Part 36 (2/2)

This was not a room in which to linger, he decided. Ahead of him, at the far end of the chamber, was a closed door off to the left and a set of gla.s.s-paned doors between wine-red drapes. He crossed past the fireplace and the swords, which seemed to hiss at him as he went by. The double doors were unlocked, and he stepped out into the warm sunlight onto a brick terrace that had a wrought-iron railing and a set of steps leading down to a garden path.

Just below the terrace was a small pond where goldfish swam amid waterplants. A turtle eased off a rock and vanished into the murk. Matthew followed the path deeper into the garden, walking between all manner of flowers and shrubs, through the cool of the shadows of trees and then into sunlight again. Birds chirped and called from all sides. An occasional bench was positioned to welcome the wanderer, but Matthew was not inclined to do any more sitting after that jolting coach ride.

Soon, by following one path that intersected with another, he came to a hedge wall. He walked along it a distance and discovered an iron gate about six feet high, topped with spear-points. Beyond the gate the path continued through an untamed thicket. A chain and padlock told him he was not going out this particular way. Further on he found a second gate in the hedge wall, also similarly locked. He paused and rubbed his chin. Evidently his explorations were meant to be contained, and this realization struck him like a glove smack across the face. After all, it was not only Mr. Chapel who enjoyed a challenge.

Matthew continued walking, mindful that he was now definitely seeking a way out. After a few further paces, his attention was caught by the glimpse of a red cardinal in the lower branches of a nearby tree. He saw the cardinal take flight, perhaps alarmed by his approach, and as it soared up into the sunlight Matthew took a moment to admire its grace and color.

Suddenly something darted in like a blur and hit the cardinal in midair. There was a sound of impact, like a fist on flesh. Red feathers whirled down.

The cardinal was gone.

Matthew caught sight of a large brown-and-white bird speeding away with a crimson ma.s.s clutched up underneath it. It sailed off to the right and was lost from view beyond the higher trees.

Some kind of hunting bird, he'd realized. Most likely one of the favorite predators of the medieval monarchs, a falcon or a hawk.

The speed of that flight and the quickness of the kill was stunning. The intrusion of violent death-even the demise of a cardinal-on this sunny afternoon, in this hedge-walled garden with locked gates, gave him a crawl of unease deep in his belly. He hoped it wasn't an omen of his night to come with Simon Chapel. He thought it wise to turn around and go back to the house, which seemed to loom over him like a threat, but what was it Mrs. Herrald had said about going forward? In any case, he wanted out of the garden and he didn't intend to let a lock or two stop him.

When he found the third padlocked gate, he decided he was climbing it. He looked around and saw a bench under a nearby tree. Dragging it to the gate, he stood up on it and set about trying to clamber over and avoid the spear-points, which were distressingly sharp. Careful, careful! he thought as a point snagged his breeches at the crotch. One slip and a fall on this thing and he'd be known henceforth as Mattina. But then he had pulled himself over and landed on the ground in not too untidy a splay. Before him the path went through vines and thicket. He dared not glance back at the house, because he didn't care to see Evans or some other person watching him from a balcony. He set off along the path.

There was nothing to see but woods on both sides. The path curved to the right. Matthew didn't know what he was expecting, but he had to be going somewhere Chapel didn't want him going. He'd been walking for two or three minutes when he heard the distinct crack of a musket shot, somewhere off to the right and farther distant, but the noise was enough to make him stand stock-still until he could make his lungs pull in air again. He went on, more cautiously now, watching the underbrush for any sign of a human predator.

The path emerged from the woods. Before him was a dirt road, and on the other side more forest. Matthew noted mounds of horse manure steaming in the sun. The coach team had gone this way, probably heading to the stable. He reasoned that if he went left along the road it would lead him to the vineyard and the buildings there. He knelt down, pondering if he should risk his luck anymore. After all, what was he thinking to find?

An answer, he thought, and he stood up.

He had taken two paces toward the road when a hard voice said, ”I think you'd best stand where you are.”

Matthew froze. A few yards to the left and across the road, a man stood at the edge of the woods. He was dressed in dark brown breeches and boots, a gray s.h.i.+rt and a brown leather waistcoat, and he wore a wide-brimmed leather hat. He was shouldering a musket. At his side, gripped in his left hand, was a hunter's pole from which dangled four dead hares.

”Out a distance from the house, aren't you?” the man asked. And then he added, as an afterthought with a sneer in it: ”Sir.”

”I was just walking,” Matthew answered. The hunter's face was shadowed by the wide brim, but there was something familiar about it. The deep-sunken eyes. The voice, too...familiar...unsettling.

”Just walking could get you shot. What if I'd put a hole through you?”

Matthew stepped toward the man, who stood his ground. The musket came off the shoulder and even though its death-snout pointed away, Matthew stopped.

”Do I know you?” Matthew asked, sure that he did. From somewhere...

”Get back to the house. Go on. That way.” The chin jerked to Matthew's right.

Matthew had no desire to argue with a gun. He said, ”Very well, I'll go.” He felt a stirring of anger and from it he said sarcastically, ”Thank you for your hospitality.” Then he turned and began walking in the direction of the house, wis.h.i.+ng to get as much distance from a musket ball as quickly as possible.

”My pleasure,” the hunter replied, with equal disdain.

And then Matthew knew him.

He had heard that same phrase, just before his face was thrust down into the pile of horse figs on Sloat Lane. He turned around. The man had not moved. Matthew said coldly, ”Which one are you? Bromfield or Carver?”

”Sir?”

”What's your name? So I might compliment Mr. Chapel for his choice in servants.”

”My name,” said the hunter with perhaps the slash of a dangerous smile in the hatbrim's shadow, ”is trouble. Do you want some?” Now the musket's stock came to rest against the man's knee and the barrel drifted a few inches toward Matthew before it was checked.

Bromfield or Carver, one or the other. Ausley's stomperboys. On loan to him that night from Simon Chapel to do a roughneck's work? Matthew and the man stared at each other, neither one willing to yield. But Matthew realized it was a fool who taunted a musket, and he didn't wish to be someone's tragic accident. He gave a mock bow, turned around again, and began walking away. The small of his back tensed, as if the muscles there expected a hammerblow.

”Corbett!” the hunter called. ”My compliments to Mr. Chapel for his choice in guests! Make sure you wash your face before dinner!”

Matthew kept going. Well, at least the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had been drawn out enough to make that last comment, which secured the fact. Before the road curved, Matthew glanced back and saw that his rude acquaintance had disappeared. He had no doubt the man was not far away, though. Watching him. As perhaps other eyes were, as well.

He looked forward to dinner. One could fence without using a sword, and he expected this night would see a match that would make even Hudson Greathouse quake.

Thirty-Five.

When the doorbell rang, Matthew was just finis.h.i.+ng his shave before the oval mirror. He rinsed the blade off in the washbasin, wiped the remainder of soap from his face with the damp washcloth, and then combed his hair. Regarding his reflection in the polished gla.s.s, he knew he had come a long way from the orphanage to this moment. He was looking at a gentleman who had in his eyes not only the bright spark of curiosity but also the steely glint of determination. He was no longer who he once had been, and though he was not yet suited to a sword he doubted he would be fully suited to a pen ever again.

Time to go downstairs and meet the man in Ausley's notebook.

He breathed deeply a few times to clear his head, and then he walked out of the room.

Lawrence Evans had been aghast this afternoon when he'd answered Matthew's knock at the front door, which had obviously been key-latched to keep the guest from straying. Oh sir, how did you get out there? You shouldn't have gone out the front, sir. It's not wise to go roaming, as there are wild hogs on the property.

”Yes,” Matthew had replied. ”I did meet a pig on the road.”

You'll keep this to yourself, won't you, sir? If Mr. Chapel found out I let you roam around, he'd be most displeased.

”I won't tell him,” Matthew had said, though he'd wondered if word would get back to the estate's master through the road-pig.

Now, as Matthew came down the staircase and turned along the corridor, he heard voices from the dining-room. They were hushed, almost like whispers of wind. Matthew braced himself for the moment, squared his shoulders, and walked with as much confidence as he could muster into the candle-flamed room of eighteen swords.

”Ah, here's our young n.o.bleman!” said the man who sat at the head of the table, as he sc.r.a.ped his chair back and stood up to greet their guest. He walked toward Matthew with a large hand offered in friends.h.i.+p, his boots clumping thunderously on the planks. ”Simon Chapel, sir! Very pleased to meet you!”

Matthew took the hand, which nearly crushed his own into a lifeless cuttlefish. The man was huge, standing at least six-foot-three and as solidly built as a brickwagon. He had a st.u.r.dy jaw and grinned with a set of peglike teeth that might bite a bulldog in half. His eyes, a shade approaching topaz, were large and luminous under spectacles with square frames. In contest to his physical magnitude, his nose was a small English heirloom turned up at the tip as if smelling spoiled violets. Above it the forehead was a slab of blue-veined marble, his hair a scatter of sparkling gray sand upon a skull slightly pointed at the crest as if suited for a battering-ram. His mouth twisted and twitched with some explosive remarks still being formed. He wore a royal-blue suit with a cream-colored waistcoat, a white s.h.i.+rt, and a blue silk cravat with small red and cream squares upon it.

He was a picture to behold, yet Matthew didn't know quite what he was looking at.

”Sit!” Chapel said. ”Right there!” He clapped Matthew on the shoulder with his right hand and with the left pointed to a place set for him on the other side of the table next to the chair he'd so energetically vacated.

Matthew took stock of the three other members of the dinner party. At the long table, which gleamed with silver trays, bowls, utensils, dishes, and cups under the fury of orange candlelight, sat Charity LeClaire, positioned directly to the right of Matthew's waiting chair. Across from her, and also standing to greet Matthew, was Lawrence Evans, whose presence here indicated he was several leagues above being a mere servant.

It was the other man at the table, the man who had chosen not to stand, who riveted Matthew's attention. He was eating an apple that had been cut into slices on a small silver fruit tray about the size of an open hand. He was a slim dandy, perhaps thirty years old or thereabouts, with hair so pale blond it was almost white. The hair was pulled back into a queue and tied with a beige ribbon. His eyes were piercing green, yet lifeless as they examined Matthew. The face was both handsome for its regal gentility and fearsome for its utter lack of expression. He wore a light brown suit and waistcoat, and flowing waves of European lace spilled from the front of his crisp white s.h.i.+rt and cuffs.

Matthew had last seen this man at night, walking around the corner of King Street near the almshouse, and had first seen him firing apples into the face of Ebenezer Grooder at the pillory before City Hall.

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