He opened the envelope and read: Dear Matthew, if at all possible please come today before three o'clock to Number Seven Stone Street. With All Regards, Katherine Herrald.

He refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope. Interesting, if both Mrs. Herrald and Hudson Greathouse were in town. He'd have to promptly go see what this was about, and catch some decent sleep later this afternoon. It would be a good opportunity to relate his tale of last night, as well.

An item that he'd not noticed before caught his attention. Set up near the east-facing window was an artist's easel. A chair was situated before it, turned to the side. On the easel was one of Berry's works in progress, and Matthew stood in the yellow shards of light examining her effort.

It was a rough pencil drawing of Marmaduke Grigsby, seen in profile. The tuft of hair sticking up on the bald scalp, in the moon-round face a large eye behind a spectacle lens, a heavy eyebrow ready to jump and twitch, the ma.s.sive vein-shot nose, the low-hanging cleft-gouged chin, folds and wrinkles that even in stillness gave life and character to the expression: all were there. It was really very good, for Berry had captured the strange construction of her grandfather's face with neither the artificiality of emphasis nor restraint. It was therefore not a flattering portrait, but an honest one. He wondered what colors it might be when Berry finished it. Bright red for burning curiosity, and deepest purple for Earwig prose? He continued to stare at it for some time, thinking that it took real talent to be truthful. Here was not a gloomy caricature of a tight-a.s.sed fop, as Berry would put it; here was the study of a singular human being, with all flaws on display.

A real talent, Matthew thought.

The seed of an idea came to him and began to grow roots.

Absent-mindedly he reached down to fasten b.u.t.tons that were no longer there, and then he hurried out of the house in the direction of Stone Street.

Thirty-Seven.

Number Seven Stone Street was a brown door that opened onto a narrow and rather steep stairway squeezed between, on the left, the office of Moses Leverich the peltry buyer and on the right the shop of Captain Cyrus Donaghan, who crafted quadrants, astrolabes, and other navigational tools for the shipping trade.

Matthew went up the stairs and found himself in a loft that demanded a good going-over with a scrub-brush and bristle-broom. He had no idea what business had existed here, perhaps during the reign of Peter Stuyvesant, but traces of its grandeur remained like flecks of gold in a mudpuddle. At the top of the stairs was an oak-paneled outer room that held a clerk's multi-drawered desk and a chair with a broken back. Behind the desk was a cubbyhole-chest suited for holding rolled-up maps, doc.u.ments, and the like. Across the floorboards, and right at Matthew's feet, was a disturbingly large dark stain that he sincerely hoped was not ancient blood. Beyond this room was another closed door. The window shutters were open, allowing the strong sunlight full entry, and the windows themselves-their gla.s.s panes filmed with smoke and grime-had been unlatched and pushed ajar to allow for the circulation of air. Through two windows below the overhanging gray slate roof could be seen the full expanse of the Great Dock and the ships awaiting destinations and cargo. It was an intriguing view. The whole busy picture of the wharf was on display from this height, as wagons trundled back and forth across the cobbles and citizens went about their errands against the backdrop of buildings, smoke-belching chimneys, shipmasts, furled sails, and the spark of sun off the blue harbor water.

"h.e.l.lo!" Matthew called. "Anyone here?"

Boots thumped on the boards and the other door opened with a squeal of angry hinges.

Hudson Greathouse, dapper in a dark blue suit and waistcoat with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, stood in the doorway. "Corbett!" he said, not without a faint smile of welcome that was quickly extinguished. "Come in here, will you?"

Matthew walked into the second room. It was twice as large as the outer chamber, with two desks set side-by-side and behind them against the wall three wooden file cabinets. A pleasant addition was a small fireplace of rough gray and tan stones on the left. Overhead at the center of the room was a wrought-iron chandelier that still held eight old melted stubs. A pair of unshuttered and opened windows gave a view of New York to the northwest, the wide river and the brown cliffs and emerald hills of the Jersey sh.o.r.e.

"What do you think?"

Matthew looked to his right. Standing there was Mrs. Herrald, elegant in a gray gown with an adornment of white lace at the throat. She wore a gray riding-cap, again tilted at a slightly rakish angle but with neither feather nor other decoration. Her blue eyes were fixed on him, and her eyebrows went up. "Well?" she prodded.

"A nice view," he said.

"Also a nice price. It's been vacant, obviously, for many years." She reached up to brush aside a dangling spider's web. "But Hudson and I think it will do as an office. What's your opinion?"

"A bit dusty. What used to be here?"

"A coffee-importing business, begun in the years of the Dutch colony. The real-estate broker tells me the business perished in 1658 and the s.p.a.ce has only been rented a few times since then. I agree it needs cleaning, but it does have potential, don't you think?"

Matthew looked around, avoiding Greathouse's stare. "I do," he decided. "It's certainly large enough." He just wished he'd found this place before she had and claimed it as his living-quarters, but then again he was sure the rental-though it could hardly be regal-was surely beyond his means.

"Room to grow, yes," Mrs. Herrald said firmly. She walked past Matthew and stood beneath the chandelier, which Matthew realized hung at a crooked angle. "I think this will suit our purposes very nicely. If we're all in agreement, then?" She paused for one final check of the two gentlemen, who both nodded. "I'll sign the papers this afternoon. And don't worry, Matthew, I won't impose upon you or Hudson to get the place cleaned up and cart furniture in. I'll hire some men for the job."

He was glad to hear that. The mere idea of sweeping this dirty floor and scrubbing the soot off the windows, in his present condition, was enough to rekindle the throbbing ache in his groin.

"You look like h.e.l.l," Greathouse said, getting right to the point. "What have you been into?"

"Hudson!" the woman chided.

"It's all right," Matthew said. "As a matter of fact, I was taken on a trip yesterday and I stayed the night at an estate about fifteen miles up the river."

"Really?" Greathouse looked at him quizzically. "What was that about?"

"I'm not quite sure, and I can't explain it. But do either of you know a man named Simon Chapel?"

Mrs. Herrald shook her head and Greathouse replied, "Doesn't ring a chime."

"How about a woman named Charity LeClaire? Or another man called Count Dahlgren?"

"Never heard of them either," Greathouse said.

Mrs. Herrald came a few steps closer to Matthew. "What's this about, please?"

Matthew took aim at Greathouse. "You haven't told her yet? About Ormond's farm?"

"No, I have not." The man's face had tightened.

"Don't you think you should? I have some suspicions about Simon Chapel. I don't fully know what he's up to, but his estate might be where the body came from."

"The body," Mrs. Herrald repeated. She turned to also aim at Greathouse. "What body?"

Greathouse gave Matthew a look that said Thank you for bringing this up now, fool. He reached into his coat and brought out a folded piece of paper. "I was going to go over this with you later," he said to Matthew, "but since you've chosen this moment to air the subject, I'll tell you what I've found out from the survey office." He unfolded the paper, which Matthew could see was a listing of names in black ink. "North of Ormond, just as he told us, are farms owned by Gustenkirk and Van Hullig. Then there's a few miles of forest deeded to an Englishman named Isaac Adams. He lives in London. Up above that, there's an estate and vineyard owned by-"

"Simon Chapel," Matthew interrupted. "That's where I was last night."

"Wrong." Greathouse's attention never left the paper. "According to the records at City Hall, the estate is owned by another Englishman named Garrett Stillwater. He bought the estate from a Dutchman in 1696. About three miles north of the vineyard is a farm deeded to William Vale, and then an apple orchard and cider mill owned by Zopher Rogers. After that you're at the ferry and the end of the island." He looked up. "None of those names fit any alias that I know to be used by any a.s.sociate of..." He trailed off, but Matthew knew he could feel Mrs. Herrald staring at him.

"Go on." The way she spoke it said she already knew. "Any a.s.sociate of whom?"

Greathouse refolded the paper, taking his time about it, and put it away.

"He's here," Mrs. Herrald said. "Is that what you mean to say?" She went on without waiting, her chin lifted in indignation. "You suspect he's here, and you didn't tell me? Because you weren't sure-and aren't sure-and you wished to investigate further? Or you wished to spare me the emotion of fear? Is that correct?"

He was silent, thinking it over. Then at last he replied, "Yes. All that."

"You found a body, then? In a condition we've come to recognize?"

"Yes."

"Hudson." She shook her head, her eyes lit with both anger and sadness. "Why didn't you tell me? You know I'm not a fainting flower. I've been expecting this, but just...not so soon. Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice cracked, just a little bit.

"If I told you I was trying to protect you, would-"

"There is no protection," said Mrs. Herrald. Though this had been spoken quietly, the tension in her voice made Matthew flinch. "There is only foreknowledge and preparation."

"Of course." Greathouse decided it was best to avert his eyes to the floor. "My pardon."

Mrs. Herrald went to the window and peered north, as if trying to locate her enemy by a darkness on the horizon. It was at least fifteen seconds before she spoke again. "I presume we can't be sure?"

"No, but the body bore the marks. I've told Matthew about your theory."

"The gauntlet, yes." She glanced quickly at Matthew and then out the windows again. "I'm not the only one with that theory, by the way. How many stab wounds in this particular corpse?"

"Eight. A young man, the arms tied behind the back. He washed up nearly three weeks ago on John Ormond's farm. You know, where I've gone to buy produce. The coroner had already buried the body, so Matthew and I had to...um...do some shovel work."

"That must have been lovely."

"The method of execution appears to be the same except for one interesting difference," Greathouse continued. "In all the cases we know about, the skulls of the victims were broken from behind. Probably when they were kneeling on a floor bleeding to death. In this particular instance, the front of the skull was crushed."

"Speculation?" asked the lady in gray.

"Well, it may mean nothing. Then again, it may be that one of the professor's students has put his own mark on the way the gauntlet's done. Or it may mean that some variant of the gauntlet was held out-of-doors. I think the victim cheated the blades by either jumping or falling from a high cliff, and he bashed his skull on the way down." He held up the paper. "I got this list of property owners intending to find out where the body might have drifted from. Again, there's no name on the list that I recognize."

"A new world," Mrs. Herrald said, her eyes heavy-lidded, "calls for new names."

"And speaking of names," Matthew said, "Chapel knew yours. He had a copy of the broadsheet announcement and wanted more information. I'm supposed to ask about you at the Dock House Inn and report back to him within a few days."

Mrs. Herrald pursed her lips and released a small, quiet puff of air. "I don't like that. How is it you went to see this Chapel person in the first place?"

"It has to do with the Masker. Specifically, with Eben Ausley's notebook."

"Is this some kind of riddle?" she asked, frowning. "What's this about a notebook?"

"Corbett's on a tear about this d.a.m.ned Masker," Greathouse spoke up. "He's told Pennford Deverick's widow he can find out who the b.a.s.t.a.r.d is, and for that he'll get ten shillings."

"Ah." Mrs. Herrald regarded Matthew with a knowing expression. "An independent job, is that it?"

"She wants the Clear Streets Decree overthrown, as it's costing her money. Until the Masker is found, Lord Cornbury's going to keep the decree in force. It's a simple matter of economics." Matthew shot a glance at Greathouse, then back to Mrs. Herrald. "But no, it's not entirely an independent job."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," Matthew said in a calm but firm voice, "that I believe these current events are by no means independent of each other. I think they hinge together, in a way I can't yet explain. The Masker, the three murders, the notebook, Chapel...even the woman at the Westerwicke asylum. I think all of them are linked."

"There's a good one!" Greathouse's face wanted to grin, but Mrs. Herrald's lifted hand stopped his chortle before it began.

"Again you mention a notebook," she said. "A notebook belonging to whom and signifying what?"

Matthew took in a deep breath. The moment had arrived. "A notebook taken from the body of Eben Ausley by the Masker, and given to me by the Masker. Before you ask: no, I wasn't able to see his face. Chapel wants the book, and I believe he's sent someone to break into my house to find it. I think it shows that Ausley was selling orphans to Chapel for some reason the Masker wants me to discover."

If he was expecting an immediate response, he was disappointed. Mrs. Herrald stood silent, her head c.o.c.ked to one side and her hands clasped before her. Hudson Greathouse was also struck mute, but his mouth was open and if his eyes had gotten any bigger they might have popped from his head.

The silence stretched on, until finally Mrs. Herrald busied herself with rearranging the folds of lace at her throat.

Greathouse found his voice, though it sounded nearly strangled. "As I said before, what have you gotten into?"

"What we're supposed to be into. A problem that needs a solution."

"Be careful you don't get your throat cut trying to solve it." Greathouse turned to appeal to Mrs. Herrald. "If Chapel-whoever he is-has some tie to Professor Fell, then Corbett's in water way over his head. You know how cunning they are. Chapel might already know Corbett went to meet you at the Dock House. He was just fishing. If he goes back there, and Chapel does happen to be one of the professor's disciples, I wouldn't give a rat's a.s.s for his survival."

"If he was going to kill me, he would have done it last night," Matthew said, but he did think he'd nearly been killed, after all.

"Precisely," Mrs. Herrald agreed, maintaining an admirable composure. "So-if indeed he is a confederate of Professor Fell-why did he let you go, suspecting you were working with us?" She paused just a beat before she went on. "Because you obviously have something he values. The famous notebook, I presume. I won't ask where it's hidden, because I don't wish to know. But I'd say if it had been found last night, you'd be dead by now. So he sent you back, and now you're being watched."

"Oh." He hadn't thought of that possibility, but it made diabolical sense.

"Spoken like someone who forgot to brush their brain this morning," Mrs. Herrald said. "What indeed happened last night? You don't seem yourself."

Matthew shrugged. "I'm just tired, that's all." The understatement of the new century.

"Well, it's likely you're being watched in the hopes that sooner or later you'll bring that book out. Be very careful, Matthew. These people are professionals. They leap on mistakes, and in this case a mistake can be fatal. Now I also presume you can't directly prove any wrong-doing from this notebook, or you would have already taken it to the high constable?"

"That's correct."

"And you feel it would be wrong to present it to him, without this proof?"

"He wouldn't know what to do with it."

"Do you know what to do with it?"

"For now," Matthew answered, "just to keep it safely hidden."

"At your discretion," she said, with a slight nod that gave her approval. She came forward until she was right in his face. Her eyes were cold. "But listen to me well, Matthew. I don't think you know what Professor Fell and his compatriots are capable of. Have you told him the whole story, Hudson?"

"No," came the hollow reply.

"Then I shall do the honors. My husband Richard, who founded the agency. Do you have any idea what happened to him when he came into conflict with Professor Fell?"

Matthew shook his head.

"Richard was successful in having one of the professor's more notorious a.s.sociates cast into prison charged with a scheme of arson and extortion. The man was in Newgate only three hours before he was stabbed to death by an unknown killer. Then, several days after that, Richard received the blood card. A small calling-card, with a single b.l.o.o.d.y fingerprint upon it. Might you guess for yourself what that means?"

"A death threat," Matthew said.

"No, not a death threat. A death vow. When you receive the blood card, you might as well prepare your funeral. Nathaniel Powers knows all about it. The blood card he received caused him to uproot his family, leave a long-established law practice, and board a ship to New York. But he knows, deep down, that Professor Fell never forgets, and whether it takes one week, or one month, or one year, or ten years, that vow is going to be acted upon. Such was the case with my Richard." She blinked and looked toward the window, her face paled by the sunlight. "The months pa.s.sed by. We knew, both of us, what the card meant. We were careful. We were aware of strangers around us, of how dangerous crowds could be, or how deadly might be a silent street. All we could do was wait, and all I could do was pray to G.o.d that when the knife or the strangle-cord came Richard would see it in time. Do you know what it does to you, Matthew? Living in fear like that, day after day? For more than five years? Do you have any possible idea?"

"No," Matthew said grimly. "I don't."

"I pray you never do. It erodes your humanity. It saps all joy, and extinguishes all light. And no one can help you, Matthew. No one." She returned her gaze to him, and in that s.p.a.ce of seconds Matthew thought she had been aged just by the memory of those terrible five years and her eyes had sunken into dark-rimmed pits. "We threw ourselves into our business. Our purpose, as Richard called it. There were more problems to be solved, more clients to be served. But always...always...the shadow of Professor Fell was there, waiting. My nerves almost went to pieces sometime during the sixth year. I'm not sure I ever really recovered. But Richard was steadfast. No, he said, he didn't wish to leave the city. He didn't wish to run and hide, because he wanted to be able to look at himself in the shaving mirror. And I steadied myself, as well, and went on. One goes on, because one must." She pulled up a horrible, gla.s.sy-eyed smile and glanced at Hudson. "Listen to me prattle like a simpleton. It's h.e.l.l, getting old."

"You don't have to say anything else," Greathouse told her, but she waved his objection away.

For a moment she stood looking down at the floor between herself and Matthew. Beyond the window a seagull cried out as it flew by and a dog barked stridently down on the street.