"Oh, sir, sooner or later, if Jacob does not kill himself, one or the other of those doctors may well realize it would be so much to the benefit of the hospital if a small accident might occur, say with a pickaxe or a shovel, so as to release that poor soul from his suffering. And surely, sir, you believe that Heaven is a much better place than this, don't you?"
"Keep talking and you might find out. Though I doubt Heaven would be your final harbor."
"I trust my last voyage will indeed sail into Heaven, sir, for I've seen so much of Hell on my earthly journey. Tell me: what is your name? You seem somewhat familiar to me."
"We've never met."
"Oh? And how can you be so sure?"
"Because," Greathouse said, "you're still alive."
Slaughter laughed again, that slow funeral bell sound, but also mixed with a frog's croak.
"I have a question to ask you," Matthew spoke up, if for no reason but to break the ghastly laughter. "Why didn't you try to escape the hospital instead of wasting your chance?"
"My chance? What chance?"
"Dr. Ramsendell said you tried to strangle a woman, back at the barn, when you were given work privileges. I suppose there was some kind of oversight, but you were out of the hospital. Why didn't you just run for it?"
Slaughter pondered the question for a few seconds, as the wagon creaked along, and then he answered, "My kind nature interfered with my desire for freedom. Just as I regret Jacob's suffering, so I was wounded by poor Mariah's. The young woman and her daughter were ravaged by two brutes, as I understood it. Her mind rendered dull, her spirit broken. The daughter murdered before her eyes. Some days all she could do was crawl into a corner and weep. Well, on that particular day I was going to-as you put it so gracefully-run for it, but I was compelled by my Christian charity to release Mariah from her world of pain, before I fled. But she was not yet freed from her suffering when one of the other fools in that barn hit me across the back of the head with an axe-handle."
"See, that's the problem with lunatics," Greathouse said as he examined more closely the striker of his pistol. "They don't know which end of a damned axe to use."
"I won't deny I have ended the lives of many persons," came Slaughter's next statement, delivered as one might say he had eaten many helpings of corncake. "But I have always been selective, sir. Some I released from their misery of being stupid, others I freed from their cages of arrogance." He shrugged, which made his chains rattle. "I might have cut the throat of a man who suffered from a touch too much greed, or bashed in the head of a woman who in her madness fancied the world revolved around her own ugly star. What of it? Is the ratcatcher hanged for killing rats? Is the horse leech hanged for blowing out the brains of a diseased nag?"
"And the child?" Greathouse cocked the pistol, eased the striker forward, and then cocked it again while he made pains to examine his finger on the trigger. "What reason for that one?"
"That poor boy, Christ bless him, was feeble-minded and wet his bed at night. Also he had a deformity in his neck that pained him badly. No parents or relatives, an urchin of the streets. I couldn't take him with me, could I? And to throw him out upon the mercy of London? No, I'm far too much the gentleman for that."
Greathouse didn't respond. Matthew glanced at him and saw him just staring fixedly at the pistol, his finger upon the trigger and the striker on full-cock. He sat exactly so for several seconds, and then he took a long deep breath, eased the striker home and said, "When you get back to London, maybe they'll give you a civic medal to wear with your rope."
"I shall wear it with pride, sir."
Greathouse looked at Matthew with dark-hollowed eyes. "I think we'd better switch places. Right now."
They handed off the reins and the gun between them and Matthew turned around on the seat. Slaughter sat with his back against the wagon's frame, his gray face with its patchwork beard offered to the beams of sunlight that here and there pierced the thickening clouds. His eyes were closed, as if in meditation.
Matthew watched him, saw a fly light on his left cheek and begin to walk across the flesh. There was no reaction from the prisoner. The fly crawled up upon the aristocratic nose, and still Slaughter's eyes remained shut. Then, as the fly made its way between the flared nostrils toward the forest of mustache, Slaughter said without opening his eyes, "Mr. Corbett, I am interested in you." The fly had taken flight with the first utterance, whirled buzzing around Matthew's tricorn and then flew away.
Matthew said nothing. The pistol was in his lap. The irons had no rusted links, and Slaughter wasn't going anywhere. From this vantage point, the man resembled little more than a chained-up bag of evil-smelling rags. With a beard and filthy feet, of course.
"Afraid to speak to me?" Slaughter asked, his eyes yet closed.
"Why don't you just shut up?" Greathouse fired back.
"Because," and here the pale blue eyes opened and fixed upon Matthew with a hint of mocking humor, "time is running out."
"Really? Meaning what?"
"Meaning time is running out," Slaughter repeated. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"Not at all. Sir, my suggestion is to relax." He smiled thinly. "Enjoy the morning. Listen to the birds and count your blessings. Let me converse with this young man, as I rather think he's the more intelligent of your company. As a matter of fact, I'm sure he is the brain to your muscle. Is that correct, Mr. Corbett?"
Greathouse made a noise like a fart squeezed between a hundred-pounds of buttocks.
"Oh, absolutely," Matthew decided to say, if just to goad the great one. He felt a fist-sized knot of tension in his stomach, speaking to the prisoner like this, but he dared not show any discomfort. Besides, that would not be professional.
"I'm trying to determine what your career might be." Slaughter's eyes examined Matthew from boot toe to tricorn top. "Something to do with the law, of course. I know you came to the hospital several times to see that old woman. And he came with you, the first time. I think you must be a lawyer. And him, the roughneck who collects the money and does whatever a young lawyer deigns not to do. However, he does order you about a bit, so I'm confused on that point." He reversed the examination, descending this time from tricorn to boot. "Expensive, well-tailored clothes. Very nice boots. Ah, I have it!" He grinned. "You're a successful young lawyer, a little full of yourself but very ambitious, and he is a member of the militia. Possibly an ex-military man? Used to giving orders? Is that following the right track?"
"Possibly," said Matthew.
"I'll refine it, then. You are a young lawyer and he is a militia officer. A captain, perhaps. I know the look of captains, because I myself have been a soldier. So you were sent to make sure everything was done correctly, and he came because he's had experience with manacles, shackles and pistols. Have you been in prison or the madhouse yourself, sir?" Greathouse, to the credit of his self-control, did not reply.
"Are you a dealer in firearms? Oh, here it must be! You have a hand in running the gaol, is that it? So the both of you were ordered to come fetch me, and for the price of two pounds bind me up like a broken bird and haul me to New York. Does that cover the item, Mr. Corbett?"
"We're being paid five pounds," Matthew said, just to stop his prattle.
"Ahhhhh, I see." Slaughter nodded, his eyes bright. "That much. So the officials in New York are paying the extra three? Five pounds, split between you, yes?" He made a display of wriggling his fingers as if counting on them. "Two and a half pounds in your pockets! What a bounty, for an old sack of guts like me!"