"No reason, sir." Instantly Goode's frown relaxed. "No reason, just curious 'bout such a thing. Forgive an old man's boldness, sir."
"I understand." What Matthew understood was that Goode might know somewhat more about this incident than he was willing to say, but now was not the time to pursue it.
"Is there anythin' else I'm required for, ma'am?" Goode asked Mrs. Nettles, and she told him he was free to go. The servant left the parlor, moving rather hurriedly for his age.
Presently Bidwell returned to the house. His face was damp with sweat and streaked dark by ashes, and his regal bearing had been reduced to a pauperly state by the grievances of the crowd. Though he was bone-tired and sick at heart, still his presence of mind was sharp enough to immediately see from the gathering of Mrs. Nettles, Woodward, and Matthew that something untoward had occurred.
"We've suffered a thief," Mrs. Nettles said, before the master of the mansion could speak. "A man was in Mr. Corbett's room. He knocked the magistrate to the floor on escapin'."
"Near broke my shoulder," Woodward added.
"A thief? Did you recognize the man? What was taken?"
"I didn't see his face," the magistrate said. "But the man evidently stole Matthew's gold coin."
"The coin you found at Shawcombe's tavern?" Bidwell had heard about it from Paine just after they'd returned from their expedition.
Matthew nodded. "Yes, sir."
"I have to say I'm not surprised!" Bidwell put a hand into the bowl of water and wiped it across his sooty face. "I understand the tales that were spreading magnified that single coin into a treasure box full! Small wonder some poor farmer didn't dare to come in here and make off with the fortune!"
"Sir?" Matthew said. "Goode has advanced the theory that whoever did it might have been a frequent visitor to your house, in that he could negotiate the stairs without benefit of a candle. Do you have many poor farmers as your guests?"
"No. Excepting Garrick, of course. But he's only been here twice, and the second time was at our dinner." Again he wet his face with a handful of water. It dawned upon him what Matthew was getting at. "You believe the thief was a common acquaintance of mine?"
"A probability. I found no lantern in my room. The man may have entered in the dark and been familiar enough with your house not to need illumination."
"A servant, then!" Bidwell looked at Mrs. Nettles. "Have you seen to my bedchamber yet?"
"Yes sir, I have. Your coin box is undisturbed. I took the liberty also of inspectin' your study. Nothin' missin' there, as far as I could tell. And—if I ma' speak my mind, sir—the servants know where your coin box is. There're Dutch gold pieces aplenty in it." She lifted her eyebrows. "You follow what I'm sayin', sir?"
"Mr. Bidwell?" Matthew said. He had come to a conclusion of sorts. "Whoever entered your house had been here before, probably many times. I believe he specifically wanted the coin that was in my possession. He knew I wouldn't be in the room. He knew also that the magistrate was a hard sleeper. Because I told him."
"You did?"
"Yes, sir. Except this theory is somewhat flawed. Schoolmaster Johnstone couldn't have run down the stairs."
Bidwell stared at him, mouth agape. And then from that open mouth came a laugh like donkey's bray. "Now you've shown your true intellect, boy!" he said, with more than a touch of glee. "Schoolmaster Johnstone a thief! Put this in your broken pipe and puff on it: the man's even unable to climb stairs, much less run down them! He has a deformed knee, in case it's escaped you!"
"I've seen what appears to be a deformed knee," Matthew said calmly. "I've not seen the knee itself."
"By God, you are a right brash set of bones!" Bidwell grinned savagely. "Have you lost whatever mind you brought to this town?"
"I am only telling you, sir, that I informed the schoolmaster that Magistrate Woodward was asleep in his room."
"Well, Hell's burnin' bells! I told the same thing to Nicholas Paine, when he asked where the magistrate was!"
"And Mr. Winston asked me," Mrs. Nettles said. "I told him I thought the magistrate was still abed."
"Mrs. Nettles knew it!" Bidwell brayed on. "I think she could knock a man down, don't you?" His wet face flushed when he realized what he'd just said. "No offense, Mrs. Nettles."
"None taken, sir. I once threw my dear departed husband through a winda."
"There, you see?" Bidwell turned his glare upon Woodward. "Sir, if this was the most able clerk you could discover, I pity the judicial world!"
"He's able enough," was the magistrate's rather frosty reply. "Even if he does sometimes put his cart before his horses."
"In this case, his cart is lacking not only horses but wheels!" Bidwell shook his head, disgusted with the whole business. "Oh, if I live to see the new year I shall count it as a miracle! Here, what's that you're drinking?"
"Rum," Woodward answered.
"What's rum for one is rum for two, then!" Bidwell took the tankard from him and swigged the rest of it down.
"There is another thing," Matthew said; he'd remembered it, just as Bidwell had mentioned living to see the new year. "Dr. Shields."
"Yes? What about him? Was he in here with the schoolmaster, both of them thieving?"
"He also inquired as to the whereabouts of the magistrate, and Mr. Johnstone told him what I'd said. The doctor excused himself from my presence just after Mr. Johnstone left."
"Oh, so now we have a gang of thieves! The schoolmaster, Dr. Shields, Mr. Paine, Winston, and Mrs. Nettles! A fearsome five, indeed!"
"Make light as you wish," Matthew said, "but I think one of those five entered this house and took my gold coin."
"Not me!" the woman said sharply. "Surely you don't mean me!"
"Of course he means you!" Bidwell assured her. "If he can accuse a cripple of running down a staircase in the dark, he can accuse whomever the hell he pleases!"
"It wasn't the doctor." Woodward placed his hand against his bruised shoulder. "The man who hit me had some size to him. Six feet he was, at least. A giant, possibly. And he moved as swiftly as a snake."
"Yes, sir." Matthew gave a faint smile. "And we fought off Shawcombe with candles versus daggers, didn't we?"
Woodward understood his meaning, and tucked his head down an inch or so. Bidwell slammed the tankard down upon the nearest tabletop. "I'm going back up to bed, for whatever sleep I can find! I daresay it won't be much!" He focused his gaze directly at Matthew. "First light will be here in two hours. I'll expect you to be ready to carry out your sentence."
"I shall be."
Bidwell picked up a lantern and took three weary steps toward the staircase. Then he abruptly stopped and looked back, his face daubed yellow in the glow. "Is there something in particular about that coin I should know?"
Matthew recalled the conversation he'd had with Woodward, concerning the theory that there might be an encampment of Spanish soldiers near the Indians' village. Now, however, seemed not the moment to bring it up with Bidwell, his being in such a fractious temperament.
"What I'm asking is," Bidwell continued, "why would someone risk entering my house for one gold coin?"
Matthew said, "I don't know."
"No ideas? Have your theories failed you?"
"For the moment, yes."
"I think," Bidwell said bluntly, "that you know much more about this than you wish to say. But I'll let it go, as I'm in no mood for a fencing match with you. Good night, gentlemen." Bidwell ascended the stairs, and Mrs. Nettles gave the two men a crisp good night—her face a solemn mask that told Matthew she was quite offended at his accusation of thievery—and went about her business.
Woodward waited until he was positive they were alone. Then he gave a quiet laugh. "Of course you have a theory, don't you? You have a theory for everything under the sun."
"If you mean I fervently desire to know the why of things, you're correct."
"The why of things," Woodward repeated, and there was a bitter edge in his voice. "Knowing the why
of things can kill a man, Matthew." He put his hand to his throat and massaged it. "Sometimes it's best not to ask too many questions. Haven't you learned that yet?"
"It's not my nature, sir," Matthew replied; he felt sure that Woodward's attitude in this matter of the why had to do with the man's past life in London.
"You are young. I am old. That makes all the difference." He let go a long, pained sigh. "All right, then. Tell me what you're thinking."
"We may have had a visit tonight," Matthew said quietly, "from the Spanish spy." Woodward didn't respond. He scratched the mosquito bite on his cheek. "That coin may be evidence of the Spanish presence near the Indians' village, wherever it might be," Matthew continued, keeping his voice hushed. "The spy may have felt it necessary to remove it from sight."
"But the damage has been done. Bidwell already knows about the coin. The entire population does, it seems."
"Yes, sir, but—as Bidwell might say—a hole in a ship must be patched, regardless how much water has already flooded the hull. The thief didn't expect to be interrupted. Perhaps he hoped I might believe the coin to be misplaced. But removing it from sight would also remove it as an object of Bidwell's interest."
"And of course," Woodward added, "the spy wouldn't know your suspicions."
"Exactly."
"What action do you propose, then?"
"I propose ... to serve my sentence and scribe the answers of the witnesses. Then I propose to endure the whip as best I can, and hope I neither weep in public nor soil my breeches. I propose for you to visit Dr. Shields and ask for a tonic."
"Matthew, I told you that I'm—-"
"You're ill, sir," Matthew said firmly. "And you might worsen, without help. I shall not retreat on this subject."
Woodward made a sound of exasperation. He knew the young man could be as tenacious as a dockside dog trying to gnaw through a crab's shell. "All right," he relented. "I'll go."
"Tomorrow."
"Yes, yes. Tomorrow."
"Your visit should be twofold," Matthew said. "One, to aid your health. Two, to make some inquiries—subtle, of course— about Mr. Paine, Mr. Winston, and Schoolmaster Johnstone."
"The schoolmaster? It can't be him, Matthew! His deformed knee!"
"I should like to know if Dr. Shields has ever inspected it."
"You're accusing an Oxford brother," Woodward said, with an uptilt of his chin. "I find that objectionable."
"I'm accusing no one, sir. But I would wish to know the schoolmaster's history, just as I would wish to know the histories of Mr. Winston and Mr. Paine."
"And what of Dr. Shields's history?"
"His, too. But I think the doctor may be less than candid about his own life, therefore other sources will have to be tapped."
"All this is well and good." Woodward eased himself to his feet. "However, we can't forget our main purpose here. We're primarily concerned with a witch, not a spy."
"A woman accused of witchcraft," Matthew corrected. He had spoken it a little too sternly, and he had to amend his tone. "Sir," he said.
"Of course." The magistrate nodded, his eyelids drooping. "Good night."
"Good night, sir." Matthew let him start walking away before he decided, on an impulse, to say the next thing that left his lips. "Magistrate? Who is in pain when you call to Ann?"
Woodward stopped as if he had collided with a wall. He stood very still.
"I couldn't help but overhear. But it's not something I haven't heard before, sir." There was no response. "Forgive my intrusion. I had to ask."
"No." Woodward's voice was tight. "You did not have to ask." He remained standing exactly as he was, his back toward the young man. "This is one why you should leave be, Matthew. Heed what I say. Leave it be."
Matthew said nothing more. He watched as the magistrate walked out of the parlor, his back ramrod-straight.
And thus the night ended, with more questions and no answers.
eleven
A SMALL BUT IMPORTANT MIRACLE greeted Matthew as he awakened, responding to the insistent fist of Robert Bidwell upon his chamber door: the sun had appeared.
It was a weak sun, yes, and in imminent danger of being clouded over by the jealous sky, but there it was all the same. The early light, a misty golden sheen, had brought forth Fount Royal's roosters in fine trumpeting form. As Matthew shaved and dressed, he listened to the orchestra of cocks vying for vocal dominance. His gaze kept slipping down to where the Spanish coin had been resting atop the dresser, and he couldn't help but wonder whose boots had crossed the floor to steal it. But today another matter was supreme. He would have to forswear his mind from the subject of the coin and the spy and concentrate fully on his task—which was, after all, his raison d'etre.
A breakfast of eggs, fried potatoes, and corncakes filled Matthew's belly, all washed down with a cup of sturdy dark brown tea. Woodward was late to the table, his eyes swollen and his breathing harsh; he appeared to have either slept not at all for the remainder of the night or suffered dreams that prevented rest. Before Matthew could speak, Woodward lifted a hand and said in a croaking voice, "I promised I would visit Dr. Shields today, and I shall. As soon as we have interviewed Mr. Buckner."
"Surely you're going to interview more than one witness today, aren't you? As tomorrow is the Sabbath, I mean." Bidwell was sitting at the head of the table, his breakfast platter already scraped clean. Though he'd been severely tried by the recent events, he was clean-shaven, freshly washed, and dressed in a tan-colored suit. The ringlets of his lavish wig cascaded down around his shoulders.
"I will interview Mr. Buckner this morning." Woodward seated himself on the bench across the table from Matthew. "Then I'm going to visit Dr. Shields. If I am up to the task, I will interview Mr. Garrick in the afternoon."
"All right, then. Just so there is some movement, I should be satisfied."
"I, too, should be satisfied with a movement," Woodward said. "My system has been clogged by these country meals." He pushed aside his breakfast dish, which had been loaded with food by a servant girl in preparation for his arrival. Instead he reached for the green ceramic teapot and poured a cup, which he drank down with several noisy swallows.
"You'll be feeling better before long," Bidwell assured him. "The sun cures all ills."
"Thank you, sir, but I do not desire platitudes. Will we have the proper furnishings on hand when we reach the gaol?"
"I've arranged for Mr. Winston and Mr. Green to take care of what you need. And I must say, there's no reason to be snappish. This is a great day, sir, for the history of Fount Royal."
"No day is great when murder is involved." Woodward poured a second cup of tea and that, too, went down his hatch.
It came time to leave. Bidwell announced that Goode was already waiting in front with the carriage, and he wished them both—as he put it—"good hunting." Woodward felt positively feeble as he left the house, his bones heated and flesh clammy, his throat paved by Hell's burning brimstone. It was all he could do to suck in a breath, as his nostrils were so constricted. But he would have to carry on, and hopefully Dr. Shields could relieve his discomfort later in the day.
Clouds had moved in, obscuring the blessed sun, as Goode flicked the reins and the carriage wheels began to turn. But as they passed the spring—where two women were already drawing water into buckets—the sun's rays slipped their bondage and shone down upon the surface. Matthew saw the spring suddenly glow golden with a marvelously beautiful light. Around the water, the green tops of oak trees were cast with the same gilded lumination, and for a moment Matthew realized the power that Fount Royal held over its citizens: a place carved from the wild, fenced and tamed, baptized in sweat and tears, made useful by sheer human will and muscle. It was a dream and a damnation too, this desiring to control the wilderness, to shape it with axe-blade and shovel. Many had perished in the building of this town; many more would die before it was a harbor city. But who could deny the temptation and challenge of the land?
&nb
sp; In some old Latin tome on philosophy he'd read, Matthew recalled that the author had assigned all reflection, peace, and piety to God; to the Devil had been assigned the need of man to go forth and conquer, to break asunder and rework, to question and reach beyond all hope of grasping.
It seemed to him, then, that according to that philosophy the Devil was indeed at work in Fount Royal. And the Devil was indeed at work in him, because the question of why was rooted in the tree of forbidden fruit. But what would this land—this world—be without such a question? And where would it be without those instincts and needs—seeds from the Devil, some might say—that caused men to wish for more than God had given them?
The clouds shifted, and suddenly yet again the sun had vanished. Matthew looked up and saw patches of blue amid the gray, but they were becoming slimmer and smaller. In another moment, the gray clouds held dominion once more.
"So much for the healing properties of the sun," Woodward said.
Smoke was still drifting from the charred ruins of what had yesterday been a farmhouse. Along Truth Street the acrid odor of burning remained strong. Presently Goode bade the horses slow and reined them in before the gaol. The giant red-haired and red-bearded Mr. Green was waiting outside for them, along with Edward Winston.
"Your wishes have been met," Winston said, eager to please. "I've even donated my own desk and Bible to the cause."
Green took them all inside. Matthew was relieved to see that Noles had been released and had fled his coop. The roof hatch was open, allowing in the hazy gray light, and Green had lit several lanterns and hung them from wallhooks. Back in the last cell, the woman was huddled in the straw, her sackcloth clothing bundled about her.
"This is where you'll be," Green rumbled, opening the door of the cage opposite the one in which Noles had been confined. Clean straw had been laid down. In a corner had been placed two buckets, one empty and the other brimmed with fresh water. At the center of the cell stood a desk and chair, a leatherbound Bible (suitable for swearing truth upon) atop the desk, and the chair holding a comfortable-looking blue cushion. Before the desk was a stool for the witness. To the right of the magistrate's position was a second, smaller combination desk and chair—removed from the schoolhouse, Matthew presumed—and atop it another blotter and a rectangular wooden box. Matthew's first act upon entering the cell was to lift the box's lid; he found within it a thick sheaf of rather yellowed paper, a well of black ink, three quills, a small brush, and a square of coarse brown cloth with which to clean clots of ink from the writing instruments.
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