Matthew could only respond instinctively, trying to put order to the collection of bewildering sword-facts that rattled in his brain. He locked his thumb down tight, tighter than tight, breaking-point tight, judged the distance and speed, and deflected the attacking rapier with his own blade. But suddenly Greathouse's sword was coming at him from a lower angle-a silver blur, a murderous comet-and yet once more Matthew turned aside the blow, the noise ringing through the carriage-house and the shock almost loosening his teeth. Greathouse himself seemed to be a distortion of the heated air, a monstrous creature half-human and half-weapon as the rapier flashed and feinted high, feinted low, flicked to left and right, and then struck like a serpent. Again Matthew parried it aside just short of his chest, but when he retreated two more steps his back met a wall.

He had no time to scurry away from this trap, for his enraged teacher was on him as the thunder follows the lightning. Matthew just had an instant to get his sword angled up across his body and then Greathouse's blade slammed into his rapier, locked forte to forte as the man pushed in on him with crushing strength. Matthew held on to his sword, trying to resist what he knew to be Greathouse's intention to tear it from his hand by brute power alone. The blades made a shrieking sound as they fought each other, steel sliding against steel. Matthew feared his wrist was about to break. Greathouse's face and glaring eyes seemed as big as demonic planets, and it occurred to Matthew at this moment near bone-breakage that the man smelled like a goat.

Abruptly the pressure against his rapier was gone. Greathouse said, "You are dead."

Matthew blinked. He felt something sharp jabbing into his stomach and when he looked down he saw the black handle of a six-inch-long dagger gripped in the man's left hand.

"Some hide doc.u.ments," Greathouse said, with a tight smile. "Others hide knives. I just sliced your stomach open. Your insides should begin to boil out in a few seconds, depending on how much you scream."

"Lovely," Matthew managed to reply.

Greathouse stepped back and lowered both rapier and dagger. "You never let your opponent get that close to you. Do you understand? You do whatever you have to do to keep a sword's distance. You see my thumb, how it's locked on that handle?" He lifted the dagger to show Matthew his grip. "Nothing but a broken wrist could stop me from driving that blade all the way through your bread-basket and, believe me, into the stomach is where a knife will go when you're caught at close quarters. The wound is painful and gruesome and puts an end to all arguments."

Matthew took a deep breath and felt the carriage-house spin around him. If he fell down right now he'd never hear the end of it, so by G.o.d he was not going to fall. One knee may have sagged and his back bent, but he kept on his feet.

"You all right?" Greathouse asked.

"Yes," Matthew answered, with as much grit as he could muster. He wiped sweat out of his eyebrows with the back of his hand. "Doesn't seem a very gentlemanly way to kill someone."

"There is no gentlemanly way to kill." Greathouse slid the dagger into the sheath at his lower back. "You see now what a real fight is like. If you can remember your technique and use it, fine. That would put you at an advantage. But a real fight, when it's either kill or be killed, is a nasty, brutish, and usually very quick encounter. Gentlemen may duel to draw blood, but I can promise-warn is the better word, I suppose-that you'll someday cross swords with a villain who'll long to get a short blade in your belly. You'll know him, when the time comes."

"Speaking of gentlemen and time," came a quiet voice from the doorway, and Matthew looked over to see Mrs. Herrald standing framed in the sunlight. He had no idea how long she'd been there. "I believe it's lunchtime for you two gentlemen. By the way, Matthew, your left ear is bleeding." She turned around and, regal as ever in a dark blue dress with white lace at the collar and cuffs, walked away toward the house.

Greathouse threw a clean cloth to Matthew. "Just a nick. You dodged the wrong way."

"But I did do well, didn't I?" Matthew took note of the man's sour expression. "All right then, fairly well?"

"You only struck one offensive blow. Or attempted to strike one, that is. It was weak and completely undisciplined. You did not keep your form, as your body was too wide a target. You have to remember to keep your body thin. Never once did you step forward to meet an attack, even as a feint. Your footwork was pure panic, and you were always retreating." He took the rapier from Matthew and wiped it down before placing it in its scabbard.

"So," Matthew said a little indignantly to hide his disappointment, "I did nothing right?"

"I didn't say that." Greathouse put Matthew's rapier on the armory's hooks. "You met two of my best blows with very well-done parries and you were reading some of my feints. The rest I let you get away with. In fighting even a middling swordsman, you would have been punctured at least six times. On the other hand, I left myself open several times and you did nothing to seize the advantage." He looked at Matthew as he wiped down his own rapier. "Don't tell me you didn't see your opportunities."

"I told you before, I'm not a swordsman." The more he fiddled with his ear, which was cut near the top, the more it stung so he left it alone. The cloth was marked with a blotch of blood, but the wound was not so large nor as grievous as it felt.

"That may be so." Greathouse sheathed his sword and put it on the hooks. "But I intend to make you one, in spite of yourself. You have a natural speed and balance that I find very promising. Also, you have a good sense of measure. I like how you kept your sword up and didn't let it fall. And you're a lot stronger than you look, I'll say that for you. The most important thing is that you didn't let me run over you, and twice I really tried to knock that sword out of your hand." Greathouse motioned with a lift of his chin. "Come on, let's get our lunch and we'll return to this in an hour or so."

This waking nightmare was not yet over, Matthew realized with a sinking heart. He bit his tongue to keep from saying anything he might regret and followed Greathouse out of the humid interior.

It had been an interesting morning. When Matthew had gotten Suvie from the stable, Mr. Winekoop had given him the news of the night. Three tavern owners, including Mother Munthunk, had refused to close up at eight o'clock and had been taken to the gaol by a group of constables headed by Lillehorne himself. A fight had ensued between the lawmen and the Munthunk brothers, who valiantly tried to free their mater and thus joined her behind bars. The festivities had been just beginning, according to Winekoop's ear. Before ten, there were twelve men and two New Jersey prost.i.tutes in the gaol as well as the others, which made that place the scene of a merry crowd. One of the constables, challenging a group of decree-breakers on Bridge Street, had been kicked in the stones and anointed with a p.i.s.s-bucket. Someone had pelted City Hall with rotten tomatoes and after midnight a rock had broken one of the windows in Lord Cornbury's manse. All in all, a fine New York summer's eve.

But, so far as Winekoop had heard, there had been no murder last night. The Masker, it seemed, was after all a man cognizant of official decree and had stayed home from the party.

Lunch was a bowl of corn soup with a slice of ham and a thick piece of rye bread, served not in the house but on a table set up under an oak tree that overlooked the river. A pitcher of water was much appreciated by Matthew, who gulped down two gla.s.ses before Greathouse told him to drink slowly. Matthew had earlier given the man a copy of the Earwig brought from town, primarily to show the announcement on the second page, but it was the article on the Masker's activities that had caught Greathouse's interest.

"So," Greathouse said as they ate, "this Masker person. A third murder, you say?"

Matthew nodded, his mouth full of the ham and bread. He'd told Greathouse about the killing of Eben Ausley, but had omitted his own role in that evening's events.

"And no one has a clue as to who this individual might be?"

"No one," Matthew said after he'd had another drink. "Well, Mr. McCaggers believes from the skill and quickness of the cutting that the Masker may have had experience in a slaughterhouse."

"Ah yes, the coroner. I hear some strange stories about him. For instance, he can't abide dead bodies?"

"He does have some difficulties, yes. But he's very good at his job."

"How does he manage?"

"He has a slave, by the name of Zed, who helps him." Matthew took a spoonful of the corn soup and then another bite of the ham. "Lifting the bodies, cleaning up the...um...leavings and so forth. An interesting man, that one. Zed, I mean. He can't speak, as he has no tongue. He has scars or some kind of tattoos all over his face."

"Really?" There was an odd note of interest in Greathouse's voice.

"I've never seen a slave quite like him," Matthew continued. "Very distinctive and not a little unsettling."

"I would imagine so." Greathouse sipped from his water gla.s.s and gazed down upon the slowly moving river. He said after a moment, "I should like to meet that man."

"Mr. McCaggers?" Matthew asked.

"No. Zed. He might be of use to us."

"Of use? How?"

"I'll let you know after I've met him," Greathouse answered, and Matthew knew that was his final word on the subject for now.

"I should tell you," Matthew ventured after a little time had pa.s.sed and his lunch was almost history, "that I'm to be paid ten shillings by Deverick's widow if I discover the Masker's ident.i.ty before there's another murder. I had an encounter with her yesterday, and that offer resulted from it."

"Good for you." Greathouse sounded indifferent. "Of course it would be a pity if the Masker murdered you before you could be of value to the agency."

"I just wanted you and Mrs. Herrald to know. Actually I could put the money to good use."

"Who couldn't? Well, the only problem I could see is if some official contacted the agency to do the same job. Then we'd have a little conflict of interests, wouldn't we?"

"I seriously doubt if anyone representing the town will ask for help. High Constable Lillehorne wouldn't stand for it."

Greathouse shrugged and poured himself the last of the water. "Go on about your little investigation, then. I doubt you're up to that task yet, but at least you'll get some experience."

The way Greathouse had expressed that rankled Matthew to the marrow of his bones. I doubt you're up to that task yet. This man was becoming insufferable! Your little investigation. He prided himself on his investigative skills, on his ability to ferret out answers to the difficult questions, and this lout sitting here was nearly mocking him. His ear wound was still hurting, he was tired, and his last clean shirt was a sweat-rag. And here this man sat before him all but sneering at him.

Matthew pushed down his anger and said off-handedly, "I've also gleaned a new item of interest from Mr. McCaggers."

Greathouse leaned his head back so the sun could shine into his face through the oak branches. He closed his eyes and appeared to be about to catch a nap.

"The murder of Eben Ausley was not the third here lately. It was the fourth. A body was found in the Hudson River a few days before Dr. G.o.dwin was killed. It washed up on a farm two or three miles north of here, as a matter of fact."

There was no response from Greathouse. Matthew expected to hear him start snoring at any minute.

"It was an unidentified young man," Matthew went on, "who seems to have been murdered by a mob. Mr. McCaggers counted eight stab wounds, all from blades of different shapes and widths. Also, the man had no eyes."

With the mention of that last word, Greathouse opened his own eyes and squinted up at the sun.

"The body was in poor condition, having been in the water for at least five days, so Lillehorne ordered Zed to bury it where it was found. One other interesting-and disturbing-fact is that the wrists were bound behind him with cords." Matthew waited for some further response, but there was none. "I'm the only other person to know about this. So you see, I do have a little value as a-"

Greathouse suddenly stood up. He stared out upon the river. "Whose farm?"

"Sir?"

"The farm where the body washed up. Whose farm?"

"John Ormond. It's about-"

"I know Ormond's farm," Greathouse interrupted. "We've bought some produce from him. How long in the water, did you say?" Now Greathouse shifted his gaze to Matthew and there was nothing left of naptime. "Five days?"

"Five days is what Mr. McCaggers presumed." This line of interest was making Matthew more than a bit nervous. He'd meant this just as an example of how he could both obtain and retain information, and now it was taking on a life of its own.

"Found how many days before the doctor's murder?"

"Four."

"And that was more than two weeks ago?" Greathouse made a face that looked as if he'd bitten a lemon. "It won't be a pretty sight, that's for sure."

"Sir?"

"Stand up," Greathouse commanded. "We can let the afternoon's lesson go. Right now we have an errand."

Matthew stood up, but slowly and with the greatest of trepidation. Greathouse was already striding toward the carriage-house. "What errand?" Matthew asked.

"We're going to dig up the body," Greathouse replied over his shoulder, and Matthew felt his guts go all twisty-quisty. "Come on, let's get the shovels."

Twenty-One.

Up until the moment Hudson Greathouse went into the barn and began to saddle a second horse for Matthew, this one a lean gray stallion far more spirited than the placid Suvie, the young clerk had thought this so-called errand was another of Greathouse's rather irritating jokes. But as Matthew soon came to realize, the joke was on him; with shovels bound up and tied to the saddle of Greathouse's own horse, they were on their way to exhume a corpse.

The sun was warm, the air still, the summer birds singing, and the insects awhirr in the gilded shafts of light spilling through the boughs. Matthew struggled to keep his horse in control. The beast was much stronger than Suvie, headstrong as well, and kept wanting to veer off the road. "What's this creature's name?" Matthew asked toward Greathouse's back.

"Buck," came the reply. "He's a fine animal. Just let him have his head, he'll do all right."

"He wants to leave the road!"

"No, he wants to pick up his pace. You're holding him back like an old woman." Greathouse suddenly urged his mount into a canter and said, "Come on, I want to get there before tomorrow!"

Matthew just had to press Buck's sides with his knees to cause the horse to nearly leap forward, an action for which Matthew was totally unprepared and almost unseated into a tangle of green briars. He hung on, resisted the urge to pull the horse back to a more comfortable speed-and somewhat doubted Buck would heed him, anyway-and soon he was travelling neck-to-neck with Greathouse's horse instead of nose to tail.

They followed the road through a wilderness of thick-trunked trees that Matthew thought could never be felled by a hundred axemen working a hundred days. Redbirds fluttered in the high branches and a fox skittered across the road as the horses approached. After a while, Greathouse settled his horse back into an easy trot and Matthew did the same with Buck. A stone wall soon appeared along the left side of the road, and knowing the Ormond farm must be within a mile or so, Matthew said, "What's this about? We're not really going to dig up a grave, are we?"

"We didn't bring shovels to knock apples out of the trees."

"But why? What's so urgent about this particular corpse?" He got no answer, so he tried another tack. "I told you everything Mr. McCaggers told me. There's nothing more to see. Anyway, I don't think it's proper to disturb the dead."

"I won't tell if you won't. There's the turn ahead."

Greathouse took the next road to the left and Matthew kept up with him, or rather had no choice as he had begun to suspect Buck had been trained to follow Greathouse no matter who thought they guided the reins. "Listen," Matthew persisted, "I'm not used to this kind of thing. I mean...what's the point of it?"

Greathouse abruptly drew his horse up, causing Buck to stop almost immediately as well. "All right," Greathouse rumbled, with a nod. "I'll tell you why. The way you described the murder set me to remembering something. I can't tell you what that is. Not yet. And I'm going to insist that you not mention anything of this to Mrs. Herrald, either. Just help me dig, that's all I'm asking."

Matthew caught a note in the man's voice that he'd not heard before. It was not exactly fear, though there was indeed an element of that, as it was more abhorrence. Of what? Matthew wondered. The corpse? Surely not just that, for it was likely Greathouse had seen-and created-his share of them. No, this was something else entirely. Something that went deep, and was yet to be revealed.

Greathouse continued on, and so Buck followed with Matthew along for the ride. In another few minutes a more narrow track turned off again to the left and this was the route they took to the Ormond farm.

It was a well-worked plot consisting mostly of apple and pear trees, along with plantings of corn, turnips, beans, and a few rows of tobacco. As the two riders approached a farmhouse of brown stones that sat beside a barn and animal corral, chickens squawked and fluttered for shelter and a half-dozen hogs looked up inquisitively from their pen. From the barn appeared a burly man wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, a brown shirt, and gray trousers with patches on the knees. Accompanied by a barking cinnamon-colored dog, he came out to meet his visitors as a wide-hipped woman opened the farmhouse's door and two small children peered around her skirts.

"Mr. Ormond!" Greathouse called as he reined his horse. "It's Hudson Greathouse."

"Yes sir, I recall ye." The farmer had a long dark beard and eyebrows as thick as wooly caterpillars. He eyed the shovels. "Plannin' to dig up your own turnips?"

"Not exactly. This is my a.s.sociate Matthew Corbett. May we step down?"

"Come ahead."

That civility done, Greathouse waited until the dog had calmed down and was content to lope around sniffing at everyone's shoes before he continued. "It's been brought to my attention," he said, "that a body was discovered on your property."

Ormond regarded the ground and pressed a stone with the toe of his boot. He said in a slow, thick voice, "True enough."

"And it was buried beside the river?"

"Where it come up." He lifted his gaze and took stock of the shovels again. "Oh, Mr. Greathouse! I wouldn't want to be doin' what you've got a' mind."

"Mr. Corbett and I are not what you might call constables, in the strictest sense," Greathouse explained, "but we are representatives of the law. I feel it's my duty-our duty-to examine the corpse."

Speak for yourself, Matthew thought. The sun seemed terribly warm, and more brutal than bright.

"Not much left," said Ormond.

"We'd still like to look."

Ormond drew in a long breath and let it slowly leak out between his teeth. "I'd best put the dog in the house. Come on, Nero! Come on, boy!"

Greathouse unbound the shovels from his saddle and gave one to Matthew, who took it as if it were a venomous reptile. When the dog was put away and the wife and children also behind the closed door, Greathouse and Matthew walked with Ormond along a wagon track that led across the orchard.

"Nero found him," Ormond said. "Heard the dog barkin' up a fury, thought he'd treed a bobcat. Thank the Lord my children didn't go runnin' down there. I went to town that very afternoon, walked right into City Hall and asked for the biggest constable they've got."

Matthew might have made an inner comment about this statement, but he was too fixated on the river he'd begun to see beyond the trees.