Book: Speaks the Nightbird 16 страница

"Don't have to say it! I can read it in these damn questions you're askin' me! All this 'bout coats and shoes, and did I have my cane and whatnot! I'm a honest man, you can ask anybody!"

"Please, sir, there's no need for an outburst."

"I ain't no liar!" Buckner had fairly shouted it. He hobbled to his feet and pointed at Rachel Howarth. "There's the witch I seen with them three demons from Hell! I seen it was her, no mis-takin' it! She's evil to her black heart, and if you think I'm lyin' she's conjured you, too!"

"Sir," Woodward said quietly, trying to calm the man. "Please. Won't you sit down and—"

"No, I will not! I won't be called a liar, not even by a magistrate! God knows I'm tellin' the truth, and He's the only judge matters!"

"In Heaven, yes," Woodward said, feeling a bit wounded by this last remark. "In the courts of Earth, however, justice is the responsibility of mortals."

"If justice is served, that witch'll be dead 'fore another day goes past!" Buckner had white spittle on his lips, his eyes enraged. "Or hav'ya already decided it's the town that dies and the witch that lives?"

"I still have a few questions to ask, sir." Woodward motioned toward the stool. "Won't you sit down?"

"I've had a fill of this! I ain't answerin' nothin' more!" The old man abruptly turned and walked out of the cell, leaning heavily on his cane.

Woodward also stood up. "Mr. Buckner! Please! Just a few moments longer!" His entreaties were in vain, however. Buckner stalked away and was gone from the gaol altogether.

"He can be convinced to return," Matthew said. "He'll listen to Bidwell."

"I only had two or three more questions to ask." Woodward cast a dark glare at his clerk. "What was the meaning of badgering the man like that?"

"I don't think I was badgering, sir. I was clarifying."

"You took that man to task, Matthew! You just as well said you believed him a liar!"

"No, sir," Matthew replied evenly, "I never said such a thing. I simply desired to know why he couldn't recall some specific details, when other specifics were so very clear. I should think he would remember putting on and removing his coat and shoes, no matter what kind of fright he'd experienced."

"Well, the man's not a liar!" Woodward vowed. "Confused, possibly. Frightened, certainly. But I don't believe him the stripe of man who would make up such phantasms, do you? I mean... dear God, if he was concocting such a tale, I'd fear his mind was diseased beyond all salvation!"

There came a laugh. Matthew and Woodward looked into the next cage. Rachel Howarth was sitting on her bench, her back against the rough wall and her head uptilted.

"You find this amusing, madam?" Woodward inquired.

"No," she said. "I find it sad. But as I am far past tears, I must laugh instead of weep."

"Laugh or weep as you please. This is damning evidence."

"Evidence?" Again, she laughed. "What evidence is there? An insane tale told by an old man? Oh, there is some truth in what he told you."

"Are you admitting your concordance with the Devil, then?"

"Not at all. I'm admitting that I attended church on three Sabbaths, and the third time I sat with a rotten egg in my hair. But I was not going to give them the pleasure of watching me run home, or seeing me sob like a wounded child. That's the only truth in Buckner's story."

"Of course you would deny the incident in the orchard. I wouldn't expect you to do otherwise."

"What was the point of it, then?" She turned her amber gaze upon him. "If I am such a witch, why did I choose to invite Buckner to watch my... indiscretions? Why would I not want to do such things in private?"

"I don't know, madam. Why did you not?"

"Evidently, according to Buckner, I can walk through latched doors. Why am I still here in this cage, then?"

"It would be an admission of witchcraft to leave this gaol."

"And allowing Buckner to witness that profanity was not an admission?" She shook her head. "If I really were a witch, I'd be much more clever than that."

"Oh, I think you're clever enough. Besides, madam, who is to say you do not leave this gaol at night, and roam where you please with your master? Possibly you inhabit some spectral world of which God-fearing citizens dare not imagine.'"

"You might ask your clerk tomorrow morning," Rachel said. "He'll find out tonight if I have the power to walk through walls."

"I doubt that you would show any such power while Matthew is present," Woodward parried. "Again, it would be an admission of guilt that would lead to your appointment at the stake."

She suddenly stood up. "You must be as insane as the rest of them! Do you honestly think, after what you heard today, that I am not going to burn? There are other witnesses—other liars— yet to speak against me, I know. But who will speak for me? No one. Oh, they hated me here before they took me to be a witch, so they made me into one, the better to hate all the stronger!"

"They made you into a witch? How could you be made into what you are not?"

"Hear me well, Magistrate. Someone murdered Reverend Grove and my husband, and then fashioned me into the blackest witch south of Salem. Someone made poppets and hid them in the floor of my house. Someone spread these filthy lies about me, so that now the people here don't know their own minds!"

"I believe Mr. Buckner," Woodward said. "I've seen liars before, in many courtrooms. I've seen them spin webs from which they cannot escape. Mr. Buckner may be confused about some small details, due to his advanced age and the experience of that night, but he is not lying."

"If he's not lying," Rachel answered, "then he's either in need of an asylum or he's been cursed by some witch other than the one I am painted to be. I never set foot in his house or that orchard. I swear it before God."

"Beware your mouth, madam! A bolt of holy fire might end your games."

"If it would be a quicker death than the stake, I would welcome it."

Matthew said, "There's a simple way to end all of this. Madam, if you would recite the Lord's Prayer, I think the magistrate might consider your case in a different light."

"I'll speak for myself, thank you!" Woodward said. "After what I've heard here today, I think even a recitation of the Lord's Prayer might be a trick provided by this woman's master!"

"I will save you the wondering," Rachel said, "because I refuse to speak such a thing that has no meaning in this town. Those who babble the Lord's Prayer day and night would be first to grin when I'm set afire. Like Lucretia Vaughan, for instance. Oh, there's a fine Christian example! She would've given Christ on the cross a drink of vinegar and called it honey!"

"She was kind enough to provide you a cup for tea. I didn't find it vinegared."

"You don't know her as I do. I believe I know why she wanted the cup broken and returned. Ask her yourself. You might be enlightened."

Woodward busied himself by putting the teapot and the remaining cups back into the basket. "I think that will do for today, Matthew. I'm off to visit Dr. Shields. On Monday morning we shall resume our interviews."

"I'd suggest, sir, that our next witness be Mrs. Buckner. I have some questions I'd like to pose."

"Do you, now?" Woodward paused, his cheeks showing a flame. "Who is presiding over this court, you or me?"

"You are, of course."

"Then shouldn't I be the one who determines the next witness? And since I do not have any questions for Mrs. Buckner, I suggest Mr. Garrick come to court on Monday morning."

"I understand that you are the authority in this court, as in any other," Matthew said, with a slight bow of his head, "but shouldn't Mrs. Buckner be asked to describe her husband's mental state during the period of time that—"

"Mrs. Buckner should be left alone," the magistrate interrupted. "She was asleep during both incidents her husband related. I daresay Mr. Buckner has never told her what he saw. Would you bring a decent Christian wife into this gaol, within earshot of Madam Howarth?"

"She would be brought into any other courtroom."

"At the discretion of the judge. In my opinion, she has nothing to add, and indeed might even suffer harm by being called to appear."

"Magistrate," Matthew said quietly, "a wife knows her husband. I would like to learn whether Mr. Buckner has had... shall we say... delusions of any kind in previous years."

"If you're saying that what he witnessed was a delusion, remember that it was a delusion shared by another person. Stephen Dunton, wasn't that the man's name?"

"Yes, sir. But as Mr. Dunton is no longer present, we only have Mr. Buckner's word."

"Sworn on the Bible. Delivered in a rational manner. Told in as stomach-churning detail as I ever hope to hear. His word is good enough for me."

"But not good enough for me," Matthew said. The rawly honest thought had left his mouth before he could constrain it. If Woodward's teeth had been false, they might have dropped to the floor. The silence stretched, as the magistrate and his clerk stared at each other.

Woodward's throat was ravaged, his air passages swollen, and his bones aching in the damp, close heat. He had just heard a reliable witness relate a story of both fascination and horror that brought a woman—a human being, even if she was a notorious witch—nearer the stake. He felt sick to his very marrow, and now this audacity added to his freight was enough to lay him low. "You've forgotten your place," he rasped. "You are a clerk, not a magistrate. Not even—though you seem to wish it—an attorney. Your duty is as a scrivener, not a questioner. The former you do very well, the latter undoes you."

Matthew didn't respond except for the flush of shame on his face. He realized that he'd spoken completely out of turn and was better off embracing silence.

"I will ascribe this incident to our surroundings and the miserable weather," Woodward decided. "Therefore we shall put this behind us like gentlemen. Agreed?"

"Yes, sir," Matthew said, though he still thought it was appropriate—no, vital— to interview Buckner's wife.

"Very good, then." Woodward picked up the basket in preparation of leaving. "I'll ask Mr. Green to come in and move you to one of the cells over there." He nodded toward the opposite cages. "I would prefer that you not be in such close proximity to Madam Howarth."

"Uh... I'd like to stay where I am, sir," Matthew countered quickly. "I'd appreciate the benefit of the desk."

"Why? You won't be needing it."

"It... makes the place seem not such a cage."

"Oh. Yes, I see. Then I'll have Madam Howarth moved."

"There's no need for that, sir," Matthew said. "The distance of one or two cages hardly matters, if indeed she employs such witchcraft. And I do have this." He held up the leatherbound Bible. "If this isn't strong enough to protect me, nothing can."

The magistrate paused, glancing from his clerk to Rachel Howarth and back again. This whole situation—Matthew being forced to remain in this wretched place with a woman who'd known such wickedness—gnawed at his nerves. Who knew what Matthew would witness in the dead of night? He damned himself for passing sentence on the boy, but what other choice had there been? It crossed his mind to occupy one of the other cages for the night, on some pretext of keeping an eye on Madam Howarth's activities, but he knew Bidwell and everyone else would see through the flimsy gauze and realize him to be quite less the taskmaster than he appeared.

At the bottom of his pond, far down from the light of public inspection, he was afraid. Fearful of Rachel Howarth, and of what she might do to the boy. Fearful also that once he left Matthew alone with this Devil's doxy, the boy might never again be the same. The witch's pleasure would be in destroying innocence, would it not?

"I shall be all right," Matthew said, reading some of these thoughts in the magistrate's anguished expression. "Just go to Dr. Shields and ask for a tonic."

Woodward nodded, but still he couldn't bear to leave. The time, however, had come. "I'll return this afternoon and see to you," he said. "Can I bring you anything? Books from Mr. Bidwell's library?"

"Yes, that would be fine. Any books will do."

"I'm sure you will be fed before long. If you're displeased at the meal, I'll be glad to bring you—"

"Whatever the meal is, it will be good enough," Matthew told him. "Just go see Dr. Shields."

"Yes, I shall." Woodward turned his attention to the woman, who had resumed sitting on her bench. "Your actions toward my clerk will be watched and noted, madam," he said sternly. "I strongly suggest you keep your distance."

"My actions needn't cause you worry," she replied. "But the rats in here are not subject to strong suggestions."

There was nothing more that Woodward could do. Matthew would have to fend for himself, and the Lord God be with him. Woodward, basket in hand, left the gaol. In another moment Green entered, closed and locked the door of Matthew's cage, and then he too retreated.

Matthew stood at the bars, staring up toward the open hatch. His fingers were gripping the iron. The sound of the cell's door being shut had made him think of the iron gate clanging at the almshouse, and sickness roiled in his stomach.

"You've not been in here very long to feel the loss of freedom," Rachel said quietly. "What is your sentence?"

"Three days."

"An age!" She gave a harsh laugh that sounded biting. "I've never been in a gaol before. At least, not on this side of the bars."

"Neither had I. It's not so bad here, in the daylight. But the darkness is not kind."

"Three days," Matthew repeated. "I can bear it."

"What kind of foolishness is this?" Her tone had sharpened. "Do you think I don't know you've been placed in here to spy on me?"

"You're wrong. I am here because I... offended the blacksmith."

"Oh, of course you did! Well, what shall I do to conjure you tonight? Shall I become a raven and flit from cage to cage? Shall I dance a jig on the air, while Satan plays the fiddle? Ah! Why don't I turn you into a piece of cheese and let the rats tear you apart! Would that impress your magistrate?"

"I'm sure it might," Matthew said evenly. "But it would do neither of us any good, for if I were crumbs by dawn you would be ashes by noon."

"Some noon I shall be ashes. Why should it not be tomorrow?"

Matthew looked through the bars at Rachel Howarth, who had drawn her legs up beneath herself. "Not all in this town believe you to be a witch."

"Who does not?"

"One, at least. As for the name, I don't feel I should betray the confidence."

"One." She smiled thinly. "That one is not the magistrate, is it?"

"No."

"Well then? It is you?"

"I have an open mind on such subjects."

"And your magistrate does not?"

"Magistrate Woodward," Matthew said, "is a man of honor and conviction. No matter his reaction today, he will act in a tempered fashion. You'll notice no flames around your feet yet, and after Mr. Buckner's tale I think the magistrate might be justified in lighting the torch."

"Buckner!" Rachel spoke it like a spit. "He's insane. I was neither in his home nor in the orchard. I hardly know the man; perhaps I've spoken a dozen words to him altogether."

Matthew walked over to his desk and began to arrange the papers into a neat stack. "He seems to know you well enough. After your display here yesterday, I must wonder if your natural inclination is not to shed your clothing and walk the town."

"I shed my clothing for my husband," she said. "No one else. Certainly not in public, and certainly not... for the vile purposes Buckner imagined."

"Was that it, then? The imaginings of an old man?"

"Yes! Of course."

Matthew located a particular sheet of paper and read from it. "Regarding the incident in the orchard, Mr. Buckner says as follows: I didn't tell nobody, not even after I heard what Elias Garrick seen. Then Lester Crane told me Stephen Dunton seen such a thing— them three creatures with the witch, 'cept they was doin' their wickedness inside the house where the Poole family used to live, right next to Dun-ton's farm." He looked up at her. "How could it be the imaginings of two men, at two different times and two different places?"

She didn't answer; her face seemed darker and she stared straight ahead.

"The testimony of Elias Garrick on Monday morning will add more sticks to your pyre," Matthew said. "Are you aware of what he's going to say?" There was no reply. "I take it that you are. Then we shall hear from a child by the name of Violet Adams. I have no knowledge of what she will testify. Do you?" Silence met his question. "Whatever it is, it will be doubly damning coming from a child. The magistrate is very sensitive to the testimony of children, and I would advise you to hold your tongue when she is speaking."

"No matter what lies she spews?" Rachel asked, still staring blankly ahead.

"No matter if she swears she witnessed you in a privyhouse accommodating three hundred and three demons. Keep your tongue shackled."

"You might care to know," Rachel said, "that the child's mother is the person who anointed my head with such a perfumed present before the church. Constance Adams made no secret of her feelings toward me." Rachel's head turned, and her eyes found Matthew's. "You're the magistrate's clerk, sworn to abide by his law. If you're not here to spy for him, then why are you in the least interested in what I might say or not say?"

Matthew continued straightening the sheets of paper. When he was done, he returned them to the box and closed the lid. It had taken him that long to formulate an answer. "I have a curiosity for puzzles," he said, refusing to meet her gaze. "I am satisfied only when all the pieces fit to perfection. In this instance... I feel there are many pieces that have been forced into the wrong positions, and thus are ragged of edge. There are missing pieces that must be found. There are pieces that seem to be correct... but are, to me at least, of false shape. That is my interest."

A long silence followed, during which Matthew set about cleaning the quill. Then, "Do you think I am a witch?" Rachel asked pointedly.

"I think," he replied after some deliberation, "that this town is the host to a very cunning evil. Whether it is demon or man, it does seem Satanic. More than that, I can't say."

"Neither can I," she said. "But no matter who—or what— cut my husband's throat and masqueraded as me in these filthy performances, I'll be the one to burn for it." Matthew couldn't deny her statement. That conflagration now seemed very near indeed.

Lies upon lies, Mrs. Nettles had said. What she needs is a champion of truth.

Just as truth was sparse here, Matthew thought, so were champions. He was a clerk, nothing more. Not a magistrate, not an attorney... certainly not a champion.

He was certain of one thing, though; it had become clear to him, after the sickening ordeal of Buckner's testimony and the magistrate's forceful reaction. At the conclusion of these interviews, Woodward would be compelled to immediately order Rachel Howarth put to death. She would burn to the bone in a matter of days after that order had been read to the prisoner. And whose hand would scribe the sentence of death?

Matthew's own, of course. He had done it several times before; it was nothing new.

Except in this instance, he would go to his own grave pondering the pieces that did not fit, and agonized over the missing why.

He finished cleaning the quill and put it and the inkwell into the box, and then the box went into one of the desk's drawers— which Winston had obviously cleaned out before carting to the gaol, since the desk was absolutely empty—to await further need.

Then he stretched himself out in the straw—which was fresh thanks be to Mr. Green—closed his eyes, and tried to rest. It came to him only after a moment that he had reclined as far as possible from the bars that stood between his cage and Rachel Howarth's, and that in his right hand he gripped the Bible across his chest.

thirteen

BY THE TIME THE MAGISTRATE reached Dr. Shields's infirmary, which was a chalkwhite painted house on Harmony Street, he felt as if he were walking in a fog cloud. This dazed, opaque sensation was more than his physical distress; it was his mental burden, as well.

Woodward had just left the house of Lucretia Vaughan. Mrs. Vaughan had been summoned to the door by a lovely blonde girl of sixteen or thereabouts, whom the elder lady had introduced as her daughter Cherise. Upon returning the basket containing teapot and cups, Woodward had inquired why Mrs. Vaughan had wished the reddish-brown cup to be broken to pieces by Rachel Howarth.

"Surely you understand, being a sophisticated man of the city," Mrs. Vaughan had said, "that now the cup is much more valuable than before."

"Valuable?" he'd asked. "How is it that fragments of a cup are worth more than the whole?"

"Because she broke it," came the reply, which only further puzzled the magistrate. It must have shown on his face, because Mrs. Vaughan explained, "After the witch is put to death and Fount Royal is steadied again, the citizens of this town might wish to possess some token of the terrible ordeal we have been strong enough to endure." She gave a smile that Woodward could only describe as chilling. "It will take time, of course, but with the proper presentation the bits of broken cup might be sold as charms of good fortune."

"Pardon me?" Woodward had then felt the fog closing in around his head.

"I chose the nearest hue to blood-red that I could find," Mrs. Vaughan said, her tone of voice that of a sharper to a dimwit. "The blood of the witch. Or the scarlet tears of the witch. I haven't yet settled on one or the other. It's a matter of imagination, do you see?"

"I... fear my imagination isn't as developed as yours," Woodward said, a thick knot seemingly clogged in his throat.

"Thank you for returning these so promptly. At the appropriate time I can advertise that the pieces of cup broken by the witch were given to my own hand by the magistrate who executed her." Mrs. Vaughan now exhibited a slight frown. "Tell me—what's to become of the straw poppets?""The straw poppets?" he'd echoed.

"Yes. Surely you'll have no need of them after the witch is dead, will you?"

"Excuse me," Woodward had said. "I really must go."

And so he found himself—fogheaded under the gray-plated sky—reaching for the bellcord at Dr. Shields's door. Above the door, a sign painted in the medical colors of red, white, and blue announced this to be the shop of Benj. Shields, Surgeon Barber. Woodward pulled the cord and waited, and presently the door was opened by a portly, broad-faced woman with curly dark brown hair. He introduced himself, asked to be seen by Dr. Shields, and was admitted into a sparsely appointed parlor, the most notable feature of it being a gilded birdcage that held two yellow canaries. The woman, whose ample figure was contained by a beige dress and apron that might have served as a settler's tent, went through a door at the other side of the room and Woodward was left with the birds.

But not for very long, however, as within a minute or two the door opened again and the doctor appeared, his clothing a white blouse with sleeves rolled up, a wine-colored waistcoat, and charcoal-gray breeches. He wore his round-lensed spectacles, his long hair trailing over his shoulders. "Magistrate!" he said, and offered his hand. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Would that pleasure was the purpose," Woodward answered, his voice—though quite husky—now in a fragile condition. "I fear I've been visited by ill health."

"Open your mouth, please," Shields instructed. "Angle your head back a bit, if you will." He peered in. "Oh my," he said, after the briefest of inspections. "Your throat appears quite swollen and aflame. You're in some pain, I would presume."

"Yes. Very much."

"No doubt. Come with me, let's have a better look."

Woodward followed the doctor through the door and along a hallway, past one room where there stood a basin of water, a chair, and a leather strop to keen the razor for the barbering duties, and past a second room that held three narrow beds. A young female with a plaster bandage around her right arm and her torpid face discolored by bruises lay in one of the beds, being fed a bowl of soup by the woman who'd admitted Woodward. He realized it must be Noles's unfortunate wife, who'd suffered the wrath of his carpet-beater.

A door into a third room further down the hallway was opened, and Shields said, "Sit there, please," as he motioned toward a chair positioned near the single window. The magistrate seated himself. Shields opened the shutters to let in the misty gray illumination. "My soul rose at the dawn," the doctor said, as he turned away to prepare the examination. "Then it fell back to earth and resides now in a puddle of mud."

"Myself the same. Will a full day of sun never again shine on the New World?""A debatable question, it seems."

Woodward considered the room into which he'd been led. It appeared to be both the physician's study and his apothecary. On one side of the chamber stood a timeworn desk and chair, next to which was a bookcase of what looked to be old medical tomes, by their thickness and the dark solemnity of their bindings. Opposite those furnishings was a long workbench built to the height of Dr. Shields's waist. Atop the bench, which had perhaps a dozen small drawers with ivory pulls constructed along its length, was a glassblower's nightmare of arcane bottles, beakers, jars, and the like, along with a set of measuring scales and various other instruments. On the wall, too, were mounted shelves that held more bottles and jars, many of the vessels murky with fluids and potions.

Shields scrubbed his hands with soap in a waterbowl. "You've just recently come into this condition? Or was it bothersome before you reached Fount Royal?"

"Just recently. It began as a slight soreness, but now... I can hardly swallow."

"Hmmm." He dried his hands upon a cloth and then opened one of the bench's drawers. "We must go down into your throat." He turned toward the magistrate again, and Woodward saw with a start that Shields was holding a pair of clippers suitable for shearing treelimbs.

"Oh," Shields said with a slight smile at Woodward's alarm. "What I mean to say is, we must look down into your throat." With the clippers he snipped a candle in two, then laid the dread shears aside and fitted one of the candle stubs into a small metal holder with a mirror fixed behind the flame so as to amplify its light. He lit the candle from a match, then took another instrument out of a drawer and positioned the desk's chair in front of his patient. "Open wide, please."

Дата добавления: 2015-10-28