“A visitor,” said the voice, “of great importance to you.”
Matthew had never heard an accent like that before. English, yes, but with a definite…what would it be termed? A lilt? A strange softness? It held a slight rolling of the ‘r’ but it was certainly not Scottish. His curiosity took hold. He pulled a gray cloak around his bedclothes, quickly washed the rest of the soap from his face, and then he unlocked and opened the door.
He found himself staring at a white sash that crossed the white blouse covering a massive chest. On this sash was centered an ornament studded with pearls and turquoise stones. The man wore baggy white pantaloons and black boots. A multicolored cloak edged with lamb’s wool was draped loosely over his shoulders, which appeared to be as wide as the doorway. The man, who must have been at least six and a half feet tall, leaned down to show his face. He was wearing a white turban, its wrapping also secured by a pearl-and-turquoise ornament.
“My name is Sirki,” said the thin-lipped mouth under the hooked nose in the broad brown face. “May I enter?”
Matthew felt what could only be termed a tremor of terror. It tingled across the back of his neck and along his arms. It travelled down his legs and rooted his feet to the floor. This was because he knew the name. Sirki. He remembered it well, and for good reason.
After he had killed Mrs. Sutch, he’d found in her possession a letter written in a flowing script that had been cited and dated Boston, the fifteenth of August, and that had read: Dear Mrs. Sutch, Please carry out the usual preparations regarding one Matthew Corbett, of New York town in the New York colony. Be advised that Mr. Corbett resides on Queen Street, in—and I fear this is no jest—a dairyhouse behind the residence of one Mr. Grigsby, the local printmaster. Also be advised that the professor has been here lately in the aftermath of the unfortunate Chapel project, and will be returning to the island toward mid-September.
The professor requires resolution of this matter by the final week of November, as Mr. Corbett has been deemed a potentially-dangerous distraction. As always, we bow before your experience in these matters of honor.
And the letter had been signed, Sirki.
Rebecca Mallory had stolen this letter from Number Seven Stone Street, and may have destroyed it. Matthew had known that the letter concerned the whys and hows and whens of murder: his own. And now here stood in his doorway the man who’d composed that letter, and who had sent it to the murderous Mrs. Sutch on behalf of Professor Fell.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Sirki. His dark brown eyes under thick, arched black brows were calm and untroubled by any idea of violence. Unless the man was a very good actor or under supreme self-control, Matthew thought. He glanced quickly toward the razor. Six feet had never seemed so far.
“Oh,” said Sirki, his voice soft and serene for a man of his gargantuan size, “I could kill you long before you might reach that, young sir.”
Matthew had no doubt of it. He let go all thoughts of heroics with a razor.
The question was calmly repeated: “May I enter?”
Matthew was at a loss for words. He wished he could conjure up something wicked and cutting, but all he could find was, “Do I have a choice?” Even then, his voice trembled. This man was of a monstrous construction.
“Certainly you do.” Sirki offered a pleasant-enough smile. He had what appeared to be two small diamonds fitted into his front teeth. “You always have a choice, young sir. I trust you will make the right one now.”
Matthew decided, in the presence of this obvious killer, that it was good to be trusted. He stepped back, and as Sirki bent over and entered the dairyhouse Matthew saw the man’s eyes mark both the whereabouts of the razor and the position of Matthew’s hands.
“May I close the door?” Sirki asked. He waited politely for a response. When Matthew nodded, Sirki closed the door. He did not lock it. “Cold outside today,” Sirki said. “A bitter wind is blowing in from the sea. I don’t care for cold weather. Do you?”
“The weather doesn’t care for my opinion,” Matthew said.
“Ah. Yes. Correctly so.” Again there was a restrained smile and the flash of diamonds in the teeth. Matthew had taken note of three small gold rings in each of Sirki’s earlobes. He was a well-ornamented East Indian, for Matthew knew this man had to have come from a country where turbans were as common as tricorns. The manner of dress, the accent—though Matthew had never heard such an accent before—originated from the land of Akbar The Great. Also an indicator was the cloyingly-sweet aroma of sandalwood incense that had arrived in the man’s clothing.
“I may sit?” Sirki motioned to a chair. Matthew nodded again, though he was concerned about the chair’s survival. Sirki eased himself into it and stretched out his long legs. “Ah. Now, I’m in…how would you say?…pig’s paradise?”
“Hog heaven,” Matthew suggested.
“Exactly. Let me show you I have no weapons.” Sirki lifted his arms, shrugged off his cloak and patted around his midsection.
“Do you need any?”
This time a grin burst forth. “No, I do not.”
Matthew reasoned it was time to keep his mouth shut. He backed away until he met a wall, which still put him within a dangerous arm’s length of Sirki.
“I mean you no harm,” came the quiet voice. “Neither does the individual I represent.”
“Who might that be?”
Sirki’s smile now became a bit chilly. “Young sir, let’s be adults here. I’ve come a long way to speak to you. And I speak to you in the voice of the individual I represent.”
Matthew said nothing; he waited, though he was thinking that the last time he heard from Professor Fell it was in the form of the “death card,” a vow that whoever received the bloody fingerprint would be—as Sirki’s letter to Sutch had said—a matter requiring resolution.
“He wishes to meet you,” said Sirki.
Matthew didn’t know how to respond. Should he be terrified? Or flattered?
“He wishes you to come to him,” said Sirki. “Or, rather…be brought to him.”
It was doubly difficult now for Matthew to speak, but he forced the obvious question: “Where is he?”
“A short sea voyage away.” Sirki placed his elbows upon the arm rests and steepled his brown fingers. “A journey of—weather permitting—three weeks.”
Matthew had to laugh. It sounded harsh. Whether it was the release of tension or not, he didn’t know. But this entire scene was ridiculous, a comedy farce. “Three weeks by sea to meet him? And my return voyage, I assume, would be in a casket? Or…more likely…a basket?”
“Neither, young sir. You would be returned promptly and safely.” Sirki paused for a moment, gazing around the neatly-kept but cramped confines of Matthew’s home. “I should think you’d enjoy a sea voyage, after living here.” Another two inches and Sirki’s boots would be scraping the opposite wall. He frowned. “Can’t you afford anymore space?”
“My space is fine as it is.”
“Ah, but you’re incorrect there. Your space—and I mean by that the distance you’ve chosen to keep between yourself and the two persons who approached you in the autumn regarding a dinner invitation—is not fine. It is not fine with them, with me, or with him. In fact, it is offensive to him that you won’t have dinner with such noble citizens.”
“Noble citizens?” Matthew would have laughed again, if he hadn’t thought it might be his last laugh. “I imagine they’re criminals. Part of Fell’s pool of sharks? And I’m guessing those are not their true names, either. Is he really a doctor?”