A Study in Revenge: A Novel

by Kieran Shields

  It took a moment for the operator to connect him to Grey’s number. Once he got through, he told Grey he’d just received an anonymous tip. He read the note but, in case the operator was listening in, altered the language to avoid any explicit mention of shooting or violence.

  “She wants to meet me at midnight up at the site where the initial trouble was.”

  “You’re certain it’s a woman?” Grey asked.

  “From the handwriting anyway. On expensive stationery as well.”

  A brief pause buzzed through from Grey’s end of the line. “Could be trying to put you at ease, catch you off guard.”

  “I think it’s genuine. Yesterday evening, just as I finished speaking with Marsh, there was a woman with him. She whispered to me to look out for danger. There was real fear in her eyes.”

  “Pale skin, dark hair, black fingernails?” Grey asked.

  “Wearing gloves, but yes, that sounds like her. All dressed up in crimson.”

  “She actually spoke. Well, maybe she’s taken a shine to you.”

  Lean ignored Grey’s commentary. “This could be the break we need on Cosgrove and to get the inside details on all Marsh’s activities.”

  “Possibly. What was his demeanor when you confronted him? If Marsh felt threatened, this could be a trap.”

  “He laughed me off,” Lean grumbled, “knew I had nothing on him.”

  “Good,” Grey said without a hint of sarcasm.

  “Good?” Lean scoffed. “Being mocked by a murderer?”

  “Being underestimated by one’s enemies always imparts an advantage. How do you want to approach the meeting?”

  “The note says to come alone, so I’ll make myself conspicuous, stroll along around the North Street corner. You keep an eye out from nearby.”

  “Any additional patrolmen?” Grey asked.

  “I don’t want to risk her catching sight and getting scared off. Still, you may want to bring a pistol.”

  “Of course. Just before midnight,” Grey said, with a finality that ended the conversation.

  Lean hung up, started to turn away, then glanced back at the phone. Something nagged at his brain, but he pushed it aside. All his thoughts were on the crimson woman and the reservoir.

  [ Chapter 53 ]

  GREY RAPPED THE BRASS KNOCKER ON THE FRONT DOOR OF Phebe’s house and waited, but there was no response. It was past eleven o’clock, and the house was mostly dark. The front hallway was lit, as was one of the upstairs bedrooms. An uneasy feeling crept through him, and he knocked again, this time with his fist and more loudly. He heard no approach of footsteps or any other human sound from inside, so he tried the locked handle before moving off around the side of the house. A kitchen window yielded to him, and Grey managed to slide and wriggle his way into the darkened room. He walked to the front hall and paused when he heard a footstep on the stairs.

  “Perceval—my goodness, you frightened me! What’s going on? Has something happened?”

  Phebe came down the steps. She wore work boots, heavy woolen trousers, and a dark brown field coat, with a wide-brimmed hat in her hand. All in all she looked as if she’d raided the wardrobe of some country farmer. “How’d you get in here?”

  Grey was studying her appearance and managed nothing more in reply than, “Sorry. I took the liberty of letting myself in the back. I was worried when no one answered the door.”

  “I didn’t hear you. And the servants have the night off. Mrs. Mullen must have forgotten to lock up. I really will need to speak to that woman.”

  “You gave them the night off? I’d have thought you reluctant do that, so soon after what happened the last time,” Grey said. “And what of those private security men Euripides planned to hire?”

  “Oh, I sent that useless fellow off. I suppose you’re wondering why I’m dressed in this outlandish getup?”

  “It did strike me as peculiar. Though, that isn’t the first question that leaps to mind.”

  “Oh, really? As usual you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

  “Just how deeply are you involved in this deadly game you’ve all been playing at?” Grey asked. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

  Phebe came down the rest of the stairs, frowning at his accusatorial tone. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I suppose we should start with the original theft of the thunderstone from the offices of Dyer & Fogg. Though we both know it goes further back than that episode.”

  “The thunderstone? That’s been resolved. You have it yourself. It couldn’t be in safer hands.” Phebe laid a reassuring hand on Grey’s arm.

  “Resolved, you say. There’s still the little matter of Frank Cosgrove’s murder. Who would care enough about that stone to kill a man? So few people had any idea the thunderstone was even in the lawyer’s locked vaults.”

  “I don’t know what you’re aiming at, but in any event, the employees at the law office would have known of it. And as I already told you, I mentioned it in casual company any number of times.”

  “Yes, but apart from Chief Jefferson, only your family ever showed the slightest knowledge of, or interest in, the item.”

  “Chief Jefferson, then.” She implored Grey with her eyes. “I always suspected him.”

  “He never stole it. It was delivered to him later, and no one was as surprised by that development as he was. Someone who had no use for the stone anymore arranged for it to be passed to Chief Jefferson. You were so very eager to have me find it. But it only became important to you once you realized that I still intended to locate your sister, even after your grandfather’s passing. No doubt you hoped I’d give up the chase after that unhappy day. You saw the chief as an opportunity. You could cast suspicion in his direction, and I’d waste my time pursuing him across the entire state.”

  “This is ludicrous, Perceval. I don’t care to listen to all this … this claptrap. Are you sure you’re feeling quite well?” She led the way into the living room and lit the gas lamp.

  “Not as well as I’d like, it’s true. But please indulge me.” Grey followed her into the room before continuing with his train of thought.

  “Early on I suspected that the thunderstone was just a harmless hobby or obsession for your ancestor Thomas Webster. Not unlike Professor Horsford and his supposed Viking discoveries. After all, Tom Webster fabricated those rock markings along with the thunderstone. Ordered a servant of his to carve them. All an elaborate ruse. But why?”

  “I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Phebe said. “Believe me.”

  Grey began to pace. “I might have, if there weren’t other elements, and dangerous people, involved. It would have been easy to believe that you knew nothing of this at all. It makes no sense unless you know what you’re looking at—and what other people are seeing. From the beginning nothing added up in this whole business. Least of all your role.”

  “Me? Perceval, you’re making me nervous. Please let’s sit and have a drink.”

  He paused in his movement and waved off the notion of a drink. “From the moment I first saw you, it was clear that you were a devoted granddaughter, caring for Horace in his final days. Your concern for him appeared nothing other than genuine.”

  “And I assure you it was,” Phebe said as she poured a small glass of sherry for herself.

  “I don’t doubt. And what else became clear, in our talks, was the similar love and devotion that you felt for your sister, Madeline. You’ve struck me as a remarkably clear, coolheaded woman. Except for matters of your grandfather and sister. Those are the two instances when your emotions come to the surface. And where those two instances collided, that was where I began to suspect that not all was as it appeared with you.”

  They regarded each other in silence for a moment, neither one’s face yielding any hint of emotion.

  “I have some news regarding your sister. Though I suppose, in the strictest sense, it won’t truly be news to you.”

  “Really? You me
an you’ve received some word on her whereabouts?”

  Grey didn’t answer her question. He only stared at her a moment longer before speaking again. “Despite your obvious devotion to your sister, you never showed the slightest interest in having me actually locate her. Why not? Was she really off gallivanting around the world, who knows where or with whom? There was no valid excuse for you to have resisted the idea of locating her, of freeing your grandfather from such a great worry on his deathbed. There can be only one reason: You already knew where she was. And you wanted to shield him from the pain of that knowledge. So no, I wouldn’t say I’ve learned her whereabouts as much as her final resting place.”

  Phebe lowered her unfinished drink, the crystal clanking down hard on the marble-topped side table.

  “I was at the Forest City Cemetery today. I’ve been visiting most of the burial grounds in the area over the past couple of weeks. Without much luck, until today. The overseer at Forest City instantly knew what I was looking for. He remembered it quite clearly. A young woman with burns to her face severe enough to prevent any possible recognition. She’d washed up on the shore. It was in the papers, but with identification impossible, and no one to claim the body or pay the cost, she was buried in the paupers’ field. About a week later, another young woman arrived, with plenty of money. Enough to have the body exhumed. She was able to identify the corpse by a birthmark.”

  Grey watched Phebe’s lips tense, but she said nothing.

  “Your uncles didn’t know she had one. I paid a visit to Dr. Thayer’s office after hours. Madeline’s records make mention of the mark’s location: on her side, always under her clothing. Who outside the family could have identified her by that? This new young woman paid for a rather expensive headstone as well as a bit of extra money to make sure no word was mentioned to any newspaper about the deceased mystery woman’s finally being identified. Even the headstone itself was meant to keep that mystery hidden. ‘My Sister, My Soul.’ A simple and stirring epitaph you chose. But it’s like I told you that first day we met: Four words can be quite telling.” Grey ceased his pacing and now waited on Phebe.

  “So what if it’s all as you say? Yes, I knew that my sister had died. I wasn’t willing to inflict that blow upon my grandfather’s weakened heart. I gave her a proper burial and tombstone. What of it? There’s nothing to connect me to the theft of the thunderstone or handing it off to that Chief Jefferson fellow. Even if I did give it to that man, so what? It was mine to give.”

  “That was a point of indecision for me,” Grey admitted. “Everyone expected Euripides to inherit the stone. Thus he had no cause to steal it. If some family involvement and motivation existed, as appeared so highly likely, it had to be you or your Uncle Jason. He’s clearly more fanciful in spirit than you. I suspected him at first. That he was somehow involved with certain unsavory elements in the city. The kind with the imagination and resources to pull off that elaborate bit of skulduggery: stealing Cosgrove’s corpse and burning it.

  “But then you wept when I told you the story of Helen Prescott and her young daughter. The reaction was out of character for such a pragmatic woman as you. Especially considering that the young girl came to no ultimate harm. The only permanent victim in that part of the story was the murderer’s accomplice. The unknown woman who tried to burn young Delia Prescott and, in the end, gave herself over to the flames.”

  Phebe looked unsteady on her feet. Grey stepped forward, took her arm, and guided her to a stuffed chair.

  Grey spoke more quietly and let some degree of sympathy into his voice. “I suspect that you knew Madeline had been led astray, into acts of madness by some insane killer. But you would never have heard that part of the story before. The exact details of how your sister died, and that in her final moments of life she’d been trying to murder an innocent child. It must have been quite a blow to hear those words. That was not the sister you knew and loved.”

  “I’ve only lied to you about one thing that truly did matter, Perceval. You asked me why I cared more about recovering the thunderstone than I did about finding her. I told you it was because my sister hadn’t been stolen from me. That was a lie. Madeline was stolen from me.” The look of innocence drained from Phebe’s face, replaced with one of angry defiance.

  Grey nodded. “Stolen by that murderer Jack Whitten. He’s already dead, but your work isn’t yet done. There’s someone else to be held responsible. Perhaps Dr. Jotham Marsh, Whitten’s mentor of sorts. He was the missing connection. He’s very knowledgeable about your ancestor’s history, and about the thunderstone. He wanted it only to copy the markings, but he didn’t know that you were going to hand it over to Chief Jefferson. That annoyed him—I could see it on his face when I mentioned that. He didn’t want anyone else seeing the markings, maybe figuring out what they truly meant. But you never cared about what those markings meant, did you?”

  “Of course not. It’s all a fable. Some fairy story dreamed up by my senile great-great-grandfather.”

  “You cared only about your sister—and getting me out of the way on Chief Jefferson’s trail long enough to do whatever it is that you mean to do. Those men who attacked you, that evening when I returned from my pursuit to Katahdin, were a ruse. Some of Marsh’s men, I suspect.” He saw the truth of that in her eyes, the first hint of shame or guilt he’d seen there. Was it because she’d faked the attempted robbery by those men or because of what followed later that night? It wasn’t the first time Grey had wondered whether that part was also calculated in advance, only the first time he could read her face and see any hint from her. He pushed the thought aside; it didn’t matter now.

  “But if you don’t believe in any of this alchemical nonsense, then what’s the reason for your connection to Marsh? Did you offer him information about the thunderstone in order to gain his trust? Why?” Grey asked.

  “Yes, we worked out that bit together. He wanted his men to take the stone back, so no one else could read it. And he agreed to stage the robbery, so we could divert any possible suspicion you might have had of me in the whole thunderstone mess. But you’re wrong about my telling him anything of the thunderstone. He already knew all that. Uncle Jason told him everything about Thomas Webster. He’s been in with Marsh for a long time.”

  Phebe stood and found her drink again. She threw the last part of it down her throat, steeling herself for what she would say next.

  “Jason’s the one who introduced Maddy to that cruel monster. My uncle saw how wide-eyed and bored with her life she was becoming. I thought it was just a silly phase, all this mystical, magical rubbish. By the time I realized how serious it was, I was too late. Marsh is an evil man. And Jason handed her over, his own flesh and blood. Jotham Marsh preys upon people like Maddy. People searching for something new and meaningful, no matter how ludicrous it sounds. People who are desperate to feel special and powerful.”

  Grey nodded. “Her death, her ever getting mixed up in any of this, is a tragedy. I won’t deny that. But she hasn’t been the only one to suffer. Why did Frank Cosgrove have to die?”

  “That was never part of the plan. Uncle Jason was simply going to pay him for the thunderstone. Then, at the last minute, Marsh had a change of heart. Didn’t want to risk Cosgrove talking. He said there was too much at stake, so he had one of his ruffians shoot the man.” She pleaded her innocence with a long look into his eyes.

  “I’m not the criminal here, Perceval. It’s Marsh. You must see that. He’s the one who kills anyone who stands in his way. He’s the one who digs his claws into innocent souls, corrupts them with his madness, and sets them loose to do his killing. He has to be stopped. You know that. Help me do it. I owe Maddy justice.”

  “Justice? How, exactly? By killing Marsh? Or your Uncle Jason? The desire for revenge is born of pain, not justice.”

  “Killing’s too good for Marsh. Not yet. I’m going to destroy him first. Expose him for the greedy, criminal lunatic that he is. Ruin him, see him paraded about in handcuf
fs. Ridiculed and despised in the street. And once he gets out of prison, or if he avoids jail, there’ll be time enough to kill him then.”

  “Listen to yourself, Phebe. It’s for the law to deal with Marsh and your uncle.”

  “They’d never be held accountable for Maddy’s death. There’s no proof of anything that happened with her. And I wouldn’t let her name be stomped down into the mud.”

  “With your testimony they could be found complicit in Cosgrove’s death,” he assured her.

  “And me as well. I never went to the police afterward.”

  “You didn’t know that Marsh meant to kill Cosgrove. I’m sure the city attorney would grant you amnesty in return for your testimony.”

  “No. Jason and Marsh need to pay for Maddy’s life—not that man Cosgrove’s.”

  “How do you propose to accomplish all this?” Grey asked.

  “I’ve worked it all out, made all the arrangements. As soon as Marsh and Uncle Jason started this insane alchemy talk and digging up my ancestor’s buried treasure, I knew it would come to this. I knew all along they’d never find whatever they were looking for buried under one of the old family houses. Eventually they’d have to look in the last possible location. And there was only one way they could ever reach it.

  “I’ve long since prepared certain incriminating documents. After tonight, when this is over, those documents will be found among Jason’s papers. They’ll expose his connection to Marsh’s insane magic society. Engineering plans that show the weak spot. Journal entries revealing their plan to use the explosives he stole from Uncle Euripides’ munitions works. The ones they used to finally complete their delusional plan and unearth the hiding place of Thomas Webster’s magical golden formula or whatever foolishness it is that they believe in.”