Seven
"I'm glad you can amuse yourself so easily," said Greathouse, when Slaughter's hollow laughter had ceased.
"I've had a great deal of experience in amusing myself, and in both the Quaker institution and this virtuous haven a great deal of time to think amusing thoughts. I thank you for your regard, Mr." Slaughter took a step closer to the table, with the obvious intention of reading Greathouse's signatures, but Greathouse quickly picked up both sheets of the transfer papers.
"Sir will do," Greathouse told him. Slaughter smiled and again gave a brief little bow.
But then, before the tall, slim and bearded Dr. Ramsendell could come forward to take the quill that Greathouse offered, Slaughter swiveled toward Matthew and said in a light and amiable voice, "Now, you I remember very distinctly. Dr. Ramsendell spoke your name outside my window. Was that just July? It's " He only had to think a few seconds to bring it up. " Corbett. Yes?"
Matthew nodded, in spite of himself; there was a compelling note in Slaughter's voice that demanded a response.
"A young dandy then, I recall. Even more of a young dandy now."
It was true. As was his habit of presenting himself as a New York gentleman, even on a road trip, Matthew wore one of his new suits from Benjamin Owles; it was dark burgundy-red, the same color as its waistcoat. Black velvet trimmed the cuffs and lapels. His white shirt and cravat were crisp and spotless, and he wore his new black boots and a black tricorn.
"Come into some money, I see," said Slaughter, whose face hung before Matthew's. He winked, and said in what was nearly a whisper, "Good for you."
How to describe the indescribable? Matthew wondered. The physical features were easy enough: Slaughter's wide face was a mixture of gentleman and brute. His forehead slightly protruded above the straw-colored mass of eyebrows. His unruly mat of hair was the same color, maybe a hint more of red, with the sides going gray. His thick mustache was more gray than straw, and since Matthew had seen him in July the man had grown a beard that looked like the beards of many other men stitched together: here a portion of dark brown, there a red patch, here a dash of chestnut brown, beneath the fleshy lower lip a touch of silver, and upon the chin a streak of charcoal black.
He was not as large a man as Matthew remembered. He had a big barrel chest and shoulders that swelled his ashen-hued asylum clothing, yes, but his arms and legs appeared to be almost spindly. He was about the same height as Matthew, yet he stood in a crook-backed stance that testified to some malformation of the spine. His hands, however, were instruments worthy of special attention; they were abnormally large, the fingers long and knuckles knotty, the nails black with encrusted grime and grown out jagged and sharp as little blades. It was obvious that Slaughter either refused to bathe or hadn't been offered the grace of soap and water for a long period of time, as his scaly flesh was as gray as his clothes. The smell that wafted from him made Matthew think of something dead moldering in the mud of a filthy swamp.
But for all that, Slaughter had a long, aristocratic nose with a narrow bridge and nostrils that flared ever so elegantly, as if he could not stand the stink of his own skin. His large eyes-pale blue, cold, yet not altogether humorless, with a merry sort of glint that came and went like a red signal lamp seen at a distance-were undeniably intelligent in the quick way they darted about to gather impressions just as Matthew was doing the same.
The part of Slaughter that could not be so easily described, Matthew thought, was a feeling from him of calmness, of utter disregard for whatever might be happening in this room. He didn't seem to care a fig, yet there was something else, too; it was a confidence, perhaps ill-advised under the circumstances, but as strong as his reek. It was a statement of both strength and contempt, and this alone put Matthew's nerves on edge. The first time Matthew had seen this man, he'd thought he was looking into the face of Satan. Now, though Slaughter was obviously more-as Ramsendell had put it on that day in July-cunning than insane, he was after all only a human being of flesh, bone, blood, hair and dirt. Possibly mostly hair and dirt, by the looks of him. The irons had no rusty links. It was going to be a long day, but not unbearable. Depending, of course, upon the direction of the breeze.
"Step aside, please," said Ramsendell, who waited for Slaughter to obey and then came forward to sign the documents. Hulzen was puffing on his pipe, as if to fill up the room with the pungent fumes of Carolina tobacco, and Jacob stood at the door's threshold watching as intently as anyone could who had a portion of their skull missing.
Ramsendell signed the papers. "Gentlemen?" He was addressing Greathouse and Matthew. "I appreciate your assistance in this matter. I'm sure you know that both Curtis and I have given to the Quakers our honorable decree as Christians that our patient " He paused to correct himself, and set aside the quill. "Your prisoner," he went on, "will be delivered to New York alive and in good health."
"He doesn't look too healthy as is," Greathouse answered.
"Just so you gentlemen understand-and I am sure you do, being upright citizens-that we are not in favor of violent solutions, and so if Mr. Slaughter perturbs you on the trip I trust that-"
"Don't worry, we won't kill him."
"Very reassuring to hear it," said Slaughter.
Greathouse ignored him, and picked up the third sheet of parchment. "I'm supposed to read this article of possession. I gather it's a formality."
"Oh, do read it!" Slaughter's teeth flashed.
"This day July third, the year of our Lord 1702," Greathouse read, "Her Majesty's subject Tyranthus Slaughter is charged to be removed from his present arrangement and brought to stand before the Queen's Commission of the Peace, held for the city of London and county of Middlesex at Justice Hall in the Old Bailey, before her Majesty's Justices, in connection with murders possibly committed by one Tod Carter, barber at Hammer's Alley, on or about April 1686 through December 1688, the bones of eleven men and one child being found under the cellar floor by a recent tenant." Greathouse aimed a cool gaze at Slaughter. "A child?"
"I had to have a lather-boy, didn't I?"
"Said suspect," Greathouse continued reading, "also charged to stand in connection with the disappearances of Anne Yancey, Mary Clark, and Sarah Goldsmith and the concurrent robberies of their family estates, on or about August 1689 through March 1692, under the aliases of Count Edward Bowdewine, Lord John Finch and " He hesitated. "Earl Anthony Lovejoy?"
"I was so much younger then," said Slaughter, with a slight shrug. "I had the imagination of youth."
"So you don't deny any of this?"
"I deny," came the smooth answer, "that I am a common criminal."
"Signed by the Right Honorable Sir William Gore, Knight Lord Mayor of the City of London, witnessed by Sir Salathiel Lovel, Knight Recorder of Said City, and the Honorable John Drake, Crown's Constable." Greathouse handed the parchment to Ramsendell, who took it as one might accept a dead snake, and then said to Slaughter, "I think your past has caught up with you."
"Alas, I'm in your hands. I do presume you'll feed me a good breakfast before we get started?"
"One thing," Matthew said, and both doctors immediately gave him their attention. "You said the Quakers found out Mr. Slaughter was wanted in London. How did that happen?"
"He was brought to us in August of last year, looking much as you see him now," Ramsendell explained. "A week or so later, one of their doctors left for a business trip to London and arrived in November, where he discovered people still talking about the bones that had been found at Hammer's Alley the month before." Ramsendell handed the article of possession back to Greathouse and wiped his palms on his breeches. "Some witnesses had come forth and given a description of Tod Carter that was published in a broadsheet and circulated through the streets. Someone else connected him to the alias of Lord John Finch, who wore-as it was called-a patchwork beard. This was evidently a continuing story in the Gazette at that time."