But then again, it must make sense—somehow, to someone.
And it was up to him to use his mind and instincts to uncover the sense of it, because if he did not—and very soon—then he could bid Rachel farewell at the burning pyre.
Who was the man who ventured at night into the swamp, carrying a dark lantern and a bucket? Why was a coin of Spanish gold in the belly of a turtle? And Goode's question: How come Satan don't talk German nor Dutch and he don't talk to us darks neither?
Mysteries within mysteries, Matthew thought. Unravelling them would be a task fit for a far greater champion than he—but he was all Rachel had. If he did not answer these questions, then who would? The answer to that was simple: no one.
twenty-one
THE WARM BATH—taken in a tub room beside the kitchen—had turned out to be chilly and his shaving razor had nicked his chin, but otherwise Matthew found himself to be invigorated as he dressed in clean clothes. He had consumed a breakfast of eggs, sausage, and salted ham, put away two cups of tea and a jolt of rum, and so was eager to get out and about as the morning progressed.
His knock on the magistrate's door was not answered, but the door was unlatched. When he looked in, he saw Woodward asleep with the box of court papers beside him on the bed. The magistrate had obviously begun reading through them, as there were some papers lying in disarray near his right hand, but his illness had stolen him away. Matthew quietly entered the room and stood at the bedside, staring at Woodward's pallid yellow-tinged face.
The magistrate's mouth was open. Even in sleep he suffered, for his breathing was a harsh, painful wheeze. Matthew saw the brown stains on the pillowcase under his left ear. The room had a thick, sickly smell, an odor of dried blood and wet pus and . . . death? Matthew thought.
Instantly his mind recoiled. Such a thought should not be allowed. No, no, neither allowed nor dwelt upon! He looked down at the scuffed floorboards for a moment, listening to the magistrate's struggle with the very air.
At the orphanage, Matthew had seen boys grow sick and wither away in such a fashion. He suspected Woodward's illness might have begun with the cold rain that had pelted them on their flight from Shawcombe's tavern, the thought of which made him again damn that murderous villain to the innermost fires of Hell. And now Matthew was tormented by worry, because the magistrate's condition was only likely to worsen if he was not soon gotten back to Charles Town; he presumed Dr. Shields knew what he was doing—he presumed—but by the doctor's own admission the town of Fount Royal and its cemetery were becoming one and the same. Also, Matthew kept thinking about something the magistrate had said concerning Dr. Shields: What prompted him to leave what was probably a well-established urban practise for a task of extreme hardship in a frontier village?
What, indeed?
Woodward made a noise, a combination of a whisper and a groan. 'Ann," he said.
Matthew lifted his gaze to the man's face, which appeared fragile as bone china in the light of the room's single lamp.
"Ann," Woodward spoke again. His head pressed back against the pillow. "Ohhhhhh." It was an exclamation of heart-wrenching agony. "... hurting . . . he's hurting, Ann . . . hurting . . ." The magistrate's voice dwindled away, and his body relaxed once again as he fell into a deeper and more merciful realm of sleep.
Carefully Matthew came around the bed and straightened the papers into a neat stack, which he left within reach of Woodward's right hand.
"Sir? Are ye in need of anythin'?" Matthew looked toward the door. Mrs. Nettles stood on the threshold, and had spoken quietly so as not to disturb the sleeper. He shook his head.
"Very well, sir." She started to withdraw, but Matthew said, "A moment, please," and followed her out into the hallway after closing the door behind him.
"Let me say I did not mean to accuse you of stealing my coin," he told her. "I was only pointing out that a woman might have done the job as equally as a man."
"You mean, a woman a' my size, do ye not?" Mrs. Nettles's ebony eyes bored holes through him.
"Yes, that's exactly right."
"Well, I did nae steal it, so think what ye please. Now, if you'll pardon me, I ha' work to do." She turned away and walked toward the stairs.
"As do I," Matthew said. "The work of proving Rachel Howarth innocent."
Mrs. Nettles halted in her advance. She looked back at him, her face mirroring a confusion of amazement and suspicion.
"That's right," Matthew assured her. "I believe Madam Howarth to be innocent and I plan on proving it so."
"Proviri it? How?"
"It would be improper for me to say, but I thought you might like to know my intentions. Might I now ask you a question?" She made no response, but neither did she walk away. "I doubt much goes on here that escapes your attention," he said. "I'm speaking of Fount Royal as well as this house. You certainly heard the tales concerning Madam Howarth's supposed witchcraft. Why is it, then, that you so adamantly refused to believe her to be a witch, when the majority of the citizens are convinced she is?"
Mrs. Nettles glanced toward the stairs, marking that no one was close enough to overhear, before she offered a guarded reply. "I ha' seen the evil done by misguided men, sir. I saw it takin' shape here, long ere Mistress Howarth was accused. Oh yes sir, it was a thing waitin' to happen. After the rev'rend was laid low, it was bound an' sealed."
"You mean that a scapegoat was found for the murder?"
"Aye. Had to be Mistress Howarth, y'see. Had to be someone different—someone who was nae welcomed here. The fact that she's dark-skinned and near a Spaniard ... it jus' had to be her accused of such crimes. And whoever murdered the rev'rend killed Mr. Howarth, too, and hid those poppets in the house to make sure Mistress Howarth fell to blame. I nae care what Cara Grunewald said about visions from God and th' like. She was ha' crazy and the other ha' dumb. How the tricks were done, I canna' say, but there's a true fox in our coop. Do y'see, sir?"
"I do," Matthew said, "but I'd still like to know why you believe Rachel to be innocent."
The woman's mouth was set in a tight, grim line. Again, she checked the staircase before she spoke. "I had an elder sister by the name a' Jane. She married a man named Merritt and come over here, settled in the town a' Hampton, in the Massachusetts colony. Jane was a wonderful spinner. She could sit at the wheel and spin most anythin'. She could read the weather by the clouds, and foretold storms by the birds. She took to bein' a midwife, as well, after Mr. Merritt died of fever. Well, they hanged her in 1680 up there in Hampton, for bein' a witch an' spellin' a woman to give birth to a Devil's baby. So they said. Jane's own son—my nephew—was accused of evils and sent to prison in Boston, and he passed away there a year later. I've tried to find their graves, but no one knows where they're lyin'. No one cares where they're lyin'. You know what my sister's great sin was, sir?" Matthew said nothing, but simply waited.
"She was different, do y'see?" Mrs. Nettles said. "Her readin' of the clouds, her spinnin', and her midwifery made her different. In Hampton they put her neck in a noose for it, and when our father read the letters and found out how she'd died, he fell sick too. Our mother and me worked the farm, best we could. He got better, and he lived another four year, but I canna' say I ever saw him smile ag'in, 'cause Jane's hangin' was always there in that house. It was always there that she had been killed as a witch, when we all knew she had a sweet, Christian soul. But who was there to defend her, sir? Who was there to be her champion of justice?" She shook her head, a bitter smile pinching her mouth.
"Nae, not a single man nor woman stood up for her, for they must'a feared the same thing as we fear in this town: anyone who speaks up in defense must be also bewitched and fit for the hangin' tree. Yes sir, he knows that, too." Mrs. Nettles again stared through Matthew with fierce intensity. "The fox, I mean. He knows what happened in Salem, and in a dozen other towns. No one's gonna speak out for Mistress Howarth, for fear of their own necks. They'd rather quit this town and drag a guilty shadow. I'd quit it m'se
lf, if I had the courage to turn my back on Mr. Bidwell's coin . . . but 1 do not, and so there you have it."
"The witnesses insist that what they've seen is neither dream nor phantasm," Matthew said. "How would you account for that?"
"If I could account for it—and could prove it—I would make sure it was brought to Mr. Bidwell's attention."
"Exactly what I'm trying to do. I understand that Rachel was not well liked here, and was forced away from the church, but can you think of anyone who might have held such a grudge against her that they would wish to paint her as a witch?"
"No sir, I canna'. As I say, there were plenty who disliked her for bein' dark and near Spaniard. Disliked her for bein' a handsome woman, too. But no one I can think of who had that much hate in 'em."
"What about Mr. Howarth?" Matthew asked. "Did he have enemies?"
"A few, but as far as I know they've all either died or left town."
"And Reverend Grove? Did anyone display ill feelings toward him?"
"No one," Mrs. Nettles said flatly. "The rev'rend and his wife were fine people. He was a smart man, too. If he was still alive, he'd be the first to defend Mistress Howarth and that's the truth."
"I wish he were alive. I'd much rather Reverend Grove calm the crowd than Exodus Jerusalem work them into a frenzy."
"Yes sir, he's a right loose cannon," Mrs. Nettles agreed. "May I ask if I should set a plate for you at the midday meal?"
"No, it's not necessary. I have some places to go. But would you please look in on the magistrate from time to time?"
"Yes sir." She glanced quickly toward the closed door. "I'm feared he's doin' poorly."
"I know. All I can hope is that Dr. Shields tends him adequately until we can return to Charles Town, and that he doesn't grow any worse."
"I ha' seen this sickness before, sir," she said, after which she was silent but Matthew grasped what was left unspoken.
"I'll return in the afternoon," he told her, and then he walked by Mrs. Nettles and descended the stairs.
The day continued gloomy, befitting Matthew's state of mind. He trudged past the spring on his way to the conjunction of streets, where he turned west onto Industry. A sharp eye had to be kept ready for the blacksmith, but Matthew put Hazelton's property behind him without incident. He did, however, receive a generous spattering of mud from the wheels of a wagon that creaked past, freighted with the belongings of a family—father, mother, three small children—who evidently had chosen this as the day to abandon Fount Royal.
Indeed, the town under this murky gray sky appeared all but deserted, with only a few citizens in evidence. Matthew saw on both sides of Industry Street the fallow fields and forlorn dwellings that were the results of wretched weather, ill fate, and the fear of witchcraft. It seemed to him that the further he ventured along Industry, in the direction of the orchards and farmland that should have been the pride of Fount Royal, the worse became the sense of desolation and futility. Piles of animal manure littered the street, among them more than a few nuggets of human waste as well. Matthew saw the wagon and campsite of Exodus Jerusalem but the preacher was not in view. When Matthew came upon the carcass of a pig, its bulk having been gnawed open and the innards being ravaged by a couple of desperate-looking mongrels, he thought that the days of Fount Royal were numbered—no matter what Bidwell did to save the place—simply because the lethargy of the doomed had settled here like a funeral shroud.
He did spy an elderly man who was outside his barn lathering a saddle, and from him he inquired as to the home of Martin Adams. "House is up the way. Got blue shutters," the aged gent answered. Then, "Seen you take the lash this mornin'. You done good not to holler. When's that witch gonna burn?"
"The magistrate is debating," Matthew said, starting to move along.
"Hope it's in a day or two. I'll be there, you can mark it!"
Matthew kept going. The very next house—whitewashed but losing its paint in large, ugly splotches—looked to be long vacant and its front door was partway open but all the shutters sealed. Matthew suspected this was the Hamilton place, where Violet had experienced her encounter. Three more houses, and there stood the one with blue shutters. He walked to the door and knocked.
When the door was opened, Violet herself stood before him. Her eyes widened and she started to retreat but Matthew said, "Hello, Violet. May I speak with you?"
"No sir," she said, obviously overcome by his presence and the memory it stirred. "I have to go, sir." She made a motion to close the door in his face.
"Please." Matthew put his hand against the door. "Just one moment."
"Who is that?" came a woman's rather shrill voice from within. "Violet, who's there?"
"The man who asked me questions, Mama!" Almost at once Violet was pulled aside none too gently and a woman who was as thin and rawboned as her husband stepped upon the threshold. Constance Adams wore a drab brown dress and white bonnet, a stained and frayed apron, and held a broom. She was older than her husband, possibly in her late thirties, and might have been a handsome woman but for the length of her pointed chin and the unrestrained anger in her pale blue eyes.
"What do you want?" she snapped, as if biting off a piece of beef jerky.
"Pardon my intrusion," he said. "I wanted to ask your daughter another question pertaining to—"
"No," she interrupted. "Violet's answered enough questions.
That woman is a curse and a plague on us, and I wish her dead. Now go away!"
Matthew kept his hand on the door. "One question," he said firmly. He saw the little girl standing behind her mother, about to bolt like a scared deer. "Violet told me that in the Hamilton house she heard the voice of a man singing. I asked her to think about it further, and try to remember what she heard."
"You're painin' her, don't you see that? All these questions are like to make her head split open, she's hurtin' so bad!"
"Mama?" Violet said, close to tears. "Don't yell, Mama!"
"Hush!" The woman laid the broom's handle against Matthew's chest. "Violet can't sleep at night, her head aches so! Dr. Shields can't even help her! All this thinkin' and remem-berin' of such evil things is drivin' us all to madness!"
"I can understand your difficulty, but I have to—"
"You don't have to do nothin' but turn around and go!" she said, all but shouting. "If the witch had been put to death three month past, this town would be all right, but look at it now! She's near killed it, just like she killed the reverend and her own husband! Just like she's killed Sarah Davis and James Lathrop, Giles Geddy and Dorcas Chester and all the rest of 'em laid down in them graves! And now she's tryin' to kill my Violet by a knife to the brains!" Spittle had spewed from the woman's mouth and glistened on her chin. The expression in her eyes, wild to begin with, now had taken on a frightening fever. "I told 'em she was no good! I told 'em all along, but they didn't care to hear me! No, they let her walk in that church, just walk in and her a black nigger from Hell!"
"Mama! Mama!" Violet was crying, and had clasped her hands to her ears.
"She will damn us all before she's done!" Constance Adams continued to rave, her voice now risen to a dreadful, piercing pitch. "I've begged him to leave! By Christ I've begged him, but he says we ain't runnin'! She's tainted his mind, too, and she'll have him dead a'fore long!"
Matthew presumed she meant her husband. It was obvious that the woman was in danger of losing her last tattered rag of sanity. And obvious as well that no good was being done here. He backed away from the door as the distraught wretch went on jabbering, "She killed Phillip Beale! Choked him on blood in his sleep! I told 'em to run her out of this town! I told 'em she was evil, and Abby Hamilton knew it too! Lord God protect and save us! Burn her, for the love of Almighty God, burn her!" The door slammed shut, and from beyond it Matthew heard Constance Adams wailing like an injured, terrified animal caught in a cage.
He turned around and walked away from the house, going eastward along Industry Street. His heart was pou
nding, his stomach seemingly twisted into a knot by his encounter with the madwoman. He understood, though, the power of fear to distort and destroy. Perhaps Constance Adams had been long balanced on a precarious edge, and this situation had pushed her over. In any case, he could expect no further help from woman or child. This he found extremely unfortunate, because the matter of a man's singing voice in the demon-inhabited Hamilton house was so strange that he felt it might have great bearing on the truth.
In a few moments he came once again to the house itself. There was nothing particularly forbidding about it, other than the fact that it had the air of abandonment, but Matthew thought that on this grim day it was like an ugly fist clenched around a secret. It was made of the same pine timbers as the other houses and was the same small size—two or three rooms, at the most—yet this house was indeed different for it had been chosen, if one believed the child, as the site of Satan's warning against the citizens of Fount Royal.
He decided to see the interior for himself, and particularly find the back room from whence the man's voice had come. The door was already open wide enough to admit him, and Matthew recalled Violet saying that the door was open when she entered as well. He doubted that anyone had set foot here since the child's experience, and so he thought there might be some evidence of interest. Possibly the imp's candle, or the chair upon which Satan had been sitting?
Matthew approached the door, not without some trepidation. Because all the shutters were closed, the interior was as dark as the gaol at midnight. He was greeted at the threshold by a damp, putrid, altogether unsavory odor. He called on the sternest stuff he had and entered the house.
Speaks the Nightbird mc-1 Page 39
