excellent reputation as a business lawyer but who had, as the magistrate had heard from Pollard, dallied with one banker’s wife too many and paid for his sins by expulsion from the gentlemen’s club. It was assumed he was doing penance in the colony until he might attempt a comeback in the grander arena, but at the ripe age of twenty-eight Kippering-lean and wolfishly handsome, two days past a shave, a comma of thick black hair fallen over his forehead and his eyes so icy blue the expression from them was nearly fearsome-was obviously not ready for the embrace of a leather armchair when there were painted dollies prancing about and the wine flowed smooth and dark from tavern casks. Neither was he in a hurry to join the best-dressed list, for his plain black suit, simple white shirt, and scuffed black shoes had seen better years.
Kippering caught the young woman’s hand before it reached his jewels and firmly but gently confined it with his own. “I’ve given advice to the reverend. Not anything concerning his daughter. But he felt compelled for whatever reason to inform me of the impending situation.”
“You mean our marriage?”
Kippering shuddered. “Please restrain the profanity.”
“This isn’t a place the good reverend might approve of for his future son-in-law,” said Pollard, as his mouth spread into a sly smile. “Do you think?”
“Probably not,” Matthew spoke up, “but the food’s good and cheap. I’ve eaten here many times. Besides, my friend and I are seeking privacy, which I believe can be found in the back room.”
“Of course. I would inquire what might be so furtively private between a magistrate’s clerk and a reverend’s future son-in-law, visiting the back room of a den such as this, but then I’d be over-stepping my bounds, wouldn’t I?”
“Come off your horse, Joplin!” Kippering scowled. “The young man’s not married yet! Since he’s so determined to go down the road to disaster, he ought to be praised for his courage. Hell, I wouldn’t have the guts to ask that crow for his daughter’s hand. Would you?”
“Sir!” said John, with a heat in his voice that made Matthew think violence might be imminent. “I’d ask you not to refer to Reverend Wade in that disrespectful manner.”
“Apologies, no harm meant.” Kippering lifted his tankard. “It’s the ale talking.”
“Yes,” said Pollard, “and that loquacious ale is going to get you skewered someday. But listen, Corbett. About Robert Deverick. He was my client, you know.”
“Our client,” Kippering amended.
“Yes, our client. And I might add our best client. You saw him stretched out there in the street. Terrible way for a man of his means to go.”
“A terrible way for any man to go,” Matthew said. He winced as another holler and harumpdedoo from the dice table blasted his eardrums. Across the way, someone was cursing a foul blue streak at one of the card games.
“Any ideas about it?” Pollard asked. “I mean, your being so fresh on the scene, according to Lillehorne. And since you seemed to have such an opinion on the enforcement of law before our dandy new governor.”
“No ideas other than the obvious. I would ask if you knew of any enemies Mr. Deverick had.” It was a shot in the dark since he doubted Deverick would have greeted an enemy with a handshake, but it was at least a starting- point.
“We’ve already covered that one with Lillehorne.” Kippering was trying to hold the prostitute back from going through his coat pockets; it was like trying to get a firm grip on a weasel. “Deverick has had his business enemies, yes. In London, though. He’s had supply problems from some unreliable merchants whom we’ve had to threaten with lawsuits, but nothing went beyond the point of sword-rattling. That’s all.”
“There must be something else.”
Pollard said, “You must be wondering then if Dr. Godwin had enemies, if indeed as I understand it the same maniac murdered both men. But then again, does a maniac need a reason for murder?” He answered his own question: “Absolutely not!”
“I’m wondering,” Matthew said, “if the Masker may be not so much a maniac as a clever individual hiding a motive.”
“What kind of motive?” Kippering asked, though his attention was divided. Being unsuccessful at looting her companion’s pockets, the prostitute now began to kiss and lick his neck.
“I have no idea, but I’d like to know if there is some connection between Dr. Godwin and Mr. Deverick. Do you know of any?”
Another uproar came from the gamblers, some bitter loser slammed a hand down on a card table, a prostitute wearing a high crimson wig and white facepaint slid past Matthew like a jungle cat and pinched his behind on the way, and then Pollard turned back toward the dice game and shouted over the noise of wagering, “Don’t roll those ’til I get my bet in! Who’s got the throw? Wyndham?”
“I can’t think of a connection,” said Kippering, who had his hands full with his squirmy minx. “They weren’t doctor and patient, if that’s what you’re assuming. Neither was Dr. Godwin a client of ours.”
Matthew shrugged. “I didn’t think it would be that simple, anyway. We’d best go. Good evening to you.”
“Evening to you both,” he managed to respond. “And good luck with…whatever your business might be.” Then he got a lockhold on the girl and also turned to rejoin the hubbub.
The room at the back of the Thorn Bush was at the end of a short corridor where a sign was posted on the wall reading No Gambling, No Women Allowed. It was the tavern’s stab at a “dining-room” for gentlemen where business might be discussed in relative quiet. True, the noise from the gamblers still carried in, but it was at least tolerable. The room was dimly lit by a few lanterns. Three other men sat together at one of the six tables, which were set far apart for the sake of privacy. The trio were all puffing long clay churchwarden pipes and were wreathed with smoke, their conversations serious and muted; none of them even glanced up as the new arrivals entered. Matthew and John Five sat at a table on the opposite side of the room, furthermost from the door.
Before they got completely settled, the barmaid came in with their glasses of port and left again. Matthew spent a moment rubbing what looked like a dried clump of food off the rim of his glass. He hoped it wasn’t the beef brains.
John Five took a long drink of his wine and then said, “I couldn’t figure who else to go to, Matthew. When Constance told me, I said she shouldn’t be worryin’. I said things would work themselves out, but…I don’t know, Matthew. It’s not gettin’ any better.”
“You ought to start at the beginning,” Matthew advised.
“She says it started back about a month ago. Late May, early June. Her father always liked to walk, around sundown. Said it helped him breathe. She never took a mind to it. But all of a sudden he was goin’ out later and later. Now it’s after ten o’clock most nights. And then when he gets back, he’s…” John hesitated, obviously uncomfortable with this direction.
“Go on,” Matthew urged. “He is what?”
“Different,” John said. He swirled the port around in his glass and drank again. “Constance said he was…is… dark-spirited when he comes back. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Does she mean he’s angry? Melancholy?”
“That, I guess. If it means sad. Or just…I don’t know…like he didn’t want to go where he went, but that he had to. Listen, Matthew.” John looked across the table at his friend, the expression in his eyes at once steadfastly serious and almost pleading. “None of this can get out. I know many around here think William Wade’s a stiff- backed Bible-thumper, but he’s never been anythin’ but kind to me. Constance loves him dearly, and accordin’ to her there could be no better father. And he’s a smart man, too. Not just about religious things, either. He goes fishin’ every chance he gets, did you know that?”
“I didn’t.”
“Yep. Got his own favorite spot up at the end of Wind Mill Lane. I’ve gone with him, of a Saturday mornin’. He can talk about anythin’ you please. He can read the weather, and he’s raised a garden back behind their house that would knock Granny Coquer flat down.”
“Really?” That was impressive, since at eighty-three years Granny Coquer-who had been all of fifteen when she arrived in Dutch New Amsterdam-was growing tomatoes, corn, beans, and melons that brought a mob to her stall at the farmers’ market.
“What I’m sayin’ is, Reverend Wade is not one of those wild men who pass through town from time to time, yellin’ ‘fear God’ at the top of their lungs and robbin’ every Peter, Paul, and Mary they can get their touch on. Do you
