“Then you also know what’s it called?”
“Purgatory,” he answered.
She laughed. “y Beautiful Bedd,” she said. “With two ‘d’s’.”
“Surprisingly romantic, but unfortunately misspelled.”
“Translated from the Welsh,” she told him. “The Beautiful Grave.”
That took him aback and silenced him for a few seconds, but then he restored his senses. “His own, I assume?”
“His enemies’ and those he wishes to contain. Once there, the lid is closed…yet it is a very pleasant cemetery and surprisingly lively.”
“Wonderful,” Matthew said, with more than a trace of sarcasm.
He heard the crack of the driver’s whip. The horses were being pushed, the coach rocking back and forth. The damned village had to be close, Matthew thought. He leaned over to his left, the seaward side, pulled aside the damp windowshade and peered out.
Little pellets of mist hit him in the face. The odor of the sea—of brine, weed and marine life—was stronger. Of course the professor who was intensely interested in marine creatures would position his beautiful grave on the seacoast. All was dark but a faint glow in the sky perhaps two miles off, though distance was hard to accurately judge. Matthew had brought along the silver pocketwatch once belonging to now-dead Phillip, and in checking it he saw the time was just after eight. The horses must be near exhaustion, yet they were pulling gamely on. Matthew let go of the shade and settled back in his seat, every leather seam of which his aching ass would never forget. He said, “I see he’s left the lamps burning for us.”
“Not just for us. There’s a thriving nightlife. It’s run as any small community might be.”
“How many people?”
“Oh…at last count…fifty-three, I believe. Add your friends and Judge Archer to that. And you, of course. Fifty-seven.”
“I’m to become a permanent resident? And be spared the deadly rod of correction?”
“That’s up to the professor,” she said. Her flat tone of voice and the dead look in her eyes put quit to any further questions Matthew might throw.
A quick glance at Julian Devane and then away again told Matthew that the silent henchman’s cold but slightly bemused expression said a certain cricket was nearly down to its last chirrup.
The coach began to slow. Something popped up above and sizzled away. A signal firework set off by the driver, Matthew suspected. These nitwits thought of everything. And would that they were nitwits, so they’d be easier to deal with. But unfortunately not.
In a few moments the coach had rolled nearly to a stop. Matthew heard the clanking of chains and what might’ve been the noise of a heavy gate opening. Then the coach picked up speed and they were off again, on a road that curved to the left in the direction of the sea. It wasn’t but perhaps fifteen seconds later when the coachman’s fist knocked against the top and the vehicle came to a halt. The brake went down with a thump.
“We’ve arrived,” said Mother Deare.
“Out,” Devane told Matthew, and hooked a thumb toward the door on the left.
Matthew obeyed. He stepped into a scene he never would have expected.
A band had come to greet the coach. There were two fiddle players, an accordionist and a girl striking and jingling a tambourine, all of them well-dressed and looking to be in the prime of health. Their expressions were neither excessively merry nor gloomy, but somewhere in the vicinity of resigned comfort. The tune was lively but dignified. The group of about thirty people who had gathered in what appeared to be a lamplit village square made greetings to the driver and the passengers, as Matthew was the first out. The men doffed their tricorns and the women curtseyed. There were many smiling faces, but Matthew’s first impression was that the eyes above the smiles were dulled. A few members of this strange welcoming committee wore blank expressions, as if the slates of their minds had been wiped clean.
So that was it, he thought as Devane gave him a little forward shove. Matthew was very familiar with the situation of losing one’s memory by a blow to the head. He figured drugs could do the same, or else work to extinguish the desire for freedom and make this beautiful grave appear a gateway to paradise. He took quick stock of all the people he saw. The eldest in this group was a man likely in his mid-sixties, the youngest was the teenaged girl with the tambourine. No, he had to correct himself. Over there by a well positioned in the middle of the square was a woman cradling an infant in her arms, and a man beside her who must be her mate, holding a little boy of about six years up so he could view the grand arrival.
Then the coach that had been second in the caravan behind them came sweeping into the square, and like automatons the villagers turned their dubious attention, vacant smiles, automatic doffing of tricorns and acts of curtseying toward this new vehicle, which carried four more of Mother Deare’s wrecking crew. The band played on.
A tall, lean man wearing a buckskin jacket and a gray skullcap came forward toward Matthew, Mother Deare and Devane. He was not part of the dull-eyed community, Matthew instantly saw. This man’s eyes were sharp, his features hard and weathered, and he was carrying an ugly-looking blunderbuss with a short bayonet attached underneath the barrel. He rested the weapon upon one forearm with the snout pointed in the general direction of a New York problem-solver.
“Welcome to Y Beautiful Bedd,” he said in a thick brogue, addressing Matthew. Nothing about him was welcoming. Even the statement carried more than a hint of menace. He nodded to Mother Deare and Devane. “Evenin’, folks.”
“Good evening, Mr. Fenna. We have luggage to be carried to our quarters.”
“Yes, ’m. How many arrivin’?”
“Four in the coach that just came in. Another coach with four more right behind. Has Dr. Belyard arrived yet with a patient?”
“No, ’m, not yet.”
“He will directly, I’m sure.”
“I’ll have your bags taken care of. Where’s this one goin’?” Fenna nodded toward Matthew.
“The Lionfish guest house. Or is that already taken by the two I sent earlier?”
“No, ’m, it’s clear. They were took somewhere else.”
“Berry and Hudson?” Matthew looked at the woman. He didn’t like that phrase took somewhere else. “Where are they?”
“Here, in comfortable surroundings.” She gave him a chilly, one-toothed smile. “Julian, will you escort Matthew to the Lionfish guest house, please? I have duties to attend to.”
“I want to see my friends,” Matthew said. The third coach had just come in. The music had become a touch of madness in this strange environ.
“The guest house,” Mother Deare told Devane. Then, to Matthew, “Get yourself settled. If you want anything to eat, go to the tavern on the other side of the square.” She hooked a thumb in its direction. “It’s open all night. Have a nice dinner, a cup of wine, and relax.” She dismissed him and turned to Fenna. “Is he up?”
“Yes, ’m. Workin’, as always.”
“He’ll want to see me at once.”
“Yes, ’m,” said Fenna. The man threw a menacing look at Matthew that let him know he would like to blow Matthew’s brains out with that blunderbuss and hoped he might get the chance. Then Fenna and Mother Deare started across the square, which was paved with neat chalk-white stones. The crowd of greeters was diminishing and the band had ceased their caterwauling.
The pistol that Devane had drawn from beneath his cloak pressed against Matthew’s ribs. “Walk on,” he said. “Straight ahead and turn right at the next street.”
“You know you don’t need that.”
“I like it in my hand. Walk on.”
Matthew obeyed. He then had the opportunity to gather impressions of this tidy little prison, for that’s indeed what he realized it must be. He had had his fill of prisons lately, but here he was in perhaps the worst one of all…yet it was clean, people walked about freely, and cheerful lantern light glowed from the windows. No one seemed to mind tha
t a man was being herded along at gunpoint.
There appeared to be four streets radiating from the village square with several narrower streets turning off of those. All of the structures were ground-level only, and most were constructed of the white stone though a few were dappled white-and-gray or white-and-brown. The majority of the buildings had roofs of dark brown slate but there were several with thatched roofs. All local material, of course, Matthew thought. He saw places where the walls had been patched and possibly patched again, and it gave a charming air to the little houses but also left him with the impression that the age of this village had been disguised by patchwork and paint; there was something nearly medieval about their design and about the layout of the village itself, but then again that was only a guess.
Stone chimneys spouted polite whorls of white smoke that rose into a star-filled sky. When a breath of cold wind cast the smoke in all directions Matthew caught a pungent, earthy odor that he’d never smelled before. Peat fires, he reasoned; the village was likely surrounded by marshes and peat bogs.
On the street corners there stood poles holding burning lanterns on hooks, and beneath the lamps were street signs on enamel plates. Matthew noted that he was turning right onto Lionfish Street. He assumed all the streets were named after marine creatures. With Devane at his back, Matthew passed a small building marked with the sign of Y Beautiful Bedd Publick Hospital. Only four more cottages stood past that building, two on each side of the street, and then Lionfish curved to the right to presumably lead back toward the square. Lamplight cast a glow upon a wall of rough gray stones about twelve feet high, with a stone parapet at the top. A half-ruined turret indicated that this had perhaps been a fortress back in the mists of history. The gap-toothed nature of the turret stones gave Matthew a particularly bad memory and a phantom jaw ache. A man was up there on the rampart, shouldering a musket as he walked slowly along, his gaze drifting over the rooftops and then out in the direction of the sea. Matthew could see how the wall continued to both right and left. He realized it must be built around the entire village, and the village itself probably encompassed not more than three or four acres.
He did not fail to note a ten-pounder cannon up on the parapet, aimed at the sea through a firing port, and he was pretty certain it was not the only one.
“Here,” said Devane, motioning with his pistol to the right.
It was a cottage about the same as many of the others, single-storied, white-and-brown stones with a roof of dark brown slate, a few square windows, a small circular window above the door. No light emanated from within.
“It’s unlocked,” Devane said.
Matthew went in. He had the impulse to rush the man in the darkness, but it was a stupid impulse and he let it go. “Step back,” Devane commanded, the open door behind him. “There’ll be a tinderbox in the top drawer of a writing table to your left.” He reached over to a lantern that hung from a wallhook beside the door, and this he threw to Matthew who fumbled with the thing, nearly dropped and broke it but then claimed victory over his butterfingers. “Someone will bring your clothes,” Devane said. “That person will also have a pistol. Don’t cause any trouble.”
“I wouldn’t dream of—”
The man retreated and closed the door, leaving Matthew alone and in the dark except for the communal light of the village’s lamps that entered softly through the windows.
“…it,” Matthew finished, for he liked completion.
He drew a flame from the tinderbox and with it lit the lantern he held and two others he found in the room. As the light spread and joined, he walked around to get his bearings. The house had a parlor and a bedroom, both spartanly furnished but certainly more comfortable than the straw-strewn floor of Newgate Prison. The bed had a goosefeather mattress, there was the small writing desk in the parlor and two chairs were situated before a nice-sized fireplace. He had been supplied with a few bricks of peat and fireplace tools. Except for the blackened hearth and some scratches on the writing desk, there was no sign that anyone had ever dwelled in this place before him. He checked the desk’s drawers, found them empty, and also checked the dresser in the bedroom. The only thing he discovered was a little cotton lint.
But he did discover that there was no lock on the door, and there was no back door. Of course, he thought; can’t have Professor Fell’s guests barricading themselves away from their host.
Though he was weary and in need of sleep, he desired to have a look around the village. He stretched, hearing and feeling his backbone pop, and he leaned over to touch his toes several times to get the blood flowing. Then he took one of the lanterns, left the other one burning, pulled his cloak up around his neck and went out to where the cold wind gusted along the streets of Fell’s paradise.
The yellow moon was nearly full. A few lights showed in windows, but not very many now as the night had progressed. No one stirred on Lionfish Street and the Publick Hospital was dark. Matthew wondered what the Beautiful Grave’s residents had done to get themselves deposited here, and if they were enemies of Fell why the professor just didn’t eliminate them. He found a street that aimed toward the wall, and in another moment he could hear the thunderous crash of the sea. He put the lantern down and continued on. Soon he came to a wide gate of heavy iron bars under the parapet that looked out over total ink-black darkness. He gingerly tried the gate, not wanting to make any clanking noise to alert the guards, and found of course that it was locked. No surprise. But what was beyond the gate? Just the sea, which sounded fearsome? Or did the street continue on, and to where? He would have to wait for the sun to find out.
Matthew retraced his steps along the street, retrieved his lamp, and soon found himself entering the village square. The coaches had been moved, likely stored somewhere and the horses taken to a stable. Two men were talking beside the well. Both had muskets fixed with bayonets leaning against their shoulders. They gave Matthew a cursory glance and then returned to their conversation. Matthew knew of course they were guards who likely patrolled the village all night, but it seemed to be no concern to them that he was out and about. Across the square light showed in the windows of the white stone building that must be the village tavern. He saw a wooden sign above the door: a simple black question mark painted on an unlettered scarlet background. The tavern was called the Question Mark? Professor Fell’s sense of humor on display, Matthew thought. He decided he had to visit the place.
Within, the tavern was small but well-lit and clean, with seven tables and the usual bar. Two tables were taken. At one sat a trio of men talking quietly. More guards, Matthew saw. Their muskets leaned against the fourth chair. The men were likely either taking a break from their rounds, had just come off duty or were about to go on. The second occupied table held a single man who appeared to have passed out over his brown clay cup, which had spilled and was dripping dark liquid onto the floorplanks. Matthew took a table nearest the bar where he could keep an eye on the others.
“Yes, sir?” said the aproned keep, a slight and balding man with a prodigious nose who had come around the bar to where Matthew sat.
“Can I get some food?”
“The kitchen just closed a few minutes ago, but we do serve drink through the night.”
“Oh.” Matthew suddenly realized the problem he faced. If Fell was drugging the residents of The Beautiful Grave to keep them docile—and that was certainly how it appeared to Matthew from his first impressions of the gathered throng—the drug could be administered in anything: food, wine, ale, or water. The most innocent-looking broth could be laced with some spirit-sapping potion taken straight from Dr. Jonathan Gentry’s book of recipes. Matthew recalled very clearly a statement made to him by the professor on Pendulum Island, after Gentry had been dispatched to the great apothecary in the sky: I persuaded him some time ago to fill a notebook with his formulas for poisons and other drugs of usefulness, and therefore he became useless.
Of course the formula for the drug that altered the White Velv
et from a simple gin to a potent mind-wrecker had come out of that notebook, Matthew reasoned. He thought a weaker variant of it might be at work here in The Beautiful Grave, and how to avoid it if everything could be poisoned with it?
“You’re wanting a cup of wine, sir?” the keep asked.
“I have no money.”
“Oh…you came in with Mother Deare tonight, didn’t you? I didn’t get out to the greeting, I was here cleaning up after the evening fare.”
Matthew nodded. He thought that even the water used to wash the cups could have a drug in it, and it might linger inside the clay to be activated when liquid was poured. The same with the dishes. A trick of that nature had been used by Fell’s compatriots in Philadelphia a few years ago, with deadly results.
“No money is needed here, sir,” said the keep. He had very blue and friendly eyes. “Your credit is good.”
Matthew saw that the three guards were drinking from wooden tankards. Likely the use of those was specifically by the guards, and they were partaking from a supply of undrugged liquid that was not offered to the regular patrons.
“We have some stout apple ale, if that’s your taste,” the keep suggested.
“Thank you, but I think I’ll just sit here for awhile and rest.”
“A cup of water, then?”
“Nothing at all,” Matthew decided, and the man nodded assent and returned to his late-night duties.
This was going to be a fine fish kettle, Matthew thought. Unable to trust the food and drink, lest it turn him into an addled idiot. But what of Berry and Hudson? They’d been here long enough to have to eat and drink. Were they now reduced to simple-minded obedience? Evidently the drug didn’t entirely erase the will to escape, judging from the firearms the guards carried. Or was that a matter of identification more than offense?
He was wondering about this and mulling over how long he might go without food and water when he heard an angry voice raised outside. Into the Question Mark came two individuals, a man and a woman, who definitely were not under the spell of the professor’s medicine chest.
Freedom of the Mask Page 42