you going to pursue this problem of the…what’s she called?”
“The Queen,” said Greathouse, with a dark smirk. “Of the Loonhouse.”
“They call her the Queen of Bedlam, but only in the most respectful way,” Matthew said. He took the leather pouch. “I think I’ve figured out a way to help identify her, but I’ll have to go back to the asylum first.”
“As you please. Hudson thinks it’s wasted money and I would usually agree, but then again…sometimes a horse needs to be given its head, don’t you agree, Hudson?”
“Yes, and a jackass sometimes needs a kick to the-”
“Play nicely, boys,” she advised. “Matthew, I’ve given you enough money to take a packet boat from here to Philadelphia and back. That will cut the trip to one day, back and forth, instead of three or more by road. Do what you feel is necessary, but do not throw my money away on frivolities, is that clearly understood?”
“Yes, ma’am. Clearly.”
“And Hudson, in light of this information from Matthew, I want you to immediately start finding out everything you can about this Simon Chapel. Someone in the taverns may know the name, but-again-be very careful. All right?”
“Always,” he promised.
“Professor Fell may not be here in person,” she continued, “but if his influence is here, it’s for a reason. I shudder to think. Both of you, watch yourselves and proceed with extreme caution. I shall return, God willing, in May or thereabouts. Any questions?” She lifted her brows, looking from one man to the other.
“I…suppose I have a question,” Matthew said. “About this office.”
“What about it? Other than it being at the moment a spider’s paradise?”
“Well…I was wondering…exactly what’s wrong with it.”
“What’s wrong with it? Meaning what?”
“Meaning…it’s a large space, with a good view and a central location. I was just wondering what must be wrong with it, since it’s not been rented in so long.”
“Oh, that.” Mrs. Herrald smiled thinly. “Nothing’s wrong with it, except that it’s haunted.”
“Haunted,” Matthew heard himself repeat, like a dull bell.
“If you believe the tales. I presume you saw the bloodstains out there on the floor? The two original owners of the coffee-importing concern killed each other in an argument. One was stabbed and as he fell he evidently pushed his former partner down the stairs, where he broke his neck. Both the downstairs tenants, Mr. Leverich and Captain Donaghan, have said that on several occasions they’ve heard heavy boots on the floor and ghostly voices tangled in discord. That does tend to keep a space vacant. Oh, Hudson, that reminds me. We need to find a railing for the stairs.”
“My thought as well,” Greathouse said. “I don’t want Corbett pushing me down the steps in an argument over who has the largest beans.”
“I can see you two will get along famously. But most important, to the both of you…I expect professionalism and results. I expect you to go forward, even when the road is uncertain. I expect…” Mrs. Herrald hesitated, and then she offered Matthew a half-smile that overcame the last remnant of sad memory in her eyes.
“Your best,” she said.
There was nothing left to do here until the brush and broom finished their work and the furniture turned a vacant space into an office. Matthew’s mind was already turning away, focusing on first Westerwicke and then Philadelphia and-specifically-a lawyer named Icabod Primm.
He felt answers-to the identity of the Queen of Bedlam, the unmasking of the Masker, and the purpose of Simon Chapel-were close at hand, but for this task he needed a good-luck charm by the name of Berry Grigsby.
Matthew followed Hudson Greathouse and Mrs. Herrald down to the street. As he was last out the door, he was the one who thought he heard at his back not ghostly wrangling but rather the small sigh of some watchful soul who was also intrigued by things to come.
Thirty-Eight
Berry leaned forward, her face radiant in the early morning light that streamed through the window. She was deep in concentration, a single furrow between her brows, her eyes fixed first on her subject and then the pad of paper held on a lap desk across her knees. The tip of her charcoal pencil was ready, but her hand was not.
Matthew watched the copper gleam in her thick red hair, and found himself admiring the way it fell about her shoulders. Natural, without artifice. A single ivory comb served to restrain any errant curls from tumbling over her forehead. He saw her in profile from his position in the room, and wondered how that firm jawline and narrow, slightly upturned nose could have been born from Marmaduke Grigsby’s comical flesh. Matthew enjoyed looking at her. The blue eyes had taken on a hint of steel, as they surveyed and calculated. She wore today what she’d worn yesterday, a light sand-colored dress with white lace trailing along the sleeves and decorating the cuffs. Not the most comfortable attire for a day-long horseback ride, but she’d obviously had riding experience-probably in the company of that young equestrian with the broken tailbone, Matthew surmised-and had managed the trip without complaint. Wearing the round-brimmed straw hat at a sporty angle on her head and the way she kept her steed apace with Matthew’s horse Dante, she might have passed for a highwayman’s dolly. He was pleased that she’d agreed to come. It wasn’t every girl who would’ve done it, as the road between New York and the Westerwicke asylum was no easy jaunt.
One more check between subject and paper, and then Berry’s pencil moved to make a single curved line. She had begun her portrait of the Queen of Bedlam. Matthew glanced over at the two doctors, Ramsendell and Hulzen, who stood at one side of the room watching the procedure. Hulzen was smoking his clay pipe, puffing thin clouds of smoke that drifted out the window, while Ramsendell had one arm hooked under the other elbow and his bearded chin supported by a thumb.
Matthew’s watch reported the time as four minutes after eight o’clock. When he and Berry had arrived yesterday, Saturday, it had been almost dark. She hadn’t wanted to do the task by candleglow. Matthew had told the doctors that he wished to take a likeness of the lady to Philadelphia as a means of identification, and when they’d assented he’d asked if Berry could do her drawing in the morning light, as Berry had said that would be the optimum as far as getting the details down. Then he and Berry had found two rooms at the Constant Friend, eaten supper at Mrs. DePaul’s, and gone to bed equally saddle-sore but equally excited about the work to be done. In fact, a half-bottle of port had been required to unwind Matthew enough for sleep to take him.
The morning light illuminated also the face of the lady who sat mute and motionless in the high-backed dark purple chair. She stared out as before, her soft brown eyes directed toward the garden. Everyone else in the room- indeed, in the entire world-might have been a phantasm, unworthy of note. As before, her cloud of white hair was neatly brushed. Her unadorned hands gripped the armrests. She wore the pink slippers decorated with small bows. The only difference at this meeting was that her frail body was wrapped up in a silken homegown not pink as a rose but instead the color of the yellow butterflies that fluttered back and forth amid the garden’s flowers. To say she was absolutely motionless was not exactly true, for again her lips moved every so often, as if posing to herself unanswerable questions.
Berry sat where she could catch the lady’s profile, just as she’d drawn her grandfather’s.
Draw who? she’d asked at the kitchen table on Friday evening.
The face of a woman in an asylum for the mentally infirm, Matthew had told her. At Westerwicke. That would be New Jersey, a trip of about thirty miles.
An asylum? Marmaduke Grigsby had quivered, scenting a story over the smell of the chicken livers on his plate. What woman? Matthew, what secrets are you keeping from me?
No secrets. I told you I’ve joined the Herrald Agency and their purpose is the solving of problems. Well, one problem is that the doctors at this asylum wish to put an identity to an unknown woman. How to do that, without first a description? And what better description to offer than a portrait? He’d then turned his attention to the girl. I’ll pay you something, if you think you can do it.
Of course I can do it, Berry had replied. I used to go out every weekend to the park and find people to draw. If I happened to sell a portrait, more the better. What, did you think I just did the landscapes?
I don’t know about this, Grigsby had said with a scowl. It sounds dangerous. Mad people and all. And a day’s ride to New Jersey? Absolutely not! No, I refuse to give my approval.
