18. Sam The Trenches
Sam: The Trenches
How much of the woman’s nature remains in the spirit thew? Very little. The spirit is shaped by discipline, time, and training. In her ideal form, the thew is what her name implies: mere muscular strength, albeit of a spiritual kind, an extension of the enchanter’s will.
—César Castellanos, Understanding the Realm of Thews
The knowledge of Livia’s identity had overturned my understanding of Clementine’s purpose.
I had been misled by her innocent appearance.
First I had thought her a fool, swimming in a sea of ill intent; then I had thought her too ambitious, hoping against hope that she could practice enchantment.
Now I realized that I’d misjudged her twice.
It was no wonder she had seemed so anguished after being ejected from Commonwealth.
She had designs around her mother and Throckmorton, that much was clear.
But what designs? If she thought the Cisneros Society would passively stand by while she pursued them, she remained, to some degree, both too innocent and too ambitious. No—the stones would come for her.
Well, I would not passively stand by, either.
It was Saturday again, my designated day for leading Maxwell to breadcrumbs, and I knew exactly where to lead him.
But Maxwell had other plans. Despite the fine weather, he wasn’t waiting for me on his stoop. And when I drifted upstairs to nudge him out the door, I found him sitting comfortably at his desk with no sign of wanting to leave. I gave him a little push to urge him on, and he smiled.
“Ah, you’re here,” he said. “Before we leave, I have a request.”
I was intrigued. A request?
Maxwell pointed to his desk, and I saw a strange object upon it.
At first glance, it looked like a clock resting on its back.
It was the size of a dessert plate, with a brass frame and a curious brass knob in the middle.
The knob was engraved with the letters SJA, which I assumed, at the time, were the initials of the device’s prior owner.
Looking more closely, I realized that along the edge of the clock were not numbers, but letters, along with the words “Yes,” “No,” “Don’t know,” and “Change the question.”
Now I understood, and I couldn’t have been more pleased. It was a spiritoscope.
“I’m glad you approve,” Maxwell said in response to my burst of enthusiasm.
“First. You must tell me your name, if we are to converse properly.” He gave a wry smile.
“I hope it isn’t very long.” Maxwell placed his fingers on the brass knob and began slowly turning the dial, the brass hand clicking as it reached and passed each letter.
When the brass hand arrived at the S, I pressed a sense of encouragement upon him, and he stopped. “Excellent. S.”
We had some confusion with the A, for he thought I was still referring to the S, but soon enough he understood and moved on to the next letter. Maxwell repeated the process until he reached the M, and I sent him my approval.
“S-A-M. Sam.” He said my name aloud, and it was curiously thrilling to hear myself addressed in this way, as if I were truly in the room. “Is that your whole name?” He turned the dial to the “No.” I waited. Then he turned it one notch further.
Yes.
“Sam, thank you. Now we can talk more directly.” He sat back in his chair. “I’m deeply grateful to you for all your assistance this summer. You’ve helped me time and time again. However…” He paused. “The unfortunate corpse you led me to signals some very grave crimes, I believe.”
Yes.
“And you wish to help me apprehend the perpetrators?”
Yes.
He nodded. “This will be dangerous work, Sam. It is essential that we communicate clearly. So now…” He sat up in his chair. “Let us look to the crimes at hand. You first made yourself known to me on the day I was investigating the death of Elizabeth Baines. Correct?”
Yes.
“Good.” He nodded. “That crime remains unsolved, as do the other four stoning deaths. Elsa Manning, Florence McGuire, Viola Miller, and Gertrudis Buendía. Were all these crimes committed by the same person?” He turned the brass hand to the “Yes,” but I couldn’t agree.
They were, and they weren’t. After a moment, he shifted to the “No.” That wasn’t correct either.
He turned the dial to “Don’t know.” I waited.
Lastly, he turned to the phrase “Change the question.” I affirmed his choice.
“Hm…” He sat back, thinking. He looked out the window, and I followed his gaze to a pair of boys who ran along the sidewalk, racing each other amicably toward the corner.
Maxwell frowned. “Perhaps there isn’t one killer, for the stones were many.
Sam, were these murders committed by the same people? ”
Yes.
“Ah!” Maxwell nodded. “Good. Now…are the authors of these crimes connected to the creature in the wood?”
Yes.
“Perhaps it is no mere connection. Are the same people responsible for that crime?”
Yes. I felt such relief—finally, finally someone understood!
“I thought so.” Maxwell sat up straight in his chair. “Now, Sam. The crux of the matter. I need a name. Someone who is part of the group, the name of a street, anything. Give me a name to start with.”
This was both simple and not. Simple to name the villains, impossible to describe their entire membership, the list of participants, the workings of the complex scheme on the table at the Embalmer’s house. It would take us years spelling out words on the little spiritoscope.
Maxwell patiently placed his finger on the brass knob.
I led him to C, and then I, and then S. But then, instead of continuing, he rose slowly to his feet and stared across the room at some indeterminate point.
He had a tension about his face, a repressed energy in his stance, that I hadn’t seen before.
Reflexively, his hand moved to the ring on his hand—the token that altered his appearance—and he turned it once, twice, as if to assure himself of its presence.
Now he spoke in a low voice. “Sam. Is it the Cisneros Society?”
He knew. He knew! No, he suspected. Something had made him suspect the shadowy Cisneros Society—perhaps its very secrecy—and now I gladly confirmed his suspicion.
“Excellent.” Maxwell smiled grimly. “I know of the Society, but I don’t know its members.
Can you show me them?” I didn’t respond, for I could think of nothing worse than Maxwell confronting Draken on his doorstep.
His brow furrowed, and he walked back to the desk.
“Tell me, Sam. What is your hesitation?” He put his hand on the brass knob, and I made him spell out my fears, letter by letter: D-A-N-G-E-R.
“I know, Sam,” he said quietly. “I know. We have our work cut out for us. But we must act. What if you point them out to me, and I won’t take any action until I have the numbers to do so?
” Still, I hesitated. “I will be careful. I promise you.”
Finally, I assented. Yes.
“Good.” He carefully tucked the spiritoscope into a leather carrying case with a long, wide strap. Then he sat on the little bench by the door to lace his boots; he donned his hat, took up his truncheon, and placed the Ovid in his coat pocket. “Lead on, Sam. I’m ready.”
I urged Maxwell down Essex Street toward the city center, where the market stalls had already opened and a lively commerce was taking place.
Baskets of squash, greens, and early apples; crates filled with honey and beeswax candles; bins stacked with lumpy hanks of wool.
Beyond them, the relic vendors displayed tables loaded with knives and tools, delicate porcelain, clockworks, jewelry, and hair embroidery.
Maxwell passed the grocers and craft vendors, barely glancing at the more tempting displays of relics and antiquities, before continuing on to Washington Square.
There, I prodded him around the green to Oliver Street.
When he reached the corner, I brought him to a halt.
Obligingly, Maxwell paused. As the minutes passed and I offered him no further suggestions, Maxwell reached into his pocket and withdrew the Ovid.
He leaned back in the shade of the corner house and began to read.
At precisely ten o’clock, a messenger from the Essex County Courthouse, discernible by his white badge, knocked on the door of the yellow house with lavender in the window boxes.
Maxwell observed as a young woman came to the door and retrieved the envelope.
“Is that all?” Maxwell murmured. I urged patience.
Only minutes later, a gray coach came around the corner and slowed before the yellow house.
Two well-dressed men alighted. The first, with cold eyes and a formidable nose, sniffed in distaste as he stepped onto the sidewalk.
His large, square hands tapped a walking stick against the door, as if unwilling to sully his fine gloves with the task.
The second, a younger man with golden curls and a smooth, languid air, settled his hat carefully: Simeon Trench.
Behind him, a small servant girl, no older than seven or eight, stepped out and waited with a downcast air, hands clasped before her.
“Norbert Trench,” he murmured. “Is he one of them?”
Yes.
I had witnessed the entire conversation between Simeon and his father that had prompted this dreaded visit, and while I knew that Norbert Trench would keep his son in check, I did not feel easy at the idea of Simeon inside the Quinn apartment.
Maxwell, reliable fellow that he was, needed no additional prompting.
He made his way nonchalantly to the narrow space between the Quinn house and the neighboring building, where one of the upstairs windows had a long fire ladder.
Maxwell raised his truncheon. He tapped the ladder and watched it silently descend.
Then he climbed the rungs until he perched just below the open windows of the second floor.
His positioning was ingenious, if somewhat precarious.