Mister Slaughter

by Robert R. McCammon

  “My pride and joy,” said the inventor.

  It was a pistol, Matthew saw, with three barrels—one atop two—but only a single striker. The wooden body of the gun was black and sleek, the barrels a steely blue. Heavy in the hand, but very well-balanced. It was, he thought, awesome.

  “You prepare all three barrels at once,” Quisenhunt explained, holding his candle closer so the light jumped off the bizarre and beautiful gun. “When the first barrel is fired, you cock the striker again and a gearwheel revolves the second barrel into position. Then, when that is fired, the striker revolves the third barrel into place.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “A rotator.”

  “Ah.” Matthew was definitely impressed. “And all three of these barrels really fire, then?”

  “Well…” Quisenhunt looked down at the floor and rubbed at a stone with his shoe. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I’ve had considerable trouble with the third barrel, which fires—by my calculations—with only thirty-six percent certainty.” He shrugged. “But…there’s always room for improvement. You’ll note that the barrels all share a single flashpan, so unfortunately the shooter does have to prime the pan between shots. If you’ll open the compartment in the butt of the handle—it’s the little brass lever there—you’ll find three small paper cartridges, which hold the necessary powder for three applications to the pan. My intention with this was to speed the firing process as much as humanly possible.”

  “I’ll say.” Matthew heard himself sound like a dumbfounded schoolboy. “If you don’t mind my asking, what would something like this sell for?”

  “It’s the better-working model of two in that configuration, but I wouldn’t sell it. There’s still a lot of work to be done.”

  Reluctantly, Matthew returned the rotator to its hook. What he would have paid to have a gun like that in the woods against Slaughter! His eye was snagged by another pistol, this one with a long barrel and atop the barrel a brass cylinder that looked to be a spyglass.

  “Tyranthus Slaughter,” said the inventor suddenly. “Yes! I do recall that name. He was one of the highwaymen they caught…was it two years ago?”

  “Two years and a little over four months. You made the exploding box for that particular purpose, correct?”

  “Correct. High Constable Farraday and some of the town officials came to me to ask that I help them catch the highwaymen who were terrorizing the Pike. They knew of my interest in firearms, but…being Quakers…they wanted something non-lethal. Something that would startle the highwaymen, possibly daze them long enough to be overcome.”

  “I see. And do you always sign your work?”

  “All my finished work, yes.” Quisenhunt answered. “I’m proud of my creations.”

  Matthew took a drink of the lemon water and found it more sweet than sour. But even so, it did make the healing cut inside his mouth pucker. After his realization that Slaughter had successfully escaped Hoornbeck, Matthew hadn’t known what else to do. He could search Philadelphia, of course, and he’d already been to the stables to ask for anyone of Slaughter’s description, but essentially the trail had gone cold.

  Except for one thing.

  The exploding safebox that had held Slaughter’s ill-gotten treasure. The safebox that bore, burned across its underside, O. Quisenhunt, Phila., followed by a number: 6.

  Matthew said, “I know there’s a striker device inside the box that ignites the gunpowder. And the hammer that falls makes the gunshot sound. But tell me how someone opens the box without the striker being tripped.”

  “Simple enough. The latches operate on springs. There are two versions of the triggering mechanism. In one, if the latches are turned any way but horizontally before they’re opened, the mainspring is released and trips the striker. In the second, the latches have to be turned vertically, or the striker trips. The latches are designed to give some resistance; sort of an early warning to a potential thief, so to speak.”

  Matthew saw the intent, which was to blow smoke and sparks into the faces of the highwaymen, leading to—hopefully—a quick arrest. He recalled that the box Greathouse had opened—with some difficulty, as he remembered—had its latches turned vertically, which meant its ‘safe position’ would have been if the latches had been horizontal. Obviously, Slaughter had known which version he possessed. “How many boxes did you make?”

  “Six. The first had an unforeseen flaw and suffered a premature combustion. The second fell off a coach and was broken. The third and fourth actually were in use for several months, but never…um…served their purpose before the highwaymen were caught.”

  “And what about the fifth and sixth?”

  “I recall…I sold those, for quite a nice price. To one of my clients for whom I have also created a clock.”

  “Then you’re saying the fifth and sixth boxes were never used by anyone but this client?”

  “As far as I know. She said she had need of a thief trap herself, because she didn’t have complete trust in some of her workers. Actually, she decided to buy the pair.”

  “She?” Matthew prodded. “What’s the name?”

  “Mrs. Gemini Lovejoy,” said Quisenhunt. “She owns Paradise.”

  “Paradise,” Matthew repeated.

  “Mrs. Lovejoy owns the Paradise farm,” Quisenhunt explained. “It’s on the south side of town, a few miles out between Red Oak and Chester.”

  “A farm.” Matthew thought he must be sounding like an idiot.

  “It’s titled a farm,” said the inventor, “but Mrs. Lovejoy—a very generous, charming woman, by the way—takes care of elderly people there.”

  “Elderly people.” Stop that! Matthew told himself.

  “That’s right. It’s a place where…how shall I put this…elderly people in need of care are brought by their families, who can no longer keep them.”

  “You mean…they’re ill?”

  “Possibly that. Possibly…they are hard to handle. To control. Like children can be. Hard to feed, or to…um…well, many things. She’s told me all about it.”

  “Is this a Quaker institution?”

  “I think she receives some money from the town, if that’s what you mean. But she originated the concept. She believes it will become more popular an idea as time goes on.”

  “Quite a concept,” Matthew said quietly. He regarded the pistols again. His mild expression masked the jolting memory he’d had of Greathouse reading off Slaughter’s aliases from the article of possession that first day at the Westerwicke hospital: Count Edward Bowdewine, Lord John Finch and Earl Anthony Lovejoy.

  Lovejoy.

  Quite a coincidence, as well.

  “Listen,” Quisenhunt said, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re telling me that one of the thief traps I sold to Mrs. Lovejoy wound up in the possession of this Slaughter criminal?”

  “I am. It was number six.”

  “That’s very odd. I sold them to her…well, it’s written in my ledger upstairs but I’m sure it was long before the highwaymen were caught. And I’ve seen her many times since then, but she’s never mentioned being robbed, or the box being stolen.”

  “Yes,” Matthew agreed. “Odd.”

  “How can that be explained, then?”

  Matthew thought the question over. Turned it this way and that. And at last he posed his own question: “Do you know where I might buy a suit?”

  Twenty-Seven

  MY dear Mr. Shayne!” said the woman who rose from her chair at his entrance into the room. “So very good to meet you.” She came forward slowly and gracefully, offering her hand, and as Matthew took it and gave it the obligatory kiss he wondered if she was thinking of how she ought to kill him.

  But she was smiling warmly enough. “Sit down, won’t you?” She motioned toward the chair on the other side of the black-lacquered desk. “Opal?” This was directed to the young girl who’d shown him in. “Take Mr. Shayne’s hat and cloak, please. And bring him…what would you like, sir?
Tea? Coffee? A glass of brandy?”

  “Tea would be fine. Very strong, if you please.” He turned to glance at the serving-girl, who he imagined shot a look at his crotch. Matthew removed his newly-bought charcoal-gray cloak and dark green tricorn and gave them to the girl, who—and this was no imagining—rubbed her hip along his own as she turned to leave. Matthew thought she’d had much practice at this sort of thing, because she’d covered the maneuver with his cloak and it was over and done so quickly nothing was left but the tingle.

  “Sit down, sit down!” said Mrs. Lovejoy, motioning toward his chair. She was still smiling, still warm, and perhaps she didn’t want to kill him after all. Perhaps she knew nothing of any monster named Tyranthus Slaughter; perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for Slaughter’s possession of the sixth thief trap that Oliver Quisenhunt had made and sold to her.

  Perhaps, perhaps; but Matthew still intended to pass today as a young lawyer named Micah Shayne, and he intended to make it stick. Shayne after the name Faith Lindsay had given him, Micah after the first name of a very kind and energetic tailor on Spruce Street. The tailor had taken a look at the gold coin Matthew had offered and set to work altering a dark green suit left over in the shop when the young merchant it was going to had lost a substantial sum betting on dog-versus-rat fights out in the woods north of town. A little bringing in here and letting out there, and this dog was ready to fight.

  Two more days had passed since Matthew’s visit to the inventor’s house. A shave and a hot bath had done wonders. Also, his bruises had faded to mere murmurs of themselves, though they would still enter themselves into any conversation, and of course the plaster would remain below his left eye for awhile longer. Last night, in his room at Mrs. Angwire’s boarding house on Fifth Street, he had unwound the leather from his palms and feet and found everything sufficently healed. His thoughts went to Greathouse’s condition; he hoped the great one had been so fortunate. But now he had to think only about tomorrow, and his meeting with Gemini Lovejoy.

  Thus this cool, sunny morning he had secured a horse from the Fourth Street stable, ridden along a pleasant pastoral route with its gentle wooded hills, its rich farmfields, its wide pastures and meticulous stone walls, and just past the Speed The Plow tavern turned his mount onto a well-kept road toward the northwest. Soon enough he saw straddling the road a huge wrought-iron arch, painted white, with the word Paradise in blue letters above his head as he passed beneath. He had obviously arrived at someone’s idea of Heaven.

  “I presume we shall be feeling the first touch of winter soon,” said Mrs. Lovejoy, having seated herself across from him.

  “I’m sure,” said Matthew.

  “I do enjoy the autumn. The crispness of the air makes one feel so fresh, so alive, after the doldrums of summer.”

  “Absolutely alive.” He had seen her gaze drift over the bruises and the plaster.

  “You have a letter for me, then?”

  “Yes, madam, I do.” Matthew retrieved the envelope from an inner pocket of his coat. On the envelope, Quisenhunt had written To My Dear Gemini Lovejoy, Concerning Mr. Micah Shayne. It never hurt to have a proper introduction. Matthew gave her the envelope. Mrs. Lovejoy opened it with one quick snap from a brass blade on her tabletop and, as the lady read the letter, Matthew attempted to also read the lady.

  She was probably in her mid-forties, and very handsome in the way of a lioness. Matthew of course had never seen a lioness but he had read descriptions of them. Mrs. Lovejoy fit the bill. The proud crown of tawny hair that was pulled back from her face and arranged in a display of curls about her shoulders was probably more appropriate for the male lion, but there it was nonetheless. The gray was not so outspoken yet, though it had begun to announce itself at the temples. She was not a small woman, nor was she oversized; she had big bones, and she made no attempt to hide them by wearing a gown with voluminous folds and frills. She was dressed simply, in a very beautiful indigo-dyed gown with a puff of tasteful cream-colored ruffle at the throat and cuffs, and on her feet were sensible black shoes decorated with black ribbons.

  Matthew watched her read. She was devouring every word, and had one hand up to rest her chin upon. He could envision her, like a lioness, reclining on her throne of rocks on some African hillside, and peering into the ruddy distance for the dust trail of a weaker beast. He’d already noted that her eyes were clear green, wide-set and slightly almond-shaped, and that her jaw was square and firm and her forehead high as would befit a regal cat. Her nose was long and sharp-tipped, her mouth large enough to gnaw a bone or two. Dear God, he thought, he was thinking with Hudson Greathouse’s brain. As yet Matthew hadn’t gotten a close look at her teeth, and wasn’t sure he wanted to. She blinked slowly, taking her time. He saw she wore no rings, but on both wrists were filigreed gold bracelets.

  With the help of one of the coins Slaughter had left him after the Lindsay massacre, Matthew had made sure he would himself stand up to scrutiny. The new suit, the new cloak, the new tricorn all were necessary for the deception. The investigation, as it were. On his feet were a pair of black boots that his tailor friend had found for him from a shoemaker friend, at a reasonable price. The moccasins had had their day; when Matthew had taken them off they’d been nearly ready to fall apart.

  “Mr. Shayne,” the woman suddenly said, as if just to repeat the name. She didn’t divert her attention from the letter. “How is my friend Oliver?”

  “He’s fine. Did you know that Priscilla will be having her baby in four months?”

  “Yes, I did. I saw her at the market…oh…that was late August.” She put the letter aside with a brief and unrevealing smile. “Here’s our refreshment.”

  Opal the hip-grazing crotch-glancer had returned, bringing a silver tray that bore his cup of tea. He accepted it and the linen napkin that was also offered. In the exchange of tea and napkin he caught Opal staring right at him, her pink lips slightly parted, and he wondered who really was the lioness in the room. She was wearing a gray muslinet gown and a shapeless gray mob cap that did nothing for a woman’s charm and perhaps was meant so. Under the cap Opal’s hair was jet-black and the eyes that stared so piercingly into Matthew’s were a bright blue almost crackling with their heated appraisal. She was the proverbial mere slip of a girl, slim and wiry and standing maybe two inches more than sixty even in clunky black heels. Matthew saw small metal rings stuck through her lower lip and her right nostril. She scared the hell out of him.

  “Thank you, Opal,” said Mrs. Lovejoy, who was returning the letter to its envelope. “I won’t need you here any longer. Go to the laundry house and help there.”

  “Yes, mum.” Opal gave a quick curtsey to both of them and took the tray back through the doorway again.

  “Always something to be done,” the woman explained. “The washing, the cooking, the general maintenance. But it’s my life now, Mr. Shayne. My calling.”

  “And an admirable calling it is, according to Oliver.” He winced inwardly, and cautioned himself that it was better not to be so very damned eager.

  “Sometimes admirable, sometimes just difficult.” She tilted her head slightly, as if to examine him from a different angle. “I want you to understand that Paradise is very expensive. My guests—I always refer to them as my guests, for that’s how much I respect them—require the best in food, care and consideration. But before I quote you a one year’s fee, which would be our least expensive arrangement, let me ask you to tell me the particulars of your situation.”

  Matthew paused for a drink of tea, and then he forged ahead. “I am opening a law office after the first of the year. My wife and I will be—”

  “In Philadelphia?” she asked. “Your office?”

  “Yes. My wife and I will be moving down from New York. We have one son and another child on the way.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” He brought up a frown. “The problem is…my grandfather. He’s quite aged. Seventy-two years. Come D
ecember,” he chose to add, just for the sake of texture. He felt he was drawing a picture, as much as Berry ever did. “My grandmother has been dead these last few years, my father passed away on the voyage over, and my mother…well, my mother met a new gentleman in New York, they married and returned to England.”

  “This world,” she said, with no expression.

  “Yes, a trying place. But…the situation is that my grand-father—”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Walker,” Matthew replied.

  “An active name for an active man?”

  “Exactly.” Matthew offered a fleeting smile. He decided then was the time to touch the plaster under his eye. “Unfortunately…of late he has been too active.”

  “I was wondering. My pardon if you caught me looking.” Now there was a quick show of teeth, then gone. The clear green eyes did not smile, Matthew noted. Ever.

  He was getting nothing from her. Feeling nothing. But what had he expected? He swept his gaze around the room, as if trying to gather his next confession of the trials of this world, especially those of a young lawyer who needs to get rid of an uncomfortable cyst that pains his progress. The house, on the outside painted white with a light blue trim the exact color of the Paradise lettering, was simply a nice two-story dwelling that any lady of means might have owned. The furnishings were tasteful, the colors restrained, the windowpanes spotless and the throw rugs unsullied by a dirty boot. He wondered if Tyranthus Slaughter was lying upstairs in a bedroom right this moment, nursing his injuries. For Matthew had come to the conclusion that Lovejoys of a feather might well lie down together.

  “Not long ago he struck me,” Matthew continued. “Several times, in fact, as you can see. He’s angry about his situation, I know, but things are as they are. He’s not companionable with people, he’s surly, he can’t work, and…I have to say, I don’t like my wife and son being with him, much less the idea of a new baby coming.”