“Why what?”
“A moment.” Matthew had to compose the question again, for it had slipped away between thought and lip. “Why was I brought to you? There are other doctors nearer Stone Street.”
“There are,” Mallory agreed, “but none of them have travelled as extensively as I have around the world. And none of them know anything about the frog venom on the dart that struck you, or of course how to alleviate its unfortunate effects.”
“How?” Matthew asked.
“Is this a guessing game?”
“How did you…alleviate?”
“First of all, I knew what it was—what it must be—due to the blowpipe that Ashton found in your office, and of course from your condition. I spent half a year on an expedition into the jungles of South America, where I witnessed natives regularly hunt with the pipe and dart, and more than once I saw them put even jaguars on the ground. Of course there are many different species of what they call ‘poison-dart frogs’, some more potent than others. The venom is actually sweat from the skin. A sort of sticky yellowish-white paste. As in the small clay vial that young wretch was carrying in his pocket.”
Matthew thought of the empty space where the blowpipe had been, in Mrs. Sutch’s cupboard. His own name had been in the ledger book of victims, but it would not have been crossed out until Ripley had done the deed and reported back.
“The venom doesn’t travel well,” Mallory went on, his face daubed yellow by the light. “After a year or so, it loses its full lethal potency. Though it can still seize a man up, so to speak, or at least give him a good scare. The trick is to keep the victim breathing and give him a shock to the heart. Which I did with my tea.”
“Your tea?”
“Not the English variety. My own recipe, which I hoped would work if indeed the venom was not at its full potency. A tea boiled from feverwort, yarrow, cayenne pepper, coca leaves, hawthorn and skullcap. You received a very, very strong dosage. Several, in fact. Boiled down to a thickening, I suppose you might call it. The result is that your heart pounds, your lungs pump, and you sweat rivers, but you do banish the impurities, if you live.”
“Ah,” Matthew said. “I expect…my face got very red, as well?”
“Beet-red.”
“May I ask you a question?” Matthew slowly eased himself up to a sitting position. His head swam and the room spun, but he made it. “Have you…ever given that tea to Princess Lillehorne?”
“In a much more moderate portion, yes. A very expensive health treatment. Firms the fibers, aligns the humors and is quite beneficial to women’s parts. She told me she was having some trouble in that regard. I asked her to keep the treatment to herself, because my supply of coca leaves was limited, but she deemed it wise to tell a friend, who told a…”
“Friend, who told a friend, until there were five women paying for health treatments three times a week?”
“Yes. And I allowed it because everytime I raised my fee, they paid. Only now…you’ve used up the last of my supply.”
“I don’t think I want anymore,” Matthew said. “But tell me…how did Ashton McCaggers know you knew anything about the frog venom?”
“Ashton and I,” said the doctor, “have been meeting regularly on Crown Street for coffee. He’s a very interesting and knowledgable young man. Very curious about the world. I’ve told him about my travels: Italy, Prussia, Hungary, China, Japan…and many other places, I’m proud to say. One day I mentioned my exploits in South America, and I told him about the natives and the blowpipes. He’d already read Sir Walter Raleigh’s account of his travels on the Orinoco River, and of how the pipes were used, so Ashton recognized what it was when he saw it.”
Matthew nodded, but he was watching the doctor very carefully. Some little thing, just a pittance of a thing, had begun to bother him. “I wonder,” Matthew said, “how that young wretch, as you put it, got hold of a blowpipe, a dart and that vial of frog venom. Don’t you?”
“I have wondered about that, yes.”
“You know, that seems a bit strange to me.”
“Yes,” the doctor agreed. “To me, as well.”
“I mean, it’s not every day that a killer tries to murder someone with frog venom from South America, and there in the same town is a doctor who is…well…almost an expert on frog venom from South America.”
“Not an expert.” Mallory gave a passing smile. “There are so many more varieties of poisonous frogs yet to be discovered, I’m sure.”
Matthew sat up a little straighter. He had a bitter taste in his mouth. “I would think McCaggers might wonder about that coincidence too, when he stops to consider it.”
“He already has. As I said to him, it’s one of those strange improbabilities that make up the chaos of life. I also told him, Greathouse and Lillehorne that the blowpipe could have been fashioned right here in New York, but that the venom would have been obtained only after much time and expense. Someone had to bring it back from the jungle. A very exotic way to kill a victim, really. But perhaps…it was an experiment?”
Matthew felt a new chill pass through him. It’s being experimented with, Mrs. Sutch had told Slaughter. “How do you mean?” Matthew asked.
“I mean…perhaps the young wretch was testing the method. For someone else. To see how well the venom travelled, or…” He stopped abruptly. “Your point being, did I supply it?” His arched brows lifted. “Don’t you think that’s being ingracious? After all, I gave you a very expensive amount of my tea.”
“But I wasn’t going to die, was I? Because the venom wasn’t potent enough?”
“It was a close call,” Mallory said. “But I can tell you that without my treatment you’d have been lying on your back in a hell of delirium for at least a week, and after that your ability to walk would be impaired for…who knows how long? With my treatment, you’ll be able to stagger out of here tomorrow or the next day.”
Matthew couldn’t help it. Even as weak as he was, he had to probe. “Did you say you and your wife came from Boston? Toward mid-September?”
“Boston, yes. And the middle of September, the same.”
“I wonder, Dr. Mallory…I know this seems a very odd question, but…” Matthew forced himself to lock eyes with the other man. “Would you call Manhattan an island?”
“It is an island.” Mallory paused for a few seconds. His mouth squirmed, looking very near to giving out the burst of laughter. “Oh! You’re referring to this!”
From within his white shirt he produced a piece of light brown paper, twice folded. It was not as thick as parchment. As Mallory unfolded it before the candle, Matthew could see the pencil’s impression of the octopus symbol on the back.
“That’s private,” Matthew said. Did his voice quaver?
“And so it should remain. I sent Rebecca to your office after they brought you here. I wanted to know if there were any more of those nasty little darts on the floor, like this one Ashton found.” Mallory reached over to the table, beside the candle, and picked up the dart that lay there to show his patient. “It appeared you’d only been struck with the one, but I wasn’t sure and you couldn’t tell me nor could that young toothless wretch, though it was later discovered he had three more in a leather pouch in his pocket. I thought it was also a good idea for Rebecca to take a quick look around before Lillehorne got there. So…on the floor behind your desk was this letter.”
Matthew was silent. He cursed himself for stupidity, for he had wandered again into rattlesnake country where it was least expected.
Mallory looked long and hard at the octopus symbol. “I understand,” he said, his guns rumbling, “that you killed the man you were sent to bring back. Tyranthus Slaughter. Yes?”
Matthew didn’t answer.
“Relax. We’re only talking, Matthew. Two people in a room, at half-past two in the morning. Just us night owls.” He gave a quick, cold-eyed smile. “All right, I presume you killed Slaughter. That’s what Lillehorne says. Now, about Mrs. Sutch: is she
in custody, or is she dead?”
“Who are you?” Matthew managed to ask. His throat was cold again.
“I,” said the doctor, “am your friend. And I am going to assume as well that Mrs. Sutch is deceased, because she would have killed herself before she let anyone cage her.” He folded the letter again and slid it into his shirt. “A pity,” he said. “I liked her sausages.”
Matthew decided he had to make a move. He had to get up and get out of here, no matter what. But when he tried—and he really, really did try—he had no strength, and now his arms and legs were losing sensation and the candlelight was spinning out long yellow spikes.
“Tell me, Matthew.” Mallory leaned closer to him, his eyes shining. “When you killed Slaughter and Mrs. Sutch, what did you feel?”
“What?”
“Feel,” Mallory repeated. “What did you feel?”
“I felt…sick.”
Mallory smiled again. “There’s a medicine for that, too.”
Again Matthew tried to get out of bed; again he failed, and this time his head fell back upon his pillow because the muscles of his neck had given out. He thought of shouting for help; the thought shattered like glass, and blew away like smoke.
“You’ll be peacefully asleep in a minute,” said Mallory. “I want you to know the blade scrape across your chest is healing well, but the smaller cut on your side is infected. I have a poultice on it that should help, but we’ll watch it carefully.”
Matthew was fighting the oncoming dark. The light was fading, and so was the doctor’s face. “Are you…” He couldn’t speak. Mallory was fragmenting into pieces, like Matthew’s mind. “Are you…going to kill me?” And he added: “Professor?”
The good doctor drummed his fingers on his armrest. “To your question, I answer: absolutely not. To your supposition, I say…even night owls must rest.” He reached out and with two fingers shut Matthew’s eyelids. Matthew heard the chair creak as the man stood up, heard a breath extinguish the candle, and then all was silent.
Thirty-Five
AN envelope arrived by courier at Number Seven Stone Street on a Friday afternoon in late November. Matthew’s name was upon the front, and Lord Cornbury’s seal upon the back.
“What the hell is it?” Greathouse wanted to know, and when Matthew informed him what it must be, the great one had said, “I think you ought to tell him, don’t you?” Matthew agreed. He took his cloak and tricorn and was halfway down the stairs when he heard Greathouse shout, “You wouldn’t have made a very good slavemaster, anyway!”
Matthew set off into the traffic on Broad Street. It was a bright day, warm for the season though light cloaks and coats were in order. Matthew went directly to City Hall, climbed the attic steps to McCaggers’ domain and knocked at the door. He waited, but there was no answer. He thought he knew where McCaggers and Zed might be, since Berry had told him that the light this time of year—and especially on sunny afternoons such as this—was to be taken advantage of before the gray gloom of winter set in. Matthew had not missed the fact that where Berry was to be found, McCaggers also was.
He left City Hall and walked east on Wall Street toward the harbor. Another fact he didn’t miss was that at the end of this street was the slave market.
He had been a slave owner for nearly a week. It had been an expensive proposition. McCaggers had been agreeable, with the understanding that Zed would continue his present living arrangements and also help the coroner as needed. But the villain of the play had been Gerritt van Kowenhoven, who brought in a silver-tongued lawyer before he would consider any discussion of selling his valuable slave. When the discussion began, it seemed to revolve around not Zed’s future but the street van Kowenhoven had been promised as an honor to his name. Then, after being assured the street was indeed on the new map—and actually getting a view of the new map, courtesy of McCaggers—the talk had turned to van Kowenhoven’s profit on his investment.
When the quills finished their job, Matthew’s remaining money after the payment of debts had been whittled down to twenty-three pounds. The next step had been arranging a meeting with Lord Cornbury.
In Cornbury’s office with its overstuffed chairs, a desk of English oak that seemed as wide as a continent and a portrait of Queen Anne glowering from the wall, the Lord himself had regarded Matthew through bored, blue-shaded eyes and idly twisted a curl of his high blond wig while Matthew stated his case. It wasn’t easy, stating a case to a man in a purple gown with puffy frills of blue lace down the front. But after the case was stated, Cornbury then coldly informed Matthew that the Herrald Agency had embarrassed him in front of his cousin the Queen over that Slaughter business and Matthew might believe himself to be a celebrity, and think he had some influence due to this mistaken belief, but that Matthew should not let the door hit him in the cheeks on the way out.
“Ten pounds for your signature within the week,” Matthew had said. And remembering his station in life, which was just a citizen the same as everyone, added: “Your Lordship.”
“Are you not hearing me, sir? Anyway, these things take time. Even though we’re speaking of personal property, we have the town’s safety to consider. There has to be a discussion of the council. A meeting of the aldermen. Some of them are vehemently opposed to this kind of thing. No, no. Impossible.”
That was when Matthew had reached into his pocket and put the intricately-engraved silver ring from Slaughter’s safebox on the desk. He’d pushed it across the continent toward Lord Cornbury.
It had been picked up by a purple-gloved hand, inspected in the spill of light from the window next to the face of Queen Anne, and tossed aside. “Nice enough,” came the voice through the painted lips, “but I have a dozen of those.”
Matthew then took from his pocket the necklace of grayish-blue pearls that indeed were very beautiful, now that they were cleaned up. “Your Lordship, pardon me for asking,” Matthew had said, “but do you know what a string of pearls is selling for these days?”
Obviously, Lord Cornbury had known.
Matthew found McCaggers, Zed and Berry at the waterfront near the fish market at the end of Smith Street. Small boats were coming in and throwing lines to the wharf. Baskets full of the sea’s bounty were being unloaded onto the dripping timbers. Salters stood by with their carts, and both customers and cats were prowling around looking for supper.
In all this haste and hurry of commerce, Berry and Zed stood drawing with black crayons on pads of paper as the fishermen delivered their catch. McCaggers stood a distance away, putting on a brave face though it was apparent the fish market was not his favorite place in town; he held a handkerchief with which he dabbed at his nose, and Matthew figured it had some kind of aromatic tonic applied to it.
Matthew approached them where they stood alongside the wharf. Zed saw him coming first. The huge man touched Berry’s shoulder, who looked up, followed Zed’s gaze and smiled when she saw their visitor.
“Good afternoon!” she called to him. Her smile became more of a sideways grin. Today she was an eyeburst of colors, as befitting her artistic nature. She wore a wide-brimmed red hat and a floral-print gown of red and yellow. A light green wrap covered her shoulders and arms, and she wore gloves of yellow wool that exposed her fingers, the better to control the crayon.
“Afternoon,” he answered, and walked to her side to look at what she and Zed were drawing. On each pad were partially-completed scenes of boats arriving at the wharf. Zed’s were created with much more force and intensity, each line as thick as a finger. Again, as in the drawings of Zed’s that Matthew had seen in the attic, they had an alien quality. The boats looked more like long canoes, with scrawled, menacing figures aboard that seemed to be carrying spears and shields.
To be sure, the sight of a slave drawing a picture at the waterfront was not common, and several people paused to glance and mutter, but the printmaster’s granddaughter had been seen around town on many occasions with McCaggers’ man, both of them drawing as easil
y as if they’d been talking. Of course everyone knew the printmaster’s granddaughter was a bit strange—an artist as well as a teacher, you understand—but as long as McCaggers tagged along to keep his man under watch there was no need for fear. Still…the size of that man; he could go mad with rage and tear down a building, as it was said he’d done to the Cock’a’tail tavern just last month.
“’Lo Matthew,” said McCaggers, offering one hand while keeping the handkerchief near his nose. “How are you feeling?”
Matthew shook the hand. “Almost myself again, thank you.” He took in a deep draw of air. There were the smells of the briny sea, the wet timbers and the fresh fish. Very invigorating, he thought.
“We were just about to move along,” McCaggers said, with a hopeful note.
“Before you do, I have this.” Matthew held up the envelope. Berry and McCaggers stared at it, but Zed had returned to his art. Matthew broke Cornbury’s seal, removed the parchment from within and unfolded it. “Ah,” he said when he saw the crimped and altogether ugly signature. No matter, it was the intent that counted. “The writ of manumission,” Matthew said, and showed it first to McCaggers, then to Berry.
“My God.” McCaggers sounded stunned. “I can’t believe you actually secured it.” He turned to look at Zed, who was concentrating on further thickening a line and paid the others no attention whatsoever.
“Matthew? May I tell him?” Berry asked.
“Tell him? How?”
“Let me,” she said.
He gave her the document.
“Zed?” When Berry spoke his name, he immediately turned his head and looked down at her. She held up the writ. “You are free,” she said. “Do you understand that? You are free.” She touched Lord Cornbury’s signature.
He frowned, his fathomless ebony eyes moving back and forth from the parchment to Berry. There seemed to be no comprehension of what he was looking at.
Berry turned the document over, put it down on her pad, and began to draw something. As Matthew watched, a fish took shape. It was leaping out of the water, like one of the many drawings of fish Zed had done and kept in a box under his cot. When she had finished, Berry showed him the picture.