The Queen of Bedlam (53 page)

“I wouldn’t doubt it. What she went through.”

“You mean the deaths of her sons?”

“Oh no,” the woman said. Her mouth tightened. “That was bad enough, I’m sure. But I’m talking about the tragedy.”

“The tragedy,” Matthew repeated. “And this had to do with…?”

Tom had returned and had overheard this last part. “Bad luck or criminal negligence, whichever you prefer. Nothing was ever settled, one way or the other. I mean, Mr. Swanscott was held liable, and the courts took almost everything. He had business insurance, of course, but his reputation was destroyed. It was a shame, because they were both good and decent people. He was always very pleasant to me, though I never met his wife. But with five people dead and a score sick nearly to death, someone had to be held accountable.”

“Five people dead? How?”

“The bad wine,” Tom said. “It was contaminated. No one knows how, or with what. It happened at the White Stag, over on Arch Street. Just past Fourth. Of course it isn’t there now. No tavern would ever rent that space again. When did it happen?” He had directed this question to Lizbeth.

“1697,” his wife answered. “High summer.”

That date gave him pause. Matthew remembered: Joplin Pollard had said Deverick had bought a brokerage firm here in Philadelphia in 1698, except he’d made the purchase from a man named Ives who still remained the manager. Ancient history, as far as business goes.

Matthew had to ask a question, though he already knew the answer. “What was your relationship to Mr. Swanscott?”

“He was the goods broker,” came the reply, which Matthew had expected but nonetheless gave him a shudder for his realization of the depth and darkness of the pool into which he peered. “For all the taverns here. The wine, the meat, the ale…everything.”

Something Robert Deverick had said in McCaggers’ cold room now came back very sharply to Matthew: My father used to have a credo. He said business is war. And he fervently believed it.

Plus the statement Robert had made concerning his father’s credo at the Deverick house: A businessman should be a warrior, he said, and if someone dares to challenge you then…

“Destruction has to be the only response,” Matthew said, thinking aloud.

“Pardon?” Tom asked.

“Nothing. Sorry.” Matthew blinked and returned his attention to the moment. “I know this is a busy time. Might I come back later and ask you some more questions? Concerning the Swanscotts and the tragedy?”

“I’m certainly not the expert on it.” Tom busied himself filling a pitcher from one of several small wine casks behind the bar. “I’ll tell you who would be, though. Gordon Shulton still has a farm up north on the pike.”

“That’s right,” Lizbeth added. “We bought some beans and corn from him last week.”

“Two miles up the pike,” Tom continued, putting the pitcher on the bar for the serving-girl to take to a table. “Gordon can tell you the whole story. He was the Swanscotts’ longtime coachman and stable keeper. Came with them from London.”

Lizbeth picked up the portrait and examined it again. “He’ll be glad to know she’s at least alive. He was so broken-hearted when Mr. Swanscott died.”

“And how exactly did that happen?”

“No one knows for sure. Whether it was an accident, or…” She trailed off.

“Or suicide,” Tom finished for her. “It was twilight. Mr. Swanscott was obviously burdened with his troubles and the fact that he was being sued out of existence and might go to prison for criminal negligence. No one knows whether he stepped in front of the carriage horses by accident, or on purpose. There was speculation that he had insurance on his life with a London company. Mrs. Swanscott had already been ill, I heard, when it happened. She was reclusive to begin with, but after that…no one saw her anymore.”

“A tragedy.” Lizbeth shook her head. “A tragedy and a shame.” She gave the portrait of the Queen of Bedlam back to Matthew.

“Thank you,” Matthew said. “For your time and your answers.” This should be a joyful moment for him, he thought. He had the name he’d so ardently sought. Why then did he feel so sullied? “Two miles to the north, did you say?”

“I did.” Tom caught the expression of anguish that had surfaced in Matthew’s eyes. “What’s the matter?”

“I have to admit that I’m almost afraid to go to Mr. Shulton’s. You won’t understand this, but I fear that after Mr. Shulton has given me the whole story I may no longer be able to tell the difference between a murderer and an executioner.” Matthew put the drawing back into his valise and offered the puzzled couple a sad smile. “Good day.”

Part Four: The Methods of Murder

Forty-One

“Matthew!” said John Five, with as wide and free a smile as Matthew had ever seen on his friend’s face. “Good mornin’! Aren’t you the dressed-up peacock today!” Then John’s smile fell a hitch, for Matthew knew his lack of sleep on the packet boat last night showed in dark hollows beneath his eyes and a gray countenance to his flesh.

“Good morning.” Matthew had only just left the packet boat, and was still wearing his dark blue suit, waistcoat, and tricorn and toting his valise. He’d come directly here to Master Ross’ blacksmithery. In the seething heat of the forge, sparks spat and the coals glowed bright orange. John had been bending lengths of iron into pothooks on his anvil with the hammer, while the second apprentice and Master Ross were speaking to another customer across the smoke-hazed shop. “A few minutes?” Matthew asked.

“Master Ross?” John called, and the elder blacksmith saw Matthew standing there and said in a crusty growl, “Don’t you ever work?”

“Yes sir, I do my share.”

“I doubt that very much, sir. Go on then, the both of you! Three minutes, John!”

Three minutes might not be enough, Matthew thought, but he would have to take what he could. Outside, in the bright warm sunshine of Thursday morning, John squinted and clapped Matthew hard on the shoulder. “My thanks to you. I don’t know what you did, but I think you must have had a part in the reverend’s speech on Sunday. Where were you?”

“Working,” Matthew answered.

“On Sunday? I wouldn’t let the reverend hear that, if I were you. But listen, he told us the whole story on Friday night. As much as Constance and I were knocked down to find it out, we were just as relieved. I mean…havin’ a sick daughter who’s led such a life as that is one thing, but at least Reverend Wade’s not out of his mind. Not anymore, that is.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“It took courage for him to get up there and lay it all out. It’s still takin’ courage, for him to go in and see her like he’s done. You know, yesterday mornin’ he took Constance. She wanted to see her sister, and she wasn’t gonna be denied.”

“I hope that went well.”

“It did. I reckon. She hasn’t talked much about it.” John rubbed the back of his neck, as if working a muscle the hammer and anvil had perplexed. “I mean, nobody’s happy about where Grace is, and why she wants to stay there. She won’t leave it, you know. But I guess everything’ll take care of itself in time, just like the reverend said. I know he’s got a fight on his hands with some of those elders, though.”

“But not all of them, I’m sure,” Matthew said.

“No, not all, that’s true.” John cocked his head to one side. “I’d like to ask you what you knew about Grace, and when you knew it, but would you tell me?”

“I would not.”

“Didn’t think so. Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“I’d like to talk about something that does matter,” Matthew said, and his somber tone of voice made John Five draw up a frown. “About the orphanage, to be exact.”

“The orphanage? Oh, Matthew! He’s dead now. Can’t you ever let it go?”

“It’s not that. I left the orphanage in 1694, when I was fifteen. You were brought there by a parson, I recall, when you were about nine years old, and you stayed until you turned seventeen and Master Ross chose you as an apprentice. Is that correct?”

“Yes. What of it?”

“In the years from, say, 1696 to when you left, can you think of anything unusual happening there?”

“Unusual,” John repeated, with no emotion. Then he said heatedly, “Listen, Matthew, you’ve got to give this up! Forget the damned place! It’s not doin’ you a bit a’ good to-”

“Anything unusual,” Matthew plowed on, his eyes intense and perhaps a little haunted. “I’m not talking about Ausley’s personal habits now. I’m talking about something that would have required boys to leave the orphanage before they were placed with families or offered apprenticeships. Maybe some left and came back, I don’t know.” He could tell John wasn’t even trying to remember, probably because John’s own experience at the hands of Ausley wouldn’t let him go back to that terrible place even in his memory. “Please, John. Think. Something that drew the boys away from the orphanage. Maybe you even went.”

“Oh. That,” said John, who breathed a sigh of fresh relief. “That was nothin’. I wanted to go, but I didn’t have any skills they were needin’.”

“Skills? What kind of skills?”

John shrugged his heavy-set shoulders. “Readin’ and writin’. Figurin’ numbers. Copyin’ drawin’s and such. You remember Seth Barnwell? He went and came back. Said they got up in his face too much. Ran the place like an army camp. Seth wasn’t there but a few days. He went to learn how to make keys, but the hell of it was that for some reason they took a lot of fellas who liked to fight and cause mischief and after Seth got his nose busted a couple of times he’d had enough.”

“What was this place?”

“It was a trade school,” John said.

A trade school, Matthew thought grimly. Indeed. “Was it up the river about fifteen miles?”

“I think so, yes. But like I said, I never went. One of my best friends went and stayed, though. You remember Billy Hodges? That long tall drink of water? He was two or three years younger than you, I guess.”

“I remember him.” Hodges had been a smart young man, but had always been plotting intricate ways to escape the orphanage and had great dreams of being a sea captain and sailing to the West Indies.

“He applied, and they took him. You know what they took him in for? Because he had such good handwritin’. Can you believe it? They wanted him so he could learn to be a scrivener. Keep records and such, they told him. And him with that missin’ thumb.”

Matthew felt a cold shock slowly course through him. He thought his face had gone from gray to pasty-white in an instant. “Missing thumb?” he heard himself ask.

“That’s right. A year after you left, Billy was puttin’ on his shoes one day when a spider bit his left thumb. Thing was in his shoe. I saw it, wasn’t so big but it was awful black. Next thing, his thumb’s turned blue and swelled up and his whole hand’s killin’ him. It went on for a while like that, brought him to tears and he was a tough nut, too. Anyway, by the time Ausley brought a doctor, Billy’s thumb was as black as the spider. Took it off, so he wouldn’t lose the whole hand. He was all right about it, though. I think he was prouder of showin’ off the stump than he’d been of havin’ a thumb.”

“Good thing it wasn’t his scrivening hand,” Matthew said.

John grinned. “See, that’s the thing. It was his writin’ hand. He had to learn to write all over again with his right hand. Maybe that helped when he had to copy the script.”

“Copy the script? What script?”

“Oh, some men would come now and again and give us tests. You know. Doin’ numbers, copyin’ script, figurin’ out puzzles and such. They talked to us, too. Wantin’ to know all about us and our lives and so on. What we wanted for the future. Were we sad, were we angry, did we carry grudges or get in fights. A man even came a couple of times to see if any of the older boys knew how to use a sword or a dagger. He was a Prussian fella, could hardly speak English. But he could handle a sword in both hands.”

The enigmatic Count Dahlgren, Matthew thought. Not teaching Chapel how to use a sword, but instead teaching younger and more pliable students. “Whatever use would you have for a sword or dagger at a trade school?” he asked.

“One of the trades was learnin’ how to sharpen swords and knives. I reckon they wanted somebody who showed an interest in blades.”

Master Ross suddenly peered out through the entryway, and he looked none too happy. “Mr. Five, are you comin’ back to your labors anytime today?”

“Oh, yes sir. Sorry.” When the smith had gone back in, John said, “I’ve got to go. But why all this interest in the trade school? I’d nearly forgotten about it.”

“I think it was more than a trade school,” Matthew replied.

“More than a trade school? Meanin’ what?”

“Mr. Five!” came the bellow from within.

John winced. “Ouch. Well, his bark’s worse than his bite. Usually. You ought to have dinner with Constance and me one evenin’, Matthew. We’ll talk then. All right?”

Before Matthew could respond, John Five had returned to his work. He stood in the strong white sunlight. People moved about him as if he were a rock in the midst of a stream. He was thinking that Billy Hodges was now lying in a grave on John Ormond’s farm, and the young man’s last journey had not been as a sea captain but as a passenger of the river.

Matthew couldn’t help but wonder if Hodges, the plotter of daring escapes, hadn’t tried to escape the trade school, and thus brought down upon himself the judgment of the gauntlet.

He had his own work to do, and best get to it. He hurried back to Grigsby’s house by the shortest route, which was along the dockside, and found the printmaster setting out type for the next Earwig. Berry was absent. Grigsby told Matthew she’d gone out at first light to continue her landscape pictures, and then he wanted to know all about Matthew’s trip to Philadelphia and if he’d met with success.

“Not just now, Marmy,” Matthew said. “Do you think Berry would mind if I get something from her drawers?”

Grigsby’s eyes nearly popped. “Excuse me?”

“I mean her chest-of-drawers!” Matthew’s face was red. “Something I asked her to keep for me.”

“I have no opinion, it’s just my house. It’s apparent you and Berry are keeping secrets from me, so go right ahead and-” But he was mouthing to the air, for Matthew had already gone to open the bottom drawer and retrieve the notebook.

Matthew put the notebook in the inside pocket of his coat. He didn’t have a far distance to go, and then it was a short walk to City Hall and Lillehorne’s office. Chapel’s cohorts might indeed be watching him, but on this day the law would also lay eyes upon Simon Chapel.

“Back later,” Matthew told Grigsby as he went out the door.

“Go on, and don’t bother telling me anything!” Grigsby called after him, a smear of old ink already leaped across his forehead. “I’m just the broadsheet publisher!”

Matthew considered stopping at Number Seven Stone Street to see if Hudson Greathouse was available for…what would be the word?…back-up, but as he reached the Broad Way and turned south he decided against it. No, this was a more delicate issue. There was a time for flashing swords but also a time for the quiet movement of chess pieces.

He turned left onto Wall Street, passing City Hall, and then right on Broad Street. Between Barrack and Beaver, he went up three front steps to a door with a brass knocker, proclaimed himself like the hand of justice, and waited beneath the sign that read Pollard, Fitzgerald, and Kippering, Attorneys.

The door opened within a few seconds and a pallid-faced man with thinning brown hair and thick-lensed spectacles peered out, as if uncomfortable with the light of day. Matthew had always thought Bryan Fitzgerald looked like a mole.

“Good morning,” the lawyer said. Across his chest he held a sheaf of papers that had obviously just been pulled from a file cabinet. His shirt was marred by a small inkstain and his fingernails were chewed to the quick. He might be the one who did all the work and was well paid for it, Matthew recalled the widow Sherwyn saying, but Fitzgerald was probably more mule than mole. Fitzgerald adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Corbett, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir. May I come in?”

“Of course.” He stepped back as Matthew entered and then closed the door, again as if sunlight and fresh air were the enemies to solid Puritan productivity. “How may I help you?”

“I was actually hoping to see Mr. Kippering today. Is he in yet?”

“Well…he’s…” Fitzgerald cast a glance up the narrow stairs. Then he whispered, “I don’t think he went home last night.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He’s…well, I’m not sure he’s able to see a client this morning. Mr. Pollard should be back any minute. Would you care to wait for him?”

“I won’t take very long.” Matthew withdrew the notebook from his coat. “May I give this to Mr. Kippering?”

Fitzgerald reached out for it. “I’ll be glad to make sure he-”

“No, thank you,” Matthew said firmly, and gripped his fingers tight. “This is something I think he’d wish to see for-”

“Myself,” said the man who had come out of his office at the height of the stairs.

“Yes sir,” Matthew answered him, with a steady and fearless gaze. “As I’d hoped.”

Kippering did not move. He had one hand pressed against the wall beside him and the other clutching the decorative carved pineapple that topped the staircase railing. His face was masked by shadow. He wore black breeches that were shiny at the knees and the white of his stockings had faded to yellow as had his shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, but Matthew was certain it was not to welcome the energy of the day but to keep his cuffs from mopping up spilled liquor by night. Matthew figured there was a bottle or two up there, and plenty of dead ones tucked away. Kippering had killed a few of them last night, it appeared, for now he began to come slowly and unsteadily down the stairs, holding on to that railing like a lifeline.

“Bryan,” he said in a creaky, tired voice, “will you do me a great favor?”