Eighteen
As he approached city hall, it was clear to Matthew that-even taking into account last night’s murder-this was to be far from an ordinary day.
In front of the building milled a group of forty or so men who by dint of facial expressions and loudness of mouth did not resemble happy citizens. He noted some of the men held broadsheets that could have only been Grigsby’s latest edition. The newborn Earwig would have been on sale for the breakfasters at Sally Almond’s tavern, at the Dock House Inn, and at several other locations around town. What the discord was about Matthew couldn’t tell and didn’t linger to learn, as he made his precarious way through the crowd and into the front door.
On the second floor he found that Magistrate Powers’ office was locked. The magistrate was likely already at court. Matthew was fishing for his key when another clerk of his acquaintance, Aaron Lupton by name, stopped with a sheaf of papers on his path down the hallway between offices and told Matthew the morning’s tale. The day’s scheduled court proceedings had been cancelled and all magistrates and aldermen, as well as the high constable and other ranking officials, had been summoned by Lord Cornbury to a meeting in the main hall. The word, Lupton confided, was that they were thrashing out the language of a Clear Streets Decree…and by the way had he heard about the third murder last night? Matthew assured Lupton he had, and Lupton went on to say that Cornbury was likely going to order the taverns closed early, and already the owners and their best customers had gotten wind of the meeting and were gathering in the street.
Also, Lupton said, Lord Cornbury today wore a blue gown that did nothing for his figure. Matthew thought there could be such a thing as too much information, but he thanked Lupton and unlocked the door intending to at least straighten up the office and check any correspondence that the magistrate might have put into his “to-reply” box. The first thing he saw was the fresh Earwig that either Grigsby or a hired boy had slipped under the door. The second thing that leaped to his attention, as he retrieved the sheet from the floor, was the dark line of type that read Masker Has Struck Again and below that, more horribly, Interview of Coroner By Young Witness.
“Shit,” he heard himself say. He closed the door and almost broke the latch when he jammed it home. Then he sat down at his desk, the better to have a firm foundation beneath him.
Marmaduke and Effrem had had a hard time of it, judging from all the monks and friars on the page-the monks being letters too faint for want of ink and the friars being too dark for too plenty of ink-but the imperfections weren’t enough to obscure Matthew’s name in the central article.
Murder most foul was dealt upon town business leader Pennford Deverick near ten-thirty o’clock on Tuesday night, as the Masker has committed his second crime against reason and humanity. Ashton McCaggers, official coroner of New York town, was interviewed by Matthew Corbett, a friend of this sheet and a clerk in the employ of Magistrate Nathaniel Powers, in regard to this heinous act and the fiend who ended the honorable Mr. Deverick’s life.
According to Mr. McCaggers and our Mr. Corbett, the Masker has not vacated town as was first advanced by some of our town nobles, for Mr. Deverick lies dead with the exact same masklike cuttings about his eyes as was delivered to Dr. Julius Godwin two weeks past. It is Mr. McCaggers’ opinion, says our interviewer, that the Masker struck Mr. Deverick down with a blunt instrument before the dirty work was done.
Matthew didn’t recall telling Grigsby that, but he might have let it slip. Must have, as a matter of fact, for Marmaduke was quick to sew details together.
Our Mr. Corbett was a witness at the terrible scene. He tells us that Mr. Deverick was brutally attacked and yet made no attempt to escape, indicating that he may have known his killer. One blanches at the fact that, also according to Mr. McCaggers, a face familiar to many of us hides a murderer’s rage.
Again, Matthew had only the slight memory of saying anything even remotely close to this. He thought it had been a statement along the line of, “Deverick didn’t seem to put up a struggle. I think McCaggers believes it was someone he may have known.”
Mr. Deverick was discovered on Smith Street by Mr. Phillip Covey and was pronounced dead near midnight by Mr. McCaggers. Questions asked of High Constable Gardner Lillehorne were referred to Chief Prosecutor James Bynes, who demurred to the opinions of Governor Lord Cornbury, who was unavailable for comment.
It is this publication’s hope that the Masker is quickly brought to account for these deeds. Our condolences are offered to Mr. Deverick’s widow, Esther, his son Robert and the extended family.
There followed a brief biography of Deverick, which Matthew assumed Grigsby had gotten from the widow, and then the news continued with the description of Cornbury’s first meeting with his citizens. The story diplomatically called the new governor “a stylish addition to the town he so pleasantly intends to manage.” Matthew turned the sheet over and saw there at the bottom-below articles such as a lumber wagon accident on the Broad Way and items concerning ships in harbor and cargoes received-the announcement for the Herrald Agency. Well, at least that had turned out as planned.
He looked over the article about the Masker once again. There really wasn’t anything in it that he thought McCaggers might object to and he believed he’d done a good job at keeping Grigsby at bay. Then again, there was that part about the “familiar face” and the “murderer’s rage” that Matthew was sure would not go over lightly with Chief Prosecutor Bynes. Add to that the fact that it sounded as if Matthew was now reporting back to Grigsby on the doings-or misdoings-at City Hall. Not pretty.
He decided he would take this broadsheet with him, get out of here by the quickest, and enjoy a day off.
In the hallway he paused to lock the office door. As he was walking to the staircase he heard the noise of voices below him and boots tramping on the steps. Men were coming up. It seemed the meeting had ended. And not too amicably, it sounded, for there were shouts and language that turned the air blue. He thought he heard Bynes’ thunder in that approaching storm, and here he stood like a lightning-bolt.
There was no time to get back into the magistrate’s office. Matthew took the only avenue available to him, which was the more narrow staircase up to the third floor. Even here, though, he heard boots stomping up the steps after him. The chief prosecutor’s office was to the right, at the end of the hall. To the left, past some records rooms, was a doorway. Matthew opened that door and stood on a short flight of stairs leading to another closed door. Perhaps ten feet above him was Ashton McCaggers’ domain. As the voices grew louder and several men came up from the second level, Matthew shut the door to a crack and stood waiting for everything to quiet down. He couldn’t help but find it ironic that he’d rather face the Masker at midnight than Bynes before lunch.
“The man’s impossible!” he heard someone say in the corridor. “He’s mad if he thinks there won’t be a riot in the streets tonight!” It was Lillehorne’s whine.
“The gaol will be full by eleven o’clock!” That voice Matthew couldn’t place for certain; it might have been one of the other magistrates. “What to do with the night-fishermen? What to do with the harbor watch? If a ship sends up a signal after midnight, shall it be denied a pilot boat?”
“He wants those taverns closed, that’s the crux of it!” Now that was for sure the voice of James Bynes, and it was far from being happy. “And putting twenty more constables on the street? Where are we to find the volunteers? Shall we force them before a musket? Well, I have my own headaches right here! I tell you, Grigsby should be arrested for this!”
Matthew heard the noise of paper being crumpled in a fist.
“He can’t be arrested,” the magistrate said. “Who’ll print the decree notices?”
“Damn him!” Bynes raged. “Let him print the notices! Then we’ll see if we can’t stick him with intent to disrupt the public welfare!”
A door slammed and the voices were muffled. Following this, Matthew heard what was most decidedly the crack of a pistol shot, him being so recently acquainted with the noise, and his first thought was that Bynes was shooting a gun off to ease his anger.
When the next shot came just seconds after the first, Matthew realized the gunplay was not going on down the hall but instead up the stairs and beyond the attic door.
What McCaggers was doing up there was anyone’s guess, but Matthew had a few questions for him and now seemed the appropriate time to pursue them, flintlock or no. He ascended to the ominous door and knocked firmly upon it, then waited not with a little trepidation of the unknown.
At length a small square aperture in the door was flipped up and an eyeglassed dark brown eye peered out. The eye looked angry at first, then softened at the recognition of its owner’s visitor. “Mr. Corbett,” said the coroner.
