Mister Slaughter (Matthew Corbett #3)

Mister Slaughter (Matthew Corbett #3) Page 26

"Olliei There' a man asking for you."

He looked up from his work at Priscilla, who had knocked first before opening the door to his workshop at the rear of the house; it was her way never to intrude upon him unless it was important, and he appreciated her value of his privacy. Which meant concentration; which meant productivity; which meant progress.

Oliver set aside his tweezers and lifted the magnification lenses clipped to his spectacles so he could see her clearly. The lenses, ground to his exacting specifications by the optician Dr. Seter Van Kampen here in Philadelphia, could make a gnat appear elephantine and a tiny gearwheel gargantuan. Not that he worked with gnats or elephants; he did not, though gearwheels of all sizes were commonplace on his desktop and now, indeed, were scattered there. But what might have been a disorderly scatter to any other man was to Oliver a comforting variety of challenges, or puzzle parts waiting to be put into their places.

He was a man of many loves. First of all, he loved his wife. He loved the fact that she was five months pregnant, loved her plumpness and her curly brown hair, the sparkle of her eyes, the way she called him Ollie-all prim and proper in daylight, but truth be told at night she made the name sound a little wicked, indecent even, and thus the blessed event approaching-and he loved the fact that she granted him such privacy to do his work, here in the sun-splashed room with its high windows. He loved also the shine of sunlight on tweezers and calipers, metal-shears, pincers, the delicate miniature pliers, wire snippers, files, the little hammers and all the rest of his toolbox. He loved the weight and feel of brass, the grain of wood, the pungent smells of whale oil and bear grease, the beautiful God-like geometry of gear-teeth, the confidence of screws and the jollity of springs. If Priscilla would not think him too odd-and this was also why he valued his privacy-he would have professed that he had names for all his instruments, his hammers and pliers and such, and sometimes he would say quietly as he put two pieces together, "Very well, now, alfred! Fit there into Sophie and give her a good turning!" Or some such encouagement to succeed. Which, now that he thought of it, sounded indecent too, but who ever said an inventor had to be decenti

Or, for that matter, boringi

He also loved gunpowder. Its rich, almost earthy smell. Its promise and power. Its danger. Yes, that was part of the love, too.

"Who is iti" Oliver asked.

"He just inquired if this was the house of Oliver Quisenhunt. He said it was vital that he speak to you."

"Vitali He used that wordi"

"He did. He um he's a little frightening in appearance. I'll go back and ask his name, if you want."

Oliver frowned. He was twenty-eight years old, had been a bachelor-a life-long bachelor, he'd assured his friends over ale at the Seven Stars Inn-until he'd met a pretty little plump curly-haired sparkling-eyed girl two years ago whose wealthy father wanted a Dutch clock in their parlor repaired. It had taken him the longest time to fix that clock. It had been strange, repairing a clock and wishing time would stop. at the same time.

"No, that's all right." He pushed his chair back and stood up. "Something so vital, I suppose we ought to find out what, ehi"

She caught his arm. "Ollie," she said, and she looked up at him imploringly. Way up, because he was rail-thin and six-feet-three-inches tall and towered above her plump little self. "He he might be dangerous."

"Reallyi Well," he said with a smile, "danger is my business. Part of it, at least. Let's go see what he wants."

In the rooms there was a place for everything and everything in its place. One thing that Priscilla had taught him, an artist did not need to live in confusion. Did not need to fill up the house with books and scribbled-upon papers and little gearwheels and sacks of gunpowder and lead balls everywhere and underfoot clay jars full of different varieties of grease that made a terrible mess if they were broken. Indeed, not with the new Quisenhunt coming. So he had his workshop where what she termed confusion was his paradise, and she had the rest of the house, excepting of course the cellar.

He also loved the fact that she called him an artist. The first time she'd said that to him, in her father's garden, he had looked into her face and asked himself what the term life-long bachelor really meant, anyway.

Priscilla had closed the door when she went to fetch him. She stood at Oliver's side, clutching the sleeve of his cream-colored shirt. He opened the door, and the man outside turned around from observing the parade of wagons, carts and passersby on Fourth Street.

"Oliver Quisenhunt," the man said.

Oliver nodded, when his flinch had passed. He thought he might have heard a note of whati relief in the man's voice. and Priscilla had been right about him: this was a raw-boned and rough-edged leatherstocking straight from the woods, it appeared. Straight from the frontier where Indians hacked your limbs off and boiled them in pots for their suppers. This man looked as if he'd seen a few of those boiling pots. Maybe had barely escaped from one, as well. How oldi about twenty-six, twenty-seveni It was hard to tell, with those blue bruises splotching his right cheekbone and forehead. Both his eyes were bloodshot. The left eye had a white medical plaster laid just below it. The dark hollows under his eyes, and the general grim menace of his countenance was he twenty-seven, going on fiftyi a few days' beard, a mess of black hair, the palms of his hands wrapped up in dirty leather, torn burgundy-colored breeches and a waistcoat the same color, stained stockings, filthy white shirt and a fringed buckskin jacket scabby with grime. On his feet were honest-to-God Indian moccasins.

He was a scout, Oliver guessed. Someone who goes ahead to clear the way, who takes the risks only the bravest-or most foolhardy-men can face.

He thought they called that kind of man a providence rider.

"My name is Matthew Corbett," said the visitor. "May I come ini"

"ah well I am very busy at present, sir. I mean to say, it would be best if you came back some other-"

"I want to talk to you about one of your inventions," Matthew plowed on. "an exploding safebox."

"an exploding oh. Yes. Those. You mean the keyless safei The thief trapi"

"Whatever you call it. I just want to know how it got into the hands of a killer named Tyranthus Slaughter."

"Slaughteri" Quisenhunt searched his memory. "I'm sorry, I have no recollection of that name. I sold no thief trap to him."

"are you surei"

"absolutely. I keep strict records of who buys my " He almost said art. But instead he said, "Creations."

Matthew hadn't known quite what to expect from this man. Quisenhunt was thin and gangly, had hands that seemed too big for his skinny wrists and feet like longboats. He had large brown eyes and a topping of blond hair with a cowlick that shot up at the crown like an exotic plant. Thick blond eyebrows arched up over the rims of his spectacles, as if he were perpetually asking a question. Matthew already knew he was twenty-eight years old, from his inquiries, but Quisenhunt seemed younger than that. There was something almost childlike about him, in his slightly-slumped posture, or in the inflections of his voice that seemed to rise on the last word of every sentence. This impression was aided by the multitude of freckles scattered across his cherry-cheeked face. He looked to Matthew to be a strangely overgrown twelve-year-old boy wearing his father's buckled shoes, white stockings, dark brown breeches, cream-colored shirt and yellow-striped cravat. The phrase mishap of nature came to mind.

It was time to roll out the cannon. Matthew said, "I am a representative of the law from New York. In this case, you may consider me an arm of the royal court. I'm looking for Slaughter. You may have information I need."

"Oh," came the hushed response. Quisenhunt rubbed his lower lip. "Well, then why aren't you in company with the Philadelphia officialsi I personally know High Constable abram Farraday."

"Yes," Matthew said. "He sent me here."

"I thought you were an Indian scout," Quisenhunt said, and almost sounded disappointed.

"May Ii" Matthew made a motion of entrance.

There was an uncomfortable moment where the master of the house looked to his wife to see if she approved letting such a ragamuffin into their domain, whether he was a law man, an Indian scout, or chief of the street beggars. But then she nodded graciously at Matthew, retreated a step, and asked if he might like a nice cup of lemon water.

Quisenhunt took Matthew along a hallway and through the door to his workshop, and there Matthew saw how much a man could love his calling.

Three days ago, in the weak light of early morning, Matthew had stumbled down out of the forest into the village below the watermill. He didn't get very far before a man wearing a brown woolen cap, a gray coat and carrying a torch came out between two houses and hollered, "Who goes therei" Matthew thought it was wise he answer, because the man was also aiming a blunderbuss at him.

Indian trouble, the watchman had told him as they went to see the town's constable, by name Josaphat Newkirk. The town's name was not Caulder's Crossing but Hoornbeck, and according to the watchman was situated on the Philadelphia Pike about four miles away from the city. The Indians have got their warpaint on, the watchman told him as they walked. Matthew still had a pounding headache and his vision blurred in and out, but he could function, more or less. Hey! Did they jump you tooi

Whoi Matthew had asked.

The Indians, man! They're crawlin' all around here!

Hoornbeck, a small town that overlooked a picturesque lake, was in a state of high alert. Men with guns were everywhere, leading skittish horses. Women stood in groups holding babies or comforting frightened children. By the time Matthew was escorted to the constable's office in the white-washed town hall, a clerk reported that Constable Newkirk had gone out on his rounds to check with the other watchmen. Matthew had no time to waste; he asked to be taken to the town's doctor, so in a few minutes he was at the door of a white house with dark green shutters on the edge of the lake.

Dr. Martin Lowe, a big bearish man with close-cropped brown hair, a brown beard streaked with gray and brown eyes behind his spectacles, took a look at him, rushed him in and put him on a table with three candles on either side of Matthew's head. He began to examine the injuries while his wife boiled water for tea and hot towels.

"Lucky here," said the doctor, in a bass rumble that Matthew could feel in his chest. He touched the sore, blood-crusted area below Matthew's left eye. Matthew hadn't realized before now that Slaughter's fingernails had worked their magic. "You might have lost that eye if those claws had caught you any higher. and that was a bad blow to your head, from the size of the bruise. Very dangerous. How many fingers am I holding upi"

"Three," Matthew said, when he concentrated and half of the man's six fingers disappeared like wisps of smoke.

"Mouth open. Did you swallow any teethi"

"Sir please listen I'm not here about myself. I'm looking for a man who probably came in " What day was thisi "Yesterday." Slaughter was simple enough to describe. "He would have had an arrow in his upper right arm."

"You mean Lord Shelby's land speculator, Sir Edmond Grudge. Constable Newkirk brought him in."

"Sir Edmund Grudgei"

"He had a terrible time of it. Indians ambushed his party. Wiped 'em out, not five miles from town. I sewed up that gash in his head, took the arrowhead out of his arm and did what I could. Gave him a bottle of brandy to ease his pain."

"and where is he nowi"

"I said he ought to stay here and let me watch him overnight, but he wanted to get a room at the tavern. The Peartree Inn, alongside the Pike. Damned if he's not a strong-willed man."

"I've got to go." Matthew had started to get off the table, but suddenly there were two bearish, brown-bearded doctors in the room holding him down.

"Not so fast, now. Sir Grudge is due back by ten o'clock, which is a little more than two hours. I'm to check his stitches again. In the meantime, let me work on you, and tell me what the hell happened."

Within five minutes, Lowe was out the door like a shot to track down Constable Newkirk.

It was awhile before they returned, because to add to the confusion of the day Matthew later learned that Newkirk had been out talking to a watchman whose eyes were evidently not so watchful, for his horse had been untied and stolen from a hitching-post on Main Street hardly an hour before. Then Newkirk, a lean gray-haired man with the sad face of a dog that just wants to sleep in peace, listened intently to Matthew's tale, which made him look even sadder. He lit his pipe, blew smoke, and said, "all right, then," with a sigh as if that explained everything. "Let me get some men together, and we'll go pay a visit to Sir Grudge. Whatever his damned name is."

When Matthew heard about the stolen horse, he'd figured of course Slaughter had taken the beast and pounded away the last few miles to Philadelphia. But the constable had a different story for Matthew when he returned from The Peartree Inn.

"Seems your Mr. Slaughter had himself a good meal last night," Newkirk said as he puffed his pipe and Lowe applied the plaster to Matthew's wound. "Everybody wanted to hear about the Indians and pay his bill. He told some big ones. Fooled me, he did. Except the last trouble we had with the red men was more than six, seven years ago. You recall, Martin. They burned down Keltey's barn, set fire to his haystacks."

"I recall."

"Ran around hollerin' a little while, shot some arrows into the roof and then they went." Newkirk whistled and made a motion with his hand to represent how fast they had gone. "Back into the woods. Their kingdom. Well, he fooled me."

"He stole the horse," Matthew said. "Is that righti"

"The horsei Oh, Ben Witt's horsei No, I don't think so. Unless he was in two places at once. Your Mr. Slaughter"-Matthew wished he would stop saying that-"took up with a tradesman last night at the inn. Peddler told Daisy-that would be Daisy Fisk, my daughter-in-law-that he was headin' to Philadelphia. Had all his wares in a wagon. Well, your Mr. Slaughter left with the tradesman before somebody stole Ben's horse."

Having delivered that unwelcome news, Newkirk just stood there puffing.

"Constablei" Matthew waved smoke away from his face. "Why don't you send out some fast ridersi Maybe they can catch him before-"

"already in the big town by now," Newkirk replied. "Their problem, now." He scratched his pate and gazed out the window at the lake as if he would give up everything he owned for a morning of fishing. "at last," he said. "You say there're some bodies out in the woodsi"

"This young man can't go anywhere for a while," the doctor said. "I'm surprised he can walk."

"The bodies can wait, then," Newkirk decided. "Funny thing, though."

"What's funnyi"

"Your Mr. Slaughter. Such a killer and all, you say. Left with a tradesman." Newkirk gave a dry little chuckle. "Fella was sellin' knives."

Matthew stood on the threshold of Oliver Quisenhunt's workshop, three days since his visit to Hoornbeck. He looked into an untidy mess: stacks of books and papers upon the floor, shelves full of strangely-shaped metal pieces and tools, a filing cabinet with more papers spilling out, a desk covered with small brass and wooden gearwheels and more tools, and at the center of the hurrah-rah a chalkboard on wheels. The chalkboard was covered side to side and top to bottom with diagrams of what appeared to be different-shaped hinges and pegs, gearwheels, drillbits and mechanisms he had never seen before. Some of them might very well have come from a distant planet, like the thing that looked like half of a spoked wagon wheel and had two batlike wings extended on either side.

Of course I know Oliver Quisenhunt, High Constable Farraday had told Matthew this morning. He's the crazy clockmaker. Well I say that with all respect. He's actually a very talented inventor. Designed the safebox especially for us. Now, Mr. Corbett tell me again how you let Tyranthus Slaughter get awayi

Matthew took stock of another shelf that held a variety of clockfaces in both metal and wood. "How many of them have you madei"

"My clocksi Twelve. Working on my thirteenth. I make three or four a year, depending on the complexity of what the client wants."

"What is thati" Matthew pointed to the half wagon wheel with the bat wings.

"Part of the inner workings of my thirteenth. I don't believe in bad luck-unlucky thirteen and all that-but with my client's permission I'm making a clock that will um flap its wings like a bat upon every hour. What you see diagrammed there are the rods that the hammers will hit to cause the wings to flap. I'm thinking of creating the entire thing out of black cloth draped around a wooden frame. With a black clockface and possibly red enamel numerals. My client, fortunately, is very open to my designs and already owns two of my creations."

Matthew just stared at him. "Why don't you make it meowi Like a black cati"

"Well," Quisenhunt said, and studied his knuckles, "the nearest sound approximating that would be from a fiddle. When I get my self-playing fiddle perfected, then maybe so."

"Your self-playing " Matthew decided to let it alone. "I'm not so interested in your clocks," he said, "as in "

"The thief trap, yes you said that. Then you know about my other interesti"

Matthew nodded. "Farraday told me."

"ah." Quisenhunt's wife had entered bringing a cup of pale yellow lemon water, which she offered to Matthew. "Take your drink, then," said the inventor, "and I'll show you my cellar workshop."

"It's awfully dirty down there," the woman cautioned.

"I think Mr. Corbett can handle a little dirt." Quisenhunt paused to light a candle, and then motioned for Matthew to follow.

along the stairs that led down, Quisenhunt lit a succession of wall candles until they reached the bottom. Matthew had caught the odor of gunpowder as soon as the door was opened. as Quisenhunt continued to walk around and touch fire to a few more wicks, Matthew saw that they stood in a stone-floored shooter's gallery. a half-dozen pistols hung on wall hooks near the stairs. On the other side of the chamber were two canvas-covered circular targets, one large and one smaller, with enough holes in them to show the straw stuffing. Matthew thought ashton McCaggers would have felt right at home in here with his own pistols and dress-maker's forms Elsie and Rosalind to shoot at.

"I have always been fascinated by firearms," Quisenhunt said when the last candle was burning and yellow light gleamed off the pistols. "These I've designed myself. Here, this is something I've been testing lately." He picked up from a circular table not a pistol but a short sword with an ornately-scrolled grip.

"It's a sword," Matthew remarked.

"Is iti" Quisenhunt made a couple of swipes through the air with his weapon. Then he turned toward the targets. Matthew heard a click as a cleverly-disguised striker was drawn. With a flash of sparks and billow of smoke the pistol barrel constructed along the swordblade fired. a hole appeared near the center of the larger target.

"Interesting," Matthew said. "Bringing a gun to a swordfight."

"That would be the idea, yes. The trigger is hidden in the grip." Quisenhunt showed it to Matthew, as smoke curled from the barrel. "I have high hopes for this, but unfortunately at present it does need work. The problem is keeping both sword and pistol equally-balanced."

Matthew thought a novice swordsman such as himself could benefit from the long reach of that particular blade. He saw a pistol hanging amid the guns on the wall that caught his attention. "May Ii" he asked, and when Quisenhunt nodded he took it down. "What is thisi"

"My pride and joy," said the inventor.

It was a pistol, Matthew saw, with three barrels-one atop two-but only a single striker. The wooden body of the gun was black and sleek, the barrels a steely blue. Heavy in the hand, but very well-balanced. It was, he thought, awesome.

"You prepare all three barrels at once," Quisenhunt explained, holding his candle closer so the light jumped off the bizarre and beautiful gun. "When the first barrel is fired, you cock the striker again and a gearwheel revolves the second barrel into position. Then, when that is fired, the striker revolves the third barrel into place."

"What do you call iti"

"a rotator."

"ah." Matthew was definitely impressed. "and all three of these barrels really fire, theni"

"Well " Quisenhunt looked down at the floor and rubbed at a stone with his shoe. "Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I've had considerable trouble with the third barrel, which fires-by my calculations-with only thirty-six percent certainty." He shrugged. "But there's always room for improvement. You'll note that the barrels all share a single flashpan, so unfortunately the shooter does have to prime the pan between shots. If you'll open the compartment in the butt of the handle-it's the little brass lever there-you'll find three small paper cartridges, which hold the necessary powder for three applications to the pan. My intention with this was to speed the firing process as much as humanly possible."

"I'll say." Matthew heard himself sound like a dumbfounded schoolboy. "If you don't mind my asking, what would something like this sell fori"

"It's the better-working model of two in that configuration, but I wouldn't sell it. There's still a lot of work to be done."

Reluctantly, Matthew returned the rotator to its hook. What he would have paid to have a gun like that in the woods against Slaughter! His eye was snagged by another pistol, this one with a long barrel and atop the barrel a brass cylinder that looked to be a spyglass.

"Tyranthus Slaughter," said the inventor suddenly. "Yes! I do recall that name. He was one of the highwaymen they caught was it two years agoi"

"Two years and a little over four months. You made the exploding box for that particular purpose, correcti"

"Correct. High Constable Farraday and some of the town officials came to me to ask that I help them catch the highwaymen who were terrorizing the Pike. They knew of my interest in firearms, but being Quakers they wanted something non-lethal. Something that would startle the highwaymen, possibly daze them long enough to be overcome."

"I see. and do you always sign your worki"

"all my finished work, yes." Quisenhunt answered. "I'm proud of my creations."

Matthew took a drink of the lemon water and found it more sweet than sour. But even so, it did make the healing cut inside his mouth pucker. after his realization that Slaughter had successfully escaped Hoornbeck, Matthew hadn't known what else to do. He could search Philadelphia, of course, and he'd already been to the stables to ask for anyone of Slaughter's description, but essentially the trail had gone cold.

Except for one thing.

The exploding safebox that had held Slaughter's ill-gotten treasure. The safebox that bore, burned across its underside, O. Quisenhunt, Phila., followed by a number: 6.

Matthew said, "I know there's a striker device inside the box that ignites the gunpowder. and the hammer that falls makes the gunshot sound. But tell me how someone opens the box without the striker being tripped."

"Simple enough. The latches operate on springs. There are two versions of the triggering mechanism. In one, if the latches are turned any way but horizontally before they're opened, the mainspring is released and trips the striker. In the second, the latches have to be turned vertically, or the striker trips. The latches are designed to give some resistance; sort of an early warning to a potential thief, so to speak."

Matthew saw the intent, which was to blow smoke and sparks into the faces of the highwaymen, leading to-hopefully-a quick arrest. He recalled that the box Greathouse had opened-with some difficulty, as he remembered-had its latches turned vertically, which meant its 'safe position' would have been if the latches had been horizontal. Obviously, Slaughter had known which version he possessed. "How many boxes did you makei"

"Six. The first had an unforeseen flaw and suffered a premature combustion. The second fell off a coach and was broken. The third and fourth actually were in use for several months, but never um served their purpose before the highwaymen were caught."

"and what about the fifth and sixthi"

"I recall I sold those, for quite a nice price. To one of my clients for whom I have also created a clock."

"Then you're saying the fifth and sixth boxes were never used by anyone but this clienti"

"as far as I know. She said she had need of a thief trap herself, because she didn't have complete trust in some of her workers. actually, she decided to buy the pair."

"Shei" Matthew prodded. "What's the namei"

"Mrs. Gemini Lovejoy," said Quisenhunt. "She owns Paradise."

"Paradise," Matthew repeated.

"Mrs. Lovejoy owns the Paradise farm," Quisenhunt explained. "It's on the south side of town, a few miles out between Red Oak and Chester."

"a farm." Matthew thought he must be sounding like an idiot.

"It's titled a farm," said the inventor, "but Mrs. Lovejoy-a very generous, charming woman, by the way-takes care of elderly people there."

"Elderly people." Stop that! Matthew told himself.

"That's right. It's a place where how shall I put this elderly people in need of care are brought by their families, who can no longer keep them."

"You mean they're illi"

"Possibly that. Possibly they are hard to handle. To control. Like children can be. Hard to feed, or to um well, many things. She's told me all about it."

"Is this a Quaker institutioni"

"I think she receives some money from the town, if that's what you mean. But she originated the concept. She believes it will become more popular an idea as time goes on."

"Quite a concept," Matthew said quietly. He regarded the pistols again. His mild expression masked the jolting memory he'd had of Greathouse reading off Slaughter's aliases from the article of possession that first day at the Westerwicke hospital: Count Edward Bowdewine, Lord John Finch and Earl anthony Lovejoy.

Lovejoy.

Quite a coincidence, as well.

"Listen," Quisenhunt said, scratching the back of his neck. "You're telling me that one of the thief traps I sold to Mrs. Lovejoy wound up in the possession of this Slaughter criminali"

"I am. It was number six."

"That's very odd. I sold them to her well, it's written in my ledger upstairs but I'm sure it was long before the highwaymen were caught. and I've seen her many times since then, but she's never mentioned being robbed, or the box being stolen."

"Yes," Matthew agreed. "Odd."

"How can that be explained, theni"

Matthew thought the question over. Turned it this way and that. and at last he posed his own question: "Do you know where I might buy a suiti"