“The house is this way,” said Fancy.
“I’m not going there yet,” Matthew told her. “I trust there’ll be no mention of this to the brothers? As far as they know, I’m dead. I’d like to keep it that way for a while.”
“I never saw you,” she said. “Not even your ghost.” And then she turned away from him, walked her usual path through the forest and was gone.
Matthew walked away from the cliff. The road had to be just ahead, in the direction he was going. Birds called in exotic voices and the sun shone down through green fronds and vines.
It was a good day, he decided, to not be a ghost.
Twenty-Four
I HAD an accident on the road,” Matthew said to the doctor who inspected his swollen and by now purpling nose. The purple was spreading out on both sides of his face. Also, there were two frightful lumps on his forehead. “Clumsy,” Matthew explained. “Tripped over my own feet.”
“Happens to the best of us, Mr. Spade.” The physician was a portly man with long flowing white hair and dressed in a cream-colored suit as befitted his tropical position. His name, he’d told Matthew, was Benson Britt and he and his wife had been living on Pendulum Island since the summer of 1695. Britt’s hand moved to touch the whipstrike on Matthew’s neck. “This was also an accident?” The doctor’s dark brown eyes in the sun-wrinkled face held the question.
“Yes, that also,” Matthew answered firmly. “I was hoping you might apply some ointment?”
“Certainly. I have some lemon ointment. As for your proboscis…does this hurt?” Britt gave the bridge a quick little tap with a wooden spoon. Tears came to Matthew’s eyes, but the pain was not so much as to make him cry out. “Not broken,” Britt observed. “Only badly bruised. And the injuries to your forehead…not very pleasant, I’m sure, but nothing serious. Unless you have a ringing in your ears and a constant headache?”
Matthew could hardly hear him for the ringing in his ears, but at least the headache had subsided. “No,” he said.
“Very good, then. I’ll apply a bee’s-wax lotion to your nose to draw out the sting, and then we’ll bind on a poultice of seaweed and sea salt—my own remedy—to keep the swelling down and the passages open.”
“Hm,” said Matthew, unimpressed. There was no way to keep the passages open; his nose was blocked shut. But some sort of medical attention was needed, and this was the best—and perhaps only—Pendulum had to offer.
“Lie back on the table,” Britt directed. He had a handful of grease from a small yellow jar. “Let me do my best.”
“Certainly, sir.” Matthew obeyed, and while he was lying on the table he noted all the crisscrossing of small cracks in the white ceiling above his head.
His journey through the forest to the road had been uneventful, except for the wobbling of his knees as he still found himself in a weakened condition. Less than a mile on his way, though, he’d gotten a ride on a passing wagon full of melons bound for the farmer’s market in Templeton, and so at least for a little while he could rest and gather his strength. The wagon’s driver was an elderly man who knew nothing of Professor Fell except to call him “the professor,” and he had been thirty years old when the earthquake hit Pendulum and dropped the thriving community of Somers Town into the sea. At that time, the farmer recollected, Somers Town had been populated by about three thousand people and its primary business was the export of cedar boxes to England.
“Son of the governor,” said the aged informant when Matthew had inquired about the professor’s heritage. “Name of…hmmm…can’t quite place that name no more. Forgive me, sir.”
“Absolutely forgiven,” Matthew had said, as his clothing dried in the bright sun and his mind formulated more questions to ask when he reached Templeton.
The good doctor Britt applied the bee’s-wax lotion and then bandaged his seaweed and sea salt poultice in a thin piece of cheesecloth across the bridge of Matthew’s nose, which certainly would go far in gaining Matthew attention he did not seek. Nevertheless, it was done and appreciated, and Britt informed Matthew that any guest of the professor’s need not pay for treatment, as the professor had supplied himself and his wife with the house and a yearly salary.
“I’m presuming Dr. Gentry is among the guests?” Britt asked as Matthew was starting to leave. “If so, would you tell him to head my way?”
“Dr. Gentry’s headings are difficult to tell,” Matthew confided, “but I’ll relay the message to someone.”
On the street, Matthew followed his bandaged snoot toward the Templeton Inn. The green gate was open and the place appeared welcoming. Of a certain red-haired girl or a massive Ga there was no sign, nor did the inn seem to be guarded. Matthew crossed the tiled courtyard and opened the front door, which caused a bell above it to tinkle merrily. Matthew entered the inn’s main hall, a room constructed of dark wood with a blue and yellow rug upon the floorboards and over his head a circular iron chandelier with six wicks. Past a writing desk where the guests were admitted was a narrow staircase that curved to the left. Matthew was trying to determine what to do next when a broad-shouldered and heavy-set man wearing brown breeches and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up descended the stairs.
“Mornin’, sir,” said the man, with a distinct Scottish brogue. He had a red tuft of hair on his otherwise bald head and a small, neatly trimmed red tuft on his chin. “Help you?”
“My name is Nathan Spade,” Matthew answered with hesitation. He realized the power of his voice was less than optimal, since his nose was so stopped up. If this place had smelled either of perfume or the chamberpot he wouldn’t have been able to detect a difference. “I’m a guest of Professor Fell’s, staying at the castle.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Scotsman, as if he heard this declaration everyday.
“I’d like to see the red-haired girl who was brought here yesterday,” Matthew said. “What room is she in, please?”
“Oh…sir. There’s a problem, I fear.” The Scotsman frowned. “Miss Grigsby is no longer—”
The bell tinkled. The Scotsman looked toward the door, as did Matthew. Sirki came in, dressed in his white robes as he’d been earlier. The East Indian giant drew up a smile that made his front teeth sparkle.
“Nathan!” he said, coming to Matthew’s side like the onrush of an ocean wave. He clasped one hand to Matthew’s left elbow. His smile remained radiant. “I was looking for you! And here you are!”
“Exactly as you knew I might be?”
“Exactly,” said Sirki. “We missed you at breakfast. When I discovered you weren’t to be found, I decided this would be the place.”
The Scotsman said, “I was about to tell Mr. Spade that Miss Grigsby and the colored man are no—”
“I thank you for your efforts here, Mr. McKellan,” Sirki interrupted. “I have this situation in hand now, you may go about your business.”
“Yes, sir.” McKellan actually gave a small bow of deference. “I am busy upstairs,” he offered, and with that he turned away and went up the steps again.
Sirki stared coldly at Matthew. His eyes examined Matthew’s face. “What in the name of mighty Shiva has happened to you?”
“I had an accident on the road. Tripped over myself.”
“That’s a lie,” said the giant.
“Where are Berry and Zed?” Matthew fired back.