A Study in Revenge (3 page)

“Well, I know how you like to form an unbiased opinion of a crime scene, without the rest of us ruining the canvas with our foolish
observations and—what do you call them?—preconceived notions.” Lean allowed himself a smile. Though he knew it was a touch immature and unprofessional, there was an undeniable bit of delight in knowing some elusive fact that Perceval Grey was only able to guess at.

“Still waiting.”

“His name is Frankie ‘the Foot’ Cosgrove. Knew him from those missing teeth—and he lost that ear in a fight years ago.”

“I recognize the name,” Grey said. “Burglar, good with locks and safes.”

“Usually small stuff, though. Nothing worth getting killed over. But he was shot early Sunday morning, the second. Single bullet to the chest. Small service, then they buried him over in Evergreen on Wednesday.” Lean wandered across to stand behind the dead man. He rested a hand on the back of the chair. “I was there in case any of his few friends started mouthing off about him getting shot. Came away empty-handed—or so I thought. Heard they had an open casket at the viewing the day before.”

Grey took in the expression on Lean’s face. “I see. So at least you know for a fact that the late Mr. Cosgrove here went into the ground without a burn mark on him.”

“You’re right, Grey. I didn’t need help in seeing through this ghoulish display.” Lean left the body and slowly approached Grey, gathering his thoughts. “Maybe it’s my lurid imagination getting the better of me. Maybe it’s the smell of the burned body, bringing back memories. It’s hard to get past that. But I can’t help feeling that once again there’s something … 
more
lurking beneath the surface. And what I do need is a clue as to what it all means. Why would someone go to such lengths to desecrate a dead body so horribly?”

O
NLY A FEW SCATTERED VISITORS MEANDERED ALONG THE
manicured pathways that crisscrossed the two hundred–plus acres of Evergreen Cemetery. Grey and Lean stood close to the burial ground’s eastern edge, where a few broad-canopied elms and maples provided a bit of shelter from any prying, morbid eyes. A uniformed officer was also present, watching the two gravediggers haul up the empty remains of Frank Cosgrove’s casket.

The men set it down atop the small mound of freshly turned earth that was supposed to be covering the man’s body for a peaceful eternity. Lean stepped close to get a better look at the plain pine box. The top third of the casket was shattered, and pieces of thin wood littered the area. Scattered about in the dirt and debris were the mangled remains of a wreath of flowers. Lean glanced at the diggers, who had already backed away from the grave. Even the patrolman had a skittish look about him.

“What do you think?” Lean asked.

Grey glanced up, then redirected his attention to the ground. He had one knee in the earth as he gathered up shards of the pine box, trying to fit them together like pieces of some ghoulish mosaic. After a minute, Grey settled on one section of pine board in particular, which he brought to the casket and held in various spots, trying to gauge its original location.

“Here’s our answer.” Grey held the pine board aloft to view it in the sunlight.

“Proof that Cosgrove was as dead coming out of the grave as he was when he went in?” Lean’s loudly voiced question had its desired effect, drawing the patrolman and cemetery workers closer to hear what he knew would be a perfectly rational explanation of the events.

“Of course. Look here: The edges have been deeply scored to weaken the cover, and right here a small, perfectly round cut. Someone drilled
a hole in the casket lid.” Grey then handed the piece of wood to Lean. “Look at the interior of the bore hole.”

Lean raised the board to let sunlight stream through the hole. He saw several thin strands. He plucked one away and held it in front of his nose.

“Rope fibers.”

“Exactly,” Grey said. “The perpetrator covertly placed a rope inside the coffin with one end threaded through this hole. The wreath of flowers decorating the top hid the rope end and also disguised his further tampering. The grave robbers only had to dig a narrow hole into the loose soil of Cosgrove’s fresh grave, recover the end of the rope, and pull. The lid, weakened by cuts, would give way with ease, providing access to Cosgrove’s corpse.”

“Then they could recover the body without digging up the entire coffin, and the shattered lid gave the appearance that Cosgrove somehow crawled out of his grave. Very clever.”

“Makes sense.” A thick reluctance clung to the nearby patrolman’s words.

“Still …” added a digger, who also volunteered a tilt of his head, which comprised the full measure of his insight into the matter.

“Still.” Grey repeated the word like an accusation and gave Lean an incredulous look. “And there you have it. The scheme of our unknown corpsenapper achieves its purpose. An impossible event is disproved, but the belief that it happened still cannot be dislodged from the superstitious mind. People are scared. But who, exactly, is he trying to frighten? And why?”

Lean glanced at the gathered faces. He wanted them to hear Grey’s explanation and so be able to spread the word that the dead body coming out of the grave was definitely a hoax. He did not, however, want them all over town doling out whatever potentially bizarre theory Grey might be about to conjure.

“Let’s walk a bit,” Lean said to Grey.

“Deputy, what about the hole?” the patrolman called after him. “And the box?”

“Leave the hole; we’re going to rebury Cosgrove as soon as Dr. Sullivan’s done with the body. The coffin …” He looked sideways at Grey, who shook his head.

“It’s told us all that it can.”

“Get rid of it,” Lean ordered the diggers.

The ground sloped away in front of them, and they passed a series of grass-covered mounds rising out of the hillside. The front of each mound held the door of a granite-faced vault that looked out over the back end of the cemetery.

Lean broke the silence. “This whole business is a tremendous amount of work for someone to go through, and for what? A grudge against Cosgrove?”

“Seems unlikely. If someone was angry enough at him to dig up his body, burn it, and drag it all the way across the city, why would they have killed him so cleanly in the first place? The single shot to the heart was a rather workmanlike murder. It doesn’t seem motivated by any personal animosity.”

“Could be two totally separate culprits,” Lean offered. “Someone didn’t get his chance to settle a score with Cosgrove before he was killed. Took it out on him afterward.”

“Possible.” Grey had his head bent forward, studying the ground as they walked. “But consider where he was found. Taken from here into the city to be arranged in that abandoned house.”

“There’s nothing interesting about that property.”

“Exactly. It stands to reason that the house was chosen because it would get attention. It provided shelter so that the criminal could make his arrangements, but the place is frequented by tramps and neighborhood kids, ensuring that the gruesome sight would soon be found. And few people spread rumors as quickly and wildly as do drunks or children. Add in the elaborate nature of the hoax: faking burned handprints and such. I suspect that these actions were not aimed at Cosgrove. This was intended for an audience that can appreciate the message—one that’s still with us.”

“A threat, perhaps. At Cosgrove’s killer—someone seeking vengeance,” Lean suggested.

“Or a message
from
the killer, scaring off Cosgrove’s associates or threatening someone else who might have been a part of whatever got the man shot to begin with. All speculation. More facts are needed.”

Ahead the ground evened out, and the men continued on toward a group of four ponds that marked Evergreen’s far boundary. Benches and
arbors adorned a perimeter trail around the three closest ponds. Tiny islands dotted the waters, and short wooden bridges spanned some of the narrow sections. A couple of families with small children loitered about, tossing crumbs to the swarms of geese, ducks, and wayward seagulls that patrolled the water.

“The devilish images and words, dead bodies being moved. It’s hard not to think about the last time,” Lean said.

“Jotham Marsh and his followers. The idea had occurred to me.”

The occult murderer they’d pursued last summer had been a onetime member of Dr. Marsh’s mystical society, the Order of the Silver Lance. Marsh claimed to have previously severed ties with the killer over the latter’s desire to pursue the study of black magic. Lean had found the man to be creepy and somewhat suspicious. Grey had a stronger reaction, thinking that Marsh had some blood on his hands by the time that tragic investigation ended.

“There’s not a shred of evidence that Marsh has any involvement here,” Lean said.

“True,” Grey said. “But I wouldn’t want to delay inquiries in that direction too long. I can’t help but consider how things might have ended differently last year if we’d fully understood the breadth of Marsh’s society. The worst of dangers can arise from unexpected corners. We should never again let Jotham Marsh and his cronies be a surprise.”

The detectives entered onto one of the pond’s walkways, passing through a massive tree crotch overturned so that the two diverging trunks formed a pedestrian archway.

“The only thing that’s sure is that the guilty party needed access to this coffin. You’ll have to talk to the undertaker,” Grey said.

“What, not curious enough to come along?”

“On the contrary, I’m quite intrigued. But I have a prior commitment, one that’s already been postponed twice.”

“How pressing can it be if it keeps getting pushed off?” Lean asked.

“The man’s lack of consciousness has prevented the previous two meetings. I’m told he’s unlikely to last the week.”

“Well, I know when I’m beat,” Lean said. “I’ll let you know what the undertaker has to say.”

T
HE BUTLER MET
G
REY IN THE GRAND ENTRYWAY OF
H
ORACE
Webster’s house and promptly handed over a small envelope.

“This was left for you by Mr. Dyer, the attorney.”

Before Grey could inspect the letter, the butler started walking. Grey slipped the envelope into his pocket and followed, down a wide hallway lined with dark wood paneling, toward a sweeping staircase. Grey noted the fraying edges of the worn rugs and the marble-topped table that held two expensive vases, the flowers wasting away like forlorn prisoners in beautiful porcelain cells. Although the house was well appointed, the décor was outdated. He recalled hearing that Mrs. Webster had passed away many years before; the house missed her touch.

The solid oak door to a side room opened ahead of the butler, who paused at the sight.

“Consider what I’m saying,” said a plaintive voice from inside.

“I’ll consider the source first, and, as usual, that settles the matter.” The second man’s response rattled through the hall like a cannon shot.

“You don’t understand what’s involved here,” the first speaker insisted.

“There’s a blasted fool involved, and more like you lurking behind, no doubt.” A tall, solidly built man with gray hair and a handlebar mustache stormed into the hallway. He nearly barreled into the butler, who neatly stepped aside. The mustachioed man glared at the butler before noticing Grey.

“Who the hell are you?”

The butler cleared his throat. “Mr. Euripides Webster, this is Mr. Perceval Grey.”

As Euripides took closer notice of Grey, his weathered face recoiled
a bit. The man continued to stare, as if Grey’s dark tan complexion were some unspecified transgression that demanded a further explanation.

“It’s true. I’m Perceval Grey.” When that failed to appease Euripides, Grey added, “I was requested.”

“Not by me. It’s the old man that wants to see you. Damned if I know why.” Euripides brushed past, heading for the front door.

“Mr. Grey, I’m Jason Webster.” The first speaker had emerged from the side room, his plaintive voice now amiable. The slender, light-haired man held out his hand. Grey estimated him to be about fifty years old.

“And that whirling dervish of indignation was my older brother.” Jason dismissed the butler with a nod. “I’ll take him up.”

While Jason led Grey upstairs, he said, “I admit I’m equally in the dark about why our father wishes to see you. But, having witnessed how annoyed it makes Euripides, let me just say a thousand welcomes to you, good sir.”

They arrived at a room that held a settee and two separate chairs. On the opposite wall was another door, which opened just as Jason was about to speak. An older man with thick spectacles and a head crowned by only a few meticulously placed strands of hair emerged. The man’s hands were full, but he managed to ease the door closed behind him. In one hand he held a lit taper in a candlestick, which he now blew out.

“How is he, Dr. Thayer?” Jason asked.

“I’ve just given him a sedative.” The doctor held up a syringe as proof of the statement. He set it down on a sterile cloth laid out on a side table next to his leather medical bag. Grey noted the single, pathetic-looking bit of blood, not enough to form a drop, that lingered indecisively at the tip of the needle.

“You should have a minute or two to speak with him, if you wish. Phebe’s inside, trying to get him to eat a little something.” The physician gathered up his belongings, then moved toward the hall. “As I told her, send word if there are any changes. Otherwise I’ll check back tomorrow morning.”

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Grey, I’ll let you enter alone. I don’t like seeing him in this state.” Jason lit the candle again and handed it to Grey, who received it with a puzzled look.

“Sorry, but bright lights bother his eyes,” Jason explained.

Horace Webster’s modest bedroom was dimly lit. Curtains shielded two close-set windows. Apart from Grey’s candle, the only other light in the room was a stub on the bedside table. Horace Webster’s meager form occupied a narrow bed in the corner. Seated beside it was Phebe Webster, who looked up and watched Grey approach. The dark-haired woman held a porcelain bowl of soup on a silver platter, which she now set aside. As Grey neared, he caught hints of chicken broth mingled among the scents of various medicines, most notably camphor. None of these, however, could overcome the stale odor of the old man’s dying body in the poorly ventilated space.