“I was just thinking about that. A hundred years ago, they’re after Old Tom Webster. Now people are digging around the places he used to own. They’re all searching for something. And I was thinking that Frankie Cosgrove got shot because he got ahold of what they’ve all been looking for. But that makes no sense—they’re still digging even after his death.”
Lean tapped his knuckles on the chair arm. “Then what else are they looking for?” Helen asked.
“And have they found it yet?” added Meserve.
“I don’t think so,” Lean answered. “Jerome Morse bought the site of Tom Webster’s old house on Oak and Free early this year. But whatever they’re searching for wasn’t there, because months later they start looking at the tailor shop on Exchange and the house on Vine Street, where Cosgrove’s corpse turns up, all burned to scare folks away. But there’s only pilot holes in those cellars, no real digging.
“Which means they’re still looking,” Helen finished the thought.
Lean nodded. “Mr. Meserve, you mentioned India Street as the original house owned by Old Tom Webster. Do your papers say exactly where that was?”
“No, it wouldn’t exist anymore,” the historian blurted out, as if it were somehow his fault that the evidence of the place was now lost. “The British searched there and burned it to the ground.”
“Besides,” Helen said, “if the redcoats found what they were looking for, then that later man, Clough, wouldn’t have bothered to come looking for Tom Webster at the end of the war.”
“And gotten himself killed,” Lean said in agreement. “So it wasn’t at India Street either. What properties are left?”
“The pastureland that Webster bought on Munjoy Hill,” Helen replied.
Lean snapped his fingers in excitement over the possibility of one more location. “You said before you were still trying to pin that down. Any luck?”
Helen’s face pinched up in disappointment. “Not yet. The old land records are sparse and inexact, but I’m still working at it.” She tried to sound hopeful. “I could make another effort this afternoon if you’d like.”
“Yes, please, anything you can find about the precise location would be immensely important.”
“Of course.” Helen smiled, happy to have what suddenly seemed like such a vital task facing her. “I’ll telephone you as soon as I can.”
[ Chapter 41 ]
LEAN SET THE TELEPHONE RECEIVER BACK IN ITS CRADLE and glanced at the wall clock in his kitchen. It was just after six-thirty. He’d leave the house in about twenty minutes.
“Who was that?” Emma asked from the living room, where she was sitting on the floor with little Amelia. The girl, not yet a year old, was babbling away at the colored wooden blocks set out before her on the rug.
“Helen Prescott. She’s found something to show me. I’m to meet her in a bit at the observatory.”
“Will Perceval Grey be joining the two of you?”
Lean shook his head. “He’s out of town. Still up at Mount Katahdin, I think.”
He’d gotten that information from Grey’s landlady, who heard from some young snitch of Grey’s that the man had headed off to someplace called Tarden. It had taken Lean a few minutes of pondering before he figured out the real name had to be Katahdin.
“All the way up there, in the middle of the wilderness—whatever for?” his wife asked.
Lean glanced out the kitchen window and caught sight of his son still playing at some game with a couple of neighborhood boys. He returned to the living room.
“Haven’t the foggiest idea.” That wasn’t entirely true. Lean had several ideas kicking around in his head about what Grey might be up to. But they had all collected into a vague, muddled heap of confusion involving Professor Horsford’s claims about the fabled city of Norumbega and Viking runes on stones and Chief Jefferson, the white man–turned–Indian whom Grey had mentioned in connection with the Webster family.
“So that’s why you’re reading that book,” Emma said. “Is that safe? Grey doesn’t strike me as a true outdoor sportsman.”
Lean sat down in his chair and picked up the copy of Thoreau’s Maine Woods that he’d been perusing. He waved the book about.
“Certainly is a major chore to get there. As for safe, I suppose so. Though according to Thoreau, he’ll have more than steep rocks to deal with. Listen to this.” Lean flipped back through the pages of the book.
“Says here, ‘The tops of mountains are among the unfinished parts of the globe, whither it is a slight insult to the gods to climb and pry into their secrets, and try their effect on our humanity. Only daring and insolent men, perchance, go there. Simple races, as savages, do not climb mountains,—their tops are sacred and mysterious tracts never visited by them. Pomola is always angry with those who climb to the summit of Ktaadn.’ ”
“ ‘Only daring and insolent men’?” Emma pondered that for a moment, then added, “Sounds like you should have gone with him.”
Lean chuckled. “Ah, my ever-loving and supportive wife. Whatever did I do to deserve you?”
“You can’t recall either?” Emma smiled back at him. “Did you say you’re meeting Helen at the observatory, really?”
“I knew it would be on Munjoy Hill, but yeah, the observatory is a peculiar choice.” He shrugged. “She must have her reasons.”
Lean was still wondering about Helen’s choice of a meeting place as he stood outside the Portland Observatory forty minutes later. He glanced down the slope of Congress Street to the base of the hill where the open space of the Eastern Cemetery sat just to the left, out of his view. A city railcar had paused there as a second horse was hitched to assist in hauling the car up the steady quarter-mile slope of Munjoy Hill. After a minute, the horses started and the car lurched forward to begin its slow climb. Lean hoped Helen was aboard the trolley.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the observatory, a handsome building that was visible from practically anywhere in the city and throughout Portland Harbor. The brown wooden structure, built eight decades earlier as a signal tower for incoming merchant vessels, was domed and octagonal, giving it the appearance of a hilltop lighthouse. The observatory slanted inward slightly, narrowing from a base of thirty-two feet in diameter to less than half of that at its observation deck seven stories above the sidewalk.
The railcar reached the summit, and Lean caught sight of Helen’s smiling face. She waited to disembark while the trolley stopped to detach one of the draft horses just past the observatory near the doors of Fire Department Engine No. 2. Lean took a few steps forward to greet Helen. He could see that she was trying to focus on him but wasn’t completely able to avoid nervous glances at the observatory that loomed up right behind him. It had been atop that high point that she’d come face-to-face with a maniacal killer.
“I questioned your decision to meet here,” Lean said, trying to keep his voice cheerful. “Thought this would be about the last place you’d want to visit.”
Helen offered a tepid smile. “I haven’t been this close to it since that night. But I didn’t have a choice. The older land deeds are very obscure. Apart from the Eastern Cemetery, there weren’t many points of reference hereabouts. Once the observatory was built in the early part of the century, it became the most important landmark on the hill. So I’ve used it to trace back to the plot of land that Thomas Webster bought.”
“Right,” Lean said, “it was all vacant back then. Makes sense for pastureland.”
“Turns out he didn’t buy it for livestock after all. He bought only an acre, and I found a reference to an intended observation tower, of the sort for telescopes and stargazing. It was never built, though.”
“Odd. So where to from here?” Lean asked.
“It was north-northwest from the observatory, and as best as I can figure, it was just about five hundred seventy-five yards along to the south corner marker of the property he bought.”
“North by northwest, so that would be …” Lean scanned th
e area to get his bearings.
“I think it’s straight down North Street.” Helen pointed across the way to where that more-or-less-perpendicular avenue ran off from them at a slight angle. “Some of the old records even refer to the pathway that later became North.”
“Something’s easy for once—excellent. I’ll count the paces as we go.”
They walked on in silence, except for the periodic announcements from Lean every time they completed fifty more steps. It was a working-class neighborhood and, on a warm summer evening such as this one, their progress was watched by many pairs of eyes lingering on front stoops. They passed the occasional bit of rowdiness or colorful chatter that Lean would have normally greeted with at least a hard glare. But tonight he kept his eyes forward, straight down North Street until they reached the end of the fifth block moving away from the observatory.
“Five hundred thirty-seven.” He looked up from where they stood at the corner of North Street and Walnut.
“Now what?” Helen asked.
Lean knew that it was pointless to direct anger at an inanimate object, even one so large, but he couldn’t turn his annoyed glare away from the massive embankment of the Munjoy Hill Reservoir that loomed before them just across the street.
“Unless you feel like changing into your bathing attire, I’d say we’re at a dead end. He bought an acre, you said. We could fit that inside the reservoir four times over, even if it weren’t covered with twenty million gallons of water.”
“I guess there’s a silver lining.” She studied the embankment; the wall must have been two, maybe three stories high. “Whoever it was looking under all of Tom Webster’s old premises has hit the same wall that we have.”
“True, but then if they can’t dig here, I can’t catch them in the act. Can’t believe it’s a dead end. That’s all I seem to be finding these days.”
“Is there something else you’re looking into?” Helen asked. “Anything I could help with?”
Lean let out a frustrated sigh. “A missing woman, missing for about sixty years. Probably passed on by now. And even if she were still alive, I doubt the pitiful old lady would have anything useful to say. Still, it’s a loose end.”
“No luck at all?”
“All I have is a name—Dastine LaVallee, and that might not even be right anymore. Not a trace of her in any of the city records.”
“No offense, Archie, but there’s got to be a better way to find a living person. That is, people have to live somewhere, and it’s not inside the city records.”
“If you’ve got any clever ideas, and the time to look into them, then have at it by all means. Personally, I’ve got other fish to fry. Starting with what to do next about finding Cosgrove’s killer now that this trail has dried up.”
“Poor choice of words,” Helen said as they both stared at the reservoir. “Does Mr. Grey have any thoughts?”
Lean shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got to get this new information to Grey. But he’s being stubborn, as usual. He’s worried that—” Lean stopped himself before he could stumble into the unwelcome topic of the danger that Helen and her daughter had found themselves in while helping in Lean and Grey’s investigation the prior summer.
“That is, he insists on maintaining the appearance of not working with the police in this matter. Refuses to be seen with me in public and has banned me from approaching his apartment.”
“If it would help, I could send him a message,” Helen volunteered, “ask him to come around to the library to collect the notes and explain all that we’ve turned up.”
Lean noticed the happy glint in Helen’s eyes as she offered her assistance. He realized she hadn’t seen Grey since her return to Portland, and this would provide an excuse to do so. The fact that she needed an excuse held meaning. The reticence that Grey had demonstrated whenever her name came up in conversation the past couple of weeks must not have been limited to his interactions with Lean. The deputy relished the idea of doing a favor for Helen while at the same time managing to annoy Grey. Besides, Lean was sure that a dose of Helen’s company could only do wonders for Grey, despite the outward cloak of solitary reserve the man insisted on displaying.
“That would be a tremendous help.” A smile spread over Lean’s face as he handed the file of papers to her. “Thank you ever so much, Helen.”
Pfister in his “Curious Criminal Cases” rightly says: “The greatest art of the Investigating Officer consists in conducting the inquiry in such a way that the initiated at once perceive that there has been ‘a directing intelligence,’ while the uninitiated imagine that everything has fallen into place of its own accord.”
—HANS GROSS, Criminal Investigation
[ Chapter 42 ]
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON BY THE TIME GREY SET THE THUNDERSTONE on the desk in his study and took a seat. Though it seemed like a week ago, it had been only yesterday morning that he’d gotten Chief Jefferson safely out of the woods surrounding Katahdin. His guide had been able to fashion a poultice for the bullet wound, but the hike back to civilization had stretched into four days. He’d left the feverish chief at the Hunt farm and paid the family there to take care of the man during his recuperation. Before departing, he’d questioned Jefferson one final time about the circumstances of his obtaining the thunderstone. The man was in a weak, confused state but remained adamant about his complete ignorance of who’d left the stone on his doorstep and who’d stolen it from the attorney’s office in the first instance.
Grey had left a letter behind, for Chief Jefferson’s use in reporting the murder of Louis Beauchamp to the authorities in Bangor. It reported few details, only his having witnessed Beauchamp’s fatal wound received from an unseen rifleman. The assailant had then continued to fire on them, forcing them to flee the mountaintop. He left his name and address as well as Deputy Lean’s name as a reference. He didn’t believe that the local authorities would have any luck in tracking down the assassin. Furthermore, if Chief Jefferson reported the attack as intentional murder, Grey expected the police to greet that accusation with skepticism. After all, why would they believe that someone had trekked days into the wilderness and climbed all the way to the top of Katahdin just to kill an Indian? The reason, and the responsible party, was in Portland, and Grey wasted no time in returning there.
Leaning forward in his desk chair, Grey balanced the tip of the egg-shaped thunderstone under the palm of his left hand. With his right he slowly spun it, studying each symbol in turn, as he had so many times on the train ride home.
There was the now-familiar design matching the symbol he’d recovered at the Athenaeum. The next two in line resembled the traditional symbols for male and female. Next came a circle with a dot at the center, then two completely foreign symbols, and lastly one similar to a crescent moon. Grey pondered the collection of figures for a while before deciding they would need further study. He was tired and wanted to be done with this assignment; the recovery of the stone had drained him. Still, he couldn’t ignore that the symbols remained an unresolved mystery. He would telephone Phebe Webster’s house and arrange to deliver the stone that evening. Before that time, however, he would make a copy of the symbols for his own further consideration.
GREY REPOSITIONED the carrying case under his right arm and made a conscious effort not to put his weight on his walking stick. He gave the knocker three raps and waited outside the front door of the late Horace Webster’s house. It was now solely the residence and property of Phebe, and he’d agreed to meet her there and turn over the thunderstone. He’d thought of having Rasmus drive him over, in the new carriage he was renting, but forced himself to walk in hopes that the exercise would help his legs. His thighs, shins, and ankles were still protesting the arduous climb and quicker, more jarring descent of Katahdin several days earlier.
Phebe herself opened the door, and Grey’s face must have shown his surprise. She greeted him with a smile and took his hat and stick.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, Mr.
Grey. I’ve given the servants the evening off, so that we can speak privately, without interruption.”
She invited him into the sitting room and poured him a cup of tea from a waiting pot. Grey set the case on a low table in front of them and flipped open the latches. Inside, the thunderstone sat nestled in a bundle of soft cloth.
“Remarkable, Mr. Grey. Not to say I doubted you, but I wasn’t sure we’d ever see it again.” She ran her fingers across the surface but left the stone in its place. “I hope retrieving it wasn’t too much of a bother. Such a terrible fuss over a silly old stone. This will put Attorney Dyer’s and Euripides’ minds at ease anyway.”
“Your uncle’s been ill at ease? Has that caused him to be absent from work this week?”
Phebe gave Grey a quizzical look. “No, not at all. Whyever did you think that?”
“My mistake. But he’s been acting on edge?”
“He’s always acting on edge,” Phebe said.
“Any more than usual?”
“He was a bit agitated after receiving a telegram three days ago. And rather anxious for another to arrive yesterday, but it never did.”
“Who was that telegram from?” Grey asked.
“I don’t know. Why all the concern with Euripides?”
“I’m curious about his ongoing interest in Chief Jefferson.” He tried his tea. “There was, in fact, an unexpected incident in recovering the stone. Quite unfortunate.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you all right? I noticed you walking a touch stiffly.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” he answered.
“But the man who stole it has been found out. It was that Chief Jefferson after all, wasn’t it? Has he been arrested?”
“I’m not convinced that Chief Jefferson was behind the theft.”
“Who, then?” she asked.
“That I do not know.”
“I’m surprised. I was sure it was him. So was Uncle Euripides. I’m glad to have it back,” she said as she ran her fingers over the stone once more, “but still, it’s a bit disconcerting not to have resolved the question of its theft.”
A Study in Revenge Page 27
