"The explanation is your decision. About finding his killer... from what I understand, Paine dabbled with other men's wives. I'd think he had more than his share of enemies. But I am not a magistrate, sir. It is Mr. Bidwell's responsibility, as the mayor of this town, to file the case. Until then..." Matthew shrugged. "Good night."
"Good night, " Winston said as Matthew departed. "And good swimming to you."
Matthew went directly to Bidwell's house, to the library shutters he'd unlatched, opened them, and put the lantern on the sill. Then he carefully pulled himself up through the window, taking care not to overturn the chess set on his entry. Matthew took the lantern and went upstairs to bed, disappointed that no evidence of a pirate's hoard had been found but hopeful that tomorrow—or later today, as the fact was—might show him some path through the maze of questions that confronted him.
When the rooster choir of Friday's sunrise sounded, Matthew awakened with the fading impression of a dream but one very clear image remaining in his memory: that of John Goode, talking about the coins he'd discovered and saying May's got it in her mind we're gon' run to the Florida country.
He rose from bed and looked out the window at the red sun on the eastern horizon. A few clouds had appeared, but they were neither dark nor pregnant with rain. They moved like stately galleons across the purple sky.
The Florida country, he thought. A Spanish realm, the link to the great—though English-despised—cities of Madrid and Barcelona. The link, also, to Rachel's Portuguese homeland.
He recalled Shawcombe's voice saying You know them Spaniards are sittin' down there in the Florida country, not seventy leagues from here. They got spies all in the colonies, spreadin' the word that any black crow who flies from his master and gets to the Florida country can be a free man. You ever heard such a thing? Them Spaniards are promisin' the same thing to criminals, murderers, every like of John Badseed.
Seventy leagues, Matthew thought. Roughly two hundred miles. And not simply a two-hundred-mile jaunt, either. What of wild animals and wild Indians? Water would be no hardship, but what of food? What of shelter, if the heavens opened their floodgates again? Such a journey would make his and the magistrate's muddy trek from Shawcombe's tavern seem an afternoon's idyll.
But evidently others had made the journey and survived, and from much greater distances than two hundred miles. May was an elderly woman, and she had no qualms about going. Then again, it was her last hope of freedom.
Her last hope.
Matthew turned away from the window, walked to the basin of water atop his dresser, and liberally splashed his face. He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking, but—whatever it may have been—it was the most illogical, insane thought he'd ever had. He was surely no outdoorsman or leatherstocking, and also he was proud to be a British subject. So he might dismiss from his mind all traces of such errant and unwise consideration.
He shaved, put on his clothes, and crossed the hallway to look in on the magistrate. Dr. Shields's latest potion was evidently quite powerful, as Woodward still dwelled in the land of Nod. A touch of the magistrate's bare arm, however, gave Matthew reason for great joy: sometime during the night, Woodward's fever had broken.
At breakfast Matthew sat alone. He ate a dish of stirred eggs and ham, washed down with a strong cup of tea. Then he was out the door on a mission of resolve: to confront the ratcatcher in his well-ordered nest.
The morning was pleasantly warm and sunny, though a number of white-bellied clouds paraded across the sky. On Industry Street, Matthew hurried past Exodus Jerusalem's camp but neither the preacher nor his relations were in evidence. He soon came to the field where the maskers had made their camp, near the Hamilton house. Several of the thespians were sitting around a fire over which a trio of cooking pots hung. Matthew saw a burly, Falstaffian fellow smoking a churchwarden pipe while conversing with emphatic gestures to two other colleagues. A woman of equal if not greater girth was busy with needle and thread, darning a red-feathered hat, and a more slender female was at work polishing boots. Matthew knew little about the craft of acting, though he did know that all thespians were male and therefore the two women must be wives who travelled with the troupe.
"Good day, young man!" one of the actors called to him, with a lift of the hand.
"Good day to you!" Matthew answered, nodding.
In another few minutes Matthew entered the somber area of deformed orchards. It was fitting, then, that this was the locale chosen for Rachel's burning, as the justice such a travesty represented was surely misshapen. He looked at a barren brown field upon which had been erected the freshly axed execution stake. At its base, ringed by rocks, was a large firemound of pinewood timbers and pineknots. About twenty yards away from it stood another pile of wood. The field had been chosen to accommodate the festive citizens and to be certain no errant sparks could reach a roof.
At first light on Monday morning Rachel would be brought here by wagon and secured to the stake. Some kind of repugnant ceremony would take place, with Bidwell as its host. Then, after the crowd's flame had been sufficiently bellowed, torches would be laid to the firemound. More fuel would be brought over from the woodpile, to keep the temperature at a searing degree. Matthew had never witnessed an execution by burning, but he reasoned it must be a slow, messy, and excruciating business. Rachel's hair and clothes might be set aflame and her flesh roasted, but if the temperature wasn't infernal enough the real burning would take hours. It would be an all-day thing, anyway, for Matthew suspected that even a raging fire had difficulty gnawing a human body to the bones.
At what point Rachel would lose consciousness, he didn't know. Even though she wished to die with dignity and might have readied herself for the ordeal as much as humanly possible, her screams would be heard from one wall of Fount Royal to the other. It was likely Rachel would perish of asphyxiation before the fire cooked her. If she had her senses about her, she might hurry death by breathing in the flames and copious smoke. But who at that agonizing moment could do anything but wail in torment and thrash at their bonds?
Matthew assumed the fire would be kept burning throughout the night, and the citizens encouraged to witness as the witch shrank away to a grisly shade of her former self. The execution stake would dwindle too, but would be kept watered to delay its disappearance. On Tuesday morning, when there was nothing left but ashes and blackened bones, someone—Seth Hazelton, possibly—might come with a mallet to smash the skull and break the burnt skeleton into smaller fragments. It was then that Matthew could envision the swooping down of Lucretia Vaughan—armed with as many buckets, bottles, and containers as she might load upon a wagon—eager to scoop up ashes and bits of bone to sell as charms against evil. It occurred to him that her intelligence and rapacity might encourage her to enter an unholy alliance with Bidwell and Preacher Jerusalem, the former to finance and package this abomination and the latter to hawk it in towns and villages up and down the seaboard.
He had to banish such thoughts, ere they sapped the strength of his belief that an answer could be found before that awful Monday dawn.
He continued westward along Industry. Presently he saw a wisp of white smoke curling from the chimney of Linch's house. The lord of rodents was cooking his breakfast.
The shutters were wide open. Obviously Linch wasn't expecting any visitors. Matthew walked to the door, under the hanging rat skeletons, and knocked without hesitation.
A few seconds passed. Then, suddenly, the shutters of the window nearest the door were drawn closed—not hastily or loudly, but rather with quiet purpose. Matthew knocked again, with a sterner fist.
"Who is it?" came Linch's wary voice.
Matthew smiled thinly, realizing that Linch might just as easily have looked out the window to see. "Matthew Corbett. May I speak with you?"
"I'm eatin' my breakfast. Don't care for no mornin' chat."
"It should just take a minute."
"Ain't got a minute. Go 'way."
"Mr. Linch, "
Matthew said, "I do need to speak with you. If not now, then I'll have to persist."
"Persist all you please. I don't give a damn." There was the sound of footsteps walking away from the door. The shutters of a second window were pulled closed, followed by the shutters of a third. Then the final window was sealed with a contemptuous thump.
Matthew knew there was one sure way to make Linch open the door, though it was also surely a risk. He decided to take it.
"Mr. Linch?" Matthew said, standing close to the door. "What interests you so much about the Egyptian culture?"
A pot clattered to the floor within.
Matthew stepped away from the door several paces. He waited, his hands clasped behind his back. A latch was thrown with violent force. But the door was not fairly ripped from its hinges in being opened, as Matthew had expected. Instead, there was a pause.
Control, Matthew thought. Control is Linch's religion, and he's praying to his god. The door was opened. Slowly.
But just a crack. "Egyptian culture? What're you blatherin' about, boy?"
"You know what I mean. The book in your desk."
Again, a pause. Something about it this time was ominous.
"Ohhhhh, it was you come in my house and gone through my things, eh?" Now the door opened wider, and Linch's clean but unshaven face peered out. His pale, icy gray eyes were aimed at Matthew with the power of weapons, his teeth bared in a grin. "I found your shoemud on my floor. You didn't shut my trunk firm enough, either. Have to be blind not to see it was open a quarter-inch."
"You're very observant, aren't you? Does that come from catching rats?"
"It does. I see, though, I let a whorin' mother's two-legged rat creep in and nibble my cheese."
"Interesting cheese, too, " Matthew said, maintaining his distance from the door. "I would never have imagined you... how shall I say this?... lived in such virtuous order, from the wreck you've allowed the exterior of your house to become. I also would never have imagined you to be a scholar of ancient Egypt."
"There is a law, " Linch said, his grin still fixed and his eyes still aimed, "against enterin' a man's house without bein' invited. I believe in this town it's ten lashes. You care to tell Bidwell, or you want me to?"
"Ten lashes." Matthew frowned and shook his head. "I would surely hate to suffer ten lashes, Mr. Linch."
"Fifteen, if I can prove you thieved any thin'. And you know what? I might just be missin' a..."
"Sapphire brooch?" Matthew interrupted. "No, that's in the drawer where I left it." He offered Linch a tight smile.
The ratcatcher's expression did not change, though there might have been a slight narrowing of the eyes. "You're a cocksure bastard, ain't you? But you're good. I'll grant you that. You knotted the twine back well enough to fool me... and I ain't fooled very often."
"Oh, I think it's you who does the fooling, Mr. Linch. What is this masquerade about?"
"Masquerade? You're talkin' riddles, boy!"
"Now you just said an interesting word, Mr. Linch. You yourself are a riddle, and one I mean to solve. Why is it that you present yourself to the town as being... and let us be plainspoken here... a roughhewn and filthy dolt, when you actually are a man of literacy and good order? Meticulous order, I might say. And need I add the point of your obvious financial status, if indeed that brooch belongs to you?"
From Linch there was not a word nor a trace of reaction but Matthew could tell from the glint of his extraordinary eyes that the man's mind was working, grinding these words into a fine dust to be weighed and measured.
"I suspect that even your harborfront accent is shammed, " Matthew went on. "Is it?"
Linch gave a low, quiet laugh. "Boy, your brainpan has been dented. If I were you, I'd either go get drunk or ask the town quack for a cup of opium."
"You are not who you pretend to be, " Matthew said, defying the man's cutting stare. "Therefore... who are you?"
Linch paused, thinking about it. Then he licked his lower lip and said, "Come on in and we'll have us a talk."
"No, thank you. I do enjoy the sun's warmth. Oh... I also spoke to one of the maskers as I passed their camp. If I were to... suffer an accident, say... I'm sure the man would recall I'd been walking in this direction."
"Suffer an accident? What foolishness are you prattlin'? No, come on in and I'll spell you what you care to know. Come on." Linch hooked a finger at him.
"You may spell me what I care to know right here as well as in there."
"No, I can't. 'Sides, my breakfast is coolin'. Tell you what: I'll open all the shutters and leave the door wide. That suit you?"
"Not really. I have noticed a dearth of neighbors in this vicinity."
"Well, either come in or not, 'cause I'm done with this chat-tin'." He opened the door to its widest possible degree and walked away. Soon afterward, the nearest window was opened, the shutters pushed as far as their hinges would allow. Then the next window was opened, and afterward the third and fourth.
Matthew could see Linch, wearing tan-colored breeches and a loose-fitting gray shirt, busying himself around the hearth. The interior of the house appeared just as painstakingly neat as Matthew had previously seen it. He realized that he'd begun a duel of nerves with the ratcatcher, and this challenge to come into the house was the riposte to his own first slash concerning Linch's interest in Egyptian culture.
Linch stirred something in a skillet and added what might have been spices from a jar. Then, seemingly unconcerned with Matthew, he fetched a wooden plate and spooned food onto it.
Matthew watched as Linch sat down at his desk, placed the plate before him, and began to eat with a display of mannered restraint. Matthew knew nothing was to be gained by standing out here, yet he feared entering the ratcatcher's house even with the door and every window open wide. Still... the challenge had been given, and must be accepted.
Slowly and cautiously, he advanced first to the doorway, where he paused to gauge Linch's reaction. The ratcatcher kept eating what looked to be a mixture of eggs, sausage, and potatoes all cooked together. Then, even more cautiously, Matthew walked into the house but stopped with the threshold less than an arm's length behind him.
Linch continued to eat, using a brown napkin to occasionally wipe his mouth. "You have the manners of a gentleman, " Matthew said.
"My mother raised me right, " came the reply. "You won't find me stealin' into private houses and goin' through people's belonging."
"I presume you have an explanation for the book? And the brooch as well?"
"I do." Linch looked out the window that his desk stood before. "But why should I explain anythin' to you? It's my business."
"That's true enough. On the other hand, can't you understand how... uh... strange this appears?"
"Strange is one of them things in the eye of the beholder now, ain't it?" He put his spoon and knife down and turned his chair a few inches so that he was facing Matthew more directly. The movement made Matthew back away apace. Linch grinned. "I scare you, do I?"
"Yes, you do."
"Well, why should you be scared of me? What have I ever done to you, 'cept save your ass from bein' et up by rats there in the gaol?"
"You've done nothing to me, " Matthew admitted. He was ready to deliver the next slash. "I just wonder what you may have done to Violet Adams."
To his credit—and his iron nerves—Linch only exhibited a slight frown. "Who?"
"Violet Adams. Surely you know the child and her family."
"I do They live up the street. Cleaned some rats out for 'em not too long ago. Now what am I supposed to have done to that little girl? Pulled her dress up and poked her twat?"
"No, nothing so crude... or so obvious, " Matthew said. "But I have reason to believe that you may have—"
Linch suddenly stood up and Matthew almost jumped out the door.
"Don't piss your breeches, " Linch said, picking up his empty plate. "I'm gettin' another helpin'. You'll pardon me if I don't offer you none?"
"Uh... yes. I was saying... I have reason to believe you may have defiled Violet Adams in a way other than physical."
"What other way is there?"
"Mental defilement, " Matthew answered. Linch stopped chewing. Only for a space of perhaps two heartbeats, however. Then Linch was eating once more, staring at the pattern of sunlight on the floorboards between them.
Matthew's sword was aimed. It was time to strike for the heart, and see what color blood spurted out. "I believe you created a fiction in the child's mind that she had an audience with Satan in the Hamilton house. I believe you've had a hand in creating such a fiction in many people hereabouts, including Jeremiah Buckner and Elias Garrick. And that you planted the poppets under Rachel Howarth's floor and caused Cara Grunewald to have a 'vision' that led to their discovery."
Linch continued to eat his breakfast without haste, as if these damning words had never been uttered. When he spoke, however, his voice was... somehow changed, though Matthew couldn't quite explain its difference other than a subtle shift to a lower pitch.
"And just how am I supposed to have done such a thing?"
"I have no idea, " Matthew said. "Unless you're a warlock, and you've learned sorcery at the Devil's knee."
Linch laughed heartily and put his plate aside. "Oh, that's rich indeed! Me a warlock! Oh, yes! Shall I shoot a fireball up your arse for you?"
"That's not necessary. If you wish to begin refuting my theory by explaining your masquerade, you may proceed."
Linch's smile faded. "And if I don't, you'll have me burnin' at the stake in place of your wench? Listen to me, boy: when you go see Dr. Shields, ask for a whole keg of opium."
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