Matthew wasn’t certain what was important enough to get killed for, on an early morning when New York seemed not quite the familiar town it had been yesterday, but he did think that whoever the Masker was, the murder of Mr. Deverick might have been to him as much an aid to sated sleep as a hot toddy. “All right,” he agreed.
Soon they were walking past the almshouse. Grigsby didn’t speak, perhaps in deference to Matthew’s history there, though of course he knew nothing of Ausley’s nocturnal punishments to his charges. Matthew looked neither right nor left, but kept his gaze fixed upon the middle distance. What had been one orphanage building in Matthew’s time had now expanded to become three buildings, though still known collectively as the “almshouse.” The eldest and largest still housed the boys of the streets, the castoffs of broken families, the victims of violence both by Indian and colonist hands, those who were sometimes nameless and bore no recollection of a past nor hope for a happy future. The second building kept orphaned girls and was watched over by a Madam Patterson and her staff, who’d come from England sponsored by Trinity Church for the purpose. The third building, the most recently constructed but still ugly for its gray brick and black slate roof, was under the jurisdiction of the chief prosecutor and contained those debtors and impoverished miscreants whose actions were not exactly criminal but who would be expected to work the blemishes off their records by physical labor on behalf of the town. This building, with its low squat structure and barred windows, had lately become better known as the “poorhouse” and was guaranteed to give a shiver down the spine of every working man and woman whose coins could not equal their credit when the bills came due.
Matthew allowed himself to look at the boys’ orphanage building before they passed. It was completely dark and oppressive in its stillness, its wretched weight of bricks and mortar, its hidden secrets. And yet…and yet…did the faint shine of candlelight move past a bolted shutter? Was Ausley on the move in there, crossing from room to room, listening to the breathing of the young and defenseless? Did he pause by a particular cot in a chamber and cast the dirty light down upon a sleeping face? And did his older “lieutenants,” recruited to keep violent order among those who had known only brutality and suffering, turn their eyes away from that light and settle again into their own night’s refuge?
That kind of thinking led nowhere. Without witnesses, there was nothing. Yet still in the future someone might emerge from that place willing to reveal their torments to the law, and on that day Matthew might still see Ausley hauled away in the back of a wagon.
They continued past more houses and business establishments, but in this area of town with the almshouse at their back and the harbor ahead of them by two long blocks there was a gray cast to the air even on the sunniest day, and night seemed darker still. Not far distant, to their right, was a slave cemetery; on their left was a paupers’ field, the occupants identified—as much as possible—with painted names written on small wooden crosses. A Dutch farmer named Dircksen still worked two acres of corn just east of the paupers’ graveyard, and his sturdy white brick farmhouse looked as if it might last the ages.
“My granddaughter is arriving soon,” said Grigsby.
“Sir?” Matthew wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
“Beryl. My granddaughter. She’s arriving…well, she should have been here three weeks ago. I’ve asked Reverend Wade to put up a prayer for me, on her behalf. More than one, actually. But of course everyone knows how errant those ship schedules can be.”
“Yes, of course.”
“They might have lost the wind for a time. They might have had problems with a sail, or a rudder. Everyone knows how difficult those voyages can be.”
“Yes, very difficult,” Matthew said.
“I expect her any day now. Which is what I wished to ask you.”
“Sir?”
“Well, it connects to what I wished to ask you. Beryl is very headstrong. Very much like her father. Full of life and energy and…really, too much for an elder statesman like myself to handle.”
“I didn’t know you had a granddaughter.”
“Oh, yes. I have a second son, also, and two grandsons. They saw me off at the wharf, when I left to make my name in the colony. They’re all fine and settled. But Beryl…she needs guidance, Matthew. She needs…how shall I say this?…watching.”
“Watching? You mean, supervision?”
“Yes, but…she also has a great appetite for…adventure, I suppose is the word.”
Matthew was silent. They were getting close to Grigsby’s house amid the grouping of houses and nautical wares establishments ahead.
“She’s just turned nineteen. A difficult age, wouldn’t you say?” Grigsby continued when Matthew advanced no comment. “She did have a position, though. For eight weeks she was a school teacher in Marylebone, before the school burned down.”
“Pardon?”
“No one was injured, thankfully. But Beryl has now found herself adrift. I don’t mean that literally, of course. She assured me the ship she booked passage on has made the crossing six times, so I should think the captain knows the way. Wouldn’t you?”
“I would,” Matthew said.
“But it’s her temperament I really worry about, Matthew. She wants to find a position here, and at my urging—and due to that very flattering article on Mrs. Brown’s bakery in the last sheet—headmaster Brown has offered to give her a chance at the school. First she’ll have to prove her ability and her seriousness to the task. So: are you up to it?”
Matthew was taken aback by the question and certainly didn’t know what Grigsby was talking about. He smelled apples on the breeze. There was an orchard on a hill nearby, and a house whose elderly Dutch family refined the most wonderful cider in town. “Up to what?” he asked.
“Up to squiring Beryl about. You know. Ensuring she doesn’t get into any trouble before the headmaster has a chance to make up his mind.”
“Me? No, I don’t think I’m suited for it.”
Grigsby stopped walking and looked at him with such amazement that Matthew had to stop as well. “Don’t think you’re suited for it? Lord, boy! You’re the only one I can think of who is suited for it! You’re serious, no-nonsense, and down-to-earth. You’re reliable and trustworthy. You don’t get drunk and you don’t go chasing every skirt you see.”
Matthew gave a slight frown. “I didn’t know I was so boring.”
“No, I mean what I say. Your influence would be very good for Beryl. A steadying hand, from someone nearer her own age. Someone to set an example for her. You see?”
“An example? Of absolute crushing boredom? Come on, I have to get home.” He started walking in the direction of Grigsby’s house again, and the printmaster quickly caught up with him. Or, to be more accurate, quickly caught up with the circle of lantern light.
“Think about it, won’t you? Just to squire her around a bit, introduce her to some trustworthy people, make her feel comfortable here?”
“I would think that was the grandfather’s job.”
“It is! Yes of course it is! But sometimes, for all his good efforts, a grandfather is only an old fool.”
“Your house,” said Matthew, as they approached it. Grigsby’s abode, flanked on one side by an anchorsmith’s workshop and on the other by a roper’s establishment, was just beyond the apple orchard and faced the East River. The house was made of simple white brick but had been personalized by Grigsby with a bright green door and shutters, and above the door was a carved sign that read M. Grigsby, Printer. Alongside the house was a small brick outbuilding, a cool house with a step-down floor that had once been a Dutch dairy, where Grigsby kept supplies of paper, ink, and sundry press parts.
“Will you at least think about it?” Grigsby asked on the front step. “I do need your help in this situation.”
“I’ll give it some thought, but no promises.”
“Splendid! That’s all I can expect. Well, thank you for your company and t
he light.” He fished his key from his pocket and hesitated with one hand on the latch. “Listen to me, now. You be careful going home. Very careful. Understand?”
“I do, and thank you.”
“All right. See me on Thursday, if at all possible, and let’s get to work on the next sheet.”
Matthew said goodnight and started for home, heading north on Queen Street along the river. There were many things in his mind this early morning, but he found himself pondering the situation of Grigsby’s granddaughter. For one thing, he hoped the ship hadn’t gone down in a storm. Three weeks late? Of course wind and currents could be fickle, but still…
He knew the real reason he didn’t care to become involved with squiring Beryl Grigsby around, and it shamed him because it was purely selfish yet perfectly understandable. He thought Marmaduke hung the moon, but the printmaster’s misshapen figure and strange characteristics—from spraying spittle between those gaping teeth to gong-farting—were not the most desirable to find in a young girl. In fact, Matthew shuddered to think what manner of gnome Beryl might be. There was a reason she was on a ship crossing the stormy Atlantic toward a rude colonial town, and it likely had little to do with a fire at a Marylebone school.
Besides, he was too busy for such galavanting. Too busy by far.
Right now he only wanted to get this damned bloody shirt off, wash his face, and get to bed. There was the widow Muckleroy’s testimony to take at ten o’clock—oh, what a task that was going to be!—and then at one o’clock the real mystery Matthew looked forward to solving: the identity and purpose of Mrs. Katherine Herrald.
Though his lantern candle expired well before he got to safety and his vivid imagination told him he was being stalked by a figure who remained perhaps twenty yards behind, content to wait for another night, he reached the pottery shop without incident and climbed up the ladder and through the trapdoor to the security of his own humble kingdom.
nine
AS THE DEVIL was beating his wife, Matthew entered the red-carpeted lobby of the Dock House Inn through a pair of doors with insets of frosted glass. It was a handsome structure of red and black brick, three floors tall, built in 1688 where an earlier inn, the Van Pouwelson, had stood before being gutted by a fire. The walls within were dark oak, the sturdy furniture crafted for those who appreciated the difference between necessity and comfort. In a vaulted alcove stood a spinet adorned with paintings drawn from scenes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and used in well-attended concerts played by several local musicians. Everything about the Dock House Inn, from its rich Oriental carpets to its oil portraits of famed New York business leaders, spoke of affluence and influence. It was difficult to realize that less than a hundred yards from the entrance the hulls of masted ships ground against the pilings and rats skittered under the boots of the sweating cargo crews.
Matthew had worn his best dark blue suit, white cravat, white shirt, and silver-buttoned waistcoat for his interview today with Mrs. Herrald. The rain that had showered from a sunny sky—the tears of the Devil’s wife as she was being beaten, said the Dutch folk—had managed to catch him on Broad Street, just around the corner. His hair was drenched and his coat soaked across the shoulders, for thus had been the weather this day as clouds had passed before the sun, spat rain upon the town, and moved on. The sun had steamed the streets, the clouds had gathered, and the Devil’s wife had cried again, and on and on since midmorning.
He had no time now to concern himself with his sodden appearance. It was enough that he make an appearance, since a broken-down timber wagon had snarled cart and pedestrian traffic on his route and disrupted his schedule enough to throw him at least three minutes late. Four times between the Gold Compass, where he and Magistrate Powers had eaten lunch, and the Dock House Inn he’d been stopped by acquaintances who wished to know more about his experiences of the night before. Of course it seemed everyone in town knew about the murder of Mr. Deverick, to the extent that Matthew was left wondering of what use was a proper broadsheet when word-of-mouth travelled at such speed. Even the widow Muckleroy, at ten o’clock this morning, had been more constant in her inquiries about the murder than she’d been in her testimony concerning the stolen bedsheets. In truth, the magistrate had been so disturbed by Matthew’s story—and the evidence that the so-called “Masker” had done another deed—that he barely seemed able to focus on the woman’s responses.
Powers had wished Matthew luck but had offered no further information concerning his appointment. Now Matthew pushed back his rain-wet hair, ran a finger across his teeth to clear away any remnant of the codfish pie he’d eaten, and approached the elaborately bewigged Mr. Vincent at the ledger desk, behind which a pendulum clock with a dial displaying the astrological signs showed Matthew as indeed being three minutes late.
“Matthew Corbett to see Mrs. Katherine Herrald,” Matthew said.
“Mrs. Herrald is waiting in the parlor,” came the stiff answer, from the rather stiff-necked proprietor. “That way.” He flicked a finger.
“Thank you.”
“Uh…one moment, young man. Have I heard correctly that you were fresh on the scene of that tragedy last night?”
“I was, sir, but please pardon me, I have to go.” As he spoke, Matthew was already on his way toward the other side of the lobby, where two steps led up to a closed set of double doors and the parlor beyond.
“Mind that you stop back by when you’re done!” What might have been a request became a command when spoken by the imperial Gilliam Vincent. “Mr. Deverick was a very good friend to the Dock House!”
Matthew walked up the steps, started to open the doors but then decided to knock first.
“Enter,” came a woman’s voice.
For better or for worse, Matthew thought. He took a deep breath and went in.
If the lobby was refined, the parlor was opulent with its maroon-colored fabric wall coverings, its stone fireplace with a small mantel-clock, and its cowhide-upholstered chairs. A gaming table, complete with marble chessboard, stood in the light of a paned glass window from which one could view the shipmasts and harbor activity just beyond. This was the room where businessmen representing London, Amsterdam, Barbados, Cuba, South America, and greater Europe met to weigh the bags of money and sign agreements. On a desk under an artist’s landscape of New York was a row of quill pens in leather sheaths, and it was the dark red-upholstered chair of this desk where the woman sat, turned to view the doorway.
She stood up as Matthew entered, which took him by surprise because usually a gentlewoman remained seated and allowed the man to advance, offering her hand—or the quick flip of a painted fan—as a gesture of recognition. But then she was on her feet and Matthew saw she was almost as tall as himself. He halted his approach to offer a courteous bow.
“You are late,” the woman said, in a quiet voice that was not as accusatory as simply making the honest statement.
“Yes, madam,” Matthew answered. He thought perhaps two seconds about offering an excuse, but he decided the fact spoke for itself. “I apologize.”
“Then again, you did have an interesting night, did you not? I’m sure those circumstances might have had some effect upon your progress.”
“You know about last night?”
“Mr. Vincent informed me. It seems Mr. Deverick was a well-respected individual.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Unfortunately, however,” said Mrs. Herrald with a slight pause, “not so well-liked.” She motioned with a lavender-gloved hand toward a chair situated to her left. “Would you sit here, please?”
As Matthew sat down, Mrs. Herrald seated herself and so Matthew had a few seconds to complete an examination of her that had begun as soon as he’d entered the room.
She wore a lavender-colored gown with small white ruffles at the throat and over it a deep purple jacket accented with gold buttons. On her head was a cocked riding-hat, the same hue as her gown, with no feather or ornamentation. She was a trim woman, about fif
ty years old, her features sharp and her blue eyes clear and unwavering as she also took in her examination of him. There were lines of age around her eyes and across her forehead yet there was nothing aged about her, for she was straight-backed and elegant and seemed perfectly comfortable in her own skin. Her dark gray hair, with streaks of pure white at the temples and at a pronounced widow’s-peak, was fashionably combed and arranged yet not piled high and glittering with golden geegaws as Matthew had seen done by many older women of means. And there was no doubt she was a woman of means; to book an accommodation at the Dock House one had to have money, and there was just something about Mrs. Herrald—the lift of the square chin, the cool appraisal of the intelligent eyes, the confidence the woman seemed to have in herself—that indicated she was used to the greater privileges of the world. Tucked at her side was a small black leather case, the kind in which Matthew had seen wealthy men carrying their important contracts and introduction letters.
“What do you think of me?” she asked.
The question took him aback, but he kept his composure. “I suppose I should ask what you think of me.”
“Fair enough.” She steepled her fingers together. The expression in her eyes was not altogether lacking mischief. “I think you are a smart young man, raised rather crudely in the orphanage here, and you wish to advance in the world but at present you don’t know your next step. I think you are well-read, thoughtful, trustworthy though a bit lacking in your organization of time—even though I always consider late to be better than never—and I think you are older than your years would proclaim. In fact, I think you’ve never really been a youth, have you?”
Matthew didn’t reply. Of course he knew she’d gotten all this from Magistrate Powers, but he was interested in the road she was travelling.
Mrs. Herrald paused, waiting for his response. Then she nodded and went on. “I think you have always felt responsible. For whom or what, I don’t know. But responsible to others, in some way. That’s why you’ve never been a youth, Mr. Corbett, for responsibility makes the young aged. It unfortunately also separates one from his peers. Sets him apart, causes him to perhaps retreat inward even more than the hardships of life already have. Therefore, without true friends or a sense of his place in the world, he turns to still further serious and steadying influences. Voracious reading, say. The mental workings of chess, or imagined problems that must somehow be solved. Without a sense of purpose, those imagined problems might become overwhelming, and command the mind day and night…to no resolution. From that point one begins to wander a path that leads to a very bleak and unrewarding future. Do you agree?”