Book: Speaks the Nightbird 7 страница

Woodward regarded the two sleepers, to make sure they were both unconscious, and then said to Matthew, "Nothing like a command performance to sharpen the wits, eh? One week to decide the fate of a woman I've never met. Even the cold-hearted murderers in Newgate prison are afforded more time than that. Well..." He stood up, his vision bleary. "I'm to bed. Good night."

"Good night, sir," Matthew replied. After the magistrate had trudged out, Matthew got up from the bench and retrieved the empty tankard near Dr. Shields's outstretched hand. He stared into it, recalling the tankard in which Shawcombe had dropped the gold coin. A Spanish coin, taken from an Indian. What was an Indian doing with a Spanish coin? This question had needled him all day, daring him to find an answer. It was still there, something that required clearing away before he could fully concentrate on his clerking duties and the case of the witch. Possibly Shawcombe could be persuaded to shed more light on it, before he swung.

Tomorrow was sure to be an interesting day. Mathew returned the tankard to the table, then wearily climbed the stairs to his room. Within a few minutes he was asleep in his borrowed clothes.

six

FIRST PROVIDENCE HAD BROUGHT the magistrate and his clerk to Shawcombe's wretched little tavern, and now necessity had returned them.

There stood the place, festering alongside the muddy track. As he saw it come into view, Woodward felt his guts tighten. He and Matthew were sitting in a wagon whose team of horses was guided by Malcolm Jennings, he of the hawkish eye and toothless mouth. On the left, Nicholas Paine sat easily astride a burly chestnut stallion while on the right a third militiaman named Duncan Tyler—an older man, his beard gray and face seamed with wrinkles but his attitude right and eager for the job at hand—mounted a black horse. The journey from Fount Royal had taken well over three hours, and even though the rain had ceased before dawn the sky was still pale gray with clouds. The onset of an oppressive, damp heat had caused steam to rise from the muck. All the travellers were wet with sweat under their shirts, the horses ill tempered and stubborn.

Still fifty yards from the tavern, Paine lifted his hand as a signal for Jennings to halt the wagon. "Wait here," he commanded, and he and Tyler rode their horses on to the tavern's door. Paine reined his steed and dismounted. He brought his wheel-lock pistol from his saddlebag and inserted a spanner to properly wind and prepare the mechanism. Tyler got off his horse and, a readied wheel-lock pistol also in hand, followed the captain of militia up onto the tavern's porch.

Matthew and the magistrate watched as Paine balled up his fist and pounded the door. "Shawcombe!" they heard him call. "Open up!"

There was no response. Matthew expected at any second to hear the ugly crack of a pistol shot. The door was unlatched, and the force of Paine's fist had made it creak open a few inches. Inside was not a glimmer of light. "Shawcombe!" Paine shouted warily. "You'll be better served by showing yourself!" Still no response.

"They're like to get they heads blowed off," Jennings said, both hands gripping the reins and his knuckles white.

Paine put one boot against the door and kicked it wide open.

"Careful," Woodward breathed.

Paine and Tyler entered the tavern. The others waited, Matthew and Woodward expecting to hear shouts and shots. But no such things happened. Presently Paine reappeared. He held his pistol down at his side and motioned for Jennings to bring the wagon and the passengers the rest of the distance.

"Where are they?" Woodward asked as he climbed down from the wagon. "Didn't you find them?"

"No sir. It appears they've cleared out."

"Damn it!" Heat rose into Woodward's face. "That cunning bastard! But wait, there's the barn to be searched!"

"Duncan!" Paine called into the tavern's gloom. "I'm going back to the barn!" He started off, slogging through the mud, and Matthew followed at a distance respectful of any gunfire that might erupt from the barn or the forest. Matthew quickly noted that things had indeed changed: the horses were no longer in their corral, which was wide open, and the pigs were gone as well. The rooster, hens, and chicks were likewise vanished. The barn door was slightly ajar, its locking timber lying in the mud nearby. Paine lifted his pistol again. "Come out of there!" he called toward the entrance. "I won't hesitate to shoot!"

But again, no one replied. Paine glanced sharply back at Matthew as a warning to remain where he was, then he walked forward and pulled the barn door open wider. He peered in, his pistol ready for any sudden movement. He drew a breath to steel himself and walked inside.

Matthew waited, his heart pounding. Presently, Paine emerged with his pistol lowered. "Not in there," he said. "I found two wagons, but no horses."

Then they were well and truly fled, Matthew thought. Probably when Shawcombe realized his intended victims might reach Fount Royal, he knew his reign had ended. "I'll show you where Shawcombe buried the bodies," he told Paine, and led him around behind the barn toward the woods. Back there, where the water-soaked earth had given way and revealed Shawcombe's misdeeds, a small storm cloud of flies swirled above the grisly remains. Paine put one hand over his mouth and nose to stifle the smell and approached the gravepit, but only close enough for a quick look before he retreated.

"Yes," he said, his face gone pasty-gray. "I see the picture."

Matthew and Paine returned to the tavern. Tyler had opened most of the shutters, allowing the daylight to overrun Shawcombe's sorry domain. With the onset of such illumination, the rats that had been making carnival in every room put up a fierce and indignant squealing and fled for their holes, save one large individual that bared its teeth and might've attacked had not Tyler's right boot dealt the first and bone-breaking blow. Jennings was happily busying himself by collecting such items as lanterns, wooden bowls, spoons and knives, and other small utensils that could be easily carted home. Matthew found the magistrate standing in the room from which they'd escaped; the light revealed the shattered door and on the floorboards the dark brown stains of Shawcombe's blood.

"Gone," Woodward said grimly. "Everything, gone."

And so it was. Their luggage—the two trunks and the wig box, the valise containing Matthew's writing quills, inkpot, and tablet—had disappeared.

"My waistcoat." Woodward might've sunken down onto the straw pallet, but evidence of rodent habitation prevented him, even though he felt weak enough to faint. "That animal Shawcombe has taken my waistcoat, Matthew." He looked into the younger man's face, and Matthew saw that his eyes were damp with soul-deep anguish. "I'll never get it back now," he said. "Never."

"It was just a garment, " Matthew answered, and instantly he knew it was the wrong thing to say because the magistrate winced as if he'd been physically struck.

"No." Woodward slowly shook his head; he stood stoop-shouldered, as if crushed by a tremendous sadness. "It was my life."

"Magistrate?" Paine called. He looked into the room before Woodward could rouse himself to respond. "They haven't been gone very long. The fire's still banked. Did you find your belongings?"

"No. They've been taken."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You had some items of value?"

"Very much value, yes. Shawcombe took everything."

"This is a strange state of affairs," Matthew said, after a moment of thought. He went to the open window and stared toward the barn. "There are no horses here, but Shawcombe left two wagons. I presume one of those is ours. Shawcombe took our luggage and his pigs and chickens, but he left behind the lanterns. I'd say a good lantern is as valuable as a hen, wouldn't you?"

"Hey, hey! Looky what I done found!" came a happy cry from the front room. Paine hurried to see what the discovery was, followed by the magistrate and Matthew.

Jennings, who'd uncovered a burlap sack in which to deposit his booty, was holding a wooden tankard. His lips were wet, his eyes shiny. "Rum!" he said. "This was a-settin' right on that table over there! Might be a bottle 'round somewhere. We oughta hunt it down a'fore we—"

"One moment," Matthew said, and he approached the man and took the tankard from him. Without another word, Matthew held the tankard over the nearest table and upended it.

"Great God, boy!" Jennings squalled as the drink poured out. "Are you era—" Plink!

A gold coin had fallen from the bottom of the murky brown liquid. Matthew picked it up and looked closely at it, but he already knew what it was. "It's a Spanish piece," he said. "Shawcombe told me he got it off a dead Indian. I saw him drop it in that tankard."

"Let me see that!" Paine reached out for it, and Matthew gave it up. Paine walked closer to a window, the better to inspect the coin's details. Tyler stood behind him, looking at the coin over Paine's shoulder. "You're right, it is Spanish," the militia captain said. "You say Shawcombe got it from a dead Indian?"

"That's what he claimed."

"Strange. Why would an Indian be in possession of Spanish gold?"

"Shawcombe believed there was—" Matthew suddenly stopped. A Spanish spy hereabouts, he had been meaning to say. But he had the mental image of Paine lighting his cigar at the banquet last night. Smoking in the Spanish style. Who had taught Paine to take his tobacco in that fashion?

Matthew recalled, as well, something else that Shawcombe had said about this Spanish spy: Hell, he might even be livin' in Fount Royal, an Englishman turned blackcoat!

"Believed what?" Paine's voice was quiet and controlled; his fist had closed around the gold piece.

"He... said..." Matthew hesitated, thinking furiously. He couldn't make out the expression on Paine's face, as the steamy light held Paine in silhouette. "He... believed the Indians might have found pirate's gold," Matthew finished, lamely.

"Pirate's gold?" Jennings had sniffed a new intoxication. "Where? 'Round here?"

"Steady, Malcolm," Paine warned. "One coin does not make a fortune. We've had no squall with pirates, nor do we wish to." He cocked his head to one side and Matthew could tell his brain-wheels were turning. "Shawcombe was wrong," he said. "No black-flagger in his right mind would bury his loot in redskin wilderness. They hide their gold where they can easily get to it, but it would be a poor pirate whose winnings could be found and unearthed by savages."

"I imagine so," Matthew said, unwilling to dig his grave of deceit any deeper.

"Still... how else would an Indian get hold of this? Unless there was a shipwreck, and somehow this washed up. Intriguing, wouldn't you say, Magistrate?"

"Another possibility," Woodward ventured, "that a Spaniard gave it to the Indian, down in the Florida country."

"No, the redskins around here wouldn't travel that far. The tribes in the Florida country would make sure to part the scalps from their skulls."

"Stranger still," Matthew spoke up, wanting to divert this line of discourse, "is the fact that Shawcombe left that coin in the tankard."

"He must'a been in an almighty hurry to get out," Jennings said.

"But he took the time to gather up our luggage and his pigs and chickens? I think not." Matthew swept his gaze around the room. Nothing was disturbed; no tables overthrown, no blood nor evidence of violence. The hearth was still warm, the cooking kettles still in the ashes. There was no hint of what had happened to Shawcombe or the others. Matthew found himself thinking about the girl; what had become of her, as well? "I don't know," he said, thinking aloud. "But I do know Shawcombe would never have left that coin. Under ordinary circumstances, I mean."

Paine gave a soft grunt. He worked the coin with his fingers for a few seconds, and then he held it out to Matthew. "This is yours, I suppose. It's most likely all the revenge you'll have from Shawcombe."

"Revenge is not our aim, sir," Woodward said curtly. "Justice is. And I must say that justice has been cheated this day."

"Well, I don't think Shawcombe's going to return here." Paine bent down and picked up the burnt stub of a candle from the floor. "I would offer to stay the night and keep watch, but I don't care to be eaten alive." He looked uneasily around at the room's shadowy corners, from which some agitated squeaking could still be heard. "This is a place only Linch could abide."

"Who?" the magistrate asked.

"Gwinett Linch. Our ratcatcher in Fount Royal. Even he might wake up with his legs chewed off in this damn hovel." Paine tossed the candlestub into one of the dark corners. Something large scuttled for safety. "I saw tack and harness in the barn. Duncan, you and I can hitch our horses to the magistrate's wagon and let them take it back. Is that agreeable to you, Magistrate?"

"Absolutely."

"All right, then. I say we quit this place." Paine and Tyler went outside to discharge their pistols into the air, because the firing mechanisms, once wound, were as dangerous as coiled vipers. Tyler's pistol fired immediately, but Paine's threw sparks and went off only after a sputtering delay.

Within a half hour, the horses were harnessed to the recovered wagon and Woodward was at the reins, following the first wagon on the swampy trail back to Fount Royal. Matthew occupied the uncomfortable plank beside the magistrate, while Paine and Tyler rode with Malcolm Jennings; he looked back at Shawcombe's tavern before they left it from sight, imagining what the place would be like in a few days—or, forbid the thought, a few weeks —of uninterrupted rodent dominion. The image of the young girl, who had seemed to be only a bystander to her master's crimes, again came to him, and he couldn't help but wonder why God could be so cruel. But she was gone to her fate—as they all were—and there was nothing more to be done. With that thought he turned his gaze from the past and aimed it toward the future.

Matthew and Woodward were alone together for the first time since their arrival at Fount Royal, as their walk from Bidwell's mansion to the public stable this morning had been escorted by a young black servant boy on Mrs. Nettles's command. It was, therefore, the first opportunity Matthew had to make remarks about their dinner companions of the night before without the ears of strangers between them.

But it was the magistrate who first grasped the chance to speak freely. "What do you make of Paine, Matthew?"

"He seems to know his work."

"Yes, he does. He seems also to know the work of... That term he used: a 'black-flagger'... Interesting."

"How so?"

"In New York some years ago... 1 believe it was 1693 or thereabouts... I sat at the docket on a case involving a man who had come up on charges of piracy. I recall the case because he was a learned man, a timber merchant who'd lost his business to creditors. His wife and two children had died by the plague. He was not at all the kind of man you might expect would turn to that life. I remember... he referred to his compatriots as 'black-flaggers.' I'd never heard that term before." Woodward glanced up at the sky, making judgment on how long it might be before the thick gray clouds let loose another torrent. "I'd never heard the term since, until Paine spoke it." He returned his attention to the road ahead. "Evidently, it's a term used with respect and more than a little pride. As one member of a society speaking about another."

"Are you suggesting that Paine—"

"I'm suggesting nothing," Woodward interrupted. "I'm only saying that it's of interest, that's all." He paused to emphasize his position. Then he said, casually, "I should like to know more about Mr. Paine's background. Just for interest's sake, of course."

"What happened to the timber merchant?"

"Ex—timber merchant," the magistrate corrected. "He committed murder on the high seas, as well as piracy. He was guilty, no matter what the circumstances of his fall from grace. I ached for his soul, but I had no recourse other than to sentence him to hanging. And so it was done."

"I was going to ask you what you thought of the guests last night," Matthew said. "Take Schoolmaster Johnstone. What do you make of his face powder?"

"Such fashion is currently popular in Europe, but I've seen it in the colonies on occasion. Actually, though, I believe I have another explanation for his appearance."

"What might that be?"

"He attended Oxford, yes? All Souls' College. Well, that college had a reputation as being the plaything of young dandies and gamblers who were certainly not there for spiritual enlightenment. The core of the debauchers at All Souls' was an organization called the Hellfire Club. It was a very old gathering, closed to all but a select few within the college, those with wealthy families and debased sensibilities. Among Hellfire Club members the custom was to wear daubings of white ashes the morning after their bawdy banquets." He looked quickly at Matthew and then focused on the road once more. "There was some strange pseudo-religious significance to it, I think. As in washing their faces clean of sin, that sort of thing. Unfortunately, they couldn't powder their hearts. But perhaps Johnstone is simply aware of European fashion and wishes to mimic it, though why one would care to do so in this forsaken wilderness is beyond me."

Matthew said nothing, but he was thinking about the magistrate insisting they dress for dinner at that wretched tavern.

"It is peculiar, though," Woodward mused. "If Johnstone was a member of the Hellfire Club—and I'm not saying he was, though there are indications—why would he care to carry on its custom so long after he left Oxford? I mean to say, I used to wear a crimson jacket with green tassels dangling from the sleeves when I was a college student, but I wouldn't dream of putting on such an item today." He shook his head. "No, it must be that Johnstone has embraced the European trend. Of course, I doubt if he wears his powder in the daytime. Such would only be for nocturnal festivities."

"He seems an intelligent man," Matthew said. "I wonder why a schoolmaster who'd earned his education at Oxford would consent to come to a settlement like Fount Royal. One would think he might prefer more civilized surroundings."

"True. But why are any of them in Fount Royal? For that matter, why does anyone in his or her right mind consent to go live in a place that seems poised on the edge of the earth? But they do. Otherwise there would be no New York or Boston, Philadelphia or Charles Town. Take Dr. Shields, for instance. What prompted him to leave what was probably a well-established urban practise for a task of extreme hardship in a frontier village? Is Bidwell paying him a great deal of money? Is it a noble sense of professional duty? Or something else entirely?" Woodward tilted his gaze upward once more; his eyes had found the slow, graceful circling of a hawk against the curtain of clouds. It occurred to him that the hawk had spied a victim—a rabbit or squirrel, perhaps—on the ground.

"Dr. Shields seems to me an unhappy man," Woodward went on, and he cleared his throat; it had been moderately sore and scratchy since his awakening this morning, and he resolved to gargle some warm salt water to soothe it. "He seems also to want to drown his sorrows in strong drink. I'm sure that the high rate of deaths in Fount Royal does nothing to ease the doctor's depression. Still... one would hope Dr. Shields does not rely too much on the cup when he's making his professional rounds." He watched the hawk wheel around and suddenly dive for its prey, and he had the thought that death was always close at hand in this world of tumults and cataclysms.

That thought led into another, which also involved death: he saw in his mind small fingers curled around the iron frame of a bedpost. The knuckles—so perfect, so fragile—were bleached white from the pressure of a terrified grip.

Woodward squeezed his eyes shut. The sounds had almost come to him again. Almost. He could not stand hearing those sounds, even from this distance of time and place. From the deep green thicket on his left he thought he heard the shrill, triumphant cry of a hawk and the brief scream of some small animal.

"Sir?" He opened his eyes. Matthew was staring at him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Woodward said. "A little weary, perhaps. It will pass."

"I'll take the reins, if you like."

"Not necessary." Woodward gave them a flick across the horses' haunches to show he was in full command. "I would be just as weary riding as a passenger. Besides, at least this time we know Fount Royal is not very far."

"Yes, sir," Matthew answered. After a moment, he reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out the gold coin he'd put there. He held it in his palm and studied the markings. "I told an untruth to Mr. Paine," he admitted. "About this coin. Shawcombe did take it from the body of an Indian... but he told me he believed there might be a Spanish spy hereabouts who was paying the Indians for their loyalty."

"What? He said nothing about pirate's gold, then?"

"No, sir. I made that up because of the fashion in which Paine took his tobacco after dinner last night. He smoked a roll called a 'cigar.' It's—"

"A Spanish custom, yes." Woodward nodded; his eyes narrowed, a sign that told Matthew he was intrigued by this new information. "Hmmm. Yes, I understand your fiction. Very few Englishmen that I know of have taken to smoking in such a manner. I wondered about it last night, but I said nothing. But there's the question of how Paine might have become introduced to it."

"Yes, sir. Shawcombe also made mention that the Spanish spy might be an Englishman. Or at least an Englishman in appearance. And that he might be living in Fount Royal."

"Curious. What would be the purpose of such a spy? Ah!" he said, answering his own question. "Of course! To report on the progress of Fount Royal. Which may yet turn out to be known as Bidwell's Folly, I might add. But what part would the Indians play in this, that they would have to be tamed by Spanish gold?"

Matthew had already formulated this question and given it some thought. He ventured his opinion, something he was never reluctant to do: "One of Bidwell's motives behind the creation of Fount Royal is as a fort to keep watch on the Spanish. It might be that they're already much nearer than the Florida country."

"You mean living with the Indians?"

Matthew nodded. "A small expeditionary force, possibly. If not living with the Indians, then close enough to want to seek their good graces."

Woodward almost reined the horses in, so hard did this speculation hit him. "My God!" he said. "If that's true—if there's any possibility of it being true—then Bidwell's got to be told! If the Spaniards could incite the Indians to attack Fount Royal, they wouldn't have to lift a finger to destroy the whole settlement!"

"Yes, sir, but I don't think Mr. Bidwell should be alarmed in such a way just yet."

"Why not? He'd want to know, wouldn't he?"

"I'm sure he would," Matthew agreed calmly. "But for now you and I are the only ones making these suppositions. And that's what they should remain, until some proof can be found."

"You don't think the coin is proof enough?"

"No, I don't. As Mr. Paine said, one coin does not make a fortune. Nor does it give proof that Spanish soldiers are encamped out in the wilderness. But if such an idea flew out of Mr. Bidwell's mouth and into the ears of the citizens, it would mean the certain end of Fount Royal."

"Do you propose we do nothing?" Woodward asked, rather sharply.

"I propose we watch and listen," Matthew said. "That we make some discreet inquiries and—as far as we are able—monitor Mr. Paine's activities. If indeed there is a spy, he might be waiting to see what develops concerning the witchcraft case. After all, with Satan walking the fields, Fount Royal may simply continue to shrivel up and soon dissolve."

"Well, it's a damnable thing!" the magistrate snorted. "You raise these speculations, but you don't wish to act on them!"

"Now is not the time. Besides, sir, I believe we both have a more pressing engagement with Rachel Howarth."

Woodward started to respond, but sealed his mouth. The wagon's wheels continued to turn through the mud, the two horses keeping a slow but steady pace. After a spell of deliberation, Woodward cleared his throat again. "Rachel Howarth," he said. "I can't say I look forward to making her acquaintance tomorrow. What did you make of Garrick's story?"

"Very strange."

"A grand understatement, I should think. I don't believe I've ever heard anything quite like it. In fact, I know I haven't. But is it believable?"

"Unless he's one of the best liars I've ever heard, he believes it."

"Then he did see someone or something behind that barn, yes? But that act he described... how in the name of all that's holy could a woman perform in such a way?"

"I don't think we're dealing with a holy situation," Matthew reminded him.

"No. Of course not. Two murders. It seems reasonable that the first murder should've been a minister. The diabolic would seek to destroy first and foremost a man who could wield the sword of God."

"Yes, sir, it does. But in this instance, it appears the blade of Satan was a stronger weapon."

"I'd keep such blasphemies chained, before you're summoned to a higher court by a bolt of lightning," Woodward cautioned.

Matthew's eyes regarded the green, steamy wilderness that loomed beside the road, but his mind had turned to other sights: namely, the finding of truth in this matter of witchcraft. It was a blasphemous thought—and he knew he risked eternal damnation for thinking it—but sometimes he had to wonder if there was indeed a God who reigned over this earthly arena of fury and brutality. Matthew could sing the hymns and mouth the platitudes with the best of them, in the stiffly regimented Sabbath church services that basically consisted of the minister begging for five or six hours that Jehovah show mercy on His wounded and crippled Creation. But in his life Matthew had seen very little real evidence of God at work, though it seemed he'd seen much of Satan's fingermarks. It was easy to sing praise to God when one was wearing a clean white shirt and eating from china platters, much less easy when one lay on a dirty mattress in an almshouse dormitory and heard the shrill scream of a boy who'd been summoned after midnight to the headmaster's chambers.

SOMETIMES HE DID DREAM of his mother and father. Not often, but sometimes. In those dreams he saw two figures that he knew were his parents, but he could never clearly see their faces. The shadows were always too deep. He might not have recognized them even if he had been able to see their faces, as his mother had died of poisoned blood when he was three years old and his father—a taciturn but hardworking Massachusetts colony plowman who had tried his best to raise the boy alone—succumbed to the kick of a horse to the cranium when Matthew was in his sixth year. And with the flailing of that fatal equine hoof, Matthew was thrust into a pilgrimage that would both mold and test his mettle. His first stop on the journey was the squalid little cabin of his uncle and aunt who ran a pig farm on Manhattan island. As they were both drunks and insensate much of the time, with two imbecile children aged eight and nine who thought of Matthew as an object to be tormented—which included regular flights into a huge pile of pig manure beside the house—Matthew at seven years of age leaped upon the back of a southbound haywagon, burrowed into the hay, and so departed the loving embrace of his nearest relatives.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-28