The Queen of Bedlam (50 page)

“Oh.” He hadn’t thought of that possibility, but it made diabolical sense.

“Spoken like someone who forgot to brush their brain this morning,” Mrs. Herrald said. “What indeed happened last night? You don’t seem yourself.”

Matthew shrugged. “I’m just tired, that’s all.” The understatement of the new century.

“Well, it’s likely you’re being watched in the hopes that sooner or later you’ll bring that book out. Be very careful, Matthew. These people are professionals. They leap on mistakes, and in this case a mistake can be fatal. Now I also presume you can’t directly prove any wrong-doing from this notebook, or you would have already taken it to the high constable?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you feel it would be wrong to present it to him, without this proof?”

“He wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Do you know what to do with it?”

“For now,” Matthew answered, “just to keep it safely hidden.”

“At your discretion,” she said, with a slight nod that gave her approval. She came forward until she was right in his face. Her eyes were cold. “But listen to me well, Matthew. I don’t think you know what Professor Fell and his compatriots are capable of. Have you told him the whole story, Hudson?”

“No,” came the hollow reply.

“Then I shall do the honors. My husband Richard, who founded the agency. Do you have any idea what happened to him when he came into conflict with Professor Fell?”

Matthew shook his head.

“Richard was successful in having one of the professor’s more notorious associates cast into prison charged with a scheme of arson and extortion. The man was in Newgate only three hours before he was stabbed to death by an unknown killer. Then, several days after that, Richard received the blood card. A small calling-card, with a single bloody fingerprint upon it. Might you guess for yourself what that means?”

“A death threat,” Matthew said.

“No, not a death threat. A death vow. When you receive the blood card, you might as well prepare your funeral. Nathaniel Powers knows all about it. The blood card he received caused him to uproot his family, leave a long-established law practice, and board a ship to New York. But he knows, deep down, that Professor Fell never forgets, and whether it takes one week, or one month, or one year, or ten years, that vow is going to be acted upon. Such was the case with my Richard.” She blinked and looked toward the window, her face paled by the sunlight. “The months passed by. We knew, both of us, what the card meant. We were careful. We were aware of strangers around us, of how dangerous crowds could be, or how deadly might be a silent street. All we could do was wait, and all I could do was pray to God that when the knife or the strangle-cord came Richard would see it in time. Do you know what it does to you, Matthew? Living in fear like that, day after day? For more than five years? Do you have any possible idea?”

“No,” Matthew said grimly. “I don’t.”

“I pray you never do. It erodes your humanity. It saps all joy, and extinguishes all light. And no one can help you, Matthew. No one.” She returned her gaze to him, and in that space of seconds Matthew thought she had been aged just by the memory of those terrible five years and her eyes had sunken into dark-rimmed pits. “We threw ourselves into our business. Our purpose, as Richard called it. There were more problems to be solved, more clients to be served. But always…always…the shadow of Professor Fell was there, waiting. My nerves almost went to pieces sometime during the sixth year. I’m not sure I ever really recovered. But Richard was steadfast. No, he said, he didn’t wish to leave the city. He didn’t wish to run and hide, because he wanted to be able to look at himself in the shaving mirror. And I steadied myself, as well, and went on. One goes on, because one must.” She pulled up a horrible, glassy-eyed smile and glanced at Hudson. “Listen to me prattle like a simpleton. It’s hell, getting old.”

“You don’t have to say anything else,” Greathouse told her, but she waved his objection away.

For a moment she stood looking down at the floor between herself and Matthew. Beyond the window a seagull cried out as it flew by and a dog barked stridently down on the street.

“On November the tenth. In the seventh year,” she said, in a pained and hesitant voice, “at four o’clock in the afternoon. A rainy day. Cold to the bone. Richard left the office to meet his half-brother at the Cross Keys Tavern two blocks from our door. I remember telling him I’d be along soon, after I’d finished writing a report. The case was…a missing emerald ring. Stolen by a maid named Sophie. I remember that, very clearly. I told Richard…I told him to wear his muffler, and to get some hot tea. He was suffering from a sore throat. The London chill, you know. I told him I’d be along…and he walked out the door, bound for the Cross Keys Tavern…and he never, ever got there. Not two blocks. He was not seen leaving our building. He was not seen…anywhere, by anyone.” She lifted her head to stare again out the window, and Matthew wondered just what she was seeing. She started to speak, but words failed her. After a moment she tried once more. “The morning…of November the thirteenth,” she said, “I found a package at our front door. A very small package.”

“Katherine.” Greathouse had swiftly moved to her side and taken her elbow. “Don’t do this.”

“It’s a history lesson,” she answered wanly. “A cautionary tale, for those who have no choice but to go on. I was saying…about the small package. Matthew, do you know the agency used to have a motto? Painted on our sign, and printed on our cards. ‘The Hands and Eyes of the Law.’”

Matthew recalled Ashton McCaggers telling him about it, up in the coroner’s attic.

“I should not have opened that package. I never should have.” Something broke in her voice and a tremor passed over her face. “They had left his wedding band on. Very kind of them, in their depravity. They wanted to make sure…absolutely sure…that I could recognize…what remained.” She closed her eyes. “What remained,” she said again, in nearly a whisper, and beyond the window gulls flew past as white as seafoam and someone on the street began to holler about buckets for sale.

Mrs. Herrald had finished her story. She stood between sunlight and shadow in the room, her head bowed, and perhaps there was a dampness at her eyes or perhaps not, for Matthew thought she in her own way was a soldier, and soldiers only wept alone.

“I was the half-brother Richard was going to meet,” Greathouse said to Matthew, as he released the woman’s elbow. “Eight years between us. Also the width of a world. He was always lamenting my choices in drink, women, and mercenary adventuring. Said I ought to turn my formidable talents to the support of the law. Formidable. Have you ever heard such shit?”

“Shit or not,” said Mrs. Herrald sharply, as if emerging from her trance of agonized memory, “you’re here, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered, directly to her. “I am here.”

“So…I presume you were going to tell me about this before Monday morning?”

“I was going to get around to it.”

“Monday morning?” Matthew asked. “What happens then?”

“Then,” Mrs. Herrald replied, and now her face had regained its smooth composure and her voice had strengthened, “I walk aboard a ship and, God willing, set foot in England within ten weeks if the wind is providential.”

“You’re going back to England?”

“Yes, I believe that’s what I just said. I have other offices of the agency to run, and other business obligations. You and Hudson will oversee this office.”

“He and I? By ourselves?”

“Really, Matthew!” She frowned. “You must need a good night’s sleep! You and Hudson will do fine, by yourselves. One or two more associates may be hired later, at Hudson’s discretion, but for the time being I think things are in order. Except for this ghastly place, and once it’s scrubbed and the furniture brought in it’ll be ready for business. We’ll hang a sign, and there you are. Oh!” She looked at Hudson. “Give him the money.”

With obvious distaste, Greathouse brought a small leather pouch from within his coat and held it toward Matthew.

“Go on and take it,” Mrs. Herrald urged. “It’s to cover your travel expenses when you go to Philadelphia.” When Matthew hesitated, Mrs. Herrald sighed heavily and said, “Well, you do plan to go, don’t you? How else are you going to pursue this problem of the…what’s she called?”

“The Queen,” said Greathouse, with a dark smirk. “Of the Loonhouse.”

“They call her the Queen of Bedlam, but only in the most respectful way,” Matthew said. He took the leather pouch. “I think I’ve figured out a way to help identify her, but I’ll have to go back to the asylum first.”

“As you please. Hudson thinks it’s wasted money and I would usually agree, but then again…sometimes a horse needs to be given its head, don’t you agree, Hudson?”

“Yes, and a jackass sometimes needs a kick to the-”

“Play nicely, boys,” she advised. “Matthew, I’ve given you enough money to take a packet boat from here to Philadelphia and back. That will cut the trip to one day, back and forth, instead of three or more by road. Do what you feel is necessary, but do not throw my money away on frivolities, is that clearly understood?”

“Yes, ma’am. Clearly.”

“And Hudson, in light of this information from Matthew, I want you to immediately start finding out everything you can about this Simon Chapel. Someone in the taverns may know the name, but-again-be very careful. All right?”

“Always,” he promised.

“Professor Fell may not be here in person,” she continued, “but if his influence is here, it’s for a reason. I shudder to think. Both of you, watch yourselves and proceed with extreme caution. I shall return, God willing, in May or thereabouts. Any questions?” She lifted her brows, looking from one man to the other.

“I…suppose I have a question,” Matthew said. “About this office.”

“What about it? Other than it being at the moment a spider’s paradise?”

“Well…I was wondering…exactly what’s wrong with it.”

“What’s wrong with it? Meaning what?”

“Meaning…it’s a large space, with a good view and a central location. I was just wondering what must be wrong with it, since it’s not been rented in so long.”

“Oh, that.” Mrs. Herrald smiled thinly. “Nothing’s wrong with it, except that it’s haunted.”

“Haunted,” Matthew heard himself repeat, like a dull bell.

“If you believe the tales. I presume you saw the bloodstains out there on the floor? The two original owners of the coffee-importing concern killed each other in an argument. One was stabbed and as he fell he evidently pushed his former partner down the stairs, where he broke his neck. Both the downstairs tenants, Mr. Leverich and Captain Donaghan, have said that on several occasions they’ve heard heavy boots on the floor and ghostly voices tangled in discord. That does tend to keep a space vacant. Oh, Hudson, that reminds me. We need to find a railing for the stairs.”

“My thought as well,” Greathouse said. “I don’t want Corbett pushing me down the steps in an argument over who has the largest beans.”

“I can see you two will get along famously. But most important, to the both of you…I expect professionalism and results. I expect you to go forward, even when the road is uncertain. I expect…” Mrs. Herrald hesitated, and then she offered Matthew a half-smile that overcame the last remnant of sad memory in her eyes.

“Your best,” she said.

There was nothing left to do here until the brush and broom finished their work and the furniture turned a vacant space into an office. Matthew’s mind was already turning away, focusing on first Westerwicke and then Philadelphia and-specifically-a lawyer named Icabod Primm.

He felt answers-to the identity of the Queen of Bedlam, the unmasking of the Masker, and the purpose of Simon Chapel-were close at hand, but for this task he needed a good-luck charm by the name of Berry Grigsby.

Matthew followed Hudson Greathouse and Mrs. Herrald down to the street. As he was last out the door, he was the one who thought he heard at his back not ghostly wrangling but rather the small sigh of some watchful soul who was also intrigued by things to come.

Thirty-Eight

Berry leaned forward, her face radiant in the early morning light that streamed through the window. She was deep in concentration, a single furrow between her brows, her eyes fixed first on her subject and then the pad of paper held on a lap desk across her knees. The tip of her charcoal pencil was ready, but her hand was not.

Matthew watched the copper gleam in her thick red hair, and found himself admiring the way it fell about her shoulders. Natural, without artifice. A single ivory comb served to restrain any errant curls from tumbling over her forehead. He saw her in profile from his position in the room, and wondered how that firm jawline and narrow, slightly upturned nose could have been born from Marmaduke Grigsby’s comical flesh. Matthew enjoyed looking at her. The blue eyes had taken on a hint of steel, as they surveyed and calculated. She wore today what she’d worn yesterday, a light sand-colored dress with white lace trailing along the sleeves and decorating the cuffs. Not the most comfortable attire for a day-long horseback ride, but she’d obviously had riding experience-probably in the company of that young equestrian with the broken tailbone, Matthew surmised-and had managed the trip without complaint. Wearing the round-brimmed straw hat at a sporty angle on her head and the way she kept her steed apace with Matthew’s horse Dante, she might have passed for a highwayman’s dolly. He was pleased that she’d agreed to come. It wasn’t every girl who would’ve done it, as the road between New York and the Westerwicke asylum was no easy jaunt.

One more check between subject and paper, and then Berry’s pencil moved to make a single curved line. She had begun her portrait of the Queen of Bedlam. Matthew glanced over at the two doctors, Ramsendell and Hulzen, who stood at one side of the room watching the procedure. Hulzen was smoking his clay pipe, puffing thin clouds of smoke that drifted out the window, while Ramsendell had one arm hooked under the other elbow and his bearded chin supported by a thumb.

Matthew’s watch reported the time as four minutes after eight o’clock. When he and Berry had arrived yesterday, Saturday, it had been almost dark. She hadn’t wanted to do the task by candleglow. Matthew had told the doctors that he wished to take a likeness of the lady to Philadelphia as a means of identification, and when they’d assented he’d asked if Berry could do her drawing in the morning light, as Berry had said that would be the optimum as far as getting the details down. Then he and Berry had found two rooms at the Constant Friend, eaten supper at Mrs. DePaul’s, and gone to bed equally saddle-sore but equally excited about the work to be done. In fact, a half-bottle of port had been required to unwind Matthew enough for sleep to take him.

The morning light illuminated also the face of the lady who sat mute and motionless in the high-backed dark purple chair. She stared out as before, her soft brown eyes directed toward the garden. Everyone else in the room-indeed, in the entire world-might have been a phantasm, unworthy of note. As before, her cloud of white hair was neatly brushed. Her unadorned hands gripped the armrests. She wore the pink slippers decorated with small bows. The only difference at this meeting was that her frail body was wrapped up in a silken homegown not pink as a rose but instead the color of the yellow butterflies that fluttered back and forth amid the garden’s flowers. To say she was absolutely motionless was not exactly true, for again her lips moved every so often, as if posing to herself unanswerable questions.

Berry sat where she could catch the lady’s profile, just as she’d drawn her grandfather’s.

Draw who? she’d asked at the kitchen table on Friday evening.

The face of a woman in an asylum for the mentally infirm, Matthew had told her. At Westerwicke. That would be New Jersey, a trip of about thirty miles.

An asylum? Marmaduke Grigsby had quivered, scenting a story over the smell of the chicken livers on his plate. What woman? Matthew, what secrets are you keeping from me?

No secrets. I told you I’ve joined the Herrald Agency and their purpose is the solving of problems. Well, one problem is that the doctors at this asylum wish to put an identity to an unknown woman. How to do that, without first a description? And what better description to offer than a portrait? He’d then turned his attention to the girl. I’ll pay you something, if you think you can do it.

Of course I can do it, Berry had replied. I used to go out every weekend to the park and find people to draw. If I happened to sell a portrait, more the better. What, did you think I just did the landscapes?

I don’t know about this, Grigsby had said with a scowl. It sounds dangerous. Mad people and all. And a day’s ride to New Jersey? Absolutely not! No, I refuse to give my approval.

Which actually had been for the best, since for Berry her grandfather’s disapproval was like throwing gunpowder on flames. And then, just past dawn on Saturday as they’d waited with their horses for the ferry to cross from Weehawken, came the question from Berry that Matthew had been expecting: If I’m going all this way with you to draw a madwoman in an asylum, don’t you think I should know the whole story? And not just bits and pieces of it that you gave Grandda, either. I mean everything.

Matthew hadn’t spent much time thinking it over. He realized he needed her support, more than anyone’s. Yes, he’d agreed. I do think you need to know.

During the course of their trip he’d given her the story, beginning with his obsession to bring Eben Ausley to justice. He’d told her about the ambush on Sloat Lane, about the night of Pennford Deverick’s death, about his arrival on the scene of Ausley’s murder and his subsequent chase of the Masker. He’d related the events of his being hired as an associate by the Herrald Agency and his arrangement with Mrs. Deverick to find her husband’s killer. He’d shaped for her his visit with Ashton McCaggers and his realization that the notebook was not among Ausley’s last possessions, and then described what it was like to be seized from behind by the Masker and given the book to be deciphered. The names of orphans were in the book, he’d told her, and some kind of code to distinguish them. He’d presented to her his recollections of the Queen of Bedlam, and how the lady had reacted to Deverick’s name. The Italian masks on the lady’s walls; were they some clue that tied her unknown past and her present condition to the Masker? He’d told Berry he thought the answer to many mysteries was in Philadelphia, but to have any chance of success he needed the portrait.

When Matthew had finished his recounting of events, he’d left out only two things he thought she should not know: his investigation into the agony of Reverend Wade, and his night of physical assault at the hands of Charity LeClaire. The first was private and the second was damned embarrassing.

My, Berry had said when he’d done, and Matthew couldn’t tell from her tone of voice whether she was impressed or overwhelmed. You’ve been busy.

Yes, he decided. Best to keep that business of the nymph’s itch to himself.

As Berry sketched the lady’s profile Dr. Hulzen had to take his leave to look in on the patients, but Dr. Ramsendell came nearer to watch the work progress. Matthew saw that Berry was doing an excellent rendition. The Queen was coming to life on the paper. Suddenly the lady jerked and her head swiveled to look directly at Berry, who caught her breath with a sharp surprised gasp and lifted her pencil from the sheet. There passed a few seconds of tension as the lady stared at Berry, as if to ask what the girl was doing in her parlor. Ramsendell held up a hand to tell Berry just to remain still, and then the Queen’s eyes dimmed and she turned her head to gaze again at the sunlit garden. Berry glanced quickly at Matthew for a nod of reassurance and then continued her work.

Matthew wandered quietly about the room, looking more closely at the masks and then at the painting of Venice. In the richly appointed chamber there was only the noise of birdsong and the determined scratching of Berry’s pencil. Thus he and Berry were unprepared when the lady turned her attention to her profiler once more and asked in her regal voice, “Young woman? Has the king’s reply yet arrived?”

Flustered, Berry looked for help from the doctor, who shook his head. “No, madam,” she answered cautiously.

The Queen continued to stare fixedly at Berry, but Matthew saw the lady’s eyes going glassy again, her focus returning to the mysterious inner world that claimed her hours. She said, “Come fetch me when it does,” and then, almost in a weary whisper, “He promised, and he has never broken a promise.”

Ramsendell and Matthew exchanged glances. Berry returned to her drawing. The Queen had left them, just that quickly, and was already somewhere far away.

When Berry had finished the work just as Matthew had requested, Matthew approached the lady and knelt down beside her. Ramsendell watched intently but made no motion to interfere.

“Madam?” Matthew asked. There was no response, not even the flicker of an eyelid. He tried again, in a stronger voice, “Madam?” Still nothing. He leaned in a little closer. “Pennford Deverick,” he said.

This time the Queen of Bedlam blinked. It was almost as if she’d been struck by a lash. Still, though, her expression was impassive.

“How do you know Pennford Deverick?” Matthew asked.

Nothing, this time. Not even the lash-stung blink.

Matthew wanted to press on, but he looked to Ramsendell first with raised eyebrows. The doctor nodded and said softly, “Go ahead.”

“Pennford Deverick. How do you know that name, madam?”

Did her fingers grip the armrests just a squeeze harder? Did her chin lift a fraction, and her mouth move but make no sound?

Matthew waited. If she had indeed made a response, it had now ceased. He said, “I’m trying to help you, madam. We all are. Please try to hear me, if you can. Pennford Deverick. You know the name. You know who he was. A goods broker. Please try to think…what did Pennford Deverick have to do with Philadelphia?”

The word floated out like one of the ghosts at Number Seven Stone Street: “Philadelphia.”

“Yes, madam.” Matthew was aware that Ramsendell had taken up a position on the other side of the Queen’s chair. “More specifically, and please try to listen…what did Pennford Deverick have to do with you?”

There was no answer, but Matthew saw on the Queen’s face a ripple that might have been emotion welling up from some deep and desperate place that she had locked and then lost the key to. It was just there for a fleeting second, but its presence was so terrible in the pain that surfaced in the twisted crimp of her mouth and the shock-glint of her eyes that he feared he had done more damage than good. Ramsendell saw it too, for he immediately said, “Mr. Corbett? I don’t think you should-”

“Pennford Deverick is dead,” said the Queen of Bedlam, in a strained gasp. “Never prove it now. Never.”

Matthew couldn’t let that go. His heart was pounding. “Prove what, madam?”

“The king’s reply,” she said, and now there came the glitter of tears. “He promised, he promised.” A tear broke and ran in a slow rivulet down her right cheek.

“Mr. Corbett.” Ramsendell’s voice was stern. “I think that is all.”

“One more thing, doctor. Please. One more, then we’ll be done. All right?”

“My duty is to my patient, sir.” Ramsendell leaned over to peer into the lady’s face, which except for the trail of the tear was completely blank. “I think she’s gone now, anyway.”

“May I speak one name to her? Just a name. If she responds to it, I’ll have a vital clue.” He saw that Ramsendell was hesitating. “One name, and I won’t repeat it.”

Ramsendell paused. He rubbed his beard with the edge of his hand, and then he nodded.

Matthew leaned so close to the Queen of Bedlam that he could smell her lilac soap.

He said, clearly and distinctly, “Andrew Kippering.”

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. A thunderclap? A stream of sanity flooding back into a parched mind? A gasp and cry and a sudden return to the world of reality, be it ever so torturous and full of grief?

Whatever he expected, he got nothing.

The Queen stared straight ahead. Her mouth did not move nor her eyelids flicker nor her fingers grip. She was, as Ramsendell had so aptly put it, gone.

As far as Matthew could tell, to her that was the name of a stranger. Nothing more.

He stood up. Berry was also on her feet, the paper rolled up in her hand. He let go a sigh, because he’d been so sure. There was something he was not seeing yet, but it was so very close. Something he ought to see, but was still blinded to. The king’s reply. He promised, he promised.

And the intriguing, haunting gasp: Never prove it now. Never.

“I’d best show you out,” Ramsendell said. “I wish you good luck in Philadelphia.”

“Thank you,” Matthew answered, still dazed. So close, so close. “I’ll need it,” he said, with a smile so tight he thought he might choke.