notify her the second it’s found so that she may collect the item.”

  “Don’t try to hide behind legal technicalities, Albert. This is a gross display of negligence in handling the family’s affairs, and I for one am certainly questioning the wisdom of allowing your firm to continue on in its current capacity.”

  Grey stood as the two middle-aged Webster men approached in the hallway. Jason had a cheery glint in his eye that was at odds with his having just concluded the business of his father’s earthly wishes. His expression seemed less a matter of how well he’d come off in the will and more like a deep-seated pleasure at the degree of annoyance currently vexing his older brother.

  “We meet again, Mr. Grey. I suppose that’s a danger of life in a small city,” Jason said.

  “City’s large enough, judging from all the idlers and flimflammers about.” Euripides spoke loud enough for the lawyer to hear him, but he had his sights fixed on Grey as he stormed past.

  Back in the doorway, Attorney Dyer held the hand of Phebe Webster and assured her in heartfelt, consolatory tones, well suited to her long black funerary dress, that he was greatly sorry for the misunderstanding and any inconvenience it caused. However, he was sure to have matters sorted out in no time at all.

  Phebe nodded wholeheartedly before taking her leave.

  “Mr. Perceval Grey, what an unexpected surprise,” she said.

  “Miss Webster. Please accept my condolences, for your grandfather.”

  “Thank you. It’s very trying, of course, though for the best.” She was about to say something further on the matter when a puzzled look came across her face. “Mr. Dyer didn’t call for you ahead of time on account of the …” she gestured back toward the scene of the recent commotion.

  “No. That is, Mr. Dyer didn’t mention any specifics to me. Here on a different matter, I believe.”

  “I see. That other business of Grandfather’s. Well, your being here is quite fortuitous. Perhaps you can assist Mr. Dyer in tracking down the missing artifact.” Phebe’s eyes remained moored to Grey a moment longer. “Good day, Mr. Grey.”

  “Good day. And, again, my deepest condolences.”

  “Mr. Grey, sorry about all the bother. Please come on through.” Albert Dyer waved him forward with one hand while the other dug around for a handkerchief to wipe at his face, which had gone a bit red with the recent fuss. He didn’t close the door, preferring to allow a meager sea breeze to pass through an open window that looked out over the bustle of Exchange Street.

  On his way over to one of the four chairs arranged before Dyer’s desk, Grey glanced into the empty metal lockbox. “Something amiss, I take it.”

  “We have a vault of sorts where we keep clients’ valuables, documents, or other items. Apparently our incompetent clerks have spent the past weeks bungling matters. I’ll be here late into the evening now sorting out which lockbox is which.” Dyer’s fingers seemed unwilling to do his brain’s bidding. It took him several attempts to light his cigar. He began to pace without any awareness that he was doing so.

  “My father and his father before him have served as attorneys and counselors to the Webster family. And now, at the most solemn and trying of times, a family heirloom entrusted to our care is misplaced. Damned embarrassing.” His eyes lingered on the lockbox.

  “Speaking of the unfortunate Ho
race Webster, you’ve been quite diligent about keeping me in suspense as to his request for my assistance,” Grey said.

  A smile edged its way onto Dyer’s uneasy face as he continued to pace behind the desk. “Let you in on a little secret, Mr. Grey: The practice of law is at least fifty percent showmanship, making people so anxious to hear what you will say next that they don’t even mind paying for the privilege of listening.”

  “No offense to you and your illustrious brethren, but the fact that attorneys insist on behaving as if their every utterance is a grand address to the Roman Senate, one that we are privileged to hear, seems to the rest of us less a trade secret and more a necessary evil.”

  Dyer let out a dry chuckle. “You’re here, aren’t you? Don’t pretend that you’re not curious as to Mr. Webster’s dying wish.”

  “The exact request may hold some unanticipated detail, but I already know that you’re going to ask me to locate a woman. The one who was meant to occupy the fourth chair set out here for those members of Horace’s family mentioned in his will.”

  “Very good, Mr. Grey. Maybe there’s a glimmer of hope for this endeavor after all. Yes, Madeline Webster is the woman in question. Left home two years ago. Hasn’t been heard from in over a year.”

  “Do you have cause to believe she’s met with some ill fortune?”

  Dyer fidgeted with his cigar and struggled to keep his eyes off the conspicuously empty lockbox as he pondered how best to respond. He opted for a frustrated shrug.

  “For all I know, she’s gallivanting through the capitals of Europe. She was always an impetuous one. Her parents, Horace’s youngest son and his wife, both died at an early age. The two daughters were raised in Horace’s house, and he doted on them. They didn’t always receive the firm and guiding hand that the youth of today require. Madeline in particular always struck me as a restless spirit.”

  Grey shifted his chair noisily, preparing to interject, but Dyer stopped his pacing and held up a slim leather case as if it were a piece of damning evidence to be considered by a jury.