As Mrs. Herrald had told Matthew at dinner one night, back in midsummer when she’d offered him a position as a “problem-solver” with the agency her husband Richard had founded in London, You can be sure, Matthew, that the criminal element of not only England but also greater Europe is looking in this direction, and has already seen the potential. Whatever it might be: kidnapping, forgery, public and private theft, murder for hire. Domination of the mind and spirit, thereby to gain illicit profit. I could give you a list of the names of individual criminals who will most likely be lured here at some time or another, but it’s not those petty thugs who concern me. It’s the society that thrives underground, that pulls the marionette strings. The very powerful and very deadly group of men—and women—who even now are sitting at dinner just as we are, but they hold carving knives over a map of the new world and their appetites are ravenous.
So true, Matthew thought. He’d already come into contact with the man who held the largest knife, and sometimes in dark moments he imagined its blade pressing against his neck.
Greathouse put his cup down. He said, “Zed is a ga.”
Matthew was sure he hadn’t heard correctly. “A ga?”
“A ga,” Greathouse answered. His gaze ticked to one side. “Here’s Evelyn.”
Evelyn Shelton, one of the tavern’s two waitresses, was approaching their table. She had sparkling green eyes and blonde hair like a combed cloud, and as she was also a dancing instructress she was quite nimble on her feet at negotiating the morning crowd. Ivory and copper bracelets clicked and jingled on her wrists. “Matthew!” she said with a wide smile. “What might I get you?”
A new set of ears, he thought, as he still couldn’t comprehend what a “ga” was. “Oh, I don’t know. Do you have cracknel today?”
“Fresh baked.”
“You might try the hot sausage,” Greathouse urged as he chewed into another of the links. “Tell him how they’ll make a man out of him, Evelyn.”
Her laugh was like the ascending peal of glass bells. “Oh, they’re spicy all right! But they go down the gullet so fast we can’t keep ’em in stock! Only have ’em a few days a month as is, so if you want ’em you’d best get your order in!”
“I’ll leave the fiery spice to Mr. Greathouse,” Matthew decided. “I’ll have the cracknel, a small bowl of rockahominy, some bacon and cider, thank you.” He returned his attention across the table when the waitress had gone. “What exactly is a ga?”
“The Ga tribe. Whew, this is hot!” He had to blot his forehead with his napkin. “Damn tasty, though. Zed is a member of the Ga tribe. From the West African coast. I thought he might be, when you first described to me those scars on his face. They’re given to some of the children at a very young age. Those determined to be suitable for training as warriors.” He drank more tea, but obviously the sausage was compelling for he started immediately in on it again. “When I saw the scars for myself, the next step was finding out how well Zed could fight. I think he handled the situation very competently, don’t you?”
“I think you could have been responsible for his death,” Matthew said grimly. “And ours, as well.”
“Shows how much you know. Ga warriors are among the finest hand-to-hand fighters in the world. Also, they have a reputation for being fearless. If anything, Zed held himself back last night. He could’ve broken the neck of every man in there and never raised a sweat.”
“If that’s so,” Matthew said, “then why is he a slave? I’d think such a fearless warrior would have resisted the slaver’s rope just a little bit.”
“Ah.” Greathouse nodded and chewed. “There you have a good point, which is exactly why I arranged with McCaggers to test him. It’s very rare to find a Ga as a slave. See, McCaggers doesn’t know what he’s got. McCaggers wanted the biggest slave he could buy, to move corpses for him. He didn’t know he was buying a fighting machine. But I needed to know just what Zed could do, and it seemed to me that the Cock’a’tail was the place to do it in.”
“And your reasoning why this…fighting machine became a slave, and why he just didn’t fight his way out of his predicament?”
Greathouse ate a bite of corncake and tapped his fork quietly against the platter. It was of interest to Matthew, as he waited for Greathouse to speak, that Sally Almond had bought all her plates and cups in that popular color called “Indian Blood” from Hiram Stokely, who’d begun to experiment with different glazes after rebuilding his pottery shop. Due to the rampage of Brutus the bull, the Stokely pottery was now doing twice the business it ever had.
“What put him in his predicament, as you call it,” Greathouse finally replied, “will probably always be unknown. But I’d say that even one of the finest warriors in the world might be hit from behind by a cudgel, or trapped in a net and smothered down by six or seven men, or even have to make the choice to sacrifice himself that someone else might escape the chains. His people are fishermen, with a long heritage of seafaring. He might have been caught on a boat, with nowhere to go. I’d say he might have lost his tongue because he wouldn’t give up the fight, and it was explained to him by some tender slaver that another body part would be the next sliced off. All possibilities, but as I say we’ll likely never know.”
“I’m surprised, then, that he just hasn’t killed McCaggers and run for it.”
“Now why would he want to do that?” Greathouse regarded Matthew as if he were looking at an imbecile. “Where would he go? And what would the point be? From my observation, McCaggers has been kind to him and Zed has responded by being as loyal…” He paused, hunting his compass. “As loyal as a slave needs to be, given the situation. Also, it shows that Zed is intelligent. If he weren’t, I’d have no interest in him. I wouldn’t have paid the money for Benjamin Owles to sew him a decent suit, either.”
“What?” Now this was getting serious. Greathouse had actually paid money for a suit? To be worn by McCaggers’ slave? When he’d righted his senses, Matthew said, “Would you care to explain—as reasonably and rationally as possible—exactly why you have enough interest in Zed to entertain hiring him for the agency? Or was I dreaming that part of it?”
“No, you weren’t dreaming. Here’s your breakfast.”
Evelyn had arrived bearing a tray with Matthew’s food. She also showed an empty burlap bag, marked in red paint Mrs. Sutch’s Sausages and, below that, the legend ‘Sutch A Pleasure’, to the other patrons in the room. “All out, kind friends!” Her announcement brought a chorus of boos and jeers, though in good nature. “We ought to be getting another shipment next month, which we’ll post on the board outside.”
“A popular item,” Matthew remarked as Evelyn put his platter down before him.
“They refuse to believe it’s gone until they see with their own eyes. If this lady didn’t live so far away in Pennsylvania, I think Sally would go into business with her. But, anyway,” she shrugged, “it’s all in the spices. Anything else I can get for you?”
“No, this looks fine, thank you.” When Evelyn retreated again and the hubbub died down, Matthew stared across the table into Greathouse’s eyes as the man continued eating. “You can’t actually be serious about hiring Zed.”
“I’m absolutely serious. And as I have the authority from Katherine to make decisions in her absence, I intend to put things into motion right away.”
“Things into motion? What does that mean?”
Greathouse finished all but a last bite of the sausage, which he obviously intended to savor when he’d gone through his corncakes. “First, the agency has to arrange to buy him from McCaggers.”
“To buy him?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. I swear, Matthew! Aren’t you getting enough sleep? Don’t things get into your head the first time these days?” Greathouse gave a wicked little grin. “Oh, ho! You’re up late tripping the moonlight with Grigsby’s granddaughter, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely not!”
“Well, you say one thing and your blush
says another.”
“Berry and I are friends,” Matthew said, in what he realized was a very tight and careful voice. “That’s all.”
Greathouse grunted. “I’d say two people running for their lives together across a vineyard either never want to see each other again or become more than friends. But I’m glad you brought her up.”
“Me? I didn’t bring her up!” For emphasis, he crunched his teeth down on a piece of the cracknel.
“She figures in my plan,” Greathouse said. “I want to buy Zed from McCaggers, and I want to petition Lord Cornbury for a writ declaring Zed a freed man.”
“A free—” Matthew stopped himself, for surely he did feel a bit thick-headed today. “And I suppose McCaggers will gladly sell you the slave he depends upon to do such a vital work?”
“I haven’t yet approached McCaggers with this idea. Now bear with me.” He chewed down the last bite of sausage, and again he reached for the tea. When that didn’t do the trick, he plucked up Matthew’s cider and drank half of it. “That jingo business you went out on. Walking into that den of thieves, and casting yourself as a foppish gambler. Well, the foppish part was true enough, but you really put yourself in danger there, Matthew, and don’t pretend you didn’t. If I’d known you were accepting a task like that, I’d have gone with you.”
“You were fully occupied elsewhere,” Matthew said, referring to the problem of Dr. Coffin that had taken Greathouse across the river to New Jersey. “And as I interpret the scope of my profession, I am free to accept or reject clients without your approval.”
“Exactly so. Which is why you need someone to watch your back. I paid McCaggers a fee to allow Zed to dress up in the suit I bought for him and to come to the Cock’a’tail. I told him Zed would be in no danger, which is true when you consider what he can do.”
“But you didn’t know it was true. He had yet to prove himself.” Matthew returned to the statement that had caused him to cease crunching his cracknell. “Someone to watch my back? You mean Zed would be my bodyguard?”
“Don’t fly off the handle, now. Just listen. Do you know what instructions I asked McCaggers to give Zed last night? To protect the both of us, and to protect himself. I was ready to reach in if anything went wrong.”
“Yes,” Matthew said, with a nod. “That reach of yours almost got your hand chopped off.”
“Everybody knows about that axe Skelly keeps behind the bar! I’m not stupid, Matthew!”
“Neither am I,” came the calm but heated response. “Nor do I need a bodyguard. Hasn’t it occurred to you that being in the company of a slave might cause more trouble than simply walking into a place—a den of thieves, as you say—and relying on your wits to resolve the problem? And I appreciate the fact that Zed is fearless. An admirable quality, I’m sure. But sometimes fearless and careless walk hand-in-hand.”
“Yes, and sometimes smart and stubborn walk ass-in-hand, too!” said Greathouse. It was hard to tell whether it was anger or sausages flaming his cheeks, but for a few seconds a red glint lingered deep in the man’s eyes; it was the same sort of warning Matthew occasionally saw when they were at rapier practice and Greathouse forgot where he was, placing himself mentally for a dangerous passing moment on the fields of war and the alleyways of intrigue that had both seasoned and scarred him. In those times, Matthew counted himself lucky not to be skewered, for though he was becoming more accomplished at defending his skin he would never be more than an amateur swordsman. Matthew said nothing. He cast his gaze aside and drank some cider, waiting for the older warrior to return from the bloodied corridors.
Greathouse worked his knuckles. His fists are already big enough, Matthew thought.
“Katherine has great hopes for you,” Greathouse said, in a quieter tone of conciliation. “I absolutely agree that there should be no boundaries on what clients you accept or reject. And certainly, as she told you, this can be a dangerous—and potentially fatal—profession.” He paused, still working his knuckles. It took him a moment to say what he was really getting at. “I can’t be with you all the time, and I’d hate for your gravestone to have the year 1702 marked on it.”
“I don’t need a—” Matthew abruptly stopped speaking. He felt a darkness coming up around him, like a black cloak here amid these oblivious breakfast patrons of Sally Almond’s. He knew this darkness very well. It was a fear that came on him without warning, made his heart beat harder and raised pinpricks of sweat at his temples. It had to do with a small white card marked with a bloody fingerprint. The card was in the writing desk in his home, what used to be the dairyhouse behind Marmaduke Grigsby’s abode. Of this card, which had been delivered to his door by an unknown prowler after his adventure involving the Queen of Bedlam, Matthew had said nothing to any other person. He didn’t wish Berry to know, and certainly not her grandfather with his ready quill and ink-stained fingers. Though Matthew had almost told Greathouse on several occasions he’d decided to close his mouth and shrug the darkness off as best he could. Which at times was a formidable task.
The card was a death-threat. No, not a threat. A promise. It was the same type of card that had been delivered to Richard Herrald, Greathouse’s own half-brother, and after seven years the promise came true with his hideous murder. It was the same type of card that had been delivered to Magistrate Nathaniel Powers, whom Matthew had clerked for and who had brought Matthew and Katherine Herrald together. The death promise yet lingered over Powers, who had left New York with his family during the summer and gone to the Carolina colony to help his brother Durham manage Lord Kent’s tobacco plantation.
It was a promise of death, this year or next, or the next year or the one after that. When this card was marked with a bloody fingerprint and sent to its victim, there could be no escape from the hand of Professor—
“Are you going to eat your rockahominy?” Greathouse asked. “It’s lousy when it’s cold.”
Matthew shook his head, and Greathouse took the bowl.
After a moment during which the great man nearly cleaned all the rockahominy out of the bowl with four swipes of a spoon, Matthew’s darkness subsided as it always did. His heartbeat returned to normal, the little pricklings of sweat evaporated and he sat calmly, with a blank expression on his face. No one was ever the wiser about how close they might be sitting to a young man who felt a horrific death chasing him down step after step, in a pursuit that might go on for years…or might end with a blade to the back on the Broad Way, this very evening.
“Where are you?”
Matthew blinked. Greathouse pushed the bowl aside. “You went somewhere,” he said. “Any address that I might know?”
“I was thinking about Zed,” Matthew told him, and managed to make it sound convincing.
“Think all you like,” came the quick reply, “but I’ve made the decision. It is absurd for a man of Zed’s talent to be limited to hauling corpses around. I tell you, I’ve seen a lot of slaves but I’ve never seen a Ga in slavery before, and if there’s a chance I can buy him from McCaggers, you can be sure I’m going to make the offer.”
“And then go about setting him free?”
“Exactly. As was pointed out last night, it’s against the law for slaves to enter taverns. What good would Zed be to us, if he couldn’t enter where by necessity he might need to go?” Greathouse began to fish in a pocket for his money. “Besides, I don’t like the idea of keeping a slave. It’s against my religion. So, since there are several freedmen in New York, including the barber Micah Reynaud, there is a precedent to be followed. Put your money up, I’ll call Evelyn over.” He raised a hand for the waitress and the bill.
“A precedent, yes,” Matthew agreed, “but every slave granted manumission was so approved before Lord Cornbury came. I’m wondering if he can be induced to sign a writ.”
“First things first. Put your money up. You’re done, aren’t you?”
Matthew’s hesitation spoke volumes, and Greathouse leaned back in his chair with a whuff of e
xhaled breath. “Don’t tell me you have no money. Again.”
“I won’t, then.” Matthew almost shrugged but he decided it would be risking Greathouse’s wrath, which was not pretty.
“I shouldn’t stand for you,” Greathouse said as Evelyn came to the table. “This will be the third time in a week.” He smiled tightly at the waitress as he took the bill, looked it over and paid her the money. “Thank you, dear,” he told her. “Don’t take any wooden duits.”
She gave that little bell-like laugh and went about her business.
“You’re spending too much on your damned clothes,” Greathouse said, standing up from his chair. “What’s got your money now? Those new boots?”
Matthew also stood up and retrieved his tricorn from its hook. “I’ve had expenses.” The boots were to be paid off in four installments. He was half paid on his most recent suit, and still owed money on some shirts from Benjamin Owles. But they were such fine shirts, in chalk white and bird’s-egg blue with frills on the front and cuffs. Again, the latest fashion as worn by young men of means. Why should I not have them, he thought, if I wish to make a good impression!
“Your business is your business,” Greathouse said as they walked through the tavern toward the door. “Until it starts taking money out of my pocket. I’m keeping count of all this, you know.”
They were nearly at the door when a middle-aged woman with thickly-curled gray hair under a purple hat and an exuberant, sharp-nosed face rose from the table she shared with two other ladies to catch Matthew’s sleeve. “Oh, Mr. Corbett! A word, please!”
“Yes, madam?” He knew Mrs. Iris Garrow, wife of Stephen Garrow the Duke Street horn merchant.
“I wanted to ask if you might sign another copy of the Earwig for me, at your convenience? Sorry to say, Stephen accidentally used the first copy I had to kill a cockroach, and I’ve boxed his ears for it!”
Mister Slaughter Page 4
