A Study in Revenge by Kieran Shields Page A

to pay to better acquaint myself with my surroundings,” Lean said in answer to Grey’s disapproving looks.
    A tree-lined mall bisected the entire length of Commonwealth Avenue, giving it the appearance of two parallel thoroughfares. Almost immediately following their launch into the heavy traffic, the driver pointed out the granite statue of Alexander Hamilton. Lean puzzled over the less-than-obvious connection between Boston and Hamilton, other than the city’s overt fondness for all things relating to the Revolution.
    “By filling in the swampy Back Bay lands, hundreds of acres of terra firma were added to the city proper—and some of the city’s most fashionable acres, I might add,” the driver announced. “Many of the city’s finest churches have relocated to the Back Bay over the years, following their parishioners—and their purses—out of the older parts of the city.”
    As evidence of this assertion, the driver pointed out the First Baptist, on the corner of Commonwealth and Clarendon. The eighty-foot-tall stone church was so massive and unyielding in its appearance that if not for the rose windows Lean would have half suspected that the building was solid rock the whole way through. As they passed the next few blocks, the driver waved his hand to the left, where one or two blocks away were such notable enterprises as the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and, opposite that, the new building of the Young Men’s Christian Association, the oldest such organization in the country.
    “Down Clarendon at Copley Square, you have the Second Church. Before relocating there, it was the Old North Church. Known in theseventeenth century as the ‘Church of the Mathers.’ Reverends Samuel, Increase, and Cotton each held the pulpit in turn for its first six decades. You know, even Ralph Waldo Emerson was minister at one time.”
    “Not that it would impress you much, Lean,” Grey said. “After all, you had Longfellow in his youth.”
    Along the avenue Lean noticed very little in the way of commercial interests, apart from the numerous fine hotels such as the eight-story marble-faced Vendome. The driver boasted of its more than three hundred rooms and the latest improvements in plumbing, ventilation, electricity, and steam-powered elevators. Opposite stood another in the seemingly endless array of statues, this one honoring the famed abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison.
    After traveling a final long, rectangular block, the driver pulled over by the intersection with West Chester Park, where Commonwealth Avenue ended its straight, mile-long stretch from the Public Gardens before it angled off to the west. The passengers stepped down onto the central mall area. A tall bronze statue resembling some stylized opera-stage Viking stood overlooking the narrow point where the Back Bay Park approached the Charles River. Lean thought that calling it a park was a bit generous. The lush green space was landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted’s valiant effort to transform the murky, sewage-flooded Back Bay fens into something resembling the original pristine saltwater marsh.
    “Our distinguished contact awaits.”
    Grey motioned toward the statue, by the base of which stood a tall man of fifty or so whose erect bearing and well-tailored suit gave him an air of earnest importance. Lean could see that the man was regarding them closely from a pair of deep-set eyes. Beneath a prominent nose resided a splendidly overgrown white handlebar mustache. They approached the man, who smiled and stretched out his hand in welcome.
    “Perceval Grey. Glad to see you again, and doubly so that it is on business not directly involving me.”
    “Deputy Marshal Archie Lean of the Portland police,” Grey said, “allow me to introduce the Honorable Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court.”
    “Ah, so this is some manner of criminal investigation. I’m not at allsurprised, though I must say I’m