chess pieces.
He turned left onto Wall Street, passing City Hall, and then right on Broad Street. Between Barrack and Beaver, he went up three front steps to a door with a brass knocker, proclaimed himself like the hand of justice, and waited beneath the sign that read Pollard, Fitzgerald, and Kippering, Attorneys.
The door opened within a few seconds and a pallid-faced man with thinning brown hair and thick-lensed spectacles peered out, as if uncomfortable with the light of day. Matthew had always thought Bryan Fitzgerald looked like a mole.
“Good morning,” the lawyer said. Across his chest he held a sheaf of papers that had obviously just been pulled from a file cabinet. His shirt was marred by a small inkstain and his fingernails were chewed to the quick. He might be the one who did all the work and was well paid for it, Matthew recalled the widow Sherwyn saying, but Fitzgerald was probably more mule than mole. Fitzgerald adjusted his glasses. “Mr. Corbett, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir. May I come in?”
“Of course.” He stepped back as Matthew entered and then closed the door, again as if sunlight and fresh air were the enemies to solid Puritan productivity. “How may I help you?”
“I was actually hoping to see Mr. Kippering today. Is he in yet?”
“Well…he’s…” Fitzgerald cast a glance up the narrow stairs. Then he whispered, “I don’t think he went home last night.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. He’s…well, I’m not sure he’s able to see a client this morning. Mr. Pollard should be back any minute. Would you care to wait for him?”
“I won’t take very long.” Matthew withdrew the notebook from his coat. “May I give this to Mr. Kippering?”
Fitzgerald reached out for it. “I’ll be glad to make sure he-”
“No, thank you,” Matthew said firmly, and gripped his fingers tight. “This is something I think he’d wish to see for-”
“Myself,” said the man who had come out of his office at the height of the stairs.
“Yes sir,” Matthew answered him, with a steady and fearless gaze. “As I’d hoped.”
Kippering did not move. He had one hand pressed against the wall beside him and the other clutching the decorative carved pineapple that topped the staircase railing. His face was masked by shadow. He wore black breeches that were shiny at the knees and the white of his stockings had faded to yellow as had his shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, but Matthew was certain it was not to welcome the energy of the day but to keep his cuffs from mopping up spilled liquor by night. Matthew figured there was a bottle or two up there, and plenty of dead ones tucked away. Kippering had killed a few of them last night, it appeared, for now he began to come slowly and unsteadily down the stairs, holding on to that railing like a lifeline.
“Bryan,” he said in a creaky, tired voice, “will you do me a great favor?”
“Yes, Andrew?”
“I haven’t had breakfast. Would you be so kind as to fetch me something from Sally Almond’s?”
And then the light from a small oval window above the door caught Kippering’s face, and Matthew had to draw a breath because he felt as if he’d been punched in the ribs. The young man who was in such a hurry to kill himself appeared at least three-quarters arrived at the graveyard. It had been over a week since Matthew had last seen him, but how could a human being have become so aged and infirm in such little time? Kippering was slope- shouldered and unkempt, his black hair oily and uncombed and the icy blue eyes now only so much cold and murky water. His face, once wolfishly handsome, now seemed only starved. The lines had deepened and the hollows darkened and his jaw was burdened with a beard that might have broken a razor. He looked twenty-eight years old and a century. Matthew was shocked to see that there was even the slight shaking of palsy to Kippering’s head.
“What is today?” Kippering frowned, seeking the answer in a brain that may have begun to mold. “Thursday? Ah, then.” He attempted a smile that was no less than horrid. “The raisin cakes will be fresh this morning. Would you go get me two of them, Bryan?”
“I’m gathering the papers for Captain Topping’s case,” Fitzgerald protested, but with a weak spirit. “Joplin will be back soon, and I’m supposed to have everything-”
“Shhhhhh,” Kippering whispered. “It’s all right, Bryan. Really it is. Go to Sally Almond’s while I speak to Mr. Corbett, won’t you? And here.” He reached into his pocket and brought forth some coins, which he pressed into his partner’s palm. “Get yourself a raisin cake, and Joplin one as well. Then do me one more favor.”
“Another favor?”
“Yes, please. While you’re out, go over to see Mr. Garrow at his shop on Duke Street. You know the one?”
“I do. The horn merchant.”
“Yes, and tell him I’m still waiting for the papers he’s supposed to have sent me on Monday. Would you do that? It’s very important.”
“I’m very busy myself,” said Fitzgerald, though the subdued way he spoke it and the fact that he avoided eye contact told Matthew the issue was settled. “All right, then,” he sighed, “if it’s so important.” He trundled into what must have been his own office, a little broomcloset of a space that was nevertheless as neat as a hangman’s noose, and unloaded his papers upon a scarred and battered desk that might have been a refugee from Grigsby’s dairyhouse. Without another word except an exhalation of breath that spoke volumes for the endurance of downtrodden mules, Fitzgerald went to the door, opened it, and paused on the threshold against the morning glare. “Did you say you wanted two cakes, Andrew?”
“Yes, Bryan. Two.”
Fitzgerald closed the door, and Matthew was alone with a walking corpse.
Neither spoke. Then Kippering said, “Don’t you want to keep the door open, Matthew?”
“No, sir. I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“As long as you’re sure.”
“I do want,” Matthew said, finding it difficult to look into the man’s haggard face, “to see something in the cellar.”
“All right, then. Shall I lead the way, or you?”
“If you’ll lead, please?”
“Of course.” Another quick death’s-head smile, and Kippering walked past Matthew to the table on which sat a candle in a pewter holder next to an ivory tinderbox. He got the wick lit, opened the door to the cellar, and descended into the dark on the set of rickety stairs.
Forty-Two
“My congratulations,” said the lawyer, when Matthew had come down the stairs after him. Kippering stood in a meager circle of light, his eyes hooded. “I understand you had a visit with Reverend Wade. He wouldn’t tell me what was said, but obviously you had an influence.”
“Glad to be of help.”
“You’re absolutely sure you wanted to shut that door?”
“Yes.” Before Matthew had followed Kippering down, he’d closed the door at the top of the steps. He didn’t wish to be interrupted if either Pollard came in or Fitzgerald returned from what appeared to Matthew to be a pin- chasing errand, something that had been made up on the spot.
“The last time you were in here,” Kippering reminded him with a tight smile, “you wanted all the doors left open. I thought you might be afraid of me. Would you care for some more light?”
“Always,” Matthew said. He removed his tricorn and put it down atop a stack of boxes.
Kippering walked away a few paces, bent down, and rummaged in the wreckage of old discarded office furniture. He came up with a tin two-candle lantern and lit the wicks from his present flame. Then he reached up and placed the lantern’s handle on a beam hook so that it hung between himself and Matthew. “There,” he said as the illumination spread. “At your command. Now what is it you wish to see?”
“Actually,” Matthew answered, “the stairs themselves.”
