“Ain’t here no more,” said the woman, who hardly moved her mouth when she bit the words off.
“Where can I find her?”
“Go back to the road,” the man spoke up. “Turn to the left and go on ’bout four or five rods. You’ll see the cemetery plain enough, it’s got a wall of stones around it to keep the ’gators out.”
“The cemetery?” Hudson frowned, which itself was enough to put any man on guard for his life. “This is a poor joke, sir, and I am in no mood for such.”
“Ain’t no joke,” said the woman. “Me and Clem been next on the list for a real house. Don’t care how we got it, just so’s there’s a roof over our heads for the baby. Pity that woman got herself murdered, but she was warranted for it.”
“Murdered?” Now it was Magnus’ turn to be aghast. “When? And by who?”
“What’re you men doin’, disturbin’ the dust for Quinn Tate?” The bullfrog voice issued from the old white-haired woman who had come from her porch, pipe in mouth and jug in hand, to follow the visitors on their route to this cabin. She removed the pipe to nearly bellow, “Leave that child to rest in her grave, and go on with you!”
“I have business with her,” said Hudson, who felt dazed by the heat and skull-scorched in spite of his straw hat.
“Nobody has business with that child no more! Listen here, I been planted in this place for near on fifteen year, and I seen all that a human eye can hold. Saddest sight of all was seein’ how that poor girl lost her mind after Daniel died. Her husband, killed by the Soul Cryer. Ahhh, you Charles Town fools don’t know nothin’ ’bout nothin’!” She waved a disgusted hand that had two fingers and a thumb.
“Enlighten us,” Hudson insisted. He was aware that this woman’s voice was summoning other Rotbottom residents to gather around. Men, women and children of all ages were seemingly emerging from the earth like dirtied ghosts, and some appeared so thin and frail they were near their departure from this world.
“I will so enlighten you, sir!” said the woman, with an exaggerated bow that ended in a stumble. To steady herself she took another swig of fortitude. “When Quinn come back with that fella she claimed was Daniel, nobody said nothin’ and so we’re all part of it! Yes we are!” She looked around ferociously at the gathering assembly of ragtags. “Oh, we talked about it ’mongst ourselves, but ain’t one of us had the cock to tell that girl she was out of her head, that she needed to get that fella out of her house ’fore…well…somethin’ bad was bound to happen! And it did! God’s Eyes, it did!”
“Settle down, mother!” Hudson advised. “I’m here to make some sense of—”
“Ain’t no damned sense to be made of it!” The old woman, a sinewy sack of wrinkles, looked like she could call up the furies if she needed them. “And I been mother to three sons and a daughter, all dead ’fore their time, and I been a wife to two men gone to the ’gators with no stone to mark ’em, and I done some right things and some wrong things but mister…the wrongest thing I ever done was not to speak up when that child brought a fella she said was Daniel here to share a house and bed with her! And nonnnnnne of us fine people said a damn word! Sure enough that man was moonstruck himself, or he would never have took Daniel’s name! Then he ups and murders her, near cuts her head off with a blade to the throat!” She paused to wet her foghorn. Her eyes had become black holes with no bottom. “Buried her a week ago Tuesday, you can go look at the Cross I made for her grave. Me, of all people who don’t think God’s got a lick a’sense or a shadow of heart in this world no more. Well, she’s in the ground and her killer’s done gone, so that’s the story. Go do your business with her, sonny! Go on, tell her Maw Katty sent you to bother her bones!”
All this had hit Hudson and Magnus like a storm of stones. Hudson feared his injuries from Tyranthus Slaughter yet weakened him, because he felt as if he might slither from his saddle into a puddle of flesh-colored mud.
“Her…killer’s gone?” Magnus managed to say.
“Lit out right after it happened.” Maw Katty took a puff and a pull. “He was seen leavin’ in a wagon with that foreign gent. The mean one who took up with Annabelle Simms and beat her so bad. I asked her myself why she took up with him…said he was royalty, some kind of a Count. Guess that gave him special right to bust her nose and arm. Lord a’ mercy, how these children delude themselves!”
“A Count,” Hudson repeated, getting his brain and mouth connected again only with a supreme effort. “What was his name?”
“Hanged if I can remember it.”
“I recall it,” said a younger, sun-darkened man who stepped forth from the throng. “It was Dahlgren. Man owed me money from a game of Hazard. His English wasn’t so good, but he said he’d give me lessons in swordplay instead of the shillings. I put a deaf ear to that.”
“He was a swordsman, then.”
“Thought himself so, but his left wrist was crooked. Said it made him unbalanced.”
Hudson was remembering that last October, during Matthew’s investigation of what he’d termed the ‘Queen of Bedlam’, a Prussian so-called count who was indeed a dangerous swordsman had nearly carved the boy to pieces in that mansion owned by the villain Simon Chapel, who was working in concert with Professor Fell. Hudson recalled Matthew telling him that the Count’s left wrist had been broken in the fight. Also that—alas for the use of all that energy and defense of life—the man had somehow fled the mansion even as it was being attacked by a rescue party led by New York’s then-High Constable Gardner Lillehorne, who at the end of May had left for London with his shrewish wife ‘the Princess’ to accept a position as Assistant to the High Constable there. An added plus to that departure was that Lillehorne had taken the little red-faced bully Dippen Nack with him to serve as his assistant.
Hudson was still stunned by what Maw Katty was telling him. And this about Count Dahlgren…could it be that Dahlgren had found refuge in this wretched town? Judging from Matthew’s hair-raising tales, the Professor did not take failure of his plans and underlings lightly, so Dahlgren might very well have sought out a place where he could vanish from the earth, the reach of the law and—hopefully—the Professor’s deadly grasp.
But now…what was to be made of the murder of Quinn Tate and Matthew leaving Rotbottom in a wagon with Count Dahlgren?
“Just so I know we’re talking about the same person,” Hudson said to the old woman, “can you describe for me the man who Quinn Tate called ‘Daniel’? If it really was him, his given name is Matthew Corbett.”
“You describe him. I’ll tell you true if it fits.”
When Hudson was finished, Maw Katty said, “He had a black beard and he looked most thin and haggard, but that was him. Had the scar ’cross his forehead plain as I’m seein’ you. That was him, pulled out little more than a week ago with that foreign bastard.”
Magnus could hold his tongue no longer. “I don’t believe this for a minute! Matthew was—I mean to say, Matthew is—no killer!”
“Come take a look at my floorboards,” said the new woman-of-the-house, with a bitter scowl. “Them bloodstains ain’t never scrubbin’ out. When that murderin’ moonspinner left the body it must’ve been near white as the Queen’s ass in winter.”
“Damn,” was all that Hudson could think to say, because even though he was relieved beyond words that Matthew was not dead—at least had not been dead when he’d left here—his heart was still heavy and many questions remained, the most important being: “Do you have any idea where they’ve gone?” When the old woman shook her head, Hudson posed the same question again to the larger group of people, but no one could answer.
“Sonny, you look like you might use a drink,” said Maw Katty, and she stepped forward a couple of paces to offer Hudson the jug.
He took it. The corn liquor was not the strongest he’d ever put down, but it was strong enough to make him feel as if a maniac had him clutched by the throat, and to see dark spots whirling before his eyes. Still, it was what he needed to
clear his head.
“You too, if you like,” Maw Katty offered to Magnus, who did not hesitate in taking the jug from Hudson’s hand and drinking a great draught of the liquid fire, for the realization of how he’d walked away from this house with Matthew shuttered away inside it was something he was going to have to deal with for many days ahead. Firewater would not cure the ill, but for the moment it would serve as an easement to his error in not entering that house at the girl’s request. Then again…how would he have ever known Matthew was in there? She had likely asked him reasoning, even in her madness, that he would decline and thus Matthew’s presence would go unknown to him. But surely—
Hudson voiced it before Magnus could think it: “Something had to be wrong with the boy. I don’t know what…I can’t figure it…but for Matthew to have stayed here, with the life he had in New York…why?”
Magnus returned the jug to Maw Katty, who squinted up at the scorched sky through the branches of overhanging oaks. “Might as well ask the sun why it burns and the wind why it blows. Ask the snakes why they curl up on rocks and the ’gators why they sleep in the mud. Some things you’ll never know, and in the end they ain’t important. Things just be what they be.”
“No,” said Hudson.
“What?” she asked.
“If my friend’s still alive, I’m going to find him wherever he’s been taken. I’m going to find out exactly what happened here, who killed that girl and why. So, many thanks for your time, the information and the drink. We’ll be on our way now.”
“You find Quinn’s killer, you ought to turn him over to the law,” said another woman in the crowd, this one several decades younger than Maw Katty but no less bedraggled. “Only right that he hangs for murder.”
Hudson nodded at Magnus for them to start off again. Magnus wheeled his horse around and they retraced their path through the village back to the road. In another few minutes they were surrounded again by the steamy forest, the shrill calls of birds from the trees, the chitter and drone of an army of insects and the flying clouds of mosquitoes.
Magnus said, “I’m—”
“Don’t speak for a little while,” Hudson interrupted. “I’ve got to do some thinking.” He glanced over at the other man, who had lowered his head as if he’d been struck, and reconsidered his harshness. “We’re square,” Hudson said quietly. “How were you to know Matthew was still alive if that girl said she saw him go in the river? I mean…I might have questioned it, but why should you? I’m a professional in these things, so that’s my job. Anyway, I hardly ever believe anything I’m told until I see it with my own eyes. I still can hardly believe this, but…that part about the foreign Count…and Matthew leaving with him in a wagon…Christ, I don’t like that!”
Magnus was silent for awhile longer, and then he asked, “What are you gonna do next?”
“I’m presuming Charles Town has a printmaster?”
“Yep.”
“A dependable man who can work quickly?”
“Yep. I’ve used him to print some broadsheets.”
“That’s just what I need him to do for me. Print up broadsheets with Matthew’s name and description on them. Also mention of a reward for any information. I’ll post them around town and see if anybody bites.”
“I’ll help you post ’em,” said Magnus. “Seems like the least I can do.”
“Thank you.” Then Hudson was quiet again, because this business of Count Dahlgren was weighing heavily on him. But why…why…would Matthew have gone anywhere with the man? And the murdered girl…well, it was beyond him at the moment to figure out. Time would have to tell.
Immediately on their return to Charles Town, Hudson left Magnus and secured a room at the Brevard House on Broad Street, after which he marched in haste upon the printmaster’s shop and collared the man in the act of closing up for the evening. By strength of will and show of gold coin he was just able to get an order in for twenty broadsheets stating Matthew’s name, description, a reward of a guinea for any reliable information—to be ascertained by circumstances—and two guineas to actually lead directly to the young man’s whereabouts. He wished he’d brought more coin with him to sweeten the tea, but as he was far from being a rich man this was all he could afford, including the inn and the printmaster’s work. Finally upon the broadsheet would be Hudson’s name and locality at the Brevard House. When the printmaster vowed to have this work done within two days, all that was left for Hudson to do was to go find some dinner, have a drink or two, and perhaps enjoy the voice and music of a lass wandering with gittern in hand among the tavern tables. Anything to forget for a little while that, though he was overjoyed to find Matthew at least alive a couple of weeks ago, he was distraught to know the boy might be in the hands of the enemy.
In two days’ time, Hudson and Magnus nailed up the twenty broadsheets across the width of the town. After that, all the man from New York could do was to hunker down, wait, and hope.
On the afternoon of the second day after the sheets had gone up, Mrs. Brevard knocked at Hudson’s door to tell him he had a visitor, though she wrinkled her nose when she said it. In the parlor he entertained for a very few moments a garrulous drunkard who insisted that not only had he seen Sir Matthew Corbett that very morning, but Sir Matthew Corbett was his long-lost son who the Indians had taken along with his wife back in the summer of ’89. Yes, indeed…the young man was seen among the beggars at Smith’s Quay and did not know his own father, so tortured his mind had become. So…would the good gentleman consider giving over a guinea, or better still two of them, to help provide a way for a suffering father to give help to a Christian soul struck down by heathen evil?
“No,” said Hudson, “but I’ll give you some grudging admiration for pulling as many strings as you can. Now leave here and take your odor with you before I kick you out the door.”
To which, the drunkard sat very still for a moment and then, as tears began to slowly roll from his yellowed eyes down the scabby cheeks, he rose to his feet and with the dignity of a silent statesman departed the Brevard House.
This, Hudson thought, was not going to be easy.
The following day thunder spoke and a light rain fell from morning until dusk. Steam rose from the streets and the roofs, and ensconced in the Brevard House’s parlor Hudson entertained himself by playing games of draughts with a fellow traveller from Baltimore, a clothier who had come to Charles Town to buy the dyes—in particular the indigo—that were so famous among the colonies. No one came to offer any information. Hudson’s coins were burning a hole in his pocket and he became more agitated and irritable by the hour, but there was nothing to be done for it.
In the evening he dined with the Brevards on whitefish, boiled potatoes, corn cakes, leek soup and very remarkable mincemeat pie. Not long after dinner, Hudson was again summoned by the lady of the house to the parlor, for another visitor had come calling.
This gentleman was tall and lean, had a brown goatee and mustache trimmed with gray, a mane of flowing brown hair that began at a widow’s-peak, and wore stylish clothing and a wine-red cloak. He had a copy of the broadsheet in one hand and in the other carried a brown walking-stick with a large knotty grip. As Hudson entered the room the gentleman took his measure from head to toe and back again.
“Zounds!” he said, “you’re a big one!”
“You have information for me?” Hudson pressed.
“Uh…well…I was—”
“Do you have information, or do you not?” He reached into a pocket and showed the gentleman a gleaming guinea coin. The man’s eyes took on a fever. Hudson had noted that the man wore a ring on almost every finger, which he found a distasteful show of vanity.
The gentleman hesitated, but his gaze never left the gold. “I…suppose I do.”
“Let’s hear it.”
The story was: the young man described upon the broadsheet was sitting this moment in the Full Fathom Five tavern not two streets from this parlor. The young Corbett was common
ly seen there, was always in his cups, but he answered to the name of Timothy.
“Take me there,” said Hudson.
“Well…I mean to say…and this may be indelicate…but I have been elected to come here from the regulars at the Full Fathom Five, and they would hold it grievously against me if I did not suggest they also might be paid.”
“I’m not paying anything until I see the boy.”
“Yes, of course, but I’m just suggesting you bring enough coin with you to reward myself and the six others.”
“I have enough.” Hudson touched another pocket where a small pouch of coins was secured. This would nearly clean him out, but if this really was Matthew it was a bargain and he would figure out how to pay the return packet boat fee later. He spent a moment to inform Mrs. Brevard where he was headed, if someone else came to ask for him, and then he said to the gentleman, “Let’s go.”
The streets were quiet, still wet with rain. Candlelight showed in many of the windows they passed. Somewhere a squeezebox was being played quite fervently and there came the sound of raucous male and female laughter, but the cloaked gentleman was leading Hudson away from the noise of festivities.
When the gentleman turned into the narrow mouth of an alley and said, “This way, sir, it’s quicker,” Hudson smelled the skunk and knew the game.
The two men who’d been hiding in the darkness of a shopfront rushed upon Hudson with their cudgels upraised. A third man, the fourth of the robbers’ gang, seemed to think better of tangling with someone Hudson’s size and he hung back, pretending to suddenly have a stone in his boot.
The cloaked gentleman lashed out with the knobby end of his stick, the action accompanied by the flash of a dirk drawn from its concealed sheath. Hudson parried the blow with his left arm, stepped into this rank amateur of a combatant before the dirk could be brought to bear, and hit him so hard his goatee and mustache nearly flew in separate directions from the body that collapsed bonelessly in a pudding of rainwater and horse figs. The second man got in a grazing blow to Hudson’s shoulder with his cudgel, but in the next instant his front teeth were gone and his nose was of a new geometric. The fourth man had already fled for the safety of his skin, regardless of how many stones agonized his foot.
Freedom of the Mask Page 3