The Queen Of Bedlam Part 16

"I did. Not his face, unfortunately."

"There's blood on the cellar door?"

Matthew nodded.

"Come in." Kippering opened the door wider, and Matthew entered. When Kippering started to close the door, Matthew said, "I'd appreciate it if you'd leave that open."

"I can a.s.sure you that the only thing I've killed tonight is half a bottle of brandy and a lot of time."

"Please leave the door open," Matthew insisted in a calm voice, and Kippering shrugged.

"This way." Kippering led him past a narrow staircase to another door. He paused to light a second candle in a pewter holder that was sitting atop a stack of books on a table and this he gave to Matthew, who laid aside the dead lantern. "I hope you're not afraid of spiders," he said. He unhooked a latch and opened the door into the cellar's darkness. "Watch your step, these stairs are older than my grandmother."

Before they descended, Matthew requested that Kippering also leave that door open and go down first. "You're serious, aren't you?" Kippering asked, but then he took appraisal of Matthew's expression and obeyed. As he followed down the rickety old stairs, Matthew thought that sometimes it did pay to carry a big stick.

The candles seemed to throw more shadows than illumination. It was a large cellar with a dirt floor and brick walls. The old yellowish-white bricks, Matthew noted, that had originally come over as ballast on some of the first Dutch ships. Filling the place almost up to the raftered ceiling were battered wooden shelves full of decaying law books, parcels of papers wrapped in twine, and stacks upon stacks of more yellowed doc.u.ments. Matthew thought that, though there was a sea dampness to the air, if a fire ever got loose in here it would burn steadily for a month. Discarded buckets, two broken chairs, a desk that looked as if it had been chewed by a beaver, and other odds-and-ends of office decor littered the chamber. Matthew went directly to the cellar door and inspected the bolt.

"Anything there?" Kippering asked.

"No," came the answer. There was no blood on this side of the door. But that didn't stop Matthew from shining his candle around to check the steps and the floor. There were many footprints in the dirt, but why would there not be? He continued searching around boxes of papers. "What is all this?" he asked.

"The underbelly of the legal profession." Kippering sat down on a large wooden trunk. "This is where the old deceased records lie in rotting perpetuity. Most of it dates back to before Charles Land took the firm over from Rolf Gorend.y.k.e. He left it all here for us to clean up, except Bryan thinks there'll be value to it someday as history and he wants to keep it. If Joplin and I had our way, we'd toss it tomorrow."

"Toss it where?"

"Yes, well that's the problem, isn't it? We've thought of burning it, but..." He shrugged. "Maybe Bryan's right. Someday someone might give a d.a.m.n about what went on here."

Matthew was still poking around and finding nothing but a rat's nest, both figuratively and literally. "You say Eben Ausley was your client?" he asked as he explored the room. "You don't seem so concerned that he's lying dead over on the next street."

"I had limited dealings with him. Joplin handled most everything. Records of contributions. Contracts for supplies and labor. Paperwork when the orphans found homes. Things such as that."

"I a.s.sume those more current doc.u.ments are kept in better circ.u.mstances?"

"File cabinets upstairs."

Matthew kept looking, but this path was showing no promise. "Aren't you at all curious?" he asked.

"About what?"

"Two things. Who killed Ausley, and what the smear of blood on the door looks like?"

Kippering grunted and smiled thinly. "I hear," he said, "that Ausley had lost a lot of money on the tables. He'd borrowed heavily, and lost most of that as well. The man was what you might call a gambling fanatic. In case you don't know, there are individuals in this town who lend money and aren't pleased when it's not promptly repaid. Ausley unfortunately did not have the most charming personality, either. I think it was only a matter of time before someone either beat him to death or cut his throat, so this Masker person may have simply cheated the p.a.w.nbroker. As for the blood smear, I've seen them before. Still, I'll take your bait." He stood up with his candle, walked to the door, and threw back the bolt. Then he pushed the door open and stuck his head out to see.

Suddenly Matthew heard a frightened voice call from outside, "Hold there! Hold!"

"I'm just having a look around," Kippering explained to the unseen person.

"Just hold right there, I said! Do you have a weapon?"

"Settle down, Giles. It is Giles Wintergarten, isn't it? It's me, Andrew Kippering. Look." Matthew envisioned him holding the light nearer his face.

"Dear G.o.d, Mr. Kipperin', you scared the s.h.i.t into my drawers pokin' your head out like that! Don't you know there's been another murder right up the way? I might have run you through!"

Matthew got the picture. A constable had been in the alley when the cellar door had opened. Carrying a sword, too, by the sound of it.

"The Masker's been at work, yessir!" said Wintergarten. "Cut the life out of Eben Ausley and left him like a b.l.o.o.d.y bag up there on Barrack! But he got his, too, he did! Ol' Emory Coody shot him good and proper!"

"Emory Coody?" Kippering asked. "The one-eyed weather-spy?"

"That's him! Lives right up the way!"

As the two spoke, Matthew found himself staring at the trunk upon which Kippering had been sitting. He walked to it, saw that there was no lock, and lifted the lid. His light fell upon what was inside, and after the jolt of surprise had subsided he thought, Now I've found you.

"Look here, Giles," Kippering was saying. "On the doorhandle. Blood. See it?"

"Yessir. Yessir, that does 'pear to be blood, don't it?"

"I think the Masker came along here and left his mark. Possibly he tried to open the door, but it was locked from the inside. You might want to take a careful stroll up and down the alley and check all the other cellar doors, yes?"

"Yessir, that would be the thing to do. I ought to go get some help, though."

"All right, but be careful. Oh, and listen: will you inform High Constable Lillehorne of this, and tell him I'd be happy to help him in any way possible?"

"I will, sir. You ought to get in yourself now, Mr. Kippering. Work such as this ought to be left to the professionals."

"My thoughts exactly. Goodnight, Giles."

"'Night, sir."

Kippering closed the door, rebolted it, and turned to face Matthew. "As I said, all blood smears look the same." He glanced at the open trunk. "What are you searching for now? Costumes for the dance?"

"There are clothes in here," Matthew said, his voice tight.

"Yes, there are."

"There are gloves in here." Matthew held up a pair. They were black and made of thin cloth.

"Your powers of observation are stunning. You might also observe that those are women's gowns and underclothing." He held up a large hand, took two strides forward, and demonstrated how small the glove was. It looked to fit a child. "Women's gloves. I think there may be some men's shirts and a coat or two down there at the bottom, but I haven't gone all the way through. You'll note that everything is moldering and musty and is probably over twenty years old."

Matthew was fl.u.s.tered. He was so eager to believe he'd found the Masker's hidden cache of clothes that the first black gown on top had addled his brain. "Well...where did all this come from?"

"We're not sure, but we think one of Gorend.y.k.e's clients used the trunk as payment for legal services. Or it might have come from the estate of someone who died aboard ship on the way over. We're going to throw it out, sooner or later. Are you done?"

Matthew nodded, his brow furrowed.

Kippering closed the lid. "If you didn't hear, I showed Giles Wintergarten the blood smear and I told him to inform Lillehorne. I think the Masker either really did try to get in-though I didn't hear anything as I've been upstairs for at least an hour-or being such a clever murderer as you feel him to be, he deliberately left a mark for your benefit."

"For my benefit? Why?"

"Well, he stopped your following him, didn't he?"

"He couldn't have known I would see the mark," Matthew said.

"No, but he might have reasoned the odds were on his side that you would." Kippering gave a smile, which on his usually handsome but now dark-shadowed face seemed a little ghastly. "I think the Masker might also be a gambler. Don't you?"

Matthew cast his eyes down. He didn't know what to think. As he was pondering what to him was an appalling lack of mental acuity, he saw his candlelight gleam on an object that leaned against one of the shelves. It was a strange object to be down here, he thought. A pair of hammered-bra.s.s firetongs, yet there was certainly no fireplace in the cellar.

He walked to the firetongs and picked them up. The business end of the tongs had been thinned by some sc.r.a.ping instrument or grinding wheel, it appeared. "What's this for?"

Kippering took the tongs, turned away, and reached up to a top shelf to grasp a packet of papers, which he brought down trailing dust. He waved the papers in front of Matthew's face before returning them to where they'd been likely situated for years.

Matthew sniffed, holding back a sneeze, and rubbed his nose.

"Want a drink?" Kippering asked. "I've got that half-bottle of brandy left. You can help me celebrate the fact that I only lost five shillings and eight pence at gambling tonight, and that I overpaid by twice for a cheap bottle of wine at Madam Blossom's."

"No," Matthew said, already feeling thoroughly debilitated. "Thank you."

"Then may I give you some free legal advice?" Kippering waited for Matthew to give him his full attention. "I would refrain from mentioning to anyone that you discovered Ausley's body. That is, if you wish to remain free to walk around town."

"Pardon?"

"You were nearly first on the scene with Mr. Deverick, weren't you? And now first to find Ausley? I'd hate to think what Lillehorne might do with that, since he seems to consider you such an outspoken boon to his authority."

"I didn't murder anyone. Why should I not tell Lillehorne?"

"Because," Kippering said, "the high constable will find your presence at both murders so interesting that he will wish to know what you were doing out tonight. And even though you and I may believe that Lillehorne is not entirely up to the job, he is relentless when it suits him to be. Thus he will wish to know in exacting detail your progress through this night, and he may well feel you are best questioned behind the security of iron bars. He will ask questions here and there and there and here, and sooner or later he'll find out that you and the future husband of our good reverend's daughter were meeting at a rather dismal little drinking and gambling establishment festooned with wh.o.r.es. For privacy, did you say? Do you see my direction?"

Matthew did, but he remained sullenly silent.

"Of course you do," Kippering went on. "Now I don't know what you and Mr. Five were talking about in that back room, but you can be sure Lillehorne will find out."

"That has nothing to do with the Masker. It's private business."

"Yes, you keep using that word, and that will only feed Lillehorne's desire to root out whatever secret you have." He paused to let Matthew feel the sting of that particular fish-hook. "Now in a few minutes I'm going to put on my official lawyer's face, straighten my suit and comb my hair, and walk out to stand alongside Ausley's corpse until the body-cart pulls up. I suggest you go home, go to bed, and in the morning you are as surprised to hear of Eben Ausley's death as anyone in New York. How does that settle with you?"

Matthew thought about it, though there wasn't a lot of thinking to be done. It wouldn't do for questions to be asked about Matthew's jaunts this night, not with Reverend Wade's problem still unknown. He said quietly, "It settles."

"Good. Incidentally, I'm sure Giles will carry that information about the blood smear straight to Lillehorne, in case you're thinking this is an attempt to keep you from telling anyone. I a.s.sure you I couldn't care less, just so long as he doesn't come up behind me on a dark night." Kippering motioned Matthew toward the stairs.

At the front, Matthew hesitated in the doorway before Kippering could shut him out. He gazed up at the candle-illuminated window. "Tell me, if you will," he said, "why you're at work so late."

Kippering kept the faint smile on his face. "I don't sleep very well. Never have. Goodnight. Oh...two last things: I should avoid the crowd up there on Barrack, and I should beware not the Masker but some frightened rabbit with a blunderbuss." So saying, he pushed the door shut and Matthew heard the latch fall.

Matthew looked toward City Hall and saw the wash of candlelight in two of the attic's small square windows. He'd never been up there before, as access to that area was by invitation only; that portion was the office and also the living quarters of Ashton McCaggers, whose abilities as coroner more than made up for his eccentricities. It appeared McCaggers was awake and preparing for another session in the cold room.

Zed would be hauling the body-cart past here soon. It was time to go.

Matthew crossed Broad Street to Princes Street, intending to go back up Smith and then to the Broad Way and home, thus bypa.s.sing that noisy rabble gathered around the corpse of Eben Ausley. As he made his way past the late-flickering lamps on their cornerposts, the warm breeze moving about him with its leathery smells of dockside tar and sewer ditch, he knew he would find sleep a troubling companion this night. There would be many echoes in his mind calling for recognition or resolve, and many that might never be resolved. In truth, he felt fortunate to have survived not only a gunshot and dog attack but the Masker himself, who might easily have turned on him and cut him to pieces with a hooked blade.

As for Ausley, he felt...nothing.

No anger, no sadness, no loss, no gain, no sense of justice, no exultation at the death of a wicked man.

He felt as if a slate within him upon which he'd marked balances for such a very long time had been wiped clean. Just that.

When he reached the safety of the pottery, he left the walking-stick on the ground alongside the building. He intended to rise with the sun, take the stick out to the East River, and consign it to dark water, where it might vanish in time from sight and memory like its late owner.

Matthew went up to bed, remembering to wash his hands.

Seventeen.

Because at breakfast the Stokelys had not yet heard about the murder of Eben Ausley, Matthew's first real test of monitoring his mouth came when he took his clothes to his laundress, the widow Sherwyn, as was his habit every Friday.

She was a big, robust, white-haired woman who'd outlived two husbands, owned a little stone house and attached laundry shop on Queen Street, and who collected gossips and town-tales as someone else might pin b.u.t.terflies onto black velvet. Furthermore, she was an excellent laundress and very fair in her prices, so even at this early morning hour she'd already had half-a-dozen customers bringing in not only stained gowns and dirtied shirts but all the news of the night. It was for no little reason that Marmaduke Grigsby brought his clothes here and lingered over apple cider and gingerbread to trade topics, as when he left here he had enough bustarole to fill a month of Earwigs though if he printed most of it he'd have been either shot or hanged.

"Baaaaad night," said Widow Sherwyn as Matthew entered the shop with his bundle. It was said with grim foreboding, yet the color in her cheeks was as merry as a three-penny play. "But I suppose you've already heard?"

"Pardon?" was all he could say.

"Another murder," she explained. "Happened on Barrack Street, around midnight I hear. And guess who's the dead gent?"

"Um...I'm not good at guessing, madam. You'll have to tell me."

She waved a hand at him to say he was no fun. "Eben Ausley. The headmaster at the orphanage. Well, you ought to look more shocked than that! Didn't you say you grew up in that wretched place?"

"It wasn't so wretched..." He almost said before Ausley got there. "...when I was growing up," he finished. "I regret Ausley's death, of course. I have four shirts and three pair of breeches today." The shirt that had been bloodied by Phillip Covey was not among them, as it was now only suited for rags.

"What about that shirt you're wearing? Right wicked stain on the front."

Courtesy of Joplin Pollard's tipsy hand, Matthew thought. He'd put water on it when he'd gotten home, but too late. Actually he counted himself lucky the Thorn Bush ale hadn't burned a hole in it. "My last shirt," he said. "Have to do."

"Liquor stain?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "You out and about last night?"

"Yes and yes."

"I can smell the pipe smoke. Gentlemen's habits, indeed! You fellows mess up, we women clean up. All right then, I'll have these ready for you on Monday. Tuesday if I fall behind. Hey." She beckoned him closer with a forefinger. "Have you seen my Marmaduke lately?"

"Mr. Grigsby? Yes." My Marmaduke? Evidently these two had more going on than the sharing of tidbits.

"Well, when you see him again, tell him I have it on good authority that some fine lady on Golden Hill ordered a silver service that arrived yesterday from Amsterdam and when the bill was presented her husband made a cannon sound meek. Well, she shot one back at him too. Then the battle began. You could hear them wrangling from there to Long Island. Almost put out on the street, is what happened."

"Who? The wife?"