A Study in Revenge (32 page)

“Of course,” Lean said as he offered his seat to Helen. “We can catch up later. Perhaps you can stop by for a visit. Emma would be thrilled to have you. She never tires of showing off the new house.”

Helen smiled and nodded her acceptance.

“Anyway,” Meserve said, “I’ve got another bit of news. You wanted
to know about the history of the two properties: the one on Vine and the tailor’s shop on Exchange.”

He stood to reach over his desk and handed a thin folder to Lean.

“I’ve put detailed notes there. But the long and short of it is this: They’ve had various owners and purposes over the years, but there is indeed a connection between the two properties. I had to go back almost a hundred years to find it. In the early 1800s, each was owned by a man named Thomas Webster.”

Lean’s body gave an involuntary start.

“Does that name mean something?” Helen asked.

“Yes. Something I’ve been working on with Perceval Grey. Thomas Webster is more on his side of things. He’ll be very interested to hear this.”

“Well, there’s a bit more,” Helen said. “I haven’t officially started back to work yet, but when Mr. Meserve mentioned he was assisting you on an issue, I volunteered to help.”

“Yes, the name of Thomas Webster rang a bell for me as well,” Meserve said. “But I haven’t yet been able to uncover just where I remember him from. Quite bothersome, actually. So while I was looking into that, I asked Mrs. Prescott to make a check of title records and see what other properties our good old Mr. Webster may have owned.”

“He seems to have been a man of means,” Helen said. “In addition to those two properties, he also owned some pasture land on Munjoy Hill, along where Washington Avenue runs up by the reservoir. I’m still working on the exact location. The old deeds and such aren’t the easiest to work with. Previous to that, in the late 1700s, before he owned any of the other properties on record, he built a house near the corner of Oak and Free streets.”

“So he was here rather early,” Lean said.

“I’ll say,” Helen agreed. “Back in the 1790s, the land above the Oak and Free lot was a potato field. And where the Union Hall now stands was only frog ponds and whortleberry bushes.”

Meserve made a sort of high-pitched humming sound. Lean glanced at the man, who had one hand balled up below his chin while the other was on his desk, fingers tapping anxiously. He looked to be on the edge
of saying something, but Lean grew tired of waiting. He took the pages that Helen handed him and studied the precise location of that early building. He’d need to check that one as well, to see if it had suffered the same unauthorized digging in its basement as the other two properties. “Is that house still there?” he asked Helen.

“It’s still a residence. I’m not certain if it’s the original. And actually, it was just sold four months ago. I put down the new owner’s name there in my notes.”

“Jerome Morse,” Lean read aloud. He felt himself frowning as he struggled with the name. He knew it from somewhere. He’d have to check into it when he got back to the station.

Meserve slapped his hands together, startling Helen and Lean, who stared at him awaiting an explanation.

“I’ve just had a notion—the 1790s, you said. I think I know why I couldn’t get Thomas Webster out of my brain. I’m going to need time to look it all over again. Deputy, might you come back and see me again the morning after tomorrow?”

“Of course, if you think it’s important.”

“Oh, it is,” Meserve assured him. “It will definitely be interesting.”

Lean paused for a moment, noticing how Meserve had replaced the criterion of “important” with his own selection of “interesting.” This could end up being some sort of historical footnote that would fascinate Meserve but prove of little worth to anyone else. Still, he assured the historian and Helen that he would see them again two mornings from then.

T
HE TRAIN NORTH HAD CARRIED
G
REY AS FAR AS
B
ANGOR
, where he disembarked before it would veer east for Canada’s Maritime Provinces. From Bangor a decent upland road followed the east branch of the Penobscot River. The first part of the journey was pleasant enough, passing through picturesque landscapes. Grey took note of islands in the Penobscot belonging to the Indian tribe of that name, where he was happy to see some thrifty-looking homes and farms. He traveled under the name of Poulin, his father’s name. Formally speaking, his father’s people were Abenaki, but the two groups had always been allied, and 250 years of struggles with Europeans had eased the distinction even further. They were all Wabanaki, the People of the Dawnland. The Poulin name and Grey’s physical appearance had the desired effect of gaining the trust and help of the local Penobscots he met along the way. A few remembered his father, including the older fellow who agreed to serve as guide to Mount Katahdin. Others were able to confirm that Chief Jefferson and another fellow had passed through no more than a day ahead of Grey.

The last fifty miles of the journey to the base of the mountain more than made up for the ease of the earliest legs. Their cart had to pass over many long stretches of old, poorly maintained tote roads used by loggers, which often resembled roads in name only. They crossed fords and swamplands, where logs laid crosswise formed what his guide called a “corduroy turnpike.” All the while the stark, weather-beaten figure of Katahdin loomed before them. The top formed a bare and jagged plateau. Below there its sides rose sharply, dark except where avalanches and slides had left pale scars on the precipitous slopes. Katahdin had no companions, no surrounding foothills to lessen the solitary dignity of its
presence. It was a stone kraken, miles wide, thrusting itself up to rule over a wild and coniferous sea for hundreds of miles around.

His guide led Grey to the old Hunt farm, where he could spend one last night in an actual bed. Then three days of steady forest walking brought them to the base of the mountain, where Grey instructed his guide to wait. The solo journey to the top consisted of a grueling trek through stunted pines that gave way to great granite boulders spilled in endless drifts down the mountainside.

Grey kept his head up as he approached the higher ridges of Katahdin. Once there, he found a stretch of ground that was still rocky but fairly level. The past several hours of climbing and scrambling had gained his feet a sort of familiarity with the mountain terrain. Less intense scrutiny was required now when planting his steps. He was well above tree line and no longer shielded from the full force of the winds atop Katahdin. A thick layer of light gray clouds covered the sky, with only occasional patches of sunlight fighting through to the stark landscape. With the strain of the climb behind him, he felt the sweat cooling on his body.

He looked around, taking in the magnificent panoramas that were partly obscured as occasional low clouds swooped by. Two thousand feet below, he saw an endless forest, mostly evergreens with occasional light patches of hardwood growth, all punctuated by lakes and ponds and streams meandering off in the distance.

He marched on, moving up what he took to be the final rocky ascent to the summit. Below him, off to his right, a wide expanse of tableland stretched away, covered in sections by a short but dense growth of piney brush. Much of the great windswept plateau was littered with small boulders that seemed to have fallen from the sky in some ancient hailstorm of granite. The prevalence of lichen, moss, and other pale, fragile plants was enough that a person might be forgiven for thinking he’d somehow wandered into a strangely misplaced stretch of the Arctic tundra.

The summit was more clearly discernible from a distance, but even then it helped if a climber knew exactly what he was looking at. Katahdin was not a classically shaped and peaked mountain. With its bowllike cirques carved out by glacial movements, it resembled an ancient, blasted volcano, leaving a very roughly crescent configuration. A series
of ridges ran along the top, dipping and rising to create more than one peak along the way. But ahead, amid various jagged outcroppings, he spied a small stone cairn that he took to be the work of prior adventurers marking the mountain’s official summit.

On his ascent he’d seen Chief Jefferson and his partner far ahead of him, but now they were gone. Grey paused and scanned the space ahead of him. It took only a few seconds for him to spot the regular puffs of smoke rising from behind a midsize boulder. Grey assumed that his approach had been observed at some point during his climb, but in case he had the fortune to still go unnoticed, he took more care with his steps as he approached the peak. He knew he was outnumbered and did not want to announce his presence any sooner than necessary. Chief Jefferson and his accomplice were not simply going to hand over the thunderstone with a smile and best wishes. Grey slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and let his fingers settle into place around the grip of his revolver as he approached the summit.

He rounded a jutting piece of rock and stopped at the sight of Chief Jefferson, smoking a pipe and looking somewhat out of place for the late nineteenth century. The man wore rugged boots and heavy woolen trousers. A traditional Indian deerskin shirt topped the outfit. He was sitting on a flat piece of rock with a small mirror set up before him. His head was bare except for a thin band stretched across his crown. The man’s long, graying hair was pulled back in a tail. In one hand he cradled a large clamshell that held a gooey black mixture. Another shell holding red dye sat next to the mirror. Chief Jefferson had already covered his face in a layer of the red and was now using the fingers of his other hand to apply an overlying series of black markings.

The chief set the shell down, removed his lit pipe, and smiled. “I thought that might be you following us. Few others have the poor sense to come all the way up on a day like this.”

Jefferson glanced at where Grey’s hand rested inside his coat pocket.

“Please, Mr. Grey, there’s no need of that. You can see I am not armed. Katahdin is sacred ground. I would not shed blood here.”

“Where’s your partner?” Grey asked, not yet releasing his grip on his gun.

“About somewhere,” Chief Jefferson said with a nonchalant wave, “gathering up certain herbs and whatnot for the ceremony. You may as well have a seat. He’s likely to be a while. Good man, but not the speediest fellow.”

“I’ll stand, thank you. I don’t mean to stay long.” Grey spotted a blanket folded over a bulging object by the chief’s side. He left his gun in his pocket and pointed at the concealed item. “The thunderstone, I presume. It is stolen property. You understand I need to take it back. Now, if you only require the use of the stone for a brief ceremony and are then willing to relinquish it, we needn’t have any difficulty.”

Chief Jefferson smiled at Grey and puffed some more on his pipe. “That is most kind of you, Mr. Grey, and I certainly agree it is stolen property. But I’m afraid the stone belongs here on the mountain, the home of Pamola, and this is where I mean to see it remain.”

A click sounded to Grey’s rear right—a hammer being drawn back. He glanced over and saw Chief Jefferson’s comrade, a short, skinny, middle-aged Abenaki man. A long face with a prominent nose stared at Grey over the top of a hunting rifle.

“What happened to this being sacred land and not shedding blood?” Grey asked in the chief’s direction.

“That would certainly be our preference, Mr. Grey. We have no desire to see you harmed. But if push comes to shove, I’m sure the spirits would see it as the lesser of two evils. Better than letting the Stone of Pamola get stolen a second time,” Chief Jefferson answered. “Now, if you don’t mind too much, how about dropping that pack you’re carrying.”

Grey lifted the strap over his neck and, remembering the telescope inside, gently lowered it to the ground.

“And now that gun from your right pocket. Toss it here.”

Grey did as he was told. Jefferson relieved his companion of the hunting rifle but kept it aimed at Grey.

“Grab that length of rope you brought, Louis. Tie his hands behind him and find something to set him tight to.”

The short man took a long rope from his own pack and proceeded to tie Grey’s wrists behind his back, leaving a length of cord free on each end. After that he had Grey sit up against a tall, thin rock jutting out from a ledge. Louis fastened the loose ends of the rope around the back
of the rock, securing them tightly below a notch so that Grey couldn’t shimmy the rope up over the top and free himself.

“That’s not too tight, is it? Not cutting into your skin?”

“No, not too bad.” Grey said. The man was still looking at him with a smile, so Grey added, “Well done.”

“I’ve had lots of practice. Sometimes in the traveling shows, I’ll tie up a woman, you know, as a hostage when we stage the battle, and the white cowboys ride in to save her and all that. Course, your wrists are a bit larger than a woman’s.”

“Good to know. I’ll take comfort in that while I’m tied up here against my will. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis said with a nod before walking over to join Chief Jefferson, who began to apply a series of red and black stripes and dots to the man’s face.

Grey was left staring out over the mountain’s enormous and roughly cone-shaped basin. Far below him, down thousands of feet of ledges, boulders, and rockslides, sat a pond that had formed over the ages at the bottom of the cirque. From this great height, it seemed little more than a still, dark puddle. On a sunny day, it probably sparkled a brilliant blue, but not under today’s overcast sky.

He had to crane his neck to the right to see what Jefferson and Louis were doing. The thunderstone was set on what looked like a naturally occurring perch. Chief Jefferson kindled a small fire on a flat rock that lay in front it.

“I assume you would have killed me already if you meant to?” Grey asked.

“I spoke the truth, Mr. Grey. I mean you no harm.”

“But am I to understand that you intend to leave the thunderstone here on the mountain?”