Mister Slaughter (11 page)

"I have already
admitted
," Matthew spoke up, as he flicked the reins to urge a little more speed to horses that only hung their heads lower as if to beg for mercy, "that I should not have gone in that tunnel alone." He felt heat in his cheeks. "How long are you going to play this tune?"

"Until you realize you're not ready to go off risking your life foolishly. And for what? To prove a point? That you're so much smarter than everyone else?"

"It's awfully early for this." In fact, it was not much after six o'clock. Matthew was tired and cranky and wished he were anywhere on earth but sitting in this wagon beside Greathouse. By God, he'd even take the tunnel again. At least it had been quiet in there. He now knew the real meaning of torture; it was having to share a room with Greathouse at
The Constant Friend
tavern, as had been done last night in Westerwicke because the other two rooms were taken, and not being able to get to sleep before a snoring began that started like a cannon's boom and ended like a cat's squall. Long past midnight, when at last Matthew did slumber, Greathouse gave out a holler that almost made Matthew jump out of bed fearing for his life, but not even the subsequent angry knocking on the wall of the next room's occupant brought Greathouse up from his netherworld. More galling, the great one would not let this incident of the tunnel go. Danger this, and danger that, and what might have happened if it had not been a tunnel that led under the estate to the river, but instead to a cave where he could have gotten lost in the dark and been wandering until he had a beard down to his boots.
What then, Mr. Corbett
?
Do speak a little louder, I can't hear you
.

"You're right," said Greathouse after a brief reflection, which served only to make Matthew expect another volley was being loaded. "It
is
early. Have a drink." He passed over a leather flask of brandy, at which he'd already been nipping since the first threads of sunrise. Matthew took it and swallowed enough to make his eyes swim and his throat burn, and then he returned it to its owner. Greathouse corked it and slid it under the plank seat, next to the pistol. "Maybe I can't say I wouldn't have done the same. But I'm me, and I have experience at such things. Didn't you think to tie a rope to something to find your way back by?"

"It would have been a very long rope." Very long indeed. The tunnel, a natural feature of the Chapel estate, had been in Matthew's estimation almost a quarter-mile long. At one point it had descended at an alarming angle but by then Matthew could see light ahead. It had emerged from the riverside cliffs among boulders, and a path could be negotiated to the nearest woods. He surmised that not all the members of Chapel's little party had been privvy to knowing about the escape route, but that was how those particular four had gotten out.

"I don't think I'm so much smarter than everyone else," Matthew answered, to one of Greathouse's more stinging barbs.

"Sure you do. It's part of your charm. Oh, my back aches! That bed should've been arrested for attempted murder."

"You seemed to be sleeping well enough, for the most part."

"An illusion. I had a particularly bad dream."

"Really? Did you happen to be dreaming about a war between cannons and cats?"

"
What
?" Greathouse scowled. "No. It's this damned job. I don't like it."

"You were dreaming about the job?"

"No. I had a dream about . . . now, this sounds ridiculous, I know." Greathouse hesitated, reached for the flask again and held it at the ready. "I had a dream about that damned tooth."

"The tooth," Matthew repeated.

"You know. McCaggers' tooth. What he showed us. All that jabber about God and Job and monsters and . . . " The cork was pulled out and another swig of brandy went down Greathouse's throat. "All that," he said, when he'd finished.

Matthew waited, certain there would be more. He flicked the reins again, but it didn't speed the old horses a single hoof. Still, their destination was not very far ahead. The doctors, Ramsendell and Hulzen, would be expecting them at the Publick Hospital.

"I dreamed," Greathouse said, after taking a long breath as if to get his brain started again, "that I saw the monster the tooth came from. It was as big as a house, Matthew. No, bigger. As big as Trinity Church, or City Hall. Bigger yet. Its skin looked to be like black iron, still smoking from the bellows furnace. Its head was as big as a coach, and it looked at me, Matthew. Right at me. It was hungry, and it was coming for me, and I started to run." A crazed grin erupted across his face. "Ridiculous, isn't it?"

Matthew made a noise, but kept his eyes on the road as long as Greathouse looked at him.

"It came for me," Greathouse went on. "Like . . . a terrible wind. Or a force of nature. I was running across a field . . . where there were dead men lying. Or . . . pieces of men. There was nowhere to hide, and I knew the monster was going to get me. I knew it, and there was nothing I could do. It was going to get me, with those teeth. A mouthful of them, Matthew. By the hundreds. It was so huge, and so
fast
. It was coming up behind me, and I felt its breath on my neck . . . and then . . . "

Greathouse said nothing else. At last, Matthew asked, "You died?"

"I must have woken up. I don't remember. Maybe I
did
die, in the dream. I don't know. But I'll tell you what I
do
know." He started to take another drink and then thought better of it, for there was the job to be done today. "I had almost forgotten what fear is. Not being frightened, that's one thing. I mean,
fear
. What you know you don't have a chance against. That's what I felt, in the dream. And all because of that damned tooth."

"Your eel pie last night might have something to do with it. I told you it didn't smell very fresh."

"Wasn't that. All right, maybe a little. My stomach did pitch and tumble a bit. But it's this job, too. If the money wasn't so good, I would've told Lillehorne to find someone else. Surely a couple of constables would have done just as well."

"The doctors asked for us specifically," Matthew reminded him. "And who else would've come? Dippen Nack? Giles Wintergarten? I don't think so."

"The
doctors
." Greathouse gave a fierce tug at his brown woolen cap. "You know what I think of them, and their asylum. I suppose you're still visiting the lady?"

"I am. And she
is
getting better. At least she knows her own name now, and she's beginning to understand her circumstances."

"Good for her, but that doesn't change what I think of housing a bunch of lunatics out here in the woods." The wagon, as slow as it was, had left Westerwicke behind and was now moving along the forest road, which was still the Philadelphia Pike and would be called so all the forty-odd miles to that city. Up ahead, little more than a quarter mile on the right, would be the turnoff to the hospital. The sun was strengthening, casting yellow and red tendrils through the trees. Birds were singing and the air was crisp; it was a very lovely morning, save for some dark clouds to the west. "What a man must do for gold," Greathouse said, almost to himself.

Matthew didn't reply. What a man must do, indeed. He had already worked out a plan for his riches. Over the course of time he would take a few coins to Philadelphia by packet boat, and there buy some items so as to break the five-pound pieces into smaller change. He was even thinking of coming up with a new identity for himself, for his Philadelphia visits. It wouldn't do for anyone in New York to know of his sudden wealth; besides, it was no one's business but his own. He'd almost perished on that estate. Did he not deserve some reward for all he'd gone through? For now, the money was hidden in his house—not that anyone was going to get through the lock on his door, but he felt easier knowing all those gold pieces were tucked into the straw of his mattress.

Today was Wednesday. Yesterday morning, a young messenger had arrived at Number Seven Stone Street with a summons for Matthew and Greathouse to make haste to Gardner Lillehorne's office at City Hall, for the high constable had urgent business. Greathouse's reply was that neither one of them could be called like cattle from a pasture, and that if Lillehorne wished to conduct business it would be at Number Seven.

"I think you're pushing your luck with Lillehorne," Matthew had said after the messenger was gone. He picked up a broom and began to sweep the floor, as it was his usual task and—newfound riches or not—he at least wished to keep clean the area around his own desk.

"Do you? And what is he going to do to me for standing up to him?"

"He has his methods. And his connections." Matthew swept the dust into a wooden tray, which he would later dump out the pair of windows that afforded a view of New York to the northwest, and beyond the wide river, brown cliffs and golden hills of New Jersey. "You were very cavalier to him that night at the Cock'a'tail. I'm still amazed we didn't end up in the gaol, because after all was said and done we
were
breaking the law."

"Course we were. But don't fret about it. Lillehorne's not going to do anything to either one of us. Certainly not put
me
where I can't be useful
.
"

"Can't be
useful
?" Matthew stopped his sweeping and looked at Greathouse, who was leaning back in his chair with his big boots—dusty boots, too—propped up on his desk. "Meaning what?" He had a flash of insight when Greathouse just tapped his forefinger against his chin.
I have an errand to run
, Greathouse had said on Friday morning, there on Nassau Street. "You're working on something for him."

"I am."

"Something for him as high constable? Or something as an ordinary citizen?"

"A citizen, the same as any man off the street might have come up to me at Sally Almond's a week ago Monday, offered to buy me breakfast, and then asked me to consider doing him a favor. I told him favors cost money, and the larger the favor the larger the sum. We made an agreement for a favor of moderate size, and there you have it."

"And what exactly was the favor?"

"
Is
the favor," Greathouse corrected. "A work in progress, with no answer just yet." He frowned. "Why exactly should I be telling you, anyway? You didn't tell me you were riding up to the Chapel estate, did you? No, you didn't care to share with me what might have been your last trip on earth. Well, I'll tell you what! When Lillehorne gets here, you can tell him all about the tunnel. Or are you saving the story for Marmaduke and the next
Earwig?"

"I didn't go for that reason."

Greathouse wore a steely glare. "Are you absolutely sure of that?"

Matthew was about to reply in the positive, but the bottom fell out of his resolve.
Was
he absolutely sure? Had he indeed been thinking of telling Marmaduke, so as to be the centerpiece of another story? No, of course not! But . . . maybe . . . just a little bit? He stood with motes of dust shimmering in the air around him. Was it true that . . . maybe . . . just a little bit . . . he was no longer content to be only Matthew Corbett, magistrate's clerk become problem-solver, but wished the company of both wealth
and
attention? It seemed to him that attention could become as potent a drink as Skelly's apple brandy, and make one just as insensible. It seemed to him that one could be overcome by it, and without it would become as weak-willed and desperate as any half-penny drunkard. Was that part of why he'd ridden to the estate? No. Absolutely not.

But a few days ago he might have thought that if he'd ever found a bagful of gold coins, he would have first and foremost told . . . who? Berry? She had also shared the ordeal; should she not share the reward? No, no; it was complicated. Very complicated, and he would have to consider this subject again when he had a clearer head, and anyway this dust in the air was about to make him sneeze.

"I regret telling you," he said to Greathouse, in a voice as steely as the other man's glare continued to be.

"Why did you, then?'

Matthew almost told him. That maybe he'd gone into the tunnel to prove his courage, once and for all; or that he'd simply thought Greathouse would approve of his decision to go forward, and trust in his instincts. But the moment came and went and Matthew did not say any of this; instead, he said, "Because I wanted you to know I don't need a bodyguard."

"Your opinion. All I know is, Zed could help us both, if he could be taught correctly. It's a damned waste for that man to be hauling ship timbers for the rest of his life." He waved a dismissive hand at Matthew. "Now don't get me started on that, I'll have to go out and get a drink."

Matthew returned to his sweeping, thinking that it was best to let some secrets lie undisturbed.

Less than a half-hour later, Gardner Lillehorne had arrived like a burst of sunlight in his yellow suit and stockings, his yellow tricorn adorned with a small blue feather. His disposition was rather more stormy, however, and as he marched up to Greathouse's desk his face bore the scowl of a particularly dark cloud. He placed a brown envelope sealed with gray wax before Greathouse. "You're required for an official task," he said, and cast a quick glance at Matthew. "The both of you."

"What official task?" Greathouse picked up the envelope, inspected the seal, and started to open it.

Lillehorne put his black-lacquered cane against Greathouse's hand. "The envelope is to remain sealed," he said, "until you pick up the prisoner. When you take possession of him, you are to read the contents to both him and the witnesses, as a formality of official . . . " He cast about for a word. "Possession."

"You'd best rein in your runaways," Greathouse cautioned, and moved the cane aside. "What prisoner? And where is he?"

"The messenger from those two doctors said you would know. He came to my office yesterday afternoon. I have a wagon ready for you at Winekoop's stable. It's the best I can offer. The irons are ready, in the wagon. Here's the key." He reached into a pocket of that blazing and slightly-nauseating suit jacket and brought out the item, which he also placed on the desk in front of Greathouse.