“Any ideas about it?” Pollard asked. “I mean, your being so fresh on the scene, according to Lillehorne. And since you seemed to have such an opinion on the enforcement of law before our dandy new governor.”
“No ideas other than the obvious. I would ask if you knew of any enemies Mr. Deverick had.” It was a shot in the dark since he doubted Deverick would have greeted an enemy with a handshake, but it was at least a starting-point.
“We’ve already covered that one with Lillehorne.” Kippering was trying to hold the prostitute back from going through his coat pockets; it was like trying to get a firm grip on a weasel. “Deverick has had his business enemies, yes. In London, though. He’s had supply problems from some unreliable merchants whom we’ve had to threaten with lawsuits, but nothing went beyond the point of sword-rattling. That’s all.”
“There must be something else.”
Pollard said, “You must be wondering then if Dr. Godwin had enemies, if indeed as I understand it the same maniac murdered both men. But then again, does a maniac need a reason for murder?” He answered his own question: “Absolutely not!”
“I’m wondering,” Matthew said, “if the Masker may be not so much a maniac as a clever individual hiding a motive.”
“What kind of motive?” Kippering asked, though his attention was divided. Being unsuccessful at looting her companion’s pockets, the prostitute now began to kiss and lick his neck.
“I have no idea, but I’d like to know if there is some connection between Dr. Godwin and Mr. Deverick. Do you know of any?”
Another uproar came from the gamblers, some bitter loser slammed a hand down on a card table, a prostitute wearing a high crimson wig and white facepaint slid past Matthew like a jungle cat and pinched his behind on the way, and then Pollard turned back toward the dice game and shouted over the noise of wagering, “Don’t roll those ’til I get my bet in! Who’s got the throw? Wyndham?”
“I can’t think of a connection,” said Kippering, who had his hands full with his squirmy minx. “They weren’t doctor and patient, if that’s what you’re assuming. Neither was Dr. Godwin a client of ours.”
Matthew shrugged. “I didn’t think it would be that simple, anyway. We’d best go. Good evening to you.”
“Evening to you both,” he managed to respond. “And good luck with…whatever your business might be.” Then he got a lockhold on the girl and also turned to rejoin the hubbub.
The room at the back of the Thorn Bush was at the end of a short corridor where a sign was posted on the wall reading No Gambling, No Women Allowed. It was the tavern’s stab at a “dining-room” for gentlemen where business might be discussed in relative quiet. True, the noise from the gamblers still carried in, but it was at least tolerable. The room was dimly lit by a few lanterns. Three other men sat together at one of the six tables, which were set far apart for the sake of privacy. The trio were all puffing long clay churchwarden pipes and were wreathed with smoke, their conversations serious and muted; none of them even glanced up as the new arrivals entered. Matthew and John Five sat at a table on the opposite side of the room, furthermost from the door.
Before they got completely settled, the barmaid came in with their glasses of port and left again. Matthew spent a moment rubbing what looked like a dried clump of food off the rim of his glass. He hoped it wasn’t the beef brains.
John Five took a long drink of his wine and then said, “I couldn’t figure who else to go to, Matthew. When Constance told me, I said she shouldn’t be worryin’. I said things would work themselves out, but…I don’t know, Matthew. It’s not gettin’ any better.”
“You ought to start at the beginning,” Matthew advised.
“She says it started back about a month ago. Late May, early June. Her father always liked to walk, around sundown. Said it helped him breathe. She never took a mind to it. But all of a sudden he was goin’ out later and later. Now it’s after ten o’clock most nights. And then when he gets back, he’s…” John hesitated, obviously uncomfortable with this direction.
“Go on,” Matthew urged. “He is what?”
“Different,” John said. He swirled the port around in his glass and drank again. “Constance said he was…is…dark-spirited when he comes back. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Does she mean he’s angry? Melancholy?”
“That, I guess. If it means sad. Or just…I don’t know…like he didn’t want to go where he went, but that he had to. Listen, Matthew.” John looked across the table at his friend, the expression in his eyes at once steadfastly serious and almost pleading. “None of this can get out. I know many around here think William Wade’s a stiff-backed Bible-thumper, but he’s never been anythin’ but kind to me. Constance loves him dearly, and accordin’ to her there could be no better father. And he’s a smart man, too. Not just about religious things, either. He goes fishin’ every chance he gets, did you know that?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yep. Got his own favorite spot up at the end of Wind Mill Lane. I’ve gone with him, of a Saturday mornin’. He can talk about anythin’ you please. He can read the weather, and he’s raised a garden back behind their house that would knock Granny Coquer flat down.”
“Really?” That was impressive, since at eighty-three years Granny Coquer-who had been all of fifteen when she arrived in Dutch New Amsterdam-was growing tomatoes, corn, beans, and melons that brought a mob to her stall at the farmers’ market.
“What I’m sayin’ is, Reverend Wade is not one of those wild men who pass through town from time to time, yellin’ ‘fear God’ at the top of their lungs and robbin’ every Peter, Paul, and Mary they can get their touch on. Do you know the type I mean?”
Matthew nodded. He very well knew that type, by the name of Exodus Jerusalem.
“William Wade is a decent man,” John said. “If he’s in some kind of trouble, it’s not of his own makin’.”
“Trouble?” Matthew frowned. “Why do you put it that way?”
“Somethin’s chewin’ him up,” came the grim response. “Constance says he can hardly sleep at night anymore. She says she hears him get up from his bed and walk in his room. Just pacin’ the boards, back and forth. Wait…here’s your food.”
The barmaid had entered again, carrying a tray on which sat a brown bowl. She put it down in front of Matthew, gave him a wooden fork and spoon, and said, “Coin or credit?”
“On my bill, Rose,” John Five said, and she shrugged as if such things mattered not a whit and exited the room, leaving Matthew with the distinct impression that this Thorn Bush’s Rose was indeed a prickly specimen.
In the bowl was a muddy-looking stew that contained elements impossible to identify. Matthew stirred the stuff around with his spoon but was unable to determine if it was mutton pie, beef brains, boiled potatoes, turnips, some combination of everything, or a cook’s surprise. He was hungry enough to try it, though, and found with a small sip that whatever it was it was smoky and peppery and really very good. So score minus for presentation, but double plus for taste. He started in on it with relish, indicating by a nod for John to continue.
“Pacin’ his room, as I said,” John went on. “One night Constance thought she heard him cry out in a bad dream. Then another night…she just plain heard him give a sob that near broke her heart.”
“I assume she’s asked him what the trouble might be?”
“She’s not exactly used that word, but she has asked. The one time he’d talk about it at all, he said everythin’ was goin’ to be fine, soon enough.”
“‘Soon enough’? That was his statement?”
John nodded. “Accordin’ to Constance, I mean. She told me he sat her down, took both her hands, looked her in the eyes, and said he knew he’d been actin’ peculiar, but she wasn’t to worry. He said it was his problem, and he had to solve it his own way. He asked her to trust him.”
Matthew took a drink of his port. “But obviously she feels this ‘problem’ hasn�
�t gotten any better? That he’s still worried to the point of distraction?”
“And he’s still goin’ out late at night, too. Take what happened on Tuesday night.”
Matthew stopped eating. “Deverick’s murder?”
“No, not that. On Tuesday night, near eleven o’clock, there came a knock at the reverend’s door. He told Constance to stay in her room, and he went to see who was callin’ at such an hour. She heard him talkin’ to somebody, then he got his street clothes on and told her not to worry but that he had to go out. And she said his eyes were scared, Matthew. She said it was a terrible thing, to see such fear on her father’s face.” John drank down the rest of his port and looked as if he wished he had another full glass. “When he left the house…Constance went to a window and looked out, east along Maiden Lane. She saw the reverend walkin’ with someone else carryin’ a lantern. A man, she thought. It was a man’s voice she’d heard at the door. An old man, she thought it might be. But up ahead, waitin’ with a lamp at the corner of Maiden Lane and Smith Street, was a woman.”
“A woman,” Matthew repeated. “She was sure of that?”
“She could see the woman’s gown and bonnet, but she couldn’t make out the face.”
“Hm,” Matthew said, for it was all he could think to say. He was putting together in his mind what might have happened that night. Reverend Wade and his daughter lived in a small house on Maiden Lane between Nassau and Smith streets. Artemis Vanderbrocken had knocked on the door to summon the reverend, who’d hurriedly dressed and left the house. Wade had been walking south on Smith Street in the company of Vanderbrocken and the unknown woman when behind them came the shout from Phillip Covey. Or perhaps not behind them, but nearly beside them. Perhaps they were just passing when Covey began his cry of alarm, and that was why they’d been so quick on the spot.
Interesting, Matthew thought. What had happened to the woman?
“After Reverend Wade had gone,” John continued, “it wasn’t long before Constance heard commotion goin’ on and a bell ringin’. That was at the murder scene, I suppose. She was afraid to go out. She got on her knees and prayed that her father was all right, but she couldn’t get back to sleep. He came home maybe an hour or so later and went straight to his room.”
“Did she ask where he’d been?”
“No. She wants him to tell her in his own time, and she does trust him, Matthew.”
“I see. So Constance has no idea you’re meeting with me?”
“No idea,” John said.
“May I ask then, why are you here with me? Isn’t this a betrayal of her trust for her father?”
John didn’t answer. He cast his eyes down. “I love Constance, Matthew. With all my heart. I don’t want her to be hurt. I don’t want her to know the bad things of life. The ugly things. If I can shield her from those things-or delay her from bein’ hurt, even by her own father-I’m goin’ to do my best. If he’s mixed up in somethin’ he shouldn’t be, I want to know first before Constance does. So maybe I can soften it for her. And maybe…I can help Reverend Wade get free of whatever it is, if I only can find out.” He nodded, his eyes still lowered and dark in their sockets. “If that’s betrayin’ a trust, to save a girl’s heart from bein’ broke and her soul from bein’ scarred…I’ll do it gladly, many times over.”
Matthew now had the full picture. “You don’t wish to follow Reverend Wade yourself, in case you might be seen, so you want me to follow him.”
“I do.” John looked up, hopefully. “I can pay a little money, if that would suit you.”
Matthew finished his wine but did not respond. He was thinking that if he did follow the reverend he might well discover where he and Vanderbrocken were going and why they’d lied about heading toward different destinations the night of Deverick’s murder.
“What say?” John prodded.
Matthew cleared his throat. “Do you know if the reverend went out last night?”
“Constance said he stayed home. That’s the thing, see. He’s not stayed home these last three weeks two nights in a row. Even when it’s rained, he’s gone out. That’s why she thinks he’ll be goin’ out tonight, most likely between nine-thirty and ten.”
“But she can’t be positive of the night, or of the time?”
“No, I guess not.”
Matthew didn’t have to consider very long before he said, “All right. I’ll try for tonight, between nine-thirty and ten. If I have to, I’ll wait until ten-thirty, but after that I’m going home.” He knew he’d stay until eleven or so, but he didn’t wish to sound too eager.
“Thank you, Matthew. God bless you for helping with this thing. Do you want some money?”
“No. I’ll do it to show I don’t hold a grudge.” And also, Matthew thought, to clear up his own questions about Wade and Vanderbrocken. But the woman was a new piece to the puzzle. First of all, who was she? Secondly, why had she waited at the corner of Maiden Lane and Smith Street instead of approaching the house with Dr. Vanderbrocken?
The barmaid returned with more wine, but Matthew had what he needed and was ready to go. On the way to the front where John would sign his bill of credit they went again through the gambling room, which with the passage of half-an-hour had become even more smoke-filled, crowded, and boisterous. The prostitutes in gaudy gowns and dyed wigs, their faces all but obscured by white powder, red rouge, and dark eyeshadow, roamed amid the tables seeking stacks of coins, the men who owned them being only obstacles to a purpose. Matthew didn’t see Pollard or Kippering in the room any longer, but they might have been there and just moved to a different table.
Matthew and John Five were about halfway through the room when their progress was impeded by two heavily made-up dollies who seemed to appear through the smoke alongside the dice table intent on physical ambush. One was an elder the size of Hiram Stokely and the other was a thin wraith who might have been thirteen years old. Their grins, showing black and crooked teeth, were frightening to behold. John Five held off the big-bellied one with a forearm. When the child reached for Matthew he sidestepped, got around two men who were standing in the way, and then he took a blow to the stomach when he saw Eben Ausley sitting at a card table to his left, within dice-throwing distance.
Ausley sat in the company of three other men, but Matthew didn’t recognize any of them as the stomperboys who’d gotten the better of him on Monday night. The gamblers were focused on the play as cards were being dealt. Matthew noted that Ausley’s pile of silver was the smallest of the lot, and sweat sparkled on the man’s jowls and forehead. His white wig was crooked.
As Matthew watched, more transfixed by the enemy’s presence rather than interested in the game, he saw the gamblers throw down their coins and cards, there was a great hurrah from one of the men, and Ausley scowled as if a snake had crawled out of the ale tankard on his right. Ausley blew out a big breath that might have been disgust or despair, reached for his omnipresent black notebook with its gold-ornamented cover, opened it, and began to scribble there with his string-wrapped pencil. Marking his losses, Matthew thought. May they ever increase.
Suddenly, like a feral beast sensing it was being observed, Ausley looked up from his notebook directly into Matthew’s eyes. They stared at each other through the shifting smoke while at other tables cards were played and dice tossed, winners shouted and losers cursed, prostitutes whispered and even a brown dog scurried around trying to steal a scrap.
Then, just as abruptly, Ausley dismissed him, finished his note-writing, closed the book with a little slap, and pounded the table with his hammy fist for the next round to be dealt.
Matthew also turned away. He got out to the front room, where John Five had just signed his credit for the tavern-keeper.
“I thought I’d lost you in that crowd,” John said. “Are you all right?”
“I am,” Matthew answered, “but I could use some fresh air.” He walked onto the Broad Way, his mind now turning from Eben Ausley to the task he needed to perform
tonight, and John Five joined him, oblivious to the small and silent scene that had just played out.
Fifteen
Near ten o’clock, Dippen Nack stopped at the well in the middle of Maiden Lane. He put aside his lantern and short-handled pitchfork, lowered the well’s bucket, and took a drink of water, which he then followed with a tremendous gulp from a leather flask produced from under his coat. Then he retrieved his items and circled the well, swinging his lamplight back and forth over the house and storefronts with his pitchfork at the ready and calling that a decent inspection. He walked off along Maiden Lane to the west, heading in the direction of the Broad Way.
Matthew edged around the corner of Jacob Wingate’s wig shop, where he’d been hiding, to watch the insufferable little man strut away like a bantam cock. Nack was one of the constables Matthew felt gave the position a bad name. Quick to accuse an innocent citizen and quick to flee from any perceived danger, Nack also had a mean disposition. He’d been warned by several of the magistrates-among them Magistrate Powers-to refrain from filching the gaol-keeper’s keys and going into the gaol late at night to piss on the prisoners as they slept.
Keeping watch on Reverend Wade’s house was more difficult than Matthew had expected, for Nack was the second constable he’d recognized on Maiden Lane within an hour. The other one, Sylvester Coppins, had been armed with an axe. It wouldn’t do to allow himself to be seen skulking around, but fortunately there was a three-foot-wide space between Wingate’s shop and the next structure, a house, which was sufficient to hide him within its depth. Very few structures fit up exactly alongside one another on these streets, and Matthew wondered if the Masker hid from public view just in the same way, moving from concealment to concealment as he fled the murder scenes. It seemed to Matthew, though, that perhaps the constables had been instructed to walk more quickly on their rounds than usual, which meant either that Lillehorne wanted more of a display of protection for the citizens or that the constables themselves were in a hurry to keep moving. Nack’s drink of water before he downed his jolt told Matthew the man wished to stay more alert than was normal for a cowardly drunkard, even one armed with a pitchfork.
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