A Study in Revenge (38 page)

“She died. The deputy pursued and confronted her. But she was quite deranged and took her own life—set herself on fire. Lean couldn’t save her.”

Tears escaped and ran down her cheeks. Grey handed her his handkerchief.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me,” she said as she dried her eyes. “Still emotional after my own scare last night, I suppose. It’s just horrific—the whole story. Whatever happened to the murderer? I hope you caught him.”

“He died in a fall.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“I don’t remember hearing about any of this in the newspapers.”

“It was not an investigation sanctioned by the police. There were conflicting considerations among city officials,” Grey said.

Phebe had quickly regained her composure. “I suppose that to mean that there were influential people involved who would be embarrassed by the airing of the truth.”

“One of several unfortunate aspects of the inquiry.”

“It always seems to be the way. If a man has money or influence enough, the world never gets to know his true crimes. Walk down the street with a smile and a wave and we all remain none the wiser about the blood on his hands.” The grief and horror in her voice yielded to a genuine tone of righteous anger. “It’s shameful.”

Grey’s thoughts turned to Louis Beauchamp atop Katahdin, but he refrained from making any further comment. They arrived, and as Grey paid the driver, Phebe started up the walk. Her steps were tentative at first, but then she caught sight of her uncle in the window and she hurried on through the front door.

“Uncle Euripides, thank you for coming.” She noticed that the mess had all been cleared away. The bullet-shattered window by the door was the only indication of the violence from the night before, the last bit to prove that anything untoward had transpired. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a police officer?”

“He told me what happened, and I sent him off. Police loitering about my father’s house like it’s some dockfront saloon. Disgraceful.” Euripides Webster noticed Grey in the doorway, and his body gave a slight shudder of distaste.

“And what in the world is
he
doing here?” Euripides looked Phebe over with a suspicious eye. “Most unbecoming. You should have gone directly to my house.”

“Don’t be insulting. Mr. Grey has been nothing but a gentleman. His landlady was kind enough to accommodate me in her rooms for the night. After the trouble here, I was quite shaken. Couldn’t bear the thought of heading out of doors into the night again. It was all very disturbing.”

“Yes, well, the staff is home now, and that window will be fully replaced before lunch. All good as new.” He looked Phebe and Grey over, saw that neither of them was carrying anything, and a frown creased his brow. “So where’s the stone, then? I’ll take it for safekeeping.”

Phebe’s eyes shot from Euripides to Grey, her confusion and disappointment evident.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Grey said. “In addition to its involvement in matters of murder, it is now also a key piece of evidence in the criminal break-in here. The stone will need to be turned over temporarily to the police”

“Unacceptable. Phebe’s not pressing charges in this matter.” Euripides waved toward the broken window. “Therefore there is no criminal matter to pursue. The family property should be returned immediately.”

“Dangerous men break in and threaten your niece’s safety and you wish to exclude the police?”

“I shall see to her safety with privately hired men. Ones who can be counted on without reservation, men without other duties that interfere.”

“Men who would scale mountains and commit cold-blooded murder if you ordered it?” Grey asked.

“What’s he saying, Uncle?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. More of the man’s nonsensical rubbish.”

“During the process of my recovering the thunderstone, a man was shot dead atop Mount Katahdin several days ago. The gunman then tried to kill Chief Jefferson and myself,” Grey explained.

Phebe let out a small gasp and stepped back from Euripides. “That day in your office, you said you’d see him dead before you let him have the thunderstone.”

“What a man might say in the heat of a moment and the truth of him, his actions, are often two very different things, my dear. Something you’d be wise to learn before you get yourself into trouble.” Euripides then threw a spiteful glance at Grey.

“It seems I’m in trouble already, and that I have quite a lot to learn. But right now I need to retire to my room and compose myself. This is all rather too much to consider at the moment. Mr. Grey, please retain the thunderstone for me, for the time being.” She then turned to Euripides with a glare almost as stern as his. “Uncle, we can speak later.”

“Of course,” Grey answered, before adding, “I’ll show myself out.”

“I’ll see to that,” Euripides said.

Phebe made her way up the staircase but paused on the second-floor landing, out of sight of the two men. She listened as the voices moved toward the front door.

“The murder has been reported to local authorities,” Grey said. “They’ll recover the body soon, if they haven’t already. The truth will come out—I mean to see to that.”

“What truth. Some Indian fellow gets a bullet in his brain while out in the middle of nowhere. What can you ever hope to prove, Grey?”

“It was murder. You may just as well have pulled the trigger yourself.”

“It’s your word and that false Indian chief’s against whose? Some unseen person with a rifle. That ought to narrow it down to every single man in the north country. You mean to discover the identity of this mountaintop hunter and then somehow connect his actions to me, all because of a heated comment made to a knife-carrying fraud who invaded my place of business.”

There was a long pause, and Phebe imagined Grey stoically regarding
Euripides. When he spoke, his voice was cold and detached, the opposite of her uncle’s.

“Odd, what you said a moment ago. I don’t remember telling you the man killed was an Indian or where the fatal shot struck him.”

“You’d never be able to prove a thing in a court of law.” Euripides’ voice was laced with venom, as if Grey had leveled an accusation rather than an observation.

“Yes, there is that to consider. Good day, Mr. Webster.”

Grey stepped out, and the door slammed shut behind him.

H
ELEN MARCHED ACROSS THE LOBBY OF THE
P
ORTLAND
Public Library, heading toward the historical society’s office. Her boss, F. W. Meserve, had requested some additional supporting material for his morning appointment with Grey. Helen meant to make quick work of her delivery and then disappear into the library’s stacks for an hour or so. She had no burning desire for another awkward encounter with Perceval. The sting of humiliation was still fresh in her mind.

She tried not to think of the stupid, girlish anticipation she’d felt and whether it had shown on her face when they’d first locked eyes on the sidewalk. A moment later she’d seen the young woman coming down Grey’s steps. The looks on their faces as she approached had raised an alarm. The woman’s evening dress confirmed the worst. But that wasn’t what had left the worst sting in Helen’s pride; her own dress did. She’d spent such time picking out the right dress herself, wanting to make an impression the first time he saw her in a year. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Today she’d dressed plainly. She didn’t plan to see Grey, but if she did, she wouldn’t have him thinking she meant to make any impression on him. Not now.

She turned the knob and entered the historical society. Meserve was not at his seat, so she stepped forward, ready to deposit the folder in something that passed for a clear space on her boss’s desktop. A movement to her side, by the window, caused her to flinch. The sight of Perceval Grey made her stop in her tracks. She held the folder to her body.

“You startled me,” Helen explained with a polite half smile.

“Forgive me.”

“Mr. Meserve asked for these papers.”

“He’s just gone into the back. Should be here again momentarily.”

“Well, I’ll leave these for him, then. Please let him know.” She started toward the desk again, but Grey spoke before she could set the folder down, freezing her in place.

“Mrs. Prescott, about yesterday morning, I feel I ought to explain.”

“Ah, so that’s what you
feel
.” Helen paused to overcome the iciness in her tone that she hadn’t meant to share. “It’s quite unnecessary, Mr. Grey. There’s nothing for you to explain. You were simply escorting a client out of your apartment, albeit in a furtive manner. And despite the early hour, she was clearly still wearing her evening gown from the night before. We’re both adults, and we have no business prying into each other’s private affairs.”

“Still, I don’t want you to think that I … That is, if I’d known you were back in Portland, I would have paid you the courtesy of a visit.”

“Most kind of you, Mr. Grey. But you aren’t obligated. Last night I read again the few letters you sent over the past year. In response to mine. You certainly never promised me anything.”

“That’s true. I only ever meant to show you kindness.”

“I suppose I have no one but myself to blame. Let myself read into your politely worded concerns and regards a warmer depth of meaning. Assumed it was just your naturally formal, aloof manner coming across on the page. But that was foolish of me.”

“You underwent a very trying ordeal. A shared experience like the one we had last summer, culminating with a life-threatening event, naturally produces a powerful, lasting bond. It would be quite understandable for other emotions and feelings to become confused with those produced by our adventure. But the light of day and the passage of time allow us to sort out those feelings, consider them objectively for what they truly are.”

“I suppose that’s all a very roundabout and rational way of saying that you never truly had feelings for me.”

“Mrs. Prescott—Helen—you are an attractive woman with a keen intellect and forthright character; as daring and spirited a lady as I have ever met.”

“But?” Helen watched him pause and struggle for a response.

“Why did you go down to Connecticut and stay away so long?” he asked.

“Is that what happened? You felt abandoned? I invited you to come and visit.”

“No, it’s not that. Please, tell me why you went.”

“For Delia. She was so upset by all that had happened. The change did her good. I needed to take her away.”

“Precisely. And it was the right thing to do. You’re a wonderful mother, and I wouldn’t have expected you to do anything else.”

“She’s the most important thing in the world to me.”

“Of course—I admire your level of devotion. It’s something I fear I could never provide to another. The same undivided devotion I have to my work.”

“Undivided?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said.

“You may have noticed that most bright, talented men manage successful professions and a happy personal life as well.”

Helen paused a moment. She’d cast the thought out as an appeal to common sense. Grey’s dark eyes regarded her from what seemed a great distance. What at first seemed such an obvious answer to the situation she now recognized as a futile effort. She let go of the line, commending that faded hope to the deep. “But then I suppose that doesn’t interest you. The sorts of things that allow other men to find contentment in their everyday, humdrum existence. You’d rather look into those darker hearts, the ones that carry rage and failures and misguided ambitions. Whatever else spurs them on to criminal acts.”

The door to the back room opened, and F. W. Meserve appeared. Though he expected both Helen and Grey, he still looked surprised to see them. He pushed his spectacles up over the bridge of his nose.

“Ah, there you are, Helen. Is that the material?” He reached for the folder in her hand and motioned toward one of the chairs. “I was just about to enlighten Mr. Grey about the details of our findings on Thomas Webster.”

“I do have some other work to get to,” Helen said to Meserve as she slid toward the door. “I’m sure you can manage without me. You’re more familiar with the material anyhow. Mr. Grey,” she added with a curt nod before departing.

Meserve spent the next fifteen minutes going over the historical notes
of William Willis’s
History of Portland
. Behind his thick lenses, his normally beady eyes gleamed with conspiratorial delight. Grey interrupted only occasionally for clarification or to see the documents himself. When Meserve was done speaking, Grey sat silent for a minute with his eyes shut, reflecting on it all.

Finally he stood and drifted toward the window. “There is only one important question concerning the information contained in these marginal notes. Is it true?”

“We have no reason to doubt Willis’s veracity. He was known as a most upright individual, a competent and dedicated historian,” Meserve said.

“Then why didn’t he include the information on Webster in his final historical manuscript?”

“The family remained prominent. Perhaps he didn’t want to slander the man,” Meserve suggested.

“Unlikely. Old Tom Webster comes across as perhaps hotheaded or vindictive against Mowat but mostly as an overly fervent American patriot. The only justification for excluding the references is that they are unconfirmed hearsay. If the information was confirmed, however, then it would paint a most mysterious picture of Thomas Webster.” Grey turned away from the view of the outside world and went to the desk. He picked up one paper after another, glancing at each and setting it aside as he continued to speak.

“Why did Mowat seek him out, only to be taken hostage immediately afterward and have Webster lobby for his hanging? Why would Webster try to kill Mowat with his long-range musket shot at the deck of the
Canceaux
? Did Mowat purposely forgo other ports and raze Portland strictly to get at Webster? Why did Mowat’s first landing party go directly to Webster’s, and, when there, why didn’t they hunt for the man when he fled? Instead they only searched his house, then burned it to the ground.”