Freedom of the Mask

by Robert R. McCammon

  Matthew hardly heard him. He watched the candleflame gutter at some breath of wind from a crack in the ancient walls. “Robbery is the motive, then?”

  “Albion kills men who ain’t got a shillin’ to their names,” Broken Nose said. He had curled himself up on his bunk so his back was firmly against stone. “Ain’t robbery. It’s killin’ for the thrill of it, seems like. Oh, there’s been a couple of people say they seen him, always after somebody’s been laid low. Says he wears a black cloak and hood and a golden mask. Yessir. A golden mask. Carries a blade as long as your arm.”

  “That would be a sword?” Matthew inquired.

  “Sword…long knife…whatever it is, it cuts deep. Heard tell Albion can walk through walls. Solid stone don’t stop no phantomine…a phantom, if you please. Nossir. Heard he’s in one place one minute, next he shows up halfway ’cross the city. Heard he jumped off a roof once…just disappeared right in midair. Albion flies with the wind, that’s what he does. And anybody unlucky enough to see under that golden mask…they’re gonna die for it, ’cause Albion is Death itself, and under there is a skull just a’grinnin’.”

  “May I ask who you heard these tales from?”

  “It was read to me from the Pin, of course. That’s how I get all my news.”

  “I see.” Matthew realized Lord Puffery, whoever that entity might be, could just as well have made up the personage of golden-masked Albion as much as Lady Everlust and her two-headed lovechild had been invented. Of course Benjamin Greer was probably really dead, killed by a perfectly ordinary villain as had been the others, but ascribing these deaths to a phantom who travelled with the wind was much more compelling to the masses. “You say this Pin is published twice a week? How much is the cost?”

  “Goes for five pence,” said White Hair. “And worth every bit of it, to keep up with events. There’s persons rather starve and go thirsty than do without their Pin twice a week.”

  “Cheap gin for the mind, I presume,” Matthew said, but he was speaking mostly to himself. Gardner Lillehorne had been correct; this was not New York, as surely the citizens there would see through such blatant lies in Marmaduke Grigsby’s Earwig. In fact, Marmy would be ashamed to show his face after printing such twaddle.

  However, Matthew found himself again reaching for the sheet as if tranced, for that part about Lady Everlust’s freak child was ridiculous but entertaining in its own way, and it made a small bit of gaol-time evaporate without effort. Scanning the articles, he surmised that Lord Puffery—if indeed there was in reality such a person—had quite an imagination and had been made by this thin one-sided five-pence meal of execrable porridge a very, very wealthy individual. At the bottom of the page was the boldface line Buying Items Of Interest at Sm. Luther, Printer, 1229 Fleet Street.

  Samuel Luther? This person held the eyes, ears and voices of London’s hundred thousands. Matthew played with the idea that when he got out of this he might find Lord Puffery, and give the Pin a real story concerning a certain Professor Fell, who made Albion’s supposed wickedness a child’s play. He was in Fell’s territory, Berry and everyone else he cared for—loved—was at a safe distance. So if the professor wanted him so badly, let Fell first have a bellyful of Pins.

  It was a plan. But first for himself, to regain his freedom. Perhaps—hope upon hope—tomorrow.

  Nine

  TOMORROW dawned. In Plymouth, Hudson and Berry were accepted to be seen by Constable Moncroff at just after seven in the morning, were informed that the prisoner in question had been transferred to London, namely the holding facility at St. Peter’s Place, and the case given over to the Honorable Gardner Lillehorne, Assistant to the High Constable. Moncroff did reveal that the victim of this murder, Count Anton Mannerheim Dahlgren, had been killed at sea during a storm and there might be some mitigating circumstances but other than that he could not say.

  Hudson and Berry then went directly to the coach office to secure transfer to London, were told all the coaches were currently out but one to make the trip would be available on the morrow, if it arrived back in Plymouth on schedule tonight. The trip would take at least seven days and more if the infernal rain kept up, and word had it that parts of the road were being washed out. Therefore tickets could be sold to them, but there was no assurity they would reach London within a week’s time.

  The two travellers bought their tickets and then returned to the Hartford House in a dismal downpour.

  In London as the day progressed, Matthew’s expectations waned. The prisoners were taken out to file along in their chains and receive a wooden cup of ox-meat soup, light on the ox-meat, but no mention was made of his going before Judge Greenwood nor was there any further communication from Gardner Lillehorne. He and the others were returned to their cells, and Matthew realized he might indeed be made to stay here an intolerable month, a thought that dashed his spirits down to the very stones.

  The following day, the rain still fell, no coach was available to Hudson and Berry, and Matthew went through the exact same routine as the day before. The only difference in this day was that when their candle burned out they were not given another, as it was explained to Matthew by his two coherent cellmates that they had used up their taper allowance for the week.

  On the next morrow, with the rain ceased but the sky still low and threatening, success was had at the Plymouth coach office. A stop at the Hartford House to put aboard their trunks, and Hudson and Berry settled in for the journey along with a recently-arrived wig-crafter from Philadelphia and a Norwegian businessman in the timber trade.

  Thus it was that Matthew had no sense of the time when the guard came to their cell with chains over his shoulder, unlocked the door and said to him, “Out.”

  Matthew stood up and obeyed. The guard first locked the cell door and then went about securing the chains to Matthew’s ankles and wrists. His cellmates, who had been entertained by Matthew’s tales of his youth growing up in the New York orphanage and of the Rachel Howarth incident in Fount Royal, pressed themselves against the bars. Broken Nose, whose name Matthew had learned was Thomas Leary, unsuccessful prize fighter and ex-carpenter, called out, “Steady, lad! Duck whatever they throw at ya!”

  “Move on,” said the guard, followed by a shove to Matthew’s back.

  Along the corridor they went, assailed by the rough voices, ragged curses and juicy spits aimed not at Matthew but splattering him just the same. The guard used his billyclub, quite similar to Dippen Nack’s, to strike at the fingers that were curled around bars and might have managed to break a few according to the howls of pain that ensued. Matthew was made to wait while another door was unlocked, he was pushed through into a cleaner-smelling area with barred windows that allowed the meager light of what might have been early afternoon, and while one skinny guard held his own bludgeon under Matthew’s chin the hulking one unlocked the prisoner’s chains at wrists and ankles.

  Then Matthew was guided through a long passageway adorned with the oil paintings of famous men with large heads and cautious eyes, and into a chamber where a bewigged official sat at a desk before a wall of shelves holding a multitude of ledger books. There Gardner Lillehorne stood waiting, dressed in dark brown with a red feather sticking up from his taupe tricorn. Beyond him was the pair of heavy oak doors that Matthew had been brought into this building through, and outside were seven stone steps to the street.

  “Judge Greenwood,” Lillehorne said, “will see you today.”

  “Luck to you,” the offensive guard offered, and he put a hand on Matthew’s shoulder like the most considerate of brothers.

  Weak London light was yet strong enough to sting Matthew’s eyes as he emerged from the gaolhouse alongside Lillehorne. The rain had stopped but the air was cold and clammy, the clouds dark, and in his tatty prison rags Matthew was chilled to the bone. A coach, again with barred windows, waited at the curb and there also waited another club-wielding guard who wore a black skullcap and a jacket made of wolfhide.

  “Nec
essary,” said Lillehorne in advance of Matthew’s objection. “Get in and remain silent.”

  Matthew did as he was told, and gladly. The guard sat beside him in the enclosed cab while Lillehorne took the seat across. Lillehorne tapped on the roof with the silver lion’s-head of his cane and the coach started off.

  Though the sun was definitely hidden behind a ceiling of clouds, this afternoon there was neither rain nor fog. The light was low, tinged a shade blue, but Matthew had the chance to observe the city in greater detail as they moved along. Firstly, the buildings were close-packed together and huge; New York had never seen the like of such monuments to Mammon. There were businesses of all kinds and descriptions to go along with the incredible, head-spinning variety of edifices. Two stables within one block? The anvils and fires of two blacksmiths, the same? Here a corral of livestock, there a shop selling wedding gowns. The store of a tricorn-shaper stood next to a gunsmith, a nautical goods emporium next to a shop specializing in Japanese fans, jadework, and kimonos of every hue or so it seemed from the astounding variety in the front window. Three taverns stood within stagger distance of each other, two facing each other directly across the street. Matthew realized there must be several hundred taverns here for they were everywhere, with names like The Mad Parrot, Abraham’s Pleasure, and The Restless Owl. He thought he might try the Owl when he got out of this; it sounded like it might be his kind of place.

  But could he even find that particular tavern again? Even with instructions? These streets were a maze: one cutting across another, narrowing then widening and narrowing again, made black in the shadows of columns and towers, curving to cross another street, broken cobbles under the hooves and wheels, here a wagon stalled by a stubborn mule fighting against its driver and several other men, there a huge hole filled with muddy rainwater that had already bitten off two wheels for they were lying half-submerged in the morass. And everywhere more coaches and carriages, some sturdy and workmanlike and others painted up like brothel dollies. Then there were the wagons, and Matthew thought that if one third of the traffic on this very street was put upon the Broad Way that thoroughfare would collapse down to the tombs of the Mohawk Adam and Eve. Just within his limited sight they were hauling coal, barrels, lumber, haybales, the carcasses of dead horses, a cathedral’s worth of bricks, windowframes, bolts of material, piles of burlap bags, a small mountain of gravel, and a massive bronze church bell.

  And the people and their noise, and even without the shouting and wild laughter that seemed to soar up from the doorways and windows the sound of boots tramping on street stones was that of an army on constant march though no army had ever been so chaotic. Beggars here and beggars there, legs and arms missing from some real warfare or dread disease, gents and ladies in finery strolling yet here a stroll was a fight to move through the masses, two men at bloody fisticuffs over by the Gentleman Bear tavern and a crowd urging them on, a fiddler daring fate by playing his tune in the street, a young girl with long brown hair standing on a rooftop watching the river of life flow by below.

  Before long Matthew was nearly exhausted from taking all this in, and finally in spite of his natural curiosity he had to pull his eyes away and concentrate on staring at the red feather in Lillehorne’s tricorn.

  “I felt much the same way, coming back here after such a time,” said Lillehorne with a knowing half-smile. “I’d forgotten that New York is a rustic town compared to this.” The coach suddenly came to a dead halt. “Oh mercy!” he said, his expression severe again, and he banged on the roof with his cane.

  “Traffic jam up ahead, sir,” said the driver through the viewslit. “Looks like an ale wagon’s broke down. People are swarmin’ all over, lootin’ the barrels.”

  “Sweet breath of Christ!” In his dismay Lillehorne removed his tricorn to scratch in the glossy sheen of his hair. “Can you find another route?”

  “We’re jammed in. Stuck for awhile, looks like.”

  “I feared as much. Get moving when you’re able.”

  The driver slid the viewslit shut and Lillehorne stared at Matthew with a baleful eye as if blaming him for this delay. “Unfortunately,” he said, “one’s time can be wasted here in many ways. I have a meeting with High Constable Lord Rivington within the hour. I don’t want to be late for that.”

  “And neither do I want to be late to meet with Judge Greenwood.”

  “Yes, he’s a lenient man but he does value time, as do all successful professionals.” He heard something—a boy’s voice, strongly calling out—at about the same time as Matthew did, and he looked to his left through the bars.

  “Lord Shepsley deserts Lady Caroline for an African chambermaid!” the boy shouted, with lungs of leather. “Tipsy Viceroy tavern burned to the ground, the Mohocks claim they done it! Famed Eyetalian opera star kidnapped by her pirate lover! Fresh news from the Pin here, fresh news from the Pin!”

  The bellowing salesboy, perhaps twelve years of age, stood at the curb with a bundle of the news sheets in his arms. He wore an apronlike garment with pockets in which to deposit coins. They were already bulging. “Boy!” Lillehorne called over the noise of London. “Come here!” He dug for a five-pence piece, paid the boy through the bars and took a copy as other customers swarmed around. The guard also coughed up a coin for his own sheet. With gleaming eyes and an air of excitement Lillehorne began to read the so-called news of the day. Matthew noted that both Lillehorne’s and the guard’s mouths moved as they read.

  “Any further word of Lady Everlust’s two-headed child?” Matthew asked.

  Lillehorne glanced up for only an instant. “What? Oh, that’s old news. I presume your cellmates were devotees? Almost everyone is.”

  “I see.” Matthew watched the boy selling the sheets one after another until he moved out of sight, still hollering the headlines. “I’m wondering, though, how one separates fact from fiction in such a publication.”

  “It’s all fact based,” said Lillehorne, with a defensive edge to his voice. “Of course much of it is embellished for the entertainment of the common man, but it’s done so smoothly one winds up not caring to make a distinction. Now quiet, please, and let me catch up.”

  “A slippery slope,” Matthew said.

  “Pardon?”

  “A slippery slope, relinquishing the distinction between fact and fiction to a faceless Lord Puffery. Is there really such a person?”

  “I have no idea. Does it matter?”

  “I’d like to be sure what I’m reading is the word of a truthful writer. The story about the kidnapped opera star, for instance. Is that true?”

  “It is. When Madam Alicia Candoleri arrived at Portsmouth she was met by what we presume she thought was a coach sent by the Earl of Canterbury. It turned out the real coach had been waylaid and the driver and the madam’s escort murdered, their bodies found in a wood. Madam Candoleri disappeared and has not been seen since. That was two weeks ago.”

  “She had no protector travelling with her?”

  “Two persons. Her manager and her makeup girl. Both also missing.”

  “What’s the ransom?”

  “No ransom has been requested, as far as I know.”

  “Hm,” said Matthew. “No ransom demand after two weeks? The murder of the earl’s driver and the escort makes it clear someone was very serious in their intent…but why would a famous opera star be abducted for anything but a queen’s ransom? I’m guessing also that the part about the pirate lover is where fiction overtakes fact?”

  “I haven’t gotten there yet, please let me advance.”

  Matthew allowed him a few more seconds before asking the question that was of real interest. “Has Albion struck again?”

  Lillehorne lowered his Pin. “What do you know of that?”

  “Just what I read, which was a brief article in one of last week’s issues.” Matthew frowned at Lillehorne’s obvious discomfort. “You mean…Albion is real? Not a fiction?”

  “Not a fiction,” was the reply. “Now
, I’m sure the Pin does somewhat exaggerate Albion’s exploits, but suffice it to say this personage is a true thorn in the side of the law.”

  “Black cape and hood? Golden mask? And he kills with a sword? That’s all correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “A dramatic individual definitely trying to make a statement,” said Matthew. “But saying what?”

  “Saying that he violently disagrees with the way the law is handled in this city. Albion has killed six men, all after midnight, all in areas where decent citizens would fear to tread. The connection between these victims is…oh, we’re moving at last! Very good!” The coach had given a lurch as it started up. “The connection,” Lillehorne went on brusquely, for it appeared he was highly irritated in not being able to read his Pin in peace, “is that all six were common criminals, had served time in the gaolhouse, but were released due to the machinations of lawyers, up to and including bribery.”

  “Are you speaking from your own personal experience?”

  “Certainly not! It may be that I was rewarded for some of my decisions in New York, but here I am the straightest of arrows. Register that firmly in mind, Sutcliffe,” Lillehorne said to the guard, who gave a nearly-imperceptible nod as he continued his mouthy reading. Lillehorne’s attention returned to the prisoner. “There are unfortunately many in the halls of justice who are open to filling their pockets, but I vow to you I am not one of them. Princess and I have been too long wanting to return here to risk losing my position for a few guineas.”

  “Ah,” said Matthew. It helped Lillehorne’s case that the father of his shrewish and socially voracious wife—Maude by name but referred to as “Princess” at her demand—was the well-to-do proprietor of a shellfish eating-house on East Cheap Street and was himself known as the “Duke of Clams”. Matthew listened to the strident music of the city, which was both compelling and repellent. Thoughts floated through his mind like chess pieces in search of a board. “Interesting,” he said.