He ran a hand through his hair, his energy almost sapped. “I think someone may have broken into the dairyhouse last night to find it, so thank God and all the lucky stars that you found it first. Now: can you do me a great favor and keep it here somewhere, but out of Marmy’s sight?”
“Me keep it?”
“That’s right. I’m going to have to make a trip to Philadelphia soon, and I want that book to be here when I get back.”
“To Philadelphia? What for?”
“Just never mind.” He waved her questions away. “Will you keep the book for me, or not?”
It didn’t take Berry long to consider. There was a note of eager excitement in her voice when she said, “I’ll put it in the bottom drawer of my chest, under my crayon box. You don’t think anyone will break in here, do you?”
“That I can’t say. I think they suspect I’ve got it, but they don’t know for sure.”
She looked at him steadily for a few seconds, and Matthew saw her gaze drop to the front of his shirt. “You’re missing three buttons.”
In his state of weariness he was unable to formulate a response, so the best he could do was shrug his shoulders and offer a faint, lopsided smile.
“I’d better get back out to help Grandda, but I’ll put this away first.” She retrieved the notebook and stood up. “Oh…a man brought a letter for you. It’s on the table in the front room.”
“Thank you.” He waited until she’d gone, as he feared that when he stood up some dull ache or stabbing pain might cause him to give a groan and she’d want to know what was hurting. The less said about that, the better. When Berry went back outside, Matthew eased himself up and went into the front room, where he found a white envelope sitting on the small round table next to the door. A quick inspection showed him it was sealed with red wax that bore the impressed initial H.
He opened the envelope and read: Dear Matthew, if at all possible please come today before three o’clock to Number Seven Stone Street. With All Regards, Katherine Herrald.
He refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope. Interesting, if both Mrs. Herrald and Hudson Greathouse were in town. He’d have to promptly go see what this was about, and catch some decent sleep later this afternoon. It would be a good opportunity to relate his tale of last night, as well.
An item that he’d not noticed before caught his attention. Set up near the east-facing window was an artist’s easel. A chair was situated before it, turned to the side. On the easel was one of Berry’s works in progress, and Matthew stood in the yellow shards of light examining her effort.
It was a rough pencil drawing of Marmaduke Grigsby, seen in profile. The tuft of hair sticking up on the bald scalp, in the moon-round face a large eye behind a spectacle lens, a heavy eyebrow ready to jump and twitch, the massive vein-shot nose, the low-hanging cleft-gouged chin, folds and wrinkles that even in stillness gave life and character to the expression: all were there. It was really very good, for Berry had captured the strange construction of her grandfather’s face with neither the artificiality of emphasis nor restraint. It was therefore not a flattering portrait, but an honest one. He wondered what colors it might be when Berry finished it. Bright red for burning curiosity, and deepest purple for Earwig prose? He continued to stare at it for some time, thinking that it took real talent to be truthful. Here was not a gloomy caricature of a tight-assed fop, as Berry would put it; here was the study of a singular human being, with all flaws on display.
A real talent, Matthew thought.
The seed of an idea came to him and began to grow roots.
Absent-mindedly he reached down to fasten buttons that were no longer there, and then he hurried out of the house in the direction of Stone Street.
Thirty-Seven
Number Seven Stone Street was a brown door that opened onto a narrow and rather steep stairway squeezed between, on the left, the office of Moses Leverich the peltry buyer and on the right the shop of Captain Cyrus Donaghan, who crafted quadrants, astrolabes, and other navigational tools for the shipping trade.
Matthew went up the stairs and found himself in a loft that demanded a good going-over with a scrub-brush and bristle-broom. He had no idea what business had existed here, perhaps during the reign of Peter Stuyvesant, but traces of its grandeur remained like flecks of gold in a mudpuddle. At the top of the stairs was an oak-paneled outer room that held a clerk’s multi-drawered desk and a chair with a broken back. Behind the desk was a cubbyhole-chest suited for holding rolled-up maps, documents, and the like. Across the floorboards, and right at Matthew’s feet, was a disturbingly large dark stain that he sincerely hoped was not ancient blood. Beyond this room was another closed door. The window shutters were open, allowing the strong sunlight full entry, and the windows themselves-their glass panes filmed with smoke and grime-had been unlatched and pushed ajar to allow for the circulation of air. Through two windows below the overhanging gray slate roof could be seen the full expanse of the Great Dock and the ships awaiting destinations and cargo. It was an intriguing view. The whole busy picture of the wharf was on display from this height, as wagons trundled back and forth across the cobbles and citizens went about their errands against the backdrop of buildings, smoke-belching chimneys, shipmasts, furled sails, and the spark of sun off the blue harbor water.
“Hello!” Matthew called. “Anyone here?”
Boots thumped on the boards and the other door opened with a squeal of angry hinges.
Hudson Greathouse, dapper in a dark blue suit and waistcoat with brass buttons, stood in the doorway. “Corbett!” he said, not without a faint smile of welcome that was quickly extinguished. “Come in here, will you?”
Matthew walked into the second room. It was twice as large as the outer chamber, with two desks set side- by-side and behind them against the wall three wooden file cabinets. A pleasant addition was a small fireplace of rough gray and tan stones on the left. Overhead at the center of the room was a wrought-iron chandelier that still held eight old melted stubs. A pair of unshuttered and opened windows gave a view of New York to the northwest, the wide river and the brown cliffs and emerald hills of the Jersey shore.
“What do you think?”
Matthew looked to his right. Standing there was Mrs. Herrald, elegant in a gray gown with an adornment of white lace at the throat. She wore a gray riding-cap, again tilted at a slightly rakish angle but with neither feather nor other decoration. Her blue eyes were fixed on him, and her eyebrows went up. “Well?” she prodded.
“A nice view,” he said.
“Also a nice price. It’s been vacant, obviously, for many years.” She reached up to brush aside a dangling spider’s web. “But Hudson and I think it will do as an office. What’s your opinion?”
“A bit dusty. What used to be here?”
“A coffee-importing business, begun in the years of the Dutch colony. The real-estate broker tells me the business perished in 1658 and the space has only been rented a few times since then. I agree it needs cleaning, but it does have potential, don’t you think?”
Matthew looked around, avoiding Greathouse’s stare. “I do,” he decided. “It’s certainly large enough.” He just wished he’d found this place before she had and claimed it as his living-quarters, but then again he was sure the rental-though it could hardly be regal-was surely beyond his means.
“Room to grow, yes,” Mrs. Herrald said firmly. She walked past Matthew and stood beneath the chandelier, which Matthew realized hung at a crooked angle. “I think this will suit our purposes very nicely. If we’re all in agreement, then?” She paused for one final check of the two gentlemen, who both nodded. “I’ll sign the papers this afternoon. And don’t worry, Matthew, I won’t impose upon you or Hudson to get the place cleaned up and cart furniture in. I’ll hire some men for the job.”
He was glad to hear that. The mere idea of sweeping this dirty floor and scrubbing the soot off the windows, in his present condition, was enough to rekindle the throbbing ache in his groin.
“You look like hell,” Greathouse said, getting right to the point. “What have you been into?”
“Hudson!” the woman chided.
“It’s all right,” Matthew said. “As a matter of fact, I was taken on a trip yesterday and I stayed the night at an estate about fifteen miles up the river.”
