It had been an interesting morning. When Matthew had gotten Suvie from the stable, Mr. Winekoop had given him the news of the night. Three tavern owners, including Mother Munthunk, had refused to close up at eight o’clock and had been taken to the gaol by a group of constables headed by Lillehorne himself. A fight had ensued between the lawmen and the Munthunk brothers, who valiantly tried to free their mater and thus joined her behind bars. The festivities had been just beginning, according to Winekoop’s ear. Before ten, there were twelve men and two New Jersey prostitutes in the gaol as well as the others, which made that place the scene of a merry crowd. One of the constables, challenging a group of decree-breakers on Bridge Street, had been kicked in the stones and anointed with a piss-bucket. Someone had pelted City Hall with rotten tomatoes and after midnight a rock had broken one of the windows in Lord Cornbury’s manse. All in all, a fine New York summer’s eve.
But, so far as Winekoop had heard, there had been no murder last night. The Masker, it seemed, was after all a man cognizant of official decree and had stayed home from the party.
Lunch was a bowl of corn soup with a slice of ham and a thick piece of rye bread, served not in the house but on a table set up under an oak tree that overlooked the river. A pitcher of water was much appreciated by Matthew, who gulped down two glasses before Greathouse told him to drink slowly. Matthew had earlier given the man a copy of the Earwig brought from town, primarily to show the announcement on the second page, but it was the article on the Masker’s activities that had caught Greathouse’s interest.
“So,” Greathouse said as they ate, “this Masker person. A third murder, you say?”
Matthew nodded, his mouth full of the ham and bread. He’d told Greathouse about the killing of Eben Ausley, but had omitted his own role in that evening’s events.
“And no one has a clue as to who this individual might be?”
“No one,” Matthew said after he’d had another drink. “Well, Mr. McCaggers believes from the skill and quickness of the cutting that the Masker may have had experience in a slaughterhouse.”
“Ah yes, the coroner. I hear some strange stories about him. For instance, he can’t abide dead bodies?”
“He does have some difficulties, yes. But he’s very good at his job.”
“How does he manage?”
“He has a slave, by the name of Zed, who helps him.” Matthew took a spoonful of the corn soup and then another bite of the ham. “Lifting the bodies, cleaning up the…um…leavings and so forth. An interesting man, that one. Zed, I mean. He can’t speak, as he has no tongue. He has scars or some kind of tattoos all over his face.”
“Really?” There was an odd note of interest in Greathouse’s voice.
“I’ve never seen a slave quite like him,” Matthew continued. “Very distinctive and not a little unsettling.”
“I would imagine so.” Greathouse sipped from his water glass and gazed down upon the slowly moving river. He said after a moment, “I should like to meet that man.”
“Mr. McCaggers?” Matthew asked.
“No. Zed. He might be of use to us.”
“Of use? How?”
“I’ll let you know after I’ve met him,” Greathouse answered, and Matthew knew that was his final word on the subject for now.
“I should tell you,” Matthew ventured after a little time had passed and his lunch was almost history, “that I’m to be paid ten shillings by Deverick’s widow if I discover the Masker’s identity before there’s another murder. I had an encounter with her yesterday, and that offer resulted from it.”
“Good for you.” Greathouse sounded indifferent. “Of course it would be a pity if the Masker murdered you before you could be of value to the agency.”
“I just wanted you and Mrs. Herrald to know. Actually I could put the money to good use.”
“Who couldn’t? Well, the only problem I could see is if some official contacted the agency to do the same job. Then we’d have a little conflict of interests, wouldn’t we?”
“I seriously doubt if anyone representing the town will ask for help. High Constable Lillehorne wouldn’t stand for it.”
Greathouse shrugged and poured himself the last of the water. “Go on about your little investigation, then. I doubt you’re up to that task yet, but at least you’ll get some experience.”
The way Greathouse had expressed that rankled Matthew to the marrow of his bones. I doubt you’re up to that task yet. This man was becoming insufferable! Your little investigation. He prided himself on his investigative skills, on his ability to ferret out answers to the difficult questions, and this lout sitting here was nearly mocking him. His ear wound was still hurting, he was tired, and his last clean shirt was a sweat-rag. And here this man sat before him all but sneering at him.
Matthew pushed down his anger and said off-handedly, “I’ve also gleaned a new item of interest from Mr. McCaggers.”
Greathouse leaned his head back so the sun could shine into his face through the oak branches. He closed his eyes and appeared to be about to catch a nap.
“The murder of Eben Ausley was not the third here lately. It was the fourth. A body was found in the Hudson River a few days before Dr. Godwin was killed. It washed up on a farm two or three miles north of here, as a matter of fact.”
There was no response from Greathouse. Matthew expected to hear him start snoring at any minute.
“It was an unidentified young man,” Matthew went on, “who seems to have been murdered by a mob. Mr. McCaggers counted eight stab wounds, all from blades of different shapes and widths. Also, the man had no eyes.”
With the mention of that last word, Greathouse opened his own eyes and squinted up at the sun.
“The body was in poor condition, having been in the water for at least five days, so Lillehorne ordered Zed to bury it where it was found. One other interesting-and disturbing-fact is that the wrists were bound behind him with cords.” Matthew waited for some further response, but there was none. “I’m the only other person to know about this. So you see, I do have a little value as a-”
Greathouse suddenly stood up. He stared out upon the river. “Whose farm?”
“Sir?”
“The farm where the body washed up. Whose farm?”
“John Ormond. It’s about-”
“I know Ormond’s farm,” Greathouse interrupted. “We’ve bought some produce from him. How long in the water, did you say?” Now Greathouse shifted his gaze to Matthew and there was nothing left of naptime. “Five days?”
“Five days is what Mr. McCaggers presumed.” This line of interest was making Matthew more than a bit nervous. He’d meant this just as an example of how he could both obtain and retain information, and now it was taking on a life of its own.
“Found how many days before the doctor’s murder?”
“Four.”
“And that was more than two weeks ago?” Greathouse made a face that looked as if he’d bitten a lemon. “It won’t be a pretty sight, that’s for sure.”
“Sir?”
“Stand up,” Greathouse commanded. “We can let the afternoon’s lesson go. Right now we have an errand.”
Matthew stood up, but slowly and with the greatest of trepidation. Greathouse was already striding toward the carriage-house. “What errand?” Matthew asked.
“We’re going to dig up the body,” Greathouse replied over his shoulder, and Matthew felt his guts go all twisty-quisty. “Come on, let’s get the shovels.”
Twenty-One
Up until the moment Hudson Greathouse went into the barn and began to saddle a second horse for Matthew, this one a lean gray stallion far more spirited than the placid Suvie, the young clerk had thought this so- called errand was another of Greathouse’s rather irritating jokes. But as Matthew soon came to realize, the joke was on him; with shovels bound up and tied to the saddle of Greathouse’s own horse, they were on their way to
