Part 4 (2/2)

A gasp went up that might have been heard 'round the world. Matthew knew Effrem had asked the question in all sincerity; it was not the younger man's nature to show cruelty or ill-will, but his vice-if such could be called-was a plain-spoken curiosity that sometimes rivaled even Matthew's.

”Ah.” Lord Cornbury lifted a gloved and ringed finger. ”Ah, that. Thank you for asking, Mr. Owles. I do understand how some-many, even-might not fathom my attire today. I am not always dressed so, but I decided that I should today at our first meeting show my respect and solidarity of spirit with the royal lady who has given me this wonderful opportunity to represent her interests so far from the mother sh.o.r.e.”

”You mean-” Effrem began.

”Yes,” Lord Cornbury said, ”my cousin-”

”The Queen,” supplied some harsh-voiced rascal from back amid the mob.

”There you have it.” The governor smiled at his citizens as if he were the very sun. ”Now I must retire from you and go about my business. Your business, of course. I promise to obey your call and your needs, as much as is humanly possible. Never let it be said that Edward Hyde is not responsive to the people. Good day, all of you, and I trust that at our next meeting we shall all have progress to report. Good day, gentlemen,” he said to the aldermen, and with a sharp turn he made his way back toward the door and out of the chamber, leaving voices both calling and cat-calling, and Matthew wondering how many hours it had taken the man to practice flouncing in that gown. The crier, still visibly shaken, managed to croak that the meeting was ended and G.o.d save Queen Anne and the town of New York.

”That's that,” said Magistrate Powers, which suitably summed everything up.

On his way out through the converging crowd, which seemed torn between near-hysterical laughter and sheer speechless shock, Matthew caught Effrem's eye and gave a lift of the chin that said Good question. Then with the next step he was aware of the sweet scent of flowers and Polly Blossom was pa.s.sing him, leaving her provocative perfume up his nostrils. No sooner was she past than Matthew's forward progress was stopped by a silver lion's head pressed firmly against his collarbone.

Up close, Gardner Lillehorne was not a large man. In fact, he was three inches shorter than Matthew and wore too-large suits that did not hide his spindly frame but served to hang from it like baggy was.h.i.+ng on a clothesline. His face was long and thin, accentuated by the precisely trimmed black goatee and mustache. He did not wear wigs, yet the blue sheen of his black hair pulled back with a dark purple ribbon suggested artificiality, at least for the season's latest dye from India. His nose was small and pointed, his lips like those of a painted doll's, his fingers small and his hands almost childlike. Nothing about him at close range was large or imposing, which Matthew thought had to do with why he was never likely to be granted a mayors.h.i.+p or governor's charter; the big, sprawling English empire liked big, sprawling men as their leaders.

At least Lord Cornbury appeared to be a large man, under the dress. That was an area Matthew wished not to think about too much. Yet at this moment, for all his near-diminutive stature, High Constable Lillehorne appeared to have filled his guts and lungs and fleshy cavities with angry bile, for he seemed swollen to twice his size. Matthew had once, as an urchin living on the waterfront before he'd gone to the orphanage, captured a small gray frog that in his hand expanded itself until it was twicefold all slippery slick skin, pulsating warts, and glaring enraged black eyes as big as duit coppers. Looking upon Lillehorne reminded Matthew of this maddened toad, which had promptly squirted his hand with p.i.s.s and jumped into the East River.

”How very kind of you,” said the goateed and livid puffer, in a quiet voice strained through clenched teeth. ”How very, very decent of you...Magistrate Powers.”

Matthew realized that, though Lillehorne was staring daggers at him, the high constable was addressing Powers at his right side.

”To ambush me in such a fas.h.i.+on, before the new governor. I knew you wished me out of a job, Nathaniel, but to use a clerk as your weapon of removal...it doesn't suit a gentleman like yourself.”

”I heard Matthew's suggestions the same as you,” Powers said. ”They were his own.”

”Oh, of course they were. For certain. You know what Princess said to me, just this morning? She said, 'Gardner, I hope the new governor will s.h.i.+ne a little light on you, and possibly report back to the Queen herself what a good job you're doing in a thankless situation.' Can't you see her face as she said that, Nathaniel?”

”I suppose,” came the answer. Matthew knew that, though the true name of Lillehorne's rather socially voracious wife was Maude, she preferred to be called ”Princess,” since her father was known in London as the ”Duke of Clams” after his sh.e.l.lfish eating-house on East Cheap Street.

”You and I have had our differences over one case or another, but I hardly expected this. And to hide behind a boy!”

”Sir?” Matthew had decided to stand firm, though the lion's head was trying to shove him off-balance. ”The magistrate had nothing to do with this. I spoke for myself, pure and simply.”

Lillehorne produced a mocking half-smile. ”Pure? I doubt it. Simple-minded, yes. The time wasn't right to bring this issue to the forefront. I have the governor's ear, I could make these changes in our system gradually.”

”We might not be able to wait for such gradual change,” Matthew said. ”Time and the criminal element may overtake us, and whatever system you believe we have.”

”You are an impudent fool.” Lillehorne gave Matthew's chest a painful thrust with the cane and then, thinking better of any further public display, brought the instrument down to his side. ”And don't think I won't be watching you in case you want to overstep your bounds again, clerk.”

”You're missing the point, Gardner,” said Powers in an easy, nonthreatening voice. ”We're all on the same side, aren't we?”

”And what side might that be?”

”The law.”

It wasn't common that Lillehorne couldn't come up with a stinging response, but this time he fell silent. Suddenly an even worse visage came up alongside the high constable's shoulder. A hand touched the shoulder.

”Tonight at the Blind Eye?” Ausley inquired, pretending that neither Matthew nor the magistrate stood before him. ”Montgomery's vowing to go double-or-nothing at Ombre.”

”I shall bring my wallet, in order to hold the winnings from Montgomery's and your own.”

”Good afternoon, then.” Ausley touched the brim of his tricorn and glanced at Powers. ”And good afternoon to you, sir.” Then he waddled along with the stream of citizens past Matthew, leaving in his wake the overpowering odor of cloves.

”Just remember your place,” the high constable warned Matthew, not without some heat, and Matthew thought he might be p.i.s.sed on yet. But Lillehorne suddenly put an odious smile on his face, called to one of the sugar mill owners, and sidled away from Matthew and Powers to put the grab on another man of greater financial influence.

They got out of the chamber, out of the building, and onto the street where the sunlight was still bright and groups of people stood about discussing what they'd witnessed.

The magistrate, who looked tired and worn in the more glaring illumination, said he was going home to have a spot of tea in his rum, put his backside in a chair, and ponder on the differences not only between men and women but between talkers and doers. Then Matthew himself started up the incline hill of the Broad Way toward home, figuring there were always pots to be done and that the wheel and the work had a wonderful way of smoothing even the wicked edges of the world into a more comfortable shape.

Six.

Upon awakening from his dream of murdering Eben Ausley, Matthew lay on his bed in the dark and pondered how easy it would be to murder Eben Ausley.

Think of it. To wait for him to emerge from a tavern-the Blind Eye, say-after a long night of gambling and drinking, and then fall in behind him and keep away from the lamps. Better still, to go on ahead and lie in wait at a place of one's choice. Here come the footsteps, heavy on the stones. Best to be sure it's him, though, before you strike. Sniff the air. Rotten cloves? That's our man.

Closer he comes, and closer yet. Let him come on, as we decide how to do the deed. We must have an implement, of course. A knife. Terribly messy. Turn on a bone and he escapes, screaming for his life. Blood all over the place. A hideous misfortune. Well then, a strangulation cord. Yes, and best of luck getting a rope around that fat neck; he'd shake you off like a flea before you got his eyes popped.

A club, then. Yes, a nice heavy b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a club with skull-cleaving knots all over it. The kind of club the blackguards sell to each other in the murder dens of Magpie Alley, according to the Gazette. Here you may offer your coins to the shadow-faced villains and take your pick of brainers. Ah, there's the one we want! The one with a hard ridge running the length of the bopper, the better to bust with. Right there, under the monkey's-claw blade and the little fist-sized bag of nails.

Matthew sat up, lit a match from his tinderbox on the bedside table, and touched the candle in its brown clay holder. As the welcomed light spread, so fled the ridiculous-and rather sickening, really-images of murder. In his dream, everything had been flailing blurred motion, but he'd known he was following Ausley for the dark purpose and when he came up behind him he killed the man. He wasn't sure how, or with what, but he did remember seeing Ausley's face staring up from the stones, the eyes glazed and the mocking little lip-twisted smile gone crooked as if he'd seen what the Devil had waiting for him down in the fire-hole.

Matthew sighed and rubbed his forehead. He might wish to with all his heart and soul, but he could no more kill Ausley than be alone in a room with him.

You ought to find somethin' better than this to hold on to, John Five had said. Somethin' with a future to it.

”d.a.m.n it,” Matthew heard himself mutter, without realizing he was going to say it.

John Five was nothing, if not to the point.

The point being, it was over. Matthew had long ago realized his hopes of seeing Ausley brought to justice balanced on a slender thread. If only he'd been able to get one of the others-Galt, Covey, or Robertson-to bear witness. Just one, and then Ausley's pot would've been cracked. But think now what had befallen Nathan Spencer, who'd seen better to hang himself than let everyone in New York know how he'd been brutalized. What sense was there in that? Nathan had been a quiet, timid boy; too quiet and too timid, it seemed, for even as Matthew had offered him a hand out of the mora.s.s Nathan had been contemplating suicide.

”d.a.m.n it,” he repeated, in spite of all reason. He didn't want to think, as John Five had maintained, that his intrusions into Nathan Spencer's life had aided the death-wish along. No, no; it was better not to think along that line, or one might become too cozy with the idea of death-wishes.

You ought to find somethin' better than this to hold on to. Matthew sat on the edge of his bed. How long had he been asleep? An hour or two? He didn't feel very sleepy anymore, even after murdering Eben Ausley. Through his windows there was no hint of dawn. He could go down and check the clock in the pottery shop, but he had the feeling just from repet.i.tion of sleep and time that it was not yet midnight. He stood up, his nights.h.i.+rt flagging about him, lit a second candle for the company of light, and looked out the window that faced the Broad Way. Everything quiet out there, and mostly dark but for the few squares of other candlelit windows. No, no; hear that? Fiddle music, very faint. Laughter carried on the night breeze, then gone. As Lord Cornbury had put it, the last gentleman had not yet staggered out.

At supper this evening the Stokelys, who'd attended the governor's address but had been back in the crowd closer to the street, had praised Matthew's suggestions for the constables. It was past time the town got up to snuff in that regard, Hiram had said; the thing about the station where they were to meet made sense, too. Why hadn't Lillehorne thought of that?

As for Lord Cornbury's appearance, Hiram and Patience were less positive. The man might be meaning to represent the Queen, Hiram said, but couldn't he have worn a man's clothes just as well? It was a peculiar day, Patience said, when the governor of New York town was dressed in more ribbons and puffs than Polly Blossom.

Meanwhile, under the table, Cecily kept knocking her snout against Matthew's knees, reminding him that whatever premonition she foresaw had not yet come to pa.s.s.

Matthew turned from the window and surveyed his room. It was not large nor particularly small, just a garret tucked behind a trapdoor at the top of a ladder above the shop. There was a narrow bed, a chair, a clothes chest, the bedside table, and another table on which rested his washbasin. In a hot summer one could cook up here and in a cold winter the thickness of a blanket spared him from frostbite, but one didn't complain about such things. Everything was clean and neat, well-swept and well-ordered. He could cross from wall to wall with six steps, yet this was a favorite part of his world because of the bookcase.

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