A Study in Revenge (24 page)

As he finished speaking, Grey watched the clerk, whose attention was locked onto the desktop. The young man’s head tilted slowly to the side like a clock’s second hand sweeping past twelve. Emery finished aligning his view with the crime-scene photographs still displayed on the desk. His eyes grew wide, and his lips eased open as if of their own accord, knowing that they would be called upon to speak even before the man himself consciously realized it.

Still wearing a look of surprise, Emery glanced up and caught sight of Grey observing him. “What on earth has happened to Mr. Robbins?”

“Who the hell is Mr. Robbins?” demanded Dyer. Then, remembering the presence of his client, he added, “Beg your pardon, Miss Webster.”

Phebe lifted a hand in dismissal of the offending language. Like the others, she was now staring, perplexed, at the pale-faced clerk.

“You recognize this man?” Grey laid a finger on the image, the modern-day photographic death mask of Frank Cosgrove.

Emery’s head swiveled back and forth, taking in the stares directed at him as a series of noncommittal stammers bubbled forth. The young man was now even more startled, having figured himself as late to the conversation, not starting a new and inflammatory one.

“Explain yourself, man!” barked his employer.

“Sorry, Mr. Dyer. Mr. Robbins came around a while back. Remember I mentioned a potential client stopping in? Said he’d come into some money and was looking to maybe set up some trusts. Asked about our services. Neither you nor Mr. Fogg was in, so I spoke with him briefly, showed him about.”

“What precisely did you show him?” Grey asked.

“The offices, our library, the vault room,” Emery said.

“You let him into our vault room?” Disbelief dripped from Mr. Dyer’s voice.

“He asked about it. Said he might need to store some valuable documents. He was worried. Said he never had to do anything of this sort before. Sorry, sir. Like I said, neither you nor Mr. Fogg was available, else I’d have left it to you, of course.”

“I ought to sack you on the spot,” Dyer said in an exaggerated tone that could have rivaled Caesar’s when addressing the knife-wielding Brutus.

“Please, Mr. Dyer, it’s evident that Mr. Emery’s mistake was an honest one,” Phebe said.

“Besides,” Lean said, “an old hand like Cosgrove would only want to see the locks he’d be up against in order to make his preparations all the easier. He’d still have been able to commit the burglary even if he’d never been let into your vault room.”

A bit of color began to reappear in the clerk’s face as his immediate termination seemed to grow less probable with each passing moment.

“The more pressing concern about the intelligence that the thief, Cosgrove, was able to obtain is how he ever learned of the thunderstone’s presence in your vault room to begin with.”

Grey turned toward Albert Dyer, who, sensing an implied criticism, straightened his back.

“Neither I nor any others in this office ever discuss our clients’ confidential business matters outside the firm. I can assure you no improper sharing of information can be attributed to anyone here. And I stand by that point absolutely and unequivocally.”

“Miss Webster, do you have any ideas of who, outside your immediate family, would have knowledge of the thunderstone?” Grey asked.

Phebe’s lips pursed, and concern rose into her face. Finally she announced, “I can’t truly say. That is, we didn’t often discuss the thunderstone. But then neither did we treat it as some vital state secret. It was something peculiar and slightly mysterious. I suppose it did come up once in a while, in social conversation. I can’t think with any certainty how many people, guests or friends of our family, might have heard of it at some point.”

After assurances that Phebe shouldn’t blame her own casual mentions of the thunderstone for causing the unforeseeable theft of the item and further promises to her and Attorney Dyer that Grey would keep them apprised of any developments, the two detectives showed themselves out.

“We’re still left in the dark a bit as to who might have set this all in motion,” Lean said as he paused on the sidewalk to light a cigarette.

“True, but at least we do now have affirmative evidence for our prior assumption that Cosgrove’s murder is in fact linked to the thunderstone.”

“Though you’re no closer to the stone’s location, and I’m no closer to the identity of the man who pulled the trigger on Cosgrove. Or to figuring
out why he went through all the trouble to dig the corpse up and burn it.” Lean resumed walking, thinking and puffing away as they moved up the slight incline of Exchange Street. “I suppose that last bit, the burning, was aimed at Sears. To get him to turn the thunderstone over if he had it, or maybe to get him to hurry up and steal Professor Horsford’s papers with the symbols, for whatever reason. What do you think?”

They reached the intersection with Middle Street. Lean would continue on toward City Hall. Grey paused and seemed to consider which direction to take.

“We are not yet arrived at that exact instant when a definite opinion can be reached on this affair as a whole. The solution will not be obtained in one swift motion, but rather step by step. We shall have to subsist upon whatever isolated conclusions can be drawn from the adduction of proof about separate facts and events along the way. Until such time as the grand scheme can be known.”

“One thing that’s not known, by me, is that other business Miss Webster mentioned. You and the young lady keeping secrets?” Lean asked.

“A distinct and unrelated inquiry into a private family matter.”

“I see. An interesting woman, that Phebe Webster. She reminds me of someone. Can’t shake the feeling.” Lean took a long drag on his cigarette while he pondered the matter. “Intelligent, forthright. Not unlike Helen Prescott.”

Grey paused, took in the sky, then the stones under their feet, before addressing his colleague. “That reminds me. We likely have a decent amount of ground left to cover in this inquiry.”

“Probably so, but what’s that got to do with Helen?”

“Nothing at all, which is exactly my point. And it’s strikingly early in the course of this investigation for you to have already become so repetitive and tiresome in your comments.” Grey reached a decision and turned left on Middle Street.

“Hmm.” Lean was silent as he contemplated the point, then smiled and shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think so,” he called out after Grey. “Seems about the right time to me.”

T
HE TAILOR SHOP OF
E
ZRA AND
L
OUISA
G
ROSSTACK WAS
now behind Lean. It was his last bit of work for the evening, checking in to make sure no further curious incidents had occurred below the store. The Grosstacks had seen to that by having a mason come around in short order and brick up the tunnel entrance to their basement. Lean wandered east along Fore Street as the sunlight faded. He removed his derby and ran his fingers through his sandy hair. The breeze coming up from the harbor cooled him. The business of the city’s day was winding down, but the streets were still active as people took advantage of the fine summer evening. Gulls circled overhead, adding their shrill, repetitive calls to those of a newsboy hawking the late edition.

Lean strolled on, unsure of why he was heading this way instead of making for home. Within a minute he approached Silver Street and glanced at Darragh’s boardinghouse, where Chester Sears had stayed during his trip up from Boston, apparently to assist his old partner Cosgrove in the theft of the Webster family’s thunderstone.

As the daylight faded, Lean’s mind meandered along its own winding path of dark streets and alleyways, trying to make sense of the two dead thieves and their connection to the thunderstone with its strange symbols.

Lean realized he’d reached Vine Street. Then a new thought came to him, another image: the horned, demonic face drawn in ashes on the wall near the burned, desecrated body of Frank Cosgrove. He turned up the unevenly cobbled street and made his way to the short alley that led to the house. It was a sorry sight, with its sagging roof beam and dark, vacant windows. The decrepit hulk looked like it wouldn’t last more than a couple years at this rate. Lean approached the door. As he
reached for the knob, two high, sharp notes came whistling out from behind him. He took it as an attempt to get attention poorly disguised as a birdcall.

Twenty paces away, another narrow alley sank into deep shadow between two wooden buildings. Lean peered toward the source of the sound, thinking he could make out a dark form there and a slight movement. A hushed, urgent whisper slipped out of the black space, and Lean took a half step forward. He was about to call out when he heard the violent creak of the house’s door being yanked open behind him. Even as he whirled about, bringing one defensive fist up before his face, a body slammed into him. Already off balance, Lean went sprawling on the unpaved ground before the doorstep.

He leaped to his feet and caught sight of a slender figure fleeing toward the alleyway.

“Stop! Police!” Lean called as he launched into pursuit.

The answer, from the original source inside the dark alley, was a panicked “Run!”

Lean charged into the alley at full speed, hands raised to brace himself and push off against the wall. Rushing through the litter-strewn passage, he emerged onto Deer Street and darted left. Ahead of him a few pedestrians stood aside as two men raced past. Lean sprinted after them. The figure in front turned left upon reaching the corner, while the man who’d bolted out of the house cut diagonally right, dodging a two-wheeler cab as he crossed Middle Street. Lean followed the second man across the street, also sidestepping traffic and giving one horse a fright. Although he’d been making up some ground in the pursuit, he felt his lungs starting to labor as he rounded one corner, then another, before bolting across Newbury Street. The green space of Lincoln Park opened up before them, with the stone structures of the First Baptist and Second Parish churches looming across Congress Street on the far side of the park.

The fleeing man made a slight detour to one of the rectangular park’s corner entrances, marked by two massive granite posts. The runner easily slipped through the series of short bollards that blocked carriages from entering onto the park’s gently curving concrete walks. Seeing the wide-open space of the maple-lined park, Lean knew that this was his
best chance to catch the man. He didn’t make for the corner entrance, instead rushing forward to the pointed wrought-iron fencing that circled the park. His momentum carried him up so that he could find a foothold between the narrow spikes and launch himself over the rail to land on the soft grass.

Lean made a beeline for the man, who finally seemed to be slowing as the chase wore on. The deputy forced himself onward, summoning every last bit of energy for a final desperate sprint. As the gap closed to a mere few feet, Lean’s quarry made several halfhearted feints at veering right, then left, but he stuck to the concrete path. They raced into the park’s shaded, bench-lined center, where the walkway encircled a large fountain.

Lean reached out and snagged the man’s dark jacket, causing him to stumble forward. The runner landed in a heap just short of the wide, water-filled basin from which rose a pedestal ringed with stone cherubs supporting a three-tiered fountain.

“Police,” Lean gasped as he clamped down on the suspect’s arm and turned him over to get a look at him.

In the faint light beneath the maples that surrounded the central area, Lean could still make out a youthful face.

“What’s your name?” Lean asked.

“Kiss my ass!”

A couple, who’d been enjoying a romantic moment on one of the nearby benches, now rose at the commotion and hurried away. Lean raised two fingers, giving a tip of his hat in their direction.

“Let me repeat myself. Police. Now tell me what you were doing inside that house on Vine Street.”

“Let go of me, you prick eater!”

Lean cuffed the young man on the side of the head. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen, what’s it to you?”

“Old enough to know better.”

Lean dragged the young man closer to the basin, lifted him by the scruff of the neck, and shoved his face into the shallow water. Several seconds of splashing startled the pigeons from their perch atop the now-dormant fountain.

When Lean released him, the young man gasped for air and sputtered, “Christ! Birds shit in this water, you know!”

“Yeah, they do, don’t they?” Lean agreed. “Ready to have another go-round with this, then?”

It took another dunking and the threat of a night in jail for the young man to come clean. He’d been in the house on a dare. Ever since Cosgrove’s burned corpse had turned up there, everyone had been avoiding the place like the plague. But then people began hearing things, strange noises, thuds and clanking coming from the house in the dead of night. So the young man’s friend had bet him a half-dollar he wouldn’t set foot in the house and remain inside for five minutes.

“I take it you didn’t see anything inside that would be making such a racket?” Lean asked.

“There’s nothing in there, upstairs or down, except a few rats. Nothing to hear.”

Sure that the young man’s story was true, Lean released his grip and told him to get lost.

The youth scurried away, making it to a corner exit before he looked back at Lean and unleashed a roar: “Prick!”

Lean raised a hand as if to wave off an old friend. He stumbled over to a bench, where he continued to catch his breath. After wiping his brow, he began to think hard about what the young man had said. People heard noises coming from inside the house, but there was no sign of anything that would make loud noises. Not upstairs or down.

The answer was like a slap across the face, and Lean smacked his hands together, half in excitement over the realization that had just come to him and half in annoyance at himself for not thinking of it sooner: the basement. He hadn’t seen a cellar door in the house on Vine Street, but it only made sense that there’d be one somewhere. Most of the old houses in the city had at least a dirt-floored root cellar built at some point.