“I can help,” said Greathouse. “I will help. I swear it.”
It was close. So very close. Matthew felt it behind his clenched teeth, wanting to get out. Therefore he clenched his teeth just the harder, which further pained the bruises on his face.
After a while, Greathouse removed his hand from Matthew’s shoulder.
He stood up from his chair. “I’d better be getting along. Having dinner tonight with Abby. I’ve never known a woman who enjoys meat so much.” He took his coat and tricorn from their wallpegs. Slowly, he shrugged into the coat and positioned the tricorn just so upon his head, as if to give Matthew more time. He grasped his walking-stick and put its tip on the planks before him in preparation of his first troubled step. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Agreeable?”
“Not necessary,” Matthew said, “but appreciated.” He offered Hudson as much of a genuine smile as he could muster. “Thank you. And I hope you also enjoy your banquet. But do tell McCaggers he won’t find the heads.”
Greathouse nodded. He strode a few paces away and then stopped once more. In the row of five narrow beds across from Matthew lay the elderly Edde van Evers, a onetime Dutch frigate captain now frail and dying of perhaps too much landsickness. To Matthew’s left, in the last bed in the room, was Gideon Bloomensord, a farmer laid low when he had fallen down a rocky embankment and broken both legs. This morning the body of Martin Brinker had been removed from the bed directly to Matthew’s right and bound in shroud wrappings for deposit in the cemetery, the patient having not responded well to Dr. Quail Polliver’s leech treatment. Of the three remaining patients Matthew was certainly the most alert, as the first was heading silently for his last voyage and the other was raving in fevered pain that the opium had not yet diminished.
“I’ll be back first thing,” Greathouse repeated, as possibly a draught of medicine to himself at leaving Matthew between creeping death and inescapable agony. Then he pulled his coat collar up around his neck and went through the hallway toward the front door and—most likely—the warm and welcoming embrace of womanflesh.
Matthew rested his head against the pillow and closed his eyes. He was very tired. The two attendants, the two-hundred-pound Mrs. Sifford and the ninety-pound Mr. Dupee, would be coming around soon to offer up some kind of soup, for better or for worse. The sunlight moved, and moved some more. The afternoon dimmed and darkened into blue evening, and in the glow of lanterns hanging from their pegs Edde van Evers breathed heavily as if inhaling the salt air of seven seas, Gideon Bloomensord gasped in his opium-induced slumber, and Matthew Corbett slept uneasily with the taste of lukewarm codfish soup still in his mouth.
He tossed and turned a bit, expecting to be roused by Hudson Greathouse first thing in the morning, or—before that—by Gardner Lillehorne with more questions.
Therefore when he was shaken awake by the pain of his bruises and sore muscles he was quite surprised to see night still hard black against the windows. One might further say he was shocked to see standing over his bed, washed in the golden lamplight, a giant from East India.
The diamonds in the front teeth sparkled. “Matthew?” said Sirki in his soft and easy lilt. “It’s time now, please.”
“Time?” Matthew sat up, which caused him further pain but there was no avoiding it. The hospital was silent. Either Van Evers had passed onto the leeward side of this world or he was sleeping like a newborn, and Bloomensord had also sunken into perfect peace. “Time for what?”
“Your decision,” said Sirki, his brown face pleasantly composed. “Which will be destroyed next? Tobias Winekoop’s stable, with all those beautiful and noble horses? Or the boarding house run by Madam Belovaire, with its boarders now fast asleep? Most of them, that is.” He gave a small, polite smile. “Your decision, please. And don’t concern yourself about me. I am content to wait.”
Ten
GET out of here,” Matthew answered. His heart had seemingly tied itself into a Gordian Knot. “I’ll call for help.”
“You might,” Sirki answered back, with a brief nod of his turbanned head. “But you will find that no help arrives. And yet…I do have help.”
As if emerging from the giant’s body, two men came forward from behind him to stand at the foot of Matthew’s bed. Matthew instantly recognized the pair of scoundrels who’d lighted the fuses in the house of the so-called Mallorys. One of them carried a rolled-up item with wooden rods protruding from it. A stretcher, Matthew realized.
“We have come to carry you in comfort to your appointed destination,” said Sirki. “Unless you had rather witness another example of our new gunpowder?”
“With me unable to walk, my name written on a wall will make no sense.”
“Ah!” Sirki aimed a long forefinger toward the ceiling. “But did it ever make sense, young sir? I believe by now that your compatriots in this town—even your closest friends, perhaps—have begun to doubt your word and your sanity. It may make sense to no one, yet either a stable or a boarding house will burn to the ground this night…if you refuse this hospitable invitation.” Whether he’d intended the near-pun or not was unknown, since his face remained expressionless. But the dark eyes beneath the thick, arched black brows were intense and watchful, and they were aimed upon Matthew like musket barrels.
Matthew may have shivered. He wasn’t sure, but it was cold in here and the blanket was thin. “How did you get in?”
One of the men, the very same who’d thrown his lantern at Matthew’s head, gave a little chuckle. Prideful, Matthew thought. “Lockpicking is Croydon’s claim to art,” Sirki said. “A low claim, but there it is anyway. As for the two unfortunates who spend the night here watching over their charges, the fat woman and the thin man are both sleeping soundly.”
“You’ve killed them?”
“Not at all! Unless a gift of tea from India could be considered deathly. I had occasion to speak to Dr. Polliver this afternoon. I offered up this gift as a token of friendship. Also the tea has healing powers I thought he might care to try. Possibly he’s sleeping very soundly in his bed at home.”
Drugged tea, Matthew thought. Of course. Fell’s people relied on drugs to move their mountains.
“The professor,” said Sirki, “wants you. He needs you, really. Because you seem to…um…get results, shall we say. And you’ve impressed him, Matthew. So now I shall tell you that it is time for your choice. One of three. Yourself, the stable or the boarding house. And yourself shall be returned here after this business is completed, whereas the others…sadly beyond the point of return. We have the key to your house, taken from Dr. Polliver’s safebox. Croydon will go to your miniature abode and remove whatever clothing you might need. You will be taken to a waiting boat, to be rowed out to meet the larger vessel. All we require you to do at the moment is roll onto this stretcher.”
At that pronouncement, Croydon and the other jackal unrolled the brown cloth and held the stretcher between them. Sirki moved aside so Matthew could do as instructed.
Matthew hesitated. He swallowed hard. His bruises pulsed, and his pulse felt bruised. For all the fear that danced its Mad Robin within him, he couldn’t suppress a grim smile. How many times had he felt alone at midnight, with the hard dark pressing in and no sign of morning? Many times before, and with luck he would survive this one as he had survived the others.
No, he decided. With more than luck.
With every skill of reasoning and power of concentration he had.
That, plus some good old fashioned lowdown strength of will.
He glared into Sirki’s eyes. “Get out of the way,” he told the giant. “I’ll walk.”
Sirki obeyed at once. “I thought you would, young sir. That is why I placed your boots and clothing on the floor before I woke you.” The dark eyes darted toward Croydon’s fart-partner. “Squibbs, find Matthew a cloak or a blanket worth its weight in wool. A heavy coat might do, which you’ll find hanging in the room where the sleepers doze. Move, please. It disturbs
me to think my voice goes unheard.”
The way the East Indian killer said that, Squibbs might well have let loose another buttock-blast. However, Squibbs moved forthwith at the speed of terror.
Matthew eased himself to a sitting position on the side of the bed. The pain came up his sides like metal clamps snapping shut rib-by-rib. A red haze whirled before his eyes. Damned if he’d let himself pass out. He bit his lower lip until the blood nearly oozed.
“Croydon,” said Sirki. “Help the young gentleman put his boots on, and then hand him his clothes.”
Croydon wasted no time in following the command, and Matthew realized a Corbett had suddenly become royalty, of a strange kind.
The boots were struggled into, the smoke-pungent clothing put on, and then it was time to stand up. Matthew took a long, deep breath. He slid off the bed and took the weight on his legs and his knees ached and his thigh muscles tightened and shrieked for a few agonizing seconds but then he was up and, after wavering ever so slightly, had secured his balance in an insane world.
“Very good,” was the killer’s comment.
Squibbs returned with a brown coat and, in addition, a gray blanket. He helped Matthew get the coat on and then wrapped the blanket around him with the care of a man who suddenly wanted to seem excellently careful. Sirki tucked the stretcher up under one long and dangerous arm. He spoke Croydon’s name, and Croydon was off with a lantern in hand, obviously heading for Matthew’s dairyhouse to fetch more clothes for the young sir’s journey.
“Where are we going?” Matthew asked as he hobbled out onto the bracing cold of King Street, with Squibbs holding a lantern on one side and Sirki on the other.
“To a ship that will deliver you to an island,” Sirki answered. “You will find the weather much more pleasant there. Step lightly, young sir. We don’t wish you to sprain anything.”
Between them, they steered Matthew’s path toward the waterfront, and soon they were only two gleams of yellow lamplight in the dark and sleeping town.
Because she was still angry at Matthew Corbett, she had not gone to visit him today. Because she had not gone to visit him today, she missed seeing him and was in turn angry at herself for missing him. Because she was angry in so many areas at once, she could not sleep very soundly. And so because she could not sleep very soundly and had gotten out of bed to have a cup of water and eat a corn muffin, Berry Grigsby saw through the kitchen window the glimmer of light as someone carrying a lantern came out of Matthew’s house.
Her first thought, unladylike as it might have been, was: Damn! What’s this about? She blew out her own candle to avoid being seen. Her heartbeat had quickened and she felt the breath rasp in her lungs. She watched as the figure strode away, carrying what might have been a bundle of some kind.
Carrying it to where? she wondered. And to whom? To Matthew? At this time of night? It must have been Hudson Greathouse, she reasoned. Yes. Of course. Hudson Greathouse. Go back to bed, she told herself.
She could still see the swing of the man’s lantern as he walked south along Queen Street. Heading toward the King Street Publick Hospital, of course.
But…at this time of night?
Was someone robbing Matthew’s house?
She only had a few seconds to decide what to do. Her decision was rapidly made, and though she thought it might be the wrong one in the light of day it was perfectly right by the dark of night.
She rushed into her bedroom, where she knocked her knee on a table in her haste to get dressed. In her hurry, she pulled on a shift, then a petticoat and an old blue dress trimmed with yellow that she often wore when she was painting. Her stockings and shoes went on, also in a hurry, and then a dark blue woolen cloak and cap of the same color and material. Mittens for her hands, and she was ready. Her intent was to catch up with the thief, if at all possible, and then start calling for a constable. She lit a lantern from the steadily-burning candle in her bedroom and on the way to the front door had a thought to awaken Marmaduke, but her grandfather’s snoring buzzed behind his own bedroom door and she decided enough time had been lost. This was her…adventure, perhaps? Yes, she thought. And never let it be said that the high-and-mighty Matthew Corbett would not appreciate her coming to the rescue of his stolen items.
So there.
Berry left the house, and stepped into bitter cold.
She followed her lantern’s glow along Queen Street, heading south in the same direction as the thief. It crossed her mind that she was foolish out here in the wintry dark, chasing what was most likely Hudson Greathouse fetching some item of clothing for Matthew, but still…if one could not be foolish sometimes, what was the point of life? And…if it wasn’t Greathouse, then…who? Well, she would see what she would see, and furthermore she was determined to show Matthew she could be a help to him and not a hindrance.
For not so very far ahead, closer toward the masted ships that sat moored to the harbor, three lantern lights were showing. She slowed her pace as she approached. If she were an animal, she would be sniffing the wind for the smells of thievery, but she could only trust what she could see. At each street corner she passed she looked in vain for the green lantern of a constable; no, they were all warming themselves before fires somewhere, so in essence Berry Grigsby was her own constable this frigid midnight.
She got close enough to make out four figures at the wharfside, and one of them a giant wearing a multi-colored coat or robe of some fashion and a turban. The figures all had their backs to her. They were walking out along a pier. And…in the middle there, the third figure…yes, it was. She would know his walk anywhere. He was walking stiffly, still in pain, and he was bundled up in what appeared to be a gray blanket. He was following the giant, and behind him was a man holding a bundle of clothes under one arm and in the opposite hand a lantern. They were going toward a small skiff tied to the pier.
She didn’t like the looks of this.
A wind had picked up, bringing a touch of ice. Or she felt an icy touch at her heart, for she had the sure feeling Matthew was being taken where he did not wish to go. She looked desperately for any sign of a constable’s lantern, but there was no green glow to be seen. No, this night she was on her own.
As was Matthew. Or so he might think. He was being guided into the skiff, which was big enough for five or six men unless one of them was a turbaned giant. Matthew had his head down. In concentration or defeat? she wondered. Whichever…she wasn’t going to let him be taken away like this, in the dead of night by villains unknown. For they had to be villains, to be stealing away from her the man she loved.
She started forward. One step at first—a cautious step—and then the others came faster, for she saw her time was running out, and Matthew was being put into the boat and in another moment one of the men was going to cast off the lines and then the oars would be put into their locks and…
“Matthew!” she called to him, before this terrible journey could begin. And louder still: “Matthew!”
The giant, still on the dock’s planks, whirled toward her. Matthew stood up, his face ashen beneath the bruises. The other two men lifted their lanterns to catch her with their dirty light.
“Go back!” Matthew shouted. He nearly choked on the two words. “Go back!”
“Ah!” Sirki’s voice was soft and smooth. He smiled; he was already moving to cross the forty paces between them. “Miss Beryl Grigsby, isn’t it?”
“Berry!” Matthew couldn’t communicate his fear for her loudly enough: “Run!”
“No need for that,” said Sirki, as he came forward upon her with the sleek swiftness of a cobra. She backed away a few steps, but she realized as soon as she turned to run the giant would be at her back. “No need,” he repeated. “We’re friends here, you see.”
“Matthew! What’s going on?”
Sirki kept himself between them, a huge obstacle. “Matthew,” he answered as he steadily advanced, “is about to take a sea voyage. It is his own decision.” He came up within arm�
��s length. His smile broadened, but in it there was no joy. “I think you might also enjoy a sea voyage, miss. Is that correct?”
“I’ll scream,” she said, for it seemed the thing to say with the blood beating in her cheeks.
“Croydon?” Sirki spoke over his shoulder, but kept his eyes on Berry. “If this young woman screams, I want you to strike Matthew as hard as you can across the face. Do you understand?”
“Gladly!” Croydon said, and he meant it.
“He’s bluffing!” Matthew called out. He heard the weariness in his voice; his strength was departing him once more, and he knew that in his present state of disrepair there was nothing he could do to help her.
“I understand,” said Sirki, close now upon Berry. She could smell the sandalwood incense from his clothing. The lantern light gleamed off the pearl-and-turquoise ornament that secured his turban. His voice was a soft murmur, as if heard through the veil of sleep. “You wish no harm to come to your friend. And he is your friend, yes?”
“Berry! Get away!” Matthew urged her, with the last of his strength. Croydon clamped a hand on his shoulder that said Shut your mouth.
“Your friend,” Sirki repeated. “You know, I have the gift of seeing to the heart of matters. The heart,” he said, for emphasis. “You wouldn’t be here unless you were concerned for him, would you? And such concern should not be taken lightly. I would like for you to join us on our journey, miss. Walk before me to the boat, would you please?”
“I’m going for a constable,” she told him.
But she did not move, and neither did the giant.
He stared into her eyes, his mouth wearing a little amused half-smile.
“Walk before me to the boat,” he repeated. “I would appreciate your compliance.”
Berry caught a movement to her right. She looked to the west along Wall Street, and saw at the intersection of Wall and Smith streets the green-glassed lantern of a passing constable.
The Providence Rider Page 11