The Queen of Bedlam by Robert R. McCammon Page A

him this morning. All in all, he ought to go do some drinking and then back to bed.
    “That’s not all I have to tell you,” Powers said, and the bright tone of his voice instantly made Matthew sit up straight, whether expecting more bad news or not he wasn’t sure. “Don’t think I’m going to leave here and not find something of interest for you. Do you wish to clerk for another magistrate?”
    What are my choices? Matthew asked himself, but didn’t speak it.
    “If you do, that’s simple enough. Either Dawes or Mackfinay would take you on today, if they could. But I want you to know where I’ve been this morning.”
    “Sir?” Now Matthew was totally lost.
    “Where I’ve been,” the magistrate repeated, as if conversing with an imbecile. “Or, more importantly, who I’ve met. I received a messenger at home yesterday evening, asking if I would meet with a Mrs. Katherine Herrald at the Dock House Inn. It seems we share some enemies, to the extent that she wished to speak with me. I went this morning, and…though I regretted that I could not be of assistance to her, I told her I knew someone who might be, and that I’d have you meet her at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”
    “Me?” Matthew truly thought the magistrate had lost a few coins from his treasury. “Why?”
    “Because…” Powers stopped and seemed to think better of it. “Just because, and that’s all I’m going to say. We have our interview with the widow Muckleroy at ten o’clock, yes? So you’ll have time for a good lunch and then off to the Dock House with you.”
    “Sir…I’d really like to know what this is about. I mean, I appreciate any help you might give me, but…who is Mrs. Katherine Herrald?”
    “A businesswoman,” came the reply, “with a very intriguing plan. Now hush with the questions and contain yourself. Finish that transcript by noon and I’ll take you to Sally Almond’s, but only if you’ll order the lamb’s broth and biscuits.” So saying, he returned to his desk and began to prepare his notes for the widow’s questioning, while Matthew stared at his back and wondered what kind of insanity had infected the town today.
    “Sir?” he tried again, but Powers waved an impatient hand at him and thus signaled the absolute end of any further discussion of the mysterious Mrs. Herrald.
    At length Matthew had to put his curiosity aside, for nothing more would be forthcoming. He dipped his quill into the inkpot and put it to paper once again, as indeed he did need to finish the transcript and the Tuesday special at Sally Almond’s tavern was not to be missed.

Four
    As the time approached for the arrival of Lord Cornbury, the meeting room in City Hall became first crowded, then packed, and then overflowing with citizens. Matthew, who had secured a seat on the third row pew with Magistrate Powers to his left and the sugar merchant Solomon Tully to his right, watched this infusion of human beings with great interest. Along the aisle of butter-yellow pinewood strode both the illustrious and infamous personages of New York, all bathed in the golden afternoon light that streamed through the tall multi-paned windows as if the place were rival to Trinity in its beatific acceptance of the good, the bad, and the unfortunately featured.
    Here came strutting the prime businessmen of the town, their boots clattering on the boards as they pushed through the rabble; here came sauntering the shop-owners and warehouse masters, eager to find places behind the business leaders; here came shoving the lawyers and doctors demonstrating that they too sought the sunlight of recognition; here were the mill owners and tavern-keepers, the sea captains and craftsmen, the sweepers and menders and bakers, the shoemakers and tailors and barbers, those who pushed and those who were pushed, in a tide of humanity that surged from the street and were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the pews and in the aisle, and behind them a massed knot of