The Salem Witch Society (43 page)

The silence that followed was interrupted by the sound of an arrival in the front hall. Seconds later Helen rushed into the room, dropped her handbag on the table, and let out a sigh.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Dr. Steig leaned forward at his desk, studying his niece intently. “You look rather fatigued.”

“Well, I did receive a surprisingly early note this morning requesting some immediate research.” Helen shot an accusing glance at Grey.

“I do apologize. Though I should hope if my life ever depended on it, you wouldn’t mind losing a few hours of sleep.”

“We’ll see,” mumbled Helen. Then, in a stronger voice, she stated, “Here’s what I found. Information on the actual Salem executions. So will he strike next in Salem? What does the next page say?”

“It provides the three crucial pieces of information we were lacking,” Grey said.

Lean handed Helen the copy and let her digest it.

“It’s the end of his journey,” Dr. Steig said. “The final killing will be where the master died and his blood was shed.”

“Well, that’s easy enough,
then,” Helen said. “George Burroughs died in Salem, at Gallows Hill. Though, technically speaking, his blood wasn’t shed; he was hanged.”

“Fire is noted as the method in the riddle. And blood is the only thing mentioned for the part of the body. So presumably there will be wounds inflicted and the body burned,” Lean said.

“Stands to reason.” Grey nodded his agreement. “If the worst comes to pass and we can’t intercept the killer before the act, at least the fire will reveal his exact location.”

“We mustn’t let it come to that. Location and method.” Lean held up two fingers. “You said there were three bits of information to consider.”

“The date.”

“Date? The twenty-second, of course. The new moon.” Lean could feel himself frowning. It had to be the new moon. “The last paragraph mentions no light other than the fire. It will be complete darkness out. He started on the full moon, he’ll end on the new. What else could it be?”

“Look closely at the text. ‘In the fourth month … where on the day the Master died.’ The wording’s awkward, yet the reference is clear. The date of import is that of his actual death.”

Helen was working her fingers together, over and over. “The opening of the Black Book does emphasize the hundred-year cycle of the master’s death.” Her eyes shot back and forth between Lean and Grey. “And Burroughs was hanged tomorrow, August nineteenth.”

“I don’t know, Grey. You said yourself the wording is odd. How can you be sure?”

“I’m not. But we can’t afford to take a risk. If I’m wrong, then we’ve merely wasted a night. We’ll still have another chance on the new moon, three days later.” Grey dug in his pocket and took out a small sheet of paper. “And there’s something else.”

Lean recognized it as a telegram, and a stone settled into his gut. “McCutcheon?”

Grey nodded. “He went to check in on Geoffrey Blanchard at the lunatic hospital the day before last but was told the man was unavailable. He went back yesterday
and again this morning and was turned away each time in no uncertain terms.”

Lean tapped his knuckles on the desk. Either something was wrong with Blanchard or he’d escaped or bought his way out again. “If Blanchard managed to leave the asylum at least two days ago and hasn’t returned yet,” Lean said, “then he’s had plenty of time.”

Grey nodded his agreement. “Enough to find his victim and arrange the details of his final sacrifice.”

“They’ve been women so far, but we never ruled out that Blanchard may still be fixed on revenge. Old Stitch and now, maybe, her son,” Lean said.

“Father Coyne is willing to meet with us this afternoon. There’s still hope that we can locate Jack Whitten if, indeed, he is the intended victim.”

F
ather Coyne’s retreat was a simple clapboard structure, little more than a summer cottage, overlooking a small cove on the Stroud-water River. Grey knocked several times until the door cracked open. Above the chain lock, Lean saw a pair of squinting eyes set in a pale, homely face topped by close-cropped dirty-blond hair.

“What?”

“You must be Peter Chapman,” Lean said.

“And you must be a bloody genius,” answered the man.

“Deputy Lean, actually. This is Mr. Grey.”

“And?”

“I believe that Father Coyne’s expecting us.”

The man grumbled something unintelligible and closed the door.

“Did I insult the man’s mother?” Lean asked.

“Someone ought to. Did you notice the way his forehead—”

The door opened again, and Peter Chapman set himself in the doorway. He was small
but scrappy-looking and doing his best to show the unwelcome guests he meant business. He spoke in a sort of shouted whisper, trying to intimidate without causing a ruckus.

“He ain’t well, y’know. So I won’t stand for no funny business. No getting him riled. And ya can’t stay long.”

The whole debate on Lombroso’s theories of criminal anthropology aside, Lean couldn’t shake the impression that the little troll of a man simply had a miscreant’s face. Lean was sure if he dug, he’d find a history of arrests for petty crimes. But, apparently, he was one of the reformed. Sometimes even a lifer managed to find true religion. Kept his thief’s sense of fellowship and loyalty but traded in his little gang for a great big one. It didn’t always hold, but at least Peter Chapman seemed sincere in his concern over Father Coyne.

They followed the scrawny man through the kitchen and into the den. The drawn curtains allowed only a sliver of light. Despite its being a warm day, there was a fire in the small woodstove. Father Coyne sat nearby with his eyes closed and his feet up on a stool. A small table, holding a closed book and a magnifying glass, straddled his outstretched legs, which were covered by a tartan throw. He wore a house robe drawn tight. His head was wrapped in white fabric rolled round and round the crown and held on with a few loops under his chin, leaving the area from forehead to bottom lip revealed. If the priest weren’t so pale, Lean thought he might have passed as some type of Bedouin trader suffering a massive toothache. The floor creaked with their approach, and Father Coyne’s eyes popped open.

“Father Coyne?”

“Yes, gentlemen, come in, come in.” His raspy voice hinted at a pleasant disposition. “Forgive me if I don’t rise. Peter, some chairs, please.”

The priest’s assistant brought two straight-back chairs from the kitchen.

“I have Bishop Healy’s letter”—Father Coyne looked under his book—“somewhere.”

“Yes, thank you for having us,” Lean said. “We understand it’s a difficult time.”

“All this”—the priest gave a small
wave around the room—“is doctor’s orders. Seem to think they can steam it out of me. Once a day with the heat, they say. Wrapped up like some dead Egyptian pharaoh.” He paused frequently to draw breath. He sounded as if he was unable to fill his lungs. “Sweating is supposed to have a recuperative effect, invigorate the blood or some such. But enough of my troubles. You’ve come about Jack Whitten. What’s he doing these days?”

“We were hoping you might be able to tell us,” Lean said.

“Afraid not. We haven’t spoken in many years. I tried, but …”

“I understand there was some sort of falling-out, an incident where he stole something,” Grey said.

“He never stole anything. I’m not sure what there would have been to steal in the church library.” Father Coyne barked out a sharp cough. “Only a bunch of old records. Nothing worthwhile.”

“Then what was the problem?” Lean asked.

“Oh, there was another boy involved.” The priest wiped spittle from his lips with a well-used handkerchief. “Just boys being boys, really. But this other family blamed Jack for everything. He’d misled their son and all that.” He paused for another harsh cough. “Demanded we send him to the reform school.”

“And you did?”

Father Coyne nodded. “I should have pressed harder for him to stay.” The rasping sound of his breathing became more noticeable. “But I was new then. It wasn’t my decision. Still … he never forgave me his being sent away.” His throat erupted with a coughing fit. Peter came bustling into the room with a glass of water, then glared at the detectives on his way out. “I think I was the first adult he’d ever really trusted. If I’d had more time, maybe I could have reached that boy. A failure … on my part. There was good in him.”

Another coughing spell shook the priest’s body, and Lean moved forward to retrieve the man’s glass of water for him.

“And you never heard from him again.”

Father Coyne shook his head. “Just slipped away. For a while after, my guilty conscience would make me think I’d caught a glimpse of him here or there on the streets. Don’t know what ever became of him.”

“And the other
boy,” Grey said, “do you recall his name?”

“I don’t think it’s my place to discredit the boy or his family now.”

“Just someone from the congregation. I see.”

“Actually, it was during a unified event. Groups from several churches coming together across the city, some gathering related to the liquor laws. A parade and speeches, lots of fanfare.”

Lean’s stomach did a quick somersault. Maybe eighteen or so years ago, a teenage Jack Whitten got into trouble with a boy from a well-to-do family during a temperance meeting. Colonel Blanchard’s son would be the right age. With young Blanchard acting out over the loss of his mother, the colonel would certainly be apt to cast blame for misbehavior elsewhere; lowly Jack Whitten would be an inviting scapegoat.

Father Coyne launched into another series of convulsing coughs. When the priest set his handkerchief down, Lean noticed that it was spotted with blood. “We should let you rest, Father.”

Grey drew a notebook from his pocket. “Father, if you wouldn’t mind just a few more questions.”

Lean didn’t think the priest looked enthused, but he nodded. “Of course, if I can help.”

“We have a bit of a riddle on our hands. It may sound odd, but your being a priest, and an expert on martyrs and the like, I was wondering if you might have some insight.”

“My eyes are not what they used to be.”

“Let me read for you.” Grey took out his notes and read the first paragraph from the riddle. Father Coyne could only shake his head and profess his ignorance.

Grey continued. “‘In the second month of my travels, I came to Constantinople, where the Master first took life and did there himself accept the Lord of the Air. There still clearly did I see the man who was nomine tenus the greatest among men. He bade me record my sins, and ask forgiveness. But I would not, and so the second offering was taken from him. On that very ground, the libation was poured to the Master.’”

“Nomine tenus,”
Father Coyne
repeated. “Latin, meaning ‘to hold the name of the greatest among men.’ That name could be Maximus.”

“And is there a Catholic saint, a martyr, by that name?” Grey asked.

“Yes. What was the part about his sins?”

“‘He made me record my sins, and ask forgiveness.’”

“It could be St. Maximus of Constantinople.” Father Coyne struggled to clear his throat. “When he was martyred, his hand was cut off and his tongue removed so he could no longer write or speak. What a strange riddle. Wherever did you hear that?”

Lean caught Grey’s glance and knew he was thinking the same thing: Maggie Keene’s severed hand and her missing tongue. “Just some old book we’ve come across,” Grey said before reading the third paragraph. “‘In the third month of my travels, I came to Tridentum, where the Master’s powers were beheld, the skies were made to tremble, and the Master compelled the hosts of the air. There in the half-light did I see the child Zealot at the home of the Wanderers. He begged me to save him, but I would not. So the third offering was taken from him. There the Master put the cup to his lips.’”

“We took the reference to the Wanderers to mean the Jews, perhaps,” Lean said. “But I’ve never heard of Tridentum. And a child Zealot?”

“The Zealot is usually a reference to the disciple Simon,” said the priest, “but he obviously wasn’t a child. A child named Simon, at the home of the Jews?”

“Does that have meaning, Father?” Lean asked.

“Simon of Trent, perhaps. Trent could be some sort of derivation from Tridentum.”

“And how did Simon of Trent die?” Grey asked.

“It’s now known to be untrue, of course. But some ideas just refuse to die. Simon was supposedly murdered by the Jews in the Italian city of Trent.” Father Coyne paused and pressed his handkerchief to his mouth for a cough that didn’t come. “It was a persistent myth that the Jews used the blood of Christian children in their rituals. Utterly false, of course, but ignorance and prejudice can be very persistent.”

“So they drew his
blood?” Lean asked.

“Drained it from his little body. As the story goes.”

Father Coyne suffered through another coughing spasm, and Lean grew uncomfortable with their prolonged questioning of the man. He tried to get Grey’s attention.

“Just one more, Father. ‘In the fourth month and the last of my travels, I came to Smyrna and the end of my journey, where on the day the Master died, his blood flowed. There, by the light of the firebrand, I could see the father who would not burn. He asked me would I quench the flames, and with blood I did. There the fourth, there the last offering taken. There was the cup finally emptied, and there was the vessel held ready for the Master once more.’”

Father Coyne nodded. “Smyrna’s famous martyr was St. Polycarp. In the first century, his tormentors tried to execute him by stabbing, but he would not die. So he was bound in the center of a pyre and set aflame. He died, but not before a dove issued from his wound along with a quantity of blood enough to quench the flames.”

“Odd,” Grey said. “I’d have thought having a live bird inside his body would have been enough to kill him.”

Father Coyne gave a puzzled look, then chuckled, and that devolved into another hacking cough. This time his manservant came close to blunt force as he ushered Lean and Grey through the kitchen and out the front door.

As they stepped onto the porch, Lean said, “Please tell Father Coyne we’re grateful—”