The Providence Rider Page 7

  It seemed he was always going somewhere. Always on the move. Always away from where she stood, it seemed. She would never tell him that sometimes in the morning she watched through the kitchen window to see him come out his door. That she marked always how fresh-scrubbed he was, and clean-shaven, and ready for the world. Except since coming back from the wilderness, he did not seem so ready for the world. He was different, and he would not talk about it but she could tell his step was slowed and his back always slightly hunched as if expecting a blow. Perhaps not talking about it was killing him, very slowly, inside. Perhaps, she thought, if he could trust her enough to tell her…then he could truly come back from the wilderness, for some sweet and innocent part of him had been left there, and she greatly missed it.

  She wished very much that she might tell him her theory of her bad luck. She’d had several suitors, of course, who’d fallen under the spell of her bad luck. And poor Effrem, always stepping into a gopher hole or a mud puddle when walking beside her. Poor Ashton, trying to be so collected and worldly when he first came calling for her, and then breaking the heel of his shoe within the next few minutes. It had become a little joke between them, how many heels he’d broken at her side.

  But Berry remembered a day in the summer when she’d been sketching at the end of a long pier. The pier she’d chosen had been a horror of worm-eaten boards and gaps and damage caused by the progress of the elements and boats with unproficient captains. She’d chosen that place because she’d wished not to be bothered.

  Then he’d come along.

  May I come out? he’d asked.

  And she’d said, As you wish, and thought he was asking for a certain swim in the drink.

  She’d kept drawing on her sketchpad and waiting to hear him holler as he fell. Because surely her bad luck would be the bedlam queen of this rotten wharf, and he wouldn’t make it halfway to her before he went down.

  Waiting…waiting…

  And then, quite suddenly, he was standing at her side. She’d heard him breathe a sigh of relief, and she might have released her own sigh of relief from under her straw hat, and she’d said with a mischievous smile, Nice morning for a walk, isn’t it, Mr. Corbett?

  His answer, somewhat shaky, had been: Invigorating.

  And turning back to her work, which was to capture the colorful essence of a Breuckelen pasture, she’d thought Any other man would have fallen. Why didn’t he?

  That was still her question.

  Because her theory of her so-called bad luck, at least as regards young men, was that it steered her in the right direction as much as a compass steered any adventurous ship. Yet Matthew’s destination was unknown to her. Surely it seemed he often looked right through her, as if she existed only as a mist he might brush away like silken cobwebs.

  I want to mean something to you, she said silently to him, wherever he was on his journey into the dark. Please…will you let me?

  But on this night there was no answer. There was the just the winter wind, touching with cold fingers the face of a hopeful young girl.

  He was not coming back this way anytime soon, she decided. Therefore she left her position of watchful waiting, and she went back home to go to bed.

  Six

  WHEN a knock came at his door Matthew was in the midst of shaving. He looked away from his mirror, which displayed the rather pale visage of a tired young man, and called to the door, “Who is it?” The door being only six feet away from where he presently stood.

  No one answered. Except here came another knock, strong and insistent.

  “Yes?” Matthew asked heatedly; he was in no mood for games this early in the morning. Was it Berry, making merry? No, she’d not been in such a mood last night and wouldn’t be this morning, either. It was just after seven by the candle clock on the wall, which was a candle in a metal holder marked with bars to indicate the hours. “Can I help you?” Matthew inquired, his razor ready for another stroke along his chin.

  “I am here,” said the voice of a man beyond the door, “to speak to Mr. Matthew Corbett.”

  It was not a voice Matthew recognized. Muffled by the door, yes, but still…it was an odd accent. He put his razor down on the tabletop, next to the dish of soapcream and the bowl of water. “Who are you?”

  “A visitor,” said the voice, “of great importance to you.”

  Matthew had never heard an accent like that before. English, yes, but with a definite…what would it be termed? A lilt? A strange softness? It held a slight rolling of the ‘r’ but it was certainly not Scottish. His curiosity took hold. He pulled a gray cloak around his bedclothes, quickly washed the rest of the soap from his face, and then he unlocked and opened the door.

  He found himself staring at a white sash that crossed the white blouse covering a massive chest. On this sash was centered an ornament studded with pearls and turquoise stones. The man wore baggy white pantaloons and black boots. A multicolored cloak edged with lamb’s wool was draped loosely over his shoulders, which appeared to be as wide as the doorway. The man, who must have been at least six and a half feet tall, leaned down to show his face. He was wearing a white turban, its wrapping also secured by a pearl-and-turquoise ornament.

  “My name is Sirki,” said the thin-lipped mouth under the hooked nose in the broad brown face. “May I enter?”

  Matthew felt what could only be termed a tremor of terror. It tingled across the back of his neck and along his arms. It travelled down his legs and rooted his feet to the floor. This was because he knew the name. Sirki. He remembered it well, and for good reason.

  After he had killed Mrs. Sutch, he’d found in her possession a letter written in a flowing script that had been cited and dated Boston, the fifteenth of August, and that had read: 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 dairyhouse 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.

  And the letter had been signed, Sirki.

  Rebecca Mallory had stolen this letter from Number Seven Stone Street, and may have destroyed it. Matthew had known that the letter concerned the whys and hows and whens of murder: his own. And now here stood in his doorway the man who’d composed that letter, and who had sent it to the murderous Mrs. Sutch on behalf of Professor Fell.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Sirki. His dark brown eyes under thick, arched black brows were calm and untroubled by any idea of violence. Unless the man was a very good actor or under supreme self-control, Matthew thought. He glanced quickly toward the razor. Six feet had never seemed so far.

  “Oh,” said Sirki, his voice soft and serene for a man of his gargantuan size, “I could kill you long before you might reach that, young sir.”

  Matthew had no doubt of it. He let go all thoughts of heroics with a razor.

  The question was calmly repeated: “May I enter?”

  Matthew was at a loss for words. He wished he could conjure up something wicked and cutting, but all he could find was, “Do I have a choice?” Even then, his voice trembled. This man was of a monstrous construction.

  “Certainly you do.” Sirki offered a pleasant-enough smile. He had what appeared to be two small diamonds fitted into his front teeth. “You always have a choice, young sir. I trust you will make the right one now.”

  Matthew decided, in the presence of this obvious killer, that it was good to be trusted. He stepped back, and as Sirki bent over and entered the dairyhouse Matthew saw the man’s eyes mark both the whereabouts of the razor and the position of Matthew’s hands.
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  “May I close the door?” Sirki asked. He waited politely for a response. When Matthew nodded, Sirki closed the door. He did not lock it. “Cold outside today,” Sirki said. “A bitter wind is blowing in from the sea. I don’t care for cold weather. Do you?”

  “The weather doesn’t care for my opinion,” Matthew said.

  “Ah. Yes. Correctly so.” Again there was a restrained smile and the flash of diamonds in the teeth. Matthew had taken note of three small gold rings in each of Sirki’s earlobes. He was a well-ornamented East Indian, for Matthew knew this man had to have come from a country where turbans were as common as tricorns. The manner of dress, the accent—though Matthew had never heard such an accent before—originated from the land of Akbar The Great. Also an indicator was the cloyingly-sweet aroma of sandalwood incense that had arrived in the man’s clothing.

  “I may sit?” Sirki motioned to a chair. Matthew nodded again, though he was concerned about the chair’s survival. Sirki eased himself into it and stretched out his long legs. “Ah. Now, I’m in…how would you say?…pig’s paradise?”

  “Hog heaven,” Matthew suggested.

  “Exactly. Let me show you I have no weapons.” Sirki lifted his arms, shrugged off his cloak and patted around his midsection.

  “Do you need any?”

  This time a grin burst forth. “No, I do not.”

  Matthew reasoned it was time to keep his mouth shut. He backed away until he met a wall, which still put him within a dangerous arm’s length of Sirki.

  “I mean you no harm,” came the quiet voice. “Neither does the individual I represent.”

  “Who might that be?”

  Sirki’s smile now became a bit chilly. “Young sir, let’s be adults here. I’ve come a long way to speak to you. And I speak to you in the voice of the individual I represent.”

  Matthew said nothing; he waited, though he was thinking that the last time he heard from Professor Fell it was in the form of the “death card,” a vow that whoever received the bloody fingerprint would be—as Sirki’s letter to Sutch had said—a matter requiring resolution.

  “He wishes to meet you,” said Sirki.

  Matthew didn’t know how to respond. Should he be terrified? Or flattered?

  “He wishes you to come to him,” said Sirki. “Or, rather…be brought to him.”

  It was doubly difficult now for Matthew to speak, but he forced the obvious question: “Where is he?”

  “A short sea voyage away.” Sirki placed his elbows upon the arm rests and steepled his brown fingers. “A journey of—weather permitting—three weeks.”

  Matthew had to laugh. It sounded harsh. Whether it was the release of tension or not, he didn’t know. But this entire scene was ridiculous, a comedy farce. “Three weeks by sea to meet him? And my return voyage, I assume, would be in a casket? Or…more likely…a basket?”

  “Neither, young sir. You would be returned promptly and safely.” Sirki paused for a moment, gazing around the neatly-kept but cramped confines of Matthew’s home. “I should think you’d enjoy a sea voyage, after living here.” Another two inches and Sirki’s boots would be scraping the opposite wall. He frowned. “Can’t you afford anymore space?”

  “My space is fine as it is.”

  “Ah, but you’re incorrect there. Your space—and I mean by that the distance you’ve chosen to keep between yourself and the two persons who approached you in the autumn regarding a dinner invitation—is not fine. It is not fine with them, with me, or with him. In fact, it is offensive to him that you won’t have dinner with such noble citizens.”

  “Noble citizens?” Matthew would have laughed again, if he hadn’t thought it might be his last laugh. “I imagine they’re criminals. Part of Fell’s pool of sharks? And I’m guessing those are not their true names, either. Is he really a doctor?”

  “Yes, he’s a doctor,” came the tranquil reply. “Quite a good one, in London some years ago. His speciality is a knowledge of poisons. But when he is required to don the guise of a practising physician again, he does.”

  “A question for you,” Matthew ventured. “What is Fell a professor of?”

  A slight smile worked across the thin lips and then vanished. “Life,” said Sirki, “in all its many forms.”

  Matthew couldn’t let this chance go past. He said, “You mean…taking life in all its many forms?”

  “No, I mean what I said. The professor is a sterling disciple of life, young sir. When you meet him, ask him to explain his interest. He’ll be happy to educate you.”

  “I don’t think I could stand such education.”

  “But the truth,” said Sirki, his gaze fixed on Matthew, “is that sometimes the education we do not want is precisely the education we need, and that will benefit us the most.” He shifted his position in the chair and again glanced left and right, at the walls, and then up toward the ceiling. Matthew saw a hint of disturbance ripple across his features. “This is almost like a cave in here, isn’t it? I wouldn’t be able to live in a place like this. I would value my sanity too much.”

  “I’m perfectly sane,” said Matthew.

  “That remains to be seen. Twice now you’ve been offered an invitation.” Sirki slowly pulled his legs in, like an animal about to leap upon its prey. Matthew tensed and wished he could get to the door but the East Indian giant was in the way. “You will note there have been some incidents in your town just lately. Involving fire? The destruction of property? And your name being prominently displayed? Those are reminders, young sir, that time is growing short. The professor’s patience is also growing short. If I were you, I wouldn’t wish to dawdle very much longer.”

  “Who’s burning those buildings and painting my name there? You?”

  Sirki smiled like a cat and touched a finger to his lips.

  “Why does Fell want to see me, if he doesn’t want to kill me?”

  “You,” said Sirki, “are needed.”

  “Needed? How?”

  “I will leave that for your dinner hosts to explain. They also will explain the arrangements for transportation. Now, listen to me carefully. As I said, I speak in the voice of the individual I represent. You are to go to the Mallorys’ house tonight, at seven o’clock. Mark it: tonight. You will enjoy a very fine dinner—for Aria is an excellent cook—and you will be told the particulars. But not everything, you understand.” The front teeth diamonds sparkled with candlelight. “Some things are best left unknown, until you need to know. I will tell you that no harm will come to you. He vows this. Unless, of course, an act of God sinks the ship and then his vow would not be valid. But we have an able captain and crew standing by. The ship is…” He waved a hand in the direction of the sea, “out there. It comes closer to shore by night.”

  Aria, Matthew was thinking. Rebecca Mallory’s real Christian name. And what might the surname be? “You haven’t told me why he wants me. Until I hear that, I’ll give no thought to going anywhere. Certainly not to have dinner with those snakes.”

  Sirki was silent, staring at Matthew. Obviously, he was thinking it over. His face was as expressionless as a burnished mask.

  “Professor Fell,” Sirki said at last, “has a problem. He is in need of a problem-solver. What did he tell me, exactly? He said…he wishes for the service of a providence rider. A scout, he said. Someone to forge ahead and mark a trail. That would be an apt description of you and your work, would it not?”

  Matthew was dazed. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Fell wants to hire me?”

  “It’s somewhat more complicated than that. Your dinner hosts will explain further.” The huge man suddenly got up from his chair and seemingly filled half the room. Really, he literally did fill half the room. He had to bend a little at the waist to keep his turban from brushing the ceiling. “Pardon my intrusion,” he said, “but I did want to keep you on the right progression, young sir.” As Sirki moved toward the door, Matthew pressed himself against the wall to stay out of his way.

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nbsp; Matthew considered himself courageous enough, but not foolhardy. He let Sirki get to the door and open it before he spoke again. “What if I choose not to go? Another building will burn and my name will be on prominent display?”

  “What you don’t grasp,” came the smooth reply, “is that the professor can do wonderful things for you…and terrible things to you. I would not push his patience, young—” He stopped himself. “May I call you Matthew? It seems we should be on more friendly terms, if we’re to work together.”

  “You can call me the young sir who follows you to wherever you’re going and then proceeds to the high constable’s office. After which I expect there’ll be a visit to Lord Cornbury. You won’t be very difficult to find, I’m sure.”

  “No, not difficult at all,” Sirki agreed with a quick and completely insincere smile. “I’m at the Dock House Inn. Room number four. And I’ve already met both those gentlemen. I introduced myself several days ago, as a businessman from Delhi interested in furthering friendship and direct trade between my country and the town of New York. I believe I impressed them. And no, Matthew, I’m neither starting the fires nor writing your name. That’s being handled by persons of less status than myself. It wouldn’t do to dirty my robes with powder and paint, would it?”

  “Gunpowder, you mean? That’s what causes the explosions?”

  “The professor causes the explosions,” Sirki said, with a slight lifting of the thick black eyebrows. “Even as far away as he is, he is entirely capable of destroying your world, Matthew. He wants a providence rider. He wants especially you.” Sirki paused to let that take deep root. “I should give the professor what he wants, my friend. Otherwise…” He clasped his huge hands together and then abruptly drew them apart.

  “Boom,” Sirki said, and with a sweep of his multicolored cloak he left the dairyhouse and closed the door firmly behind him.

  Matthew didn’t know if that last gesture was supposed to convey another explosion of a building or his own destruction, but its point was well met. He saw no need to follow Sirki; he had no doubt the giant had lodgings at the Dock House Inn and that he’d made the acquaintances of both Lillehorne and Cornbury. Both of those individuals would listen to him for perhaps ten seconds before he was thrown out of the office. Actually, they wouldn’t even deign to hear him. What possible reason might there be for a businessman from Delhi to be involved in this? Lillehorne would ask. And for that, Matthew would have no answer. Without the letter bearing Sirki’s name, he had nothing.