The Queen of Bedlam (62 page)

Dahlgren’s face was contorted, the blood coming up through his coat. Perhaps eager to finish his opponent, he now charged Matthew not with the cool logic of a swordsman but with the fury of a wild animal. The sword flashed at Matthew’s ribs. He sidestepped the wicked point, grabbed at Dahlgren’s rapier arm to pin it, and drove his fist into the man’s face. Bloody spittle flew from the mouth. They locked together and fought at close quarters. Matthew saw the green eyes, flamed with red, right in his face. He slammed his fist again into Dahlgren’s mouth, splitting the upper lip, and then he too received a stunning blow to the side of his head from the hilt of Dahlgren’s sword.

In this blurred and frantic struggle, as Matthew’s knees threatened to give way and he hung on to the sword arm for dear life, he saw Dahlgren’s free hand start to go up under the man’s waistcoat. And with that betraying motion he knew.

Before the hand could reach its destination, he gave Dahlgren an uppercut on the chin that rocked the man’s head back. He took another blow from the rapier’s hilt that made a red haze briefly blind him, and suddenly he was falling across the table and dragging the gentleman’s silverware with him in an ungodly crash of platters, trays, and soup bowls. He lay on the floor on his stomach amid the debris, his arms pinned up underneath. When Matthew sat up with bells ringing and beasts roaring in his head, Dahlgren was staggering around the table after him, his rapier ready for the kill and blood drooling from his mouth.

Matthew stood up.

He shoved a chair at Dahlgren but it was kicked aside. Then Matthew flung himself at the man even as the rapier thrust, its tip penetrating Matthew’s coat but luckily no flesh. Again he caught the sword arm and again they fought face-to-face, Matthew battering at Dahlgren’s head, Dahlgren trying to get in a blow with the rapier’s hilt and clawing at Matthew’s face with his other hand. They caromed off the table and went ’round and ’round like battling tops.

As Matthew fought for his life, he had one thing in mind.

Something Hudson Greathouse had said.

You’ll someday cross swords with a villain who’ll long to get a short blade in your belly. You’ll know him, when the time comes.

Matthew knew him.

He saw Dahlgren’s left hand go under the waistcoat. He grabbed at the wrist to trap it, but another blow from the hilt rattled his brains. Where was Dahlgren’s hand? Panic flared in him. Where was-

Suddenly Dahlgren’s hand emerged. It had six fingers, one formed of steel and deadly sharp.

With a whuff of air and a burst of demonic strength, the Count drove his hidden dagger squarely into Matthew’s stomach.

There was a sudden loud crack. No more, no less.

Dahlgren screamed like a woman. He fell back, the dagger dangling and then dropping from the hand that hung off a broken wrist. His rapier also clattered to the floor. His eyes were wide with shock, and perhaps they widened even farther when Matthew reached under his own waistcoat and pulled out the silver fruit tray-about the size of an open hand-that he’d slid down to protect his belly from the dagger attack that Greathouse had warned him in the wisdom of experience to anticipate.

One thing could be said about Dahlgren, Matthew thought. The man certainly kept his thumb locked down.

Dahlgren shook his head back and forth, his damp blond hair standing up like horns. Matthew took the opportunity to smash the fruit tray into his face. When Dahlgren retreated a few paces and made a dazed circle with the broken wrist clutched to his chest, Matthew hit him again. Then a third time, and the Prussian fell into the wine-red curtains that hung over the garden doors but due evidently to his status as a grenadier did not allow himself to fall. Matthew dropped the fruit tray back into the silver debris from whence it had come. He tore the curtains off their hooks and wrapped them around the man’s head. Then, moving slowly and painfully but with definite purpose, he managed to pick up a chair and with it clouted Count Anton Mannerheim Dahlgren a final soul-satisfying blow that sent the swordsman crashing out the doors and over the terrace railing into the goldfish pond, where he sputtered and feebly kicked beneath his wrappings.

Matthew fell to his knees.

It couldn’t have been very long before he could move again, because though the commotion out front had subsided there were still shouts and an occasional curse to be heard. He crawled to Charity LeClaire and ascertained from her moaning that she was still alive, and if she lived long enough to think about it she would surely reconsider her purpose in this world.

He got to his feet and unsteadily went through the corridor.

Lying in the doorway was Lawrence Evans with a huge blue bruise at the center of his forehead. His nose was also pretty much a pulp. A knife was on the floor near his right hand. Sitting not far away with his own hand pressed to a circle of blood on the shirt at his left shoulder was Dippen Nack, whose nose was covered with a white plaster and both eyes dark-shadowed courtesy of Matthew’s fist. The black billyclub rested beside him, a good afternoon’s work done.

Matthew thought he’d taken too much of a beating, for surely he was seeing what was not there. He blinked and looked again.

Nack growled, “What the damned hell are you lookin’ at?”

Matthew walked on, stepping over Evans’ body into the sunlight.

The battle that had raged in front of the house was over, though the dust raised by hooves and boots still lingered. It was clear to see who had won and who had lost. Standing with hands upraised were the boys-at least, the ones who were not on the ground nursing injuries-and standing victorious around them with hatchets, cudgels, and swords were some of the very constables Matthew had thought to be so moronic at their tasks. He counted eight men. No, two more were just coming along the road, herding five boys at the point of axe and musket. A dozen or so horses either nervously pranced around or calmly grazed in the grass along with the sheep, oblivious to the conflicts of men.

Matthew peered through the drifting dust and saw a diminutive man who wore a canary-yellow suit and tricorn hat and held a pistol limply at his side. He was standing over a body.

As Matthew approached, Gardner Lillehorne glanced up at him with wounded eyes. In the harsh light, his skin was pale white and his dyed hair pulled into a queue with a yellow ribbon was more blue than black. He looked down again upon the body, and when he spoke his voice was crushed. “I had to shoot him. He wouldn’t stop coming at me. He’s…not dead, is he?”

Matthew knelt down. The ball had entered very near Jerrod Edgar’s heart. The boy’s eyes were open, but his flame was out. A large knife was still gripped in the right hand.

Matthew stood up, wincing as a pain rippled through his wounded thigh. “He’s dead.”

“I thought so. I just…didn’t…” Lillehorne stopped speaking for a few seconds, and then tried again. “I didn’t want to kill anyone,” he said.

“Chapel,” Matthew said, dazed by the loss of blood and the strange illusion that he was actually feeling sympathy for the high constable. “What happened to Chapel?” He ran a hand over his forehead. “What are you doing here?”

“Kirby,” Lillehorne replied. “He told me everything. I got as many constables as I could find. Brought us here. My God, Matthew!” He blinked heavily, looking around at the boys who were being told to sit down with their legs crossed underneath them and their hands cupped behind their necks. “They’re so young!”

They were young once, Matthew thought but he didn’t say it. Perhaps a long time ago. The hardship, cruelty, and violence of the world had begun their education. Ausley and Chapel had refined it. Professor Fell had put it to use. And as Jerrod Edgar had said, I was never nobody, out there.

“Where’s Kirby?” Matthew asked, and was answered by a half-hearted motion from the high constable, directing Matthew toward the road to the vineyard.

Matthew set off.

Not long after, he came upon the body of Simon Chapel, stretched out on his belly in the dust of the road. Possibly interrupted on his journey to get a horse from the stable, Matthew thought. Just as Lawrence Evans might have been interrupted by Dippen Nack on his way to get the last notebook or some of the more sensitive papers in that file cabinet. On Chapel’s left temple was a black bruise about three inches long. The face had been severely deformed by either fists or, more likely, a pair of boots. It was far from lovely, and in fact Matthew’s gorge rose at the sight of such a mess that a human face might become. But there was no pool of blood around the throat, and as Chapel’s raw lips moved and made incoherent sounds it was clear he had not yet departed the earthly scene.

“I wanted to kill him,” said Kirby, who sat on the other side of the road in the shade of a tree. A black horse with a white face stood nearby, grazing. Kirby had drawn his knees up to his chin and was holding the blackjack. “I gave Lillehorne my knife before we left. But I could have picked up a knife here, from one of the boys. I could have cut his throat, very easily.”

Matthew walked over to him, if just to get away from the sight of the large green flies crawling over the bloodmask that Chapel’s face had become.

Kirby said, “Pollard described him for me. So I’d know him. You see…I followed you from the office. I was going to go with you. To see Lillehorne. Then I watched Pollard and that other man stop you. When I saw Pollard take the notebook…I knew. I followed him back to the office, and I had a talk with him.” Kirby’s eyes closed and he leaned his head back against the treetrunk. Sweat sparkled on his forehead and cheeks.

“Where is he now?”

“Dear Joplin? My dear tavern pal? Well, first…before he talked he fell down a flight of grandmotherly stairs. Then…after he talked, my good pal shattered both his knees on a pair of fireplace tongs.” He opened his eyes and stared at Chapel’s body. “I made sure I got to him, before anyone else, because I was going to kill him. Beat him to death, if I had to. But I stopped beating him.” He frowned, thinking. “Why did I stop, Matthew? Why?”

Matthew also took some time to consider. “Because,” came his answer, “you know that from this point on Justitia will see Simon Chapel and his crimes very clearly, and by murdering him you only kill yourself a little more.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Swanscott’s son said. He nodded. “That must be it.”

Matthew eased himself to the ground in the treeshade. He was drowsy, the sleep of exhaustion pulling at him. Yet where was Berry? Was she all right? He didn’t know. He had to trust that she was. But what about all the boys? Had everyone been captured? What about the instructors? Was there any place all these people could be confined until a trial? It would be Lillehorne’s worst nightmare…if he could get over the bad dreams of shooting down a young man who in his soul had probably welcomed the release of death.

It was a strange place, this world that men had made. The new world perhaps even more strange than the old.

The sun of a summer afternoon shone down, the birds sang, the yellow butterflies flitted, and the green flies buzzed.

Matthew lay back in the shadowed grass, closed his eyes, and let himself rest for just a little while.

Forty-Nine

The doctors were waiting.

One stood composed and steady, the other nervously puffing his pipe. Who could tell what this would accomplish? Still, it had to be tried and both doctors were in accord.

The afternoon’s golden light spilled through the open window. In her high-backed purple chair, the Queen of Bedlam-a small woman, fragile in her pink homegown-sat as she always did, viewing the garden without comment or change of expression from moment to moment.

Matthew Corbett walked into the room.

He was dressed suitably for the long ride from New York. The tan-colored breeches, white shirt, and stockings were brand-new. So too were his dark brown riding boots, fashioned for him by the shoemaker Bulliver Martin. It helped to have a good-paying job in New York. Alas, he’d been unable to collect the ten shillings from Esther Deverick, for even though he’d put an end to the Masker’s career and the Clear Streets Decree, her condition of being the first informed had not been met. In this case, he would rather be alive than have ten shillings thrown on his grave.

’Twas a pity, then, that his discovery of the Masker’s identity and the subsequent story as it appeared in the Earwig meant that Deverick’s widow could not pack her belongings soon enough for the voyage back to England. The residents of Golden Hill of course appreciated money, but they did not appreciate a murder plot. At least, one that had been found out and so shamefully printed for all eyes both noble and common to read.
So, farewell Mrs. Deverick!
read a letter in the following week’s Earwig.

Take your black gowns bought with even blacker money and depart from us so that we might breathe afresh once more, and that the honest business persons of this town might know what it means when greed and corruption are placed on a higher pedestal of value than the law of God, Queen, and Country.
I Beg Our Lord Grant You A Safe And Rapid Journey To Your Final Destination.
Yours Sincerely,
POLLY BLOSSOM
It was perhaps a bit harsh, and glided over the concept that Mrs. Deverick had been completely unaware of her husband’s dark adventure. Yet also Mrs. Deverick had been the most ferocious wind at work trying to blow Reverend Wade from Trinity Church, so without her Machiavellian turbulence that particular ship failed to sail.
Of the long-suffering Robert Deverick, however, there was a different story.
Matthew walked to Mrs. Swanscott’s side. He favored his left leg a bit, but the infection from the swordbite in his thigh had been caught and drained, the swelling subsided, and Dr. Vanderbrocken-who had decided a retirement of playing the violin and otherwise fiddling around did not suit his fiery nature-had declared him out of danger and whacked him on the back of his head for even causing him to consider the amputation saw. Of Matthew’s other wounds, there was not much to speak of if one did not mention the large medical plaster that covered the nasty gash just beside his left eye, the second and third smaller plasters on both cheeks, sundry scuffs, scrapes, and bruises and the strong odor of comfrey-and-garlic ointment that lubricated the healing gashes beneath the plaster on his forehead. Would he bear any further battle scars? The question asked of Vanderbrocken had caused the ill-tempered but highly efficient doctor to glare at Matthew over his spectacles and say, Do you wish to bear any further scars, young man? If you don’t shut up about scars, keep the wounds clean, and use that ointment as I tell you, I’ll give you the damnedest battle you ever fought.
The worst pain, if one wished to speak of pain, was not the sword cut on his right arm-for that was fortunately a shallow nick and not worth troubling-but underneath the comfrey-and-garlic damp bandage at his left shoulder where one of the hawks had torn through his coat cloth and shown in an instant how a cardinal could become nothing but a whirl of red feathers. It was also healing, but Vanderbrocken wanted to check that wound most often, as it was bone-deep and did cause Matthew to clench his teeth sometimes when it hurt like a screaming bastard usually in the middle of the night. The same arm, he knew so well, that Jack One Eye had thoroughly busted three years ago. He was going to be living on the starboard yet.
Otherwise, he was in tip-top health.
He had the fear, as he stood beside Mrs. Swanscott and she stared dreamily at the garden beyond, that this mass of plasters, scrapes, and bruises normally called “a face” would so frighten the woman that she might forever lose the power of speech. He glanced at the two doctors. Ramsendell nodded, while Hulzen looked anxiously on and pipesmoke billowed from his mouth.
Matthew said quietly, “Mrs. Swanscott?”
The Queen of Bedlam blinked, but she did not shift her gaze from the flowers and the butterflies. Matthew knew: it was all she had.
“Madam Emily Swanscott?” he repeated. “Can you hear me?”
She could. He knew it. Had her color changed, just slightly? Had her skin tone begun to turn more pink, starting with the ears?
“Emily?” Matthew asked, and gently put a hand on her shoulder.
Her head abruptly turned. Her eyes were wet, though still without true focus. Her mouth opened, but no words emerged. She closed her mouth, drew a long breath, and Matthew realized that somewhere inside her a voice of reason might be saying I will ask this question for the last time, the very last time, before I go away forever.
One tear rolled down her right cheek.
Her face was impassive. Regal. Her mouth opened, as if by superhuman effort of will.
“Young man,” she said, in a strained whisper, “has the King’s Reply yet arrived?”
Matthew answered. “Yes, madam. Yes, it has.”
And on that signal, Trevor Kirby entered his mother’s room.
He had been made handsome again, in a gray suit with black pinstripes and a gray waistcoat. The suit of a successful lawyer, donated by the Herrald Agency. The black, highly glossed shoes, likewise. Hudson Greathouse had thrown a fit, but Matthew was adamant and when Matthew got adamant time ceased to move on the silver watch he’d retrieved from Simon Chapel’s battered body. The watch had also taken a licking, but…
It still worked.
With a bath, a shave, a hair trim, some decent food, and a few nights-and days-of relatively peaceful sleep, Trevor had lost some if not all of the gaunt fever in his eyes and the hollowed-out sharpness of his cheekbones. He looked to all the world, with his thick black hair combed, his fingernails clean, and his stride purposeful, as far from being a thrice-time murderer as Simon Chapel from being a university’s headmaster.
Matthew saw Trevor’s purposeful stride falter, in spite of what Trevor had planned to do when he came into the room. He stopped, a cloud of indecision passing across his face. His gaze caught Matthew’s, and only Matthew would know the depth of shame and anguish that he saw displayed there in Trevor’s eyes.
Mrs. Swanscott gave a gasp. She was looking past Matthew at the apparition. Her spine seemed to go rigid for a few seconds, as she clenched and released and clenched and released the armrests of her chair.
Then, slowly, she relinquished her throne and began to stand up.
As she stood, her eyes streamed the waters that had been dammed up by the mind’s necessity, and she said, very clearly, “My boy.”
Ramsendell and Hulzen stepped forward to catch her if she fell, for she trembled so violently all in the room feared it. Yet she stood steady and firm, like a willow that bends and bends but does not, never, ever, never does it break.
Without a word Trevor came the rest of the way, and Matthew always would remember that it was not far, but oh it was such a distance.
Son clasped mother, and mother laid her head against her son’s shoulder and sobbed. Trevor wept also, unashamed and unafraid, and if any man had said there was not true blood between them, Matthew would have struck him down even if it had been ten times a Hudson Greathouse.
He had to turn away, go to the window, and stare out at the same garden that had been the lady’s salvation. The Queen of Bedlam was no more; God rest her.
“I think,” Ramsendell said as he came up beside Matthew, “that I’ll go fetch everyone some tea.”
In time, Trevor helped his mother into a chair beside the bed and pulled a second chair over for himself. He held both her hands between his, and listened while she dreamed awake.
“Your father,” she said. “He’s gone for a walk. Out just a little while.” Fresh tears welled up. “He’s been so worried lately, Trevor. It’s because of…because of…the…” A hand floated like a butterfly to her forehead. “I can’t…think very well today, Trevor. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Trevor answered, his voice infinitely kind and even more patient. “It’s I who am sorry. For not coming when I said I would. Can you forgive me?”
“Forgive…you?” she asked, as if puzzled by the very thought. “What is there to forgive? You’re here now. Oh…my throat is so dry. I can hardly speak, it’s so dry.”
“Tea,” said Ramsendell, as he offered both of them a cup.
Mrs. Swanscott looked at the doctor and frowned, trying to make out who he was. Then she cast her gaze around the room and even Matthew could tell that some image in her mind was coming loose from its scroll. Unraveling, like a long spool of thread along a dark and unknown corridor. To find her way back to what she knew, she simply stared at Trevor and took a sip of tea. “Your father,” she tried again, when the tea had gone down, “will be back soon. Out walking. A lot on his mind right now.”
“Yes, I know,” Trevor said.
“Look at you!” A smile came out, though the sadness in her face would not be banished. “How handsome you are! Tell me…how is Margaret?”
“Margaret is fine,” he decided to say.
“A beautiful day.” She had turned her head so as to view the garden once more. “The baby is buried right out there. My little one. Oh.” Something had struck her deeply, for she lowered her head and her shoulders sagged as if under a tremendous, crushing weight. She remained in that posture, as everyone in the room waited.
“Just stay as you are,” Ramsendell suggested, keeping his voice casual.
Fifteen or twenty seconds crawled by. Then suddenly Mrs. Swanscott took a breath as if she had forgotten how to breathe, lifted her head, and smiled at her son, her eyes scorched and empty. “Your father is out walking. Soon, very soon. You can tell him all about Margaret. Oh.” Matthew had thought it was another strike of anguish, but Mrs. Swanscott had just touched Trevor’s knee. “Your sea voyage. The King’s Reply. Was it a comfortable ship?”
“Yes, very comfortable.”
“I’m glad. Now…you were coming to visit for…I can’t think clearly, Trevor. Really. I’m getting so old they’re going to have to put me in a box.”
“Mother?” He took her teacup, put it aside, and again held both her hands in his. “Listen to me.”
“All right,” she said. Then, when he hesitated: “Well, what is it?”
“It’s about me, Mother.”
“All right.”
He leaned closer. “I’m not going to be able to stay very long. I have some business to attend to. Do you understand?”
“Business? No, I don’t understand business. Your father does. He…” She had obviously run onto the rocks again, for she went silent and staring for a few seconds before she recovered. “You are a lawyer,” she told him. “Your father is very, very proud of you.”
“And I am proud of our family,” Trevor replied. “Of what we have accomplished together. We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?”
“A long walk? Yes, but he’ll be back soon,” she said.
Trevor looked at the two doctors for help, but they had become simply mute witnesses as had Matthew. It was up to Mrs. Swanscott’s son to find the way home.
“Father may be late,” he said.
She did not respond.
“Father…may not come back.” He quickly added, “For a while, that is.”
“He’ll come back. Of course he’ll come back.”
“Mother…something may have happened. Something that was…very bad. An accident, perhaps. I don’t know, I’m just saying. Something may have happened.”
A finger went to Trevor’s lips. “Shhhhh,” she said. “You don’t know. Ask anyone. Ask Gordon, he can tell you. When Nicholas goes for a walk, it’s because…it’s because he has to think. About a problem. Some problem that’s troubling him. A trouble, that’s it. He’s gone for a walk because there’s been…” She swallowed thickly. “There’s been some trouble.”
“Yes,” Trevor said. “Do you know what the trouble is?”
“I don’t…know. There’s something…the wine was…” She shook her head, trying to cast a recollection away. “Nicholas has been very worried lately. The lawyer was here. That Mr. Primm. I think…he did stay for dinner, yes. He said…” Here she winced, as if she’d been physically struck, and it took her a little while and an effort to continue. “He said we have to prove it. Prove it. Very important, he said. To prove it.” She suddenly looked at her hands and spread her fingers. “Oh my,” she said. “My rings need to be cleaned.”
“Mother? Look at me. Please.”
She lowered her ringless hands and obeyed.
“Do you see that young man over there?” Trevor motioned toward Matthew.
“Yes.” Mrs. Swanscott leaned closer to her son and whispered, “Speaking of accidents.”
“His name is Matthew Corbett. He’s a friend of mine, Mother. Now, as I said I’m going to be very busy here for a while. Very much…tied up. I won’t be able to see you as often as I’d like. I may not be here again.” He caught the ripple of dismay on her face. “I mean, for…who knows how long?”
“You’re a very busy and successful lawyer,” she said. “Every penny worth it.”
“Matthew is going to come and see you, from time to time. He’ll sit with you and listen if you want to talk, or talk if you’d like to listen, or read to you if you’d like that.” He gave her hands a squeeze. “I want you to know,” he went on, “that when Matthew is sitting beside you, I also am there. When he is reading to you, so I am, and when you speak to him I hear. Can you understand that?”
“I think you’re a little brain-addled after that long trip.” She pulled a hand free and gently touched his cheek. “But if it makes you happy, and you’re so busy, then yes. Your father and I certainly won’t mind if a friend of yours comes to the house from time to time. Will he want to stay for dinner?”
Matthew heard, and replied, “Yes, madam. I would.”
“He’s not a freeloader, is he?” This question was directed to Trevor in a whisper.
“No, he’s quite respectable.”
“Good. Well, he would be, wouldn’t he? If he’s a friend of yours?” She stroked his cheek, as Matthew thought perhaps she had when he was a small, smart, and industrious boy and she saw all the possibilities ahead. “It is late, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Late, Mother?”
“Late for me. I’m such an old dotty. But you…you have everything wonderful ahead of you. Your life, and Margaret. And children of your own, don’t forget that. What you might become, Trevor. The man you shall grow to be. You know, your father’s still a boy in so many ways. I think he shall never fully grow up. How can it be, that you and he are so alike?”
“I don’t know,” came the answer. “I only know I loved…I love Father, and I love you. And I shall always love the both of you, and hold you the highest in my heart.”
“Oh!” She playfully cuffed his chin. “That’s what all sons say, until they have sons of their own.”