The Queen of Bedlam (49 page)

It made no sense to him. That business about the orphans being put to work as servants and vineyard workers. Of course there’d been the serving-boys in the room. But what would the Masker care about it?

Matthew remembered the boy who’d picked his pocket and he immediately felt to see if his watch and key were still there. They were. Silas has a little habit, Chapel had said. A habit indeed.

Matthew quieted his mind and tried to rest again, as his body demanded it. Soon the coach’s wheels were rolling over more familiar dirt and they passed through the outskirts of town. The silver watch reported ten-thirteen. On the streets this Friday morning was the usual traffic of wagons and pedestrians, all hurrying about their business in the way that Matthew had begun to think of as “New Yorkian.” The coach’s team was slowed to a walk but steered toward the harbor to set its passenger off at his destination, and that was when Matthew caught in the air the sharp scent of smoke. This was no surprise, due to the number of industries that required fire, but when the air became tinted with murky yellow about a block from Grigsby’s house Matthew realized something nearby was well and truly aflame. He peered out the crescent-shaped window and to his absolute horror saw smoke and a lick of flame rising from just ahead, on the printmaster’s property.

His dairyhouse was burning.

He shouted, “I’m getting out here!” to the driver and whipman, popped the door open, and jumped down to the street. His knees gave way, his groin ached like a stab wound, and he staggered forward on the edge of collapse but he kept going against the pull of gravity itself. He had no doubt about it; the dairyhouse was going up, and so then were the last of his meager belongings.

But as he got onto Grigsby’s property from Queen Street he saw it was not his miniature mansion aflame. The smoke and a flurry of ashes were rising from well behind the dairyhouse. Matthew walked-or rather, limped-toward the conflagration, his heart pounding, and saw the printmaster and his daughter engaged in tending a bonfire, each of them armed with rakes to herd off errant flames in the grass.

“What is this?” Matthew asked as he neared Grigsby, and he noted that when Berry turned around she glanced first at his sallow face and then quickly at his crotch as if she knew where it had spent the night.

“Matthew, there you are!” Grigsby grinned, his face puffed by the heat. Ashes clung to his little tuft of hair and a black streak lay across his nose. “Where’ve you been?”

“Just away for the night,” he answered, as Berry turned her back on him and raked dead a crawling fist of fire. Ashes billowed from the flames and blew around them like gray snow.

“What are you burning?”

“Garbage,” Grigsby said, with a twitch of his eyebrows. “On your command, sir.”

“My command?”

“But of course. Anything to please the master of the house.”

“Master of the-” Matthew stopped, for he’d peered into the flames and saw in that red hotpot a melded mass of shapes that might have once been a pile of old buckets, boxes, implements, and unknown items shrouded with blazing canvas. He caught sight of a well-punctured and smouldering archery target an instant before its straw-stuffed interior ignited and then exploded into a small inferno.

His first impulse was to grab Grigsby’s rake and attack the fire; his second was to pick up the bucket of water he saw on the ground nearby and try to save what he knew to be hidden within the target, but the burlap was nothing but blaze now and it was too late, much too late. “What have you done?” he heard his own voice cry out, with such anguish that both Grigsbys looked at him as if he’d caught flame himself.

The printmaster’s spectacles had slid down to the end of his sweating nose. He pushed them back up, the better to see Matthew’s horror-struck face. “I’ve done what you asked!” he said. “I’ve cleaned the dairyhouse out for you!”

“And set everything on fire?” He’d almost screamed the last word. “Are you mad?”

“Well, what else was I to do with all that junk? I mean, the press parts and tins of ink I kept, of course, but everything else had to go. My lord, Matthew, you look ill!”

Matthew had staggered back from the heat and almost gone down on his rear, but if he busted another nut he’d have to be put in a wheelbarrow and carted to the public hospital on King Street.

“Matthew!” Berry was coming toward him, her red curls in wild disarray and black smears of ash on her chin and forehead. The deep blue eyes saw much. “What is it?”

“Gone,” was all he could say.

“Gone? What’s gone?”

“It was in there. The target. Inside there, where I hid it.” He realized he was babbling like a brook, but he was unable to make sense. “I hid it, right in there.”

“I think he’s drunk!” Grigsby said, raking away a piece of blazing burlap that had escaped the furies.

“Very important,” Matthew rambled on. He felt as if he were again under the effects of Chapel’s drug, his vision blurring in and out of focus. “Very important I keep it, and now it’s gone.”

“Keep what?” Grigsby asked. “Aren’t you pleased I did this for you?”

Berry put aside her rake and took Matthew’s hand. “Settle down,” she said, in a voice like a firm slap to the jaw. He blinked and stared at her, his mouth half-open and the taste of ashes on his tongue. Berry said, “Come with me,” and pulled him gently toward the printmaster’s house.

“Everything’s cleaned up for you!” Grigsby called after them. “I got a rug for you and a new desk! Oh, and the locksmith came this morning! Your old lock was sprung!”

In the kitchen, Berry guided Matthew into a chair at the table and poured him a cup of water. He looked at it for a few seconds, uncomprehending, until she put the cup into his hand and waited for him to press his fingers around it. “Drink it,” she said, and he obeyed like a pole-axed dullard.

“What’s this about?” she asked, when he’d put the cup down.

He shook his head, unable to speak it. What might have been a vital part of this puzzle, now turned to ashes and smoke. Not knowing what secret the Masker meant him to discover was too much to bear. He realized Berry was no longer in the room with him. He sat stupidly looking at the watercup as he heard her footsteps approaching across the boards.

She stopped just behind him. Suddenly, with a small sharp smack, was laid on the table before him an object risen from death by fire.

“I helped Grandda move the junk yesterday,” she said. “I needed some more straw for my mattress. That was in the second handful.”

Matthew reached out to touch the gold-ornamented notebook, to make sure it was real. He swallowed, his mind still reeling, and said the first thing that came to him: “Lucky for me.”

“Yes,” Berry agreed, in a quiet voice. “Lucky for you.” Then: “I looked through it, but I didn’t show it to Grandda. I found your name in it.”

Matthew nodded.

“You hid it in there?”

Again a nod.

“Would you care to tell me why?”

He was still all pins and nerves. He picked up the notebook and opened it to the cryptic page. One glance at the list of names and he saw:

Silas Oakley 7 8 8 5 Chapel 6/20

This, he presumed, very well might be the Silas with the little habit-and huge talent-of picking pockets. The date might have been when the transaction was made with Ausley, but what was the meaning of the other four numbers?

“Well?” Berry prompted.

“It’s an involved story.” Matthew closed the notebook and put it down, but kept his hand on it. He recalled as if from a dream Grigsby saying Your old lock was sprung. Had someone come in the night to search his house? “You took the items out of there yesterday?”

“Yes, a few hours after you’d left.”

“And you found the notebook then?”

“That’s right. Then we just left the stuff out behind the house until Grandda could get a city permit for an open fire.”

“I see.”

“I don’t see.” Berry came around the table and sat down facing him. Her no-nonsense stare promised him no mercy. “What’s it about and why’d you hide it?” A light of realization glinted. “Oh. Does that ladybird have something to do with it?”

After a moment’s deliberation he said, “Yes.” It was best to continue, for he had the feeling that once Berry had seized upon a subject it was a subject under siege. “Has Marmaduke told you about the Masker?”

“He has. I’ve read the broadsheets, too.” Her freckled cheeks suddenly flushed and she leaned forward with urgent excitement. “It has something to do with the murders?”

“It does.” He scowled at her. “Now listen to me, and I mean it: not one word to your grandfather. Do you hear me?”

“I hear. But what does the lady have to do with it? And where did you go last night?”

“I have no idea, is the answer to the first question. To the second, it’s probably best that you don’t know.”

“And the notebook, then? All that scribbling about gambling and food and all the rest of it?” Berry made an unpleasant face. “Why’s it so important?”

“Again, I have no idea.” Matthew decided against all wisdom to give her something, as she had saved this chestnut from the fire. “I’ll tell you that there are other people who want this book, and it’s vital they don’t find it.” He ran a hand through his hair, his energy almost sapped. “I think someone may have broken into the dairyhouse last night to find it, so thank God and all the lucky stars that you found it first. Now: can you do me a great favor and keep it here somewhere, but out of Marmy’s sight?”

“Me keep it?”

“That’s right. I’m going to have to make a trip to Philadelphia soon, and I want that book to be here when I get back.”

“To Philadelphia? What for?”

“Just never mind.” He waved her questions away. “Will you keep the book for me, or not?”

It didn’t take Berry long to consider. There was a note of eager excitement in her voice when she said, “I’ll put it in the bottom drawer of my chest, under my crayon box. You don’t think anyone will break in here, do you?”

“That I can’t say. I think they suspect I’ve got it, but they don’t know for sure.”

She looked at him steadily for a few seconds, and Matthew saw her gaze drop to the front of his shirt. “You’re missing three buttons.”

In his state of weariness he was unable to formulate a response, so the best he could do was shrug his shoulders and offer a faint, lopsided smile.

“I’d better get back out to help Grandda, but I’ll put this away first.” She retrieved the notebook and stood up. “Oh…a man brought a letter for you. It’s on the table in the front room.”

“Thank you.” He waited until she’d gone, as he feared that when he stood up some dull ache or stabbing pain might cause him to give a groan and she’d want to know what was hurting. The less said about that, the better. When Berry went back outside, Matthew eased himself up and went into the front room, where he found a white envelope sitting on the small round table next to the door. A quick inspection showed him it was sealed with red wax that bore the impressed initial H.

He opened the envelope and read: Dear Matthew, if at all possible please come today before three o’clock to Number Seven Stone Street. With All Regards, Katherine Herrald.

He refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope. Interesting, if both Mrs. Herrald and Hudson Greathouse were in town. He’d have to promptly go see what this was about, and catch some decent sleep later this afternoon. It would be a good opportunity to relate his tale of last night, as well.

An item that he’d not noticed before caught his attention. Set up near the east-facing window was an artist’s easel. A chair was situated before it, turned to the side. On the easel was one of Berry’s works in progress, and Matthew stood in the yellow shards of light examining her effort.

It was a rough pencil drawing of Marmaduke Grigsby, seen in profile. The tuft of hair sticking up on the bald scalp, in the moon-round face a large eye behind a spectacle lens, a heavy eyebrow ready to jump and twitch, the massive vein-shot nose, the low-hanging cleft-gouged chin, folds and wrinkles that even in stillness gave life and character to the expression: all were there. It was really very good, for Berry had captured the strange construction of her grandfather’s face with neither the artificiality of emphasis nor restraint. It was therefore not a flattering portrait, but an honest one. He wondered what colors it might be when Berry finished it. Bright red for burning curiosity, and deepest purple for Earwig prose? He continued to stare at it for some time, thinking that it took real talent to be truthful. Here was not a gloomy caricature of a tight-assed fop, as Berry would put it; here was the study of a singular human being, with all flaws on display.

A real talent, Matthew thought.

The seed of an idea came to him and began to grow roots.

Absent-mindedly he reached down to fasten buttons that were no longer there, and then he hurried out of the house in the direction of Stone Street.

Thirty-Seven

Number Seven Stone Street was a brown door that opened onto a narrow and rather steep stairway squeezed between, on the left, the office of Moses Leverich the peltry buyer and on the right the shop of Captain Cyrus Donaghan, who crafted quadrants, astrolabes, and other navigational tools for the shipping trade.

Matthew went up the stairs and found himself in a loft that demanded a good going-over with a scrub-brush and bristle-broom. He had no idea what business had existed here, perhaps during the reign of Peter Stuyvesant, but traces of its grandeur remained like flecks of gold in a mudpuddle. At the top of the stairs was an oak-paneled outer room that held a clerk’s multi-drawered desk and a chair with a broken back. Behind the desk was a cubbyhole-chest suited for holding rolled-up maps, documents, and the like. Across the floorboards, and right at Matthew’s feet, was a disturbingly large dark stain that he sincerely hoped was not ancient blood. Beyond this room was another closed door. The window shutters were open, allowing the strong sunlight full entry, and the windows themselves-their glass panes filmed with smoke and grime-had been unlatched and pushed ajar to allow for the circulation of air. Through two windows below the overhanging gray slate roof could be seen the full expanse of the Great Dock and the ships awaiting destinations and cargo. It was an intriguing view. The whole busy picture of the wharf was on display from this height, as wagons trundled back and forth across the cobbles and citizens went about their errands against the backdrop of buildings, smoke-belching chimneys, shipmasts, furled sails, and the spark of sun off the blue harbor water.

“Hello!” Matthew called. “Anyone here?”

Boots thumped on the boards and the other door opened with a squeal of angry hinges.

Hudson Greathouse, dapper in a dark blue suit and waistcoat with brass buttons, stood in the doorway. “Corbett!” he said, not without a faint smile of welcome that was quickly extinguished. “Come in here, will you?”

Matthew walked into the second room. It was twice as large as the outer chamber, with two desks set side-by-side and behind them against the wall three wooden file cabinets. A pleasant addition was a small fireplace of rough gray and tan stones on the left. Overhead at the center of the room was a wrought-iron chandelier that still held eight old melted stubs. A pair of unshuttered and opened windows gave a view of New York to the northwest, the wide river and the brown cliffs and emerald hills of the Jersey shore.

“What do you think?”

Matthew looked to his right. Standing there was Mrs. Herrald, elegant in a gray gown with an adornment of white lace at the throat. She wore a gray riding-cap, again tilted at a slightly rakish angle but with neither feather nor other decoration. Her blue eyes were fixed on him, and her eyebrows went up. “Well?” she prodded.

“A nice view,” he said.

“Also a nice price. It’s been vacant, obviously, for many years.” She reached up to brush aside a dangling spider’s web. “But Hudson and I think it will do as an office. What’s your opinion?”

“A bit dusty. What used to be here?”

“A coffee-importing business, begun in the years of the Dutch colony. The real-estate broker tells me the business perished in 1658 and the space has only been rented a few times since then. I agree it needs cleaning, but it does have potential, don’t you think?”

Matthew looked around, avoiding Greathouse’s stare. “I do,” he decided. “It’s certainly large enough.” He just wished he’d found this place before she had and claimed it as his living-quarters, but then again he was sure the rental-though it could hardly be regal-was surely beyond his means.

“Room to grow, yes,” Mrs. Herrald said firmly. She walked past Matthew and stood beneath the chandelier, which Matthew realized hung at a crooked angle. “I think this will suit our purposes very nicely. If we’re all in agreement, then?” She paused for one final check of the two gentlemen, who both nodded. “I’ll sign the papers this afternoon. And don’t worry, Matthew, I won’t impose upon you or Hudson to get the place cleaned up and cart furniture in. I’ll hire some men for the job.”

He was glad to hear that. The mere idea of sweeping this dirty floor and scrubbing the soot off the windows, in his present condition, was enough to rekindle the throbbing ache in his groin.

“You look like hell,” Greathouse said, getting right to the point. “What have you been into?”

“Hudson!” the woman chided.

“It’s all right,” Matthew said. “As a matter of fact, I was taken on a trip yesterday and I stayed the night at an estate about fifteen miles up the river.”

“Really?” Greathouse looked at him quizzically. “What was that about?”

“I’m not quite sure, and I can’t explain it. But do either of you know a man named Simon Chapel?”

Mrs. Herrald shook her head and Greathouse replied, “Doesn’t ring a chime.”

“How about a woman named Charity LeClaire? Or another man called Count Dahlgren?”

“Never heard of them either,” Greathouse said.

Mrs. Herrald came a few steps closer to Matthew. “What’s this about, please?”

Matthew took aim at Greathouse. “You haven’t told her yet? About Ormond’s farm?”

“No, I have not.” The man’s face had tightened.

“Don’t you think you should? I have some suspicions about Simon Chapel. I don’t fully know what he’s up to, but his estate might be where the body came from.”

“The body,” Mrs. Herrald repeated. She turned to also aim at Greathouse. “What body?”

Greathouse gave Matthew a look that said Thank you for bringing this up now, fool. He reached into his coat and brought out a folded piece of paper. “I was going to go over this with you later,” he said to Matthew, “but since you’ve chosen this moment to air the subject, I’ll tell you what I’ve found out from the survey office.” He unfolded the paper, which Matthew could see was a listing of names in black ink. “North of Ormond, just as he told us, are farms owned by Gustenkirk and Van Hullig. Then there’s a few miles of forest deeded to an Englishman named Isaac Adams. He lives in London. Up above that, there’s an estate and vineyard owned by-”

“Simon Chapel,” Matthew interrupted. “That’s where I was last night.”

“Wrong.” Greathouse’s attention never left the paper. “According to the records at City Hall, the estate is owned by another Englishman named Garrett Stillwater. He bought the estate from a Dutchman in 1696. About three miles north of the vineyard is a farm deeded to William Vale, and then an apple orchard and cider mill owned by Zopher Rogers. After that you’re at the ferry and the end of the island.” He looked up. “None of those names fit any alias that I know to be used by any associate of…” He trailed off, but Matthew knew he could feel Mrs. Herrald staring at him.

“Go on.” The way she spoke it said she already knew. “Any associate of whom?”

Greathouse refolded the paper, taking his time about it, and put it away.

“He’s here,” Mrs. Herrald said. “Is that what you mean to say?” She went on without waiting, her chin lifted in indignation. “You suspect he’s here, and you didn’t tell me? Because you weren’t sure-and aren’t sure-and you wished to investigate further? Or you wished to spare me the emotion of fear? Is that correct?”

He was silent, thinking it over. Then at last he replied, “Yes. All that.”

“You found a body, then? In a condition we’ve come to recognize?”

“Yes.”

“Hudson.” She shook her head, her eyes lit with both anger and sadness. “Why didn’t you tell me? You know I’m not a fainting flower. I’ve been expecting this, but just…not so soon. Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice cracked, just a little bit.

“If I told you I was trying to protect you, would-”

“There is no protection,” said Mrs. Herrald. Though this had been spoken quietly, the tension in her voice made Matthew flinch. “There is only foreknowledge and preparation.”

“Of course.” Greathouse decided it was best to avert his eyes to the floor. “My pardon.”

Mrs. Herrald went to the window and peered north, as if trying to locate her enemy by a darkness on the horizon. It was at least fifteen seconds before she spoke again. “I presume we can’t be sure?”

“No, but the body bore the marks. I’ve told Matthew about your theory.”

“The gauntlet, yes.” She glanced quickly at Matthew and then out the windows again. “I’m not the only one with that theory, by the way. How many stab wounds in this particular corpse?”

“Eight. A young man, the arms tied behind the back. He washed up nearly three weeks ago on John Ormond’s farm. You know, where I’ve gone to buy produce. The coroner had already buried the body, so Matthew and I had to…um…do some shovel work.”

“That must have been lovely.”

“The method of execution appears to be the same except for one interesting difference,” Greathouse continued. “In all the cases we know about, the skulls of the victims were broken from behind. Probably when they were kneeling on a floor bleeding to death. In this particular instance, the front of the skull was crushed.”

“Speculation?” asked the lady in gray.

“Well, it may mean nothing. Then again, it may be that one of the professor’s students has put his own mark on the way the gauntlet’s done. Or it may mean that some variant of the gauntlet was held out-of-doors. I think the victim cheated the blades by either jumping or falling from a high cliff, and he bashed his skull on the way down.” He held up the paper. “I got this list of property owners intending to find out where the body might have drifted from. Again, there’s no name on the list that I recognize.”

“A new world,” Mrs. Herrald said, her eyes heavy-lidded, “calls for new names.”

“And speaking of names,” Matthew said, “Chapel knew yours. He had a copy of the broadsheet announcement and wanted more information. I’m supposed to ask about you at the Dock House Inn and report back to him within a few days.”

Mrs. Herrald pursed her lips and released a small, quiet puff of air. “I don’t like that. How is it you went to see this Chapel person in the first place?”

“It has to do with the Masker. Specifically, with Eben Ausley’s notebook.”

“Is this some kind of riddle?” she asked, frowning. “What’s this about a notebook?”

“Corbett’s on a tear about this damned Masker,” Greathouse spoke up. “He’s told Pennford Deverick’s widow he can find out who the bastard is, and for that he’ll get ten shillings.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Herrald regarded Matthew with a knowing expression. “An independent job, is that it?”

“She wants the Clear Streets Decree overthrown, as it’s costing her money. Until the Masker is found, Lord Cornbury’s going to keep the decree in force. It’s a simple matter of economics.” Matthew shot a glance at Greathouse, then back to Mrs. Herrald. “But no, it’s not entirely an independent job.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Matthew said in a calm but firm voice, “that I believe these current events are by no means independent of each other. I think they hinge together, in a way I can’t yet explain. The Masker, the three murders, the notebook, Chapel…even the woman at the Westerwicke asylum. I think all of them are linked.”

“There’s a good one!” Greathouse’s face wanted to grin, but Mrs. Herrald’s lifted hand stopped his chortle before it began.

“Again you mention a notebook,” she said. “A notebook belonging to whom and signifying what?”

Matthew took in a deep breath. The moment had arrived. “A notebook taken from the body of Eben Ausley by the Masker, and given to me by the Masker. Before you ask: no, I wasn’t able to see his face. Chapel wants the book, and I believe he’s sent someone to break into my house to find it. I think it shows that Ausley was selling orphans to Chapel for some reason the Masker wants me to discover.”

If he was expecting an immediate response, he was disappointed. Mrs. Herrald stood silent, her head cocked to one side and her hands clasped before her. Hudson Greathouse was also struck mute, but his mouth was open and if his eyes had gotten any bigger they might have popped from his head.

The silence stretched on, until finally Mrs. Herrald busied herself with rearranging the folds of lace at her throat.

Greathouse found his voice, though it sounded nearly strangled. “As I said before, what have you gotten into?”

“What we’re supposed to be into. A problem that needs a solution.”

“Be careful you don’t get your throat cut trying to solve it.” Greathouse turned to appeal to Mrs. Herrald. “If Chapel-whoever he is-has some tie to Professor Fell, then Corbett’s in water way over his head. You know how cunning they are. Chapel might already know Corbett went to meet you at the Dock House. He was just fishing. If he goes back there, and Chapel does happen to be one of the professor’s disciples, I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass for his survival.”

“If he was going to kill me, he would have done it last night,” Matthew said, but he did think he’d nearly been killed, after all.

“Precisely,” Mrs. Herrald agreed, maintaining an admirable composure. “So-if indeed he is a confederate of Professor Fell-why did he let you go, suspecting you were working with us?” She paused just a beat before she went on. “Because you obviously have something he values. The famous notebook, I presume. I won’t ask where it’s hidden, because I don’t wish to know. But I’d say if it had been found last night, you’d be dead by now. So he sent you back, and now you’re being watched.”