He was thinking that Andrew Kippering had shown a great interest in Dr. Godwin, possibly for the purpose of timing the man’s visits to Nicole. Why? To choose the right time for a throat-cutting?
Who do you think the high constable should be looking for? Katherine Herrald had asked.
And Matthew had answered, A gentleman executioner.
Someone who had approached Pennford Deverick on the street, and caused Mr. Deverick to offer a hand of greeting. Someone Mr. Deverick knew. Someone who wanted the doomed man to see his face.
And what, then, of Eben Ausley? Why those three men, throat-slashed and cut about the eyes?
I would look, Ashton McCaggers had said, for someone who has experience in a slaughterhouse.
Was Andrew Kippering that man? A gentleman executioner? With experience in a slaughterhouse? Was the man who pretended to enjoy life but really was in a great hurry to die also a gambler with the lives of other human beings? The Masker?
But for what reason? If execution was the sentence, what had been the crime? What linked Godwin, Deverick, and Ausley together in such a fashion that they should be put to death for it?
Matthew rubbed the rapier’s ivory handle. He thought once again that all roads led to the Queen of Bedlam, who sat locked at the center of a secret. The masks on the walls. The painting of Italy. The furniture defaced so as to prevent identification of the maker. Deverick. The rich trappings of a wealthy woman. The mysterious client, who hid in the shadows behind Icabod Primm. Has the king’s reply yet arrived?
“Matthew?”
He came out of his brown study. Someone was knocking at his door. “Yes?” he called.
“It’s Berry. You have a visitor.”
“One moment.” He put the rapier back where it had been. Then he opened the door and found himself looking not just at one pretty girl, but at one pretty girl and one beautiful lady.
Berry wore an apron over her dress. Her hair was pulled back from her face by a red scarf. She looked a bit flustered, her cheeks ruddy, and Matthew wondered if she’d been helping her father with lunch in the kitchen. In contrast to Berry’s homespun clothes, the elegant lady who stood just beside and behind her had stepped from a Parisian portrait of modern fashion. She was tall and willowy, with thick curls of light blond hair and eyes the color of the bittersweet chocolate cakes in the window of Madam Kenneday’s bakery. She wore a pale blue gown with fine white lace along the sleeves and billowing at the throat. On her head was a small and very fashionable curled-rim hat, of the same fabric and color as her dress, adorned with a white feather. Matthew couldn’t help notice that she was indeed a striking-looking young lady, about the same age as he if he judged age correctly. She had fair unblemished skin, high cheekbones, perfect cupid’s-bow lips brushed with pink, and a lovely slim-bridged nose. Her blond eyebrows lifted as she saw him take her measure. A beauty mark dotted her left cheek, and at her side she held a white parasol.
“Master Corbett,” she said, speaking it like music, and stepped forward to offer him a white-gloved hand.
“Yes.” He fumbled with her hand and didn’t know what to do with it, so he quickly let it go. He caught Berry looking at him askance, and then she blotted the perspiration of kitchen heat from her forehead with an old rag. “What…uh…” Matthew felt himself coming to pieces. The young lady’s eyes were beautiful, but they penetrated through his skull. “What may I do for you?”
“I am Miss Charity LeClaire,” she announced, as if he might recognize the name. “Might we speak in private?”
There was an awkward moment in which no one moved. Then Berry explosively cleared her throat. “Matthew, Grandda’s gone to get you some things. He’ll be back by eleven, he said. Lunch’ll be ready by then.”
“All right. Thank you.”
Still Berry lingered. She cast a furtive eye up and down Charity LeClaire while trying to hide behind her kitchen rag.
“In private, please,” the young lady repeated, her music just a note or two strained this time.
“Oh. Of course. Privacy. A very important thing,” said Berry, as she began to back away toward the house.
“Yes,” Miss LeClaire answered cooly. “Useful, also.”
“If you need anything, let me know,” Berry said to Matthew. “You know. Some water or anything.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Back to the kitchen, then. Did I say lunch would be ready at—”
“Eleven,” Miss LeClaire interrupted, with a slight smile. “Yes, we got that.”
We? Matthew thought. What was this about?
“Good day, then,” Berry said, and Matthew saw her blue eyes go cold. Obviously Miss LeClaire was not to be invited to lunch today. Berry turned around and went back to the house, and never did Miss LeClaire’s calmly appraising gaze leave Matthew’s face.
“How may I help you?” Matthew asked. He remembered his manners, as the morning was growing warmer. Unfortunately he had no shade to offer but his humble dairyhouse. “Would you care to step inside?”
“No, thank you.” The white parasol went up, opening with a quick pop. “I have been directed to you by a Mr. Sudbury at a tavern you are known to frequent. I have a situation in which your aid is needed.”
“Oh? What situation?”
“I might tell you that I have visited Mr. Ashton McCaggers in his charming domain. He tells me that I am not the first to remark upon an item missing from the belongings of the deceased Eben Ausley.”
Matthew’s heart gave a little kick. He said nothing and attempted to let nothing show in his expression.
“Mr. Ausley, God rest him, was my uncle,” said Miss LeClaire. “I am searching for a particular notebook that was likely on his person the night of his unfortunate demise. I presume you have seen this notebook, since you asked Mr. McCaggers about it.” She paused, and Matthew knew she was trying to read his face. “Would you happen to know where the notebook might be?”
He was still reeling from the shock of hearing that someone so vile as Ausley had such beauty in his family. He swallowed hard, his mind moving options like chess pieces. If he gave up the notebook, he might never learn the meaning of that strange page of code. And for this lady to suddenly show up on his doorstep asking if he had it…well, it was an odd picture.
“No, I don’t,” he replied. “After all, I did mention to McCaggers that it was missing.”
“Ah, of course.” She smiled and nodded under the parasol’s shadow. “But why would you be looking for it, sir?”
“May I ask the same of you?”
“Business reasons.”
“I was unaware that Mr. Ausley was involved in business.”
“He was,” she said.
Matthew remained silent, and so did she. The silence stretched.
Then Miss LeClaire tapped a finger against her lower lip. “I have a carriage just up the street. I believe my employer would like to meet you, and I am empowered to offer you such a meeting. It would be a ride of several hours, but I think you might find it worthwhile.”
“Your employer? Who might that be?”
“His name,” she said, “is Mr. Chapel.”
thirty-four
“MR. CHAPEL,” Matthew repeated. The name was heavy in his mouth. Had his face shown a reaction? He wasn’t sure. The lady was watching him intently.
“Do you know the name?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Little wonder. Mr. Chapel values his privacy.”
“And privacy can be very useful, can’t it?” Matthew asked.
“Yes.” She allowed a small smile to creep across her mouth, but it had the effect of making her eyes appear hard. “My question to you was: why were you interested in my uncle’s notebook?”
“I happened to see your uncle with a notebook many times. In the taverns, that is. He obviously liked to take notes.”
“It would seem so.” Miss LeClaire’s gaze did not waver. “Pardon me, but you said ‘a notebook’ instead of ‘t
he notebook.’ Do you suggest there was more than one?”
She was trapping him, he thought. Pushing him into a corner. Trying to get him to admit that he’d been following the bastard over the course of two years. What did she know about that damned notebook, and all the other notebooks that must have preceded it? Whoever she was, her interrogative abilities might have made a good addition to the Herrald Agency. “I only saw what I saw,” he told her.
“Ah, of course. But the real question is: who saw it last? Not you?”
It was time to start throwing doubt, before he buckled. “I imagine there must have been a crowd around the body. Someone may have picked it up.”
“But left his wallet?”
He felt he had met his match in this cool player. He could only summon up a tight smile and say, “Perhaps his killer wished to read your uncle’s notes.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed, in an unconvinced voice. Then she smiled and shifted the parasol so a bit of sunlight sparkled upon her moist pink lips. “You might care to meet Mr. Chapel, Matthew. May I call you Matthew?”
“As you please.”
“One evening and a dinner at Mr. Chapel’s estate, and you’ll be brought back in the morning. I can attest that Mr. Chapel hosts very fine dinners. Will you come?”
Matthew hesitated. He caught a movement from the Grigsby house and saw Berry duck away from the kitchen window. Miss LeClaire followed the line of his vision, but Berry did not reappear. Matthew had to focus on a decision. He had no doubt that meeting Mr. Chapel might give him some insight into what game Ausley had been up to. “An estate, you say?”
“Yes. A vineyard and a fledgling winery, as well. Some fifteen miles north along the Hudson River.”
“Really.” Matthew felt a creep of dread. That distance would put it four or five miles beyond the Ormond farm, where the eyeless dead man was found. In what Greathouse feared was the realm of Professor Fell, if his instincts were correct.
The lady was waiting.
“I do have business to take care of tomorrow,” Matthew said, eager to throw himself a land-anchor. “Some people might be very upset if I’m late.”
“If you’re an early riser, you’ll be back by this time Friday. Would that be a problem?”
Matthew decided to take the risk. It was the only way. “No problem,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “Let me tell my friend I won’t be attending lunch. Pardon me.” He closed the door behind him and locked it. He noted how attentively she watched the key go into his pocket, and he had the sudden clear insight of a fist gripping the doorhandle and a length of burglar’s key sliding in to spring the lock as the moon shone down. Whoever this Mr. Chapel was, he had sent a professional to fetch Matthew; she might not be Ausley’s niece, after all. Family papers could be forged and presented to a coroner. In fact, one of Matthew’s cases with Magistrate Powers had concerned that very same thing. As Matthew walked around to the front of the Grigsby house with Miss LeClaire following at a distance, he thought he should not assume another professional wouldn’t arrive tonight to search through his belongings. If the archery target was torn open…
He knocked at the door. By the time Berry deigned to open it, Charity LeClaire had taken up position a few paces to his left and behind him. He said, “I won’t be joining you for lunch. I’m going on an overnight trip with Miss LeClaire.”
“Oh.” Berry blinked and looked from Matthew to the lady and then back again. “All right. I’ll tell Grandda, then.”
“If you would.” He added a hint of irritation to his voice. “And remind him, please, to remove the junk from my house. Particularly that archery garbage. Yes?”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Thank you.” Matthew wished he could warn her that if any sound was heard tonight from the dairyhouse they should remain in their beds, but he hoped if a burglar did arrive the man would be skilled enough to be noiseless. Then he bid Berry good day and followed Miss LeClaire up the street to where a handsome dark brown lacquered road coach with tan trim awaited, complete with a four-in-hand team of matched gray horses. He doubted that such a fine conveyance had been seen even on Golden Hill, and people were already gathering around to gawk at the vehicle. Made by a master craftsman in England and shipped over? he wondered. If so, it had been at fabulous expense. A husky young driver in a light blue suit and tricorn hat sat up high holding the reins, while his whipman climbed down off the seat to spring the door of the enclosed compartment open for Miss LeClaire and her employer’s guest.
In another moment they were on their way, turning right onto King Street. They passed the almshouse at a clatter. Matthew, who sat in the vis-à-vis position facing Miss LeClaire, noted that the lady did not bother to glance at her so-called uncle’s last earthly place of occupation. The coach turned right onto the Broad Way and on the outskirts of town took the Post Road. Matthew settled back against the black leather upholstery as the horses picked up speed. The coach fairly flew along the road, its well-balanced construction hardly shuddering as its wheels went over the ruts and potholes.
Under an ambitious whip, the horses were making quick progress. Matthew waited until New York was perhaps two miles behind them, and then he said to the drowsing lady, “Was Eben Ausley really your uncle?”
Her eyes remained closed and no reply was offered.
“What makes this particular notebook so important?”
Still no response.
He tried a third time. “What was your uncle doing for Mr. Chapel?”
“Please,” she said in a voice that was by no means slurred by sleep. “Your questions are wasted on me, sir.”
Matthew had no doubt she was correct. Through his crescent-shaped window he watched the woods blur past. He had the sensation of being observed, even though the lady’s eyes were shut. As the distance between himself and town increased, he began to regret his decision. He was going willingly into what was most probably a dangerous lair, and he must be very careful lest the creature who owned it ate him alive.
He was able to sleep for a total of about an hour, a few minutes at a time. Once he opened his eyes to find Charity LeClaire staring straight at him in a way that sent a shiver up his spine. She, too, looked ravenous. Then she closed her eyes again, seemed to drift away to sleep even though the rocking of the coach over the Post Road was no one’s cradle, and Matthew was left once more with sweat gathering under his collar.
He marked the road that turned off toward Mrs. Herrald’s house. They swept past it, leaving a cloud of dust. In a little while came the turnoff that led to the Ormond farm, and that too was passed in a hurry. Then there was just woodland, the occasional farmfield and a few windmills until the coach veered left where the road split into two around a dark little swamp. He didn’t need a map to know they were heading toward the river.
It was about an hour later when Matthew felt the coach’s speed begin to slow. At once Miss LeClaire was awake, if she had ever really been sleeping. Matthew looked out his window and saw a wall of rough stones about eight feet high. Vines and creepers dangled over it, while tree branches hung overhead. The coach was following a road close-set along the wall. Then the driver shouted, “Whoa, there! Whoa!” and hauled back on the reins. Now the coach was just barely rolling. Matthew saw a huge wooden slab of a gate set in the wall. His first thought was that they were about to enter not an estate but a fortress. The driver pulled the team to a halt and the whipman rang a bell that must have been secured under the seat. Within a few seconds the gate opened inward and the coach began moving once more.
Matthew caught sight of a young man who had emerged from a small white-washed gatehouse that had windows of multi-paned glass. The gatekeeper waved to the coach crew as the coach continued on, and then the coach travelled along a driveway that curved to the right and on either side stood thick woods. Matthew reckoned they’d gone about a hundred more yards before the coach slowed again. He saw a green sward of grass where a flock of sheep grazed and a few lambs prance
d around. A large two-storey manse of mottled red and gray brickwork came into view, its handsome front adorned with many windows and a gray-painted cupola at the top with a copper roof. Chimneys jutted skyward. The driveway made a circle around a lily pond that stood a few yards from the front steps, and it was at these steps that the coach finally halted.
At once the coach door on Miss LeClaire’s side, closest to the house, was opened and a man perhaps only a few years older than Matthew offered a hand to the lady. “Good afternoon, miss,” he said, and then nodded at Matthew. “Good afternoon, sir. I hope your trip was pleasant.”
“Very pleasant, Lawrence. We made a quick pace,” said Miss LeClaire as she allowed the man to help her out. Matthew followed. As soon as Matthew set foot on the ground, the man shut the door again and motioned to the driver. The coach rolled away, following the circle and then continuing along another road that led off to the left between the trees.
“I’m Lawrence Evans, Master Corbett. Assistant to Mr. Chapel.” The man shook Matthew’s hand with a firm grip. He was tall and slim and wore an elegant pale gray suit with polished silver buttons. His dark brown hair was tied back in a queue with a black ribbon, and he wore spectacles that made him look, of all things, like nothing more sinister than one of the studious clerks at City Hall. His brown eyes were friendly and intelligent, his manner gracious, and as he stepped aside to allow Matthew and the lady entry to the manse he said, “Welcome to Mr. Chapel’s home.”
The foyer was panelled in glossy dark wood. The arched doorway of what appeared to be a large parlor was on the right, with a smaller room on the left. Overhead from the high ceiling hung an iron chandelier with eight candles, and directly ahead a set of stairs covered with red carpet ascended to the upper realm. A corridor decorated with pastoral tapestries led past the staircase toward the rear of the house. Everything was clean and polished and glowed with the golden afternoon light that streamed through the windows.
“Mr. Chapel regrets he’ll be busy until the evening meal,” Evans was speaking to Matthew. “I’m to show you to your room. As I know you must be tired and hungry, you might care to take a nap but first the kitchen has supplied a platter of bacon, biscuits, and jelly as a light sustainment. I’ll be glad to fetch you a glass of wine, if you’d like.”