The Salem Witch Society (48 page)

Grey stood. The anger drained from his eyes, and he walked to the door.

B
ishop Healy walked up the aisle. By the light of the many flickering candles, he saw the thin, dark man seated in the final pew. In their prior
meeting, he’d had the impression that Perceval Grey was not a man who placed his faith in the Lord. But now he was leaning forward, head resting on his joined fingertips, in the appearance of prayer, or at least in deep contemplation. The bishop wanted to wait for Grey to notice him, but he was busy, especially now with all the arrangements to make in the wake of Father Coyne’s tragic death.

“Mr. Grey?”

Grey’s eyelids snapped open. He stood and reached out to take the Bishop’s hand, the gesture accompanied by a tired smile.

“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Your Excellency.”

“Not at all. Would you like to come back to my office? You seem troubled. I’d hoped that I had helped you in our previous discussion.”

“You did. Thank you again.”

“But … ?”

“But not before another loss,” Grey said. “A friend.”

“Not Deputy Lean?”

“Lean? No, he’s fine.”

Bishop Healy expected a further word or glance that would invite another question from him on Grey’s loss, but there was no such sign from the man.

“So how can I help you, Mr. Grey?”

“I just have a simple question remaining. Did Dr. Virgil Steig pay you a visit the night before last?”

Bishop Healy was surprised by the question. “The same night as the fire.”

“Yes. I was sorry to hear about Father Coyne.”

“Thank you. At least his suffering is over and he is home now with God.”

“Yes.” Grey smiled, but it looked forced, and he sustained it only long enough for the gesture to be duly noted. “And Dr. Steig?”

“No. I didn’t see him.”

“Not a call on the telephone or a note? Any communication at all?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Bishop Healy answered. “Why? Is there something the matter?”

“No. Just
trying to piece some little thing together. Thank you for your time. I must be going.” Grey made to leave.

Bishop Healy had seen the strain showing through on the man’s face. There was definitely something eating at him. Though he barely knew Perceval Grey, it was not easy for him to turn away from someone in such distress. He had to at least offer the man a chance to reach out.

“Mr. Grey,” he called, “perhaps you’d care to attend the funeral masses. You might find them to be of some comfort.”

Grey’s hand was on the door out to the entryway. He stopped and looked back. “Oh, thank you, but … masses? Father Coyne and who else?”

“His man there, Peter Chapman. You must have met him when you spoke to Father Coyne.”

“Peter Chapman? What information do you have about his death?”

Bishop Healy felt suddenly uncomfortable under Grey’s piercing stare. He was not accustomed to being so regarded anywhere, let alone inside the cathedral. Grey seemed to be challenging his answer, demanding that he elaborate. “They haven’t yet recovered his body from all that rubble, but they should locate him no later than tomorrow. Both masses are scheduled for the day after.”

Grey took two steps toward Bishop Healy. “They won’t find his body. Peter Chapman died two nights ago in Salem, Massachusetts, while fleeing the scene of a crime he’d committed.”

“What?” Bishop Healy studied Grey’s face; the man was completely serious. “There must be some mistake. We can’t be talking about the same man.”

“I saw the dead man’s face, Your Excellency. Shortish fellow, blond hair. Gruff and rather homely, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Bishop Healy felt the relief well up in him, and a smile spread over his face. “Peter was short all right, but otherwise you couldn’t be further off, I’m happy to say. Dark-haired, quite pleasant, and rather a good-looking fellow.”

Grey’s eyes went cold, not far off from the look of someone who’d just learned of
the death of a loved one. Bishop Healy felt the humor drain out of his own face. He knew it was his turn to be studied, with Grey reading him for some sign of a joke

“He couldn’t look more different from the man I’ve described,” Grey said, mostly to himself.

“I suppose not.”

“This Peter Chapman of yours, with the black hair, was he ever accompanied at the cathedral by a friend or assistant? A blond man, like I described?”

“No.” Bishop Healy considered the question further. “I never saw anyone with him other than his wife.”

“Wife? A dark-haired woman, named Lizzie?” Grey said.

“I don’t recall her name, but no, she had red hair.”

“A redhead?” The perplexed look on Grey’s face was overtaken by concern. “The woman on the train platform.”

“Mr. Grey, are you quite all right? You look as though you’re not well.”

“I’m fine. Thank you, Bishop.” Grey began to pace. “Something’s not right here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Grey. Is there something else I can help you with?”

Grey stopped and stared. “Yes, actually. Dr. Steig wanted to confirm some details, but I don’t know exactly what he was after. What can you tell me about the death of Saint Polycarp of Smyrna?”

Bishop Healy was so completely surprised by the question that he had no choice but to invite Grey to his office to see what they could find. Once there, Bishop Healy found a book on the lives of the saints. He flipped through the pages until he came to Saint Polycarp.

“What exactly would you like to know?”

“How did he die?”

The bishop skimmed the page, then read, “‘When the funeral pyre was ready, and Polycarp was bound, he looked to heaven and prayed. The flame blazed forth in great fury, but shaped itself like the sail of a ship filled with the wind and circled around his body, so his flesh was not burnt, but rather was as gold glowing in a furnace. At length, when those wicked
men saw his body could not be consumed by the fire, the executioner pierced him with a dagger. And on his doing this, there came forth a dove, and a great quantity of blood, so that the fire was extinguished.’”

“Wait. Set on fire first—then stabbed. Are you certain, Your Excellency?” Grey came closer and read the page himself.

“Why so surprised?”

Grey shook his head. “I was told otherwise: stabbed first, then burned.”

“Well, it’s just a detail. The exact order isn’t the crucial element of the story, of course.”

“I’m afraid it is.” Grey rushed out the door, his final words still hanging in the air.

H
elen stepped into Delia’s room. The window was open, letting in a nice breeze. With the light from the hallway, she could make out her daughter’s face as Delia lay in bed with her eyes still open.

“What is it, dear?”

“I can’t sleep, Mama,” the girl said in a creaky, tear-soaked voice. “I keep thinking of Uncle Virgil.”

“I know. I’m sad too, but it will be all right. It’s been a very long day. You need to get some sleep now.”

“Will you lie with me?” Delia reached out to her mother.

Helen took her hand and sat on the edge of the bed. “Of course.” She slipped her shoes off, settled in beside Delia, and stroked loose strands of hair away from her daughter’s face.

“I’m scared,” Delia whispered.

“Of what?”

“Of how people always … go away,” Delia said. “Will you ever, Mama?”

“No, never. I’ll never leave you,” Helen said.

“You
promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Helen felt the girl’s body tense at the final word. “Don’t say that, Mama. Not that.”

“Just cross my heart. I promise.”

Within minutes Delia’s breathing became deep and untroubled. Helen could feel herself slipping away, the soft bed pulling her down into a warm, comforting darkness. She felt the weight of the past day’s troubles slough off and fall from her.

When Helen stirred awake, it was to a banging sound. In that instant the noise evaporated away like the echo of a final dream. She lifted her head from the pillow, looked down at Delia’s still face, and listened. She flinched when the pounding happened again. Someone was knocking on the front door. Helen wondered how long she’d been asleep and whether it was an unusual time for someone to be calling. She made her way out into the hall and down the stairs. Passing through the parlor, she looked at the clock: just after ten. She reached the front door and pulled the curtain aside. It was dark, but she could make out the shape of a woman standing on the front porch. She was wearing a dark, mid-length coat over a long white dress.

Helen opened the door.

Lean dropped another stack of papers into the box. He supposed he should sort out what was worth keeping in case this matter ever came to light. He might someday be called upon to explain his role in the events surrounding the murders committed by Jack Whitten, possibly with the assistance of Geoffrey Blanchard. Much of his handwritten material was nearly indecipherable, and many of the typed pages had proved utterly irrelevant to the truth of the case.

He flipped through a chronology of the Salem trials that Helen had provided weeks earlier, tracing the dates of accusations, court hearings, and the deaths of accused witches. There were sketches of the bodies, the scenes of the murders, notes on dozens of interviews with landlords, lists of residents in the neighborhood of the Portland Company. Next came notes
from his sittings with Portland’s various mediums. He chuckled as he recalled the less-than-convincing accent of one woman who claimed to channel a spirit guide from ancient Egypt.

The phone rang, and his wife answered in the other room. He reached for the page of automatic writing that Amelia Porter had delivered to him at home after their séance. He smiled again, thinking of Grey’s amused fascination with the Porters’ grocery list.

“Archie, it’s Perceval Grey,” Emma called from the kitchen. “He says it’s urgent.”

Lean strode into the kitchen and took up the receiver. “Yes?”

“This Peter Chapman fellow did not work alone.”

“You’ve confirmed Geoffrey Blanchard was assisting him.”

“That’s not what I mean. Neither of their fingerprints were a match for the one left on Maggie Keene’s shoe. Our real killer is still alive. Peter Chapman was only his assistant.”

He heard the words, but Lean couldn’t force his mind to accept their meaning. “What in blazes are you talking about?”

“The man who killed Maggie Keene and the other women is still out there. And to further muddy the waters, I’ve spoken with Bishop Healy. The man who died in front of the train in Salem was not the real Peter Chapman.”

“Right,” Lean said, “he’s Jack Whitten.”

“No, the Peter Chapman we met at Father Coyne’s was not the same Peter Chapman known to the priests at the cathedral. What it all means, I don’t yet know. But for the moment, let’s keep our focus on the fact that this Peter Chapman impostor and Geoffrey Blanchard are both dead and we still have a killer at large. In fact, I think he may well have been the man you were suspicious of when we departed Portland. The man in black at Union Station. If the killer is even a man to begin with.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Grey said. “In any event, the killer never left Portland. He probably went to Dr. Steig’s right after we left Portland.”

“We shouldn’t discuss this over the telephone. We need to speak in person,” Lean said.

“What about
Helen? Do you think she would be up to the task? I know she’s been through a terrible loss—but her historical expertise might still be of use.”

“We should let her be right now, she has Delia to …” Lean’s voice trailed off as the thought hit him like a shot. He looked down at the paper in his hand, Amelia Porter’s page of automatic writing. His eyes scanned across the odd, stilted handwriting: “The darkness rising beware the Good woman and her child.”

“Holy Mother of God,” he muttered.

“Lean. Are you still there?”

“Meet me at Helen’s. And for God’s sake, hurry!”

Lean telephoned the police station and ordered a patrolman be sent to his home until he returned. Then he hired a dogcart, eager to make the trip in an open-air carriage that would not obstruct his view. The sporadic gas lighting on the streets gave little aid on this night, just one day prior to the new moon. Even though the streets were thinly populated at this hour, Lean peered at the face of every passerby, desperate for some glimpse of the man in black as he approached Helen’s. Once, on Cumberland Street, he was passed by a hackney that came on at a full gallop. The dark figure of the driver, with his black bowler tugged down low upon his brow, had caused Lean to stare suspiciously. But as the carriage went by, he saw that the passenger was a solitary woman in a white poplin dress. Another minute and he arrived on Wilmot Street. He saw Grey’s hansom cab pulling up in front of Helen’s house. By the time Lean reached the front door, Grey had already knocked several times and was trying the knob.

“Unlocked.”

The two men entered, Lean with his gun drawn, Grey with a steel-handled walking stick at the ready.

“Helen!” Lean shouted. “Hello! Anyone?” He hurried through the parlor toward the kitchen while Grey went to the second floor. Lean swept through the entire first floor, rushing on ever more quickly as each room
turned up vacant. He sprinted to the landing at the top of the stairs. Grey beckoned him to the girl’s room at the back of the house. Lean entered and looked around. The bedcovers were lying on the floor, and the window was open. Grey sniffed Delia’s pillow, then tossed it over to Lean.

“Ether. Do you think … ?” Lean couldn’t bring himself to finish the question. Not so soon after the murder of Dr. Steig. The image of the old man’s body sprawled on the floor flitted before his eyes.

“If he meant to kill them immediately, as revenge or whatever passes for a motive in his mind, he’d have done so here rather than risk detection by removing them from the house. He must have some other purpose. Perhaps we interrupted his assistant, Chapman or Whitten, before the full ritual with Geoffrey Blanchard could be completed. He was never burned as we expected. Maybe the killer feels he’s required to repeat the final murder, to correct his failure.”