The Providence Rider (28 page)

“You’re all right now,” she told him, as she buttoned the front of her rather tight-fitting lilac-colored gown.

“I know,” he answered, his face lowered. His head seemed to be full of crazy churchbells. “I’m just trying to…” He had to start again, for he was out of breath. “I’m just trying to make sure of it.”

She finished dressing and smoothed her gown before she spoke again, her black hair swept back and her face beautiful and austere. “You’re very brave.”

“Am I?”

“Certainly you are.”

“I think I’m mostly lucky.”

“I think,” she said, “you have earned the right to live another day.”

“At least,” he agreed, and he pulled himself up and got to his feet.

Her ebony eyes, full of pain and secrets, examined him from wet bottom to drenched top. “You won’t tell me who you are?”

“I can’t.”

“But you’re not one of them. Not
really
.”

“No,” he said, deciding she knew anyway. “Not one of them.”

“Then you’re here for a different reason than the others. I don’t understand why. Perhaps it would be best
not
to know?”

“Yes,” he answered, “that would be best.”

“Ah,” she said, and nodded; it was an expression that spoke volumes. Still she held him with her solemn gaze, as if reading not only his face but his soul. Then she motioned toward a rocky pathway several yards distant that led up the cliff to the highland. “It’s steep and a little dangerous, but that’s the only way.”

Steep and dangerous
, Matthew thought. Was there any other way? He followed her when she started up, the water squishing in his belabored boots.

At the top, he realized the castle was hidden from view by a patch of forest. The road to Templeton surely wasn’t very far through the woods. He thought the sensible thing to do was go back to his room, collapse into bed, rest his aching noggin and possibly put a compress on his swollen nose.

But then, again, he wasn’t always sensible, and the sensible thing often did not make for advancement. Templeton was a few miles along the road. Berry was being held in the Templeton Inn. It was time for Nathan Spade to walk into town and see what might be seen. Possibly his clothes would be dry, in this heat, by the time he got there. If not, not. There probably was a physcian in Templeton who might look at his beak. And who also might answer some questions about Professor Fell and the underwater town.

“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.

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.

“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.