“Upstairs, I presume.”
“That’s a lie,” said Matthew.
The two liars stared at each other, neither one willing to move their lie one inch.
Matthew went first. “I’m presuming that McKellan started to tell me that Berry and Zed are no longer here. Where are they?”
“I have a coach outside, ready to take you back.” Sirki increased the pressure a fraction on Matthew’s elbow. “Come on, shall we? You have much work to do.”
Matthew had no choice but to be taken along, though he removed his elbow from the giant’s grip as soon as they were crossing the courtyard. Ahead on the street, a black berline with the harried driver of yesterday awaited its passengers. Sirki waited for Matthew to climb in, then he pulled himself up, closed the door and settled his bottom. He tapped on the roof with a fist and they were off.
“On your desk you’ll find a key and a map of who occupies which room along the corridor,” Sirki said as they left Templeton. “The key will allow you entry into the rooms that Smythe, Sabroso and Wilson occupy. Smythe is giving his report to the professor at two o’clock. Sabroso is reporting tomorrow at two. Wilson tomorrow at four. You should make plans to enter those rooms and—”
“Search for what?” Matthew interrupted. “I don’t have any idea what I’m looking for. Besides, if it involves some kind of information passed between two of those men, why would someone be stupid enough to write it down? Why not just whisper the information in passing and be done with it?”
“There’s the matter of the authorities getting firm evidence of the next shipment of Cymbeline,” Sirki replied, as he watched the countryside glide past. “They may have asked for written notification, instead of secondhand hearsay. So you might consider that you’re searching for some kind of coded message.”
“Hidden where? Under a pillow? Rolled up in a stocking?”
“Both good places to look, I’m sure.”
“The professor didn’t need me to do this,” said Matthew. “Any of his thugs might’ve done it. Just ransacked the rooms and gone through the debris.”
“Ransacking is not part of the plan. And that’s exactly why the professor’s thugs, as you put it, are inadequate for this task.”
“No, there’s some other reason he wanted me here. Isn’t there?” Matthew prompted, but Sirki remained silent. “Especially me. Why? Because I impressed him by besting Tyranthus Slaughter and killing Lyra Sutch? And he wished to see me, in the flesh? To take stock of me?” Matthew nodded at the thought that was being born. “Because he wishes to test me, to see if I’m capable of finding Brazio Valeriani for him?”
“He wishes at present,” Sirki replied quietly, “only to discover the name or names of a traitor or two.”
Matthew was silent for a time, watching the lush green forest pass by his window. “I suppose you won’t tell me where Berry and Zed are?” he asked at last. “Will you at least tell me why they were taken from the inn?”
“I will tell you that they decided to leave the inn last night. Without permission, I might add. Zed was captured and taken to a more secure place for safekeeping. The young woman…is unfortunately still missing.”
“Still missing?” That word had caused Matthew’s heart to jump into his throat.
“The island is not that large. She’s being searched for, and she’ll be found.”
“Christ!” Matthew said forcefully. And then more quietly and mostly to himself: “Why didn’t she just stay where she was? Where she was safe?”
“I’m sure you’ll have the chance to ask her those questions yourself on the return voyage to New York.”
Matthew was thinking of McKellan’s deferential bow, and the subservient expression on the innkeeper’s face. “This island is a prison, isn’t it? No one comes or goes without the professor’s approval?”
“It’s a bit hard to call Pendulum Island a prison, as its citizens live very happy and productive lives. The second part of your statement, however, is certainly true.” Sirki regarded Matthew with a baleful glare. “The professor likes balance, young man. He wishes to be undisturbed here. As he owns the island as an outright possession, he may limit the ships coming in and going out, to his pleasure.”
“What’s his first name?” Matthew decided to ask.
“The castle is within view,” Sirki answered. “We should be there in just a few minutes. I trust you’ll tend to your business and not go wandering on the road again? By the way, the stablemaster has been instructed to refuse your request for a horse.”
“So the castle is also a prison?” Even as he presented this question, Matthew knew there would be no response and he was correct.
The coach pulled up to the entry, Matthew and Sirki disembarked, and Sirki walked with Matthew to the foot of the stairs. “You look ridiculous with that thing on your nose,” was Sirki’s final comment before he took his leave. Then Matthew went directly to his room, where he unlocked his door with the key that had been in his pocket in another room forty feet underwater. On the writing desk was, indeed, a second key and a piece of paper that, unfolded, showed the corridor and the names of who slept where. It was drawn precisely and written neatly, in small tight lettering, and Matthew wondered if the professor himself had done this. Smythe was far down the corridor, the very last room. Beside the key was a plate of three muffins: cornbread, cinnamon and orange. Or as best as Matthew could tell without tasting, for his nose was so much dead matter. He poured himself a glass of water from the provided pitcher and ate the presumed orange muffin, which tasted to him—lacking a sense of smell—like so much gluey wool. The cornbread was likewise tasteless and the cinnamon muffin might have been artificial for all its flavor. Yet at least he had something in his stomach. He drank down a second glass of water, and then he stretched himself out on the bed for a few minutes to rest and organize his thoughts.
Matthew mused that from the death-condemned back to the living in the matter of a few gut-wrenching minutes was not a bad way to start a day off, if one had to be condemned to death by a pair of orange-haired shits. He wished to stay out of their sight until he was ready to reveal that his watery grave had opened. The damnable thing on his mind now was Berry’s fate. That girl had a habit of tearing him up. Out on the island by herself somewhere? He dreaded to consider what might have happened to her. And now add that weight to his ton of troubles, and try to balance along the professor’s beam.
“Impossible,” he said to the black bed canopy over his head. No god answered, not even Professor Fell.
He slept, and had some half-recalled dream about falling through the water toward a town that, while submerged in its blue aura, held the filmy spirits of citizens who walked upon the lowered lanes and streets, and drove their ghostly wagons toward a harbor swallowed by the sea. When Matthew awakened it was close enough to two o’clock to rouse himself to action. He went to the waterbasin and washed his face, musing that one pitcherful of the liquid made him the master, yet in quantity this could snuff out one’s life as easily as the fire from the gunpowder bombs that had blasted New York.
He waited ten more minutes. Then he took the key and eased into the hallway, watchful for two thick-bodied redhaired shits, and he went to Smythe’s door at the far end of the hall and knocked quietly and respectfully just in case. When there was no response he slid the key home and let himself in.
He was interested—and gratified, in a way—that Smythe’s room was neither as spacious as his own nor did it have a balcony overlooking the ocean. Smythe’s balcony faced the gardens. Perhaps Smythe had requested so, because of his late discomfort of the sea. In any case, it wasn’t as fine a room as Matthew’s. The problem-solver got to work, trying to solve a problem to which there were no clues. He saw the many sheets of parchment on the desktop, covered with lines not only from Cymbeline but other of the Bard’s plays. Smythe had been a busy scribbler these last few weeks. Matthew went through the desk drawers and found nothing of interest. The chest of drawers, the same. A small collection of clay pipes drew his hand, but in their bowls and stems were no rolled-up secret messages, as far as he could tell. He went through Smythe’s clothes, a delicate matter. Smythe did not wash as much as Matthew might have liked, and the clothing was stiff with sweat and the shirt collars ringed with grime. But again, nothing there but the bad habits of a dirty man.