“You might take some extra time in Charles Town,” Mrs. Herrald continued. “Rest and recover in the breezes. I know what you’ve been through.” She offered him a saintly smile. “You should be kinder to yourself, Matthew.”
“Just what I’ve been telling him,” said the Great One, who made it sound as if he were the wisest physician of the age.
Matthew discounted Greathouse’s bluster and turned his attention to a more important—and more personally disturbing—matter. “I would ask if you’ve had any news?”
“Nothing positive,” came the woman’s answer. “I’ve sent off a dozen letters. So far three have come back from my contacts in Philadelphia and Boston. None of them have ever heard of Brazio Valeriani. But I’m hoping my associates in London can shed some light on it.”
“Hopefully,” said Matthew. Now this was a problem worth the solving…and perhaps, Matthew thought, it had to be solved before Professor Fell lay hands upon this man, for whatever foul reason. Replies from London might take more than a year to arrive in New York, and Matthew had the feeling that time was of the essence. At a dinner one night during Matthew’s enforced stay on Pendulum Island, the professor in the guise of a masked automaton had offered the statement and challenge: I am searching for a man. His name is Brazio Valeriani. He was last seen one year ago in Florence, and has since vanished. I seek this man. That for the present is all you need to know. I shall pay five thousand pounds to the person who locates Brazio Valeriani. I shall pay ten thousand pounds to the person who brings him to me. Force may be necessary. You are my eyes and my hands.
Seek, the professor had said, and ye shall find.
It sounded to Matthew as if Brazio Valeriani did not wish to be found. And mayhaps there was some desperation in Valeriani’s disappearance from Florence. Fear of Professor Fell? Of course…but exactly why did the professor want him? Certainly not dead, but brought before him by force to the tune of ten thousand pounds?
And Professor Fell had even approached Matthew directly about finding his quarry with the declaration: If you found him I would pay you enough to own that little town of yours. So the question remained: who was Brazio Valeriani, and why did the emperor of crime want him so badly? Badly being the operative word here, Matthew mused.
“Beautiful flowers,” said Mrs. Herrald as she surveyed the vase in the hearth. “Some of the most beautiful are often the most trouble to gather. Don’t you agree, Matthew?”
The problem-solver had no clue. He wondered who might be filling the woman’s ear about his difficult relationship with Berry Grigsby, if indeed this was her point. He decided at that clear and precise moment that he didn’t wish to be around Berry and her new beau. He didn’t wish to see them walking together and find them sitting at Sally Almond’s or drinking coffee at Robert Deverick’s establishment. No, Heaven forbid! It would be torture to have that sight thrust before him day after day!
Matthew sighed. It was the sound of a soul in pain, yet to Mrs. Herrald and the Great One it was simply a sigh of resignation.
“I believe I will go to Charles Town,” said Matthew. He nodded, his face more grim than gracious for this sterling opportunity. “Yes. I will pack my bag and take the packet boat.” He slapped his palms upon his desk for emphasis. “I do need a change of scenery. Do me some good, I think.”
“There you are!” grinned Greathouse. “The young man at last has come to his senses! And,” he continued with a slyer smile, “added at least fifty pounds to our coffers!”
“Far be it from me,” Matthew relented, “to stand between a fool and his money.” Which made Greathouse’s smile slip a notch simply because Hudson wasn’t sure if he was the fool in reference or if it was Sedgeworth Prisskitt, but the morning was bright and the hills were green and the birds were singing and soon it would be time for a bowl of hearty corn soup and a mug of apple beer at Sally Almond’s, so all was right with the world.
That had been three weeks ago. Now, as Matthew stood beneath the Sword of Damocles and stared up into the black-bearded and ferocious visage of Magnus Muldoon, all was not so right with the world, even though the ballroom was ringed with silver candelabras that shed golden light and the air was perfumed with lemons and the faint tang of the Atlantic from Charles Town’s harbor only a few blocks to the east.
The challenge had been made. The duel offered. Matthew stood alone, as both the most beautiful woman in the world and her father had withdrawn to a more comfortable distance.
“What weapon then, you little piece of puff?” growled the Magnus mountain. His eyes were as sharp as two bits of flint, and ready to strike fire. “What do you wish to die by?”
Matthew cleared his throat. It was a polite sound. The problem-solver was ready to speak.
Three
"Would you agree, sir,” said Matthew in a quiet voice, “that any implement causing injury can be considered a weapon?”
Muldoon scratched his beard. Possibly it was a trick of the light, but a few fleas appeared to jump out. “Reckon…I agree,” he said, as cautiously as a human could speak it.
“And also that ‘death’ can have various meanings?”
“Hold up!” A huge palm was thrust toward Matthew’s face. “This is smellin’ of trickery!”
Matthew thought that at least the mountainous blackbeard was not a simpleton. “If I’m going to propose a weapon that might cause my death, sir, please allow me the ability to make the definitions clear.”
A roar emerged from the cave of the man’s mouth that might have sent a bear running. “Are we gonna fight, or ain’t we?”
“We’re going to duel, yes,” said Matthew, with composure that even he felt was admirable. In truth, his stomach was churning and he was damp in his armpits. He glanced toward the tapestry of comedy and tragedy, not quite certain in which arena he was a player. Surely, both were rivers from the same fount, and both could easily capsize the most careful of boats. He returned his attention to Magnus Muldoon, who Matthew had realized in the last few soul-jarring minutes was the reason Sedgeworth Prisskitt had to pay an exorbitant fee for an escort for his daughter to the society balls and bring a young man from such a far distance.
He recalled his first visit to the fine Prisskitt estate and mansion three miles to the northwest, beyond the stone walls that made up the fortress of Charles Town. He had ridden up on a chestnut steed in the bright hot sunshine, fully expecting this day to turn dismal when he looked upon dear Pandora. And yet…when the servant had taken him to the red-carpeted parlor room, and the stately elder gentleman Sedgeworth had come to greet him and offer him a glass of spicy Sir Richard, and drinking this agreeable and quite head-spinning liquor Matthew had been guided out upon a glassed-in conservatory that overlooked meadows sloping down to the Ashley River…and yet Matthew was entranced by the hospitality and by such a beautiful vista, so much so that he forgot his trepidation and the sick little roll of his cabin in the packet boat and began to consider this task a pleasure.
He had not been half through his rum and only an eighth through Mr. Prisskitt’s recitation of the family’s huge fortune in timber and brickworks when spinet music began to issue from within the house. “Ah!” Prisskitt had said, with a proud and civilized smile. “That would be Pandora, playing her favorite hymn! Shall we make the introduction, Mr. Corbett?”