"Don't mind Gretl. She's been the housekeeper here for years and she thinks she runs the place. Well, perhaps she does. But the last time I looked, my name was still Deverick and this was my house, too, so no, you're not a problem."

Matthew thought it was time he presented his questions to Robert, as he was beginning to fear the consequences if the widow Deverick returned and found him here without "parmizzion." He said, "I won't take up too much more of your time. I know you have an unfortunate task this afternoon and a lot weighing on your mind, but I'd like to ask you to think about this: can you identify any connection whatsoever between Dr. G.o.dwin, your father, and Eben Ausley?"

"No," Robert said almost at once. "None."

"Just consider it for a moment. Sometimes things aren't so obvious. For instance, did your father-and excuse me for being indelicate about this-like to go to the taverns himself and perhaps play the dice or cards?"

"Never." Again, it was spoken quickly and with resolve.

"He didn't gamble?"

"My father despised gambling. He thought it was a sure route for fools to throw their money away."

"All right." That seemed to close that particular avenue of advancement, but Matthew had to wonder what the deceased would have said about his dice-throwing young lawyers. "Do you know if your father ever visited Dr. G.o.dwin? Either professionally or socially?"

"Our physician for years has been Dr. Edmonds. Besides, my mother couldn't stand Dr. G.o.dwin."

"Really? May I ask why?"

"Well, everyone knows," Robert said.

"Everyone but me, then." Matthew gave a patient smile.

"The ladies," Robert said. "You know. At Polly Blossom's."

"I know there are prost.i.tutes at Polly Blossom's house, yes. Is there something else?"

Robert waved a hand at him, as if in irritation at Matthew's thick skull. "My mother says everyone knows Dr. G.o.dwin is physician to the ladies. Was, I mean. She says she wouldn't let him put a finger on her."

"Hm," Matthew replied, more of a thoughtful response than a word. He hadn't known that Dr. G.o.dwin was physician-on-call to Polly Blossom's investments, but then again such an item would not necessarily have crossed his horizon as a topic of conversation. He marked the information, though, as something to pursue.

"If your next question is to be whether or not my father dallied at Polly Blossom's, I can tell you emphatically that he did not," said Robert, a little haughtiness husking his voice. "My father and mother-while not exactly the picture of pa.s.sion-were devoted to one another. I mean...no one has a perfect life, do they?"

"I'm sure no one does," Matthew agreed, and he let that sit like a bone in a stewpot for a few seconds before he said, "I a.s.sume, then, that you won't be taking over the business?"

Robert's eyes were unfocused again. He seemed to be staring past Matthew. "A letter was sent to my brother Thomas in London yesterday morning. I expect he'll be here by October."

"But who'll be in charge between now and then?"

"We have capable managers. My mother says. She says everything will be taken care of. The business will go on, I'll return to school in August, and Thomas will take over. But you know, I was being groomed for it. Supposedly. Groomed with my business education. But my father said..." Here Robert hesitated, a muscle clenching in his jaw. "My father said...for all my education, something was left out of me. Isn't that humorous?" He smiled, but on that strained and bitter face it was more tragedy than comedy. "With all the grades I've been getting, all that studying in a cubbyhole night after night to make him...make them both...proud...that he should say something was left out of me? Oh yes, he had proper words for me. When I dealt with the man who shortchanged our beef order, last month. I had not made him afraid enough, my father said. I had not plunged the dagger in and twisted it, to make that man fear the Deverick name. That's what it's about, you know: power and fear. We step on the heads of those below us, they step on the lower heads, and down and down until the snails are crushed in their sh.e.l.ls. That's what it will always be about."

"Your father didn't think you were hard enough with a swindler? Is that it?"

"My father always said business is war. A businessman should be a warrior, he said, and if someone dares to challenge you then...destruction has to be the only response." Robert blinked heavily. "I suppose school can't put that into a person's soul, if it's not there. All the grades in the world...all the honors...nothing can put that there, if you're not born with it."

"You're describing a man who must have made a lot of enemies over the course of his career."

"He had them. But mostly they were compet.i.tors in London. As I've told you before, here he had no compet.i.tors." There came the noise of horse hooves on the street. Matthew saw through the front window a black carriage pulling up to the curb. "My mother's returned," Robert said, listlessly.

With almost frightening speed the gruesome Gretl was out the front door and striding toward Mrs. Deverick's carriage to, Matthew presumed, fry his bacon. Matthew considered his options. He could either try to get out like a scalded dog or face the situation like a gentleman. In another moment, however, the scalded-dog option was out the window because just as Matthew had risen to his feet and was walking out of the parlor, Mrs. Deverick entered the vestibule with Joplin Pollard following behind and Gretl in the rear almost s...o...b..ring with evil antic.i.p.ation of a fiery scene.

"I tolt him!" Gretl was hissing, even though there were no esses to be hissed. "Thet rud boy!"

"And here he stands," Pollard said, with a dry smile that did not involve the eyes. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Corbett. Just leaving, I presume?"

"Just leaving, Mr. Pollard."

But before Matthew could get out the door there was a formidable presence in a black funeral gown and hat with a black-lace veil over the face that had to be pa.s.sed, and this was going to be no easy voyage. Mrs. Deverick set herself between him and the outside world, and one of her black-gloved hands rose up in front of his face with a lifted index finger that had the power, like the wand of a witch, to stop him in his tracks.

"One moment," Esther Deverick said quietly, her voice as frosty as a January eve. "What are you doing here, on our day of sorrow?"

Matthew dug deep but couldn't find anything to say. He saw Gretl grinning beyond Joplin Pollard.

"Mother?" Robert stepped forward. "Mr. Corbett was kind enough to bring us the new broadsheet." He lifted his right hand, and in it was the Earwig.

"I have one already." Mrs. Deverick lifted her black-gloved left hand, and in it was the Earwig. "Would someone care to tell me who this young man is?"

"Matthew Corbett is his name," Pollard spoke up. "A clerk for Magistrate Powers."

"A clark!" Gretl nearly cackled.

"He's the young man featured in the article," said Pollard. "You said you wished to meet him, not an hour ago. Here he is, at your command."

"Yes, isn't that so very convenient." The woman lifted her veil. Her narrow dark brown eyes under thin-penciled brows and her white, high-cheekboned face made Matthew think of an insect, one of those preying things that ate their mates. Her hair, a fixed ma.s.s of elaborate curls, was so black it had to be either a wig or poured from a bottle of India ink. She was thin and small, actually, with a fashionably cinched waist for a woman her age, which Matthew guessed at between fifty and fifty-five, about three or four years her deceased husband's junior. It was as much the voluminous folds of the gown as her queenly bearing that made her seem to fill up the vestibule with no possible escape for Matthew until she deigned to free him. Which she did not. "I asked you what business you have here. Close that door, Mr. Pollard."

Thunk, it went.

"Speak," said Mrs. Deverick.

Matthew had to first clear his throat. He was painfully aware of all the eyes watching him. "Pardon my intrusion, madam. I...well, I was going to say I was pa.s.sing by, but that would be an untruth. I came here for the purpose of interviewing your son concerning Mr. Deverick's murder."

"Now is probably not the time, Corbett," Pollard cautioned.

"Did I require you to intercede for me, sir?" The narrow dark eyes flicked at Pollard like a whipstrike and then returned to Matthew. "On whose authority do you conduct this so-called interview? The printmaster? The high constable? Talk, if you have a tongue!"

Matthew felt a bit weak-kneed under this barrage, but he steeled himself and said, "My own authority, madam. I want to know who killed Dr. G.o.dwin, your husband, and Eben Ausley, and I intend to pursue the matter to the best of my ability."

"I forgot to tell you," Pollard offered, "that Mr. Corbett has the unfortunate reputation of being what might be called in impolite circles a 'sammy rooster.' His crowing and bl.u.s.ter seem to exceed his good taste."

"I consider myself a competent judge of taste, good or bad," came the rather stinging reply. "Mr. Corbett, how is it that you think yourself suited to pursue this subject when the town has a high constable employed to do so? Isn't that a presumption on your part?"

"I imagine it is. I'm presuming from prior experience and observation that Mr. Lillehorne couldn't pursue his path from his bed to his bedpan."

Pollard rolled his eyes, but the lady of the house showed no response.

"I think there was a common bond among the three victims," Matthew went on, before he lost his momentum. "I think the Masker is not an errant lunatic, but a cunning and very sane killer-if one may call murder an act of sanity-determined to make some kind of statement. If I can deduce that statement, I believe I can unmask the Masker, as it were. Others may yet die before that happens, I don't know. I a.s.sume the Clear Streets Decree is going through?"

Still Mrs. Deverick didn't speak. At last Pollard said, "Tonight the taverns will close at eight o'clock. The decree begins at half past eight. We're going to fight it with a pet.i.tion, of course, and we fully expect to have this unfounded burden lifted after-"

"Save your red rag for the court." Mrs. Deverick continued to stare forcefully into Matthew's eyes. "Why have I never heard of you?"

"We turn in different circles," Matthew said, with a slight bow of respect.

"And what's in this for you? Money? Fame? Oh." Now a light seemed to appear in those eyes and a fleeting smile crossed the thin pursed lips. "You want to show Lillehorne up, don't you?"

"I have no need to show anyone up. I strive for the solution of the matter, that's all." But even as he said this, he realized he'd been stuck with a small sharp knife of truth. Maybe he did want to "show Lillehorne up," as she so acidly put it; or, more to the point, he wanted to demonstrate to the town that Lillehorne was ineffectual, buffle-headed, and probably corrupt as well.

"I don't believe you," Mrs. Deverick replied, and let it hang. Then she c.o.c.ked her head to one side as if inspecting an interesting new growth that had sprouted in her garden. She was trying to decide if it was a flowering plant or a noxious weed. When Pollard made a noise to speak, Mrs. Deverick lifted that single commanding finger again and he instantly shut his mumbler.

To Matthew Mrs. Deverick said in a low, calm voice, "There are three things that greatly displease me. The first being an uninvited visitor. The second being the theory that my husband was in any way a.s.sociated with the two deplorable men whose names you have spoken. The third being a certain imposter to civility on this street named Maude Lillehorne." She paused and, for the first time it seemed to Matthew, blinked. "I will choose to overlook the first according to your motive and I will grant you a certain small amount of leeway on the second according to your curiosity. As to the third," she said, "I will pay you ten shillings to discover the Masker's ident.i.ty before there's another killing."

"What?" Pollard sounded as if he'd been struck in the belly-pipes.

"Every night the decree continues, the Deverick family will lose money," the woman continued, still solely addressing Matthew. "I agree that the high constable is beyond his depth in this situation. I would like to see him-and by extenuation his wife-skewered on the wit of a magistrate's clerk. If you have wit enough, which will remain to be seen. Therefore I wish this problem to be solved before Lord Cornbury is given more reason to drag the decree out, court or no court. Ten shillings is my offer, and it is an offer of which I believe my husband-G.o.d rest him-would have approved."

Pollard said, "Madam, may I give advice that you not-"

"The time for advice is over. It is time for action, and I believe this young man may save the day for us." She turned her face toward Pollard. "My husband lies dead, sir. He will not rise like Lazarus. It is up to me now, to guide this endeavor until Thomas arrives." She didn't even pretend to acknowledge that Robert stood only a few feet away. Then, once more facing Matthew, "Ten shillings. Find this murderer before he strikes again. Yes or no?"

Ten shillings, Matthew thought. It was an outlandish amount. It was more money than he'd ever been paid in one sum in his life. He thought he must be dreaming, but of course he said, "Yes."

"If there's another killing, you get not a duit. If the high constable achieves the unlikely goal of solving this problem, you get not a duit. If the individual is uncovered by any other citizen, you-"

"Get not a duit," Matthew said. "I understand."

"Good. Then there's one further thing. I wish to know first. Not for the sake of revenge or any un-Christian motive, but...if there is indeed any connection between the three, I wish to be notified before Mr. Grigsby can print it for the town to devour."

"Forgive me," Matthew said, "but that sounds as if you might...how shall I say this?...have some reason to be concerned."

"My husband kept much to himself," she replied. "It was his nature. Now please leave, as I must rest before the funeral."

"May I return at a more convenient time and continue the interview? Both with yourself and your son?"

"You may write your questions down, give them to Mr. Pollard, and they will be contemplated."

Contemplated did not necessarily mean answered, Matthew thought, but he was in no position to contradict. "Very well."

"Good day, then. And I shall add good hunting." With that curt dismissal, she moved past him with a stormy rustle of stiffened fabric and lace, motioning for Robert to accompany her.

On Matthew's way out the door, which Gretl held wide for his exit, Pollard said, "Wait at the curb a moment and I'll give you a lift. I'm heading back to the office."

"No thank you," Matthew decided. "I think better when I walk." He went out and the door was shut at his back with a resounding finality. He didn't care. He strode in the sunlight past the waiting carriage and driver along Golden Hill Street west toward the Broad Way.

It occurred to him that, Herrald Agency or not, he'd just been hired to solve his first problem as a private investigator.

Twenty.

By ten o'clock on Sat.u.r.day morning, Matthew reckoned that he had lunged forward and stabbed a bale of hay with his rapier about a hundred times. Now, approaching twelve, he was going through slow-motion fencing lessons with Hudson Greathouse in the carriage-house, as pigeons spectated from the rafters and the heat-sweat rolled down Matthew's face and back under his sodden shirt.

Greathouse seemed above such concerns as sweltering heat and physical discomfort. While Matthew struggled to keep his breath and his balance, Greathouse breathed with ease and moved nimbly to demonstrate the half-pace, whole-pace, slope-pace, encroachment, and circular-pace, and when Matthew happened to relax his grip he found his sword flicked from his hand by a sudden powerful movement that left his fingers thrumming and his face screwed up with anger.

"How many times do I have to tell you to keep that thumb locked down? And getting mad won't help you win a fight," Greathouse said, pausing to mop his forehead with a cotton cloth. "Just the opposite. If you try to play chess in anger, what happens? You stop thinking and start reacting, and then you're playing to your opponent's pace. The key to this is keeping your mind calm, your rhythm intact, and your options open. If your opponent steals your rhythm, you are dead." He pushed his sword down into the soft ground and rested his hand on the pommel. "Is any of this getting through?"

Matthew shrugged. His right arm and shoulder were just dull throbbing pieces of meat, but d.a.m.ned if he was going to do any complaining.

"If you want to say something," Greathouse growled, "then say it."

"All right." Matthew pushed his sword down into the ground as well. He felt as if his face was twice its size and the color of a ripe tomato. "I don't know why I'm having to do this. I'll never become a swordsman. You can teach me all day and all year about these foot-movements and circulations and what-not, but I don't see the reason."

Greathouse nodded, his expression calm and impa.s.sive. "You don't see the reason." It was a statement, not a question.

"No sir."

"Well then, I'll try to explain this in a fashion you might understand. First of all, Mrs. Herrald requires this training. She has some strange notion that there may be danger in your prospective line of work, and she expects you to live beyond your initial encounter with a frog-bellied ruffian who wields his sword like a hayseed's pitchfork. Secondly, I require this of you, both as an education in self-confidence and as a reawakening of the physical strength you have put to sleep amid your drowsy books. Thirdly..." Here he stopped, his brow knit. "You know," he said after a few seconds' pause, "you may be right, Matthew. All these time-honored and rational foundations of fencing technique may be just so much fundament to you. What care you for the thwart, or the imbrocatta, or the understanding of wards? After all, you are such a smart young man." He pulled his rapier up from the ground and brushed dirt off the gleaming steel. "I imagine you can only learn and appreciate the use of a rapier the same way you learned to play chess, is that correct?"

"And what way would that be?" Matthew asked.

"Trial and error," came the reply.

It was followed by a tongue of lightning that came at him so fast he barely had time to suck in a breath, much less jump back out of range. He realized in a split-second of decision that this time Greathouse's rapier was not going to feint in and withdraw; the shimmering blade-tip was aimed straight for the middle b.u.t.ton on his shirt and just that fast his aching shoulder drew his arm up and the two swords rang together. The hum of the blades vibrated up Matthew's arm, down his spine, and through his ribs as the attacking rapier was turned aside. Then Greathouse was lunging forward again, crowding Matthew's s.p.a.ce, angling his body slightly so the blade was going to strike Matthew's left hip. Matthew watched the sword coming in as if in slow-motion, his singular power of concentration taking hold to shut out everything in the world save the rapier intent on piercing his soul-cage. He stepped back, keeping his form for that was the most efficient use of speed, and struck aside the blow but almost too late, as the blade grazed his hip and snagged breeches-cloth in its pa.s.sage.

"d.a.m.n it!" Matthew shouted, backing away toward the wall. "Are you mad?"

"I am!" Greathouse hollered in return. His eyes were wild and his lips tight. "Let's see what you've got, Chess Boy!" With a look of determination that scared Matthew out of all sense of pain or fatigue, Greathouse pressed in to the attack.

The first move was a feint to his left side that Matthew misjudged and tried to parry. Greathouse's blade came sweeping past Matthew's shoulder in a forehand cut that made the air sizzle like a sausage on a hot pan. Matthew staggered back, almost falling over the haybale he'd so thoroughly killed earlier in the day. Greathouse drove in at him again, the rapier's wicked point coming for his face, and it was all Matthew could do to knock the blade aside the best he could and back away another few steps to find breathing room.

Now Greathouse, grinning like a demon, cut at Matthew's legs but Matthew saw the strike coming, locked his thumb down, and parried the blade away with a blow that sounded more like the crack of a pistol than the meeting of steel. For an instant Greathouse's torso was open and Matthew thought to bring his blade back in line, lunge forward, and give the brute a scare, but almost as soon as the thought took hold his rapier was knocked aside and he jerked his head back as a glint of steel flashed two inches away from the tip of his nose. It would not do to return to New York noseless, Matthew thought as he again retreated, the sweat beaded on his face and not all of it from simple exertion.

Still Greathouse came on, feinting left and right though Matthew had begun to read cues in the man's movements-extension of shoulder and set of the forward knee-to determine strike from disguise. Greathouse suddenly went low and then angled the rapier upward in a lunge that Matthew thought would have driven through a man's lower jaw and out the back of his neck, but fortunately Matthew was having none of it and had put more distance between them.

"Ha!" Greathouse suddenly shouted, combining the noise of insane joviality with a thrust at Matthew's ribs on the right side that Matthew was just able to clash aside. But it was a weak blow, for Greathouse's sword swung around like a deadly wheel and now came for Matthew's ribs on the side sinister. This time Matthew stood his ground. He gritted his teeth and parried the strike with his rapier as the man had taught him, forte against feeble.

Yet there was nothing remotely feeble about Hudson Greathouse. He backed up a step only and then came on the attack again with tremendous power, a lion in its element of mortal combat. When Matthew parried the blade-this time only by the thin whisker of a skinny man's beard-he felt the strength of Greathouse's blow nearly not only remove the sword from his hand but his shoulder from its socket. Another strike darted in at his face almost before Matthew could see it coming, more a silvery glint like a fish streaking through dark water. Matthew jerked his head aside but felt a bite as his left ear was nicked before he could get his own rapier up on guard.

My G.o.d! he thought with a surge of mortifying fear. I'm bleeding!

He backed away again, his knees gone wobbly.

Greathouse slowly advanced, his rapier held out at extension, his face damp with sweat, and his red-shot eyes turned toward some remembered battlefield where heads and limbs lay in b.l.o.o.d.y heaps.

It came to Matthew to shout for help. The man had lost his mind. Surely if Matthew yelled loudly enough, Mrs. Herrald would hear it. He presumed she was in the house, though he hadn't seen her today. G.o.d only hope she was in the house! He started to open his mouth to let loose a caterwaul and then the frightening ma.s.s of Hudson Greathouse sprang upon him swinging the rapier's brutal edge at Matthew's head.