A Study in Revenge

by Kieran Shields

  “Leap ahead to the nineteenth century and bear with me a moment. In the 1830s the Danish historian Carl Christian Rafn published his theory that the old Norse sagas were not mere legends. He argued that some of these were factually based accounts showing that the Viking explorer Leif Eriksson had completed a voyage to North America in 1000 A.D. In those ancient Norse sagas of the discovery of Vinland, Leif Eriksson first sailed up a river that broadened into a lake. Crossing that, he headed up another river as far as his ship could float. Don’t think Eben Horsford was alone in such fanciful ideas of Viking visitors in his backyard. The saga’s description is vague enough that after Rafn’s theory came out, folks up and down the coast proposed dozens of locales as Eriksson’s landing place.

  “Decades later, after poring over old maps and Viking sagas and whatnot, Horsford became convinced that the last part of Leif Eriksson’s description of his journey matched the Charles River. But, placing validity in the old tale of the wayward sailor, the professor took his hypothesis a step further. He argued that not only was Vinland located along the Charles but that it was this same Norse settlement that would prosper and become the historical basis for what would later be known as the fabled lost city of Norumbega.”

  Grey had been quietly absorbing the information but now interrupted. “I assume that Horsford’s rather inventive theories were refuted by other, more established scholars.”

  “Thoroughly. But he persisted in his search for proof of a Viking presence here.”

  “Why would Vikings give their settlement that name?” Lean looked to Grey. “Isn’t Norumbega an Indian word?”

  Grey nodded. “The generally accepted origin of the name Norumbega is from the Algonquin term meaning ‘a quiet place between the rapids.’ ”

  “And Eben Horsford certainly knew about the Indian origin of the name,” Justice Holmes added. “He was the son of a missionary among the Indians and acquainted with various dialects and vocabulary. But he was nothing if not imaginative. He interpreted the name of Norumbega as being an Indian corruption of the word ‘Norvege’—that is, Norway.”

  Lean cleared his throat. “Not meaning to brazenly announce my confusion on the subject, but could there be any validity at all to the professor’s idea of a Viking settlement in these parts?”

  “While it’s not outside the realm of possibility, there is no evidence to support the event. Consider the matter for yourself,” Holmes said. “As Horsford envisioned it, a thousand Norsemen settled along the lower reaches of the Charles River over a few hundred years, building forts, canals, and churches. Surely there would be vestiges of this sizable settlement that we could still recognize. Now, Horsford conducted small excavations in Cambridge and did succeed in finding stone house foundations, but the only artifacts to be found in the area were from the Colonial age. Rather than taking this for proof that the foundations were those of English colonists, he dismissed those artifacts as simply having being left during a later period. He ignored the evidence and concluded that he had unearthed Leif’s house.

  “Three years ago Horsford claimed that he’d found Norumbega up the Charles, close by Weston. What Horsford in fact found was a somewhat orderly scattering of rocks in what is generally rocky terrain. You can argue many points, but the deciding question really is this: Where are the artifacts and remains? The tools, animal bones, building timbers, charcoal residue in the old soil from cooking fires and forges?”

  Justice Holmes paused briefly, as if either of the detectives might actually possess information with which to refute his rhetorical challenge.

  “The indisputable truth is that when a group of people occupy a place, they simply do not leave it in a pristine condition. Even transitory Indian tribes left traces—arrowheads, bones, shell heaps, and whatnot. There’s no proof found of any Norse settlement, let alone the extensive, centuries-long sort of colony that Horsford propounded. Still, he insisted that he’d uncovered a Viking settlement and the fabled city of Norumbega all in one. He built a massive stone tower upriver to commemorate the site. Must have cost him tens of thousands of dollars.”

  “Surely people pointed out to the man the flaws in his reasoning,” Lean said.

  “I have spent enough years among lawyers to assure you that otherwise reasonable men will cling with all their life’s blood to a solitary piece of evidence if it supports their claim, regardless of a mountain of facts to the contrary,” Justice Holmes said.

  “Clearly, the professor was never dissuaded, as indicated by our large bronze friend here,” Grey said.

  “The man’s fervent beliefs persisted, and despite the renewed rebuttals the idea caught on. With Horsford’s financial backing and a growing interest in the Vinland theory, the distinguished sculptress Miss Anne Whitney was commissioned and the Leif Eriksson statue was finally dedicated in 1887.”

  Lean shook his head. “So he’s nothing more than a misled soul who squandered years and a fortune on this crackpot theory?”

  Holmes paused for a moment before adding, “No, Horsford was definitely not just some deluded old fool. The Vikings weren’t his only passion in life. Apart from his contributions to science and chemistry, he was a philanthropic soul. Extremely generous when it came to issues of public health and education, especially higher education for women. This particular theory may amount to a wild-goose chase, but it shouldn’t sully the name of a great and kind man.”

  Justice Holmes checked his pocket watch. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, that I wasn’t able to be of much use in illuminating any dark criminal secrets in the research of Eben Horsford. Though if I have whetted your appetite for further historical discourse, I recommend you visit the Athenaeum tonight. There’s a reading of a new paper by an up-and-coming historian, Frederick Jackson Turner, on the American frontier and its defining role in our history. I’ve heard it’s quite a fascinating work, though maybe a touch dry.”

  “Perhaps a dry recitation of the facts is best for historical discussions,” Grey said. “Otherwise you risk blurring the line between history and fiction. The effort to add bold color and allure to the facts of the past can too easily cause one to stumble and produce mere illusions. Then what are we left with, other than bronze statues of Vikings on innocent city streets?”

  Holmes weighed this and squinted at Grey. “A valid concern, perhaps, when you consider that history has always been, and by necessity will always be, only what the men who come after make of it. Yet I for one will rue the day when history ceases to be anything more than empty words on a page.”

  The justice leaned forward just a few inches, ready to impart some wisdom. “The danger is not in seeking to give inspiration to events. Rather, men court futility and peril when they allow the desire for history as they wish it had been to overpower the truth.”

  “But why?” Lean wondered aloud. “What in the world would possess an otherwise sensible, scientific man to do something like this?”

  “It strikes me as an instance of that phenomenon where a mind once stretched by a new, alien idea can never again manage to recapture its original dimension,” Justice Holmes said.

  “When one looks at the image chosen to represent the Viking settler, the reasons start to become apparent,” Grey said. “This figure never actually existed as he appears before us. We don’t see the rough, fur-clad pillager that would be recognized in 1000 A.D. He looks more like some overgrown Northern European altar boy, and believe me, that altar would be located in a Protestant church. Leif Eriksson might not be Anglo-Saxon, but he could certainly pass for it with greater ease than could the likes of Columbus, who sailed under the flag of papist monarchs.”

  “You’re looking for shadows on a cloudy day, Grey,” Lean said.

  “It was less than a decade ago that Boston elected its first Irish mayor,” Grey said. “I’d be skeptical to hear that the Protestant elite of the old city on the hill haven’t watched the rising numbers of Irish and Italian immigrants without a certain measure of alarm.”

 
“We are all tattooed in our cradles with the beliefs of our tribe, and for better or for worse it is a basic human reaction to battle for the survival and primacy of one’s own band,” Justice Holmes said. “Sadly, you cannot educate a man wholly out of superstitious hopes and fears that have been ingrained in his imagination and so often prove to be indelible marks, no matter how strongly reason may strive to reject them.”

  The judge waved toward the bronze statue of the Norseman. “To the victors go the spoils. It applies to the writing or rewriting of history as much as it does to gold or land. It may be what drove Horsford.”

  Lean took his hat in his hand and shook his head. “Despite all we’ve learned of Professor Horsford, we haven’t gained any real clue as to just why Chester Sears was interested in the man. If we can’t lay our hands on the fellow tonight at the Tremont House, I fear the trail will be lost. Frank Cosgrove’s murderer may well go free.”

  Justice Holmes stepped forward and clapped a hand onto Lean’s shoulder. “I can’t speak to that, Deputy, but don’t lose heart. While our acquaintance has been brief, I find comfort in your clear determination to see the villain brought to justice. If this should prove our farewell, then I would speak these few final words to you: Have faith and pursue the unknown end.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “And, Grey, it would sadden me to have our latest endeavor together be so brief. You really should join me tonight for that reading on the American frontier. It’s supposed to be quite good.”

  “Unfortunately, I think I shall have to …” Grey paused and stared for a moment at the bronze Viking looming over them. “You know, I may do that. It could prove to be just the sort of welcome distraction that I need.”

  “Very good. I shall see you tonight then.”

  Lean waited until Justice Holmes departed before speaking. “Something Justice Holmes said made you give up on the Tremont House? Do you think the Athenaeum is a better lead?”

  “No, you and McCutcheon should still go ahead at the Tremont,” Grey said in a distracted voice. He began to pace back and forth beside the tall statue of Leif Eriksson. “Nothing about Professor Horsford has given me any insight into Sears’s interest in the man, or anyone’s motivation for shooting Frank Cosgrove. I don’t see any firm link to the Boston Athenaeum either. But there might be something there, and if not at least I have the chance to further extend our gratitude to Justice Holmes for his valiant efforts to assist our inquiry.”

  “We don’t even know for certain that Chester Sears was after Professor Horsford’s work on Leif Eriksson and ancient Indian cities of gold. Maybe he was having a secret love affair with one of the scullery maids or something? That would make more sense.”

  Grey shook his head. “I sincerely doubt that a man would need to write down the address of the woman with whom he’s having romantic dalliances, as well as noting the name of her employer. Not to mention some coded message. He had the name and address because he was unfamiliar with the location. Nothing in the house was disturbed except for the window to the professor’s locked study and the glass bookcase therein.”

  Grey stopped pacing with his back to Leif Eriksson and bowed his head in thought. “We cannot ignore the connection merely because its true nature eludes us. Rather we must pursue it with renewed vigor.”

  “ ‘Have faith and pursue the unknown end,’ ” Lean said glumly.

  [ Chapter 13 ]

  GREY MANEUVERED AND PARDONED HIMSELF THROUGH THE clusters of well-dressed proprietors, as the members of the private Boston Athenaeum were known. The doors on the left side of the vestibule, housing the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, were shut, and the milling crowd was slowly moving toward the right. Grey instinctively mirrored the progress through the hall of his host, Justice Holmes, pausing whenever that man stopped to engage in short bursts of animated discussion with one of his innumerable acquaintances. Although he recognized a few faces among the crowd, Grey avoided eye contact, refusing to convey any hint that he would welcome even the briefest bit of conversation. His mind was still snared by thoughts of Chester Sears and the man’s coded note, which bore today’s date.

  Once more he felt a flash of doubt over his decision not to accompany Lean and McCutcheon. There was nothing overtly rational in his election to spend the evening at the Athenaeum. That the professor’s esoteric and unconvincing writings had ended up here after his death seemed a tenuous connection to the case at best. All he could manage by way of consoling himself was the knowledge that his two colleagues should be perfectly able to locate and handle Sears.

  Despite the tangle of thoughts that twisted through Grey’s mind, he couldn’t resist a glance toward the end of the hall and the glaring absence there of the grandiose Sumner staircase. The magnificent structure, which had formerly dominated the interior of the building, had been regrettably sacrificed four years earlier to accommodate the library’s ever-expanding collections. Grey had spent many hours within these walls, one of the favored places of his youthful school days. Memories pressed against the outposts of his mind, but his defenses held, repelling the sentimental notions, denying them every possible inch of ground within his thoughts.

  The electric lights flickered, signaling the approach of the night’s main event. The crowd began moving in earnest now, and Grey heard several references to the long room, meaning the first-floor sculpture gallery, which had been converted to a lecture hall for the evening. Though the Athenaeum numbered women among its list of proprietors, it still had the feel of a gentlemen’s private social club. The crowd reflected this, being made up of primarily male members of Boston’s cultural elite, a few of whom cast questioning glances at the copper-toned face of Perceval Grey.

  Inside the sculpture room, hundreds of wooden folding chairs had been arranged in neat rows among the central space as well as in the room’s alcoves, which were separated by various classical figures in marble and carved busts resting on pedestals. Grey and Justice Holmes found seats not far from the windows that faced south, looking onto the open expanse of the Granary Burying Ground. Two hundred or so attendees, still greeting one another with self-pleased aplomb, settled into place with all the order and muted grace of a human landslide. Grey’s eyes sought out the peaceful contrast on the far side of the south windows. There, pale shapes, squared off or round-topped, gently faded into the night’s gloom.

  One of Boston’s earliest graveyards, the Granary housed the earthly remains of such Colonial and Revolutionary luminaries as Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Crispus Attucks, and Samuel Sewall, whom Grey recalled as having presided at the Salem witch trials. Two hundred tombs and upwards of two thousand stones crowded into the two-acre graveyard, though it was home to more than three times that many souls. Most of the names had been lost to history through poor record keeping, alterations to the cemetery, the moving of stones, and the reusing of lots. Space was so tight in the Granary and its immediate environs that the Athenaeum ran right onto the burying ground. The library’s rear wall actually contained a short arch that maintained the building’s straight back line by carrying it over several old headstones.

  The din in the room began to die away as the Athenaeum’s head librarian, Mr. Lane, who’d recently been given the task of living up to his renowned predecessor, Charles Cutter, began to speak. After brief opening remarks, the librarian introduced a nervous-looking young man who’d earned the honorable position of reader this evening.

  With little ado the man launched into the subject. His voice fluctuated over the first few sentences as he became acclimated to the acoustics of the full, and not-quite-silent, hall.

  “ ‘The Frontier in American History,’ a paper by Frederick Jackson Turner.

  “ ‘Chapter One: In a recent bulletin of the Superintendent of the Census for 1890 appear these significant words: “Up to and including 1880 the country had a frontier of settlement, but at present the unsettled area has been so broken into by isolated bodies of settlement that there can
hardly be said to be a frontier line.” This brief official statement marks the closing of a great historic movement. Up to our own day American history has been in a large degree the history of the colonization of the Great West.’ ”

  Grey could bring little of his attention to bear on the subject of the speech. His mind insisted on the criminal matter of Cosgrove’s death and Sears’s mysterious note. He desperately longed for his rooms in Portland, curtains drawn, blocking out the calls and clatters, all the distractions of a world both doomed and eager to pursue an endless slate of minute and ultimately trivial obligations. Intense concentration was denied him, so his mind prowled back and forth, caged in by the continuous assault of nearby noises. Whispered comments mingled with the scraping of chairs on the floor as occupants shifted their weight. The hacking coughs of elderly men, or those old enough to have smoked for far too many years, split the air. Struggling to overcome his annoyance at the sundry noises from the audience, Grey tried instead to focus solely on the monotonous voice of the speaker.

  “ ‘In the settlement of America we have to observe how European life entered the continent, and how America modified and developed that life and reacted on Europe. The frontier is the outer edge of the wave—the meeting point between savagery and civilization. The wilderness masters the colonist. It finds him a European in dress, tools, modes of travel, and thought. But he must accept the conditions which the frontier furnishes, or perish, and so he fits himself into the Indian clearings and follows the Indian trails. Before long he has gone to planting Indian corn and plowing with a sharp stick; he shouts the war cry and takes the scalp in orthodox Indian fashion. Little by little he transforms the wilderness, but the outcome is not the old Europe but a new product that is American.’ ”

  As the room settled into the methodical rhythms of the speech, Grey’s thoughts fell into place, like the needle of a compass settling on magnetic north after having been spun about. He returned to the first element of the inquiry: the death of Frank Cosgrove. The motive was unknowable at present, meaning that the dead man’s old partner, Chester Sears, could not be eliminated as a suspect. Grey doubted that possibility. Sears’s hasty flight from Portland could indicate guilt, but the man hadn’t fled immediately after the murder—only after Cosgrove’s corpse had been disinterred and burned. There was another party involved in the goings-on in Portland.