must have something to do with Wade’s nocturnal walks, with his show of emotion before Polly Blossom’s house. Matthew took a few seconds to formulate a rational answer, and then he said, “I don’t know who else has this knowledge, nor do I know how John discovered it.” Was it a lie, if he had no idea what Kippering was going on about? Call it a necessary fiction. “I will be truthful, in telling you that John and I care only for Reverend Wade’s welfare. His peace of mind lately has been sorely tested.”
“Yes, and no wonder!” Kippering said. “Wouldn’t you be torn up about it, if you were in his shoes?”
After a pause to gauge the weather, Matthew ventured, “I would be.”
“Damn right.” Kippering strode away another few paces from Matthew again and stood looking out past the ships toward Oyster Island and the open sea. “I pity him, really. He thought he was strong, until this happened. Some things even the strongest man can’t bear.” He glanced quickly over his shoulder. “This can’t get out, do you understand? Tell John. And whoever told him ought to be horse-whipped. John hasn’t been dipping his wick at Polly’s, has he?”
“No.”
“Have you been?”
“Again, no. The secret is safe for now. I don’t think it’ll be travelling any further.”
“Secrets have wings in this town. I told William he ought to face it and do what needs doing, but he can’t make himself. So he won’t listen to my advice, which is to tell the church elders to go hang if it comes to that. But he says the situation will take care of itself, and of course it will…though I’m not sure William will ever forgive himself.”
William, Matthew thought. He’d had no idea Kippering and Reverend Wade were obviously either close friends or close confederates to a cause. He recalled John Five telling him at the Thorn Bush what Constance had said about a talk with her father concerning the “problem”: The one time he’d talk about it at all, he said everythin’ was goin’ to be fine, soon enough.
Soon enough. Matthew wondered at those two words. They carried a fatalism about them, and also a finality.
“Give me your damn letter.”
Matthew focused his attention again on Kippering, who was holding out his hand.
“Come on. The letter. I’ll go put it on Joplin’s desk, if it’s so important.”
For all his suspicions and anger toward Kippering, Matthew did feel the man could be trusted. “My thanks,” he said, as he gave the letter over.
Kippering inspected the writing on the front of the envelope. “Joplin told me you fancied yourself a…how shall I put this…?”
“A sammy rooster?” Matthew supplied.
“A smart young man who can put two and two together.” Kippering held the letter down at his side. “Joplin says you probably wish to become high constable yourself, someday. Is that your ambition?”
“Hardly. I did wish to be a lawyer at one time. Now I…” He decided to forgo any mention of the agency. “I have other plans.”
“So I take it from my impressions of you that some career involving justice is your ambition?”
“Yes.”
Kippering grunted. “Well, being a lawyer is not all that and a pot of porridge. Many times I’ve had to stand and watch justice-call it fair play, in the world of business schemes and contracts-be subverted due to a lying tongue or a bag of dirty money. No matter how highly you begin, such things have a way of chewing your lofty ideals down to the size of rum bottles and any warm female body you can afford, so please don’t begrudge my choice of exquisite brainwash.”
“I don’t begrudge anything. I just think a professional man in your position should fly a straighter course.”
“Oh, I see.” A faint mocking smile moved across Kippering’s face. “The professional man should keep his hands clean, is that it? For the sake of honor? Nice sentiment, if you can live in the realm of dreams.” His smile went away. “I can’t.”
There seemed nothing more to say, for Kippering waved a hand at him as if to dismiss all of Matthew’s precepts of gentlemanly and professional behavior. Matthew decided it was best to retreat before he made a verbal slip that would suggest he knew nothing of the mysterious Grace Hester but the name. As Matthew turned to walk along the dock and retrieve Beryl’s bags, Kippering said in a hollow voice, “I’m trusting you and John not to cause Reverend Wade any further distress or complications. Do I have your word?”
“You do,” Matthew replied without hesitation. “And my word for John, as well. He wouldn’t think of doing anything to cause Constance grief.” He had an instant of wishing he’d used the more simple word worry here, but his streak of bluffing still held.
“The reverend will come out of this, sooner or later. You can mark that.”
“I will. Good day, sir.” Matthew walked away from Kippering toward the canvas bags still lying where he’d left them. He felt light-headed. Large drops of sweat were crawling like beetles from his armpits down his sides. When he dared to glance back at Kippering he couldn’t tell the man from the shadows. Then he hefted the bags and, his mind about to burst with questions that could not yet be answered, he started off toward the printmaster’s house.
Twenty-Four
Magistrate powers had been assigned by the chief prosecutor a portion of the cases involving decree- breakers, and Matthew was writing down the names in a ledger book when Hudson Greathouse entered the office just after eight o’clock on Monday morning.
Matthew wondered who could be more surprised at this appearance, he or the magistrate. “Hudson!” Powers said as he laid aside his own quill and stood up. Obviously he hadn’t been expecting the visitor. “Good morning!”
“Morning to you, Nathaniel.” Greathouse came forward and as he shook Powers’ hand he also clasped the magistrate’s shoulder. He gave Matthew a quick nod but did not speak. Matthew thought he looked as if sleep had not been kind to him since their grave-digging excursion.
“Glad to see you as always,” Powers said. “What may I do for you?”
“You can take a walk with me,” came the reply.
“Of course.” The magistrate had quickly guessed, as had Matthew, that whatever the occasion of this visit, the situation was serious. And also deserving of privacy. He went to the two pegs next to the door and shrugged into his gray-striped suit coat, then put on his dove’s-gray tricorn. “Excuse us, Matthew. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
“Yes sir.”
Powers and Greathouse left the office. Matthew wrote down another name and then paused to take stock of what the “walk” might entail. Possibly Greathouse wanted to tell the magistrate about the body, and about his suspicions concerning Professor Fell. If this chairman of crime held a grudge against Powers, it was likely Greathouse was advising him that an even earlier retirement than the end of September might be judicious.
Matthew turned his chair around to gaze out the window. Enough rain had fallen before sunrise to wet the streets, but had stopped before Matthew had gone to get his laundry from the widow Sherwyn. Now the rain was holding off, though the sky was low and milky-white. He wished he hadn’t told her about the dead man, but when she’d caught him full-bore with those piercing blue eyes, pressed her hand down upon his bundle of clean shirts and breeches, leaned toward him, and said, “Well? What bit do you have for me? Hm?” he’d felt spun up by a whirlwind.
At first he’d attempted to play dumb. “Madam, I’m sorry to say I don’t have anything. I was very busy over the last two days and-”
“Bullcocks and hogwash,” she snapped. “You have something.” Unsmiling, she was more a fearsome ogress than a mischievous laundress. “In fact,” she sniffed at the shirt he wore and instinctively he stepped back, “you have been into something. What died?”
Matthew had washed this shirt in a soapbucket twice on Saturday night and had detected no further odor of
