place of uncertainty and danger. Matthew reckoned that once he passed through it in the company of Hudson Greathouse, he would be today and tomorrow and forevermore removed from the life he had known as a simple clerk. He knew Greathouse’s patience would not last very much longer. It was time to move from one world into another. He said to the magistrate, “Thank you again, sir,” and he started toward where Greathouse stood waiting.
The door closed, with Matthew on the outside.
Greathouse was already striding toward the stairs. Matthew had no further qualms about which direction to go. He caught up with the man and followed him down and onto the street under the low milky sky. Greathouse’s big chestnut horse with the white-starred face was secured to a hitching-post nearby. “Get yourself a horse,” Greathouse told him. “A man’s horse with some fire in it, not that lady’s pony you’ve been riding. You can handle it, if you could handle Buck. Take the horse for overnight, as we won’t be back until sometime tomorrow. Meet me back here as soon as you’re able. Oh, and take this with you and read it.” He gave Matthew the envelope he’d showed. “Today, if possible.”
“Right.” Matthew hurried toward Tobias Winekoop’s stable, the envelope in hand. At the stable he announced to Mr. Winekoop that he would not be requiring Suvie today, and was told in return that the only two other horses available were named Volcano and Dante, the first known to throw inexpert riders in an explosive fit of pique and the second a moody, unpredictable animal that had once bitten Chief Prosecutor Bynes on the shoulder during a Sunday afternoon outing. Matthew decided on Dante, figuring Bynes’ portly bulk might have had something to do with the showing of equine teeth, and besides, he and Dante had at least a little bit in common.
As Mr. Winekoop saddled the horse, Matthew opened the envelope that had To the Attention of the Herrald Agency written on it. A man’s handwriting, Matthew thought; the letters were steady and well-formed, yet had a spiky quality that he attributed to male expression whereas a woman’s hand was more rounded. Unfolding the paper, he read:
Dante came snorting at the bit. He was an ebony horse with a red-tinged mane and cunning eyes that Matthew thought searched for a soft place to bite. The beast was equally as big as Greathouse’s horse, if not larger, and looked damnably dangerous. Winekoop gave Matthew a pear to feed him, or rather appease him with, and one crunch did away with it. Matthew decided he would keep as far away as possible from those giant teeth. He eased up into the saddle. Dante trembled and stomped around a little as Matthew said quietly, “Easy, boy, easy,” while he stroked a mane that felt stiff enough to double as broomstraw. Winekoop stepped back and waved him on, so Matthew began urging Dante out onto the street while lizards scurried in his stomach. The monstrous animal obeyed the command, much to Matthew’s surprise and relief, and they went on at a walk while pedestrians got out of the way and even other horses pulling carts and wagons seemed to look down at the ground in the manner of men avoiding the glance of a ruffian. Matthew sat tighter than he should have, fearing a toss, but Dante at least for the present was a perfect gentleman.
Greathouse was waiting in front of City Hall. His horse gave a high nicker that Matthew imagined sounded somewhat nervous, and there was a low rumbling response from deep in Dante’s throat. But, again at least for now, the two horses did not attack each other as Matthew had reckoned was a possibility. “Now that’s a ride,” Greathouse said with admiration. He turned his animal toward East King Street and the ferry to Weehawken, and Matthew followed with what felt like a mountain of muscle and bone moving beneath him.
At Van Dam’s shipyard, which was the terminus of the flat-bottomed barge across the Hudson, they dismounted and had to wait for the ferry to make its return trip. Greathouse retrieved the letter from Matthew and asked him what he made of it.
“A patient in a hospital?” Matthew answered. “I don’t see how we can be of any help there.”
“Not just a hospital. A mental hospital. You know. What do they call those places?”
“Bedlam,” Matthew said. The term for insane asylums had been used for many years, and originated in the clamor and ravings of the mad persons locked within.
“Well, we shall see. Oh, I’ve asked Nathaniel to get us a listing of the property owners north of the Ormond farm. We’ll pursue that when we come back. I understand your Masker obeyed the decree again last night.”
“My Masker?”
“He’s your boy, isn’t he? Worth ten shillings to you?”
“Only if I find out who he is before he murders anyone else.”
“Then you’d best hope he stays at home again tonight, because we won’t be back before tomorrow afternoon. There’s our boat.” Greathouse motioned toward the ferry, its white sail spread as it slowly approached across the gray water, and at bow and stern men using oars to steer a relatively straight path against the current. On the opposite bank, mist drifted over the rooftops and chimneys of the Weehawken settlement. The air was wet and heavy, the sunlight cut to a murky haze. Matthew had the feeling of gloom and doom, not just because of the Masker or Professor Fell, or Reverend Wade’s agony or Andrew Kippering’s mysterious Grace Hester, but also because of this letter that called Greathouse and him across the water to Bedlam. He had the sensation of unknown shapes moving over there in the mist, of secrets waiting to be revealed, and puzzles of life and death that could be arranged into a picture if one could only find the missing pieces.
But it was just Weehawken, after all.
The ferry came, the crew threw ropes and lowered anchor, and Matthew and Greathouse led their horses over the gangplank along with a few other travelers. In another few minutes, with the animals secured and everyone aboard, the boat set off again for the far shore.
Part Three: The Message
Twenty-Five
The Philadelphia pike was sometimes a road and sometimes a wish. As Matthew and Greathouse followed its progress across the hilly and wooded Jersey landscape, they passed through a world in flux: here was a fledgling village of perhaps a dozen houses and a central church hacked out of the forest, there the remnants of a previous village being reclaimed by green vines and underbrush. Many farms had thrived and were impressive with their
