The Truth of All Things (16 page)

“Forgot about that,” said Lean as he reoriented himself. “Well, who needs Polaris anyhow? Your good cheer is as constant as the North Star.”

Grey smirked in response as he stepped out the narrow door, down onto the railed-in walk that encircled the lantern. The walkway was three feet wide and slanted just a bit down and away from the tower. Lean followed and rested against the waist-high railing as he stared out past the Eastern Cemetery, toward the waterfront where the Portland Company stood.

“We know that the killer was observing the watchman on multiple past occasions. Even if the killer hadn’t been interrupted, he would have been quite a sight after the murder. He likely planned to clean himself or hide his appearance. In either case it would have been prudent for him to have shelter nearby,” Grey said.

“That fits with the watchman’s report that he never heard any carriage fleeing the area,” Lean said.

“In his drug-induced stupor and the panic of the moment, he probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway. The ears are surpassed only by the eyes for unreliability in times of duress.” Grey continued to scan the buildings visible on the hillside. “But I agree that the killer likely escaped on foot to some nearby refuge. He can’t go south into the Atlantic. He would have been seen if he fled west into the open space before reaching the Grand Trunk Station.”

“Plenty of moonlight that night. Just a few days past full.”

“So he came uphill, north or east. Somewhat sparse that way.” Grey motioned to the open grassy ground leading east up Munjoy Hill that dominated the eastern end of Portland. “A man who spent so much time in planning surely contemplated a quick and easy departure. More cover straight ahead north. And plenty of tenements and boarding-houses within a quick dash uphill here.”

Lean sighed and rubbed his neck. “There’s a fair piece of ground that will have to be canvassed.”

“From Freeman Lane to Munjoy Street, one block deep from the waterfront, the city directory lists seventeen boarding rooms,” Grey
said, “though there’s probably twice that number when you include those who let rooms on the side, whenever the space is available. If necessary, we can expand our search to include Mountfort to the Eastern Promenade.”

O
n June 21, a full week after the murder, Lean sat at the table in Dr. Steig’s study, his notebook open before him. “There are thirty-one rooms to let in the four blocks immediately fronting the Portland Company. Nineteen were occupied by single male boarders at points during the week before the murder. We were able to see or get reasonable descriptions of all but three.”

Grey smiled. “Excellent.”

“One of our patrolmen, McDonough, boards on Waterville himself and knows most of the folks. No real trouble getting most of them to talk. Of those sixteen boarders, six were described as short. Four have dark hair. One was questioned already, and his alibi for June fourteenth was confirmed—out of town that night. The three others have left their rooms and are not available. Their names are: Harvey Farr, a mariner; James Alexander, whose trade was unknown; and John Willard, a traveling salesman.”

Lean flipped the page. “Now, get this. Alexander wasn’t there long but quickly earned a reputation for quarreling. On multiple occasions he denounced people in the street, making all sorts of accusations as to sinful conduct of his neighbors. It’s got to be him. A religious zealot. He fits perfectly.”

Grey held up a cautioning finger. “He warrants further interest, to be sure. But again, I must warn you. A preconceived theory is an even greater liability in those cases involving the most extraordinary circumstances.”

“How so?”

“It’s an unfortunate facet of human nature that a man’s mind will
seize on any element of a story that hints at the unusual or strange while utterly neglecting those aspects most familiar to us in our everyday lives. Yet experience proves that it is most likely to be those commonplace, overlooked details that reveal the identity of the criminal. A quick survey of the lurid stories screaming from the front pages confirms that mankind has a natural inclination toward discovering sensational or fantastical features where they do not exist.”

Lean answered, “And thank God for that. If there were no natural desire for the spectacular and the grand, then we’d still be in the Dark Ages. No art, or music, or poetry.”

“Well and good for the poet. But for the criminalist, everything bearing the least mark of exaggeration must be purged, and he must guard against it with the strictest discipline. That being said …” Grey drew a thin book from an interior pocket of his frock coat.

“What’s that?” Dr. Steig asked.

“This, gentlemen, compliments of a professor friend at Harvard, is a rare little volume that proves, despite everything I’ve just said, there are occasions where a case does indeed seem to hinge on the most sensational and fantastic of circumstances.”

He handed the book to Lean, who glanced at the cover and read aloud, “ ‘
Strange Tales of Warwickshire
, by F. Bertram Clapp, 1889.’ ”

“Be prepared to be pleasantly surprised that your own theory of a religious zealot was actually flawed by virtue of not being fanciful enough. Go on—there where I’ve marked it.”

Lean let the text fall open to a bookmarked page. His eyes settled on the heading of a new chapter: “Meon Hill.”

“ ‘Close by the Rollright Stones, overlooking the villages of Upper and Lower Quinton, lies Meon Hill. This is yet another ancient site reputed to have long associations with dark forces. Legend has it that in Anglo-Saxon times pagan rituals were performed atop Meon Hill, and even in recent years many townsfolk have heard whispers that the hill remains a meeting place for covens of witches. An eerie howling is said to be common about the hill on foggy nights, and more than one frightened soul has reported encounters with a black dog said to haunt the hill. As is often the case in villages throughout the
country, superstitions abound of such spectral black hounds as harbingers of death.

“ ‘About 1869, a farmer named Donald Whitten reported seeing the dog on his way home past the hill. Although he was a hale and hearty fellow, two nights later he died in his sleep. In 1885, it is told that a young plough boy named Charlie Walton met a great black dog on Meon Hill three nights in a row. On the final night, the dog was followed after by the shape of a headless woman in a white dress. Within a week, the boy’s sister took ill and died.’

“Grey, this makes for some wonderful ghost stories, but—”

“Please,” Grey said with mock plaintiveness. “Indulge me just one paragraph further.”

Lean sighed and returned his attention to the page. “ ‘By far the most chilling episode thereabouts happened several years earlier, in 1875, when the body of a woman named Ann Turner was found murdered in the village of Long Compton. John Haywood, who was described as being a rather feeble-minded young man, was soon after found guilty and hanged. Haywood confessed that he had pinned Ann Turner to the ground with a hay fork before using a billhook to slash her throat and carve the shape of a cross into her neck and body.’ ”

“My God, this is uncanny.” Dr. Steig’s eyes had grown wide.

“Is this true?” Lean asked Grey, who responded by rolling his hand forward in a circle, motioning Lean to read on.

“ ‘At his trial, Haywood repeatedly asserted his earnest defense that he had done the act to save not just himself but the whole village. He swore that Ann Turner had not only bewitched him but had also put a curse on the land of many of the locals farmers, fouling several wells and springs to poison the cattle. This manner of death, the “sticking” of the body with a hay fork, was an ancient and traditional way to kill a witch, according to folklore dating back hundreds of years. John Haywood confirmed this superstitious belief in his own testimony, stating that the carving of the cross and pinning her to the ground was the only way to stop a witch from once more rising
from her grave.’ ” Lean closed the book. “Maggie Keene was killed over witchcraft?”

“Helen!” Dr. Steig blurted out. “That man at the library was looking for some old volume on witchcraft. That’s our man.”

Grey shook his head. “She reported the man as blond; our killer has black hair. But I agree there appears to be some connection between the two events. Unfortunately, unless Mrs. Prescott can identify the man, there’s little chance of progress along that avenue. I suggest we focus our attention on the role witchcraft plays in the death of Maggie Keene. Did our man truly believe her to be a witch?”

“Not necessarily,” Dr. Steig said, trying to regain his composure. “He could simply be delusional and applying the term ‘witch’ loosely to mean a sinful woman.”

“So he is on a religious crusade of some sort,” Lean said.

Grey rolled his eyes. “You’re like a dog with a meat bone.”

“Perhaps, like this fellow in the book, he thought himself bewitched by her.” Dr. Steig waved his pipe about like a magic wand. “Of course, not in the sense of poisoned cattle and all that. But in his own unbalanced view of the world, he’s tormented by her, having shameful desires, such as the suckling. Unable to control these feelings, he blames his own weakness on her conduct. She has caused his problems—bewitched him. He must rid himself of her.”

In the silence that followed, Lean contemplated the doctor’s theory. It had the distinct advantage of being much more fleshed out than his own simple explanation of religious fervor. “Well, Grey? You haven’t said what you make of it.”

“We can safely assume that, in our man’s mind, Maggie Keene deserved a witch’s death. As to why … mere speculation. We need more facts. There must be some link, something about the victim that marked her for death in this manner. We need to know more about the unfortunate Maggie Keene.”

T
wo mornings later, Lean passed the intersection of Gorham’s Corner with Dr. Steig beside him. This was the most densely populated, and the most Irish, section of town. A few blocks on and they turned down a thin alleyway littered with trash and puddles of what Lean optimistically thought of as muddied rainwater. Ahead of them some street kids quit whatever they were doing, took stock of the approaching men, and scattered. Lean and the doctor moved farther down the alley of grime-covered brick walls streaked chalky white by old water stains. Overhead, staggered rows of dingy laundry hung out to languish in the fusty air. There was the occasional flapping sound from linens so thin from long use that they barely offered any resistance to the puffs of wind.

They turned down a staircase and headed into the dark confines of the underground barroom. It took a moment for Lean’s eyes and nose to adjust. There was little light, except for two candles on a couple of the slanted, poorly cobbled tables. The atmosphere inside was thick and stifling, as if the rank air from the entire space of the alleyway outside had somehow been condensed into the small barroom and held captive for weeks on end.

The bartender reached below, grabbing hold of something hidden from view. Lean slipped his left hand into his pants pocket, the motion causing the lapel of his suit coat to shift aside and reveal his badge. The man tensed behind the bar, returning the unseen weapon to its resting place.

It wasn’t hard to spot Boxcar Annie. There were only two women in the room, one so old they might have raised the building around her. Boxcar Annie was sitting alone at a table. Lean had never arrested her before but thought he recognized her face. Although she’d earned her moniker for her habit of working, when need be, near or in empty
rail cars, this was one of those arguably fortuitous occasions when the title fit the person’s actions as perfectly as it fit her appearance. Her flat face was set into a square head that was itself hunkered down on her shoulders like a stone gargoyle squatting atop a condemned building

There were a half dozen men scattered about, but it was early enough that they weren’t yet bothering her, each man instead focusing his attention on his mug. They all looked up at the newcomers with varying degrees of concern. Most merely spared a glance before returning to the pressing business of dulling the world. One man took on a nervous air, drained his cup, and left without making eye contact. On the other end of the spectrum was a grizzled old soaker who was propped up at a table in the shady corner past Boxcar Annie. He barely moved his head from where it hovered just inches over his mug.