Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  Nearby stood the desk that Winston had recovered from the gaol. Now Matthew understood why it had been so thoroughly cleaned out when Winston had it carted over, as its surface was a jumbled mess of more crumpled and ink-splattered papers, a number of candles melted down to stubs, and a disorderly pile of ledger books. Matthew was surprised that Winston had been able to lay his hands on a clean sheaf of paper and an unspilled inkjar in this rat’s nest. It occurred to him, in his brief but telling inspection, that all Winston’s business with Bidwell was done at the mansion because Winston wished not to reveal his living conditions—and possibly the condition of his mental affairs—to his employer.

  Winston was pouring liquid from the blue bottle into his tankard. He wore a long gray nightshirt that bore evidence of many poor repatchings, as well as several small scorched holes that told Matthew the man’s control of fire did not extend to power over a spilled pipe. “So,” Winston said. “The decree’s been made, eh?” He downed some of his pleasure, which Matthew assumed was either hard cider or rum. “Bring it over here and spread it out.”

  Matthew did, but he kept a hand on the document, as it was his charge. Winston leaned over and read the ornate handwriting. “No surprises there, I see. She’s to be burned on Monday, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “High time. She should’ve gone to the stake a month ago; we’d all be the better for it.”

  Matthew rolled the decree up again. He cast a disdainful eye about his surroundings. “Do you always live in this fashion?”

  Winston had been about to drink again, but the tankard’s ascent paused. “No,” he said with sarcasm. “My servants have been called away. Ordinarily I have a footman, a parlor wench, and a chamberpot scrubber.” The tankard went to his mouth and he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You may go now, Sir Reverence.”

  Matthew smiled slightly, but his face was tight. Sir Reverence was gutter slang for human excrement. “You must have had a late night,” he said.

  “A late night?” Winston’s eyebrows went up. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning…a late night. I had assumed you were an early riser, and therefore must have been working into the small hours.”

  “Working.” He nodded. “Yes. I’m always working.” He motioned toward the ledger-laden desk. “See there? Managing his money. His pence and guineas and dog dollars. His ins and outs. That’s what I do.”

  “You don’t sound particularly proud of your accomplishments for Mr. Bidwell,” Matthew ventured. “He must rely on your services quite a lot, doesn’t he?”

  Winston stared at Matthew, his bloodshot eyes wary. “You may go now,” he repeated, with a more ominous inflection.

  “I shall. But Mr. Bidwell himself suggested I find you and ask about the surveyor. As you were the one who escorted the man around, I hoped that—”

  “A surveyor? I hardly remember the man!” Again Winston quaffed from the tankard, and this time the gleaming residue trickled down his chin. “What was it? Four years ago?”

  “Or thereabouts.”

  “Go on, get out!” Winston sneered. “I don’t have time for your foolishness!”

  Matthew took a deep breath. “Yes, you do,” he answered.

  “What? By God, will I have to throw you out of here?”

  Matthew said quietly, “I know about your nocturnal activities.”

  The hand of God might have come down to stop time and still all sounds.

  Matthew went on, taking advantage of the moment. “In addition, I have one of the six buckets that Mr. Rawlings and the others buried. Therefore it’s no use to go out tonight and move them. The seventh bucket you took away is hidden here somewhere, I presume?”

  The hand of God was a mighty instrument. It had turned Edward Winston into a gape-mouthed statue. In another few seconds, however, the tankard slipped from Winston’s grasp and crashed to the floor.

  “I presume it is,” Matthew said. “You used a brush to paint the chemicals on the walls of the houses you set afire, am I correct? It does seem to be a potent concoction.”

  Winston did not move, did not speak, and hardly appeared to be breathing. The color of his face and the somber grisard of his nightshirt were one and the same.

  Matthew spent a moment looking around the littered room before he spoke again. “This is what I believe,” he said. “That on one of your supply trips to Charles Town with Nicholas Paine, you approached someone of authority there. Possibly Mr. Danforth, the harbormaster, but possibly someone with more interest in seeing that Fount Royal never grows to Bidwell’s ambition. I suspect you might have sent Mr. Paine on some errand or another while you made this contact. He doesn’t know, does he?”

  Matthew hadn’t expected Winston to reply, therefore he was not disappointed. “I don’t think he knows,” Matthew said. “I think this is your intrigue alone. You volunteered to take advantage of Rachel Howarth’s plight and set numerous fires to empty houses, thus speeding along the process of emptying more. Am I so far correct?” Winston slowly sank down upon his bench, his mouth still open.

  “The problem was that you needed an incendiary to ignite in wet weather.” Matthew prodded some discarded clothes with the toe of his right shoe. “The buckets of chemicals had to be mixed in Charles Town and secreted here by ship. The crew must have had some rough voyages, I’d suspect. But Mr. Rawlings must be making a profit for his risk. I would think you are making a profit for your risk as well. Or perhaps you’ve been promised a position in Charles Town after Fount Royal fails?”

  Winston lifted a hand and put it to his forehead, his eyes glassy with shock.

  “It is to your credit that you don’t mar your dignity with denials,” Matthew offered. “I am curious, though. Bidwell tells me you’ve been in his employ for eight years. Why did you turn against him?”

  Now both hands were pressed to Winston’s face. He breathed raggedly, his shoulders slumped.

  “I have seen enough of human nature to have an idea.” Matthew went to the cluttered desk and opened one of the ledger books. He flipped through the pages as he spoke. “You know more than anyone else how much Bidwell is worth. You see his wealth on display, you see his plans for the future, and you see…your own existence, which according to the way you live is at a low flux. So I would venture to say this revolves around your own perceived misery. Did they promise you a mansion in Charles Town? A statue in your honor? What exactly did they promise, Mr. Winston?”

  Winston reached with a feeble hand for the blue bottle, brought it to his mouth, and took a long swallow of courage. When he lowered the bottle, he blinked away tears and said, “Money.”

  “Considerably more than Bidwell was paying you, yes?”

  “More than…I could hope to earn in two lifetimes.” Again he drank copiously from the bottle. “You don’t know what it’s like, working for him. Being around him…and all that he has. He spends on wigs alone every year an amount I might live on as a prince. And the clothes and food! If you knew the numbers, you would understand and be sickened as I am by the man’s philosophy: not a shilling more for a servant’s needs, but spare no expense for the master’s desires!”

  “I won’t defend him, but I will say that such is the right of a master.”

  “It is the right of no man!” Winston said heatedly. “I have an education, I am literate, and I consider myself reasonably bright! But I might as well be a slave, as far as he’s concerned! I might even be the better for it!” He laughed harshly. “At least Bidwell cares enough about Goode to have bought him a fiddle!”

  “The difference is that Goode is a slave and you’re a free man. You can choose your employer. Then again…” Matthew nodded. “I suppose you have.”

  “Oh, be as smug as you please!” Winston turned upon Matthew an expression of the deepest disgust. “Look at my house, and look at his! Then look in the ledgers and see who directs the course of his monies! I do! He pretends to be such a sterling businessman, but in fact he is skilled at two
things: intimidation and bluster. I ought to be a partner in his enterprises, for what I’ve encouraged! But it has been clearly and plainly shown to me by his actions that Bidwell takes good opinions and presents them as his own.”

  He held up a finger to mark his point. “Now, failed ventures…that’s a different cart. Failure is always the fault of someone else…someone who invariably deserves to be banished from the kingdom. I have seen it happen. When Fount Royal fails—and it will, regardless of how many houses I flamed and how long the witch roasts on her stake—he will begin to fire his cannons of blame at every possible target. Including this one.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “Do you think I should sit at his beck and call and await a further slide into poverty? No. For your information—and whatever you choose to do with it—I did not do the approaching. They approached me, when Paine and I were on separate tasks in Charles Town. At first I refused…but they sweetened their offer with a house and a position on the Shipping Council. It was my idea to set the fires.”

  “And a clever idea it was,” Matthew said. “You hid behind Rachel Howarth’s skirts and the Devil’s shadow. Did it not trouble you in the least that these fires were ascribed to her?”

  “No,” he answered without hesitation. “If you’ll read that document you hold, you’ll find there’s no charge there concerning the setting of fires. She fashioned the poppets, committed the murders, and consorted with Satan of her own accord. I simply used the situation to my benefit.”

  “Simply?” Matthew echoed. “I don’t think there’s anything simpleminded about you, Mr. Winston. I think coldly might be a better word.”

  “As you please.” Winston offered a bitter smile. “I have learned from Bidwell that one fights fire with fire and ice with ice.” His eyes narrowed. “So. You have a bucket. I presume you were hiding out there?” He waited for Matthew to nod. “Who else knows?”

  “If you are considering violence as a solution, you might think otherwise. Someone else does know, but your secret is in no current danger.”

  Winston frowned. “What, then? Aren’t you going to go running to Bidwell and tell him?”

  “No, I’m not. As you’ve pointed out, the fires were incidental in the charges against Madam Howarth. I am hunting a smarter—and colder—fox than you.”

  “Pardon my dulled wits, but what are you talking about?”

  “Your grievance against Bidwell is not my concern. Whatever you choose to do from this point is not of interest to me, either. As long as there are no future conflagrations, I might add.”

  Winston let go a sigh of relief. “Sir,” he said, “I bow gratefully before your mercy.”

  “My mercy has a price. I wish to know about the surveyor.”

  “The surveyor,” Winston repeated. He rubbed his temples with both hands. “I tell you…I can hardly recall the man. Why do you care to know about him, anyway?”

  “My interest is a personal matter. Do you remember his name?”

  “No. Wait…give me a moment…” He closed his eyes, obviously trying his best to concentrate. “I think…it was Spencer…Spicer…something similar to that, at least.” His eyes opened.

  “The man was bearded?”

  “Yes…a heavy beard. And he wore a hat.”

  “A tricorn?”

  “No. It was…a loose-brimmed shade hat. Much like any farmer or traveller might wear. I remember…his clothing was rustic, as well.”

  “You took him walking around Fount Royal. How much time would you say you spent with him?”

  Winston shrugged. “The better part of an afternoon, I suppose.”

  “Do you recall his description?”

  “A beard and a hat,” Winston said. “That’s all I can remember.”

  “And probably all you were meant to remember.”

  Winston gave him a questioning look. “What does this concern?”

  “It concerns the manipulation of memory,” Matthew answered. “Something I think my fox knows a great deal about.”

  “If you are making sense, I am unable to follow it.”

  “I believe I have information enough. Thank you for your time.” Matthew started toward the door, and Winston stood up.

  “Please!” Winston’s voice held a note of urgency. “If you were in my position…what would you do? Remain here—and await the end—or go to Charles Town and try to salvage what I can of a future?”

  “A difficult question,” Matthew said after a short consideration. “I would agree that your present is precarious, and since you have neither love nor loyalty for Bidwell you might as well seek your fortune elsewhere. However…as much a dog you think Bidwell to be, your masters in Charles Town are probably mongrels of similar breed. You might have known that, judging from the voracity with which they have eaten your soul. So…flip a coin, and good luck to you.”

  Matthew turned his back and left Edward Winston standing forlorn and alone in the midst of his self-made chaos.

  twenty-seven

  HIS THOUGHTS STILL CLOUDED by Winston’s betrayal, Matthew was ascending the stairs to look in upon the magistrate when he almost collided with Mrs. Nettles, who was descending with a tray upon which sat a bowl of pap.

  “How is he?” Matthew asked.

  “Not verra well,” she said, her voice low. “He’s havin’ some trouble even swallowin’ the mush.”

  Matthew nodded grimly. “I have my doubts about whether the bloodletting is doing any good.”

  “I’ve seen it do wonders, though. That afflicted blood’s got to be rid of.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’m not sure his condition isn’t being hastened by all this bleeding.” He started to slide past her up the stairs, which was a precarious maneuver due to her formidable size and the lack of a railing.

  “Just a moment, sir!” she said. “You have a visitor.”

  “A visitor? Who?”

  “The child,” she said. “Violet Adams. She’s in the library, waitin’ for you.”

  “Oh?” Matthew instantly went back down the stairs and entered the library. His quick entrance startled the little girl, who was standing before the open window studying a bishop she had picked up from the chessboard. She jumped and backed away from him like a cornered deer.

  “Forgive me,” Matthew said in a calming tone. He showed one palm in a non-threatening gesture, while he held the rolled-up decree at his side. “I should have announced myself.”

  She just stared at him, her body rigid as if she might either decide to flee past him or leap through the window. On this occasion she definitely was not groomed for a court appearance. Her light brown hair was loose about her shoulders and in need of washing, her tan-and-red-checked shift was held together with patches, and her shoes were near worn through.

  “You’ve been waiting for me?” Matthew asked. She nodded. “I presume this is not an errand on behalf of your father and mother?”

  “No sir,” she answered. “They sent me to fetch some water.”

  Matthew looked down and saw two empty buckets on the floor. “I see. But you decided to come here first?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “For what reason?”

  Violet carefully placed the chesspiece back in its proper place on the board. “What are these, sir? Are they toys?”

  “It’s a game called chess. The pieces have different patterns of movement across the board.”

  “Ohhhh.” She seemed much impressed. “Like knuckles ’n’ stones, ’ceptin’ you play that in the dirt.”

  “I imagine so, yes.”

  “They’re pretty,” she said. “Did Mr. Bidwell carve ’em?”

  “I doubt it.”

  She continued staring at the chessboard. The tic of her upper lip had returned. “Last night,” she said, “a rat got in my bed.” Matthew didn’t quite know how to respond to this matter-of-fact statement, so he said nothing.

  “It got all tangled up in the beddin’s,” she went on. “It couldn’t get out, and I could feel it down
at my feet, thrashin’. I couldn’t get loose, neither. Both of us were tryin’ to get out. Then my papa come in and I was scared I was gonna get bit so I was screamin’. So he grabbed it up in the sheet and hit it with a candlestick, and then my mama started screamin’ ’cause there was blood everywhere and that sheet was ruined.”

  “I’m sorry,” Matthew said. “It must have been traumatic.” Especially for a child of her sensitive nature, he might have added.

  “Trau—what, sir?”

  “I meant it must have been a fearsome experience.”

  “Yes sir.” She nodded, and now she picked up a pawn and studied it in the sunlight. “The thing about it, though…is that…near mornin’, I started rememberin’ somethin’. About that man’s voice I heard singin’ in the Hamilton house.”

  Matthew’s heart suddenly lodged in his throat. “Remembering what?”

  “Whose voice it was.” She put down the pawn and lifted her eyes to his. “It’s still a fog…and thinkin’ about it makes my head hurt somethin’ awful, but…I recollected what he was singin’.” She took a breath and began to softly sing, in a sweet and clear timbre: “Come out, come out, my dames and dandies. Come out, come out, and taste my candies…”

  “The ratcatcher,” Matthew said. In his mind he heard Linch singing that same macabre song during the massacre of rats at the gaol.

  “Yes sir. It was Mr. Linch’s voice I heard, from that room back there.”

  Matthew stared intensely into the child’s eyes. “Tell me this, Violet: how did you know it was Linch’s voice? Had you ever heard that song before?”

  “One time he come to kill a nest of rats my papa found. They were all big ones, and black as night. Mr. Linch came and brought his potions and his sticker, and that was what he was singin’ when he was waitin’ for the rats to get drunk.”

  “Did you tell anyone else about this? Your mother and father?”

  “No sir. They don’t like for me to talk of it.”

  “Then you shouldn’t tell them you’ve been here to see me, either.”