A Study in Revenge (41 page)

Grey paused in the darkness. Only now did he wish he’d called on McCutcheon to join him on tonight’s task, but he hadn’t thought his old colleague would be of any particular use at a library. He thought of the contents of his satchel and formed a plan. He had plenty of paper and even an envelope that would be large enough. What he needed now was a well-lit but inconspicuous spot, maybe an out-of-the-way café where he could complete his new task before setting off to the train station.

G
REY EDGED ALONG THE DARK SIDE OF THE MASSIVE, HANGARLIKE
rail terminal. In his long, dark coat, he knew he’d pass unseen among the construction materials that littered the area. Five minutes earlier he’d observed Leadbetter waiting with a single book in hand near the entrance to the Boston & Maine line. Plenty of others lingered about as well, some of whom could have been the shadowy figure who’d accosted the old minister outside the Athenaeum an hour ago. Grey had paid a scrawny young paper hawker to go inside and verify the track number for the 10:15 to Portland.

He rounded the front of the terminal and peered into the dimly lit hangar. A smoky haze hung above the pigeons loitering in the rafters. Misty halos surrounded the lamps at the platforms and ticket windows far away at the base of the station. Grey stole into the wide-open mouth of the terminal like some Jonah entering the belly of a coal-fed behemoth. He crossed several of the rails that led from the colossal structure as he made his way to the train idling on Track 6 with thin wisps of smoke wafting up from its stack.

He was still early; the Portland train had not yet boarded. Grey clambered aboard at a coupling near the end of the still-vacant locomotive so that he could observe those milling about on the platform. He was met by a frowning conductor, who reminded him that they had not yet issued the boarding call. Grey feigned confusion, motioned to his walking stick, and claimed to need additional time to make his way aboard, owing to a gimpy leg. The unimpressed conductor directed him through the doors to the final car and into a private compartment.

With the room’s gas lamp kept low, Grey peered from the edge of the small window. He saw Leadbetter enter the platform and scan the crowd that milled about, waiting to board. After another minute a rotund
conductor hollered out the first boarding call. A nervous, almost panicked look overcame the former minister. Grey felt sorry for the man as he wandered aimlessly about the platform. Ever since the would-be assassin had tried to shoot him down outside the Seamen’s Bethel, Grey had been noticing familiar figures lurking on the edges of his investigative activities—figures who reminded him of the one who’d waylaid Leadbetter near the Athenaeum earlier. Grey recognized that Leadbetter’s confrontation might have nothing to do with this investigation. A man who’d done enough to get removed from the ministry could have plenty of people who bore him no goodwill. Still, when Leadbetter approached the train, trying to glance up into the compartment windows as he passed, Grey leaned against the interior wall, concealing himself from the old man’s view.

He pulled the shade closed, turned the lamp higher, and settled into his seat. With his eyes closed, he directed his thoughts toward the puzzle of Horsford’s twenty-four symbols and what they could reveal about the meaning of the thunderstone. There was obviously a connection intended. The seven repeated on Old Thomas Webster’s thunderstone represented the seven metals in the alchemist’s process of transforming lead to gold. Horsford’s twenty-four symbols were copied from etchings on a rock near Portland. A rock along the coast would be visible to anyone, but Tom Webster had hidden the thunderstone, meaning it was those seven symbols that mattered most. They were the key to whatever he was concealing. But what did they represent? Just the alchemical elements, or were they a message, a code of letters or numbers? Were the twenty-four just a distraction to hide the seven? That made no sense. Why carve figures into rock if they meant nothing?

The two sets had to fit together. The twenty-four could be the base pattern or alphabet of the hidden message meant for the Webster family heir to the thunderstone. If so, it was an unusual sort of code, in that it contained a single pair of duplicate images. Two “I” symbols were included and placed next to each other. Grey latched onto those two “I” figures as the glaring anomaly, the likeliest key to unlocking this code.

The train sounded its departure and lurched to life, moving slowly away from the terminal. A minute later Grey opened his eyes at the sound of approaching footsteps. He only now realized that during the boarding
process no one had passed by his compartment. In fact, he hadn’t heard anyone else even enter the final car where he was located. His door opened, and Father Leadbetter stumbled into the compartment. Behind him was a stocky man with a flat, mean face and a pistol pointed at Grey.

“Don’t try anything.”

The gunman gave Leadbetter a shove, forcing him onto the seat next to Grey. Then the man eased aside to let two others enter the compartment. Grey instantly recognized Dr. Jotham Marsh and his fawning lackey, Jerome Morse. The two latest arrivals took the opposite seats, facing Grey. The gunman closed the door and remained standing outside, blocking the small window that looked into the railcar’s aisle.

“Father Leadbetter, what a surprise. Friends of yours?” Grey asked.

“He was nice enough to alert us of your intentions as soon as he received your telegraph,” Marsh said.

“Forgive me, Mr. Grey, I had no choice.” Leadbetter’s face was gripped by self-reproach.

Jerome casually drew a pocket pistol. Grey recognized the weapon as a Remington Model 95 double-barreled derringer. Jerome bent forward and confiscated Grey’s walking stick, which had been leaning nearby against the wall.

“Yes, his alternatives were rather limited,” Jerome said.

“A situation not unlike the one you currently occupy,” Marsh added.

Grey glanced at the door and the gunman standing on the other side.

“Don’t worry, Grey, we won’t be disturbed. I’ve made arrangements with the conductor to ensure that we have complete privacy on this car.” Marsh held out a hand. “Now, the pages you copied from Professor Horsford’s unpublished manuscript.”

Grey drew the folded pack of papers from his inside coat pocket and turned them over to Marsh. The older man flipped through the images while his young follower Jerome peered over his shoulder.

“Come, Grey, why don’t you save us all a bit of time and trouble and tell me your conclusions as to the meaning of the symbols. Above and beyond what you’ve already discussed with your esteemed colleague here,” Marsh said, with a nod at Leadbetter.

“Obviously intended as some type of code or cipher, but as to the meaning, I must say I haven’t yet the faintest inkling.”

“That’s most disappointing,” Marsh said. “I was hoping that you might stumble upon the answer I’m looking for and lead me to what I seek. It’s why I let you live this long.”

“Odd. I was sure I was still alive because I’m smarter than you, your incompetent thug can’t aim a pistol from atop a carriage, and furthermore I’m smarter than you,” Grey said.

Jerome scoffed at the last comment. “You said that already.”

“You caught that? Very good.”

Marsh put a hand on Jerome’s arm before the younger man could do anything more than scowl at Grey. “Brash words from a man in your current predicament. But such arrogance is to be expected from one who has so fervently dedicated himself to his misplaced faith in objective reasoning. Yes, you possess an estimable intellect, Grey, but what has it gained you?”

Marsh pulled a silver case from his pocket. He opened it and readied a cigarette. “You scurry about, eyes to the ground, teasing out the little details that reveal their finite secrets, and then you puzzle out the answer to this incident or that crime. Who stole this thing, or who murdered that one wretch or another, as if any of that will ever matter. There are so many grand, universal mysteries that remain hidden from mankind. Yet you’ve devoted a great mind to answering only the little questions about the meager lives and deaths of utterly insignificant people. What a waste.” After a deep drag, Marsh exhaled slowly through his nostrils. The two thin lines reached their nadir, then reversed themselves, rising in smoky tendrils that twirled about his face.

“The real shame of it is that now your intellect has failed you. And on the one occasion when it might actually have answered a question of monumental, even universal, importance. So if you are ignorant of the solution to our little riddle, then you are of no use to me.” Marsh’s tone held no threat; he was merely tossing out a fact.

“Those runes won’t do you any good either,” Grey noted. “They’re only half of the puzzle. And I have the other half.”

“Don’t you think I was careful enough to make a copy of the thunderstone’s seven symbols when I had the chance?”

“Of course,” Grey conceded. “I just wanted you to verify my suspicion that you were behind the original theft of the thunderstone. And
thus also responsible for the related murder of Frank Cosgrove. Disinterring his body and placing the burned corpse on Vine Street was meant to keep prying eyes away from the scene long enough to carry out the necessary excavations in the cellar.”

“In part.” The skin around Marsh’s dour lips spread into a grim smile. “Fear has many uses. Its power upon weak and superstitious minds is not to be underestimated. That one act will continue to serve my purposes long after the specific details of Cosgrove’s death have been forgotten.”

“Yet when the thunderstone yielded no results to you, you handed it away, to throw suspicion down another trail.” Grey saw a flash of annoyance in Marsh’s eyes. Something about giving the thunderstone over to Chief Jefferson rankled him. That hadn’t been Marsh’s idea. Or something about the scheme had gone wrong. “You don’t know what its symbols meant, so you had to keep digging up the cellars of every site ever owned by Thomas Webster.”

“Yes, unfortunately, we had to try things the hard way. Until the contents of Professor Horsford’s book came to my attention.”

“And thus your need for Chester Sears to steal it.”

“Who’d have thought a professional thief could make such a horrific mess of so easy a task?” Jerome said.

“Tell me about the cellars of Thomas Webster’s former properties. What convinced you of the need to dig?” Grey asked Marsh.

“Vitriol, Mr. Grey. Pure vitriol.”

Grey stared, awaiting a further explanation.

“Visita Interiora Terrae Rectificando Invenies Occultum Lapidem,”
Jerome said, then translated himself. “ ‘Visit the interior of the earth and purifying you will find the hidden stone.’ ”

“The motto is from
L’Azoth des Philosophes
, a fifteenth-century work of the alchemist Basilius Valentinus,” explained Leadbetter in a cautious voice. “It’s a reference to the philosopher’s stone.”

“The Great Work,” Grey said.

“Very good, Grey. You do pay attention,” Marsh said.

“Yes, insane statements uttered by a man who looks like he ought to know better do tend to stick in one’s mind.”

Marsh chuckled, a cold and bitter sound. “I’m also glad to see you’ve kept your wit. It makes you slightly less annoying.”

“I … I don’t understand,” Leadbetter stammered. “What’s this to do with the philosopher’s stone?”

“It appears that your old friend thinks he’s close to actually getting his hands on it,” Grey said.

“What? That’s ridiculous,” Leadbetter answered.

Grey watched as Leadbetter stared at him and then turned to study Jotham Marsh’s face. The former minister’s expression flickered from incredulous to stunned, then to appalled.

“Impossible. The stone—the Great Work—it’s not … It’s only a principle, an ideal to be pursued. It can’t actually be obtained!”

There was a hint of genuine disappointment in Marsh’s voice as he spoke to Leadbetter. “You taught me a great many things when I was younger. But the most valuable lesson you had to offer was that a man who abhors greatness will never achieve anything.”

“You can’t achieve something that’s impossible,” Leadbetter said, “that doesn’t exist.”

“You’ve forgotten your history, my poor fellow. The Count de St. Germain uncovered the mystery and completed the work.”

“Anecdotes and rumors—never proved,” Leadbetter said.

“The accounts of his wondrous life are rather convincing,” Marsh said.

“It’s always easy to convince one of something he deeply desires to believe,” Grey said.

“And virtually impossible to convince a man with knowledge that he lacks wisdom. Since I have no need to convince you of anything, Grey, I won’t waste my time trying.” Marsh folded his hands, with a satisfied smile.

For a moment it seemed the man would let the matter lie, but then he could no longer deny himself the luxury of relishing his victory.

“Suffice it to say that there exists in nature a force immeasurably more powerful than anything man can create or you can comprehend. With it a single man, possessing the knowledge of how to direct it, could change the world. This force was known to the ancients, a universal
agent having equilibrium for its supreme and only law. Its control is dependent upon a mastery of the great arcanum of transcendental magic. The Count de St. Germain possessed a device to channel this power, and soon it will be mine.”

The train’s whistle sounded two warning blasts; it must have been approaching a crossing. Grey waited until he was sure no more blasts would follow, then turned to the older man seated next to him.

“Father Leadbetter, didn’t you tell me before that this Count de St. Germain was seen at the various European capitals and royal courts throughout the 1700s?”

“According to various tales and anecdotes. You have to piece them together, since he reputedly operated under assumed names.”

“Until his death in 1784, I believe,” Grey said.

Leadbetter nodded.

“So explain to me, Dr. Marsh, if you’d be so kind, how is it that someone in possession of this supposed philosopher’s stone, this elixir of life, goes about dying?” Grey asked.