Geoffrey’s eyes fluttered, showing the whites, and then his head slumped forward to rest, motionless, upon his chest. The visitors watched him for a minute, trying to decide whether or not the man truly was in a trance or just faking. Either way, Geoffrey Blanchard had clearly ended the interview.
Lean and Grey stood outside on the gravel driveway, waiting for Dr. Steig to complete his social obligations inside. “Psychosis. Grand delusions. Fixed ideas. I don’t care what the doctor calls it, the man’s a lunatic. And a dangerous one at that.” Lean dropped his cigarette and ground it out underfoot. “How does he end up like that? His own mother was killed by a witch woman’s potion, so why on earth would he take up the occult?”
“His sister reported that he was desperate to contact his mother after her death. From séances to black magic, it could be a slippery slope for an unsound mind,” Grey said. “But I’m more intrigued by his claims of leaving the building. Interacting with others on the outside.”
“What, because he knew your name?”
Grey dismissed that notion with a wave. “I’ve never met the man. He does not know me personally. His little attempt to impress us with his claims of some sort of supernatural knowledge or vision revealed one of two things. Either he has some connection in the outside world who is communicating with him regarding our inquiry into this matter or else he is, in fact, making trips outside the hospital.”
“The hospital boss confirmed he leaves only twice a year for a day out with his sister. And even then they have an attendant who accompanies them.”
Grey shrugged. “Somebody is being paid well to lie and protect Geoffrey Blanchard. Did you notice what he was working on at his little table?”
“Some sort of sewing. Probably a hobby to keep his mind preoccupied. I’ve heard Dr. Steig mention such things.”
“Not sewing, exactly. He was tying flies. For fishing.”
“Fishing?” Lean said. “That’s a bit optimistic.”
“Maybe not. Did you notice anything else peculiar about the man?” Grey asked.
“Peculiar? Him?”
“I meant his appearance.”
Lean shrugged and awaited the answer.
“His hands were tanned. I noticed it when he reached for the photograph. His sleeve raised; his wrist was pale by comparison. The last time out with his sister was on April twenty-seventh. And supposedly he’s been refusing all outdoor exercise.”
“But he did have a small window. Perhaps he sits by it to tie his fishing flies.”
“It’s noontime,” Grey said, “and you couldn’t cast a shadow from that window if you tried. It faces directly north.”
Lean lit another cigarette. “So he’s definitely getting outside of the hospital somehow.” He pondered the implications. “Is it possible? Twenty years later.”
“Lean?”
“Thinking about what Cap Tolman said in the opium den. Twenty years could be nothing to a man driven mad for vengeance. Geoffrey Blanchard is somehow removing himself from the asylum. He could have had something to do with Old Stitch’s death—poisoning her the same way his own mother was poisoned. If he waited so long to kill Old Stitch, what about the other boy, her son that lived? He’s the only witness to that burning who wasn’t part of Blanchard’s mob. The only one who might tell us who murdered his brother and maybe confirm if there is a link to his mother’s recent death. He could still be in danger.”
“An excellent thought, Lean. Whether the motive for killing Old Stitch was revenge, disposal of a witness, or some other cause related to her witchcraft, we should find her surviving son before he ends up like our last known witness.”
The image of Boxcar Annie’s swollen, lifeless face flashed in Lean’s mind. “Tolman said the boy was taken to one of the orphanages.”
“The search will be a tedious one,” Grey said. “In the meantime, I think our new friend Geoffrey Blanchard bears a bit closer watching. It’s only ten days to the crescent moon. I’ll telegraph McCutcheon for assistance.”
“You think he’s up to keeping a hawk’s eye on this place?”
“Have you formed so low an opinion of McCutcheon’s detective skills?”
“Not that. It’s just, Geoffrey Blanchard doesn’t exactly have flowing locks and an ample bosom. I wonder if he’ll keep McCutcheon’s attention for more than a few minutes.”
Grey chuckled. “Yes. He does seem to devote a bit more of his observational talents to that half of the population. But I think he’ll manage. For all his idiosyncrasies and dubious social behavior, the man is an extremely competent and conscientious investigator.”
“Of course,” agreed Lean. It struck him then that this assessment of McCutcheon revealed the true reason Grey continued to associate with the uncouth Pinkerton: He was useful during investigations. That was the solitary consideration by which every living person, apart from clients, victims, and criminals, was to be judged by Perceval Grey. Lean wondered, when this whole affair was over, would the two of them ever have reason to speak again?
55
Lean slid the box of papers back into place on the loaded shelf and took hold of its dust-covered neighbor. After returning down the narrow aisle, he rejoined Grey at the small table borrowed from the city clerk. Two stacks of papers were set before Grey. He quickly finished taking some notes on his pad and stuck a sheet of paper back into place.
“Find something?” Lean asked as he put the box down and took his seat opposite.
“An unrelated matter.”
“A piece of business on the side? You’ve got quite a nerve, Grey, considering the princely sum you’re receiving from the city for your energies.”
Grey smirked.
“The truth is,” Lean said, “I hope whoever else you’re working for is paying enough to keep you in tea and newspapers.”
“Actually, no. He’s not even aware of my efforts on his behalf. In fact, the task hadn’t even occurred to me until last night, when I was contemplating our work here.”
“A friend, then?”
“An acquaintance. One who may prove useful in the future,” answered Grey.
“Well, I can see you’re not disposed to share the details, and I’m content to deal with only a single mystery in this dark little dust mine.”
Lean returned his attention to the yellowed sheets of paper that filled the boxes. Each listed the known facts surrounding the life and circumstances of a child born in the city of Portland. The current box contained notices of births for the period from May 1871 through January 1873. The record-keeping effort produced imperfect results. Official notices were sometimes lacking for those who had entered the world in less-than-ideal circumstances or were, for whatever reason, given up by their mothers. Children who were delivered to the various orphanages or other custodial agencies were also filed among the birth records. When birth dates were unknown, they were recorded chronologically among the live births according to the date that they were handed over to the orphanage. Most of the orphans’ forms were largely blank. Some had notes reflecting their adoption into new families. Others, typically those who were older when they first arrived, showed no such arrangement. They gave a date only when the child left, often at age sixteen, sometimes noting placement at a factory or workhouse.
Lean’s concentration was just starting to wander when he caught sight of a name that made him snap to attention. “Lucy,” he muttered. He looked up and saw Grey staring at him. “This boy, Jack Whitten, his mother is listed as Lucy. Lucy Whitten. August ninth, 1871. The date fits. He’s listed as thirteen years old when he’s placed with the Catholic orphanage.”
“We don’t know for certain that her true name was Lucy.”
“No, but it all fits. Even the note here at the bottom—says he was brought in by the police. No further explanation.”
Grey had come around the table and was reading the sheet over Lean’s shoulder. “Father: unknown. Mother: Lucy Whitten. Age: 35? Her place of birth: Whitchurch, England. Whereabou
ts: unknown.”
“It all fits,” Lean repeated.
“Perfectly.”
“He was discharged April of ’74. No indication of where he went.”
Grey grabbed his notepad and started copying the information. “No, but someone at the cathedral might know something about him.”
Lean cut across Lincoln Park, then rounded onto Franklin Street. The tall, tapering spire of the Roman Catholic cathedral was visible ahead, looming over the skyline. It rivaled the observatory for the honor of highest point in the city, losing only due to the fact that the latter was set atop Munjoy Hill. Lean spotted Grey across the street, bent forward and talking to a little girl of about eight. As Lean approached, he heard the girl laugh, then watched as she ran away, pausing briefly to wave at Grey and giggle once more.
“Tormenting small children, Grey?”
“Quite the opposite, I assure you.”
“Who’s your new friend?”
“She proudly informs me that she is Rose Cleary. Though don’t let the Irish surname and blond pigtails fool you. She’s plainly descended from Arab street traders. A full dollar it cost me to get this off her.”
Grey held up a necklace of a dozen shiny red beads, each one tipped with a black spot, threaded into a thin leather string.
“There’s no way her parents will believe someone actually paid a dollar for that. They’ll probably tan her backside for stealing.”
“More likely congratulate her and take the money.” Grey handed the necklace to Lean, who let it hang from his fingers.
“Very fetching, though I’m not sure when you’ll have occasion to wear it.”
“I noticed it while she was playing in the yard. Look again.” Grey pointed at the shiny red circles. “Do the seeds remind you of anything?”
“Seeds?” Lean studied the necklace a moment before he remembered. “The one you found at Old Stitch’s hovel.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, they make pretty beads. Common enough, I suppose.”
“I don’t recall ever seeing them before,” Grey said.
“Did the girl say where she got them?”
“A man gave them to her sometime ago, along with fifty cents. She couldn’t describe him in any detail. He asked her to watch the cathedral for him while he waited at a serving house down the street. Funny how even small children know where liquor is sold, yet somehow the police remain puzzled. The man wanted to know when a certain priest came out.”
Lean grinned. “That must be some sort of sin to confess, where a man waits for the priest outside to see him on the sly. So do you have a plan to track down this man?”
Grey shook his head. “Not enough details to investigate the man. The seeds are a different story.”
They headed up the steps and toward the broad doors of the cathedral. It was a massive brick structure topped with two black-shingled spires like jousting lances raised in salute to heaven. As did many of the city’s Protestants, Lean thought the building an ostentatious eyesore. For that reason, he was surprised by the unassuming office of Portland’s Catholic bishop, James Healy. The room suited the man behind the desk—straightforward, plain in appearance and manner. Bishop Healy himself was on the back side of middle age. He was a mulatto, with light brown skin and short, tightly curled hair speckled with gray. Lean had seen the man plenty of times but had never actually met him. It took only the brief introduction in the office for Lean to decide he liked the man. The bishop exuded a quiet confidence; he struck Lean as being completely comfortable, and his gentle manner imposed itself on the room’s atmosphere.
“So then, Deputy Lean, how can I be of assistance?”
“We’re hoping you might have information on a boy who came through the orphanage about twenty years ago.”
The bishop smiled. “A boy from twenty years ago? Hundreds upon hundreds of boys have passed through those doors over the years.”
“He was an older boy by the name of Jack Whitten.”
“Jack Whitten? My goodness.” The bishop let out a chuckle. “How many people has he gone and killed now?”
A glance at Grey showed surprise even on his normally imperturbable features. Lean opened his mouth to ask a question, but too many thoughts were fighting to escape, causing a mental logjam.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” Bishop Healy said. “It’s just, I suppose I always expected to get a visit about that boy.”
“What did you mean about him going and killing now? Has he killed someone before?”
“No, of course not. Though not necessarily due to a lack of effort on his part. You see, the reason I remember him so clearly is that he nearly did in a dozen of the other boys. Slipped something into the dinner one night. They all got violently ill.” The bishop removed his small, round spectacles and cleaned them on a handkerchief. “Of course he denied it, and we could never figure how he managed it, but I have no doubt it was him.”
Lean took out his notebook. “Tell me about him.”
“Jack Whitten was a quiet boy when he came to us. Tremulous, even. Though that was understandable.”
Lean nodded. “It was reported that a younger brother had died.”
“That’s what I was told. There were rumors, but the police had simply said that it was an unpleasant situation, and we more or less left it at that. Tragic upbringings can be the norm here. But Jack was particularly awkward. There was almost a feral quality to him. He didn’t fit in with the other boys; they taunted him mercilessly. He was very small for his age, but he’d get into a scrape with any of them.”
Bishop Healy cleared his throat, as if it had just occurred to him that he was painting a needlessly unflattering picture of the orphans who had been entrusted to the church’s care.
“For all that, he was a smart boy. Would read anything he could get a hold of. Must have read the Bible a dozen times over, though if I had to guess, I’d say he’d heard not a single verse of it before he set foot in here.”
“He was here for about three years, wasn’t he?” Lean asked.
The bishop squinted as if he were actually attempting to peer into the distant past. “Not that long. There was another incident. Jack’s presence became … a problem.”
“What happened?” asked Grey.
“To be quite honest, I don’t remember all the details now. Trying to steal something, perhaps. It was a very sensitive matter, because he’d gotten another boy involved. Son of a well-respected family. Quite an uproar—corrupting influence and all that. Jack was relocated over to the state reform school. We thought the change might be best for him.”
“Sounds like it was good for the other boys as well,” Grey said.
Bishop Healy allowed himself a bit of a smile. “True enough, but Jack took it hard.”
“What about speaking?” Grey asked. “Can you describe for us his stammer or his struggles with speech?”
“Not sure I follow you. A quiet boy, all right. But I don’t recall he had any physical difficulties with speaking.”
“He was a dark-haired boy, correct?” Grey said.
“No. Light-haired. Quite pale, actually. You could almost see right through him. Had that sort of air about him, just not very remarkable.”
Lean sank back into his chair. He had been thinking the same thing as Grey. Jack Whitten sounded very much like the sort of person they were looking for. He’d been an angry boy, ill used by society, with a vengeful streak. There was a strong familiarity with the Bible, though coupled with an apparent hostility toward Christian institutions. But all that was tossed aside now.
“And he never spoke of his family?” Grey asked.
“Not to me, but then I never had much of a connection to the boy. The man you really should have talked to was Father Coyne. He was active with the orphanage in those days. Took Jack under his wing. Until the boy was sent off, that is.”
“‘Should have talked to’? Has he passed on?” Grey asked.
“No, just on sabbatical. His hea
lth has taken a rather serious downturn recently. A shame, really. I mean, he’s still rather a young man, all in all.”
“Could we speak with Father Coyne?” Lean asked.
“I’m afraid not. He’s not accepting visitors. Doctor’s orders.”
“What, may I ask, is wrong with him?” Grey inquired.
“Nobody knows, though he never had the strongest constitution to begin with. Then, about six months ago, he began complaining of body aches, cramps, and then his eyesight began to fail.”
“What do the doctors say?” Grey asked.
“They’re baffled. They thought he’d recover quickly at first. But he didn’t. He saw specialists and tried all sorts of remedies. Some, to be honest, seemed to be little more than doses of hoping for the best. Fortunately, we’re long on faith here.”
“Nothing helped?”
Bishop Healy shook his head. “The final opinion was that the best thing for him was total rest. He’s retreated to the Stroudwater area. His family had a little cottage out that way.”
“No visitors at all?” Grey asked.
“Not even myself. Though he’s got Peter Chapman with him.”
Lean started to ask the question, but the bishop quickly added, “Just a man who used to do odd jobs around here. Now he helps with Father Coyne’s daily tasks. But apart from Peter, he lives in complete solitude. Good for the soul and hopefully the body as well. He does write when he can, and occasionally he reports days of feeling better, but it never lasts.” Bishop Healy opened a desk drawer, rummaged a bit, and pulled out an envelope. “Received this just the other day. You can see by the address that his hand is weak.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lean said. “But are you quite sure there’s no way we could speak to him, even briefly?”
“I don’t think it’s advisable to disturb the poor man just to ask about a boy from two decades ago. Is there something particular you would wish to speak with Father Coyne about? Maybe it’s something I could answer for you.”
The Salem Witch Society Page 30
