To Matthew’s utter shock and jump of the heart there stood Berry, but a Berry that her grandfather would never have recognized and neither would she upon viewing herself in a looking-glass. Her hair was done up in an elaborate construction of coppery curls and sprinkled with blue glitter. Her face was thickly powdered and rouged, which in her right mind she would have considered an abomination. She wore elbow-length white gloves and her costume was a dark blue gown with a froth of white ruffles at the neck.
Before Matthew could speak, the professor saw him and said, “Ah, here’s Mr. Corbett! Matthew, I’d like you to meet the mayor of our village, Mr. Frederick Nash, his wife Pamela and their charming daughter Mary Lynn.”
Matthew looked down at Nash’s offered hand, which he could not bear to touch. Nash’s wife was smiling vacantly. Berry stared at Matthew with eyes noticeably bloodshot against the stark white powder. She too, wore a smile that might have been a painted mask.
I’m going mad, Matthew thought. Either that, or the entire world has gone mad around me.
“Matthew?” spoke a tremulous voice.
All eyes went to Berry, whose white-gloved hand had risen to touch her mouth.
“I know you, don’t I?” she asked.
“Yes, you met him yesterday,” said the professor, taking her arm. His voice was a sinuous snake, coiling about its prey. “The young man is a new arrival.”
“Yesterday?” Berry blinked slowly. “What was I doing yesterday?”
“You spent the day with your mother and myself.” Nash had forsaken the handshake and put his arm around Pamela. “It was her birthday. We all gathered for the most wonderful celebration.”
“Yes, it was wonderful,” Pamela said, and Matthew realized from the dullness of the woman’s eyes and her somewhat labored speech that she too had been given a dose of venom from the snake’s nest.
“You remember the cake,” Fell said to Berry, his mouth close to her ear. “Vanilla within, with icing of sugared white cream and a very few small red candles on top.”
“Oh,” Berry said, and her empty smile was one of the most horrifying things Matthew had ever seen. “Yes, I do remember.”
The soul-jarring impact of all this made Matthew nearly sick to his stomach. If he’d let himself go he could’ve vomited all over the elegant clothes and polished shoes. “You forgot a detail, Professor,” he said thickly. “Don’t you mean it had icing of sugared White Velvet and cream?”
Fell laughed quietly. “Dear boy, you’ll have to attend Pamela’s birthday celebration next year.”
“Next year I plan to be in New York.” Matthew focused his attention on Berry. “Have you ever been to New York, Miss Grigsby?”
There was a moment in which everyone but Matthew and Fell stood frozen like life-sized paperdolls freshly cut from their patterns.
“I’m sure Mary Lynn has never been to that town,” said Fell, who still wore a relaxed smile and still held Berry’s arm. He said in her ear, “The young man has had a long journey. Pardon his confusion.”
“Of course,” Berry answered, and suddenly her eyes were looking through Matthew, for he was no longer there.
“Take Mary Lynn’s arm and let’s get to our seats,” Nash said to his wife. His face had tightened. He cast an uneasy glance at Matthew though he also still wore his practiced public smile. “Danton, we look forward to the program. There’ll be no difficulty, will there?”
“None whatsoever. Enjoy the performance.”
As they moved away, Matthew was tempted to call out Berry’s name but he thought that if she didn’t react—and he didn’t think she would—another piece of his hope would go toppling off the cliff.
“She was given a little something extra yesterday after your visit,” Fell said. Smiling thinly, he pretended to be brushing crumbs from the front of Matthew’s waistcoat. “On her birthday sixteen years ago, Pamela Nash lost her daughter Mary Lynn in a coach accident. She never fully recovered mentally. I thought…why not try a little experiment? It would be a nice birthday present…giving her daughter back to her for one day. Don’t you think?”
“I think your pit is deeper than Hell.”
“All for science, dear boy. I keep meticulous records, which someday I’m sure will be appreciated by future researchers in the field of human—”
“Corruption?” Matthew asked.
“Manipulation. There will someday be industries—even governments—that will see the value of such. Shall we go to our own seats? Julian has gone to fetch our heroic Albion.”
To Matthew’s further horror and sense that the world had tilted askew on its axis, Professor Fell put an arm around his shoulders and guided him along the center aisle toward the pew at the front, all the time greeting other members of the community who were all dressed up with nowhere to go.
He had spent the day walking every street of Y Beautiful Bedd and seeing all there was to see. At the rear gate spume was flying up as waves hit the cliffs below. Pressing in closer against the bars, Matthew had seen the road that Archer had mentioned; it wound down amid the rocks to the left, and about a quarter of a mile as the judge had reckoned there was the calm and protected harbor with just the sailing ship moored, as the two fishing boats had likely gone out to sea. Matthew figured the ship was used to sail to the nearest port, which if he was looking out upon the Bristol Channel might be south to Cardiff, but doubtful since in his recollection of reading items from the London Gazette in New York that Cardiff was not much of a port nor very highly developed. Likely the ship went north to Swansea, and there loaded up with all the supplies Fell’s village required, everything from oats for the horses to printers’ ink.
He’d located the stable over on the far northeast of the village, along with a shed in which two coaches and a wagon were kept. There was also a workshop where repairs could be made. Matthew counted six horses in the stalls. Not far from the stable was a chicken coop, a pigpen and a barn holding a few cows. He came upon several men watching another man skin and gut a deer, so obviously hunting was done out in the countryside. The victorious hunter was one of the guards Matthew recalled seeing in the Question Mark that first night.
Back he went to Lionfish Street, and to the door of the Publick Hospital. It was locked and no one about. There were bars over every window. He went around to the rear on a gravel path and saw the arched roof of a greenhouse on the other side of a stone wall about eight feet high. Sharp black iron spearpoints jutted up from the masonry where the stones were mortared together. He followed the wall and found the spearpoints so many in number and spaced so closely that climbing over, even if one could get a good purchase on the stones, would be absolutely impossible. The wall completely enclosed the greenhouse on three sides, which meant that Fell’s and Ribbenhoff’s garden of delightful botanicals was accessible only through the so-called hospital.
He’d been mulling over the problem when a guard with a musket had come along the path and in no uncertain terms he was told to move on.
At no time today had he seen Mother Deare, Devane or Archer. He presumed the judge had not decided to somehow end his own life during the night with a piece of broken glass or a bedsheet. As for Devane and the story that had been recounted in the early hours, Matthew had mulled that over too, as he’d walked about the beautiful grave. If Mother Deare was indeed plotting something—or rather, working now for the demoniac instead of the simply demonic—there was no way to inform the professor. Devane certainly couldn’t, unless he caught Fell here at the opera and made his case, but Matthew surmised that such things just weren’t done by the hired help. As soon as Copeland had brought him here, the man had left. The same would be true of Devane when he arrived with Archer, though Matthew did take note of two of the other armed guards standing beside the pew that he, Fell and Archer would be occupying.
A good question to be posed to the professor was—
“Where is Mother Deare?” Matthew asked as Fell sat down. A series of long red velvet cushions had
been put down the length of the front row.
“She’ll be along soon, I’m sure, though I don’t believe Miriam has any interest in the opera.” He motioned for Matthew to be seated on his right. Matthew saw the Nashes with their drugged ‘daughter’ sitting on the front row toward the other side of the theater. Seated on the front row as well was Di Petri, but Rosabella was absent and probably still with her mistress.
Matthew sat down. He took a quick look at the rest of the audience. Maybe forty people were present, including the two guards in the front and two standing at the rear. Archer appeared at the entrance to the anteroom with Devane behind him. Devane spoke to him and motioned him along, and then the judge—looking wan and weary but otherwise still breathing—came down the center aisle while Devane turned away and left.
“Here’s our other special guest!” The professor rose to greet Archer. “Good evening, Judge. Come sit right here. This cushion is just the thing for a man who’s recovering from a gunshot wound, as the pews do tend to become a bit hard on the hindquarters.”
Archer sat on Fell’s left. The professor looked back and forth across the audience like a member of royalty surveying his subjects. From the way some of them appeared both so glazed and dazed, Matthew was surprised they weren’t drooling.
“Did you have a pleasant remainder of the evening?” Fell asked Archer when he sat down again.
“Pleasant enough, thank you.”
“I should have asked you to bring your mask. You could’ve gotten up on that platform and performed for us. Sort of a masked jester. You would certainly earn some laughter.”
Matthew had had enough of Fell’s goading of Albion. He said, “Some of these people would laugh if their trousers were ablaze.”
“Probably true, at that. Ah, here’s someone else I’d like you to meet.” Fell stood up again at the approach of a bald-headed, brown-bearded man of about thirty-five or so, wearing a gray suit with a black-and-white checkered waistcoat. “Matthew Corbett, this is Gustav Ribbenhoff.”
Matthew didn’t stand and Ribbenhoff did not offer his hand. He stood looking down at Matthew as if he’d caught a foul odor. Matthew returned the glare, thinking how much he’d like to knock a dent in that shining bald head and grab the secrets of the drugs and their antidotes as they came spilling from the man’s mouth.
“A pleasure,” said Ribbenhoff, who had mastered the art of speaking without moving his lips. His eyes, a paler gray than his suit, returned to the face of his benefactor. “All is excitement here, it seems.”
“Anticipation would be more the word.”
“Ah, ja! I have not attended the opera in quite the few years. Who is this gentleman?” he asked, with a nod toward Archer.
“Your next patient. I trust you’ll have something of interest to try?”
“Always.”
During this discussion concerning his immediate future, Archer had kept his head lowered. The fire he’d shown Matthew in their first meeting at the Old Bailey was all but extinguished.
Matthew, however, was full of seething flames but he kept himself on a low boil. “What are you a doctor of, Ribbenhoff? The treatment of mange in caged dogs?”
“Very close, sir. I was on the staff of the imperial menagerie of His Majesty King Leopold of Habsburg for several years.” Ribbenhoff flashed a fleeting and entirely humorless smile.
“What happened? Were you sacked for having sexual congress with the moose?”
“Sacked? What is this meaning, sacked?” He looked to Fell for a translation.
Suddenly Archer laughed.
The whole situation must’ve struck him as absurdly funny, because his laugh was deep, rich and genuine, and it went on like the rumble of stones sliding down a mountainside. Perhaps there was a hint of panic in it, but Matthew reasoned he was the only one to catch that. Archer threw his head back and heartily continued laughing. It might have been the laugh of the damned but Matthew had the sense that it was in some way strengthening him for the tribulations that lay ahead.
“I will seat myself now,” said Ribbenhoff, who looked as if he’d been served a plate of fried eggs and sliced turds. He went past Archer and sat a distance away, and Fell also sat back down.
The program would be starting in a few minutes. It appeared that everyone who was coming had arrived. Matthew decided that this was the moment.
He said to the professor, “What does the Lesser Key of Solomon have to do with Brazio Valeriani?”
Fell’s head turned. He stared blankly at Matthew.
“Or,” Matthew said, “I should ask…what does it have to do with Ciro’s creation?”
The only change in Fell’s face was a slight lift of the eyebrows.
“I don’t know what it is,” Matthew continued, “but I know there’s a connection.”
Fell took a few seconds to nod a greeting to someone in the audience before he replied. “You’ve been speaking to the girl. Bravo for you, your instincts are still sharp.”
“Not only that, but I have a proposition,” Matthew said. “Bring Berry to herself. Remove Hudson from that cell. Put them safely on a ship bound for New York—and I mean safely—and I’ll find Brazio Valeriani for you.” He paused, but there was no reaction from the professor. He had to go the extra mile. “You’ve got amateurs searching for him. I can find him. Deep down, you know I can.”
Fell’s mouth curled just a fraction. “I know nothing of the sort.”
“He’s in Italy. A big country. Many cities, towns and villages to search through.” Matthew brought up a half-smile of feigned confidence. “I know where to start looking.”
“Where might that be?”
“First…Berry and Hudson go home, in perfect health both physically and mentally. Then—”
Some in the audience began applauding. Madam Candoleri, for want of a dressing room, had simply arrived by way of the front door. She came sweeping down the center aisle, dressed as much like a wedding cake as any woman could be. Rosabella, in more understated finery, was following along behind the madam holding up the ponderous train of her costume. The diva was resplendent in a white gown with so many frills and puffs of white lace that it nearly over-whelmed the eye. She wore white gloves and white boots, and her black hair had been manipulated into an ebony tower adorned with at least a dozen ivory combs carved in the shapes of butterflies.
“Grazie! Grazie, il mio pubblico bene!” she called out as she advanced, her smile as brilliant in greeting to this small group as it might have been to the crowd at Rome’s finest house of opera. Her face had been powdered and rouged, though not a shade as heavily as Berry’s had been, her eyelids darkened with violet and her eyebrows drawn out to make curlicues on the sides of her head. She was ready to do her best, music or not.
There was an anxious moment as Rosabella helped the madam ascend the steps to the platform, the costume almost tripping them both up. The lady positioned herself at the center of the platform, struck a pose that Matthew thought must be suitably operatic, and Rosabella came back down the stairs to take her place beside Di Petri.
Madam Candoleri gave a brief speech thanking them all for coming and saying she would not choose to have been kidnapped for this performance but she was a professional and would act as one, regardless of the fact that there would regrettably be no orchestra. She then proceeded to explain a bit about the first aria she was going to sing, as Proserpina the Queen of Hades from the opera L’Orfeo.
As the madam spoke, Fell leaned over a fraction closer to Matthew. He whispered, “Why do you think you know?”
“The agreement first,” Matthew whispered back.
“I could extract the information.”
“Certainly, but that doesn’t get you the man.”
Madam Candoleri began to sing. She truly did have both a beautiful and powerful voice, and her art seemed effortless. Even without an orchestra, the music she made was stunning. In fact, Matthew thought that in any other circumstance this would be a magnificent evening
, but he kept glancing over at Berry and seeing her painted face and dead smile and everytime he did so he was crushed.
The madam’s voice rose to great heights.
Then suddenly a woman cried out, partly a gasp and partly a moan, from the audience. Madam Candoleri’s voice faltered and stopped, her eyes wide. Matthew saw, as the others did, that a middle-aged woman in a green gown was thrashing and moaning as a couple of men tried to calm her. She began to foam at the mouth, her head jerking back and forth. One of the guards rushed down the aisle, and the woman was half led and half carried from the theater. Gustav Ribbenhoff hurriedly followed her out.
The professor stood up, as others in the audience were whispering, restless and showing signs of unease that even the potions in their own systems could not fully calm. “My apologies, Madam Candoleri.” Fell bowed toward her. “Please continue.”
“Si. I will, of course.” But she looked shaken and confused, her confident demeanor cracked. Matthew realized that the stricken woman in the audience had just awakened from whatever drug was administered to keep her in a world of dreams, and perhaps by now the madam realized why the people of Y Beautiful Bedd were so stupidly happy, and why the faces of this audience—seen from her viewpoint of the platform—were so empty of expression. Matthew thought that after the woman’s cry, the diva had looked upon the unfortunate incident and possibly seen herself being carried out at some future time, foaming at the mouth and waking up for just a few minutes in a nightmare that had seemed a pleasant dream.
Madam Candoleri struck her Proserpina pose again, but Matthew thought she still looked lost. Obviously she was trying to pick up where she’d been interrupted, and without music it was made more difficult. She opened her mouth to sing but nothing emerged. Her eyes found Di Petri.
Freedom of the Mask Page 51