“I shall,” was the calm response. “I regret the inconvenience, but I am not only here to rescue Berry, but to rescue you and your family.”
“I see how much rescuing you’ve been doing, sir. Has a horse kicked you in the face lately?”
“No, but two asses did their best. Now listen to me, please. I know you’ve told me you were loyal to your employer, as long as he pays well. I understand your love for your ship. But did you know that the professor is brewing a very powerful kind of gunpowder in that fort of his? And that he plans to—”
“I don’t want to hear this. It’s not my business.”
“Your business, I believe you once said, is making the best decisions under the shadow of your sails,” said Matthew. He let that sink in for a few seconds before he went on. “You also once said you wished for a cargo concern of your own, and hoped that Fell’s money would buy it for you. Very ambitious indeed, captain. But you gave warning too, that night in your cabin, that I should take care the professor’s world doesn’t get into me, because there’s a lot of money in it. Do you recall that?”
“I do.” The smoke floated freely, changing shape as it roiled.
“I should give you the same warning, captain, because your sails are luffing in the breeze. You will need to decide in the next few minutes what your ultimate destination—and that of your wife and child—shall be.”
“What shit are you throwing?” Falco growled.
“I am throwing you a lifeline,” said Matthew, staring with great composure into the fierce amber eyes. This man, he realized, could tear his head off with little regret. Yet Matthew had the floor and he intended to keep it. “I can become your employer, if you allow it. I can pay you this night three hundred pounds in gold coins. That’s for you, your ship and a skeleton crew. I want to be taken back to New York, along with Berry, the Ga—if he can be found, because I know he’s alive—and Miss Cutter, if she wishes to go. And one other,” he continued, “who I will bring from Fell’s castle. I wish to pay you for what you do…ferrying passengers. When we reach New York, I can vow to you that I will not only secure you a place ferrying cargo, but I will work to make sure you are the master of your own business much sooner than you expected. And, Captain Falco, I can do this for you. I promise it.”
“He can do it,” said Berry. Falco smoked his pipe in stony silence.
It was the second effort, Matthew thought, that was both the more difficult and the more rewarding. He had no intention of giving up, not he who had sunken down into the depths riding a seahorse and found providence in the kiss of an Indian maiden. Oh no…not he.
“I’m going to destroy the gunpowder tonight,” Matthew said, with no expression in his voice; it was a cold fact. “Or…as the statement goes…die trying.”
“That would be likely,” Falco answered.
“A fool’s errand, yes?” Matthew’s brows lifted. “And who would expect such a fool to get in there and blow that powder to Hell, sir? So…I will have the element of surprise on my side. Now, I don’t know the layout of the land or the fort, so I will truly be in the dark. But I intend to stay in the dark until I get the job done. I’m telling you this because after that powder blows, my friends and I will very quickly need a way off this island. I am asking you, Captain Falco, to afford us that way.”
“I told him he was insane,” Minx suddenly offered. Matthew bit his lip; he was grateful for her concern but wished her to keep her opinion to herself. She stared at the floor for a moment, the tides of conflict on her face, and then she sighed heavily. “Insane or not, he has a good reason to want to do this. I’m with him.”
“Grand for you,” said Falco. “Murder for me and my family.”
“Deliverance for you and your family,” Matthew corrected. “A nice sentiment, that you wished your own cargo business. But you must know by now that no one leaves this island without the permission of Professor Fell. I would suggest that he will use you as he wishes, and at the end of his use the only item of cargo that need concern you will be yourself in a coffin. Possibly also your fine wife and child. For why would he let you leave here and start a new life? No. Impossible.” Matthew shook his head. “You’d best mind the set of your sails, Captain. They do cast a long and very dark shadow over your future.”
But for the soft crooning of Falco’s wife to the child in the bedroom, a silence settled.
Falco stood before Matthew, his brow knit and his gaze distant. He began to slowly pound the pipe’s bowl against the palm of his free hand.
Matthew waited. Nothing more needed to be said. Either the ship found its own way or ran upon the rocks. The captain was thinking; he was an intelligent man, and he was testing the currents of what might be as opposed to those that were.
“Damn,” said Falco at last; it was more the bleat of a lamb than the growl of a lion, yet it was also a lamb that refused to be slaughtered and to witness the slaughter of loved ones. He had begun his own hard voyage, which all ships must undertake.
“I will need at least a dozen men,” said the Nightflyer’s captain. “No one will question me. I know that foodstuffs and supplies are being loaded to take you back to New York in three or four days, as goes the original plan I was presented. But it will take time. And you’re saying we have only hours?”
“I’d like to leave here at first light.” Matthew decided to add: “If all goes well.”
“Hours,” said Falco, with a bitter edge. “Not nearly enough time. The harbor master will want to see my orders before he allows me to cast off. What shall I show him?”
“A letter of orders, what else?” Minx asked. “Who usually writes the orders? Sirki? Or someone else? And how is the letter delivered to you?”
“Sometimes him. Other times, other people. But it’s always on white paper, rolled with a red ribbon into a scroll, and it always bears the professor’s seal. The octopus symbol.”
“So it’s not always the same handwriting? I can take care of that,” said Minx. “I can find the paper and a ribbon, but as for the seal…” She looked to Matthew.
“I have an unbroken seal on the pouch of money I was given,” Matthew replied. “Can it be used?”
“Removed unbroken and used to reseal a letter of orders?” Minx smiled grimly. “Piece of puffet.”
“I will want,” said the captain, “to bring along other passengers. My wife’s father and mother. Her older brother and his family. He has a farm, just this side of Templeton. Without all of them, I will not go.”
It was a complication, but a necessary one. Matthew realized Falco knew the gravity of the situation. When it was clear the Nightflyer had flown early and on forged orders, someone’s head would roll. Possibly the harbor master’s, Matthew thought…and into the beak of the octopus upon whose symbol the unfortunate had relied. “Understood,” said Matthew. “I’ll leave it you to gather them together, as quietly as possible. I assure you that caution is justified here. There will be no rehearsal, and no room for error.”
“Yes,” Falco said, to the master of the room.
“I also have my work cut out for me. Minx, we should get back to the castle. I have to get into Smythe’s room for a sample of his handwriting. I’ll come up with something interesting for you to scribe.” The purpose, Matthew thought, was to skewer two pigeons with one spear and thus afford the octopus a double course of corrupted brains. He turned toward Berry and reached out for her…
…and she was there, his lucky star.
He had been so relieved to see her at first that he hadn’t known what to say. Words still seemed so small. She grasped his hand and he pulled her toward him like reeling in the most beautiful and scrappy fish in the sea. He hugged her to himself and she clung to him as if he were the most solid rock on Pendulum Island. His heart gave a few hard beats, but when he drew away and looked into her soft and frightened blue eyes he felt the irritated anger flare up once more.
“Why in the name of dear departed Christ did you and Zed leave that inn??
?? he demanded. “Do you know what trouble you’ve caused?”
“Zed wanted to find a boat. I wanted to help him.”
“Oh, you can converse freely with him now?”
“I can understand him. Without words.” She pulled away a greater distance. The shine of anger had surfaced from the depths of her eyes and her cheeks had reddened. “I swear, sometimes I think I can understand him better without words than you with them!”
“As your opinion pleases. We have no time for roundabouts.”
“The truest thing that’s been said!” Falco announced. “I have to go get a crew together. I suppose you’re wanting me to keep her here until morning?” The her being Berry, who looked alternately bewildered and ready to bite through iron nails.
“I do. She’s safest here.”
“That’s a poor statement, but I’ll testify to it. If those men come back again, she goes under the floor.”
Berry started to protest to Matthew but caught herself, for even she knew that her jailers this time would not be so gracious, and the crabs were more welcome company than rats in a dungeon cell somewhere.
“The Nightflyer will be ready at first light,” said Falco, his goateed chin lifted in defiance, perhaps, of Professor Fell. “If you’ve gotten me in this far, I’ll have to cast off without you if you don’t show up. My throat and the throats of my loved ones are worth more gold than you can possibly pay.”
“Agreed,” Matthew said. “At first light, then.” He glanced quickly at Berry but didn’t wish his gaze to linger upon her. She was going to be hell after this mess was cleaned up; but he was determined to give her back as much hell as he could, too.
“Good luck to you,” Falco told them when Matthew opened the door for himself and Minx. “If you’re caught tonight, please allow them to cut your guts open without squealing my name, won’t you?”
“Fair enough, sir.”
“Matthew?” Berry stepped forward. She reached out, tenderly, and touched his arm. The anger in her eyes had given way to a frightened concern. “Be careful,” she said. “I mean it. Be really careful.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he promised, and then he and Minx left the house. He hoped it wasn’t an empty promise, and that by first light his own head would not be the devil’s breakfast.
They reached the road and turned their horses toward Fell’s castle, and under the glaring white sun Matthew busied himself conjuring up a message to trap two traitors. Within a few minutes he was satisfied with himself. Smythe and Wilson would never know what hit them. Couldn’t happen to two more despicable characters…unless it happened to the Thacker brothers.
And now what lay ahead was truly treacherous territory. Slipping in and out of rooms unseen. The message itself: would it fool Professor Fell? And how to get to Fancy to let her know she was on the edge of her deliverance? Then tonight…the main show and a display of fireworks to end this conference of criminals.
He made a vow that he would kiss Dippen Nack if he ever got back to New York. He thought he must be truly desperate.
“What are you thinking?” Minx asked, urging Esmerelda up beside him.
“About what must be done,” he replied. “And…that I’m not so different from Nathan Spade after all, am I?”
She made a noise that might have been a cruel laugh.
“Only in your dreams,” she said, and rode on ahead.
Twenty-Eight
MATTHEW had his hand on the doorknob and was about to venture forth from Adam Wilson’s room when he heard the sound of clumping boots, slurred and boisterous curses and drunken laughter. He stayed his hand and stood transfixed, as if the Thackers might see him through the door. He judged the time to be quarter after four. The Thackers were indeed getting an early start on the evening’s festivities. He wished he could blow them to Hell along with the gunpowder, but that was not likely to happen.
He waited, hearing the noise of their passage dwindle along the corridor. Fancy would probably have been crushed between them. Either that, or she was swimming again in her world of peace and silence. In Matthew’s left hand was a small piece of parchment with ragged edges. Earlier he had slipped into Edgar Smythe’s room and gotten a piece of clean parchment and a piece with some of the Bard’s lines that Smythe had written in his bored doldrums. While he was in Smythe’s room, Matthew had heard footsteps approaching the door and then a key slide into the lock. He thought he might have aged a few years in the seconds it had taken him to get out upon the balcony, press his back against the wall and hope that Smythe did not emerge for a breath of air. Instead, Matthew had been treated to the grunting and farting noise of Smythe relieving himself in the chamberpot. Then there’d been another damnable space of time during which Matthew feared the munitions master would come out, pot in hand, to dump his mess over the railing, but this fortunately did not happen. At last the door had opened and closed once more, the key had been turned, and with sweat on his face and itching the back of his neck Matthew got out of the room, relocked it, and as had been agreed upon slipped under Minx’s door both pieces of parchment and the octopus wax stamp cut from the leather pouch with the sharp knife she’d given him to use.
Then there had been the waiting.
At nearly three-thirty the small square of parchment was pushed under his own door. There were the two lines, exactly as Matthew had directed. It looked to be Smythe’s handwriting, of course. Minx was obviously very efficient at her craft. And then there was the next step, which Matthew had chosen not to skip: he would get into Wilson’s room after four o’clock and actually plant the message in a place he might ‘discover’ it, thereby having an accurate description of Wilson’s room and belongings in case he was further questioned. A neatly-folded stocking in a drawer had served the purpose.
And now…out of this damned room with the forged evidence of communication between traitors, and let the heads roll.
He gritted his teeth, turned the knob, looked out for anyone passing by and entered the silent corridor. He was sweating under his arms and as well as on his face. He longed for a breath of New York winter, and to Hell with this infernal paradise. He slid the key into the lock, turned it and then, message gripped in hand, he took a leftward step toward his own room and therefore saw Mother Deare standing in the hallway not five paces distant, her red-gloved hands folded together in front of her, her mouth pursed with the beginning of a question.
Matthew felt his touch of winter. In fact, he was nearly frozen.
The woman approached him. When she stopped, just short of bowling him over, she peered into his face with her bulbous brown eyes.
“A game of Pall Mall is starting in the garden,” she said. “Sabroso is there already. So are Miss Cutter, Pons and his Toy. Might you wish to join them?”
“I’m…not much for games. Except chess,” Matthew managed to answer, even as he fumbled to enclose the piece of parchment in his fist.
“Oh, I think you’re very good at all manner of games, Mr. Corbett.” She held out a gloved palm. “I’m presuming you’ve found something the professor should see?”
It was clear—startlingly clear—that Mother Deare knew everything. Matthew got his brain connected to his mouth again. “I have,” he said, and handed it over.
She looked at the two lines. “Interesting.” It was spoken as if she were studying a not-particularly-interesting insect. “I’ll see he gets this. Are you joining us in the garden?”
“No. Thank you. I think…I’m going to go rest for a bit.”
“Of course. You should do so. I can have some lemon water brought to your room, if you like.”
“Actually…that would be good. Yes, thank you very much.”
“My pleasure.” She regarded the message once more. “It seems you’ve done the professor a valuable service. It won’t be forgotten, I assure you.”
“Glad to be of help,” said Matthew, who thought the words tasted indeed of the most bitter lemons.
“Well, then.??
? Mother Deare’s froggish face crinkled into a smile. One hand came up and patted Matthew’s cheek. “Good boy,” she said. “By all means, take your rest.” She turned away and walked toward the staircase. Matthew let her get far along the corridor before he got his legs moving. He went to his room, locked the door, sprawled across the bed and stared up at the canopy as slowly his taut nerves relaxed.
He was still in that position, though drowsing in and out of sleep, when there came a knock at his door perhaps a half-hour later. “Who is it?” he demanded, his voice as slurred as any drunken Thacker.
“Myself,” replied the lilting voice of the East Indian killer.
Matthew felt a shudder course through him. His heart began to pound. Steady, he told himself. Be calm. But easier said than done, with that giant at his door. He drew a few deep breaths to clear his head. Then he got up, thought now is the moment of reckoning and he crossed the chessboard floor to the door and opened it.
“Good afternoon,” said Sirki, who carried a tray bearing a pewter pitcher and a glass. “I was instructed to bring you lemon water.”
Matthew retreated to allow him entry. Sirki put the tray down atop the dresser and actually poured Matthew’s first glass. He offered it to Matthew, who took the glass and put his nose to it in an attempt to smell anything more powerful than lemons.
“No drugs, young sir,” said Sirki. “I promise that.”
“You take the first drink, then.” Matthew held the glass toward him.
Sirki took it without hesitation. His drink took nearly half the liquid. “Very refreshing.” He handed it back. “You’ve done a service for the professor. Why should he wish to drug you?”