He stood up, steeled himself in an instant, and when Lord Cornbury looked at him with those painted eyes he said, "I'd like to ask that some measure of attention be given to the problem of the constables, sir. The problem being that, as the town has increased in population and unfortunately so has the incidence of criminal behavior, the number and efficiency of the constables has not kept pace."

"Please identify yourself," Cornbury requested.

"His name's Corbett, sir. He's a clerk for one of the town's-"

"Matthew Corbett," came the steadfast and rather loud reply, as Matthew was determined not to be shot down by the high constable's crooked musket. "I am clerk for Magistrate-"

"-magistrates, Nathaniel Powers," Lillehorne kept talking, speaking directly to the governor, his own voice getting louder, "and I am well aware of this-"

"-Nathaniel Powers, sir," continued Matthew, battling the war of tangled voices, and then suddenly he was swept by a storm of images from his little situation with Magistrate Woodward at Fount Royal in the Carolina colony, where he had fought as a champion for the life of the accused witch Rachel Howarth. He remembered skeletons in a muddy pit, and the vile killer who'd tried to murder them in the middle of the night; he remembered the evil smell of the gaol and the beautiful naked woman dropping her cloak and saying defiantly Here is the witch; he recalled the fires that burned across Fount Royal, set by a diabolical hand; he saw in that storm the mob surging toward the gaolhouse doors, the shouting for the death at the stake of a woman whom Matthew had come to believe was innocently embroiled in a plot demonic far beyond even the ravings of that mad Reverend Exodus Jerusalem; he saw the lifeforce of Isaac Woodward waning, even as Matthew risked everything for-as the magistrate had put it-his "nightbird"; he saw all these scenes and more awhirl in his mind, and as he turned his face upon High Constable Lillehorne he knew one thing certain about himself: he had earned the right to speak as a man.

"-problem, fear not. We have on hand a score of good men, loyal citizens who nightly heed their civic du-"

"Sir!" Matthew said; it hadn't been a shout, but it was as startling as a pistol report in the chamber, for no one dared raise a voice against Lillehorne. Instantly the place could have been a tomb, and Matthew thought he'd indeed put the first shovel to his grave.

Lillehorne stopped speaking.

"I hold the floor," Matthew said, the heat rising in his face. He saw Eben Ausley give a mean little smile and then hide it behind the hand that cupped his chin. Later for him, Matthew thought. Today for me.

"What did you say?" Lillehorne came forward, a slow step at a time. This was a man who could glide. His narrow black eyes in the long pallid face were fixed upon his enemy with almost delicious antic.i.p.ation.

"I hold the floor. I have the right to speak freely." He looked at Cornbury. "Do I not?"

"Um...yes. Yes, of course you do, son."

Ugh, Matthew thought. Son? He stood sideways to the high constable, not prepared to fully turn his back on the man. Beside him, Magistrate Powers said sotto voce, "Give your best."

"Please," Lord Cornbury urged, evidently feeling quite the benignant ruler now. "Do speak freely."

"Thank you, sir." One more uneasy glance at Lillehorne, who'd stayed his forward progress, and then Matthew gave all his attention to the man in the dress. "I wished to point out that we-our town-suffered a murder two weeks ago, and that-"

"Just one murder?" Cornbury interrupted, with a lopsided grin. "Mind you, I just made a sea voyage from a city where a dozen murders a night is commonplace, so bless your stars."

Some laughter ensued from this, notably Lillehorne's chortle and a repugnant noseblow guffaw from none other than Ausley. Matthew kept his face expressionless and continued. "I do bless my stars, sir, but I'd rather look to the constables for protection."

Now Solomon Tully and the magistrate laughed, and across the aisle Effrem Owles gave a little gleeful yelp.

"Well." The governor's smile was not so hideous, or perhaps Matthew was getting accustomed to the face. "Do go on."

"I'm aware of London's mortality rate." The Gazette made sure of that, with all its grisly descriptions of throat-cuttings, decapitations, strangulations, and poisonings of men, women, and children. "Also of the fact that London has an advanced force of civic organization."

"Not too well organized, unfortunately," Cornbury said, with a shrug.

"But think of how many murders there might be a night, without that organization. And add to that all the other criminal acts that occur between dusk and dawn. I'm proposing, sir, that we as a community take London's model into example and do something now to stem criminal violence before it becomes...shall we say...rooted."

"We don't have any criminal violence here!" shouted someone from the back. "That's just hog's breath, is all!"

Matthew didn't look around; he knew it was one of those so-called score of good men defending his woe-begotten honor. Other shouts and hollers burbled around, and he waited until they quieted. "My point," he said calmly, "is that we need organization before we have a problem. When we're chasing the cart it might be too late."

"You have suggestions, I a.s.sume?"

"Lord Governor!" Lillehorne, from the sound of the anguish in his voice, had been holding his breath while this discourse-this affront to his authority-was taking place. "The clerk is free to write his suggestions and give them to my clerk, just as any man or woman in this room or this town or this colony can do. I don't see the need for this public laundering!"

Was there any point in reminding Lillehorne of the letters already written and obviously rejected or discarded outright? Matthew didn't think so. "I do have a few suggestions," he said, still speaking directly to Cornbury. "May I state them, for the public record?" He nodded toward the scribes with quills poised over parchment paper at the aldermen's table.

"You may."

Matthew thought he heard a hissing sound from behind him. Lillehorne was not having a good day, and it was likely to get worse. "The constables," Matthew began, "need to meet at a common place before their rounds begin. They should sign their names in a ledger, indicating what time they arrive for duty. They should also sign out, and so receive permission from a higher authority before they go back to their homes. They should sign an oath not to drink on duty. And, to be honest, the drunkards among them should be culled and sent packing."

"Really?" Cornbury adjusted his hat, as the peac.o.c.k feathers had begun to droop over into his eyes.

"Yes sir, really. The higher authority at this...this station, call it...should be responsible for making sure they're fit for service, and pa.s.sing out to them lanterns and some sort of noise-making devices. Say a ratchet crank. Those are used in London, are they not?" The Gazette said so, therefore no need to wait for Cornbury's verification. "Something the Dutch used to do, and we for whatever reason ceased doing, was giving green-gla.s.sed lanterns to the constables. Therefore when you saw a green lantern's glow, you knew at whom you were looking. I think there also ought to be a program of training for the constables. They should all be able-"

"Hold, hold!" Lillehorne nearly shouted. "The constables are picked from the common stock! What kind of training are you talking about?"

"They should all be able to read and write," Matthew said. "Also it wouldn't hurt if they were men whose eyesight was proven not to be faulty."

"Listen to this!" The high constable was now back on stage, playing to the crowd. "The clerk makes it seem as if we're a town full of dunce-caps!"

"One dunce-cap is too many," Matthew answered; and with that he knew his future would be a battleground. Lillehorne was ominously silent. "I would also suggest, Lord Cornbury, that for the purpose of finding the best individuals for this nightly task, they should be paid from the common fund."

"Paid?" Cornbury managed to look both bemused and shocked at the same time. "In money?"

"Just as for any job. And let this central station be a serious workplace, not a warehouse or stable used as an afterthought. I think there are other details worth looking into, as well. Larger candles that burn longer, for instance. And more of them afforded to the constables and also placed in lanterns on every street corner. I'm sure Mr. Deverick might help with that."

"Yes of course," Deverick spoke up quickly, but everyone including Matthew knew he was already counting the extra lucre. "I also like the idea of the green lanterns. I can get those as a special order."

"This has not pa.s.sed my approval yet, sir!" Cornbury obviously had no liking for Pennford Deverick, and wasn't about to let the moneywagon run away from him. "Please withhold your pleasure!" Then he directed a piercing stare at Matthew, who felt the power of royalty like a fist balled up to knock him down. "How is it you've given such thought to this, and the high constable has heard nothing of it?"

Matthew pondered this. Everyone waited, with some expectation. Then Matthew said, "The high constable is a busy man, sir. I'm sure these ideas would have come clear to him, eventually."

"Or perhaps not." Cornbury frowned. "Dear me, I've seen men duel to the death over lesser affronts to offices as this. Mr. Lillehorne, I a.s.sume you have the good of the town in mind, and that would preclude any offense you might take at this young man's bravura. Yes?"

Gardner Lillehorne said with the hint of a hiss, "My lord, I am only here to sssserve."

"Very good. Then I shall read over these remarks from the public record and I shall ask you at some point to meet with myself and, of course, the aldermen for further discussion. Until then, Mr. Deverick, I don't wish to see any green lanterns floating about in the dark. And you may sit down, Mr. Corbett, with thanks for your thoughtful suggestions. Anyone else?"

Matthew sat down, having been thoroughly dismissed. But Tully jabbed an encouraging elbow into his ribs and Powers said, "Good show."

"Sir? I have a question, if you please?"

The voice was familiar. Matthew looked around to see his chess-playing comrade stand up. Effrem Owles was twenty years old, but already the gray streaks were p.r.o.nounced on the sides of his bird's-nest thatch of brown hair. His father, the tailor, had gone completely silver-haired by age thirty-five. Effrem was tall and thin and wore round spectacles that made his intelligent dark brown eyes seem to float out of his face. "Effrem Owles, sir," he said. "I do have a question, if it's not so...improper."

"I'll be the judge of impropriety, young man. Ask away."

"Yes sir, thank you. Well then...why is it you're dressed as a woman?"

A gasp went up that might have been heard 'round the world. Matthew knew Effrem had asked the question in all sincerity; it was not the younger man's nature to show cruelty or ill-will, but his vice-if such could be called-was a plain-spoken curiosity that sometimes rivaled even Matthew's.

"Ah." Lord Cornbury lifted a gloved and ringed finger. "Ah, that. Thank you for asking, Mr. Owles. I do understand how some-many, even-might not fathom my attire today. I am not always dressed so, but I decided that I should today at our first meeting show my respect and solidarity of spirit with the royal lady who has given me this wonderful opportunity to represent her interests so far from the mother sh.o.r.e."

"You mean-" Effrem began.

"Yes," Lord Cornbury said, "my cousin-"

"The Queen," supplied some harsh-voiced rascal from back amid the mob.

"There you have it." The governor smiled at his citizens as if he were the very sun. "Now I must retire from you and go about my business. Your business, of course. I promise to obey your call and your needs, as much as is humanly possible. Never let it be said that Edward Hyde is not responsive to the people. Good day, all of you, and I trust that at our next meeting we shall all have progress to report. Good day, gentlemen," he said to the aldermen, and with a sharp turn he made his way back toward the door and out of the chamber, leaving voices both calling and cat-calling, and Matthew wondering how many hours it had taken the man to practice flouncing in that gown. The crier, still visibly shaken, managed to croak that the meeting was ended and G.o.d save Queen Anne and the town of New York.

"That's that," said Magistrate Powers, which suitably summed everything up.

On his way out through the converging crowd, which seemed torn between near-hysterical laughter and sheer speechless shock, Matthew caught Effrem's eye and gave a lift of the chin that said Good question. Then with the next step he was aware of the sweet scent of flowers and Polly Blossom was pa.s.sing him, leaving her provocative perfume up his nostrils. No sooner was she past than Matthew's forward progress was stopped by a silver lion's head pressed firmly against his collarbone.

Up close, Gardner Lillehorne was not a large man. In fact, he was three inches shorter than Matthew and wore too-large suits that did not hide his spindly frame but served to hang from it like baggy washing on a clothesline. His face was long and thin, accentuated by the precisely trimmed black goatee and mustache. He did not wear wigs, yet the blue sheen of his black hair pulled back with a dark purple ribbon suggested artificiality, at least for the season's latest dye from India. His nose was small and pointed, his lips like those of a painted doll's, his fingers small and his hands almost childlike. Nothing about him at close range was large or imposing, which Matthew thought had to do with why he was never likely to be granted a mayorship or governor's charter; the big, sprawling English empire liked big, sprawling men as their leaders.

At least Lord Cornbury appeared to be a large man, under the dress. That was an area Matthew wished not to think about too much. Yet at this moment, for all his near-diminutive stature, High Constable Lillehorne appeared to have filled his guts and lungs and fleshy cavities with angry bile, for he seemed swollen to twice his size. Matthew had once, as an urchin living on the waterfront before he'd gone to the orphanage, captured a small gray frog that in his hand expanded itself until it was twicefold all slippery slick skin, pulsating warts, and glaring enraged black eyes as big as duit coppers. Looking upon Lillehorne reminded Matthew of this maddened toad, which had promptly squirted his hand with p.i.s.s and jumped into the East River.

"How very kind of you," said the goateed and livid puffer, in a quiet voice strained through clenched teeth. "How very, very decent of you...Magistrate Powers."

Matthew realized that, though Lillehorne was staring daggers at him, the high constable was addressing Powers at his right side.

"To ambush me in such a fashion, before the new governor. I knew you wished me out of a job, Nathaniel, but to use a clerk as your weapon of removal...it doesn't suit a gentleman like yourself."

"I heard Matthew's suggestions the same as you," Powers said. "They were his own."

"Oh, of course they were. For certain. You know what Princess said to me, just this morning? She said, 'Gardner, I hope the new governor will shine a little light on you, and possibly report back to the Queen herself what a good job you're doing in a thankless situation.' Can't you see her face as she said that, Nathaniel?"

"I suppose," came the answer. Matthew knew that, though the true name of Lillehorne's rather socially voracious wife was Maude, she preferred to be called "Princess," since her father was known in London as the "Duke of Clams" after his sh.e.l.lfish eating-house on East Cheap Street.

"You and I have had our differences over one case or another, but I hardly expected this. And to hide behind a boy!"

"Sir?" Matthew had decided to stand firm, though the lion's head was trying to shove him off-balance. "The magistrate had nothing to do with this. I spoke for myself, pure and simply."

Lillehorne produced a mocking half-smile. "Pure? I doubt it. Simple-minded, yes. The time wasn't right to bring this issue to the forefront. I have the governor's ear, I could make these changes in our system gradually."

"We might not be able to wait for such gradual change," Matthew said. "Time and the criminal element may overtake us, and whatever system you believe we have."

"You are an impudent fool." Lillehorne gave Matthew's chest a painful thrust with the cane and then, thinking better of any further public display, brought the instrument down to his side. "And don't think I won't be watching you in case you want to overstep your bounds again, clerk."

"You're missing the point, Gardner," said Powers in an easy, nonthreatening voice. "We're all on the same side, aren't we?"

"And what side might that be?"

"The law."

It wasn't common that Lillehorne couldn't come up with a stinging response, but this time he fell silent. Suddenly an even worse visage came up alongside the high constable's shoulder. A hand touched the shoulder.

"Tonight at the Blind Eye?" Ausley inquired, pretending that neither Matthew nor the magistrate stood before him. "Montgomery's vowing to go double-or-nothing at Ombre."

"I shall bring my wallet, in order to hold the winnings from Montgomery's and your own."

"Good afternoon, then." Ausley touched the brim of his tricorn and glanced at Powers. "And good afternoon to you, sir." Then he waddled along with the stream of citizens past Matthew, leaving in his wake the overpowering odor of cloves.

"Just remember your place," the high constable warned Matthew, not without some heat, and Matthew thought he might be p.i.s.sed on yet. But Lillehorne suddenly put an odious smile on his face, called to one of the sugar mill owners, and sidled away from Matthew and Powers to put the grab on another man of greater financial influence.

They got out of the chamber, out of the building, and onto the street where the sunlight was still bright and groups of people stood about discussing what they'd witnessed.

The magistrate, who looked tired and worn in the more glaring illumination, said he was going home to have a spot of tea in his rum, put his backside in a chair, and ponder on the differences not only between men and women but between talkers and doers. Then Matthew himself started up the incline hill of the Broad Way toward home, figuring there were always pots to be done and that the wheel and the work had a wonderful way of smoothing even the wicked edges of the world into a more comfortable shape.

Six.

Upon awakening from his dream of murdering Eben Ausley, Matthew lay on his bed in the dark and pondered how easy it would be to murder Eben Ausley.

Think of it. To wait for him to emerge from a tavern-the Blind Eye, say-after a long night of gambling and drinking, and then fall in behind him and keep away from the lamps. Better still, to go on ahead and lie in wait at a place of one's choice. Here come the footsteps, heavy on the stones. Best to be sure it's him, though, before you strike. Sniff the air. Rotten cloves? That's our man.

Closer he comes, and closer yet. Let him come on, as we decide how to do the deed. We must have an implement, of course. A knife. Terribly messy. Turn on a bone and he escapes, screaming for his life. Blood all over the place. A hideous misfortune. Well then, a strangulation cord. Yes, and best of luck getting a rope around that fat neck; he'd shake you off like a flea before you got his eyes popped.

A club, then. Yes, a nice heavy b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a club with skull-cleaving knots all over it. The kind of club the blackguards sell to each other in the murder dens of Magpie Alley, according to the Gazette. Here you may offer your coins to the shadow-faced villains and take your pick of brainers. Ah, there's the one we want! The one with a hard ridge running the length of the bopper, the better to bust with. Right there, under the monkey's-claw blade and the little fist-sized bag of nails.

Matthew sat up, lit a match from his tinderbox on the bedside table, and touched the candle in its brown clay holder. As the welcomed light spread, so fled the ridiculous-and rather sickening, really-images of murder. In his dream, everything had been flailing blurred motion, but he'd known he was following Ausley for the dark purpose and when he came up behind him he killed the man. He wasn't sure how, or with what, but he did remember seeing Ausley's face staring up from the stones, the eyes glazed and the mocking little lip-twisted smile gone crooked as if he'd seen what the Devil had waiting for him down in the fire-hole.

Matthew sighed and rubbed his forehead. He might wish to with all his heart and soul, but he could no more kill Ausley than be alone in a room with him.

You ought to find somethin' better than this to hold on to, John Five had said. Somethin' with a future to it.

"d.a.m.n it," Matthew heard himself mutter, without realizing he was going to say it.

John Five was nothing, if not to the point.

The point being, it was over. Matthew had long ago realized his hopes of seeing Ausley brought to justice balanced on a slender thread. If only he'd been able to get one of the others-Galt, Covey, or Robertson-to bear witness. Just one, and then Ausley's pot would've been cracked. But think now what had befallen Nathan Spencer, who'd seen better to hang himself than let everyone in New York know how he'd been brutalized. What sense was there in that? Nathan had been a quiet, timid boy; too quiet and too timid, it seemed, for even as Matthew had offered him a hand out of the mora.s.s Nathan had been contemplating suicide.

"d.a.m.n it," he repeated, in spite of all reason. He didn't want to think, as John Five had maintained, that his intrusions into Nathan Spencer's life had aided the death-wish along. No, no; it was better not to think along that line, or one might become too cozy with the idea of death-wishes.

You ought to find somethin' better than this to hold on to. Matthew sat on the edge of his bed. How long had he been asleep? An hour or two? He didn't feel very sleepy anymore, even after murdering Eben Ausley. Through his windows there was no hint of dawn. He could go down and check the clock in the pottery shop, but he had the feeling just from repet.i.tion of sleep and time that it was not yet midnight. He stood up, his nightshirt flagging about him, lit a second candle for the company of light, and looked out the window that faced the Broad Way. Everything quiet out there, and mostly dark but for the few squares of other candlelit windows. No, no; hear that? Fiddle music, very faint. Laughter carried on the night breeze, then gone. As Lord Cornbury had put it, the last gentleman had not yet staggered out.

At supper this evening the Stokelys, who'd attended the governor's address but had been back in the crowd closer to the street, had praised Matthew's suggestions for the constables. It was past time the town got up to snuff in that regard, Hiram had said; the thing about the station where they were to meet made sense, too. Why hadn't Lillehorne thought of that?

As for Lord Cornbury's appearance, Hiram and Patience were less positive. The man might be meaning to represent the Queen, Hiram said, but couldn't he have worn a man's clothes just as well? It was a peculiar day, Patience said, when the governor of New York town was dressed in more ribbons and puffs than Polly Blossom.

Meanwhile, under the table, Cecily kept knocking her snout against Matthew's knees, reminding him that whatever premonition she foresaw had not yet come to pa.s.s.

Matthew turned from the window and surveyed his room. It was not large nor particularly small, just a garret tucked behind a trapdoor at the top of a ladder above the shop. There was a narrow bed, a chair, a clothes chest, the bedside table, and another table on which rested his washbasin. In a hot summer one could cook up here and in a cold winter the thickness of a blanket spared him from frostbite, but one didn't complain about such things. Everything was clean and neat, well-swept and well-ordered. He could cross from wall to wall with six steps, yet this was a favorite part of his world because of the bookcase.