forefinger. “Have you seen my Marmaduke lately?”
“Mr. Grigsby? Yes.” My Marmaduke? Evidently these two had more going on than the sharing of tidbits.
“Well, when you see him again, tell him I have it on good authority that some fine lady on Golden Hill ordered a silver service that arrived yesterday from Amsterdam and when the bill was presented her husband made a cannon sound meek. Well, she shot one back at him too. Then the battle began. You could hear them wrangling from there to Long Island. Almost put out on the street, is what happened.”
“Who? The wife?”
“Naw! The husband! Shosh, everybody knows Princess rules that-oopsie, look what you’ve made me go out and spill! I never said that name, now, Matthew!”
“Princess Lillehorne?”
“Never never never did I say that name! Go on about your business, now! But don’t believe that everything on Golden Hill is gold! You’ll pass that along to ’Duke, won’t you?”
“Very well.” Matthew started for the door, but sometimes getting away from Widow Sherwyn was like walking through a puddle of tar.
“What tavern did you acquaint last night, Matthew?”
There was no need for a lie, as she could run one down like a hound after a hare. “I spent some time at the Thorn Bush.”
“My lord!” Her sky-blue eyes widened. “Have you put aside those celestial books and decided to join the rest of us earthbound heathens?”
“I hope that one night and one stain doesn’t mean a fall from grace.”
“Well, you might have fallen into Grace! That’s the name of Polly’s new whore, you know. Grace Hester. She’s been working the Thorn Bush.”
“I’m sure I didn’t know.” Suddenly Matthew was struck by the fact that not a teacup could be filled, broken, or peed in without Widow Sherwyn hearing of it. Her outsized personality was a lamp-no, a lighthouse-that drew to her the tales of joy, sorrow, and intrigue that no magistrate nor constable would ever hear. He realized then what a treasure she was, particularly for someone in his new-found profession of problem solver. And, also, how useful she might be simply as a sounding-board.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, pausing in her folding of clothes from one basket to another.
“No reason,” Matthew answered. “Just thinking how you know everyone, and how much you know about everyone. You’ve been in this location for how long?”
“Twenty-eight years in the town. Twelve years here. Proud of every day of it.”
“Well you should be.” He offered her his best smile. “I’m sure I couldn’t get along without you.”
“Sure you could. There are three other laundresses in New York, take your pick. Except don’t go to Jane Neville, she’s too expensive by half. Thievery, I call it. Outright larceny, and she doesn’t even boil enough fat in her soap.” Widow Sherwyn stopped herself, as the dawn of understanding bloomed on her face. “Oh, I see your drift. You’re wanting to know what about whom?”
Matthew glanced toward the door to make sure no one else was coming in. “General impressions. Andrew Kippering.”
“Why?”
“I saw him at the Thorn Bush last night. He and his partner, Pollard. In fact, this stain came from Pollard’s tankard of ale. They were both gambling at one of the dice tables.”
“You still haven’t said why.” The widow’s expression was now solidly serious.
“I’m curious,” Matthew explained, “as to why attorney Kippering keeps such late hours.” He decided to leave it at that.
Widow Sherwyn cocked her head and stared at him intently. “If you’re wanting to mingle with the ordinary folk,” she said, “I expect you shouldn’t start with Kippering, as from what I hear he might drag you into an early grave.”
“He leads an active life, I presume?”
“Drinking, gambling, and whoring, probably not in that order. But that’s common knowledge, isn’t it?”
“Tell me something that’s not,” Matthew urged.
“Kippering is not one of my customers. Neither is Pollard. But Fitzgerald comes in regularly. I’ll tell you something about him, if you wish to know.”
“I do.”
“Fitzgerald is a serious young man with a wife and two children. Lives on Crown Street, in a simple house. If one is to believe Fitzgerald-and I do-he does most of the work. The ‘cleaning-up,’ as he once put it, for both his partners. Is paid very well also, but he and his wife are of Puritan stock and they have no want for luxuries…beyond my service, I mean. So my impression of all three of those gentlemen is that Pollard is the one with ambition, Fitzgerald the one with brains, and Kippering the one trying to kill himself.”
“To kill himself?” Matthew asked.
“Surely. And this doesn’t come from Fitzgerald, but I have it from a good source that Kippering is one of Polly’s best customers. Stands to reason, of course, but there’s a misery to it. He comes in drunk, sleeps with a whore-and sometimes just sleeps-and then off again. Sometimes stays there the whole night. Keeps a room in Mary Belovaire’s house across from Sally Almond’s tavern. Cot and a desk, is what I hear. In and out all hours. Mary’s had to help him up the steps many nights, or many early mornings as might be. Pays his bills all right, but he gambles an awful lot. It’ll catch up to him, sooner or later. Has no desire for a wife and family-though Lord knows Mary’s got a line of ladies wanting to meet him, or used to before he got so sotted. Even the most foolish of the young pretties don’t want to ride a rumpot stallion. So he drinks himself into stupors, throws his money away gambling, and almost has his name burned on a door at Polly Blossom’s. Doesn’t that sound to you like someone who pretends to enjoy life but really is in a great hurry to die?”
“It sounds to me,” said Matthew, “like how three-quarters of the young men in New York would live, if they could.”
Widow Sherwyn gave a mocking smile. “He’s supposed to be smarter than most. And he’s not that young.”
“Interesting,” Matthew said, but inwardly he gave a shudder. He had to wonder what Widow Sherwyn would say about him, if someone were to inquire.
“Now you owe me,” she announced.
“Owe you?” He realized this woman reduced him to sounding like a dunce.
“Yes, indeedy. Did you think this caboodle was free? You pass along a good word for me to ’Duke, and when you come back to pick up your clothes you bring me a tidbit I don’t know.”
“The first is easy. I’m afraid the second may be impossible.”
“I’ll accept that as a compliment, but not as a bribe. Find me something of interest. Now scat, tomcat!”
Matthew got out of the place before he had to promise up his first-born child. It was another beautiful morning, the sky bright blue with only hints of wispy clouds. The scents of gardens and good earth wafted on the breeze. Even the smells of rotting timbers of old Dutch wharfs and a dead turtle the size of a cart-wheel had not dismayed Matthew this morning, as he’d consigned Ausley’s stick to the East River at sunup. He turned right, intending to follow Queen Street to the Broad Way and then south into the bustling town. His plan was to go to City Hall and do his clerking for Magistrate Powers in the case of the rowdy George Knox. His arm was still a little sore but the yarrow oil had done wonders for it, and he did think his hand could manage a quill without wandering out of line.
About a half-block west, though, his eye caught a white brick house trimmed with dark green across the street. A white picket fence ran around the property, upon which were planted two large oak trees that spread a cool blue shade. On the fence next to the white entrance gate was the small sign A. Vanderbrocken, Physician.
Matthew slowed his pace. He stood looking at the house for a moment, debating his course of action. According to his newly wound watch, it was almost eight-thirty. The final hearing before sentencing of George Knox would start promptly at nine. He recalled Magistrate Powers saying a clerk could be poached from another office if Matthew wasn’t up to the task, but Matthew hated not to be there when he was needed. But was he needed anymore, really? It seemed he was easily replaceable, and with the magistrate announcing his retirement the caseload-such as it was-would be further reduced. But be that as it may, the job of clerk was still his occupation
