"Culley Ives. He was one of the two managers. Had worked with Father for many years. We only got shillings on the pound, but I was satisfied with it."

"Ives," Matthew repeated.

Matthew recalled Pollard saying that Deverick had bought a Philadelphia brokerage firm in 1698. To Matthew's question of Who owned the firm before Mr. Deverick bought it? Pollard had answered It was a man named Ives, who is still employed by the Deverick company as manager there. So what does that tell you?

Matthew said, "You might wish-or perhaps not-to know that Mr. Ives probably paid those shillings on the pound in money given to him from Pennford Deverick's pocket. I wouldn't doubt that Mr. Ives might have been the inside-man."

A hideous smile slowly, terribly, spread across Kirby's mouth and stretched it until Matthew thought the man might scream. But instead Kirby only said, quietly, "To the victor go the spoils. Isn't that right? You see how tough I've become? How...shall I say...resigned to fate?"

"Obsessed might be more accurate." This kettle and pot were both black, Matthew thought grimly. To understand the depths of obsession all he had to do was think back two weeks, when he was nearly insane that Eben Ausley had escaped justice for his crimes against the orphans. He shook it off. "I presume you found it difficult to return to being Trevor Kirby when you'd had a taste of Andrew Kippering's life? And you decided to find a position here, to better stalk your prey? What did you do, go back to London and buy screeved...um...forged doc.u.ments to present yourself as a lower ball than you are?"

"Exactly that," came the reply. "I came here to kill those three men, and to speak Father's name in their ears before I did it. I was very fortunate indeed to get a position with Pollard. Even if it was a fraction of the money and work I was used to. Pollard wanted someone who was a brash gadfly, and perhaps a little dull. I could tell that at once. He wanted a tavern partner. More for show than work, and I'd made up a story about my past sins that I could tell intrigued him. You see, Joplin needs the help, but he wants to run all the horses. But attorney to Deverick and Ausley! I'd be able to mark their comings and goings with ease."

"Dr. G.o.dwin, too?" Matthew asked. "You began spending time at Polly Blossom's to mark his...if I may say...comings and goings?"

"That's right. I waited for the moment, until it came."

"And the night you killed Deverick? The same night that Grace Hester became so ill? I presume, since you were the go-between, that the prost.i.tute sent out to find you searched your usual haunts with no success, since you were probably down here removing your black clothing, and she wound up having to go fetch Dr. Vanderbrocken himself? And she went with him and stood at the corner outside the reverend's house while Dr. Vanderbrocken went to the door?"

Kirby shrugged. "You know, you had a part in the deaths of Deverick and Ausley."

"Me? How?"

The lawyer made a noise between a grunt and a laugh. "When you stood up before Lord Cornbury and suggested more and better-trained constables. I was afraid he would agree, and so I thought I'd best hurry and finish the job."

Matthew almost said Glad to be of service.

Kirby spoke. "Would you like to see the Masker?"

"Sir?"

"The Masker," Kirby repeated, and just that quickly he slipped out of the light and into the gloomy fringes.

Matthew glanced nervously back to see how far the stairs were. He heard a sliding movement off to the side amid the cellar's boxes and wreckage. Then he jumped and his nerves jangled as something metal crunched into brick. There was the noise of what might have been bricks being moved aside. Then, seconds later, a brown canvas bag came flying through the air and landed with a dusty thump in front of Matthew's shoes.

"He's in there," came Kirby's voice, and then Kirby himself reentered the light's realm.

Matthew leaned carefully down and looked into the bag. It contained black clothing-one cloak, if not more, and a hooded coat. A woolen cap. A pair of black gloves. No, two pair. He could smell the heavy odor of dried gore. A smaller object caught his attention. When he picked it up by its wire-wrapped grip, he found the thing surprisingly heavy. Its business end was a tongue-shaped piece of black leather that felt as if it had a fist of lead sewn up within. The gentleman executioner had not forgotten his slaughterhouse system: first the blow to the temple, then the knife to the throat.

He was aware, very suddenly and joltingly, of Kirby's boots in the dirt beside him. When Matthew looked up, Kirby was holding the evil little knife with its hooked blade.

To his credit Matthew did not cry out, though he did feel the blood drain from his face. He got to his feet, watching for the strike and wondering which way to dodge it when it came.

Kirby turned the knife around and offered him the ebony leather handle. "It's very sharp," he said. "Easy to cut yourself." When Matthew wouldn't touch the thing, Kirby dropped it back amid the other items in the bag. It was then that Matthew realized Kirby was also holding the strange pair of hammered-bra.s.s fireplace tongs. "Oh." Kirby held the tongs up for Matthew's inspection of the chiseled ends. "You drive these into the cracks between two loose bricks that I found one day. Pull out the first brick and a few more and you've got yourself a nice hidey-hole. I couldn't go home wearing b.l.o.o.d.y clothes, could I? Not with Mary Belovaire watching me. I found the two cloaks and pairs of gloves at the bottom of that old trunk. They fit me fairly well. The blackjack came off a sailor willing to part with it. The knife I bought from a higgler in New Jersey. You know, you nearly caught me that night. If you hadn't been chasing me and I hadn't been trying to hold on to the notebook, I wouldn't have left that blood smear on the door."

Matthew held up the notebook. "Tell me about this."

"You tell me about it."

The front door suddenly opened upstairs. Both men were silent. The door closed, and footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs. Then a voice, calling, "Andrew? Andrew, are you here?"

"Joplin," Kirby said to Matthew, keeping his own volume low.

Pollard came back down the stairs. The front door opened and closed again.

"Poor fellow. An insecure boy, actually. He's wanting a pal at the bar," said Kirby. "You know, the only one who really works around here is Bryan. We both dump our papers on him. Joplin told me that Bryan's very unhappy if he's not burdened down. Now: the notebook. You saw the page I marked?"

"I did. I appreciate your rough treatment that night, by the way."

"Nothing personal. I was planning on leaving the package at Grigsby's door. I saw you by the corner lamp on Wall Street, so I had to move quickly. On that particular page, those are the names of orphans. Am I correct?"

"I believe so, yes."

"And the numbers beside them? Any guess?"

"A code."

"Of course a code, idiot! Meaning what?" Anger poured into the dead eyes. Even as the shade of what he'd been, Kirby was still a formidable and frightening presence. "Think, d.a.m.n it! I've tried and failed, but if anyone can figure it out, it's you!"

Matthew opened the book to the page and held it under the lamplight. He scanned the numbers, back and forth.

"This is the problem I hoped you'd solve for me, Matthew," the lawyer said. "I saw Ausley scribbling in that notebook time and again, and I thought I had to get hold of it in search of a clue. I know what parts G.o.dwin, Deverick, and Ausley acted in this, but who put the play together? Professor Fell? One of his compatriots? It wasn't Ausley, he wasn't smart enough. But it had to be someone here, on this side of the pond. A headmaster, if you will."

"Headmaster," Matthew repeated, looking up from the page. Something had clicked into place.

"I was going to say, that night, that Eben Ausley is selling his orphans to the underworld. Not all of them, but some. Maybe some who are talented in ways this headmaster can use. Can forge and shape, as he pleases. Look at that word Chapel there. Could that be a name?"

"Yes," Matthew said, but he was thinking furiously. Headmaster. Trade school. "It is a name." Some men would come now and again and give us tests, John Five had said. Doin' numbers, copyin' script, figurin' out puzzles and such. "Simon Chapel." Wantin' to know all about us and our lives and so on. "I think...these might be..." What we wanted for the future.

"What?" Kirby asked, closer now.

A man even came a couple of times to see if any of the older boys knew how to use a sword or a dagger.

"I think," Matthew said, and then he stopped himself. "I believe," he corrected, "that these are grades. I believe Eben Ausley was a.s.signing grades to some of the boys. Maybe...for special talents, or something as mundane as how well they could understand and carry out orders. Many of the orphans would have come from violent circ.u.mstances, like John Five. Maybe they were graded on cruelty, or the ability to fight. Maybe how well-suited they might be for a life of crime. And here...this means Rejected. Either by Ausley, who had the first choice of whom to present to Chapel, or by Chapel himself later on." He thought of Silas. Silas with the quick hands and light touch. Silas Oakley, who was presented with high grades to the headmaster Simon Chapel on the twentieth of June, hardly more than a month ago.

I was jus' practisin', Silas had said.

For what future purpose? Surely not just shilling crimes; those were beneath Professor Fell. No, these would be more monumental, more grandiose in their evil. The theft of a key to a box where a diplomatic pouch lay, with the fate of kings and nations in the balance? The theft of business letters, or of guarded seals of state, or of perfume-touched messages between lovers that might lead to scandals, executions, and the overnight collapse of an empire...if the right price was not paid for the return?

This contract was underwritten by the professor, the Blind Boy had told Kirby.

Because, Matthew thought, the professor was interested in seeing the orphans in action.

A new world, Mrs. Herrald had said, calls for new names.

Not just new names, Matthew realized.

New blood.

Kirby was waiting. Matthew closed the notebook. He said with grim certainty, "Professor Fell is financing a school for criminals. North along the Hudson, about fifteen miles from here. It's run by a man named Simon Chapel. I don't think he's the professor. I may be wrong. But what better place to find potential 'students' than an orphanage full of boys who've already known hardship and violence? Diamonds in the rough, wouldn't you say?"

Kirby nodded. The light of understanding had also dawned on him, though his actions had doomed him to a prison's darkness.

Matthew drew himself up tall. Again, he marked the distance between where he stood and the stairs. "I'm going to take this notebook to City Hall," he said, in a voice that fortunately did not betray his gut-clenched fear. "I'm going to give it to Lillehorne, and I'm going to tell him everything." He hesitated, while that sank into the lawyer's blood-fevered brain. The only thing that moved about Kirby was a quick twitch of the mouth. "I'd like you to come with me."

Forty-Four.

Somewhere the ferry was crossing the river under the bright blue sky. Somewhere birds sang in the green Jersey hills. Somewhere children played, in all innocence and happiness, a game of Jack Straws.

But in the gloomy cellar of the attorneys' office on Broad Street, the Masker wore a smile full of pain. "You know I can't do that, Matthew."

"I know you have to. What good is the notebook without your testimony?"

Kirby stared at the floor. "You said...this tragic story had hope in it. May I ask where it might be?"

"The hope," Matthew said, "is that if you give yourself up today-right now-I can promise you that I and influential people will make certain you see your mother before you go to prison."

"Oh. You and influential people."

"That's right. It's my promise."

"Well." Kirby grinned tightly. "I should feel so much better now, shouldn't I?"

"What did you think you were going to do, Trevor? Did you think that I was going to uncover the headmaster of this scheme and you would get a chance to murder him, too, before he went to the docket?" Matthew scowled. "You must be truly mad, to think it would end there. Don't you want to kill all the orphans who were involved? What about Ives? Don't you thirst to slash his throat, too?" He let that hang because Kirby had given him a hollow-eyed, dangerous glare that made him think he'd gone a slash too far. Still, he pressed on. "I think if you took up shaving again and viewed yourself in the mirror, you'd see what effect murder has had on you. You're not a killer at heart! Far from it! Even Andrew Kippering, for all his vices, isn't a killer. It's time to let this go, and for the law to finish what you've begun."

"Oh, now you're going to tell me about the power of the law! The majesty of the courts! How justice, that blindfolded wh.o.r.e, always wins the day!"

"No, I'm not," said Matthew. "As a lawyer, you know better than that. Mistakes can be made and wrong decisions delivered by even the most auspicious court. That's life. But what I'm telling you is that your testimony could bring more villains to justice than your knife. You can't kill them all. I don't think, in your heart, you would want to. But your testimony could put them all behind bars. Yours is a compelling story, Trevor. Don't sell the truth so short."

"The truth. I can prove nothing."

"This is a beginning," Matthew told him, and held up the notebook.

Kirby wavered on his feet. He blinked heavily, stared up at the lantern, and then focused on empty air. "I...have to think." A hand drifted to his forehead. "I'm tired. I'm so tired."

"I know you are," Matthew said, and then gave the man his last cannon shot. "Your mother sleeps, even with her eyes open. I think she dreams of hearing that the King's Reply has arrived, and of seeing you walk through the door. That's what she's waiting for, Trevor. Her son, to come wake her up. If you walk to Lillehorne's office with me, right now, you'll get that chance."

A tremor pa.s.sed over Kirby's face. Just that quickly, tears leaped to his eyes. It was like watching a sh.o.r.ed-up house be torn apart under a bitter storm, so fast did Kirby's face contort and the wretched sob burst from his mouth. Matthew thought it was not a sound any human should ever have to utter; it was the cry of the d.a.m.ned, cast out from Heaven. As the tears streamed down Kirby's cheeks and his face truly became a mask-though this one of agony far beyond any punishment known to Man-his knees buckled, he crumpled to the dirt, and amid the boxes and papers of the profession's underbelly he crawled like a dying animal to crush himself against the unyielding bricks.

Matthew had to steel himself, lest he too be overcome. Kirby had given up everything. His position, his bride-to-be, his life. He had fought to avenge a terrible injustice, and had lost his soul in that unwinnable fight. For it seemed now to Matthew that vengeance, in the end, always consumed the innocent as well as the guilty, and burned them both into only so much cold ash.

But, Matthew thought, there was one thing no one could ever doubt about Trevor Kirby.

He was a good son.

"I'm going to go now," Matthew heard himself say, and the man's sobbing quietened. "Will you follow me, when you're able?"

There was no answer. Kirby remained pressed against the wall, his face hidden.

"Please," Matthew added. "For the both of us." Then he retrieved his tricorn and put it on, held the notebook close and firm at his side, and turned away to climb the stairs. He flinched as he heard Kirby move, but no attack ensued. Matthew went through the door at the top of the steps, then out the front door into the same bright light where the ferry sailed, the birds sang, and children played their joyful games.

He started walking north along Broad Street toward City Hall, his pace neither brisk nor particularly slow. He was simply giving a good but misguided son the chance to make up his mind. The air smelled of salt sea and the occasional puff of tobacco as pipe-smoking gentlemen walked past him. He kept his focus on the building ahead, putting together in his mind what his first words would be to Gardner Lillehorne. How was he to explain this, if Kirby failed to appear? It would be so much chaff to the wind. Constable Lillehorne, will you listen while I tell you about an insidious plot to mold orphans into professional criminals in service to- The hard grip of a hand against his right shoulder jarred him out of his thoughts. Startled, he looked to that side and into the sunken-eyed, vulpine face of Bromfield, who wore the same wide-brimmed leather hat and similar rustic clothes as he'd been wearing that day on Chapel's estate.

"Look here!" A second hand s.n.a.t.c.hed the notebook from Matthew's grip. "An added reward, I'd say!"

Bromfield put his arm around Matthew's neck like an old friend bending in to tell a secret and pushed him off the sidewalk into the shaded alcove of a doorway.

"Careful, careful," said the second man, who held the notebook. "All geniality and lightness, please. Mr. Corbett?"

Matthew blinked, stunned, and looked into the smiling face of Joplin Pollard.

The boyish lawyer leaned close; his mouth retained the smile, but his large brown eyes were sparkling not with grand good humor but with the razor-sharp glints of cruelty. "I want you to be very quiet now, all right? No trouble. Show it to him, Mr. Bromfield."

The hunter brought up his other hand and displayed a terribly familiar straw hat. He couldn't help himself; he took Matthew's tricorn off and pushed Berry's straw topper down around the younger man's ears.

"Your lovely friend has been taken on ahead." Pollard kept a hand pressed against the center of Matthew's chest. "Sadly, she gave Mr. Carver a kick to the shin that rattled even my teeth. So when you see her again she may be a bit bruised, but you should know that her life depends on what you do and say-or rather, not say-in the next few minutes."

"What's this...what's..." But Matthew knew, in spite of his mental fumbling. It hit him in the face like freezing water. Charles Land, the attorney whose practice Pollard had taken over, had supposedly inherited a large sum of money and returned to England to become an art patron and a dabbler in politics. That had been Professor Fell's method of clearing the way for a new investment.

Pollard is the one with ambition, the widow Sherwyn had said.

"You." The word came bitterly from Matthew's mouth. "You're in charge of everything, aren't you?"

"Everything? A large blanket, I think. No, not everything. Just making sure people do what they're paid to do, and all goes smoothly. That's my job, really." He showed his teeth. "To smooth the rough roads and make sure they all connect. Thank you for the notebook, Mr. Corbett. I didn't expect to get hold of this today."

"Can I tweak his nose, sir?" Bromfield asked hopefully.

"Certainly not. Let's keep our decorum on the public street. Mr. Corbett, you're going to come with us and do it without protest or drawing attention. If you're not delivered to Mr. Chapel's estate within a reasonable number of hours, the very lovely Miss Grigsby will die a death I can't begin to explain to you without losing my breakfast. Therefore, I'd suggest you follow my instructions: keep your head down, move quickly, do not speak to anyone else even if you're spoken to. Ready? Let's go, then."

Whether he was ready or not was beside the point. Matthew, with Berry's hat obscuring most of his face, was pushed along between the two men, who steered him left onto Barrack Street and past the place where he'd found Ausley's body.

"We've been searching all over for you this morning," said Pollard as they kept a steady clip. "I met Bryan on the street a little while ago. He told me you were in to see Andrew. Would you mind telling me what that was about?"

Matthew did, so he didn't.

"No matter," the lawyer answered to Matthew's silence. "I'll have a little talk with Andrew and we'll get to the bottom of it. Am I right to feel a little uneasy around Andrew these days? What say you?"

"I say, you can put your head up your-" That gallant but foolish statement was censored by a pair of rustic knuckles that drove into his ribs through coat, waistcoat, and sweat-damp shirt.

"Easy, Mr. Bromfield. No need for that yet. Ah, here we are."

Ahead at the corner of Barrack and the Broad Way sat a coach with four horses. It was very different from the vehicle that had carried Charity LeClaire and him to the estate. This one was dusty and ugly, meant to look more like the regular, road-weary landboats that travelled the hard track between New York and Boston, and so would not gather as much notice amid the movement of pedestrians, cargo wagons, farmers' carts, and higglers' wheelbarrows.