The Shadow Box(86)

The last album, at the bottom of the drawer, had an insignia embossed on the green leather cover: it was the same one Conor had seen on Griffin’s and Edward’s shirts, an imposing blackbird with outstretched wings and words in Latin beneath: Corvus Corax. When Conor began looking through the pages and saw the pictures inside, he caught his breath.

They were of the sea castle.

He thought of the photos his brother had sent him; a shiver ran down his spine. Gwen had drawn this exact scene. Two men in tuxedos stood on the balcony of a big stone mansion at the water’s edge. The mermen. One was Griffin; the other was Dan. Gargoyles hulked behind them.

Now he put it together. This was the same house depicted in the gallery of photos at the sporting preserve, the one Staver had said shared a name with the hunt club: Ravenscrag. And now the crest on the men’s shirts and the front of this album made sense; it wasn’t just a blackbird—it was a raven.

The album was devoted to the house and the people within it. From cars in the courtyard, Conor could tell the pictures were from the present day, but there was an old-world flavor to the scenes depicted. Formal portraits of men in black tie, group shots that seemed to have been taken during a ball, men and women dancing to an orchestra.

He recognized Wade and Leonora Lockwood, Edward and Sloane Hawke, Neil and Abigail Coffin, Maxwell Coffin and a woman he didn’t recognize, Dan and Sallie Benson, and Griffin and Claire Chase. In one, the two couples—the Chases and Bensons—were standing together.

And Dan had said he’d never met Claire.

The last photos were of young people. Children of the members, perhaps, Conor thought. The Old Guard would want new blood so their traditions and way of life could continue. Ford and Alexander Chase were in half the shots. Some showed them dressed formally at the same dances as their father and Claire, but in others they were more casual, with kids their own age. On the tennis court, having a picnic, sailing at the dock.

A series of three pictures caught Griffin’s attention: Ford, Alexander, and Emily Coffin in a small powerboat. The hull was white, and ravens were stenciled on the side.

The blackbird boat that Gwen had seen following the Sallie B.

Conor slid the photos out of the album’s clear sleeve to get a better look. In one shot, taken from behind, he saw the name of the boat and the home port emblazoned on the transom:





RAEN


STONINGTON, CT

And in a close-up of Emily, he saw that same word, Raen, printed in black letters on her white T-shirt.

Lydia had been standing beside him, paging through one of the earlier albums. She stopped to look at the photos Conor was holding.

“Pretty girl,” she said.

“Do you know her?” he asked.

“No, she’s the daughter of friends of Dan and Sallie. I was curious, though. Once Sallie showed me the photos in that book, pointed out the house, and said it was one of the biggest in Connecticut. I asked her about the word on the girl’s T-shirt, and Sallie said it meant raven in Scots.”

Conor watched as Lydia closed the album and pointed at the insignia. “Corvus Corax is Latin for raven,” she said. “I asked her what the significance was. She said that the raven is one of the smartest birds, entirely black to blend into the night. There’s a legend, dating back to medieval times, that England could never be conquered as long as there were ravens at the Tower of London.”

“Okay,” Conor said, skeptical but also noting that this crew of men really did live in another world. Their rules were different, and legends counted more than laws.

“Sallie said that, to this day, there are ravens at the Tower of London. They’re fed by the Ravenmaster of the Yeoman Warders. Sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it?” Lydia paused. “It bothered me to see Sallie surrounded by people like Dan’s friends.”

“Why?” Conor asked.

“Whatever the literary legends are—in Britain, in mythology—to Dan’s friends, the ravens are here to protect the group’s wealth. They see themselves as important, deserving privilege, getting to do what they want.”

“Who in particular?” Conor asked.

“Griffin Chase,” she said without hesitation. “He’s their great hope for the future. He’s going to bring civility and structure back to society.” She snorted. “They might tell themselves that, but what they really want is for him to let them develop every inch of the shoreline and fill their pockets. She said that Dan once told her they’d kill for him.”

“For Griffin?” Conor asked.

“Yes,” Lydia said. “She said Dan said it like a joke. I’m not sure she took it that way, though.”

Conor pictured the grave in the middle of the Ravenscrag Sportsmen’s Preserve and, again, wondered if they had dug it for Claire. She was the wife who knew too much. He thought of those missing bags of quicklime.

“Lydia, your sister was obviously a great gardener. Was that something she and Dan would do together?”

“No,” she said. “Sallie was the one with a green thumb. I was in awe of her. It’s all I can do to plant a few annuals. I’m only doing it for Gwen. Dan did have a way with landscaping, though. He was going to plant some rhododendrons and a dogwood tree, but he hasn’t gotten around to it.”

“Did you ever see bags of lime among Sallie’s garden supplies?” he asked.