The Truth of All Things (10 page)

Some of the other men spoke in low tones in Abenaki. Grey was trying to follow their conversation, but with limited success. Chief White Eagle noticed this.

“They wonder at how far you have gone from the old ways. They think perhaps you look down on us, think we put on these costumes and play at make-believe for the amusement of the white men.”

Grey shrugged. “Everyone has to earn a living. I don’t begrudge
any of you that. Though I do question the honesty of the images that you portray here.”

Chief White Eagle thought about that for a moment before answering Grey. “We all take on identities that are not true to ourselves. Sometimes we choose to become what the world expects to see of us, who the world thinks we should be. Perhaps you think it reflects poorly on you. You wonder, if this is how the white man sees all of us, then how does he see you?”

Grey gave the chief a bit of a smile, raised the cup that had been poured for him earlier, and took a small drink. The others around the circle were more enthusiastic with the bottles, and before long the stories turned to past episodes of troubles encountered as they moved among white people. Most of these ended without harm, though the mention of the infamous beating death of an elderly Penobscot man named Denny caused a stir.

“And what about Old Stitch?” said an Indian man.

“That wasn’t murder,” said another. “The old witch just drank herself to death.”

Lean looked up. The name of Old Stitch stirred a faint memory in him.

“No, but it was murder years ago when they burned her house out,” said the first man.

“She wasn’t even an Indian,” argued the second.

Agnes held up a palm to quiet the two men. “It just shows that the white man’s hatred isn’t reserved for us. Anyone who lives apart from their ways, in harmony with nature, seeking to learn from the earth rather than be her master, is to be feared.”

As the Indian men went on with their stories, Lean turned to Agnes. “Old Stitch. That name’s familiar. Tell me about her.”

“I knew her a long time ago. She was a fortune-teller like me. Only she worked as a spirit medium.”

“And she died recently?”

“She made potions, and she drank a lot. Probably grabbed the wrong bottle.”

“Why was she called Old Stitch?” asked Lean.

“Her real name was Lucy. Old Stitch because she made her name crafting poppets.”

“Puppets? What, like Punch and Judy stuff?

“Poppets,” Agnes said. “Cloth dolls, the kind you might stick a pin in.”

“She have a last name?” Lean asked.

“I can’t tell you what it was.”

“And what about that business years ago? There was a fire, and someone was killed.”

“That’s the story. They tried to kill her one time. In the early days, when her and the boys were working out of Back Cove.”

“The boys?”

“Yes, her two kids—different fathers, of course. And hardly an ounce of kid in them. They earned what little keep they got.”

“How so?”

Agnes’s eyes drifted up. “Her customers would ride out over Tukey’s Bridge to see her down there by the cove. When they left, one boy would be in the woods nearby and tail them back. He’d signal the other at the far end of the bridge. That one would follow the carriage to their houses to spy on them, eavesdropping, reading mail, then sealing the letters back up. When a customer came for a second visit, Old Stitch could tell them so many details about their lives that they’d believe anything she said.”

“Seems a harmless bit of graft.”

“Harmless for the clients,” Agnes said. “Not them boys. Blamed them for her lot in life and made sure they knew it. If she got paid, they would eat. Maybe. Them two were thinner than shadows. Lived on whatever they could steal, catch, or dig out of the cove mud. If they couldn’t get what she needed on a customer, they’d feel it on their backs. She kept them in absolute fear. Had poppets of each of them that she’d threaten to burn. It went on like that for years. Until they burned her out.”

“Who did?” Lean asked.

“Some church folk got wind of her ways. Came down with torches crying witchcraft and bloody murder. After that, she came along and
traveled about with us for a while. A few years later and she was back at the cove, talking to spirits and selling medicines to all sorts of ladies.”

“So someone died in the fire.”

“One of her boys. The little one, I think.” A hint of sadness lingered in Agnes’s voice.

G
rey stood on a large, flat rock two hundred yards out on the jetty. He ignored the local fishermen farther along the rocks, working the outgoing tide for the striped bass that fed at the mouth of the Saco River. He stared across the water, dull beneath a slew of morning clouds. Free from the distracting smells and sights of the Indian encampment, he refocused on the scene at the Portland Company: Maggie Keene laid out like a pentagram on the dark, exposed earth. Why would the killer go through the tremendous effort to pry up the floorboards? It would have been quite a task even for several men with the right tools. He gave his mind a shove in the direction of the murder inquiry and then let it go. To his annoyance his thoughts kept circling back to the night before and the mob of club-wielding locals. His mind raced on to another image of armed men, decades earlier.

The men spoke politely to his mother, but he could not ignore the menace of the shotgun held casually on the shoulder of one man. Another man collected their family possessions into a sack. The cabin door hung loose in the frame. They were hustled along, out into a four-wheeled carriage. There was the crack of a whip, and the carriage bolted forward. He glanced back at the cabin, all dark and empty like a discarded shell. He clung to his mother as they sped along the bumpy road. He started to ask for his father before he saw his mother’s glistening eyes and remembered everything.

“Where are we going?”

“To your grandfather’s.”

“N’mahom?”

“No, your white grandfather. In Portland.” She laid a warm palm on his cheek and smiled through her tears.

Lean glanced at his pocketwatch: half past seven. He favored his swollen ankle as he navigated the uneven granite blocks that made up the jetty. His head ached, and he felt unsteady from drinking too much the night before. He continued his slow progress until Grey was only twenty yards ahead, facing out to sea with his hands behind his back.

“Any sign of that bear?”

It took Grey a moment to react and turn toward Lean. “What bear?”

“The one that slipped into the tent last night and shit in my mouth.” Lean managed a feeble smile before he turned his head and spit into the ocean, trying to clear out the taste of cheap whiskey and Indian tobacco. Lean watched the waves slosh against the side of the jetty. “ ‘Break, break, break, / On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! / And I would that my tongue could utter / The thoughts that arise in me.’ ”

Grey looked aside at Lean.

“You never did tell me why you came here. What you were looking for?” Lean waited for a response, then added, “A killer’s on the loose. If you know something that will help bring him in, you have to tell me. Whether he’s one of your people or not.”

“My people? I was seven years old the last time I lived with Indians. After that, I spent years sequestered with the finest tutors in Portland and Boston, until I was socially skilled enough to no longer be an embarrassment to my grandfather. Then I was sent packing to the finest schools and colleges in New England. Once old enough to direct my own education, I spent six years in Europe studying under the greatest criminalists in London and Paris. Even Professor Gross in Vienna. A tenuous statement at best, to call the Indians my people. You needn’t worry about any old sympathies of mine.” Grey turned and
began to walk along the top of the jetty, back toward shore. “None of us is the child he was at age seven.”

Lean let the words hang in the air as he followed behind. There was a gravity in Grey’s voice that convinced him the man was sincere. “Fair enough, Grey. Then tell me why the killer’s not an Indian. The message above the body was in Indian, for heaven’s sake.”

“Taking the simplest view of facts is certainly a wise course.” Grey stopped and pulled a notebook from his side bag. “Provided you have all the facts.” He wrote the message from the Portland Company and held it out for Lean to see.

“The chalk message was
Kia K’tabaldamwogan paiomwiji
. But I noticed that something about the writing wasn’t quite right. Old Chief White Eagle, or whatever his true name is, confirmed it. ‘Thy kingdom come.’
Kia
means ‘thy’ or ‘your,’ but adding it to this sentence is unnecessary. The ‘K’ at the start of
K’tabaldamwogan
already functions as the possessive pronoun. As written, the killer’s message really is more like ‘Thy kingdom of yours come.’ It’s grammatically incorrect. An amateur’s mistake. The author has studied the language, perhaps, but is not a native speaker.”

“Maybe he’s an Indian who simply can’t write well,” Lean said.

“I don’t think so.” Grey motioned to the middle word. “He also used an ‘o’ toward the end of
K’tabaldamwogan
. An Abenaki would have used this symbol.” Grey traced a figure eight on the page. “It represents a nasal vowel not found in English. Though it’s approximated in English with an ‘o,’ a native writer would have used the figure eight.”

“Hardly conclusive. Rather trivial details to conclude that the killer is not an Indian.”

“Trivial details are often the most telling.” Grey returned his notebook to his bag and starting toward the shore again. The pair reached the beginning of the jetty and paused on the sand. “And so,” Grey continued, “I have not yet formally eliminated the possibility that an Abenaki is indeed the killer. But there’s a false element here. I can’t yet put my finger on it, but something doesn’t fit with an Indian as the killer.”

“That may be enough for you, but I have to do my duty and follow the evidence as I see it. If you’re going to pursue your theories … well, I won’t try to stop you. So long as you do it quietly.”

Grey nodded and tipped his hat.

A
full day later, Archie Lean sat outside Mayor Ingraham’s City Hall office. He mentally sorted through the dozens of reports and letters, many anonymous, that had landed on his desk from people with suspicions as to Maggie Keene’s killer. Eventually the secretary’s voice summoned him.

Lean closed the office door behind him, and Mayor Ingraham stared up from his large desk. “Where have you been all morning?”

“Following up on tips. Plus a stop back at the consulate.” Among the other trouble caused by news of the murderer’s race, a man attached to the Spanish consulate had been mistaken for an Indian and assaulted.

“Well, forget about that for now.” The mayor handed over a letter. “This came to my house this morning.”

Lean opened it and saw a message written in blocky letters, which he read aloud. “ ‘I am writing so you will know your errors. Of course I’m not an Indian! The Master is above all others. I stand with the Master, above them. The black man serves the Master. In the third month, the month of the Master’s power, you will see the truth and know I hold the Master’s power. You will know this in time.’ ”

Lean looked up from the page. “The strangest of the lot, but I’ve seen a dozen—”

“This came with it.” Ingraham’s face was pale as he set a small folded section of leather on his desk. With a pen he lifted the flap open to reveal a dark object.

It looked like a bit of meat. Lean moved closer for a look.

“Dr. Steig’s come by already. It’s the tip of a human tongue, and it
would match the section cut out of Maggie Keene’s mouth. The man’s a savage.”

“Yet he’s angry at being made out as an Indian.”

“Mad that he’s been revealed,” the mayor said.

“If that’s true, then why would he leave Indian writing at the scene?” Lean read through the killer’s note once more. “He mentions something happening in the third month. So is this the second month? Maybe Grey was right about an earlier murder.”

“And more to come, from the sounds of it.” The mayor gestured toward the leather patch that held Maggie Keene’s tongue. “This was delivered to my front step. Do you understand? This madman came to my house, Lean. Find him.”