The Truth of All Things

by Kieran Shields

  “Quite an opening,” Dr. Steig said.

  “Most of what follows is less dramatic,” Scribner said. “Much in the way of geographical references, astrological notes, personal observations, mad rantings against those he claims are attempting to prevent his mission. It’s only later that the author actually provides examples of what some have interpreted as actual incantations and spells and whatnot. Some of them of the most sinister and godless nature. If you look further back— What …?”

  Scribner turned the pages, in disbelief at first, then faster, flipping through the book with far less care than he had previously displayed. Helen saw that the pages had been blotted out. It looked as if they had been soaked in water until the words had drained off the paper, leaving behind only mottled, discolored blurs of ink. Scribner stopped at a spot where only the edges of the pages closest to the binding remained. These had been cleanly cut.

  “Gone.” Scribner’s voice was barely audible, his thoughts stillborn, the words disappearing into the air.

  “How … I mean, who could have done this?” Dr. Steig asked.

  “Yes, who would have had access?” asked Helen.

  “The registry.” Scribner dashed from the room.

  Helen instantly produced a pencil stub and piece of notepaper from her handbag and began to transcribe the book’s opening statement.

  “Helen?”

  “It’s a clue,” she said, not looking up from the book. “Meserve said the riddle was added four hundred years after the original. The introduction mentions the time of the fourth cycle, and if the servant fails, the next is called for as the circle comes around again. Centuries. The sacrifices have to occur on a centennial of the death of this maser wizard. It’s been two hundred years since Burroughs died.”

  “Well done, Helen. That’s wonderful.”

  “Hurry, Uncle, before he gets back. Count off the pages—which ones were cut out?”

  Dr. Steig fingered his way through the book, determining that pages fifty-three and fifty-four had been removed from the binding.

  After another two minutes, Scribner reappeared with a red cloth-bound book. “The registry to the reserved archives. Sign-in is required and monitored by one of the librarians on duty. There’s no way to tell which volume any of the visitors used. But the Black Book is kept under lock, anyway. No one would be given permission without my knowledge.” Scribner laid the book open in front of them. “It could take forever to question all these students and to track down any other visitors.”

  “Their addresses are listed,” noted Dr. Steig.

  “But what are the chances he would use his proper address or his real—” Helen stopped short, then ran her finger up the names listed on the page. She reached the top line, then flipped to the previous page. Halfway up she halted.

  Dr. Steig read the name next to Helen’s fingertip. “George Jacobs, Salem Village. Salem, yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “The city of Salem is one thing, but Salem Village doesn’t exist anymore. That area’s been called Danvers for about a hundred years now. And George Jacobs was one of the five men hanged for witchcraft back in 1692, when it was still called Salem Village.”

  Scribner suddenly stirred from his shock-induced trance. “We’ll simply have to request that we be allowed to produce another copy.” He stared at them, oblivious to their discussion. “The two of you could serve as witnesses that this copy was utterly destroyed by some vandal. I could send a letter with you this afternoon and come up there to the cathedral myself at the end of the week.”

  “To Portland? But why?” Helen asked.

  “The original copy, of course …” Scribner’s voice trailed off, and a fevered look danced in the man’s eyes as he realized the confidence he’d just revealed. “I assumed you knew.”

  When he first saw them, ten minutes earlier, Bishop Healy assumed that his visitors had come to confirm the August 18 meeting agreed to by Father Coyne. Now the bishop sat behind his large maple desk, his hands spread wide in a posture of utter disbelief. “I simply don’t know what to say, gentlemen. The idea has rather a fantastic ring to it. A centuries-old tome on demonology secretly handed down over the generations and hidden here in the cathedral.”

  “Our sources at Harvard tell us a copy was made from the original that was housed here.” Lean absentmindedly held up the telegram he’d received from Helen in Cambridge just over an hour before.

  “But that copy was destroyed?” the bishop said.

  “Yes.”

  “So you haven’t actually seen this rumored book.” Bishop Healy raised his eyebrows but did not wait for a response. “Gentlemen, if such a book did exist, and if Harvard had obtained a copy, then you must be misinformed. Perhaps they were not allowed to divulge the true location of the source material. I can assure you the Catholic Church does not make it a habit to secretly maintain a library of black-magic textbooks.”

  “Not a habit,” Grey said, “just this highly unusual and very singular incidence of the Black Book—which, I’ve noticed, you have yet to actually deny possessing.”

  “A denial hardly seems required.” Bishop Healy fixed a hard stare on Grey. “The whole story is absurd. I mean, why on earth would we keep such a text here within our walls?”

  “Protection,” Lean said.

  “The Church has no interest in protecting such volumes.”

  “Not even as a curiosity? A point of study?”

  “Witchcraft is not considered a valid intellectual pursuit by the Church.”

  “Then perhaps for the opposite reason: to protect anyone else from the dangers that the book holds. It is said to contain the most vile and unholy of rituals. The invocation of demons and a method for achieving the embodiment in the flesh of some form of evil spirit or witch.”

  Bishop Healy shook his head. “And if we were holding such an evil book as you say, to keep it safely hidden away, then why would I do that very thing we are supposedly guarding against? By revealing its existence, I would be risking that the people exposed would … what? Be corrupted, and then … attempt to perform the diabolical rituals?” Bishop Healy released a nervous chuckle.

  “With all due respect, Your Excellency, this really is a matter of the gravest concern,” Grey said. “It cannot be taken so lightly.”

  “And with all due respect to you gentlemen, I do not need to be reminded of the importance of my duties as bishop. As I’m sure you understand, Mr. Grey, there have been some who have questioned my abilities rather vigorously for no other reason than my ancestry and the color of my skin. I have always taken it as a given that I had to show extra diligence in the performance of my duties. I can assure you that I have never taken my obligations lightly. And that is something that any member of my congregation would gladly confirm.”

  “We’re sorry, Your Excellency. There was no offense intended,” Lean said.

  Grey nodded. “I for one certainly do not doubt your commitment, Bishop Healy, or that you have completely earned your congregation’s utmost affection and respect, even those who were initially skeptical because of your complexion. I suspect I am even more familiar with the issue than you. You minister to those who accept that your purpose is to guide them toward the light. I, on the other hand, serve as a guide to those dark places in this world where a soul goes only in the most dire of circumstances. Our current situation is one of those times.” Grey paused and fixed his gaze on the bishop’s eyes. “Someone has, in fact, seen this book. And that man, a deranged murderer, is actually attempting to carry out a ritual requiring multiple human sacrifices.”

  Bishop Healy’s body went rigid. He glanced at Lean, hoping to see that this was some bizarre jest.

  Lean nodded. “There have been three killings, Your Excellency. Maggie Keene was the second. Before that, a woman in Massachusetts was disemboweled and her unborn child cut from her womb. Most recently a woman was drained of her blood.”

  The bishop was silent for a long moment. When he did speak, i
t was little more than a whisper. “I haven’t heard of these other murders.”

  “They have been committed in such ways as to hide their true significance,” Grey said.

  “What matters now is that the killer will strike again in a matter of days,” Lean added.

  “Without the same book to use as a reference, we won’t know where he intends to strike. We’ll be helpless to stop him. Another woman will die a most gruesome death.”

  “This is true?” Bishop Healy had regained most of his volume, but a vein of uncertainty had crept into his solid, confident tenor. “There’s actually someone murdering women as part of some satanic ritual?”

  “Yes,” Grey said, “and he will continue.”

  Another long silence followed, and Lean watched the shocked face of Bishop Healy as the man digested it all. Lean could see he was bending under the weight of their horrific news. It was time to throw him a lifeline. The same one they were already clinging to. “Please help us stop him. There’s still time, but we need that book.”

  Bishop Healy leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers in front of his chin as he considered all this. “You must understand, if there was some book here that was being held in secrecy” — he paused, measuring his words — “and if I had sworn to keep that evil book locked away from the world, I could not break any such solemn vow.”

  “But—”

  Bishop Healy held up a hand to interrupt Lean’s objection. “If any such book were held under lock and key in our library, I wouldn’t simply be able to hand that over to you.” The bishop rubbed his temples and thought the matter over some more before adding, “And I couldn’t allow any such book ever to leave the premises. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Grey handed a dime to the conductor to cover both their fares on the horse car. They stood at the rear of the trolley, away from the other passengers.

  “That’s as close an invitation to breaking in as we’re ever likely to get,” Lean said.

  “It would still be against the law.”

  Seconds slid by as Lean’s mind navigated the shoals of Grey’s unexpectedly conservative response. “Are you serious? After all this, and knowing what’s bound to happen next, you’d stand by and do nothing because it’s against the law?”

  “I wasn’t talking about me. You, however, are an officer of the law. If I was caught, Bishop Healy would not press charges. An act of charity from an indisputably charitable man. Marshal Swett and Mayor Ingraham, on the other hand … Your police career would be finished.”

  Lean struggled for a retort, an argument in favor of his active involvement in obtaining the missing pages of the Black Book. Even as he did, thoughts of Emma slipped past the pickets in his mind to reach that place where common sense still held a piece of high ground over the bloody battlefield of this case. She was patiently, and for the most part quietly, awaiting the day they would be able to buy a house of their own. If he were suddenly sacked, or even demoted, it would be a crushing blow. Lean’s blood cooled and began to flow north again, from his gut to his brain. He directed his attention outward, to the world that trickled past as the horse pulled the trolley car southwest, along Congress Street.

  Lean ran the situation through his mind a half dozen times as the car trudged along. Finally he settled on a compromise. He couldn’t risk being involved in the break-in at the cathedral, but he could happen to be nearby in case an alarm was sounded. That way, he could be first on the scene and assist Grey’s escape, if possible.

  “What’s your plan, then?” Lean waited. “Grey.”

  Grey stared into the distance as the car moved on, passing by the open space of Lincoln Park, originally called Phoenix Park when it was built as a firebreak after the Great Fire of ’66.

  “Hmm? Oh, it would be best if you could claim total ignorance of my actions. Though a glance into the cells first thing tomorrow might be appreciated. Just in case things go awry and some Roman Catholic patrolmen decide they ought to be violently offended by my efforts.”

  Before Lean could offer any further objection, Grey shifted around at the back of the car, muttered something about making preparations, then hopped down from the slow-moving trolley and made his way to the sidewalk without a glance back.

  A few minutes after midnight on Thursday, August 18, Sam Guen was finally rewarded. He felt the last of the tumblers click. He opened the door to the dark walnut bookcase.

  “There’s nothing in here.” The disappointment had caused his voice to rise above a whisper, and he quickly corrected himself. “Nothing but books.”

  “It’s a bookcase,” said Grey as he scanned the contents. “What were you expecting?”

  “Something better than books.”

  Grey reached in and carefully removed a thin book of black leather. “You can’t put a price on knowledge, Guen.”

  Guen moved across the floor. “Exactly. You don’t know how much to sell it for. The fence will rob you blind. Not worth the effort of stealing it in the first place.” He listened at the door for any hint of movement outside the room.

  Grey chuckled. “We’re not stealing it.” He drew the curtain on the window, lit the lamp on the writing desk, and produced a blank page from his coat pocket.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Grey?”

  “Making a copy of the information I need.”

  “But we should be going. Just take the book.”

  “The book is a secret. No one knows it’s here, and I’ve been asking the priests about it recently. It wouldn’t take long for the police to be at my door. I don’t need to make enemies of the police or the Catholic Church.”

  “Breaking in here, picking the lock, just to read a book? I don’t understand why you do this.”

  “But you understood how. And so long as I continue to understand why, you will always remain a very useful and well-paid man.”

  Mr. Grey had not bothered to look up. Guen knew he would get no more of an answer. He closed his eyes; his hearing always seemed more focused in complete darkness. It also saved him the anguish of watching Mr. Grey slowly copy the page from the black leather book. Guen pressed his ear to the door again and silently willed the hallway outside to remain free of any approaching footsteps. Yes, he knew how, that was true enough. Still, if he went to jail or died for this, and had to explain himself later, it would be nice to know why.

  At nine in the morning, Lean stood by the windows in Dr. Steig’s consultation room, his hands clutching the transcribed page behind his back, waiting as the maid set out coffee for four, then took her leave. He brought the paper around front, then glanced at the faces of the doctor and Grey, who sat waiting for him to begin. He had already pored over the page, familiarizing himself with the contents and with Grey’s hurried but neat handwriting.

  “ ‘In the fourth month and the last of my travels, I came to Smyrna and the end of my journey, where on the day the Master died, where his blood flowed. There, by the light of the firebrand, I could see the father who would not burn. He asked me would I quench the flames, and with blood I did. There the fourth, there the last offering taken. There was the cup finally emptied, and there was the vessel held ready for the Master once more.’ ”

  The silence that followed was interrupted by the sound of an arrival in the front hall. Seconds later Helen rushed into the room, dropped her handbag on the table, and let out a sigh.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” Dr. Steig leaned forward at his desk, studying his niece intently. “You look rather fatigued.”

  “Well, I did receive a surprisingly early note this morning requesting some immediate research.” Helen shot an accusing glance at Grey.

  “I do apologize. Though I should hope if my life ever depended on it, you wouldn’t mind losing a few hours of sleep.”

  “We’ll see,” mumbled Helen. Then, in a stronger voice, she stated, “Here’s what I found. Information on the actual Salem executions. So will he strike next in Salem? What does the next page say?”

>   “It provides the three crucial pieces of information we were lacking,” Grey said.

  Lean handed Helen the copy and let her digest it.

  “It’s the end of his journey,” Dr. Steig said. “The final killing will be where the master died and his blood was shed.”

  “Well, that’s easy enough, then,” Helen said. “George Burroughs died in Salem, at Gallows Hill. Though, technically speaking, his blood wasn’t shed; he was hanged.”

  “Fire is noted as the method in the riddle. And blood is the only thing mentioned for the part of the body. So presumably there will be wounds inflicted and the body burned,” Lean said.

  “Stands to reason.” Grey nodded his agreement. “If the worst comes to pass and we can’t intercept the killer before the act, at least the fire will reveal his exact location.”

  “We mustn’t let it come to that. Location and method.” Lean held up two fingers. “You said there were three bits of information to consider.”

  “The date.”

  “Date? The twenty-second, of course. The new moon.” Lean could feel himself frowning. It had to be the new moon. “The last paragraph mentions no light other than the fire. It will be complete darkness out. He started on the full moon, he’ll end on the new. What else could it be?”

  “Look closely at the text. ‘In the fourth month … where on the day the Master died.’ The wording’s awkward, yet the reference is clear. The date of import is that of his actual death.”

  Helen was working her fingers together, over and over. “The opening of the Black Book does emphasize the hundred-year cycle of the master’s death.” Her eyes shot back and forth between Lean and Grey. “And Burroughs was hanged tomorrow, August nineteenth.”

  “I don’t know, Grey. You said yourself the wording is odd. How can you be sure?”

  “I’m not. But we can’t afford to take a risk. If I’m wrong, then we’ve merely wasted a night. We’ll still have another chance on the new moon, three days later.” Grey dug in his pocket and took out a small sheet of paper. “And there’s something else.”