The Truth of All Things (44 page)

T
he next afternoon, Lean held on to Owen’s hand as they moved through the confines of the alley below Fore Street. He guided the boy around puddles of rainwater and the city’s other runoff that pooled among the uneven paving stones. They passed windows covered with steel shutters, remnants from half a century earlier, when Fore Street had snaked along the waterfront and the buildings facing the wharves were protected with steel shutters against the prows of ships docked too close. That was before the massive filling-in of the waterfront to create Commercial Street and link the railroad terminals at the western and eastern ends of town.

Father and son went around a corner and slid past the few outside tables of Ruby’s Café. The large front windows were open, and Lean saw Grey seated inside, far enough back so the sun reached his tabletop but left him shaded. Lean steered Owen over to Grey’s table. The boy’s eyes moved from Grey to the untouched slice of blueberry pie on the table, apprehension turning to curiosity.

“Hope you don’t mind.” Lean nodded toward his son. “Emma needed a rest.”

Grey shook his head. “Not at all.”

Lean ordered coffee for himself, milk and a ginger cookie for Owen. “Why the change of scenery?”

“My charming landlady, Mrs. Philbrick, insisted I leave so she could clean the premises.”

“There must have been threats of bodily harm.”

“On both sides,” Grey said.

Next to Grey’s coffee, Lean saw a thin volume opened to an article entitled “Properties of the Proteids of Abrus Precaratorius Seeds.”

“What’s that book?”

Grey held it up so that Lean could see the cover of the May 1889
New England Pharmacological Journal
.

“How long until she allows you back in?”

“Three o’clock,” Grey said. “Though I doubt she’ll need even half that time. Just kept yammering on about me getting some fresh air and sunlight.”

“You do look pale.”

“You probably consider that a compliment.”

“Have you been sleeping at all?” Lean asked.

“Enough.”

“Well, I hope your deprivations are at least proving worthwhile.”

“They are indeed.” Grey held up his hand, from which dangled the red-and-black seed necklace he’d purchased from the little girl outside the cathedral.

“Is that a magic necklace?” Owen asked, his eyes fixated on the shiny seeds.

“Perhaps,” Grey answered, “if you consider poisoning someone to be magic.”

Owen’s expression turned to a dubious glare. “Are you going to poison someone?”

“Of course not, Owen. Mr. Grey is just teasing,” Lean said. “So what is that?”

“
Abrus precatorius
. Also known as Indian licorice, the rosary pea, or jequirity bean. Native to India, where it is used in decorative necklaces. It’s also boiled and eaten—cooking destroys the toxins. It’s poisonous only if the seeds are broken and ingested raw. They’re used medicinally for everything from a contraceptive to an aphrodisiac, emetic to laxative. Also said to cure snakebites, gonorrhea, malaria, and night blindness. The root is used to induce abortion, while the juice from a paste of the leaves and seeds can treat the graying of your hair.”

“The original Indian cure-all. Explains why Old Stitch kept it around,” Lean said.

“And why someone else bothered to collect her seeds.”

Owen finished his cookie, then dug two wooden soldiers from his pocket. “Agghh! Poison necklace, I’m dying.”

“Not at the table, Owen.” Lean turned his attention back to Grey. “Do you suppose those seeds are what killed Stitch herself?”

“Possibly. The effects are evident within hours to days. Abdominal pain, nausea, burning of the throat, lesions of the mouth and esophagus. The worst dangers are severe vomiting and diarrhea, which lead to dehydration, convulsions, and shock that can be fatal. The toxin, abrin, can also have a direct toxic effect on the kidneys and liver. An infusion of the seeds can cause conjunctivitis by contact. Ingestion of just one or two seeds can be fatal.”

“Mom said I could have pie,” Owen informed the table.

“No she didn’t. You had a cookie. You don’t need pie, too.”

Grey slid the plate toward Owen.

The boy reached for it, but Lean’s hand landed atop Owen’s before the pudgy fingers could seize the edge of the plate.

“But he said I could have it,” the boy whined.

“Yes he did. But I’m your father. You get permission from me.” The two of them stared at each other until Owen looked away, resentment clear upon his face.

“All this over pie,” Lean said. “Why’d you even order the blasted thing?”

“Mrs. Philbrick seems to think I’m rather sickly. Made me swear on her Bible I would get some fresh air and order something to eat.”

“And you actually stuck to your oath and ordered, even though you have no intention of eating the pie. Never figured you for a Bible pounder. Pegged you as an atheist.”

“Does it matter?”

Owen knocked one of his soldiers off the table. The boy slipped out of his chair and disappeared under the table.

“Owen, come out from under there. Owen, do you hear me?” Lean glanced about to see if anyone was watching. He cast his eyes skyward. “A girl. Please let the next one be a girl. Two boys will be the death of me.”

Lean noticed Grey smirking at him and decided to ignore the boy under the table. “Let’s return to the business at hand.”

“Of course,” said Grey. He reached into a coat pocket and retrieved a letter. “Arrived by courier this morning from Boston.”

Lean glanced at the opened envelope. “McCutcheon. More news of the colonel’s son—what’s he say?” He glanced about to make sure no one would overhear as Grey read the summary of the struggle in Geoffrey Blanchard’s hotel room and McCutcheon’s pursuit to the railroad tracks.

“A blond-haired man following the colonel’s son. Simon Gould?” Lean said.

“Quite possible. First he’s ransacking the library in search of an old tome on witchcraft. Intent enough to find it that he was ready to employ violence against our intrepid Mrs. Prescott. Now he’s monitoring our favorite lunatic inmate’s whereabouts.”

“Geoffrey Blanchard is the connection between our investigation and Helen’s incident at the library after all.”

“We’re guilty of being so focused on our own inquiry we ignored the obvious clue as to someone else’s curiosity in the same subject that now confounds us.”

“But what exactly was Gould searching for in the library that has any connection to Geoffrey Blanchard?” Lean asked.

“I’m hopeful that we’ll have an answer soon. I received a note from Mrs. Prescott this morning. Her boss, Meserve, has information on that mysterious page from the stove at Lizzie Madson’s. He says it’s from some fabled book on black magic.”

“And Gould actually thought he’d find something like that sitting on the library shelves?”

“It shows they don’t know exactly what it is they’re looking for. Gould sought Mrs. Prescott’s help in finding an old book on witchcraft. He could not offer a name, an author, or a description. They don’t know the details. They know only that there is a book they must find. The temperance union’s understanding of the case is less complete than our own.”

Lean shook his head. “
We’re
searching for clues to when and where the killer will strike next. Why are
they
looking for it? The only clear motivation we’ve seen on the colonel’s part has been to hide his delusional son away from the public’s gaze.”

“The incident in the library was right after Maggie Keene’s death. The first local murder, the first they would have heard of. Something about that murder must have alarmed them. The details were certainly distinctive enough.”

“They realize that Geoffrey is involved. They know something of his interest in the occult; perhaps he’s mentioned a book on witchcraft.” Lean let the implications churn and shift in his mind.

“Are you talking about witches?” Owen’s muffled voice rose up from beneath the table with great enthusiasm.

“Course not,” Lean assured him in a firm tone.

“I suspect they’re not looking for the book because they want information,” Grey said. “They want to hide it. Something about the book threatens them. It must contain some sort of incriminating evidence. Something linked to these murders.”

Lean nodded. “The same as Boxcar Annie. They paid McGrath plenty to keep her tucked away. Perhaps her description of the killer sounded too much like Geoffrey Blanchard.”

“Gould’s not the type to ever crack and confess, and Boxcar Annie will never reveal her secrets. But there’s still the book. If no one could ever read it, no one could know that there’s any connection between all these killings. No connection means no case to investigate, and so Geoffrey Blanchard will never be arrested or ever prosecuted unless
he’s caught red-handed. That’s why Gould was in Danvers. Making sure Geoffrey doesn’t get into trouble.”

Lean considered that for a moment. “Do you suppose Gould was ready to silence Geoffrey for good to prevent him from committing another murder?”

Grey’s head tilted as he mulled over the possibility. “That may explain the skirmish in Blanchard’s hotel room. It seems extreme, but it would ensure there was no public scandal tying Geoffrey Blanchard to the murders—and no resulting drought of donations to the temperance union’s coffers.”

“If we can get evidence of Gould’s involvement in any of this, we may be able to force the colonel’s hand as to Geoffrey Blanchard’s activities,” Lean said.

“Of course, he’ll insist that nothing be made public.”

“I don’t care if it’s made public,” Lean said, “so long as we can stop the killer.”

“Agreed. Though if Geoffrey Blanchard is our killer and the colonel’s been concealing evidence of his son’s crimes, then he’s allowed additional murders to occur.…”

Lean and Grey regarded each other for a long moment. In his mind Lean was weighing what he knew against what he could possibly hope to prove if Geoffrey Blanchard or his father were ever brought before a jury.

Grey raised his cup of coffee in salute to Lean, smiled, and took a sip. “They’re waiting for us at the historical society. Perhaps it’s time for you to return the boy home.”

U
pon entering the research room of the historical society, Lean and Grey greeted Helen and her boss. “Thank you for agreeing to help us with this matter,” Lean said to F. W. Meserve. “I hope you’ve
got some ideas, because the story of this burned page is a complete riddle to us.”

“A riddle?” Meserve’s eyes glowed. “Ha! Why, that’s exactly what I think. A very specific riddle indeed. If my theory is correct, this is the start of what has been called the ‘Riddle of the Martyrs.’ I must say, gentlemen, the page you’ve sent me is the most incredible. I don’t know where to begin.”

“At the outset would be fine,” Grey said.

Meserve took several deep breaths, his bulbous frame trembling with the effort to constrain his excitement. “There is a book whose title translates to something like the ‘Black Book of the Secret Journeys of the Great Mage Arrelius,’ or just the ‘Black Book.’ It was reportedly written by a dark wizard named Jacobus Arrelius. In it, he chronicles his travels from England to the Holy Land during the Crusades. He studied magic and alchemy while in Arabian lands and supposedly died there. Tortured and killed as a heretic.”

“Do you have a copy of this Black Book?” Lean asked.

“Heavens no. It’s the source of many rumors and stories, but I’ve never even been sure that it actually exists. I researched it a few years ago in connection with another project of mine. I’ve only ever found veiled references to it. Anyway, the book is not so special for what Jacobus Arrelius originally wrote. That part is said to be something of a mishmash of standard incantations and whatnot. What makes the book so infamous is an addendum from the early 1600s. A descendant of Jacobus reportedly copied the original text but made several alterations, including, somewhere in the body of the work, a most dreadful and powerful spell. He called it the Riddle of the Martyrs.”

“What’s so dreadful about it?” Lean asked.

“Its purpose was supposedly to raise the spirit of Jacobus, who had died four hundred years earlier. But it was not just your regular séance-type spirit visit we’re talking about. Legend has it the spell actually produced Jacobus into the living flesh. A full and complete conjuring of an actual live person. Literally raising the dead. And this could be accomplished only by a series of human sacrifices.”

“And you think this is it?” Grey asked.

Meserve’s head bobbed up and down. “Oh, yes, I daresay I do. Look again at the page you sent me.” He fumbled through a series of papers until he produced the photograph. “It says here, ‘In the first month of my travels in service of the ascension of my Master, James …’ Given the date in the early seventeenth century, this could be taken as a reference to King James—himself a noted devotee of the study of demonology. But the clincher is here in the handwritten note to the side. Barely legible. Someone has given Master James the surname of Arrelan.”