shutters, and above the door was a carved sign that read M. Grigsby, Printer. Alongside the house was a small brick outbuilding, a cool house with a step-down floor that had once been a Dutch dairy, where Grigsby kept supplies of paper, ink, and sundry press parts.
“Will you at least think about it?” Grigsby asked on the front step. “I do need your help in this situation.”
“I’ll give it some thought, but no promises.”
“Splendid! That’s all I can expect. Well, thank you for your company and the light.” He fished his key from his pocket and hesitated with one hand on the latch. “Listen to me, now. You be careful going home. Very careful. Understand?”
“I do, and thank you.”
“All right. See me on Thursday, if at all possible, and let’s get to work on the next sheet.”
Matthew said goodnight and started for home, heading north on Queen Street along the river. There were many things in his mind this early morning, but he found himself pondering the situation of Grigsby’s granddaughter. For one thing, he hoped the ship hadn’t gone down in a storm. Three weeks late? Of course wind and currents could be fickle, but still…
He knew the real reason he didn’t care to become involved with squiring Beryl Grigsby around, and it shamed him because it was purely selfish yet perfectly understandable. He thought Marmaduke hung the moon, but the printmaster’s misshapen figure and strange characteristics-from spraying spittle between those gaping teeth to gong-farting-were not the most desirable to find in a young girl. In fact, Matthew shuddered to think what manner of gnome Beryl might be. There was a reason she was on a ship crossing the stormy Atlantic toward a rude colonial town, and it likely had little to do with a fire at a Marylebone school.
Besides, he was too busy for such galavanting. Too busy by far.
Right now he only wanted to get this damned bloody shirt off, wash his face, and get to bed. There was the widow Muckleroy’s testimony to take at ten o’clock-oh, what a task that was going to be!-and then at one o’clock the real mystery Matthew looked forward to solving: the identity and purpose of Mrs. Katherine Herrald.
Though his lantern candle expired well before he got to safety and his vivid imagination told him he was being stalked by a figure who remained perhaps twenty yards behind, content to wait for another night, he reached the pottery shop without incident and climbed up the ladder and through the trapdoor to the security of his own humble kingdom.
Nine
As the devil was beating his wife, Matthew entered the red-carpeted lobby of the Dock House Inn through a pair of doors with insets of frosted glass. It was a handsome structure of red and black brick, three floors tall, built in 1688 where an earlier inn, the Van Pouwelson, had stood before being gutted by a fire. The walls within were dark oak, the sturdy furniture crafted for those who appreciated the difference between necessity and comfort. In a vaulted alcove stood a spinet adorned with paintings drawn from scenes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and used in well-attended concerts played by several local musicians. Everything about the Dock House Inn, from its rich Oriental carpets to its oil portraits of famed New York business leaders, spoke of affluence and influence. It was difficult to realize that less than a hundred yards from the entrance the hulls of masted ships ground against the pilings and rats skittered under the boots of the sweating cargo crews.
Matthew had worn his best dark blue suit, white cravat, white shirt, and silver-buttoned waistcoat for his interview today with Mrs. Herrald. The rain that had showered from a sunny sky-the tears of the Devil’s wife as she was being beaten, said the Dutch folk-had managed to catch him on Broad Street, just around the corner. His hair was drenched and his coat soaked across the shoulders, for thus had been the weather this day as clouds had passed before the sun, spat rain upon the town, and moved on. The sun had steamed the streets, the clouds had gathered, and the Devil’s wife had cried again, and on and on since midmorning.
He had no time now to concern himself with his sodden appearance. It was enough that he make an appearance, since a broken-down timber wagon had snarled cart and pedestrian traffic on his route and disrupted his schedule enough to throw him at least three minutes late. Four times between the Gold Compass, where he and Magistrate Powers had eaten lunch, and the Dock House Inn he’d been stopped by acquaintances who wished to know more about his experiences of the night before. Of course it seemed everyone in town knew about the murder of Mr. Deverick, to the extent that Matthew was left wondering of what use was a proper broadsheet when word- of-mouth travelled at such speed. Even the widow Muckleroy, at ten o’clock this morning, had been more constant in her inquiries about the murder than she’d been in her testimony concerning the stolen bedsheets. In truth, the magistrate had been so disturbed by Matthew’s story-and the evidence that the so-called “Masker” had done another deed-that he barely seemed able to focus on the woman’s responses.
Powers had wished Matthew luck but had offered no further information concerning his appointment. Now Matthew pushed back his rain-wet hair, ran a finger across his teeth to clear away any remnant of the codfish pie he’d eaten, and approached the elaborately bewigged Mr. Vincent at the ledger desk, behind which a pendulum clock with a dial displaying the astrological signs showed Matthew as indeed being three minutes late.
“Matthew Corbett to see Mrs. Katherine Herrald,” Matthew said.
“Mrs. Herrald is waiting in the parlor,” came the stiff answer, from the rather stiff-necked proprietor. “That way.” He flicked a finger.
“Thank you.”
“Uh…one moment, young man. Have I heard correctly that you were fresh on the scene of that tragedy last night?”
“I was, sir, but please pardon me, I have to go.” As he spoke, Matthew was already on his way toward the other side of the lobby, where two steps led up to a closed set of double doors and the parlor beyond.
“Mind that you stop back by when you’re done!” What might have been a request became a command when spoken by the imperial Gilliam Vincent. “Mr. Deverick was a very good friend to the Dock House!”
Matthew walked up the steps, started to open the doors but then decided to knock first.
“Enter,” came a woman’s voice.
For better or for worse, Matthew thought. He took a deep breath and went in.
If the lobby was refined, the parlor was opulent with its maroon-colored fabric wall coverings, its stone fireplace with a small mantel-clock, and its cowhide-upholstered chairs. A gaming table, complete with marble chessboard, stood in the light of a paned glass window from which one could view the shipmasts and harbor activity just beyond. This was the room where businessmen representing London, Amsterdam, Barbados, Cuba, South America, and greater Europe met to weigh the bags of money and sign agreements. On a desk under an artist’s landscape of New York was a row of quill pens in leather sheaths, and it was the dark red-upholstered chair of this desk where the woman sat, turned to view the doorway.
She stood up as Matthew entered, which took him by surprise because usually a gentlewoman remained seated and allowed the man to advance, offering her hand-or the quick flip of a painted fan-as a gesture of recognition. But then she was on her feet and Matthew saw she was almost as tall as himself. He halted his approach to offer a courteous bow.
“You are late,” the woman said, in a quiet voice that was not as accusatory as simply making the honest statement.
“Yes, madam,” Matthew answered. He thought perhaps two seconds about offering an excuse, but he decided the fact spoke for itself. “I apologize.”
“Then again, you did have an interesting night, did you not? I’m sure those circumstances might have had some effect upon your progress.”
“You know about last night?”
“Mr. Vincent informed me. It seems Mr. Deverick was a well-respected individual.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Unfortunately, however,” said Mrs. Herrald with a slight pause, “not so well-liked.” She motioned with a lavender-gloved hand toward a chair situated to her left. “Would you sit here, please?”
As Matthew sat down, Mrs. Herrald seated herself and so Matthew had a few seconds to complete an examination of her that had begun as soon as he’d entered the room.
She wore a lavender-colored gown with small white ruffles at the throat and over it a deep purple jacket
