Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter mc-3

by Robert R. McCammon

  But a few days ago he might have thought that if he'd ever found a bagful of gold coins, he would have first and foremost told who? Berry? She had also shared the ordeal; should she not share the reward? No, no; it was complicated. Very complicated, and he would have to consider this subject again when he had a clearer head, and anyway this dust in the air was about to make him sneeze.

  "I regret telling you," he said to Greathouse, in a voice as steely as the other man's glare continued to be.

  "Why did you, then?'

  Matthew almost told him. That maybe he'd gone into the tunnel to prove his courage, once and for all; or that he'd simply thought Greathouse would approve of his decision to go forward, and trust in his instincts. But the moment came and went and Matthew did not say any of this; instead, he said, "Because I wanted you to know I don't need a bodyguard."

  "Your opinion. All I know is, Zed could help us both, if he could be taught correctly. It's a damned waste for that man to be hauling ship timbers for the rest of his life." He waved a dismissive hand at Matthew. "Now don't get me started on that, I'll have to go out and get a drink."

  Matthew returned to his sweeping, thinking that it was best to let some secrets lie undisturbed.

  Less than a half-hour later, Gardner Lillehorne had arrived like a burst of sunlight in his yellow suit and stockings, his yellow tricorn adorned with a small blue feather. His disposition was rather more stormy, however, and as he marched up to Greathouse's desk his face bore the scowl of a particularly dark cloud. He placed a brown envelope sealed with gray wax before Greathouse. "You're required for an official task," he said, and cast a quick glance at Matthew. "The both of you."

  "What official task?" Greathouse picked up the envelope, inspected the seal, and started to open it.

  Lillehorne put his black-lacquered cane against Greathouse's hand. "The envelope is to remain sealed," he said, "until you pick up the prisoner. When you take possession of him, you are to read the contents to both him and the witnesses, as a formality of official " He cast about for a word. "Possession."

  "You'd best rein in your runaways," Greathouse cautioned, and moved the cane aside. "What prisoner? And where is he?"

  "The messenger from those two doctors said you would know. He came to my office yesterday afternoon. I have a wagon ready for you at Winekoop's stable. It's the best I can offer. The irons are ready, in the wagon. Here's the key." He reached into a pocket of that blazing and slightly-nauseating suit jacket and brought out the item, which he also placed on the desk in front of Greathouse.

  "The two doctors?" Greathouse looked at Matthew. "Do you have any idea what he's going on about?"

  Matthew did, but before he could say so Lillehorne went on, as if eager to be done with the responsibility. "Ramsendell and Hulzen, at the New Jersey Colony's Publick Hospital for the Mentally Infirm. Near Westerwicke. You know it, of course. The order for removal has come. A constable representing the Crown will be arriving on the Endurance at the end of this month to take him into custody. I want the prisoner's boots on the next ship leaving for England, and good riddance to him."

  "Wait, wait, wait!" Greathouse stood up, the envelope in hand. "Are you talking about that lunatic we saw in the window down there? That what was his name, Matthew?"

  "His name is Tyranthus Slaughter," Lillehorne answered. "Wanted for murder, robbery and other crimes, all laid out in the article of possession. The messenger said the doctors had already mentioned to the both of you the fact that Slaughter would be transferred from the hospital to the New York gaol, to await the Crown's constable. Well, the time's come."

  Matthew recalled the first occasion he and Greathouse had gone to the Westerwicke hospital, during the investigation of the Queen of Bedlam. The two doctors who ran the place had introduced them to an inmate behind one of the barred windows. Sent to us almost a year ago from the Quaker institution in Philadelphia. The Quakers have found out he was a barber in London and he may have been involved with a dozen murders. We're expecting a letter in the autumn instructing us to take him to the New York gaol to wait for ship transfer to England. You know, if this business goes well with the Queen, you gentlemen might consider our hiring you to escort Mr. Slaughter to New York.

  Greathouse brought forth a fierce grin that Matthew thought was one of his more disturbing expressions, because it meant the man was considering violence. "Are you out of your mind? You can't come in here and give orders!"

  "You will see," said Lillehorne quietly, as he gazed about the office and his thin nostrils wrinkled with distaste, "that I'm not the person giving the orders. Don't you recognize Governor Lord Cornbury's seal?"

  Greathouse took another look at it and dropped the envelope onto his desk. "That doesn't mean anything to me."

  "Your doctor friends received two letters, both from the Crown's constable. One told them to prepare the prisoner for removal. The other was to be presented to Lord Cornbury, directing him to have the man brought here and held in irons. Lord Cornbury has been told to use the best possible men at his disposal. That's at least what he informed me when he dumped the mess in my lap. You two were specifically requested by Ramsendell and Hulzen. So here you are."

  "We're a private concern," Greathouse said, with a thrust of his chin. "We don't work for the city, or the New Jersey colony. Certainly not for Lord Cornbury!"

  "Ah, yes. The matter of who you do work for." Lillehorne reached into a pocket and brought out a small brown bag tied with a leather cord. He shook it, so that the coins might jingle. "Mister Three-Pounds. Have you made his acquaintance lately?"

  Matthew kept his mouth closed.

  "There are official transfer papers in that envelope," Lillehorne went on. "They require the signatures of both yourselves and the two doctors. Upon your acceptance of the prisoner, the doctors have agreed to pay you an additional two pounds. Can you do the mathematics, sir?"

  Greathouse snorted. "They must want to get rid of him very badly." He paused, regarding the bag of coins with a hungry eye. "He must be dangerous. No, I'm not sure five pounds is enough." He shook his head. "Send some of your constables to get him. A half-dozen of them ought to do the job."

  "My constables, as Mr. Corbett has pointed out before, are not fully suited to more demanding tasks. After all, are you not so proud to be the professionals?" He let that comment float in the air before he continued. "And you're laboring under the mistaken presumption that this is a request from Lord Cornbury. You might realize by now that he wishes to shall we say show himself able before his cousin, the Queen. I wish to show myself able before Lord Cornbury. And so it goes. You see?"

  "Five pounds is not enough," Greathouse repeated, with some force behind it.

  "For two days' work? My God, what are they paying you people these days?" Lillehorne took note of the broom that stood in the corner. "A poor little office like this could be swept away with the rubbish. Lord Cornbury can put a lock on any door he chooses, Greathouse. If I were you-which I know I am not-I would gladly take this very generous amount and consider that Lord Cornbury can be useful to you, if you get on his good side."

  "He has a good side?"

  "He can be managed. And if you do a favor for him, I'm sure he might someday do a favor for you."

  "A favor," Greathouse said, and Matthew saw his eyes narrow in thought.

  "Two days' work. If you could leave within the hour, you might make Westerwicke by nightfall." Lillehorne inspected the silver lion's-head that topped his cane. "You won't be gone long enough to um miss any opportunities for further business." A reference, Matthew assumed, to the mysterious work that Greathouse was doing for his latest client.

  It was another moment before Greathouse returned from his mental wanderings. He said, "I don't like the idea of going back there. To that hospital, with all those lunatics. What do you say, Matthew?" What could he say? Therefore he kept silent and shrugged. "You could use the money, I know. Maybe I could use a little goodwill from Cornbury. Tell me, Lillehorne:
have you ever seen him wearing a man's clothes?"

  "I have. Unfortunately, in them he is equally as unfortunate."

  Greathouse nodded, and then he said, "The irons."

  "Pardon?"

  "The irons had better not have any rusted links."

  They didn't. The sturdy cuffs and chains were now in a burlap bag in the back of the wagon. Matthew turned the horses onto the branch road leading off the Philadelphia Pike and through a grove of trees. The three buildings of the Publick Hospital stood just ahead.

  It was a quiet place, with birds singing in the trees and a soft wind whispering. Still, Greathouse shifted uneasily on the seat and kept his eyes averted from the buildings, as if not wishing to think about what went on behind the walls. The second and largest building, made of rough stones and resembling a grainhouse or meeting-hall, held all the inmates except for a few who resided in the third structure, which was a white-painted house that faced a garden. Some of the second building's windows were shuttered and some were open but barred, and a few faces peered out at the wagon's approach. The pastoral quiet was broken when someone in there started hollering and a second, more shrill voice, joined the commotion.

  "We must be here," Greathouse said dryly, working his hands together. Matthew knew from past experience that this place-even though it was run efficiently and in a humane manner by the two doctors-made Greathouse as jumpy as a cat on a carpet of razors.

  Matthew pulled the team up in front of the first building, which was painted white and appeared to be simply a normal house. As Matthew climbed down to let the horses drink from a nearby trough, the first building's door opened and a stocky man in a dark brown suit and waistcoat emerged. He lifted his hand in greeting, at the same time removing the clay pipe that was clenched between his teeth.

  "Greetings, gentlemen," said Dr. Curtis Hulzen. He had gray hair and spectacles perched on a hooked nose. "It seems the day has arrived."

  Greathouse muttered something, but Matthew couldn't hear what he said and wasn't sure he wanted to.

  "Jacob!" Hulzen called into the house, and a man in gray clothes and a brown leather waistcoat came out. "Will you go fetch Dr. Ramsendell, please? And tell him the escorts are here?"

  "Sir," answered Jacob, with a quick nod, and he strode along a well-worn pathway toward Matthew, who had met this particular patient on his first visit here. Jacob suddenly stopped right in front of the horse trough and said to Matthew in a mangled voice, "Have you come to take me home?" The left side of Jacob's temple was crushed inward, and an old jagged scar began at his right cheek and continued up across a concave patch on his scalp where the hair no longer grew. His eyes were bright and glassy, and fixed upon Matthew with pitiful hope. A sawmill accident had done this, Ramsendell had told Matthew, and Jacob could never again live "out there", as the doctor had put it, with his wife and two children.

  When he realized Hulzen wasn't going to intercede for him, Matthew said as kindly as he could, "No, I'm afraid not."

  Jacob shrugged, as if this news was expected, but perhaps there was a glint of pain in the eyes. "It's all right," he said, with a crooked grin. "I hear music in my head." Then he continued along the path toward the second building, brought a ring of keys from within his waistcoat, unlocked the big wooden slab of a door and disappeared inside.

  "You're liberal with your keys around here," Greathouse remarked, as he stepped down from the wagon. "I wouldn't be surprised if all your lunatics got out into the woods someday, and then what would you do?"

  "Bring them back." Hulzen had returned the pipe to his mouth and blew smoke in Greathouse's direction, as those two had had their verbal clashes before. "The ones that ran away, which would be few. You don't seem to realize that most of our patients are like children."

  Greathouse produced the sealed envelope from within his tan-colored coat and held it aloft. "This tells me at least one of them isn't too child-like. We're supposed to have you sign some papers."

  "Come in, then."

  Matthew tied the horses to a hitching-post, put down the brake and followed Hulzen and Greathouse into the first building, which was the doctors' office and consultation area. Inside, there were two desks, a larger conference table with six chairs, a file cabinet, shelves full of books and on the floor a dark green woven rug. Hulzen closed the front door and motioned them to the table, where there was a quill pen and an inkpot. Another door at the back led to what Matthew had noted on his initial visit was an examination room and a place where drugs or medical instruments were stored.

  "The papers," Hulzen said, and Greathouse broke Lord Cornbury's seal. Within the envelope was a trio of official parchment documents like the ones Matthew had seen every day during his duties as clerk for Magistrate Nathaniel Powers. Greathouse found the document and its copy that each needed four signatures, Hulzen briefly looked them over and then signed and Matthew added his signatures. Greathouse dipped the quill and was delivering his name on the copy as the front door suddenly opened, and when Greathouse's hand involuntarily jumped his signature became a scrawl.

  The patient-soon to be prisoner, with the adding of one more name-sauntered into the room, followed by Dr. David Ramsendell and, at a distance, Jacob.

  Matthew thought the room had suddenly turned cold.

  "Hm!" said the new arrival, with chilly disdain. He was staring at the transfer papers, and specifically at the three names written thereon. "Signing me over like a common criminal, are you? The shame of it!"

  Greathouse looked up into the man's face, his own expression as solid as a gravestone. "You are a common criminal, Slaughter."

  "Oh, no, sir," came the reply, with the hint of a smile and a slight, mocking bow. His hands were clasped before him, his wrists bound together with leather cuffs secured by a padlock. "There is nothing common about me, sir. And I would appreciate that you show me due respect, and from now on refer to me as a refined gentleman ought to: Mister Slaughter."

  No one laughed. No one except Slaughter himself, who looked from Greathouse to Matthew with his pale blue eyes and began a slow, deep laughter in his throat that beat like a funeral bell.

  Seven

  "I'm glad you can amuse yourself so easily," said Greathouse, when Slaughter's hollow laughter had ceased.

  "I've had a great deal of experience in amusing myself, and in both the Quaker institution and this virtuous haven a great deal of time to think amusing thoughts. I thank you for your regard, Mr." Slaughter took a step closer to the table, with the obvious intention of reading Greathouse's signatures, but Greathouse quickly picked up both sheets of the transfer papers.

  "Sir will do," Greathouse told him. Slaughter smiled and again gave a brief little bow.

  But then, before the tall, slim and bearded Dr. Ramsendell could come forward to take the quill that Greathouse offered, Slaughter swiveled toward Matthew and said in a light and amiable voice, "Now, you I remember very distinctly. Dr. Ramsendell spoke your name outside my window. Was that just July? It's " He only had to think a few seconds to bring it up. " Corbett. Yes?"

  Matthew nodded, in spite of himself; there was a compelling note in Slaughter's voice that demanded a response.

  "A young dandy then, I recall. Even more of a young dandy now."

  It was true. As was his habit of presenting himself as a New York gentleman, even on a road trip, Matthew wore one of his new suits from Benjamin Owles; it was dark burgundy-red, the same color as its waistcoat. Black velvet trimmed the cuffs and lapels. His white shirt and cravat were crisp and spotless, and he wore his new black boots and a black tricorn.

  "Come into some money, I see," said Slaughter, whose face hung before Matthew's. He winked, and said in what was nearly a whisper, "Good for you."

  How to describe the indescribable? Matthew wondered. The physical features were easy enough: Slaughter's wide face was a mixture of gentleman and brute. His forehead slightly protruded above the straw-colored mass of eyebrows. His unruly mat of hair was the same color, maybe
a hint more of red, with the sides going gray. His thick mustache was more gray than straw, and since Matthew had seen him in July the man had grown a beard that looked like the beards of many other men stitched together: here a portion of dark brown, there a red patch, here a dash of chestnut brown, beneath the fleshy lower lip a touch of silver, and upon the chin a streak of charcoal black.

  He was not as large a man as Matthew remembered. He had a big barrel chest and shoulders that swelled his ashen-hued asylum clothing, yes, but his arms and legs appeared to be almost spindly. He was about the same height as Matthew, yet he stood in a crook-backed stance that testified to some malformation of the spine. His hands, however, were instruments worthy of special attention; they were abnormally large, the fingers long and knuckles knotty, the nails black with encrusted grime and grown out jagged and sharp as little blades. It was obvious that Slaughter either refused to bathe or hadn't been offered the grace of soap and water for a long period of time, as his scaly flesh was as gray as his clothes. The smell that wafted from him made Matthew think of something dead moldering in the mud of a filthy swamp.

  But for all that, Slaughter had a long, aristocratic nose with a narrow bridge and nostrils that flared ever so elegantly, as if he could not stand the stink of his own skin. His large eyes-pale blue, cold, yet not altogether humorless, with a merry sort of glint that came and went like a red signal lamp seen at a distance-were undeniably intelligent in the quick way they darted about to gather impressions just as Matthew was doing the same.

  The part of Slaughter that could not be so easily described, Matthew thought, was a feeling from him of calmness, of utter disregard for whatever might be happening in this room. He didn't seem to care a fig, yet there was something else, too; it was a confidence, perhaps ill-advised under the circumstances, but as strong as his reek. It was a statement of both strength and contempt, and this alone put Matthew's nerves on edge. The first time Matthew had seen this man, he'd thought he was looking into the face of Satan. Now, though Slaughter was obviously more-as Ramsendell had put it on that day in July-cunning than insane, he was after all only a human being of flesh, bone, blood, hair and dirt. Possibly mostly hair and dirt, by the looks of him. The irons had no rusty links. It was going to be a long day, but not unbearable. Depending, of course, upon the direction of the breeze.