Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  "If I may ask," Woodward ventured, "why does your wife remain in Boston?"

  "You're not suggesting that she come here to live, are you? Christ's Blood, I wouldn't hear of it! No, she's much better off in Boston, where the medical facilities are modern. They've tamed their salt marshes and tidepools up there, as well, so the damp humours aren't so vengeful." He took a quick sip of the hemp and slowly spewed out the smoke. "For the same reasons, Winston left his family in England and Bidwell wouldn't dream of having his wife make the voyage—not even on one of his own ships! You know, Johnstone's wife so detested the place that she returned to England and refused to make the crossing again. Do you blame her? This isn't a woman's land, that's a surety!"

  Woodward, though this fog was rapidly overcoming his mind, remembered what he had intended to ask Dr. Shields. "About Schoolmaster Johnstone," he said, his tongue thick and seemingly coated with cat fur. "I have to inquire about this, and I know it must sound very strange, but . . . have you ever seen his deformed knee?"

  "His knee? No, I haven't. I'm not sure I would care to, since deformation is not my area of interest. I have sold him bandages and liniment for his discomfort, though." Shields frowned. "Why do you ask such a question?"

  "My curiosity," he replied, though it was more Matthew's curiosity that his own. "Uh . . . would it be unlikely that Mr. Johnstone could ... for instance . . . run or climb stairs?"

  The doctor looked at Woodward as if the magistrate's senses had flown the coop."I take it that he could not," Woodward said.

  "Most certainly not. Well, he might be able to climb stairs one at the time, but I think the effort would be considerable." He cocked his head to one side, his owlish eyes bright. "What are these questions about, Isaac? May I call you Isaac?""Yes, of course. And may I call you Benjamin?"

  "Absolutely. So: Isaac, my friend, why these questions pertaining to Johnstone's knee?"

  "A thief entered Mr. Bidwell's house early this morning," Woodward said, leaning his head forward. Smoke moved sinuously between himself and the doctor. "Whoever it was, he stole a gold coin from my clerk's room—"

  "Ah, yes." Shields nodded. "The famous coin. I heard about it from Malcolm Jennings when he came to have a boil lanced."

  "I encountered the thief in the hallway," Woodward continued. "He was a big man, with the strength of a bull. I fought him as best I could, but as he had caught me from behind I was at the disadvantage." It seemed more true now in his recollection that this had occurred, and who was to say it had not? "Everything happened so quickly," Woodward said. "I didn't see his face. He knocked a lamp from my hand and fled down the staircase. Of course I know Mr. Johnstone's deformity is severe, but . . . my clerk wanted to learn whether you've inspected his knee, and if he's capable of such an action."

  Shields laughed. "Surely you're not serious! Alan Johnstone a thief! I should say that in all of Fount Royal there's no one who'd be less a thief! The man's from a wealthy family!"

  "I presumed so, since he did attend All Souls' College at Oxford, but one never knows."

  "I've personally seen his gold pocket watch, inscribed with his initials. He owns a gold ring with a ruby in it the size of a man's fingernail!" Shields laughed again, rather giddily. "A thief indeed! No, it wouldn't be possible for Alan to run down a staircase. You've seen how he depends on his cane."

  "Yes, I have. But the theory that I believe my clerk is advancing—and understand, please, that he's young and his imagination roams unrestrained—is that Mr. Johnstone's knee appears to be malformed, but is in truth—his theory, now—as normal as yours or mine."

  Shields blinked, took a sip of smoke, blinked again, and then his face broke into a merry grin. "Oh, you're wearing a jester's cap now, is that it?"

  Woodward shrugged. "My clerk is quite serious. Therefore I had to make the inquiry."

  The doctor's grin faltered. "This is the most . . . unbalanced thing I've ever heard! You can see the deformity of his knee through his stocking! He's been in Fount Royal for three years! Why in the world would it serve him to devise such a pretense?"

  "I have no idea. Again, please understand that Matthew is a very intelligent young man, but that sometimes his mind is unfettered by common sense."

  "I should say so!" Shields smoked his remedy some more, and so did the magistrate. Woodward was feeling quite better now, most of the pain having left his throat and his breathing passages much clearer. The movement of the smoke entranced him, and the quality of the light entering the room was like gray silk. "I will tell you something about Alan that you might find of interest," Shields suddenly confided. "About his wife, I mean." He pitched his voice a little lower. "Her name was Margaret. She was . . . how shall I say this ... of a peculiar character.""In what way?"

  "A lovely woman, no doubt. But . . . her bell was somewhat cracked. I never witnessed any of her outbursts, but I heard from reliable sources that she was quite the hellion, with a penchant for throwing whatever came to hand. Winston witnessed it, one night at Bidwell's house. The woman flew into a rage and smashed a platter of chicken against the wall. And there was the other thing." Shields let his sentence hang while he puffed his hemp stick, which was beginning to burn down between his fingers. "One moment." He got up, went to the workbench, and returned with the small stub of hemp clamped in the probe as the cotton had been. He sat down again, a mischievous shine in his eyes. "Mrs. Johnstone and the husband of that poor woman in the infirmary ..." He motioned with an angling of his head in the direction of the other room. "They had a number of assignations.""Noles and Johnstone's wife?"

  "Correct. And quite bold about it, as I recall. Many knew what was going on—including Noles's wife. In time someone told Alan, but I think it came as no surprise to him. Well, Margaret despised Fount Royal anyway—she made no secret of that—and so Alan took her back to England to live with her parents. She was of wealthy stock too—her father was in the textile business—but I believe she was a trifle overbred. A few months later, Alan returned here and the matter was forgotten."

  "Adultery is a serious offense," Woodward said. "Did he not wish to press charges?"

  "I honestly think he was relieved to be rid of the woman. She was a menace to his reputation, and certainly lacking in decorum. Alan is a quiet, thoughtful man who keeps to himself for the most part, but he does have a cutting wit."

  "He must be a dedicated teacher, to have returned so soon to Fount Royal."

  "That he is. He's taken it upon himself to educate not only the children here, but many of the farmers who can't read. And of course the salary Bidwell pays him is hardly enough to buy a needle and thread, but as I say the schoolmaster has money of his own."

  Woodward nodded, drawing once more on his hemp stick; it had burned quite well down, and he could feel its heat between his fingers. In fact, he felt very warm all over now, and was perspiring. This was a good thing, he thought. It must mean that he was sweating out the bad humours. His eyes felt heavy-lidded, and without much prompting he could lie down and take a nap. "What about Winston?" he asked."What of him?""I mean, what do you know about him?"

  Shields grinned, smoke leaking between his teeth. "Am I on the witness stand, sir?"

  "No, and I don't intend to sound like a magistrate. I'd simply like to know more about the people here."

  "I see," Shields said, though from his tone of voice it was clear he still believed court was in session. After a pause of deliberation, he said, "Edward Winston is a loyal mule. You know that Winston was Bidwell's office manager in London, don't you? He's an excellent administrator, organizer, and bean counter. He, too, keeps quite to himself. I think in his case he's a bit uncomfortable around people. But it was his idea to bring the maskers here."

  "The maskers?"

  "Yes. The actors, that is. Bidwell's fond of the theater. For the past three summers, a travelling company has come to enact a morality play. It does seem to bring some culture and civilization out here in the wilderness. At least, the citizens have som
ething to look forward to every year. They come in mid-July, so it's a pity you won't be present to see them." Shields took one last puff and realized he had reached the end of his stick. "Then again," he said, "Fount Royal may not be here in mid-July, either."

  "What of Nicholas Paine?" Woodward asked. "Do you know him well?"

  "Nicholas Paine," the doctor repeated. He smiled slightly. "Yes, I do know him well."

  "He seems an able man." Woodward was thinking of that term Paine had used: black-flagger. "What do you know of his history?""I know he has one. A history, I mean."

  "I'd call that a cryptic remark," Woodward said when Shields lapsed into silence.

  "Nicholas is a very private man," Shields offered. "He has been a jack-of-all-trades. Was a seaman for a number of years, I understand. But he's not open to discussing his past at much length.""Is he married? Does he have a family?"

  "He was married, when he was a younger man. His wife perished from an illness that caused her to suffer fits until she died."

  Woodward had lifted the small stub to his mouth for a final inhalation; now, however, his hand froze. "Fits?" he said. He swallowed thickly. "What kind of fits?"

  "Convulsions, I suppose." The doctor shrugged. "Some form of fever, most probably. Or the plague. But it was long ago, and I'm sure Paine wouldn't care to speak about it. In fact, I know he would not."

  "The plague," Woodward repeated. His eyes had become glazed, not entirely from the bitterly compelling smoke of his remedy.

  "Isaac?" Shields, noting the other man's vacant stare, touched the magistrate's sleeve. "What is it?"

  "Oh, forgive me." Woodward blinked, waved some of the fumes away from his face, and brought himself back to his surroundings. "I was thinking, that's all."

  Shields nodded, a sly smile twisting his mouth. "Yes. Thinking of whom you might ask questions about me, is that correct?""No. About something else entirely."

  "But you are planning on inquiring about me, are you not? It would only be fair, since you've pumped the well concerning the schoolmaster, Mr. Winston, and Mr. Paine. Ah, I believe you're done with that! May I?" He took the burnt-down stub from Woodward's hand and placed it, along with the remnant of his own, into a small pewter jar, which he then closed with a hinged lid. "Are you feeling better now?""Yes. Remarkably so."

  "Good. As I said, you might have to repeat the treatment according to your constitution. We shall see." Shields stood up. "Now allow me to escort you to Van Gundy's tavern for a cup of his excellent hard cider. Also he has a stock of peanuts on hand, as I'm feeling quite hungry. Will you join me?""I would be honored."

  When the magistrate stood from his chair, his legs almost betrayed him. His head was swimming and strange lights seemed to dance behind his eyes. But the pain in his throat had all but vanished, and his breathing was miraculously cleared. The doctor's remedy, he thought, was surely a wonder drug.

  "Sometimes the smoke does play tricks with the balance," Shields said. "Here, take my arm and a'tavern we shall go!"

  "A tavern, a tavern!" Woodward said. "My kingdom for a tavern!" This struck him as riotously funny, and he began to laugh at his own wit. The laughter was a little too loud and a little too harsh, however, and even in his lightened state of mind he knew what he was trying to cloak.

  fourteen

  WITH THE FADING of the light, the rats grew bold. Matthew had heard their squeakings and rustlings all the afternoon, but they'd not yet made an appearance. He'd been relieved to find that the rodents had not emerged to attack either his lunch or supper—meager beef broth and two slices of black bread, humble but stomach-filling—but now, ever since Green had closed the roof hatch and left only a single lantern burning on its hook, the creatures were creeping out of their nooks and crannies to claim the place.

  "Watch your fingers," Rachel told him, sitting on her bench. "They'll give you a bite if you try to strike them. If one crawls on you tonight, it's best to lie perfectly still. They'll be sniffing at you, that's all."

  "The one that bit your shoulder," Matthew said. He was standing up, his back against the wall. "Was it only sniffing?"

  "No, I tried to get that one away from my waterbucket. I found out they can jump like cats, and I also learned they're going to have your water no matter what you do."

  Matthew picked up his own bucket of water, which Green had recently filled from a larger container, and he drank copiously from it. Enough, he hoped, to quench his thirst for the night.

  Then he placed the bucket on the floor in the opposite corner, as far away from his bed of straw as possible.

  "Green only brings fresh water every other day," Rachel said, watching him. "You won't mind drinking after the rats when you get thirsty enough."

  Another quandary had presented itself to Matthew, far worse than the problem of the rodents and the waterbucket. Green had also brought in a fresh bucket to be used for elimination. Matthew had realized he was going to have to pull down his breeches and use it—sooner or later—right in front of the woman. And, likewise, she would be using her own without benefit of a shade or screen. He thought he might endure two more lashes added to his sentence if he could have at least a modicum of privacy, but it was not to be.

  Suddenly a dark shape darted from a small crevice in the wall of Matthew's cell and went straight for the bucket. As Matthew watched, the rodent—black-furred, red-eyed, and as long as his hand—climbed swiftly up the bucket's side and leaned over its rim to lap the water, its claws gripping the wood. A second one followed, and then a third. The things interrupted their drinking to chatter like washerwomen trading gossip at the common well, and then they broke ranks and squeezed their bodies again into the crevice.

  It was going to be a very long night.

  Matthew had several books on hand, courtesy of the magistrate, who'd brought the tomes from Bidwell's library that afternoon, but as the light was so meager there would be no reading tonight. Woodward had told him he'd had an interesting conversation with Dr. Shields, and would reveal more when Matthew was set free. Now, though, Matthew felt the walls and bars closing in upon him; without proper light by which to read or write, and with rats scratching and scurrying in the logs, he feared he might lose his grip on his decorum and shame himself before Rachel Howarth. It shouldn't matter, of course, because after all she was an accused murderess—and much worse—but still he desired to present himself as a sturdy oak, not the thin willow he felt to be.

  It was warm and steamy in the gaol. Rachel cupped her hands into her waterbucket and dampened her face, washing off the salty perspiration that had collected on her cheeks and forehead. She cooled her throat with the water as well, and paid no heed when two rats squeaked and fought in the corner of her cage.

  "How long is it that you've been here?" Matthew asked, sitting on his bench with his knees pulled up to his chin. "This is the second week of May, is it not?"

  "Yes."

  "I was brought here on the third day of March."

  Matthew flinched at the very thought of it. No matter what she might have done, she was made of sterner stuff than he. "How do you stand it, day after day?"

  She finished bathing her throat before she replied. "Do I have any choice but to stand it? I suppose I could become a gibbering fool. I suppose I could break down, fall to my knees, and confess witchcraft at the boots of fine Mr. Bidwell, but should I go to my death that way?"

  "You could recite the Lord's Prayer before him. That might win you some mercy."

  "No," she said, and she aimed those fierce amber eyes at him, "it would not. As I told you, I refuse to recite something that has no meaning in this town. And my recitation of it would change no one's mind about my guilt." She cupped her hands again and this time let the water flow through her wild mane of ebony hair. "You heard what the magistrate said. If I spoke the Lord's Prayer, it might be a trick of the Devil to save my skin."

  Matthew nodded. "I grant you, you're right. Bidwell and the others have made their opinions about you, and no
thing will shake them."

  "Except one thing," she said firmly. "Discovering who really murdered the reverend and my husband, and who plotted this evil against me."

  "Discovery is only half the solution. The other half would be the presentation of proof, without which discovery is hollow."

  When Matthew was silent again he was aware of the noises the rats were making, so he chose to speak in an effort to keep his mind busied. "Who would have cause to commit those crimes? Do you have any idea?"

  "No."

  "Did your husband anger someone? Did he cheat someone? Did he—"

  "This is not about Daniel," she interrupted. "It is about me. I was chosen as the object of this farce because of the very reasons I was hounded from their church. My mother was Portuguese, my father a dark Irishman. But I have my mother's color and her eyes. They mark me as surely as a raven among doves. I alone am of this color, here in this town. Who would not look upon me as someone different. . . someone to be feared, because I am different?"

  Matthew had thought of another reason, as well: her exotic beauty. He doubted that a woman more comely than Rachel Howarth had ever set foot in Fount Royal. Her nigrescent coloring was surely objectionable to many—if not most—in this society of pallid whitebreads, but that very same hue was as the burnished flesh of a forbidden fruit. He'd never in his life seen anyone the equal of her. She seemed more proud animal than suffering human, and he thought that this quality too could stir the fire of a man's lust. Or fan the crackling embers of another woman's jealousy.

  "The evidence against you," he said, and quickly amended himself: "The apparent evidence against you is overwhelming. Buckner's story may be riddled with holes, but he believes what he said today to be true. The same with Elias Garrick. He firmly believes he witnessed you in . . . shall we say . . . intimate accord with Satan."

  "Lies," she said.

  "I have to disagree. I don't think they're lying."

  "So you do believe me to be a witch, then?"

  "I don't know what I believe," he said. "Take the poppets, for instance. They were found under a floorboard of your kitchen. A woman named Cara—"