atop his stack of correspondence. “Mrs. Herrald didn’t inform you?” he asked. “Of her history?”
“She told me her husband began the agency. I understood that he is deceased. Is there something more I should know?” It came to him then. “Ah. You and Mrs. Herrald knew each other in London. That’s why she sent the messenger. Was the messenger Mr. Greathouse?”
“It was Hudson, yes.”
“You’re on the basis of first names with him? That’s an impressive feat. I assume you had some dealings with Mrs. Herrald, then?”
The magistrate summoned up a crooked smile. “Now I see what it’s like to be on the witness stand. Shall I plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the court, Mr. Prosecutor?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Matthew had to smile as well, more to hide his embarrassment than to display humor. “I do get carried away.”
“So I constantly note. To answer, I did know Katherine Herrald in London. I met her when Rich brought her to a Saturday supper at the fraternity.”
“Rich?”
“Richard Herrald. He was a member of my law fraternity at Cambridge. Damned good tennis player, too. Almost as good as myself. And he became an excellent lawyer, specializing in criminal prosecution for the city. Yes, he brought that beautiful Katherine Taylor to the Saturday supper and afterward all the lot of us put down bets as to when they’d be married. I lost, but not by much.”
“What happened to Mr. Herrald?”
Again, the magistrate focused false attention on his papers. Matthew knew there was definitely something he wished to say, but perhaps decorum forbade it. “I think,” Powers said at last, “that Mrs. Herrald should answer your question.”
“But the part about the ‘shared enemies,’” Matthew persisted. “Shouldn’t you answer that one?” He remembered to give due respect. “Sir.”
“I should,” Powers agreed. He said nothing more for a moment, staring into space. Then: “But my answer hinges upon Mrs. Herrald’s, and so I leave it to her.”
“Sir, I’m not asking for a legal decree. I’m asking only for-”
“If you’re not out of this office in five seconds,” Powers said, “I should think your mouth could dictate these letters to the quill of Mackfinay’s clerk. So are you going, or are you staying?”
“Going.”
“Then be gone.”
The door closed at Matthew’s back.
On the way out he nearly ran into Chief Prosecutor Bynes once again, so he had to hold his progress until the man had descended the stairs. Then he went down and walked into the bright midmorning sunlight. With an eye in the back of his head he entered the stream of citizens coming and going, ducked around a haywagon and started up Smith Street for the apothecary.
Matthew couldn’t help but linger under the apothecary’s red-striped awning and again examine the ground where Deverick had fallen. He’d found nothing yesterday, and today found the same. So it was into the apothecary, with its counter behind which were shelves of elixir bottles, heartburn chalk, various tree barks to treat fevers, calamine lotion, leech jars, dental powder, crushed flowers and herbs, medicinal vinegars and the like, and after a short time of speaking to Mr. Oosterhout he came back onto the street with a small paper-wrapped vial of yarrow oil which he was to apply twice a day. He turned right at the intersection of Smith and King, which took him unfortunately past Eben Ausley’s domain-which to him looked no kinder by sun than by the dark of the moon-and to the printmaster’s shop.
Soon he was in the company of Marmaduke Grigsby, who already had been scribing articles and from them arranging the small blocks of metal typeface in their sticks. The device of note, at the center of the most sun- illuminated room, was a bulky old monster that might have been used by the hand of Gutenberg himself. Looking at such a contraption, it was hard to believe it was the medium by which parchment sheets pressed with lamp-black and linseed varnish ink went out announcing events and proclaiming news to the citizens.
“Come to help with the type, I hope?” Grigsby asked. “Then if all goes well we can get to the pressing tomorrow.”
“I have this.” Matthew gave him the envelope, and waited as it was opened.
Grigsby read it carefully. “The Herrald Agency? Letters of inquiry to go to the Dock House Inn? What’s this about?”
“For you, money.” Matthew opened his wallet and offered one of the remaining silvers. “Will that do for a one-time announcement?”
“Of course!” Grigsby examined the coin so closely Matthew thought he was going to eat it. “What’s this in the notice, though? ‘Problem-solving’? What kind of problems?”
“Just run the notice as it is, if you please. I’m sure it will speak for itself to those who have an interest.”
“All right, then. Now come sit down at the desk and let me get some fresh paper. I want to hear your story of how you came to find Deverick’s body.” Grigsby held up a hand before Matthew could protest. “I know you weren’t first on the scene, but my interview with Phillip Covey was less than substantial. I want to know your impressions of the moment, and what McCaggers told you about the Masker. Come, come! Sit down!”
As Matthew took a seat in the cane-backed chair, he was fitfully aware of McCaggers advising him to guard his information and of Bynes’ more forceful advice at City Hall. He waited until the printmaster was ready with a dipped quill, and then he said, “I can give you my impressions of the moment true enough, but I have to refrain from repeating anything told me by the coroner.”
Grigsby’s thick white eyebrows began to convulse. “Oh no, Matthew! Not you, as well!”
“Me as well what?”
“You’re not turning against me, are you? Hiding information that Lillehorne wants kept from public view? Or is it Magistrate Powers who’s choked your chain?”
Matthew shook his head. “You know me better than that. McCaggers simply pointed out that it might not be in the best interest of the investigation to divulge any more about the Masker.”
“Ah!” Grigsby leaned over the paper. “Then he did use the name again?”
“I believe he made it clear he thinks the killer of both men is one and the same.”
“Then Masker it is!” said Grigsby, spraying spittle upon the paper as he began to scribe with a fury only a writer might know.
Matthew winced, hearing in his mind the awesome thunder that would break from Bynes’ mouth when the chief prosecutor read this article. “McCaggers didn’t use that term, exactly. I’m not sure it’s wise to-”
“Nonsense!” came the quick, clipped retort. “The Gazette would use it, and if it’s good enough for the Gazette, it’s good enough for the Earwig!” He dipped his quill again. “Now, let’s have your story from the beginning.”
An hour later, Matthew left the printmaster’s shop so worn down by Grigsby’s constant grinding that, being as fuddled as he was from his poor night’s sleep, he wasn’t sure what he’d told the man or what he’d kept secret. Grigsby could take a one-sentence comment and craft a paragraph out of it. Matthew had had to beg off helping any further, due not so much to a pain in his shoulder as to a pain in the neck, and Grigsby had been disappointed but had vowed to get Effrem Owles to help with the pressing on Friday.
Matthew walked home, was impressed by Hiram Stokely to sweep the pottery, and, as he felt it his duty to work for his lodging, he did the sweeping vigorously and without complaint. His labor was at first more strenuous than it might have been, for he had to continually dodge Cecily’s snorting round-rosies and snout-shoves to his knees until Stokely had mercy on him and put the pig outside. At last Matthew was done and declared his intention to retire to his loft and catch a nap, though his progress up the ladder to the trapdoor was momentarily delayed while he assured the potter he wasn’t ill and did not need a doctor.
In his room, Matthew opened the window to allow the warm air exit, took off his coat and shirt, and applied yarrow oil to his right forearm and shoulder. Even thinking about what he was going to have to do on Saturday wore him out. He was a mental spirit, not a sportsman or swordsman. It was ridiculous, to have to go through such labors that would never suit him were he to practice with a rapier ten hours a day for a month. How did anyone ever learn to use a weapon like that, anyway? They had to start off with arms and constitutions like iron.
I think you’ve let yourself go to rot, Hudson Greathouse had said.
