“Came rushing in the door early. Not long after seven. So I s’pose he was out all night. Often was. Only queer ’cause that means he’d usually sleep the day through. Not Friday, though. Couldn’t have been more than three minutes before he came tearing back downstairs. Bag in hand, looking like he’s seen the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.”
“Maybe he had,” said Lean as he showed his badge to the man. “I need the spare key.”
“Sorry. I’ll lose business if I start letting coppers go looking about in guests’ rooms.”
“We’ll be discreet. Or else I’ll start announcing how we’ll be back to search every room. See how much business you keep then.”
“All right.” The man retrieved a key from under the front desk, made sure no one was approaching from the inside stairs or the front door, and slid it across to Lean. “But be quick about it. One floor up, Room G.”
The detectives climbed the spongy, cracked stairs and entered a thin hall unlit except for a lone, grime-covered window at the far end.
“So did Sears put Cosgrove’s body in the house at Vine Street?” Lean wondered aloud.
“Or did he only flee when he heard about it?” Grey countered.
They passed several doors, including one that, from the odors emanating, must have been the common toilet. Lean found G and unlocked the door. The room was sparse and cheerless. Faded wallpaper blended into a wooden floor that hadn’t seen polish or even soap in many decades and a ceiling that could no longer lay claim to any true shade of white. A frayed curtain hung in the thin window frame. The only furniture in the room was a small, unmade single bed, a dresser with each drawer partly open, a wobbly side table, and a wastebasket. A quick search of the room revealed a comb, a lone sock in one of the drawers, and a bit of loose change along with an almost empty packet of cigarettes on the side table.
“I see why he doesn’t spend much time here. Not much bigger than a prison cell.”
“Then he should feel right at home,” Grey said as he picked up the waste bin.
“Lived sparely,” Lean said, “almost monastic.”
“Hardly,” Grey said as he drew out one liquor bottle, then another from the bin.
“Can’t blame him all that much. Even you’d take a nip or two confined within these filthy walls.”
“A remarkably charitable assessment coming from you,” Grey said after regarding Lean for a moment. “It leads me to conclude that congratulations are in order. I take it you’ve been blessed with your second child and finally managed to purchase the new home you wanted.”
“Yes. Thanks for asking—in your own peculiar way. Don’t suppose you care to elaborate on just how you figured that.”
“You used to worry about the impending birth and whether you could afford to move from your apartment to a house of your own. Nothing in your manner indicates that you’re still dealing with grief, or your lovely wife’s grief, over the loss of a child. So the birth occurred without incident. And now, seeing Sears’s squalid quarters, you exhibit only pity, not commiseration, meaning he’s less fortunate than you. Thus you are no longer in the similar position of being forced to make do in a cramped residence.”
Grey pulled a newspaper from the bin and handed it to Lean. It was Thursday’s morning edition. Next Grey retrieved a crumpled bit of paper, which he smoothed out and studied in the dusky light from the window.
“What’s that?” Lean asked.
Grey didn’t respond, so the deputy peered in.
The paper was a three-by-five-inch sheet with the words TREMONT HOUSE imprinted across the top. Written in neat block letters in ink was HORSFORD—BRATTLE ST. CAMBRIDGE. Below, in pencil, a messier hand had scribbled “Tues. 7–11” and then a series of random words and numbers: “boy 22 horse 78 dog ink sun.”
“Three days from now,” Lean said. “And Tremont House—that’s in Boston?”
“Yes. Curious why Sears would have this stationery. One of the most expensive hotels in the city.” Grey motioned about at their current meager surroundings before returning his attention to the paper.
“This code is most peculiar.” After a moment Grey added, “I’ll telephone ahead to Walt McCutcheon in Boston. Have him check the guest registry at the Tremont House and look into the identity of this Horsford of Brattle Street. We need to know the connection to Cosgrove.”
Lean smiled. He hadn’t heard the name of Grey’s old colleague in a while. McCutcheon, a Pinkerton detective who was memorable for his carefree manner and oversize appetites, had helped them on their investigation a year earlier. Lean’s smile faded as he recognized Grey’s meaning.
“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t impose. This is strictly a police matter. You’ve got your own business to attend to.” Lean reached out for the handwritten note. “I can’t expect you to volunteer your time and energies—”
Grey’s eyes flicked from the note to Lean’s hand, then up to his face. He made no movement to turn the paper over. “I can certainly spare a day or so. Besides, I’ve been meaning to get down to the city. Take in a concert or some such.”
Lean didn’t believe that last bit, but he didn’t want to object too strenuously. Grey’s familiarity with Boston, and his connections there, would surely be useful.
“I’ll need time to make arrangements at the station, get the marshal’s approval,” Lean said.
[ Chapter 8 ]
LEAN WAITED AT THE BASE OF THE MAIN STEPS OF CITY Hall. Word had been passed down that he was to meet Mayor Baxter there at half past six. As he watched the doors, his eyes drifted up the light yellowish brown Nova Scotia Albert stone to the building’s grandiose center dome, which loomed 160 feet above him.
Only a minute later, the mayor appeared, took in the scene from the top steps, and smiled down at Lean. The mayor was in his early sixties, and his bowler hid a severely receding hairline. His rounded face and slightly bulging midsection reflected his hugely successful business ventures in the canning and packing industry. A thin salt-and-pepper goatee circled down below the jawline to leave his distinctive chin cleft exposed.
“Deputy, walk along with me. I wanted to speak with you about this poor fellow who went and got shot last week or whenever. Cosgrove, I think his name was.”
“Oh, of course, Your Honor. Didn’t realize you were following the matter.”
“As mayor, my time is put to better use working on the broad issues and efforts at civic improvement. So while my approach to police work in the city may be rather hands-off, that doesn’t mean I keep my ears closed.”
Baxter’s reputation for a keen intellect, along with his sharp eyebrows, lent a certain gravitas to the man’s comments.
“Every Monday morning I have a chat with the marshal about various goings-on. He told me about this murder you’re investigating. And someone went and dug the poor fellow up. Very disturbing. I understand you’ve requested permission to go to Boston to seek out his murderer.”
“Just a known accomplice, but he may well be aware of what happened.”
“And you’ve involved an outside investigator, Perceval Grey.”
Lean considered a response as they passed a wide flight of stone steps leading up to the First Parish Church. It was a solid, elegant structure, old enough to have a spacious lot around it despite its location in the heart of the city. He glanced up at the clock face set in the church’s front tower of undressed granite and realized he couldn’t delay his response any longer.
“I wouldn’t say ‘involved,’ ” Lean answered. “Not in any official capacity by any means.”
“Don’t worry yourself, son, I haven’t called you here to drag you or this Grey over the coals. Quite the opposite. You see, I received the queerest package a few months back, shortly after I took office. Sent to me with a letter from a Mrs. Helen Prescott. I knew her from her position at the historical society.”
“Of course.” Lean was well aware of Baxter’s many philanthropic efforts in and around Portland. Not the least of
these was his funding the construction, several years earlier, of the city’s new building to house the public library and historical society.
“I also knew her uncle, Virgil Steig. The package she sent contained a journal that he’d started last summer. It detailed his work on the body of a murder victim by the name of Maggie Keene. Not the sort of thing a city surgeon would normally devote an entire journal to. But, as you well know, the investigation took some rather bizarre turns.”
Two gentlemen standing outside a handsome block of brick stores that included the entrance to the Odd Fellows Hall tipped their hats and bade the mayor a good evening. Baxter was very popular; Lean had noticed other passersby smiling or waving at the mayor as they walked. Baxter possessed an uncanny ability to graciously acknowledge his well-wishers with a nod, a wave, or a return tip of his hat without so much as a pause in his conversation with Lean.
“An additional murder out of state,” Baxter continued. “A missing woman reported in the city, not so peculiar, until Dr. Steig mentions her body being inexplicably found in one of the city tombs. Entrance to which was apparently gained without any legal authorization. The suspicion of the murder falling upon the son of one of our city’s prominent citizens despite the young man’s being locked up in an insane asylum in Massachusetts. The journal ended prematurely, of course, when Virgil died. Natural causes was how I heard it.”
They started to cut across Congress Street heading for Monument Square. While other pedestrians retreated back to the sidewalk or else quickened their steps to dodge an oncoming horse-drawn railcar, the mayor just kept on at his same steady pace. Lean had to restrain his urge to grab hold and rush the man forward. It wasn’t with any arrogance that the mayor forced the trolley to slow and yield to him, just a sense of surety, a purpose in his stride that would not be deflected or delayed.
“Mrs. Prescott’s letter picks up the tale there,” Baxter said. “It rather shocked and saddened me to learn that he was, in fact, murdered. Along with others—a priest, even. Adultery and blackmail, poison and black magic. And to top it all off, Mrs. Prescott herself and her young daughter kidnapped and planned to be murdered in some occult ritual. Only to be saved at the last moment by you and this Perceval Grey.” Baxter gave Lean an appreciative nudge with the back of his hand as they walked.
“It’s all a bit hard to fathom,” the mayor said. “I wouldn’t have believed any of it if I didn’t know Mrs. Prescott and her uncle. She wanted to impress upon me just how much you and this Grey fellow had done to bring the true murderer to justice, that you deserved to remain a deputy marshal when I made my official appointments.”
Lean nodded. His original appointment to deputy under the prior mayor had been unexpected. The increase in salary had allowed him and Emma to purchase their modest home. He’d been incredibly relieved earlier this year to learn that Mayor Baxter hadn’t chosen to replace him. “Very considerate of her.”
“Suppose it was the least she could do for the man she credits with saving her daughter.”
“I’m only thankful we arrived in time,” Lean said. “Of course, I should be quite clear on just how much Helen Prescott assisted in the investigation. She displayed bravery and insight far beyond that which we could have expected from someone in her position. A position I’m hopeful she will soon return to.”
“Of course, I’ll see to that. Whenever she wishes to return, the historical society will be waiting. Her story did have a few gaps in it that interest me. If I understand correctly, the man behind those murders was obsessed with the occult and was assisted by others, including a woman. And—is this true—she tried to burn Mrs. Prescott’s daughter alive?”
Lean nodded.
“A woman! What kind of monster could attempt such a thing?”
“We never did learn that, Your Honor. She set herself aflame and fell into the ocean. The body was never recovered. She seemed to be similarly obsessed with occult ideas. Obviously, she was very disturbed, not in her right mind.”
The mayor nodded and sighed, accepting the explanation as the only one that could ever possibly make sense in the world. “I understand that the fellow behind the murders also died in the … attempt to arrest him. Though the death was never officially reported.”
“It seemed a full report would have prompted a slew of questions that might have been hard to explain, and perhaps quite damaging to other people and interests,” Lean said.
“Mayor Ingraham’s feelings on the subject, no doubt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the killer’s body was disposed of how?”
“Perceval Grey saw to that in a matter he thought fitting.”
A look of morbid curiosity dawned on the mayor’s face. “Which was what, exactly?”
Lean considered how to phrase his answer and drew in a deep breath. It proved to be poor timing. They were passing Horp Lung’s shop. Bright red letters painted on the window declared “Hand Laundry.” A vent leading out from a small basement window sent waves of hot, steamy air onto the sidewalk. A less-than-pleasant odor of human life enveloped them for a moment, the heavy scent of laundry being pressed by hot irons. Lean’s mind recoiled to the midnight visit to the Western Cemetery and the wall of stuffy, rancid air that had washed over him and Grey as they’d unsealed a heavy metal door.
“He put the body in the same tomb where we’d earlier discovered that the missing woman’s corpse was being hidden.”
“The Marsh family tomb?” Baxter’s normally calm eyes widened. “That brings me to my final question: What exactly was the role of Dr. Jotham Marsh in all this?”
As they rounded the corner and entered the bustle of Monument Square, Lean tried to gauge what the nature of Mayor Baxter’s interest was in the subject of Jotham Marsh, but the man’s voice and expression were completely neutral.
“I can’t honestly say. He had some connection to the murderer through that mystical order he runs. He was a kind of teacher in occult matters. But he denied any knowledge of the man’s activities or murderous interests. He, or at least his followers, did hide that earlier victim’s body, but it seemed less to aid the murderer and more to avoid any scandal.”
They paused before the entrance to the United States Hotel, where Baxter was meeting business associates for dinner. Baxter raised one of his sharp eyebrows and asked, “And your friend Grey thought that action warranted having a murderer’s body dumped in the family’s tomb?”
“Grey suspected that Marsh was more involved than it outwardly appeared. That he had a sort of sinister hand in all of it.”
As the mayor weighed that information, Lean glanced past him to survey the open plaza and its surrounding avenues. Apart from the elegant United States Hotel, Monument Square was also home to the grand Preble House, along with dozens of other restaurants, theater halls, offices, and shops providing the full gamut of products and services. The square had been reconfigured two years prior when the center of the plaza yielded to the erection of a massive Civil War monument. Our Lady of Victories, a bronze, laurel-helmeted Athena, towered over the plaza from atop a large pedestal bearing reliefs of soldiers and sailors.
“I’ve met the man a few times,” the mayor finally conceded. “He’s becoming something of a fixture in certain social circles.”
“Well, like I said, Grey had his suspicions. There was no hard evidence of wrongdoing.”
“Don’t worry, Lean. Marsh is not a friend of mine. In fact, I find there’s something about the man that isn’t quite square.” The mayor chuckled. “Mrs. Prescott, on the other hand, strikes me as a person who makes quite a bit of sense. She spoke highly of you and your unofficial colleague Mr. Grey. So go ahead with your hunting expedition to Boston. Utilize Grey’s talents as you see fit. Of course, if you can apprehend the murderer this time, rather than tossing him off the side of a building, all the better.”
“Understood, sir. Thank you.”
LEAN RAN THROUGH the dark, not knowing exactly where he was going, just
rushing straight ahead beneath a cloudy, troubled night sky. His trouser legs snagged on the tangled brush as he raced over the uneven ground. Then ahead he saw a flickering flame. He ran harder, closing the distance, watching the flame grow larger as he neared. He reached a rock ledge, a craggy outcropping jutting into dark, empty air. To the sides he saw whitecaps raging on the black water. The flame, a burning torch, was close now. A woman in a white dress held it above her head as she pressed forward, farther out along the rise of the ledge.
Lean bounded up the slope of small, sharply angled rocks. The ocean grew louder; lightning flashed beyond the fleeing woman’s outline. She reached the point and turned to face him. In the light of the torch, Lean saw her teeth bared in a twisted, furious snarl. Her red hair was pulled back, and her eyes were lit with sheer hatred. He knew that face now. He raised the pistol, aiming directly at her chest. Then, remembering the futility of it, he lowered his gun. Her snarl eased into a menacing grin.
“It’s already over,” Lean heard himself say.
“Fool,” the woman hissed. “The Master is rising even now. You can’t stop him. And the stronger the spirit offered up, the brighter the flame calling him back to us.”
The woman’s right arm, the one holding the firebrand, dropped to her side.
“Don’t!” he cried.
The flame touched the bottom of the woman’s dress and blazed upward. Lean stepped forward, his coat in his hand to smother the fire, but her hair was already burning. The woman’s arms shot skyward like two fiery pillars. Lean tried to move in, but the heat of the flames was unbearable, and his nostrils filled with the overpowering stench of oil and burned flesh. He was about to attempt a tackle when she turned and ran headlong off the rocks. She dropped down into the ocean, leaving a sickening hiss in her wake.
The world flashed. Lean’s body convulsed, and he heard his own voice. He wasn’t sure what he’d said. A sweaty film coated his body. He felt all tangled and worked his legs free before sitting up in his bed.
A Study in Revenge Page 5
