A Study in Revenge: A Novel

by Kieran Shields

  The sound of tentative footsteps floated through the air and Grey looked up to see Father Leadbetter in the entranceway at the far end of the reading room. Grey raised his hand to acknowledge the man, who smiled and did likewise. The former minister had replaced his ratty robe with a proper suit, but it was old and worn, giving him the appearance of some cloistered academic who hadn’t stepped away from his studies long enough in the past two decades to update his wardrobe.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Leadbetter said.

  Grey motioned to the seat beside him. “Not at all. Thank you for coming.”

  “My pleasure. Your telegram was most intriguing,” Leadbetter said as he settled himself into the chair and angled the book for a clearer view. “So these are the symbols you mentioned, eh? Well, let’s have a look.”

  “Thank you. Your expertise is most appreciated. I haven’t had time to conduct the necessary research on my own. The Portland Library is sadly lacking in materials on Rosicrucian alchemical symbols.”

  Leadbetter smiled and nodded before he began to study the pages in earnest. His bony fingers turned each page with the utmost care as he worked through the book, pausing longer on some of the twenty-four images. Occasionally he muttered to himself, sounds that Grey tried to identify as indications of familiarity or puzzlement.

  When there were no more symbols to consider, Grey asked, “Do you recognize any more of these as possible Rosicrucian figures?”

  “Not Rosicrucian per se, but I do think that”—the older man paused as he did the mental arithmetic—“eleven of them could be said to represent basic alchemical symbols.”

  “And the others?”

  “I could hazard a guess as to the origins or meanings of some if I were forced to, but I couldn’t say for certain.”

  Grey flipped through the pages until he came to a pair of sheets each bearing a shape like a Roman numeral one. “What about these? It alone is a duplicate among the symbols, appearing twice in a row.”

  “Uppercase ‘i.’ Roman numeral ones. Something else entirely?” Leadbetter guessed.

  Grey nodded and readied a blank sheet of paper. “The eleven symbols, then. Show me which ones they are.”

  Leadbetter started back to the beginning of the shapes. He flipped through, landing a finger and pronouncing an identity on eleven of the two dozen images: “Salt, lead, tin, dissolution, silver, mercury, iron, coagulation, copper, gold, sulfur.”

  As each of the symbols was identified, Grey quickly copied down each corresponding figure, collecting all eleven on a new single page. Then he studied this grouping.

  “There are more than eleven symbols used in alchemy, correct?”

  Leadbetter nodded his agreement. “Far more.”

  “So what do these mean? Why are these eleven chosen to be represented?”

  “They are important ones, certainly.”

  Grey stared at the older man, awaiting clarification.

  “Take them in groups.” Leadbetter pointed to the images on Grey’s page. “May I label them?”

  Grey nodded his assent, and Leadbetter started his identifications.

  “Salt, mercury, and sulfur are considered the Three Principles into which all things can be divided, allegorically speaking. They represent the form, spirit, and essence of things, more or less. We could discuss the philosophical subtleties of it for a long time, but you take the general flavor of the idea.” Leadbetter gestured to the page again before continuing.

  “We also have solve and coagula.”

  “I mentioned those when you came to see me earlier, when I showed you the picture of Baphomet. Two vital stages in the process of alchemy. Solve refers to the dissolution or breaking down of a thing into its distinct essential elements. Then, after purification, there is coagula. The coming together again, whereby the material is once again reconstituted, but now in its purest form. And finally there are the seven metals.” Leadbetter labeled these each in order as he spoke.

  “Lead, tin, silver, mercury, iron, copper, gold.”

  “You’ve mentioned mercury in two capacities,” Grey said.

  “Mercury has near-infinite capacities. It is the transformative and unifying essence, the alpha and the omega, the one and the all.”

  Grey was listening but focusing his attention on the drawings. “Very interesting.”

  “Do the symbols mean something to you?” the older man asked.

  “Not all eleven, but—” Grey raised his index finger and then bent down to reach into his satchel. A moment later he produced another sheet of paper on which the seven images from the thunderstone were copied. “I am familiar with these seven, which appear among your eleven.”

  Leadbetter compared the two pictorial lists, then declared, “Well, obviously what you have there are the seven primary metals again. But I’d say you’ve got them out of order.”

  “Really? How’s that?”

  “You’ve ordered them starting with that one you showed me before, mercury. Truly it’s lead not mercury that should be your starting point. In alchemy lead is the base metal, or, spiritually speaking, it represents the human body as the raw, base material. Lead is transformed through the alchemical process through the stages of tin, silver, mercury, iron, copper, and finally into gold, representing pure spiritual enlightenment.” Leadbetter paused as he regarded Grey’s papers. “Where’d you get your list of seven, if I may ask?”

  “A different stone from that which held those twenty-four,” Grey said.

  Leadbetter frowned. “Do you suppose there’s a connection between the two sources?”

  Grey allowed himself a little smile. “Perhaps. But who can say what it might be?”

  There was a moment of silence as each man realized they’d quickly come to the end of whatever path they’d been following or hoping to follow in the Athenaeum that night.

  “Well, if it would help at all,” Leadbetter said with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, “I could loan you some of my volumes on alchemy and the Rosicrucians. Maybe within the pages you could find some sort of explanation that would give you the answer you’re looking for.”

  “That might be helpful indeed. I’m leaving tonight on the 10:15 to Portland. I could accompany you back to your rooms to collect the books.”

  Leadbetter waved off the idea. “No need for you to bother. I could hurry home and get them and meet you at the station. The B&M, ten-fifteen to Portland.”

  “That’s most generous of you, Mr. Leadbetter. Thank you ever so much for all your assistance.”

  The two men headed downstairs, and Grey paused, making an excuse about needing to speak to one of the librarians. Leadbetter tipped his hat and hurried out the front door. Grey made his way toward one of the windows overlooking the entrance on Beacon Street. He couldn’t fathom why the slow-moving Leadbetter had been so keen on making the trip to the North End alone to collect the offered books and lug them to the train station. It would have been simpler and quicker for Grey to accompany him.

  He watched Leadbetter reach the sidewalk and turn right. Grey strode to a side door and exited. After making his way up a side alley he stopped at the corner to observe Leadbetter. A man in a dark overcoat stepped forward and placed a hand on the ex-minister, stopping the old man in his tracks. The man spoke to Leadbetter in hushed but urgent tones, seeming to berate the old man. Grey was about to step out and intercede when he saw Leadbetter say something in return. He shook his hands, palms upraised, as if explaining something. Then he pointed back at the Athenaeum. Both men glanced in that direction. Grey ducked his head back into the alleyway. When he glanced out again, he saw that Leadbetter and the shadowy figure had parted ways.

  Grey paused in the darkness. Only now did he wish he’d called on McCutcheon to join him on tonight’s task, but he hadn’t thought his old colleague would be of any particular use at a library. He thought of the contents of his satchel and formed a plan. He had plenty of paper and even an envelope that would be large enough. What he needed now was
a well-lit but inconspicuous spot, maybe an out-of-the-way café where he could complete his new task before setting off to the train station.

  [ Chapter 48 ]

  GREY EDGED ALONG THE DARK SIDE OF THE MASSIVE, HANGARLIKE rail terminal. In his long, dark coat, he knew he’d pass unseen among the construction materials that littered the area. Five minutes earlier he’d observed Leadbetter waiting with a single book in hand near the entrance to the Boston & Maine line. Plenty of others lingered about as well, some of whom could have been the shadowy figure who’d accosted the old minister outside the Athenaeum an hour ago. Grey had paid a scrawny young paper hawker to go inside and verify the track number for the 10:15 to Portland.

  He rounded the front of the terminal and peered into the dimly lit hangar. A smoky haze hung above the pigeons loitering in the rafters. Misty halos surrounded the lamps at the platforms and ticket windows far away at the base of the station. Grey stole into the wide-open mouth of the terminal like some Jonah entering the belly of a coal-fed behemoth. He crossed several of the rails that led from the colossal structure as he made his way to the train idling on Track 6 with thin wisps of smoke wafting up from its stack.

  He was still early; the Portland train had not yet boarded. Grey clambered aboard at a coupling near the end of the still-vacant locomotive so that he could observe those milling about on the platform. He was met by a frowning conductor, who reminded him that they had not yet issued the boarding call. Grey feigned confusion, motioned to his walking stick, and claimed to need additional time to make his way aboard, owing to a gimpy leg. The unimpressed conductor directed him through the doors to the final car and into a private compartment.

  With the room’s gas lamp kept low, Grey peered from the edge of the small window. He saw Leadbetter enter the platform and scan the crowd that milled about, waiting to board. After another minute a rotund conductor hollered out the first boarding call. A nervous, almost panicked look overcame the former minister. Grey felt sorry for the man as he wandered aimlessly about the platform. Ever since the would-be assassin had tried to shoot him down outside the Seamen’s Bethel, Grey had been noticing familiar figures lurking on the edges of his investigative activities—figures who reminded him of the one who’d waylaid Leadbetter near the Athenaeum earlier. Grey recognized that Leadbetter’s confrontation might have nothing to do with this investigation. A man who’d done enough to get removed from the ministry could have plenty of people who bore him no goodwill. Still, when Leadbetter approached the train, trying to glance up into the compartment windows as he passed, Grey leaned against the interior wall, concealing himself from the old man’s view.

  He pulled the shade closed, turned the lamp higher, and settled into his seat. With his eyes closed, he directed his thoughts toward the puzzle of Horsford’s twenty-four symbols and what they could reveal about the meaning of the thunderstone. There was obviously a connection intended. The seven repeated on Old Thomas Webster’s thunderstone represented the seven metals in the alchemist’s process of transforming lead to gold. Horsford’s twenty-four symbols were copied from etchings on a rock near Portland. A rock along the coast would be visible to anyone, but Tom Webster had hidden the thunderstone, meaning it was those seven symbols that mattered most. They were the key to whatever he was concealing. But what did they represent? Just the alchemical elements, or were they a message, a code of letters or numbers? Were the twenty-four just a distraction to hide the seven? That made no sense. Why carve figures into rock if they meant nothing?

  The two sets had to fit together. The twenty-four could be the base pattern or alphabet of the hidden message meant for the Webster family heir to the thunderstone. If so, it was an unusual sort of code, in that it contained a single pair of duplicate images. Two “I” symbols were included and placed next to each other. Grey latched onto those two “I” figures as the glaring anomaly, the likeliest key to unlocking this code.

  The train sounded its departure and lurched to life, moving slowly away from the terminal. A minute later Grey opened his eyes at the sound of approaching footsteps. He only now realized that during the boarding process no one had passed by his compartment. In fact, he hadn’t heard anyone else even enter the final car where he was located. His door opened, and Father Leadbetter stumbled into the compartment. Behind him was a stocky man with a flat, mean face and a pistol pointed at Grey.

  “Don’t try anything.”

  The gunman gave Leadbetter a shove, forcing him onto the seat next to Grey. Then the man eased aside to let two others enter the compartment. Grey instantly recognized Dr. Jotham Marsh and his fawning lackey, Jerome Morse. The two latest arrivals took the opposite seats, facing Grey. The gunman closed the door and remained standing outside, blocking the small window that looked into the railcar’s aisle.

  “Father Leadbetter, what a surprise. Friends of yours?” Grey asked.

  “He was nice enough to alert us of your intentions as soon as he received your telegraph,” Marsh said.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Grey, I had no choice.” Leadbetter’s face was gripped by self-reproach.

  Jerome casually drew a pocket pistol. Grey recognized the weapon as a Remington Model 95 double-barreled derringer. Jerome bent forward and confiscated Grey’s walking stick, which had been leaning nearby against the wall.

  “Yes, his alternatives were rather limited,” Jerome said.

  “A situation not unlike the one you currently occupy,” Marsh added.

  Grey glanced at the door and the gunman standing on the other side.

  “Don’t worry, Grey, we won’t be disturbed. I’ve made arrangements with the conductor to ensure that we have complete privacy on this car.” Marsh held out a hand. “Now, the pages you copied from Professor Horsford’s unpublished manuscript.”

  Grey drew the folded pack of papers from his inside coat pocket and turned them over to Marsh. The older man flipped through the images while his young follower Jerome peered over his shoulder.

  “Come, Grey, why don’t you save us all a bit of time and trouble and tell me your conclusions as to the meaning of the symbols. Above and beyond what you’ve already discussed with your esteemed colleague here,” Marsh said, with a nod at Leadbetter.

  “Obviously intended as some type of code or cipher, but as to the meaning, I must say I haven’t yet the faintest inkling.”

  “That’s most disappointing,” Marsh said. “I was hoping that you might stumble upon the answer I’m looking for and lead me to what I seek. It’s why I let you live this long.”

  “Odd. I was sure I was still alive because I’m smarter than you, your incompetent thug can’t aim a pistol from atop a carriage, and furthermore I’m smarter than you,” Grey said.

  Jerome scoffed at the last comment. “You said that already.”

  “You caught that? Very good.”

  Marsh put a hand on Jerome’s arm before the younger man could do anything more than scowl at Grey. “Brash words from a man in your current predicament. But such arrogance is to be expected from one who has so fervently dedicated himself to his misplaced faith in objective reasoning. Yes, you possess an estimable intellect, Grey, but what has it gained you?”

  Marsh pulled a silver case from his pocket. He opened it and readied a cigarette. “You scurry about, eyes to the ground, teasing out the little details that reveal their finite secrets, and then you puzzle out the answer to this incident or that crime. Who stole this thing, or who murdered that one wretch or another, as if any of that will ever matter. There are so many grand, universal mysteries that remain hidden from mankind. Yet you’ve devoted a great mind to answering only the little questions about the meager lives and deaths of utterly insignificant people. What a waste.” After a deep drag, Marsh exhaled slowly through his nostrils. The two thin lines reached their nadir, then reversed themselves, rising in smoky tendrils that twirled about his face.

  “The real shame of it is that now your intellect has failed you. And on the one occasion when it might a
ctually have answered a question of monumental, even universal, importance. So if you are ignorant of the solution to our little riddle, then you are of no use to me.” Marsh’s tone held no threat; he was merely tossing out a fact.

  “Those runes won’t do you any good either,” Grey noted. “They’re only half of the puzzle. And I have the other half.”

  “Don’t you think I was careful enough to make a copy of the thunderstone’s seven symbols when I had the chance?”

  “Of course,” Grey conceded. “I just wanted you to verify my suspicion that you were behind the original theft of the thunderstone. And thus also responsible for the related murder of Frank Cosgrove. Disinterring his body and placing the burned corpse on Vine Street was meant to keep prying eyes away from the scene long enough to carry out the necessary excavations in the cellar.”

  “In part.” The skin around Marsh’s dour lips spread into a grim smile. “Fear has many uses. Its power upon weak and superstitious minds is not to be underestimated. That one act will continue to serve my purposes long after the specific details of Cosgrove’s death have been forgotten.”

  “Yet when the thunderstone yielded no results to you, you handed it away, to throw suspicion down another trail.” Grey saw a flash of annoyance in Marsh’s eyes. Something about giving the thunderstone over to Chief Jefferson rankled him. That hadn’t been Marsh’s idea. Or something about the scheme had gone wrong. “You don’t know what its symbols meant, so you had to keep digging up the cellars of every site ever owned by Thomas Webster.”

  “Yes, unfortunately, we had to try things the hard way. Until the contents of Professor Horsford’s book came to my attention.”

  “And thus your need for Chester Sears to steal it.”