The Queen Of Bedlam Part 17

"Naw! The husband! Shosh, everybody knows Princess rules that-oopsie, look what you've made me go out and spill! I never said that name, now, Matthew!"

"Princess Lillehorne?"

"Never never never did I say that name! Go on about your business, now! But don't believe that everything on Golden Hill is gold! You'll pa.s.s that along to 'Duke, won't you?"

"Very well." Matthew started for the door, but sometimes getting away from Widow Sherwyn was like walking through a puddle of tar.

"What tavern did you acquaint last night, Matthew?"

There was no need for a lie, as she could run one down like a hound after a hare. "I spent some time at the Thorn Bush."

"My lord!" Her sky-blue eyes widened. "Have you put aside those celestial books and decided to join the rest of us earthbound heathens?"

"I hope that one night and one stain doesn't mean a fall from grace."

"Well, you might have fallen into Grace! That's the name of Polly's new wh.o.r.e, you know. Grace Hester. She's been working the Thorn Bush."

"I'm sure I didn't know." Suddenly Matthew was struck by the fact that not a teacup could be filled, broken, or peed in without Widow Sherwyn hearing of it. Her outsized personality was a lamp-no, a lighthouse-that drew to her the tales of joy, sorrow, and intrigue that no magistrate nor constable would ever hear. He realized then what a treasure she was, particularly for someone in his new-found profession of problem solver. And, also, how useful she might be simply as a sounding-board.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, pausing in her folding of clothes from one basket to another.

"No reason," Matthew answered. "Just thinking how you know everyone, and how much you know about everyone. You've been in this location for how long?"

"Twenty-eight years in the town. Twelve years here. Proud of every day of it."

"Well you should be." He offered her his best smile. "I'm sure I couldn't get along without you."

"Sure you could. There are three other laundresses in New York, take your pick. Except don't go to Jane Neville, she's too expensive by half. Thievery, I call it. Outright larceny, and she doesn't even boil enough fat in her soap." Widow Sherwyn stopped herself, as the dawn of understanding bloomed on her face. "Oh, I see your drift. You're wanting to know what about whom?"

Matthew glanced toward the door to make sure no one else was coming in. "General impressions. Andrew Kippering."

"Why?"

"I saw him at the Thorn Bush last night. He and his partner, Pollard. In fact, this stain came from Pollard's tankard of ale. They were both gambling at one of the dice tables."

"You still haven't said why." The widow's expression was now solidly serious.

"I'm curious," Matthew explained, "as to why attorney Kippering keeps such late hours." He decided to leave it at that.

Widow Sherwyn c.o.c.ked her head and stared at him intently. "If you're wanting to mingle with the ordinary folk," she said, "I expect you shouldn't start with Kippering, as from what I hear he might drag you into an early grave."

"He leads an active life, I presume?"

"Drinking, gambling, and whoring, probably not in that order. But that's common knowledge, isn't it?"

"Tell me something that's not," Matthew urged.

"Kippering is not one of my customers. Neither is Pollard. But Fitzgerald comes in regularly. I'll tell you something about him, if you wish to know."

"I do."

"Fitzgerald is a serious young man with a wife and two children. Lives on Crown Street, in a simple house. If one is to believe Fitzgerald-and I do-he does most of the work. The 'cleaning-up,' as he once put it, for both his partners. Is paid very well also, but he and his wife are of Puritan stock and they have no want for luxuries...beyond my service, I mean. So my impression of all three of those gentlemen is that Pollard is the one with ambition, Fitzgerald the one with brains, and Kippering the one trying to kill himself."

"To kill himself?" Matthew asked.

"Surely. And this doesn't come from Fitzgerald, but I have it from a good source that Kippering is one of Polly's best customers. Stands to reason, of course, but there's a misery to it. He comes in drunk, sleeps with a wh.o.r.e-and sometimes just sleeps-and then off again. Sometimes stays there the whole night. Keeps a room in Mary Belovaire's house across from Sally Almond's tavern. Cot and a desk, is what I hear. In and out all hours. Mary's had to help him up the steps many nights, or many early mornings as might be. Pays his bills all right, but he gambles an awful lot. It'll catch up to him, sooner or later. Has no desire for a wife and family-though Lord knows Mary's got a line of ladies wanting to meet him, or used to before he got so sotted. Even the most foolish of the young pretties don't want to ride a rumpot stallion. So he drinks himself into stupors, throws his money away gambling, and almost has his name burned on a door at Polly Blossom's. Doesn't that sound to you like someone who pretends to enjoy life but really is in a great hurry to die?"

"It sounds to me," said Matthew, "like how three-quarters of the young men in New York would live, if they could."

Widow Sherwyn gave a mocking smile. "He's supposed to be smarter than most. And he's not that young."

"Interesting," Matthew said, but inwardly he gave a shudder. He had to wonder what Widow Sherwyn would say about him, if someone were to inquire.

"Now you owe me," she announced.

"Owe you?" He realized this woman reduced him to sounding like a dunce.

"Yes, indeedy. Did you think this caboodle was free? You pa.s.s along a good word for me to 'Duke, and when you come back to pick up your clothes you bring me a tidbit I don't know."

"The first is easy. I'm afraid the second may be impossible."

"I'll accept that as a compliment, but not as a bribe. Find me something of interest. Now scat, tomcat!"

Matthew got out of the place before he had to promise up his first-born child. It was another beautiful morning, the sky bright blue with only hints of wispy clouds. The scents of gardens and good earth wafted on the breeze. Even the smells of rotting timbers of old Dutch wharfs and a dead turtle the size of a cart-wheel had not dismayed Matthew this morning, as he'd consigned Ausley's stick to the East River at sunup. He turned right, intending to follow Queen Street to the Broad Way and then south into the bustling town. His plan was to go to City Hall and do his clerking for Magistrate Powers in the case of the rowdy George Knox. His arm was still a little sore but the yarrow oil had done wonders for it, and he did think his hand could manage a quill without wandering out of line.

About a half-block west, though, his eye caught a white brick house trimmed with dark green across the street. A white picket fence ran around the property, upon which were planted two large oak trees that spread a cool blue shade. On the fence next to the white entrance gate was the small sign A. Vanderbrocken, Physician.

Matthew slowed his pace. He stood looking at the house for a moment, debating his course of action. According to his newly wound watch, it was almost eight-thirty. The final hearing before sentencing of George Knox would start promptly at nine. He recalled Magistrate Powers saying a clerk could be poached from another office if Matthew wasn't up to the task, but Matthew hated not to be there when he was needed. But was he needed anymore, really? It seemed he was easily replaceable, and with the magistrate announcing his retirement the caseload-such as it was-would be further reduced. But be that as it may, the job of clerk was still his occupation until he was paid by the Herrald Agency, and when that might happen he had no clue. In fact, at a distance the whole Herrald Agency idea sounded to him like a barleybone, a sugar candy that easily melted in the heat of day.

Still, he had his own hungry curiosity to feed. Right across the street was Dr. Vanderbrocken's house, and Matthew had a few minutes to spare. He crossed to the doctor's gate.

Going through the gate and up the path to the front door, he was about to ring the bra.s.s s.h.i.+p's bell that hung there when he heard music coming from somewhere. It was a melody being drawn from a violin, and was quite pleasing though a touch melancholy. He realized the music was not coming from beyond the door, but rather from around the house. Leading to the backyard was another pathway, which Matthew followed under the spread of one of the large oaks.

A second wooden gate, chest-high, blocked his progress into a garden burst into its midsummer majesty of red and purple flowers and ornamental shrubs. The violin player seemed to mangle a few notes here and there, but otherwise sounded quite proficient at the difficult instrument. Matthew listened as the music soared up and then quietened to a whisper, and in the ensuing sound of birdsong from the trees he rapped on the gate with his knuckles. "h.e.l.lo? Can I have a moment, please?"

"Who is it?" came the doctor's voice, perturbed at being interrupted.

"Matthew Corbett, sir. May I speak to you?"

"Are you ill?"

"No, sir, I'm glad to say I'm not."

"Go away, then. I'm occupied." The violin music began again, this time a bit more lively as if to demonstrate the player's ability.

"A nice tune, sir," Matthew offered. "You ought to play some evening at the Dock House."

The music screeched to a stop. "Oh, for the sake of Heaven! Aren't you gone yet?"

"I had no idea you could play so well, sir."

There was a pause, and then came a creaking noise as weight left a chair. Matthew waited. Around the corner of the house appeared Artemis Vanderbrocken, wearing what appeared to be the exact same pale blue nightclothes Matthew had seen under his cloak the night of Deverick's murder. On the man's feet were leather slippers, and he carried a violin of such rich color it might have been carved from amber. Vanderbrocken's expression could have scared the music from a cat, as though he was so well-respected for his abilities he was also known for a surly demeanor that brooked no nonsense or-in this case-intrusion. He was of slim build and medium height, bald but for a halo of white hair, had a sharp nose and long chin garnished with a white goatee. His dark eyes behind round spectacles seemed lit with red, or perhaps that was just the sunlight off his violin. He was seventy-six if a day and had a plent.i.tude of wrinkles in his face, yet commanded a straight-backed bearing and energy that belied his elder status. Right now, though, he just looked ready to break Matthew's teeth.

"I think you're mistaken, Mr. Corbett," he said testily. "You must have an illness of the ears, not to hear me plainly say I am occupied."

Matthew tried for a smile, but it didn't stick under the red heat of the doctor's glare. "But sir," he parried, "if my ears were so ill I couldn't have enjoyed the music that drew me here. I had no idea you were so-"

"Cease the bulls.h.i.+tting," said Vanderbrocken. "What is it you want?"

This was going to be a tough nut. Matthew wasted no time before the doctor could turn his back and stalk away. "I was on Smith Street the night Mr. Deverick was murdered."

"Were you? I'm sure many others were, as well."

"Yes sir, that's true, but I came up as you and Reverend Wade were over the body. I think you were p.r.o.nouncing him dead."

"I didn't p.r.o.nounce him dead. That was McCaggers' job."

"An unofficial p.r.o.nouncement," Matthew went on. "You know that I work for Magistrate Powers."

"Yes, what of it?"

"Well sir...I also come into contact from time to time with High Constable Lillehorne, and he was telling me that-"

"Are you going to finish this today, young man?"

"Yes sir, please bear with me and I won't take but a minute more."

"I'm usually paid for my minutes."

Matthew could only nod and smile. "Yes sir. You mentioned to High Constable Lillehorne that you were going to see a patient that night. Might I ask who your patient was?"

"You might," came the indignant reply, "but I wouldn't answer."

"Understandable, sir, but you might be able to answer this, as it's a simple question and doesn't require you to betray an oath of confidence: were you and Reverend Wade travelling to the same destination?"

Vanderbrocken was silent. He lifted a hand to adjust his spectacles, which had slipped down to the sharp tip of his nose.

"I know you were in a hurry that night," Matthew continued, daring the fates and the doctor's temper. "I saw you were wearing a nights.h.i.+rt under your cloak. Possibly the same one you have on now. So you must have been summoned from here, it being so late. And summoned for an urgent purpose, is my guess, but of course any question in that regard-"

"Is none of your business," Vanderbrocken interrupted. His nostrils flared. "Are you here on behalf of the high constable?"

"No sir."

"Then what the h.e.l.l do you care whether William Wade and I were travelling to the same destination or not? Who are you, to be bothering me with ridiculous questions?"

Matthew stood his ground. He felt a stirring of anger, like hornets buzzing in his guts. He might even have raised his voice a bit to meet the doctor's infuriated tone. "With a murderer on the loose," he said while staring forcefully into the red-glared gla.s.ses, "I'd think there are no ridiculous questions, sir. Only questions that are either answered or evaded. You know Eben Ausley was killed by the Masker last night?"

Vanderbrocken's mouth opened a little wider, but that was all the reaction. "I didn't. Where did it happen?"

"Barrack Street."

"His throat cut the same? And the marks around the eyes?"

"It would seem so."

"My G.o.d," the doctor said quietly, and he looked at the ground. He drew a long breath and when he exhaled he seemed to shrink in his clothes. "What's happening to our town?" It was a question directed to the earth, or the air, or the birds that chirped in the trees. Then he took control of himself again and lifted a still fiery gaze to Matthew. "I'm sorry about Ausley's death, as I would regret the pa.s.sing of any citizen, but what does that have to do with Reverend Wade and myself?"

"I'm trying to clarify some information that the high constable was given. Am I correct in understanding that you met the reverend and were on your way to a common destination the night of Mr. Deverick's death?"

"Young man, I'm still not comprehending what business this is of yours. Have you become a constable yourself? Are you asking these things with the authority of Lillehorne or Magistrate Powers?"

"No sir," Matthew said.

"Ah, then you're simply a private citizen wis.h.i.+ng to...what? Cause me distress?"

"I regret the distress," Matthew replied, "but I would like an answer."

Vanderbrocken took a step forward and now stood almost chest-to-chest with Matthew, the gate between them. "All right, you listen to me. My comings and goings are none of your concern, do you understand that? As for Reverend Wade's destination that night, I wouldn't presume to say. I will tell you that I have taken on some of the late Dr. G.o.dwin's practice, and for that I am kept away from the fruits of retirement that I would otherwise be enjoying, including early nights and the freedom to pursue the violin in my own garden. So I'm not in the best of moods these days, Mr. Corbett, and if you fail to leave my sight within the interval I go into my house to get my loaded pistol and return I might show you what a man who seems to have no more privacy than a goldfish in a bowl is capable of."

With that, the good doctor abruptly turned and walked quickly around the house, and Matthew reckoned it was past time to get to City Hall.

Eighteen As he approached city hall, it was clear to Matthew that-even taking into account last night's murder-this was to be far from an ordinary day.

In front of the building milled a group of forty or so men who by dint of facial expressions and loudness of mouth did not resemble happy citizens. He noted some of the men held broadsheets that could have only been Grigsby's latest edition. The newborn Earwig would have been on sale for the breakfasters at Sally Almond's tavern, at the Dock House Inn, and at several other locations around town. What the discord was about Matthew couldn't tell and didn't linger to learn, as he made his precarious way through the crowd and into the front door.

On the second floor he found that Magistrate Powers' office was locked. The magistrate was likely already at court. Matthew was fis.h.i.+ng for his key when another clerk of his acquaintance, Aaron Lupton by name, stopped with a sheaf of papers on his path down the hallway between offices and told Matthew the morning's tale. The day's scheduled court proceedings had been cancelled and all magistrates and aldermen, as well as the high constable and other ranking officials, had been summoned by Lord Cornbury to a meeting in the main hall. The word, Lupton confided, was that they were thras.h.i.+ng out the language of a Clear Streets Decree...and by the way had he heard about the third murder last night? Matthew a.s.sured Lupton he had, and Lupton went on to say that Cornbury was likely going to order the taverns closed early, and already the owners and their best customers had gotten wind of the meeting and were gathering in the street.

Also, Lupton said, Lord Cornbury today wore a blue gown that did nothing for his figure. Matthew thought there could be such a thing as too much information, but he thanked Lupton and unlocked the door intending to at least straighten up the office and check any correspondence that the magistrate might have put into his "to-reply" box. The first thing he saw was the fresh Earwig that either Grigsby or a hired boy had slipped under the door. The second thing that leaped to his attention, as he retrieved the sheet from the floor, was the dark line of type that read Masker Has Struck Again and below that, more horribly, Interview of Coroner By Young Witness.

"s.h.i.+t," he heard himself say. He closed the door and almost broke the latch when he jammed it home. Then he sat down at his desk, the better to have a firm foundation beneath him.

Marmaduke and Effrem had had a hard time of it, judging from all the monks and friars on the page-the monks being letters too faint for want of ink and the friars being too dark for too plenty of ink-but the imperfections weren't enough to obscure Matthew's name in the central article.

Murder most foul was dealt upon town business leader Pennford Deverick near ten-thirty o'clock on Tuesday night, as the Masker has committed his second crime against reason and humanity. Ashton McCaggers, official coroner of New York town, was interviewed by Matthew Corbett, a friend of this sheet and a clerk in the employ of Magistrate Nathaniel Powers, in regard to this heinous act and the fiend who ended the honorable Mr. Deverick's life.

According to Mr. McCaggers and our Mr. Corbett, the Masker has not vacated town as was first advanced by some of our town n.o.bles, for Mr. Deverick lies dead with the exact same masklike cuttings about his eyes as was delivered to Dr. Julius G.o.dwin two weeks past. It is Mr. McCaggers' opinion, says our interviewer, that the Masker struck Mr. Deverick down with a blunt instrument before the dirty work was done.

Matthew didn't recall telling Grigsby that, but he might have let it slip. Must have, as a matter of fact, for Marmaduke was quick to sew details together.

Our Mr. Corbett was a witness at the terrible scene. He tells us that Mr. Deverick was brutally attacked and yet made no attempt to escape, indicating that he may have known his killer. One blanches at the fact that, also according to Mr. McCaggers, a face familiar to many of us hides a murderer's rage.

Again, Matthew had only the slight memory of saying anything even remotely close to this. He thought it had been a statement along the line of, "Deverick didn't seem to put up a struggle. I think McCaggers believes it was someone he may have known."

Mr. Deverick was discovered on Smith Street by Mr. Phillip Covey and was p.r.o.nounced dead near midnight by Mr. McCaggers. Questions asked of High Constable Gardner Lillehorne were referred to Chief Prosecutor James Bynes, who demurred to the opinions of Governor Lord Cornbury, who was unavailable for comment.

It is this publication's hope that the Masker is quickly brought to account for these deeds. Our condolences are offered to Mr. Deverick's widow, Esther, his son Robert and the extended family.