Speaks the Nightbird mc-1

by Robert R. McCammon

  He might persuade Winston to take Woodward to Charles Town, under threat of revealing the incriminating bucket, but should such a disloyal dog be trusted with a man's life? Winston could as well leave his charge on the side of the road for the animals to eat, and never return.

  No, not Winston. But... would Nicholas Paine be willing to do the job?

  It was a spark, but it might kindle a flame. Matthew pulled himself together, wiped his eyes clear with the back of his hand, and continued into his room. There he shaved, cleaned his teeth, and finished dressing. Downstairs, he found Bidwell clad in a lime-green suit at the bountiful breakfast table, the foxtail of his wig tied with an emerald-hued ribbon.

  "Sit down, sit down!" Bidwell offered, his mood jovial because the day promised to be as sunwarmed and beautiful as the one before. "Come have breakfast, but please let us announce a truce on the subject of theories."

  "I haven't time for breakfast, " Matthew said. "I am on my way to—"

  "Oh, of course you have time! Come sit down and at least eat a blood sausage!" Bidwell indicated the platter heaped with sausages, but their color was so similar to the ebon collapsed blisters on the magistrate's back that Matthew couldn't have swallowed one if it had been shot into his throat from a pistol. "Or, here, have a pickled melon!"

  "No, thank you. I am on my way to see Mr. Paine. Can you tell me where he lives?"

  "To see Nicholas? Why?" Bidwell speared a segment of pickled melon with his knife and slid it into his mouth.

  "Some business I wish to discuss."

  "What business?" Bidwell now was truly suspicious. "Any business you have with him is also business with me."

  "All right, then!" Matthew had reached his zenith of frustration. "I wish to ask him to take the magistrate to Charles Town! I want him placed in an infirmary there!"

  Bidwell cut a blood sausage in two and chewed thoughtfully on half of it. "So you don't trust Dr. Shields's method of treatment? Is that what you're saying?"

  "It is."

  "I'll have you know, " and here Bidwell aimed his knife at Matthew, "that Ben is just as good a doctor as any of those quacks in Charles Town." He frowned, knowing that hadn't come out as he'd intended. "I mean to say, he's an able practitioner. Without his treatment, I'll grant you that the magistrate would have been deceased days ago!"

  "It's the days hence I'm concerned about. The magistrate is showing no improvement at all. Just now he was speaking to me in delirium!"

  Bidwell pushed his knife into the second half of sausage and guided the greasy black thing into his mouth. "You should by all means be on your way, then, " he said as he chewed. "Not to see Nicholas, but to visit the witch."

  "Why should I wish to do that?"

  "Well, isn't it obvious? One day after the decree is delivered, and the magistrate lies at death's door? Your skirt has placed a curse on him, boy!"

  "That's nonsense!" Matthew said. "The magistrate's condition has worsened because of this excessive bloodletting! And also because he was required to sit in that cold gaol for hours when he should have been in bed resting!"

  "Oh, ho! His sickness is now my fault, is that it? You cast about for blame from everyone except that to whom it rightly belongs! Besides... if you hadn't pulled your stunt with Seth Hazelton, the witch's case would have been heard in the public meetinghouse—which has a very comfortable hearth, I might add. So if you wish to blame anyone, go speak to a mirror!"

  "All I wish to do is find the house of Nicholas Paine, " Matthew said, his cheeks flushed and his teeth gritted. "I don't care to argue with you, for that is like trying to outbray a jackass. Will you direct me to his house, or not?"

  Bidwell busied himself by stirring the scrambled eggs on his plate. "I am Nicholas's employer, and I direct his comings and goings, " he said. "Nicholas will not go to Charles Town. He is needed here to help with the preparations."

  "By God!" Matthew shouted, with such force that Bidwell jumped in his chair. "Would you deny the magistrate a chance at living?"

  "Calm your vigor, " Bidwell warned. A servant girl peeked in from the kitchen and then quickly drew her head back. "I will not be shouted at in my own house. If you wish to spend time hollering down the walls at the gaol, I might arrange it for you."

  "Isaac needs better medical attention than what he's getting, " Matthew insisted. "He needs to be taken to Charles Town immediately. This morning, if possible."

  "And I say you're wrong. I'd also say that the trip to Charles Town might well kill the poor wretch. But... if you're so willing to gallop in that direction, you should load him on a wagon and take him yourself. I will even make you a loan of a wagon and two horses, if you will sign a note of agreement."

  Matthew had stood listening to this with his face downcast, staring at the floor. Now he drew in a deep breath, his cheeks mottled with red, and he walked purposefully to the end of the table. Something in his pace or demeanor alerted Bidwell to danger, because the man started to push his chair back and rise to his feet—but before he could, Matthew had reached Bidwell's side and with one sweep of his arm sent the breakfast platters off the table to the floor in a horrendous echoing crash.

  As Bidwell struggled to stand up, his distended belly jiggling and his face dark with rage, Matthew clamped a hand on his right shoulder and bore down with all his weight, at the same time thrusting his face into Bidwell's.

  "That man you call a wretch, " Matthew said, in what was barely more than an ominous whisper, "has served you with all of his heart and soul." Matthew's eyes blazed with a fire that promised to scorch Bidwell to a cinder, and the master of Fount Royal was for the moment transfixed. "That man you call a wretch lies dying because he has served you so well. And you, sir, for all of your wealth, fine clothes, and pufferies, are not worthy to clean the magistrate's boots with your dung-dripping tongue."

  Bidwell suddenly laughed, which made Matthew draw back.

  "Is that the worst insult you can construct?" Bidwell lifted his eyebrows. "Boy, you are a rank amateur! On the matter of the boots, however, I'll have you recollect that they are not the magistrate's. Indeed, every item of your own clothing was supplied by me. You came to this town near-naked, the both of you. So remember that I clothed you, fed you, and housed you, while you are flinging insults in my face." He noted the presence of Mrs.

  Nettles from the corner of his eye, and he turned his head toward her and said, "All's well, Mrs. Nettles. Our young guest has shown his tail, that's—"

  The noise of the front door bursting open interrupted him. "What the bloody hell?" he said, and now he brushed Matthew's hand aside and hoisted himself to his feet.

  Edward Winston came into the dining room. But it was a different Winston than Matthew had seen; this one was breathing hard, as if he'd been running, and his face was drawn and pale in the aftermath of what seemed a terrible shock.

  "What's the matter?" Bidwell asked. "You look as if you've—"

  "It's Nicholas!" Winston put a hand up to his forehead and appeared to be fighting a faint.

  "What about him? T^k sense, man!"

  "Nicholas... is dead, " Winston answered. His mouth gaped, trying to form the words. "He has been murdered."

  Bidwell staggered as if from a physical blow. But instantly he righted himself and his sense of control came to the forefront. "Not a word about this!" he told Mrs. Nettles. "Not to a single servant, not to anyone! Do you hear me?"

  "Yes sir, I do." She appeared just as stunned as her master.

  "Where is he?" Bidwell asked Winston. "The body, I mean?"

  "His house. I just came from there."

  "You're sure of this?"

  Winston managed a grim, sickened half-smile. "Go look for yourself. I promise you won't soon forget such a sight."

  "Take me there. Clerk, you come too. Remember, Mrs. Nettles: not a word about this to a single soul!"

  During the walk in the early sunlight, Bidwell maintained his pace at a quick clip for a man of his size. Several citizens call
ed a morning greeting, which Bidwell had the presence of mind to answer in as carefree a voice as he could manage. It was only when one farmer tried to stop him to talk about the forthcoming execution that Bidwell snapped at the man like a dog at a worrisome flea. Then Bidwell, Winston, and Matthew reached the whitewashed dwelling of Nicholas Paine, which stood on Harmony Street four houses northward of Winston's shuttered pigsty.

  Paine's house was also shuttered. Winston's pace slowed as they neared the closed door, and finally he stopped altogether.

  "Come along!" Bidwell said. "What's wrong with you?"

  "I... would rather stay out here."

  "Come along, I said!"

  "No, " Winston answered defiantly. "By God, I'm not going in there again!"

  Bidwell stared at him openmouthed, thunderstruck by this show of impudence. Matthew walked past both men, lifted the door's latch, and pushed the door open. As he did, Winston turned his face and walked away a few strides.

  Matthew's first impression was of the copious reek of blood. Secondly, he was aware of the buzzing of flies at work. Thirdly, he saw the body in the slanting rays of vermilion light that entered between the shutter slats.

  Fourthly, his gorge rose and if he had eaten any breakfast he surely would have expelled it.

  "Oh... my Jesus, " Bidwell said softly, behind him. Then Bidwell was overcome by the picture. He hurried outside and around the house to vomit up his blood sausage and pickled melon where he would not be seen by any passing citizen.

  Matthew stepped across the threshold and closed the door to block this sight from view of the street. He stood with his back against the door, the fresh sunlight reflecting off the huge pool of blood that surrounded the chair in which Paine was sitting. Indeed, it appeared that every drop had flowed from the man's veins onto the floor, and the corpse had taken on a waxy sallow color. Matthew saw that Paine had been tied in an upright position, ropes binding his arms behind him and his ankles to the chair legs. His shoes and stockings had been removed, and his ankles and feet slashed to sever the arteries. Likewise slashed were the insides of both arms beginning at the elbows. Matthew shifted his position to see that the deep, vein-slicing cuts continued down the forearms to the wrists. He moved a little closer to the corpse, careful that he not step into the crimson sea of gore.

  Paine's head was tilted backward. In his mouth was stuffed a yellow cloth, possibly a pair of stockings. His eyes, mercifully, were closed. Around his neck was knotted a noose. On the right side of his forehead there was a vicious black bruise, and blood had flowed from both nostrils down the white of his shirt. A dozen or more flies crawled over the gashes in Paine's corpse and supped from the bloody banquet at his feet.

  The door opened and Bidwell dared enter. He held a handkerchief pressed to his mouth, his face gleaming with beads of sweat. Quickly, he closed the door at his back and stood staring numbly at all the carnage.

  "Don't be sick again, " Matthew warned him. "If you are, I shall be as well and it will not add to this prettiness."

  "I'm all right, " Bidwell croaked. "I... oh dear God... oh Christ... who could have done such a murder as this?"

  "One man's murder is another man's execution. That's what this is. You see the hangman's noose?"

  "Yes." Bidwell rapidly averted his eyes. "He... he's been drained of blood, hasn't he?"

  "It appears his arteries have been opened, yes." Matthew walked around to the back of the body, getting as close as possible without sinking his shoes into the quagmire. He saw a red clump of blood and tissue near the crown of Paine's head. "Whoever killed him beat him first into insensibility with a blunt object, " Matthew said. "He was struck on the head by someone standing behind and above him. I think that would be a requirement because otherwise Paine would be a formidable opponent."

  "This is the Devil's work!" Bidwell said, his eyes glassy. "Satan himself must have done it!"

  "If that is so, Satan has a clinical eye as to the flow of blood. You'll notice that Paine's throat was not slashed, as I understand was done to Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth. Whoever murdered Paine wished him to bleed to death slowly and in excruciating fashion. I venture Paine might have regained consciousness during the procedure, and then was struck again on the forehead. If he was able to return to sensibility after that, by that time he would have been too weak to struggle."

  "Ohhhh... my stomach. Dear God... I'm going to be sick again."

  "Go outside, then, " Matthew directed, but Bidwell lowered his head and tried to ward off the flood. Matthew looked around the room, which showed no other signs of tumult, and fixed his attention on a nearby desk. Its chair was missing, and probably was the chair in which Paine had died. On a blotter atop the desk was a sheet of paper with several lines written upon it. An inkpot was open, and on the floor lay the quill pen. A melted stub in a candlestick attested to his source of light. Matthew saw drops and smears of blood on the floor between the desk and where the chair was positioned. He walked to the desk and read the paper.

  "I, Nicholas Paine, " he recited, "being of sound mind and of my own free will do hereby on this date of May eighteenth, sixteen hundred and ninety- nine, confess to the murder of..." And here the writing ended in a blotch of ink. "Written sometime after midnight, it seems, " Matthew said. "Or close enough that Paine scribed today's date." He saw something else in the room that warranted his attention: on the bedpallet was an open trunk that had been partly packed with clothing. "He was about to leave Fount Royal, I think."

  Bidwell stared with dread fascination at the corpse. "What... murder was he confessing?"

  "An old one, I believe. Paine had some sins in his past. I think one of them caught up with him." Matthew walked to the bed to inspect the contents of the trunk. The clothes had been thrown in, evidence of intention of a hurried departure.

  "You don't think the Devil had anything to do with this? Or the witch?"

  "I do not. The murders of the reverend and Daniel Howarth were—as I understand their description—meant to kill quickly. This was meant to linger. Also, you'll note there are no claw marks, as in the other killings. This was done with a very sharp blade by a hand that was both vengeful and... shall we say... experienced in the craft of cutting."

  "Oh my God... what shall we do?" Bidwell lifted a trembling hand to his forehead, his wig tilted to one side on his pate. "If the citizens find out about this... that we have another murderer among us... we won't have a soul in Fount Royal by the end of the day!"

  "That, " Matthew said, "is true. It will do no good to advertise this crime. Therefore, don't expose it."

  "What do you suggest? Hiding the corpse?"

  "The details, I'm sure, are better left to you. But yes, I propose wrapping the corpse in a bedsheet and disposing of it at a later date. The later, of course, the more... disagreeable the task will be."

  "We cannot just pretend Paine has left Fount Royal! He has friends here! And he at least deserves a Christian burial!"

  Matthew aimed his stare at Bidwell. "It is your choice, sir. And your responsibility. After all, you are his employer and you direct his comings and goings." He walked around the body again and approached the door, which Bidwell stood against. "If you'll excuse me?"

  "Where are you going?" A flare of panic leaped in Bidwell's eyes. "You can't leave!"

  "Yes, I can. Don't concern yourself with my speaking about this to anyone, for I vow I shall not." Except for one person, he might have added. The person he now intended to confront.

  "Please... I need your help."

  "By that, if you mean you need a pair of hands to strip the pallet, roll Paine up in the sheet, and scrub the floor with ashes and tar soap... then I must deny your noble request. Winston might help you, but I doubt if any amount of coercion or threat will make him cross that threshold again." Matthew smiled tightly. "Therefore... speaking to a man who so abhors failure... I sincerely hope you are successful at your present challenge. Good day to you, sir." Matthew thought he was going to hav
e to bodily pry Bidwell away from the door, which might have been a labor fit for Hercules, but at last the master of Fount Royal moved aside.

  As Matthew started to open the door, Bidwell said in a small voice, "You say... ashes and tar soap, then?"

  "Some sand, too, " Matthew advised. "Isn't that how they scrub blood off the deck of a ship?" Bidwell didn't answer, but stood looking at the corpse with his handkerchief pressed against his mouth.

  Outside, the air had never smelled sweeter. Matthew closed the door again, his stomach still roiling and what felt like cold sweat down the valley of his spine. He approached Winston, who stood in the shadow of an oak tree a few yards away.

  "How did you come to find him?" Matthew asked.

  Winston still appeared dazed, his color not yet returned. "I... intended... to ask Nicholas to escort me to Charles Town. On the pretense of negotiating for supplies."

  "After which, you intended not to return here?"

  "Yes. I planned on leaving Nicholas while I went to see Danforth. Then... I would simply lose myself in Charles Town."

  "Well, half of your intent has come to fruition, " Matthew said. "You are indeed lost. Good day." He turned away from Winston and walked back along Harmony Street in the direction they'd come, as he had seen the infirmary in passing.

  Presently Matthew stood before the door and pulled the bell-cord. There was no response to the first pull, nor to the fifth. Matthew tried the door, found it unlatched from within, and entered the doctor's domain.

  The parlor held two canaries in a gilded cage, both singing happily toward the shafts of light that filtered through the white shutters. Matthew saw another door and knocked at it, but again there was no reply. He opened it and ventured into a hallway. Ahead there were three rooms, the doors of the first two ajar. In the initial room stood the barber's chair and leather razor-sharpening strop; in the second room there was a trio of beds, all of which were neatly made and unoccupied. Matthew continued down the hallway to the third door, where he knocked once more.