“Obviously, then, you’ve made an impression. Or should I say, a new friend.” The upper lip curled. “Sometimes, Mr. Spade, a name…is only a name, and it conveys no darker meaning.”
“Darker meaning? Why do you put it that way?”
“Neither Edgar—Mr. Smythe, if you please—nor I are in violation of the professor’s code of conduct. Now it is true I have received some messages from Mr. Smythe, regarding the Cymbeline and money needed to store it in its London warehouse. I likewise have sent messages to him, but only through a courier designated by Professor Fell. Everything, you see, is aboveboard.”
That statement nearly caused Matthew to guffaw, but he swallowed it down. He said, “I’d hate to think of anyone here being dishonest.”
“And you would be responsive to that in some way? You would make sure Edgar and I were penalized, if indeed we were enjoying a social relationship beyond the call of our professions?”
“What are you doing together?” Matthew asked. “Going to the…” He picked up the recollection of an item from one issue of his cherished London Gazette. “Rakehell clubs?” Where, it was written in the broadsheet, a man might have a sumptuous eight-course dinner and enjoy fine rare wines before his bottom was blistered by a woman in riding boots and spurs and whirling a bullwhip. Matthew could imagine Smythe and Wilson at these festivities, linked possibly by their purient interests. One would be bellowing as if he had a lungful of burning coals while the other smirked in the admiration of applied pain.
“Young man,” said Wilson coldly, “it would be best for you to restrain your obvious penchant for fantasy. Save such suggestions for your whores and clients, won’t you?” He started to turn away, his face screwed up with something that was supposed to convey either anger or disgust, and then he paused.
“You look laughable with that thing on your nose,” he sniped, before he turned and stalked away to his room further along the hallway. Matthew let Wilson unlock his door and enter before he too returned to his own abode.
Twenty-Five
AFTER the dinner bell had been rung up and down the hallway, Matthew gave the candle clock an extra fifteen minutes of burning before he put on the somewhat shrunken jacket of his gray-striped suit and prepared to join the party.
With any luck, the Thackers had remained drunk or been—and the thought was repugnant to him—ravishing Fancy all day in their double brotherhood and thus had no idea Nathan Spade had risen from his grave.
It was time now to display himself, in all his abundant life.
He had scrubbed himself and shaved. He had combed his hair. He was presentable. Except for one thing. When he peered into the mirror he thought he looked ridiculous with that thing on his nose, so he peeled off the poultice to reveal the swollen blue-black-and-tinged-with-green artistry of Jack and Mack. He still couldn’t smell anything through this heated lump of clay, but so be it. The darkness had spread under his eyes and the two lumps on his forehead had turned dark purple. He was a real peacock, he was. And ready to strut, too.
He left his room, went down the stairs and to the banquet room where last night Jonathan Gentry had lost his head.
They were all there, minus the headless doctor. They were seated in their exact same places. They were eating from bowls of what appeared to be some kind of thick red seafood stew. Toy was feeding Augustus Pons, and giggling happily. Smythe was drinking his wine from a glass and Sabroso was drinking his from a bottle, and the nearly-invisible Wilson had his face poised over his bowl as if to inhale it up his nostrils. Minx Cutter was there, sitting rigidly in her chair. Aria Chillany looked pale and wan, as if the island’s sunlight was stealing her power. Fancy’s expression was blank, as she was jammed shoulder-to-shoulder between the two brothers, who were wearing orange suits to match their hair and jamming hunks of bread into their mouths. Mother Deare was eating delicately, her red lace gloves concealing the large hands of a workwoman.
Matthew came down the stairs as if he owned every riser.
Fancy looked up at him first. Her expression did not change, though her eyes may have widened only enough for him to note. Then the others saw him, and with pieces of bread stuffed in their mouths Jack and Mack Thacker made gagging noises and their green glinting eyes in the foxlike faces became huge. Jack jumped up from the table, his chair going over to the floor behind him, while Mack only half-rose before he grasped the neck of a wine bottle either to steady himself or use as a weapon.
“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Mother Deare rasped, a rough plaid of coarseness showing through her studied lace.
“Forgive me for being late.” Matthew came around the table to his place across from Minx and next to Aria. He was gratified to see that not a trace of last night’s murder remained. He sat down and sent a smile around the table. “Good evening to all.”
The Thackers had gone as gray as wet paper. They looked at each other in wonderment, and then at Matthew with something close to fear.
“Settle yourselves, gentlemen,” said Matthew. “I won’t bite.”
“Your face,” Minx said. “What happened to you?”
“Small accident. I took a fall.” He reached for the steaming pot of stew that sat upon the table and spooned some into his bowl. “This looks delicious.” It would taste nearly of nothing, however, since he could not smell a single peppercorn nor fish fin, both of which were exposed as his spoon went to work.
“On the stairs?” Mother Deare asked. “Didn’t you seek attention?”
“No, I rested in my room.” He aimed his smile at the two scowling brothers. “Please, don’t stand on my account.”
Mack recovered first. He drew up a half-grin that had nothing to do with either humor nor his eyes. “Pick up your chair, Jack. Clumsy of you.” Mack sank back into his seat, his teeth slightly bared. From the wine bottle he took a swallow that must have emptied it by half.
“Clumsy,” Jack repeated. He sounded stunned, as if he’d been headbutted. “Damn clumsy.” He righted his chair and as he sat down offered a thin and insincere smile to Mother Deare. “Pardon the fuss. I don’t know what come over me.”
Matthew spread his napkin across his lap. “Good manners are worth gold,” he said, and regarded Mother Deare. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I surely would. Good manners gets a person into a lot of rooms…and out of a lot of scrapes,” she answered, and she gave him a nod as if she knew exactly what he meant.
“You were in your room all day?” Aria asked. She looked bleary-eyed. Though Gentry hadn’t been her shining knight and hero, his death must have unnerved her at least enough to disturb her beauty-sleep.
“Not quite all day,” Wilson spoke up, in his irritating near-whisper. “He was out and about for a short while. Wasn’t he, Mr. Smythe?”
“That he was, Mr. Wilson,” answered the barrel of gravel.
“Interested in things,” said Wilson.
“Books,” said Smythe. “He’s a very learned fellow.”
“Are these riddles?” Sabroso asked. His voice was slightly slurred. Wine spots had appeared on the jacket of his cream-colored suit.
Matthew thought that Smythe and Wilson—two brothers, perhaps, in their quest for the dirtiest hole in London to squat in and spend a few pounds for pain—were emulating the communication style of the Thackers. He said, “No riddles, I think. Just roundabouts.”
“You look like ya come into some trouble, boyo,” said Mack as he reached over to play his greasy fingers through Fancy’s hair. Almost as if they were connected by the same nerve endings, Jack reached over to do the same on the opposite side. Fancy stared at Matthew for a few seconds more, and then she continued silently—and with as much dignity as possible—eating her stew.