Part 14 (1/2)

”Of course. I would inquire what might be so furtively private between a magistrate's clerk and a reverend's future son-in-law, visiting the back room of a den such as this, but then I'd be over-stepping my bounds, wouldn't I?”

”Come off your horse, Joplin!” Kippering scowled. ”The young man's not married yet! Since he's so determined to go down the road to disaster, he ought to be praised for his courage. h.e.l.l, I wouldn't have the guts to ask that crow for his daughter's hand. Would you?”

”Sir!” said John, with a heat in his voice that made Matthew think violence might be imminent. ”I'd ask you not to refer to Reverend Wade in that disrespectful manner.”

”Apologies, no harm meant.” Kippering lifted his tankard. ”It's the ale talking.”

”Yes,” said Pollard, ”and that loquacious ale is going to get you skewered someday. But listen, Corbett. About Robert Deverick. He was my client, you know.”

”Our client,” Kippering amended.

”Yes, our client. And I might add our best client. You saw him stretched out there in the street. Terrible way for a man of his means to go.”

”A terrible way for any man to go,” Matthew said. He winced as another holler and harumpdedoo from the dice table blasted his eardrums. Across the way, someone was cursing a foul blue streak at one of the card games.

”Any ideas about it?” Pollard asked. ”I mean, your being so fresh on the scene, according to Lillehorne. And since you seemed to have such an opinion on the enforcement of law before our dandy new governor.”

”No ideas other than the obvious. I would ask if you knew of any enemies Mr. Deverick had.” It was a shot in the dark since he doubted Deverick would have greeted an enemy with a handshake, but it was at least a starting-point.

”We've already covered that one with Lillehorne.” Kippering was trying to hold the prost.i.tute back from going through his coat pockets; it was like trying to get a firm grip on a weasel. ”Deverick has had his business enemies, yes. In London, though. He's had supply problems from some unreliable merchants whom we've had to threaten with lawsuits, but nothing went beyond the point of sword-rattling. That's all.”

”There must be something else.”

Pollard said, ”You must be wondering then if Dr. G.o.dwin had enemies, if indeed as I understand it the same maniac murdered both men. But then again, does a maniac need a reason for murder?” He answered his own question: ”Absolutely not!”

”I'm wondering,” Matthew said, ”if the Masker may be not so much a maniac as a clever individual hiding a motive.”

”What kind of motive?” Kippering asked, though his attention was divided. Being unsuccessful at looting her companion's pockets, the prost.i.tute now began to kiss and lick his neck.

”I have no idea, but I'd like to know if there is some connection between Dr. G.o.dwin and Mr. Deverick. Do you know of any?”

Another uproar came from the gamblers, some bitter loser slammed a hand down on a card table, a prost.i.tute wearing a high crimson wig and white facepaint slid past Matthew like a jungle cat and pinched his behind on the way, and then Pollard turned back toward the dice game and shouted over the noise of wagering, ”Don't roll those 'til I get my bet in! Who's got the throw? Wyndham?”

”I can't think of a connection,” said Kippering, who had his hands full with his squirmy minx. ”They weren't doctor and patient, if that's what you're a.s.suming. Neither was Dr. G.o.dwin a client of ours.”

Matthew shrugged. ”I didn't think it would be that simple, anyway. We'd best go. Good evening to you.”

”Evening to you both,” he managed to respond. ”And good luck with...whatever your business might be.” Then he got a lockhold on the girl and also turned to rejoin the hubbub.

The room at the back of the Thorn Bush was at the end of a short corridor where a sign was posted on the wall reading No Gambling, No Women Allowed. It was the tavern's stab at a ”dining-room” for gentlemen where business might be discussed in relative quiet. True, the noise from the gamblers still carried in, but it was at least tolerable. The room was dimly lit by a few lanterns. Three other men sat together at one of the six tables, which were set far apart for the sake of privacy. The trio were all puffing long clay churchwarden pipes and were wreathed with smoke, their conversations serious and muted; none of them even glanced up as the new arrivals entered. Matthew and John Five sat at a table on the opposite side of the room, furthermost from the door.

Before they got completely settled, the barmaid came in with their gla.s.ses of port and left again. Matthew spent a moment rubbing what looked like a dried clump of food off the rim of his gla.s.s. He hoped it wasn't the beef brains.

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 gla.s.s 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 fis.h.i.+n' 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 pa.s.s through town from time to time, yellin' 'fear G.o.d' 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 p.r.i.c.kly 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 a.s.sume 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 gla.s.s. ”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.”