Mister Slaughter Part 29

She came forward, slowly, and when she took what he was holding she blinked first at it, then at him, then at it again. "Is this is this real real?"

"It is." The ring was real gold, of course. Was the red stone a ruby? He would leave it for her to find out. Never let it be said that Slaughter's treasure hadn't offered a chance for escape to someone someone. "I wouldn't show that to anyone else. And I wouldn't care to stay around here very much longer either."

"Why are you givin' me this?"

"Because I like like you," he answered, in all truth. "I think you'd make a good detective." you," he answered, in all truth. "I think you'd make a good detective."

"A what what?"

"Never mind. If you ever get to New York, come to Number Seven Stone Street. Can you remember that?"

"Remember it? h.e.l.l's bleedin' bells, I'll never forget forget it!" it!"

"I can find my way back," he said. "Just be careful, do you hear me?"

"I will," she promised. He started to go back along the path, leaving her staring at the gold ring with its small red-ruby?-stone, and then suddenly she caught at his sleeve and she asked, "Can I kiss you?"

Matthew said yes, it would be fine, and Opal gave him a sedate but heartfelt kiss on the cheek. A far cry from doing it behind the church, he thought, but maybe at its essence a little bit of warm.

He returned to Mrs. Lovejoy's house. Another servant-girl answered his knock at the door. No, sir, Mrs. Lovejoy has gone out No, sir, Mrs. Lovejoy has gone out, she said. Mrs. Lovejoy has asked me to tell you that urgent personal business has called her away, but she will be glad to finish the arrangements if you would come back tomorrow or the following day. Mrs. Lovejoy has asked me to tell you that urgent personal business has called her away, but she will be glad to finish the arrangements if you would come back tomorrow or the following day.

"Thank you," Matthew replied. "Tell her "

Tell her I'll be back tonight, he thought.

"Tell Mrs. Lovejoy I shall look forward to her charming company," he said, and then he walked to his horse at the hitching-post.

Twenty-Nine.

Crouched in the woods that faced Paradise's cemetery, Matthew didn't have long to wait before Noggin came calling.

It was a hazy blue twilight. Matthew had left his horse hitched among the trees at the edge of a meadow about two hundred yards away, back toward the Paradise sign. He had been waiting little more than ten minutes, and here came Noggin's wagon along the road to the church.

Noggin pulled his team up in front of the church, set the brake and climbed down. He lit the two lanterns and set them in back of the wagon. He put on his gloves, took his pickaxe and shovel to the cemetery, came back for the lanterns, stripped off his cloak and then set to work digging a grave with what appeared to be formidable strength.

Matthew settled back. From where he was positioned, he could see Noggin working if not speedily, at least steadily. The digging was not what particularly interested him; it was what happened to the coffin and the corpse afterward.

He'd spent some time this afternoon visiting the village of Red Oak, which was about two miles away from Paradise and the nearest community. It was ringed by farms and lush pastures where cattle grazed in the golden light. Red Oak itself had a busy farmers' market, a main street of craft shops, three taverns, two stables, and between thirty and forty houses separated by gardens, picket fences and fieldstone walls. Matthew had received a few curious looks as he walked from place to place, being a stranger, but for the most part he was taken as having business there and left alone. His business was to stroll into some of the shops and inquire about a handyman from the area called Noggin. The closest he got to an affirmative answer was from the blacksmith, who said he thought he knew a young man named Noggin who lived in Chester, but then again now that he remembered it the man's name was Knocker. Matthew had thanked him kindly and moved on.

The patrons of the taverns had been equally unhelpful. Matthew had gotten back on his horse and ridden another few miles to Chester, where a further unprofitable hour was spent. Then, as the afternoon was growing late, he'd returned along the road toward Paradise, and had decided to stop for a meal and drink at the Speed The Plow.

"Noggin?" The beak-nosed tavernkeeper had shaken his own bald nog. "Never heard the name, sorry."

Matthew had eaten a humble pie and nursed a mug of ale, waiting for the twilight to gather. Several people came and went, a rather raucous drunk had to be swept out with a broom to the backside, and Matthew must have looked a little forlorn at his table because the tavernkeeper called out, "Hey, Jackson! You know a fella by the name of Noggin?"

Jackson, a black-garbed stout who wore a powdered wig and resembled for all the world either a h.e.l.lfire preacher or a hanging judge, looked up from his second mug of ale and said in a gravel-sc.r.a.pe voice, "Not recallin'," which put paid to that particular bill.

"I know the name," said a younger but equally stout gent sitting at a table just beyond Jackson. "Fella named Noggin did some work for me last summer. Who's askin'?" know the name," said a younger but equally stout gent sitting at a table just beyond Jackson. "Fella named Noggin did some work for me last summer. Who's askin'?"

Matthew watched Noggin dig, as the darkness began to come on. According to the farmer who lived just outside a village called Nicholsburg, the handyman called Noggin could patch a barn roof like n.o.body's business. Could chop wood like there was no tomorrow. Could slap on paint as sure as the day was long. And had told the farmer in his garbled voice that he was just trying to make some extra money because his regular employer was a tightfisted "b.i.t.c.h, was the word he used," the farmer had related, over the mug of ale that Matthew had bought him.

"I'm sorry to hear him speak of the lady in that way," Matthew had said.

"Oh?" The farmer's thick brown eyebrows had gone up. "Do you know Mrs. Sutch?"

It had taken Matthew a moment to digest that. "Mrs. Sutch Sutch?"

"That's who he said he worked for. Owns a hog farm up north of Nicholsburg. She makes sausages."

"Ah," Matthew had said, brus.h.i.+ng some invisible dust from the front of his waistcoat. "Sausages."

"Big taste for 'em in Philadelphia, I hear. Too d.a.m.n expensive for the home folk, though."

Matthew listened to the wind moving through the trees. He heard Noggin's shovel stop sc.r.a.ping dirt.

In another moment he heard the dirt start going back into the grave.

The farmer couldn't describe Mrs. Sutch. He'd never seen her. A private type of lady, he thought. Had heard tell of Mrs. Lovejoy, but had never seen her either. She was probably private, too.

Nicholsburg was about seven miles up the road, the farmer said. He didn't get down this way often, but this morning he'd gone nearly to Philadelphia to a cattle sale. "What was it you were wantin' Noggin about?"

"Oh," Matthew had said, "I'd heard he was a good worker. Just trying to find him."

"I don't think he's the kind of fella you find," came the reply. "He finds you you."

It was almost full dark. Matthew watched as Noggin used his shovel to tamp down the dirt. Noggin did a good job of it, not rus.h.i.+ng at all. Then Noggin came back to his wagon, took a wooden cross from it, and planted the marker with two firm whacks of the mallet. After his tools were squared away, Noggin carried one of his lanterns into the church, and Matthew sat wondering if the lowest point of human evil could ever be reached.

Noggin returned wheeling his cart with the coffin on it, and the lantern on the coffin. He pushed the coffin into the back of the wagon with ease. He took the cart back into the church for the next occasion, and when he came back out again he opened the lid and looked into the widow Ford's face as if determining whether she had anything worth stealing. Matthew saw by the lamplight that Noggin's flat, bovine features were totally devoid of expression. Not even a shred of curiosity. Noggin was obviously an old hand at this; he even had the ill manners to yawn in the widow's face before he eased the lid shut. For the sake of decorum he'd brought along a ratty old gray blanket, which he spread over the coffin. Then he took off his gloves and threw them in the back. He put on his cloak and hung the two lanterns up on hooks on either side of the driver's seat. The horses rumbled and s.h.i.+fted, ready for a trip.

Matthew watched Noggin get the wagon turned around. When the wagon pulled away, heading back in the direction of the main road, Matthew emerged from his hiding-place and made his way as quickly and safely as possible across the meadow to his horse. As he mounted up, he looked toward Mrs. Lovejoy's house through the trees on the other side of the meadow. Not a light showed in the windows.

He turned his horse, caught sight of Noggin's wagon by the glint of the lanterns, and set forth in a leisurely pursuit, for Noggin was going somewhere but in no hurry.

Matthew also had plenty of time. He kept watch of the lanterns, and followed Noggin under the same sky of stars that had looked down upon Lark, Faith and Walker that night in the forest. He still felt he was Walker's arrow, shot here through the dark. It might take him a while to reach his destination, but reach it he would. He still felt he was trying, for Lark.

The horror of both the Burton house and the Lindsay house had come to him in nightmares every night since he'd arrived in Philadelphia. He thought they would be waking him in a cold sweat for many nights to come. That was how it should be; he should not easily forget those scenes. They were part of his penance. But one thing kept coming back to him, over and over again, in broad daylight as well as deepest dark.

The marbles that had belonged to Lark's brother. On the table and the floor in that murder room. Then rolling across the floor in the watermill. Thrown through the window by whom?

Matthew didn't believe in ghosts. Well, yes, he did, actually; he believed Number Seven Stone Street was haunted by the unquiet spirits of the two coffee merchants who had killed each other there. He might tell himself those b.u.mps and thumps were Dutch stones settling into English earth, but often he felt he was being watched, or heard a faint chuckle or saw a shadow pa.s.s across the corner of his eye where there should be no shadow. He did believe in those ghosts, but what unquiet spirit had tossed a handful of marbles through the watermill's window?

It was something he'd thought about, but which he didn't wish to think about for there was no answer. He'd told himself quite sternly that it had not really been the dead boy's marbles thrown through the window, but instead pebbles that his heated and pain-wracked brain had incorrectly seen. Some pa.s.sing farmboy had heard the fight, peered through the window and thrown pebbles in to distract one man from killing another. Then the boy had hidden while Slaughter raged and raved.

But why hadn't this boy come forward? Why hadn't he gone to fetch the constable? Why had no boy appeared in Hoornbeck to tell his tale, during the duration of Matthew's stay there?

A ghost? The marbles hadn't been ghostly. They'd clattered loud enough when they'd hit, and one had given him a substantial sting to the neck. Or had they been only pebbles, after all?

When this was over and the local constable informed that Mrs. Lovejoy's dead guests did not stay in their graves, Matthew had decided he would go back to that watermill and find out if either marbles or pebbles lay on the floor. But first there was this and Mrs. Lovejoy was going to have to explain how her thief trap had ended up holding Slaughter's buried treasure. Mrs. Lovejoy? Mrs. Sutch?

What did the mistress of Paradise have to do with the queen of spicy sausages?

He thought of something Opal had said, about the pepper plants: Mizz Lovejoy feeds 'em to her guests. Grinds 'em up in every d.a.m.n thing, excuse my French. Even gives 'em pepper juice to drink, mornin', noon and night. Mizz Lovejoy feeds 'em to her guests. Grinds 'em up in every d.a.m.n thing, excuse my French. Even gives 'em pepper juice to drink, mornin', noon and night.

Matthew watched the lanterns far ahead. He saw them sway with the wagon.

Is anybody to home in there? had been Opal's question about the cemetery.

He had the mental image of Hudson Greathouse sitting in Sally Almond's, eating some of Mrs. Sutch's sausages for breakfast. Whew, this is hot! Whew, this is hot! he'd said, as he'd blotted sweat from his forehead with his napkin. he'd said, as he'd blotted sweat from his forehead with his napkin.

And Evelyn Shelton, saying, Only have 'em a few days a month as is, so if you want 'em you'd best get your order in Only have 'em a few days a month as is, so if you want 'em you'd best get your order in!

Matthew whispered, "Easy, easy," to his horse, though it was he who had given a start, as if a cold hand had suddenly been laid across the back of his neck.

He refused to consider what had just gone through his mind. Refused it. Shut the book on it. Closed the coffin. Mrs. Sutch owned a hog farm up north of Nicholsburg. A hog farm hog farm. Pork. Hear me?

Opal's voice came to him, asking, But what became of Mr. White But what became of Mr. White?

And, the real question: What may have become of all forty-nine people supposedly buried over a period of five years in Paradise?

Mrs. Lovejoy? Mrs. Sutch?

Sisters in crime? Or one and the same?

Matthew had no idea. He banished these wild, unsettling, and downright sickening suppositions from his mind, as best he could, and concentrated on the glint of Noggin's lamps. The wagon moved on, the horse and rider following at a distance behind and cloaked by the night.

Two hours pa.s.sed, during which Matthew drew no closer nor fell back no further. In a s.h.i.+ft of the chill breeze he caught the rank scent of hog filth, and by that he knew Noggin was near his destination.

The wagon turned to the left. Its lanterns suddenly disappeared. Matthew picked up his horse's pace, and in a few minutes came to the forest track that Noggin had followed. Through the trees Matthew could see no lights, but the smell of the hogs was overpowering. He urged his mount forward, though even the steadfast horse grumbled and didn't seem to want to proceed. About fifty or sixty yards along the track, with dense woods on either side, Matthew caught sight of lanterns. He instantly dismounted, led his horse among the trees and tied the animal up. When he had sufficiently bolstered his courage, he left his tricorn and cloak with the horse and crept through the forest into what appeared to be yellow layers of smoke hanging in the sullied air, the stomach-turning miasma of hog stench.

It was developing into a delightful evening.

Through the trees and low underbrush, Matthew saw that Noggin's wagon had pulled up alongside a one-story house painted dull gray. The house had a front porch with a rope handhold up the woodblock steps, and window shutters painted the same gray as the walls. Light showed in the windows and a lantern hung on a hook next to the door, which was shut. Matthew wondered if Noggin had crafted the house, for though it seemed at first glance to be of good construction it began to dawn on him that the structure was somewhat malformed, that the walls were crooked, and none of the windows were the same size. A stone chimney spat smoke from the yellow roof, which sat like a crumpled hat on the head of a blowsy drunk. Matthew thought Noggin might be an able handyman, but house building was not his talent.

A black horse with a white star on its forehead stood tied to a hitching-post on the far side of the house. Matthew saw the dark shapes of other structures beyond the house, back where a few fitful lanterns burned and the haze was thick enough to choke a mule. From what he could tell there looked to be a barn, a long shedlike structure that probably was part of the hog pens, another utility building of some kind-the slaughterhouse?-and finally a scabby-looking rectangular building that might be a smokehouse. The noise of hogs gobbling and grunting came from the pens.

The domain of Mrs. Sutch. Matthew thought it was very far indeed from Paradise.

Noggin was nowhere in sight. The coffin's lid was open. Matthew s.h.i.+fted his position a few feet and saw an open cellar door. A faint glow of dirty light washed out upon the boards.

He knelt down, mulling his situation. It would be a simple matter now to ride back to the village of Nicholsburg and knock on doors until he roused someone who had something to do with the law. He could get there in about twenty minutes. Go from door to door and raise h.e.l.l, if he had to. Sorry to wake you up, sir, but Mrs. Sutch's handyman Noggin is stealing dead guests from Mrs. Lovejoy's Paradise and carting them up here to the hog farm, where he's taking them into the cellar, and would you please lower that musket from my face, sir Sorry to wake you up, sir, but Mrs. Sutch's handyman Noggin is stealing dead guests from Mrs. Lovejoy's Paradise and carting them up here to the hog farm, where he's taking them into the cellar, and would you please lower that musket from my face, sir?

Noggin suddenly came up through the cellar door, which caused Matthew to duck even though he was already on the ground. Matthew had a glimpse of Noggin's dark-stained leather ap.r.o.n before the handyman trudged on toward the buildings out back. The haze swallowed him up.

Something moved behind Matthew. He sensed it first before he heard it. The back of his neck rippled, and then came the quiet sound of brush being stirred by a body. Matthew whirled around, his eyes wide, for he thought surely someone he hadn't counted on being there was going to jump him, and he would have to fight for his life.

But no there was no one there.

Matthew's heart was racing. He had to struggle to regain his breath. An animal of some kind had just skittered past, he thought. d.a.m.n if it hadn't turned his temples gray.

He saw Noggin returning to the house, carrying a bucket in each hand. Noggin went back unhurriedly into the cellar, like any workman doing a job he's done many times before.

This would be number fifty, Matthew thought.

He no longer felt safe out here. His skin was still crawling. In another moment Noggin was going to come back and shut the cellar door. Matthew stood up. In back of the wagon would be the shovel, the pickaxe and the mallet, if Noggin hadn't already taken them inside. Matthew figured those items stayed in the wagon. He had to make a quick decision that might end his life right here and now. The longer he delayed, the worse. He pushed out through the brush, crept up to the wagon, debated for about three seconds which of the items he could use, decided against his first choice, the pickaxe, because he didn't want to burst Noggin's skull, and picked up the mallet. He stood at the cellar door, the mallet upraised, waiting for Noggin to appear.

He waited.

No Noggin.

From within, at a distance, he heard what sounded like an axe at work. On what, he dreaded to think, but it didn't sound like wood.

Matthew took a deep breath and peered inside. A few lanterns hung from beams overhead. The cellar had dirt walls, and looked to be a warren of small rooms and pa.s.sages. Like the diggings of a rat's nest, Matthew thought. Or the tunnels of a coal mine. In the larger chamber before him stood a number of barrels, coils of rope and chains, a cupboard in the corner and on the floor a stack of burlap bags with Mrs. Sutch's legend already painted on them in red.

The chopping noise was coming from the right. He eased down the cellar's steps and saw along the pa.s.sageway a shadow thrown by lamplight from one of the rooms. It had a shadow axe, and was cleaving a shadow something that appeared to be hanging from the ceiling. Matthew heard liquid running into a bucket. He decided this was not where he wished to be.

" can't go back and pick up like it was only yesterday "

The m.u.f.fled voice was coming from above Matthew's head. A woman's voice.

Thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk went the axe. went the axe.

" if you would help me, that particular door might not be "

A man's voice, responding.

That voice was very familiar. Sickeningly familiar, in fact.

"Ty, listen to me!" said the woman sharply. "He won't take you back. Not now, not ever."

Ty's voice pitched lower, became silken in its cajoling. Whatever Ty wanted help with, he meant to get it. Matthew had lifted the mallet, as if to strike at the speaker though separated by a floor of uneven boards. His heart was pounding, and a sheen of cold sweat glistened on his forehead. He knew the voice of Tyranthus Slaughter, all right. And the woman calling him "Ty" sounded like Gemini Lovejoy, but less genteel now and more hard-edged.

In the room along the pa.s.sage, Noggin kept chopping. Further in the cellar, Matthew saw a set of steps going up to a door. When he took the second one, it let out a squeal that made his blood curdle; he froze in place, expecting either the door to open or Noggin to come rus.h.i.+ng along the pa.s.sage, but the voices kept muttering and wrangling. The two Lovejoys were having a dispute, it seemed. He intended to find out what issue stood between the loving harmony of a killer and a whatever she was. He eased up the steps and peered through a crack where door and wall should have met. He could see nothing but yellow lamplight in a room with dark brown wallpaper, so he put his ear to the crack instead and listened to the Lovejoys fuss.

" shouldn't have come here," she said. "Of all places."

"I told you, I'd worn out my welcome in that boarding house. Chester is not my idea of a fascinating destination."

"Be d.a.m.ned d.a.m.ned with that!" she snapped. Matthew heard a chair sc.r.a.pe. Were they both sitting down? At a table? "I told with that!" she snapped. Matthew heard a chair sc.r.a.pe. Were they both sitting down? At a table? "I told you you, long ago, that I was done with you! I couldn't help you anymore!"

"Ah, Lyra!" Slaughter's voice was like warm honey. "Couldn't, or wouldn't?"

"Both. Now we've been going over this all afternoon. How much longer are you going to stir the pot?"