"My opinion?"

"Let's hear it."

"Constance has to be told, first thing." Matthew saw the reverend wince when he said it, but he knew Wade had already figured out it had to be done, since Constance had followed him to the Blossom house. "If she tells John, so be it. How she'll react to the news, if you're asking my opinion, will be a mixture of sadness and relief, with relief winning the day. Now to Grace herself: it seems to me she may have journeyed here for no other reason than to say goodbye. Or perhaps she came to test you."

"Test me? How?"

"To find out if you still had any love for her. Enough to make you-a man of G.o.d-walk into a house of prost.i.tution, for the sake of a wayward daughter. I doubt if she planned to die here, but I imagine a sea voyage did not help her condition. For all she may be, she must have tremendous strength of will."

"Willful, as I said," the reverend agreed.

"I think," Matthew said, "as you've asked my opinion, that your eldest daughter does not need a minister, a pastor, or a reverend, but a simple and honest father." Wade gave no response to this. "At least, the attention of a father for...say...ten or fifteen minutes?"

"So you're suggesting I walk into there and throw my and Hester's dream away, is that it? To give fifteen minutes to a daughter I haven't seen for eleven years?"

"I would point out, sir, that your wife has long departed to the gardens of Paradise and I'm sure only wishes the best for her husband and both her daughters who must remain on this less-than-perfect earth. And I am suggesting that you do what you feel to be correct."

Wade was silent. At last he put his crushed hat back on. "Yes." His voice was distant. "I thought that might be your suggestion."

They sat together for a further time but said nothing, for all had been said. Matthew stood up, and Wade retrieved his fishing rod. He reeled the line in and watched the river moving toward the sea. "That carp," he said. "I'll get him, someday."

"Good luck," Matthew told him, and started across the rocks, back the way he'd come.

"Matthew?" Wade called, and when Matthew turned around the reverend said, "Thank you for your opinion."

"My pleasure, sir," Matthew replied. He continued along Wind Mill Lane and then across to the east side to the little dirt-floored dairyhouse he was beginning to think of as home.

A little plume of smoke rose from the kitchen chimney of the Grigsby abode. Matthew went into the dairyhouse, soaped his face, and began to shave by lamplight, as he had neglected to do so in his haste to see John Five early this morning. He had no idea what Reverend Wade would do. The correct thing? And what really was the correct thing? To enter the wh.o.r.ehouse for a few minutes with a dying girl he probably wouldn't even recognize, or to continue-as Wade put it-the dream of advancing his career and the plan of G.o.d? Well, what was G.o.d's plan, anyway? Who could say, from this side of the veil? It seemed to Matthew that it took a man with a full belly of himself to say that he knew what was the plan of G.o.d. But Matthew did know that Reverend Wade had a conscience to go along with his heart, and that if Wade went to see Grace he couldn't keep it a secret even if no one from his congregation saw him in the rose-colored house. The reverend would sooner or later either tell the church elders or speak the truth from the pulpit, and then what might the outcry be? To send the father of a wh.o.r.e packing, or commend him for his fatherly concern? Matthew mused, as he finished shaving, that this situation might become a test of the mettle of Trinity Church as well as a test of strength for Reverend Wade. The correct thing? G.o.d only knew, but the reverend would have to decide.

Matthew washed his face and dried it on one of his shirts, remarking to himself that it would be wise to go shopping for a handtowel. He determined to see the Stokelys today, to see how they were holding up. Thinking of all of Stokely's work that had been destroyed was wrenching, but if anything Stokely was an industrious man and if he could keep his bearings away from melancholy over the wreckage he would soon get to rebuilding the place. Hopefully this time it would be strong enough to withstand a maddened bull, which seemed vital for a pottery shop.

Matthew started to pull the canvas away from the archery target to get at Ausley's notebook again, but somehow his hand was diverted. He grasped the rapier's ivory handle and lifted the sword. It was about the same length and weight of the sword he'd used in training with Hudson Greathouse. He'd wished to have a sword of his own for further exercise; here it was, if he wanted it. He stepped back, positioning himself as Greathouse had directed-Make your body thin. Show only your right side. Feet not too close. Sink down as if you're about to sit. Left arm behind you, like a rudder. Step forward with your right foot, keeping left arm, body, and sword in line. Thrust!

Matthew hesitated. What else? Oh, yes. Keep that thumb locked down!

He thrust forward with the sword and then came back to the first position. He began to repeat that movement over and over, aiming for speed and economy. From time to time he varied the motion, by thrusting to left or right and then always bringing himself back to the center, everything in control and steady. It quickly became an effort of mind over muscle. As he continued his exercise, he thought of the question that had come out of his talk with Reverend Wade. Where was Andrew Kippering the night Wade and Vanderbrocken went to the Blossom house? Of course he might have been anywhere. At his boarding house, for instance, or at one of the taverns. Even working in his office. But Matthew couldn't help but wonder if Kippering hadn't been available to go fetch Reverend Wade or Dr. Vanderbrocken personally, in his role of go-between, because he'd been involved with another pressing appointment. Namely, the murder of Pennford Deverick.

Thrust left, return to center. Thrust right, return to center. A little quicker now, and keep the sword tip up.

He drinks himself into stupors, throws his money away gambling, and almost has his name burned on a door at Polly Blossom's. Doesn't that sound to you like someone who pretends to enjoy life but really is in a great hurry to die? the widow Sherwyn had asked.

Take care of your footing. Not too close, or your balance suffers. Thrust center, return to first position. Again, more smoothly.

Wantin' to know when G.o.dwin was here, and what time he left and all that, said Missy Jones.

And from Kippering himself, the night of Ausley's murder and the discovery of the blood smear on the cellar door: I think the Masker might also be a gambler. Don't you?

Thrust right, return to center. Steady now, don't weaken! Thrust left, return to center. Make your body thin, moonbeam. And keep that thumb locked down!

Matthew stopped. His shoulder and forearm were thrumming. How did anyone get used to the weight of these things? A swordsman had to be born, he'd decided. It had to be in the bones.

He pushed the rapier's tip down into the dirt and leaned on the sword. In spite of the dairyhouse's coolness, he felt the sparkle of sweat on his face.

He was thinking that Andrew Kippering had shown a great interest in Dr. G.o.dwin, possibly for the purpose of timing the man's visits to Nicole. Why? To choose the right time for a throat-cutting?

Who do you think the high constable should be looking for? Katherine Herrald had asked.

And Matthew had answered, A gentleman executioner.

Someone who had approached Pennford Deverick on the street, and caused Mr. Deverick to offer a hand of greeting. Someone Mr. Deverick knew. Someone who wanted the doomed man to see his face.

And what, then, of Eben Ausley? Why those three men, throat-slashed and cut about the eyes?

I would look, Ashton McCaggers had said, for someone who has experience in a slaughterhouse.

Was Andrew Kippering that man? A gentleman executioner? With experience in a slaughterhouse? Was the man who pretended to enjoy life but really was in a great hurry to die also a gambler with the lives of other human beings? The Masker?

But for what reason? If execution was the sentence, what had been the crime? What linked G.o.dwin, Deverick, and Ausley together in such a fashion that they should be put to death for it?

Matthew rubbed the rapier's ivory handle. He thought once again that all roads led to the Queen of Bedlam, who sat locked at the center of a secret. The masks on the walls. The painting of Italy. The furniture defaced so as to prevent identification of the maker. Deverick. The rich trappings of a wealthy woman. The mysterious client, who hid in the shadows behind Icabod Primm. Has the king's reply yet arrived?

"Matthew?"

He came out of his brown study. Someone was knocking at his door. "Yes?" he called.

"It's Berry. You have a visitor."

"One moment." He put the rapier back where it had been. Then he opened the door and found himself looking not just at one pretty girl, but at one pretty girl and one beautiful lady.

Berry wore an ap.r.o.n over her dress. Her hair was pulled back from her face by a red scarf. She looked a bit fl.u.s.tered, her cheeks ruddy, and Matthew wondered if she'd been helping her father with lunch in the kitchen. In contrast to Berry's homespun clothes, the elegant lady who stood just beside and behind her had stepped from a Parisian portrait of modern fashion. She was tall and willowy, with thick curls of light blond hair and eyes the color of the bittersweet chocolate cakes in the window of Madam Kenneday's bakery. She wore a pale blue gown with fine white lace along the sleeves and billowing at the throat. On her head was a small and very fashionable curled-rim hat, of the same fabric and color as her dress, adorned with a white feather. Matthew couldn't help notice that she was indeed a striking-looking young lady, about the same age as he if he judged age correctly. She had fair unblemished skin, high cheekbones, perfect cupid's-bow lips brushed with pink, and a lovely slim-bridged nose. Her blond eyebrows lifted as she saw him take her measure. A beauty mark dotted her left cheek, and at her side she held a white parasol.

"Master Corbett," she said, speaking it like music, and stepped forward to offer him a white-gloved hand.

"Yes." He fumbled with her hand and didn't know what to do with it, so he quickly let it go. He caught Berry looking at him askance, and then she blotted the perspiration of kitchen heat from her forehead with an old rag. "What...uh..." Matthew felt himself coming to pieces. The young lady's eyes were beautiful, but they penetrated through his skull. "What may I do for you?"

"I am Miss Charity LeClaire," she announced, as if he might recognize the name. "Might we speak in private?"

There was an awkward moment in which no one moved. Then Berry explosively cleared her throat. "Matthew, Grandda's gone to get you some things. He'll be back by eleven, he said. Lunch'll be ready by then."

"All right. Thank you."

Still Berry lingered. She cast a furtive eye up and down Charity LeClaire while trying to hide behind her kitchen rag.

"In private, please," the young lady repeated, her music just a note or two strained this time.

"Oh. Of course. Privacy. A very important thing," said Berry, as she began to back away toward the house.

"Yes," Miss LeClaire answered cooly. "Useful, also."

"If you need anything, let me know," Berry said to Matthew. "You know. Some water or anything."

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Back to the kitchen, then. Did I say lunch would be ready at-"

"Eleven," Miss LeClaire interrupted, with a slight smile. "Yes, we got that."

We? Matthew thought. What was this about?

"Good day, then," Berry said, and Matthew saw her blue eyes go cold. Obviously Miss LeClaire was not to be invited to lunch today. Berry turned around and went back to the house, and never did Miss LeClaire's calmly appraising gaze leave Matthew's face.

"How may I help you?" Matthew asked. He remembered his manners, as the morning was growing warmer. Unfortunately he had no shade to offer but his humble dairyhouse. "Would you care to step inside?"

"No, thank you." The white parasol went up, opening with a quick pop. "I have been directed to you by a Mr. Sudbury at a tavern you are known to frequent. I have a situation in which your aid is needed."

"Oh? What situation?"

"I might tell you that I have visited Mr. Ashton McCaggers in his charming domain. He tells me that I am not the first to remark upon an item missing from the belongings of the deceased Eben Ausley."

Matthew's heart gave a little kick. He said nothing and attempted to let nothing show in his expression.

"Mr. Ausley, G.o.d rest him, was my uncle," said Miss LeClaire. "I am searching for a particular notebook that was likely on his person the night of his unfortunate demise. I presume you have seen this notebook, since you asked Mr. McCaggers about it." She paused, and Matthew knew she was trying to read his face. "Would you happen to know where the notebook might be?"

He was still reeling from the shock of hearing that someone so vile as Ausley had such beauty in his family. He swallowed hard, his mind moving options like chess pieces. If he gave up the notebook, he might never learn the meaning of that strange page of code. And for this lady to suddenly show up on his doorstep asking if he had it...well, it was an odd picture.

"No, I don't," he replied. "After all, I did mention to McCaggers that it was missing."

"Ah, of course." She smiled and nodded under the parasol's shadow. "But why would you be looking for it, sir?"

"May I ask the same of you?"

"Business reasons."

"I was unaware that Mr. Ausley was involved in business."

"He was," she said.

Matthew remained silent, and so did she. The silence stretched.

Then Miss LeClaire tapped a finger against her lower lip. "I have a carriage just up the street. I believe my employer would like to meet you, and I am empowered to offer you such a meeting. It would be a ride of several hours, but I think you might find it worthwhile."

"Your employer? Who might that be?"

"His name," she said, "is Mr. Chapel."

Thirty-Four.

"Mr. Chapel," Matthew repeated. The name was heavy in his mouth. Had his face shown a reaction? He wasn't sure. The lady was watching him intently.

"Do you know the name?"

"No, I don't."

"Little wonder. Mr. Chapel values his privacy."

"And privacy can be very useful, can't it?" Matthew asked.

"Yes." She allowed a small smile to creep across her mouth, but it had the effect of making her eyes appear hard. "My question to you was: why were you interested in my uncle's notebook?"

"I happened to see your uncle with a notebook many times. In the taverns, that is. He obviously liked to take notes."

"It would seem so." Miss LeClaire's gaze did not waver. "Pardon me, but you said 'a notebook' instead of 'the notebook.' Do you suggest there was more than one?"

She was trapping him, he thought. Pushing him into a corner. Trying to get him to admit that he'd been following the b.a.s.t.a.r.d over the course of two years. What did she know about that d.a.m.ned notebook, and all the other notebooks that must have preceded it? Whoever she was, her interrogative abilities might have made a good addition to the Herrald Agency. "I only saw what I saw," he told her.

"Ah, of course. But the real question is: who saw it last? Not you?"

It was time to start throwing doubt, before he buckled. "I imagine there must have been a crowd around the body. Someone may have picked it up."

"But left his wallet?"

He felt he had met his match in this cool player. He could only summon up a tight smile and say, "Perhaps his killer wished to read your uncle's notes."

"Perhaps," she agreed, in an unconvinced voice. Then she smiled and shifted the parasol so a bit of sunlight sparkled upon her moist pink lips. "You might care to meet Mr. Chapel, Matthew. May I call you Matthew?"

"As you please."

"One evening and a dinner at Mr. Chapel's estate, and you'll be brought back in the morning. I can attest that Mr. Chapel hosts very fine dinners. Will you come?"

Matthew hesitated. He caught a movement from the Grigsby house and saw Berry duck away from the kitchen window. Miss LeClaire followed the line of his vision, but Berry did not reappear. Matthew had to focus on a decision. He had no doubt that meeting Mr. Chapel might give him some insight into what game Ausley had been up to. "An estate, you say?"

"Yes. A vineyard and a fledgling winery, as well. Some fifteen miles north along the Hudson River."

"Really." Matthew felt a creep of dread. That distance would put it four or five miles beyond the Ormond farm, where the eyeless dead man was found. In what Greathouse feared was the realm of Professor Fell, if his instincts were correct.

The lady was waiting.

"I do have business to take care of tomorrow," Matthew said, eager to throw himself a land-anchor. "Some people might be very upset if I'm late."

"If you're an early riser, you'll be back by this time Friday. Would that be a problem?"

Matthew decided to take the risk. It was the only way. "No problem," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "Let me tell my friend I won't be attending lunch. Pardon me." He closed the door behind him and locked it. He noted how attentively she watched the key go into his pocket, and he had the sudden clear insight of a fist gripping the doorhandle and a length of burglar's key sliding in to spring the lock as the moon shone down. Whoever this Mr. Chapel was, he had sent a professional to fetch Matthew; she might not be Ausley's niece, after all. Family papers could be forged and presented to a coroner. In fact, one of Matthew's cases with Magistrate Powers had concerned that very same thing. As Matthew walked around to the front of the Grigsby house with Miss LeClaire following at a distance, he thought he should not a.s.sume another professional wouldn't arrive tonight to search through his belongings. If the archery target was torn open...