A Study in Revenge (21 page)

“It was especially hard for her,” Phebe continued. “Home was not a place where she knew true joy. For her there was always an emptiness here. And so, while her actions do pain me, I don’t take her leaving as a slight directed at me. It’s just the circumstance she found herself in. I pray that makes sense.”

Grey found himself pleasantly surprised by Phebe’s stoic approach to the issue. He had originally thought her to be of an emotional nature, based on her manner at Horace Webster’s bedside. Perhaps that situation was simply an overwhelming one and the current outlook marked her true character. He realized he might need to reassess Phebe Webster; it might turn out that she was cut from sturdier cloth after all.

He nodded his agreement and said, “I suppose it makes good sense. And so you don’t want me to find her?”

“No good would come of it. She’ll be with me again when the time is right.”

“And there’s nothing more you can say on the matter?” Grey asked.

“There’s nothing more I care to say on the matter, at present.”

Grey studied her face, gauging the intent of those final words. “Meaning you may yet have a change of heart?”

“It’s always a woman’s prerogative to
have
a change of heart. The difficulty is in
wanting
to change it.”

Grey tilted his head slightly to the side as if dodging that idea. “Merely the matter of making a conscious decision, an exercise of one’s reason and free will.”

Phebe sipped her tea and thought a moment before setting her cup down. “I think the philosopher David Hume said it best when he noted, ‘Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.’ ”

Grey had to pause a moment to appreciate the unexpectedly erudite comment. “For the sake of argument, I will defer to Hume. He was, after all, an eminently
reasonable
man.”

His gaze drifted out the windows and settled on the distant movements of the vessels entering and departing Portland Harbor. “And to the extent that his observation may be true and applicable to the great majority of mankind, I am glad for it. It makes men, and particularly those who give in to their passions, more easily understood and thus more easily found out. One who could employ reason to hide his avarice, rage, or whichever other passions drive him would indeed be a most dangerous person.”

Phebe gave him a doubtful look. “My theory is that you only believe yourself to be governed by reason over passion because deep in your heart you wish it were the truth.”

“Just as easily I could theoretically argue that you believe me, along with everyone else, to be governed by passions, not reason, because deep in your mind you wish
that
were the truth.”

“Let’s not theoretically argue in public. We don’t wish to cause a hypothetical scene.”

“A truce,” Grey said with an amused smile.

He filled their cups from the small silver teapot at their table. Phebe added cream and a sugar cube while Grey kept his black.

“So, then, what passions in your heart could change and convince you to help me locate your sister?” he asked.

“Perhaps we could strike a deal. It turns out that I could use that reasonable mind of yours, which I heard Mr. Dyer praise to my grandfather. I’ve come into a little mystery of my own and am at something of a loss.”

Grey arched an eyebrow and waited for her to continue.

“I suspect that you heard the commotion the other day at Mr. Dyer’s office. An object has gone missing from my grandfather’s lockbox that was supposedly being safeguarded by the attorneys.”

“Mr. Dyer mentioned something about a mistake, that the item would turn up in another box,” Grey recalled.

“Unfortunately, he now assures me he’s been through every box in their vault and my grandfather’s stone is not there. Somehow it’s been stolen.”

“Stone?” The extent of the consternation displayed by the attorney and his clerk now became evident to Grey. “A diamond or rare gem?”

“No, as I understand it, it was actually a stone. I’m not sure exactly, in terms of a geological classification, but some sort of rock.”

“But of enough value to place in a lockbox? I’m sorry, Miss Webster, some detail is evading me. Please, describe this stone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve never actually seen it. It’s been locked up in the offices of Dyer & Fogg for”—she paused to do the quick calculation in her head—“twenty-three years. Uncle Jason saw it when he was much younger. Said it was smooth all around and rather egg-shaped. About so.” She cupped her hands approximately eight inches apart. “He says it had several etchings on the face of it.”

“I see.” Grey’s brow wrinkled at the bizarre and seemingly pointless turn that the conversation had taken. “Have you reported this to the police? I’d recommend that you speak with a Deputy Lean. It was, after all, bequeathed to you, correct?”

“Surprisingly, yes. Everyone assumed it would go to Euripides. I feel rather odd about it. He hasn’t said so, but I’m certain he’s quite insulted
that Grandfather passed him over. So it’s for me to say, and I’ve decided not to file a formal complaint. I’d prefer to deal with the matter privately, and quietly.”

“Is that wise? Surely the authorities should be notified. If the item was of such value, I assume there would be an insurance claim at stake,” Grey said.

“The value of the stone itself is not … readily ascertainable. And I believe that publicity is what caused this problem in the first place.” Phebe raised her cup to take a sip.

“Yes, the discovery of an egg-shaped rock must have caused quite a frenzy at the newspapers,” Grey said with an entirely straight face.

Phebe, who had her cup at her lips, was unable to stifle her laughter. Her hand shook, and a spot of tea splashed down on her dress. She dabbed at it with her napkin.

“One small benefit of having to wear black,” she said.

“Please accept my apologies. For making you laugh.”

“Oh, don’t apologize for that. I can’t quite remember the last time I had a good laugh. Weeks ago, probably, before Grandfather worsened. Besides, it’s not entirely your fault. I must have sounded daft, the way I’m explaining myself.”

Phebe set her napkin on the table and folded her hands as she gathered her thoughts. “My great-great-grandfather discovered the stone. He called it a thunderstone. It was unearthed while he was digging out a root cellar. He was fascinated by its shape and the strange etchings. Maybe more than fascinated. He was supposedly consumed with the thing and with protecting it. Claimed it was worth a thousand times its weight in gold. In his will he left strict, and shall we say odd, instructions for its custody and protection.”

“Such as?”

“I can’t recall the exact wording, but Mr. Dyer went over the original decree the other day, at the reading of my grandfather’s will. For example, it’s not to be displayed in the presence of anyone outside the family, nor are the markings to be reproduced. That’s why it’s been at Dyer & Fogg for so long. My grandfather allowed it to be photographed at an exhibition of Maine history commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of
our statehood. The executor of the estate at that time, the current Attorney Dyer’s father, deemed it a violation of the terms of the bequest and revoked possession of the thunderstone.”

“And you believe the publicity from that 1870 exhibition, twenty-three years ago, is behind the current trouble and disappearance of the stone?” Grey didn’t bother trying to hide his skepticism.

“Not just me. Uncle Euripides and Uncle Jason think so, too. You see, once the existence of the stone became known at the exhibit, a man named Chief Jefferson began to make quite a fuss about it. He’s an Indian. Well, as it turns out not a real Indian at all. Not even …”

“Of mixed heritage,” Grey didn’t mind offering Miss Webster a hand in the awkward attempt to politely describe his racial classification. Her uncertainty seemed strictly linguistic, lacking the masked discomfort or even blatant contempt that so often characterized others’ approach to the subject.

“Yes, as it seems he’s actually a full-blooded white man, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. Plays the part of a chief very convincingly.”

Grey smiled a bit, wondering how on earth Miss Phebe Webster would know that the portrayal of an Indian chief was accurate. Grey could see by her expression that she’d noted his reaction, so he quickly launched into the matter.

“I recall reading an article about him. Supposedly a lost child found and raised by some roving Indians, passing his youth among various families and groups throughout Maine and Canada. A popular speaker and attraction at the traveling Indian shows and demonstrations. A shrewd businessman.”

Phebe said, “All I’ve heard of him is that he turns up every so often, asking—demanding, really—that our family hand over the thunderstone. He claims it’s really an old Indian stone of some sort and that by rights we should give it back.”

“He believes this thunderstone is an Indian artifact? Because of the symbols on it?”

“Precisely. Over the years he’s made several verbal and written demands to Dyer & Fogg to hand the object over. He’s even offered to
purchase it from my grandfather. But, of course, that was never considered.”

“Of course,” Grey said with only the faintest hint of irony. “After all, it’s said to be worth a thousand times its weight in gold. Why, exactly?”

Phebe leaned in, forcing Grey to do likewise, and in a conspiratorial tone she whispered, “According to family lore, the stone is somehow supposed to reveal a priceless treasure.”

Grey’s eyebrows shot up. He would not have guessed that such an absurd statement would issue from a woman who just minutes earlier had struck him as notably levelheaded.

“You say that in all seriousness?” Grey’s embarrassment at the feeling that he’d misjudged Miss Webster’s character was assuaged by the sudden grin that lit up her face.

“Me? No, not particularly. I know it sounds fantastic—childish, even—but family lore is very earnest on that point.”

“Enough so that your eagerness to recover the thunderstone exceeds that same feeling with regard to your sister.”

“Of course not. Two different kettles of fish entirely, Mr. Grey. As I’ve explained, Maddy’s made her choices. Unlike the thunderstone, my sister wasn’t stolen from me. Regardless of the improbable rumor attached to the stone, it is nevertheless a Webster family heirloom. One that was important to my recently deceased grandfather. If he’d been aware of its disappearance, I think those four little words he whispered to you at his bedside would have been different.”

Grey took a moment to absorb the information, sorting out the relevant facts from the thread of familial eccentricity that had emerged in the telling of Phebe Webster’s story.

“In any event, you were saying about this Chief Jefferson …”

“Yes. Just yesterday the man made an offer to Uncle Euripides directly. No doubt also assuming that he would be the new owner when Grandfather passed.”

“I take it Euripides did not respond kindly to the man’s financial overtures.”

“Not kindly,” Phebe repeated. “That’s putting it rather mildly. My uncle threatened to kill the man if he ever approached the family
again.” Her nose wrinkled at the unpleasant admission of her uncle’s fiery temper.

Grey considered this for a moment. “But Chief Jefferson’s offer came after the stone was already stolen.”

“Uncle Euripides thinks that’s a clever attempt to throw suspicion off himself.”

“A valid concern,” Grey said. “Another valid concern is that Euripides falls solidly on the side of David Hume’s assessment of reason and the overriding passions. Could your uncle have had prior knowledge that this thunderstone wouldn’t pass to him in your grandfather’s will?”

“What are you suggesting—that Uncle Euripides himself could have stolen it?” Phebe let out an uncomfortable chuckle. Seeing Grey’s cool, analytical expression, she added, “He’s passionate, surely. That doesn’t mean criminal. Besides, I doubt there’s any way he could have learned the contents of the will from Mr. Dyer beforehand. Dealings between the two of them are strictly business.”

“I see.” Grey leaned forward a bit in his seat and stared at his interlocked fingers, contemplating the information gathered over the lunch. Finally he leaned back and turned his attention once more to Phebe, who regarded him with a look of intense curiosity.

“It’s agreed, then, Miss Webster. Our own business dealing: I will find this thunderstone, if it is to be found. And you, in turn, will tell me everything you know, or believe, with regard to your sister’s whereabouts.”

L
EAN STOOD IN
D
EERING
O
AKS WITH HIS SHOULDER AGAINST
one of the park’s trees. His eyes moved over the crowd of pedestrians meandering beneath the tall canopy of the ancient oaks, seeking shelter from the July sun. Soon enough he caught sight of Tom Doran. The man was hard to miss. He stood well over six feet, and when the massive Irishman came face-to-face with him, his broad chest and arms seemed to occupy an equal amount of horizontal space.

Earlier that day, when Lean had tracked down Tom Doran, it had been in an alley behind one of the unlicensed saloons that Jimmy Farrell operated. Farrell, along with his counterpart, McGrath, headed the two rival Irish gangs that controlled much of the flow of illegal liquor into Portland. The Maine Liquor Law was mostly enforced when it had to be, when the flouting of it became too public, too visible in the city’s commercial heart or in respectable neighborhoods. Doran hadn’t flinched at the sight of a deputy catching him unloading barrels of illegal beer. His boss paid people higher up than Lean to let him do business, so long as it was done quietly.

Three hours later the deputy noted that the big man had changed out of his grubby work clothes. He was smartly dressed, with a brushed bowler squatting atop rusty hair that had been freshly slicked back. Even his regularly bushy mustache had been trimmed since that morning.

“Shouldn’t have come around earlier,” Doran said. “Don’t look good for either of us.”