The River of Souls (35 page)

“What time?” Quinn asked, narrowing her eyes. 

“The time for Matthew Corbett to go vith me to London. This is the name of the man who is sitting across from me. Not Daniel Tate.” Dahlgren’s green gaze slid toward Quinn. “Your Daniel is dead, and he is not coming back.” 

Quinn stood very still. But then the young man who could not remember his name or his past felt her shiver, as if the cold of the grave had passed through her. Tears bloomed in her eyes. “You don’t…
know
,” she rasped. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’.” Her hand tightened on Matthew Corbett’s shoulder, as if trying to grasp more firmly the spirit of Daniel Tate. “Tell him, Daniel. Tell him who you are.” 

He covered her hand with his own, and squeezed it, and he had to say the truth: “I’m sorry, Quinn. I’m not sure who I am.” And now was the time, indeed, for his decision. “But…I know I love you, as a husband would love his wife, and I am staying here with you, until I can—” 

He was not able to finish his sentence, because suddenly Count Dahlgren was on his feet and the knife was out. It flashed as it went across Quinn’s throat and as she fell backward, her eyes wide with shock and surprise, the blood sprayed in a ghastly red arc from the mortal wound. 

“No,” said Count Dahlgren, very calmly. Blood reddened the blade’s edge. “That is not the plan.” 

If the spirit of Daniel Tate did indeed possess the body of another man, then it directed both a cry of anguish to burst from the throat and the right hand to pick up the bucket of silver fish and swing it hard against Dahlgren’s head. The count was able to get his shoulder up to deflect the blow, but even so it brought forth a grunt of pain and knocked the man to his knees. The silver fish scattered across the planks around him, and one was caught in the oily thicket of his hair. 

A kick to the ribs made Dahlgren curl up and shout a curse in the Prussian tongue, and then the young man without a memory rushed to kneel beside Quinn and press both hands against the gushing wound. She looked up at him with terror, seeking the help he could not give for he knew she was doomed. “Help me!” he shouted to Dahlgren, but the count waved his request away and sat on his knees rubbing his sore ribs. 

“I love you!” he told the dying girl. “I love you! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave! I love you!” 

She grasped his hands, as if to cling that way onto life. But there was too much blood, the wound was too savage, and she was fading. Her dark blue eyes were darkening more, her face becoming chalky. Her mouth moved, leaking blood, but it seemed she was trying to speak. He put his head down, right against her mouth, even as he tried to seal the slash with his fingers but it could not be sealed. 

She spoke three words, but whether he heard them correctly or not he didn’t know, and later he would think that at the end some clarity had entered her mind, if indeed she was living a life of desperate fantasy. 

She said, or he thought she said, “
My Daniel waits
.” 

And then he could do nothing more but watch her as she left. 

At last Matthew Corbett took his bloodied hands away from the wound, crawled away and sat with his knees pulled up to his chin. He began to rock himself back and forth, his eyes wide and Quinn’s blood streaked across his face. 

“Get up,” said Dahlgren, who had gotten to his feet. He realized he had a fish caught in his hair, and he frowned with dismay as he worked it out. He wiped the blade clean on the fish, tossed it aside and sheathed the knife. “Clean yourself and get dressed. Get clothes and something to carry them in. Ve are going to Charles Town.” 

“Murderer,” whispered Matthew, as he stared at nothing and rocked back and forth. “Murderer. Murderer.” 

“I haff opened the path for you,” Dahlgren answered. “For myself, as vell. Ve go to Charles Town today, sell my horses and vagon at the livery stable, and ve set sail for England on the next ship out. Go ahead, get up.” 

“Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.” 

“Yah, I hear that.” Dahlgren knelt down, his face a few inches from Matthew’s. He saw the shock deep in the young man’s eyes; Master Corbett was a bloody mess, and would have to be washed before he could leave this cabin. “But
who
is the murderer? Shall I leave you like this? Shall you go out calling for help, telling all vhat you haff seen? In that case, I shall leave the knife here…for this girl’s neighbors know she vas insane…and she found an insane young man—from somewhere—to pose as her Daniel.” He reached out and tapped Matthew’s forehead. “
Think
,” he said. “Vhy should I haff reason to kill her? But…a lovers’ spat between two people who are
verruckt
in the head? Ah, me! Vhat a tragedy! So…get up, Matthew, and let us go forward together, for you surely cannot stay here now. You see?” 

In his tormented mind he did see. He wished only to stay here, frozen in this posture and in this moment, but he knew he could not. 

Matthew’s eyes moved. They stared into Dahlgren’s with cold ferocity. 

“Someday I’ll kill you,” he whispered, as tears streaked down his cheeks. 

“As you please.” Dahlgren patted the young man’s head and grinned with his gray teeth. “But it vill not be today, for ve haff things to do. Get up, now. I’ll help you. Yah?”

Twenty-Four

The two-masted brigantine was called
Wanderer
. From its shabby, near-derelict appearance it looked to have wandered on one too many voyages, yet here it was in the harbor of Charles Town on an early morning in the second week of August, taking on trunks, crates and barrels and a few passengers who wished for the comfort and cobblestones of the Old World beneath their feet. 

A modest crowd had gathered on the dock to see the ship off. It was the next vessel bound for England, and ships coming in and out invariably drew sightseers. Count Anton Mannerheim Dahlgren and his young charge moved through the throng toward the gangplank, carrying canvas bags that held their clothes. They had lived together for three days in a small boarding-house on the outskirts of Charles Town, waiting for this vessel to be prepared for the crossing. They had hardly spoken to each other, even as they took their meals in the kitchen, and because there was only a narrow single bed the younger man slept on a mat on the floor. They spoke to no one else, either, and the landlady decided there must be something wrong with the younger man, for the way he sat and stared into empty space for such long periods of time. 

A bell had begun ringing on the dock, signalling the imminent departure of the noble but weatherbeaten and ill-used
Wanderer
, that all who should be aboard were aboard and all who were visiting should be off. 

The black-bearded and gaunt Matthew Corbett would never be recognized by any of the proper gents and fine ladies who had attended the Sword of Damocles Ball little more than a month ago. His clothes were clean and simple and he was well-washed, but he was a different man. Surely in this crowd there
were
some of those who had attended that night, and seen the young problem-solver from New York best the brutish Magnus Muldoon in a duel involving a comb, but that young man had returned to New York, as far as they knew. But still….weren’t there whisperings that the young man had left his clothes and belongings at the Carringtons’ inn, and that—the shame of it—he had neglected to pay the total of his bill? 

It was so hot these days in Charles Town. Who knew what became of some people? Many came and many went, and if this young man was missing someone would come from New York to look for him, eventually. Or perhaps not, but life and the parties went on. 

The talk of this summer, however, was centered on an unlikely source. The beast himself, the hermit from the woods, the black-bearded monster. Only…Magnus Muldoon was no longer such a beast, and certainly he appeared to be no monster after shaving off that horrid beard. Oh yes! said the women at their gatherings. The man is
young
!

And he has set up shop right there on Front Street, to sell the most beautiful bottles. He makes these himself, if you can warrant it! Of course the shop is rather
small
, but one should stroll in there to take a peek…and not just at the bottles, but at Mr. Muldoon himself. For in a clean suit, a white shirt and with his hair combed—properly so—and his square jaw showing…well, he nearly appears a gentleman. 

And—lean in closely, for here is the real story! Have you heard…that Pandora Prisskitt
herself
has walked into that shop? Yes, her curiosity got the best of her! She had to go in, but accompanied by Fanny Walton so as not to seem too brash. And here…
here
…is the thing. Fanny Walton told Cynthia Meddows, who told Amy Blair…that Pandora Prisskitt batted her eyes at this new version of Magnus Muldoon, for you have heard that he has come into some money, have you not? And…you will see this for yourself, ladies, if you happen to stroll in there…he could be said to be
handsome
. Now of course he has not the family, nor the estate, that matters…but…isn’t it just too
delicious
? 

Oh…his reaction to Pandora? 

He smiled at her, sold her a bottle at the regular price, and said
Good day to you, ma’am
. 

The stories, the stories…how they swirled around the parties, lawns and porches of Charles Town. But what was lesser known was that Magnus Muldoon had returned the horse Dolly to her stable, and had twice rowed seven miles up the Solstice River to seek a body that could not be found. 

Matthew Corbett, a man without a past, followed Count Dahlgren through the crowd. He was still having flashes of memory—a blurred face here, the snippet of a name there, such things as the quick images of a hawk descending with its talons ready to rip and tear, a man crashing through a mansion’s window and what appeared to be a castle of white stones crumbling into ruin over a cliff—but nothing would remain. He could not hold onto anything. He had no choice but to follow this killer onto
Wanderer
, and hope that in three months’ time and in the city of London he might discover who he truly was, and why this Professor Fell wished so fervently to reward him. 

As they moved through the crowd, Matthew happened to look upon a man and woman standing nearby. They were both dressed extravagantly and seemed to be among the elite, though they were an odd pair. The woman was high-wigged and corpulent and dressed up like a pink piece of cake, or rather a hasty pudding. The man was long and lean and much older than the female, and he wore a black suit with gray stripes and a black tricorn atop a powdered wig. Matthew’s gaze went to the man’s face and stayed there. He abruptly stopped and felt a chill on this blazingly-hot morning. The man’s head turned and the dark, hooded eyes in a long-jawed face that seemed a virtual patchwork quilt of deep lines and wrinkles fixed upon Matthew with what might have been holy—or
unholy
—power. 

“Move along,” said Dahlgren. 

“Wait,” Matthew said, trying to put this man’s face in its proper picture, but he couldn’t frame it. “I think…I
know
that man.” 

“Come on!” Dahlgren’s voice was harsher. “Keep moving!” 

Suddenly the man seemed to recognize Matthew as well, and took a jolt. Dahlgren reached out to grasp Matthew’s shirt, but Matthew pulled free and approached the man even as the other fellow worked his way through the crowd to Matthew. 

“God above!” said the man, in a voice that might soar up to deafen thunder but in this case was quiet, restrained and earthbound. “It’s
you
! Much the worse for wear, I see! I hardly recognized you!” He glanced back at his dollop of pudding. “Listen, Matthew,” he said, leaning in close. “I have no idea why you are here, but I have a good situation. I am no longer Exodus Jerusalem, I am called Earl Thomas Kattenburg, from the country of…well, that matters not, as long as
she
doesn’t study her geography and she is liberal with her purse. I know we had our differences, but…please…refrain from any attempt at vengeance, would you? Here.” He slid two gold coins from a pocket and into Matthew’s hand. “And again, my sympathies at the untimely passing of Magistrate Woodward.” 

“
Who?
” Matthew asked. 

The man’s frown might have knocked ravens from the air. “
Who?
” he repeated. “You know fully well who!” He peered more deeply into Matthew’s eyes and saw they were glazed over like ice on a millpond. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“I know you,” said Matthew. “But…from where? I can’t remember. My head…is so full of fog.” 

“Ve are to be aboard our ship. Come along!” Count Dahlgren was suddenly at Matthew’s side, grasping an elbow to guide him. “Good day, sir,” he said to Earl Thomas Kattenburg, known in another life and guise as the hellfire preacher Exodus Jerusalem, who had been so bent on throwing Rachel Howarth to either the witch-burning flames or his own lecherous desires. 

“Here! Just a moment! What’s wrong with Mr. Corbett?” the earl inquired, grasping hold of Matthew’s other elbow. 

“He…has suffered an accident,” Dahlgren replied tersely. “Ve are going to London, to get him cured. Again…good day, sir.” With a forced, gray-toothed smile the count pulled Matthew away, and the wrinkled earl took the opportunity to remove the two coins from the young man’s hand and replace them where they ought to be, in his own pocket.