Matthew Corbett 02 - The Queen of Bedlam mc-2

by Robert R. McCammon

  “A new world,” Mrs. Herrald said, her eyes heavy-lidded, “calls for new names.”

  “And speaking of names,” Matthew said, “Chapel knew yours. He had a copy of the broadsheet announcement and wanted more information. I’m supposed to ask about you at the Dock House Inn and report back to him within a few days.”

  Mrs. Herrald pursed her lips and released a small, quiet puff of air. “I don’t like that. How is it you went to see this Chapel person in the first place?”

  “It has to do with the Masker. Specifically, with Eben Ausley’s notebook.”

  “Is this some kind of riddle?” she asked, frowning. “What’s this about a notebook?”

  “Corbett’s on a tear about this damned Masker,” Greathouse spoke up. “He’s told Pennford Deverick’s widow he can find out who the bastard is, and for that he’ll get ten shillings.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Herrald regarded Matthew with a knowing expression. “An independent job, is that it?”

  “She wants the Clear Streets Decree overthrown, as it’s costing her money. Until the Masker is found, Lord Cornbury’s going to keep the decree in force. It’s a simple matter of economics.” Matthew shot a glance at Greathouse, then back to Mrs. Herrald. “But no, it’s not entirely an independent job.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” Matthew said in a calm but firm voice, “that I believe these current events are by no means independent of each other. I think they hinge together, in a way I can’t yet explain. The Masker, the three murders, the notebook, Chapel…even the woman at the Westerwicke asylum. I think all of them are linked.”

  “There’s a good one!” Greathouse’s face wanted to grin, but Mrs. Herrald’s lifted hand stopped his chortle before it began.

  “Again you mention a notebook,” she said. “A notebook belonging to whom and signifying what?”

  Matthew took in a deep breath. The moment had arrived. “A notebook taken from the body of Eben Ausley by the Masker, and given to me by the Masker. Before you ask: no, I wasn’t able to see his face. Chapel wants the book, and I believe he’s sent someone to break into my house to find it. I think it shows that Ausley was selling orphans to Chapel for some reason the Masker wants me to discover.”

  If he was expecting an immediate response, he was disappointed. Mrs. Herrald stood silent, her head cocked to one side and her hands clasped before her. Hudson Greathouse was also struck mute, but his mouth was open and if his eyes had gotten any bigger they might have popped from his head.

  The silence stretched on, until finally Mrs. Herrald busied herself with rearranging the folds of lace at her throat.

  Greathouse found his voice, though it sounded nearly strangled. “As I said before, what have you gotten into?”

  “What we’re supposed to be into. A problem that needs a solution.”

  “Be careful you don’t get your throat cut trying to solve it.” Greathouse turned to appeal to Mrs. Herrald. “If Chapel-whoever he is-has some tie to Professor Fell, then Corbett’s in water way over his head. You know how cunning they are. Chapel might already know Corbett went to meet you at the Dock House. He was just fishing. If he goes back there, and Chapel does happen to be one of the professor’s disciples, I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass for his survival.”

  “If he was going to kill me, he would have done it last night,” Matthew said, but he did think he’d nearly been killed, after all.

  “Precisely,” Mrs. Herrald agreed, maintaining an admirable composure. “So-if indeed he is a confederate of Professor Fell-why did he let you go, suspecting you were working with us?” She paused just a beat before she went on. “Because you obviously have something he values. The famous notebook, I presume. I won’t ask where it’s hidden, because I don’t wish to know. But I’d say if it had been found last night, you’d be dead by now. So he sent you back, and now you’re being watched.”

  “Oh.” He hadn’t thought of that possibility, but it made diabolical sense.

  “Spoken like someone who forgot to brush their brain this morning,” Mrs. Herrald said. “What indeed happened last night? You don’t seem yourself.”

  Matthew shrugged. “I’m just tired, that’s all.” The understatement of the new century.

  “Well, it’s likely you’re being watched in the hopes that sooner or later you’ll bring that book out. Be very careful, Matthew. These people are professionals. They leap on mistakes, and in this case a mistake can be fatal. Now I also presume you can’t directly prove any wrong-doing from this notebook, or you would have already taken it to the high constable?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And you feel it would be wrong to present it to him, without this proof?”

  “He wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Do you know what to do with it?”

  “For now,” Matthew answered, “just to keep it safely hidden.”

  “At your discretion,” she said, with a slight nod that gave her approval. She came forward until she was right in his face. Her eyes were cold. “But listen to me well, Matthew. I don’t think you know what Professor Fell and his compatriots are capable of. Have you told him the whole story, Hudson?”

  “No,” came the hollow reply.

  “Then I shall do the honors. My husband Richard, who founded the agency. Do you have any idea what happened to him when he came into conflict with Professor Fell?”

  Matthew shook his head.

  “Richard was successful in having one of the professor’s more notorious associates cast into prison charged with a scheme of arson and extortion. The man was in Newgate only three hours before he was stabbed to death by an unknown killer. Then, several days after that, Richard received the blood card. A small calling-card, with a single bloody fingerprint upon it. Might you guess for yourself what that means?”

  “A death threat,” Matthew said.

  “No, not a death threat. A death vow. When you receive the blood card, you might as well prepare your funeral. Nathaniel Powers knows all about it. The blood card he received caused him to uproot his family, leave a long-established law practice, and board a ship to New York. But he knows, deep down, that Professor Fell never forgets, and whether it takes one week, or one month, or one year, or ten years, that vow is going to be acted upon. Such was the case with my Richard.” She blinked and looked toward the window, her face paled by the sunlight. “The months passed by. We knew, both of us, what the card meant. We were careful. We were aware of strangers around us, of how dangerous crowds could be, or how deadly might be a silent street. All we could do was wait, and all I could do was pray to God that when the knife or the strangle-cord came Richard would see it in time. Do you know what it does to you, Matthew? Living in fear like that, day after day? For more than five years? Do you have any possible idea?”

  “No,” Matthew said grimly. “I don’t.”

  “I pray you never do. It erodes your humanity. It saps all joy, and extinguishes all light. And no one can help you, Matthew. No one.” She returned her gaze to him, and in that space of seconds Matthew thought she had been aged just by the memory of those terrible five years and her eyes had sunken into dark-rimmed pits. “We threw ourselves into our business. Our purpose, as Richard called it. There were more problems to be solved, more clients to be served. But always…always…the shadow of Professor Fell was there, waiting. My nerves almost went to pieces sometime during the sixth year. I’m not sure I ever really recovered. But Richard was steadfast. No, he said, he didn’t wish to leave the city. He didn’t wish to run and hide, because he wanted to be able to look at himself in the shaving mirror. And I steadied myself, as well, and went on. One goes on, because one must.” She pulled up a horrible, glassy-eyed smile and glanced at Hudson. “Listen to me prattle like a simpleton. It’s hell, getting old.”

  “You don’t have to say anything else,” Greathouse told her, but she waved his objection away.

  For a moment she stood looking down at the floor between herself
and Matthew. Beyond the window a seagull cried out as it flew by and a dog barked stridently down on the street.

  “On November the tenth. In the seventh year,” she said, in a pained and hesitant voice, “at four o’clock in the afternoon. A rainy day. Cold to the bone. Richard left the office to meet his half-brother at the Cross Keys Tavern two blocks from our door. I remember telling him I’d be along soon, after I’d finished writing a report. The case was…a missing emerald ring. Stolen by a maid named Sophie. I remember that, very clearly. I told Richard…I told him to wear his muffler, and to get some hot tea. He was suffering from a sore throat. The London chill, you know. I told him I’d be along…and he walked out the door, bound for the Cross Keys Tavern…and he never, ever got there. Not two blocks. He was not seen leaving our building. He was not seen…anywhere, by anyone.” She lifted her head to stare again out the window, and Matthew wondered just what she was seeing. She started to speak, but words failed her. After a moment she tried once more. “The morning…of November the thirteenth,” she said, “I found a package at our front door. A very small package.”

  “Katherine.” Greathouse had swiftly moved to her side and taken her elbow. “Don’t do this.”

  “It’s a history lesson,” she answered wanly. “A cautionary tale, for those who have no choice but to go on. I was saying…about the small package. Matthew, do you know the agency used to have a motto? Painted on our sign, and printed on our cards. ‘The Hands and Eyes of the Law.’”

  Matthew recalled Ashton McCaggers telling him about it, up in the coroner’s attic.

  “I should not have opened that package. I never should have.” Something broke in her voice and a tremor passed over her face. “They had left his wedding band on. Very kind of them, in their depravity. They wanted to make sure…absolutely sure…that I could recognize…what remained.” She closed her eyes. “What remained,” she said again, in nearly a whisper, and beyond the window gulls flew past as white as seafoam and someone on the street began to holler about buckets for sale.

  Mrs. Herrald had finished her story. She stood between sunlight and shadow in the room, her head bowed, and perhaps there was a dampness at her eyes or perhaps not, for Matthew thought she in her own way was a soldier, and soldiers only wept alone.

  “I was the half-brother Richard was going to meet,” Greathouse said to Matthew, as he released the woman’s elbow. “Eight years between us. Also the width of a world. He was always lamenting my choices in drink, women, and mercenary adventuring. Said I ought to turn my formidable talents to the support of the law. Formidable. Have you ever heard such shit?”

  “Shit or not,” said Mrs. Herrald sharply, as if emerging from her trance of agonized memory, “you’re here, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he answered, directly to her. “I am here.”

  “So…I presume you were going to tell me about this before Monday morning?”

  “I was going to get around to it.”

  “Monday morning?” Matthew asked. “What happens then?”

  “Then,” Mrs. Herrald replied, and now her face had regained its smooth composure and her voice had strengthened, “I walk aboard a ship and, God willing, set foot in England within ten weeks if the wind is providential.”

  “You’re going back to England?”

  “Yes, I believe that’s what I just said. I have other offices of the agency to run, and other business obligations. You and Hudson will oversee this office.”

  “He and I? By ourselves?”

  “Really, Matthew!” She frowned. “You must need a good night’s sleep! You and Hudson will do fine, by yourselves. One or two more associates may be hired later, at Hudson’s discretion, but for the time being I think things are in order. Except for this ghastly place, and once it’s scrubbed and the furniture brought in it’ll be ready for business. We’ll hang a sign, and there you are. Oh!” She looked at Hudson. “Give him the money.”

  With obvious distaste, Greathouse brought a small leather pouch from within his coat and held it toward Matthew.

  “Go on and take it,” Mrs. Herrald urged. “It’s to cover your travel expenses when you go to Philadelphia.” When Matthew hesitated, Mrs. Herrald sighed heavily and said, “Well, you do plan to go, don’t you? How else are you going to pursue this problem of the…what’s she called?”

  “The Queen,” said Greathouse, with a dark smirk. “Of the Loonhouse.”

  “They call her the Queen of Bedlam, but only in the most respectful way,” Matthew said. He took the leather pouch. “I think I’ve figured out a way to help identify her, but I’ll have to go back to the asylum first.”

  “As you please. Hudson thinks it’s wasted money and I would usually agree, but then again…sometimes a horse needs to be given its head, don’t you agree, Hudson?”

  “Yes, and a jackass sometimes needs a kick to the-”

  “Play nicely, boys,” she advised. “Matthew, I’ve given you enough money to take a packet boat from here to Philadelphia and back. That will cut the trip to one day, back and forth, instead of three or more by road. Do what you feel is necessary, but do not throw my money away on frivolities, is that clearly understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Clearly.”

  “And Hudson, in light of this information from Matthew, I want you to immediately start finding out everything you can about this Simon Chapel. Someone in the taverns may know the name, but-again-be very careful. All right?”

  “Always,” he promised.

  “Professor Fell may not be here in person,” she continued, “but if his influence is here, it’s for a reason. I shudder to think. Both of you, watch yourselves and proceed with extreme caution. I shall return, God willing, in May or thereabouts. Any questions?” She lifted her brows, looking from one man to the other.

  “I…suppose I have a question,” Matthew said. “About this office.”

  “What about it? Other than it being at the moment a spider’s paradise?”

  “Well…I was wondering…exactly what’s wrong with it.”

  “What’s wrong with it? Meaning what?”

  “Meaning…it’s a large space, with a good view and a central location. I was just wondering what must be wrong with it, since it’s not been rented in so long.”

  “Oh, that.” Mrs. Herrald smiled thinly. “Nothing’s wrong with it, except that it’s haunted.”

  “Haunted,” Matthew heard himself repeat, like a dull bell.

  “If you believe the tales. I presume you saw the bloodstains out there on the floor? The two original owners of the coffee-importing concern killed each other in an argument. One was stabbed and as he fell he evidently pushed his former partner down the stairs, where he broke his neck. Both the downstairs tenants, Mr. Leverich and Captain Donaghan, have said that on several occasions they’ve heard heavy boots on the floor and ghostly voices tangled in discord. That does tend to keep a space vacant. Oh, Hudson, that reminds me. We need to find a railing for the stairs.”

  “My thought as well,” Greathouse said. “I don’t want Corbett pushing me down the steps in an argument over who has the largest beans.”

  “I can see you two will get along famously. But most important, to the both of you…I expect professionalism and results. I expect you to go forward, even when the road is uncertain. I expect…” Mrs. Herrald hesitated, and then she offered Matthew a half-smile that overcame the last remnant of sad memory in her eyes.

  “Your best,” she said.

  There was nothing left to do here until the brush and broom finished their work and the furniture turned a vacant space into an office. Matthew’s mind was already turning away, focusing on first Westerwicke and then Philadelphia and-specifically-a lawyer named Icabod Primm.

  He felt answers-to the identity of the Queen of Bedlam, the unmasking of the Masker, and the purpose of Simon Chapel-were close at hand, but for this task he needed a good-luck charm by the name of Berry Grigsby.

  Matthew followed Hudson Greathouse and Mr
s. Herrald down to the street. As he was last out the door, he was the one who thought he heard at his back not ghostly wrangling but rather the small sigh of some watchful soul who was also intrigued by things to come.

  Thirty-Eight

  Berry leaned forward, her face radiant in the early morning light that streamed through the window. She was deep in concentration, a single furrow between her brows, her eyes fixed first on her subject and then the pad of paper held on a lap desk across her knees. The tip of her charcoal pencil was ready, but her hand was not.

  Matthew watched the copper gleam in her thick red hair, and found himself admiring the way it fell about her shoulders. Natural, without artifice. A single ivory comb served to restrain any errant curls from tumbling over her forehead. He saw her in profile from his position in the room, and wondered how that firm jawline and narrow, slightly upturned nose could have been born from Marmaduke Grigsby’s comical flesh. Matthew enjoyed looking at her. The blue eyes had taken on a hint of steel, as they surveyed and calculated. She wore today what she’d worn yesterday, a light sand-colored dress with white lace trailing along the sleeves and decorating the cuffs. Not the most comfortable attire for a day-long horseback ride, but she’d obviously had riding experience-probably in the company of that young equestrian with the broken tailbone, Matthew surmised-and had managed the trip without complaint. Wearing the round-brimmed straw hat at a sporty angle on her head and the way she kept her steed apace with Matthew’s horse Dante, she might have passed for a highwayman’s dolly. He was pleased that she’d agreed to come. It wasn’t every girl who would’ve done it, as the road between New York and the Westerwicke asylum was no easy jaunt.

  One more check between subject and paper, and then Berry’s pencil moved to make a single curved line. She had begun her portrait of the Queen of Bedlam. Matthew glanced over at the two doctors, Ramsendell and Hulzen, who stood at one side of the room watching the procedure. Hulzen was smoking his clay pipe, puffing thin clouds of smoke that drifted out the window, while Ramsendell had one arm hooked under the other elbow and his bearded chin supported by a thumb.