Lean had been studying the picture while Leadbetter spoke. Of all the peculiar and unsettling elements in the image, one baffled him the most. “That rod, rising out of his … loins, what is that?”
“Mercury’s staff, the caduceus. Mercury, or Hermes, is considered the symbolic male. Also, as I mentioned, mercury is the fluid metal, very important in terms of occult or alchemical thinking as the primary transformative element. Other alchemical symbols are present in the figure as well. See the words tattooed on his inner arms: solve and coagula—‘dissolve’ and ‘congeal,’ two of the vital transformative processes in alchemy.”
Lean clapped his hands together. “There’s a possible link, then, between this picture of Baphomet and Sears’s stolen image. They both relate to alchemy—mercury in particular.”
Grey held up a cautionary finger. “That’s not certain. Whoever drew the image in Portland may not even have known exactly what he was drawing. He attached the words ‘Hell Awaits.’ He’s mixing his symbolic metaphors. It’s amateurish. He may have meant to draw the devil and produced an image of Baphomet by chance, without understanding the distinction. He may have had no inkling whatsoever of any connection to alchemical imagery.”
“It wouldn’t be a major surprise for someone not an expert to make the mistake,” Leadbetter noted. “Much of the modern work on ancient occult wisdom has become something of a mishmash of ideas. But anyone familiar with Éliphas Lévi’s work would know of the man’s fascination with alchemy.”
“Understandable,” Lean muttered. “Who wouldn’t want to be able to spin straw into gold?”
“Lead into gold, not straw,” Grey corrected him. “You’re thinking of Rumpelstiltskin.”
Leadbetter chuckled, then said, “Actually, in his defense, Lévi followed a more philosophical view of the subject. He viewed the Great Work of alchemy as much more of a spiritual endeavor rather than a physical, metallurgical one.”
“So if he’s not after gold, what then?” Lean asked. “What you said before, something about the elixir of life? The goal’s immortality, is it?”
“The Great Work, the philosopher’s stone, the elixir of life, the highest level of enlightenment. Perfection.” Leadbetter flipped ahead in the pages of Éliphas Lévi’s book of magic.
“Elixir? Is it a drink?” Lean asked. “I thought it was a stone.”
“Your confusion is understandable. It’s called a stone, but descriptions of its appearance vary. It may be best to think of the word ‘stone’ as a metaphor. It is, after all, meant to be a mercurial, transformative substance embodying opposite properties, including solid and liquid.”
Leadbetter regarded Lean’s still-perplexed face for a moment. “Maybe the author’s own definition will help. Here it is: ‘The Great Work is, before all things, the creation of man by himself, that is to say, the full conquest of his faculties and his future, the perfect emancipation of his will.’ ”
Lean gave an unsatisfied nod. “I’ll just settle for its being a metaphor.”
“The Great Work,” Grey said quietly, recalling something. “Would I be correct in expecting that someone like yourself, deeply interested in such arcane studies, would have occasion to meet and converse with a variety of others interested in the same matters?”
Leadbetter nodded. “There are various groups and societies who study spiritualism and whatnot. There’s even an actual church of sorts, the First Spiritual Temple here in the city.”
“Have you ever come across a man by the name of Dr. Jotham Marsh?” Grey asked.
Leadbetter flinched. “Why do you ask? Are you a friend of his?” The older man’s voice went up in pitch as if he were physically uncomfortable.
Grey offered a sarcastic smile. “More of an acquaintance, you might say. I’ve heard him use that phrase—the Great Work.”
The older man regarded Grey closely. “Not a man you want to be overly familiar with, if you want my advice.”
“Why do you say that?” Grey asked.
“He’s a man of great … ambitions. And perseverance. Not the sort you want to cross swords with, so to speak.”
Leadbetter was visibly agitated at the turn in the conversation, and Lean was sensitive to the older man’s feelings. Lean felt the prolonged confinement in the cramped, musty basement apartment overcoming him. Furthermore, the realization was dawning on him that Leadbetter could ramble on for hours and not tell them anything firmly related to their inquiry into the deaths of two thieves.
Grey retrieved his paper from the desk before the detectives thanked the deposed minister for his time and made their way out onto the street. A horse-drawn railcar passed by at the corner, and Lean glanced up at the telephone wires that ran along the street poles. The images helped his mind vault forward by centuries, from an age of secret societies and alchemical manifestos to the comfort and certainty of the present day.
“A lot of information to digest, but I’m not sure it gets us any closer to who pulled the trigger on Frank Cosgrove or who scared Sears enough that he’d risk a deadly jump off a building.”
“You’re partly right,” Grey said. “We’ve gained no decisive information on the meaning of those images Chester Sears was attempting to steal. Leadbetter’s ideas about alchemical symbols aren’t much more convincing than Professor Horsford’s accounts of Viking runes.”
They paused to hail a hansom cab as Lean lit a cigarette.
“However,” Grey continued, “his identification of the ashen face from the house on Vine Street is interesting. The name of Baphomet is not exactly common knowledge among Portland’s criminal practitioners. But we do know one expert to call on when the subject of occult ritual intersects with murder.”
[ Chapter 18 ]
Grey let himself into his front hallway, with LEAN close behind. The door to Mrs. Philbrick’s rooms on the first floor popped open, and the landlady appeared in the frame.
“Back again, Mr. Grey? With no prior notice, but just in time for afternoon tea. I suppose you’d want me to fix something right up?”
“Wouldn’t think of putting you out, Mrs. Philbrick. You already do so much to ease the daily burdens of the world. Just the papers and my mail.”
Grey held out his hand. Mrs. Philbrick ducked back into her door and emerged seconds later with a short stack of newspapers and envelopes. She reached into an apron pocket and withdrew another letter.
“Had to sign for this one yesterday. From a lawyer’s office.” She fixed a suspicious eye on Grey, who took the envelope and set it atop the others.
Mrs. Philbrick produced another envelope, this one smaller, and waggled it. “This looks important as well.”
Grey snatched the smaller envelope and glanced at the face of it. Lean noticed an element of surprise on Grey’s face as he slipped the envelope into a coat pocket.
“Anything else of interest lurking there in the recesses?” Grey gave a general wave toward Mrs. Philbrick’s outfit.
“Nothing that need concern you.” The older woman began to retreat toward her rooms but paused and laid a hand on Lean’s arm. “I have some coffee on, if you’d like, Deputy?”
“That would be splendid, Mrs. Philbrick,” he answered as he headed for the staircase.
Once in his apartment, Grey deposited his papers and several articles of mail on his desk. He retrieved the smaller envelope from his pocket and tossed it onto the others before focusing his attention on the legal post. Lean hung his hat by the door and began to amble about the perimeter of the large parlor, reacquainting himself with Grey’s professional materials and equipment. He saw Grey’s brow furrow.
“Trouble?” Lean asked. “Something you said?”
“Notice from the firm of Dyer & Fogg. Horace Webster died yesterday. The funeral is tomorrow morning.”
“Friend of yours?”
Grey spared Lean a glance just long enough to confirm that they both recognized the inherent improbability of that statement. “An invalid who wished to confer with me on
a matter. Tomorrow is the reading of the will for the man’s considerable estate. The attorney requests my attendance immediately after, at four o’clock, to discuss the still-extant business requested by his late client.”
“What’s it about?”
Grey held up the letter, as if waving a white flag. “I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow.”
Lean had now circled to Grey’s desk, where he glanced at the small envelope that Mrs. Philbrick had set aside as important but which Grey seemed intent on ignoring. He recognized the delicate, finely formed handwriting. He turned it over and saw the return address in Connecticut.
“Grey, is that a letter from Helen Prescott? Have you been in correspondence with her all this time?”
“No.” Grey found a pad of paper and tore off a sheet. “Not regularly, by any means.”
Lean wondered if Helen had written to say she was returning soon. Lean hoped so; it would be a delight to see the woman and her daughter again. Apart from the genuinely warm feelings he’d developed for the pair during last summer’s inquiry, he couldn’t deny a new and selfish reason for hoping she’d return to Portland soon. He viewed Helen’s historical-research skills as nothing short of miraculous. The thought of having her available to assist with any necessary perusals of treatises on ancient runes, Vikings, and archaeology was comforting.
“Well, aren’t you going to read it?” Lean asked.
“Later, perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” Lean grinned at the man’s stubborn reticence. “I’m to believe you might actually not read it. I’d have thought you’d be more excited to receive a letter from Helen.”
“I’m sure it’s not of pressing importance,” Grey said. “I shall attend to Mrs. Prescott’s news or whatnot later, along with the rest of my correspondence.”
Grey finished tracing the symbol that Sears had held at the time of his death. He stood and handed the original piece of evidence over to Lean, who was staring at him.
“Just another bit of dull old correspondence, is it?” Lean asked.
“Don’t you have pressing matters of your own? Your family to attend to, at your own home, where people presumably enjoy your bemused ramblings?”
“True enough.” Lean smiled. “And a far more enjoyable bit of company they are than what awaits you. A dead man’s lawyer. Not much joy there—unless the man happened to be a wealthy and childless uncle. And what about our old friend Jotham Marsh? You still mean to see him about that occult symbol in the house on Vine Street?”
“In the morning, I think. I’d prefer to be rested before dealing with Marsh. Even then I don’t expect to get from him much of what he likely knows about Vine Street, Cosgrove, and Sears.”
“I agree the man’s dealings are somewhat dubious, but I’m still not entirely certain that Jotham Marsh has fully earned the animosity you bear.” Lean meandered toward the door to the hallway. “I’m glad you haven’t conjured up some deep, suspicious grievance against me.”
“As always, I must remind you of the dangers of making presumptions. But in any event, I don’t have reason to suspect you of secretly orchestrating a string of gruesome murders.”
“Yes, that’s one of my strongest virtues. The reason Emma agreed to marry me, actually.”
“Another mystery solved,” Grey said.
Lean chuckled as he closed the door behind him.
When the Investigating Officer has taken care to employ upon every imaginable clue which promises to bring forth some discovery the men most fitted to each, he is then free to direct all his efforts to the point where in his own opinion the correct clue is to be found.
—HANS GROSS, Criminal Investigation
[ Chapter 19 ]
THE FOLLOWING MORNING A SILENT WOMAN LED GREY UP the staircase from the foyer where he’d been kept waiting since his request to see Dr. Jotham Marsh. The entranceway had been plain and unremarkable, giving no hint as to the purpose of the building that housed Marsh’s thaumaturgic society. The Order of the Silver Lance was its formal name. As best Grey could tell, the members—adepts, they called themselves—considered it a bastion of enlightenment, a place that promised initiation into the esoteric, hermetic teachings of ancient mystics. In other words, Marsh had gathered to himself a group of deluded hopefuls clutching at the past because the present had failed them and the future promised nothing more.
The woman glanced back at him as they reached the second floor. She had dark eyes in a face that was strikingly pale given the apparent absence of any of the cosmetic powders or creams in common usage. Her fingernails made up for the lack of color in her face. They were painted a dull black, all except for the index finger of her left hand, which was a glossy crimson. Grey wondered if she stood under some bond of silence related to her progress through the magical order’s ranks. Either way he was grateful.
They moved past several tall, south-facing windows that lit the narrow hall. The silent woman wore a trim, floor-length silk dress that seemed out of place given the morning hour. It appeared almost black when she passed through shade, but glimmering reflections of scarlet revealed themselves in the material whenever the sunlight caught her. Opposite the windows were a series of doors set close enough that together they could hold only large closets or cell-like rooms. Grey thought perhaps the building had once been a boardinghouse.
They came to a door farther removed from the others, and the woman admitted Grey, then departed. He stepped into a somewhat spacious study with paneled walls of dark-stained wood, decorated with a few paintings. Dr. Jotham Marsh slowly came around from a standing podium-like desk. A heavy open volume sat on the surface, and Marsh looked to have been working in inks, copying something. His sleeves had been up, but now he smoothed them down and fixed the cuffs.
In his middle forties, Marsh looked, as he often did, to be on the edge of smiling. In contrast—and Grey suspected that this was intentional—Marsh cultivated a grave and worldly look in his eyes that hinted at a history of wondrous sights. Grey had never been able to ascertain exactly what species of doctorate the man supposedly held. He was tempted to ask but assumed that the answer would be intentionally opaque, the sort of nonsensical parlor talk, hinting at danger and intrigue, designed to captivate a circle of onlookers over cocktails.
“Don’t think me unwelcoming, Mr. Grey. But I agreed to make time for you only because I’m positively brimming over with curiosity as to the purpose of your visit.”
“Frank Cosgrove.”
“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
“He was shot dead a short while back, apparently after the robbery of an unusual item.”
“Then it’s hardly a surprise. It’s a violent world, especially when one chooses that sort of life,” Marsh said with a benevolent shrug.
“True. The surprising element came when his body was stolen from its fresh grave, his hands and face were burned, and his corpse was planted in an abandoned house with this figure sketched nearby.” Grey presented a sheet of paper with his rendition of the horned, demonic-looking head that had been drawn in charcoal where Cosgrove’s body was located.
Marsh’s eyes barely moved toward the diagram. “Yes, I can see how that would be received as rather shocking. So just what is it I can help you with, Mr. Grey?”
“You are the local expert on things related to esoteric or occult studies. I wished to hear your interpretation of this figure.”
“A common enough portrait of the devil, I should say,” Marsh declared after another passing glance. “Someone had an ax to grind with the fellow and wanted the world to know his opinion of the fate that awaited Cosgrove. I suppose a man doesn’t last long in that profession without making at least a few dear enemies.” He raised his eyebrows at Grey as he finished that sentiment.
“So you don’t take this figure to be a representation of Lévi’s version of Baphomet?”
The brief spark of surprise that replaced Marsh’s previous look of boredom was genuine, and Grey took that as a smal
l opening victory.
“Baphomet? I have to applaud such an arcane reference from a layman. Yes, I suppose that Baphomet would be a more fitting model. Was the picture labeled?”
“No. But another expert on the subject, in Boston, was kind enough to enlighten me.”
Grey watched Jotham Marsh’s face, knowing that the man was silently running through his head the possible identities of those who could have so informed Grey. The pause was short. He sensed that Marsh wanted to ask for the unspoken man’s name, or even guess it, but that he didn’t want to be wrong or to appear desperate to gain information from Grey.
The older man merely nodded. “I see.”
“Odd that you wouldn’t make the connection at once.”
“I was viewing it through the prism of what someone like you would see or what the likely culprit intended. Even if someone had ever seen Éliphas Lévi’s figure of Baphomet, the common man has had his mind so greatly indoctrinated throughout modern times that he is incapable of grasping the crucial distinction between that vital symbolic figure and the devil so popularized in Christian mythos.”
“I don’t believe I take your meaning, Dr. Marsh,” Grey said absentmindedly as he allowed himself to be distracted by one of the more macabre paintings on the wall.
The work was a copy, smaller than the original, showing the devil in the profiled form of a black-robed he-goat lording over a coven of fearful witches. They cowered before him with contorted faces and poorly formed bodies. Grey had seen the painting in the course of his varied studies as a younger man and recalled it as an early-nineteenth-century work by the Spanish master Goya. He remembered a museum lecturer speaking of it as the artist mocking the fearful irrationality of the masses, welcoming their own captivity at the hands of kings and priestly inquisitions.
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