Seven Shades of Evil, page 6
“I regret asking—requiring—you to go at this time,” said von Eissen as he closed the shutters and bolted them again. “But, alas, the message is—”
“Vital,” Matthew finished for him. “What do you mean, ‘this time’?”
“Of the month.”
“What’s the difference? One day is as—”
“I require you to deliver the envelope to my brother at night,” came the quietly spoken statement, yet delivered with a compelling authority. “No one else should touch it. Do not tell the Becketts. Tell no one. Only given to my brother. At night. Do you understand that, young sir?”
“I understand the part about giving it only to your brother if it’s so important. But why specifically at night?”
“He has a condition that causes him severe pain in sunlight. Any daylight, as a matter of truth. He only goes about at night.”
“Do you share this condition? That’s why you couldn’t see me at my office tomorrow morning?”
Von Eissen didn’t reply for a moment. Then he gave a small slight smile that made his mouth for a few seconds look like a razor wound.
“Yes, I do. It is a family condition.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And why should you be? You didn’t cause it. Let me continue. You will leave the Becketts and turn your horse upon the road as it is marked on the map. It will be, by my reckoning, another full day to reach my brother’s house. After you give him the envelope, you will accept his hospitality, spend the night there, and begin your return trip the following morning. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, thank you.”
“Ah. Good. Well … you should make sure you carry a pistol. Two would be better. And prepare them for firing.”
Matthew had been staring at the coins on the table. Now he tore his gaze away from the beauties. “What?”
“You did hear me.”
“The Indians are a danger up there?”
“Indians … bandits … beasts of the forest. Two pistols. Three, better yet.”
Matthew swallowed hard and hoped von Eissen didn’t hear it. “I think … this may best be a task for my associate, Hudson Greathouse.” Or a militia, he thought. He hated to say it, but he had to: “I’m not sure I can handle this for you. I mean to say, I don’t have as much experience as—”
“Oh, you’re joking! Pulling my leggings now, aren’t you? After all I’ve read about you in the news sheet, and what I’ve heard about you? I wouldn’t believe any associate of yours could do the job half as well as you shall!”
“Maybe I should ask Hudson Greathouse to go with—” He stopped himself.
No.
Don’t even think that.
It would be like asking Hudson Greathouse to refer to him as a “moonbeam” for time and all eternity. And, in truth, wouldn’t he deserve the title?
Before she’d left for England, Katherine Herrald had expressed so much confidence in him. Confidence that he could successfully undertake any situation presented to him. Wasn’t this a testing of that confidence? And as much for himself as for anyone else?
He had survived an attack by a bear and the ordeal associated with the Queen of Bedlam. Indians and bandits could be dealt with, and if he retreated from this, he would be a failure certainly in the eyes of Hudson Greathouse. And particularly in his own eyes.
“Very well,” he said, steadying himself. “I’ll take two pistols.” Which he might rent from someone, using a portion of the coins laid before him.
“Excellent. You will leave by eight in the morning. If you make haste, you will arrive at the Becketts soon after nightfall.”
“I’ll leave at seven,” Matthew said. “If I can get sufficient sleep, that is.”
“Oh! Of course! You must get your sleep.” Von Eissen scanned the interior. “A charming home,” he said. “I myself like the smaller spaces.” His gaze came back to Matthew and fixed there. “No one but my brother is to take possession of the envelope. No one is to know you are carrying a message. You are to place it into his hand. At night. Do you understand? At night.”
“Many times repeated,” said Matthew. “First time understood. Thank you for your confidence and your business, and now good night.”
With the envelope and the map lying on the table alongside the money, von Eissen clicked his heels together, gave a little bow, replaced his tricorn atop his wig, and took his leave.
Matthew blew out the candles. He would pack a small traveling bag in the morning and go in search of two pistols he could borrow or rent. Tobias Winekoop at the stable might be able to help … and as a last resort Matthew thought he could approach Gardner Lillehorne and pay him for a pair of pistols from the town’s arsenal. But then again, he would have to explain why he needed the weapons, so that was only if push came to kick. There was no need to inform Hudson of his impending journey; the money placed into the coffers at Number Seven Stone Street would tell its own tale.
He was about to extinguish the lantern when he realized what the man’s smell reminded him of.
Ashton McCaggers’s attic of horrors.
Full of dried bones and old odors of tombs.
An aroma of death if one got down to the essence of it.
Matthew considered that for a moment. Then he left the lantern lit, went to bed and after playing two games of chess in his mind at last he fell asleep.
Two
Night had fallen, and the chill that came with it made Matthew glad he’d decided to wear a heavier gray fearnaught coat, a flannel scarf, and a gray woolen cap. He was prodding his horse, Suvie, to a canter but the mount had kept up a steady pace during the long day, and so he wished not to pressure her too very much … yet the Becketts’ tavern must be close at hand, and with it a meal and rest for both of them.
The Boston Post Road was a lonely track this far out from town. He had passed several small settlements, had paused in one of them to water Suvie and wet his own whistle from his leather canteen, then back upon the road once more. He had seen a lumber wagon heading for New York, had seen a coach fly past going south, had been passed by one on its flight north, had seen a couple more riders going to town but otherwise the road belonged to him.
The forest on both sides looked as if God had decided to throw down every huge, crooked tree, ugly maze of thorn brush, dangling cascade of vines, and wall of impenetrable thicket fashioned from the Book of Creation. It was a forbidding sight, and that was during the day. At night, it was just black upon black, a cavern world. The stars were out, and the three-quarter moon did shed a little illumination, but it was a distant candle in a huge ebony cathedral. At least he was entertained by the hooting of owls along the way, and he saw no Indians, bandits, or wild beasts, so all to the good.
Matthew caught a whiff of smoke. Suvie rounded a bend and—ah yes!—there stood a small house on the right with yellow candlelight at the windows and smoke rising from two stone chimneys. Behind the house was a barn and a corral and beyond that the utter darkness of more forest. Matthew wasted no time in securing Suvie to a hitching post at the front door. He took his canvas traveling bag—with the two pistols and their necessary implements inside—from where it hung down beside the saddle. Then he knocked at the door, as even if it was a public tavern, he found it better manners not to barge in and possibly frighten anyone.
His knock was answered by a gray-bearded and gray-haired gent dressed in brown trousers and a cream-colored shirt and smoking a long-stemmed clay pipe.
“Mr. Beckett?” Matthew inquired. He figured the man to be in his late fifties.
“The same. Come in, come in! Ella, we have a guest!”
Matthew thanked his host and walked straight across the well-kept room to the fireplace to catch some warmth. Ella Beckett, also gray-haired and about the same age as her husband, came in from the back, welcomed Matthew with a friendly smile and bright blue eyes and took his fearnaught to hang on a wall hook.
“Traveling north or south?” Joel Beckett asked.
“North.”
“Ah, then. Yes, get yourself warm. Chilly for so early in the season, but we had a light snow this time last year so you never can tell.” He looked out a front window at Suvie. “Take care of your horse for you. Thought we’d have coach passengers stopping with us by now, didn’t we, Ella? But again, you never can tell. Likely broken down somewhere, as they do. Going so fast they throw their wheels. What will you drink? A cup of mulled wine?”
“That would be very excellent.”
“I’ll fetch it,” said Ella. “I have chicken in the pot, boiled turnips, and cornbread. Does that suit?”
“Perfectly, thank you.”
Matthew found himself in the delightful and comfortable presence of two people who seemed to thoroughly enjoy being of service to travelers. He told them his name and that he was from New York town, that he was heading north … and that was all. The envelope and map were buttoned in an inner pocket of his suit jacket, where he meant for them to stay until needed.
At dinner, as a small polite fire crackled in the kitchen’s fireplace, Matthew took further delight in a meal that easily ranked with the best of Sally Almond’s cooking. During the meal—which really was a feast, with the amount of food supplied—there came a knock at the door and Joel excused himself. Matthew expected it to be coach passengers and was surprised when Joel returned to the kitchen in the company of two Indian braves wrapped up in blankets. They both eyed Matthew quickly, making some judgment about him, and then Matthew watched as Ella wrapped a large wheel of cornbread in a piece of cloth and gave it to one of the braves, who nodded his approval. They left without a word, and Joel returned to the table.
“Our Indian friends,” Joel explained. “Their village is some distance away, to the south. But they travel far to get some of Ella’s cornbread, and we’re happy to oblige them.”
“It’s a compliment,” Ella supplied. “Sometimes they bring us venison, and they make a kind of beer that Joel likes but when I tried it, I thought I had tasted fire.” She shrugged. “It’s nice to know they accept us as friendly.”
Indians … bandits … beasts of the forest, Matthew thought. Well, at least the Indians were not a concern.
“You spoke my name,” said Joel as he lit his pipe from a candleflame.
“Pardon?”
“At the door. You spoke my name. Who told you about our tavern?”
“Um … another traveler who evidently stayed with you.”
“Oh? And what is his name? Ella and I both have good memories.”
Matthew hated to concoct lies, but where to go from here? “I didn’t catch the name. It was in a tavern in town.” Amazing how easily a lie slipped out, even though one detested it.
“Are you a pipe smoker? I have several extras I offer to guests.”
“No, sir, but thank you all the same.”
Joel smoked for a moment in silence and Ella offered Matthew another helping of everything, which he gladly accepted.
“So you’re heading north?” Joel asked. “Where to?”
Boston, he thought he should say, but that seemed a lie too far. Besides, what matter if these two people knew his destination? But of course, not about the envelope … never that.
“Actually,” said Matthew after he’d taken another drink of the equally excellent mulled wine, “I’m visiting someone. I understand it’s another day’s ride. I believe the road is a mile or so ahead, on the right?”
Joel had been steadily puffing his pipe. Now he ceased the puffing and took it slowly from his mouth. “Matthew … if I may … who are you going to visit?”
I have been sworn to secrecy, Matthew thought he ought to say. But then again … what matter that these people should know? The name wasn’t going to hurt anything.
“A gentleman named von Eissen,” he replied.
Joel glanced quickly at Ella and then returned his attention to the young man from New York town. “If you’re talking about the road that takes you to the river cliffs, and I believe you are … no one named von Eissen lives there. Do you mean the Vyden house?”
“No, I … well, I mean … I was told a von Eissen lives at the end of the road.”
“Who told you that?”
Matthew felt himself sinking into a swamp. To tell, or not? “His brother,” he decided to say, just to try to clear up this clouded glass.
“Vyden had no brother. In fact, he died many years ago. When Ella and I had our farm along that road.”
“Who,” said Matthew, “is—was—Vyden?”
“Nicholas Vyden,” Ella said, her expression gone to stone, “was an insane Dutchman who made his money in the shipping business in Holland, or that’s what we heard. He built that house—that great scab upon the earth—and then went about trying to control the shipping on the river below.”
“Control it? How?”
“By building a huge barrier out of logs,” said Joel. “A thing that worked on chains and pulleys, meant to be raised to block boats if a toll payment wasn’t arranged. We understood he had an engineer come from Holland to build it for him.”
“And it was built?” Matthew asked.
“Something went wrong. There was an accident of some kind. The engineer was killed, and the barrier was wrecked. So it turned out that the cliffs below Vyden’s house had splintered logs just beneath the surface and no boats could be docked there. A couple of supply boats from New York town tried, we understood from one of his servants, and they got their bottoms torn out.”
“Hm,” Matthew said. He frowned. “You say Vyden is dead?”
“Many years ago, when we still had our farm,” said Ella. “We watched the funeral wagon pass by, and later the wagons carrying the furnishings away. No one lives in that house now.”
“And hasn’t for a very long time,” Joel added. He blew a curl of smoke toward the ceiling. “So this supposed brother has foxed you, Matthew. Why in the world were you intending to travel down a cursed road to a dead man’s house?”
Matthew may have touched the outside of the buttoned pocket. He wasn’t sure, because everything seemed to be slowly spinning and out of focus and it wasn’t the mulled wine. He heard himself speak: “A cursed road?”
“That’s what the Indians say.” Another curl of smoke ascended. “They wouldn’t go down that road if it was the only place on earth to get Ella’s cornbread. And we had our own experiences.”
“Joel!” She reached out to cover his hand with her own. Her bright blue eyes were suddenly dimmed and watery. “Don’t!”
He looked at her and smiled, and it might have been the saddest, most heartbroken smile Matthew had ever had the misfortune to witness. Matthew shifted in his chair, thinking that something terrible was coming.
“It’s all right,” Joel said quietly to his wife. “Really. That was a long time ago too. We haven’t told anyone for … years, have we? I think we should tell this young man, otherwise whatever we say … he might just leave here and go down that road anyway, just to see for himself. Yes. I think we should tell him.”
Ella said nothing more. She got up and began clearing the plates away. Matthew saw that her mouth had become a grim white line and her face was equally grim and pale.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Matthew said.
“I do. It might save your life if you’re the stubborn and stupid type.” Joel reached for a deerskin pouch and began to refill his pipe. When the pipe was fired and going again, he said quietly, “Our farm. A few miles from here, along that road. Our home. Ella, me, and our son. Will. A fine boy, he was. Seventeen years of age when … seventeen years of age,” he repeated, and he was silent for a little while. Dishes clinked together in Ella’s hands as she put them into the washbasin and the kitchen fireplace spat a few sparks on a hard oak knot.
“It was after Vyden died,” Joel continued. “All of a sudden … something started getting at our cattle. Tearing them up at night. Going for the throat, just awful bloody. We started hearing the howling from the deep woods. Wolves out there. Coming in at night to kill our cattle. But … a strange thing. I started a journal, keeping track of when we lost an animal. It was one attack a month. I mean to say … maybe two or three nights one right after another, but then it was not until the next month. I realized the things were coming in under a full moon, or nearly full either waxing or waning. Maybe they were roaming the land and their pattern brought them to our farm the same time every month. Who’s to say? Wolves are smart. They’re a thinking animal. Oh, we went out looking for them with our muskets, Will and me, but we never saw a one.”
“He was a good boy,” Ella suddenly said, her back to them as she washed the dishes. Matthew didn’t want to see her face because her voice was tortured. “Our Will,” she said, like a sigh of wind in a graveyard.
Joel leaned forward in his chair, his dark brown eyes as intense as gun barrels aimed at their guest. “I reasoned out when the wolves would come again. I told Will we were to wait out in the pasture with the cattle, our pistols ready, each of us with a shuttered lantern, and when we heard a noise of something coming—and we would know when that happened, because the cattle would let us know—we were to open our lanterns, pick a target, and shoot. So we waited. First one night, then the next. The wolves didn’t come. I figured they smelled us there … smelled where we’d walked … smelled our presence. But then, the third night … they were hungry, you see. They couldn’t keep away.”
“Please,” Ella said softly, as if begging her husband to cease the telling.
“On the third night … under a waning moon … the cattle started lowing. Moving, being agitated I guess would be the right word. But what Will and I heard all of a sudden was something hitting the wall of the barn about fifty yards away, and the horses in there started screaming. Well, the barn door was latched … the wolves couldn’t get in at them, but one of them—more than one—was throwing itself against the boards. Will started running toward the barn. I shouted out for him to wait, but he was a fast runner. He unshuttered his lantern. I saw something moving … figures … blurred shapes … big things. I saw his powder flash and in the noise of the shot I heard a whine of pain. Only … it didn’t sound exactly like an animal. It was … I still don’t know.”
