“I would,” Hudson agreed. “As a matter of fact, I was about to suggest that Matthew clean the fireplace out today. It seems he’s so free with his time at the present.” He followed this with so slick a smile Matthew wanted to rip his beard off and throw it out the window so someone might use it as a horse-brush.
“Indeed?” The woman’s penetrating blue eyes fixed upon the younger problem-solver. It was apparent she was not simply appraising Matthew’s light gray suit and spotless white shirt. “Time on your hands, you say?”
“A bit sullen this morning,” Hudson spoke up, rather too cheerfully for Matthew’s liking. The letter from Charles Town rose again from the dead in the Great One’s grasp. “We have here a request from a Mister Sedgeworth Prisskitt concerning the employ of an escort for his daughter Pandora to an occasion called the Sword of Damocles Ball, held the last week of June.”
“I’ve heard of that,” said Mrs. Herrald. “An annual occasion for the elite of the town, to see and be seen. Sounds more than a little pretentious to me.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Matthew supplied, bellowing the sail while this tide was turning to his favor.
“Pretentious or not, we’re being offered fifty pounds for what appears to be one night of work. If you want to call this work.” Hudson waved the letter like a battleflag. “A few days aboard a packet boat for Matthew, he attends the ball and escorts the dear daughter, he gets back aboard another packet boat the next day or so…and there you have it. Anyway, I’m of the opinion that Matthew could use a trip to refresh himself. His last trip was…how shall I say this…? Eventful, for all the wrong reasons. Matthew’s been dragging himself around these past couple of weeks. Look at him, he’s a ghost in his own skin.”
Matthew thought he could well be a ghost by now, and stumbling through the invisible world inhabited by the spirits of Number Seven Stone Street’s fighting coffee-bean dealers if not for the courage and faith of three women: the princess of blades Minx Cutter, the lonely Iroquois wanderer Pretty Girl Who Sits Alone, and the indefatigable but unreasonable Berry Grigsby.
He did have another bitter seed from his apple of fortune to chew upon. The fact that Minx Cutter’s first assignment since agreeing to become an associate with the Herrald Agency was taking her to Boston. She was on the case of a stolen piece of jewelry said to be in the shape of a scorpion, and supposedly endowing mystical “gifts” of some kind upon its wearer. Matthew would have wished for such a problem to solve, but that honor and opportunity went to Minx. He thought this totally unfair, since Minx had not yet proven her worth. Or…for that matter…proven she wouldn’t abscond with the scorpion herself at the first chance she got. He could only surmise that Mrs. Herrald had given Minx the enviable job because of information Lady Cutter had offered concerning Professor Fell’s organization. After all, Minx had been involved in the forgeries realm of that operation and also knew more than a passing bit about other areas of the professor’s criminal world. Which made Minx a source of valuable wealth, if she could be trusted. Perhaps giving Minx the task of finding the jewelled scorpion was Mrs. Herrald’s way of verifying if indeed Lady Cutter was trustworthy. Minx had just left for Boston aboard a north-bound packet boat this morning, so the issue of trustworthiness—and the recovery of the mystical scorpion—was yet to be asserted.
Matthew had bitten his tongue when he’d learned Minx was given the assignment. But it was he who had talked Minx into meeting Mrs. Herrald barely two weeks ago and considering a position in the agency of problem-solvers. Still, it was a damnable affront to his own abilities. And here he sat, with Hudson Greathouse waving that blasted letter around! He had to voice his opinion to Mrs. Herrald, now or never.
“I believe,” he said calmly, his attention focused on Katherine Herrald, “that this Pandora Prisskitt must be one of the most…shall we say…unlovely creatures upon the face of the earth. I recall that we received a letter sometime back from this same gentleman requesting an escort for his daughter to the…if my memory is not faulty…Cicero Society Ball at the end of March. Why else would her father want to hire someone? And pay what is really a ridiculous amount? I mean…think of it! Hiring an escort to come to Charles Town all the way from New York? Why doesn’t Mr. Prisskitt just find a local escort and pay him the same? Surely there are young men in Charles Town who can be paid to squint through their spectacles at a female of an unfortunate proportion, a wayward eye or a dark-haired lip. So…how does it make sense that this gentleman proposes to secure an escort from a place some seven hundred miles away?”
“Oh, you’ve tracked the distance, have you?” Hudson’s scar-cut left eyebrow went up.
“I know the distance. I lived in Charles Town long ere I met you, and certainly had a trying experience in its vicinity.”
“Yes, the Nightbird thing,” Hudson recalled. “Well, you were but a lad then.”
“Old enough,” was Matthew’s reply. The Nightbird thing was an improper way to put it, but understandable coming from the Great One’s unruly tongue. It was a reference to his association in the spring of 1699 with Rachel Howarth in the fledgling town of Fount Royal. The magistrate Matthew had clerked for, the late and lamented Isaac Woodward, had called Rachel his “nightbird”, due to the fact that she’d beguiled him just as the singing of a nightbird might beguile any ordinary man from his daytime duties. Matthew had told Greathouse the whole story of that, and now was rewarded with this jab to the groin biscuits.
“Interesting,” said Mrs. Herrald, who motioned for both gentlemen to be seated again. She gave Matthew a bemused smile. “I mean to say your impressions on this are interesting. You have correctly identified the questions involved, but you jump to a strange conclusion. Even if the young lady is as…hideous as you suggest, surely a man might be found to escort her to a ball for somewhat less than fifty pounds.”
“I’m thinking the local gents don’t wish their reputations to be sullied. Even for such a sum,” Matthew said as he sat down at his desk.
“Possibly not. But you surprise me, Matthew. You are presented with a…” She paused, obviously debating some nuance of language. Then, satisfied with her decision, she went on. “A Pandora’s box of mysteries. It seems to me this is a simple matter, yet one I’d think you’d surely consider taking on if just to answer these questions for yourself. You have nothing pressing, it seems. I think you have a respite from the attentions of Professor Fell, who will certainly be busy cleaning up the mess you’ve delivered to him. Not to say he won’t be attentive to you in the future, but for now…I believe he’s busy in England, trying to repair the damage. I wouldn’t have sent Lady Cutter to Boston, if I didn’t think she would be secure in her travels. Again, I say…for now.” A white-gloved hand motioned toward the windows that looked toward the green New Jersey hills and meadowlands. “But Matthew, you should take advantage of the season! You ought to enjoy this opportunity for some safe travel yourself. Consider granting the gentleman’s request, won’t you?”
Matthew shrugged. “I’ll give it some thought,” he decided, though he wished he were on his way north to Boston rather than planning a southern trip.