Part 42 (2/2)

He made up a word on the spot and spoke it with forceful a.s.surance: ”I mean to say, sir, that I am a detective.”

”As I said before...a what?” The man's attention was mercifully diverted by a handsome gray-haired woman about the same age as himself who had just come behind the bar through another doorway. ”Lizbeth!” he said. ”Look at this and tell me who you think it is.”

She put aside the wine-pitcher she'd come to refill and examined the portrait. Matthew saw her also respond with a frown, and his heart jumped because he thought she must know something. She looked at him with searching brown eyes, and then at the man. ”It's Emily Swanscott.”

”That's who I thought. This young man says he's come from New York. Says he's a...a...well, a legal person. Says his client is trying to identify the woman in the picture.”

”Emily Swanscott,” Lizbeth repeated, speaking to Matthew. ”May I ask who your client is, and from where you got this drawing?”

”I fear I have to plead confidentiality,” Matthew replied, trying to keep his voice as light as possible. ”You know. It's a legal condition.”

”Be that as it may, where is Mrs. Swanscott?”

”One moment. Are you absolutely certain you can identify this woman as being Emily Swanscott?”

”As certain as I'm seeing you. Mrs. Swanscott didn't get out very much, but I met her in the Christ Church cemetery one afternoon. I was there to see to my sister's grave, and Mrs. Swanscott was putting flowers on the graves of her sons.”

”Flowers?” He'd really meant to say graves but the word had stuck in his throat.

”That's right. She was very kind. She was telling me what sort of flowers attract b.u.t.terflies. It seems her eldest boy, the one who drowned, liked to catch them.”

”Ah,” Matthew said, half-dazed. ”Her eldest boy.”

”A terrible accident,” the man spoke up. ”Eleven years old when he died, as I understand.”

”How many sons did she have?”

”Just the two,” Lizbeth said. ”The younger one died of fever when he was...oh...”

”Not even six,” the man supplied. Matthew thought he was probably Lizbeth's husband, and that they together owned the Seven Stars.

”Tom and I had heard that Mrs. Swanscott was ill.” Again the brown eyes searched Matthew's face. ”Up in her house. Then she just disappeared overnight. Do you know where she is?”

”I do,” Matthew said, with both relief and caution.

”Then why should you need the portrait identified?” Tom asked. ”If you know where she is, I mean.”

”Wine, please!” said another customer, bellying up to the bar. Which suited Matthew just fine, for the tavern-keeper had to go tend to his trade and that question could be avoided.

But then again, maybe not. ”Where is Mrs. Swanscott?” Lizbeth asked.

”She is indeed ill,” said Matthew. ”Unfortunately, her ability to communicate has been impaired.”

”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 s.p.a.ce 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 relations.h.i.+p 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.”

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