A Study in Revenge

by Kieran Shields

  “I thought embalming was more or less permanent? Like mummies and all.”

  “Proper old-time embalming is a lost art. Today’s process is very simple, just an injection of a prepared fluid. But the chemical’s action isn’t permanent. A New York doctor, name of Lowell, has made improvements, however.” The man’s eyes’ lit up as he launched into a monologue on the technicalities of his work.

  Lean strolled up the aisle, ignoring all the talk of arteries, chloride of zinc, and albumenoids or some such. He reached the casket that patiently awaited its visitors and laid a hand on the polished wood.

  “Eleven dollars isn’t much of a payment for a coffin, is it? Not enough to keep you in business for long.”

  “On the bright side, it came without a struggle. More than I can say if his friends were paying for a richer casket.” The undertaker gestured toward the dark, handsome casket beside them. “Likely only get five dollars at the front, on the installment plan. Practically the twentieth century, but folks are still superstitious about paying a man’s funeral costs right off. Afraid it might mean another death will follow quick after the first.”

  Mr. Rich noticed that Lean was watching him closely. “You know, Deputy, you never actually said just why it is that the police are still interested in Mr. Cosgrove. Even after he’s dead and buried.”

  “It’s not exactly Frank Cosgrove I’m interested in. Rather I’m curious about who might have paid you to make any unusual arrangements with the body or the casket? While it was here, in your possession.”

  “Well, he didn’t have any immediate family, if that’s what you mean. We were paid from the funds found on him at the time of his death. Enough to replace the shirt he was wearing, covered in blood. But we had to bury him in the same suit he was killed in. There weren’t any unusual arrangements to be made. I can’t say that I’m comfortable discussing such private matters.”

  “I suggest you make yourself comfortable, Mr. Rich. You see, certain things have come to light. Some irregularities with the contents of Mr. Cosgrove’s coffin.” Lean rapped on the nearby casket. “And since, as the undertaker, you were the only one handling Mr. Cosgrove’s body …”

  “What sort of … irregularities?”

  “Serious ones. So if no one else had access to the body and the opportunity to take any liberties with the arrangements of his coffin, then I’m afraid you’re going to have to come down to the patrol station and answer some rather unpleasant questions.”

  “Well, now. Wait just a minute. There was a visitor—a cousin. Came the night before the burial after the viewing was over. He was rather beside himself, asked if he could have a few minutes alone with Mr. Cosgrove.”

  “Describe the man.”

  “Average height, dark hair, I think. A regular-looking fellow. Wore a long, heavy coat.”

  “In this weather?”

  “He said he was in from out of town. Just come from the train. He was carrying a small suitcase.”

  “And you showed him the body?”

  “Yes, right back here.”

  The undertaker hurried forward, eager to leave behind the spot where accusations of misconduct had been suggested. He led Lean to an inconspicuous door at the back of the chapel. Inside was a small, windowless room, undecorated except for a crucifix hanging on one wall with a sepia-toned portrait of Jesus opposite. A pewlike bench was set beside the doorway.

  “We sometimes keep the caskets in here before the next visitation.”

  “How long was this cousin in the heavy coat alone with the body?”

  “He came out maybe thirty minutes later. Asked that we seal the coffin right then and there. Couldn’t bear the thought of seeing his cousin again, because of the violent nature of his death. He stood by silently while my son and I nailed it shut.”

  “I was at the church and the graveside.” Lean worked his hands together, cracking a few knuckles. “Trying to recall the scene. Not sure I remember any such person.”

  “That’s the odd thing, isn’t it?” Rich’s eyes were wide within the circular lenses of his spectacles. “After all that to-do, the cousin didn’t even bother showing up for the burial.”

  [ Chapter 6 ]

  LEAN WALKED DOWN THE WINDING, ALLEYLIKE SPACE BEHIND a row of tenements. Ahead was what looked like a short, windowless barn. At one point it may have served as a large shed or maybe a small stable. Now it pretended to be a sort of saloon, the kind that served rum so cheap that even the men drinking at this hour could afford it. Lean pushed open the plank-board door. Two tiny windows and a hanging oil lamp provided a bare minimum of light. A wide beam atop two standing barrels formed the bar. To Lean’s surprise the place actually held a billiards table, though its legs had all been replaced by crates and the felt was barely hanging together.

  Only half a dozen souls, or what passed for souls, occupied the place. They all glanced up. Lean recognized most of the men. A couple that weren’t familiar figured out who he was quick enough from the looks and body language of the regulars. Lean scanned the faces and settled on the man with a cue stick in hand.

  “Barney Welch, you’re going to tell me what you know about Frankie the Foot.”

  Lean stepped farther into the room, leaving the door for those who suddenly had someplace else to be. He kept his eyes on Welch, who stood straight up and clutched his pool stick in both hands. Welch was of medium height and thin, but not weak. He sometimes picked up work on the docks when he was sober enough. When he wasn’t, he made his rum money by stealing whatever he could. The man’s bloodshot eyes darted around the room. Lean had the sense the man was scared, more than he ought to be just over getting questioned. And his panicked looks hadn’t been directed at Lean but at the others in the place, men who were now slipping out the door. Within seconds only the stocky, bearded barkeep remained with them in the room.

  Lean gave the man a glare. “Catch a five-minute break, why don’t you.”

  As soon as they were alone, Welch muttered, “I don’t know nothing ’bout Frankie.”

  “You know enough. You’ve worked with the man. Thick as thieves, as they say.”

  “The man’s dead. Can’t you leave his name in peace?”

  “Someone else wouldn’t let him lie, so now I can’t either,” said Lean. “I need to know who that someone is. Who did it to him?”

  “Swear to God I ain’t heard nothing.” Welch’s grumbled words held little conviction.

  Lean almost smiled. “You know, some people swear an oath like that and you know they mean it. You, on the other hand …”

  He rounded the edge of the ramshackle pool table. With his hands closer to the tip, Welch hauled off and swung his cue back over his shoulder. He meant to settle matters with one blow, but the big windup gave Lean plenty of time to react. The deputy raised his left arm to block and stepped in close enough that when the stick hit his forearm, it was only the thin end. It snapped, and the fat handle flew harmlessly across the room.

  Welch wobbled, drunk and off balance from the effort. Lean drove his right fist into the man’s side, below his ribs. The punch knocked the air from Welch. Lean followed with a left hook to the side of the face that sent the man staggering back into the wall.

  Desperate gasps filled the air, and Lean gave the man a second to soak in the meaning of the hits he’d just taken. That should pretty much be the end of the matter. Lean stepped forward, thinking to take the man by the front of the shirt.

  Welch’s right arm flashed forward in a wide arc. Even in the dim light, Lean saw the glint from a metallic edge. He jerked back, feeling no pain as the razor whipped close under his chin. He heard cloth rip. Welch had committed too much to the attack, throwing himself wildly off balance again. Lean grabbed the man’s arm, spun him around, and then wrenched Welch’s wrist down against the edge of the pool table. The razor skidded across the felt.

  Lean drove his fist into Welch’s face, and the man collapsed on the floor.

  “What the hell were you thin
king—assaulting an officer of the law? Tell me what I want to know or it’s going to go hard with you.”

  “I can’t,” Welch mumbled.

  “Trying to protect someone? Whoever it is can’t protect you—not from me. And right now I’m the only one you’ve got to worry about,” Lean said. “Frankie the Foot’s dead, so out with it.”

  “I heard about him over to Vine Street.”

  “Heard what?”

  “Hellfire got him.” Welch stared up, fear set deep in his eyes. “Hellfire.”

  “That’s a load of horseshit,” Lean said.

  “It ain’t,” Welch said as he started to rise.

  There was a mix of defiance and desperation in Welch’s voice, and Lean didn’t care for either. He gave the man a kick in the ribs that sent Welch back against the wall once more. The deputy snatched the razor off the pool table. He crouched down and pressed the blade into Welch’s cheek, the tip close to the man’s eye.

  “You’re worried about hellfire, that’s simple: Stay alive. And that starts by telling me about Frankie.”

  “I can’t talk. Them others know you’re at me about Frankie. They’ll know I cracked.”

  “Life’s all about hard choices, Barney.” Lean edged the blade’s point ever so slightly closer to Welch’s eyeball.

  “Frankie’s old partner, Sears.”

  “Chester Sears?”

  Welch had to restrain himself from nodding with the blade so close. “Aye, he’s been back in town. Heard he’s flopping down at Darragh’s. He’d know anything worth knowing.”

  Lean stood up and stepped back. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”

  He stuck the razor tip-first into the worn wood on the side of the pool table and jerked the handle, snapping the blade in two. As Lean took a step toward the door, he heard Welch’s pained voice.

  “Hold on. I helped you. You gotta do the same.” Welch stood up and wandered to the scantily stocked bar.

  Lean gave him an incredulous look. “Just tried to slice me, and now you’re asking for favors.”

  “They know what you were after. You leave me here with just a few bruises, they’ll know I talked.” Welch grabbed a near-empty bottle from behind the bar, took a swig, and then held it in Lean’s direction. “Finish the job on me. When they come back in, I can’t still be in any shape to talk or they’ll know I did.”

  “You’re mad.” Lean stared at the man, wondering if he’d already taken too strong a blow to the head. Welch’s eyes were clear, at least by the standards of the drunks in this place. “What the hell’s got you so messed up in the head?”

  “Hellfire, Deputy. There’s the devil in the air. And I don’t want no trouble with him.” His arm still stuck out; he gave the bottle a shake as if he were luring Lean in.

  Lean took two steps closer and seized the bottle.

  Welch turned his back. “Do it right the first time.”

  Lean judged the weight of the bottle and was glad to see that the glass wasn’t thick. “Good luck.”

  He swung at Welch’s head, trying to angle it just a bit, to take some of the edge off the blow. The glass shattered, and the man fell in a heap. Lean bent down to make sure he was breathing. A trickle of blood appeared on his scalp where a lump was already swelling. Lean stood and straightened his coat. He reached up to fix his bow tie and felt one end ripped clear through. He remembered the tearing sound when Welch had cut at him.

  “Damn it.” He was tempted to go through the man’s pockets and find the fifty cents it would cost to replace the tie. Then again, Welch had paid his share many times over today. Lean hoped that the man’s friends, when they found him unconscious, would leave him enough change to at least buy a drink when he came to.

  [ Chapter 7 ]

  ARCHIE LEAN TOSSED THE FOLDER ASIDE ON HIS DESK. IT didn’t hold the answer he was looking for. The thought had occurred to him that he was reading too much into the removal of Cosgrove’s body from its plot in Evergreen Cemetery. The explanation could be a simpler one than the occult imagery at the scene tried to indicate. Digging up bodies wasn’t unheard-of. The crimes of so-called resurrection men, who sold freshly buried corpses to hospitals or anatomists, were largely a thing of decades past. Still, it happened once in a while. Maybe someone had gotten hold of the body, run into trouble, and decided to simply ditch it at Vine Street and cover his tracks. The folder held the details on all such cases in the last five years. There had been a string of incidents at Evergreen three summers ago. The two men responsible were caught and were both currently in jail on other charges. There’d been another incident last fall in the Eastern Cemetery. No one was ever arrested in that case, but the two disturbed graves there were very old and the bodies, useless to any medical practitioner, had been left in the coffins. The whole thing was put down to a lot of work by criminals hoping to find a bit of interred gold or jewelry.

  In any event, those records showed no promise of any connection to the current inquiry. Lean pushed those thoughts aside, gathered his hat, and exited the police station from its basement home in City Hall, emerging from the side doors onto Myrtle Street. He rounded one of the building’s square corner towers and crossed Congress Street, then strolled down Market amid a light stream of foot traffic. The lower section of the block was occupied by an elegant building of white Vermont marble that housed Portland’s post office on the ground floor and various court offices above. The sight of Perceval Grey leaning against a carriage with a newspaper in front of his face surprised Lean. As he approached, he realized that Grey wasn’t actually reading the paper. His eyes were aimed just over the top edge, focused on something inside one of the tall, arched windows that lined the entire side of the post office.

  Lean threw an inconspicuous glance inside. There were a few people milling about at a bank of small post-office boxes. He surmised that Grey was studying a middle-aged man in a tan coat and matching gloves. The man held a cane, with which he was casually tapping several of the doors to the wooden boxes.

  “I thought we were meeting at Mitchell’s Restaurant.”

  “You’re early,” Grey said, without looking at Lean.

  “Are you watching out of mere curiosity, or is it a professional interest?”

  “Professional.”

  “What’s the man doing?” Lean asked.

  “Sending a signal, I believe. What it is and to whom, I cannot yet say.” Grey folded his newspaper and turned away from the window.

  Lean glanced over his shoulder and saw the man with the cane was walking toward the front of the post office. “Well, I won’t delay you. I assume you mean to follow the man.”

  “Unnecessary. He’s revealed all that he will on this day.” Grey finally looked Lean in the face. His eyes dropped for a second to Lean’s neck and his shredded bow tie. “I hope you’re not trying to start some new bohemian trend in men’s neckwear.”

  Lean shook his head in disgust. “Emma picked this out.”

  “Obviously. It goes well with your suit. I take it you’re still working on the inflammatory matter of Frank Cosgrove?”

  “Yes, but all his associates are scared. This business with the burned corpse has them looking over their shoulders. I thought I might be close to a dead end.”

  “A dead end? A bit ironic, given the circumstances.”

  Lean chuckled. “But I’ve just recently come across some news. A former accomplice of Cosgrove’s has been back in town recently. He’s boarding down on Fore.”

  “So much for Mitchell’s Restaurant. On to Fore Street it is,” Grey said.

  They walked on, passing by the front of the post office, where three round-arched entryways led into a narrow portico. Above this, fronting the second and third stories, a series of Corinthian columns supported a low-pitched triangular pediment that completed the look of a Greek temple. The white marble glistened in the sun, giving the building a formal, aloof air and setting it off from the familiar, ruddy brick that dominated the other buildings nearby.


  Lean summarized his findings from the second postmortem and the undertaker as the two men proceeded along, soon turning in to the narrow confines of a side street where the three-story brick buildings were enough to cast them in shadows as they passed over the uneven paving stones. Farther down they entered into sunlight again by the Silver Street Market. In a futile attempt to escape the din of the haggling voices that surrounded the dozen stalls of provisioners, fishmongers, and purveyors of pork and mutton, they crossed the street. The smell of corn cakes enveloped them as they passed Goudy & Kent’s steam bakery.

  “What’s this man’s name?” Grey asked.

  “Chester Sears, an old partner of the dead man. He was around a few days ago, staying at Darragh’s boardinghouse.”

  “He’s not local?”

  “From Boston originally and headed back there a couple years ago, after they pulled one of their bigger heists.”

  They entered the boardinghouse’s front room, which barely had enough space for the reception desk. The manager sat smoking a thin cigar with his head tilted back, reading the paper through dusty glasses.

  “Help you?” he said with the briefest of glances at Lean and Grey.

  “Chester Sears in?” Lean asked.

  “I’d say you missed him.” The cigar, wedged in place of a missing bottom canine, trembled when the man spoke. Ashes tumbled down onto the faded black vest he wore over a dingy shirt.

  “What time’s he usually get back in, then?”

  The corners of the man’s mouth turned down, and he shook his head the merest fraction. “Nah. Mean I think you missed him for good.”

  “What—he’s checked out?”

  “Nope. Paid through the month. But he left in a hurry yesterday.”

  “What time?” Grey asked

  Lean glanced at Grey, then waited for the answer while the boardinghouse owner gummed his cigar in thought.