The Truth of All Things (37 page)

“What about the boys?” Lean asked.

“What about ’em?”

“Ever see them around after?”

“They never found the second one.”

Lean sat up straighter. “You mean they really did kill one of her boys? There was never a report.”

Tolman shrugged again. “No one ever complained. Not even her. Besides, that fire burnt fast and real hot. No body left to raise a stink over.”

“Still,” said Lean, “murdering a child …”

“Only a kid for a few more years. He’d have been a whore’s son and a thief forever after that.”

There was a long lapse in the conversation, and Lean started to wonder whether Tolman had drifted off. “What about the other one? There were two boys.”

“Hmm? Oh, we found him later, hiding in the woods. One of the orphanages claimed him.” Tolman’s eyes opened again, but his voice was starting to fade, the words coming more slowly on each other’s heels.

Lean bent forward, his head hovering over the lamp, rich with the scent of sesame oil. Tolman’s words filtered through his mind, spinning all around like silt from a sandy lake bottom that, once stirred up, refuses
to settle back into place. “Has someone gone out and killed Old Stitch,” Lean whispered to himself, “for revenge—even after twenty years?”

“Twenty years?” Tolman’s eyes had gone wide. He was suddenly seized with a look of intense purpose. “It’s no more’n a day when you’ve got that pain inside you. Gripping so tight you can’t think of nothing else.”

“This woman,” Lean said in a low, calming voice, “the one who died from Black Lucy’s medicines. What was her name?”

“No.” Tolman shook his head. “A moment can ruin you right down to the bone. Years slip by while the pain eats its way down into you. Him that did this to me”—he nodded toward his wasted leg—“if he was here now, I’d kill him with my bare hands. Tear him away like he tore me.”

“Her name,” Lean urged.

The color went out of Tolman’s face, as though his last rant had drained him down to nothing. The old veteran’s eyes flickered, and the lids sank almost shut, leaving two slits of white like twin crescent moons lying on their backs.

“Tolman! What was the woman’s name?” Lean shook him by the shoulders. “Look at me. Come on, man! What was her name?”

A hand, firm but not threatening, took hold of Lean’s arm. “Come along, Deputy. You risk a spectacle. And no amount of pleading will raise this Lazarus from his opium tomb.”

Lean stared into the aged face. It took a moment to recognize him as the passed-out man who had been laid out in the nearby bunk with his gold watch dangling. As Lean stared, the man’s stooped shoulders straightened slightly and the squinting eyes relaxed. The man’s dull expression sparkled with a renewed vitality. He winked at Lean, turned, and exited the room. Lean hurried after him, through the curtained entry, up the narrow staircase to the pharmacy, then out into the steamy July night.

He caught up with the man in an alley around the corner. “Damn it, Grey! These masquerades of yours are giving me fits.”

“No time for hysterics, my good man. Tolman has laid our work out for us.”

“You heard well enough, I assume, that he never revealed any names.”

“Exactly. And so we must attach the name ourselves.”

Lean followed him to a waiting hansom cab. “And how do you plan to do that?”

“Your excitement, or the opium smoke, clouds your mind, Lean. We live in a city still gripped by the memory of its own near death. Fires in Portland do not escape mention in newspapers. The same is true of pregnant ladies who die under mysterious circumstances.”

L
ean closed his eyes and listened to the clock in the parlor finish chiming seven. He thought back over the day. A visit to the records room at City Hall, followed by two hours thumbing through dusty fire-department reports, provided the date of August 8, 1871. The brief entry held little else of use. No name was attached to the property at Back Cove. There was only a mention of two engines dispatched from Portland, one building lost, and no surrounding damage. After verifying the date of the fire at Old Stitch’s place, he’d telephoned the information to Grey, who undertook the next stop in their search: the newspaper morgue of the
Eastern Argus
. That had been lunchtime, and Lean was beginning to fixate on the clock. Each minute that ticked by was like the gentle strike of a small hammer, tapping a coffin nail into his hopes that their efforts would prove worthwhile.

Lean reached across the table for the packet that had arrived in the evening post. He slid out a single page. On top was a brief note from Grey:

The photograph showed a single page of elegant handwriting that had the appearance of an antique journal or manuscript. Lean picked up the photograph and read:

That was it. The document ended there—the meaning still completely hidden and any possible resolution left dangling. That more or less summarized Lean’s view of the entire inquiry. The whole
investigation was like trying to cross a river at night: a matter of finding stepping-stones where none could be seen.

His wife peeked in from the kitchen, where she was busy making supper. She whispered something, and a moment later Owen came thumping into the room. He plopped down on the chair next to his father. The two of them sat for a long while, each silently taking the other’s measure.

“Are you in a dark place, Daddy?”

Lean sat up straight. It was not a question he ever expected from his five-year-old. “I think I am. But just a little bit.”

“One time before, when Tiger died, I cried because I loved him. Mommy said I wouldn’t have to be sad if I loved God.”

Lean’s memory was that the boy had hardly ever acknowledged their old cat when it was alive, but he nodded and said, “You should listen to Mommy.”

“Do you love God?”

“Yes,” Lean said with a smile.

“How do you? What do you do?”

Lean considered this for a moment, how to most simply explain the concept. “You try to live like God would want you to. Try to help people. Doing right by your family and others. Doing right, period.”

“That’s it?”

Lean bent his shoulders forward, bringing himself down closer to his son’s face. “No, I suppose there’s more to it. I’d say loving God means trusting him. Opening your heart to him, so you can be saved. It means you let his love into your heart.”

“Inside you?” Owen giggled with delight and clutched at his shirt like he was having himself a friendly little heart attack. “Can you feel God’s love when it’s inside you?”

Lean smiled and nodded.

“What’s it feel like?”

“I guess it feels like hope.” Lean reach over and pulled Owen close. The boy giggled again and tried to squirm away, but Lean held on. “Hope that everyone else loves him too. No matter what your eyes tell you.”

A sharp knock at the door announced Grey’s arrival. Emma took his hat and walking stick before trying to excuse herself from the room with Owen, a process delayed by the boy’s interest in, and obvious disapproval of, the visitor. Grey seated himself at the table, placed his bag on the table, and revealed a satisfied smile.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. That we’d hit a dead end,” Lean said.

“Sorry. I had a few other matters to check on at the
Argus
.”

“So? You found something.”

“Indeed.” Grey set out a handwritten page. “I took the liberty of copying the original.”

Lean read it aloud, careful to not let his voice carry. “ ‘Agnes Blanchard, formerly Millner, devoted wife and mother, went home to the Lord after a brief illness. She was buried in Evergreen Cemetery on August seventh.’ ” He looked up. “That’s the day before Old Stitch was burned out.”

“Read on,” said Grey.

“ ‘The daughter of Clement and Adele Millner, she was married on June twenty-third, 1857, to Ambrose Blanchard.’ ” Lean stared at the page for a moment. “The colonel?”

“Our very own war hero, crusader for temperance, and secret correspondent with rum smuggler McGrath on subjects related to the death of Maggie Keene.”

“This isn’t good.”

“On the contrary,” Grey said, “it’s excellent news. Finally we see a connection. Colonel Blanchard is our first solid link in this muddled picture of murder and witchery.” There was a sound from the parlor, and Grey lowered his voice. “The colonel’s wife dies. Reportedly of some concoction made by this Old Stitch, or Black Lucy, or whatever nom de guerre she was employing at the time.” Grey slid the paper back into his bag. “Two days later, Old Stitch’s family was attacked, one son killed, and their home burned to the ground in apparent retribution for the death of Mrs. Blanchard. Twenty years later, Stitch, who is a reputed witch, is dead and Maggie Keene’s pinned to the earth. A gruesome death that her killer thought uniquely suited to a witch.”

As Grey paused to draw a breath, Lean picked up the thread. “And McGrath was taking payments to protect Boxcar Annie because she knew something about the murder of Maggie Keene. Whose death is linked in a chain with those of Hannah Easler of Scituate and Lizzie Madson.”

Grey smiled. “The colonel and his temperance union have just assumed primary importance in our investigation of all three murders. How Old Stitch’s own death, in February, fits into this equation remains unclear.”

T
he next day, while the two detectives waited for Helen, Grey fixed himself a cup of tea. Lean wandered across the consulting room to Grey’s desk. There were various pages and books on Salem and on temperance movements. A small, yellowed article, set aside from the others, caught Lean’s eye. The headline read
DROWNED MAN PULLED FROM RIVER
. The story related that Joseph Poulin, an Indian, was found by searchers combing the riverbank. He had been missing for a day, and it was supposed that he accidentally fell into the waters. Lean glanced at the date: April 22, 1867. He recalled Grey’s mentioning his father by name when they visited with Chief White Eagle after the brawl at Camp Ellis. Embarrassed to be snooping into Grey’s personal affairs, Lean moved away.

He busied himself with studying the titles on the bookshelves lining the wall. Lean noticed a volume of collected essays by the English scientist Francis Galton. Recognizing the name from their meeting with Colonel Blanchard, he flipped through the pages.

Then he glanced at the clock. “She’s late.”

“The cemetery will wait for us,” answered Grey as he returned to his desk. “The people we’re looking for there certainly aren’t going anywhere. Besides, Mrs. Prescott’s message indicated some urgency. I think her ongoing research has finally revealed something.”