Part 34 (1/2)

”If Nicole wasn't such a f.u.c.kin' gin-fiend, she'd be rich from all that silver G.o.dwin paid her. And she said some nights after he shot his cannon and lay there sleepy he called her a different name. When he started sobbin' on her shoulder, she kicked him out, silver or no. A wh.o.r.e's got her pride.”

”A different name?” Matthew asked, intrigued. ”What was it?”

”Nicole said it was...Susan, I think. You'll have to ask her yourself. Anyway, G.o.dwin was a strange old bird. Drunk half the time, and his hands were always cold, too.”

”I may have to speak to Nicole,” Matthew said, mostly to himself. ”I'd like to find out more about Dr. G.o.dwin.”

Grace grunted. ”Now you're soundin' like him.”

Matthew brought his attention back. ”Sounding like who?”

”Andy. Wantin' to know when G.o.dwin was here, and what time he left and all that. He talked to Nicole about the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Nicole said he stuck his c.o.c.k in her and shot in his sheath and then all he wanted to do was ask questions about G.o.dwin, like that was the real reason he came. I mean...the real reason he was here.”

”Is that so?” Matthew asked, watching Grace rub the doll and realizing she was unconscious of needing the security of a bit of dirty cloth st.i.tched over a stuffing of straw. A relic from her past, he thought. So too might the name Susan be a relic from G.o.dwin's past. Could it also have had something to do with his murder? ”Miss Hester,” he said, ”just one more question. Did Andrew Kippering never mention to you the name of William-”

”Stop,” she directed. ”What did you call me?”

”Miss Hester,” Matthew said. ”Your name.”

”My name?”

Matthew had a sudden piercing insight as sharp as a dagger stab. ”Your name isn't Grace Hester.”

”h.e.l.l, no. I'm Missy Jones,” she answered. ”Grace Hester's in the room at the end of the hall. She's the sick girl.”

”The...sick girl?”

”Consumption. Gotten worse and worse these last few days. Becca says she'll be pa.s.sin' soon. Why she's got the biggest room in the house, I don't know.”

”Oh...I've been stupid,” Matthew said in almost a gasp. He stood up, and to her credit Missy Jones did not back away. ”I've been very, very stupid.”

”Stupid about what?”

”The meaning of things.” He leveled his gaze at her. ”Miss Jones, can I get in to see Grace Hester?”

”The door's kept locked. Grace is a rounder. Even sick, she wants to go out to the Thorn Bush and cull a trick. Last time she got out, Andy had to go bring her back.”

Matthew knew now. He knew, and it had been there in front of him the very night Eben Ausley's stomperboys had introduced his face to a mound of horse apples. ”Is there any way I can get in to see her? Just for a moment.”

”Door's locked, as I say.” She had begun to look nervous again. ”Why do you want to see her? You don't...uh...favor sick girls, do you?”

”No, it's nothing like that. It's honorable, I promise you.”

”I don't understand it,” Missy said, but then she chewed on her lower lip and stroked her doll and said, ”I...suppose...I can trust you. Can't I?”

”You can.”

She nodded. ”The old dragon won't like it. Neither will Becca. You'll have to be quick.” Then she hugged her doll close and said with her eyes downcast, ”The key's up on top. The sill over the door. If anybody catches you, you'll be in for it. And me too.”

”n.o.body's going to catch me,” he a.s.sured her. ”And even if they did, I can promise you that neither one of us will be harmed in any way. Do you believe that?”

”No,” she said. Then, with a frown that brought her brows together: ”Maybe. I don't know.”

Matthew went to the door, and she quickly moved aside. ”Thank you for your time, Miss Jones. And thank you for your help.”

”It's no matter,” she answered. His hand was on the doorlatch when she said, ”You can call me Missy, if you like.”

”Thank you,” he said again, and he offered her a smile. He might have wished for a smile from her in return, but she was already crossing the room to her waterbowl to wash the makeup off her face and the doll was pressed up against her cheek. He wondered what she looked like underneath the powder, and what story was hidden in her soul. He had no time to linger; he went out, quietly closed the door, and walked down the hall.

He found the key quick enough. As he started to push it into the lock, he thought that a scream from the real Grace Hester would bring the house down upon him, but if this were a game of chess he held a bishop against a p.a.w.n. He heard Becca still singing in the parlor, this time a happier West Indies tune. He slid the key home, turned it, and opened the door.

This bedroom was practically the same as Missy's, though perhaps a few feet wider. On the floor was a wine-red rug. Two candles burned, one upon the bedside table and another atop the chest-of-drawers.

The sheets moved and the girl who lay there, her face pallid and her dark hair sweat-damp, sat up with an obvious effort. She had high cheekbones and a narrow chin, and in some long-ago time she might have been pretty but now she was wrecked on the coast of desolation.

The heavy makeup had masked her sickness, and the strong drink had given her false strength. She was the girl Matthew had seen stagger out of the Thorn Bush in the company of Andrew Kippering, that night the stomperboys had darkened Matthew's complexion.

Grace Hester stared at him, her mouth open. Becca sung in the parlor and the gittern played its lilting, sunny notes.

”Father?” the girl asked, her voice slurred and weary yet...hopeful.

Matthew said quietly, ”No,” and he backed out of the room before his heart might break.

Thirty-Three.

He was fis.h.i.+ng in his favorite spot, at the end of Wind Mill Lane on the west side of town, just where John Five had said he would be.

Along the lane were a few houses, a carpentry shop, a cornfield, and a new brewery in the first stage of construction. The Thursday morning sun shone on the river and a wind stirred the green woods of New Jersey on the far side. The fisherman sat amid a jumble of gray boulders at the sh.o.r.e, his line trailing from an ash-wood rod into the water. Just beyond him was the hulk of an old merchant vessel that had been shoved by a storm into the rocks and, its hull impaled and broken, was slowly collapsing before the infinite progress of time and currents. Up on a hill, and near enough to cast its shadow upon the fisherman, was the tall windmill for which this lane was named; its revolving head atop a stationary tower had been positioned to take advantage of the breeze, and its canvas sails billowed along the slowly turning vanes.

Though Matthew took care to be quiet as he came along the rocks, he knew his presence had been noted. The reverend had glanced at him and then quickly away again without a word. Wade didn't look much like the erudite minister of Trinity Church this morning. He wore gray breeches patched at the knees and a faded brown s.h.i.+rt with the sleeves rolled up. On his head was a shapeless beige cloth hat that had evidently seen many summer suns and rainshowers alike. His fis.h.i.+ng clothes, Matthew thought. Beside the reverend was a scoopnet and a wicker basket to hold his catch.

Matthew stopped ten yards away from the man. Wade sat perfectly still, waiting for a bite.

”Good morning, sir,” said Matthew.

”Good morning, Matthew,” came the reply in a voice from which no hint of emotion could be read. Neither did he look in Matthew's direction.

A silence stretched. A breath of wind furrowed the river and made the windmill's vanes creak.

”I fear I'm not having much luck this morning,” Wade said at last. ”Two small fellows, not sufficient for a pan. They fought so hard it seemed wrong to land them. I'm after a carp I've seen here before, but he always foxes me. Do you fish?”

”I haven't for a long time.” He once caught fish to live on, in the rough days before he went to the orphanage.

”But you do catch things, don't you?”

Matthew knew his meaning. ”Yes sir, I do.”