still doing business, as muffled shouts from the patrons could be heard through the door above which hung a sign with a painted white-pupiled eye. As was said, whatever happened at the Blind Eye, no one saw it.
On crossing Broad Street, the reverend angled his course slightly to the south and entered narrow Petticoat Lane.
Matthew followed, noting that Wade’s pace had slowed. They went past the shuttered shops and silent houses, yet on the night air came a woman’s laughter like the sound of silver coins falling upon the cobblestones.
Standing at about the middle of Petticoat Lane, on the right-hand side of the street and separated from the surrounding structures by shoulder-high hedges, was a two-story brick house painted rose pink. It was a handsome place, originally built by a Dutch fur exporter, with tall windows under a gabled roof and two chimneys, one on each end of the house. As Matthew watched, the reverend stopped in the street directly in front of the house and stared up at it, his lantern down by his side. The wash of candles shone through the gauzy curtains that hung at the windows, and Matthew could see the movement of shadows within.
Reverend Wade remained where he was. Matthew realized the man had reached his destination, and was simply staring at the house with an expression that was impossible to read.
It was the house of Polly Blossom. Beyond those walls lived, as Matthew understood, anywhere from four to eight doxies, depending on who told the story. Madam Blossom was a hard taskmaster who groomed her ladies for their role, demanding a certain amount of work from them and a certain amount of income in return for their lodging. She herself was not above the labor in the case of special customers. Matthew knew nothing of her history, other than that she’d come from London to set up shop in 1694. Many young doves of unfortunate circumstance had lodged there, and of course a multitude of men had passed through. It was a fact of life, and hardly anyone in New York cast a bitter eye or word toward the house since Madam Blossom made a point of donating so much money to public works, such as upkeep of the wells.
But that was that and this was this: what was Reverend Wade doing here, of all places?
Matthew had the sudden horror that the reverend was going to go through the pink-painted iron gate between the hedges, climb the steps to the front door, and knock to make his entry; then Matthew would hold knowledge that would damn the man in this town. Enlightened as New York might be, it would not breach a man of God dallying with prostitutes. But abruptly the door opened, a man came out to the stoop and turned to speak to a woman behind him, and just that quickly Reverend Wade had vanished off the street. Matthew as well pressed against the doorway of the house at his back. In a moment footsteps approached, the recent customer of the Blossom enterprise walked past trailing smoke from his pipe, and Matthew thought this is where the Masker ought to stand if he wished to kill men who were half-dazed and the other half addled.
Slowly and carefully, Matthew looked out again along Petticoat Lane. The reverend was nowhere in sight. Gone, Matthew thought. But no, no…he couldn’t have just disappeared like that. Matthew waited, as about fifteen seconds passed.
Then there came a little blush of lamplight and Wade emerged from between two houses like a snail from its shell. In fact, he only showed his head and shoulders. Again, he kept the lantern well down so as to spread the light across the cobbles. He just seemed to be staring at the Blossom house as if transfixed.
Now what was the matter here? Matthew wondered. He was still terrified that he was about to witness a minister’s fall, yet if Wade was enthralled by one or more of the ladies here and he made these regular journeys then why did he not just go in?
Because there was something more than just the walk and the house, Matthew decided. There was Dr. Vanderbrocken and the woman who’d been waiting at the corner. There was urgency, and secrecy, and…
And there was the fact that Matthew saw Reverend Wade lean his head against the stones of the house beside him, saw the man cover his eyes, and heard him give a quiet yet soul-broken sob.
Matthew felt shame at witnessing this scene. He stared down at the sidewalk bricks. This whole thing had taken a bent that made him wish he’d never agreed to it. Now he was part of the secret too, and because he knew his own nature of counting the angels on the heads of pins he knew he would have to find out why Wade sobbed before a house where tears were never shed.
In another moment he heard the sound of footsteps, coming closer. The reverend was on the move again. Matthew looked up and saw Wade following his light on the other side of the street, retracing his path back the way he’d come. Matthew realized he was in danger of being revealed by the wash of light if Wade happened to lift the lantern in his direction; he flattened himself against the doorway and held his breath.
The reverend continued on, his face downcast. Whatever worry-or trouble, as John Five had expressed it-was such a burden on the man that he looked neither right nor left but passed by Matthew, who had taken the attitude of a statue. He crossed Broad Street, and only then did Matthew dare to move. From the corner Matthew watched him enter Princes Street, probably retracing his path back home.
Matthew had no more heart for following anyone this night. He wished only to go home, perhaps read something that would set him to slumber, and wake up with the sunlight. He started north on Broad Street, which was deserted except for a moving lantern a few blocks up at Wall Street. That, too, disappeared in a westerly direction.
What to do about this information weighed heavily on Matthew’s mind. When John Five wished to know where the reverend had been, what was he to say? He had no certainty that Wade went and stood before Polly Blossom’s house every night. But in this case, once was enough. What possible motive could there be for a man of God to-
A walking-stick covered with black knobs suitable to knock someone’s brains out was thrust at Matthew, who was struck hard on the left collarbone and sent reeling.
“I knew it was you! You little bastard! I knew it!”
The stick had come from the left, around the corner of Silas Jansen’s credit-and-loans office at the meeting of Broad and Barrack streets. Now behind it and into the weak light of the fading cornerpost lamp staggered Eben Ausley, who had somewhere tonight lost his wig. His face was puffed and florid. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and wet the strands of gray hair stuck to his scalp. At his side he held a lantern, the candle of which was barely a flickering nub behind the glass. His mouth twisted and he held the stick up for a more brutal blow. “I told you not to follow me, didn’t I? Damn your soul, I’ll teach you a lesson!”
Matthew easily sidestepped the strike. “Stop it,” he said.
“You don’t command me! How dare you!” Again the stick was lifted and swung, but this time Ausley lost his balance and fell back against Jansen’s wall. Ausley stood there enraged, his chest heaving, but his liquid amusements had put lead in his legs. “I’ll kill you,” he managed to croak. “See you dead and buried before I’m done!”
“I don’t think so,” Matthew answered. He thought that if he liked he could wrest that stick away from Ausley and give him some bruises to count tomorrow. He could beat the man over the head so hard people would think his new wig was purple and lumpy. He could knock Ausley’s legs out from under him and smash that ugly face with a good, soul-satisfying kick.
But the problem was, his soul didn’t need that kind of satisfaction.
There were no stomperboys around. No constables either. This was Matthew’s chance to take revenge on behalf of all those who’d suffered at the orphanage. Revenge for himself, too, for being too weak to do anything when he’d walked out of the Sainted John Home for Boys in the employ of Magistrate Woodward. Now he could have what he’d thought about and planned for so long; he could take a pound of flesh for all of them, including Nathan Spencer.
“I saw you following me!” Ausley seethed, unsteady on his feet and in his senses. “Back there when I left the Admiral! Well here I am, then! What the hell do you want?”
It was a good question, but Matthew felt the need to address the accusation first. “I haven’t been following you. And I haven’t even been near the Old Admiral tonight.”
“You dirty liar! I saw you step back around the corner!”
“I doubt you can see straight, but it wasn’t me. In fact,” said Matthew, “I don’t really care to waste any more time on you.” He realized it was true even as he spoke it; he had a direction now, and a purpose with the Herrald Agency. Why should he spend a moment longer even speaking to this vile animal?
But Ausley pulled himself up to his full height, be that still considerably shorter than Matthew, and he attempted some dignity. He thrust his collection of chins out and forced his thin mouth into a replica of a smile.
