A Study in Revenge: A Novel

by Kieran Shields

  Ducky stood and brushed himself off. He’d forgotten about the newly delivered package on the doorstep until he heard the doorknob turn. The young man crouched low to the ground, hiding behind a scraggly bush as he peeked out to observe.

  “Who’s there?” the figure in the doorway called in a tepid voice. His hand shielded his eyes as he futilely peered from the lit doorstep into the surrounding darkness. The man scooped up the package and slammed the door behind him.

  Ducky moved out from his hiding spot. He edged along the front of the house until he was directly beneath the open window on the second floor. He heard someone enter the room, followed by a garble of low, curious voices. Next came the distinct sounds of a package being ripped open. There was the briefest pause, then an explosion of excited shouts from at least three voices. Within half a minute, one man succeeded in quieting the others. Then the mustachioed man stuck his head out the window above Ducky. The man didn’t bother looking directly below him. Instead he glanced up and down the dark street, saw nothing to gain his attention, and slammed the window shut.

  DUCKY LEONARD FINISHED recounting the incidents of his evening and morning. Grey remained seated behind his desk with his hands folded before his face. He finally turned in his chair and stared out the windows overlooking High Street. In the ensuing silence, the young man gravitated toward the table in the corner that held Grey’s microscope along with his burner, various beakers, and racks of chemical compounds.

  “Get away from there,” Grey ordered without looking up.

  He turned back to his desk and flipped through the pages of maps. After a moment he did look up at Ducky.

  “Just to be sure of the relevant facts, tell me again: Exactly how big was the package?”

  The youth held his hands about a foot apart.

  “Think hard, now. A man brings it inside and upstairs. It’s opened. Do you recall any details of what the men upstairs said?”

  “They was all in an uproar,” Ducky said. “Very excited and talking over each other. I think one of them said something like, ‘My goodness, this is it!’ Another one said he couldn’t believe it.”

  “Would you recognize the deliveryman or the carriage driver if you were to see either one again?”

  Ducky’s shoulders rose in a prolonged shrug, and his face contorted into a doubtful sneer. “It was awful dark, Mr. Grey. And things happened fast.”

  “Then what? No activity until the next morning?”

  “As far as I saw. I dozed a bit during the late-night hours,” Ducky said.

  Grey made a sideways swiping motion with his hand, as if absolving the boy for the sin of fatigue. “So then you saw the fellow with the missing pinkie and another man leave together in the morning with their bags packed, and they hailed a cab. They said what, again?”

  Ducky held out one finger, then another as he recited the two bits of information he’d overheard. “They told the driver to take them to the Maine Central rail station. Then I passed by close as they got in, and the fellow with the finger and the long mustache said something like, ‘Before we reach Tarden, we’ll need to—’ And that was it. The carriage started off before I could hear the rest.”

  Grey stood, located several dollar bills in a pocket, and handed them to the youth. “Good work, Ducky. Now I suppose you’ve some sleep to catch up on.”

  It took Grey half a minute of searching along one of his wide bookcases before he located the specific atlas he was looking for. He was so intent upon the maps that it wasn’t until he retook his seat that he noticed that Ducky Leonard had not yet chosen to depart. The fact surprised and annoyed Grey.

  “Awful lot of books here. Have you read ’em all?” Ducky asked.

  Grey didn’t acknowledge the question. If any offense was intended, none was taken by the young man, who didn’t actually need an answer before marching on to his next question.

  “The stories your mom used to tell you. Are they in any of these books?”

  This new question got more of Grey’s attention. The dollars he’d handed over did not appear to be sufficient to ransom himself from the young man’s presence. He was going to have to buy his solitude at the price of a few more moments of conversation.

  “What was your favorite?” Ducky asked.

  Grey ran the question through his head again. What would most easily appeal to the youth about the stories his mother would read him? He remembered himself and his mother in her room. She would sit before her grand mirror, the large makeup kit from her theater days laid out before her. She would make the two of them up for some play they would put on to amuse themselves on dark winter evenings.

  “There was a tale about a young man whose noble father died in battle,” Grey said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Ducky’s eyes lit up. He was hooked already.

  “The boy’s mother feared that the same fate might befall the boy. In a panic she took him away and raised him deep in the woods, far from civilization. Until the day came when he saw a group of knights ride by in their gleaming armor. He thought they must be angels and longed to join them. His mother tried to prevent him from leaving, told him the knights were men of violence and warfare, but she could not stop the young man’s yearning to go out after them. Finally she relented, blessed him, and sent him along to the edge of the wood, where he would find a good hermit who had formerly been a knight.

  “The boy set off on his valiant steed, a broken-down donkey. He wore an old piece of metal as a breastplate, a bucket upon his head for a helmet, carried a sharpened stick for a lance. Along his journey all those he passed scoffed at him—he looked like such an ignorant rube in his outlandish armor. The old hermit, however, saw that the young man meant well and so agreed to teach him to fight. But the young man also learned how to behave as a knight: to be brave and chivalrous, merciful and generous to those in need, and a respectful guest who did not question his host. Finally he was ready to venture into the world in search of glory and adventure.

  “One day the young knight came upon a castle in a desolate land. He was taken inside before the king, who lay forever dying from a wound in his thigh. The knight saw servants carry a procession of treasures through the room: a broken sword, a serving plate, a spear that dripped blood from the tip, and finally a magnificent grail. Having learned that it was impolite to speak too much or to question his host, the knight restrained his curiosity and remained silent. In the morning he awoke to find himself lying again in the barren wasteland. The castle had vanished, no more than a dream. Only later did he learn that if he had asked the right questions, he would have healed the wounded king and restored the barren kingdom. He then spent years searching to find the castle once more. At last, older and wiser, he discovered the castle again, and this time he asked the meaning of the treasures he had seen and how he could help the king. Thus he broke the spell and returned the land to splendor.”

  “I have a question about the story,” Ducky said.

  “Good for you, what is it?”

  “Whatever became of his mother?”

  Grey shook his head. “She fainted when he departed. He looked back and saw her on the ground, but he knew he had to ride on. Soon after, she died of grief from his leaving.”

  “Shouldn’t he have gone back to see if she was all right?”

  “I’m sure he wanted to. Or perhaps he never thought to. After all, maybe he couldn’t comprehend something so foolish as dying of grief. Besides, this isn’t her tale, it’s the knight’s. He has to go forward. Otherwise there is no story, and that’s dreadfully boring for everyone.”

  “Not for the mom,” Ducky pointed out, then shrugged. “Anyway, it’d have been a better story if he fought battles and dragons and such.”

  “He did. Battles of all sorts: treacherous knights, bloodthirsty giants, evil witches.”

  “You didn’t mention any of them.”

  “I didn’t want to keep you.” Grey rose from his desk once more and approached the young man. “Surely you have impor
tant matters to attend to elsewhere.”

  Ducky shrugged again. “I do like when stories have a lot of adventure in them.”

  “You know what sort of stories my landlady, Mrs. Philbrick, likes? Sad ones.” Grey rested a hand upon the young man’s shoulder and steered him out the door. “So be sure to tread heavily down the steps. She’ll peer out. If you look pathetic enough, which should be no problem whatsoever, she’ll take you in for biscuits and tea.”

  [ Chapter 37 ]

  LEAN SAT ACROSS THE DESK FROM F. W. MESERVE, THE head of the city’s historical society. He was a plump fellow in a light coat that was well worn at the elbows and cuffs. Thick glasses perched close to the end of his upturned nose. The sharp tips of a dark, carefully groomed mustache stretched out across his pale and fleshy cheeks. The deputy could see only the man’s molelike face, the rest of him hidden behind several mounds of papers and books.

  “I have some answers for you, and even a surprise or two.” Meserve had a mischievous look in his eye.

  Lean supposed that as far as the socially awkward historian was concerned, having some little-known facts stashed away in his pocket was the equivalent of an inside joke, so he smiled at the man and let him enjoy his moment.

  “Where to begin?” Meserve mused as he glanced at his stacks. “Ah, the tunnels. That will be easiest, since there’s really not a stitch of research to report on the matter.”

  Lean straightened his back and craned his neck to see what lay atop Meserve’s piles, as if by doing so he might actually spot a crucial piece of information the historian had overlooked. Of course, the notion was absurd. Despite the apparent chaos on Meserve’s desk, every scrap of information was exactly where the man had placed it according to some elaborate organizational scheme that existed in his head.

  “There are no city plans?” Lean asked. “Maps, blueprints, or anything?”

  Meserve shook his head and set his jowls wobbling. “No need. The tunnels, such as they are, were never an official city project. And they’re not so extensive as to warrant anything of the sort. What they are, essentially, is an overreaction to the Great Fire of 1866.”

  Lean nodded at the reference. A youngster’s careless play with matches had ignited a fire that quickly spread to a store of fireworks intended for that evening’s Fourth of July display. The resulting flames had ignited Brown’s sugar factory next door, and the massive blaze then cut a catastrophic swath across the center of Portland Neck. Two hundred acres were consumed, destroying two thousand buildings and leaving ten thousand homeless. It had taken several years for the city to rise up again from the ashes.

  “When people were rebuilding, they naturally had the possibility of another such disaster in mind. Although only a single soul or two was lost in the fire, the idea was bandied about to build tunnels, escape routes, out of the center of the city toward the safety of the waterfront along the harbor.” Meserve pushed his dipping glasses back over the bridge of his nose as he went on.

  “Some landowners began the tunnel process, but it soon fell out of favor. The tunnels were difficult to build. Maine is famed for its rocky coast, and Portland Neck is part of that. Besides, when folks did rebuild, as anyone can plainly see, it was done mostly in brick. People took an immense pride in the new look of the city as well as the practical aspects of the construction. The threat of another massive fire spreading so quick as before seemed an impossibility. And the new water lines running in from Sebago Lake provided a sense of security. New fire engines would be supported by the massive reservoirs on the east and west ends. The city would have the water power that had been lacking in ’66. People looked ahead with a new hope for prosperity. The lingering fear of the fire faded, and the plan for a network of tunnels withered away and was soon forgotten.”

  “So how many tunnels do exist?” Lean asked.

  Meserve’s head tilted to his left, then bounced back to his right, looking like a wobbling top winding down above the stack of paper on his desk. “Of the sort and length you mentioned, I can’t really say. If I had to hazard a guess, maybe half a dozen or a dozen at most could still be found and used.”

  “But without a plan available, how would someone go about gathering a working knowledge of them?” Lean muttered to himself.

  Although Meserve hadn’t actually been questioned, he still felt that as the de facto expert on the subject, he was compelled to offer an educated guess.

  “They certainly would have had to do their homework. To the extent that each tunnel’s whereabouts are still known, I suspect it would be a matter of very local knowledge. If multiple distinct tunnels in separate areas of the city are being put to some nefarious use, then an individual would need—”

  Lean finished the incomplete thought. “To be asking a lot of questions to shady characters all over town. That would take a lot of work. A lot of criminal connections.”

  The door opened behind Lean. Before he could turn his head, Lean saw Meserve’s molelike eyes grow big in his thick lenses.

  “I did promise you a surprise or two, Deputy,” Meserve said.

  “Archie Lean!” an excited voice came from the doorway.

  He was so astonished that full recognition evaded him until he rose and turned. Helen Prescott stood there with a wide grin and beaming blue eyes. Though she wore a rather drab dress, well suited for the library setting, Lean thought she looked smashing. It had been almost a full year since he’d seen her, but she looked no worse for the time that had slipped by. They exchanged a quick, warm hug, and Lean gave the slightly younger woman a familial peck on the cheek.

  “It’s so good to see you again, Archie.”

  “And you. I thought you wouldn’t arrive until next month. So many questions—when did you get back? How’s Delia getting along?”

  “Just two days ago, still settling in. Delia’s very well. She’s so happy to be back. Wanting to catch up with her school friends, so many things to see and do.”

  “Speaking of which,” Meserve interrupted, sheepishly adjusting his glasses and glancing at his pocket watch, “I myself have an appointment shortly that I must keep, I’m afraid.”

  “Of course,” Lean said as he offered his seat to Helen. “We can catch up later. Perhaps you can stop by for a visit. Emma would be thrilled to have you. She never tires of showing off the new house.”

  Helen smiled and nodded her acceptance.

  “Anyway,” Meserve said, “I’ve got another bit of news. You wanted to know about the history of the two properties: the one on Vine and the tailor’s shop on Exchange.”

  He stood to reach over his desk and handed a thin folder to Lean.

  “I’ve put detailed notes there. But the long and short of it is this: They’ve had various owners and purposes over the years, but there is indeed a connection between the two properties. I had to go back almost a hundred years to find it. In the early 1800s, each was owned by a man named Thomas Webster.”

  Lean’s body gave an involuntary start.

  “Does that name mean something?” Helen asked.

  “Yes. Something I’ve been working on with Perceval Grey. Thomas Webster is more on his side of things. He’ll be very interested to hear this.”

  “Well, there’s a bit more,” Helen said. “I haven’t officially started back to work yet, but when Mr. Meserve mentioned he was assisting you on an issue, I volunteered to help.”

  “Yes, the name of Thomas Webster rang a bell for me as well,” Meserve said. “But I haven’t yet been able to uncover just where I remember him from. Quite bothersome, actually. So while I was looking into that, I asked Mrs. Prescott to make a check of title records and see what other properties our good old Mr. Webster may have owned.”

  “He seems to have been a man of means,” Helen said. “In addition to those two properties, he also owned some pasture land on Munjoy Hill, along where Washington Avenue runs up by the reservoir. I’m still working on the exact location. The old deeds and such aren’t the easiest to work with.
Previous to that, in the late 1700s, before he owned any of the other properties on record, he built a house near the corner of Oak and Free streets.”

  “So he was here rather early,” Lean said.

  “I’ll say,” Helen agreed. “Back in the 1790s, the land above the Oak and Free lot was a potato field. And where the Union Hall now stands was only frog ponds and whortleberry bushes.”

  Meserve made a sort of high-pitched humming sound. Lean glanced at the man, who had one hand balled up below his chin while the other was on his desk, fingers tapping anxiously. He looked to be on the edge of saying something, but Lean grew tired of waiting. He took the pages that Helen handed him and studied the precise location of that early building. He’d need to check that one as well, to see if it had suffered the same unauthorized digging in its basement as the other two properties. “Is that house still there?” he asked Helen.

  “It’s still a residence. I’m not certain if it’s the original. And actually, it was just sold four months ago. I put down the new owner’s name there in my notes.”

  “Jerome Morse,” Lean read aloud. He felt himself frowning as he struggled with the name. He knew it from somewhere. He’d have to check into it when he got back to the station.

  Meserve slapped his hands together, startling Helen and Lean, who stared at him awaiting an explanation.

  “I’ve just had a notion—the 1790s, you said. I think I know why I couldn’t get Thomas Webster out of my brain. I’m going to need time to look it all over again. Deputy, might you come back and see me again the morning after tomorrow?”