Bastard, Matthew thought. He didn’t know how much more of this his arm could take, but damned if he’d give up.
“You’re losing your form,” said Greathouse as he walked the circle again. “You have no power in your arm, do you? Keep going. Don’t lift that left foot. Are you deaf? I said to keep your body in line!”
Sweat glistened on Matthew’s face as he continued to cut and thrust. The rapier now felt as if it weighed near an anvil and his forearm was just nerveless meat. His shoulder, however, was screaming bloody murder.
After what seemed at least fifteen minutes, Greathouse said, “Stop.”
Matthew lowered the weapon and tried to rub the life back into his arm. He was breathing hard. It amazed him how much strength and energy was demanded just to handle the damned sword, much less use it in a combat situation. “How long will it take me to become proficient?” he asked, in between breaths.
Greathouse had sheathed his rapier and hung it by a leather strap across his shoulder. Now he produced a short-stemmed clay pipe from his breeches pocket, lit it with a match from a small tinderbox, and blew out a plume of gray smoke that floated past Matthew’s head. “Ten years,” he answered. “Give or take.” He tucked the tinderbox away.
“Ten years?”
“You’re starting a little late. I began lessons when I was eight years old.”
“Well, maybe I should begin with a sword fit for a child, then.”
“I don’t think I could teach while convulsed with laughter. Anyway, I don’t believe in using wooden blunts for adults. You have to strengthen your hand and forearm and keep your body in line. Blunts only give you a false sense of progress.”
“I’m not sure this is anything I can ever progress at, blunts or not.”
Greathouse took Matthew’s sword, indicating their night’s training was at an end. “Maybe not, and certainly not all men are suited to using a rapier or any other kind of sword. I know there’s a lot to remember.”
“It’s much more complicated than I thought,” Matthew said.
“Unfortunately, the surface of that complication has barely been nicked.” Greathouse returned the weapons to their places on the wall. He reached down to the floor and picked up a small brown bottle, which he uncorked and gave to Matthew. “Take a sip of this.”
Matthew smelled the liquor long before it got near his nose, but he had a good long drink of it anyway. His eyes were watering when he returned the brandy. “Thank you.”
Greathouse drank, corked the bottle again, and then returned the pipe to his mouth. “Chess is complicated, too, isn’t it?”
“It is. I mean, at first. Before you can comprehend the pieces and their patterns of movement.”
“So it is with the use of a sword, but instead of trying to checkmate a king and defend yourself from check, you’re trying to kill a man and defend from being killed. Think about swordplay as being akin to chess in this way: both are concerned with taking and defending space. Equally important are approach and retirement, which would be the offense and defense in chess. You are always thinking ahead to the next move, the next parry, the next feint. You are building toward a completion, and you must take dominance of the action from your opponent.” Greathouse let a little thread of smoke spill out over his lower lip. “Let me ask this: how long has it taken you to become so proficient at chess?”
“I suppose…many years. I still make too many mistakes for my liking, but I’ve learned how to recover.”
“The same as in swordplay,” said Greathouse with a lift of his chin. “I don’t expect you to ever become an expert, but I do expect you to learn enough to recognize a mistake and recover from it. That may keep you alive long enough to pull out a pistol and shoot your opponent.”
It took a few seconds for Matthew to realize Greathouse was jesting, though the man’s expression remained dead serious.
“I want you here at nine o’clock on Saturday morning,” Greathouse said. “You’ll spend the day here. Literally, in this carriage-house. We’ll continue the rapier lessons and also add loading and use of the pistol, and use of the fists at close quarters as well.”
That sounded like a grand way to spend a Saturday, Matthew thought. “What’s the slingshot for?”
“Squirrels,” Greathouse said. “I roast them with potatoes and peppers.” He took another pull from his pipe, puffed the smoke, and then knocked the dottle out with the heel of his hand. “Your training is not only to include physical exertion. I want to know how well you can read and follow maps, for instance. Or draw a map yourself, from a verbal description of a place. I want to know how well you can recall the description of a person, and I want to see you handle a horse with a bit more spirit than that old slogger in the barn.” He did smile just a hint now, at Matthew’s pained expression. “As Mrs. Herrald said, you’ll never be given anything you can’t handle. And you might take comfort in the fact that you’re just the first recruit we’ve chosen. There’ll be others, over time. We’re looking at one in Boston and two more in New York right now.”
“Really? Who?”
“If I told you it wouldn’t be a secret, and for now Mrs. Herrald wishes to keep it so.”
“All right,” Matthew said, but his imagination was already at work wondering who the others might be. One thing more he felt he had to ask: “What about Mrs. Herrald?”
“What about her, exactly?”
“Her story. She told me her husband founded the agency. What happened to him?”
Greathouse started to reply, but he seemed to check himself. “That can wait,” he decided. “Dawn breaks in four hours. I think you’d best get some sleep.”
Matthew didn’t have to ponder very long to agree. However much sleep he got for the remainder of the night, it was going to be a long day. He wasn’t sure his right arm was going to be worth much, either, and he did have some work to do for Magistrate Powers. “Goodnight,” he said to Greathouse, who replied with, “Make sure you wipe your boots. Mrs. Herrald hates mud on her floor.”
Matthew walked back to the house in what had become a drifting mist, obliged the madam of the house by wiping his boots clean on the iron bootscrape at the door, and within ten minutes had abandoned all thoughts of swordplay, chess, and roasted squirrels and fell into a deep and solid slumber.
A polite bell rung outside his door awakened Matthew to a gray dawn. He washed his face, dressed, forsook shaving as there was no razor offered, and also decided he could hold his bladder long enough until he got on the road as he did not wish to yellow the chamberpot. On leaving his room he found a hearty breakfast of eggs, ham, and biscuits along with a pot of strong dark tea awaiting him at the dining-table. Set next to his plate was his wallet and the silver watch.
Mrs. Herrald joined him but Greathouse didn’t make an appearance, though Matthew assumed he had made the breakfast since he seemed to be the cook of the house.
“Take this to Mr. Grigsby, if you please.” Mrs. Herrald handed him an envelope that was again secured with her red wax seal. “I assume he’ll want payment in advance to publish the notice, so you’ll find some additional coins in your wallet. By my calculations those should well satisfy both Mr. Grigsby and the livery stable. I understand you’re due back to meet with Mr. Greathouse at nine o’clock Saturday morning.” It was a statement, plainly stated. “Please take care to arrive on time.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Eat up, then. The rain’s stopped, and I have letters to write.”
Suvie had already been brought around from the barn and was standing at the hitching-post as Matthew walked out of the house. He put his wallet and the watch into his saddlebag and rode away as a few weak rays of sun pierced the clouds. In another moment he found Greathouse standing at the open gate.
“Good day to you,” Greathouse said. “Oh. You might want to rub liniment on that forearm and shoulder when you get to town. By tonight you’ll be in some pain.”
“Thank you,” Matthew answered, not without a
jab of sarcasm. He rode through the gate, heard it swing shut behind him, and settled himself in the saddle for the journey home. Within half-an-hour the last of the clouds wisped away, the sky became bright blue and brighter still, the sun shone in full golden force, and Matthew slept with his chin resting on his chest as Suvie plodded the road to town.
Two
The Madness
thirteen
IT WAS FORTUNATE that Magistrate Powers had consented for Matthew’s appointment with Mrs. Herrald, for on going to the magistrate’s office on Thursday morning Matthew was unable to hold a quill steady enough to write a single line. The magistrate wanted to know everything that had happened and Matthew obliged him, accentuating the midnight rapier “training” that caused him now to be so useless to the cause of scribing.
“Off with you, then,” Powers advised. “I’ll poach another clerk. You go home and rest.”
“I think I’ll stop by the apothecary for some liniment,” Matthew said, rubbing his shoulder. “I’ll be ready for the Knox hearing tomorrow morning, though.”
“I’m not so sure of that. I don’t think Magistrate Mackfinay has anything on his docket. I’ll ask if I might borrow his clerk.” Powers waved him out the door. “You just rest your arm.”
“Thank you, sir. I will try to do my job tomorrow.”
“If not, not. Don’t worry yourself about it.” He looked at Matthew appreciatively. “I’m pleased I could help you start on a new course. Your being chosen by Mrs. Herrald for this position shines just as much a light on me as it does on you. And I’m certain she’ll get her money’s worth. They are going to pay you well, aren’t they?”
“We haven’t actually talked about the figures.”
“Seems to me you may need a bit of legal representation yourself. If you want a proper contract drawn up, I’ll be glad to advise.”
“Thank you.” Matthew was about to leave, but he hesitated at the door.
“Something else?” Powers looked up from his papers.
“Yes sir. I was wondering about Mrs. Herrald. Do you know anything more about her?”
“Such as?”
“You mentioned that you both shared enemies. May I ask what you meant by that?”
The magistrate spent a moment inspecting—or at least pretending to inspect—the first few lines of the letter atop his stack of correspondence. “Mrs. Herrald didn’t inform you?” he asked. “Of her history?”
“She told me her husband began the agency. I understood that he is deceased. Is there something more I should know?” It came to him then. “Ah. You and Mrs. Herrald knew each other in London. That’s why she sent the messenger. Was the messenger Mr. Greathouse?”
“It was Hudson, yes.”
“You’re on the basis of first names with him? That’s an impressive feat. I assume you had some dealings with Mrs. Herrald, then?”
The magistrate summoned up a crooked smile. “Now I see what it’s like to be on the witness stand. Shall I plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the court, Mr. Prosecutor?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Matthew had to smile as well, more to hide his embarrassment than to display humor. “I do get carried away.”
“So I constantly note. To answer, I did know Katherine Herrald in London. I met her when Rich brought her to a Saturday supper at the fraternity.”
“Rich?”
“Richard Herrald. He was a member of my law fraternity at Cambridge. Damned good tennis player, too. Almost as good as myself. And he became an excellent lawyer, specializing in criminal prosecution for the city. Yes, he brought that beautiful Katherine Taylor to the Saturday supper and afterward all the lot of us put down bets as to when they’d be married. I lost, but not by much.”
“What happened to Mr. Herrald?”
Again, the magistrate focused false attention on his papers. Matthew knew there was definitely something he wished to say, but perhaps decorum forbade it. “I think,” Powers said at last, “that Mrs. Herrald should answer your question.”
“But the part about the ‘shared enemies,’” Matthew persisted. “Shouldn’t you answer that one?” He remembered to give due respect. “Sir.”
“I should,” Powers agreed. He said nothing more for a moment, staring into space. Then: “But my answer hinges upon Mrs. Herrald’s, and so I leave it to her.”
“Sir, I’m not asking for a legal decree. I’m asking only for—”
“If you’re not out of this office in five seconds,” Powers said, “I should think your mouth could dictate these letters to the quill of Mackfinay’s clerk. So are you going, or are you staying?”
“Going.”
“Then be gone.”
The door closed at Matthew’s back.
On the way out he nearly ran into Chief Prosecutor Bynes once again, so he had to hold his progress until the man had descended the stairs. Then he went down and walked into the bright midmorning sunlight. With an eye in the back of his head he entered the stream of citizens coming and going, ducked around a haywagon and started up Smith Street for the apothecary.
Matthew couldn’t help but linger under the apothecary’s red-striped awning and again examine the ground where Deverick had fallen. He’d found nothing yesterday, and today found the same. So it was into the apothecary, with its counter behind which were shelves of elixir bottles, heartburn chalk, various tree barks to treat fevers, calamine lotion, leech jars, dental powder, crushed flowers and herbs, medicinal vinegars and the like, and after a short time of speaking to Mr. Oosterhout he came back onto the street with a small paper-wrapped vial of yarrow oil which he was to apply twice a day. He turned right at the intersection of Smith and King, which took him unfortunately past Eben Ausley’s domain—which to him looked no kinder by sun than by the dark of the moon—and to the printmaster’s shop.
Soon he was in the company of Marmaduke Grigsby, who already had been scribing articles and from them arranging the small blocks of metal typeface in their sticks. The device of note, at the center of the most sun-illuminated room, was a bulky old monster that might have been used by the hand of Gutenberg himself. Looking at such a contraption, it was hard to believe it was the medium by which parchment sheets pressed with lamp-black and linseed varnish ink went out announcing events and proclaiming news to the citizens.
“Come to help with the type, I hope?” Grigsby asked. “Then if all goes well we can get to the pressing tomorrow.”
“I have this.” Matthew gave him the envelope, and waited as it was opened.
Grigsby read it carefully. “The Herrald Agency? Letters of inquiry to go to the Dock House Inn? What’s this about?”
“For you, money.” Matthew opened his wallet and offered one of the remaining silvers. “Will that do for a one-time announcement?”
“Of course!” Grigsby examined the coin so closely Matthew thought he was going to eat it. “What’s this in the notice, though? ‘Problem-solving’? What kind of problems?”
“Just run the notice as it is, if you please. I’m sure it will speak for itself to those who have an interest.”
“All right, then. Now come sit down at the desk and let me get some fresh paper. I want to hear your story of how you came to find Deverick’s body.” Grigsby held up a hand before Matthew could protest. “I know you weren’t first on the scene, but my interview with Phillip Covey was less than substantial. I want to know your impressions of the moment, and what McCaggers told you about the Masker. Come, come! Sit down!”
As Matthew took a seat in the cane-backed chair, he was fitfully aware of McCaggers advising him to guard his information and of Bynes’ more forceful advice at City Hall. He waited until the printmaster was ready with a dipped quill, and then he said, “I can give you my impressions of the moment true enough, but I have to refrain from repeating anything told me by the coroner.”
Grigsby’s thick white eyebrows began to convulse. “Oh no, Matthew! Not you, as well!”
“Me as well what?”
&nb
sp; “You’re not turning against me, are you? Hiding information that Lillehorne wants kept from public view? Or is it Magistrate Powers who’s choked your chain?”
Matthew shook his head. “You know me better than that. McCaggers simply pointed out that it might not be in the best interest of the investigation to divulge any more about the Masker.”
“Ah!” Grigsby leaned over the paper. “Then he did use the name again?”
“I believe he made it clear he thinks the killer of both men is one and the same.”
“Then Masker it is!” said Grigsby, spraying spittle upon the paper as he began to scribe with a fury only a writer might know.
Matthew winced, hearing in his mind the awesome thunder that would break from Bynes’ mouth when the chief prosecutor read this article. “McCaggers didn’t use that term, exactly. I’m not sure it’s wise to—”
“Nonsense!” came the quick, clipped retort. “The Gazette would use it, and if it’s good enough for the Gazette, it’s good enough for the Earwig!” He dipped his quill again. “Now, let’s have your story from the beginning.”
An hour later, Matthew left the printmaster’s shop so worn down by Grigsby’s constant grinding that, being as fuddled as he was from his poor night’s sleep, he wasn’t sure what he’d told the man or what he’d kept secret. Grigsby could take a one-sentence comment and craft a paragraph out of it. Matthew had had to beg off helping any further, due not so much to a pain in his shoulder as to a pain in the neck, and Grigsby had been disappointed but had vowed to get Effrem Owles to help with the pressing on Friday.
Matthew walked home, was impressed by Hiram Stokely to sweep the pottery, and, as he felt it his duty to work for his lodging, he did the sweeping vigorously and without complaint. His labor was at first more strenuous than it might have been, for he had to continually dodge Cecily’s snorting round-rosies and snout-shoves to his knees until Stokely had mercy on him and put the pig outside. At last Matthew was done and declared his intention to retire to his loft and catch a nap, though his progress up the ladder to the trapdoor was momentarily delayed while he assured the potter he wasn’t ill and did not need a doctor.