Matthew was silent. He cursed himself for stupidity, for he had wandered again into rattlesnake country where it was least expected.
Mallory looked long and hard at the octopus symbol. "I understand," he said, his guns rumbling, "that you killed the man you were sent to bring back. Tyranthus Slaughter. Yes?"
Matthew didn't answer.
"Relax. We're only talking, Matthew. Two people in a room, at half-past two in the morning. Just us night owls." He gave a quick, cold-eyed smile. "All right, I presume you killed Slaughter. That's what Lillehorne says. Now, about Mrs. Sutch: is she in custody, or is she dead?" "Who are you?" Matthew managed to ask. His throat was cold again.
"I," said the doctor, "am your friend. And I am going to assume as well that Mrs. Sutch is deceased, because she would have killed herself before she let anyone cage her." He folded the letter again and slid it into his shirt. "A pity," he said. "I liked her sausages."
Matthew decided he had to make a move. He had to get up and get out of here, no matter what. But when he tried-and he really, really did try-he had no strength, and now his arms and legs were losing sensation and the candlelight was spinning out long yellow spikes.
"Tell me, Matthew." Mallory leaned closer to him, his eyes shining. "When you killed Slaughter and Mrs. Sutch, what did you feel?"
"What?"
"Feel," Mallory repeated. "What did you feel?" "I felt sick."
Mallory smiled again. "There's a medicine for that, too."
Again Matthew tried to get out of bed; again he failed, and this time his head fell back upon his pillow because the muscles of his neck had given out. He thought of shouting for help; the thought shattered like glass, and blew away like smoke.
"You'll be peacefully asleep in a minute," said Mallory. "I want you to know the blade scrape across your chest is healing well, but the smaller cut on your side is infected. I have a poultice on it that should help, but we'll watch it carefully."
Matthew was fighting the oncoming dark. The light was fading, and so was the doctor's face. "Are you " He couldn't speak. Mallory was fragmenting into pieces, like Matthew's mind. "Are you going to kill me?" And he added: "Professor?"
The good doctor drummed his fingers on his armrest. "To your question, I answer: absolutely not. To your supposition, I say even night owls must rest." He reached out and with two fingers shut Matthew's eyelids. Matthew heard the chair creak as the man stood up, heard a breath extinguish the candle, and then all was silent.
Thirty-Five
An envelope arrived by courier at Number Seven Stone Street on a Friday afternoon in late November. Matthew's name was upon the front, and Lord Cornbury's seal upon the back.
"What the hell is it?" Greathouse wanted to know, and when Matthew informed him what it must be, the great one had said, "I think you ought to tell him, don't you?" Matthew agreed. He took his cloak and tricorn and was halfway down the stairs when he heard Greathouse shout, "You wouldn't have made a very good slavemaster, anyway!"
Matthew set off into the traffic on Broad Street. It was a bright day, warm for the season though light cloaks and coats were in order. Matthew went directly to City Hall, climbed the attic steps to McCaggers' domain and knocked at the door. He waited, but there was no answer. He thought he knew where McCaggers and Zed might be, since Berry had told him that the light this time of year-and especially on sunny afternoons such as this-was to be taken advantage of before the gray gloom of winter set in. Matthew had not missed the fact that where Berry was to be found, McCaggers also was.
He left City Hall and walked east on Wall Street toward the harbor. Another fact he didn't miss was that at the end of this street was the slave market.
He had been a slave owner for nearly a week. It had been an expensive proposition. McCaggers had been agreeable, with the understanding that Zed would continue his present living arrangements and also help the coroner as needed. But the villain of the play had been Gerritt van Kowenhoven, who brought in a silver-tongued lawyer before he would consider any discussion of selling his valuable slave. When the discussion began, it seemed to revolve around not Zed's future but the street van Kowenhoven had been promised as an honor to his name. Then, after being assured the street was indeed on the new map-and actually getting a view of the new map, courtesy of McCaggers-the talk had turned to van Kowenhoven's profit on his investment.
When the quills finished their job, Matthew's remaining money after the payment of debts had been whittled down to twenty-three pounds. The next step had been arranging a meeting with Lord Cornbury.
In Cornbury's office with its overstuffed chairs, a desk of English oak that seemed as wide as a continent and a portrait of Queen Anne glowering from the wall, the Lord himself had regarded Matthew through bored, blue-shaded eyes and idly twisted a curl of his high blond wig while Matthew stated his case. It wasn't easy, stating a case to a man in a purple gown with puffy frills of blue lace down the front. But after the case was stated, Cornbury then coldly informed Matthew that the Herrald Agency had embarrassed him in front of his cousin the Queen over that Slaughter business and Matthew might believe himself to be a celebrity, and think he had some influence due to this mistaken belief, but that Matthew should not let the door hit him in the cheeks on the way out.
"Ten pounds for your signature within the week," Matthew had said. And remembering his station in life, which was just a citizen the same as everyone, added: "Your Lordship."
"Are you not hearing me, sir? Anyway, these things take time. Even though we're speaking of personal property, we have the town's safety to consider. There has to be a discussion of the council. A meeting of the aldermen. Some of them are vehemently opposed to this kind of thing. No, no. Impossible."
That was when Matthew had reached into his pocket and put the intricately-engraved silver ring from Slaughter's safebox on the desk. He'd pushed it across the continent toward Lord Cornbury.
It had been picked up by a purple-gloved hand, inspected in the spill of light from the window next to the face of Queen Anne, and tossed aside. "Nice enough," came the voice through the painted lips, "but I have a dozen of those."
Matthew then took from his pocket the necklace of grayish-blue pearls that indeed were very beautiful, now that they were cleaned up. "Your Lordship, pardon me for asking," Matthew had said, "but do you know what a string of pearls is selling for these days?" Obviously, Lord Cornbury had known.
Matthew found McCaggers, Zed and Berry at the waterfront near the fish market at the end of Smith Street. Small boats were coming in and throwing lines to the wharf. Baskets full of the sea's bounty were being unloaded onto the dripping timbers. Salters stood by with their carts, and both customers and cats were prowling around looking for supper.
In all this haste and hurry of commerce, Berry and Zed stood drawing with black crayons on pads of paper as the fishermen delivered their catch. McCaggers stood a distance away, putting on a brave face though it was apparent the fish market was not his favorite place in town; he held a handkerchief with which he dabbed at his nose, and Matthew figured it had some kind of aromatic tonic applied to it.