The Providence Rider (8 page)

Matthew again stood in the cold. It seemed that everywhere now was cold to him. It was a chilly world these days, and not just by the weather. He was again in the alley opposite the house occupied by the false Mallorys. Three nights had passed since his encounter there with Berry. He’d not set eyes upon her since. All to the best, he thought. This business was indeed dangerous, for tonight he was determined to get inside there and find that letter, if indeed it still existed.

The house was dark. Not a candle showed. Matthew had been standing here as last night, about the same hour after midnight, but tonight there was a major difference. Nearly forty minutes ago, he’d seen a coach drawn by four horses pull up before the house. Lashed atop the coach had been a black-painted wooden box about five feet in length, three feet wide and the same deep. A sea chest, Matthew had thought it might be. The kind that might be found in a captain’s cabin. Two burly men serving the coach had struggled to get the chest down, and both the false Mallorys had emerged from the house to help them. In time the chest was lugged into the house, and the door closed. Lanterns had moved about inside. Then Matthew had waited to see what developed, his senses keen on the fact that whatever was going on, the false Mallorys wished no one to be witness.

On the gray morning after his brusque dismissal of Berry, Matthew had gone to work at Number Seven Stone Street with a mission in mind. He had climbed the steep and narrow stairs to the loft that housed the office of the two New York problem-solvers and also—if one believed such stories—the ghosts of two coffee merchants who had killed each other on this side of the darkened glass and now on the other side continued their eternal feud. If one believed such stories. And in truth Matthew had heard numerous bumps and thumps and the occasional echo of muffled curses floating through the air, but it was all in a day’s work at Number Seven. Besides, Matthew had gotten used to the spirits, if indeed they still lingered and fought here over the respective sizes of their coffee beans, and all one had to do to stop the noises was say,
“Silence!”
good and loud, and order was restored for a while.

On this morning Matthew had not been interested in any spirit but the live one of oversized build and sometimes bullying nature sitting behind his desk writing a letter to a certain Mr. Sedgeworth Prisskitt of Charles Town who—

“—is asking for a courier to escort his daughter Pandora to the annual Cicero Society Ball at the end of March,” Hudson explained. “She must be—shall we say—not so much in the area of looks, if her father has to pay for an escort.” He frowned. “I wonder what the Cicero Society is. Ever heard of it?”

“No, I haven’t.” Matthew busied himself hanging his fearnaught up on a hook.

“Want to take this one on? The money’s good.”

“No.”

“Not at all curious?”

Of course he was, but he was on a mission. “Not at all,” he lied.

“Liar!” Greathouse put his quill into its rest. “All right then, what’s on
your
mind?”

“Nothing in particular. Other than buildings being burned and my name being painted around.”

Greathouse grunted and grinned. “At least they got the spelling right! So pull your face off the floor and smile sometime, won’t you?”

Matthew walked past the polite fire that crackled in the small hearth of rough gray and tan stones. He went to the pair of windows that afforded a view of New York to the northwest, the wide river and the brown cliffs and gray hills of New Jersey. A boat loaded with crates of cargo on its deck was moving north along the river, the wind spreading its brown sails wide. Another smaller boat held two fishermen, sitting back-to-back. Like Hudson and myself, he thought as he surveyed the scene. Our hooks in the water, and we have no idea what’s down there waiting to bite.

“This is becoming a habit,” Greathouse observed.

“What is?”

“Your lack of joy. Why don’t you go to Charles Town? Take the packet boat. Escort Pandora Prisskitt to the ball. Eh? Go have some fun for a change.”

Matthew heard a murmur, but no words. He was watching the fishermen, and he was deciding how to begin what he had planned to say to his friend. He decided it was to be:
The Mallorys are behind the burnings. I know this to be true. And I didn’t want to dra
g
you into this, but—

“Matthew!” said Greathouse emphatically, and the younger man redirected his attention. “Let me ask you. What do you think of Abby Donovan?”

The question was so unexpected that Matthew could think of no possible response.

“Go ahead,” Greathouse urged. “Tell me what you honestly think.” He nodded when Matthew yet hesitated. “Go ahead!”

“Well…I think she’s—”

“Yes, and you would be correct!” If possible, Greathouse’s grin broadened. He leaned back, precariously so, in his chair. “She is one
hell
of a woman!” Matthew thought the great one might be in danger of breaking his jaw if he grinned much broader. “Yes, she is! And
kind
, Matthew. Really she is. An angel. But…she’s a devil when she needs to be, I’ll tell you.”

“I don’t think I want to hear this.”

“Oh, don’t be such a prude! Are you twenty-three or fifty-three? Sometimes I can’t tell. But listen…about Abby. She and I are getting along very well, Matthew.
Very
well. I’m saying, sometimes when I’m with her I’m not quite sure where she stops and I begin. Do you know what I mean?”

Looking into Hudson Greathouse’s grinning face, with its left charcoal-gray eyebrow sliced by a jagged scar, Matthew knew all too well what his companion in problem-solving meant. Though Greathouse had already had his share of women, and perhaps many other men’s shares too, he was falling in love with Abby Donovan. Not to be bothered that the scar through his left eyebrow had been made by a broken teacup thrown by his third wife. Not to be bothered that there were likely scars on his heart made by several women, and more scars on their hearts than his. Not to be bothered by any of that, because Hudson was falling in love.

“I do know,” said Matthew, and with that short sentence he put aside what he was going to tell the great one, for this was not Hudson’s business. No, today—and perhaps tomorrow too, and the day after that—the man’s business was
love
.

“Things may happen,” was the next comment, made by an excitable boy where a rough-assed man had been sitting a moment before. “Really, Matthew. I mean it. Things may happen.”

“You mean…
marriage
?”

The sound of that word in the room seemed to knock a little of the wind from his sails, and he blinked as if he’d just been slapped with a wet rag but quickly he recovered from whatever thought of reality had intruded. “She is one
hell
of a woman,” he repeated, as if Matthew needed to hear that again.

But the hellish woman and her equally hellish male partner down at the end of Nassau Street still had to be dealt with. Perhaps a cloud passed over Matthew’s face, because Greathouse’s mood changed just as quickly and he asked with true concern, “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

Matthew shook his head.

“This thing will clear up, don’t worry yourself.” Greathouse picked up his quill and started to continue with his letter of regret to Mr. Sedgeworth Prisskitt. “It’s a lunatic, I think. Or someone with an axe to grind against you. Now…I don’t know how they’re blowing those buildings to pieces, but don’t let it burden you because that’s exactly what they want.”

“Agreed,” said Matthew, in a quiet voice.

“I doubt there’ll be any more of that. The point’s been made, I suppose. Some lunatic doesn’t like you. Maybe because of all that hero-worship the
Earwig
gave you last summer.
Oh
.” A thought hit him like a musket ball from the blue. The lines across his forehead deepened. “You don’t think it could be one of Fell’s people, do you?”

The moment of truth, Matthew thought. It stretched, as he wondered if the truth was worth putting at risk the life of a man who was so enamored of one hell of a woman.
Marriage
, indeed!

“I think it’s a lunatic,” spoke Matthew, “just as you say.”

“Right. Probably one of your friends escaped from the asylum down there.” Greathouse blew a breath of relief, now that Matthew had turned the discussion away from Professor Fell. “Don’t fret, the constables are on watch.”

“Now I
will
fret,” Matthew said.

“Absolutely positive you don’t wish to meet Pandora Prisskitt?”

“Absolutely,” he said, “and pardon me, but I’m going to go to Sally Almond’s for breakfast.”

“But you just got here!”

“True, but my correspondence can wait and besides, I’m hungry.”

“I’ll go with you, then.”

“No,” said Matthew, as gently as he could. “I have some things to think about. I believe this morning I should secure a table for one.”

Greathouse shrugged. “Suit yourself. And don’t be running up a bill over there, hear me?”

“Yes, father,” Matthew replied dryly, and when Greathouse gave him a startled look the younger problem-solver took his black coat from its hook, threw it over his shoulders like the wings of a raven and left the office for the street below.

Matthew shivered a little, in the cold alley across from the darkened house. After the sea chest had been lugged in, the two burly men had emerged from the house followed by the so-called Mallorys. Doctor Jason was carrying a leather case and a fabric bag, and Aria a larger fabric bag. Their belongings? Matthew wondered. Were they leaving for good? They had talked for a few minutes, and one of the men had motioned in the direction of the sea. Matthew could hear no words, only the hushed current of conversation. He couldn’t see everything because the coach and horses were in the way. But then the two men had gotten back up on the driver’s bench of the coach, the false Mallorys had climbed into the more comfortable seats, and the coach had been driven off. His teeth near chattering, Matthew longed for the mercies of a warm blanket, yet if the snakes had departed—even for a short time—this was the night to search for a letter.

Matthew found it hard to believe that they weren’t coming back at some point. Though possibly not tonight? He had the sensation of emptiness about the house. Of desolation. And…something else, as well?

Tonight, as last night, he’d brought a shielded lantern, its candleglow guarded by metal ribs that could be folded down or pushed open over the glass. He picked it up from the alley’s ground and pressed a spring-driven lever that made the ribs open like the petals of a flower. Illumination spread. The lantern was held by a polished walnut pistol-grip at its base. In fact, it
was
a flintlock pistol, and could fire a ball through a barrel secured underneath the candle. It was currently loaded and powdered, ready for firing. A very nice invention, purchased from Oliver Quisenhunt of Philadelphia, among other items of interest to problem-solvers who might need to extricate themselves from problems of a particularly dangerous nature.

His heartbeat had quickened. He knew what his next move must be. He would have to leave his place of relative safety, cross Nassau Street and go to the door of that darkened house. He looked along the street, in search of the coach returning, but there was no sign of it. Time was not to be wasted. As he approached the door he was thinking how he might get inside. He could break a window on the other side of the house, he decided. But first he must try the door. He hadn’t been able to see if the Mallorys had used a key or not. Because life in New York was not a idyllic paradise all locks were used quite regularly, unlike the situation that had existed in that paragon of community virtue called Fount Royal. But still, the door must be tried.

It was, as he’d expected, locked tight. Matthew walked around the house and behind a shoulder-high white picket fence. He was searching for a window to break with the pistol grip of his lantern. Have to be careful with that, as the sound of breaking glass would carry. Already a dog was barking stridently a few houses away. He managed a grim smile against the cold that pressed at his face; he was about to add
house-breaker
to his list of accomplishments.

On the other side of the house was a short flight of wooden stairs leading to a narrow back door. A window was set on either side of the door. One of those appeared a likely candidate for breakage. Matthew went up the stairs and chose the window on his right. He hesitated, listening. Did he hear the sound of horse hooves on oyster shells? No, it was his imagination. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, enough to make him hear horse hooves that were not there.

A quick pop with the grip and it would be done. Careful not to shoot oneself with this device, though the hammer was not cocked. Before Matthew took aim at the glass he reached out with his other hand to try the door…

…and the knob easily turned. The door opened, and it seemed to Matthew that darkness rolled out to meet him.

He held the lantern before him and entered the house, closing the door at his back. Now his heart was a true runaway. Steady, he told himself.
Steady
. He breathed in and out a few times. He smelled pipe smoke and perfume. Smelled things that had a medicinal odor, as this dwelling also held the doctor’s treatment room. Matthew crossed the planked floor of a nicely-ordered kitchen. Yes, Aria would be an orderly cook, would she not? Ashes in the kitchen hearth still smelled of a fire not long past. A hallway beckoned on the left. Matthew eased into it, and the lantern’s glow showed a trio of doors, one on the right and two on the left. The doctor’s office was what Matthew sought. Anywhere there might be papers. Of course, the letter he was looking for might have been ashes in that kitchen hearth months ago, but still he had to seek. It was his nature.

He opened the first door on the left. Candlelight fell upon a bedroom. A woman’s frills and finery. A little writing desk and a broad chest of drawers, upon which were several bottles of what Matthew assumed was fragrance. The bedspread of woven pink and lavender. Aria sleeps alone? Matthew wondered, noting the bed for one. He went to the writing desk and found the solitary top drawer was empty. The chest of drawers likewise held nothing but some woolen lint. Matthew opened a closet and found three very lovely and intricately-fashioned gowns hanging there on pegs. Also two pairs of Aria’s shoes remained on the floor. So…were the snakes slithering back tonight, or not?