Speaks The Nightbird Part 57

Matthew thought Green might go down, for he staggered as if from a mighty blow. When he turned his head to look at Matthew, his eyes seemed to have shrunken and retreated in his face. He spoke in a very small voice, "I shall... I shall guard the door from the outside." So saying, he was gone like a shot.

Smythe had also seen the b.l.o.o.d.y writing. His mouth opened, but he made not a sound. Then he lowered his head and followed Green out the door with similar haste.

Now the die was well and truly cast. Alone in the house with the deadly departed, Matthew knew this was the funeral bell for Fount Royal. Once word got out about that declaration on the door-and it was probably beginning its circuit of tongues right now, starting with Green-the town wouldn't be worth a cup of cold drool.

He avoided looking at Lancaster's face, which had not only been severely clawed but had become misshapen from such injury. He knelt down and continued his search for the brooch and book, this time using a cloth to move aside blood-spattered wreckage. Presently a wooden box caught his attention, and he lifted its lid to find within the tools of the ratcatcher's trade: the odious long brown seedbag that had served to hold rodent carca.s.ses, the stained deerskin gloves, the cowhide bag, and various wooden jars and vials of-presumably-rat bait. Also in the box was the single blade-wiped clean and shining-that had been secured to the end of the ratcatcher's sticker.

Matthew lifted his gaze from the box and looked around the room. Where was the sticker itself? And-most importantly- where was that fearsome appliance with the five curved blades that Hazelton had fashioned?

Nowhere to be seen.

Matthew opened the cowhide bag, and in doing so noted two drops and a smear of dried blood near its already-loosened drawstring. The bag was empty.

To be such a cleanliness fanatic, why would Lancaster have not wiped the rodent blood from the side of this bag before putting it back into the wooden box? And why was the five-bladed appliance-that "useful device" as Lancaster had called it-not here with the other utensils?

Now Matthew did force himself to look at Lancaster's face, and the claw marks upon it. With a mind detached from his revulsion he studied the vicious slashings on the corpse's shoulders, arms, and chest.

He knew.

In perhaps another fifteen minutes, during which Matthew searched without success for the appliance, the door opened again-tentatively, this time-and the master of Fount Royal peered in with eyes the size of teacup saucers. "What... what has happened here?" he gasped.

"Mr. Smythe and I found this scene. Lancaster has left us, " Matthew said.

"You mean... Linch."

"No. He was never truly Gwinett Linch. His name is- was-Jonathan Lancaster. Please come in."

"Must I?"

"I think you should. And please close the door."

Bidwell entered, wearing his bright blue suit. The look of sickness contorted his face. He did close the door, but he remained pressed firmly against it.

"You ought to see what you're pressing against, " Matthew said.

Bidwell looked at the door, and like Green he staggered and almost fell. His jerking away from it made him step into the b.l.o.o.d.y mess on the floor and for a dangerous instant he balanced on the precipice of falling alongside the corpse. His fight against gravity was amazing for a man of his size, and with sheer power of determination-and more than a little abject, breeches-wetting terror-he righted himself.

"Oh my Jesus, " he said, and he took off both his bright blue tricorn and his gray curled wig and mopped his sandy pate with a handkerchief. "Oh dear G.o.d... we're doomed now, aren't we?"

"Steady yourself, " Matthew instructed. "This was done by a human hand, not a spectral one."

"A human hand? Are you out of your mind? Only Satan himself could have done this!" He pushed the handkerchief to his nose to filter the blood smell. "It's the same as was done to the reverend and Daniel Howarth! Exactly the same!"

"Which should tell you the same man committed all three murders. In this case, though, I think there was a falling out of compatriots."

"What are you running off at the lips about now?" Bidwell's sickness had receded and anger was beginning to flood into its mold. "Look at that on the door! That's a message from the d.a.m.ned Devil! Good Christ, my town will be dust and maggots before sunset! Oh!" It was a wounded, terrible cry, and his eyes appeared near bursting out. "If the witch is not alone... then who might the other witches and warlocks be?"

"Shut up that yammering and listen to me!" Matthew advanced upon Bidwell until they stood face to sweating face. "You'll do yourself and Fount Royal no good to fall to pieces! If your town needs anything now, it's a true leader, not a bullier or a weeper!"

"How... how dare you..."

"Put aside your bruised dignity, sir. Just stand there and listen. I am as confounded about this as you, because I thought Linch-Lancaster-was alone in his crimes. Obviously-and stupidly-I was wrong. Lancaster and his killer were working together to paint Rachel as a witch and destroy your town."

"Boy, your love for that witch will put you burning at her side!" Bidwell shouted, his face bright red and the veins pulsing at his temples. He looked to be courting an explosion that would blow off the top of his head. "If you wish to go to h.e.l.l with her, I can arrange it!"

"This was written on the door, " Matthew said coldly, "by a human hand determined to finish Fount Royal at one fell swoop. The same hand that cut Lancaster's throat and-when he was dead or dying-used the ratcatcher's own five-bladed device to strike him repeatedly, thereby giving the impression of a beast's claws. That device was also used to inflict similar wounds on Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth."

"Yes, yes, yes! It's all as you say, isn't it? Everything is as you say!"

"Most everything, " Matthew answered.

"Well, you didn't even see those other bodies, so how can you know? And what nonsense is this about some kind of five-bladed device?"

"You've never seen it? Then again, I doubt you would have. Seth Hazelton forged it for the use-he thought-of killing rats. Actually, it was probably planned for its current use all along."

"You're mad! Absolutely roaring mad!"

"I am neither mad, " Matthew said, "nor roaring, as you are. To prove my sanity, I will ask Mr. Smythe to go to your house and explain to you Lancaster's true ident.i.ty as he explained it to me. I think you'll find it worth your while."

"Really?" Bidwell sneered. "If that's the case, you'd best go find him! When my carriage pa.s.sed their camp, the actors were packing their wagons!"

Now a true spear of terror pierced Matthew's heart. "What?"

"That's right! They were in a fever to do it, too, and now I know why! I'm sure there's nothing like finding a Satan-mauled corpse and a b.l.o.o.d.y message from h.e.l.l to put one in mind for a merry play!"

"No! They can't leave yet!" Matthew was out the door faster even than Green's pistol-ball exit. Straightaway his progress was blocked by the seven or eight persons who stood just outside, including Green himself. Then he had to negotiate a half-dozen more citizens who dawdled between the house and Industry Street. He saw Goode sitting in the driver's seat of Bidwell's carriage, but the horses faced west and getting them turned east would take too long. He set off toward the maskers' camp, running so fast he lost his left shoe and had to forfeit precious time putting it back on.

Matthew let loose a breath of relief when he reached the campsite and saw that, though the actors were indeed packing their trunks, costumes, featherboxes, and all the rest of their theatrical belongings, none of the horses had yet been hitched to a wagon. There was activity aplenty, however, and it was obvious to Matthew that Smythe's tale of what was discovered had put the fear of h.e.l.l's wrath into these people.

"Mr. Brightman!" Matthew called, seeing the man helping another thespian lift a trunk onto a wagon. He rushed over. "It's urgent I speak with Mt. Smythe!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Corbett. David is not to be spoken with." Brightman looked past Matthew. "Franklin! Help Charles fold up that tent!"

"I must, " Matthew insisted.

"That's impossible, sir." Brightman stalked off toward another area of the camp, and Matthew walked at his side. "If you'll pardon me, I have much work to do. We plan on leaving as soon as we're packed."

"You needn't leave. None of your troupe is in danger."

"Mr. Corbett, when we discovered your... um... situation with the witch from a source in Charles Town, I myself was reluctant-extremely reluctant-to come here. But to be perfectly honest we had nowhere else to go. Mr. Bidwell is a very generous friend, therefore I was talked into making the trip." Brightman stopped walking and turned to face Matthew. "I regret my decision, young man. When David told me what had happened... and what he saw in that house... I immediately gave the order to break camp. I am not going to risk the lives of my troupe for any amount that Mr. Bidwell might put on our table. End of p.r.o.nouncement." He began walking once more and boomed, "Thomas! Make sure all the boots are in that box!"

"Mr. Brightman, please!" Matthew caught up with him again. "I understand your decision to leave, but... please... it is absolutely urgent that I speak to Mr. Smythe. I need for him to tell Mr. Bidwell about-"

"Young man, " Brightman said with an exasperated air as he halted abruptly. "I am trying to be as pleasant as possible under the circ.u.mstances. We must-I repeat must-get on the road within the hour. We'll not reach Charles Town before dark, but I wish to get there before midnight."

"Would it not be better to stay the night here, and leave in the morning?" Matthew asked. "I can a.s.sure you that-"

"I think neither you nor Mr. Bidwell can a.s.sure us of anything. Including the a.s.surance that we'll all be alive in the morning. No. I thought you had only one witch here, and that was bad enough; but to have an unknown number, and the rest of them lurking about ready and eager to commit murder for their master... no, I can't risk such a thing."

"All right, then, " Matthew said. "But can't I request that Mr. Smythe speak to Mr. Bidwell? It would only take a few minutes and it would-"

"David cannot speak to anyone, young man, " Brightman said firmly. "Did you hear me? I said can not."

"Well, where is he? If I can have a moment with him-"

"You are not listening to me, Mr. Corbett." Brightman took a step toward him and grasped his shoulder with one of those viselike hands. "David is in one of the wagons. Even if I allowed you to see him, it would do no good. I am being truthful when I say that David cannot speak. After he told me what he'd seen-and particularly about the writing-he broke into a fit of shivering and weeping and thereafter was silent. What you don't know about David is that he is a very sensitive young man. Precariously sensitive, I might say."

Brightman paused, staring intently into Matthew's eyes. "He has had some nervous difficulties in the past. For that reason, he lost his positions with both the Saturn Cross Company and James Prue's Players. His father is an old friend of mine, and so when he asked me to take his son on as a favor-and watch over him-I agreed. I think the sight of that murdered man has sent him to the edge of... well, it's best not to say. He has been given a cup of rum and a pair of day-blinders. Therefore I certainly will not let you see him, as he must rest and be quiet for any hope of a prompt recovery."

"Can't I... just... for one..."

"No, " Brightman said, his voice like the tolling of a ba.s.s-tuned bell. He released his grip on Matthew's shoulder. "I'm sorry, but whatever it is you want with David cannot be granted. Now: it was a pleasure to meet you, and I hope all goes well with this witchcraft situation. I hope you sleep with a Bible in your bed and a candle by your hand tonight. Perhaps also a pistol under your pillow. Good luck to you, and goodbye." He stood with his arms crossed, waiting for Matthew to move away from the camp.

Matthew had to give it one more try. "Sir, I'm begging you. A woman's life lies in the balance."

"What woman?"

He started to speak the name, but he knew it wouldn't help. Brightman regarded him with a stony stare.

"I don't know what intrigues are in progress here, " Bright-man said, "and neither do I wish to know. It is my experience that the Devil has a long arm." He scanned the vista of Fount Royal, his eyes saddened. "It pains me to say it, but I doubt we shall have need to come this way next summer. Many fine people lived here, and they were very kind to us. But... such are the tides of life. Now please pardon me, as I have work to do."

Matthew could say nothing more. He watched as Brightman walked away to join a group of men who were taking down the yellow awning. Horses were being hitched to one of the wagons, and the other horses were being readied. It occurred to him that he might a.s.sert his rights and go to each wagon in turn until Smythe was found, but what then? If Smythe was too anguished to speak, what good would it do? But no, he couldn't let Smythe just ride out of here without telling Bidwell who the ratcatcher really was! It was inconceivable!

And it was equally inconceivable to grab an ailing person with a nervous disorder by the scruff of the neck and shake him like a dog until he talked.

Matthew staggered, light-headed, to the other side of Industry Street and sat down at the edge of a cornfield. He watched the camp dwindling as the wagons were further packed. Every few minutes he vowed he would stand, march defiantly over there and find Smythe for himself. But he remained seated, even when a whip cracked and the cry "Get up!" rang out and the first wagon creaked away.

Once the departure of wagons had begun, the others soon followed. Brightman, however, remained with the final wagon and helped the Falstaffian-girthed thespian lift a last trunk and two smaller boxes. Before the work was completed, Bidwell's carriage came into view. Bidwell bade Goode halt, and Matthew watched as the master of Fount Royal climbed down and went to speak with Brightman.

The discussion lasted only three or four minutes. Bidwell did a lot of listening and nodding. It ended with the two men shaking hands, and then Brightman got up onto the driver's plank of his wagon, which the Falstaffian gentleman already occupied. A whip popped, Brightman boomed, "Go on there, go on!" and the horses began their labor.

Matthew felt tears of bitter frustration burn his eyes. He bit his lower lip until it nearly bled. Brightman's wagon trundled away. Matthew stared at the ground until he saw a shadow approaching, and even then he kept his head bowed.

"I have a.s.signed James Reed to guard the house, " Bidwell said. His voice was wan and listless. "James is a good, dependable man."

Matthew looked up into Bidwell's face. The man had donned both his wig and tricorn again, but they sat at crooked angles. Bidwell's face appeared swollen and the color of yellow chalk, his eyes like those of a shot-stunned animal. "James will keep them out, " he said, and then he frowned. "What shall we do for a ratcatcher?"

"I don't know, " was all Matthew could say.

"A ratcatcher, " Bidwell repeated. "Every town must have one. Every town that wishes to grow, I mean." He looked around sharply as another wagon-this one open-topped and carrying the hurriedly packed belongings of Martin and Constance Adams-pa.s.sed along Industry Street on its way out. Martin was at the reins, his face set with grim resolve. His wife stared straight ahead also, as if terrified to even glance back at the house they were fleeing. The child, Violet, was pressed between them, all but smothered.

"Essential for a town, " Bidwell went on, in a strangely calm tone. "That rats be controlled. I shall... I shall put Edward on the problem. He will give me sound advice."

Matthew clasped his fingers to his temples and then released the pressure. "Mr. Bidwell, " he said. "We are dealing with a human being, not Satan. One human being. A cunning fox of which I have never before seen the like."

"They'll be frightened at first, " Bidwell replied. "Yes, of course they will be. They were so looking forward to the maskers."

"Lancaster was murdered because his killer knew he was about to be exposed. Either Lancaster told that man-or a very strong and ruthless woman-about Smythe identifying him... or the killer was in your house last night when Smythe related it to me."

"I think... some of them will leave. I can't blame them. But they'll come to their senses, especially with the burning so near."

"Please, Mr. Bidwell, " Matthew said. "Try to hear what I'm saying." He lowered his head again, his mind almost overwhelmed by what he was thinking. "I don't believe Mr. Winston to be capable of murder. Therefore... if indeed the killer was someone in your house last night... that narrows the field to Mrs. Nettles and Schoolmaster Johnstone." Bidwell was silent, but Matthew heard his rough breathing.

"Mrs. Nettles... could have overheard, from outside the parlor. There may be... may be a fact I've missed about her. I recall... she said something important to me, concerning Reverend Grove... but I can't draw it up. The schoolmaster... are you absolutely certain his knee is-"

Bidwell began to laugh.

It was possibly the most terrible sound Matthew had ever heard. It was a laugh, yes, but also in the depths of it was something akin to a strangled shriek.

Matthew raised his eyes to Bidwell and received another shock. Bidwell's mouth was laughing, but his eyes were holes of horror and tears had streaked down his cheeks. He began to back away as the laughter spiraled up and up. He lifted his arm and aimed his index finger at Matthew, his hand trembling.

The crazed laughter abruptly stopped. "You, " he rasped. And now not only was he weeping, but his nose had begun to run. "You're one of them, aren't you? Sent to ruin my town and drive me mad. But I'll beat you yet! I'll beat all of you! I've never failed and I shall not fail! Do you hear me? Never failed! And I shall not... shall not... shall-"

"Mr. Bidwell, suh?" Goode had stepped beside the man and gently taken hold of his arm. Though it was such an improper gesture between slave and master, Bidwell made no attempt to pull away. "We ought best be goin'."

Bidwell continued to stare at Matthew, his eyes seeing only a prince of destruction. "Suh?" Goode prompted quietly. "Ought be goin'." He gave Bidwell's arm just the slightest tug.

Bidwell shivered, though the sun was bright and warm. He lowered his gaze and wiped the tearstreaks from his face with the back of his free hand. "Oh, " he said; it was more the exhalation of breath than speech. "I'm tired. Near... worn out."

"Yes suh. You do needs a rest."

"A rest." He nodded. "I'll feel better after a rest. Help me to the carriage, will you?"

"Yes suh, I will." Goode looked at Matthew and put a finger to his lips, warning Matthew to make no further utterances. Then Goode steadied Bidwell, and the slave and master walked together to the carriage.

Matthew remained where he was. He watched Goode help his master into a seat, and then Goode got up behind the horses, flicked the reins, and the horses started off at an ambling pace.

When the carriage had departed from sight, Matthew stared blankly at the empty field where the maskers had been and thought he might weep himself.

His hopes of freeing Rachel were wrecked. He had not a shred of evidence to prove any of the things he knew to be true. Without Lancaster-and without Smythe to lend credence to the tale-the theory of how Fount Royal had been seduced by mental manipulation was a madman's folly. Finding the sapphire brooch and the book on ancient Egypt would have helped, but the killer had already known their value-and must have been well aware of their presence-and so had stolen them away as efficiently as he had murdered Lancaster. He-or she, G.o.d forbid-had even torn up the house so no one would know the ratcatcher's true living habits.

So. What now?

He had come through this maze to find himself at a dead end. Which only meant, he believed, that he must retrace his steps and search for the proper pa.s.sage. But the time was almost gone.

Almost gone.

He knew he was grasping at straws by accusing either the schoolmaster or Mrs. Nettles. Lancaster might have told his killer yesterday that he'd been recognized, and the cunning fox had waited until long after dark to visit the wretched-looking house. Just because Smythe had revealed his recognition to Matthew in Bidwell's parlor didn't mean the killer had been there to overhear it.

He trusted Mrs. Nettles, and did not want to believe she had a hand in this. But what if everything the woman had said was a lie? What if she had been manipulating him all along? It might not have been Lancaster who took the coin, but Mrs. Nettles. She certainly could have laid the magistrate out cold if she'd chosen to.

And the schoolmaster. An Oxford man, yes. A highly educated man. The magistrate had seen Johnstone's deformed knee, it was true, but still...

There was the question of the bearded surveyor and his interest in the fount. It was important. Matthew knew it was, but he could not prove it.

Neither could he prove the fount was a pirate's treasure vault, nor indeed that it held a single coin or jewel.

Neither could he prove that any of the witnesses had not actually seen what they believed to see, and that Rachel hadn't made those d.a.m.ning poppets and hidden them in her house.