Boston Metaphysical Society Read online

  Granville studied Samuel for a moment. “That would depend on what you’re hunting.”

  “Demons. In this particular case.”

  “Follow me.” Granville gestured to the two men as he walked over to a wall and pushed on a darker wood panel. A section of the ceiling lowered revealing a narrow wooden staircase. The mechanism that controlled the staircase was connected by series of small intricate gears made of brass. Their fine teeth were so smooth they whispered when turning.

  Samuel watched in awe. “I’ve only seen something similar in the Great Houses.”

  Granville stepped on the first step, then paused. “Please do not touch anything unless I hand it to you. No sense in anyone getting hurt.”

  Samuel felt insulted, but kept his feelings in check.

  The three men marched up the stairs in single file. By the time Samuel’s head poked through to see another workroom, they had climbed not one story, but two. He realized the outward appearance of the brownstone must be an illusion. It made him wonder how large the house truly was.

  By the time they reached the top, Granville had turned on the electric lighting powered by the steam engines two floors below. The room lit up like a theatre curtain rising. As Samuel’s eye adjusted, what he saw took his breath away.

  Overhead, electricity surged through netting made of copper filaments that draped across the ceiling reminding him of fishnets waiting for a catch. They glowed and sparked in undulating waves. On the walls hung compound bows of various sizes and types. The bow-strings appeared to be made of a composite metal with a rosy hue. Next to them were arrows which Samuel had never seen before. He leaned over to inspect them and saw they were an inch in diameter and had a spring-release mechanism at the tip. Samuel reached out his hand to pick it up, but Granville grabbed his wrist.

  “No touching,” the inventor said as a gentle reminder.

  On another wall hung various typed of firearms: Single-and multi-barrels along with multiple ammunition reloaders. Gun parts were scattered on top of one table which had an old Henry rifle attached to toggle clamps. A makeshift telescope was mounted on top.

  A small steam engine sat atop another worktable. Cables a half inch in diameter ran from the device to the netting on the ceiling. In one corner sat an apparatus that Samuel found puzzling; it stood taller than a buggy with wooden base and multiple polished copper cylinders secured to the bottom. Attached in between each of the cylinders were numerous levels of gears with numbers imprinted on the side. On top of the massive device were additional gears, each with a handle attached, which looked that if moved the entire mechanism might rotate.

  “Is this a weapon?” Samuel pointed to the large mechanism.

  “It could be,” Granville responded. “It depends on what you use the calculations for.”

  Not understanding the engineer’s cryptic response, Samuel walked over to the rifles and admired them. “Who have you sold this to?” Samuel asked.

  “No one,” Granville replied. “I made the mistake of showing my telegraph switching devices to Edison as a courtesy, and he stole the patent. After a rather tedious lawsuit, the patents reverted back to me.”

  Samuel nodded. “I’m impressed.”

  “Because I’m a Negro?”

  “Well, yes. Shouldn’t I be?”

  Granville grinned. “In the world we live in? Yes, I guess you should.”

  “Is that why young Miss Sarah is allowed to call him a scalawag?”

  Granville laughed. “I’m afraid my niece has read Treasure Island over ten times. She wants to be a pirate when she grows up.”

  “Didn’t we all?” Samuel grinned back.

  Andrew relaxed when he saw the two men share a brief bit of common ground. “Mr. Woods, sir. Why don’t you show the laddie here what we be talking about last time?”

  “How many times have you been here, Andrew?” Samuel gave the older man a curious look.

  Andrew gave both men a grin. “We Irish be good at keeping secrets.”

  “Fine.” An irritated Samuel turned to Granville. “Mr. Woods, would you be so kind as to demonstrate which weapons you think could destroy a demon? I promise I will not steal your inventions as I have a feeling I wouldn’t understand how they worked anyway…with the exception of the compound bow.”

  Granville walked over to the wall of bows and removed one. He then leaned over a workbench on which the large arrows rested and picked one up. Granville inspected the tip making sure it was sealed tight. Walking over to the far side of the room, he gestured for Andrew and Samuel to back up.

  It was then Samuel noticed a blackened and burned bull’s-eye on the far wall in front of where the engineer stood.

  “Do you have any experience using a compound bow, Mr. Hunter?” Granville asked as he examined the feather fletching.

  “Yes. I used to go hunting with my ex-father-in-law. He taught me how to use one.”

  Granville drew the bow back and nocked the oversized arrow. His eyes narrowed as he inhaled, then exhaled, letting the arrow fly. Right before it hit the target, the tip of the arrow split off and the same copper netting that hung from the ceiling ejected, spraying outward in a circular fashion, enveloping the target like a ravenous jellyfish. It sparked and whined, causing a metallic odor.

  Samuel nodded, impressed. “Have you tested it on a demon?”

  Granville hesitated for a moment before he lowered the bow to his side. “Most of us think demons and ghosts are the stuff of fairy tales and nightmares…or the random acts of perverted men. I tend to think they are the white man’s burden.”

  “So there’ve been none seen here in Liberty Row?”

  Granville paused before speaking. “No.”

  Samuel noticed.

  “I’ve been using something similar to those”—Samuel pointed at the multi-barrel guns—“with salt and ammonia for buckshot and glass as shrapnel.” He dropped his arm. “Though I usually have to finish them off with a sword or an ax…or two.”

  “Doesn’t sound terribly efficient,” Granville remarked, frowning.

  “It gets the job done,” Samuel replied with a hint of resentment in his voice.

  “I think we be here ’cause what we be doing may not be good enough anymore. There be different types of demons out there. Some be smarter than others.”

  Samuel nodded in agreement, then pointed to the rifle with the small telescope mounted on top. “What about that? What type of ammunition does it use?”

  “It’s not finished yet.”

  “Then I’ll take two of the bows and twenty-five arrows. Though I’ll need practice before I use one of them. It’s been a few years.” Samuel admitted.

  Granville lowered the bow to his side. “I’m more than pleased to demonstrate, but none of these are for sale.”

  “I don’t understand. Then why am I here?”

  “Mr. Woods, please. The last beastie came a wee bit too close to killing him. We need better weapons than what we got,” Andrew pleaded.

  “I respect you, Andrew. Truly I do. But the answer is still no,” Granville insisted.

  Samuel eyed Granville. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”

  The engineer nodded with a hint of smile on his face. “You may be an honorable man, Samuel Hunter, but there are those around you who would steal my inventions without compunction. I cannot allow that.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” An exasperated Samuel threw his hands into the air. “People will die unless I stop these creatures.”

  “And when you and those like you kill all the demons who’s to say your next target won’t be Liberty Row?” Granville fired back. “I will not allow my weapons to be used against my own people.”

  Samuel stood back aghast at the implications of what Granville had just said. “I… I… my God. Even if you’re correct, I wouldn’t permit anyone else to use the weapons I bought from you.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Hunter, what could stop Jonathan Weldsmore, your ex-father-in-law, a
nd those like him from coming in and taking the weapons from you? Can you answer that?” Granville demanded from him. “Can you?”

  “No, I can’t.” Samuel sagged, knowing that others would do as Granville said if given the chance. “I’m sorry. You have brilliant weapons here. If you ever change your mind, let me know.”

  Samuel gave Granville a curt little bow, then headed toward the staircase.

  After seeing Samuel’s head disappear below the floorboards, Andrew whirled around to face Granville. “I respect ya greatly, Mr. Woods, but you be making a mistake not taking the boy up on his offer.”

  “He’s not a boy, Andrew. He’s the ex-son-in-law of one of the most powerful men in Boston, and he has a history of violence. What guarantee do I have he won’t turn on us if they asked him?” Granville loomed over the Irishman, but the older man did not shrink away.

  “I give you my word,” Andrew declared.

  Granville shook his head. “With all due respect, that’s not good enough.”

  Andrew’s eyed narrowed as he peered around the room. “Don’t think he didn’t notice these weapons stacked up around here. There be a demon problem, Mr. Woods. And sooner or later, you goin’ be calling us and Samuel knows it.”

  Andrew turned on his heel and followed Samuel.

  His face betraying nothing, Granville gripped the bowstring and ripped it out.

  “UNCLE GRAN! UNCLE GRAN! IT’S time for dinner,” little Sarah called out to him as he walked through a door hidden in the wall to the second floor of the main house. Granville and his father had worked for years building false walls and concealed doorways to protect their family in case political tides turned. Unlike many of the other residents of Liberty Row, Granville’s father had never been a slave, but he had seen the emotional and psychological toll this peculiar institution took on the human body and spirit. He vowed his family would never be subjected to that and built a home to protect them in good times and bad. His son having a college education was part of the plan even though Negro men were forbidden to attend. However, Granville made friends with several white engineering students who were more than happy to exercise youthful rebellion and snuck library books out for him to study. If their parents had discovered their antics, there would have been hell to pay, but their subterfuge worked and no one was ever caught.

  Granville followed the cheery voice of his niece as he sauntered down another flight of stairs to the first floor where the kitchen and main dining room were located. Sarah, unlike her mother, knew every nook and hiding place in the house, so when she played hide-and-seek, it fell on Granville to find her.

  While the exterior of the house was constructed of brick, the interior was built using stout cherry wood with maple trim. Elegant and functional, it had many of the same conveniences of the best homes in the Middle District. Electric lights were powered by a steam engine in the basement, and they had hot and cold running water and a bathroom on every floor. Plain but well-made wool rugs graced the hardwood floors, and there was even a small chandelier in the dining room, which hung over a rosewood table that seated eight. In truth, Liberty Row was much more affluent than anyone outside of the neighborhood knew, and the residents preferred to keep it that way.

  The smell of beef stew wafted up the stairwell as Granville made his way to the kitchen. Modern for the times the main wooden worktable sat in the middle of the room and big pot-bellied stove set up against the back wall. It still relied on wood to heat it, but the idea of designing an electric one held a certain appeal to him. Off to one side was a smaller table where the three of them ate their meals. Copper pans hung not far from it on hooks within easy reach of his petite sister, Grace.

  Though she had the same skin color as her brother, the resemblance stopped there. Where Granville was on the robust side, Grace Woods Stevens had a tiny waist and tiny feet. Often mistaken for a child, she corrected that misperception with a quick wit and a stunning smile. She had become the matriarch of the family after their mother had died of consumption. Their father, broken hearted and distraught, could not cope with the vast number of relations living in the house at the time so she had urged their cousins, aunts, and uncles to head elsewhere in search of a different life. Boston had been good to them, but they were smart enough to not put the proverbial eggs in one basket, so the family headed out West with a few even going to the Continent. Grace now had only two people to take care of, and she did it with her heart and soul.

  With an apron tied over a light-blue cotton-and-wool dress, she gestured to Granville and Sarah to sit while she scooped out heaping portions of stew into ceramic bowls. Biscuits stacked into a pyramid sat in the middle of the table along with a dish of honey and butter. Sarah had a glass of milk while Granville and Grace drank coffee. He always liked his with cream, but he noticed it was missing from the table. That was when he noticed his sister was humming.

  “You seem unusually chipper,” he remarked.

  “Just a good day, is all,” Grace replied, buzzing around the kitchen cleaning up.

  “Leave the cleaning for later. Come sit and eat,” Granville insisted.

  “Don’t bark at me, Granville Woods. I’ll eat when I’m good and ready. We’re having a guest tonight, and I want things to look… well… nice.” She sighed.

  Granville knew this could mean one thing; Randall Parkes was dropping by this evening. Not that he minded, he just did not want to see his sister hurt again. Grace’s husband, Marcus Stevens, had been killed after being run over by a woman who had lost control of her buggy. Granville wondered why anyone would let a woman drive, but he had no say in such things. No charges were brought even though it was evident from her breath and her speech she had imbibed too much wine. Granville suspected his sister would have received a stipend if Marcus had been white but since this was not the case, his death was ruled an accident.

  Now Randall Parkes had come courting, and Granville thought the man was sincere in his affection for her. She had longed to fill up this big house with children before tragedy had struck. She was still young enough to give Sarah brothers and sisters, so Granville hoped Grace could find happiness with Randall.

  Granville dipped into his stew just as Sarah bounded back into the room and slid into her chair. “Where are your manners, young lady?”

  “I know, Uncle Gran,” Sarah whined as she grabbed her napkin and threw it into her lap. “Will you pass the biscuits, please?”

  “Granville, would you watch Sarah tonight? Randall and I are going to Joshua Gordon’s home this evening to hear his aunt play Chopin’s piano sonatas,” Grace said while straightening her apron.

  Granville shook his head. “I’m sorry. I have to go out.”

  A flash of disappointment ran across her face, which she covered up with her usual sweet smile. “Every night this week you’ve been out. Is there something going on I should know about?”

  “Two white men came to see Uncle Gran today,” Sarah piped up in between slurps. “And one was Irish.”

  Grace raised her eyebrows and put a hand on her hip as she leaned against the sink, waiting for an explanation.

  “It was business. You know that,” Granville said attempting to make it sound casual.

  “Remember the last time you had white men in your workshop?” Grace reminded him.

  “Scalawag!” Sarah shouted.

  “Young lady, you took the words right out of my mouth.” Grace dropped a soup-crusted pan into the sink.

  Granville stood up, walked over to his sister, leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Grace, I need you to take Sarah with you. Keep her safe.”

  Grace stopped scrubbing, her face taking on the visage of someone realizing something awful might happen. She lowered her voice to match his. “Is this about what happened to Old Joe?”

  Granville nodded.

  His sister sucked in her breath. “Go to the police. They found the one who murdered those girls.”

  He shook his head. “This is not the same. They won’
t come for this.”

  “Take Randall with you. He’s a good man. He’ll help.”

  “I’m not going to risk someone you care about.”

  Grace sighed, then nodded. “Eat, Sarah. We need to get you dressed and ready to go.”

  “But I want to play in Uncle Gran’s workshop after dinner. He promised to teach me how to fix a steam engine,” Sarah declared.

  “You did what?” Grace glared at her brother. “Ladies do not fix steam engines.”

  Granville chuckled. “I do not see why not. They just shouldn’t be driving anything larger than a scooter. Now do as your mother says, Sarah.”

  Grumbling, Sarah leapt out of her chair and headed toward the door. “May I wear the auburn dress with the brass beading, Mama?” The question echoed back as she skipped out of the room.

  Grace shook her head and smiled. “One minute she wants to fix steam engines. The next she wants to dress like some Beacon Hill debutante. What will become of that girl?”

  “I seem to recall a little sister who stole the pieces to my model ships so she could build one of her own,” He motioned for her to go. “She’ll be fine. Now go get ready for Randall. I have work to do.”

  Grace took off the apron and handed it to him. “Not until you do the dishes.”

  He swept his arm across his body in a grand gesture, Granville bowed. “As you wish, my lady.”

  Grace snorted at his absurdity, then gave him a hard look. “You take care of you, Granville Woods.”

  “I fully intend to.”

  ANDREW WATCHED AS SAMUEL EASED himself onto the bed in his office. The former detective unbuttoned his jacket wincing at every move. His shoulder wounds had bled again, staining the white cotton-linen shirt. This was not a good way to end the day.

  In his dark-gray woolen suit with silver threads running through the cuffs and the lapel, Samuel looked every inch the Middle District gentleman with his short, dark hair and narrow face, but as Andrew peeled back the younger man’s shirt, exposing his shoulder and torso, it became apparent Samuel was not your typical middle-class Bostonian.