Part 45 (1/2)

”Culley Ives. He was one of the two managers. Had worked with Father for many years. We only got s.h.i.+llings on the pound, but I was satisfied with it.”

”Ives,” Matthew repeated.

Matthew recalled Pollard saying that Deverick had bought a Philadelphia brokerage firm in 1698. To Matthew's question of Who owned the firm before Mr. Deverick bought it? Pollard had answered It was a man named Ives, who is still employed by the Deverick company as manager there. So what does that tell you?

Matthew said, ”You might wish-or perhaps not-to know that Mr. Ives probably paid those s.h.i.+llings on the pound in money given to him from Pennford Deverick's pocket. I wouldn't doubt that Mr. Ives might have been the inside-man.”

A hideous smile slowly, terribly, spread across Kirby's mouth and stretched it until Matthew thought the man might scream. But instead Kirby only said, quietly, ”To the victor go the spoils. Isn't that right? You see how tough I've become? How...shall I say...resigned to fate?”

”Obsessed might be more accurate.” This kettle and pot were both black, Matthew thought grimly. To understand the depths of obsession all he had to do was think back two weeks, when he was nearly insane that Eben Ausley had escaped justice for his crimes against the orphans. He shook it off. ”I presume you found it difficult to return to being Trevor Kirby when you'd had a taste of Andrew Kippering's life? And you decided to find a position here, to better stalk your prey? What did you do, go back to London and buy screeved...um...forged doc.u.ments to present yourself as a lower ball than you are?”

”Exactly that,” came the reply. ”I came here to kill those three men, and to speak Father's name in their ears before I did it. I was very fortunate indeed to get a position with Pollard. Even if it was a fraction of the money and work I was used to. Pollard wanted someone who was a brash gadfly, and perhaps a little dull. I could tell that at once. He wanted a tavern partner. More for show than work, and I'd made up a story about my past sins that I could tell intrigued him. You see, Joplin needs the help, but he wants to run all the horses. But attorney to Deverick and Ausley! I'd be able to mark their comings and goings with ease.”

”Dr. G.o.dwin, too?” Matthew asked. ”You began spending time at Polly Blossom's to mark his...if I may say...comings and goings?”

”That's right. I waited for the moment, until it came.”

”And the night you killed Deverick? The same night that Grace Hester became so ill? I presume, since you were the go-between, that the prost.i.tute sent out to find you searched your usual haunts with no success, since you were probably down here removing your black clothing, and she wound up having to go fetch Dr. Vanderbrocken himself? And she went with him and stood at the corner outside the reverend's house while Dr. Vanderbrocken went to the door?”

Kirby shrugged. ”You know, you had a part in the deaths of Deverick and Ausley.”

”Me? How?”

The lawyer made a noise between a grunt and a laugh. ”When you stood up before Lord Cornbury and suggested more and better-trained constables. I was afraid he would agree, and so I thought I'd best hurry and finish the job.”

Matthew almost said Glad to be of service.

Kirby spoke. ”Would you like to see the Masker?”

”Sir?”

”The Masker,” Kirby repeated, and just that quickly he slipped out of the light and into the gloomy fringes.

Matthew glanced nervously back to see how far the stairs were. He heard a sliding movement off to the side amid the cellar's boxes and wreckage. Then he jumped and his nerves jangled as something metal crunched into brick. There was the noise of what might have been bricks being moved aside. Then, seconds later, a brown canvas bag came flying through the air and landed with a dusty thump in front of Matthew's shoes.

”He's in there,” came Kirby's voice, and then Kirby himself reentered the light's realm.

Matthew leaned carefully down and looked into the bag. It contained black clothing-one cloak, if not more, and a hooded coat. A woolen cap. A pair of black gloves. No, two pair. He could smell the heavy odor of dried gore. A smaller object caught his attention. When he picked it up by its wire-wrapped grip, he found the thing surprisingly heavy. Its business end was a tongue-shaped piece of black leather that felt as if it had a fist of lead sewn up within. The gentleman executioner had not forgotten his slaughterhouse system: first the blow to the temple, then the knife to the throat.

He was aware, very suddenly and joltingly, of Kirby's boots in the dirt beside him. When Matthew looked up, Kirby was holding the evil little knife with its hooked blade.

To his credit Matthew did not cry out, though he did feel the blood drain from his face. He got to his feet, watching for the strike and wondering which way to dodge it when it came.

Kirby turned the knife around and offered him the ebony leather handle. ”It's very sharp,” he said. ”Easy to cut yourself.” When Matthew wouldn't touch the thing, Kirby dropped it back amid the other items in the bag. It was then that Matthew realized Kirby was also holding the strange pair of hammered-bra.s.s fireplace tongs. ”Oh.” Kirby held the tongs up for Matthew's inspection of the chiseled ends. ”You drive these into the cracks between two loose bricks that I found one day. Pull out the first brick and a few more and you've got yourself a nice hidey-hole. I couldn't go home wearing b.l.o.o.d.y clothes, could I? Not with Mary Belovaire watching me. I found the two cloaks and pairs of gloves at the bottom of that old trunk. They fit me fairly well. The blackjack came off a sailor willing to part with it. The knife I bought from a higgler in New Jersey. You know, you nearly caught me that night. If you hadn't been chasing me and I hadn't been trying to hold on to the notebook, I wouldn't have left that blood smear on the door.”

Matthew held up the notebook. ”Tell me about this.”

”You tell me about it.”

The front door suddenly opened upstairs. Both men were silent. The door closed, and footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs. Then a voice, calling, ”Andrew? Andrew, are you here?”

”Joplin,” Kirby said to Matthew, keeping his own volume low.

Pollard came back down the stairs. The front door opened and closed again.

”Poor fellow. An insecure boy, actually. He's wanting a pal at the bar,” said Kirby. ”You know, the only one who really works around here is Bryan. We both dump our papers on him. Joplin told me that Bryan's very unhappy if he's not burdened down. Now: the notebook. You saw the page I marked?”

”I did. I appreciate your rough treatment that night, by the way.”

”Nothing personal. I was planning on leaving the package at Grigsby's door. I saw you by the corner lamp on Wall Street, so I had to move quickly. On that particular page, those are the names of orphans. Am I correct?”

”I believe so, yes.”

”And the numbers beside them? Any guess?”

”A code.”

”Of course a code, idiot! Meaning what?” Anger poured into the dead eyes. Even as the shade of what he'd been, Kirby was still a formidable and frightening presence. ”Think, d.a.m.n it! I've tried and failed, but if anyone can figure it out, it's you!”

Matthew opened the book to the page and held it under the lamplight. He scanned the numbers, back and forth.

”This is the problem I hoped you'd solve for me, Matthew,” the lawyer said. ”I saw Ausley scribbling in that notebook time and again, and I thought I had to get hold of it in search of a clue. I know what parts G.o.dwin, Deverick, and Ausley acted in this, but who put the play together? Professor Fell? One of his compatriots? It wasn't Ausley, he wasn't smart enough. But it had to be someone here, on this side of the pond. A headmaster, if you will.”

”Headmaster,” Matthew repeated, looking up from the page. Something had clicked into place.

”I was going to say, that night, that Eben Ausley is selling his orphans to the underworld. Not all of them, but some. Maybe some who are talented in ways this headmaster can use. Can forge and shape, as he pleases. Look at that word Chapel there. Could that be a name?”

”Yes,” Matthew said, but he was thinking furiously. Headmaster. Trade school. ”It is a name.” Some men would come now and again and give us tests, John Five had said. Doin' numbers, copyin' script, figurin' out puzzles and such. ”Simon Chapel.” Wantin' to know all about us and our lives and so on. ”I think...these might be...” What we wanted for the future.

”What?” Kirby asked, closer now.

A man even came a couple of times to see if any of the older boys knew how to use a sword or a dagger.

”I think,” Matthew said, and then he stopped himself. ”I believe,” he corrected, ”that these are grades. I believe Eben Ausley was a.s.signing grades to some of the boys. Maybe...for special talents, or something as mundane as how well they could understand and carry out orders. Many of the orphans would have come from violent circ.u.mstances, like John Five. Maybe they were graded on cruelty, or the ability to fight. Maybe how well-suited they might be for a life of crime. And here...this means Rejected. Either by Ausley, who had the first choice of whom to present to Chapel, or by Chapel himself later on.” He thought of Silas. Silas with the quick hands and light touch. Silas Oakley, who was presented with high grades to the headmaster Simon Chapel on the twentieth of June, hardly more than a month ago.

I was jus' practisin', Silas had said.

For what future purpose? Surely not just s.h.i.+lling crimes; those were beneath Professor Fell. No, these would be more monumental, more grandiose in their evil. The theft of a key to a box where a diplomatic pouch lay, with the fate of kings and nations in the balance? The theft of business letters, or of guarded seals of state, or of perfume-touched messages between lovers that might lead to scandals, executions, and the overnight collapse of an empire...if the right price was not paid for the return?

This contract was underwritten by the professor, the Blind Boy had told Kirby.

Because, Matthew thought, the professor was interested in seeing the orphans in action.

A new world, Mrs. Herrald had said, calls for new names.

Not just new names, Matthew realized.