"He is in need of a new face, and currently resides in the prisoners' ward of the King Street hospital. It's unlikely he shall be speaking anytime soon. You might thank McCaggers' slave for that."
"How did Zed get there?"
"Well, he knocked the door down, is the short answer. As I understand, the slave was up on the roof of City Hall and saw your light. He relayed this-as he does in some way, I suppose-to his master, who wished to take you a bottle of brandy to toast your return. There was something about hearing glass break. So again, you might give thanks for night owls, both the white and black variety."
"Why?" Matthew asked.
"Why what?"
"A moment." Matthew had to compose the question again, for it had slipped away between thought and lip. "Why was I brought to you? There are other doctors nearer Stone Street."
"There are," Mallory agreed, "but none of them have travelled as extensively as I have around the world. And none of them know anything about the frog venom on the dart that struck you, or of course how to alleviate its unfortunate effects."
"How?" Matthew asked.
"Is this a guessing game?"
"How did you alleviate?"
"First of all, I knew what it was-what it must be-due to the blowpipe that Ashton found in your office, and of course from your condition. I spent half a year on an expedition into the jungles of South America, where I witnessed natives regularly hunt with the pipe and dart, and more than once I saw them put even jaguars on the ground. Of course there are many different species of what they call 'poison-dart frogs', some more potent than others. The venom is actually sweat from the skin. A sort of sticky yellowish-white paste. As in the small clay vial that young wretch was carrying in his pocket."
Matthew thought of the empty space where the blowpipe had been, in Mrs. Sutch's cupboard. His own name had been in the ledger book of victims, but it would not have been crossed out until Ripley had done the deed and reported back.
"The venom doesn't travel well," Mallory went on, his face daubed yellow by the light. "After a year or so, it loses its full lethal potency. Though it can still seize a man up, so to speak, or at least give him a good scare. The trick is to keep the victim breathing and give him a shock to the heart. Which I did with my tea."
"Your tea?"
"Not the English variety. My own recipe, which I hoped would work if indeed the venom was not at its full potency. A tea boiled from feverwort, yarrow, cayenne pepper, coca leaves, hawthorn and skullcap. You received a very, very strong dosage. Several, in fact. Boiled down to a thickening, I suppose you might call it. The result is that your heart pounds, your lungs pump, and you sweat rivers, but you do banish the impurities, if you live."
"Ah," Matthew said. "I expect my face got very red, as well?"
"Beet-red."
"May I ask you a question?" Matthew slowly eased himself up to a sitting position. His head swam and the room spun, but he made it. "Have you ever given that tea to Princess Lillehorne?"
"In a much more moderate portion, yes. A very expensive health treatment. Firms the fibers, aligns the humors and is quite beneficial to women's parts. She told me she was having some trouble in that regard. I asked her to keep the treatment to herself, because my supply of coca leaves was limited, but she deemed it wise to tell a friend, who told a "
"Friend, who told a friend, until there were five women paying for health treatments three times a week?"
"Yes. And I allowed it because every time I raised my fee, they paid. Only now you've used up the last of my supply."
"I don't think I want anymore," Matthew said. "But tell me how did Ashton McCaggers know you knew anything about the frog venom?"
"Ashton and I," said the doctor, "have been meeting regularly on Crown Street for coffee. He's a very interesting and knowledgable young man. Very curious about the world. I've told him about my travels: Italy, Prussia, Hungary, China, Japan and many other places, I'm proud to say. One day I mentioned my exploits in South America, and I told him about the natives and the blowpipes. He'd already read Sir Walter Raleigh's account of his travels on the Orinoco River, and of how the pipes were used, so Ashton recognized what it was when he saw it."
Matthew nodded, but he was watching the doctor very carefully. Some little thing, just a pittance of a thing, had begun to bother him. "I wonder," Matthew said, "how that young wretch, as you put it, got hold of a blowpipe, a dart and that vial of frog venom. Don't you?"
"I have wondered about that, yes."
"You know, that seems a bit strange to me."
"Yes," the doctor agreed. "To me, as well."
"I mean, it's not every day that a killer tries to murder someone with frog venom from South America, and there in the same town is a doctor who is well almost an expert on frog venom from South America."
"Not an expert." Mallory gave a passing smile. "There are so many more varieties of poisonous frogs yet to be discovered, I'm sure."
Matthew sat up a little straighter. He had a bitter taste in his mouth. "I would think McCaggers might wonder about that coincidence too, when he stops to consider it."
"He already has. As I said to him, it's one of those strange improbabilities that make up the chaos of life. I also told him, Greathouse and Lillehorne that the blowpipe could have been fashioned right here in New York, but that the venom would have been obtained only after much time and expense. Someone had to bring it back from the jungle. A very exotic way to kill a victim, really. But perhaps it was an experiment?"
Matthew felt a new chill pass through him. It's being experimented with, Mrs. Sutch had told Slaughter. "How do you mean?" Matthew asked.
"I mean perhaps the young wretch was testing the method. For someone else. To see how well the venom travelled, or " He stopped abruptly. "Your point being, did I supply it?" His arched brows lifted. "Don't you think that's being ingracious? After all, I gave you a very expensive amount of my tea."
"But I wasn't going to die, was I? Because the venom wasn't potent enough?"
"It was a close call," Mallory said. "But I can tell you that without my treatment you'd have been lying on your back in a hell of delirium for at least a week, and after that your ability to walk would be impaired for who knows how long? With my treatment, you'll be able to stagger out of here tomorrow or the next day."
Matthew couldn't help it. Even as weak as he was, he had to probe. "Did you say you and your wife came from Boston? Toward mid-September?"
"Boston, yes. And the middle of September, the same."
"I wonder, Dr. Mallory I know this seems a very odd question, but " Matthew forced himself to lock eyes with the other man. "Would you call Manhattan an island?"
"It is an island." Mallory paused for a few seconds. His mouth squirmed, looking very near to giving out the burst of laughter. "Oh! You're referring to this!"
From within his white shirt he produced a piece of light brown paper, twice folded. It was not as thick as parchment. As Mallory unfolded it before the candle, Matthew could see the pencil's impression of the octopus symbol on the back.
"That's private," Matthew said. Did his voice quaver?
"And so it should remain. I sent Rebecca to your office after they brought you here. I wanted to know if there were any more of those nasty little darts on the floor, like this one Ashton found." Mallory reached over to the table, beside the candle, and picked up the dart that lay there to show his patient. "It appeared you'd only been struck with the one, but I wasn't sure and you couldn't tell me nor could that young toothless wretch, though it was later discovered he had three more in a leather pouch in his pocket. I thought it was also a good idea for Rebecca to take a quick look around before Lillehorne got there. So on the floor behind your desk was this letter."