“Really?” Greathouse looked at him quizzically. “What was that about?”
“I’m not quite sure, and I can’t explain it. But do either of you know a man named Simon Chapel?”
Mrs. Herrald shook her head and Greathouse replied, “Doesn’t ring a chime.”
“How about a woman named Charity LeClaire? Or another man called Count Dahlgren?”
“Never heard of them either,” Greathouse said.
Mrs. Herrald came a few steps closer to Matthew. “What’s this about, please?”
Matthew took aim at Greathouse. “You haven’t told her yet? About Ormond’s farm?”
“No, I have not.” The man’s face had tightened.
“Don’t you think you should? I have some suspicions about Simon Chapel. I don’t fully know what he’s up to, but his estate might be where the body came from.”
“The body,” Mrs. Herrald repeated. She turned to also aim at Greathouse. “What body?”
Greathouse gave Matthew a look that said Thank you for bringing this up now, fool. He reached into his coat and brought out a folded piece of paper. “I was going to go over this with you later,” he said to Matthew, “but since you’ve chosen this moment to air the subject, I’ll tell you what I’ve found out from the survey office.” He unfolded the paper, which Matthew could see was a listing of names in black ink. “North of Ormond, just as he told us, are farms owned by Gustenkirk and Van Hullig. Then there’s a few miles of forest deeded to an Englishman named Isaac Adams. He lives in London. Up above that, there’s an estate and vineyard owned by-”
“Simon Chapel,” Matthew interrupted. “That’s where I was last night.”
“Wrong.” Greathouse’s attention never left the paper. “According to the records at City Hall, the estate is owned by another Englishman named Garrett Stillwater. He bought the estate from a Dutchman in 1696. About three miles north of the vineyard is a farm deeded to William Vale, and then an apple orchard and cider mill owned by Zopher Rogers. After that you’re at the ferry and the end of the island.” He looked up. “None of those names fit any alias that I know to be used by any associate of…” He trailed off, but Matthew knew he could feel Mrs. Herrald staring at him.
“Go on.” The way she spoke it said she already knew. “Any associate of whom?”
Greathouse refolded the paper, taking his time about it, and put it away.
“He’s here,” Mrs. Herrald said. “Is that what you mean to say?” She went on without waiting, her chin lifted in indignation. “You suspect he’s here, and you didn’t tell me? Because you weren’t sure-and aren’t sure-and you wished to investigate further? Or you wished to spare me the emotion of fear? Is that correct?”
He was silent, thinking it over. Then at last he replied, “Yes. All that.”
“You found a body, then? In a condition we’ve come to recognize?”
“Yes.”
“Hudson.” She shook her head, her eyes lit with both anger and sadness. “Why didn’t you tell me? You know I’m not a fainting flower. I’ve been expecting this, but just…not so soon. Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice cracked, just a little bit.
“If I told you I was trying to protect you, would-”
“There is no protection,” said Mrs. Herrald. Though this had been spoken quietly, the tension in her voice made Matthew flinch. “There is only foreknowledge and preparation.”
“Of course.” Greathouse decided it was best to avert his eyes to the floor. “My pardon.”
Mrs. Herrald went to the window and peered north, as if trying to locate her enemy by a darkness on the horizon. It was at least fifteen seconds before she spoke again. “I presume we can’t be sure?”
“No, but the body bore the marks. I’ve told Matthew about your theory.”
“The gauntlet, yes.” She glanced quickly at Matthew and then out the windows again. “I’m not the only one with that theory, by the way. How many stab wounds in this particular corpse?”
“Eight. A young man, the arms tied behind the back. He washed up nearly three weeks ago on John Ormond’s farm. You know, where I’ve gone to buy produce. The coroner had already buried the body, so Matthew and I had to…um…do some shovel work.”
“That must have been lovely.”
“The method of execution appears to be the same except for one interesting difference,” Greathouse continued. “In all the cases we know about, the skulls of the victims were broken from behind. Probably when they were kneeling on a floor bleeding to death. In this particular instance, the front of the skull was crushed.”
“Speculation?” asked the lady in gray.
“Well, it may mean nothing. Then again, it may be that one of the professor’s students has put his own mark on the way the gauntlet’s done. Or it may mean that some variant of the gauntlet was held out-of-doors. I think the victim cheated the blades by either jumping or falling from a high cliff, and he bashed his skull on the way down.” He held up the paper. “I got this list of property owners intending to find out where the body might have drifted from. Again, there’s no name on the list that I recognize.”
“A new world,” Mrs. Herrald said, her eyes heavy-lidded, “calls for new names.”
“And speaking of names,” Matthew said, “Chapel knew yours. He had a copy of the broadsheet announcement and wanted more information. I’m supposed to ask about you at the Dock House Inn and report back to him within a few days.”
Mrs. Herrald pursed her lips and released a small, quiet puff of air. “I don’t like that. How is it you went to see this Chapel person in the first place?”
“It has to do with the Masker. Specifically, with Eben Ausley’s notebook.”
“Is this some kind of riddle?” she asked, frowning. “What’s this about a notebook?”
“Corbett’s on a tear about this damned Masker,” Greathouse spoke up. “He’s told Pennford Deverick’s widow he can find out who the bastard is, and for that he’ll get ten shillings.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Herrald regarded Matthew with a knowing expression. “An independent job, is that it?”
“She wants the Clear Streets Decree overthrown, as it’s costing her money. Until the Masker is found, Lord Cornbury’s going to keep the decree in force. It’s a simple matter of economics.” Matthew shot a glance at Greathouse, then back to Mrs. Herrald. “But no, it’s not entirely an independent job.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Matthew said in a calm but firm voice, “that I believe these current events are by no means independent of each other. I think they hinge together, in a way I can’t yet explain. The Masker, the three murders, the notebook, Chapel…even the woman at the Westerwicke asylum. I think all of them are linked.”
“There’s a good one!” Greathouse’s face wanted to grin, but Mrs. Herrald’s lifted hand stopped his chortle before it began.
“Again you mention a notebook,” she said. “A notebook belonging to whom and signifying what?”
Matthew took in a deep breath. The moment had arrived. “A notebook taken from the body of Eben Ausley by the Masker, and given to me by the Masker. Before you ask: no, I wasn’t able to see his face. Chapel wants the book, and I believe he’s sent someone to break into my house to find it. I think it shows that Ausley was selling orphans to Chapel for some reason the Masker wants me to discover.”
If he was expecting an immediate response, he was disappointed. Mrs. Herrald stood silent, her head cocked to one side and her hands clasped before her. Hudson Greathouse was also struck mute, but his mouth was open and if his eyes had gotten any bigger they might have popped from his head.
The silence stretched on, until finally Mrs. Herrald busied herself with rearranging the folds of lace at her throat.
Greathouse found his voice, though it sounded nearly strangled. “As I said before, what have you gotten into?”
“What we’re supposed to be into. A problem that needs a solution.”
“Be careful you don’t get your throat cut trying to solve it.” Greathouse turned to appeal to Mrs. Herrald. “If Chapel-whoever he is-has some tie to Professor Fell, then Corbett’s in water way over his head. You know how cunning they are. Chapel might already know Corbett went to meet you at the Dock House. He was just fishing. If he goes back there, and Chapel does happen to be one of the professor’s disciples, I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass for his survival.”
“If he was going to kill me, he would have done it last night,” Matthew said, but he did think he’d nearly been killed, after all.
“Precisely,” Mrs. Herrald agreed, maintaining an admirable composure. “So-if indeed he is a confederate of Professor Fell-why did he let you go, suspecting you were working with us?” She paused just a beat before she
