A Study in Revenge: A Novel

by Kieran Shields

  “Iota, nu, epsilon, phi, omicron, gamma, eta.” Lean read the board, nodded thoughtfully, then declared, “I don’t mean to sound, as you said, asinine—”

  “Brilliantly asinine,” Grey corrected him.

  “Thank you. But I’m not getting whatever is meant to be understood here. Am I mispronouncing something?”

  “You named the letters correctly.” Grey set the chalk down and stepped back. “Greek was never my favorite. Put together, the letters would be read something like ‘Een-eff-ogg-ay.’ ”

  The room fell silent for a long moment, and then Lean said, “Well, there it is. Case closed.”

  “ ‘Ine-eff-ogg-ey’?” After another moment of reflection, Grey said, “I suppose I shall need a trip to the library for a book on Greek. A native speaker would be better. It may be a name or some colloquialism.”

  He stood there, transfixed by the Greek letters on the board.

  “Sorry, Grey. It’s a disappointment to be sure. But it’s not the end of the world. Remember where we started in all this? Me trying to figure who shot Cosgrove and then defiled his grave? We know that was Marsh’s doing. And you were looking for that missing Webster girl. She’s still out there. We both have real tasks left to do. Getting Marsh and finding the girl. Real live problems to work on. Forget this old crank Webster and his wild hoax. Let him keep his riddle. Time for each of us to let go and move forward.”

  Lean went to the hooks by the door and retrieved his hat. He felt bad leaving Grey there at a loss. But the man was nothing if not practical; he would soon move on to items that actually mattered.

  “After all, some secrets are meant to be carried to the grave,” Lean said, and glanced back. Grey was no longer staring at the board. He was watching Lean, and his quizzical look had returned.

  “Again—brilliantly asinine,” Grey declared. Then, enunciating the sounds carefully, he added, “ ‘In-eff-oj-ee.’ ”

  “Come again?” Lean said.

  “ ‘In effigy.’ I think Old Tom Webster meant to spell out the words ‘in effigy.’ ” A strained smile showed on Grey’s face.

  “Wonderful. You’ve solved the riddle and proved it’s all a fake. ‘In effigy.’ Just a symbol, a parody. All a hoax. Now can we agree it’s time to move on to catching a murderer?”

  “Where are you going?” Grey asked.

  “To see Marsh.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “Maybe not, but the man’s guilty of murder,” Lean said. “I can’t just leave it.”

  [ Chapter 51 ]

  LEAN WAS TOO RESTLESS TO SIT, SO HE WALKED THE FOUR blocks west from High Street over to Marsh’s mystical thaumaturgic society on Winter Street. The quick pace as he crisscrossed the semifashionable neighborhoods made him feel that he was accomplishing something, or at least moving in the right direction. As he turned the final corner, the sprawling, peaked, three-story brick building came into view. A coupé-style landau sat out front with the rear cover down and a driver at the ready.

  He waited at the corner a minute until an available hansom cab passed. The driver gave a queer look when Lean climbed aboard but only ordered him to pull around onto Winter Street and wait.

  “Just sitting ain’t free, you know,” the squirrelly-faced driver said.

  “Does it cost any extra to sit in silence?” Lean replied.

  Five minutes passed. It felt longer as Lean’s mind coiled itself ever more tightly around the idea of Dr. Jotham Marsh and whatever unknown, despicable ideas he was spreading within the innocent-looking structure. The man was directly responsible for two killings at least. Lean knew he shouldn’t feel any more or less outrage about either one—murder was murder. But Frank “the Foot” Cosgrove was a career thief; he’d chosen a potentially deadly calling. Father Leadbetter, on the other hand, had chosen a life in which he’d tried to help people. And even after his ouster from the ministry, the man had lived a harmless life in a basement apartment surrounded by books and a decrepit dog. The old man hadn’t deserved a violent death, followed undoubtedly by the loathsome tossing of his dead body off a moving train.

  Marsh’s actions in this case made Lean reconsider his thoughts from the series of murders a year before. Jack Whitten was clearly disturbed even from his youth, but how much had Marsh’s occult teachings pushed the violent young man over the edge, past whatever grip on reason he’d ever had, into the realm of his depraved killings? He wondered how much Marsh was to blame for those innocent lives, and for the attempts on Helen Prescott and her young daughter, Delia. And apart from Whitten, what other fragile minds was he corrupting?

  The image of the madly venomous woman on Cushing’s Island, firebrand in her hand and spewing delirious threats, leaped into Lean’s mind. He tried to banish her from his thoughts before she touched the torch to her dress. Her shriek echoed through Lean’s head, and he imagined the smell of gasoline and burning flesh creeping through his nostrils. He forced an angry cough and spit over the side of the carriage.

  A hundred yards away, Jotham Marsh came out the front door in a full-evening-dress suit of black broadcloth with a top hat. Behind him stepped a dark-haired woman in a brocaded silk evening dress of dark crimson with elbow-length black gloves. Last out the door was a younger man whom Lean recognized as Jerome Morse, Marsh’s sniveling bootlick.

  Lean had his driver follow Marsh’s vehicle as it turned onto Pine and then entered Congress Street at Longfellow Square. Though intent on the man he was following, Lean couldn’t ignore the sight of his favorite poet immortalized in cast bronze, comfortably seated, atop a short but broad granite block. Several blocks on, Marsh’s landau pulled over in front of the Mechanics’ Hall. This was home to Portland’s Haydn Association, conducted by the city’s resident musical genius, Hermann Kotzschmar.

  Jerome stepped out first, followed by Marsh. The woman in crimson was still seated in the landau when Lean approached.

  “Dr. Marsh.”

  It took a moment for recognition to appear in the man’s eyes. “Deputy Lean, isn’t it?”

  He glanced at Jerome, who nodded, a look of angry disgust twisting his features.

  “How’s your face?” Lean asked Jerome, who glowered but didn’t speak.

  “Whatever can I do for you, Deputy?” Marsh asked.

  “I’d like to ask you about the death of Frank Cosgrove.”

  “Who? Oh, that again. Your friend Mr. Grey asked me about that. Sorry, I still don’t know anything of the matter. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we don’t want to enter the performance late. Quite unseemly, you know.”

  Marsh began to turn away, but Lean’s question halted him. “Then what about the death of Father Leadbetter?”

  Marsh locked back, shock written across his face. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “Shot dead while coming north on the B&M two nights ago.”

  “That’s … horrible,” Marsh sputtered. “I can’t believe it.”

  The man’s surprise struck Lean as so genuine that he paused for a moment before asking, “Are you denying you were present in that rail-car with Father Leadbetter?”

  Marsh gasped. “What are you saying?”

  Jerome stepped forward a bit, though Lean noticed that the man didn’t actually come within arm’s length. “Doctor, should I—”

  “No, Jerome, it’s all right. Deputy, I’m stunned that you would think …” Marsh’s voice trailed off in disbelief. “Very well, two nights ago I was actually in Boston, coincidentally enough. At a benefit for a friend. It lasted all night.”

  “So you have witnesses who can confirm this?” Lean asked.

  “This is utterly preposterous. But if need be, then yes, I can obtain statements from a dozen reputable witnesses as to my whereabouts that evening. Physicians, attorneys, business leaders, some gentlemen from the statehouse.”

  An edge came into Marsh’s eyes, and his voice was sharper when he spoke again. “Reputable witnesses, not some—What is he anyway, a private detective? Som
e eccentric half-breed who devotes his life to snooping around into other people’s business. It’s a free country, and Mr. Grey can do as he wishes—within the law. But you, Deputy Lean, are a sworn public servant. The people of this city, and your superiors in the city government, expect more out of you than baseless, and frankly absurd, allegations of misconduct.”

  “I have reason to believe that you’re aware of the circumstances surrounding these deaths.”

  “You don’t have any evidence at all to link me to either of these crimes. Do you know why? Because I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talking about. I don’t know this Cosgrove fellow. Father Leadbetter was a friend of mine, but many years ago. A kind soul, certainly no one I would ever wish harm upon.”

  “Not even if it meant getting a hold of this Count de St. Germain’s alembic? The philosopher’s stone?”

  “Really, is that what Grey’s filling your head with?” Marsh scoffed. “Please let me give you some advice. I think you need to reconsider where you place your faith. The philosopher’s stone.” He began to chuckle.

  “What’s next, Deputy? A leprechaun’s pot of gold? Perceval Grey is an unbalanced individual. He seems to be obsessed with delusions about grand criminal conspiracies. Now, I don’t blame you, the man can be very convincing. His people are like that—natural-born snake-oil salesmen. My dear fellow, don’t let him reel you in. Your job is to protect the public in this beautiful city of ours. Not to let real criminals go free while you search for imaginary shadows that only Grey sees. We really do need to get inside. Is that all now, Deputy?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Marsh studied him for a moment, then chuckled again. “Yes, of course it is. I think you’re realizing how foolish this all sounds. Good evening, Deputy Lean.”

  Marsh turned and hurried up the steps with Jerome at his heels. In the rush of the moment, he seemed to forget about his other, far more memorable-looking companion. Lean had also let the woman in the crimson dress slip his mind, until she bumped into him. He felt her face close to his, and her quick whispered words went through him like an electric shock.

  “There’s danger here.”

  The feeling was over in a second.

  “Please watch where you’re stepping,” she announced loudly.

  From atop the steps, Marsh turned back to see the woman separating herself from Lean and called out, “Come along, Mira.”

  “Terribly sorry, miss.” Lean tipped his hat and apologized with a short bow. He watched her up the steps. It hadn’t been a threat she’d whispered; there was more of a warning to it. She was almost to the top of the steps when she glanced back and met Lean’s eyes. He saw concern there, maybe even true fear.

  [ Chapter 52 ]

  TOM DORAN SAT LOOKING THROUGH A LINE OF TREES AT THE grounds of the Forest City Cemetery in Cape Elizabeth. The sun was beating down on him in the open-topped hansom cab, and he wiped the sweat from his brow as he cursed the name of Archie Lean. This was the second burial ground that he and his man McCrink had trailed Perceval Grey to today. His first round of following Grey had been done in gratitude for the Indian detective’s discovery of Doran’s daughter the year before. This time the deputy marshal promised a favor. In Doran’s line of work, as muscle for one of Portland’s two Irish gang leaders, a favor with the cops was worth having in his back pocket.

  Still, Doran had never been a patient man, and the tedium of the hot day was fraying his already thin nerves. At least this cemetery seemed to be taking less time. Earlier, at Riverside, Grey had wandered aimlessly while Doran remained hidden in the carriage. With his mammoth size, he was too easily recognized. The job of getting on the ground in the boneyard and keeping a closer eye on Grey’s movements fell to his associate, McCrink. That fellow had been blessed with below-average size and a face, typically hidden in a haze of cigarette smoke, that was utterly forgettable.

  This time Grey hadn’t wandered much at all. He had met a man, maybe a worker at the cemetery, by the front gate. The two had spoken for a minute, and then the man had pointed. That seemed to be enough to tell Grey what he was looking for. The detective found the headstone within a minute or two. But now he’d been standing in the same spot for ten minutes. Doran didn’t want to begrudge Grey, or any other man, whatever length of time he needed for mourning at a loved one’s grave. Heaven knew Doran had spent many an hour at his wife’s marker, too often with a bottle in hand. Yet the sun was hot today, and it was hard to believe, based on what he knew of Grey from their previous work together, that the man had heart enough to hold ten minutes’ worth of grief.

  Finally Doran saw Grey’s dark outline turn and walk away. He was relieved that McCrink had enough sense to wait until Grey passed out of the cemetery before hurrying in to see what had captured his attention. The relief turned to annoyance quick enough. McCrink stood in front of the same marker, staring at it for what seemed an eternity. The man should just have read the name and rushed back to the cab so they could stick with Grey. Instead McCrink was now flapping a scrawny arm in Doran’s direction, beckoning him to come and see.

  Grumbling the whole time, Doran climbed down, pushed through the trees, and trudged across the graveyard to where McCrink awaited him.

  “What in hell are you doing, lolling about gawking?” Doran waved an angry hand toward the road, where Grey’s hansom had already passed out of view. “We’ll have lost him by now.”

  McCrink’s glassy eyes followed the sweep of Doran’s arm, then trickled back to the headstone. When he cracked his lips apart to speak, his cigarette hung at the corner of his mouth, kept there by a dab of dried saliva and leaning over like a desperate man on the precipice of a high bridge.

  “Oh, sorry,” McCrink said. “But have you ever seen a gravestone queer as this?”

  Doran finally glanced at the headstone that had so entranced both Grey and McCrink. The truth was that Doran had seen plenty of headstones in his day, passing through on the way to his wife’s marker. And yet it was also true that few had ever struck him as peculiar as the one he saw now. There was no name. There were no dates of birth or death. The stone was clean and fairly new, well cut and pricey-looking. Four simple words crossed its face.

  LEAN STOOD IN his front parlor with Doran. Emma had excused herself and, with the baby on her hip, headed off to the kitchen. She was glad to do so, Lean could tell by the look in her eyes. Tom Doran didn’t cut the sort of figure to put people at ease, particularly people intent on shielding their young children from all the dangers and brutalities that awaited in the world. His young son, Owen, was a different matter. The boy was clearly fascinated by the most mountainous example of humanity he’d seen in his six short years. Lean had tried to shoo him from the room three times. It was only when Doran growled at him in a way that was not entirely playful that the boy beat his own hasty retreat to the kitchen.

  Doran gave a quick summation of that day’s events, leading up to Grey’s apparent discovery of something interesting at the Forest City Cemetery.

  “Let’s have it, then. Whose grave was it?”

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  Lean’s jaw dropped an inch in disappointment. “You didn’t check to see?”

  “Course we did. Weren’t no name ’scribed at all. Nor dates neither.”

  “A blank stone. Really?”

  “Didn’t say that. Weren’t blank. Just said ‘My Sister, My Soul.’ Nothing more.”

  “I never heard of Grey having a sister,” Lean muttered. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. He knew very little of Grey’s family history. He knew that the man had been raised by his wealthy maternal grandfather. His Indian father had died in an accident when Grey was young. He gathered that Grey’s mother had died tragically at some point. He’d never presumed to ask the man, but Lean remembered vague comments that led him to think the woman might have taken her own life.

  “Is that it, then? Am I done with following Grey—done for good and true this time?” There
was more than a hint of annoyance in the big man’s gruff voice.

  Before Lean could answer, the mail slot on his front door clacked open and a small white envelope dropped to the floor. It was past dinnertime; the postman had come hours ago. Lean strode to the front door and glanced out a side window. A scruffy boy, twelve years old or so, dashed away down the street into the darkness.

  Lean bent and picked up the envelope. He tore it open with his thumb and drew out the single short page and read it to himself:

  I know who shot that man Cosgrove. I saw it happen and am ready to tell everything I know. Meet me where he was shot. I don’t want any trouble, so please come by yourself at midnight.

  Cosgrove had been killed near the Munjoy Hill Reservoir sometime between midnight and dawn. It could be a woman passing by from a late factory shift. A prostitute on North Street looking for a bit of privacy also made sense for a witness in that area. But the note itself made him think otherwise. The message appeared to be written in a hurry but in a well-schooled, feminine hand. In addition, the paper was of high quality.

  “What do you say? Done or not, with following Grey?” Doran had joined him at the doorway.

  Lean held the message down by his side. He wasn’t even sure how well Doran could read but didn’t want to take a chance on the man’s seeing the note.

  “Yeah, all over,” Lean said absentmindedly.

  “Good. I suppose I should go round up McCrink and tell him to knock off.”

  Lean showed the big man to the door and stood there thinking. It seemed Grey had found whatever he’d been combing the cemeteries around Portland for. Now Lean was promised an eyewitness to Cosgrove’s murder, the answer to the only question he’d had at the start of this inquiry. Things seemed to be wrapping up. Yet that had been the case before, the first time he’d worked with Grey. Just when they thought they’d had their killer, the truth had slipped through their fingers and Dr. Virgil Steig had paid the price. Lean decided he wouldn’t let his guard down again.