“A social? Uh…a week from Friday, did you say?”
“Grandda’s printing the posters. It’s going to be at Sally Almond’s.”
“Ah. Sally Almond’s. A week from Friday.” He also chewed on his lower lip, aware that Berry was watching him carefully. “I…I really don’t dance, you know.”
“I didn’t say it was a dance. I said it was a social. Just meeting some people. I think there’s going to be music. But dancing? I don’t know.” She cocked her head slightly. “Why don’t you dance?”
“I’ve never learned.”
“It’s not all that difficult. You just do what everyone else is doing.”
“Yes, but tell that to my feet.” He sighed. “I really can’t go, Berry. Not a week from Friday. In fact, I think I…may have to take a trip on Friday morning and I won’t be back until Saturday.”
“A trip? To where?”
“I think it’s probably time I went to see Mrs. Swanscott again.”
“I understand, but on that particular Friday?”
“It might be the only time I can get there for a while.” He cast his eyes down, realized she might see the untruth in that gesture, and quickly looked up at her again. “Really.”
“Really?”
“A lot of work coming in,” Matthew said.
“I’m disappointed,” Berry admitted, “but I know you have your work. Listen, then. Do you think it proper that I go alone? I really would like to meet some people my own age.”
“Oh…yes. Then again…there’s…Effrem.”
“Effrem?”
“Yes, Effrem. As a matter of fact, if you like to dance”—here something caught at his throat and he had no idea what it was but he had to keep speaking lest he choke—“I happen to know that Effrem is a member of the Young Lions club and they are having a dance that particular night at the Dock House Inn. So. If you and Effrem were to”—again that choking sensation—“go to the social first, you might attend the dance afterward. Does that make sense?”
Berry stared at him. Then her eyes lit up and she smiled, in all innocence. “It does make sense! But how in the world am I going to get Effrem to escort me?”
“You forget,” said Matthew, “that my business is solving problems.”
“All right, then. You may guard me at the next social, and please please please say that someday you’ll let me teach you how to dance.”
“I’ll say I’ll let you try. Someday.”
“A fair enough bargain.” She searched his face; he let her at least do this, though he did not know what she was searching for. Whatever it was, he could tell she didn’t find it. “Oh…what did you mean to ask me?”
“You know,” he said, “I’m so tired I fear it’s slipped my mind. Must not have been very important.”
“Perhaps you’ll think of it later.”
“I probably will,” he agreed.
She nodded, and a breath of wind stirred her hair and brought to him its faint aroma of—what was that? The grassy scent of wildflowers? She motioned with a tilt of her head toward the house. “I’d best get to bed.”
“Yes. Me too.”
“Goodnight, then. Breakfast tomorrow?”
“Bright and early,” Matthew said.
Berry retreated from the door and started to walk away. He watched her go, and wondered if a rapier through the heart felt like this. But why? They were friends, and that was all. Just friends. Only.
She turned toward him again. “Matthew?” she asked, her voice concerned. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I am,” he replied, and kept his own voice steady with supreme effort. “Sure.”
“I just wanted to make certain. Goodnight and sleep well.”
“You too,” he said, and watched her return to the house before he closed the door. And locked it.
Matthew retrieved the box, went back to his leather chair before the window and the candle, and opened it.
Within was an object about eight inches long, wrapped in blue velvet. A letter was included.
Matthew,
There is in the Herrald Agency a time-honored tradition. Richard created it, and so shall I keep it. If you are reading this, then you have passed your initial trial. You have successfully solved one problem of the first three assigned to you. I welcome you fully and completely no longer as a junior associate but as a full investigator with all the respect and strength of my husband’s name at your command. With this name and the value you have displayed, doors will open for you that you have never dreamed existed. Now take this gift as a measure of my confidence in you, and know that through this the world may be seen more clearly than before.
With All Respect and Admiration,
KATHERINE HERRALD
He opened the blue velvet and found a magnifying glass. Its crystal clarity reminded Matthew of Mrs. Herrald’s purpose, while its handle of rough-hewn wood reminded him that tomorrow he was going to be sword-fighting with Hudson Greathouse again. He was reminded also of a small bit of windowglass given to him by the aged Headmaster Staunton, who had originally brought him into the orphanage and taught him the wonders of reading and education, and the disciplines of self-control and self-knowledge. Then as now, the gift was a clear view unto the world.
It was time for rest, but first there was the other thing.
Matthew got up, went to his writing desk, and opened the first drawer. From it he withdrew the blood card that had been slipped under his door three nights ago in a plain white envelope sealed with a dab of red wax. Then he took it with him to the chair, sat down once more, and turned the card between his hands.
The envelope was not from Mr. Ellery’s stock. He’d gone there first. Did not care to show him the card, but he was sure it had likewise not been purchased from Mr. Ellery.
A plain, elegant white card with a single bloody fingerprint at its center.
A death vow.
Whether it takes one week, or one month, or one year or ten years…
Professor Fell never forgets.
He continued turning the card between his hands. A small thing. A trifle, really.
The question was: who had slipped it beneath his door? If not the professor, then someone acting on the professor’s authority. A surrogate son? Or daughter? Who?
Matthew had known, really, what Berry had been searching his face for. It had been there, hidden all the time. But he couldn’t let her see it. No. Never. For if he let himself care about anyone, if he dared to care…then two might die as cheaply as one, for a soul could be murdered as well as a body. Ask Katherine Herrald to talk about Richard.
She had come close to being killed at Chapel’s estate. He wouldn’t let that happen, ever again. She would be kept at arm’s length. A friend. That only.
That. Only.
Matthew picked up the magnifying glass, and through it by candlelight examined the fingerprint.
He wondered if he compared it to the print on the blood card possessed by Magistrate Powers, would it be the same? No, this was his chain to drag. The magistrate was in the Carolina colony now, with his wife Judith and younger son Roger, getting settled in the town near Lord Kent’s tobacco plantation to work with his elder brother Durham. God guide him in his progress, and God protect a good man.
But Professor Fell, the deadly hand, never forgets.
Matthew held the glass close to the fingerprint and narrowed his eyes.
How like a maze a fingerprint was, he thought. How like the unknown streets and alleys of a strange city. Curving and circling, ending here and going there, snaking and twisting and cut by a slash.
Matthew followed the maze with his glass, deeper and deeper, deeper still.
Deeper yet, toward the center of it all.
About the Author
Robert McCammon is the New York Times bestselling author of fifteen novels, including Swan Song, Stinger, The Wolf’s Hour, Gone South, Mystery Walk, Usher’s Passing, and Boy’s Life. There are more than four million copi
es of his books in print. He lives in Birmingham, Alabama, with his wife and daughter.
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