“What’s wrong?” Emma said.
Lean stared at his wife before reality settled back into his mind.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just a dream.”
Emma was silent for a moment then asked, “Not that same one from before?”
A bothered, whimpering sound erupted from beyond his wife’s side of the bed, saving Lean from having to answer.
“Oh, she’s awake,” Emma whispered as she rose and moved to the crib against the wall.
“Sorry,” Lean whispered back.
Emma gave him a tired smile and turned her full attention to their ten-month-old daughter, Amelia. Lean wandered out of the room and downstairs to use the water closet before finding a cigarette in a coat pocket. He eased his way out the back door and walked across their small, fenced-in yard. They’d bought the little house only that spring, and Lean was still getting used to the place. The grass, where it hadn’t yet gone brown or bare, felt refreshing beneath his feet. His thoughts began to wander as he returned to sit on the steps and finish his smoke.
In a few hours, he’d be up and on his way. A train ride to Massachusetts with Grey to track down a man connected to a strange, gruesome murder. He tried to shake the dreams and his thoughts of that former case from his head and focus instead on tomorrow’s task. Just find Chester Sears and they’d find out what Cosgrove was up to. Lean wondered if everyone upstairs was back to sleep yet. Emma would likely forget everything by morning. He wouldn’t have to lie about having the same dream again. He drew in a final breath of smoke. The last bit of paper glowed in the darkness before he dropped the butt on the ground and watched it die.
[ Chapter 9 ]
THE NEXT MORNING LEAN ARRIVED AT GREY’S BUILDING ON High Street and instructed the cabdriver to wait. He knocked and stood there until the door creaked open just far enough for the landlady’s face to reluctantly make its appearance.
“Why, Deputy Lean, you’re a welcome sight.” Mrs. Philbrick actually smiled.
Lean tried to remember if he’d ever seen her do that before. He removed his hat and stepped into the hallway.
“You wouldn’t believe the assortment of characters he has parading through here at all hours. More than a few of the criminal element, I’d say.” Mrs. Philbrick rolled her eyes to the heavens.
“Have you seen Mr. Grey this morning?”
“Seen him? No. Heard him enough. Up there pacing back and forth all night long. In one of his confounded moods.”
Lean headed up the stairs, then paused in the short hallway just long enough to rap on Grey’s door before entering. The main room served as a parlor, library, laboratory, and office. The space usually held some degree of organization and tidiness, but not this morning. Flat sheets of discarded paper competed with those of the balled-up and tossed-aside variety for dominion of the floor, desktop, and every other horizontal surface in the room.
Grey stood near the windows, writing on a chalkboard that must have been a new addition to the room. After noticing Lean, he glanced at his pocket watch. “You’re early.”
“I had a feeling you might need a reminder of our schedule.” Lean saw that Grey was still wearing the suit he’d had on yesterday. The jacket was slung over a chair, and the sleeves of his shirt, from wrist to elbow, were covered in chalk from wiping the board clean. “Just in case you were preoccupied.”
Lean picked up a sheet of paper and saw “boy 22 horse 78 dog ink sun” written across the top. Columns of what looked like random letters and numbers were arranged below. On Grey’s desk Lean noticed an atlas opened to a map of Portland along with the city directory half buried beneath sheets of scribbled notes.
“Have you been at this all night? Trying to decipher the words on Sears’s note. You should’ve gotten some sleep. We’ll have four hours on the train to Boston to consider the code.”
Grey looked at Lean, finally accepting the truth of his presence. “Easier for me to work … here.”
Lean grinned, amused rather than offended by the effort it must have taken for Grey to end that sentence with something other than “alone.”
“I’ll see if Mrs. Philbrick can manage some toast or something while you get dressed and pack.”
THEIR TRAIN PULLED IN, and the two detectives stepped off into a scene of total anarchy. The B&M depot was the fourth in a row of terminals, behind the Fitchburg, the B&L, and the Eastern, all of which were in the process of being shut down and demolished to make way for Boston’s massive new North Union Station. Grey led the way down to the corner of Portland and Traverse, where a covered four-wheeled carriage awaited.
Walt McCutcheon stepped down from the cab. His bright blue plaid suit was visible from a distance. He’d forgone the custom of matching vest to suit, selecting one of dazzling gold silk instead. He completed the mismatched combination with a green necktie. He touched his fingers to the brim of his bowler in salute, while his dark handlebar mustache danced above a wide grin.
“Good to see you, Grey. As always, you’re looking fit as a fiddle and brown as a nut, long kept and dried.”
Grey extended his hand for a collegial shake.
“Lean!” McCutcheon gripped the deputy’s hand and clamped his shoulder. It was not a greeting of old friends, one of deeply felt joy at a reunion too long in coming. Instead it held the exuberance of two men who didn’t truly know much of each other but who had faced down a common danger. Now the sight of the other would always remind each man of a frozen moment, amid the swirling sea of life’s tedious days, when they’d felt keenly what it was to remain alive.
“You made a full recovery from our escapade last summer, I take it?” Lean asked.
McCutcheon laid a hand on his slightly bulging side. “Good as new.”
The men settled into the shaded seats of the carriage.
McCutcheon lit a cigar, then asked, “So, Grey, gotten bored of Portland yet? Could always come back to the city.”
The question hadn’t occurred to Lean before, but now that it was in the air, he found he was anxious to hear the response.
“I keep myself occupied,” Grey said.
The answer was hardly informative, but it satisfied McCutcheon. The man launched into a series of updates on the activities and well-being of several common acquaintances from the days when Grey had worked alongside McCutcheon in the Boston office of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.
As the carriage rumbled over the West Boston Bridge, crossing the Charles into Cambridge, McCutcheon finally rounded the corner into the business at hand.
“No Sears or Cosgrove registered at Tremont House in the past two weeks.”
“Not surprising. He’d stand out like a wolf among the fold. What about the other bit?” Lean asked.
“The infamous Horsford of Brattle Street. Eben Norton Horsford. Former professor of chemistry at Harvard. Was also a part owner in the Rumford Chemical Works. Apparently he made a fortune from his reformulation of baking powder.”
Lean nodded as he made the connection with the familiar one-pound red can that was always present whenever Emma was baking bread or whatnot. The carriage continued up Broadway.
“Have you been in contact with the man?” Grey asked. “We need to determine what he knows of Sears and Cosgrove. And if our strange coded letters mean anything to him.”
“I’m good at my job, but not that good. This Professor Horsford passed away on New Year’s Day. Don’t worry, though—natural causes. Lived a full, long life.”
“Married?” Lean asked.
“She’s out of town, but I did manage to find a daughter, Miss Cornelia Horsford. She was a bit alarmed when I explained myself and the situation, but she’s graciously agreed to meet us at the house and show us around.”
Grey allowed a hint of a smirk as he studied McCutcheon’s features. “Miss Horsford, is it? And you’re thinking this lonely baking-powder heiress has been waiting all her life for a certain type of man to come along. A larger-than-life sort of fellow with a taste for loud waistc
oats, potent cigars, and off-color anecdotes.”
“Well, the professor was an old man. She can’t be too young herself anymore.” McCutcheon drew the chewed-up cigar from his mouth and brandished it at the passing scenery: large, tidy brick buildings and the occasional small, manicured lawn. “Obviously, she hasn’t found anything she likes among all these namby-pamby Harvard types.”
“No doubt she’ll find you to be a breath of fresh air,” Grey said as he waved away a blast of rancid cigar smoke.
The carriage rounded the northern edge of Harvard’s campus and skirted the bustle of Harvard Square before arriving onto Brattle Street. They soon entered the 100 block, and the carriage pulled over.
“High-class neighborhood,” Lean said.
“That’s the truth.” McCutcheon pointed across a wide lawn to a large Colonial house painted a pale yellow with white trim. “The Longfellow house there. Until he died anyway. Back before that the place served as Washington’s headquarters during the Siege of Boston.”
McCutcheon nodded in self-congratulation at having such a notable historic fact at his disposal. A dark look had settled on Lean’s face.
“What’s the matter, Deputy? Something against George Washington?” McCutcheon asked.
“Don’t mind Lean, it’s just his territorial nature,” Grey said as they disembarked. “He objects to any other city staking even a bit of claim to Portland’s poet laureate.”
“The true Longfellow House sits on Congress Street in Portland. That’s where he was born,” Lean said.
“Maybe, but you can’t choose where you’re born. The man elected to make his family’s home here the last decades of his life. Speaks volumes, if you ask me,” McCutcheon said.
“You can choose anywhere in the world to work and rest your old feet, but there’s only one place where you were raised. One place that shapes a man’s view of the world, gives him his poetry.”
“Here we go again,” Grey said, and then walked with a purpose toward the front door of the Horsford house.
Lean placed one hand upon his breast, the other held out toward the sky. “ ‘Often I think of the beautiful town / That is seated by the sea; / Often in thought go up and down / The pleasant streets of that dear old town, / And my youth comes back to me.’ ”
McCutcheon stood speechless, regarding Lean with a queer look.
“He wasn’t talking about Cambridge,” Lean announced before proceeding up the walk.
A maid led the way to the front parlor, where Miss Cornelia Horsford greeted them. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, making her anxious face look even more stern. She wore a plain-skirted walking costume of deep purple, and Lean wondered if she was observing some old-fashioned state of half mourning for her late father.
McCutcheon introduced himself, then the others. Miss Horsford wondered aloud about a thief having this address and whether she ought to call the police directly.
“It’s never harmful to be overly vigilant,” Grey commented. “Though you don’t actually live here, I understand. Is the house currently occupied?”
“A minimal staff has stayed on while Mother’s away. She’s gone to Europe for the spring and summer. A desperately needed change in scenery after Father’s death. She’ll be gone until September. Couldn’t bear missing New England in the autumn.”
“And the staff hasn’t had anyone unusual calling at, or lurking about, the house?” Lean asked.
“Nothing the slightest bit out of the ordinary. I telephoned as soon as I heard from Mr. McCutcheon. I had Harriet, the maid, and the others comb the house. Not a thing missing or out of place.”
“The entire house?”
“Every inch except Father’s study. I have the only key.”
“Would you mind?” Lean asked.
“Not at all. This way, gentlemen.” She led them into the hall and up a staircase.
“Is there some particular reason you have the sole key to the study?” Grey asked.
“It was too much for Mother. She asked me to make arrangements for his things, since I knew the most about his work. I’ve even been pursuing some of his archaeological interests. Mother and my sisters found it all terribly dull, I’m afraid.”
They came to a closed door, which Cornelia Horsford unlocked. Upon entering the room, Lean felt a bit as if he were stepping into a photograph, only real and in color. The air was stale and heavy with the scent of books and old paper, like a dead-end aisle in the bowels of a library. Everything in the room, from the grand desk to the portraits and framed maps on the walls, had the look of being set in place, permanent and immovable.
“A bit stuffy, isn’t it?” Cornelia said as she crossed the room to open a window.
“Was your father working on anything new? An advance in some chemical formulation, perhaps. Something the competitors of the Rumford Chemical Works might be interested in?” Grey asked.
“No, Father hadn’t really been doing any of that kind of work for years now. In fact, he’d been rather single-mindedly devoted to his historical research. And I can’t imagine why anyone would want to steal any of those papers. After all, history already belongs to every one of us. Certainly no money in it. To be frank, my mother would get quite annoyed at Father for how much he spent on his history projects. But then money isn’t everything, is it?”
“Not when you have plenty of it.” McCutcheon offered a grin that struck everyone else as rather ham-handed.
“True … I suppose,” Cornelia answered haltingly. “But for Father history was a passion. And I have to say, I found it quite interesting as well.”
“What sort of history was he studying, exactly?” Lean asked.
“The Norsemen.”
“The Norsemen?” Lean gave her a blank look.
“Yes. Oh, you know, Leif Eriksson and his discovery and settlement in North America.”
“Ah, yes, the Vikings. The Vine Land sagas,” Lean said.
“Vinland. Now the so-called experts might say otherwise, but Father had proof that—”
“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Horsford”—Grey had wandered to a tall bookcase with glass doors—“but could you tell me if anything is missing from this case? The shelves are only half filled. Books on geology and archaeology, some atlases and such. Markings along the frame here show that the lock may have been forced. The glass door was open.”
The others all approached. Lean watched as Grey drew out a clean white handkerchief, wrapped it over a finger, and swiped the outside of the glass.
“Father probably lost his key and pried it open at some point. He was always misplacing his keys. He used to keep his own notes and historical research materials in there.”
Grey repeated the process, taking a sample of the dust on the inside of the glass, then compared the two specimens. “I’d say this door was only opened in the past two weeks or so.”
“It probably wasn’t closed properly. I assure you, there’s no cause for alarm. Father’s papers haven’t been stolen. All of his Norsemen material was donated to the Athenaeum after his death. Per his instructions.”
“The Athenaeum’s a museum, isn’t it?” Lean asked.
“A library,” Grey said.
McCutcheon raised his eyebrows in a look of mock snobbery. “For private members only. All very hoity-toity.”
“You say that about any place with more than two books in it,” Grey said.
McCutcheon offered a shrug in his defense. “What do you need with more than two? The city directory and—”
“The Bible?” Cornelia Horsford offered.
“Why not? Thank you, Miss Horsford,” McCutcheon said with a smile, as if her contribution had somehow won the day for him.
“We did a bit of work at the Athenaeum a few years back.” A mischievous smile appeared on McCutcheon’s face. “Grey, do you recall that fellow who—”
“Yes. Though it’s not really the most opportune time for reminiscing.” Grey had made his way to the room’s windows, where he complet
ed his examination of the latches before opening one and sticking his head out to survey the outer sill and the side of the house.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Grey?” Miss Horsford asked.
“Not at all, Miss Horsford. Nothing you need to fret about in the slightest.”
“Thank goodness. You worried me.”
Grey gave her a smile, then snapped his fingers as if he’d just remembered something. “Miss Horsford, could I impose upon you to use the telephone? Rather urgent, I’m afraid.”
She led the men downstairs and showed Grey to the telephone before retreating to the well-appointed parlor with McCutcheon and Lean.
McCutcheon glanced about the room, settling his attention on a finely crafted Chinese vase that appeared to be a valuable antique.
“It befuddles the mind—all this out of working on household supplies. I’d say you can toss out every cake, bread loaf, and pastry across the land. It’s no contest: Your father clearly got the biggest rise out of baking powder the world’s ever witnessed.”
McCutcheon guffawed at his own effort, while Cornelia Horsford smiled politely. Lean, embarrassed at his colleague’s attempt at cheerful banter, casually strolled from the room. He stepped across the hall. Grey was in a side room with the telephone receiver to his ear. Lean didn’t mind eavesdropping, since he was sure Grey wasn’t making a personal call. He couldn’t imagine whom Grey would seek out for a personal conversation even on an ordinary day, let alone in the middle of an investigation. Lean’s brow creased in confusion when he heard Grey’s request to the operator.
“Yes, could you please connect me to the Suffolk County Courthouse switchboard?”
[ Chapter 10 ]
PHEBE WEBSTER STOOD IN HER GRANDFATHER’S DIM ROOM with her arms crossed, trying not to watch as Dr. Thayer made another unsuccessful attempt to administer the opiate-filled syringe.
“His veins are much contracted due to his weakened condition and recent lack of adequate food and water. Almost impossible to find one.” The doctor proceeded to tie a cord around Horace Webster’s shriveled biceps.
A Study in Revenge Page 6
