A Study in Revenge: A Novel

by Kieran Shields

  “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 Although the house was well appointed, the décor was outdated.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.

  “Miss Webster, I’m Perceval Grey.” He kept his voice to a whisper, since the old man in the bed appeared to be sleeping. The man looked ancient in the candlelight, the shadows accentuating the deep wrinkles on his face.

  Phebe held out her hand from where she was sitting. “Yes, Grandfather was asking for you a while ago.”

  Grey took the offered hand and gave a short bow of his head. “Has the sedative taken effect already?”

  Phebe shook her head no. She leaned close to the bedridden man, rubbing his left arm while she whispered into his ear. Grey studied Phebe. He put her in her mid- to late twenties. Now that he was closer, he could see that her hair was actually auburn, with streaks of red highlighted by the candle’s glow. She would not likely be thought a classical beauty by most; her form was somewhat lanky, and her facial features were slightly sharp and angular. Still, there was a depth and surety in her gaze that Grey found arresting.

  Phebe leaned back, and Grey saw that Horace’s eyes were now open and focused on him. One eye anyway; the left looked cloudy, and the flesh on that side of his face sagged as if he’d suffered some form of palsy. The old man gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “Come closer, please,” Phebe said. “His voice is weak.”

  The bed was not tall, so Grey kneeled down in order to get within eight inches of Horace’s face. Quarters were tight by the bedside, and he apologized to Phebe for brushing against her crossed leg. She accepted this with an understanding smile. Grey focused on Horace Webster, and long seconds passed with only thin sighs of breath passing from the old man’s lips.

  A slight croak escaped Horace’s throat, followed by his rasping voice, quiet but desperate to be heard. “Help her. Dig deeper.”

  The man’s gaze remained locked on Grey. He felt Phebe’s hand come to rest lightly on his shoulder, but Grey wasn’t sure if the gesture was for his benefit or for hers. He glanced sideways and watched a passing cloud of distress float across Phebe’s features. Horace’s breathing eased, and Grey saw that the man’s eyes had closed. He and Phebe made their way softly across to the door and out into the sitting room, where Grey repeated the old man’s message.

  “That’s all?” Jason’s face held a mixture of amusement and disappointment. “This big to-do about summoning the renowned detective—and the old codger manages a grand total of four words.” Jason released a curt laugh, almost a cackle. “How fitting. He graces the family with another riddle. The perfect ending to an imperfect life.”

  “Really, Jason. I don’t think this is the time for one of your … commentaries.”

  “You’re right, dear, how untoward of me. Please excuse my disappointment, Mr. Grey, though I’m sure yours must be running quite high at the moment as well. I’m not certain what there is for you to do from here, but good luck to you.” Jason smiled and nodded to the pair of them before he slipped out the door.

  “I truly must apologize for both my uncles, Mr. Grey. I heard Euripides bellowing downstairs earlier. My grandfather’s condition has frazzled all our nerves.”

  “There’s no need for you to apologize, Miss Webster. A man’s character is only what he chooses to make of what he’s been given. Your uncles’ characters would have been firmly set long before they ever had the opportunity to benefit from your acquaintance.”

  “You’re most kind. I suppose we all know what it’s like to deal with an odd assortment of family members.”

  Grey said nothing at first, but Phebe’s eyes called for an agreement, and he answered, “I can imagine.”

  “Well, I suppose I ought to check in on my grandfather again. If you don’t mind?”

  “Not at a
ll. But before I go, and I hope you don’t mind my asking, when he said ‘Help her,’ do you suppose your grandfather was referring to you?”

  Phebe seemed happy to have a reason to smile. “I can assure you, Mr. Grey, I am not in need of your assistance. Thank you all the same.”

  She seemed genuinely amused by him, which was not a sentiment that Grey was particularly used to. He was more accustomed to initial encounters where people reacted with some level of discomfort. They weren’t always sure what to make of him. His mannerisms, tailoring, and choices of phrase were not what white people would let themselves expect from a man with his deeper skin tone.

  “I’m sorry you’ve used up your morning for a mere four words,” Phebe said. “Seems rather a pointless errand for you after all.”

  “Perhaps. I’ll reserve judgment for the time being. Four words could prove to be quite telling. Countless men have used far greater numbers to say far less.”

  “You have a fascinating way of seeing things, Mr. Grey.”

  “It’s been my experience that there’s no limit to what you can see if you’re willing to look close enough.” Grey’s eyes were fixed on hers.

  “Words to make any woman nervous.” She gave a small chuckle. “I’ll have to remember to keep you at arm’s length. Life’s a bit more comfortable for all of us if you men let us have our little secrets.”

  Phebe bade him good day and slipped back into her grandfather’s room. Grey made his way down to the front hall, where the butler handed over his hat and walking stick. Once on the sidewalk, Grey slid his hand into his pocket to recover the letter left for him from Horace Webster’s attorney. He broke the seal and pulled out a single handwritten page on letterhead from the firm of Dyer & Fogg, Counselors-at-Law.

  Mr. Grey,

  My apologies for not being present to shepherd you through your meeting with the Webster family. I trust you survived relatively unscathed. I am sure you have questions that remain unanswered, and I am afraid they will remain so for a short while. I do have additional information to provide you regarding the business arrangement that Mr. Webster is proposing. However, I request a further bit of patience from you. Given Mr. Webster’s uncertain condition, I am understandably preoccupied with various legal matters that require prompt attention while my client is still of sound mind. Please indulge me a few days longer, and I’ll contact you again at the first practicable opportunity.

  Regards,

  Albert Dyer

  Grey glanced back at the house, and his eyes were drawn to a slight motion in one of the two central windows on the second floor. He made the mental calculation and determined that these were the pair of close-set windows in Horace’s bedroom. The curtain on his right was fully drawn. The left, however, was pulled aside about six inches. He saw a woman’s figure; Phebe Webster was watching him. His eyes settled onto hers for a second, but the distance between them was too great for him to read anything in her gaze. A moment more and she stepped away, letting the curtain drop back into place.

  [ Chapter 5 ]

  DEPUTY LEAN STOOD JUST INSIDE THE MORGUE AT THE Maine General Hospital. The space was built mostly underground, which helped keep the room cool. Still, rather than being refreshing, the quality of the air was dulled by the heavy scent of chemicals that, in Lean’s mind anyway, couldn’t fully mask the underlying currents of dead bodies.

  The paunchy, gray-haired surgeon, Dr. Sullivan, was across the room rinsing his hands in a washbasin. In the space between the two men, a table held the laid-out body of Frank Cosgrove. A crisp white sheet covered everything but the man’s charred face.

  “I’m really not certain my services were required to review Mr. Cosgrove’s body yet again. He was already murdered last Sunday. Not as if you can add a second murder charge for digging him back up.” Sullivan dried his hands and threw the towel aside.

  “I do appreciate your indulging me.”

  “That’s it, isn’t it? An indulgence. Not my business at all. Not as if I’m paid any extra for repeating an examination on the likes of this petty thief.”

  “Yes, the examination,” Lean said, trying to steer the surgeon away from whatever was distressing him and back to the business at hand.

  “Well, even without the burns he’s in worse shape than the last time I saw him. He wasn’t embalmed.” He added the last bit with contempt, as if it were a personal failing of the deceased.

  “Is that unusual?”

  “I’m the city physician,” Dr. Sullivan declared with a shrug, annoyed to be bothered with such a question. “Ask the undertaker. The burn marks are posthumous. Common lamp oil, I suspect. There’s a scent of it around his collar and his cuffs.”

  “What about his fingernails?”

  Dr. Sullivan shook his head. “What about them?”

  “Cracked? Any dirt beneath? Signs he’d been digging?”

  Dr. Sullivan’s expression went from inconvenienced to downright exasperated.

  “No, I’m not mad, and I don’t think he crawled from his grave, Doctor. Rather I’m wondering about the people who perpetrated this hoax. How elaborate and detailed were they in their efforts?”

  “No. No signs of dirt under the nails. However, there was dirt all through his hair, in his pockets, and in the cuffs of his trousers.”

  Lean moved closer to the body. “Gathered as he was pulled up out of the burial plot.”

  “It would appear so. By means of a rope, most likely.” Dr. Sullivan took hold of the sheet and lowered it from Cosgrove’s neck down to his waist. He moved the dead man’s arms away from his sides. “See here. Marks around the chest and in the armpits. Inflicted after death.”

  Lean bent in for a look at the discolorations. There were faint scuff marks, signs of stress on the skin, but no actual rope burns. No direct contact. They’d somehow managed to tie a rope around him after he was in his funeral coat, then later dug down to the coffin and pulled him to the surface.

  “Anything else, Doctor?”

  “I have nothing further to add.”

  “Meaning that the body reveals nothing further or that there is something else and you just don’t care to say it?”

  “There is nothing further. I consider my involvement in the matter concluded.”

  Lean continued to stare at the man.

  “Let’s be clear, Deputy. I’m not Virgil Steig. I won’t be sharing his degree of involvement in any of your cases. Nor his fate.”

  “I’m not certain what you’re referring to.”

  “Dr. Steig reviewed a peculiar homicide victim for you shortly before his death.”

  “Dr. Steig suffered a heart attack in his study.” Lean recited the lie in good conscience and with a casual fluidity. He’d repeated it many times in the past year. The doctor’s niece, Helen Prescott, had insisted on it in order not to cast a shadow on the legacy of the late doctor’s work with some of his mentally troubled patients.

  “I’ve heard rumors otherwise.”

  “Then you’ve been misled. You’re correct about one thing, however.”

  “Which is?”

  “You are not Dr. Steig. He was a consummate professional and a good man.” Lean tipped his hat and exited the morgue.

  The memory of Dr. Steig’s unhappy end was painful in its own right. More so because of Lean’s insistence on second-guessing what he and Grey could have done differently last summer. Their misplaced certainty over the identity of the killer they were pursuing had allowed the true madman to claim a final victim. Lean forced himself to at least realize that it could have been worse. After the doctor’s death, they had managed to save Helen Prescott and her young daughter, Delia. The whole grisly ordeal had left Helen and the girl shaken, of course. Helen had taken a sabbatical from her post at the historical society and gone to stay with some distant relations in Connecticut. She’d been planning to return to Portland eventually, but Lean hadn’t heard anything recently, and so he could only wonder and hope that the woman and her sweet child were doing we
ll.

  He shook his head, trying to sweep away the cobwebs of last summer’s tragic events. This was a new case; he needed to focus on his next step and figure out who could have tampered with the dead man’s coffin.

  “WHEN I WAS YOUNG, it was cabinetmakers who used to make coffins,” said the undertaker, Harry Rich. “The old boxes with six sides, narrow at the foot. Even when I first started, after the war, coffins were still made by hand, good and solid.”

  “Last a lifetime?” Lean suggested. He didn’t think the undertaker would mind. The man was far more animated than Lean had expected. He couldn’t shake the foolish preconception that all undertakers should be tall, gaunt men with serious expressions and voices as quiet and somber as the turning of the pages in a Bible.

  “So to speak,” Rich said with a chuckle that shook his rotund belly. “They’d last a lot of years anyways. But there’s no undertakers left in town who make their own coffins anymore. The manufacturing of them’s a business of its own these days. In most of the large manufactories, they’re done with machinery.”

  The man led the way from the funeral parlor’s vestibule into the chapel. Rows of chairs faced a casket surrounded by a generous selection of floral arrangements. Lean paused at the sight.

  “So the coffin that Frank Cosgrove was buried in was …”

  “The least expensive that we had on hand. Eleven dollars. Coffins can cost up to fifty. Though we don’t sell as many these days. Cloth-covered caskets is what most folks want. Some of those can go for hundreds.”

  “Honestly?”

  The undertaker wiped his small, round glasses with a handkerchief. “It all depends on the inside trimmings: a good satin or velvet or even silk. Of course, there’s always been a range of costs. It used to be that even rich folk would be buried in regular coffins, only they’d be made of San Domingo mahogany. Try laying your hands on that anymore.”

  “I thought Cosgrove’s thin pine box was a thing of the past. I mean, they even have metallic ones now.”