The Providence Rider Read online

  Which put him back at the beginning.

  He ran a hand over his face. He had to get to Number Seven Stone Street. There was nothing pressing at the moment, but there was some correspondence to attend to. He went to the water basin to reapply shaving soap and finish the job. He wasn’t aware that his hand was shaking until the first stroke along his chin produced crimson. He stared into his own dark-shadowed eyes in the mirror. How to get proper rest these nights was the question. He dabbed at the cut on his chin with a handkerchief. He was getting used to the sight of his own blood, which further disturbed him.

  Another disturbance had happened at the Trot Then Gallop last night, when Matthew had gone in to have a cup of ale along with some of the other regulars and men who’d manned the bucket brigades. He’d found himself the focus of several curious stares and passing whispers, even from those he knew well. Felix Sudbury was kind enough, but even the Trot’s owner seemed to want to draw away from him, to keep him at arm’s length. Perhaps, Matthew wondered, did Sudbury fear an explosion and burning of the Trot, simply because Matthew had marked the place with his presence? Israel Brandier was the same, and also Tobias Winekoop the stable owner. Did Winekoop fear that by speaking to Matthew too cordially, his horses might go up in flames? Therefore Winekoop too kept his distance, and over in the corner the Dock Ward alderman Josiah Whittaker and the North Ward alderman Peter Conradt sat talking quietly and now and then spearing Matthew with a glance that said Whatever you’re doing or causing to be done…cease it.

  Matthew had taken his ale and sat down before the chessboard. It was still set up from the last game he’d played with Effrem several nights before, but of course on this cold black morning Effrem had other concerns on his mind rather than pawns and knights. So Matthew had not touched the pieces, but rather played the game out in his mind, taking up both sides and being fair about it. No one had approached him in his hour there. No one had spoken to him, though it was apparent in the strained quiet that some were speaking about him. And when he’d finished his ale and the mental game was done to his satisfaction he’d returned the cup to the bar, said good morning to Felix—who was cleaning out cups and did not answer—and then he left the Trot for home.

  It had seemed a very long walk, the air he breathed still stained with smoke and smelling of burned dreams and collapsed industry.

  And now this. Sirki.

  And behind Sirki, the professor.

  Matthew finished his shaving. He washed his face and dressed in a dark suit, befitting his mood. Actually, he only had two suits and both were dark, one black and one brown. So much for the young dandy who’d strutted through the town in the autumn. No matter; there was this thing to deal with now.

  But how?

  They were expecting him tonight at seven o’clock. A wonderful dinner, prepared by a woman named Aria. Your dinner hosts will explain further.

  Matthew thought of Hudson Greathouse, and what the great one might say to this. There was no need in getting him involved; Matthew had nearly gotten his friend killed once before. This time might finish him off. Professor Fell needed one problem-solver—or providence rider, as he termed it—and there would be no room for Hudson on this journey, unless it was into a grave.

  What to do? Matthew asked the image in the glass. What to do?

  He recalled on the back of the letter from Sirki that the rubbing of a pencil lead had brought up the imprint of a wax stamp: the many-tentacled octopus symbol of Fell’s desire for criminal domination. The letter, written and signed by Sirki.

  Where might that letter be now, months after the falsely-named Rebecca Mallory had stolen it from Matthew’s office? Destroyed? Burned in a fireplace? Or might it still be in the house that sheltered them? Tucked in a drawer somewhere, or put into a box that might be locked yet a key could be found if one searched diligently enough?

  Matthew thought if he could get hold of that letter, he could take it to both Greathouse and Lillehorne as hard evidence. Sirki and the false Mallorys would find themselves behind the same bars where the young assassin-in-training Ripley had sat in eerie and unbroken silence before he was sentenced to London’s Newgate prison by Lord Cornbury and sent off aboard ship in December. If the letter had survived, and if it could be found.

  Was it worth the try?

  Matthew put on his woolen cap, his gloves and his black fearnaught coat. It was time to leave his cave. He blew out the candles, and with much on his mind he strode purposefully out the door into a snow-dusted scene of winter.

  Seven

  WITH a gust of icy wind, seven o’clock had arrived.

  Matthew Corbett stood outside a small whitewashed house on Nassau Street, between Golden Hill and Maiden Lane. He could see candlelight through the windows. Many candles were lighted in there, it appeared. The false Mallorys obviously saw no need to limit their illumination for the sake of their pocketbooks. He pressed his side against the darkness of a wall in a short alley between two houses across the way, lest someone peer out the candle-bloomed windows and see him trying to decide just what in the name of God he ought to do.

  God, unfortunately, was silent on the issue. Matthew pulled his coat tighter about himself, as if more warmth might help his mental processes; it did not, nor was it in truth much warmer. He rubbed his gloved hands together, and still he paused and pondered the situation. To enter that house, where they waited for him…or not? A constable walked past, following his green-glassed lantern, and never looked right nor left.

  Matthew knew of the professor’s penchant for poisons. It would be simple for a debilitating drug to be put into the food or drink, and then where would Matthew find himself at first light? He saw a figure pull aside a gauzy window curtain and look out upon the street, but whether it was the man or woman he didn’t know. He remained perfectly still until the curtain was dropped and the figure gone, and then he released in a white mist the breath he’d been holding.

  By his reckoning it was now ten minutes or so past seven. They would be wondering if he was coming or not. All those candles, burning in expectation of a visitor. He had to go, he decided. How else to possibly learn where the letter might be, if indeed it still survived? No, he couldn’t do it, he decided in the next moment. It was too dangerous. But if he didn’t go…what would be the next tragedy inflicted upon New York—and his friends—in his name?

  He had to go.

  No…wait…think it out a little more. Once inside that house, he was at their mercy.

  Damn it, he thought. They’ve got me in a trap.

  He had to go.

  He started to leave his position of relative safety. He saw a figure come to that window again, peer between the curtains and then withdraw. He took a step forward, toward whatever fate awaited him.

  “What are you doing out here, Matthew?”

  He nearly cried out in alarm, and spinning around he found a dark-garbed figure standing a few feet behind him. But he knew the voice, and once past the shock he realized Berry Grigsby must’ve come through the alley from the opposite end. She was wrapped in her black coat and hood but the red tresses flowed free and he could make out her face by the reflected candlelight of the house across the way.

  “Oh my God!” he was able to croak. That wasn’t enough. “Oh Jesus!” he said, his face still contorted with pure fear. “Are you insane? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m following you,” she said, with a defiant note. She lifted her chin like a weapon. “I know…it was wrong. Possibly. But I saw you leave your house and I saw you turn to the left when you usually turn to the right. So I knew you weren’t going to the Trot. Or to Sally Almond’s. Or to anywhere you usually go. I know it was wrong. Possibly,” she repeated, as if asking for his understanding. “Matthew, I’m worried about you. I mean…I’m concerned. As a friend. You see?”

  “I see you shouldn’t be here!” He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the house. Oh, they were starting to grit their teeth in there by now. They were starting to s
harpen their knives and pour out their gunpowder. He couldn’t believe how stupid he was getting. His lack of attention could have been his finish, if she’d been one of Fell’s killers. “Step back,” he told her. “Step back!” She obeyed, and he stepped toward her to make up for the pace he’d taken to break his cover. “Are you spying on me? Is that it? Berry, I have a dangerous job to do! You can’t be coming up behind me like this!”

  “Dangerous?” Her voice tightened, and instantly he knew he should not have said that. “Dangerous how?” She looked past him, across Nassau Street. “That’s Dr. Mallory’s house. What’s the danger here?”

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You can.”

  “Go home,” he told her.

  “I wouldn’t leave now if…if…” She mentally searched for a fearsome image and found it. “If Brutus the bull came charging down this alley. No! You can’t tell me something is—”

  “Keep your voice down,” he cautioned.

  “Is dangerous and then tell me to go home, like a child,” she finished, adjusting her volume to nearly a whisper. She saw a movement in the Mallory house. Someone was looking out the window. Then whoever it was retreated. She aimed her gaze at Matthew. “What’s going on?”

  “My business. I told you to—”

  Berry took a step forward and suddenly they were standing face-to-face. Matthew smelled her: an aroma like cinnamon and roses, even on a frigid night like this. Her eyes never left his. “You,” she said quietly but firmly, “are not my keeper. Sometimes I wonder if you are even my friend. Well…I’m your friend, whether you want me or not. I care about you, and if that causes you discomfort, sir, you will have to be discomforted. Do I make myself—”

  The word clear never was uttered.

  For Matthew Corbett felt a wall within him crack and give way, just a little, and the sliver of warm light that came through that crack caused him to put his hand to the back of Berry’s neck and kiss her full upon the lips.

  It was a scandalous moment. Such things were just not done, in this sudden uncomplicated way. But Berry did not retreat, and her lips softened beneath Matthew’s, and perhaps her mouth responded and urged the kiss to be longer and deeper than Matthew had first intended. However it happened, the kiss went on. Matthew felt a thrill of excitement. His heart was pounding, and he wondered if she felt the same. When his lips at last left hers she made a soft whisper that might have been either a breathy exhalation of surprise or an entreaty for continuation of this intimate discussion. He looked into her eyes and saw the sparkle of diamonds. She wore a sleepy expression, as if she suddenly was in need of the bed.

  It hit him what he’d just done. He removed his hand from the back of Berry’s neck, but she didn’t move away. He was appalled at his adventurous conduct; it was terribly wrong, and terribly ungentlemanly of him. He had the sensation, however, that Berry did not share his inexactitudes, for she gazed upon him as if he had just stepped down from a star.

  He did it to silence her, he decided. Yes. She was getting a little too loud, and her voice might have carried to the house across the way. Yes. That’s why he’d done it. No other reason. And now he was shamed by it, but it had served his purpose.

  “Be quiet,” he said, though he didn’t know why he said that since Berry wasn’t speaking and it seemed she couldn’t find her voice anyway.

  A latch was thrown. Matthew looked over his shoulder and saw the door opening. Instinctively, he put an arm across Berry to shield her from injury. Someone was leaving the house. It was the woman. Aria To-Be-Named-Later. She wore a full-skirted gown under a purple cloak, and on her head was a matching purple hat with mink earmuffs. She turned to the right and walked briskly away from the house, following Nassau Street toward town. Her boots crunched on the hammered bits of oyster shells that covered the street, for Lord Cornbury had not yet seen fit to release public money for the laying of cobblestones in this area.

  Over oyster shells, cobblestones or horse figs, Aria Whomever was walking as if she had somewhere very important to go. Matthew reasoned her destination was likely the Dock House Inn, where she might give a message to Gilliam Vincent for the East Indian giant in room number four. However it was coded, the message would be: Matthew Corbett did not obey.

  Good for Matthew Corbett, he thought. But possibly bad for the building owners of New York?

  Berry grasped his hand. “What is it?” She was whispering, for she’d also caught the scent of danger. “Are the Mallorys involved?”

  “Involved in what?” His own whisper equalled hers.

  “I don’t know, that’s what I’m asking. What are they involved in?”

  Matthew watched the door. It didn’t open again. The doctor was staying inside on such a wintry night. Best to let the female snake slither along Nassau Street to do this job.

  “The Mallorys,” Berry insisted. “Are you listening to me?”

  “No,” he said, and caught himself. “Yes. I mean…” He looked into her eyes once more. The diamonds had diminished; an excitement not for him but for the intrigue of the evening had for the moment pushed everything else aside. It was, however, equally as intense. “I can’t tell you why,” he said, “but I know the Mallorys have something to do with those fires. And with my name being painted around, to cause me trouble.”

  “But why, Matthew? It makes no sense!”

  “Not to you, no. Nor to anyone else. But to me, it makes perfect sense.” He regarded the house again. Fine if the letter was in there, but if so…how was he going to get it? Of course, there were two major problems: he had to get into the house when the snakes weren’t coiled up in there and he had to find the letter. If it had not been destroyed. If, if and if. This plan, he thought, might have been hatched from the inmates at Bedlam.

  “That way,” Matthew said, motioning toward the other end of the alley. He followed Berry, hoping in this darkness he didn’t complete his current stay in the Gray Kingdom by twisting a foot on a loose stone. But they made it through the alley onto Smith Street without incident, and there they turned to the right onto Fair Street and then onward toward Queen and the Grigsby property.

  “I think,” said Berry as they neared the house, “that you owe me an explanation. I can make you a pot of tea. Will you tell me?”

  “Your grandfather has the biggest ears in town,” he reminded her. “And even when he pretends to be sleeping, he’s listening. So…no, I will not.”

  She stopped walking, turned toward him and actually grasped a handful of his coat. “Listen to me, Matthew Corbett!” she said, and she cast off some heat which was fine for Matthew because he was near freezing. “When are you going to trust me?”

  When I don’t have to fear for your life, he thought. But he kept his expression stolid and his voice as cold as he felt when he said, “My business is my business. That’s how it has to be.”

  “No,” she answered without hesitation, “that’s how you want it to be.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You just kissed me. Or did I imagine that?”

  And then he said the thing that he had to say, but that cut him like a knife across the throat: “I was confused.”

  The statement lingered in the air. The words, once released, came back upon the one who’d uttered them and added a stab to the heart to the already-cut throat. For Matthew saw in Berry’s face how much she was hurt, and she blinked quickly before any tears could rise up and so they did not, and by force of will she kept her face composed and her eyes clear. And she said, in a voice that seemed already distant, “I see.”

  They were two words that Matthew would never forget, for they meant that Berry saw nothing, and that he could not correct her vision.

  She released her hold upon his coat. She drew herself tall; taller than he, it seemed. She said, “Goodnight, Matthew,” and she left him. He watched her walk with great dignity toward her grandfather’s house, where a lantern showed in a window. She entered the house withou
t a backwards glance, and Matthew drew a long, deep breath of freezing air and continued on to his own abode, which had never felt smaller nor more common.

  Eight

  MATTHEW again stood in the cold. It seemed that everywhere now was cold to him. It was a chilly world these days, and not just by the weather. He was again in the alley opposite the house occupied by the false Mallorys. Three nights had passed since his encounter there with Berry. He’d not set eyes upon her since. All to the best, he thought. This business was indeed dangerous, for tonight he was determined to get inside there and find that letter, if indeed it still existed.

  The house was dark. Not a candle showed. Matthew had been standing here as last night, about the same hour after midnight, but tonight there was a major difference. Nearly forty minutes ago, he’d seen a coach drawn by four horses pull up before the house. Lashed atop the coach had been a black-painted wooden box about five feet in length, three feet wide and the same deep. A sea chest, Matthew had thought it might be. The kind that might be found in a captain’s cabin. Two burly men serving the coach had struggled to get the chest down, and both the false Mallorys had emerged from the house to help them. In time the chest was lugged into the house, and the door closed. Lanterns had moved about inside. Then Matthew had waited to see what developed, his senses keen on the fact that whatever was going on, the false Mallorys wished no one to be witness.

  On the gray morning after his brusque dismissal of Berry, Matthew had gone to work at Number Seven Stone Street with a mission in mind. He had climbed the steep and narrow stairs to the loft that housed the office of the two New York problem-solvers and also—if one believed such stories—the ghosts of two coffee merchants who had killed each other on this side of the darkened glass and now on the other side continued their eternal feud. If one believed such stories. And in truth Matthew had heard numerous bumps and thumps and the occasional echo of muffled curses floating through the air, but it was all in a day’s work at Number Seven. Besides, Matthew had gotten used to the spirits, if indeed they still lingered and fought here over the respective sizes of their coffee beans, and all one had to do to stop the noises was say, “Silence!” good and loud, and order was restored for a while.