The Queen of Bedlam (23 page)

“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 bullshitting,” 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 pronouncing him dead.”

“I didn’t pronounce him dead. That was McCaggers’ job.”

“An unofficial pronouncement,” 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 nightshirt 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 hell 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 glasses, “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 God,” 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 passing 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 wishing 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. Godwin’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 fishing 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 thrashing out the language of a Clear Streets Decree…and by the way had he heard about the third murder last night? Matthew assured 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.

“Shit,” 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 nobles, for Mr. Deverick lies dead with the exact same masklike cuttings about his eyes as was delivered to Dr. Julius Godwin 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 pronounced 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.

There followed a brief biography of Deverick, which Matthew assumed Grigsby had gotten from the widow, and then the news continued with the description of Cornbury’s first meeting with his citizens. The story diplomatically called the new governor “a stylish addition to the town he so pleasantly intends to manage.” Matthew turned the sheet over and saw there at the bottom-below articles such as a lumber wagon accident on the Broad Way and items concerning ships in harbor and cargoes received-the announcement for the Herrald Agency. Well, at least that had turned out as planned.

He looked over the article about the Masker once again. There really wasn’t anything in it that he thought McCaggers might object to and he believed he’d done a good job at keeping Grigsby at bay. Then again, there was that part about the “familiar face” and the “murderer’s rage” that Matthew was sure would not go over lightly with Chief Prosecutor Bynes. Add to that the fact that it sounded as if Matthew was now reporting back to Grigsby on the doings-or misdoings-at City Hall. Not pretty.

He decided he would take this broadsheet with him, get out of here by the quickest, and enjoy a day off.

In the hallway he paused to lock the office door. As he was walking to the staircase he heard the noise of voices below him and boots tramping on the steps. Men were coming up. It seemed the meeting had ended. And not too amicably, it sounded, for there were shouts and language that turned the air blue. He thought he heard Bynes’ thunder in that approaching storm, and here he stood like a lightning-bolt.

There was no time to get back into the magistrate’s office. Matthew took the only avenue available to him, which was the more narrow staircase up to the third floor. Even here, though, he heard boots stomping up the steps after him. The chief prosecutor’s office was to the right, at the end of the hall. To the left, past some records rooms, was a doorway. Matthew opened that door and stood on a short flight of stairs leading to another closed door. Perhaps ten feet above him was Ashton McCaggers’ domain. As the voices grew louder and several men came up from the second level, Matthew shut the door to a crack and stood waiting for everything to quiet down. He couldn’t help but find it ironic that he’d rather face the Masker at midnight than Bynes before lunch.

“The man’s impossible!” he heard someone say in the corridor. “He’s mad if he thinks there won’t be a riot in the streets tonight!” It was Lillehorne’s whine.

“The gaol will be full by eleven o’clock!” That voice Matthew couldn’t place for certain; it might have been one of the other magistrates. “What to do with the night-fishermen? What to do with the harbor watch? If a ship sends up a signal after midnight, shall it be denied a pilot boat?”

“He wants those taverns closed, that’s the crux of it!” Now that was for sure the voice of James Bynes, and it was far from being happy. “And putting twenty more constables on the street? Where are we to find the volunteers? Shall we force them before a musket? Well, I have my own headaches right here! I tell you, Grigsby should be arrested for this!”

Matthew heard the noise of paper being crumpled in a fist.

“He can’t be arrested,” the magistrate said. “Who’ll print the decree notices?”

“Damn him!” Bynes raged. “Let him print the notices! Then we’ll see if we can’t stick him with intent to disrupt the public welfare!”

A door slammed and the voices were muffled. Following this, Matthew heard what was most decidedly the crack of a pistol shot, him being so recently acquainted with the noise, and his first thought was that Bynes was shooting a gun off to ease his anger.

When the next shot came just seconds after the first, Matthew realized the gunplay was not going on down the hall but instead up the stairs and beyond the attic door.

What McCaggers was doing up there was anyone’s guess, but Matthew had a few questions for him and now seemed the appropriate time to pursue them, flintlock or no. He ascended to the ominous door and knocked firmly upon it, then waited not with a little trepidation of the unknown.

At length a small square aperture in the door was flipped up and an eyeglassed dark brown eye peered out. The eye looked angry at first, then softened at the recognition of its owner’s visitor. “Mr. Corbett,” said the coroner. “What may I do for you?”

“I’d like to come in, if I might.”

“Well…I am busy at present. Perhaps later this afternoon?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I probably won’t be coming back to City Hall today. Make that definitely not coming back. Won’t you spare me a few minutes?”

“All right then, a few minutes.” A bolt was unlocked, the doorgrip turned, and Matthew found himself granted entrance to what had been a cryptic area of the building.

He crossed the threshold and McCaggers, who wore a pair of brown breeches and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, closed the door at Matthew’s back. The bolt was thrown again, which Matthew thought demonstrated McCaggers’ desire for privacy. He realized in another moment, by the smoky golden light streaming through the attic windows, that McCaggers had created a world for himself up here, in the uppermost of the tallest building in town, and not all of this creation was easy to look upon.

The first items that caught Matthew’s attention were the four human skeletons, three adult-sized and one a child, that hung suspended from the rafters. Also adorning the walls were perhaps thirty or more skulls of various sizes, some whole and some missing lower jawbones or other portions. Here and there, as macabre decorations, were the wired-together bones of legs, arms, hands, and ribcages. Atop a row of honey-colored wooden file cabinets were more complete skulls and skull fragments. On the wall behind the cabinets was a display of what appeared to be frog and bat skeletons. It was a veritable boneyard, yet everything was spotless and sterile. The pride of the collector, Matthew thought. McCaggers collected human and animal bones as he himself gathered books.

That wasn’t all of the surprises in McCaggers’ realm. Next to a long table topped with beakers of fluid in which things of uncertain origin floated, there stood a rack of swords, axes, knives of many sizes, two muskets, and three pistols as well as fierce-looking weapons such as wooden clubs studded with nails, brass knuckle-dusters, and crude spears. Amid the items were two spaces where pistols were missing, and Matthew smelled the sharp tang of burned gunpowder.

“I expect you heard my shots,” McCaggers said. He picked up two pistols that were lying amid a stack of books on a desk at his side. “I was shooting at Elsie.”

“Elsie?”

“Yes, that’s her.” He motioned toward a dress-maker’s form standing about twenty feet away. The thing was shot full of holes. “Elsie today. Sometimes Rosalind.” He indicated a second form that was in even more pitiful shape. “She’s not feeling well lately.” He looked up, as did Matthew, at a hatch in the roof through which showed the blue sky. A rope ladder was hanging from it. Gunsmoke was still drifting out, and Zed’s ebony face with its purplish upraised tattoos was peering down into the attic. “We have a visitor,” McCaggers announced, revealing that Zed knew at least some English. “Mr. Corbett.”

Zed withdrew, his expression impassive. Matthew wondered if he lived up there on the roof, and what the socialites of Golden Hill would say if they knew a slave commanded the highest point of New York.

“I have some new pistols I’m testing,” McCaggers explained. He put the guns back in their proper places. “From the Netherlands. More power than the ones I’ve seen before. I’ll dig the balls out of Elsie and measure the wounds. I mean, of course, the impressions. I do enjoy keeping notes, and one never knows when the information might be useful.” He came back to the desk, where Matthew saw a notebook lying open and a quill pen next to an ink bottle. “Today the weapon of choice is the blade,” McCaggers said as he made a few notations in his book. “Tomorrow it will be the pistol, once it’s made small enough to conceal and able to fire multiple balls without reloading.” He glanced up and caught Matthew’s skeptical expression. “Both those conceits are being studied in Europe as we speak.”

“I sincerely hope you don’t literally mean tomorrow.” Matthew couldn’t imagine a pistol that would fire more than one ball. It would be the most dangerous weapon ever created.

“There are already pistols with multiple barrels in Prussia. As far as the reduction in size and weight to afford concealment, I’d venture fifty years, more or less. Barring the appearance of a new technology, of course, but the gunsmiths are nothing if not inventive.” McCaggers saw the broadsheet in Matthew’s hand. “Ah! The latest news?”

Matthew gave it over. “Just out this morning. I regret that Mr. Grigsby painted me as an interviewer. I tried my best to be selective in what I told him.”

“I see you were.” It only took a few seconds for McCaggers to get the gist of the story. “Oh, that part about the ‘town nobles’ will vex some people. Lillehorne, most particularly. It won’t go over well with Bynes, either. A face familiar to many of us hides a murderer’s rage. Grigsby doesn’t shy from frightening the citizens, does he?” He turned the sheet to its second side and began to read as Matthew cast a wandering eye over the rest of the attic chamber.