Author: Pete Mesling
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Troubling the Past

A Work of Fan Fiction Set in the World of
Robert McCammon's Matthew Corbett Books

by Pete Mesling

The man's right hand was bruised on three knuckles as he stumbled south along the Broad Way with a concentrated internal focus: Herrald Agency, 7 Stone Street. Herrald Agency, 7 Stone Street. He repeated it over and over in his mind like a chant.

He knew of the problem-solving agency from an acquaintance who had needed their services related to the recovery of a rather large sum of money that had gone missing on its way from England to New York, and he had asked his landlord for the exact location upon leaving his rooms some fifteen minutes ago. The morning should have been bright by now, but a large mass of dark clouds, itself resembling a bruise, pushed its way across the sky above New York.

Turning onto Stone Street he quickly arrived at the impressive two-story building. The main entrance was unlocked, so taking a lungful of air—as if afraid the atmosphere within would prove unbreathable—he crossed the threshold and made his way upstairs.

He was about to knock when he heard a strange sound, seemingly from inside the very walls, like combatants engaged in a sword fight with leg bones instead of blades as their weapons of choice. A shiver snaked its way up his spine, but he didn't let it prevent him from knocking on the door. The clomping of a sturdy gait preceded the opening of the door, and suddenly he was standing before a wall of a man.

“Greetings.” The man who'd opened the door had to lower his gaze to find the stranger's face. “How may I help you?”

“Matthew Corbett?” The stranger said.

“No, Matthew's on an errand of some urgency, but I'm the next best thing. The name's Hudson Greathouse. You've come to the right place, at any rate. Come, take a seat.”

So, more a house of a man than a mere wall, the visitor thought and smiled at his private joke.

“Thank you, I will.” He removed his brown coat and tricorn and occupied the seat indicated by an expansive gesture from the larger man. The chair was situated in front of what he assumed was Hudson Greathouse's desk, as another desk took up space closer to the entrance and presumably belonged to Mr. Corbett.

Taking a seat behind the desk, Hudson placed his elbows on a scattered pile of papers and fanned his hands apart. “So, you've come to the Herrald Agency with a problem, yes?”

The man nodded, a touch of embarrassment at the corners of his mouth, and tried to straighten the tangle of blond hair atop his head.

“Let's have it, then.”

“I was told that Mr. Corbett is the primary problem solver, and that he has a partner that does more of the … heavy carrying.”

“I'm not without a brain in my head, if that's what's worrying you. Besides, we've been working together for some time now, Matthew and I. I can do a pretty good imitation of his thinking process when I have to.”

“Fair play. I'll just come right out and say it, then. I'm afraid I can't remember who I am.”

If the Great One had readied a general-purpose response to the Herrald Agency's newest client's opening salvo, the man's unexpected response surely lodged it deep in Hudson's throat. It took him a moment to recover.

“You can't remember who you are? Not even your name?”

“I believe my given name is Benjamin.”

“You believe. And your surname?”

In response the man reached into a pocket of the coat that lay across his lap, under his tricorn, and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to Hudson. Unfolding it, Hudson saw that it was a brief note.

“I must have written it to myself.” The client leaned in. “I found it on my bedside table this morning.”

“I assume you recognize your handwriting,” Hudson said, glancing up from the note. “Is that why you think you wrote it?”

“Exactly.”

“Odd that you'd address yourself by name. If you expected to forget who you were, wouldn't there be a risk that you'd think the note was intended for someone else, someone named Benjamin?”

“Odd, yes, but not as odd as the contents of the note itself.”

Hudson read the note for himself:

Benjamin, read this immediately! Your son has been taken. You mustn't forget. He disappeared from the cabin in the woods where he was living with his mother. You are estranged from them, but you care about the boy. You must get him back! Start with the Herrald Agency.

“How do you account for the need to remind yourself of these things? How long has your memory been giving you trouble?”

“I honestly don't know. My thoughts are like a mist inside a fog. It took all my effort to remember how to get to you as I walked here. I'm not sure I'll find my way home.”

Yet the moonbeam's name was on your lips as ready as a lie, Hudson observed but kept it to himself.

“It can't be something that's been plaguing you, then. How could you survive for any length of time with such a condition, at least without help?

“I don't know, but I don't think I wrote the note.”

“But you said you recognize the handwriting as your own.”

“I meant not under my own volition. I think I was forced to put down those words.”

“It's a troubling set of circumstances, I'll grant you that. I'll need time to develop a plan of action. Matthew will need to be brought up to speed. And of course there's the matter of cost.”

“Ah! That must be why I have all these coins weighing down my pants pocket and giving the cord at my waist a run for its money.” He stretched his leg out so he could reach down into his pocket and haul out a leather pouch of gold coins. He emptied it onto the desk.

“That's a small fortune, sir. More than we'll require, at least as a layout for retaining our services. Expenses may come up, but I think we can take the case. Matthew and I will have to be in agreement, of course, but I don't expect he'll have any objections. Leave half of this pile of riches where it lies and we'll shake hands on it.”

“Very good. Yes, excellent. I'll return in a day's time, then, and we'll move forward with a plan.”

The man stood, donned his tricorn and coat, and scooped up half the gold from the desk. Hudson also stood and the two men shook hands. Then Benjamin No Name slipped the note back into his coat pocket, turned, and was gone, the noise of a ghostly duel following him out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Hudson Greathouse stood staring at the doorway, wondering what was keeping Matthew from completing the urgent matter he was tending to, namely procuring from Sally Almond's nearby tavern a meal for himself and Hudson. When it was Hudson's turn to make such runs it didn't take him this long. Probably using the errand as an excuse to steal a moment or two with his precious Berry, Hudson thought. If so he could hardly blame the lad. Life was quick to burn, after all, and youth even more so.

But Matthew's delayed return wasn't all that Hudson wondered about. He also very much wondered where Benjamin No Name was off to with such confidence, considering his impaired memory—which is why Hudson took down his tan coat from a hook and locked up the office before setting off in sly pursuit of the mysterious new client. A bowl of cold soup would have to satisfy his hunger upon his return.

#

The Herrald Agency's young problem solver stood before the office he shared with Hudson Greathouse and kicked lightly at the door for the second time. He might have engaged in a more customary form of knocking had his hands not been weighed down with sustenance for his partner and himself. In one hand sat a clay bowl of sausage soup, covered with an overturned pewter trencher to keep it warm. In the other was a loaf of bread and several strips of salt-cured meat, all wrapped up in a cloth. Accepting that the Great One must have stepped out, Matthew went down on his haunches until he could free his hands of their cargo without spilling or dropping anything.

After letting himself in, he brought in the food and set it on a small table in one corner, which was when he caught sight of something that nearly felled him. In the center of Hudson's desk there sat a disorderly pile of gold coins. It was no fortune, but nor was it a kick to the backside. It wasn't like Hudson to possess so much gold, never mind leaving it out in the open to tempt God and His heavenly host.

Turning to tend to a small stack of paperwork on his desk while he waited for his partner to return, Matthew caught movement from the corner of his eye. He was startled to see that a man stood in the doorway, staring at him like a child trying to understand the sky.

“Do you have business here, sir?'

“Business? Yes, I think I have. Are you Hud—Matthew Corbett?”

“I am. And you are?”

“I have no idea, but I think my name is Benjamin.”

And so the game was played again, this time for Matthew's benefit. The note was produced. It was established that Benjamin had likely written it under someone's influence. And the money on Hudson's desk was explained—though Benjamin would have handed over the coins that remained in his pocket if Matthew hadn't put two and two together and stayed the man's hand.

“Surely you were here earlier. You must have spoken with my partner, Hudson Greathouse.”

“That name,” Benjamin said. “It does have a familiar ring to it.”

“Of course it does. You must have convinced him to help you, or at least give it serious consideration, judging by the payment laid out on his desk. I can see why, too. Yours is a problem with a certain savor to it. But we have to put all of that aside for the moment. I need to know where Hudson's off to. Do you have any recollection at all? Did he say anything of where he was going?”

Benjamin only shook his head like a scolded pup.

Puzzling, Matthew thought. It wasn't like his friend to pass up a warm meal, especially one he didn't have to fetch himself.

“What about you, then?” Matthew stood with the fingers of one hand tented on his desk. “Where were you, between meeting with my partner and returning to meet me just now? You had to have gone somewhere. You weren't on the front steps when I arrived.”

“I … meant to return home. North of here. But I may have wandered off course.”

“In which direction?”

“Toward the Great Dock, I'm inclined to say.”

“The Great Dock?” Matthew's throat tightened a bit. “Why in blazes would you head off in that direction?”

Benjamin wanted to answer, desperately wanted the young man's help, but he was frightened, for his son, his wife, and yes, for himself. There was another note on his person, in a separate pocket from where the first was concealed. Also in his own hand, this second note included precise directions to one of the city's thriving piers and instructed him to go there after meeting with one or both of the men at the Herrald Agency, though he was to ask for Matthew Corbett specifically. The note also gave directions back to Benjamin's rented rooms, whence he was to return after a side trip to the waterfront. All of this he kept to himself.

“I wish I could say. Truly I do.”

“In that case, I don't suppose there's much more to discuss. I'll want to locate my partner and consider the matter with him. Did you leave your personal details with him, by chance?” He crossed over to Hudson's desk but didn't find any notes there.

“I don't believe so, no. I'll return tomorrow.” This, too, was a directive from the second note. Another detail for him to struggle to remember, though the most important thing to retain was the fact that he carried with him two notes, one for guarded dissemination, the other for himself alone. If the rest of his memory were to fail him, the notes would be his guide.

#

The air into which Matthew stepped was close, which seemed to sharpen all the least pleasant smells New York had to offer, from horse figs to damp earth to spoiled food to sewage. It was also dark for midday. He usually trusted the Great One to be able to take care of himself in just about any situation, but the oppressive atmosphere dampened his confidence today. He'd hoped to spot Hudson conducting himself in the general direction of the Herrald Agency before reaching the Great Dock, but here Matthew was, moving from one landing to the next with no hint of Hudson's presence, which was no easy thing to miss. It brought on a fluttering in his guts, but he continued along the dock.

“Corbett, that you?”

He spun around and took a moment to identify the speaker. “Piers Brimley, hello. What brings a saddle maker down to the water's edge?”

“I'm expecting some tools to arrive today. I've just about worn all mine down to nubs.”

“Business must be good, then.”

“Can't complain, can't complain. Say, are you looking for that great big fellow you're always going around with?”

Matthew took a few eager steps in the saddler's direction. “Have you seen him?”

The man nodded. “Not half an hour ago. Boarded a ship, he did. Looked like maybe it took a little convincing by the two gentlemen who followed him off the gangplank. I can't swear that one of 'em had a blade at the ready, but I can't swear against it neither.”

“Dear God. Which boat is it? I must get to him.”

“With those arms?”

“What do you mean? What have my arms got to do with it?”

“You'd have to be a pretty strong swimmer to catch up with the High Dudgeon now.” Piers gestured to the north. “You can still catch a glimpse of her hind quarters rounding the bend of Corlears Hook.”

“Damn it all!” Matthew removed his tricorn and slapped it against his leg, revealing a head of dark brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail and tied with black ribbon. “There must be a way to follow them. Hudson's in danger; I can smell it.”

“Maybe there's no need to follow. Maybe meeting them is what you want to be doing.”

“What do you mean? If you know something, out with it.”

“It's just that I may have overheard the captain of the High Dudgeon talking about carrying a small group of travelers to Great Minnefords Island, to return later today carrying the selfsame travelers.”

What in the world could be the meaning of this, Matthew wondered. Why would Hudson willingly go sailing off to a nearby island without a word about it to Matthew? Then again, why would anyone take him to Great Minnefords Island against his will with the intention of bringing him back within the day? None of it made any sense.

“You said I could meet them instead of follow them. What did you mean by that.”

“Do you know the island I speak of?”

“I do.”

“Good, then maybe you'll ken that the distance can be covered as easily on horseback as on a bark.”

“Horseback? I'm currently without access to a horse.”

“I, however, am not. Gladys is no spring mare, but she boasts a proud, comfortable saddle. She's yours if you'll have her.”

Matthew's demeanor changed in an instant for the generous offer. He had been treating Piers as though he were part of the problem, when in fact he was only trying to help. The young problem solver's shoulders went slack and his face contorted into what he hoped was a contrite smile.

“I do let my hay cart get ahead of my horse sometimes. Mr. Brimley, your offer is very kind, and most welcome. Please, take me to Gladys. I'm sure she's a fine beauty.”

“I won't vouch for that, sir, but she'll get you to Eastchester Bay. From there you won't have any trouble hiring a boat to the island. Come, I'll take you to the livery and we'll go over the route while we walk.”

#

Benjamin could feel bits of his life returning to him, but at the cost of a steady pounding at his temples. He'd hoped he wasn't getting anyone into trouble, especially this Matthew Corbett fellow, but as more memories seeped in, that hope grew dim. He didn't suppose everything the men had told him would return. Surely that was why they'd said as much as they did to begin with; they knew their potion would do some permanent damage to his recent memories.

Why they'd sought him out instead of any other inhabitant of New York remained a mystery, but what he was beginning to remember as he lay on his cot and sweated the fog from his brain was enough to occupy him completely—and scare the hell out of him. There had been talk of an Englishman named Stephen Hales, some kind of chemist who was working on a so-called pneumatic trough. Benjamin wasn't sure exactly what this apparatus was, and he felt pretty certain that the men who had stolen his memory didn't know much about it, either, but a pirate by the name of Skipjack had abducted the pneumatic chemist and forced him to use one of his implements to take samples of the air on a mysterious Mediterranean island said to draw a veil across men's memories and sense of self. Other chemists, also under duress, were then able to condense and liquify the trapped poison, allowing it to be swallowed for more controlled results.

Benjamin was now one of those controlled results. And even as he made the connection, many of the details left him again.

#

If Matthew's disposition had taken a turn for the sunnier, Hudson's had succumbed to a darkening influence. Stuffed between two reeking barrels of fish in the hold of the High Dudgeon, his hands bound behind his back, Hudson struggled to see a way forward and out of his predicament. Nor was it his predicament alone that was a concern. Matthew's fate was tied up in this as well, for surely he'd be looking for Hudson by now, and regardless of what the moonbeam went looking for, danger was invariably what he found.

The ship was docked somewhere now, but no one had been willing to answer him when he'd asked where they were headed. Even the captain had ignored him when he passed him on his way to the hold and asked for some clue as to their destination. Presumably Captain Morse had been threatened into silence. That was the way with Hudson's captors: threats and intimidation.

He'd developed a habit of making note of people's appearance in his new line of work, especially people who promised to be deserving of retribution, as was the case with the two cutthroats who called themselves Panto and Gamp. Hudson had almost laughed out loud when they proudly stated their names, which seemed more like monikers that a bully would attach to his prey than nicknames to be willingly adopted. But they wouldn't be the first pair of criminals Hudson had met with more nerve than sense. To them maybe the names were as musical as any other.

Hudson wasn't quick to admit it to himself, but the likelihood was high that he was already reliant on Matthew for an escape from this stinking hold. He continued to feel around behind him for any kind of edge to use for cutting through his bonds, but so far his searching fingers had found nothing. The lowest hoop on each of the barrels flanking him were just out of reach, so his hopes of finding a rough edge on one of them were dashed.

Unless he could contort himself onto his knees.

It was a job for a much younger and more limber body than his own, but by God it was worth a shot. Maybe by pushing himself against one of the barrels he could get enough leverage to maneuver his legs so they were under him instead of in front of him. He was about to give it a go when he heard a latch get thrown above him. The hatch creaked open and let into the hold a blinding ray of lantern light.

“Everything comfy cozy down there?” It was Panto's unmistakable voice, like gravel being ground between the teeth of a giant. Despite a wiry frame, he was tall and nothing but muscle.

Hudson didn't say a word, wishing it was the diminutive and softer-spoken Gamp who had come to pay him a visit. Panto gave him the shakes. A ladder needed to be lowered into the hold in order to enter or exit, but no ladder was forthcoming.

“A young man on horseback has been spied on the mainland. Shouldn't take him long to hire a craft and join us. Can you sit tight a bit longer?” He followed this up with a hoarse, ugly laugh.

Now Hudson ventured a question. “What island is this, then?”

“What the fuck do you care?”

The hatch slammed shut, leaving Hudson to readjust to the dark and wonder what was in store, both for him and for Matthew. With more vigor than he'd had moments ago he got to work on altering his position to see if he could do something about the cords at his wrists. Panto and Gamp had better hope I don't succeed, he thought, and soon he was on his knees.

Then he remembered spying something briefly when Panto's light was in his eyes. Deeper into the hold there sat something almost waist high resting under a tarp. Its shape was nondescript, rectangular and boxy. Now it occurred to him that it might well be a strongbox, and strongboxes often were adorned with brass corners or rivets that stuck out from the surface. Surely he stood a better chance of freeing himself using the strongbox than searching the barrel hoops for a flaw or protrusion.

From his knees he rose to his feet, which were not bound. His captors likely saw no reason to hobble him, since there was no way out of the hold without the ladder. The strongbox wasn't more than fifteen feet from where he stood, if memory served, but it was worth moving cautiously in the dark. It would benefit no one to trip over an empty pallet or protruding nail and meet a corner of the strongbox with his forehead.

At last his knees found the object and he turned himself around to feel with his hands. A rough tarpaulin covered the strongbox and he removed it so he could examine what was beneath. It quickly became obvious that it was in fact a strongbox. Bulbous metal corners, a sturdy padlock, a seam running around near the top where the lid met the box itself. Now to find a jagged edge.

And there it was. The right front corner. The brass protector there had an upturned flank where something heavy must have been slid on top of it at one time. So now Hudson's greatest hope of freedom was the careless work of a stevedore, possibly long dead. Was this how the world worked? Was a man's fate so beholden to the smallest actions of other men? He suspected it was, though now was not the time to see the thought through to any kind of resolution. Bringing his hands to the corner of the strongbox, he slid the cord tied tightly around his wrists under the upturned edge of brass and began to saw back and forth. It wouldn't be a quick job, he could tell. But it was going to work, if he had enough time to complete the task before Panto and Gamp came calling.

No way out of the hold without the ladder. If he'd really believed that, why was he going to such lengths to free his hands? The hatch itself might prove difficult to break open, but he could get to it, he now realized, by stacking the barrels and boxes that lay scattered throughout the hold. By God, he would have his freedom!

#

As Matthew stared at the approaching island from his comfortless perch on the thwart of the only skiff he could find that was available for hire, a seagull alighted on the prow and squawked as if to ask, “What brings you this way, problem solver? Nothing but trouble lies ahead.”

He'd thought to bring a hunk of bread from the loaf he'd purchased earlier, so he tossed a piece to the intrepid bird, which launched into the air to catch the morsel but quickly returned to the gunwale. A poet might have composed some lines about the interaction, but Matthew was no poet, and he was too distracted by what lay ahead on Great Minnefords Island. The High Dudgeon was moored, but the two men Piers Brimley had described as having guided Hudson onto her deck could now be seen hiking their way to the top of a ridge where a Cabin lay mostly hidden among tall trees. Hudson did not appear to be with them.

“You'll have enough gulls lining the boat to push us to the bottom of the drink, you keep feeding 'em your lunch.” The weather-worn voice of Matthew's skipper, Lodewijk, came from behind him and brought him out of his reverie.

Matthew turned his head enough to acknowledge the advice but remained facing the encroaching island. “Understood. No more feeding.”

“We're nearly there anyway. I'll want to tie her down before you step off.”

Matthew could hear the rhythmic slapping of Lodewijk's oars in the water. “As long as I'm not in your way.”

As if content at having steered their brief conversation to its inevitable conclusion, the visiting seabird took to the skies and soared off in the direction of … who could say?

#

Sitting around a small table by a piddling fire were Panto, Gamp, and another man. Any observer would have noticed an incongruity between the two and the one, for the nefarious duo were obviously mere criminals for hire in the presence of something different. The third man was much larger, for one thing. Taller, broader, more muscular. His eyes were steel blue and unafraid to stare directly into those of whoever he was addressing. Strings of oily gray-and-black hair ran to his shoulders in coils and knots and almost seemed to melt into his beard, which surely he'd been born with.

“You're sure this Corbett fellow will come?” It was Panto who dared to ask.

“He'll come. I've learned a good deal about the young buck since gaining my freedom. He's not attached to many, but those he does claim as friends are much to him. It's a weakness I've seen many times before.”

“He did appear to be making his way toward the cabin, if that was Corbett.”

“What about the doctor?” Gamp asked. “Does he require further … attention?”

“Benjamin? No, his memory of recent events will remain fogged over, with only small bits of things recovered over time. It's one of the potion's most remarkable attributes.”

“How can you be so sure, Skipjack?” Panto regretted asking the question immediately, and addressing the pirate by name.

The imposing man stared across the table at Panto for a long while without saying a word, firelight animating his eyes with hell's intent. Finally he said, “Pirates don't leave much to chance, especially when they have a score to settle.”

“Okay. That's enough for me. I'm clear on what needs to happen to the problem solver, then. What about his friend?”

Skipjack slid a hand into his bear-fur coat and pulled forth a large clear bottle filled with a light green fluid and stopped with a cork. “The lug might require a bit more of the juice than I gave the good doctor, but he'll never piece this thing together again. He can run to the arms of Katherine Herrald if he likes, or Gardner Lillehorne. He'll be lucky if he can manage to cough up his own name and birth date.”

Panto could sense Gamp getting restless in his seat, which meant he was working up the courage to unload himself of something. Panto braced himself.

“I'm not one to poke my nose into the whys and wherefores of a thing like this,” Gamp said, straightening himself on the chair to make himself appear a little taller, “but you are asking us to get a spot of blood on our hands, yes?”

Skipjack's gaze slid to the man with the slowness of one who has all the time in the world for another man's discomfort.

“It's just that … Well, maybe you can put it in my mind a little better as to why you want this young man out of the scene. Didn't you say the bone you really wanted to pick clean has already flown the coop and this is kind of a second best situation?”

“Do you have a point, or are you simply out to irritate me?”

“I just wonder if we can't make an example of Corbett without cutting an innocent man's throat.”

“Mister Gamp, Mister Panto, allow me to tell you a story of revenge cooked long and hot on a faraway island. And about another island, too.” Skipjack stroked the bottle of nepenthe, leaned back in his chair, and stared into the fire. “Then you'll have something to compare your opinions against.”

And so a tale was told by firelight in an insignificant cabin on a hill, and two minds were greatly expanded by the telling.

#

What brightness there was to the overcast day was diminished by half as Matthew pushed his way from the relative openness of the hillside into the copse of wind-battered white pines that surrounded the rustic cabin. He stepped to the front door and raised his fist to knock when a hand pressed down on his shoulder, halting his movement completely for a time. Turning slowly to meet whoever possessed such a firm grip, his eyes took in the familiar face of one Hudson Greathouse, whose finger went to his lips in a shushing gesture. He then guided Matthew around to the back of the cabin and into a density of trees there.

“Matthew, I'm going to lay out some facts for you, and then you can tell me if you see more than one option.”

Matthew nodded.

“We're on an island, which means we need a boat to get off. I saw the little bark you must have drifted in on, and I'm not keen on testing it with my weight. That leaves the ship I came over on, the High Dudgeon. She's moored not too far from here, but her captain seems pretty loyal to those who paid for his services. I don't like our chances with him. Here's another fact for you. There are three men in this cabin, and they're all preparing to see you dead.”

“Me? How can that—”

“We'll get there, but are we in agreement that going up against these three is our best—our only—option?”

“If what you say is true, perhaps. I don't know.” Matthew was still reeling at the news that he was marked for death.

“Okay, here's what I figure. At least one of them will wander out before too long. That's our opportunity to land the first blow.”

“And it leaves one or two more to deal with, by my arithmetic.”

“True enough, but surprise will still be on our side. We rush in and immediately go after the other two, or maybe only one. I doubt they'd all come out together. We get them bound up, we steal whatever gold they're carrying, and we double the pay of the High Dudgeon's captain so that he'll take us, and only us, home.”

“I wish it were otherwise, but I don't have a better idea at the moment.”

“Good, then let me fill you in on a couple of items while we wait for the sound of the cabin door being opened so we can rush in from nowhere and conduct some business.”

Curiosity won out over fear for the time being, and Matthew found a large boulder to lower himself onto while Hudson sat on a nearby stump.

“I don't know what it is about you, Matthew Corbett, but you do attract strange doings, and strange customers. Sometimes I wonder what star you were born under. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe you weren't born under any star at all. Maybe you were born under the moon. Whatever the case, trouble has found you once again, and here I am tangled up in it—-once again.

“There wasn't much I could do on the way over to this island but listen. They had me tied up in the hold, but whenever they were directly above, I could make out a good amount of what was exchanged between them. Their names are Panto and Gamp, by the way. Can you believe that?”

“They do sound more like names for a couple of traveling fools than for a team of bloodthirsty criminals,” Matthew said.

“One doesn't necessarily rule out the other, I suppose. Anyway, from their conversations on the ship I learned that they were headed for a nearby island to meet up with a pirate named Skipjack and that they were using me to lure you to the island, now that I had become involved. I hoped they'd be proven wrong about you taking the bait, but I guess I knew they wouldn't be.”

“What do they want with me? I mean, why do they want me dead? And what does all of this have to do with that Benjamin fellow?”

“Ah, I assumed you would have run into our Benjamin by now. Was it he that put you on my tail?”

“He and a dash of good fortune at the Great Dock.”

Hudson nodded. “Well, these are questions I didn't have answers to until I freed myself from the hold and followed our traveling fools—at a safe distance, mind—to this very cabin. They had themselves quite a tongue wag this afternoon, and I caught most of it through a hole in one of the windows. If you weren't already sitting down, I'd ask you to now.”

“Oh, out with it, Hudson. For the love of—”

“Skipjack was recently liberated from imprisonment on an island off the northeast coast of South America. You'll love the name of the island, too.”

Matthew stared dumbly, growing impatient.

“Satan's Claw. You'd think he might have been sent there by the French. It's their territory, after all. But no. An arrangement was made for a very unusual circumstance. Skipjack, it turns out, was tried in the Colonies. In New York, in fact. And so heinous were his crimes, in the eyes of the law, that it was determined he should be transported for a sentence of solitude and circumspection.”

“Were his crimes so great, then? That kind of punishment is almost unheard of. Who passed such a sentence?”

“A magistrate you knew well.”

Matthew stood at once and approached his friend. “What did you say? You can't mean Isaac Woodward.”

“Eight years he gave the pirate. That was nine years ago. For the past year, Skipjack has been making much of his freedom. He'd heard about an island in the Mediterranean from another inmate on Satan's Claw. This other island was said to have a strange atmosphere about it, capable of damning a man's senses if he was too long exposed.”

“Wait, the man who came to our offices—Benjamin—does this explain his memory lapse?”

“Yes, and the forgetfulness potion is meant to figure in my future, too. Yours, I'm afraid, looks to be a shade or two darker. You see, with Magistrate Woodward no longer among the living, Skipjack has had to look elsewhere for revenge. It would appear he's found it in you.”

Matthew's chest seemed to freeze and he struggled to draw breath. Had he come on this fool's errand only to put himself in danger's path and not to free his friend from harm?

“What do you suggest,” said Matthew, “that we kill them before they can kill me?”

“That wouldn't be within the bounds of the law, though I can't say I'd take issue with it personally. No, we shouldn't need to go as far as that. But we need to subdue them, and we need their money.”

A latch was thrown at the front door of the cabin. Hudson and Matthew turned in that direction and Hudson gave a sharp nod. It was time.

#

Hudson watched from around the corner as the door swung slowly open. He was displeased to see that it was Gamp who had been chosen to investigate Matthew's whereabouts. The smallest of the three men. Hudson had hoped to fell the pirate first, but even Panto would have been a larger tree to bring down than Gamp. As it was, the peak of their surprise would be spent on the runt, leaving two formidable opponents yet to be brought down.

Still, the moment called for action and the time was now. Hudson rushed from cover and toward the man whose eyes grew larger with each step of the larger man's fast approach. To avoid handing Gamp an opportunity to draw forth a blade or some other weapon, Hudson took him by the collar of his jacket and slammed him into the door he'd opened. It dazed him. Good. Hudson repeated the move with more force. With time running through the glass, he didn't dare spend too much of it on Gamp. Best to incapacitate him quickly and move inside to deal with the others. On his third assault, he gripped the man's neck with one hand and used the other to thrust the head backward into the door. Gamp's light went out and down he went.

The main room of the cabin was lit by a modest fire in the hearth. There was no sign of Panto or Skipjack. Hudson took a couple of steps farther into the room. If they were there he'd be able to tell. That meant they'd retreated to the back rooms. He didn't much like the thought of making his way down the hallway without knowing which of the rooms along it housed his prey, but what choice was there?

Then another, more urgent, question came to him. Where in hell was Matthew? He wasn't bringing up the rear, as Hudson had expected. So what was he doing?

He assumed the clatter of a breaking window at the back of the cabin was a partial answer, and he broke into a gallop to confirm his suspicions. By the time he reached the rear bedroom Panto was on the floor holding both hands to his forehead, blood running into one eye. A bloody stone lay nearby. This must have been Matthew's handiwork, but the problem solver was in trouble now nonetheless. A large man who Hudson recognized at once as Skipjack rode Matthew's back as if the young problem solver were a pack animal. The pirate's fingers clawed for the younger man's eyes but so far had failed to inflict the intended damage.

Hudson scanned the room for some kind of weapon, but nothing recommended itself. The chamber pot tucked under a bed in one corner, whether empty or full, wouldn't provide more than a temporary distraction in combat. So he decided that if Skipjack was relying on his hands, hands were good enough all around. He charged at Matthew and his cargo, slamming into them both with his full weight.

“Apologies, Matthew,” he grunted as the two men hurtled into the wall.

It was enough to separate them, if nothing else, and Matthew quickly scrambled out of harm's way to keep watch over Panto, who had curled into a childlike position and continued to cover his wound. Was he crying? Perhaps.

Skipjack took Hudson's head in both hands, preparing to butt it with his own, Hudson assumed. He had seen the dirty trick performed more than once and was well aware of the dazed effect it was capable of inflicting. It could easily tilt the odds of a fight, and Hudson wasn't about to let that happen. Similarly taking the pirate's head in his own hands he brought one knee up as he swung the man's head down to meet it, and the result was definitive. Skipjack fell to the floor like a ratcatcher's sack of bounty after a long night plying his trade.

Hudson turned to his friend. “I'd say that makes three down. Good work, moonbeam. Let's get them tied up.”

It turned out they only needed to bother with two of them, for Gamp's final encounter with the cabin door had proved to be the end of him. Panto and Skipjack, however, were soon bound to two chairs facing each other across the table in the main room. Both were still in a fog.

“I trust you noticed Benjamin's bruised knuckles when he met with you in the office,” Matthew said to Hudson.

“I did,” Hudson said. “What did you make of it?”

“I think he may have gotten a bit of his own before Panto and Gamp took control of the situation. Did you notice the bruise on Gamp's cheek? It certainly has the look of something you might expect from a blow. I don't see any bruising on your knuckles.”

“A good catch on your part, as usual. Well, since the plan here, after killing you, was to treat me similarly to the good doctor, leaving me with only a vague outline of the day's events, what do you say we turn the tables and leave them to try to make sense of Gamp's mysterious passing?”

“And maybe leave this one off the Herrald Agency's books?”

Hudson gave Matthew a slightly guilty nod and went about searching the pirate's voluminous coat. He knew it hid a bottle of the memory-altering fluid, for he'd seen Skipjack show it to Panto through the window, and heard enough of its intended use.

“My living,” Skipjack mumbled as Hudson produced the bottle. “That's all it is.”

“You'll be lucky if you remember how to manufacture the stuff after we're through here.”

That got the man's attention. He straightened himself up a bit. “What do you mean? Surely you're not …”

But Hudson was already pouring the liquid into two large clay mugs he'd found on the mantelpiece. The bottle was nearly drained by the time the mugs were filled.

“One for each of you. I don't know how you usually work out the proper amount, but I'm guessing this ought to get the job done.”

“You're insane. This quantity has never been tried before. We may wind up mad, or worse!”

“Then mad you'll wind up, or worse. You're going to drink those mugs down to nothing or I'll start inflicting pain, and you'll end up swallowing the stuff anyway. So why make it difficult? I'll pour, you'll swallow. Is that clear enough?”

Skipjack looked across at Panto, whose wound was now clearly visible, a jagged gash above his left eye. And then the pirate nodded with a grunt of defeat.

#

As Matthew and Hudson made their way across the coastline, the sun broke from behind a slate of gray clouds. They'd stopped to talk with Lodewijk about seeing that Gladys was returned to Piers Brimley, who the skipper was well familiar with. The payment of a few coins had sealed the deal. And now they were bound for the High Dudgeon, accompanied by the rhythm of stolen gold that jingled in their pockets.

“It's no light thing, taking a man's life,” Hudson said, risking an end to the general good feeling he'd been harboring since exiting the cabin.

“No, it's not,” Matthew said, his gaze straight ahead to where the ship bobbed at the shore. “But I don't suppose it's any small matter to save one, either. I'm grateful. Who knows how this day may have turned out without your involvement.”

“Maybe that was their biggest mistake, mixing me up in their plan of revenge.”

“I'd imagine it wasn't their intention initially. I just hope we've heard the last of Skipjack.”

“I suspect even Skipjack has heard the last of Skipjack, considering the amount of green stuff I poured down his gullet. The same goes for Panto.”

“I wonder what they'll deduce about what happened to their colleague.”

“Not for us to know, I suppose. They're all someone else's story now.

“And what do you suppose lies ahead for us? Do you think we made the right decision, drinking what didn't fit in their mugs?”

“Such a small amount shouldn't do any lasting damage, but if we can forget any part of today, I'll chalk that up as a victory of sorts.”

I agree. Now let's see how much gold it will take to hire that ship to carry us back to the city, with no questions asked as to the whereabouts of Panto and Gamp.”

And along the slope of the island coast they continued until they reached the vessel that would return them to their familiar world.