Matthew had taken his ale and sat down before the chessboard. It was still set up from the last game he’d played with Effrem several nights before, but of course on this cold black morning Effrem had other concerns on his mind rather than pawns and knights. So Matthew had not touched the pieces, but rather played the game out in his mind, taking up both sides and being fair about it. No one had approached him in his hour there. No one had spoken to him, though it was apparent in the strained quiet that some were speaking about him. And when he’d finished his ale and the mental game was done to his satisfaction he’d returned the cup to the bar, said good morning to Felix—who was cleaning out cups and did not answer—and then he left the Trot for home.
It had seemed a very long walk, the air he breathed still stained with smoke and smelling of burned dreams and collapsed industry.
And now this. Sirki.
And behind Sirki, the professor.
Matthew finished his shaving. He washed his face and dressed in a dark suit, befitting his mood. Actually, he only had two suits and both were dark, one black and one brown. So much for the young dandy who’d strutted through the town in the autumn. No matter; there was this thing to deal with now.
But how?
They were expecting him tonight at seven o’clock. A wonderful dinner, prepared by a woman named Aria. Your dinner hosts will explain further.
Matthew thought of Hudson Greathouse, and what the great one might say to this. There was no need in getting him involved; Matthew had nearly gotten his friend killed once before. This time might finish him off. Professor Fell needed one problem-solver—or providence rider, as he termed it—and there would be no room for Hudson on this journey, unless it was into a grave.
What to do? Matthew asked the image in the glass. What to do?
He recalled on the back of the letter from Sirki that the rubbing of a pencil lead had brought up the imprint of a wax stamp: the many-tentacled octopus symbol of Fell’s desire for criminal domination. The letter, written and signed by Sirki.
Where might that letter be now, months after the falsely-named Rebecca Mallory had stolen it from Matthew’s office? Destroyed? Burned in a fireplace? Or might it still be in the house that sheltered them? Tucked in a drawer somewhere, or put into a box that might be locked yet a key could be found if one searched diligently enough?
Matthew thought if he could get hold of that letter, he could take it to both Greathouse and Lillehorne as hard evidence. Sirki and the false Mallorys would find themselves behind the same bars where the young assassin-in-training Ripley had sat in eerie and unbroken silence before he was sentenced to London’s Newgate prison by Lord Cornbury and sent off aboard ship in December. If the letter had survived, and if it could be found.
Was it worth the try?
Matthew put on his woolen cap, his gloves and his black fearnaught coat. It was time to leave his cave. He blew out the candles, and with much on his mind he strode purposefully out the door into a snow-dusted scene of winter.
Seven
WITH a gust of icy wind, seven o’clock had arrived.
Matthew Corbett stood outside a small whitewashed house on Nassau Street, between Golden Hill and Maiden Lane. He could see candlelight through the windows. Many candles were lighted in there, it appeared. The false Mallorys obviously saw no need to limit their illumination for the sake of their pocketbooks. He pressed his side against the darkness of a wall in a short alley between two houses across the way, lest someone peer out the candle-bloomed windows and see him trying to decide just what in the name of God he ought to do.
God, unfortunately, was silent on the issue. Matthew pulled his coat tighter about himself, as if more warmth might help his mental processes; it did not, nor was it in truth much warmer. He rubbed his gloved hands together, and still he paused and pondered the situation. To enter that house, where they waited for him…or not? A constable walked past, following his green-glassed lantern, and never looked right nor left.
Matthew knew of the professor’s penchant for poisons. It would be simple for a debilitating drug to be put into the food or drink, and then where would Matthew find himself at first light? He saw a figure pull aside a gauzy window curtain and look out upon the street, but whether it was the man or woman he didn’t know. He remained perfectly still until the curtain was dropped and the figure gone, and then he released in a white mist the breath he’d been holding.
By his reckoning it was now ten minutes or so past seven. They would be wondering if he was coming or not. All those candles, burning in expectation of a visitor. He had to go, he decided. How else to possibly learn where the letter might be, if indeed it still survived? No, he couldn’t do it, he decided in the next moment. It was too dangerous. But if he didn’t go…what would be the next tragedy inflicted upon New York—and his friends—in his name?
He had to go.
No…wait…think it out a little more. Once inside that house, he was at their mercy.
Damn it, he thought. They’ve got me in a trap.
He had to go.
He started to leave his position of relative safety. He saw a figure come to that window again, peer between the curtains and then withdraw. He took a step forward, toward whatever fate awaited him.
“What are you doing out here, Matthew?”
He nearly cried out in alarm, and spinning around he found a dark-garbed figure standing a few feet behind him. But he knew the voice, and once past the shock he realized Berry Grigsby must’ve come through the alley from the opposite end. She was wrapped in her black coat and hood but the red tresses flowed free and he could make out her face by the reflected candlelight of the house across the way.
“Oh my God!” he was able to croak. That wasn’t enough. “Oh Jesus!” he said, his face still contorted with pure fear. “Are you insane? What are you doing here?”
“I’m following you,” she said, with a defiant note. She lifted her chin like a weapon. “I know…it was wrong. Possibly. But I saw you leave your house and I saw you turn to the left when you usually turn to the right. So I knew you weren’t going to the Trot. Or to Sally Almond’s. Or to anywhere you usually go. I know it was wrong. Possibly,” she repeated, as if asking for his understanding. “Matthew, I’m worried about you. I mean…I’m concerned. As a friend. You see?”
“I see you shouldn’t be here!” He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the house. Oh, they were starting to grit their teeth in there by now. They were starting to sharpen their knives and pour out their gunpowder. He couldn’t believe how stupid he was getting. His lack of attention could have been his finish, if she’d been one of Fell’s killers. “Step back,” he told her. “Step back!” She obeyed, and he stepped toward her to make up for the pace he’d taken to break his cover. “Are you spying on me? Is that it? Berry, I have a dangerous job to do! You can’t be coming up behind me like this!”