"The price for that is too high," Matthew had answered. "From now on, I'm just an ordinary fellow who works for a living."
Marmaduke had snatched away the platter of biscuits, but then he'd seemed to take note of Berry's hand upon Matthew's arm. He'd pushed the biscuits forward again, and sighed. "Ah, well. I'm running low on ink, anyway. Suf'-and here he'd lifted a finger of triumph-"there's yet the tale of Gray Wolf to be told, isn't there?"
Matthew had shrugged. If Greathouse wanted to go down that particularly twisty road, it was his own horse-and-wagon. More like ass-and-cart, to be truthful.
Berry had put on a yellow cloak and walked with Matthew for a while, north along the waterfront. He didn't speak and she didn't speak for the longest time, as the breeze blew about them and the sunlight shimmered off the river. He stopped for a few minutes to watch a ship, its sails unfurled, gliding toward the blue expanse of the sea past Oyster Island, and then he turned away.
"Can you talk about it?" she'd asked, her voice quiet and careful.
"Not yet. Later. Maybe."
"I'll be there when you want to. If you want to."
"Thank you." A few more steps in silence, and then he'd decided to speak what he'd been thinking ever since he'd walked into the Lindsays' kitchen: "I need help with something."
"Yes?"
"I need help with a question," he'd said. "A mystery. Even more than the monster's tooth, in McCaggers' attic. It's about God. Why does God allow such evil in this world? If God is supposed to watch over every little bird. Why?"
Berry didn't reply for awhile. Then she said, "I suppose you'd have to ask a reverend."
"No. That's not good enough. What would a reverend know that I don't? The right words and verses? The names of the saints and the sinners? Yes, all those, but not the answer." He'd stopped abruptly, and looked deeply into her expressive dark blue eyes. "Why doesn't God strike down evil? Why doesn't He destroy it, before it takes root?"
Again, she was reluctant to answer. She lowered her head, looking at the ground, and then lifted her eyes to his again. "Maybe He expects us to take care of the garden."
Matthew considered something that had winnowed itself into his brain. It was He Runs Fast, saying through the interpreter He wish spirits make sense. Matthew hadn't understood that at first, but then it seemed to become a quiet cry at the passing of his son. A cry for understanding, and the peace of acceptance. Matthew too wished that God's ways made sense, or that he could understand what sense they did make. He knew he could batter his brain against that unknown and unknowable door between the trials of Earth and the truth of Heaven every day for the rest of his life, and it would not bring him any closer to an answer.
It was the ultimate mystery, more ancient than a monster's tooth.
He wish spirits make sense.
"So do I," Matthew had said. And then he was aware that Berry's hand was in his, and he was holding onto it like a gift given him to protect.
Now, in the Trot, Matthew drank his wine and contemplated the fact that Greathouse, for all his show of bravado, had entered the tavern about an hour before on the support of a cane. The hollows under his eyes were still dark, his face drawn and more deeply lined. Gray Wolf had wrestled with Death in the wilderness beyond and returned grinning, yes, but not without leaving something behind. Matthew thought that if anyone could make a full recovery to health after being stabbed in the back four times, it would be the great one, but only time would tell.
Which was one reason Matthew was not ready to share with Greathouse the letter he'd found in Mrs. Sutch's safebox, and was now in his coat pocket. To venture into that area at all would be detrimental to Greathouse's recovery, for who would wish to know he'd eaten sausages spiced with human flesh? And with such relish, as well?
"I spoke to Berry this afternoon," Matthew said. "About Zed. She tells me they've devised a common language, based on drawings."
"Yes, I know."
"And that he really is a highly intelligent man, she says. He knows he's a long way from home, but not how far. She says he sits up on the roof of City Hall at night looking at the stars."
"The stars? Why is that?"
"They're the same stars he's always seen," Matthew related. "I suppose there's a comfort in that."
"Yes," Greathouse agreed, and turned his cup between his hands. "Listen," he said after a moment of silence. "We failed this job. I failed it. I'm not proud of being stupid. The doctors and the Quakers and Lord Cornbury and that Constable Drake expected us to bring Slaughter in alive. Obviously, my plan to buy Zed and set him free got the better of my judgment. Things are as they are. But I'm a professional and in this situation I did not act as one, and for that I'm profoundly sorry."
"No need for that."
"There is," said Greathouse, with a little of the old fire. "I want you to know that if I'd been on my feet and in my right mind I would never have let you go after him. Never. I would have called it quits right then and there, and been done with it. You took a tremendous risk, Matthew. God knows you're lucky to be alive."
"True," Matthew said.
"I won't ask you about it, and you don't have to tell me. But I want you to know that going after Slaughter was a braver thing than I have ever done in my life. And hell, just look at you! You're still a moonbeam!" He drank down the last of his wine. "Maybe a little tougher around the edges," he admitted, "but a moonbeam all the same." "And still in need of a bodyguard?"
"In need of a keeper. If Mrs. Herrald knew about this, she'd-" He stopped and shook his head. "She'd what?" Matthew prodded.
"She'd say that I was a damned fool," Greathouse replied, "but she'd know she made a good choice in you. Just so you stay alive to secure her investment for a few more months."
Matthew distinctly remembered Mrs. Herrald telling him that the job of a problem solver meant thinking quickly in dangerous situations, sometimes taking your life in your hands or trusting your life to the hands of someone else. But he chose not to remind Greathouse of that.
"Speaking of investments," Greathouse said, "there's a job you can do for me. Or rather, try to do. You know I told you about the situation involving Princess Lillehorne, the other women, and Dr. Mallory? When I was half out of my head? Well, due to my current complication I'm not going to be able to get around so much for a while, so I'd appreciate it if you would take the case over. It's just a question of why Princess sees him three times a week and comes home in a red-faced sweat, according to Lillehorne. Four other wives, the same, and do you know what they tell their husbands? That it's a health treatment. Then they refuse to say another word, and in the case of Princess Lillehorne, she's threatened to withhold her wifely duties if Gardner doesn't pay Mallory's bill."
"All right, then. I'll just ask Dr. Mallory."
"Wrong. If he's ramming them in the back room, what's he going to say?" "Maybe he's ramming them in the front room."
"You just take it slow. Talk to that wife of his and see if you can get a handle on him. If he's strumming the love harps of five women three times a week, she ought to have a clue." He stood up with the help of his cane. "My notes are in my desk. Have a look at them tomorrow."
"I will."
"Want to meet me for breakfast at Sally Almond's? I think they're supposed to be getting in some of those hot sausages."
"I wouldn't count on that," Matthew said. "Anyway, they're not to my taste. But yes, I'd be glad to meet you. My treat."
"Wonders never cease. Seven-thirty?" He frowned. "No, better make that eight-thirty. These days it takes me a little longer in the morning."