The Salem Witch Society (49 page)
Read The Salem Witch Society Online
Authors: K. N. Shields
Tags: #Mystery, #Suspense, #Historical, #Fiction
“Or he knows we’re onto him. Perhaps they’re hostages to ensure safe passage while he flees town.”
Grey shook his head. “He’d know we can’t identify him accurately. He could vanish from town at any time, and no one would try to stop him. No, they’re not mere hostages.” Grey picked up the young girl’s short dress and stockings from where they’d been left, neatly folded, on a small wooden chair. “Her school clothes—so she’s still in her nightdress.”
“Good. Even easier to spot.”
“Precisely,” said Grey as he led the way back downstairs. “Which means he does not intend for them to be seen publicly. If he is fleeing, it will be alone, or by private means. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for the Prescotts.”
“I’ll put men at every depot anyway. Maybe he’s fool enough to try it.” Lean stopped downstairs in the parlor to seize photographs that showed Helen and Delia. The two detectives exited into the dark night, then rode toward the police station on Myrtle Street. The silence was broken only by the occasional piece of strategy.
“I’ll send a man to Lizzie Madson’s rooms,” Lean said. “If he’s on the run, he may
take refuge at his old haunt. Dr. Steig’s as well; he may have missed something he was looking for.”
“While you’re at it, get a man over to your own house too. In case your theory on hostages or revenge against us happens to be true.”
“There’s an officer there already,” Lean said. “I’ll have him escort Owen and Emma to her sister’s.” The carriage pulled up just short of the station, and Lean jumped out, calling back over his shoulder, “I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”
T
he clock on the mantel over Grey’s fireplace struck the half hour. Even though Lean was painfully aware of the exact time, he still glanced at the glass face set in the small maple housing. He was beginning to truly hate that clock. One thirty in the afternoon. They’d been at this since before sunrise, and nothing to show for it except piles of papers and books that had been read, then moved from one side of the table to the other.
A sense of futility was beginning to encircle Lean’s mind. Helen and Delia were in the hands of a madman, and even if they were still alive, their chances of remaining so dwindled with each passing hour. And what was he doing? Rummaging through old transcripts looking for some hint that might not even exist, to unlock a riddle that might not mean at all what Grey said it did. How could Grey be so sure of it, when just days earlier he’d been positive it meant something else entirely?
“We’ve wasted too much time already.”
“How so?” Grey asked, glancing only for a second from the text he was perusing.
“Why, everything. We haven’t accomplished anything since leaving Helen’s.”
“On the contrary, I think we’ve made excellent use of our time. You’ve arranged for your family’s temporary relocation and safety. You’ve
gotten a bit of sleep, without which I daresay you’d be of little service. And just look at the progress we’ve made getting through the material.”
Lean stood up from the table and moved to the windows looking down on High Street outside Grey’s building. He hoped the change of scenery would do some good, reveal some hidden meaning or clue in the page that he held: “The Trial of George Burroughs at a Court of Oyer and Terminer, in Salem, 1692 by Cotton Mather.” He glanced down and read it again.
This
G.B.
was Indicted for Witch-craft, and Accused by the Confessing Witches as the head Actor at their Hellish Rendezvouses, and one who had the promise of being a King in Satan’s Kingdom, now going to be Erected. One of the Bewitched Persons, testified a little black Hair’d Man came to her, saying his Name was B. and bidding her set her hand to a Book which he shewed unto her; and bragged that he was a Conjurer, above the ordinary Rank of Witches. This
G.B.
ensnared himself by several Instances of a Preternatural Strength. He was a very Puny Man, yet had often done things beyond the strength of a giant. A Gun of about seven foot Barrel, and so heavy that strong Men could not steadily hold it out with both hands; there were Testimonies that he made nothing of taking up such a Gun with one hand, and holding it out like a Pistol at Arms-end.
G.B.
in his Vindication, was so foolish as to say, that an Indian was there, and held it out at the same time: Whereas none of the Spectators ever saw any such Indian; but they supposed the Black Man, (as the Witches call the Devil; and they say he resembles an Indian) might give him that Assistance.
Useless. The same as the hundreds of other court records, depositions, journal entries, and whatever else they had accumulated in the past
two months relating to the witch trials and the Reverend George Burroughs.
“We should be out searching,” Lean said, anger creeping into his voice.
“Where? Even if we knew they were still inside the city, we could never hope to find them before tonight. No,” Grey assured him, “the answer is in the riddle and in the history of George Burroughs.”
“We don’t know that. The riddle could well end at four victims. We don’t know that it mentions a fifth.”
“Dr. Steig believed it did,” Grey said. “Whitten may well have revealed it before he killed the doctor.”
“The mark he made on the floor could have been an
‘S.’
You thought so yourself.”
“It was a ‘5.’ And we were foolish not to see it before in the riddle.” Grey snatched up a page that had been set aside. “We saw the word ‘fourth’ mentioned in the last paragraph and assumed that four murders was the end. We jumped to the wrong conclusion. A preconceived theory took hold. We didn’t read closely enough.”
He pinned the page to the table with his finger, as if accusing it of perjury. “The fourth month
and
the last. Where the master died
and then
where his blood flowed. There the fourth,
then
the last offering. There the cup emptied
and then
the vessel held ready. It’s all in pairs. The final clue is a dual one. Two mysteries wrapped together in the last paragraph, in the final month. First where the master died and then where his blood flowed. Two different locations. Gallows Hill was the first, where Burroughs died. Wherever he shed his blood will be next.”
“He never did, though,” Lean declared. “That’s just it. All through the wars and not a scratch. Another reason they thought he was in league with the Indians and the devil.”
Grey shook his head. “No. I know there was a mention of it somewhere.”
“‘Somewhere’?
That’s
what you’re pinning Helen and Delia’s lives on?
Somewhere
there’s a mention of George Burroughs’s blood?”
“Yes,
Lean. Somewhere. Now, if you don’t mind. We’ve quite a bit left to get through.”
Lean glanced at the clock yet again. He tried to calm his own breathing, and as he did so, the terrible, incessant ticking of the clock came into his ears. He focused on the words in front of him, begging them to have meaning, to reveal something. He fought his way through several more entries, each equally irrelevant to the present crisis.
The clock struck the hour, and Lean just couldn’t take it anymore. He slapped the page down, stood up, and made it to the mantel in three long strides. The clock was suddenly in his hand, and, somewhat detached in his own mind, he saw his arm rising up and then rushing down. The clock shattered on the hearthstones. The anger drained out of him, and he was left staring at the small wood-and-glass carcass on the floor.
“Better?” Grey asked.
“Yes. Quite a bit.” Lean contemplated making an effort to clean up the mess but instead settled back into his seat to resume the work. “Sorry about the clock.”
“You’ll get the bill once this is all done,” Grey said with the hint of a smirk.
“Fair enough”
Grey’s eyes never left the papers in front of him, and while he continued to read, his hand slipped into his vest pocket. He removed his watch, which he opened and set before him on the table. Its miniature clicking filled the air between the men.
Lean picked up the next entry from his assigned stack. A deposition from the Essex County Archives entitled
Mercy Lewis v. George Burroughs.
He took a deep breath and turned his attention to the item.
The deposition of Mercy Lewis who testifies and says that on the 7th of May 1692, at evening I saw the apparition of Mr. George Burroughs whom I very well knew which did grievously torture me and urged me to write in his
book and then he brought to me a new fashion book which he did not use to bring and told me I might write in that book: for that was a book that was in his study when I lived with them. But I told him I did not believe him for I had been often in his study, but I never saw that book there. But he told me that he had several books in his study which I never saw in his study and he could raise the devil. And now had bewitched Mr. Sheppard’s daughter and I asked him how he could go to bewitch her now he was kept at Salem. And he told me that the devil was his servant and he sent him in his shape to do it. Then he again tortured me most dreadfully and threatened to kill me for he said I should not witness against him. Also he told me that he had made Abigail Hobbs a witch and several more then again he did most dreadfully torture me. The next night he told me I should not see his two wives if he could help it because I should not witness against him. This 9th May, Mr. Burroughs carried me up to an exceeding high mountain and showed me all the kingdoms of the earth and told me that he would give them all to me if I would write in his book. And if I would not, he would throw me down and break my neck. But I told him they were none of his to give and I would not write if he threw me down on 100 pitchforks.
Mercy Lewis ag’st Burroughs.
“No mention of Burroughs’s blood, but it smacks of this investigation.” Lean reread the passage aloud while Grey sat silent with his eyes closed. When he finished, Lean set the page down. “Breaking her neck and casting her down on pitchforks. All kinds of promises to get her name in his book. It all sounds like Maggie Keene, doesn’t it?”
“That bit again about a secret book in his study that he could use to raise the devil.”
Lean nodded. “Perhaps a grain of truth in some of these girls’ wild testimony. Did she just make that up, or did she really know something about that same book mentioned by the other fellow Meserve told us about,
the one Burroughs entrusted to hide the Black Book before he was arrested as a witch? It makes you wonder.”
Grey bolted from his chair and grabbed the telephone receiver. He clicked the lever twice and waited.
“Grey? What is it?”
He held up a finger toward Lean, then spoke into the receiver. “Telephone exchange 5328, please.” Grey waited, his finger tapping on the side table that held the phone. He glanced up and saw Lean waiting for an explanation. “Pierce. That other man’s name was Pierce. The one who wrote about Burroughs giving him the Black Book and all that.”
Lean waited for something further, but apparently that bit of information was supposed to be enough to explain Grey’s sudden frantic behavior.
“Thank you, Operator. No, I won’t need to place the call again.” Grey hung up the receiver and then grabbed his coat from a hook by the door.
Lean rushed after Grey, who barreled down the stairs. They nearly knocked over Mrs. Philbrick, who had poked her head out of her ground-floor apartment to see about the commotion. Lean tipped his hat in apology as he passed the poor woman, her eyes still wide in terror from the previous incident with a blood-spattered Tom Doran.
Outside on the front steps, Grey waved frantically for a cab.
“Where the blazes are we going?”
Grey didn’t look back. A cab was pulling up, and he climbed aboard before it had even stopped. “The historical society—to see Meserve!”
They entered the historical society on the third floor of the Portland Public Library building. The room was empty, and the door to the back research room was closed. After finding it locked, Lean pounded several times on the wooden door.
“Meserve’s not here,” Grey said. “How are you with busting doors down?”
“I’ve done a few in my time.”
“I’ll
defer to you, then.”
Lean stepped back, girded himself, and then rammed his right foot straight ahead, just next to the doorknob. The frame splintered. A second kick sent the door slamming inward, knocked off its top hinge. Lean stepped into the room with Grey right behind.
“I’m coming. …” F. W. Meserve called as he came bustling down the outside hallway and entered the front room. “Just a second …” He had his glasses in hand, cleaning them with a handkerchief. He let it drop and set his glasses on his face as he approached the ruined door, his mouth agape.
“Oh, there you are, Meserve,” Grey said from inside the research room. His head turned this way and that, looking over the various piles of books and bound stacks of paper. “Sorry about the …” He waved in the general direction of the entry.
“Door,” Meserve muttered as he stepped into the room. His eyes flitted back and forth between the doorway and his visitors. At a loss to explain events, Meserve fell back into old habits. “Is there something I can help you with today, gentlemen?”
“Yes, actually,” Grey said. “That collection of papers you told us about before. Caleb Pierce’s writings. There was mention in there of an Indian attack. Pierce, George Burroughs, and some other English settlers took refuge on an island in Casco Bay.”
“Yes, that’s true. On Andrews Island.”
“Can we please see the actual document?”
“Of course.” Meserve smiled, so pleased by their interest in the subject that he seemed to momentarily forget about his shattered door. He moved to a bookshelf, ran a finger along several aged spines, and selected one. He set the volume on a table and gently turned through the pages.
“Here we go.” Meserve took half a step to the side, his finger still lingering at the bottom of the page. “There’s the spot where Pierce mentions the island.”
Grey stepped forward and bent in close. He scanned the page, then read aloud: “‘On our return to Andrews Isle, I was gladdened to find the Reverend Burroughs having by virtue of his own hands begun construction
of a stone wall for defense. You yourself know the surprising strength in the Good Reverend’s frame. The business was trying enough that all our hands were sorely cut by the jagged rocks and work of digging out the stones for use. It is to be hoped that no more English blood shall stain that wall before the Lord sees fit to favor us with redemption.’”