"Interesting," Matthew said. "Bringing a gun to a swordfight."
"That would be the idea, yes. The trigger is hidden in the grip." Quisenhunt showed it to Matthew, as smoke curled from the barrel. "I have high hopes for this, but unfortunately at present it does need work. The problem is keeping both sword and pistol equally-balanced."
Matthew thought a novice swordsman such as himself could benefit from the long reach of that particular blade. He saw a pistol hanging amid the guns on the wall that caught his attention. "May I?" he asked, and when Quisenhunt nodded he took it down. "What is this?"
"My pride and joy," said the inventor.
It was a pistol, Matthew saw, with three barrels-one atop two-but only a single striker. The wooden body of the gun was black and sleek, the barrels a steely blue. Heavy in the hand, but very well-balanced. It was, he thought, awesome.
"You prepare all three barrels at once," Quisenhunt explained, holding his candle closer so the light jumped off the bizarre and beautiful gun. "When the first barrel is fired, you cock the striker again and a gearwheel revolves the second barrel into position. Then, when that is fired, the striker revolves the third barrel into place."
"What do you call it?"
"A rotator."
"Ah." Matthew was definitely impressed. "And all three of these barrels really fire, then?"
"Well " Quisenhunt looked down at the floor and rubbed at a stone with his shoe. "Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I've had considerable trouble with the third barrel, which fires-by my calculations-with only thirty-six percent certainty." He shrugged. "But there's always room for improvement. You'll note that the barrels all share a single flashpan, so unfortunately the shooter does have to prime the pan between shots. If you'll open the compartment in the butt of the handle-it's the little brass lever there-you'll find three small paper cartridges, which hold the necessary powder for three applications to the pan. My intention with this was to speed the firing process as much as humanly possible."
"I'll say." Matthew heard himself sound like a dumbfounded schoolboy. "If you don't mind my asking, what would something like this sell for?"
"It's the better-working model of two in that configuration, but I wouldn't sell it. There's still a lot of work to be done."
Reluctantly, Matthew returned the rotator to its hook. What he would have paid to have a gun like that in the woods against Slaughter! His eye was snagged by another pistol, this one with a long barrel and atop the barrel a brass cylinder that looked to be a spyglass.
"Tyranthus Slaughter," said the inventor suddenly. "Yes! I do recall that name. He was one of the highwaymen they caught was it two years ago?"
"Two years and a little over four months. You made the exploding box for that particular purpose, correct?"
"Correct. High Constable Farraday and some of the town officials came to me to ask that I help them catch the highwaymen who were terrorizing the Pike. They knew of my interest in firearms, but being Quakers they wanted something non-lethal. Something that would startle the highwaymen, possibly daze them long enough to be overcome."
"I see. And do you always sign your work?"
"All my finished work, yes." Quisenhunt answered. "I'm proud of my creations."
Matthew took a drink of the lemon water and found it more sweet than sour. But even so, it did make the healing cut inside his mouth pucker. After his realization that Slaughter had successfully escaped Hoornbeck, Matthew hadn't known what else to do. He could search Philadelphia, of course, and he'd already been to the stables to ask for anyone of Slaughter's description, but essentially the trail had gone cold.
Except for one thing.
The exploding safebox that had held Slaughter's ill-gotten treasure. The safebox that bore, burned across its underside, O. Quisenhunt, Phila., followed by a number: 6.
Matthew said, "I know there's a striker device inside the box that ignites the gunpowder. And the hammer that falls makes the gunshot sound. But tell me how someone opens the box without the striker being tripped."
"Simple enough. The latches operate on springs. There are two versions of the triggering mechanism. In one, if the latches are turned any way but horizontally before they're opened, the mainspring is released and trips the striker. In the second, the latches have to be turned vertically, or the striker trips. The latches are designed to give some resistance; sort of an early warning to a potential thief, so to speak."
Matthew saw the intent, which was to blow smoke and sparks into the faces of the highwaymen, leading to-hopefully-a quick arrest. He recalled that the box Greathouse had opened-with some difficulty, as he remembered-had its latches turned vertically, which meant its 'safe position' would have been if the latches had been horizontal. Obviously, Slaughter had known which version he possessed. "How many boxes did you make?
"Six. The first had an unforeseen flaw and suffered a premature combustion. The second fell off a coach and was broken. The third and fourth actually were in use for several months, but never um served their purpose before the highwaymen were caught."
"And what about the fifth and sixth?"
"I recall I sold those, for quite a nice price. To one of my clients for whom I have also created a clock."
"Then you're saying the fifth and sixth boxes were never used by anyone but this client?"
"As far as I know. She said she had need of a thief trap herself, because she didn't have complete trust in some of her workers. Actually, she decided to buy the pair."
"She?" Matthew prodded. "What's the name?"
"Mrs. Gemini Lovejoy," said Quisenhunt. "She owns Paradise."
"Paradise," Matthew repeated.
"Mrs. Lovejoy owns the Paradise farm," Quisenhunt explained. "It's on the south side of town, a few miles out between Red Oak and Chester."
"A farm." Matthew thought he must be sounding like an idiot.
"It's titled a farm," said the inventor, "but Mrs. Lovejoy-a very generous, charming woman, by the way-takes care of elderly people there."
"Elderly people." Stop that! Matthew told himself.
"That's right. It's a place where how shall I put this elderly people in need of care are brought by their families, who can no longer keep them."
"You mean they're ill?"
"Possibly that. Possibly they are hard to handle. To control. Like children can be. Hard to feed, or to um well, many things. She's told me all about it."
"Is this a Quaker institution?"
"I think she receives some money from the town, if that's what you mean. But she originated the concept. She believes it will become more popular an idea as time goes on."
"Quite a concept," Matthew said quietly. He regarded the pistols again. His mild expression masked the jolting memory he'd had of Greathouse reading off Slaughter's aliases from the article of possession that first day at the Westerwicke hospitaclass="underline" Count Edward Bowdewine, Lord John Finch and Earl Anthony Lovejoy.
Lovejoy.
Quite a coincidence, as well.
"Listen," Quisenhunt said, scratching the back of his neck. "You're telling me that one of the thief traps I sold to Mrs. Lovejoy wound up in the possession of this Slaughter criminal?"
"I am. It was number six."
"That's very odd. I sold them to her well, it's written in my ledger upstairs but I'm sure it was long before the highwaymen were caught. And I've seen her many times since then, but she's never mentioned being robbed, or the box being stolen."
"Yes," Matthew agreed. "Odd."
"How can that be explained, then?"