Lean disagreed but said nothing as he unfolded his newspaper, eager to distract his thoughts. Their destination was hours away, and the mid-August sun beating down on the train’s dark rooftop would soon make their compartment unbearably stuffy. The small window could be opened, but if he forgot to close it at any stop, he’d be swatting flies for thirty minutes after.
Lean tried to focus on local stories about doings at City Hall or efforts to repair damage just up the coast caused by a serious storm the previous week. After a few minutes, his natural instincts took over and he turned to the front-page article entitled INQUEST BEGINS. JUDGE BLAIS-DELL HEARS EVIDENCE GATHERED IN THE BORDEN MURDER CASE.
Like seemingly everybody in the country with access to newspapers, Lean had been following the mystery of the Borden slayings with keen interest. In the immediate wake of the double homicide of a wealthy older couple in their home two weeks earlier, the brutal slayings had been assumed to be the work of a bloody madman. Now, as the facts slowly came out, the evidence seemed to be mounting against Lizzie, the thirty-two-year-old daughter of Mr. Borden.
“It certainly seems the daughter must be to blame for the murders,” Lean said, “but the sheer brutality of it … There were ill feelings between the daughters and the stepmother, but so many ax blows to the head … Then for a woman to wait another hour and repeat the deed, hacking away at her own father while he slept. It’s inconceivable.”
Grey glanced at the headline of Lean’s paper. “The alternatives are even more inconceivable. All the facts point solely at that daughter. Every aspect of her account of the events has been discredited or is on its face suspect. Yet I fear the shoddy police work and that same resistance you displayed to believing a woman capable of the act will serve to prevent a conviction. Practically the entire community had access to the scene after the murder, and the police wasted valuable time pursuing baseless rumors. If they had simply sealed the house that very morning and searched every room minutely, I’m sure they would have discovered the bloodstained clothes belonging to Lizzie. Instead she was witnessed days later burning a dress in the kitchen stove. She claimed she destroyed it because it was stained with paint. Why, it’s nothing short of a repeat of England’s infamous Road Hill murder, or a page from Wilkie Collins.”
“Oh, hell,” Lean grumbled, “if we’re going to talk about horrific murders, we may as well be speaking of Salem. Where exactly will we be looking for our man?”
“Courtesy of our indefatigable researcher, Mrs. Prescott.” Grey drew some folded pages from an inside coat packet and handed them over. “Descriptions from Upham and the other usual sources as to the execution of the Reverend George Burroughs and the location of the site where the witches were hanged.”
Lean removed his hat and coat and settled in for the long ride, before taking up the pages.
August 5, 1692. The Court again sitting, six more were tried on the same Account, viz. Mr. George Burroughs, sometime minister of Wells, John Proctor, and Elizabeth Proctor his Wife, with John Willard of Salem-Village, George Jacobs Senior, of Salem, and Martha Carrier of Andover; these were all brought in Guilty and Condemned; and were all Executed Aug. 19, except Proctor’s Wife, who pleaded Pregnancy.
Lean’s mind turned briefly to Emma’s worried face, her eyes welling up that morning as he explained nothing more than that it would all be over in the next twenty-four hours. Lean forced the image from his mind as he took up more of Helen’s research entries.
Margaret Jacobs being one that had confessed her own Guilt, and testified against her Grand-Father Jacobs, Mr. Burroughs, and John Willard. She, the day before Executions, came to Mr. Burroughs, acknowledging that she had belied them, and begged Mr. Burroughs Forgiveness, who not only forgave her, but also Prayed with and for her.
Judge Sewall’s diary for Aug. 19, 1692: This day George Burroughs, John Willard, Jno. Proctor, Martha Carrier and George Jacobs were executed at Salem, a very great number of Spectators being present. All of them said they were innocent, Carrier and all. Mr. Mather says they all died by a Righteous Sentence. Mr. Burroughs by his Speech, Prayer, protestation of his Innocence, did much move unthinking persons, which occasions their speaking hardly concerning his being executed. [In the margin Sewall later added: Dolefull Witchcraft!]
Lean glanced up and saw Grey sitting perfectly upright, but with his eyes closed. A small smile had settled on the man’s lips. “I still think it’s odd,” Lean said. “We’re just days from the new moon, and yet he’s chosen to break off from the lunar cycle that he’s followed all these months.”
“The bicentennial anniversary of his master’s death is what is crucial to the ritual. The introductory statement of the Black Book retrieved by Mrs. Prescott at Harvard spoke of the ritual being performed on the cycle of the master’s betrayal and death. It is clear that, for some reason, our man has selected George Burroughs for the role of his master, and so we are heading to the very spot of that man’s execution precisely two hundred years after the day of the event. Our man’s grand finale.”
“I know, I know.” Lean’s mind wandered back to all the writings he had examined in the past month, searching for something to solidly refute Grey’s theory, but he could summon nothing. It seemed the final murder would occur tonight, far away from Portland, in old Salem, at a place that had once served as the gallows for a deluded and merciless gathering of souls. He turned again to the page and saw that this entry contained a commentary by Helen.
Note: Robert Calef gives the more humane account of G.B.’s execution—Mr. Burroughs was carried in a cart with the others, through the streets of Salem, to execution. When he was upon the ladder, he made a speech for the clearing of his innocency, with such solemn and serious expressions as were to the admiration of all present. His prayer (which he concluded by repeating the Lord’s Prayer) was so well worded, and uttered with such composedness and such fervency of spirit, as was very affecting, and drew tears from many, so that it seemed to some that the spectators would hinder the execution. The accusers said the black man stood and dictated to him. As soon as he was turned off, Mr. Cotton Mather, being mounted upon a horse, addressed himself to the people, partly to declare that he (Mr. Burroughs) was no ordained minister and partly to possess the people of his guilt, saying that the devil often had been transformed into an angel of light; and this somewhat appeased the people, and the executions went on. When he was cut down, he was dragged by a halter to a hole, or grave, between the rocks, about two feet deep; his shirt and breeches being pulled off, and an old pair of trousers of one executed put on his lower parts, he was so put in, together with Willard and Carrier, that one of his hands, and his chin, and a foot of one of them, was left uncovered.
Lean looked up, a light dawning on him. “Burroughs’s last words were the Lord’s Prayer. That’s where our man is getting that bit from.”
Grey’s eyes remained closed, but he nodded. “The Puritans believed it was impossible for one in league with Satan to utter the prayer without stumbling and revealing themselves.”
“But Burroughs did recite it perfectly?”
“Only to have that fact used by Cotton Mather as the final proof of how powerfully Burroughs was aligned with the devil.” Grey opened his eyes and almost smiled. “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”
“So our killer sides with Mather and against reason. Burroughs’s recitation is proof he exceeds the power of other witches. And our man repeats the prayer in these murders, invoking Burroughs’s own last words, but he does it in Abenaki because the Indians were Burroughs’s allies, in league with Satan. So he’s making it a mockery of the Lord’s Prayer.”
“Something like that, I suppose,” Grey said before closing his eyes again.
Lean fought off the urge to sit there contemplating the madness of the man they were chasing. It was a path that could lead him nowhere useful. He had to stay in the realm of reason and practicality, focusing only on the facts that lay in front of them.
�
�What about McCutcheon?” Lean asked. “Any further contact?”
“He’s already there, learning what he can of the area around this Gallows Hill and spying out the best location for our vigil. He was never able to get any explanation from the asylum staff as to Geoffrey Blanchard’s sudden unavailability for visits. He’ll check the local hotels.”
Lean nodded. McCutcheon gave them an extra pair of eyes and a steady hand with a gun. He was more than a little grateful for that news. It would be dark, and they’d be on treacherous, unfamiliar footing and facing a man who had already killed at least three people while leaving little trace of himself. Lean’s hand slipped inside his coat and rested for a moment on the grip of his Colt. Then he focused on his final page until the words began to sink into his mind.
Gallows Hill is a part of an elevated ledge of rock on the western side of the city of Salem. … Its somber and desolate appearance admits of little variety of delineation. It is mostly a bare and naked ledge. At the top of this cliff, on the southern brow of the eminence, the executions are supposed to have taken place. The outline rises a little towards the north, but soon begins to fall off to the general level of the country. From that direction only can the spot be easily reached. It is hard to climb the western side, impossible to clamber up the southern face. Settlement creeps down from the north, and has partially ascended the eastern acclivity, but can never reach the brink. Scattered patches of soil are too thin to tempt cultivation, and the rock is too craggy and steep to allow occupation. An active and flourishing manufacturing industry crowds up to its base; but a considerable surface at the top will forever remain an open space. It is, as it were, a platform raised high in the air.
Lean looked out the window and let his eyes drift over the world. The train sped past as scenes of everyday life unfolded at their normal pace. After a few moments, he reached over and drew down the window shade.
65
Nine hours later, Lean sat pressed up against a granite outcropping. The rumble of his stomach made him regret the way he’d forced down his supper of bangers and mash at the station when they met Walt McCutcheon to go over the plan once more. The sun was well gone, and a thin sliver of moon was just visible on the horizon. After half a minute of peering at his pocketwatch, he made out that it was almost ten o’clock. His knees ached from sitting motionless for so long, and he slowly set about stretching each leg several times. He held his revolver eight inches from his nose and checked for the third time that each round was loaded, then slipped the piece back into his coat pocket and glanced at the craggy summit of Gallows Hill. From this distance it would be almost impossible to see anyone up there. But if their theory was correct, a murder attempted there tonight would involve fire, and any flame would be visible to him the moment it was lit.
He listened in the darkness to the occasional noises that carried up from the town. In the lulls, only the sounds of night breezes and crickets reached him. Grey was somewhere off to his right, maybe a hundred yards away, also watching the hilltop. McCutcheon was posted near the bottom of the northern side of the hill, the point of easiest access or escape from the higher ground.
As he crouched, waiting for the unknown, Lean’s mind began to wander, carried along on the ebb and flow of dark minutes stretching into one another, indistinguishable and endless. He thought of his wife and the little life she carried inside her.
Scrape.
His head bolted up. A definite noise on top of the hill. He squinted into the blackness. The weak crescent moon was half hidden by clouds. Lean slid his hand into his pocket and felt the cool wooden grip of his pistol. He got his feet firmly under him and listened like a robber with his ear against a safe.
Creak. A wooden noise—movement.
It was hard to judge the distance to the summit, maybe sixty yards, but it was over rocks and crags in utter darkness. Moving quickly would be dangerous, but opening his lamp would make himself a blazing target. There was still no sign of any definite motion. No light on the hill, no flame or even a spark. A loud thwack broke the stillness with no hint of regret. It was followed by three more identical sounds: something heavy striking home on wood or rock. Lean dashed forward, pistol drawn. The shuttered lamp dangled awkwardly from his left wrist as he fought to keep his balance while scrambling up the rocky slope. He tried to listen as he went, but the sounds of his own efforts made it hard to discern what was transpiring in front of him.
There was definite activity, a burst of frantic movement. He could make out at least one dark shape moving ahead. A few more strides and he came to within twenty yards of his goal. He paused, pistol aimed into the blackness. The moon came free of the clouds, and in the faint light he saw a figure before him, upright, arms outstretched.
“Move an inch and I’ll scatter your brains all over this hill,” Lean warned. The figure remained still, and Lean began to move closer. “Grey? You there?”
There was no answer.
Lean stepped to within ten yards of the figure. “You’ve got it, mister. Nice and still.” He slid the lantern down off his wrist so that he could hold the loop handle in his left hand. With his right, still aiming the pistol, he reached forward and flicked the shutter open. In the beam of light, he could finally see that the person before him was a dark-haired man. His arms were straight out at his sides, but the hands were empty and hanging limp. The man’s head was tilted slightly to one side, as if he were awaiting further instructions.
Lean moved forward, and by the time he was ten feet away, he recognized the man: Geoffrey Blanchard.
“Grey? Where are you? I’ve got him. Grey!”
Lean stared at the man as the seconds passed with no answer. It dawned on him how very still his prisoner was. He moved closer, then reached forward and gave Blanchard a little shove. The man’s head slipped backward and farther to the side, revealing a deep red gash that stretched full across his neck.
“Bloody hell.” Lean stepped to one side and craned his own neck, now noticing the short post to which Blanchard had been lashed and the thin crossbeam that supported the dead man’s outstretched arms.
“Grey?” A burgeoning panic raised his voice to a shout.
A gunshot answered him from the bottom of the hill.
Lean bounded down the rocky slope, barely noticing how uneven the ground was. Over the sound of his own gasps, he could hear nothing other than a train whistle, still distant but drawing closer. The thought that the killer was fleeing into a populated town and that he might now manage an escape spurred Lean on. Halfway down, he found something of a path and barreled headlong the rest of the way. Once at the bottom, he dashed across a narrow field of scraggy, overgrown grass to reach the edge of the town. He passed by some small workshops and storehouses and soon had cobblestones under his feet.
He slowed his pace in order to get his bearings when another shot rang out, then a second following hard after. They were in front of him, slightly to his left. He ran forward again for a few blocks, passing into a residential neighborhood. He rounded a corner and saw two figures huddled not far from a streetlamp. With his gun lowered to his side, Lean hurried forward.
Perceval Grey glanced up at Lean’s approach. Grey was supporting Walt McCutcheon’s head with one arm. McCutcheon was breathing hard, almost hissing. As he moved closer, Lean saw that McCutcheon’s coat was open, and the handkerchief pressed to his side didn’t fully hide the dark stain on his shirt.
“How bad?”
“I don’t think it’s too serious,” answered Grey.
“Easy for you to say.” McCutcheon managed a smile that instantly gave way to a pained grimace. Large beads of sweat had risen on his forehead.
“We should—” Lean’s suggestion was interrupted by the approaching train’s whistle.
“Go after the dirty little prick? You damn well should!” Spittle flew from McCutcheon’s lips. “I’ll be well enough.”
Faces had appeared in windows and doors. Lean called out, identifying himself as a polic
e officer. He ordered one man to come attend McCutcheon while another was sent for a doctor. Then he and Grey hurried on through the streets in pursuit. Two blocks on, a voice called out to them from a second-story window.
“That way!” said a man, pointing. “He was headed toward the station.”
They hailed a passing hansom cab. Grey thrust several dollars into the driver’s hand and ordered him on to the train station with all possible speed. At that hour, the depot was well lit in comparison to the surrounding neighborhood. Lean abandoned his lamp and made for the front doors while Grey headed around the building.
As he stepped inside, Lean shot looks into every corner, taking in the entire waiting area. There was a lone ticket agent at the counter and half a dozen souls scattered about inside the small terminal, some seated on benches, others looking out the windows that faced the tracks. The killer was not there. Lean glanced about for other doors, saw only the exit to the boarding platform, and hurried out. A dozen people loitered on the hundred-foot-long platform, some with baggage, others with eyes aimed down one track. The lights of an approaching train could be seen a half mile away.
Before Lean could finish his visual sweep of the area, he heard a loud slap and a woman’s shrill voice call out, “You’re a disgrace!”
He looked to his right and saw a red-haired woman in a dark coat. Most of the other people were also looking, and the woman appeared startled to be the center of attention. Her body swayed for a moment, as if she were uncertain of whether to move. Embarrassed, she raised a hand to cover her face and strode toward the doors to the terminal. As she moved away, Lean saw a small figure in black standing there.
Lean tightened his grip on his pistol. His eyes shot to the corner of the station, where Grey waited in the shadows. Lean walked toward the black-coated man. He could feel the killer’s eyes burning into him from beneath the wide rim of his black hat. The man thrust his right hand into his own pocket. Lean saw the bulge there and continued to move closer, thirty feet away now. The man took several steps back and slid behind a column. Grey ascended onto the far end of the platform. Lean noticed that Grey’s arm hung inconspicuously at his side, a revolver in his hand, as he too moved toward the killer, who was now surrounded.
The Salem Witch Society Page 35