The Salem Witch Society (31 page)

“Grey!” He glanced into the tomb and saw Grey examining Lizzie Madson’s fingernails.

There was another bark. Lean was sure it was close enough that the hound had to be within the cemetery. He hurried back to the coffin.

“Shutter the lamp. Someone’s out there in the light—watching us.”

Grey was peering at some smudges on the fingertips of his gloves. He glanced up at Lean’s news, weighed it for a moment, then frowned. “Are you sure?”

“No. But in either case, we’ve lingered too long.”

Grey wrapped the sheet over her again, and the two men hefted her up at either end. Once outside, Lean pushed on the tomb door a touch harder than he meant to. It closed like a cannon shot, reverberating against the cavernous walls of fog that surrounded them. A dog answered in
the distance, three angry barks echoing through the misty air of the burial ground.

“Damn!” Lean managed to get the key into the lock and secured the door.

“Over the hill.” Grey motioned up the rise at the back of the row of tombs. “If there’s a night watchman with that dog, he’ll be coming from the gate.”

With the wrapped body of Lizzie Madson stretched out between them, the detectives struggled up to the top of the rise that encased the tombs, then fought their way through a stretch of gnarled, scraggly brush. Several more angry barks sounded out behind them. They rushed across the open ground to where the black wrought-iron fence separated the cemetery from the rear of several houses lining Bowdoin Street. Lean saw no one in the backyards or on the street beyond, which was unlit and scarcely populated.

“Heave her over,” Lean said.

Grey shook his head. “Leave her here. The watchman will find her in the next few minutes and save us the problem of reporting the body.”

Lean was unsure of the plan, but Grey had already dropped his end of the winding sheet and was in the process of rolling the corpse out onto the ground. Grey then bundled up the shroud to take with him. Both men took hold between the metal spikes that decorated the top of the fence and heaved themselves over.

Once they were past the houses and out to the street, the only thing visible nearby was Bramhall, the sprawling mansion built by the sugar magnate John Brown. The grand edifice was lit up like a fairground, sitting alone in the midst of sweeping lawns that were roughly the size of the entire Western Cemetery. They continued to where Bowdoin Street crossed Vaughan and turned right, heading back toward the front gate.

“She was right up ahead,” Lean said. He saw Grey’s dubious look and added, “The woman that I saw looking down toward us.”

“It was a woman?”

Lean nodded. “Yes, a woman in a long white dress. Right under this lamp. She was staring right toward me.”

Grey stopped
near the stone archway of the entrance and regarded Lean. “And this mystery woman, in the long white dress, just vanished into the mist. You saw her right after we had discovered the body of our murdered woman, also wearing a long white dress.”

“I know what I saw.”

“I have no doubt that you are sure of that.”

A low growl rose through the fog. It was coming from inside the cemetery. Lean peered toward the fence but could see nothing. They crossed the street and walked along. Rasmus would be waiting for them two blocks ahead. Lean looked back toward the cemetery and squinted, making out a low, black form prowling back and forth inside the fence. A high whistle sounded in the distance, and the shape disappeared back into the darkness and fog.

Once they reached the carriage, Rasmus Hansen flicked his switch and the cab started forward, clattering over the pavement stones. The sound was lonely and angry among the quiet streets of the West End.

L
izzie Madson’s body lay upon the examination table in the morgue. Dr. Steig used a thin metal probe to indicate the wound in the underarm. “Obviously, the puncture to the subclavian is what killed her. It wasn’t a surgically precise wound. I’d guess the killer knew enough anatomy to accomplish his task, but he’s not highly skilled. The wound’s somewhat ragged, and that’s what your colleague, Deputy LeGage, seized on.”

“He’s definitely calling it accidental?” Grey asked.

Lean nodded. “He’s chalking it up to the woman’s being drunk and foolishly trying to climb over the spiked fence. She slipped and suffered the wound on one of the sharp iron tops. Bled to death there, just inside the cemetery grounds.”

“He’s not troubled by the total absence of blood at the scene?”

Lean shook
his head. “He’s not the type to let the smaller details worry him. Rain washed away the blood.”

“We haven’t had the kind of prolonged torrent that would be required to rinse all visible traces of blood from her white dress after so violent an end.”

“True enough,” Lean said, “but he has his explanation and considers the case solved. Doctor, I saw you checking her fingernails. Did she scratch him?”

“No flesh under her fingernails,” Dr. Steig said. “Some plaster, actually.”

Grey peered at the right hand. “She was likely attacked indoors and didn’t have a chance to fight him off.”

Dr. Steig nodded. “There’s a clean slit on one fingertip. Enough to bleed, but not at all serious. Otherwise, only some mild premortem bruising to the face and on her right wrist.”

Lean said, “He could have taken her by surprise.”

“Perhaps,” Grey replied.

“Or do you wager she knew the man, trusted him?” Lean said.

“I won’t wager.”

Lean waited for him to elaborate, but Grey showed no signs of cooperating.

“Because it’s a sin?” Lean ventured with a smirk.

“In the intellectual sense anyway. Guessing or gambling is the last resort of the desperate and the foolish. Why trust blindly to chance when a valid solution is perfectly discernible?” Grey drummed his fingers on the examination table. “We just need to know more about this woman. And, more important, who her associates were.”

“Once news of the body reaches the papers, someone will come forward,” Lean said. “Then I can charge Marsh and his cronies.”

“I don’t think that’s a realistic option,” Grey said.

“He meddled with a murder investigation and disturbed that poor woman’s body.”

“How would you ever explain everything? Due to your secret knowledge of other unreported murders, you had reason to suspect that a new
murder victim had appeared behind Marsh’s property. Two of his society members, rather than calling the police, had covertly moved the body to Marsh’s tomb. And you knew this because you employed a pickpocket to steal the key ring from the superintendent of burials. Then you broke into a city office to get the tomb keys so you could illegally enter a family’s burial tomb to discover a mutilated body.”

Frustration began to mount in Lean as Grey continued.

“And when you somehow manage to convince Mayor Ingraham not to fire you, then what? There’s no evidence that Marsh was involved in the actual murder, only that his people moved an already dead body and interred it illegally. A crime, certainly, but no worse than our own actions.”

“So we do nothing about victim three,” Lean said.

“On the contrary, we do everything we can about her. Same as the first two. We find our man and stop the next one.”

“That plan hasn’t worked so well yet.” Lean knew that it made sense, but knowing it did little to take the sting out of the situation. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut, then told he couldn’t hit back.

“No, it hasn’t.”

They all turned at the voice and saw Mayor Ingraham standing in the doorway.

“I suspected I might find the two of you here. I’m not a fool, Deputy. A dead woman just outside the tombs you wanted to open. And now I have your confession. It’s enough to discharge you”—the mayor pointed an accusing finger—“and see the both of you before a judge.”

“Where I, for one, will gladly testify as to what we found in the Marsh tomb,” Grey said. “Exactly what your deputy told you we would find. A murdered woman, whom you refused to search for, out of fear of outraging the city’s most prominent families. I’ll also mention this is the work of the same man who killed Maggie Keene. A man whose description we’ve had for over a month, resulting from an investigation which you demanded we keep secret from the public—out of fear of causing a panic, and being ridiculed for involving an Indian in the matter.”

“You’re twisting the facts!”

“Not nearly
as much as the papers will,” Grey countered, “once they get a whiff of you placing your political standing ahead of finding a murderer who is stalking Portland’s streets.”

“There’s no firm proof of any of that,” Mayor Ingraham said.

Lean took a step forward, his palms out, pleading for reasonable minds to agree. “But you’ve heard what we found. You know we’re right about this.”

“I know no such thing.”

“You know the man who came to your door and left that tongue is still out there.” Lean said with quiet urgency. “Ready to kill again if he’s not found.”

The fervent look on Ingraham’s face wavered for the first time since entering the morgue.

Dr. Steig set down his probe and approached the mayor. “You risk a debacle if he strikes again and the truth comes out. What will you lose by letting the investigation continue?”

“If they’re wrong, and it gets out that I was complicit in all this—searching citizens’ bank records, defiling tombs—I’ll be finished.”

“You needn’t be complicit,” Lean said. “This doesn’t have to be an official investigation. Just let us proceed without interference.”

“And if you fail—and this becomes public?” A look of desperation entered the mayor’s eyes. “I’ll need your solemn word that neither of you will ever bring my name into this.”

“Done.”

“Agreed,” Grey said.

The mayor’s doubt was still clear upon his face. He looked to Dr. Steig, who nodded.

“There’s no other choice. Lives are at stake.”

The mayor nodded back. As he turned to exit the morgue, Mayor Ingraham’s hand gripped the door frame. “Good luck, gentlemen.”

It seemed that he wanted to say something more, but those words had ended his involvement. The mayor was left with nothing else but to hurry away down the hall.

“I almost feel sorry for him,” Dr. Steig said. “If we make him reverse course on this investigation one more time, he might keel over.”

“He’s a
politician,” Grey said with a wave of his hand, “he’ll be just fine.”

“So where does that leave us?” Lean asked.

“There’s some connection between the killer, the victim, and Jotham Marsh. I’ll make inquiries. See what I can find out about this Lizzie Madson,” Grey said. “If you can spare time from your regular duties, it may still be worthwhile looking into the circumstances of the fire at Old Stitch’s. Something about that story still intrigues me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Lean looked out the window. Disappointment settled onto him. They had just discovered the third victim, yet all it seemed to gain them were more random threads in this jumbled web of murder, witches, Indians, and black magic. “But first I’m going to have a word with Marsh. No matter what I can or can’t prove.”

Lean and Grey stood in the long entry hall to Jotham Marsh’s Thaumaturgic Society. The interior door opened, and Marsh appeared, accompanied by a younger man with dark, slicked hair and a fine worsted sack suit.

“Gentlemen, I am in rather a hurry. Is there something important enough to demand immediate attention?”

“How about the dead body of Lizzie Madson? She was found murdered inside the Western Cemetery fence last night. It appears from new information that it was Lizzie Madson who was seen leaving these premises several nights ago.”

“Well, that is something. Of course, I’ve heard otherwise—that the police are treating this as an unfortunate injury, not a murder.”

Lean frowned at how quickly Marsh had come by that information. “In any event, she was here that night, and I want to know everything about it.”

“Do you know anything about this, Jerome?” Marsh asked.

The younger man nodded toward Marsh with a hungry, almost desperate look in his eyes. “There must be a misunderstanding. Lizzie was not here that night. I was in the cab that left here. We were only escorting
another young lady who’d had too much to drink. Certainly no crime in that.”

“Your neighbor and the carriage driver will be able to confirm that the woman they saw that evening was Lizzie.”

“What about it, Jerome?” Marsh said.

“Oh, that ’s right, it was Lizzie in the cab that night.” The man’s mouth formed contemptuous shapes when he talked. “We got as far as Spring Street. She was going to stay with some friends there. But she became most agitated and refused any further assistance. Ordered us off in no uncertain words, and we left. She must have suffered her accident shortly thereafter.”

“There wasn’t enough blood on the ground thereabouts. There was no accident at that location. Lizzie Madson had already bled to death before arriving at the cemetery.”

“If that was proved true, I’m utterly puzzled how it could be,” Marsh said.

“Oh, that’s right,” Jerome said in a matter-of-fact tone, not caring whether he was believed. “Forgive me, so absentminded. I found her dead in the backyard. No idea how she got there. In any event, I simply panicked. I didn’t want the society to be associated with such an ugly tragedy. So I moved her to the cemetery. It seemed for the best—so she could be found by the right people and given a proper burial.”

“Well, there you have it, gentlemen. No matter what peculiar ideas you may have in mind about Lizzie Madson—who she was, how she may have died, where she was found, lying on the ground by the cemetery fence, you say. All certainly peculiar. But she was a troubled young woman, with no current connection to this society. And even if she was here that night, you said yourself that she’d already met her tragic end. My associate would be found guilty of nothing more than a youthful indiscretion, occasioned by his utter dismay at discovering a dead body.”

Lean stared hard at Marsh. “You know what really happened to Lizzie Madson.”

“The first I’ve heard of it, and I can’t imagine how you would ever establish
otherwise.” Marsh gave them a smile. “I believe there’s nothing more to discuss, gentlemen. Jerome will show you out.”