A Study in Revenge

by Kieran Shields

  “Miss Webster, would you be so kind as to hold that candle closer so I might have a better look?”

  Phebe stepped nearer to the narrow bed tucked into the corner. She took the candle from its perch on the side table and crouched down. The doctor readied another effort with the syringe, so Phebe looked away, finding her grandfather’s thin face. He’d been old as long as she could remember, but the flesh was so much reduced now that she barely recognized the man who’d been the closest thing to a father she’d ever known. As she met her grandfather’s eyes, different now, cloudy and distant, she knew that his spirit was still there, still with her. His weak gaze fell upon her like a foggy morning sky where the sun, though watery and indistinct, still makes its presence known.

  The old man’s face pinched for a moment.

  “There we go. That ought to help his pain.” Dr. Thayer replaced his material into his black leather case. “Rest now, Horace.”

  The doctor motioned for Phebe to accompany him to the door.

  “I really don’t think it will be much longer now,” Dr. Thayer said in a quiet voice. He laid a reassuring hand on her forearm with a concerned yet resigned smile that would have done the most stoic undertaker proud.

  “Thank you, Doctor. On your way out, could you see if my uncles have arrived yet? And let them know.”

  The doctor eased out of the room, and Phebe returned to the bedside to resume her vigil. She wet a cloth in the porcelain bowl on the bed-stand and dabbed her grandfather’s brow. His eyes searched her out, and a look of relief crept across his features.

  “There you are. I was worried …” His eyes fluttered, and his faint voice paused as if he were marshaling the remnants of his strength. “… that I’d lost you. But you’re back.”

  Phebe smiled at him, and her eyes welled up. “I’m right here with you, Grandfather. Don’t you worry. I’ll stay right here.”

  Her left hand moved forward to take his. He was too weak to match her grip. His eyes tried to focus on her once more, but Phebe could tell that confusion was settling over him.

  “Will you be …?” he whispered, then was silent for a moment. “When …?”

  “Yes, Grandfather, I’ll be right here with you. It will be soon now. You’ll see.” She laid her right hand against the side of his face. “Everything will be just fine. It will all be right again. Rest now.”

  A while later, when she heard stirring downstairs and footsteps coming up to this floor, Phebe rose from the bedside, where her grandfather’s body had lain silent and motionless for at least five minutes. She moved to the outer room and awaited the appearance of her two uncles.

  When they entered, she didn’t need to speak the news. Her expression and her red-rimmed eyes were clear enough. Phebe’s two uncles went to the bedroom door and looked in on the thin frame of their father. Phebe had already crossed Horace’s arms and raised the sheet over his head.

  “How long ago?” asked Euripides.

  “A few minutes,” Phebe answered.

  “Damn. Sorry, it’s just …”

  “I don’t think it would have made much difference to him, Uncle. He was somewhat muddled.”

  “Was he at peace?” Jason asked. “Toward the end, I mean.”

  “He was not in pain,” Phebe answered.

  “Should have come sooner. Still, you were here, did your duty,” Euripides said before heading back toward the doorway. “I’d better start making arrangements.”

  A shred of anger flashed through Phebe’s mind. How typical of her uncle to treat the passing of his own father as if it were some routine engagement to be faced in the grand military campaign of life. In Euripides’ eyes she’d done her duty. Horace’s final moments on earth were the equivalent of a high piece of ground to be secured. Being by his side through his final breaths, she’d held the flank until her uncle could come to the rescue and bring his artillery to bear, save the day, and move on to the next conflict. She wanted to scream at him, shock him out of his ignorance, but she held back. Not now, not at this moment. This was to be a time of gratitude and treasuring the memory of her grandfather. She would not let Euripides’ narrow feelings and careless tongue mar this moment forever.

  “It was not my duty, Uncle,” Phebe said calmly.

  “What now?” Euripides turned back from where he’d just stepped out into the hallway.

  “It was my honor, my deepest pleasure—not a duty.”

  “Ahh,” was all that Euripides could be troubled to offer in return before he moved away down the hall.

  “Oh, don’t waste your thoughts on him,” Jason said. “This is one of the few times we can look on his rigid and methodical nature as a blessing. You can set your mind at ease and dwell on whatever brings you solace now. He’ll manage all the morbid details and see to it that the funeral goes off without a bump, in an efficient and proper manner.”

  “Is that supposed to bring me solace? A true and fitting farewell for someone you love ought to be more than efficient and proper. A hell of a lot more, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Jason nodded. “I don’t think I mind one bit.”

  [ Chapter 11 ]

  AFTER CROSSING BACK INTO BOSTON, THE DETECTIVES paused for a light snack at a café near the Public Gardens. Grey explained that they were not scheduled to arrive at their stop, the intersection of Commonwealth Avenue and West Chester Park, for another hour yet. During the leisurely break, the three men discussed a plan of action to investigate the possible presence of Chester Sears at the Tremont House either today or in the recent past. All three of them would monitor the hotel lobby and rear entrances that evening. McCutcheon, who would be in charge of procuring whatever information could be purchased from the desk clerks or bellhops, was eager to begin his efforts.

  “Shouldn’t at least one of us monitor the Horsford residence?” Lean asked. “That address was on the note along with today’s date.”

  Grey shook his head. “Those two items of information were written in different hands. It would be a mistake to read them in unison. Besides, the window to Professor Horsford’s study had been forced. I suspect that Sears has already been there. It’s just not clear what he was searching for and whether he found it. No, our best chance of catching the man is at the Tremont House.”

  Upon stuffing one final morsel into his mouth, thus completing his successful conquest of the lion’s share of the food at the table, McCutcheon bade them adieu and good hunting. Grey entered into a contemplative mood, which only amplified Lean’s restlessness. He suspected that Grey was secretly enjoying the impatience he caused by not revealing who or what awaited them at their next appointment. Rather than give him any further enjoyment in the matter, Lean turned his attention to the picturesque view of the gardens’ ornamental flower beds.

  As the time neared, the two men made their way to the western edge of the gardens, where the central pathway met the Arlington Street entrance. At the eastern terminus of Commonwealth Avenue, they engaged a four-wheeler to transport them the mile length to their destination at the Back Bay Park. The driver of the carriage, an older fellow with rosy cheeks and a glint in his eye that hinted at an affection for a midday nip or two, welcomed them aboard.

  “Down to the fens, is it? You know for just a slight bit on top, I’d gladly brighten your trip with a mention of all the wonderful points of interest along the route.”

  Just as Grey was preparing to decline the offer, Lean handed over twenty-five cents, garnering a somewhat toothless smile from the driver.

  “Small price to pay to better acquaint myself with my surroundings,” Lean said in answer to Grey’s disapproving looks.

  A tree-lined mall bisected the entire length of Commonwealth Avenue, giving it the appearance of two parallel thoroughfares. Almost immediately following their launch into the heavy traffic, the driver pointed out the granite statue of Alexander Hamilton. Lean puzzled over the less-than-obvious connection between Boston and Hamilton, other than the city’s overt fondness
for all things relating to the Revolution.

  “By filling in the swampy Back Bay lands, hundreds of acres of terra firma were added to the city proper—and some of the city’s most fashionable acres, I might add,” the driver announced. “Many of the city’s finest churches have relocated to the Back Bay over the years, following their parishioners—and their purses—out of the older parts of the city.”

  As evidence of this assertion, the driver pointed out the First Baptist, on the corner of Commonwealth and Clarendon. The eighty-foot-tall stone church was so massive and unyielding in its appearance that if not for the rose windows Lean would have half suspected that the building was solid rock the whole way through. As they passed the next few blocks, the driver waved his hand to the left, where one or two blocks away were such notable enterprises as the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and, opposite that, the new building of the Young Men’s Christian Association, the oldest such organization in the country.

  “Down Clarendon at Copley Square, you have the Second Church. Before relocating there, it was the Old North Church. Known in the seventeenth century as the ‘Church of the Mathers.’ Reverends Samuel, Increase, and Cotton each held the pulpit in turn for its first six decades. You know, even Ralph Waldo Emerson was minister at one time.”

  “Not that it would impress you much, Lean,” Grey said. “After all, you had Longfellow in his youth.”

  Along the avenue Lean noticed very little in the way of commercial interests, apart from the numerous fine hotels such as the eight-story marble-faced Vendome. The driver boasted of its more than three hundred rooms and the latest improvements in plumbing, ventilation, electricity, and steam-powered elevators. Opposite stood another in the seemingly endless array of statues, this one honoring the famed abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison.

  After traveling a final long, rectangular block, the driver pulled over by the intersection with West Chester Park, where Commonwealth Avenue ended its straight, mile-long stretch from the Public Gardens before it angled off to the west. The passengers stepped down onto the central mall area. A tall bronze statue resembling some stylized opera-stage Viking stood overlooking the narrow point where the Back Bay Park approached the Charles River. Lean thought that calling it a park was a bit generous. The lush green space was landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted’s valiant effort to transform the murky, sewage-flooded Back Bay fens into something resembling the original pristine saltwater marsh.

  “Our distinguished contact awaits.”

  Grey motioned toward the statue, by the base of which stood a tall man of fifty or so whose erect bearing and well-tailored suit gave him an air of earnest importance. Lean could see that the man was regarding them closely from a pair of deep-set eyes. Beneath a prominent nose resided a splendidly overgrown white handlebar mustache. They approached the man, who smiled and stretched out his hand in welcome.

  “Perceval Grey. Glad to see you again, and doubly so that it is on business not directly involving me.”

  “Deputy Marshal Archie Lean of the Portland police,” Grey said, “allow me to introduce the Honorable Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court.”

  “Ah, so this is some manner of criminal investigation. I’m not at all surprised, though I must say I’m pleased to see you working alongside an authorized representative of the law.” A glint of humor had appeared in Holmes’s eyes.

  Lean’s own eyes lit up as he extended his hand. “A pleasure, Your Honor. I’m a firm admirer of your father’s literary works.”

  “Thank you, Deputy. Most kind. Well, gentlemen, I for one have something of a timetable that must be met. So let us forgo further pleasantries and direct our attention toward that very item which conspicuously demands it.”

  Justice Holmes turned and took a step in the direction of the tall bronze statue that dominated the mall near the intersection. “The renowned Viking explorer Leif Eriksson.”

  The statue was not the barbaric seafaring raider that Lean would have expected. Instead a classical figure rose before them, an athletic, clean-shaven Viking with flowing locks, calling to mind some Nordic version of Apollo. One hand cupped a horn behind his back while he held the other to his forehead, shielding his eyes as he scanned the western horizon. An inscription of Nordic runes appeared on the broad stone pedestal that at its base was carved to resemble a Viking longship complete with dragon-headed prow.

  Justice Holmes cleared his throat. “I must apologize for making you come this far out just to see this statue for yourself, Grey. But then you did ask me what I knew about Eben Horsford, his recent work on the Norsemen, and the purchase of his papers by the Athenaeum. After a little thought, it became clear to me that even a brief vision of the statue would provide the required moment of insight. It would impart the true essence of the matter, the nature and extent of Eben Horsford’s preoccupation with the Norse explorers, his obsession with convincing the world that they actually landed here. That’s something which, even after hours of effort, I might not be capable of conveying to you in words.”

  “Brings one word to my mind.” Lean paused to light a cigarette. “Preposterous. A city full of sculptures dedicated to statesmen, generals, and Founding Fathers—and then this. Leif Eriksson certainly looks out of place on the banks of the Charles River.”

  “As much today as he would have been nine hundred years ago, if he’d ever actually made it this far,” Justice Holmes said.

  “Can we assume that the statue’s presence here has some connection to Professor Horsford?” Grey asked.

  “The idea of erecting a monument to Leif Eriksson in the city was first suggested in the seventies. The inspiration came from Ole Bull, the great Norwegian violinist and ambassador of Scandinavian culture. He settled for some time in Cambridge and became close friends with Longfellow. Bull had heard the theory that the ancient Vinland of the Viking sagas was located in New England. If that were true, Leif Eriksson would have been the first European to land on our shores, in 1000 A.D. Longfellow also came to put his faith in this theory. Even wrote some poems about it, as I recall.”

  “ ‘The Skeleton in Armor,’ ” Lean interjected.

  Grey gave him cautioning look and said, “Let’s not interrupt the tale now.”

  “In any event,” Justice Holmes continued, “Longfellow, my father, and their circle grew quite enthused with the subject and came up with the idea to commemorate the supposed event with a statue. They recruited a committee stacked with prominent citizens, including the mayor, the governor, the president of Harvard, along with, of course, Professor Eben Horsford. The project wasn’t brought to fruition at the time due to resistance from saner organizations, which argued that there was no firm evidence to support the claim of the Norse discovery of America. Then, with the deaths of Bull and Longfellow in the next few years, the project floundered.”

  “And yet …” Lean rolled his eyes at the statue that loomed over them.

  “The effort returned to life years later under Horsford’s sponsorship. He’d become enraptured with the Leif Eriksson story. Since he was retired, time and money were no object. Horsford turned his full attention to the Viking explorations and, in particular, the idea that the Vikings were the founders of the legendary lost city of Norumbega.”

  “Norumbega?” Lean asked.

  Justice Holmes gave a subtle tilt of his head, enough to convey he was only reciting facts of the case, not declaring them to be credible. “It’s something of an odd tale. Perhaps it would help if you told me exactly what it is you’re searching for.”

  [ Chapter 12 ]

  IN SHORT,” GREY ANSWERED THE JUSTICE’S QUERY, “WE HAVE reason to believe that a criminal element may have taken an interest in some aspect of the late professor’s more recent research. The exact nature of that interest remains a mystery. So anything you could tell us about Professor Horsford’s scholarly endeavors might help resolve the question.”

  “Eben Norton Horsford’s archae
ological research sought by some nefarious criminals. Wouldn’t he be terribly excited? And even more puzzled to hear it than I am.” Justice Holmes tapped the fingertips of both hands together as he contemplated a starting point.

  “I shall do my best to provide a thorough assessment of the topic. Despite what schoolchildren might hear, the coast of North America was already well known to European sailors long before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock in 1620. In the French and Spanish maps of the 1500s, the name of Norumbega appears frequently, under a multitude of spellings. It’s not so famous now, but in its day it ranked alongside El Dorado as a fabled lost city of gold. This one was reputedly located somewhere in the Northeast. Verrazano designated the whole area as Norumbega and sailed up the Hudson in 1524, looking for the supposed capital city.

  “The stories gained new life in the late sixteenth century after publication of the tale of an Englishman, one of three who’d been marooned along the coast of Mexico. He claimed to have crossed the eastern half of the United States on foot, along with two other men, before being rescued by French traders in Nova Scotia. Among other fanciful claims, the sailor reported visiting the city of Norumbega, somewhere near present-day Boston Harbor. He told of kings decorated with giant rubies and borne aloft on silver thrones. Pearls strewn about as common as pebbles. Streets wider than those of London and houses with pillars of crystal.”

  “So you do come from old family money after all,” Lean whispered to Grey.

  Grey stifled a chuckle. “Pardon the interruption, Your Honor. You were describing European efforts to locate Norumbega.”

  Justice Holmes had a smile on his face as he continued. “Yes. Champlain searched thirty or forty miles up the Penobscot River in Maine in the early 1600s but discovered no indications of a city or of civilization, just an old moss-grown cross in the woods. Perhaps it was a marker left by those three sailors. If so, it was the most concrete element of that fantastic story. Over time even the most hopeful of travelers finally came to accept that no such fabled city ever existed.