A Study in Revenge

by Kieran Shields

  “If you closed your eyes, you might think you were being called to church,” Rasmus said.

  “You would be very much mistaken, I’m afraid,” Grey answered.

  Grey moved ahead, following the path toward the building that served as the operation’s headquarters. He passed by several wagons hitched to teams of powerful draft horses. The loads consisted of rectangular slabs of granite longer than the men who’d cut them. Each one with wooden planks strapped on at the top and the upper sides, like a makeshift box cover, to prevent any unsightly chipping of edges during transport. Drivers and lumpers in dust-covered overalls and shirts milled about making various preparations for hauling and loading the blocks. Though it was not yet noon, the workers’ shirts were already wet through by the heat. Their broad-brimmed hats, worn to fend off the sun, showed old white salt stains across the foreheads.

  Before Grey reached the building, the door opened and Jason Webster emerged and greeted him with a raised hand. Jason looked as if he should have been stepping out of a salon in the city. His slicked blond hair was topped by a white hat tilted at a rakish angle. He wore a tan linen frock coat and light checked pants, as well as buttoned suede gloves.

  “There you are, Grey. Nice to see you again. Though I wish it could have been under more pleasant circumstances.” Jason wrinkled his nose at the thick air and drew out a silk handkerchief, into which he offered a small, forced cough.

  “Your brother seems to be a very busy man. He let me know how fortunate I should feel even to get a few minutes of his time here.”

  “Oh, yes, he’s a terribly important person,” Jason announced in a lilting tone. “As he’ll no doubt remind you.”

  As they talked, Grey became aware that the clanging had stopped. Several workers readying to go down into the quarry had paused in their tracks near the lip of the pit. One carried a hand plug drill, while others set down or even leaned on a variety of striking or bushing hammers, as if waiting for something.

  “Fire in the hole!” shouted a distant voice. Seconds later a small explosion in the quarry sent a shudder through the ground that Grey felt up through his legs. A plume of brownish smoke rose from the pit.

  “You and I could have met in the city, in a more relaxed location,” Grey said.

  “Perhaps some other time, but for business Euripides insisted I meet you here. I don’t believe he trusts me to discuss the family’s personal or business matters outside of his earshot.” Jason chuckled, as if his elder brother’s low estimation of his tact and propriety didn’t offend him in the least.

  “Besides,” the man continued, “the documents for the operating structure of the quarry require that, as a partner, I attend and oversee the works at least once a month. This visit of yours satisfies the bill.”

  “The quarry’s a joint family business, then?” Grey asked.

  Jason nodded. “Euripides is the operating partner; handles the day-to-day matters and whatnot. But yes, we all own the thing. Even Alex’s daughters have minor stakes in the quarry part.”

  “It looks like quite a production you have here.”

  “Oh, yes, our granite is used in buildings and roads from Boston all the way down to New Orleans,” Jason said. “This other bit, with the explosive charges, that’s strictly Euripides’ work, thank you. He started his gunpowder mill and munitions factory a few years after the war. Always fiddling about and testing his new detonation materials here at the quarry. Killing two birds with one stone, as they say.”

  “A noble practice,” Grey said, “for those who enjoy killing twice as many fowl, that is.”

  “Speak of the devil.”

  Jason nodded toward the edge of the quarry where a rickety-looking set of stairs led down into the pit. Euripides climbed up to the rim and swatted at himself with his hat, sending quick bursts of dust swirling into the air. The robust middle-aged man marched to a nearby water barrel. Two workers—stone cutters, judging by the points and chippers they carried—made room for him there. One handed over the ladle that hung from the barrel by a piece of twine. Euripides downed two helpings of water, then dragged a dirty sleeve across his mouth.

  “Not paying you two dollars a day to stare at a thirsty man!” he declared to the workers.

  Euripides saw his brother and Grey standing twenty paces off. With the look of a man who was about to have a tooth yanked, the older Webster waved the men over. Grey approached and got a better view of the quarry operation. Below them, terraced ledges cut into the earth left an impression like an inverted, misshapen Mayan temple dug into the ground. A series of tall telegraph poles dotted the location. Secondary poles angled out from the bases at forty-five degrees and were topped with pulleys for shifting the massive granite blocks. The posts were set into round, gearlike platforms that could rotate to move the rough slabs into position or load them onto sledges to be hauled out by the oxen teams.

  Euripides held up a blasting cap and declared, “Needs replacing.”

  He drew a stick of dynamite from his back pocket and tossed it to the unprepared Jason. The stick bobbled about in Jason’s hands for several seconds before the wide-eyed man corralled it and clutched it to his chest.

  “Are you mad?” he growled at Euripides. “All that jostling could have set it off.”

  “You’re thinking of liquid nitroglycerin, Jason.”

  “Dynamite is composed of a roughly three-to-one mixture of the liquid with diatomite, a particularly absorbent and soft variety of soil material that stabilizes the otherwise extremely volatile nitroglycerin,” Grey said.

  “Quite right, Grey. There may be a sliver of hope for you yet,” Euripides said. “I haven’t got all day—what is it you want, exactly?”

  Grey handed over the photographs of the dead men, Frank Cosgrove and Chester Sears.

  The Webster brothers examined the images. Jason glanced at Euripides to see if his older brother had any inkling as to who these men were, but that man’s face remained as flat and impassive as the granite being dug out of the quarry.

  After the excitement of the explosion, the clanging work had started up again. Grey looked over the edge and briefly watched two men below as they finished setting wedges into a series of holes drilled into a massive slab of granite. Then they took up their hammers to drive iron half rounds between those wedges, sending splits along the line of holes that would break the granite into blocks.

  “Don’t know them,” Euripides said. “You?”

  Jason shook his head and looked to Grey for an explanation.

  “Those two men may be involved in the theft of the thunderstone from the law office of Mr. Dyer.” Grey saw a look of disdain pass over Euripides’ face. “I’m investigating this at the request of your niece, Phebe.”

  Euripides relaxed just a touch. “Sometimes that girl gives me fits. I’ll have to speak to her when I get back to the office.”

  “She does some sort of work for you—correct?—in your munitions-related business, but not here?” Grey asked.

  Euripides waved toward the torn, barren-looking surroundings. “Certainly no place for a woman.”

  “You’ve let her come through here on occasion,” Jason said, “once or twice.”

  Euripides didn’t appear eager to admit the correction, but he nodded. “Well, yes, she has shown some curiosity. Only natural, I suppose, when she sees the items on paper so often, to wonder about the real-world use of the material. And it is rather impressive to behold, you must admit. The force of the stuff and the ability to control that, to direct it to one’s own purposes for progress and profit.”

  “That blast now,” Grey said. “Sizable, but didn’t seem extraordinary.”

  “That’s the key. I could blow out an entire wall of the pit if I so desired. But that would shatter every usable bit of granite in the place. The key is to set a series of smaller, accurately placed charges. You can’t fall victim to the siren call of raw power. Like many other things in this world, it’s a matter of knowing just where to
exert pressure. Lesser force, deftly used, will gain you your end. It’s an amazing exercise. I never tire of it.”

  Grey nodded, then turned the subject back to Phebe Webster. “If I may be so bold, it surprises me that you would employ a woman, even if in only a clerical function.”

  “No more surprised than I was at first. Truth be told, though, Phebe has an astonishingly sound head on her shoulders for a young woman. Damnedest thing, but she really has a certain expertise with numbers.”

  “Always very sharp in her studies as a child,” Jason said. “A natural with patterns and calculations.”

  “Besides, she’s family,” Euripides said. “She can be trusted. This is a competitive business, Mr. Grey. You’d be surprised to know to what lengths firms will go to learn one another’s secrets. Vieille, working in Paris in 1884, managed to change guncotton into a smokeless powder three times as strong as black powder. How long do you think it took firms in every other European nation to get their hands on that?”

  “Maxim got the U.S. patent in ’90,” Grey noted.

  Euripides raised an eyebrow, once again impressed by Grey’s knowledge on the subject.

  “DuPont is experimenting with new materials and will patent an improved version soon enough, you watch. Now, I can’t claim to be in competition with the likes of them, of course. We’re not nearly on that scale, but you take my meaning.”

  “A cutthroat business,” Jason said, “as all business tends to be.”

  “Yes, but worth it. Even with a small fraction of the market in this country, there’ll be a fortune to be made in the next war,” Euripides said.

  “The next war?” Grey asked.

  “Of course.” Euripides almost smiled. “There’s always a next war, Mr. Grey. Since the Declaration of Independence, this nation has never gone more than thirty years or so without a major war. Even bucking the averages, we’re certainly due for one before the decade’s out.”

  “Sooner, with any luck,” Grey added, keeping a straight face.

  “In those times of crisis, the government doesn’t haggle over much as to the price of gunpowder and munitions, and I will be ready to capitalize. But I won’t get there standing around all day jawing back and forth about some dead souls who got what they deserved. If, in fact, they were the ones who stole the thunderstone.”

  “You don’t think they were responsible?” Grey asked.

  Euripides shrugged. “Maybe they were hired to do the dirty work, but I know full well who was responsible. And if it were my business, I’d have both eyes on that scoundrel Chief Jefferson. Not that it’s any matter of my concern.” Euripides’ eyes flashed with bitterness.

  “It is a Webster family heirloom,” Grey prodded him.

  “My father in his endless wisdom saw fit to pass that damn stone to Phebe. And so it seems I’m to be done with it.”

  “It’s just a rock, Rip. An artifact, perhaps, but a mere curiosity for the mantelpiece when all’s said and done,” Jason said.

  “Easy enough for you to say. But I was raised to be my father’s son and give a damn about the Webster name and traditions.”

  “There’s still time. You may yet get over such things,” Jason answered flatly.

  Euripides took a step forward, looking very much as though he would actually strike his younger brother. Jason didn’t back away or appear in the least bit perturbed by the aggressive stance.

  Grey edged closer to the brothers. “Gentlemen, as pleasant as this little get-together obviously is for each of us, I have no desire to prolong it unnecessarily. If you could just assist me on one final matter, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Final matter? I mean to hold you to that, Grey.” The words seemed to catch in Euripides’ dusty throat. He snorted and spit on the ground. “Let’s have it, then.”

  “It concerns your niece.”

  “Phebe? Go and ask her yourself. She’s the one wasting good money to have you nosing about.”

  “No, her sister, Madeline.”

  The comment caught Euripides off guard, but he recovered in one breath.

  “What do you care to know about that one?” He threw a disgusted look at Jason. “Another without the faintest ideas of responsibility and duty. At least she had the good sense to go off and let us be rid of her immature escapades.”

  Jason responded with an unimpressed shrug. He seemed to hold a more forgiving opinion of his absent niece.

  “When was the last time either of you heard from the girl?” Grey asked.

  “Year ago winter, perhaps,” Euripides said.

  Jason nodded. “That sounds about right. Maybe early spring.”

  “Did Madeline have any identifying characteristics?”

  Euripides was staring down at the work progressing in the pit but turned to face Grey for a moment. “Does a reckless disregard and disdain for her family count as an identifying characteristic?”

  “I was thinking something more visually recognizable. A limp, a nervous tic, anything along the lines of a scar, a mark—a tattoo, even,” Grey said.

  Euripides’ face recoiled, and he barked out a dismissive grunt. “I don’t know what type of woman you commonly associate with, Grey, but for all her faults Maddy was still a Webster. Not some brawling seaman’s harlot. A tattoo indeed!”

  “Not even a birthmark?” Grey asked, undeterred by Euripides’ rankled outburst.

  Jason began with one pensive finger raised, “I don’t recall any childhood accidents that would have left a scar or anything of that sort. And there was nothing else visibly noticeable. Not on her hands or face anyway. Perhaps you should ask her sister. If there was any identifiable mark elsewhere … well, she’d certainly be more familiar with Maddy.”

  Euripides let out a satisfied chortle. “Not going to be much use to you in terms of anyone having seen it in passing, recognizing her by it. Hah! Desperation—that’s what it’s come to, your search for my niece. My father’s dying wish being thoroughly bungled. Dyer recommended you—there’s something else to thank that useless dung heap for.”

  He started back toward the steps down into the quarry. “I’ve got further charges to set, so good day to you both.”

  Grey and Jason moved toward the dirt road where, the horses having already been watered, their hansom cabs waited.

  “I suppose that’s that,” Jason said. “Probably went as well as could be expected, truthfully. Sorry you didn’t learn much apart from my brother’s rather callous hopes for a war in the near future.”

  “Not at all. There were questions that needed to be asked, and every answer provides some bit of information.” Grey climbed into his seat. “Learning that you didn’t recognize either of the dead men fills in the picture, albeit more slowly than I would prefer. Still an informative morning’s work.” He tipped his hat to Jason Webster as the cab started off for Portland.

  [ Chapter 31 ]

  THE SEAMEN’S BETHEL AND READING ROOM, A CHAPEL AND benevolent society for mariners and others, was set back from Fore Street. Two short wooden fences stretched between it and the buildings on either side, blocking passage around to the back of the building. A shop stood on one side of the Bethel. On the other, at the corner of Deer Street, stood the Curtis & Son factory, where innovations in the production of spruce gum had made Portland the original chewing-gum capital of the world forty years earlier. That was the most interesting thought that came to Perceval Grey as he paced the length of the block in front of the Bethel yet again. Beneath a streetlamp he checked his pocket watch and saw it was five minutes past midnight.

  The Bethel was built in the Neoclassical design, the triangular peak facing the street. The front entryway jutted out a few feet from the building and was capped with another, smaller triangle that echoed the shape of the main roof. Faint flickers of candlelight were still visible through the tall, rounded windows set on either side of the front door. If there was a congregation in the city that needed ministering in the hours after dark, it was certainly the populati
on of local and transient mariners. The doors were still unlocked; earlier Grey had ventured in to see if his mysterious contact was there, but the place had been silent. Besides, the note he’d received that evening had been specific. He slipped it from his pocket and glanced at the typed words again.

  CHESTER SEARS? OUTSIDE THE SEAMEN’S BETHEL.

  MIDNIGHT. ALONE.

  —AN INTERESTED PARTY

  Grey shoved the note back into his pocket, then moved away from the narrow cone of light beneath the lamppost. Obscured behind thickening clouds, the moon lent only marginal visibility. A few pedestrians passed in the next ten minutes, moving along Fore Street, which had remained somewhat lively during most of his vigil. Grey had arrived a half hour before the appointed time in order to survey the scene. The crowds had dissipated as the minutes slid past midnight, and the threat of a powerful thunderstorm loomed from the southwest. A tipsy couple passed by, hand in hand, wobbling along the street.

  “Hurry,” the man urged his drunken companion, “it’s gonna be a real ripsnorter.”

  Grey glanced skyward where distant flashes of lightning could be seen. He refocused his attention on the street, studying every person who came by, particularly lone men. There had been several over the last fifteen minutes, but none had slowed or shown the slightest interest in Grey or the Seamen’s Bethel.

  He walked to the corner of Deer Street and trudged uphill. His eyes darted to the side as he passed doorways and alleys between houses. A block up, he turned and retraced his steps. He passed by his own cab, and the horse gave a gentle snort in his direction. He assumed that the animal could sense the impending storm and expected Grey to take some action in that regard. Grey had given his driver, Rasmus Hansen, leave to go to a saloon two blocks away, from which Grey would fetch him when this business was done. He hadn’t wanted Rasmus’s presence to scare his contact into abandoning their secretive meeting.