McCaggers’ cold room: Here he had no competition.
Deverick had obviously amassed quite a fortune in New York. Was it not enough for him? Did he wish the challenge of starting over again in Philadelphia?
The London trip. Pennford did not care to travel, as he had digestive problems.
So why had a man with digestive problems gone for a sea voyage of many weeks to London? Business? What kind of business was it that would call for Deverick to make such a sacrifice of time and suffering of health?
Interesting, he thought.
Matthew believed now more than ever that all roads led to the Queen of Bedlam. She sat there in her sublime silence at the center of all mysteries. It was his task to somehow make her reveal the answers.
Hefting his bag, he started toward Micah Reynaud’s shop, looking forward to a keen razor and a cake of sandalwood soap.
Thirty-One
The black freedman Micah Reynaud, who had a chest like an ale barrel and hair the color of smoke, was quick yet painstaking with his razor. Matthew also found him an excellent conversationalist, as Reynaud owned a brass telescope and studied the heavens as well as being an inventor of note. In one corner of the barbershop was a cage in which a squirrel was afforded a treadmill, which was attached to pulleys and gears that turned a wooden spindle connected by another set of pulleys and gears to a second wooden spindle held in a tin sleeve at the ceiling. This second rod, when revolving, also caused the parchment blades of a ceiling fan to rotate, providing a breeze beneath which a customer might wish for the ebony barber to be less quick in his duties. The squirrel was named Sassafras and loved boiled peanuts.
After Matthew got a hair-trim, it was off to the bath room where Reynaud’s wife, Larissa, poured hot water into one of the three wooden tubs and left a gentleman to soak and ruminate. Matthew stayed there until he wrinkled. When he left Reynaud’s he was shaved, clean, and as bright as a new duit, but there was still the matter of his dirty clothes.
A stop at the widow Sherwyn’s relieved him of that particular problem, and he was about to leave when the widow asked, “Am I to take it that due to the disaster the rest of your clothes are now beggars’ rags?”
“Yes, madam. I might find some more in the debris, but right now I am clothing-impoverished.”
She nodded. “Mayhaps I can help you, then. Would you be skittish about wearing a dead man’s suits?”
“Pardon?”
“Julius Godwin was my customer,” she explained. “He left six shirts, four pair of breeches, and two suits with me a few days before he was murdered. They’re clean and ready to be taken. I was about to donate them to the orphanage, and then Ausley bit it.” She eyed him from shoesole to collar. “Godwin wasn’t so tall as you, but he was slender. Do you want to try the clothes? The suits are right high quality.”
So it transpired that Matthew found himself in the widow’s back room appreciating the deceased’s taste in clothing. One suit was dark blue, with a silver-buttoned dark blue waistcoat; the other was light gray with black pinstripes and a black waistcoat. He noted frayed cuffs on the shirts, which might speak to the state of mind Mrs. Deverick had mentioned. Shirts and suit coats were a bit tight across the shoulders, but they would do. The breeches likewise fit him imperfectly, but not enough to be discarded. He decided the old adage of beggars not being choosers was highly appropriate; he thanked the laundress and asked her if she might keep his new wardrobe until after lunch.
“Won’t walk off and leave,” she said, as another customer entered the shop. “Say hello to the Duke for me, won’t you?”
At twelve-thirty Matthew was sitting at a table in the Trot with a bowl of barley soup before him and a mug of cider at hand. Several regulars came up to commiserate his circumstances with him, but he was past the tragedy and just smiled and nodded at their well-wishes. He was fixed on the immediate problem of the Queen’s identity, and how he was going to find out anything more about her in Philadelphia. The first task was to get to Philadelphia, and then to visit Icabod Primm. He thought the lawyer might rage and posture over removing the lady from the Westerwicke asylum, but he didn’t think any action would be taken in that regard. He doubted a better or more humane place could be found. It was a risk, of course, and counter to what the clients expected, but if it was results they-and himself as well-wanted, then Primm’s office had to be the first stop.
“Matthew?”
Yet what would happen if Primm denied all knowledge of the lady, as was likely? Philadelphia was a big town. How was one to discover the identity of a single person, amidst all that populace? He needed something more than a verbal description of the Queen, or as Greathouse had said he’d be walking the streets of Brotherly Love until he had a beard down to his-
“Matthew?”
He blinked, retreated from his thoughts, and looked up at who’d addressed him.
“I hoped I’d find you here,” said John Five. “Can I sit?”
“Oh. Yes. Go ahead.”
John took the chair across from him. His face was ruddy and the sweat of labor still sparkled at his hairline. “I only have a few minutes. Got to get back to work.”
“How are you? Would you like something?” Matthew lifted his hand to signal Sudbury. “A glass of wine?”
“No, nothin’.” John glanced back at the tavernkeeper and shook his head, and then he regarded Matthew with a gaze that could only be described as dour.
“What is it?” Matthew asked, sensing trouble.
“Constance,” John said. “She followed the reverend last night.”
“She…followed him?” Matthew didn’t want to ask to where. “Tell me.”
“It was long after the clearin’ of streets. Ten o’clock or so, she said. He left the house, tryin’ to be quiet about it. Constance said she heard the board creak near the door, and she knew. After what happened…you know…at the church, she’s been torn up over him. I swear, Matthew, she’s goin’ to pieces just like he is.”
“All right, calm yourself. So Constance went out after him?”
“She did. Twice she saw her father dodge a constable, and once she herself almost walked into a lantern. But she went on after him, God bless her heart, and…I just wanted to know, Matthew. Where did he go the night you followed him?”
Matthew shifted uneasily in his chair. He picked up his cider and set it down again.
John Five leaned closer and said in a whisper, “Constance said her father went to Petticoat Lane. I can hardly believe it but I know she’s tellin’ me the truth. She said he stood across the street from Polly Blossom’s house. Didn’t go in, thank Christ, but just stood there. Then, after maybe five or six minutes, a man came out and spoke to him.”
“A man came out? Who?”
“She couldn’t tell. He spoke to Reverend Wade for a minute or so, touched his shoulder, and then went back into the house. She said she could see lights inside, and while she was watchin’ two other gents went in and the reverend stepped back out of sight. So the place was still doin’ business, even after the decree.”
“Bribes have a way of making constables blind, I’m sure,” Matthew said. He had no doubt Polly Blossom was making payments even to Bynes and Lillehorne. Also, with the Masker making no further bloodlettings, the power of the decree was weakening no matter what Cornbury wished. “All right. Did the reverend go anywhere else?”
“No. Constance said she followed him back in the direction of home and had to run a different route to get ahead of him. She barely got back before he came into the house.”
“And what happened then?”
“She got into bed. He cracked the door open to look in on her and she pretended to be asleep, but I can tell you that she slept no more last night. She was at the smith’s shop when I got there at dawn.”
“Has she mentioned any of this to the reverend?”
“She said she almost told it all, but he looked so wretched at breakfast she couldn’t bear to. I said to keep silent, ’til after I’d talked to you.”
Matthew reached for his cider and took a long drink.
“What does it mean, Matthew?” John’s tone was almost pleading. “I’m tellin’ you, Constance is a wreck over
