He heard the screen door to the kitchen close behind him and Emma’s soft steps across the creaky back porch. He kept meaning to grab a few long nails and hammer down those loose boards, but once again that thought passed from him the moment after he had it.
Emma settled in next to him on the step. “Something the matter? Is it work?”
Lean nodded. He knew she was silently waiting for him to spill his guts. He smiled to himself, fully aware that he would do exactly that, and that she knew the same. Sooner or later he’d have to vent the mental steam percolating in his mind over the investigation and what felt like a dismissal of his services by Grey. He decided to get it over with and to reward Emma’s patience by doing it as matter-of-factly as he could, sparing her the need to cut through any of his grumbling rants over the situation. He gave a brief summary of the case and his conversation with Grey after discovering the threat marked on the house on Vine Street.
“So he thinks you’ll each have more luck if you each take your own tack. Come at the problem separately. After all, your real concern is the murder. His is the robbery from the lawyer’s office?”
“He’s worried about harm coming to me. To us.”
“To us? Whatever for?”
“It’s all that business that happened last year. Dr. Steig. Helen Prescott and her daughter.” Lean stopped, instantly regretting having raised the subject and fearing that he’d cause Emma unnecessary worry.
“I see.” Emma paused and studied her husband’s profile. “And what do you think?”
“Well, I don’t think we ought to be letting killers into the house—or strange men of any type.”
“Oh, well, there’s a welcome bit of advice.”
Lean stared at the blackened, twisted matchstick lying between his feet. “Strange women neither. Strangers, I mean. Your sister’s still welcome.”
Emma slapped his shoulder, then whispered, “You should hear what she says about you.”
Lean smiled and nodded.
“What do you think, then?” she asked.
Her voice was casual, but Lean heard the concern running beneath it. “I don’t see it happening again. Not like that.”
She laid her hand atop his. “But you’ve been having the nightmares again. About that woman, the burning.”
Lean gave her an embarrassed look that he tried to lighten with a smile. “The sight of another charred body didn’t help. And I can’t quit worrying some when Grey goes and resurrects the idea of danger striking home. But this isn’t the same. That was murderous insanity. This one, a man was killed all right, and someone’s trying to paint it all gruesome and scary, but at its heart it isn’t madness. This is more thought out. Colder.”
“You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Archie, and a good heart, too. I trust it. If you don’t think we’re in danger, then I don’t think so either. We’ll just be extra careful, is all. Keep two eyes open instead of just the one.”
He held her hand. “I don’t believe we’re in danger. Like I said, someone’s thinking this through, and in his mind I suppose I’m just some run-of-the-mill policeman. It’s Perceval Grey they’ve singled out as a problem. He’s the one who needs to watch himself.”
“He’s your friend, Archie. If he’s in trouble, it’s you who needs be watching out for him.”
“He won’t let me.”
“Since when do you need permission to do what you think’s right?” Emma said.
“He’d spot me spying on him a mile away.” Lean dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it out underfoot.
“Then get some patrolmen to do it.”
“The marshal would hear of it before a day had passed. Try to explain that one: The men aren’t doing their rounds because I’ve got them spying on a man who hasn’t even committed a crime. I just want to know what he’s up to, like I’m some schoolboy craning my neck to see what answers Grey’s got on his paper. On account of I can’t do my own job and I think he’ll get a better fix than me on who shot Frank Cosgrove and dug him up.”
He took out a second cigarette. Emma wrinkled her nose but stopped herself before chiding her husband about his smoking.
“Isn’t there anyone else who could help you?”
Lean struck another match, and his breath drew smoldering life into the cigarette. He watched the paper burn.
“Yeah, maybe so.”
FROM INSIDE PORTLAND’S Western Cemetery, Grey glanced up the gentle slope toward the arched stone gateway that led out to Vaughan Street. He watched an enclosed carriage slow and park across the street. He’d observed the same vehicle earlier in the neighboring town of Deering. His excursion into various sections of the much larger Evergreen Cemetery had consumed most of the day. Though the carriage seemed to be casually traversing that parklike cemetery’s winding pathways, Grey had noted its nearly constant presence on the periphery of his examinations.
He continued his meandering course through the burial ground. A few pedestals were present, but the graveyard was dominated by mostly small, rounded tombstones from the middle portion of the 1800s. Some markers bore slightly elaborate designs featuring urns, shrouds, or willows, but absent were the winged death’s-heads and other more macabre symbols that could be found in the older grounds of Portland’s Eastern Cemetery.
The faint approach of footsteps drew Grey’s attention. A short figure had entered under the archway and was now passing the practically defunct receiving house. The Western Cemetery, packed into just over a dozen acres along the crest of Bramhall’s Hill at the western edge of Portland Neck, had reached its fill. New interments were now the exception and limited to deceased persons with existing family plots that could still accommodate new arrivals. That thought sent Grey’s eyes searching off to the side of the front gate. A series of eleven granite tombs were set into the side of a brush-covered hill. Short metal doors stood in the narrow stone faces that were no more than seven feet high at their gabled peaks. In his mind he heard the clang of one of those doors swinging open, and the ghostly smell of rotting flesh tore through his nostrils, then vanished.
Grey placed a hand upon the stone where he’d paused. He closed his eyes and awaited the voice of the young man who would soon approach him. A soft breeze brushed his face. A sense of calm settled onto him, and he felt some of the exhaustion of the past weeks drain away, like dark water flowing out from some well deep inside him.
“ ‘Eliza Grey, 1837 to 1869, Beloved Daughter and Mother.’ That your mom?” said the youth in a cracking voice.
“Yes.” Grey opened his eyes and took in the unkempt form of Dennis “Ducky” Leonard. A crooked smile lurked beneath a pug nose on the young man’s pimple-ridden face. Greasy, unshorn hair jutted out from beneath a beaten cap. An unseemly gap between his trouser hems and his shoes spoke of a recent growth spurt. Despite the new inch or two in size, Grey predicted that a chronic lack of proper nutrition would keep Ducky, like many of his ilk, at a below-average height. All in all, he liked the young man. Ducky possessed an uncommon persistence for his age, somewhere around thirteen years. Grey wasn’t sure if it was born of a willful stubbornness to see a job through or just the utter lack of social graces and self-awareness that would normally cause a human being to move on from an untenable situation. But in either case, Ducky Leonard managed to persevere in his tasks, usually without attracting too much notice. And that was useful.
“My mom’s dead as well,” Ducky volunteered.
“These things happen.”
“Was she nice?”
“Indeed she was,” Grey said.
“My mom was nice, too, mostly. Used to tell me stories ’fore bed. Your mom do that?”
“Indeed she did. You like stories, Ducky?”
“Sure, depending on what it’s about and all.”
“I like stories, too. I want you to tell me one. It’s about an older man, long mustache, he’s staying at this address.” Grey handed the youth a slip of paper along with a dollar bill. “You’ll know him by
a close look at his hand—the tip of his little finger’s gone. The story’s about everything this man does. Where he goes, who he talks to, everything. Also there’s a twist to this story, because someone else is probably eavesdropping as well. I want to know who else is enjoying the tale. And if you want to avoid trouble, don’t let that other person notice you. Understand?”
“Sounds like I’d use a bit of help on this one.”
Grey handed him another dollar.
“Understood, Mr. Grey.” He tipped his cap. “If there’s nothing else …”
“There is, actually. The front gate’s being watched. Why don’t you exit through the back trees. I’ll loiter hereabouts for another ten minutes to make sure whoever it is keeps interested in my doings instead of yours.”
The cemetery was shaped like a triangle, but with a rounded bottom. Trees ran along that curved boundary, beyond which a drop of about five feet led to one end of the city’s Western Promenade. Another line of trees on the far side of that wide avenue partially obscured the dazzling views of the Fore River and, beyond that, the town of Cape Elizabeth. Grey watched for a moment as Ducky Leonard set off. He smirked, impressed by the young man’s self-control in simply heading toward the tree line without a single glance back at the front gate. Once the boy was gone, Grey walked fifty feet to his left, then knelt before a completely random tombstone. He made a show of studying and copying the inscription, just to give his unknown observer something to think about.
[ Chapter 35 ]
LEAN STOOD IN A SHORT ALLEYWAY ON CHAPEL STREET facing two mismatched men who looked uncomfortable to be meeting the deputy just a block or so from police headquarters. Joe McCrink, a scrawny, mouse-faced man, shifted his weight back and forth while inhaling a poorly rolled cigarette. The giant Irish ruffian Tom Doran looked even more massive standing next to his diminutive colleague.
“Okay, McCrink, so you followed Grey all day yesterday. Let’s hear it,” Lean said.
“I hope to hell this was a one-shot deal,” the thin man said. “Don’t think I could do ’nother. He spent the whole goddamn day wandering ’bout Evergreen Cemetery.”
“Doing what?”
“Just that—wandering. Christ, I nearly stabbed myself in the leg just to keep awake. Finally, thank God, he left there and drove directly to the Western Cemetery. Spent half an hour there, mostly standing still, though. Passed words a minute with some kid, then home again, home again, jiggity-jig. Suppose he had his supper on time, which was more than I can say for myself.”
McCrink paused, looking like he was waiting for some sign of gratitude for his personal sacrifices. When no hail of cheers arrived, he continued.
“Then he left again, on foot. I was on him as far as Oak Street. Half block ’head he turned onto Free, and by the time I made the corner, he’d disappeared. Don’t ask me how, ’cause I can’t figure it. I circled about for twenty minutes but never saw him ’gain.”
“Fair enough,” Lean said.
“Is that it, then?” Doran asked. “Or you want me to put another man on him?”
Lean’s mind raced over possible explanations for Grey’s sudden interest in graveyards.
Why would he be visiting more than one? Grey’s mother and Dr. Steig were both buried in the Western Cemetery. Maybe the good doctor’s murder was weighing more heavily on Grey than Lean realized. But that wouldn’t account for a full day rambling through Evergreen Cemetery. He was searching for something—for someone. He was on Free Street. He’d heard it mentioned just that morning inside the station. A patrolman had mentioned that same location. Lean closed his eyes and tried to hear the officer’s voice again.
“What the hell’s Grey up to?” Lean mumbled.
“Go and ask him if you’re so damned curious,” Doran said.
Lean looked up at the russet-haired behemoth.
“So—we gonna do this again or not?” Doran’s already ruddy face was taking on a more impatient hue.
Lean raised a delaying finger while he returned his attention to the mousy-faced spy. “McCrink, you didn’t see anyone else shadowing him, did you?”
“Not a soul,” the man said.
Lean nodded, letting that bit of good news settle the matter. “No, I suppose we don’t need another go-round.”
“Right.” Doran jerked a thumb back down the alley in the direction they’d come. The little man turned and started off. Before Doran could follow, Lean stuck out a hand and grabbed the giant’s forearm.
Doran stared at it, and the hint of a glare in the big man’s eyes was enough to let Lean know that the motion was not appreciated. Lean dropped his hand.
“Someone in the city has Grey in his sights. Someone with resources, who knows damn well what he’s doing. If you hear anything …”
Doran allowed half a nod and grunted his agreement before he lumbered away down the alley.
IN HIS SMALL OFFICE in the basement of the city building, Lean ran his finger down the Portland directory’s listings for Free Street, near its crossing with Brown. The entries were mostly residences, with a few shops and plenty of doctors’ offices scattered about. The Convent of Our Lady of Mercy broke up the monotony, but nothing leaped from the page.
“You wanted to see me, Deputy?”
Lean looked up to see the solid form of Officer Kenney in the doorway. Perched above the dark blue uniform was a pink, rounded face that always reminded Lean of an undercooked Christmas ham.
“I hear you went over to Free Street first thing today. A reported break-in.”
“Yeah. Doctors’ offices.” Kenney reached into a back pocket and pulled out a notepad. It took him a moment to find the page and decipher his own handwriting. “Dr. Thayer and Dr. Stowell—95 Free.”
“Burglary?”
“More or less. Meaning the lock on the office door was forced clear enough but weren’t anything found missing.”
“Do the doctors regularly keep any funds at the office or mention any other reason someone might think to try robbing them?”
Kenney shook his head. “Not an idea between them. And like I said, nothing was taken.”
Lean stared at the man’s blank face, wanting more.
“Told them to get a stronger lock,” the patrolman added.
“Right. Good work.” The utter lack of enthusiasm in Lean’s voice was enough to dismiss Kenney.
It could be a coincidence, Lean thought. His next immediate thought was that Grey would laugh in his face if he voiced that word aloud: coincidence. He was left with his earlier question from when Doran and McCrink had first briefed him on Grey’s movements: What the hell was the man up to?
[ Chapter 36 ]
DUCKY LEONARD STOOD IN THE SHADOWS OF AN APARTMENT building on Clark Street, watching the two-story brick house across the way. A lamp above the front steps lit up the entrance there, but no one had come or gone in hours. The mustachioed man with the missing pinkie had arrived just after sunset, and Ducky had seen him pass by an open second-story window several times. He hadn’t heard any church bells in a while and guessed it was almost eleven p.m. now. He knew he shouldn’t announce his presence, but he lit a cigarette anyway. Despite Mr. Grey’s warning, there wasn’t any sign of anyone else taking an interest in the actions of the man he’d been hired to watch.
Minutes later Ducky noticed a man across the street moving toward the house. He was notable for having one arm wrapped around a medium-size box covered in brown paper. The man’s brisk pace slowed several houses away as he checked the street numbers. Upon identifying the proper address, he launched himself up the stairs that Ducky was watching. He set the parcel down and banged on the door with his fist. The man nearly tripped on the stairs in his haste to get away, then hurried along the sidewalk, moving closer to Ducky’s location.
Ducky left the cover of the shadows and made for the street. He had no intention of stopping the man, but he was sure Mr. Grey would pay extra if Ducky could manage a decent description of the fellow seen delivering a myste
rious package. In this dark he’d have to pass right before the man to make out his features. Ducky didn’t get the chance. He was only halfway across the street when both he and the deliveryman were startled by the sudden appearance of a hansom cab from around a corner twenty yards off. The vehicle raced toward them, the driver whipping the horse.
Losing track of the man he meant to identify, Ducky bolted forward, out of the path of the onrushing cab. He dove aside and tumbled to safety on the sidewalk, not far from the front doorway he’d been watching. It turned out to be an overreaction on his part. The driver of the carriage yanked the horse to a stop several yards short of where Ducky had been standing. From the ground, the young man watched the cabdriver’s head swivel back and forth, torn between the package on the steps and the fleeing deliveryman. Taking advantage of the confusion, Ducky bolted for shelter at the corner of the house. He looked down the sidewalk in time to see the deliveryman dash away between two buildings. The cabdriver urged the horse on again and rounded the next corner in pursuit.
Ducky stood and brushed himself off. He’d forgotten about the newly delivered package on the doorstep until he heard the doorknob turn. The young man crouched low to the ground, hiding behind a scraggly bush as he peeked out to observe.
“Who’s there?” the figure in the doorway called in a tepid voice. His hand shielded his eyes as he futilely peered from the lit doorstep into the surrounding darkness. The man scooped up the package and slammed the door behind him.
Ducky moved out from his hiding spot. He edged along the front of the house until he was directly beneath the open window on the second floor. He heard someone enter the room, followed by a garble of low, curious voices. Next came the distinct sounds of a package being ripped open. There was the briefest pause, then an explosion of excited shouts from at least three voices. Within half a minute, one man succeeded in quieting the others. Then the mustachioed man stuck his head out the window above Ducky. The man didn’t bother looking directly below him. Instead he glanced up and down the dark street, saw nothing to gain his attention, and slammed the window shut.
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