The Truth of All Things

by Kieran Shields

  “He couldn’t look more different from the man I’ve described,” Grey said, mostly to himself.

  “I suppose not.”

  “This Peter Chapman of yours, with the black hair, was he ever accompanied at the cathedral by a friend or assistant? A blond man, like I described?”

  “No.” Bishop Healy considered the question further. “I never saw anyone with him other than his wife.”

  “Wife? A dark-haired woman, named Lizzie?” Grey said.

  “I don’t recall her name, but no, she had red hair.”

  “A redhead?” The perplexed look on Grey’s face was overtaken by concern. “The woman on the train platform.”

  “Mr. Grey, are you quite all right? You look as though you’re not well.”

  “I’m fine. Thank you, Bishop.” Grey began to pace. “Something’s not right here.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Grey. Is there something else I can help you with?”

  Grey stopped and stared. “Yes, actually. Dr. Steig wanted to confirm some details, but I don’t know exactly what he was after. What can you tell me about the death of Saint Polycarp of Smyrna?”

  Bishop Healy was so completely surprised by the question that he had no choice but to invite Grey to his office to see what they could find. Once there, Bishop Healy found a book on the lives of the saints. He flipped through the pages until he came to Saint Polycarp.

  “What exactly would you like to know?”

  “How did he die?”

  The bishop skimmed the page, then read, “ ‘When the funeral pyre was ready, and Polycarp was bound, he looked to heaven and prayed. The flame blazed forth in great fury, but shaped itself like the sail of a ship filled with the wind and circled around his body, so his flesh was not burnt, but rather was as gold glowing in a furnace. At length, when those wicked men saw his body could not be consumed by the fire, the executioner pierced him with a dagger. And on his doing this, there came forth a dove, and a great quantity of blood, so that the fire was extinguished.’ ”

  “Wait. Set on fire first—then stabbed. Are you certain, Your Excellency?” Grey came closer and read the page himself.

  “Why so surprised?”

  Grey shook his head. “I was told otherwise: stabbed first, then burned.”

  “Well, it’s just a detail. The exact order isn’t the crucial element of the story, of course.”

  “I’m afraid it is.” Grey rushed out the door, his final words still hanging in the air.

  Helen stepped into Delia’s room. The window was open, letting in a nice breeze. With the light from the hallway, she could make out her daughter’s face as Delia lay in bed with her eyes still open.

  “What is it, dear?”

  “I can’t sleep, Mama,” the girl said in a creaky, tear-soaked voice. “I keep thinking of Uncle Virgil.”

  “I know. I’m sad too, but it will be all right. It’s been a very long day. You need to get some sleep now.”

  “Will you lie with me?” Delia reached out to her mother.

  Helen took her hand and sat on the edge of the bed. “Of course.” She slipped her shoes off, settled in beside Delia, and stroked loose strands of hair away from her daughter’s face.

  “I’m scared,” Delia whispered.

  “Of what?”

  “Of how people always … go away,” Delia said. “Will you ever, Mama?”

  “No, never. I’ll never leave you,” Helen said.

  “You promise?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Helen felt the girl’s body tense at the final word. “Don’t say that, Mama. Not that.”

  “Just cross my heart. I promise.”

  Within minutes Delia’s breathing became deep and untroubled. Helen could feel herself slipping away, the soft bed pulling her down into a warm, comforting darkness. She felt the weight of the past day’s troubles slough off and fall from her.

  When Helen stirred awake, it was to a banging sound. In that instant the noise evaporated away like the echo of a final dream. She lifted her head from the pillow, looked down at Delia’s still face, and listened. She flinched when the pounding happened again. Someone was knocking on the front door. Helen wondered how long she’d been asleep and whether it was an unusual time for someone to be calling. She made her way out into the hall and down the stairs. Passing through the parlor, she looked at the clock: just after ten. She reached the front door and pulled the curtain aside. It was dark, but she could make out the shape of a woman standing on the front porch. She was wearing a dark, mid-length coat over a long white dress.

  Helen opened the door.

  Lean dropped another stack of papers into the box. He supposed he should sort out what was worth keeping in case this matter ever came to light. He might someday be called upon to explain his role in the events surrounding the murders committed by Jack Whitten, possibly with the assistance of Geoffrey Blanchard. Much of his handwritten material was nearly indecipherable, and many of the typed pages had proved utterly irrelevant to the truth of the case.

  He flipped through a chronology of the Salem trials that Helen had provided weeks earlier, tracing the dates of accusations, court hearings, and the deaths of accused witches. There were sketches of the bodies, the scenes of the murders, notes on dozens of interviews with landlords, lists of residents in the neighborhood of the Portland Company. Next came notes from his sittings with Portland’s various mediums. He chuckled as he recalled the less-than-convincing accent of one woman who claimed to channel a spirit guide from ancient Egypt.

  The phone rang, and his wife answered in the other room. He reached for the page of automatic writing that Amelia Porter had delivered to him at home after their séance. He smiled again, thinking of Grey’s amused fascination with the Porters’ grocery list.

  “Archie, it’s Perceval Grey,” Emma called from the kitchen. “He says it’s urgent.”

  Lean strode into the kitchen and took up the receiver. “Yes?”

  “This Peter Chapman fellow did not work alone.”

  “You’ve confirmed Geoffrey Blanchard was assisting him.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Neither of their fingerprints were a match for the one left on Maggie Keene’s shoe. Our real killer is still alive. Peter Chapman was only his assistant.”

  He heard the words, but Lean couldn’t force his mind to accept their meaning. “What in blazes are you talking about?”

  “The man who killed Maggie Keene and the other women is still out there. And to further muddy the waters, I’ve spoken with Bishop Healy. The man who died in front of the train in Salem was not the real Peter Chapman.”

  “Right,” Lean said, “he’s Jack Whitten.”

  “No, the Peter Chapman we met at Father Coyne’s was not the same Peter Chapman known to the priests at the cathedral. What it all means, I don’t yet know. But for the moment, let’s keep our focus on the fact that this Peter Chapman impostor and Geoffrey Blanchard are both dead and we still have a killer at large. In fact, I think he may well have been the man you were suspicious of when we departed Portland. The man in black at Union Station. If the killer is even a man to begin with.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Grey said. “In any event, the killer never left Portland. He probably went to Dr. Steig’s right after we left Portland.”

  “We shouldn’t discuss this over the telephone. We need to speak in person,” Lean said.

  “What about Helen? Do you think she would be up to the task? I know she’s been through a terrible loss—but her historical expertise might still be of use.”

  “We should let her be right now, she has Delia to …” Lean’s voice trailed off as the thought hit him like a shot. He looked down at the paper in his hand, Amelia Porter’s page of automatic writing. His eyes scanned across the odd, stilted handwriting: “The darkness rising beware the Good woman and her child.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” he muttered.

  “Lean. Ar
e you still there?”

  “Meet me at Helen’s. And for God’s sake, hurry!”

  Lean telephoned the police station and ordered a patrolman be sent to his home until he returned. Then he hired a dogcart, eager to make the trip in an open-air carriage that would not obstruct his view. The sporadic gas lighting on the streets gave little aid on this night, just one day prior to the new moon. Even though the streets were thinly populated at this hour, Lean peered at the face of every passerby, desperate for some glimpse of the man in black as he approached Helen’s. Once, on Cumberland Street, he was passed by a hackney that came on at a full gallop. The dark figure of the driver, with his black bowler tugged down low upon his brow, had caused Lean to stare suspiciously. But as the carriage went by, he saw that the passenger was a solitary woman in a white poplin dress. Another minute and he arrived on Wilmot Street. He saw Grey’s hansom cab pulling up in front of Helen’s house. By the time Lean reached the front door, Grey had already knocked several times and was trying the knob.

  “Unlocked.”

  The two men entered, Lean with his gun drawn, Grey with a steel-handled walking stick at the ready.

  “Helen!” Lean shouted. “Hello! Anyone?” He hurried through the parlor toward the kitchen while Grey went to the second floor. Lean swept through the entire first floor, rushing on ever more quickly as each room turned up vacant. He sprinted to the landing at the top of the stairs. Grey beckoned him to the girl’s room at the back of the house. Lean entered and looked around. The bedcovers were lying on the floor, and the window was open. Grey sniffed Delia’s pillow, then tossed it over to Lean.

  “Ether. Do you think …?” Lean couldn’t bring himself to finish the question. Not so soon after the murder of Dr. Steig. The image of the old man’s body sprawled on the floor flitted before his eyes.

  “If he meant to kill them immediately, as revenge or whatever passes for a motive in his mind, he’d have done so here rather than risk detection by removing them from the house. He must have some other purpose. Perhaps we interrupted his assistant, Chapman or Whitten, before the full ritual with Geoffrey Blanchard could be completed. He was never burned as we expected. Maybe the killer feels he’s required to repeat the final murder, to correct his failure.”

  “Or he knows we’re onto him. Perhaps they’re hostages to ensure safe passage while he flees town.”

  Grey shook his head. “He’d know we can’t identify him accurately. He could vanish from town at any time, and no one would try to stop him. No, they’re not mere hostages.” Grey picked up the young girl’s short dress and stockings from where they’d been left, neatly folded, on a small wooden chair. “Her school clothes—so she’s still in her nightdress.”

  “Good. Even easier to spot.”

  “Precisely,” said Grey as he led the way back downstairs. “Which means he does not intend for them to be seen publicly. If he is fleeing, it will be alone, or by private means. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for the Prescotts.”

  “I’ll put men at every depot anyway. Maybe he’s fool enough to try it.” Lean stopped downstairs in the parlor to seize photographs that showed Helen and Delia. The two detectives exited into the dark night, then rode toward the police station on Myrtle Street. The silence was broken only by the occasional piece of strategy.

  “I’ll send a man to Lizzie Madson’s rooms,” Lean said. “If he’s on the run, he may take refuge at his old haunt. Dr. Steig’s as well; he may have missed something he was looking for.”

  “While you’re at it, get a man over to your own house too. In case your theory on hostages or revenge against us happens to be true.”

  “There’s an officer there already,” Lean said. “I’ll have him escort Owen and Emma to her sister’s.” The carriage pulled up just short of the station, and Lean jumped out, calling back over his shoulder, “I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”

  The clock on the mantel over Grey’s fireplace struck the half hour. Even though Lean was painfully aware of the exact time, he still glanced at the glass face set in the small maple housing. He was beginning to truly hate that clock. One thirty in the afternoon. They’d been at this since before sunrise, and nothing to show for it except piles of papers and books that had been read, then moved from one side of the table to the other.

  A sense of futility was beginning to encircle Lean’s mind. Helen and Delia were in the hands of a madman, and even if they were still alive, their chances of remaining so dwindled with each passing hour. And what was he doing? Rummaging through old transcripts looking for some hint that might not even exist, to unlock a riddle that might not mean at all what Grey said it did. How could Grey be so sure of it, when just days earlier he’d been positive it meant something else entirely?

  “We’ve wasted too much time already.”

  “How so?” Grey asked, glancing only for a second from the text he was perusing.

  “Why, everything. We haven’t accomplished anything since leaving Helen’s.”

  “On the contrary, I think we’ve made excellent use of our time. You’ve arranged for your family’s temporary relocation and safety. You’ve gotten a bit of sleep, without which I daresay you’d be of little service. And just look at the progress we’ve made getting through the material.”

  Lean stood up from the table and moved to the windows looking down on High Street outside Grey’s building. He hoped the change of scenery would do some good, reveal some hidden meaning or clue in the page that he held: “The Trial of George Burroughs at a Court of Oyer and Terminer, in Salem, 1692 by Cotton Mather.” He glanced down and read it again.

  This G.B. was Indicted for Witch-craft, and Accused by the Confessing Witches as the head Actor at their Hellish Rendezvouses, and one who had the promise of being a King in Satan’s Kingdom, now going to be Erected. One of the Bewitched Persons, testified a little black Hair’d Man came to her, saying his Name was B. and bidding her set her hand to a Book which he shewed unto her; and bragged that he was a Conjurer, above the ordinary Rank of Witches. This G.B. ensnared himself by several Instances of a Preternatural Strength. He was a very Puny Man, yet had often done things beyond the strength of a giant. A Gun of about seven foot Barrel, and so heavy that strong Men could not steadily hold it out with both hands; there were Testimonies that he made nothing of taking up such a Gun with one hand, and holding it out like a Pistol at Arms-end. G.B. in his Vindication, was so foolish as to say, that an Indian was there, and held it out at the same time: Whereas none of the Spectators ever saw any such Indian; but they supposed the Black Man, (as the Witches call the Devil; and they say he resembles an Indian) might give him that Assistance.

  Useless. The same as the hundreds of other court records, depositions, journal entries, and whatever else they had accumulated in the past two months relating to the witch trials and the Reverend George Burroughs.

  “We should be out searching,” Lean said, anger creeping into his voice.

  “Where? Even if we knew they were still inside the city, we could never hope to find them before tonight. No,” Grey assured him, “the answer is in the riddle and in the history of George Burroughs.”

  “We don’t know that. The riddle could well end at four victims. We don’t know that it mentions a fifth.”

  “Dr. Steig believed it did,” Grey said. “Whitten may well have revealed it before he killed the doctor.”

  “The mark he made on the floor could have been an ‘S.’ You thought so yourself.”

  “It was a ‘5.’ And we were foolish not to see it before in the riddle.” Grey snatched up a page that had been set aside. “We saw the word ‘fourth’ mentioned in the last paragraph and assumed that four murders was the end. We jumped to the wrong conclusion. A preconceived theory took hold. We didn’t read closely enough.”

  He pinned the page to the table with his finger, as if accusing it of perjury. “The fourth month and the last. Where the master died and then where his blood flowed. There the fourth, then the last offe
ring. There the cup emptied and then the vessel held ready. It’s all in pairs. The final clue is a dual one. Two mysteries wrapped together in the last paragraph, in the final month. First where the master died and then where his blood flowed. Two different locations. Gallows Hill was the first, where Burroughs died. Wherever he shed his blood will be next.”

  “He never did, though,” Lean declared. “That’s just it. All through the wars and not a scratch. Another reason they thought he was in league with the Indians and the devil.”

  Grey shook his head. “No. I know there was a mention of it somewhere.”

  “ ‘Somewhere’? That’s what you’re pinning Helen and Delia’s lives on? Somewhere there’s a mention of George Burroughs’s blood?”

  “Yes, Lean. Somewhere. Now, if you don’t mind. We’ve quite a bit left to get through.”

  Lean glanced at the clock yet again. He tried to calm his own breathing, and as he did so, the terrible, incessant ticking of the clock came into his ears. He focused on the words in front of him, begging them to have meaning, to reveal something. He fought his way through several more entries, each equally irrelevant to the present crisis.

  The clock struck the hour, and Lean just couldn’t take it anymore. He slapped the page down, stood up, and made it to the mantel in three long strides. The clock was suddenly in his hand, and, somewhat detached in his own mind, he saw his arm rising up and then rushing down. The clock shattered on the hearthstones. The anger drained out of him, and he was left staring at the small wood-and-glass carcass on the floor.

  “Better?” Grey asked.

  “Yes. Quite a bit.” Lean contemplated making an effort to clean up the mess but instead settled back into his seat to resume the work. “Sorry about the clock.”

  “You’ll get the bill once this is all done,” Grey said with the hint of a smirk.