The Queen of Bedlam (15 page)

“And you found what?”

“Nothing. Sand had already been spread to blot up the blood, and the dirt raked. I suppose that was on the high constable’s order, getting things back to normal.”

“Hardly normal,” she said. “Two murders within the space of as many weeks? Who do you think the high constable should be looking for?”

Before Matthew could think about it, he spoke what had been on his mind since awakening this morning: “A gentleman executioner.”

“Hm,” she said, but offered no more. Then she cleared her throat, angled her head, and looked at him as if clearly for the first time. “I presume you’ve never heard of the Herrald Agency?”

“No, madam, I haven’t.”

“Founded by my husband. My late husband. In London, in 1685. He was a lawyer of some renown in his younger years, and later gave his aid to many individuals who required it. Legal aid and advice, yes, but the Herrald Agency specializes in…” She gave him the hint of a smile. “As you put it so astutely, the process of discovery.”

“Oh,” Matthew said, though he had no clue what she was talking about.

“We now have two offices in London, one in Edinburgh, one soon to open in Amsterdam, and we plan-I plan-to consider opening an office in New York. We have a dozen agents all with varying specialties in problem solving. Most of them have backgrounds in law enforcement, though several have been recruited from the opposite camp. As cities grow, it seems, so grows our business. Needless to say, I believe New York-as well as Boston and Philadelphia-will soon make the transition from town to city. Therefore I wish to find a central location for-”

“Pardon me, please,” said Matthew, and he leaned forward in his chair with a perplexed expression. “Forgive the interruption, but what exactly do you mean by ‘problem solving’?”

“I shall answer with an example. In April the young son of a very influential banking family misplaced one of his mother’s diamond bracelets by giving it to his fiancée, a rather disreputable Dutch actress. The mother wanted it back, but it seemed that the fiancée had suddenly and completely vanished after the opening night. Furthermore, she was the female companion of a criminal figure whose very name turned the London law hawks into frightened pigeons. So it was brought to us to find and return the bracelet, and also to make certain that our criminal acquaintance-who had known nothing about his companion’s dalliances-did not do to her with an axe what he had done to two previous ladies, because the young son still wished to marry her. The problem was solved, but unfortunately bride and groom had a falling-out over dinner plates for the home and besides, theater season was about to open in the Netherlands.”

“By problems,” Matthew said, “you mean…personal difficulties?”

“Missing documents, forged letters, theft of money or property, questions of sincerity and loyalty as applied to either business or marriage, missing persons, reconstruction of accidents, courier for valuable items or bodyguard for important persons, discovery of any question that might be asked as to the truth or falsity of any given situation. All those, and more.” Mrs. Herrald paused to give him time to take all this in. “In addition,” she continued, “we are often asked by law enforcement officials to explore the more dangerous territory of the professional criminal and the criminal organizations, of which there is no lack and which are likely-given human corruption and the greed for both power and money-to grow beyond all current recognition. I might also point out that the investigation of murder is one of our specialties, and we have a sterling record of success. Do you have any questions?”

Matthew was speechless. He’d had no idea anything such as this existed. It made the thoughts of law school fly out of his head like old, slow geese. “I…well…what do you want with me?”

“Now don’t be thick!” she scolded, but with good nature. “And also don’t be modest. You are highly regarded by Nathaniel Powers, or you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“But…is this an interview for employment?”

“It’s an interview to determine whether you’re interested or not. Are you?”

“Yes,” Matthew said, almost at once. “Certainly I am. But what exactly would I be doing?”

“Discovery,” said Mrs. Herrald. “Problem solving. Thinking quickly, in dangerous situations. Taking your life in your hands sometimes, to be truthful. Or trusting your life to the hands of someone else. Picking up a question like a…like a chess piece, and determining how it fits in the game. If you’re interested in doing that, in being the first member of the Herrald Agency in America and being paid very well for it, then you will do what I next require of you.”

Matthew listened, but said nothing.

Mrs. Herrald opened the black leather case at her side and brought out a white envelope. “Do you know the DeKonty estate?”

“I do.” It was about eight miles from town along Manhattan Island. Matthew and Magistrate Powers had been there a little over a year ago to attend a party for the town’s legal staff hosted by August DeKonty, who had owned both a stone quarry and one of the largest lumbermills in the colony.

“You’re aware that Mr. DeKonty passed away in March? And that his widow and daughter have moved to Boston?”

“I am.”

“Also are you aware that the new owner of the estate is a Mr. Hudson Greathouse, a business consultant who has just recently taken occupancy?”

“That I didn’t know.”

“He’s a very private individual. You will meet him today, and give him this letter.” She handed it to Matthew. The first thing he did was turn it over and look at the red wax seal embossed with the letter H. “You are not to open it. If the seal is broken, I personally take a sizeable loss of both money and reputation and you may return to your position with Nathaniel Powers.”

“May I ask what’s in it?”

“Amendments to the deed that need a signature. There was some difficulty over the DeKonty landholdings, and this is a clarification procedure. Therefore you will take this letter to Mr. Greathouse, stand by in his presence as he signs it, and bring it back to me by seven o’clock this evening. Oh…here.” She reached into the case and brought out another object, which she gave him without hesitation. “Wind it now. The mantel clock reads twelve minutes before two.”

In Matthew’s hand was a gleaming silver watch. He opened the lid and gazed down upon the beautiful white dial, the black numerals and hands. If the mantel clock was correct-and he was sure the finicky Mr. Vincent wound it by the hour-then the watch was also correct. Still, Matthew took hold of the winding stem and very carefully and slowly turned it several times until the spring gave resistance.

“Can you secure a horse?” Mrs. Herrald asked.

Matthew nodded, still giving all his attention to the silver watch. Had there ever been silver that shone so brightly, or a dial so white, or Roman numerals shaped as if by the etching-pen of an emperor?

“I am here,” she said. “Look at me.”

He did.

“A horse. You can ride?”

“I can, yes madam.” If he couldn’t handle a horse by now, with all the travelling through the colony he and Magistrate Powers had done, then he would have to settle for the most broken-down donkey at Tobias Winekoop’s stable.

“Direct your expenses to my bill here. Now listen to me with care, Matthew: I am offering you this opportunity to show me how reliable you are. There is a financial value to the content of that envelope, though you personally could not benefit from it. Some, however, with the right resources in unfit places might. Any such item carries a risk. Do you understand?” She waited until he’d given a nod. “Bear in mind the serious nature of being a courier. Do not dawdle, do not leave the main road, do not stop to help any damsel or dandy in distress because that is the oldest trick in the book for highway robbers.”

“Robbers?” Matthew felt his heartbeat quicken and his stomach give a lurch. He’d not considered the fact that a deed with a monetary value might attract highwaymen-or highway ladies, as the case might be.

“Do you carry a pistol? A sword?”

“No,” Matthew answered, feeling a little stunned. “I don’t know how to use either one.”

“We’ll have to rectify that, if you succeed this afternoon. Well, it’s probably for the best though. If you’re not an expert with a pistol or sword, you have no business killing yourself by trying to use one. Just be aware of your surroundings and, as I say, don’t stop.”

Matthew realized he must have had a look of terrible distress on his face, because Mrs. Herrald’s voice softened. “I’m a worrier by nature. I see a plot in every plan. Do know that if you’re robbed, it’s only a copy yet it bears an extremely valuable signature and seal from the royal office of land transfers. The original can be recopied, of course, though it would take months to get the signature and seal redone. But don’t throw your life away on my account. Are you ready to go?”

He didn’t reply, for his tongue was not in working order.

Mrs. Herrald said, “If you have misgivings, you may return the envelope. I’ll give you money for dinner and a glass of wine at the tavern of your choice, and we shall write this meeting off as an exercise in verbiage. What do you wish?”

“Do I have to give back the watch?” Matthew managed to ask.

“Yes, and polish it, too.”

He stood up, watch in one hand and dangerous envelope in the other. “I’ll go.”

Mrs. Herrald remained seated. “Seven o’clock,” she said firmly.

Matthew wondered what would happen if his body wasn’t found until eight. But he pulled himself tall, got his legs moving, and left the parlor.

“Wait! Corbett! Wait, I said!” shouted Mr. Vincent as he came out from behind his desk, but Matthew carried a watch now and time waited for no man.

Ten

Matthew set off on a middle-sized, brown-and-white paint mare named Suvie that he’d secured on previous business trips from Mr. Winekoop’s stable. She was a plodder, but she was easily managed and had never been known-at least according to the amiable, pipe-smoking Winekoop-to throw a rider. So, with Suvie under him, his hands in the reins, boots in the stirrups, and wax-sealed envelope tucked in an inner coat pocket and fastened down with a button, he rode along the Broad Way to the north, mindful of pedestrians, wagons, wandering mendicants, merchants hawking their wares from little pull-carts, dogs chasing cats chasing chickens, slop and the essence of chamberpot thrown into the street, and other sundry obstacles to be avoided.

He wished he’d thought to bring a hat, because here came another brief shower that wet him and then passed on in favor of the sun. He decided to keep going past the pottery shop, though, for he wanted to keep to a strict time-schedule.

It had been almost two-thirty when he’d left the stable. There’d been an important task he’d needed to accomplish at City Hall, and also to ask Magistrate Powers for permission to make this journey though the afternoon was free and he’d known the magistrate would give his blessing. The magistrate, however, had not been in the office and so Matthew had left a note, completed his task, and then hurried back down the stairs where he’d run into High Constable Lillehorne and Chief Prosecutor Bynes on their way up.

“Ho there, Matthew!” said Bynes, a large-bellied and jovial man with a florid face and trimmed gray beard. “Where to in such a hurry?”

“Hello, sir. I’m sorry, I do have an appointment.”

“A moment, then.” Bynes reached out and put a ham-sized grip on Matthew’s shoulder. Lillehorne tried to squeeze past them but was unable to advance. “Two things. I meant to speak to you earlier about your suggestions at the meeting. They were very interesting and could be useful, and I’m sure the high constable intends to properly study them. Isn’t that right, Gardner?”

“Yes sir,” Lillehorne said, his voice suddenly bright. “I intend to study them at great length.”

“Grand!” That was the chief prosecutor’s highest and all-purpose praise. Then his face darkened and a voice that could call down thunder and cataclysm in the courtroom became almost fatherly. “And last night. You happened upon that tragic scene. Gardner painted the whole picture for me, and I’ve looked in upon the body. Those marks around the eyes…very disturbing, are they not?”

“Yes sir, they are.”

“I understand that our rather eccentric printmaster mentioned that term again when he was unlawfully present in the cold room. Yes?”

“Term, sir?” Matthew knew exactly what he meant, but he wouldn’t speak it. Besides, he wasn’t sure it had been “unlawful” for Grigsby to be present. Unless they were rewriting the town code at night when everyone slept.

“You do know.” Bynes applied just a little more pressure to Matthew’s shoulder. “We-all of us-are in this together, Matthew. We are all professionals. Craftsmen, in our own way. Make no mistake, we shall bring this murderer to justice. Unfortunately, no good is done when Marmaduke Grigsby starts declaring…you know…that term for all to see in his sheet. It causes an unease, which breeds fear, which breeds panic, which breeds citizens uncertain of the protective power of their legal officials. Not good. Yes?”

“Yes. I mean…no. I suppose.”

“Now I think it’s fine for Grigsby to run his little paper. Talk about the ships coming in, the cargoes, the energy of New York, the social scene and…yes, of course, even the minor squabblings in the streets which any town of merit must endure.” Bynes paused, his cool blue eyes ready to strike lightning to go along with a storm-dealing throat. “But Grigsby cannot be-and will not be-allowed to make this murderer into more than simply a lunatic who most probably has now fled town.”

“Pardon, sir,” Matthew said, “but I think that’s what was advanced after Dr. Godwin’s murder. Obviously it wasn’t true.”

“We don’t know that it isn’t true now. I’m not saying Grigsby shouldn’t run a small bit about the incident. I’d have to be a fool not to know that the whole town’s talking about it, but we must control public opinion, Matthew. For the good of the people. If Grigsby makes a big splash about it, how will that help anything? Yes?”

Matthew had no idea whether he ought to agree or disagree. But he said, “I do know of one thing that would greatly aid the good of the people, sir. To actively investigate the murder and find this person before he-”

“Shhhhh.” A thick finger went to Bynes’ lips. “We are investigating, you can be sure of that, and we shall find this lunatic if he is insane enough to remain in New York.”

Something about that music sounded off-key, but Matthew let it go. He turned his attention to the high constable. “A question for you, sir. Have you been able to question Reverend Wade and Dr. Vanderbrocken?”

“I have, if you really need to know.”

“May I ask what was their explanation of such a quick disappearance?”

Lillehorne cast a glance at Bynes that said Oh the fools I have to suffer. Then, to Matthew with a hint of disdain, “The good reverend was on his way to attend to church business. The good doctor was on his way to see a sick patient. They obviously were on the south side of the street and heard Phillip Covey’s shout, just as you heard it from the north side. Each apologized for not remaining there to wait for a constable, but they had their separate destinations.”

“Their separate destinations,” Matthew repeated.

“That’s what I said. Are you in need of an ear-horn?”

“Pardon, but did you ask exactly what church business and who was the patient?”

“No, because I’m respectful to those two gentlemen and their explanations have satisfied me. Any further probing would be disrespectful and possibly sinful in the case of Reverend Wade. Really, Corbett!” He tried again to get past Bynes. “Shall we go, sir?”

Bynes released Matthew’s shoulder. He flicked an imaginary something off Matthew’s left lapel. “Speak to your friend, won’t you? Both as a friend to him and a friend to me? Yes?” He smiled broadly. “Grand!”

As Matthew guided Suvie up the Broad Way hill past the pottery shop toward the lush green forest beyond, he was thinking about the phrase separate destinations. That was odd, because he distinctly remembered Reverend Wade saying to Dr. Vanderbrocken We have to leave him.

Was he mistaken, or didn’t that sentence imply the reverend and doctor were travelling together toward a common destination?

The doctor’s bag had been on the ground. It appeared he’d been wearing a nightshirt under his cloak, which also had an implication of emergency. If the two men had been travelling together, why had they not just said so to Lillehorne?

Of course, there were many slips between Lillehorne’s cup and his lips, so it was certainly possible he’d misunderstood they weren’t together or his questions had come out bungled. But still, it was very odd.

How serious was it, for a man of God to tell a lie?

Matthew had to shake these questions out of his brain. What did it matter, anyway? He didn’t believe for an instant that either the reverend or doctor had had anything to do with the murders. As Lillehorne had said, they were coincidentally on the south side of the street when they heard Covey shouting.

We have to leave him.

Something didn’t fit, Matthew thought. He hated when that happened, because it meant he was going to have to go speak to Reverend Wade and Dr. Vanderbrocken himself, just for the sake of clarity, when he returned to town.

The last few houses on the edge of New York slipped past. On either side were farmfields and orchards, stone boundary walls, and cattle in their pastures. He rode past the large old windmill atop Common Hill, and then he was truly on the Boston Post Road as it curved along the huge green deep of Collect Pond on the left and thick woodland on the right sloping all the way down to the river.

The rain showers had thankfully settled the dust on the Post Road. The road itself was not nearly as rugged as that miserable path from Charles Town to Fount Royal, but certainly could still bring a civil engineer to his knees. Matthew considered that one of the most grueling jobs in the colony had to be driving a coach between New York and Boston, and feeling those bumps and gullies nearly knock the wheels off under you. But then again, it was a road well-travelled by local farmers and occupants of the larger estates further north and of course as a route not only to Boston but also to East Chester and New Rochelle.

It was a hilly route, with large stretches of wilderness between cultivated farmland. Here too, as in the Carolina colony, the massive trees in places overhung the road with gnarled branches that had been old in the days of Henry Hudson. Deer occasionally jumped in the undergrowth at the sight of Matthew and Suvie. Dark flights of insects whirled over swamp ponds and clear streams gurgled over smooth-worn stones. There was also, as in Carolina, the feeling that one was always being watched by Indian eyes, yet for a white man to see an Indian who didn’t wish to be sighted was a near impossibility. The clouds bellied, a shower fell, the clouds broke apart, and the bright sun shone down through ten-thousand green leaves above Matthew’s head.

He kept Suvie at a walk, intending to pick her up into a trot a little further along. He judged it would take about a half-hour from this point to reach the more narrow road, marked by a pile of white stones, that turned to the left off the Post Road and wound to a number of estates either once or currently held by Dutch residents. Then he could work Suvie into speed and possibly cover the remaining four miles in about forty minutes. It interested Matthew why someone would choose to live out here in the wilderness so far from town, but as he understood it these particular people owned businesses-like Mr. DeKonty’s stone quarry and lumbermill-that demanded both space and resources. He understood there was a vineyard out here somewhere and a winery starting up, but he hadn’t yet seen it. These were hardy, fearless people who seemed to have no problem with Indians showing up for tea, but never let it be said that New York would ever grow without fearless people.

Rays of sunlight streamed through the forest, but now lower to the ground. Ahead the road curved to the right beyond the thicket of trees. The noise of birdsong was loud and reassuring though from the western distance came a faint low rumble of thunder. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of green cliffs rising up below a blue haze. He hated to be caught out in a real rainstorm, not just these passing summer drizzle-fits, but even if he became soaked at least the envelope was well-protected.

Now the road curved to the left and climbed a hillock. At the top it descended and went right again, a capricious trickster. He guided Suvie around the bend and saw the oak branches inter-locking over the road ahead like the arbored ceiling of a green cathedral.

The road stretched out straight and flat. This would be a good place to urge Suvie into a trot, he decided, but no sooner had this thought come to mind than three quail burst from the thicket to his right, flying past him like arrows, and following with a crash of breaking underbrush came a big chestnut horse with a white-starred face.

The muscular animal was being ridden by a man wearing a black tricorn with a raven’s-feather tucked in the scarlet band, a white ruffled shirt, dark blue coat, and white breeches. Unfortunately, Matthew saw, he was no ordinary equestrian out for an afternoon’s jaunt, for he wore a dark blue kerchief across the lower half of his face and bore a pistol whose barrel looked equally as long as Matthew’s forearm. The business-hole in that barrel was trained on Matthew, whose first rather frantic idea of digging his heels into Suvie’s sides and riding like a scalded-ass demon flew away as quickly as a scared quail.

“Hold your horse,” the highwayman directed, as Suvie gave a shudder of alarm and started to sidestep. Matthew did as he was told and pressed his knees in, at the same time giving as smooth a pull on the reins as he could manage. Suvie whinnied and snorted but complied with her rider. The highwayman approached, the pistol resting across his lap. Matthew’s heart was pounding so hard he knew his ears must be twitching.

“Keep the reins and step down,” came the next command. When Matthew didn’t immediately obey-being somewhat frozen solid at this sudden attack-the highwayman placed the pistol’s barrel against Matthew’s right knee. “I won’t kill you, young man,” he said, his voice low and husky though not altogether ungentlemanly, “but I shall blow your knee off if you fail to do as I say. This being a well-travelled road, I’m sure a wagon will come along in three or four hours.”

Matthew climbed down off Suvie, still holding the reins.

The highwayman now dismounted, and Matthew was aware that he was a broad-shouldered monster of a man perhaps three inches above six feet. Gray sides showed below the tricorn, as well as half a craggy face, the bridge of a formidable nose, and deep-set eyes dark as tarpits. The left charcoal-gray eyebrow was sliced by a jagged and nasty-looking scar.

“What do you have?” the man asked, laying the barrel against Matthew’s left ear.

“Nothing.” It was all he could do to speak, but he knew that he had to steady up.

“Why is it everyone says that? Well, not everyone. Some beg to give me their money, after I shoot them through the ear. Wish to answer that question again?”

“I have a little money.”

“Oh, ho! From nothing to a little! Progress of sorts, I’d say. Soon we’ll have you richer than Midas. Where is this pittance?”