Matthew Corbett 02 - The Queen of Bedlam mc-2

by Robert R. McCammon

  Grace gave a bitter laugh. Her eyes were no longer vacant; now they held the steely glint of suspicion. She said, with nearly a spit on the planks, “I trust nobody.”

  Matthew decided to put himself where she might consider him the weakest. He sat down on the bed.

  Her mouth twisted. “So now you’ve changed your mind?”

  “No. I just want you to see that you can get out of the room at any time you please, and I won’t stop you.”

  “You couldn’t stop me.”

  “That’s probably true,” he agreed. He reasoned she might have a dagger or two hidden around here for her own protection, in case Becca was slow up the stairs. “I really do need to ask you a few things. Important things.”

  Grace just watched him without speaking. The penis-sheath was caught in her fist. “If you’ll answer them as truthfully as possible,” Matthew continued, “I’ll go on my way and you can get to bed. To sleep, I mean.”

  Still she made no response, but Matthew saw she wasn’t going to scream. At least for now his heart was safe.

  She took a hesitant step forward and then passed him, pulling herself away so she wouldn’t graze his knees. She returned the penis-sheath to the drawer and then closed it. Her right hand came up and turned the hourglass over, and the sand began to slither through. Before she faced him again, she opened the chest’s top drawer and brought something out that Matthew couldn’t see at first. She went directly back to the corner in which she felt safe and when she turned toward him Matthew saw she was holding close to herself a small, dingy cloth doll with a red-stitched mouth and black buttons for eyes.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked warily.

  “First of all, what your relationship is with Reverend Wade.”

  “Who?”

  “William Wade. The reverend at Trinity Church.”

  Grace stared blankly at him, with her doll nestled in the crook of an arm.

  “You don’t know Reverend Wade?” Matthew asked.

  “I suppose I’ve heard the name. I hear a lot of names. But why should I know him?” An evil little grin stole across her face. “Does he come here in disguise?”

  “No.” He noted she looked a bit disappointed that the reverend wasn’t walking on the fiery edge of Hell. He himself was dismayed by the response, for he thought it to be truthful from her tone of voice and lack of reaction to the name. “What about Andrew Kippering? I presume you know-” She was already nodding vigorously, so there was no use in finishing it.

  “Andy, you mean. Oh, he’s a right fine gent. Big and handsome and the money flows out of him like water under London Bridge. He comes here two, three times a week. Sometimes stays the whole night. Gets a deal from the old dragon. He’s a lawyer, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait.” Grace had been warming, but now she froze again. “Andy’s not in any kind of trouble, is he?” She took a step toward the door that made Matthew almost bolt to his feet, expecting the shrill scream for Becca Black. “Hey, who are you to be askin’ questions about Andy? I’m not gonna be helpin’ you put the finger on him, no matter what he’s done.”

  “I didn’t say he’d done anything.”

  “You can ask any of the girls here. The ladies, I mean.” Grace thrust her sharp chin at him as she crushed the doll against her breasts. “Andy’s made of sterlin’. Just who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “I mean no harm to Mr. Kippering,” Matthew said calmly. “I was only trying to settle the fact that you knew him. I saw you together at the Thorn Bush, but I wanted to hear it from you.”

  “All right, I know him. So does every other lady here. Even the old dragon takes him to bed once in a while, and I hear it’s for free.” Grace spoke that word with disgust.

  Matthew couldn’t fathom how to proceed from this point. If Grace Hester didn’t know Reverend Wade, then what had Kippering been going on about that day at the dock? What is it you know about Grace Hester? Kippering had asked, there in the shadows of the masted ships. This can’t get out, do you understand?

  Matthew decided to change course. The sand made a faint hissing noise as it collected at the bottom of the glass. “How long have you been here?”

  “Since the end of April, I suppose. Why?”

  “Dr. Godwin,” Matthew said. “Did you know him?”

  “That old fart? Got himself killed good and proper, didn’t he?” The subject of her dear sterling Andy behind them, Grace was beginning to warm up once more. “They say he nearly had his head cut off,” she said, with a delicious glee bordering on the obscene.

  “He took care of you ladies, yes? Before Dr. Vanderbrocken stepped in?”

  “And Godwin poked us, too, while he was at it. Old bastard had a cock on him. And at his age! You see Nicole downstairs? The skinny one? Godwin was on her every time she turned around. Gave her some fuckin’ dinner plates for her birthday, the very night he got his neck opened. Said he loved her. Can you believe it?” She made a face. “Love, in a place like this!”

  “It is amusing,” Matthew agreed, but actually he thought it was very sad. The plates, he recalled, had been crafted by Hiram Stokely.

  “If Nicole wasn’t such a fuckin’ gin-fiend, she’d be rich from all that silver Godwin paid her. And she said some nights after he shot his cannon and lay there sleepy he called her a different name. When he started sobbin’ on her shoulder, she kicked him out, silver or no. A whore’s got her pride.”

  “A different name?” Matthew asked, intrigued. “What was it?”

  “Nicole said it was…Susan, I think. You’ll have to ask her yourself. Anyway, Godwin was a strange old bird. Drunk half the time, and his hands were always cold, too.”

  “I may have to speak to Nicole,” Matthew said, mostly to himself. “I’d like to find out more about Dr. Godwin.”

  Grace grunted. “Now you’re soundin’ like him.”

  Matthew brought his attention back. “Sounding like who?”

  “Andy. Wantin’ to know when Godwin was here, and what time he left and all that. He talked to Nicole about the old bastard. Nicole said he stuck his cock in her and shot in his sheath and then all he wanted to do was ask questions about Godwin, like that was the real reason he came. I mean…the real reason he was here.”

  “Is that so?” Matthew asked, watching Grace rub the doll and realizing she was unconscious of needing the security of a bit of dirty cloth stitched over a stuffing of straw. A relic from her past, he thought. So too might the name Susan be a relic from Godwin’s past. Could it also have had something to do with his murder? “Miss Hester,” he said, “just one more question. Did Andrew Kippering never mention to you the name of William-”

  “Stop,” she directed. “What did you call me?”

  “Miss Hester,” Matthew said. “Your name.”

  “My name?”

  Matthew had a sudden piercing insight as sharp as a dagger stab. “Your name isn’t Grace Hester.”

  “Hell, no. I’m Missy Jones,” she answered. “Grace Hester’s in the room at the end of the hall. She’s the sick girl.”

  “The…sick girl?”

  “Consumption. Gotten worse and worse these last few days. Becca says she’ll be passin’ soon. Why she’s got the biggest room in the house, I don’t know.”

  “Oh…I’ve been stupid,” Matthew said in almost a gasp. He stood up, and to her credit Missy Jones did not back away. “I’ve been very, very stupid.”

  “Stupid about what?”

  “The meaning of things.” He leveled his gaze at her. “Miss Jones, can I get in to see Grace Hester?”

  “The door’s kept locked. Grace is a rounder. Even sick, she wants to go out to the Thorn Bush and cull a trick. Last time she got out, Andy had to go bring her back.”

  Matthew knew now. He knew, and it had been there in front of him the very night Eben Ausley’s stomperboys had introduced his face to a mound of horse apples. “Is there any way I can get in to see her? Just for a moment.”
<
br />   “Door’s locked, as I say.” She had begun to look nervous again. “Why do you want to see her? You don’t…uh…favor sick girls, do you?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s honorable, I promise you.”

  “I don’t understand it,” Missy said, but then she chewed on her lower lip and stroked her doll and said, “I…suppose…I can trust you. Can’t I?”

  “You can.”

  She nodded. “The old dragon won’t like it. Neither will Becca. You’ll have to be quick.” Then she hugged her doll close and said with her eyes downcast, “The key’s up on top. The sill over the door. If anybody catches you, you’ll be in for it. And me too.”

  “Nobody’s going to catch me,” he assured her. “And even if they did, I can promise you that neither one of us will be harmed in any way. Do you believe that?”

  “No,” she said. Then, with a frown that brought her brows together: “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  Matthew went to the door, and she quickly moved aside. “Thank you for your time, Miss Jones. And thank you for your help.”

  “It’s no matter,” she answered. His hand was on the doorlatch when she said, “You can call me Missy, if you like.”

  “Thank you,” he said again, and he offered her a smile. He might have wished for a smile from her in return, but she was already crossing the room to her waterbowl to wash the makeup off her face and the doll was pressed up against her cheek. He wondered what she looked like underneath the powder, and what story was hidden in her soul. He had no time to linger; he went out, quietly closed the door, and walked down the hall.

  He found the key quick enough. As he started to push it into the lock, he thought that a scream from the real Grace Hester would bring the house down upon him, but if this were a game of chess he held a bishop against a pawn. He heard Becca still singing in the parlor, this time a happier West Indies tune. He slid the key home, turned it, and opened the door.

  This bedroom was practically the same as Missy’s, though perhaps a few feet wider. On the floor was a wine-red rug. Two candles burned, one upon the bedside table and another atop the chest-of-drawers.

  The sheets moved and the girl who lay there, her face pallid and her dark hair sweat-damp, sat up with an obvious effort. She had high cheekbones and a narrow chin, and in some long-ago time she might have been pretty but now she was wrecked on the coast of desolation.

  The heavy makeup had masked her sickness, and the strong drink had given her false strength. She was the girl Matthew had seen stagger out of the Thorn Bush in the company of Andrew Kippering, that night the stomperboys had darkened Matthew’s complexion.

  Grace Hester stared at him, her mouth open. Becca sung in the parlor and the gittern played its lilting, sunny notes.

  “Father?” the girl asked, her voice slurred and weary yet…hopeful.

  Matthew said quietly, “No,” and he backed out of the room before his heart might break.

  Thirty-Three

  He was fishing in his favorite spot, at the end of Wind Mill Lane on the west side of town, just where John Five had said he would be.

  Along the lane were a few houses, a carpentry shop, a cornfield, and a new brewery in the first stage of construction. The Thursday morning sun shone on the river and a wind stirred the green woods of New Jersey on the far side. The fisherman sat amid a jumble of gray boulders at the shore, his line trailing from an ash-wood rod into the water. Just beyond him was the hulk of an old merchant vessel that had been shoved by a storm into the rocks and, its hull impaled and broken, was slowly collapsing before the infinite progress of time and currents. Up on a hill, and near enough to cast its shadow upon the fisherman, was the tall windmill for which this lane was named; its revolving head atop a stationary tower had been positioned to take advantage of the breeze, and its canvas sails billowed along the slowly turning vanes.

  Though Matthew took care to be quiet as he came along the rocks, he knew his presence had been noted. The reverend had glanced at him and then quickly away again without a word. Wade didn’t look much like the erudite minister of Trinity Church this morning. He wore gray breeches patched at the knees and a faded brown shirt with the sleeves rolled up. On his head was a shapeless beige cloth hat that had evidently seen many summer suns and rainshowers alike. His fishing clothes, Matthew thought. Beside the reverend was a scoopnet and a wicker basket to hold his catch.

  Matthew stopped ten yards away from the man. Wade sat perfectly still, waiting for a bite.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Matthew.

  “Good morning, Matthew,” came the reply in a voice from which no hint of emotion could be read. Neither did he look in Matthew’s direction.

  A silence stretched. A breath of wind furrowed the river and made the windmill’s vanes creak.

  “I fear I’m not having much luck this morning,” Wade said at last. “Two small fellows, not sufficient for a pan. They fought so hard it seemed wrong to land them. I’m after a carp I’ve seen here before, but he always foxes me. Do you fish?”

  “I haven’t for a long time.” He once caught fish to live on, in the rough days before he went to the orphanage.

  “But you do catch things, don’t you?”

  Matthew knew his meaning. “Yes sir, I do.”

  “You’re a very intelligent young man. You wished to be a lawyer, Andrew tells me?”

  “I did. More than anything, at one point. Now it hardly matters.”

  Wade nodded, watching the floating red fly where his line met the river. “He says you’re very strong on the concept of justice. That’s to be commended. You’ve impressed me as a young man of high character, Matthew, and therefore I’m puzzled why you should wish to throw yourself into the low business of blackmail.” His head turned. His eyes were somber and dark-rimmed. Sleep must have been a stranger last night. “I’ve been expecting you, ever since Andrew told me. And to think that John is part of this, when he professed to love Constance and I came to regard him as dear as a son. What do you think that does to my heart, Matthew?”

  “Do you really have a heart?”

  Reverend Wade didn’t reply, but looked out again upon the river.

  “I told Kippering an untruth. John Five doesn’t know anything about the girl. He came to me for help because Constance thought you were losing your mind. Did you think you could go out and about at night without her wondering sooner or later where you went? I followed you myself, to Polly Blossom’s. I saw what I would term a pitiful sight. And the last time you went out-just Tuesday night-Constance followed you.”

  The reverend’s face had paled under the shapeless hat.

  “She saw where you went. She saw Andrew Kippering come out and speak to you. Oh, she didn’t see his face, but I’m sure it was him. He is the go-between, isn’t he?”

  There was yet no answer.

  “Yes, he is,” Matthew went on, as a swirl of wind whipped around him. “I presume the money to keep Grace in that room comes from you and passes through Kippering? And his good relationship with Polly Blossom has convinced her to let the girl die in the house? Yes? I presume also that Madam Blossom was the first to discover that one of her doves was the daughter to the reverend of Trinty Church? Did Grace tell her, when she realized she was going to die?” He gave Wade a space to speak, but nothing came forth. “I’d think you might look upon Madam Blossom as a saint, because if anyone was going to blackmail anyone it would have started with her. What’s her reward for this? A place in Heaven for a woman who fears Hell?”

  Wade lowered his head slightly, as if in an attitude of prayer. Then he said in a care-worn voice, “Madam Blossom is a businesswoman. Andrew framed the agreement as a matter of business. It’s what she understands.”

  “I’m sure it also doesn’t hurt Madam Blossom to have a minister on her side. If, say, certain socially powerful members of the church might wish to shut her house down.”

  “I’m sure,” Wade answered, his head still bent forward. “But I had no ch
oice, Matthew. The upward path-the right path-was too dangerous. What I always have preached…I could not practice, when called upon. I’m going to have to live with that for the rest of my days, and don’t think it will be easy.”

  “But you’ll still be a reverend,” Matthew said. “Your daughter will be dead, without having heard her father’s forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness?” Wade looked at him with a mixture of incredulity and anger that passed across the minister’s face like a stormcloud. He cast aside his fishing-rod and stood up, his chest thrust out as if in readiness to fight the world. “Is that what you think she wants? It is not, sir! She has no shame and no regrets for the life she’s led!”

  “Then what is it she wants?”

  Wade ran a hand over his face. He looked as if he might sink down to the stones again, and lie there like a rag. He pulled in a deep breath and let it slowly out. “Always the impulsive child. The girl who must have all the attention. Who must wear the bows and bells, no matter what sin buys them. Do you know why she wishes to die in that house? She told Andrew she wants to die in a place where there’s music and laughter. As if the gaiety in that house isn’t forced through the teeth! And her lying in there, on that deathbed, with me standing outside on the street…” He shook his head.

  “Weeping?” Matthew supplied.

  “Yes, weeping!” The answer was harsh and the anger had returned. “Oh, when Andrew first told me what he’d found out from Madam Blossom, you should have seen me! I didn’t weep! I nearly cursed God and sent myself to Hell for it! What was in my mind might have cast me into eternal fire, but there it was and I had to deal with it! I thought first of Constance, and only her!”

  “She doesn’t know?”

  “That her elder sister is a whore? Certainly not. What was I to tell Constance? What was I to do?” He stared at nothing, his eyes dazed. “What am I to do?”

  “I think that the situation will take care of itself soon enough. Isn’t that what you said to Constance?”