high. The Masker had dragged a barrel over to stand on, and as Matthew shouted again for a constable the dark figure secured the heights, paused to kick over the barrel, and then dropped onto the other side. Matthew heard footsteps running on stones, heading toward the docks.
He righted the barrel, climbed up, and also went over. He landed on the uneven stones of a narrow alley that ran behind the houses and shops of New Street. This was an excellent place to twist an ankle, a fact he could only hope the Masker had already discovered. He continued on along the alleyway but at a walk. His light was almost out, he was breathing hard, and unless the Masker had circled around behind him with intent to claim a second victim this night, the man was gone.
From the sounds of the yelling on Barrack Street, the barking of more dogs, and the calling of neighbors one to another, the entire town was coming awake. If I were the Masker, Matthew thought, I’d call a finish to this night and go to my secure place, wherever that might be. Still, there were many places the Masker could be hidden in ambush as Matthew approached. On the left was a barn. Beside it lay a jumble of debris, old broken buckets, coils of rope, wagon wheels, and the like. On the right was the rear of a store and a root cellar. Matthew tried the root cellar’s door but it was bolted from within. He went on, shining his fading lamp to both sides. Most of the houses and shops had root cellars, and here and there were gates that led either into more Dutch gardens or out to the right onto New Street or to the left onto Broad Street.
As Matthew walked on, his lantern uplifted and the walking-stick thrust out like a rapier, he kept watch for any trace of movement beyond the edges of light. From the noise on Barrack Street, the demise of Eben Ausley had caused either a riot or a party.
The end of the alleyway, which was about as wide as a horse-cart, was not far distant. It opened onto Beaver Street, where Matthew could see the shine of a cornerpost lamp on a glass window. He kept moving his lantern from side to side, looking at the stones for anything the Masker might have dropped in his haste to escape. It would be a good idea, he decided, to retrace the path he’d come. But then again, that was best left to daylight for he was not about to be shot at twice in one night.
And then, quite suddenly, the light showed him something that stopped him in his tracks.
On the handle to a root cellar door on his left was a dark red smear.
He bent over it and examined it more carefully. His heart, which had not had an easy time of it during the last few minutes, began to pound anew. It was a small smear, yes. But it was wet and fresh, and it might have come from a bloody glove.
He hooked a finger under the door’s handle and tried to lift it, but it was locked. He stepped back and looked at the structure. A two-story brick house or a shop of some kind? It was hard to tell from here. No lights shone in any of the windows. He found a pathway to the front and a wrought-iron gate that opened onto Broad Street. Just as he was about to go through, two men with lanterns came running past on their way to, presumably, the murder scene. He decided to give them time to make some distance, as he didn’t wish to be either interrupted or assaulted by some terrified constable. When the men were gone, Matthew emerged through the gate onto Broad Street and looked up at the building before him.
Now he could see illumination, two or three candles’ worth it appeared, up in a room on the second floor. He could also make out the sign on its hooks above the door.
Pollard, Fitzgerald, and Kippering, Attorneys.
Matthew went up the three front steps and used the brass knocker, which sounded equally as loud as the gunshot.
He waited, looking south along Broad Street in case anyone else came running past. There was no reply from within the lawyers’ office, yet upon an appraisal of the upstairs window it did appear that at least one of the candles had moved. Matthew hated to knock again, as the noise sounded as if it could wake the dead, but he was determined to get in.
Perhaps ten seconds passed, with no response. He was about to use his fist when he heard a latch being undone. The door opened, and at that instant the last light of Matthew’s lantern fizzled out.
Another candle was thrust almost into his face.
“You? What the hell do you want?”
Matthew squinted in the glare of a fresh wick. He knew the voice. “I hate to bother you, sir, but I assume you’ve heard a little noise just lately?”
“I have,” said Kippering. “Fools shouting the town down, and what sounded like a gun going off. What’s happened?”
“Haven’t you been curious enough to venture out to see?”
“Should I have been?”
“Do you make a habit of answering a question with a question?”
“When the question is from a clerk at my office door near midnight, yes.” Kippering lowered the candle, which was set in a pewter holder. Matthew noted that the man was wearing the same rather tatty black suit he’d worn at the Thorn Bush, and now Kippering’s appearance matched his clothing. He looked haggard and tired with dark circles under his eyes, his mouth slack and his blue eyes more watery than icy. At that moment three men and a woman were going past on the sidewalk, heading north. Two of the men were armed, one with a musket and the other with an axe. “Here!” Kippering called to them. “What’s happened?”
“Another murder,” answered one of the men. “The Masker’s cut somebody’s head off!” They rushed on, almost gleefully.
“A little exaggeration,” Matthew said, “but centrally true. The Masker has killed Eben Ausley. He’s lying up there on Barrack Street.”
“Who?” Kippering blinked heavily. “The Masker or Ausley?”
“Ausley. Are you ill?”
“A matter of conjecture, I’m sure.” Kippering ran a hand through his thick and unruly hair, and the black comma fell back onto his forehead. “So Ausley’s dead, is he?” He seemed to look at Matthew fully for the first time, and then his gaze found the walking-stick. He took it from Matthew’s hand and examined it more closely in the light. “If I’m not mistaken-and I’m not-this belongs to Ausley. He had it at the Thorn Bush. Almost brained Tom Fletcher. May I ask what you’re doing in possession of it?”
“You may, but first I have to ask if I might inspect your cellar.”
“Inspect my cellar? What are you going on about?”
Matthew said, “I was first on the scene when Ausley was killed. I saw the Masker, just as he’d finished his work. I took the stick as a weapon and chased after him. He led me here.”
“Here?” Kippering scowled. “You’re the one who’s ill, boy.”
“He led me to the alley behind your office. On the door to your root cellar is a blood smear. From a glove, perhaps. I should like to have a look down there.” Matthew reached out and grasped the stick. When he tried to pull it away, he met a little resistance; then Kippering released his grip and gave it up. “Will you show me, or shall I go for a constable?”
“The cellar door’s bolted from within. It’s always bolted.”
“That may be so, but someone left blood on the doorhandle. I’d like to take a look.”
“What are you saying? That I’m the Masker?” Kippering offered up a crooked grin. “Oh, certainly! After the night I’ve had, I surely gathered up the energy to go out prowling the streets and ended my festivities by murdering another of our clients. At this rate we’ll be out of business in a week.”
“Ausley was your client? I didn’t know.”
Kippering seemed to be listening to the noise over on Barrack Street. A few more people rushed past the office door. He gave a long, weary sigh. “I suppose I ought to go represent the estate. Keep the fools from trampling him flat.” He refocused his gaze on Matthew. “You saw the Masker?”
“I did. Not his face, unfortunately.”
“There’s blood on the cellar door?”
Matthew nodded.
“Come in.” Kippering opened the door wider, and Matthew entered. When Kippering started to close the door, Matthew said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave that open.”
“I can assure you that the only thing I’ve killed tonight is half a bottle of brandy and a lot of time.”
“Please leave the door open,” Matthew insisted in a calm voice, and Kippering shrugged.
“This way.” Kippering led him past a narrow staircase to another door. He paused to light a second candle in
