“The papers,” Hulzen said, and Greathouse broke Lord Cornbury’s seal. Within the envelope was a trio of official parchment documents like the ones Matthew had seen every day during his duties as clerk for Magistrate Nathaniel Powers. Greathouse found the document and its copy that each needed four signatures, Hulzen briefly looked them over and then signed and Matthew added his signatures. Greathouse dipped the quill and was delivering his name on the copy as the front door suddenly opened, and when Greathouse’s hand involuntarily jumped his signature became a scrawl.
The patient—soon to be prisoner, with the adding of one more name—sauntered into the room, followed by Dr. David Ramsendell and, at a distance, Jacob.
Matthew thought the room had suddenly turned cold.
“Hm!” said the new arrival, with chilly disdain. He was staring at the transfer papers, and specifically at the three names written thereon. “Signing me over like a common criminal, are you? The shame of it!”
Greathouse looked up into the man’s face, his own expression as solid as a gravestone. “You are a common criminal, Slaughter.”
“Oh, no, sir,” came the reply, with the hint of a smile and a slight, mocking bow. His hands were clasped before him, his wrists bound together with leather cuffs secured by a padlock. “There is nothing common about me, sir. And I would appreciate that you show me due respect, and from now on refer to me as a refined gentleman ought to: Mister Slaughter.”
No one laughed. No one except Slaughter himself, who looked from Greathouse to Matthew with his pale blue eyes and began a slow, deep laughter in his throat that beat like a funeral bell.
Seven
I’M glad you can amuse yourself so easily,” said Greathouse, when Slaughter’s hollow laughter had ceased.
“I’ve had a great deal of experience in amusing myself, and in both the Quaker institution and this virtuous haven a great deal of time to think amusing thoughts. I thank you for your regard, Mr…” Slaughter took a step closer to the table, with the obvious intention of reading Greathouse’s signatures, but Greathouse quickly picked up both sheets of the transfer papers.
“Sir will do,” Greathouse told him. Slaughter smiled and again gave a brief little bow.
But then, before the tall, slim and bearded Dr. Ramsendell could come forward to take the quill that Greathouse offered, Slaughter swivelled toward Matthew and said in a light and amiable voice, “Now, you I remember very distinctly. Dr. Ramsendell spoke your name outside my window. Was that just July? It’s…” He only had to think a few seconds to bring it up. “Corbett. Yes?”
Matthew nodded, in spite of himself; there was a compelling note in Slaughter’s voice that demanded a response.
“A young dandy then, I recall. Even more of a young dandy now.”
It was true. As was his habit of presenting himself as a New York gentleman, even on a road trip, Matthew wore one of his new suits from Benjamin Owles; it was dark burgundy-red, the same color as its waistcoat. Black velvet trimmed the cuffs and lapels. His white shirt and cravat were crisp and spotless, and he wore his new black boots and a black tricorn.
“Come into some money, I see,” said Slaughter, whose face hung before Matthew’s. He winked, and said in what was nearly a whisper, “Good for you.”
How to describe the indescribable? Matthew wondered. The physical features were easy enough: Slaughter’s wide face was a mixture of gentleman and brute. His forehead slightly protruded above the straw-colored mass of eyebrows. His unruly mat of hair was the same color, maybe a hint more of red, with the sides going gray. His thick mustache was more gray than straw, and since Matthew had seen him in July the man had grown a beard that looked like the beards of many other men stitched together: here a portion of dark brown, there a red patch, here a dash of chestnut brown, beneath the fleshy lower lip a touch of silver, and upon the chin a streak of charcoal black.
He was not as large a man as Matthew remembered. He had a big barrel chest and shoulders that swelled his ashen-hued asylum clothing, yes, but his arms and legs appeared to be almost spindly. He was about the same height as Matthew, yet he stood in a crook-backed stance that testified to some malformation of the spine. His hands, however, were instruments worthy of special attention; they were abnormally large, the fingers long and knuckles knotty, the nails black with encrusted grime and grown out jagged and sharp as little blades. It was obvious that Slaughter either refused to bathe or hadn’t been offered the grace of soap and water for a long period of time, as his scaly flesh was as gray as his clothes. The smell that wafted from him made Matthew think of something dead moldering in the mud of a filthy swamp.
But for all that, Slaughter had a long, aristocratic nose with a narrow bridge and nostrils that flared ever so elegantly, as if he could not stand the stink of his own skin. His large eyes—pale blue, cold, yet not altogether humorless, with a merry sort of glint that came and went like a red signal lamp seen at a distance—were undeniably intelligent in the quick way they darted about to gather impressions just as Matthew was doing the same.
The part of Slaughter that could not be so easily described, Matthew thought, was a feeling from him of calmness, of utter disregard for whatever might be happening in this room. He didn’t seem to care a fig, yet there was something else, too; it was a confidence, perhaps ill-advised under the circumstances, but as strong as his reek. It was a statement of both strength and contempt, and this alone put Matthew’s nerves on edge. The first time Matthew had seen this man, he’d thought he was looking into the face of Satan. Now, though Slaughter was obviously more—as Ramsendell had put it on that day in July—cunning than insane, he was after all only a human being of flesh, bone, blood, hair and dirt. Possibly mostly hair and dirt, by the looks of him. The irons had no rusty links. It was going to be a long day, but not unbearable. Depending, of course, upon the direction of the breeze.
“Step aside, please,” said Ramsendell, who waited for Slaughter to obey and then came forward to sign the documents. Hulzen was puffing on his pipe, as if to fill up the room with the pungent fumes of Carolina tobacco, and Jacob stood at the door’s threshold watching as intently as anyone could who had a portion of their skull missing.
Ramsendell signed the papers. “Gentlemen?” He was addressing Greathouse and Matthew. “I appreciate your assistance in this matter. I’m sure you know that both Curtis and I have given to the Quakers our honorable decree as Christians that our patient…” He paused to correct himself, and set aside the quill. “Your prisoner,” he went on, “will be delivered to New York alive and in good health.”
“He doesn’t look too healthy as is,” Greathouse answered.
“Just so you gentlemen understand—and I am sure you do, being upright citizens—that we are not in favor of violent solutions, and so…if Mr. Slaughter perturbs you on the trip…I trust that—”
“Don’t worry, we won’t kill him.”
“Very reassuring to hear it,” said Slaughter.
Greathouse ignored him, and picked up the third sheet of parchment. “I’m supposed to read this article of possession. I gather it’s a formality.”
“Oh, do read it!” Slaughter’s teeth flashed.
“This day July third, the year of our Lord 1702,” Greathouse read, “Her Majesty’s subject Tyranthus Slaughter is charged to be removed from his present arrangement and brought to stand before the Queen’s Commission of the Peace, held for the city of London and county of Middlesex at Justice Hall in the Old Bailey, before her Majesty’s Justices, in connection with murders possibly committed by one Tod Carter, barber at Hammer’s Alley, on or about April 1686 through December 1688, the bones of eleven men and one child being found under the cellar floor by a recent tenant.” Greathouse aimed a cool gaze at Slaughter. “A child?”
“I had to have a lather-boy, didn’t I?”
“Said suspect,” Greathouse continued reading, “also charged to stand in connection with the disappearances of Anne Yancey, Mary Clark, and Sarah Goldsmi
th and the concurrent robberies of their family estates, on or about August 1689 through March 1692, under the aliases of Count Edward Bowdewine, Lord John Finch and…” He hesitated. “Earl Anthony Lovejoy?”
“I was so much younger then,” said Slaughter, with a slight shrug. “I had the imagination of youth.”
“So you don’t deny any of this?”
“I deny,” came the smooth answer, “that I am a common criminal.”
“Signed by the Right Honorable Sir William Gore, Knight Lord Mayor of the City of London, witnessed by Sir Salathiel Lovel, Knight Recorder of Said City, and the Honorable John Drake, Crown’s Constable.” Greathouse handed the parchment to Ramsendell, who took it as one might accept a dead snake, and then said to Slaughter, “I think your past has caught up with you.”
“Alas, I’m in your hands. I do presume you’ll feed me a good breakfast before we get started?”
“One thing,” Matthew said, and both doctors immediately gave him their attention. “You said the Quakers found out…Mr. Slaughter was wanted in London. How did that happen?”
“He was brought to us in August of last year, looking much as you see him now,” Ramsendell explained. “A week or so later, one of their doctors left for a business trip to London and arrived in November, where he discovered people still talking about the bones that had been found at Hammer’s Alley the month before.” Ramsendell handed the article of possession back to Greathouse and wiped his palms on his breeches. “Some witnesses had come forth and given a description of Tod Carter that was published in a broadsheet and circulated through the streets. Someone else connected him to the alias of Lord John Finch, who wore—as it was called—a patchwork beard. This was evidently a continuing story in the Gazette at that time.”
“I think I do recall reading about it,” Matthew said. He would have gotten those copies of the Gazette from ship’s passengers, which meant he’d been reading them at least three months after the fact.
“The doctor recognized Carter’s description and approached the Crown’s constable. But as I say, Slaughter was with us by then. He was…um…a little disruptive for the Quakers to handle.”
“And you’re any better?” Greathouse scoffed. “I would’ve taken a whip to him every damned day.”
“Look how they talk about you here,” said Slaughter, to no one in particular. “As if you’re part of the wallpaper.”
“Exactly why was he at the Quaker institution to begin with?” Matthew asked.
“He,” Slaughter spoke up, “was there because he was arrested on the Philadelphia Pike for highway robbery. He determined that he was not suited for confinement in the Quakers’ gloomy gaol, thus he—poor, misguided soul—should contrive to wear the costume of a lunatic and bark like a dog, which he began to do before that court of fools. Therefore, he was content to join the academy of the mad for…how long was it? Two years, four months and twelve days, if his mathematic skills have not turned to pudding.”
“That’s not quite all of it,” Hulzen said, through his pipesmoke. “He tried to escape the Quaker institution four times, assaulted two other patients and nearly bit off a doctor’s thumb.”
“He put his hand over my mouth. It was very rude.”
“Slaughter didn’t attempt anything like that here?” Greathouse asked.
“No,” said Ramsendell. “In fact, before anyone had learned about Tod Carter, he was on such good behavior that we gave him work privileges, which he unfortunately repaid by trying to strangle poor Mariah, back at the red barn.” There was a road leading to some outbuildings behind the hospital, as Matthew knew from his previous visits. “But he was caught in time, and properly punished.”
Greathouse’s mouth curved into a sneer. “What did you do to him? Take away his scented soap?”
“No, we put him into solitary confinement until it was determined he could rejoin the others. He’d only been out a few days before you two saw his face at the window. By then we’d had a visit from the Quakers, who’d received a letter from their doctor in London addressed to me and explaining the situation. After that, he was kept apart.”
“He should’ve been torn apart,” was Greathouse’s summary.
Matthew regarded Slaughter with a furrowed brow, as more questions were nettling him. “Do you have a wife? Any family?”
“No to both.”
“Where were you living before you were arrested?”
“Here and there. Mostly there.”
“And you worked where?”
“The road, Mr. Corbett. My partner and I did quite well, living on our wits and the treasure of travellers. God rest William Rattison’s soul.”
“His accomplice,” Hulzen said, “was shot down during their last attempt at robbery. Evidently even the Quakers have their limit of patience, and they planted armed constables on one of the coaches between Philadelphia and New York.”
“Tell me,” Matthew said, again to Slaughter. “Did you and Rattison kill anyone while you were…living on your wits?”
“We did not. Oh, Ratsy and I bumped a head occasionally, when someone grew mouthy. Murder was not the intent; it was the money.”
Matthew rubbed his chin. Something still bothered him about all this. “So you elected to enter a madhouse for the rest of your life as opposed to standing before a judge and receiving a sentence of…oh…a brand on the hand and three years, say? I assume that was because you decided a madhouse would be easier to escape from? And why are you now so eager to leave this place that you don’t even bother to deny the charges? I mean, the Quaker doctor could be mistaken.”
Slaughter’s smile emerged once more, and then slowly faded. The distant expression of his eyes never changed. “The truth,” he said, “is that I never lie to men who are not fools.”
“You mean you don’t lie to men who can’t be fooled,” said Greathouse.
“I mean what I said. I am going to be taken from this place, no matter what. Put on a ship and sent to England. Walked before the court, identified by witnesses, badgered to point to the graves of three very lovely but very stupid young ladies, prodded into Newgate, and laughed by a slobbering mob up the gallows steps. No matter what. Why should I be less than truthful, and sully my honor before such professionals as yourselves?”
“Or is it,” Matthew suggested, “that you fully believe yourself capable of escaping from us on the road? Even from such professionals as ourselves?”
“It…is a thought. But, dear sir, never blame the wind for wishing to blow.”
Greathouse returned the article of possession and their copy of the transfer document to the envelope. “We’ll take him now,” he said, rather grimly. “There’s a matter of money.”
“Oh, isn’t there always,” was Slaughter’s quick comment.
Ramsendell went to one of the desks, opened a drawer and brought out a little cloth bag. “Two pounds, I believe. Count it, if you like.”
Matthew could tell Greathouse was sorely tempted to do so when the bag was put into his palm, but the great one’s desire to make haste from the asylum clearly won out. “Not necessary. Out,” he commanded the prisoner, and motioned toward the door.
When they were outside and walking to the wagon, Slaughter first, followed by Greathouse, then Matthew and the doctors, a cacophony of hooting and hollering came from the windows of the central building, where pallid faces pressed against the bars. Greathouse kept his eyes fixed on Slaughter’s back. Suddenly, Jacob was walking right up beside Greathouse and the poor man said hopefully, “Have you come to take me home?”
With a sudden intake of breath, Slaughter turned. His hands still clasped together and bound by the leather cuffs, he took a single step forward that brought him face-to-face with Jacob.
Greathouse froze, and behind him Matthew’s knees also locked.
“Dear Jacob,” said Slaughter in a soft, gentle voice, as the red glint flared in his eyes. “No one is coming to take you home. Not today, not tomorrow, not the next day. You wil
l stay here for the rest of your life, and here you will die. Because, dear Jacob, you have been forgotten, and no one is ever coming to take you home.”
Jacob wore a half-smile. He said, “I hear…” And then something must have gotten through into his head that was not music, for the smile cracked as surely as his skull must have broken on the fateful day of his accident. His eyes were wide and shocked, as if they remembered the whipsaw coming at him, yet he knew that to see it coming was already a lifetime too late. His mouth opened, the face went slack and as pallid as those that screamed behind the bars. Instantly Dr. Hulzen had come forward to put his hand first on the man’s arm, and then his arm around the man’s shoulder. Hulzen said close to his ear, “Come, Jacob. Come along, we’ll have some tea. All right?” Jacob allowed himself to be pulled away, his expression blank.
Slaughter watched them go, and Matthew saw his chin lift with pride at a job well done.
“Take your shoes off,” said Greathouse, his voice husky.
“Pardon, sir?”
“Your shoes. Off. Now.”
With some difficulty because of the leather cuffs, Slaughter removed them. His dirty feet with their gnarled yellow nails did not make a pleasant sight, nor did the air remain unsullied.
“Drop them in the trough,” Greathouse told him.
Slaughter shot a glance at Ramsendell, who made no effort to interfere. The papers had been signed and the money changed hands; he was quits with the fiend.
Slaughter walked to the horse trough. He dropped his shoes into the water one after the other.
“It’s not I mind it so much,” he said, “but I do pity the poor horses.” And he gave Greathouse the smile of a wounded saint.
Greathouse pushed Slaughter to the wagon. Then he took the pistol from underneath the seat, cocked it and, standing behind the prisoner, put the barrel against Slaughter’s left shoulder. “Dr. Ramsendell, I presume he’s been thoroughly checked for hidden weapons?”
Mister Slaughter Page 10
