The Salem Witch Society Read online

  Dr Hans Gross,

  Criminal Investigation

  29

  Helen unlocked her front door and entered, followed by Dr. Steig and her daughter, who was still waving the small flag from the earlier Independence Day celebrations. Helen glanced at the clock and saw it was half past seven.

  “Oh my, Mr. Grey will be here in thirty minutes. Hurry upstairs, Delia. You can help me get changed into something for the evening.”

  “Can’t I come too, Mother? I’m old enough to stay up and see the fireworks.”

  “Not tonight, dear. This isn’t to see the fireworks. This is some business we’re working on. Next year I promise to take you. Now, hurry on. I’ll be right up.”

  The girl pounded her way upstairs with heavy steps to emphasize her disappointment. Dr. Steig glanced out the curtains and lit a cigarette.

  “Are you certain about that? This is just business?”

  Helen stared at her uncle. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “You’ve had a spring in your step all day. Now you’re practically beaming about Grey’s arrival.”

  “Certainly it’s business. Of course, it will be rather nice to spend an evening out, see the fireworks, with music and dancing and all. Heaven knows it’s been an awfully long time since I’ve done that.”

  “So your excitement isn’t caused by Grey himself.”

  Helen’s cheeks reddened a bit. “It should be quite an enjoyable evening to be escorted out by such a cultured, intelligent gentleman. Do you think otherwise? You’ve always spoken highly of him.”

  Dr. Steig waved away the idea. “It’s not that. He’s a perfect gentleman, of course. A brilliant man. It’s just, well …” The doctor began to pace as he struggled with a tactful choice of words. “He’s just quite different from other men.”

  “Then he’s to be congratulated.”

  “Don’t be glib, Helen. I can assure you that whatever your interests and expectations are for this evening, they bear little resemblance to his.”

  Helen studied her uncle’s face for a moment, noting a mix of warning and discomfort in his eyes. “Is this because he’s Indian? Are you embarrassed to have me seen with him?”

  “What? Of course not. I only mean to say that there is a single-mindedness to him. He’s not one to be overly concerned for the feelings of others.”

  “I think you underestimate him. After all, we’re going there tonight to see if I can identify those men who chased me in the alleyway. I believe that Mr. Grey has a genuine interest in apprehending those brutes who meant to harm me.”

  “He thinks the men who chased you outside of McGrath’s place came from the Temperance Union. They’re likely some of Colonel Blanchard’s old soldiers, acting on his orders. There’s a connection between the Temperance Union and what Boxcar Annie knows of the murder at the Portland Company. Grey wants you to identify those men so he can use that information as leverage against Colonel Blanchard, find out his connection to Maggie Keene’s death. That’s his only interest.”

  Helen waited, making sure her uncle had stated his piece. “Of course we’re doing this for the murder investigation, Uncle. I’m perfectly aware of that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She moved to the stairs. “I have to get ready.”

  The crowds of pedestrians and carriages on Congress Street blocked any further progress toward the Eastern Promenade, so Rasmus Hansen dropped Grey and Helen at the corner of Vesper Street and arranged to wait for them a block east. From there the pair walked the final two blocks arm in arm. Grey was sharply attired in his full-dress evening suit, silk-faced to the edge, and double-breasted tattersall white vest. Helen looked dazzling in a blue suit of plain material trimmed with lace. The skirt had three rows of lace flouncing and puffed back drapery. She had looped the short front drapery at the side with white ribbon bows. The night was hot, so she had forgone a hat in favor of an elaborate ribbon wound through her plaited hair, the red silk completing her patriotic color scheme.

  Congress Street ended at the Cleeve and Tucker Memorial, a granite pillar erected in honor of the 1632 arrival on the peninsula of the first two English settlers. Each of the square-based monument’s four sides was engraved with one of the names the city had held in its history, from the original Indian title of Machigonne to Casco, Falmouth, and finally Portland. Normally an expanse of green park space, over half a mile long and five hundred feet deep, sloping sharply down toward Casco Bay, would be visible before them. Tonight, however, there were almost ten thousand people crowded into the area. The sun was setting behind them as Helen and Grey made their way toward the eastern terminus of the Promenade, where the old site of Fort Allen’s earthworks battery was now marked by a large bandstand. For the Fourth of July festivities, a long white tent had been raised to house a temporary wooden dance floor.

  Nearby was a platform and podium, decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, where Colonel Blanchard was to give his temperance speech. A line of chairs set at the back of the platform was occupied by various civic and business leaders who, publicly at least, supported the Maine Temperance Union. The site of the colonel’s speech had been well selected; Fort Allen Park recalled his military service while also being located within eyeshot of Fish Point. That easternmost corner of Portland Neck was a favorite locale of vagrants and drunken tramps and would highlight the immediacy of the colonel’s message.

  Blanchard walked onstage and exchanged pleasantries with several of the seated men. These weren’t the ones Grey wanted Helen to get a look at. The men they sought would likely be in their old uniforms in one of the ceremonial guard formations positioned around the grounds of the park. Or they might be lingering in plain clothes at the sides and front of the platform, ready to break up any trouble or roust any drunks. The colonel’s views on drinking were not appreciated by a significant share of the city, and his speeches brought a good chance of getting one or two men well into a bottle and itching for a livelier debate on abstinence and the evils of alcohol.

  A wave of applause greeted Colonel Blanchard as he stepped to the podium. The colonel held up his hands, gesturing at the crowd to ease its volume. He was a tall man with a stern face, heavily lined, that looked like it could have been chiseled from a block of New Hampshire granite.

  “My dear friends, I know that most of you already enjoy the blessings of sobriety. But today, on this Day of Independence, I come here to see if I can add but one more person, one father, one mother, or even one child, to the rolls of those who already bask in the glorious freedom of temperance.

  “Those of you who know me know that I have borne witness to that glorious terrible conflict wherein our generation was called upon to honor the laws of heaven and be our brother’s keepers. To free our fellow men from the unholy yoke of servitude. And yet I declare that all the pain I saw inflicted in my three years of war is but a cup when measured against the ocean of suffering which deluges our communities every day.”

  From where they stood on the Promenade, slightly above the speaking platform, Helen and Grey had difficulty identifying anyone in the crowd. Daylight was fast fading, and most of the people below wore hats that shaded their faces. Grey took Helen’s elbow to assist her as they moved down the grassy hillside and worked through the crowd to observe the area surrounding the platform. Helen hoped he was getting a decent view, since her shorter vantage point was useless in the sea of feathered bonnets and top hats. Many of the men in the crowd smoked cigars or cigarettes, but past those hazy covers Helen detected whiffs of whiskey and rum.

  They slowly maneuvered around in a circle, heading to the side of the stage where Colonel Blanchard had entered. When the two of them had woven their way close to the left front of the stage, Grey started pointing out possible suspects, some of whom he recognized and others he was simply guessing at, from their bearing and location, as being the colonel’s men. Helen repeatedly denied recognizing anyone, noting that it had been rather dim and hectic in the alleyway, so she hadn’t gotten a good look
at her pursuers.

  As the colonel’s speech neared its conclusion, his voice continued to boom out over the heads of the crowd. “The hard facts support us in showing that the practice of drinking spirits, thought by so many to be a harmless indulgence, results in greater misery to more individuals than any other custom or event that has ever existed or occurred in the history of man. By comparison, war is the cause of but little misery, especially as the combatants have nobly sacrificed their lives for the sake of their country. The true War for Independence, the war for our nation’s very soul, is still being fought, and you are all called to be soldiers in this righteous army.”

  The colonel waved to the crowd and left the stage to a roar of applause, as well as a decent chorus from those offering their sincerest wishes that he spend a long time as a houseguest of the devil. Blanchard, followed by his retinue, made his way from the stage area to the nearby tent, shaking hands and offering thanks to his supporters.

  After casually strolling around the grounds, past several groups of uniformed veterans, Helen and Grey came to the edge of the great white tent that housed the temporary dance floor. Many of the side flaps were removed, allowing breezes and enabling the dancers to hear the music from the adjacent bandstand. Gaslights attached to the support poles lit the interior.

  “There, in the corner,” Grey said, and motioned with a tilt of his head.

  Helen glanced into the tent, past the twirling figures of waltzing couples. On the far side, she spotted Colonel Blanchard engaged in conversation with a circle of men. The bandleader announced there was time for one more song before the fireworks were scheduled to begin.

  “May I have the honor of this dance?” Grey said.

  Helen let him take her hand. “You may.”

  The band launched into Sousa’s most popular dance song, “The Washington Post March,” and Grey led the two-step, slowly maneuvering Helen into the middle of the floor. She smiled at him. “I think the last time I danced like this, I was still in school. But you’re rather clever on your feet, Mr. Grey.”

  “I don’t have much call to practice these days either, but when I was a young man, my education was certainly varied and thorough.” Grey continued to guide Helen toward the far side of the tent, to within twenty feet of the colonel.

  Helen studied the men standing alongside Blanchard and shook her head. They two-stepped along until Helen was positioned to see the faces of the men who stood opposite the colonel. Her eyes darted over all the surrounding faces, locking onto a strongly built man with short-cropped blond hair. He wore a black patch over his left eye. She felt the surprise spread across her face as she blurted out, “It’s him!”

  All of Blanchard’s group, and several dancing couples, looked in Helen’s direction. Grey spun her around quickly so that she faced away from their scrutiny.

  “The blond hair and the eye patch,” she whispered. Helen watched Grey’s face as he stared at the colonel and his men for a few seconds before casually leading her back across the floor to where they had entered the tent. They stepped out under the night sky as the music faded behind them. Grey kept hold of Helen’s hand.

  “Let’s move along. We’ll have a better view for the festivities.”

  It wasn’t exactly the sort of comment Helen was expecting after having just identified the colonel’s associate, but she let Grey lead her away from Fort Allen Park, weaving among the crowds of spectators standing on the hillside or else spread out on picnic blankets, all awaiting the aerial display.

  “I shouldn’t have cried out like that,” she said. “Do you think he suspects us?”

  “I don’t believe he saw your face.”

  They continued on along the grassy slope, Grey leading at a casual pace, shooting glances behind them. Helen looked back toward the tent as well, but it was too dark to make out anyone in particular.

  “Are we being followed?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  Helen only half believed him, noting the way that Grey hunched his shoulders, making himself shorter and less noticeable among the crowds. A sharp whistling sound rose from the waterfront at the base of the hill, where the fireworks were being staged. The crowd offered up a collective cheer. Grey and Helen paused to watch the flare rise into the sky and burst into a shower of blue and white directly over the crowd. Several more bursts followed. As soon as there was a lull and the sky grew dim again, Grey guided Helen farther uphill toward the street. Each time a new flare sounded, they would pause and await the explosions. Helen was so amazed at how close the bursts were, nearly filling her entire field of vision, that she forgot all her thoughts of Colonel Blanchard and the blond man. After several rockets combined for a particularly dazzling burst, she said, “Isn’t this spectacular?”

  “Yes.” Grey’s disinterested tone caused her to look sideways at him, and she realized that he was paying no heed to the fireworks. He was instead using their illuminating effect to scan the faces in the crowd.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We should be going.” The sky began to darken again, and Grey reached out to guide Helen up the last stretch of hillside. As they stepped onto the pavement of the Eastern Promenade, Helen turned and saw a soldier following after them. He motioned to some unseen comrade, then pointed in their direction. Grey urged her forward to one of the carriages that sat in a row, awaiting fares at the end of the fireworks show. He helped her up into the enclosed four-wheeler.

  As Grey climbed in, the driver called out, “It’ll be a bit of a wait, sir. Packed in here tight until them in front of us move out.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Grey said. Inside, he did not take a seat but moved directly across to exit the opposite door, then assisted Helen down on the street side of the carriage. Her choice of shoes, bowed Dieppe ties with Louis XV heels, was not conducive to flight, so Grey held on to her as they hurried over the Promenade’s uneven paving stones. Once across the wide avenue, they turned in to the corner of Moody Street to escape from view.

  Helen glanced back and didn’t see anyone following them, but Grey pressed her along the sidewalk, moving up Munjoy Hill to where Rasmus waited with Dr. Steig’s carriage. Between the excitement and the slope they were facing, Helen’s breathing became quick.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Prescott?”

  “Perfectly fine, thank you. An evening of dancing, fireworks, fleeing from angry soldiers—what more could a lady ask for?”

  “I do apologize. This was needlessly risky on my part.”

  “Oh, I’m just having you on a bit. I’m fine. Truly.”

  “Shh!” Grey held a finger to his lips as he pulled Helen toward a recessed doorway. She glanced about as she stepped in but didn’t see or hear anything that would cause alarm.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  Grey waited, then leaned forward several inches and peered down toward the boulevard. Helen risked a peek. Two men, silhouetted against a streetlamp and wearing army hats, were standing in the middle of the street, one block away. They looked all around, then moved on toward the next side street.

  “That was him with the blond hair,” Helen said.

  “His name is Simon Gould. He’s one of the men who chased you in the alley?”

  “Not the alley—the library. He was the man in the lobby.”

  “But is he the man who actually pursued you in the library later that night?” Grey asked.

  “Maybe. He might have been.”

  “Could you swear it to the police? Or a judge?”

  Helen sighed. The rush of excitement drained out of her. She couldn’t honestly swear that Simon Gould was anything other than an unnerving man who had asked about books on witchcraft. If she accused him now, the authorities would dismiss her as quickly as Archie Lean had the morning after that incident. No one would arrest one of Colonel Blanchard’s close associates on the uncertain word of a nervous woman, frightened out of her wits in the dark, rushing through the library at night in fear for he
r life, after spending the evening listening to a lecture on witchcraft.

  “I’d like to get home to Delia now.”

  Grey nodded and took Helen’s hand as they hurried along the rough sidewalk toward the waiting carriage.

  30

  A week had passed since the return from Scituate and the subsequent revelation by Helen Prescott that the killer was using aliases drawn from Salem’s male witch-trial victims. July’s arrival had broken a long pattern of rainy weather. More important, the Independence Day weekend had brought Lean some welcome time with his family and a respite from the mayor’s requests for updates. When he saw Grey waiting by the steps to the public library and historical society, all such pleasant thoughts faded.

  As they made their way to the top floor to meet Helen, Grey relayed her identification of Simon Gould as the man in the library, further solidifying the theory of a connection between the Portland Company murder and the temperance union. When they reached the third floor, Helen was sitting at the reference desk. Only one other person occupied the room—a thin, scholarly man who looked as if he were intentionally ignoring the newcomers.

  “Is there somewhere we could talk in private?” Lean asked.

  Helen glanced at the wall clock. “We close in another fifteen minutes. Though, I suppose once the last visitor leaves, I could shut the doors early.”

  Grey sauntered over to where the visitor, a mousy-faced man with a twitchy mustache, was perusing a book. He studied the man as if he were an amateurish painting hanging in a gallery that ought to show better. Eventually the man acknowledged his discomfort by asking if there was some way he could help Grey.

  “No. But aren’t you running late for your birching?” Grey flicked his arm, mimicking a whipping motion.

  “I beg your pardon.” The man drew himself up to his full, but still unimpressive, height.