The Salem Witch Society (44 page)
Read The Salem Witch Society Online
Authors: K. N. Shields
Tags: #Mystery, #Suspense, #Historical, #Fiction
“Go shit in your hat!” Peter Chapman slammed the door shut.
“Damned fool,” Grey said.
“Yes, well, he seems very protective of Father Coyne.”
“Not that strange creature. Me! And you, for that matter. We’ve had the key to these murders right in our hands. This riddle is a map to exactly how he’s committing the murders. Read the very first paragraph in light of what we now know. The event is a birth, a woman who would not bleed—she’s pregnant. The fullness of her offering is a child in the womb that’s taken from her. It’s a description of the mutilation of Hannah Easler.”
Anger flared up in Lean
at the image of that murder. He tried to funnel that emotion toward stopping this madman. “The final sacrifice. Where the master died and his blood flowed,” Lean said. “When do we leave for Salem?”
“Early tomorrow afternoon should give us enough time,” Grey said. “I’ll send word for McCutcheon to meet us.”
S
hortly after noon the following day, Lean slid, dodged, and pardoned himself down the narrow aisle, past a steady flow of train travelers surging forward in search of empty compartments with the zeal of overdue trout rushing upstream. He glanced back and caught sight of Perceval Grey’s dark hat jostling away in the opposite direction. Every passing man’s face became a target. He moved into the next car and was halfway through when the train whistle gave two long bursts. The conductor shouted out the final call for Portsmouth, continuing to Salem, Woburn, and Worcester. Ignoring the rest of the car’s inhabitants, Lean hurried forward to the next coupling. He grasped a hold bar and stuck his head out to get a good look at the platform and any last-second passengers hoping to slip aboard unnoticed. He was disappointed to see not a single soul dashing ahead through the steam as the train hissed and lurched, the wheels jerking to life with the first hints of forward motion.
A dozen people along the platform waved their last to passengers staring back through the small compartment windows. Lean’s eyes settled on a solitary form, his gaze arrested by the utter stillness of a man dressed in black propped against a support pole on the platform. The man carried a newspaper in one hand and, though his felt hat was pulled low, Lean met the man’s gaze for a brief moment. There was a flash of recognition before the man looked down, and his hands lifted the newspaper, obscuring his face.
The train began its slow rumble forward. Lean threw one last wild sweeping gaze up
and down the length of the platform before he returned to the man in the long black overcoat. The man never moved except to cast a brief glance after the departing train. Lean wasn’t sure, but he thought the man’s eyes had been directed at where he stood. After completing his survey of the back half of the train, Lean returned to their compartment to find Grey waiting.
“Nothing. You?” Grey asked.
Lean shook his head, then mentioned the possible exception of the man in the black coat.
“You can’t place him?” Grey asked.
“No, but I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere.”
“It will come to you. Just don’t be too disappointed if it’s a name remembered from some other case. No shortage of men about these days anxious to avoid the gaze of a police detective. The mind can wreak havoc on a pair of eyes that are desperately searching for something.”
“That may well be,” said Lean, “but still … something about that fellow.”
“I suspect our man is in Salem already. And even if that
was
him back on the platform, take heart. We now have the advantage of his not having made it aboard. He’d be severely hard-pressed to get there and make whatever arrangements are necessary if he now has to wait and take the 3:40. So perhaps your brief encounter has thrown our man off track for the night and saved a life.” Grey shrugged noncommittally and glanced out the window, looking skyward. “Barely a cloud to be seen. A fine day for traveling.”
Lean disagreed but said nothing as he unfolded his newspaper, eager to distract his thoughts. Their destination was hours away, and the mid-August sun beating down on the train’s dark rooftop would soon make their compartment unbearably stuffy. The small window could be opened, but if he forgot to close it at any stop, he’d be swatting flies for thirty minutes after.
Lean tried to focus on local stories about doings at City Hall or efforts to repair damage just up the coast caused by a serious storm the previous week. After a few
minutes, his natural instincts took over and he turned to the front-page article entitled
INQUEST BEGINS. JUDGE BLAIS-DELL HEARS EVIDENCE GATHERED IN THE BORDEN MURDER CASE.
Like seemingly everybody in the country with access to newspapers, Lean had been following the mystery of the Borden slayings with keen interest. In the immediate wake of the double homicide of a wealthy older couple in their home two weeks earlier, the brutal slayings had been assumed to be the work of a bloody madman. Now, as the facts slowly came out, the evidence seemed to be mounting against Lizzie, the thirty-two-year-old daughter of Mr. Borden.
“It certainly seems the daughter must be to blame for the murders,” Lean said, “but the sheer brutality of it … There were ill feelings between the daughters and the stepmother, but so many ax blows to the head … Then for a woman to wait another hour and repeat the deed, hacking away at her own father while he slept. It’s inconceivable.”
Grey glanced at the headline of Lean’s paper. “The alternatives are even more inconceivable. All the facts point solely at that daughter. Every aspect of her account of the events has been discredited or is on its face suspect. Yet I fear the shoddy police work and that same resistance you displayed to believing a woman capable of the act will serve to prevent a conviction. Practically the entire community had access to the scene after the murder, and the police wasted valuable time pursuing baseless rumors. If they had simply sealed the house that very morning and searched every room minutely, I’m sure they would have discovered the bloodstained clothes belonging to Lizzie. Instead she was witnessed days later burning a dress in the kitchen stove. She claimed she destroyed it because it was stained with paint. Why, it’s nothing short of a repeat of England’s infamous Road Hill murder, or a page from Wilkie Collins.”
“Oh, hell,” Lean grumbled, “if we’re going to talk about horrific murders, we may as well be speaking of Salem. Where exactly will we be looking for our man?”
“Courtesy of our indefatigable researcher, Mrs. Prescott.” Grey drew some folded pages from an inside coat packet and handed them over. “Descriptions from Upham
and the other usual sources as to the execution of the Reverend George Burroughs and the location of the site where the witches were hanged.”
Lean removed his hat and coat and settled in for the long ride, before taking up the pages.
August 5, 1692. The Court again sitting, six more were tried on the same Account, viz. Mr. George Burroughs, sometime minister of Wells, John Proctor, and Elizabeth Proctor his Wife, with John Willard of Salem-Village, George Jacobs Senior, of Salem, and Martha Carrier of Andover; these were all brought in Guilty and Condemned; and were all Executed Aug. 19, except Proctor’s Wife, who pleaded Pregnancy.
Lean’s mind turned briefly to Emma’s worried face, her eyes welling up that morning as he explained nothing more than that it would all be over in the next twenty-four hours. Lean forced the image from his mind as he took up more of Helen’s research entries.
Margaret Jacobs being one that had confessed her own Guilt, and testified against her Grand-Father Jacobs, Mr. Burroughs, and John Willard. She, the day before Executions, came to Mr. Burroughs, acknowledging that she had belied them, and begged Mr. Burroughs Forgiveness, who not only forgave her, but also Prayed with and for her.
Judge Sewall’s diary for Aug. 19, 1692: This day George Burroughs, John Willard, Jno. Proctor, Martha Carrier and George Jacobs were executed at Salem, a very great number of Spectators being present. All of them said they were innocent, Carrier and all. Mr. Mather says they all died by a Righteous Sentence. Mr. Burroughs by his Speech, Prayer, protestation of his Innocence, did much move unthinking persons, which occasions their speaking hardly concerning his being
executed. [In the margin Sewall later added: Dolefull Witchcraft!]
Lean glanced up and saw Grey sitting perfectly upright, but with his eyes closed. A small smile had settled on the man’s lips. “I still think it’s odd,” Lean said. “We’re just days from the new moon, and yet he’s chosen to break off from the lunar cycle that he’s followed all these months.”
“The bicentennial anniversary of his master’s death is what is crucial to the ritual. The introductory statement of the Black Book retrieved by Mrs. Prescott at Harvard spoke of the ritual being performed on the cycle of the master’s betrayal and death. It is clear that, for some reason, our man has selected George Burroughs for the role of his master, and so we are heading to the very spot of that man’s execution precisely two hundred years after the day of the event. Our man’s grand finale.”
“I know, I know.” Lean’s mind wandered back to all the writings he had examined in the past month, searching for something to solidly refute Grey’s theory, but he could summon nothing. It seemed the final murder would occur tonight, far away from Portland, in old Salem, at a place that had once served as the gallows for a deluded and merciless gathering of souls. He turned again to the page and saw that this entry contained a commentary by Helen.
Note: Robert Calef gives the more humane account of G.B.’s execution—Mr. Burroughs was carried in a cart with the others, through the streets of Salem, to execution. When he was upon the ladder, he made a speech for the clearing of his innocency, with such solemn and serious expressions as were to the admiration of all present. His prayer (which he concluded by repeating the Lord’s Prayer) was so well worded, and uttered with such composedness and such fervency of spirit, as was very affecting, and drew tears from many, so that it seemed to some that the spectators would hinder
the execution. The accusers said the black man stood and dictated to him. As soon as he was turned off, Mr. Cotton Mather, being mounted upon a horse, addressed himself to the people, partly to declare that he (Mr. Burroughs) was no ordained minister and partly to possess the people of his guilt, saying that the devil often had been transformed into an angel of light; and this somewhat appeased the people, and the executions went on. When he was cut down, he was dragged by a halter to a hole, or grave, between the rocks, about two feet deep; his shirt and breeches being pulled off, and an old pair of trousers of one executed put on his lower parts, he was so put in, together with Willard and Carrier, that one of his hands, and his chin, and a foot of one of them, was left uncovered.
Lean looked up, a light dawning on him. “Burroughs’s last words were the Lord’s Prayer. That’s where our man is getting that bit from.”
Grey’s eyes remained closed, but he nodded. “The Puritans believed it was impossible for one in league with Satan to utter the prayer without stumbling and revealing themselves.”
“But Burroughs did recite it perfectly?”
“Only to have that fact used by Cotton Mather as the final proof of how powerfully Burroughs was aligned with the devil.” Grey opened his eyes and almost smiled. “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”
“So our killer sides with Mather and against reason. Burroughs’s recitation is proof he exceeds the power of other witches. And our man repeats the prayer in these murders, invoking Burroughs’s own last words, but he does it in Abenaki because the Indians were Burroughs’s allies, in league with Satan. So he’s making it a mockery of the Lord’s Prayer.”
“Something like that, I suppose,” Grey said before closing his eyes again.
Lean fought off the urge to sit there contemplating the madness of the man they were
chasing. It was a path that could lead him nowhere useful. He had to stay in the realm of reason and practicality, focusing only on the facts that lay in front of them.
“What about McCutcheon?” Lean asked. “Any further contact?”
“He’s already there, learning what he can of the area around this Gallows Hill and spying out the best location for our vigil. He was never able to get any explanation from the asylum staff as to Geoffrey Blanchard’s sudden unavailability for visits. He’ll check the local hotels.”
Lean nodded. McCutcheon gave them an extra pair of eyes and a steady hand with a gun. He was more than a little grateful for that news. It would be dark, and they’d be on treacherous, unfamiliar footing and facing a man who had already killed at least three people while leaving little trace of himself. Lean’s hand slipped inside his coat and rested for a moment on the grip of his Colt. Then he focused on his final page until the words began to sink into his mind.
Gallows Hill is a part of an elevated ledge of rock on the western side of the city of Salem. … Its somber and desolate appearance admits of little variety of delineation. It is mostly a bare and naked ledge. At the top of this cliff, on the southern brow of the eminence, the executions are supposed to have taken place. The outline rises a little towards the north, but soon begins to fall off to the general level of the country. From that direction only can the spot be easily reached. It is hard to climb the western side, impossible to clamber up the southern face. Settlement creeps down from the north, and has partially ascended the eastern acclivity, but can never reach the brink. Scattered patches of soil are too thin to tempt cultivation, and the rock is too craggy and steep to allow occupation. An active and flourishing manufacturing industry crowds up to its base; but a considerable surface at the top will forever remain an open space. It is, as it were, a platform raised high in the air.
Lean looked out the
window and let his eyes drift over the world. The train sped past as scenes of everyday life unfolded at their normal pace. After a few moments, he reached over and drew down the window shade.