The Queen of Bedlam (20 page)

John Five took a long drink of his wine and then said, “I couldn’t figure who else to go to, Matthew. When Constance told me, I said she shouldn’t be worryin’. I said things would work themselves out, but…I don’t know, Matthew. It’s not gettin’ any better.”

“You ought to start at the beginning,” Matthew advised.

“She says it started back about a month ago. Late May, early June. Her father always liked to walk, around sundown. Said it helped him breathe. She never took a mind to it. But all of a sudden he was goin’ out later and later. Now it’s after ten o’clock most nights. And then when he gets back, he’s…” John hesitated, obviously uncomfortable with this direction.

“Go on,” Matthew urged. “He is what?”

“Different,” John said. He swirled the port around in his glass and drank again. “Constance said he was…is…dark-spirited when he comes back. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Does she mean he’s angry? Melancholy?”

“That, I guess. If it means sad. Or just…I don’t know…like he didn’t want to go where he went, but that he had to. Listen, Matthew.” John looked across the table at his friend, the expression in his eyes at once steadfastly serious and almost pleading. “None of this can get out. I know many around here think William Wade’s a stiff-backed Bible-thumper, but he’s never been anythin’ but kind to me. Constance loves him dearly, and accordin’ to her there could be no better father. And he’s a smart man, too. Not just about religious things, either. He goes fishin’ every chance he gets, did you know that?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yep. Got his own favorite spot up at the end of Wind Mill Lane. I’ve gone with him, of a Saturday mornin’. He can talk about anythin’ you please. He can read the weather, and he’s raised a garden back behind their house that would knock Granny Coquer flat down.”

“Really?” That was impressive, since at eighty-three years Granny Coquer-who had been all of fifteen when she arrived in Dutch New Amsterdam-was growing tomatoes, corn, beans, and melons that brought a mob to her stall at the farmers’ market.

“What I’m sayin’ is, Reverend Wade is not one of those wild men who pass through town from time to time, yellin’ ‘fear God’ at the top of their lungs and robbin’ every Peter, Paul, and Mary they can get their touch on. Do you know the type I mean?”

Matthew nodded. He very well knew that type, by the name of Exodus Jerusalem.

“William Wade is a decent man,” John said. “If he’s in some kind of trouble, it’s not of his own makin’.”

“Trouble?” Matthew frowned. “Why do you put it that way?”

“Somethin’s chewin’ him up,” came the grim response. “Constance says he can hardly sleep at night anymore. She says she hears him get up from his bed and walk in his room. Just pacin’ the boards, back and forth. Wait…here’s your food.”

The barmaid had entered again, carrying a tray on which sat a brown bowl. She put it down in front of Matthew, gave him a wooden fork and spoon, and said, “Coin or credit?”

“On my bill, Rose,” John Five said, and she shrugged as if such things mattered not a whit and exited the room, leaving Matthew with the distinct impression that this Thorn Bush’s Rose was indeed a prickly specimen.

In the bowl was a muddy-looking stew that contained elements impossible to identify. Matthew stirred the stuff around with his spoon but was unable to determine if it was mutton pie, beef brains, boiled potatoes, turnips, some combination of everything, or a cook’s surprise. He was hungry enough to try it, though, and found with a small sip that whatever it was it was smoky and peppery and really very good. So score minus for presentation, but double plus for taste. He started in on it with relish, indicating by a nod for John to continue.

“Pacin’ his room, as I said,” John went on. “One night Constance thought she heard him cry out in a bad dream. Then another night…she just plain heard him give a sob that near broke her heart.”

“I assume she’s asked him what the trouble might be?”

“She’s not exactly used that word, but she has asked. The one time he’d talk about it at all, he said everythin’ was goin’ to be fine, soon enough.”

“‘Soon enough’? That was his statement?”

John nodded. “Accordin’ to Constance, I mean. She told me he sat her down, took both her hands, looked her in the eyes, and said he knew he’d been actin’ peculiar, but she wasn’t to worry. He said it was his problem, and he had to solve it his own way. He asked her to trust him.”

Matthew took a drink of his port. “But obviously she feels this ‘problem’ hasn’t gotten any better? That he’s still worried to the point of distraction?”

“And he’s still goin’ out late at night, too. Take what happened on Tuesday night.”

Matthew stopped eating. “Deverick’s murder?”

“No, not that. On Tuesday night, near eleven o’clock, there came a knock at the reverend’s door. He told Constance to stay in her room, and he went to see who was callin’ at such an hour. She heard him talkin’ to somebody, then he got his street clothes on and told her not to worry but that he had to go out. And she said his eyes were scared, Matthew. She said it was a terrible thing, to see such fear on her father’s face.” John drank down the rest of his port and looked as if he wished he had another full glass. “When he left the house…Constance went to a window and looked out, east along Maiden Lane. She saw the reverend walkin’ with someone else carryin’ a lantern. A man, she thought. It was a man’s voice she’d heard at the door. An old man, she thought it might be. But up ahead, waitin’ with a lamp at the corner of Maiden Lane and Smith Street, was a woman.”

“A woman,” Matthew repeated. “She was sure of that?”

“She could see the woman’s gown and bonnet, but she couldn’t make out the face.”

“Hm,” Matthew said, for it was all he could think to say. He was putting together in his mind what might have happened that night. Reverend Wade and his daughter lived in a small house on Maiden Lane between Nassau and Smith streets. Artemis Vanderbrocken had knocked on the door to summon the reverend, who’d hurriedly dressed and left the house. Wade had been walking south on Smith Street in the company of Vanderbrocken and the unknown woman when behind them came the shout from Phillip Covey. Or perhaps not behind them, but nearly beside them. Perhaps they were just passing when Covey began his cry of alarm, and that was why they’d been so quick on the spot.

Interesting, Matthew thought. What had happened to the woman?

“After Reverend Wade had gone,” John continued, “it wasn’t long before Constance heard commotion goin’ on and a bell ringin’. That was at the murder scene, I suppose. She was afraid to go out. She got on her knees and prayed that her father was all right, but she couldn’t get back to sleep. He came home maybe an hour or so later and went straight to his room.”

“Did she ask where he’d been?”

“No. She wants him to tell her in his own time, and she does trust him, Matthew.”

“I see. So Constance has no idea you’re meeting with me?”

“No idea,” John said.

“May I ask then, why are you here with me? Isn’t this a betrayal of her trust for her father?”

John didn’t answer. He cast his eyes down. “I love Constance, Matthew. With all my heart. I don’t want her to be hurt. I don’t want her to know the bad things of life. The ugly things. If I can shield her from those things-or delay her from bein’ hurt, even by her own father-I’m goin’ to do my best. If he’s mixed up in somethin’ he shouldn’t be, I want to know first before Constance does. So maybe I can soften it for her. And maybe…I can help Reverend Wade get free of whatever it is, if I only can find out.” He nodded, his eyes still lowered and dark in their sockets. “If that’s betrayin’ a trust, to save a girl’s heart from bein’ broke and her soul from bein’ scarred…I’ll do it gladly, many times over.”

Matthew now had the full picture. “You don’t wish to follow Reverend Wade yourself, in case you might be seen, so you want me to follow him.”

“I do.” John looked up, hopefully. “I can pay a little money, if that would suit you.”

Matthew finished his wine but did not respond. He was thinking that if he did follow the reverend he might well discover where he and Vanderbrocken were going and why they’d lied about heading toward different destinations the night of Deverick’s murder.

“What say?” John prodded.

Matthew cleared his throat. “Do you know if the reverend went out last night?”

“Constance said he stayed home. That’s the thing, see. He’s not stayed home these last three weeks two nights in a row. Even when it’s rained, he’s gone out. That’s why she thinks he’ll be goin’ out tonight, most likely between nine-thirty and ten.”

“But she can’t be positive of the night, or of the time?”

“No, I guess not.”

Matthew didn’t have to consider very long before he said, “All right. I’ll try for tonight, between nine-thirty and ten. If I have to, I’ll wait until ten-thirty, but after that I’m going home.” He knew he’d stay until eleven or so, but he didn’t wish to sound too eager.

“Thank you, Matthew. God bless you for helping with this thing. Do you want some money?”

“No. I’ll do it to show I don’t hold a grudge.” And also, Matthew thought, to clear up his own questions about Wade and Vanderbrocken. But the woman was a new piece to the puzzle. First of all, who was she? Secondly, why had she waited at the corner of Maiden Lane and Smith Street instead of approaching the house with Dr. Vanderbrocken?

The barmaid returned with more wine, but Matthew had what he needed and was ready to go. On the way to the front where John would sign his bill of credit they went again through the gambling room, which with the passage of half-an-hour had become even more smoke-filled, crowded, and boisterous. The prostitutes in gaudy gowns and dyed wigs, their faces all but obscured by white powder, red rouge, and dark eyeshadow, roamed amid the tables seeking stacks of coins, the men who owned them being only obstacles to a purpose. Matthew didn’t see Pollard or Kippering in the room any longer, but they might have been there and just moved to a different table.

Matthew and John Five were about halfway through the room when their progress was impeded by two heavily made-up dollies who seemed to appear through the smoke alongside the dice table intent on physical ambush. One was an elder the size of Hiram Stokely and the other was a thin wraith who might have been thirteen years old. Their grins, showing black and crooked teeth, were frightening to behold. John Five held off the big-bellied one with a forearm. When the child reached for Matthew he sidestepped, got around two men who were standing in the way, and then he took a blow to the stomach when he saw Eben Ausley sitting at a card table to his left, within dice-throwing distance.

Ausley sat in the company of three other men, but Matthew didn’t recognize any of them as the stomperboys who’d gotten the better of him on Monday night. The gamblers were focused on the play as cards were being dealt. Matthew noted that Ausley’s pile of silver was the smallest of the lot, and sweat sparkled on the man’s jowls and forehead. His white wig was crooked.

As Matthew watched, more transfixed by the enemy’s presence rather than interested in the game, he saw the gamblers throw down their coins and cards, there was a great hurrah from one of the men, and Ausley scowled as if a snake had crawled out of the ale tankard on his right. Ausley blew out a big breath that might have been disgust or despair, reached for his omnipresent black notebook with its gold-ornamented cover, opened it, and began to scribble there with his string-wrapped pencil. Marking his losses, Matthew thought. May they ever increase.

Suddenly, like a feral beast sensing it was being observed, Ausley looked up from his notebook directly into Matthew’s eyes. They stared at each other through the shifting smoke while at other tables cards were played and dice tossed, winners shouted and losers cursed, prostitutes whispered and even a brown dog scurried around trying to steal a scrap.

Then, just as abruptly, Ausley dismissed him, finished his note-writing, closed the book with a little slap, and pounded the table with his hammy fist for the next round to be dealt.

Matthew also turned away. He got out to the front room, where John Five had just signed his credit for the tavern-keeper.

“I thought I’d lost you in that crowd,” John said. “Are you all right?”

“I am,” Matthew answered, “but I could use some fresh air.” He walked onto the Broad Way, his mind now turning from Eben Ausley to the task he needed to perform tonight, and John Five joined him, oblivious to the small and silent scene that had just played out.

Fifteen

Near ten o’clock, Dippen Nack stopped at the well in the middle of Maiden Lane. He put aside his lantern and short-handled pitchfork, lowered the well’s bucket, and took a drink of water, which he then followed with a tremendous gulp from a leather flask produced from under his coat. Then he retrieved his items and circled the well, swinging his lamplight back and forth over the house and storefronts with his pitchfork at the ready and calling that a decent inspection. He walked off along Maiden Lane to the west, heading in the direction of the Broad Way.

Matthew edged around the corner of Jacob Wingate’s wig shop, where he’d been hiding, to watch the insufferable little man strut away like a bantam cock. Nack was one of the constables Matthew felt gave the position a bad name. Quick to accuse an innocent citizen and quick to flee from any perceived danger, Nack also had a mean disposition. He’d been warned by several of the magistrates-among them Magistrate Powers-to refrain from filching the gaol-keeper’s keys and going into the gaol late at night to piss on the prisoners as they slept.

Keeping watch on Reverend Wade’s house was more difficult than Matthew had expected, for Nack was the second constable he’d recognized on Maiden Lane within an hour. The other one, Sylvester Coppins, had been armed with an axe. It wouldn’t do to allow himself to be seen skulking around, but fortunately there was a three-foot-wide space between Wingate’s shop and the next structure, a house, which was sufficient to hide him within its depth. Very few structures fit up exactly alongside one another on these streets, and Matthew wondered if the Masker hid from public view just in the same way, moving from concealment to concealment as he fled the murder scenes. It seemed to Matthew, though, that perhaps the constables had been instructed to walk more quickly on their rounds than usual, which meant either that Lillehorne wanted more of a display of protection for the citizens or that the constables themselves were in a hurry to keep moving. Nack’s drink of water before he downed his jolt told Matthew the man wished to stay more alert than was normal for a cowardly drunkard, even one armed with a pitchfork.

Matthew wished he at least had a lamp, but on this night he courted the dark. He might have done with a rapier or pistol, as well. Even a slingshot, for that matter. He was very aware of his lack of defenses, thus he took care to watch his back lest anything swoop on him out of the same space that gave shelter.

It was really madness to be out here, he’d thought more than once. A few citizens had gone past, several of them stumbling drunk, others striding with quick purpose to get indoors. He doubted that the bravery of the constables would last much after eleven, as the lantern candles melted down. It might be also that Reverend Wade didn’t come out tonight, for though he was a man of God he was fully cognizant of what the Devil could do.

Perhaps it was best to go home at ten-thirty, Matthew decided as his watch ticked in his pocket. Then a movement from the right caught his attention, his heart jumped, and he swiftly retreated to his hiding-place. Two gentlemen carrying lanterns and walking-sticks crossed his field of vision and continued at a brisk pace until they were beyond sight. New York was a nervous town, and Grigsby’s Earwig wasn’t even out yet. Matthew had spent some time at the Gallop after leaving John Five and had learned from the usuals there that Effrem Owles was indeed helping Grigsby with the printing tonight, a task that would likely continue into the early hours.

Time passed. Matthew thought it must nearly be ten-thirty. There’d been no movement on Maiden Lane since the two men had walked by. He crouched down to rest his legs and then stood up again a while later when his knees began to protest. By habit he looked left and right, then over his shoulder, but he kept his attention fixed on the door of the Wade house across the street and up two houses.

Eleven o’clock, he decided it must be. There wasn’t enough light here to see his watch. Just a little longer and he would call it quits.

Perhaps three minutes after he’d made that decision, he saw a candle pass by one of Reverend Wade’s front windows. He waited, now hoping that either the minister or his daughter was just moving around in the house and there would be no nocturnal journey.

But suddenly the door opened and the stiff-backed and somber figure in a black suit and black tricorn emerged from the house in the yellow circle of the punched-tin lantern he was carrying. William Wade closed the door behind him, came down the four front steps to the street, and walked past Matthew, heading east at a pace neither rapid nor what might be called languid, as Matthew pressed himself against the wig shop’s wall. Wade turned right onto Smith Street, and the pursuit had begun.

Matthew followed but gave the reverend plenty of room to get well ahead. They were alone on Smith Street as they passed, one before the other, the place where Deverick had been murdered. Matthew felt his spine crawl and imagined himself to be watched just as he watched Reverend Wade. He’d thought of taking a lantern from one of the cornerposts, but to remove town property was a crime that could result in the branding of the T on the right hand. Also he didn’t wish to show a light to his quarry. Night had never before seemed so dark, but for better or worse he was at its mercy.

He soon discovered that, murderous Masker or not, some of the town’s citizens refused to go home. Lively fiddle music came from the Cat’s Paw, just along Wall Street to the left. Across Wall Street and down near the wharfside slave market, a group of men stood outside the Cock’a’ Tail, their voices rising, tangling in argument or spirited discussion, and then fading away again. The place drew both rowdies and high-pockets, and more than one man had been killed down there in those spirited discussions over such mundanes as speculation on the prices of corn meal and whale oil.

Still Reverend Wade walked south along Smith Street and Matthew followed at a respectful distance. Several other men in groups of twos and threes passed, going in the opposite direction, but Wade kept his head lowered and his stride purposeful. Matthew as well looked into no one’s face, for anyway just about everyone he passed seemed if not drunk then at least tipsy. But no one looked into his face, either, and Matthew considered that though these nighttime ramblers played a fine game they were-as was he-gripped by fear of the unknown.

They passed the flickering lantern on the cornerpost of Sloat Lane, where Matthew had trailed Ausley to that nasty encounter on Monday night. It came to him that he was likely following the “mystery man” in black clothes and tricorn who’d paused to watch him on that occasion. Matthew wondered if the reverend had recognized him or had simply recognized some kind of danger brewing in that dark and burnt passageway. In any event, Wade’s destination that night had probably caused him to hold his tongue.

Reverend Wade turned right onto Princes Street, just past the gunsmith’s shop, and Matthew took the turn as well but at a cautious pace. They were walking west toward Broad Street and passed the Blind Eye, another infamous den of gambling that Matthew understood was one of Gardner Lillehorne’s favorite haunts. The place was still doing business, as muffled shouts from the patrons could be heard through the door above which hung a sign with a painted white-pupiled eye. As was said, whatever happened at the Blind Eye, no one saw it.

On crossing Broad Street, the reverend angled his course slightly to the south and entered narrow Petticoat Lane.

Matthew followed, noting that Wade’s pace had slowed. They went past the shuttered shops and silent houses, yet on the night air came a woman’s laughter like the sound of silver coins falling upon the cobblestones.

Standing at about the middle of Petticoat Lane, on the right-hand side of the street and separated from the surrounding structures by shoulder-high hedges, was a two-story brick house painted rose pink. It was a handsome place, originally built by a Dutch fur exporter, with tall windows under a gabled roof and two chimneys, one on each end of the house. As Matthew watched, the reverend stopped in the street directly in front of the house and stared up at it, his lantern down by his side. The wash of candles shone through the gauzy curtains that hung at the windows, and Matthew could see the movement of shadows within.

Reverend Wade remained where he was. Matthew realized the man had reached his destination, and was simply staring at the house with an expression that was impossible to read.

It was the house of Polly Blossom. Beyond those walls lived, as Matthew understood, anywhere from four to eight doxies, depending on who told the story. Madam Blossom was a hard taskmaster who groomed her ladies for their role, demanding a certain amount of work from them and a certain amount of income in return for their lodging. She herself was not above the labor in the case of special customers. Matthew knew nothing of her history, other than that she’d come from London to set up shop in 1694. Many young doves of unfortunate circumstance had lodged there, and of course a multitude of men had passed through. It was a fact of life, and hardly anyone in New York cast a bitter eye or word toward the house since Madam Blossom made a point of donating so much money to public works, such as upkeep of the wells.

But that was that and this was this: what was Reverend Wade doing here, of all places?

Matthew had the sudden horror that the reverend was going to go through the pink-painted iron gate between the hedges, climb the steps to the front door, and knock to make his entry; then Matthew would hold knowledge that would damn the man in this town. Enlightened as New York might be, it would not breach a man of God dallying with prostitutes. But abruptly the door opened, a man came out to the stoop and turned to speak to a woman behind him, and just that quickly Reverend Wade had vanished off the street. Matthew as well pressed against the doorway of the house at his back. In a moment footsteps approached, the recent customer of the Blossom enterprise walked past trailing smoke from his pipe, and Matthew thought this is where the Masker ought to stand if he wished to kill men who were half-dazed and the other half addled.

Slowly and carefully, Matthew looked out again along Petticoat Lane. The reverend was nowhere in sight. Gone, Matthew thought. But no, no…he couldn’t have just disappeared like that. Matthew waited, as about fifteen seconds passed.

Then there came a little blush of lamplight and Wade emerged from between two houses like a snail from its shell. In fact, he only showed his head and shoulders. Again, he kept the lantern well down so as to spread the light across the cobbles. He just seemed to be staring at the Blossom house as if transfixed.

Now what was the matter here? Matthew wondered. He was still terrified that he was about to witness a minister’s fall, yet if Wade was enthralled by one or more of the ladies here and he made these regular journeys then why did he not just go in?

Because there was something more than just the walk and the house, Matthew decided. There was Dr. Vanderbrocken and the woman who’d been waiting at the corner. There was urgency, and secrecy, and…

And there was the fact that Matthew saw Reverend Wade lean his head against the stones of the house beside him, saw the man cover his eyes, and heard him give a quiet yet soul-broken sob.

Matthew felt shame at witnessing this scene. He stared down at the sidewalk bricks. This whole thing had taken a bent that made him wish he’d never agreed to it. Now he was part of the secret too, and because he knew his own nature of counting the angels on the heads of pins he knew he would have to find out why Wade sobbed before a house where tears were never shed.

In another moment he heard the sound of footsteps, coming closer. The reverend was on the move again. Matthew looked up and saw Wade following his light on the other side of the street, retracing his path back the way he’d come. Matthew realized he was in danger of being revealed by the wash of light if Wade happened to lift the lantern in his direction; he flattened himself against the doorway and held his breath.

The reverend continued on, his face downcast. Whatever worry-or trouble, as John Five had expressed it-was such a burden on the man that he looked neither right nor left but passed by Matthew, who had taken the attitude of a statue. He crossed Broad Street, and only then did Matthew dare to move. From the corner Matthew watched him enter Princes Street, probably retracing his path back home.

Matthew had no more heart for following anyone this night. He wished only to go home, perhaps read something that would set him to slumber, and wake up with the sunlight. He started north on Broad Street, which was deserted except for a moving lantern a few blocks up at Wall Street. That, too, disappeared in a westerly direction.

What to do about this information weighed heavily on Matthew’s mind. When John Five wished to know where the reverend had been, what was he to say? He had no certainty that Wade went and stood before Polly Blossom’s house every night. But in this case, once was enough. What possible motive could there be for a man of God to-

A walking-stick covered with black knobs suitable to knock someone’s brains out was thrust at Matthew, who was struck hard on the left collarbone and sent reeling.

“I knew it was you! You little bastard! I knew it!”

The stick had come from the left, around the corner of Silas Jansen’s credit-and-loans office at the meeting of Broad and Barrack streets. Now behind it and into the weak light of the fading cornerpost lamp staggered Eben Ausley, who had somewhere tonight lost his wig. His face was puffed and florid. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and wet the strands of gray hair stuck to his scalp. At his side he held a lantern, the candle of which was barely a flickering nub behind the glass. His mouth twisted and he held the stick up for a more brutal blow. “I told you not to follow me, didn’t I? Damn your soul, I’ll teach you a lesson!”