The Salem Witch Society (41 page)

“Ah!” Meserve’s normally molelike eyes grew wide behind his thick lenses. “That brings me to my most important question for you. Where exactly did you find this page?”

“Within the city,” Grey said.

Meserve’s hands fidgeted like those of a child ready to claw open a birthday gift.

“Good news?” Lean asked.

“It squares with another theory of mine, regarding the possible location of a copy of the Black Book.”

“Let’s have it, then.” Lean took a deep drag on his cigarette.

“Bear with me. Hundreds of hours of research over the last five years deserve more than just blurting out my suspicions.”

Lean started to protest but felt Grey’s hand on his arm. He shut his mouth and resigned himself to being regaled with the odd little historian’s tale.

“Several years ago I came into possession of a rather unique collection of papers. Letters, diary entries, and whatnot that essentially chronicle the life of one of the earliest settlers in this area, Caleb Pierce. He was a servant to Mr. Henry Jocelyn, the proprietor of Black Point, now Prout’s Neck in Scarborough. Anyway, the papers recount the fascinating life of this young man who soldiered his way through forty-odd years of Indian wars here in Maine, starting with King Philip’s War in 1675. I plan to edit and compile the history for publication.”

Lean raised a finger, but Meserve cut off his protest. “Anyway, what starts to bring this all around to the business at hand are a few odd remarks
and notations by Caleb Pierce that relate directly to the Salem witch trials. You see, one of his compatriots here during King Philip’s War was none other than the Reverend George Burroughs.”

Lean and Grey each exchanged a quick look with Helen, who gave a conspiratorial smile.

Meserve paused, apparently expecting something more like a gasp of recognition, then continued, “As you know, Burroughs was one of the nineteen victims hanged as witches. In fact, he was alleged to have been the ringmaster of the whole devilish conspiracy. Both before and after his time in Salem, he held posts as a minister in Maine. He was in Portland, or Casco, at the time war first broke out with the Indians. His life was at risk several times, but he always came through unscathed.”

“That was part of the evidence against him at his later trial—how he was able to survive the wars, often absenting himself just prior to the calamities that befell the colonists,” Helen said.

Meserve plucked up a paper and held it close to his face. “This is a letter from Caleb Pierce to Mr. Jocelyn, dated August thirteenth, 1676. The town of Casco had just been decimated by a surprise Indian attack. Many of the colonists were killed or captured. Pierce was with a group that escaped to one of the islands in the bay.” Meserve adjusted his glasses and squinted as he focused on the page in his hands.

Meserve set the paper down and looked over the top of his spectacles. “It goes on, but the part I read shows that Burroughs and Pierce were comrades-in-arms. Men who had placed their lives in each other’s hands. Thus, when the witchcraft panic spread sixteen years later and Burroughs’s life was threatened again, this time by his fellow English, it is perfectly reasonable that he turns once more to Pierce. This next bit is dated just a week before Burroughs was arrested for witchcraft.” Meserve set the letter down, took up a new page, and once again adjusted his spectacles.

“‘G.B. came visiting to Black Point in a state of great distress. He delivered to me a parcel and bade me swear a great oath that I would neither destroy nor ever open it. He stated only that it had come to him under strange circumstances and there were those who would see him brought to harm by it. To reveal it could be to forfeit his life and possibly my own.’

“This next entry, by its substance, we can place in late August 1692. Pierce writes, ‘G.B. hanged this week past. I returned home directly and, with only my own life to risk, did break my oath and open his parcel. It is a book of foul magick. May the Good Lord forgive me that I ever held in mine own hand such a thing as this.’”

Meserve’s face had taken on a pinkish tinge, his growing excitement very much in evidence as he continued to read from a new page. “‘I brought the book to Rev. T. today. He had scarce lifted the cover before I heard him gasp most terribly, exclaiming that it be the Devil’s own. I denied all, daring not speak the truth, saying only it was left that day by a stranger at the tavern. I read the first page and knew it spoke of evil things and so brought it here. Rev. T. bade me never to speak of this. That oath I gladly swore, much relieved to be free of that cursed volume.’”

Meserve set the pages
down. “The Reverend T. refers to a Thomas, who was here in Portland in the early 1700s. I was able to track his descendants as far as 1840. If the Black Book stayed in the hands of the Thomas family, we can trace it as far as fifty years ago, with every reason to believe it has remained in the vicinity.”

Lean stared at Meserve for a minute, waiting for the payoff. “That’s an awfully long stroll of the tongue for you to tell us you don’t know where it is.”

“O ye of little faith. In the course of my research, I raised some eyebrows. Because the same questions had been asked twenty years ago, by some learned-looking fellows who claimed to be private collectors but were rumored to actually be from Harvard’s Divinity School. And it was said that somewhere in this city they eventually got a copy of what they were looking for.”

Lean glanced at Grey and saw a satisfied smirk appear on his face.

“Of course,” Meserve continued, “when I took the train down to Cambridge to see about the truth of that, they wouldn’t give me the time of day. Acted like they were surprised we even had books in Maine, let alone one they’d be interested in copying.”

Grey still look pleased. “Perhaps we might have better luck.”

“If you do manage to get a copy …”

“Agreed, Meserve. One good turn and all that.”

There were many thanks offered, and then Grey invited Helen to step outside with him and Lean. Once on the street, free of the cloistering effect of the research room, with its imposing mounds of clutter and books, Lean took several deep breaths of fresh air. “I didn’t think the idea of Harvard Divinity School would bring such a smile to your face.”

“I was involved in a small matter at the university library a few years ago,” Grey said.

“I suppose certain unpleasant revelations came to light,” Helen said.

“They always do.”

“Are you still welcome on the grounds?” Lean asked.

“I do have one contact at Harvard who owes me a rather large favor.
Unfortunately, my presence might cause him some embarrassment.”

“Would a police deputy be better?” Lean asked.

Grey considered the options for a moment. “A historical researcher might be best. Perhaps one accompanied by her distinguished uncle.”

F
ollowing an early train departure the next day, Helen and Dr. Steig were greeted by Newell Scribner, a Harvard professor and a scarecrow of a man. His large head was propped up on a thin neck and looked as if it might tumble aside and crash into a shoulder at any moment. He held a chair out for Helen and then gestured toward Dr. Steig to take the only other seat at the table. They were in a small, private study room away from the library’s public areas. The leaded windows set into the plain white walls provided ample light.

“I know that the sensitive nature of this volume has been explained, but I simply must reiterate: We were allowed to make a copy only under the strictest confidence and a personal vow of secrecy from the president of our divinity school that the book would be made available to a select few scholars. As far as the general public is concerned, Harvard University does not possess a copy of this book.”

“We understand,” Dr. Steig assured him.

“So why isn’t it housed at the divinity school’s library?” Helen asked.

“They haven’t the necessary security. Would you believe that it wasn’t even fireproofed until the new building was completed five years ago? Besides which, the students practically run that place, and for them there’s just the one Good Book. Apparently, every other text is free to be handled like penny serials. Here we can ensure the proper discretion and care of delicate volumes.”

“In any event, we do certainly appreciate your assistance,” Dr. Steig said.

“Only the fact of a certain prior
service to the university by Mr. Grey—as well as your own professional reputation, Doctor—has persuaded the director to allow you this opportunity.” Scribner held out his hand palm up, looking as if he expected a gratuity. “I hope you understand that I must ask you to relinquish any pencils, papers, or other writing implements.”

“We understood the terms, Mr. Scribner. Neither of us has brought any such items.”

“Splendid. Well then, just one moment.” He passed out through a narrow door set inconspicuously in one corner of the room. Helen heard a lock turn, and a minute later Newell Scribner returned with a dark, leather-bound book that he set on the table in front of them.

Helen stared at the volume, surprised by how thin it appeared. “It seems so slight. I guess with all the talk it had taken on more substance in my imagination.”

“Yes, a mere eighty-seven pages. The transcription remained true to the exact pagination of the original. Though when you consider its age, and that it is essentially the travel diary of a raving lunatic, its brevity is not actually a surprise.”

“A travel diary? But I thought it was some sort of dark treatise on witchcraft,” Helen said.

“In parts, yes. Hence all the sensitivity. I must admit that this is not my area of expertise, and I have only briefly reviewed the text myself. But the bulk of the writing is, in my opinion, a rambling diatribe of nonsensical pagan claptrap. The author seems content to fill the pages with whatever random musings occur to him as he makes his way across the Holy Land in search of some mystical power.”

“If it’s all just a stack of foolishness, as you say, then I fail to see why such trouble has ever been taken over the tome.”

“Well, that I can answer for you, Doctor. Two very powerful factors have worked to preserve the book and impart a heightened sense of meaning to its existence. First, there’s a diabolical curse addressed to whoever would damage the book. And second, it’s said to contain the promise of accomplishing, albeit in the context of black magic, the return to the flesh of
the immortal soul.” Scribner smiled as he opened the book, adding, “And all that on page one.”

Helen began to read aloud, her voice instinctively quiet in the small chamber.

“Quite an opening,” Dr. Steig said.

“Most of what follows is less dramatic,” Scribner said. “Much in the way of geographical references, astrological notes, personal observations, mad rantings against those he claims are attempting to prevent his mission. It’s only later that the author actually provides examples of what some have interpreted as actual incantations and spells and whatnot. Some of them of the most sinister and godless nature. If you look further back—What … ?”

Scribner turned the pages, in disbelief at first, then faster, flipping through the book with far less care than he had previously displayed. Helen saw that the pages had been blotted out. It looked as if they had been soaked in water until the words had drained off the paper, leaving behind only mottled, discolored
blurs of ink. Scribner stopped at a spot where only the edges of the pages closest to the binding remained. These had been cleanly cut.

“Gone.” Scribner’s voice was barely audible, his thoughts stillborn, the words disappearing into the air.

“How … I mean, who could have done this?” Dr. Steig asked.

“Yes, who would have had access?” asked Helen.

“The registry.” Scribner dashed from the room.

Helen instantly produced a pencil stub and piece of notepaper from her handbag and began to transcribe the book’s opening statement.

“Helen?”

“It’s a clue,” she said, not looking up from the book. “Meserve said the riddle was added four hundred years after the original. The introduction mentions the time of the fourth cycle, and if the servant fails, the next is called for as the circle comes around again. Centuries. The sacrifices have to occur on a centennial of the death of this maser wizard. It’s been two hundred years since Burroughs died.”

“Well done, Helen. That’s wonderful.”

“Hurry, Uncle, before he gets back. Count off the pages—which ones were cut out?”