Tags:
General Interest,
Fiction,
Historical fiction,
General,
Historical,
Mystery & Detective,
Suspense fiction,
Mystery Fiction,
New York,
New York (State),
New York (N.Y.),
Serial Murders,
Clerks of court,
Serial Murders - New York (State) - New York
turned away and delivered the third apple again with cold ferocity into the pickpocket’s bloody mouth.
Grooder gave an anguished noise, perhaps a cry for help muted by broken teeth.
It was not for Matthew to intercede. It was, after all, Magistrate Powers’ sentence on Grooder, that he stand at the pillory by daylight hours and that the pleasure of the citizens be to punish the man in such a fashion. Matthew strode past, quickly now because he had much work to do. Still…it was terribly cruel, wasn’t it?
He glanced back and saw that the man in the beige suit was swiftly crossing the street, heading in the opposite direction. Grooder was quiet, his head bowed and blood dripping down into a little gory puddle below him. His hands kept clenching and unclenching, as if grappling the air. The flies would be all over his mouth in a few minutes.
Matthew kept walking. He’d never seen that man before. Possibly, like many others, he’d recently come to New York by ship or coach. So what of him?
Yet…it had occurred to Matthew that the man had taken great pleasure in his target practice. And never be it said that Grooder didn’t merit such attention, but…it was unpalatable, to his taste.
He continued on, to the yellow stone edifice of the triple-storied City Hall, in through the high wooden doors meant to signify the power of government and up the broad staircase to the second floor. The place still smelled of raw timbers and sawdust. He went to the third door on the right. It was locked, as the magistrate had not yet arrived, so Matthew used his key. Now he had to harness his power of will, and force all thoughts of injustice, disappointments, and bitterness from his mind, for his working day had begun and the business of the law was indeed a demanding mistress.
Three
By the pendulum clock it was sixteen minutes after eight when Magistrate Nathaniel Powers entered the office, which was a large single room with a lead-paned glass window viewing upon the northward expanse of the Broad Way and the forested hills beyond.
“Morning, Matthew,” he said, as he instantly and by constant habit shed his rather dimpled dove’s-gray tricorn and the gray-striped coat of a suit that had known more needle-and-thread than a petticoat army. These he placed carefully, as always, upon two pegs next to the door.
“Good morning, sir,” answered Matthew, as always. Truth be told, he’d been day-dreaming out the window, turned around at his desk upon which lay two ledger books, his bottle of good black India ink, and two goose-feather quills. He’d been quick enough, with the noise of boots on the corridor’s boards and the click of the doorhandle, to dip his quill and return to his transcription of the most recent case of Duffey Boggs, found guilty of hog thievery and sentenced to twenty-five lashes at the whipping-post and the branding of a “T” on the right hand.
“Ah, the letters are ready?” Powers walked to his own desk, which befitting his status was central in the room and perhaps twice as large as Matthew’s. He picked up the packet of more than a dozen envelopes, which were stamped with red wax seals of the magistrate’s office and were bound for such destinations as varied as a city official down the stairs and a law colleague across the Atlantic. “Good work, very neatly done.”
“Thank you,” Matthew replied, as he always did when this compliment was offered him, and then he returned his attention to the thief of hogs.
Magistrate Powers sat down at his desk, which faced Matthew. “And what is on the docket for today, then?”
“Nothing at court. At one o’clock you have an appointment with Magistrate Dawes. Of course you’re expected to attend Lord Cornbury’s address at three o’clock.”
“Yes, that.” He nodded, his face amiable though deeply lined and care-worn. He was fifty-four years old, was married, and had three children: a married girl with her own family and two sons who wished