After a few seconds, Lean forced an awkward cough. Helen released her hold on Grey.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s just—”
“No need to apologize.” Grey gave her an appreciative smile. “It’s been a most trying night. But if we stay here much longer, we’re going to have to answer a lot of difficult questions.”
“What do we do with his body? We could call it a suicide,” Lean said.
Grey shook his head. “We’ll need a carriage or wagon.”
“I spotted one around the side,” Lean said. “I think it’s the one he used to bring Helen here.”
“Excellent. Help me get him loaded, then get Miss Prescott home. I’ll see to the body.”
77
Lean eyed the pair of gravediggers. They were a matched set: stout workmen with caps slanted to keep the sun off their faces and cigarettes dangling from the corners of slack jaws. Their frock coats would be set aside as soon as the last of the crowd dispersed, revealing soil-encrusted work clothes. Lean could see they were restless, eager to begin filling the hole before the late-August heat worsened. It was only eleven o’clock, but the sky was already developing a haze. It was the kind of day that begged for something other than a black suit, regardless of the occasion. While many of the mourners had shed genuine tears, Lean had noticed more than one who dabbed their eyes as an excuse to continuously wipe beads of sweat from their brows.
The last few tearful hugs were bestowed on Helen by some more distant relatives of Dr. Steig. The preacher had finished several minutes earlier, and most of the large crowd had already dissipated, moving up the slope toward the main gate of the Western Cemetery. A row of carriages, many lined with black crepe, waited there like so many hovering crows.
Emma turned to Lean. “Are you ready?”
“I’ll be right along.”
She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. Emma led Owen to where Helen and Delia stood, not far from the double plot where Dr. Steig, after more than a dozen years, would join his late wife. Emma exchanged hugs and quiet words with Helen. Her departure left a small company of five: those whose lives had been threatened by Jack Whitten and his unknown female devotee the night before last. Lean supposed that it was the shared horror, as well as the confused manner in which that night had ended, that now left them clustered beside Dr. Steig’s grave.
After Whitten’s death they had located that man’s cab and deposited the former owner’s body inside. Grey had taken the reins and disappeared into the night. Lean had managed to hail another cab and get Helen back to her house. Not much had been said on that ride, other than repeated assurances that Delia was fine and the ordeal was truly over. Upon arrival, they found Doran inside, standing guard over the girl. There hadn’t been much opportunity or need for further discussion after the reunion of mother and daughter.
Now Lean, Tom Doran, and Grey, with his left arm in a sling, stood a few steps removed and waited for Helen to ready herself. With her daughter by her side, Helen gave the men a wide smile, tears welling up in her eyes once more. “Gentlemen. Thank you for coming. Thank you for everything.” She reached out her hand. “I’m so grateful to you, Mr. Grey. And, Archie, thank you ever so much.”
“I only wish …” Lean glanced at the grave, where the diggers were getting ready.
“I know. But still, for my daughter. And for letting me keep a promise to her.”
Lean clasped her hand and gave her a smile, not needing to know exactly what she’d meant. Helen then took Doran’s massive hand in her own and looked up into the man’s eyes. He was clearly uncomfortable with the entire scene.
“Tom, I can’t thank you enough. If anything had ever happened to Delia …” Helen’s voice began to crack, and she stepped back.
Doran’s ruddy complexion darkened a shade or two as he stammered out some muddled acceptance of thanks while also trying to ask if she was all right and then throwing in his own expression of gratitude, just in case one was warranted. Doran was then mercifully rescued from his own verbal efforts by Delia Prescott, who bolted forward to bear-hug the man.
“Thank you, Mr. Dor—Can I call you Uncle Tom?”
“Hmm? Err, well, sure, I s’pose. I mean …”
Delia had already moved on to Lean. “Thank you, too. Can I call you Uncle Archie?”
“Course you can, dear.”
She gave Lean a wide grin, then turned to face Perceval Grey, who regarded the girl with an expression that landed somewhere between embarrassment and the surprise of seeing a knife pulled from a hidden pocket.
“And thank you as well … Mr. Grey.” She did a little curtsy.
Grey tipped his hat in appreciation of the girl’s choice to restrain her youthful enthusiasm.
Before heading up the slope to where Rasmus Hansen had already climbed back atop the doctor’s old carriage, Helen invited them all over to Dr. Steig’s house for refreshments with the family. Lean accepted, while Grey merely gave a vague nod and Doran begged off, muttering something about staying behind to make sure the grave men did their piece right.
After Helen took her leave, Lean and Grey strolled casually toward the gate. Grey seemed particularly hesitant to leave the cemetery, his eyes constantly searching along Vaughan Street, both sides of the entrance.
“You expecting someone?” Lean asked.
“Yes, actually.” Grey walked on, offering no further details.
“Speaking of missing people, we haven’t really talked. You never told me of the final resting place of Jack Whitten.”
“Here we are!” Grey’s eyes were fixed on a hackney that had just parked by the cemetery’s front gate.
Two men emerged and entered the cemetery. As they approached, Lean recognized them as Dr. Jotham Marsh and his lackey Jerome, the one who had visited this cemetery to deposit the body of Whitten’s third victim in the Marsh family tomb.
“Why, if it isn’t my favorite pair of bloodhounds: Lean and Grey. What a surprise to find you here,” said Marsh.
“I take it you haven’t come to pay final respects to Dr. Steig.”
“What? Oh, no. Unfortunate bit of news, that. No, I didn’t personally know the man. I understand he did some good work with troubled veterans and whatnot. But our professional interests didn’t overlap.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could have found some topic of shared interest,” Grey said. “After all, you study the arts of controlling those evil spirits that rage around us in the air unseen. Dr. Steig practiced in how to subdue those evil forces that rage inside us. In a sense, you were both fighting the same battle, only on different fields.”
“Well stated, Mr. Grey.” Marsh regarded Grey with a thin smile and a slight arch of one eyebrow. “Perhaps I’ve underestimated the depth of your understanding as to my work.”
Grey nodded, gave a smile rife with mock civility, and answered, “It’s certainly my pleasure to disabuse you of any misconceptions about the depths of my understanding.”
There was a moment of certain recognition between the two men, which Lean interrupted by asking, “If you didn’t come for Dr. Steig’s funeral, then what brings you down here?”
“Unfortunately, I received word from the groundskeeper that there’s been some attempted mischief at my family’s tomb. Someone tampering at the lock—vandals, robbers, kids on a dare. It happens every so often.”
Marsh started to turn and go on his way, but Grey called his attention back. “Dr. Marsh, do you know a man by the name of Whitten? An acquaintance of Lizzie Madson, I believe.”
“Whitten? Yes, I do recall the man, vaguely. Not a particularly memorable fellow.”
“He studied with you?” Grey said.
“Briefly. Why, is he in some sort of trouble?”
Grey gave a shrug. “According to some theories.”
Marsh’s face curled up in a crooked smile. He tipped his hat to both of them and said, “Gentlemen. Always a pleasure, but I do have business to attend to.
Good luck with that Whitten character.”
“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” called Grey as Marsh walked away.
“Some type of vandalism at his tomb.” Lean looked at Grey with an eyebrow arched. “You kept the tomb key.”
“Yes, but I had to make it obvious. Simply unlocking the door would not have gotten Dr. Marsh’s attention. He might never have received the message I left for him.”
“Which is what?” Lean imagined the body of Jack Whitten lying in the tomb. He wondered if the rope was still tangled about the man’s neck. “Besides the obvious, I mean.”
“That I’ve taken an interest in his activities.”
They passed out under the stone archway of the cemetery. “How much of a role do you think Jotham Marsh actually had in all this?”
“Based on what Whitten said at the observatory, I think Marsh played a part. He dirtied his hands in setting this dark ritual into motion. He doesn’t deserve to walk away entirely clean of all the tragic consequences.” Grey raised his arm to signal an approaching hackney cab.
“I’m not sure,” Lean said. “Granted, he’s a bit odd with all that occult gibberish, but to hear him tell it, he seems to mean well. Love and spiritual understanding and such.”
“What was it the old Puritan, Cotton Mather, said? Something about the devil’s never being more dangerous than when he transforms himself into an angel of light. Marsh’s ongoing activities bear watching.”
“But it’s almost September. You said you’d be heading back to Boston.”
“Did I?”
“You did,” Lean said. “Quite emphatically.”
“Funny, I don’t recall.” Grey cast a glance back over his shoulder, in the direction of the line of tombs. “In any event, I think Portland might hold my interest after all.”
They climbed into the carriage and settled themselves in the seats. As the driver started the horse forward, Lean let out a chuckle. “Well, your landlady, Mrs. Philbrick, will be quite thrilled to know you’re staying on indefinitely.”
“You know, I think there was actually a tear in her eye this morning when I informed her of my intentions.”
Acknowledgements
I‘d like to thank my early readers, Cathy Shields, Jacqueline Mora-bito, and Benson McGrath. They each provided opinions and support at a time when it was still a possibility that they would be the only three people to ever actually read this book.
My agents, Suzanne Gluck and Erin Malone, deserve a world of thanks not only for their guidance and insight along the way, but first for sharing my vision of what this book could be. Also at William Morris Endeavor, I’d like to thank Sarah Ceglarski and Tracy Fisher. My editor, Sean Desmond, helped shape the work with his perceptive ideas and keen eye. Thanks to Maureen Sugden as well as Rachelle Mandik at Crown Publishers, and Lynne Amft.
I wish to thank a number of authors who made my research so easy and enjoyable. First of all, Dr. Hans Gross’s seminal work System Der Kriminalistik inspired some of the procedures and ideas used by Perceval Grey (even though the English translation, Criminal Investigation, was not yet available in 1892). Lawrence Sutin’s A Life of Aleister Crowley inspired certain elements of Jotham Marsh’s character. Deborah Blum’s Ghost Hunters did the same for Amelia Porter.
I’ve quoted or paraphrased Charles Upham’s treatise on the Salem witch trials, as well as early documents from the likes of Cotton Mather and Robert Calef. I reviewed transcripts of the Salem trial records online at the University of Virginia’s Salem Witch Trial documentary archive. Although I was familiar with the historical links between Portland, George Burroughs, the Abenaki Indians, and the witch trials, Mary Beth Norton’s In the Devil’s Snare was a wonderful resource for examining those collective topics. My efforts at incorporating and translating phrases and prayers from the Abenaki language are the result of numerous online resources. I apologize for any inaccuracies or discrepancies that resulted.
Edward Elwell’s Portland and Vicinity, as well as various other publications by the Greater Portland Landmarks, Inc., proved invaluable in researching the city in the late nineteenth century. Similarly, volumes by David H. Fletcher on the Portland Company and John K. Moulton on the Portland Observatory were highly informative. Although I tried to accurately depict Portland, Maine, as it was in 1892, I did take liberties in other areas as warranted by the needs of the story. Any factual errors, intentional or otherwise, are mine alone.
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