Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

returned grinning, yes, but not without leaving something behind. Matthew thought that if anyone could make a full recovery to health after being stabbed in the back four times, it would be the great one, but only time would tell.

Which was one reason Matthew was not ready to share with Greathouse the letter he'd found in Mrs. Sutch's safebox, and was now in his coat pocket. To venture into that area at all would be detrimental to Greathouse's recovery, for who would wish to know he'd eaten sausages spiced with human flesh? And with such relish, as well?

'I spoke to Berry this afternoon,' Matthew said. 'About Zed. She tells me they've devised a common language, based on drawings.'

'Yes, I know.'

'And that he really is a highly intelligent man, she says. He knows he's a long way from home, but not how far. She says he sits up on the roof of City Hall at night looking at the stars.'

'The stars? Why is that?'

'They're the same stars he's always seen,' Matthew related. 'I suppose there's a comfort in that.'

'Yes,' Greathouse agreed, and turned his cup between his hands. 'Listen,' he said after a moment of silence. 'We failed this job. I failed it. I'm not proud of being stupid. The doctors and the Quakers and Lord Cornbury and that Constable Drake expected us to bring Slaughter in alive. Obviously, my plan to buy Zed and set him free got the better of my judgment. Things are as they are. But I'm a professional and in this situation I did not act as one, and for that I'm profoundly sorry.'

'No need for that.'

'There is,' said Greathouse, with a little of the old fire. 'I want you to know that if I'd been on my feet and in my right mind I would never have let you go after him. Never. I would have called it quits right then and there, and been done with it. You took a tremendous risk, Matthew. God knows you're lucky to be alive.'

'True,' Matthew said.

'I won't ask you about it, and you don't have to tell me. But I want you to know that going after Slaughter was a braver thing than I have ever done in my life. And hell, just look at you! You're still a moonbeam!' He drank down the last of his wine. 'Maybe a little tougher around the edges,' he admitted, 'but a moonbeam all the same.'

'And still in need of a bodyguard?'

'In need of a keeper. If Mrs. Herrald knew about this, she'd-' He stopped and shook his head.

'She'd what?' Matthew prodded.

'She'd say that I was a damned fool,' Greathouse replied, 'but she'd know she made a good choice in you. Just so you stay alive to secure her investment for a few more months.'

Matthew distinctly remembered Mrs. Herrald telling him that the job of a problem solver meant thinking quickly in dangerous situations, sometimes taking your life in your hands or trusting your life to the hands of someone else. But he chose not to remind Greathouse of that.

'Speaking of investments,' Greathouse said, 'there's a job you can do for me. Or rather, try to do. You know I told you about the situation involving Princess Lillehorne, the other women, and Dr. Mallory? When I was half out of my head? Well, due to my current complication I'm not going to be able to get around so much for a while, so I'd appreciate it if you would take the case over. It's just a question of why Princess sees him three times a week and comes home in a red-faced sweat, according to Lillehorne. Four other wives, the same, and do you know what they tell their husbands? That it's a health treatment. Then they refuse to say another word, and in the case of Princess Lillehorne, she's threatened to withhold her wifely duties if Gardner doesn't pay Mallory's bill.'

'All right, then. I'll just ask Dr. Mallory.'

'Wrong. If he's ramming them in the back room, what's he going to say?'

'Maybe he's ramming them in the front room.'

'You just take it slow. Talk to that wife of his and see if you can get a handle on him. If he's strumming the love harps of five women three times a week, she ought to have a clue.' He stood up with the help of his cane. 'My notes are in my desk. Have a look at them tomorrow.'

'I will.'

'Want to meet me for breakfast at Sally Almond's? I think they're supposed to be getting in some of those hot sausages.'

'I wouldn't count on that,' Matthew said. 'Anyway, they're not to my taste. But yes, I'd be glad to meet you. My treat.'

'Wonders never cease. Seven-thirty?' He frowned. 'No, better make that eight-thirty. These days it takes me a little longer in the morning.'

'Eight-thirty it is.'

'Good.' Greathouse started out, but he turned back to the table and stood over Matthew. 'I did hear what you told me about finding the money,' he said quietly. 'The eighty pounds worth of gold coins, in the lockbox at the Chapel estate. You found that on your own time. It belongs to you, no question. And I would have done exactly the same thing,' he said. 'But you're still paying back what you owe me, and buying me breakfast. Hear?'

'I hear,' Matthew said.

'Tomorrow, then.' Greathouse stopped at the door to get his woolen cap from a wallpeg and wrap his cloak around his shoulders, and then he walked out of the Trot for home.

It was awhile before Matthew finished his wine and decided he ought to go. He bid goodnight to his friends, got his tricorn and his warm ash-gray cloak and bundled himself up, for it was a chilly night. He left the Trot, but instead of going north to his dwelling behind the Grigsby house he turned south. There was some business to attend to.

He had memorized the letter in his coat pocket.

Beginning with a place name and date-Boston, the fifteenth of August-it read in a flowing script: Dear Mrs. Sutch, Please carry out the usual preparations regarding one Matthew Corbett, of New York town in the New York colony. Be advised that Mr. Corbett resides on Queen Street, in-and I fear this is no jest-a dairy house behind the residence of one Mr. Grigsby, the local printmaster. Also be advised that the professor has been here lately in the aftermath of the unfortunate Chapel project, and will be returning to the island toward mid-September.

The professor requires resolution of this matter by the final week of November, as Mr. Corbett has been deemed a potentially-dangerous distraction. As always, we bow before your experience in these matters of honor.

At the bottom it was signed, Sirki.

The letter had been in Mrs. Sutch's safebox, among papers detailing mundane business things such as money paid for delivery agents to carry orders of sausages to Sally Almond's in New York and both the Squire's Inn and the Old Bucket tavern in Philadelphia, as well as-interestingly enough-the Peartree Inn on the Philadelphia Pike at Hoornbeck. The deliverymen, contacted by the decent and hard-nosed constable from Nicholsburg, were simply locals who had been recruited by Mrs. Sutch to do the work, and they were amazed that anyone would have murdered Mrs. Sutch and Noggin and burned the place to the ground. But then again, these were evil times, and God save Nicholsburg.

Also in the box had been a half-dozen small white cards, identical to the one Matthew had received in the second week of September excepting the fact that his had borne the bloody fingerprint.

Matters of honor, indeed.

He had tried to reason this out. The best he could figure was that Mrs. Sutch was given the command by Professor Fell-or whoever this Sirki was-to carry out these preparations. It was likely she gave Noggin-or an unknown someone else?-the card and put him on a packet boat from Philadelphia. Then, depending on the professor's pleasure, time passed while the intended victim was left to squirm. Only in Matthew's case, the professor had decided to resolve the matter of honor by the end of November, this very month, in order to remove a potentially-dangerous distraction.