Of course there were some places Matthew could not go. He was cautioned by Gentry not to wander around belowdecks, as he might pick up some unfortunate fungus or infection that would not do his condition any good. Also, there were several locked doors he came to that were obviously not going to be opened for him, and he presumed one of those led down to the brig. But as long as he stayed out of the way he was encouraged to be up on the deck, and several times Gentry had shared dinner with him in the doctor’s own cabin, which was perhaps one half the size of Matthew’s and not nearly so well-fashioned. Gentry was an interesting conversationalist, focusing mostly on his travels through South America, the Caribbean, Italy, Prussia, China, Japan and elsewhere, but not a word would come from him regarding either the professor or the reason behind this endeavor.
And so it was with real interest that after the passage of six days, and after Matthew had made his morning rounds of the deck under a blue sunlit sky that projected an amazing warmth for this time of year, he returned to his cabin to continue his reading of The Tempest and was roused from his comfortable chair by a rap at the door.
“Yes?” he asked mildly, for he had learned there was no sense or need to be rude in this situation.
“Dear Matthew,” said the raven-tressed woman on the other side, “I’ve brought you something.”
It had been several days since he’d laid eyes upon Aria Chillany. He had to admit she was an intensely beautiful woman and his eyes had missed such beauty in the midst of all these ragged and hard-bitten sailors. Therefore he put the folio aside, got to his feet and—marking the fact that this cabin made at least two of his dairyhouse home—he crossed to the door and opened it.
“Good morning,” she said with an honest smile, yet the sapphire-colored eyes were always wary. “May I come in?”
He stepped back and motioned her to enter, and she closed the door at her back.
She was wearing a lilac-hued gown and a dark blue jacket trimmed with black leather. Her hair copiously cascaded along her shoulders and down her back. She smelled of an exotic incense, with an undertone rather like a sugared, hot and slightly burned coffee. She took him in with her direct stare. “You’re mending nicely.”
Was some witticism called for here? He decided to say only, “Thank you.” He also had realized that the shaving mirror was becoming kinder to him. The worst of the bruises only showed faint blue, the cuts were scabbed over and this woman’s ex-false-husband was coming in the afternoon to remove the plaster and the stitches. Matthew was free of pain and everything seemed to have settled back where it needed to be. This was, he’d decided, more of the effects of deep and healing sleep brought on by the drugged wine than any other of Gentry’s ministrations.
“Here,” she said, and gave him a rolled-up parchment secured with a black cord.
“What is this?”
“Your future,” she told him. Her gaze wandered over to the dresser and atop it the brown clay bowl holding two apples, an orange and a lemon that were brought to him on a daily basis. Without asking, she moved to the bowl with a crisp rustle of underclothes, selected an apple and bit into it. She chewed and watched him as he opened the parchment.
Matthew saw it was someone’s life history, scribed in black ink by a steady and very disciplined hand. The title was The Life And Times Of Nathan Spade.
“And exactly who is Nathan Spade?” Matthew asked.
“That would be you,” said Madam Chillany, as she crunched another bite of apple.
He scanned the document. It proclaimed a false birthday, and a birth year that made Nathan two years the elder. It described a hardscrabble childhood on a farm in Surrey. A younger brother, Peter, died as an infant. Mother—Rose by name—perished from consumption. Father Edward was ambushed by a highwayman and his throat slashed for a palm’s weight of measly coins. Therefore Nathan went into the world as a bitter twelve-year-old with many miles to walk and many scores to settle against the whole of humankind. His first occupation: rolling the drunks at a London dockside bordello and cleaning up the mess they left—whether vomit, blood or other.
“Charming,” said Matthew. He stared into the woman’s eyes, forcing his expression to remain stony and unflinching. “What is this about?”
“Obviously,” she answered, “your new identity.”
“And why would I need one?”
She continued to eat her apple with leisurely bites. She smiled faintly, the smile of a predator. She came around behind him, and he allowed it. She leaned forward and said quietly into his right ear, “Because being Matthew Corbett, problem-solver for the Herrald Agency, would hasten your death where we are going. You would not last a day, darling Matthew.” Her forefinger, wet with juice, played with his hair. “Some of the personages you are going to meet knew Lyra Sutch. They would not like to know the part you played in her tragedy. Your name is already being bandied about. Therefore the professor wishes to protect you…from them, and from yourself.” The last word was concluded with a nip to Matthew’s ear. Playful or not, she had sharp teeth.
He decided it was best, after all, not to let her get behind him, and therefore he turned to face her and backed away a pace.
“Oh,” Aria said, her face placid and self-composed but her eyes on him as if he were the most luscious apple to be plucked, “you shouldn’t be afraid of me, darling. It’s those others you should fear. The ones you’re going to meet.”
“Who are they, exactly?”
“Associates. And friends of associates.” She came toward him a step, and again he retreated. “You have been invited to a gathering, Matthew. A…festivity, if you will. That’s why you need the new identity. So you will…shall we say…fit in.”
He read a few more lines of the document. “Hm,” he said. “Spade murdered his first victim at the age of fourteen? He was involved with one of the prostitutes and he killed a jayhawk?” A jayhawk, in this instance, being a man who attempts to remove a prostitute from one ill abode to another, using either flattery or force.
“Yes,” said Aria. “The jayhawk beat her terribly one night. Broke her beautiful nose and vowed to cut her open and watch her guts slide out upon the floor. And do you know what, dear Matthew? Her name might have been Rebecca.”
That took a few seconds to sink in. He held up the parchment. “I thought this was a work of fiction.”
“Fiction is often the echo of truth,” she answered, her focus steady upon him. “Don’t you think?”
Matthew studied her face. Her nose was indeed a little crooked, yet still beautiful. He wondered what those eyes had seen. Or perhaps he really did not wish to know.
But one bit of information he did desire. He decided now was the moment to reach for it. “I’m presuming you were the woman with the blue parasol that day at Chapel’s estate? When he put his birds on us?” He was speaking here of an incident that had occurred during the summer, in his investigation concerning the so-called Queen of Bedlam.