The Salem Witch Society (47 page)

Grey took her by the shoulders. “My good Mrs. Philbrick. Everything will be perfectly fine. I want you to stand right here. The deputy and I will go upstairs and see to the man. If you hear signs of a struggle or a gunshot, you must flee at once. Run to the druggist across the street and have him telephone for the police. Do you understand me?”

She nodded and pressed her back to the doorframe as if trying to will herself into a stone pillar supporting the lintel. Lean drew his pistol and followed Grey up the stairs, each man treading lightly, although anyone waiting for them had certainly been alerted to their arrival by Mrs. Philbrick’s screams. Upon reaching the entry to Grey’s sitting room, Lean stood back a step, facing the door with his pistol arm stretched forward. Grey turned the knob and pushed the door inward.

There was no sound from within, and everything in the room appeared in perfect order. Grey stepped into the room, looked around, and then his head jerked backward slightly in surprise. Lean hurried forward and turned to face Tom Doran, who sat motionless in a tall-backed leather chair. His coat was open, and his white shirt showed dark red smears. Recognition dawned slowly in Doran’s heavy, bloodshot eyes as he stared at the two men.

“What have you done, Tom?” asked Lean as he let his pistol slowly drop to his side.

“He’s dead.”

“Who?” asked Grey. “Doran! Who is dead?”

Tom Doran just raised his massive hands and stared at the dried blood caked over his palms and fingers.

Helen sat in a chair in the corner of Dr. Steig’s spacious study, her puffy, red eyes turned away from the scene laid out before the heavy maple desk. Lean regretted
sending for her before they had a chance to make the room more presentable. Tom Doran’s huge form stood blocking the door to the hall. He had buttoned his coat high to cover the bloody stains on his shirt.

Dr. Steig lay facedown on the wooden floor. The wounds were not readily apparent due to his black coat, but the blood had pooled under him. Dried stains trailed across the hardwood floor, showing his attempt to drag himself toward the door before he died. An S shape, written in blood, marked the floor just inches from his face. A larger patch of blood was smeared on the floor in front of his desk. The desktop was a mess of strewn papers, and the drawers had been pulled out and emptied.

Lean stood a few steps away. He tried to obscure from Helen the sight of Perceval Grey, down close to the floor, examining the minutest details of her dead uncle’s body. Finally, Grey stood and took several steps back. He folded his left arm in front, supporting his right elbow. A fingertip moved in small circles, caressing his temple. After a few more moments, Grey crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“You’ve drawn your conclusions, I take it?” Lean said.

“The doctor was stabbed here, a couple of feet in front of the desk. He was facing the assailant, presumably Jack Whitten. He was in front of the desk, not taking shelter behind it. He didn’t have time to react; the attack caught him off guard. He must have let Whitten into the house; the servants were off, and there were no signs of a break-in at any door or window. Whitten would have introduced himself as Peter Chapman, Father Coyne’s helper. The doctor might have recognized him from our description of our earlier meeting.”

Grey stepped just in front of the desk and then bent down on one knee. “He fell here and tried his first message. You can see there, his fingertips are stained. The doctor would have instinctively felt his wound. Then he must have thought to make some mark, perhaps an attempt to identify his killer. From the size of this smeared area of blood, I would say the first message was more complete. Whitten was distracted. Likely tearing through the doctor’s desk at the time. He took the doctor’s copy of the Black Book
pages and whatever notes he’d made. Only after disposing of them, there in the fireplace, did he return his attention to the doctor. He destroyed the bloody message with his sole, stabbed the doctor a second time in the back—”

Helen let out a small, pitiful gasp.

“My apologies, Mrs. Prescott.” Grey locked eyes with Lean for a second, then looked at Helen. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable in the kitchen.”

Helen forced her features into some semblance of control. “No, thank you, Mr. Grey. Please, I need to know what happened.”

“Whitten then continued on his way. Note the faint portion of a bloody shoe print there as he stepped over the doctor. He must have assumed that the doctor was dead at that point. Although, obviously, our good friend had a bit more sand than the killer gave him credit for. He retained enough strength to make this last mark.”

“An ‘S,’ I think. But what does it stand for?” Lean asked.

“The doctor may have been in such a poor condition at the time that he was quite unaware of exactly what mark he was leaving. He obviously died almost immediately thereafter.”

Lean looked at Helen, who was on the verge of tears again. He wished to direct her thoughts somewhere more helpful, and he was also eager to confirm her version of the prior day’s events again, before she became too emotional.

“He didn’t suffer long. I know this is terribly trying, but please, Helen, once more, think back. Is there anything else about what he said?”

“No,” answered Helen. “He just said he would have to cancel our dinner plans. He’d been reviewing the riddle again and thought he’d found something. A possible error. He was planning to try to have a look at the original.”

“I doubt the bishop would have allowed that.” Lean tapped his pencil on his notepad. “And that was at what time?”

“Just about two o’clock is when he telephoned me at the historical society.”

“And I found him lying right
there this morning at half ten.” Doran’s voice from the doorway startled Lean, who’d nearly forgotten that the giant was still in the room.

“So this happened after we left the station.” Lean looked at Grey. “If only he’d come with us.”

Grey held up a finger. “I’ll need to speak to Bishop Healy, see if the doctor ever made it to the cathedral to see the original.”

“What difference does it make?” Lean stepped closer to Grey. “The damage is done.”

“Still, in the interest of fully understanding all that has passed before us in this inquiry …”

Lean glared at Grey, who returned his look impassively.

“My uncle,” said Helen.

Both men turned to face her. Lean’s irritation at Grey’s dogged pursuit of the final tragic minutiae of the case melted away when he saw the pained expression on Helen’s face.

“What do we do?” she asked.

“Oh, of course,” Lean said. “I’ll have some men over immediately to take him. So you can proceed with the arrangements.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Lean gave her a puzzled look.

“He wouldn’t want it known that he died like this. Murdered by some madman. My uncle always despised the way that they were treated, the insane. Feared and detested. Locked away and chained like animals, or criminals, or …”

“Or witches,” Grey added.

“He’d hate the thought of what people would say about this. About his work. They’d use his death as another example to prove that the insane are too dangerous to treat and how they should all just be locked away.” Helen wiped the tears from her eyes. “It was the whole reason he came here—he wanted to help the veterans, and not for just the wounds that you could see.”

“The truth of it is that your uncle was murdered,” Grey said.

“By a man who is already dead. Who cannot be prosecuted or punished in this world.
Must we let that man strike out at my uncle again? He took his life. I won’t have him murder his legacy as well. You owe him that at least.”

Lean exchanged a glance with Grey, who looked away after a moment.

“I can speak with the coroner,” Lean said, “have some reliable men collect your uncle’s body. Things can be arranged … quietly.”

“Thank you, Archie.”

A short while later, Lean helped Helen into a hansom cab and paid the driver to take her home. Grey stood near, and they watched the cab turn the corner out of view.

“Do you wish to come to the cathedral with me?” Grey asked.

“No. I truly don’t. Please stop, Grey. It’s over. There’s nothing left to answer. The inquiry is finished. It’s time to let it all rest … and bury our friend.”

G
rey entered his study and, from force of habit, went to his cluttered worktable. The investigation had burned itself out, leaving these piles of papers and notes as worthless remnants to be swept away. He picked up a page of testimony against George Burroughs. It reminded him of a program from some momentous opera, now finished. All the glorious notes just a memory, and he was just a patron exiting into the night with nothing more than that scrap of paper clutched in his hand. The wondrous music gone, replaced by all the mundane sounds of the world.

Above the empty fireplace, his father’s old pipe still sat on the mantel. The stone bowl felt cool in his palm. He never did learn if Geoffrey Blanchard had spent time among Abenakis in connection with his father’s temperance activities. Instead, Grey was left with the assumption that Jack Whitten had lived among the Indians after he was released from the orphanage. He must have found his mother again while she traveled with
the Indian shows. He supposed Lean was right—it simply didn’t matter now. The unasked, unanswered questions would remain, themselves like dead bodies that would never be committed to the ground. It no longer mattered what had started Whitten down his murderous path. Was there any reason he chose those specific victims? Why had he bothered to kill Dr. Steig? There was nothing left to gain from those questions, as frustrating as it was not to know. It was a question that he’d never left unresolved in any of his prior inquiries: Why did a certain person have to die?

Grey went to his desk and began sorting through the papers, pushing them aside until he recovered a small newspaper article:
DROWNED MAN PULLED FROM RIVER.

“Last month I asked Herrick about the day my mother and I first arrived here.”

From his stuffed chair, Cyrus Grey showed no obvious sign of interest.

“Easter Sunday. He remembered it vividly,” Grey said.

“Well and good.” Cyrus returned to his newspaper.

“The year was 1867. Easter fell on April twenty-first.”

“If you say so.”

“I had occasion recently to spend some time in the basement of the
Eastern Argus
and found something that piqued my curiosity. So later I also checked the archives of the
Daily Press,
the
Express,
and the
Daily Advertiser
.” Grey drew out a small newspaper clipping from his coat pocket. “This is the earliest report on the incident that I could find. The first mention in any Portland newspaper.”

Cyrus skimmed the article and tried to hand it back, but Grey did not accept it.

“You’ll notice the date on the story,” Grey said.

“April twenty-second.”

“He died that Friday prior, April nineteenth. You couldn’t have known in time. The men you sent to retrieve us arrived too quickly, before news of the death became known here.”

“Your mother must have telegraphed me.”

“She didn’t leave the house after he died. Not once until those men came for us.”

“A friend of hers, then. I don’t recall exactly. What are you getting at, Perceval?”

Grey sat down opposite his grandfather. “The truth, now. Did you order them to kill my father?”

“How can you ask me that?”

“Did you?”

The old man dropped his newspaper on the side table. “Of course not.”

“Then tell me how. Why were those men there? It would have been no later than Saturday night that they roused us from our home. What were they doing there so quickly?”

“I sent them. Is that what you want to hear? Fine. But I never told them to hurt the man. I provided money to give to him. An exchange, if you will. They were to bring your mother and you home. I never meant for that fellow to be harmed.”

“‘That fellow’? You can call him my father. You can’t hide the plain truth of it.” Grey held his arms out, putting himself on display. “That was your intent? To buy us back? Give him some money and he’d just walk away?”

“Maybe it was foolishness. So I’m guilty of being a fool. But I’m not a murderer. They said it was an accident. Words were exchanged; trouble started. But they swore it was an accident.”

“And that’s the end of it all?” Grey slumped back in his chair. “But why? Why send them in the first place?”

“Your mother needed to come home; she needed help. You know the way her moods were.”

“She was happy then. He made her happy.”

“You were a child. What did you understand of the world they let you see? The simple truth is she needed doctors, not medicine women or some such. Real help.”

“You still believe that? Knowing how things ended. You think the doctors helped her?”

“She
couldn’t be saved. I know that now. But I saved
you.
”

“From what? My family?”

“From that life. Easy enough for you to sit here now and blame me for all. But where would you be if I’d never acted?” Cyrus rose and collected himself for a moment before facing Grey again. “Look at yourself. Look at who you’ve become. You can’t even comprehend the life you’d be living. What would you be now? A medicine man. Some itinerant basket weaver, roaming about like a Gypsy. A drunkard working at odd jobs.”

“Not everyone in the world needs all that you have to be content.”

“Content? You’d never have been content with a simple life, full of mundane chores and accomplishments. You think me cruel, no doubt, my conduct unforgivable. But what of all these investigations of yours? All these interesting matters you devote yourself to uncovering. Because of me, you were able to pursue this strange life you’ve chosen. Be honest with yourself, Perceval. Deep in your heart, you don’t truly regret what I did.”

Grey shot a furious look at his grandfather.

“Yes, I caused you pain, your mother, too. But I never meant to—I wanted the best for her. And I failed.” Cyrus went to the cabinet and poured himself a drink. “Parents and children are uniquely fitted in this world; they can wound each other far deeper than God should ever allow. And there’s little to be done to dull that pain. I’m sorry for your mother, more than you can know. But the past is done. Dredging it up with these questions will never make things whole.”