"I didn't go for that reason."
Greathouse wore a steely glare. "Are you absolutely sure of that?"
Matthew was about to reply in the positive, but the bottom fell out of his resolve. Was he absolutely sure? Had he indeed been thinking of telling Marmaduke, so as to be the centerpiece of another story? No, of course not! But maybe just a little bit? He stood with motes of dust shimmering in the air around him. Was it true that maybe just a little bit he was no longer content to be only Matthew Corbett, magistrate's clerk become problem-solver, but wished the company of both wealth and attention? It seemed to him that attention could become as potent a drink as Skelly's apple brandy, and make one just as insensible. It seemed to him that one could be overcome by it, and without it would become as weak-willed and desperate as any half-penny drunkard. Was that part of why he'd ridden to the estate? No. Absolutely not.
But a few days ago he might have thought that if he'd ever found a bagful of gold coins, he would have first and foremost told who? Berry? She had also shared the ordeal; should she not share the reward? No, no; it was complicated. Very complicated, and he would have to consider this subject again when he had a clearer head, and anyway this dust in the air was about to make him sneeze.
"I regret telling you," he said to Greathouse, in a voice as steely as the other man's glare continued to be.
"Why did you, then?'
Matthew almost told him. That maybe he'd gone into the tunnel to prove his courage, once and for all; or that he'd simply thought Greathouse would approve of his decision to go forward, and trust in his instincts. But the moment came and went and Matthew did not say any of this; instead, he said, "Because I wanted you to know I don't need a bodyguard."
"Your opinion. All I know is, Zed could help us both, if he could be taught correctly. It's a damned waste for that man to be hauling ship timbers for the rest of his life." He waved a dismissive hand at Matthew. "Now don't get me started on that, I'll have to go out and get a drink."
Matthew returned to his sweeping, thinking that it was best to let some secrets lie undisturbed.
Less than a half-hour later, Gardner Lillehorne had arrived like a burst of sunlight in his yellow suit and stockings, his yellow tricorn adorned with a small blue feather. His disposition was rather more stormy, however, and as he marched up to Greathouse's desk his face bore the scowl of a particularly dark cloud. He placed a brown envelope sealed with gray wax before Greathouse. "You're required for an official task," he said, and cast a quick glance at Matthew. "The both of you."
"What official task?" Greathouse picked up the envelope, inspected the seal, and started to open it.
Lillehorne put his black-lacquered cane against Greathouse's hand. "The envelope is to remain sealed," he said, "until you pick up the prisoner. When you take possession of him, you are to read the contents to both him and the witnesses, as a formality of official " He cast about for a word. "Possession."
"You'd best rein in your runaways," Greathouse cautioned, and moved the cane aside. "What prisoner? And where is he?"
"The messenger from those two doctors said you would know. He came to my office yesterday afternoon. I have a wagon ready for you at Winekoop's stable. It's the best I can offer. The irons are ready, in the wagon. Here's the key." He reached into a pocket of that blazing and slightly-nauseating suit jacket and brought out the item, which he also placed on the desk in front of Greathouse.
"The two doctors?" Greathouse looked at Matthew. "Do you have any idea what he's going on about?"
Matthew did, but before he could say so Lillehorne went on, as if eager to be done with the responsibility. "Ramsendell and Hulzen, at the New Jersey Colony's Publick Hospital for the Mentally Infirm. Near Westerwicke. You know it, of course. The order for removal has come. A constable representing the Crown will be arriving on the Endurance at the end of this month to take him into custody. I want the prisoner's boots on the next ship leaving for England, and good riddance to him."
"Wait, wait, wait!" Greathouse stood up, the envelope in hand. "Are you talking about that lunatic we saw in the window down there? That what was his name, Matthew?"
"His name is Tyranthus Slaughter," Lillehorne answered. "Wanted for murder, robbery and other crimes, all laid out in the article of possession. The messenger said the doctors had already mentioned to the both of you the fact that Slaughter would be transferred from the hospital to the New York gaol, to await the Crown's constable. Well, the time's come."
Matthew recalled the first occasion he and Greathouse had gone to the Westerwicke hospital, during the investigation of the Queen of Bedlam. The two doctors who ran the place had introduced them to an inmate behind one of the barred windows. Sent to us almost a year ago from the Quaker institution in Philadelphia. The Quakers have found out he was a barber in London and he may have been involved with a dozen murders. We're expecting a letter in the autumn instructing us to take him to the NewYork gaol to wait for ship transfer to England. You know, if this business goes well with the Queen, you gentlemen might consider our hiring you to escort Mr. Slaughter to New York.
Greathouse brought forth a fierce grin that Matthew thought was one of his more disturbing expressions, because it meant the man was considering violence. "Are you out of your mind? You can't come in here and give orders!"
"You will see," said Lillehorne quietly, as he gazed about the office and his thin nostrils wrinkled with distaste, "that I'm not the person giving the orders. Don't you recognize Governor Lord Cornbury's seal?"
Greathouse took another look at it and dropped the envelope onto his desk. "That doesn't mean anything to me."
"Your doctor friends received two letters, both from the Crown's constable. One told them to prepare the prisoner for removal. The other was to be presented to Lord Cornbury, directing him to have the man brought here and held in irons. Lord Cornbury has been told to use the best possible men at his disposal. That's at least what he informed me when he dumped the mess in my lap. You two were specifically requested by Ramsendell and Hulzen. So here you are."
"We're a private concern," Greathouse said, with a thrust of his chin. "We don't work for the city, or the New Jersey colony. Certainly not for Lord Cornbury!"
"Ah, yes. The matter of who you do work for." Lillehorne reached into a pocket and brought out a small brown bag tied with a leather cord. He shook it, so that the coins might jingle. "Mister Three-Pounds. Have you made his acquaintance lately?"
Matthew kept his mouth closed.
"There are official transfer papers in that envelope," Lillehorne went on. "They require the signatures of both yourselves and the two doctors. Upon your acceptance of the prisoner, the doctors have agreed to pay you an additional two pounds. Can you do the mathematics, sir?"
Greathouse snorted. "They must want to get rid of him very badly." He paused, regarding the bag of coins with a hungry eye. "He must be dangerous. No, I'm not sure five pounds is enough." He shook his head. "Send some of your constables to get him. A half-dozen of them ought to do the job."
"My constables, as Mr. Corbett has pointed out before, are not fully suited to more demanding tasks. After all, are you not so proud to be the professionals?" He let that comment float in the air before he continued. "And you're laboring under the mistaken presumption that this is a request from Lord Cornbury. You might realize by now that he wishes to shall we say show himself able before his cousin, the Queen. I wish to show myself able before Lord Cornbury. And so it goes. You see?"