A Study in Revenge: A Novel

by Kieran Shields

  “But where is the thunderstone now? If Sears took it for himself, it could be anywhere.”

  “I don’t think Sears is at the heart of this. This wasn’t a priceless gemstone or a fortune in gold, the kind of thing you go and shoot your old friend over. It’s just a stone with strange markings. Though, in the interests of full disclosure, according to Miss Phebe Webster, the stone is supposed to be the key to some hidden treasure.”

  Lean greeted Grey’s ridiculous statement with a dismissive snort. “I know that people are getting desperate these days,” Lean said, thinking of the numerous bankruptcies that had struck many overextended railroad companies around the country and the disastrous results that had rippled through the rest of the nation’s economy, “but a hidden treasure. I know you don’t put any stock in that.”

  “Don’t be absurd. The fact that it sounds so preposterous makes it all the more unlikely that Sears would have shot his old friend Cosgrove over it. But then there he is at the Athenaeum, looking into a book containing similar symbols.”

  “How would he have known that the book was at the Athenaeum? Or that Horsford had even written such a book? It was never actually published. This doesn’t add up at all.”

  “Agreed,” Grey said. “The whole business is far too grand in terms of imagination and planning for a common thief like Sears. Especially when you consider the most glaring omission among the facts at our disposal. How could Cosgrove or Sears have known where to find the thunderstone in the first place? It hasn’t been seen publicly in twenty-three years, and very few people knew that the stone was in the possession of the Websters’ attorneys other than the family members.”

  “An inside job, then?” Lean suggested.

  “It stands to reason. Someone within a limited circle of the family or their attorneys likely played some part. Though something as innocent as a simple slip of the tongue, while in the wrong company, can’t yet be ruled out. And here’s one last item to consider, if we can trust my own grandfather’s admittedly foggy memory. He was a youthful acquaintance of Horace Webster and recalls that Horace had a somewhat tragic dalliance with a young woman by the name of Destiny or perhaps Dastine.”

  “Why’s that name sound familiar?” Lean asked.

  “The woman who found the symbols in Horsford’s book, the ones carved into a ledge north of Portland,” Grey said.

  Lean rapped his knuckles on the table as he thought this all through. “Have you had any luck finding the woman?”

  “No. The original newspaper from that time’s been lost. Perhaps you’d have more success with locating any City Hall records.”

  Lean nodded, then held aloft the envelope containing the crime-scene photographs. “Well, perhaps Miss Webster didn’t care to alert the police as to the theft of this thunderstone, but now it’s linked to the murder of Frank Cosgrove. So I guess I’ll have the pleasure of making her acquaintance after all.”

  “Which brings us to our next appointment,” Grey said. “The offices of Dyer & Fogg, where the thunderstone was being held. I’ve requested that Miss Webster meet us there.”

  [ Chapter 27 ]

  BUT, MR. GREY, I THOUGHT WE UNDERSTOOD EACH OTHER. I meant to rely on you, not the police, to aid me in recovering the thunderstone.” Phebe took a step away from Grey in the direction of her attorney’s desk.

  Albert Dyer rose from his seat and came around to join her.

  “Yes, Grey, my client expressly informed you of her wishes. The presence of the good deputy here is an utter breach of trust. Need I remind you—”

  “Please be aware, Mr. Dyer, if you would, that three out of the four of us present are not being paid by the hour. Now, Miss Webster, rest assured that it was my first and honest intention to act independently in this inquiry. However, circumstances have come to light that render the involvement of Deputy Lean unavoidable. I apologize, but I’m certain within a few minutes’ time you will understand completely.”

  “And for what it’s worth, miss,” Lean added, “I have no interest in your thunderstone per se and even less interest in intruding upon private matters. There is, however, a more grievous crime at issue that now appears related to the theft of your property.”

  “What sort of crime?” Dyer insisted, trying once again to take charge of the conversation’s rudder.

  Grey motioned to the large envelope in Lean’s hand. The deputy drew out the photograph depicting Frank Cosgrove from the chest up, taken at the scene of his murder.

  “Has either of you ever seen this man?”

  Dyer looked down his nose, through his spectacles at the photograph, while Phebe leaned in close for a better look.

  “Never,” said Dyer.

  Phebe shook her head. “Who is he?”

  “Frank Cosgrove,” Grey said. “A habitual criminal, mostly burglary. He was very adept at picking locks.”

  “How did he die?” Phebe asked Lean.

  “It’s not important, miss.” He withdrew the photograph.

  “You may call me ‘miss,’ but that doesn’t mean I’m some fragile little girl who’ll collapse at the mention of blood, Deputy Lean.”

  Lean glanced at Grey, who nodded and looked impressed with Miss Webster’s cool, self-assured demeanor.

  “He was shot.”

  Attorney Dyer butted in. “What’s this got to do with Miss Webster? Is this miscreant the one who stole the thunderstone?”

  “It’s a possibility.” Lean left the photograph on Dyer’s desk and drew out the second picture. This one, obtained from the Boston police, showed the face of Chester Sears, lying on the ground inside the Granary Burying Ground.

  “How about this unfortunate fellow?”

  Again Phebe and Mr. Dyer both failed to recognize the man.

  “Chester Sears. A known accomplice of Cosgrove’s. He fell to his death last week in Boston while clutching this image in his hand.” Grey set his sketched symbol on the desk.

  Phebe gave him a puzzled, almost comical look. “He died trying to steal a piece of paper? With a drawing on it?”

  In lieu of reasserting the facts he’d just laid out, Grey turned to the attorney. “Mr. Dyer?”

  “Yes, I recognize the image. It’s one of the signs etched into the thunderstone.”

  Phebe’s jaw dropped open. Her eyes went from Dyer to Lean and then settled on Grey. Lean noticed that during the discussion Phebe Webster had abandoned her place by the side of the attorney’s desk and drifted closer to Grey.

  “Whatever does this mean?” she asked.

  “It means, Miss Webster, that while firm proof is not yet in the offing, it would appear that the theft of your thunderstone has, for some reason, led to the murder of one burglar and the accidental death of another. This little matter of your curious family heirloom has now taken a decidedly grave turn.”

  “I see.” She studied her hands, clasped before her, for a moment. “I’m sorry I objected to your presence earlier, Deputy Lean. This is certainly a distressing development, and I will assist in any way possible, regardless of any concerns for my family’s privacy. But, Mr. Grey, what of the other matter we discussed?”

  “The details of that are, and shall remain, strictly private, I assure you,” Grey answered.

  A bit of ease returned to the woman’s troubled expression, and she rewarded Grey with an appreciative smile. Lean, however, gave Grey what he intended as a blatantly suspicious glare.

  Grey walked to the window overlooking Exchange Street, then turned back to face the attorney.

  “At present the only obvious motive for the theft of the thunderstone is the one mentioned by Miss Webster—namely, that family lore states the thunderstone will reveal the hidden location of some priceless treasure. I understand, Mr. Dyer, that your family—that is to say, your firm—has served as legal counsel to the Websters for several generations. Surely you can shed some light on this suggestion.”

  “I know nothing at all about that.” Dyer looked embarrassed by the implication that
he was somehow involved with such a fanciful concept, but, recognizing that he’d been careless in shading his incredulity, he offered Miss Webster an apologetic smile. “All I can speak to is the terms of Thomas Webster’s original will from 1814.”

  “It’s perfectly all right to speak freely on the matter, Mr. Dyer. If you’ve something to say about the issue—or my family, even—I can assure you I’ve heard such comments before.”

  “Well, obviously I have no firsthand knowledge on the subject, but it’s my understanding that your ancestor, Thomas Webster, was remarkably far along in years at the time of his death. He was even known as ‘Old Tom.’ I think perhaps it is not outside the realm of possibility that, from the point of his mental acuity, Old Tom may have been pushing past that side of the pasture where the grass is still green.”

  Dyer approached Phebe and laid a sympathetic hand upon her arm. “As you recall from the reading of your own grandfather’s will, the original instructions left by Old Tom regarding the thunderstone are indicative of a certain …” he searched for a polite turn of phrase. “eccentricity that can come with old age.”

  “Is that the document you mentioned, Miss Webster? The one placing certain safeguards on the item, requiring it to be maintained strictly within the family, et cetera?” Grey asked.

  She nodded.

  “Would it be possible to—”

  “Certainly, if you think it would be of assistance in retrieving the item.” Mr. Dyer called out for his clerk. The eagerness in his voice betrayed the acute desperation he felt to remedy his firm’s failure to secure the thunderstone, as well as to validate his characterization of the mental status of Phebe Webster’s ancestor.

  The young clerk, Emery, stuck his head in the door. Grey noticed that his face appeared thinner than it had days earlier when the lockbox was discovered to have been looted. He could only assume that since that time the atmosphere in the law office had grown even tenser than usual. Mr. Dyer ordered the fellow to fetch the paperwork for the Webster estate. The clerk dashed off and returned less than a minute later. The attorney searched briefly through the contents of the folder before producing a yellowed, fragile-looking page, which he carefully placed upon his desktop.

  “Here we are. This is from the original will and testament of Old Tom Webster. Written in his own hand. You’ll understand if I ask you not to handle the page. Instructions were left that this document was to be read at the time of his own passing and then again in conjunction with the reading of the will of whichever family member in subsequent generations had been chosen as sole heir to the thunderstone.” Directing his attention to Lean, he added, “Obviously, most recently that was Horace Webster, Miss Phebe’s grandfather.”

  Dyer wiped his spectacles clean on a handkerchief before proceeding. “Since I’m familiar with the script and the ink is somewhat faded, allow me to do the honors.”

  “Vary you not from these instructions or else the keepers appointed by me shall reclaim the thunderstone for as many of the earth’s revelation about the Sun as shall be aappointed you and until such time as you shall pass into the earth and then the next generation shall have the right to claim the stone. In no company other than mine own blood shall you let the thunderstone be seen, nor shall its markings be presented in any form to others. To gather in the stone’s meaning will won a soul a treasure beyond conception. Read what has been writ in the earth before you and do not be verse to the teachings of the Lord. I alone should appear true and clear to you, and know my meaning is not to enumerate for you, each time I am seen among other fallacies. One can only find the measure of a man at the ends of his days, and understand that his true nature cannot be the base materials of his bodily wants, the needs of the flesh, what he shall drink and ate, but only what he has stood for. Look not to letters or words other than those of the thunderstone, but heed my voice, only then shall you be rewarded, not in my name, nor truly in any human form.”

  Dyer stood back, slipped his glasses into his breast pocket, and looked as though he’d proved an indisputable point of law. The clerk began to carefully collect the Webster documents.

  “Oddly worded, to say the least,” Lean said.

  “To be expected,” Grey said. “Education, and thus any given man’s particular spelling and grammar usage, was far from uniform a hundred years ago. Besides which, it’s often the case that for one unaccustomed to formal, legal documents, the attempt to set down one’s intentions in writing can produce an especially stilted and antiquated phrasing.”

  As he finished speaking, Grey watched the clerk, whose attention was locked onto the desktop. The young man’s head tilted slowly to the side like a clock’s second hand sweeping past twelve. Emery finished aligning his view with the crime-scene photographs still displayed on the desk. His eyes grew wide, and his lips eased open as if of their own accord, knowing that they would be called upon to speak even before the man himself consciously realized it.

  Still wearing a look of surprise, Emery glanced up and caught sight of Grey observing him. “What on earth has happened to Mr. Robbins?”

  “Who the hell is Mr. Robbins?” demanded Dyer. Then, remembering the presence of his client, he added, “Beg your pardon, Miss Webster.”

  Phebe lifted a hand in dismissal of the offending language. Like the others, she was now staring, perplexed, at the pale-faced clerk.

  “You recognize this man?” Grey laid a finger on the image, the modern-day photographic death mask of Frank Cosgrove.

  Emery’s head swiveled back and forth, taking in the stares directed at him as a series of noncommittal stammers bubbled forth. The young man was now even more startled, having figured himself as late to the conversation, not starting a new and inflammatory one.

  “Explain yourself, man!” barked his employer.

  “Sorry, Mr. Dyer. Mr. Robbins came around a while back. Remember I mentioned a potential client stopping in? Said he’d come into some money and was looking to maybe set up some trusts. Asked about our services. Neither you nor Mr. Fogg was in, so I spoke with him briefly, showed him about.”

  “What precisely did you show him?” Grey asked.

  “The offices, our library, the vault room,” Emery said.

  “You let him into our vault room?” Disbelief dripped from Mr. Dyer’s voice.

  “He asked about it. Said he might need to store some valuable documents. He was worried. Said he never had to do anything of this sort before. Sorry, sir. Like I said, neither you nor Mr. Fogg was available, else I’d have left it to you, of course.”

  “I ought to sack you on the spot,” Dyer said in an exaggerated tone that could have rivaled Caesar’s when addressing the knife-wielding Brutus.

  “Please, Mr. Dyer, it’s evident that Mr. Emery’s mistake was an honest one,” Phebe said.

  “Besides,” Lean said, “an old hand like Cosgrove would only want to see the locks he’d be up against in order to make his preparations all the easier. He’d still have been able to commit the burglary even if he’d never been let into your vault room.”

  A bit of color began to reappear in the clerk’s face as his immediate termination seemed to grow less probable with each passing moment.

  “The more pressing concern about the intelligence that the thief, Cosgrove, was able to obtain is how he ever learned of the thunderstone’s presence in your vault room to begin with.”

  Grey turned toward Albert Dyer, who, sensing an implied criticism, straightened his back.

  “Neither I nor any others in this office ever discuss our clients’ confidential business matters outside the firm. I can assure you no improper sharing of information can be attributed to anyone here. And I stand by that point absolutely and unequivocally.”

  “Miss Webster, do you have any ideas of who, outside your immediate family, would have knowledge of the thunderstone?” Grey asked.

  Phebe’s lips pursed, and concern rose into her face. Finally she announced, “I can’t truly say. That is, we didn’t ofte
n discuss the thunderstone. But then neither did we treat it as some vital state secret. It was something peculiar and slightly mysterious. I suppose it did come up once in a while, in social conversation. I can’t think with any certainty how many people, guests or friends of our family, might have heard of it at some point.”

  After assurances that Phebe shouldn’t blame her own casual mentions of the thunderstone for causing the unforeseeable theft of the item and further promises to her and Attorney Dyer that Grey would keep them apprised of any developments, the two detectives showed themselves out.

  “We’re still left in the dark a bit as to who might have set this all in motion,” Lean said as he paused on the sidewalk to light a cigarette.

  “True, but at least we do now have affirmative evidence for our prior assumption that Cosgrove’s murder is in fact linked to the thunderstone.”

  “Though you’re no closer to the stone’s location, and I’m no closer to the identity of the man who pulled the trigger on Cosgrove. Or to figuring out why he went through all the trouble to dig the corpse up and burn it.” Lean resumed walking, thinking and puffing away as they moved up the slight incline of Exchange Street. “I suppose that last bit, the burning, was aimed at Sears. To get him to turn the thunderstone over if he had it, or maybe to get him to hurry up and steal Professor Horsford’s papers with the symbols, for whatever reason. What do you think?”

  They reached the intersection with Middle Street. Lean would continue on toward City Hall. Grey paused and seemed to consider which direction to take.

  “We are not yet arrived at that exact instant when a definite opinion can be reached on this affair as a whole. The solution will not be obtained in one swift motion, but rather step by step. We shall have to subsist upon whatever isolated conclusions can be drawn from the adduction of proof about separate facts and events along the way. Until such time as the grand scheme can be known.”

  “One thing that’s not known, by me, is that other business Miss Webster mentioned. You and the young lady keeping secrets?” Lean asked.