“Yes,” Matthew said gratefully, though his guard was still up. “Thank you.”
Miss LeClaire was peeling her gloves off. “I need a cool bath. Would you arrange it?”
“Absolutely, miss. Will you come with me, sir?”
Matthew followed Evans up the stairs, while Charity LeClaire drifted away down the corridor. He was shown along another hallway to an opulent chamber that had surely never known a poorer guest than himself. The walls were golden pinewood, the floor adorned with a circular red-and-gold Persian rug. There was an ornate beige writing desk, a chest-of-drawers, a wash-stand and basin, two red-covered chairs, and a canopied bed. Heavy gold-colored drapes were open on either side of a glass-paned terrace door. Before one of the chairs was a small round table with the fresh platter of victuals Evans had mentioned, complete with silver utensils.
“Please make yourself at home,” Evans said. “I’ll bring your wine up and a pitcher of water also. We have a well here that provides excellent water, unlike that sulphurous liquid in town. Can you think of anything else you might wish?”
Matthew walked to the wash-stand and saw arranged around the basin of water a clean white facecloth, a cake of soap, a straight razor, a comb and hairbrush, and a small dish of baking soda for the teeth. An oval mirror was set on the wall. Whatever Mr. Chapel’s game, the man required his guests to be presentable. “I think everything’s here,” Matthew answered.
“Very good, then.”
As Evans moved toward the door, Matthew said, “One thing. What’s my host’s first name?”
“Simon.”
Matthew nodded. When Evans left the room, Matthew listened for the sound of a key turning in the outer lock but it didn’t come. Obviously he was not a prisoner, if one took a liberal view. Neither was the terrace door locked, for Matthew stepped outside and looked down upon a large garden of flowering trees, hedges, and ornamental shrubs that would have caused Mrs. Deverick to grind her teeth with envy. Dissecting the garden were pathways of white gravel. Beyond the garden there were more trees but over their leafy branches Matthew could see the blue width of the Hudson River, shimmering in the sunlight. A single flatboat with spread sails was slowly travelling southward, past the green wooded hills. Aiming his gaze a few degrees to the northeast, he saw more forest and then the disciplined rows of the vineyard about a quarter-mile distant. He could see also in that direction the roofs of other buildings that Matthew guessed to be a stable, the coachhouse, and structures having to do with the winery.
Simon Chapel. The name of course meant nothing to him, but for Ausley’s notations. It was a farce that Charity LeClaire was Ausley’s niece. That deception had been for the coroner’s benefit. The documents must have been well-forged, for McCaggers to be taken in by them. It all seemed like an elaborate effort, but what was the purpose?
Matthew went back inside and sat down to enjoy the bacon, biscuits, and a dab of apple jelly, for the mind would be sluggish without nourishment. He also had the feeling he was going to need his full complement of wits about him. Soon Evans returned bearing a silver tray that held a glass of very dark red wine and a pitcher of water.
“Anything more you require?” the man asked.
“Nothing more, thank you.” Matthew tried the wine. It was somewhat thick to be an afternoon libation but otherwise satisfying. “This is the estate’s grape?”
“Unfortunately not. That particular bottle was purchased in New York. Our vines have yet to produce a grape worthy of Mr. Chapel’s approval.”
“Oh.” That led to a question he’d been hoping to ask. “How long has the vineyard been here?”
“Many years. Mr. Chapel purchased the estate from a Dutchman who actually made his fortune in the shipping trade and let his son grow the grapes. They did produce a wine, though we consider it to be beneath our standards. The soil’s a problem, you see. But Mr. Chapel has great aspirations.”
“He must enjoy a challenge.”
“He does.”
Matthew wasn’t content to let Evans retreat without another try. “So the vineyard is Mr. Chapel’s chief occupation?” he asked as he spread jelly on a biscuit with a silver knife.
“Oh, no sir. Just one of many. If you’ll pardon me now, I do have some tasks at hand.” Evans offered up an easy smile. “I’d suggest you take a moment to browse the library downstairs, just to the right along the corridor.”
“I do enjoy books. Oh…might I walk in the garden?”
“Of course. The entrance to the garden is through the dining-room at the rear of the house. Dinner is served at seven o’clock. You’ll hear the bell being rung. Good afternoon, sir.” And then Chapel’s assistant was out the door before he could be troubled with any further questions.
Matthew took his leisure finishing the food. At length he drank the last of the wine followed by a glass of water and then stood up. He had brought his silver watch, in the pocket opposite where his key currently resided, and checking it he saw the hour hand neared four o’clock. Chapel’s hospitality was excellent, but it was time to explore this velvet cage.
He returned the watch to his pocket and went out into the corridor, where he followed the Persian runner back to the staircase. The house was quiet; if there were other servants about, they were discreet to the point of invisibility. He walked downstairs, making no effort at stealthy treading, for after all he was an invited guest. Then he went back along the tapestry-adorned corridor, past other rooms and alcoves, and going through an archway he found himself presented with the dining-room Evans had mentioned. He stopped and took stock of the place.
To call this a dining-room was like calling City Hall a meeting house. A long table suited for a dozen guests stood at the room’s center, its stocky legs carved in the shapes of fish. Six elaborate brass candelabras taller than Matthew were placed at intervals around the room, ready to throw light from ten wicks apiece. The plank-and-peg floor was the color of honey and indicated a healthy history, though it appeared many of the bootmarks had been eased by judicious sanding. A large fireplace of red and gray bricks, in keeping with the external construction of the house, held logs behind a brass firescreen. Above the table, a simple oval-ring chandelier held eight more candles. When this room was fully lit up, Matthew mused, tinted glasses would be required.
But what both interested him most and caused not a little twinge of concern was the room’s display of weaponry. Above the fireplace and on either side of it were gleaming swords, displayed business-tip northward and fixed in place in fan-shaped arrangements under small crested shields. There were six swords in each display. Eighteen swords, and not all of them rapiers. A few of them had darkened blades and looked as if they’d tasted blood.
This was not a room in which to linger, he decided. Ahead of him, at the far end of the chamber, was a closed door off to the left and a set of glass-paned doors between wine-red drapes. He crossed past the fireplace and the swords, which seemed to hiss at him as he went by. The double doors were unlocked, and he stepped out into the warm sunlight onto a brick terrace that had a wrought-iron railing and a set of steps leading down to a garden path.
Just below the terrace was a small pond where goldfish swam amid waterplants. A turtle eased off a rock and vanished into the murk. Matthew followed the path deeper into the garden, walking between all manner of flowers and shrubs, through the cool of the shadows of trees and then into sunlight again. Birds chirped and called from all sides. An occasional bench was positioned to welcome the wanderer, but Matthew was not inclined to do any more sitting after that jolting coach ride.
Soon, by following one path that intersected with another, he came to a hedge wall. He walked along it a distance and discovered an iron gate about six feet high, topped with spear-points. Beyond the gate the path continued through an untamed thicket. A chain and padlock told him he was not going out this particular way. Further on he found a second gate in the hedge wall, also similarly locked. He paused and rubbed his chin. Evidently his expl
orations were meant to be contained, and this realization struck him like a glove smack across the face. After all, it was not only Mr. Chapel who enjoyed a challenge.
Matthew continued walking, mindful that he was now definitely seeking a way out. After a few further paces, his attention was caught by the glimpse of a red cardinal in the lower branches of a nearby tree. He saw the cardinal take flight, perhaps alarmed by his approach, and as it soared up into the sunlight Matthew took a moment to admire its grace and color.
Suddenly something darted in like a blur and hit the cardinal in midair. There was a sound of impact, like a fist on flesh. Red feathers whirled down.
The cardinal was gone.
Matthew caught sight of a large brown-and-white bird speeding away with a crimson mass clutched up underneath it. It sailed off to the right and was lost from view beyond the higher trees.
Some kind of hunting bird, he’d realized. Most likely one of the favorite predators of the medieval monarchs, a falcon or a hawk.
The speed of that flight and the quickness of the kill was stunning. The intrusion of violent death—even the demise of a cardinal—on this sunny afternoon, in this hedge-walled garden with locked gates, gave him a crawl of unease deep in his belly. He hoped it wasn’t an omen of his night to come with Simon Chapel. He thought it wise to turn around and go back to the house, which seemed to loom over him like a threat, but what was it Mrs. Herrald had said about going forward? In any case, he wanted out of the garden and he didn’t intend to let a lock or two stop him.
When he found the third padlocked gate, he decided he was climbing it. He looked around and saw a bench under a nearby tree. Dragging it to the gate, he stood up on it and set about trying to clamber over and avoid the spear-points, which were distressingly sharp. Careful, careful! he thought as a point snagged his breeches at the crotch. One slip and a fall on this thing and he’d be known henceforth as Mattina. But then he had pulled himself over and landed on the ground in not too untidy a splay. Before him the path went through vines and thicket. He dared not glance back at the house, because he didn’t care to see Evans or some other person watching him from a balcony. He set off along the path.
There was nothing to see but woods on both sides. The path curved to the right. Matthew didn’t know what he was expecting, but he had to be going somewhere Chapel didn’t want him going. He’d been walking for two or three minutes when he heard the distinct crack of a musket shot, somewhere off to the right and farther distant, but the noise was enough to make him stand stock-still until he could make his lungs pull in air again. He went on, more cautiously now, watching the underbrush for any sign of a human predator.
The path emerged from the woods. Before him was a dirt road, and on the other side more forest. Matthew noted mounds of horse manure steaming in the sun. The coach team had gone this way, probably heading to the stable. He reasoned that if he went left along the road it would lead him to the vineyard and the buildings there. He knelt down, pondering if he should risk his luck anymore. After all, what was he thinking to find?
An answer, he thought, and he stood up.
He had taken two paces toward the road when a hard voice said, “I think you’d best stand where you are.”
Matthew froze. A few yards to the left and across the road, a man stood at the edge of the woods. He was dressed in dark brown breeches and boots, a gray shirt and a brown leather waistcoat, and he wore a wide-brimmed leather hat. He was shouldering a musket. At his side, gripped in his left hand, was a hunter’s pole from which dangled four dead hares.
“Out a distance from the house, aren’t you?” the man asked. And then he added, as an afterthought with a sneer in it: “Sir.”
“I was just walking,” Matthew answered. The hunter’s face was shadowed by the wide brim, but there was something familiar about it. The deep-sunken eyes. The voice, too…familiar…unsettling.
“Just walking could get you shot. What if I’d put a hole through you?”
Matthew stepped toward the man, who stood his ground. The musket came off the shoulder and even though its death-snout pointed away, Matthew stopped.
“Do I know you?” Matthew asked, sure that he did. From somewhere…
“Get back to the house. Go on. That way.” The chin jerked to Matthew’s right.
Matthew had no desire to argue with a gun. He said, “Very well, I’ll go.” He felt a stirring of anger and from it he said sarcastically, “Thank you for your hospitality.” Then he turned and began walking in the direction of the house, wishing to get as much distance from a musket ball as quickly as possible.
“My pleasure,” the hunter replied, with equal disdain.
And then Matthew knew him.
He had heard that same phrase, just before his face was thrust down into the pile of horse figs on Sloat Lane. He turned around. The man had not moved. Matthew said coldly, “Which one are you? Bromfield or Carver?”
“Sir?”
“What’s your name? So I might compliment Mr. Chapel for his choice in servants.”
“My name,” said the hunter with perhaps the slash of a dangerous smile in the hatbrim’s shadow, “is trouble. Do you want some?” Now the musket’s stock came to rest against the man’s knee and the barrel drifted a few inches toward Matthew before it was checked.
Bromfield or Carver, one or the other. Ausley’s stomperboys. On loan to him that night from Simon Chapel to do a roughneck’s work? Matthew and the man stared at each other, neither one willing to yield. But Matthew realized it was a fool who taunted a musket, and he didn’t wish to be someone’s tragic accident. He gave a mock bow, turned around again, and began walking away. The small of his back tensed, as if the muscles there expected a hammerblow.
“Corbett!” the hunter called. “My compliments to Mr. Chapel for his choice in guests! Make sure you wash your face before dinner!”
Matthew kept going. Well, at least the bastard had been drawn out enough to make that last comment, which secured the fact. Before the road curved, Matthew glanced back and saw that his rude acquaintance had disappeared. He had no doubt the man was not far away, though. Watching him. As perhaps other eyes were, as well.
He looked forward to dinner. One could fence without using a sword, and he expected this night would see a match that would make even Hudson Greathouse quake.
thirty-five
WHEN THE DINNER BELL RANG, Matthew was just finishing his shave before the oval mirror. He rinsed the blade off in the washbasin, wiped the remainder of soap from his face with the damp washcloth, and then combed his hair. Regarding his reflection in the polished glass, he knew he had come a long way from the orphanage to this moment. He was looking at a gentleman who had in his eyes not only the bright spark of curiosity but also the steely glint of determination. He was no longer who he once had been, and though he was not yet suited to a sword he doubted he would be fully suited to a pen ever again.
Time to go downstairs and meet the man in Ausley’s notebook.
He breathed deeply a few times to clear his head, and then he walked out of the room.
Lawrence Evans had been aghast this afternoon when he’d answered Matthew’s knock at the front door, which had obviously been key-latched to keep the guest from straying. Oh sir, how did you get out there? You shouldn’t have gone out the front, sir. It’s not wise to go roaming, as there are wild hogs on the property.
“Yes,” Matthew had replied. “I did meet a pig on the road.”
You’ll keep this to yourself, won’t you, sir? If Mr. Chapel found out I let you roam around, he’d be most displeased.
“I won’t tell him,” Matthew had said, though he’d wondered if word would get back to the estate’s master through the road-pig.
Now, as Matthew came down the staircase and turned along the corridor, he heard voices from the dining-room. They were hushed, almost like whispers of wind. Matthew braced himself for the moment, squared his shoulders, and walked with as much confidence as he could must
er into the candle-flamed room of eighteen swords.
“Ah, here’s our young nobleman!” said the man who sat at the head of the table, as he scraped his chair back and stood up to greet their guest. He walked toward Matthew with a large hand offered in friendship, his boots clumping thunderously on the planks. “Simon Chapel, sir! Very pleased to meet you!”
Matthew took the hand, which nearly crushed his own into a lifeless cuttlefish. The man was huge, standing at least six-foot-three and as solidly built as a brickwagon. He had a sturdy jaw and grinned with a set of peglike teeth that might bite a bulldog in half. His eyes, a shade approaching topaz, were large and luminous under spectacles with square frames. In contest to his physical magnitude, his nose was a small English heirloom turned up at the tip as if smelling spoiled violets. Above it the forehead was a slab of blue-veined marble, his hair a scatter of sparkling gray sand upon a skull slightly pointed at the crest as if suited for a battering-ram. His mouth twisted and twitched with some explosive remarks still being formed. He wore a royal-blue suit with a cream-colored waistcoat, a white shirt, and a blue silk cravat with small red and cream squares upon it.
He was a picture to behold, yet Matthew didn’t know quite what he was looking at.
“Sit!” Chapel said. “Right there!” He clapped Matthew on the shoulder with his right hand and with the left pointed to a place set for him on the other side of the table next to the chair he’d so energetically vacated.
Matthew took stock of the three other members of the dinner party. At the long table, which gleamed with silver trays, bowls, utensils, dishes, and cups under the fury of orange candlelight, sat Charity LeClaire, positioned directly to the right of Matthew’s waiting chair. Across from her, and also standing to greet Matthew, was Lawrence Evans, whose presence here indicated he was several leagues above being a mere servant.