Nack thrust the lantern into Matthew’s face. “So why aren’t you dead?”
Matthew couldn’t supply an answer.
“Let’s go,” said Nack, and pressed the billyclub’s tip up against Matthew’s throat.
Matthew stiffened his legs so he would not be moved. “I’m not going to the gaol,” he said. “I’m going home, because I’m not in violation of the decree.” Home being a windowless Dutch dairy or not, he planned on waking up in the morning a free man.
“You’re resistin’ arrest, is that it?”
“I’m telling you what I’m going to do and advising that you go about your business.”
“Is that so?”
“Let’s just forget this, shall we? And thank you for your help.”
Nack wore a crooked grin. “I think you need to be knocked down a peg.” He lifted the club and Matthew realized the man meant to brain him.
But if Nack thought that Matthew was drunk and incapable of defense, the brutish constable was presently and unpleasantly surprised, for Matthew shifted the paper-wrapped object to his left hand and used his right fist to protest violently against Nack’s mouth. The sound was like a fat codfish being smacked with an oar. Nack staggered, his eyes wide, and the billyclub cleaved empty air where Matthew had stepped aside.
Nack had perhaps three seconds of stunned immobility. Then the constable’s face took on the enraged snarl of an animal—a maddened muskrat, perhaps—and he came in again, once more lifting the club. Matthew stood firm. Something that Hudson Greathouse had said during their first fencing lesson came to him very clearly: you must take dominance of the action from your opponent. Matthew figured that applied to fist-fighting as well as rapiers. He took a step in to block the blow with his left forearm and let fly with his right fist into Nack’s nose. There was a wet-sounding pop. The constable fell back, almost skidding on his bootheels. He coughed and snorted and blood spurted from both nostrils, and then he cupped a hand over his wounded snout as the tears of pain flooded out of his eyes.
Matthew showed Nack his fist, cocked for another greeting. “Do you wish some more, sir?”
Nack just made a mewling noise. Matthew waited for another attack, which tonight would be the third he’d endured. Then Nack lowered his head, turned around, and walked swiftly back the way he’d come, taking the left onto King Street and carrying the lantern’s light with him.
Good riddance! Matthew almost shouted at the man’s back, but now with the light gone he didn’t feel so brave. Whether Nack would go running to find another constable, Matthew didn’t know nor did he particularly care. He picked up his bag, looked behind him to make sure no one was sweeping in on him again to lock an iron arm around his throat, and began walking at his own rapid pace toward Grigsby’s house.
Never had Matthew been so glad to see a light, even if it was just the punched-tin lantern sitting on the ground beside the outbuilding’s door. The cord with the key hung on the doorhandle, as promised. Matthew unlocked the door, went down three steps with the lantern, and found himself in a space about half that of the garret. The hard-packed dirt on the ground was the color of cinnamon. The walls were plastered and painted, suitably, a cream color. An uncomfortable-looking deerskin cot had been set up for him. Well, it was better than the dirt. Or was it? To the credit of Grigsby’s hospitality, though, Matthew saw that he’d been supplied a small round table on which sat a waterbowl, a few matches, and a tinderbox. On the floor next to the cot was a chamberpot. He would have to share the space with a stack of wooden boxes, some buckets, an assortment of press parts, a shovel, axe, and other implements and unknown items wrapped up with canvas. Because the floor was so low and there were air-vents in the bricks just below the roof, the place was comfortably cool. For one night, it would do. The only problem, he realized soon enough, was that there was no latch on this side of the door. It would stay closed, but of course would not be locked. He would have to figure out how to somehow secure it.
Matthew then turned his attention to the object that had been so roughly gifted to him. He opened the wax seal and the paper unfolded to reveal a small black notebook with gold leaf ornamentation on the cover. His heart gave a kick that Brutus might have envied. He’d never seen the gold leaf design up close before. It was a square of scrollwork, too elegant for its owner.
Eben Ausley’s missing notebook. Here in his hands. Given to him by whom?
The Masker?
Matthew sat down on the cot, pulled the table near, and put the lantern on top of it with the lid open to afford the most light. I have something for you, the muffled voice had whispered.
It was incredible, Matthew thought. Yet here it was. For whatever reason, the Masker had to have taken the notebook from Ausley’s body, and for whatever reason delivered it by means of an arm around the throat. But no blade to the throat. Why not?
I have marked a page. Pay heed to it.
Matthew saw that a page was dog-eared toward the last third of the book. He opened it to that leaf, noting the brown stain that ran along the top of the book and had stuck some of the pages together, for there was evidence a blade had been used to cut them apart. He held the dog-eared page to the light, and saw written by Ausley’s crimped hand and lead pencil a strange listing.
Ben Hepburn 4 4 6 5 Rejct 5/9
Thomas Lawry 7 5 5 8 Chapel 5/9
John Tappan 8 6 4 6 Chapel 5/9
Jacob Two 5 3 7 4 Rejct 6/20
Daniel DeBois 7 7 5 7 Chapel 6/20
Silas Oakley 7 8 8 5 Chapel 6/20
Jack Bell 3 5 4 6 Rejct 6/28
Samuell Slythe 8 7 6 9
After that page followed a few blank pages. Matthew went back to the first page and skimmed through what he soon realized was evidence of Ausley’s disordered mind. Matthew had been not far wrong in assuming that the headmaster was as addicted to his note-taking as to his gambling, for scrawled down were amounts paid for food and drink for his charges, amounts due from various charities and the churches, notes on the weather, listings—of course—of winnings and losings at the tavern tables, notes on the playing styles of different gamblers, and—yes—even jottings on what the man had been eating for lunch and supper and the ease or difficulty of his bowel movements. It was a combination ledger book and personal journal. Matthew found his own name several times in such listings as Corbett the bastard follows me again damn his eyes and Corbett again the shit something must be done. Dark stains on some of the pages may have been patches of Ausley’s blood or spilled wine from a boisterous night at the tables.
Matthew returned to the dog-eared page and once more read over the series of names and numbers.
The Masker had said Eben Ausley was—
“Was what?” Matthew asked quietly, of the lantern’s flame.
Though he wished to read the notebook carefully from beginning to end, he was being overcome by weariness. It made no sense to him whatsoever, that the Masker should give him this book. Should mark a page for him. Should refrain from cutting his throat, for wasn’t murder the Masker’s motive?
Murder, he thought. Murder. Yes, but for a purpose.
It does not serve his purpose to murder me, Matthew realized. It serves his purpose for me to understand this page he has marked.
My God, Matthew thought. The Masker wants me to help him.
Do what?
He couldn’t think about this anymore tonight. He closed the notebook and put it atop the table. Then he got up and set the lantern on the first step, where the opening door would knock it over and give him at least a warning. It was the best he could do. He decided against extinguishing the candle; let it go out on its own.
He took off his shoes, stretched out on the deerskin, and quickly fell away into sleep. But the last image in his mind was not the skulking Masker nor the silent Queen of Bedlam nor Reverend Wade weeping in the night nor any number of things that might have been; it was Berry Grigsby’s face across the table in the Trot, golden and freckled in the lamplight, her ey
es penetrating his and her voice asking, as if in challenge,
What might I be hiding from?
twenty-nine
IT WAS AN EERIE MORNING to which Matthew awakened, for when he came up from sleep he wasn’t certain that the events of yesterday hadn’t been just a wretched dream. Therefore when he found himself on the deerskin cot in the dim light that filtered through the air-vents, with Eben Ausley’s notebook on the table, his body stiff and sore from being yanked off his feet by the Masker’s arm and the memory of the pottery’s destruction still crashing in his mind, he squeezed his eyes shut again for a while and lay still as if to avoid life itself until he felt strong enough to receive it.
Oh, his back hurt! He got up, wondering how the Indians could bear it. His first task was to get a match aflame and light the lamp. The candle had burned down to almost nothing, yet there remained a small stub and a bit of wick that sputtered but finally accepted the fire. He felt the same as that wick. Then, in the meager illumination, Matthew picked up the notebook to make sure it was real. He turned again to the dog-eared page, held it nearer the light, and examined the names and numbers pencilled there.
Matthew assumed they were the names of orphans. The Two beside the Jacob would mean he was the second Jacob in the group but his surname was unknown; the same as John Five. The lines of numbers were a mystery. And then there were the other markings: Rejct, Chapel, and what might have been dates. The ninth of May, twentieth and twenty-eighth of June. The last entry bearing no notation or date. He looked at the word Rejct.
Reject? Why had Ausley not simply added the second e? Or was it a shorthand for Rejected?
The word Chapel next drew his attention. He knew the orphanage did have a chapel. Just a small room with a few benches in it, really. In Matthew’s time there, the churchmen occasionally came to make sure the orphans were following the righteous path. Otherwise the chapel would have been just another chilly chamber for bunks.
Matthew had a sense of unease about that word. Was he looking at a record of Ausley’s more recent “punishments”? And had that bastard committed his sickening deeds in the chapel, of all places?
But the notation Rejected did not fit, in that context. If that was really the word, then Rejected for what? And by whom? Why also was there no notation next to the last name?
He reasoned that he would have to put together a time span for this notebook. When Ausley filled up one, he likely went right to the next. The notebook might have been his fifth or fifteenth. Just going by the dates on the list, this particular volume of Ausley’s great deeds would have been started around the second week of May.
The wick began to spit again. Matthew decided it was time to rejoin the world. His stomach was also making itself heard, calling for breakfast. When he checked his watch, he was shocked to see the time was nearly eight o’clock. He’d been more weary than he’d realized, as he usually woke around six. He spent a moment splashing cool water in his face, but there was neither soap nor towel. After getting some breakfast he intended to visit the barber for a shave and bath, for he had both the grit of travel and the dust of disaster in his pores.
He took a clean—clean being a relative term—light blue shirt from his bag and put it on, along with a pair of fresh stockings. The two pair of breeches in the bag were about as grimy as the pair he’d slept in, so he made no change in that regard. Then he put Ausley’s notebook into the bag under the breeches and the bag under the cot. He walked out into a brilliant sunshine that at first blinded him; it was darker than he’d thought in the Dutch dairy, which was of course the purpose. He locked the door behind him.
Marmaduke Grigsby answered his knock and invited him in, and soon Matthew was sitting at the table in Grigsby’s kitchen as the printmaster cut slices of salted bacon for him and broke two eggs into a pan over the hearth’s small fire. A cup of strong dark tea tore away the last cobwebs in Matthew’s mind.
Matthew started in on his breakfast, which was absolutely delicious, and drank down a mug of apple cider before he asked, “I presume Berry’s sleeping late?”
“Sleeping late? That girl hardly sleeps at all. She’s been up and out almost before sunrise.”
“Really? Where to so early?”
“Gone up Queen Street. Looking for a place, as she put it, to catch the morning light.”
Matthew paused with a piece of bacon half-chewed in his mouth. “Catch the light? Why?”
“Her fascination,” said Grigsby, as he poured a cup of tea for himself from the pot. “Didn’t I tell you? That she has hopes of becoming an artist? Well, she already is an artist, I mean, but she hopes to make some money off it.” Grigsby sat down across from Matthew. “Your breakfast all right?”
“Fine, thank you, and I do appreciate your hospitality.” Matthew finished his bacon before he spoke again. “An artist? I thought she planned to be a teacher.”
“Yes, that’s the plan. Headmaster Brown’s going to interview her for a position next week. But Berry’s always been interested in drawing and such, even as a little girl. She got the tar spanked out of her once, as I recall, for fingerpainting the family dog.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised.”
Grigsby smiled at Matthew’s tone of voice, but then he frowned and said, “Aren’t you due at work? I know that might be difficult today, but surely you ought to at least speak to Magistrate Powers.”
“I’ve been discharged,” Matthew answered, and then wished he hadn’t because instantly the printmaster’s gaze sharpened and he leaned closer over the table.
“What’s happened? Was Powers fired?”
“No. I might as well tell you that the magistrate is leaving New York. He has an offer for a better job in the Carolina colony. Working with his brother on Lord Kent’s tobacco plantation.” Matthew knew the shine in Grigsby’s eyes behind those spectacles meant an item of news was being born for the next Earwig. “Now listen, Marmy, that’s not to be printed. I mean it.” If an Earwig could get to the asylum in Westerwicke, one could also find its way to Professor Fell. “It’s important that you understand, the information is confidential.”
“And why is it so confidential, then?” Grigsby watched him carefully. Absentmindedly, the printmaster reached over to a bowl of walnuts and removed one. “It’s a change of residence and position, yes? Or is it something more?”
“It’s just confidential, that’s all. I expect you to refrain from printing it.”
“Refrain.” Grigsby grimaced. “Now that’s a strong word, isn’t it? Particularly to a man in my profession.” The hand with the walnut in it flew up against his forehead. There was a pistol-shot crack and with no ill effect whatsoever Grigsby separated nut from broken shell. “You know, with the Masker not killing anyone since the decree began, I have to take the news as it comes. It’s my duty to report the facts, so to have to refrain can be difficult.” He paused in his chewing of the walnut to sip at his tea with a slurping noise and then looked at Matthew over the cup’s rim. “What do you honestly think of Berry?”
“I have no thoughts.”
“Surely you do.” He chose a second nut from the bowl. “She made you a little angry last night, didn’t she?”
Matthew shrugged.
“She did. She has that way about her. Speaks her mind. All that malarkey about the bad luck. I’m not sure if she really believes it or not. But you may be right.” Crack! shattered the shell.
“About what?” Matthew busied himself with finishing the eggs. How did the man do that? And not a mark on his forehead. The skull must be made of iron, the flesh of leather.
“Her creating a dark cloud to hide under. I think it’s because she likes her freedom. She doesn’t want to give it up to anyone. Particularly a husband, though she came close to the altar with that young man who broke out in the blotches. Also I think she doesn’t want to be hurt. That could be a reason for creating a dark cloud, couldn’t it?”
“Yes, it could be,” Matthew agreed.
??
?You know,” Grigsby said, chewing, “you have the damnedest way of pretending not to pay attention when you’re taking everything in. It’s infuriating.”
“Oh, is it? I’m sorry.”
“Well, I don’t want her to be hurt,” Grigsby went on. “You know what I mean. Berry’s not exactly a clothes-horse, nor does she give a fig about the latest fads. She couldn’t care less about those French hairstyles and the new dances, which seem to consume the minds of almost every girl her age in this town.”
“The ones who aren’t married, at least,” Matthew said.
“Yes, and that’s another thing.” A third nut was selected, forehead-cracked, and eaten. “The young men around here are not to be trusted. Listen, I could tell you stories that would curl your hair about what some of these young gents get up to with the girls on Saturday nights!”
“Told to you by the widow Sherwyn, I presume?”
“Yes, and others as well. These young men are like ravenous wolves, eager to snap up whatever innocent morsel they can find! I think it must be something in the water.”
“Spoken like a true grandfather.” Matthew tipped his teacup to the man.
Grigsby sat back. He pushed his spectacles up onto his forehead and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Ah, me,” he said. “Seeing Berry again…it takes me back, Matthew. She reminds me so much of Deborah. The red hair, the fresh face, the glorious youth. I wasn’t so squat and ugly in my own younger days that I couldn’t attract a pretty girl. It also helped that my father’s printshop did very well and we lived in a nice house. But I wasn’t the landcrab you see before you now, Matthew. Far from it. You know they say a man’s ears, nose, and feet grow larger all his life. True in my case, very true. Unfortunately many other parts grew smaller. Oh, don’t look at me like that!”
“I wasn’t,” said Matthew.
“Here’s the rub.” Grigsby returned his spectacles to his eyes, blinked heavily once, and then focused on his guest. “I’d like you to move into the dairyhouse for a while, so you can watch Berry. Keep her out of trouble and away from those young serpents I’ve mentioned. You know who they are, those youngsters of Golden Hill who tear through the taverns and end their evenings on Polly Blossom’s pillows.”