Speaks the Nightbird (Matthew Corbett #1)

Speaks the Nightbird (Matthew Corbett #1) Page 30

UPON aWaKENING aT FIRST LIGHT and the rooster chorale, Matthew hurriedly pulled on his breeches and crossed the hall to look in on the magistrate.

Woodward was still sleeping on his stomach, his breathing harsh but steady. Matthew was curious as to the state of the blisters on Woodward's back, and so carefully lifted the gown to view them.

Instantly he wished he had not. The blisters had flattened into ugly ebony bruises surrounded by circles of mottled flesh. Streaks of red ran underneath the skin, attesting to the pressures that the magistrate's body had endured. It occurred to Matthew that this procedure of heat and blister cups was more suited for the torture chamber than the sickbed. He lowered Woodward's gown again, then dipped a cloth into the bowl of water that sat atop the dresser and spent a moment wiping away the green crust that had accumulated around the magistrate's nostrils. The magistrate's face was damp and swollen, the fever radiating from him like the calidity from a bellows-coaxed blaze.

"What..." Woodward whispered, his eyelids fluttering. "What is the dayi"

"Thursday, sir."

"I must... get up... and about. Can you help mei"

"I don't think it's wise to get up quite yet, sir. Possibly later in the day."

"Nonsense. I... shall miss court... if I don't get up." Matthew felt something as keen as an icy dagger pierce his guts. "They... already think me... lax in my duties, " Woodward continued. "They think... I am more fond... of the rumpot... than the gavel. Yes, I saw Mendenhall yesterday. That peacock. Laughing at me... behind his hand. What day is it, did you sayi"

"Thursday." Matthew's voice was hushed.

"I... have a larceny trial to hear. This morning. Where are my bootsi"

"Siri" Matthew said. "I fear... that court has been postponed for the day."

Woodward was quiet. Then, "Postponedi"

"Yes, sir. The weather being so bad." Even as he spoke it, he could hear birds singing in the trees around the spring.

"ahhhhh, the weather, " Woodward whispered. His eyes had never fully opened, but remained hidden behind the fever-inflamed lids. "Then I shall stay indoors today, " he said. "Shall light a fire... drink a hot rum."

"Yes, sir, I think that would be best."

Woodward said something that was more gibberish than language, as if he were losing control over even his speech, but then he spoke clearly enough for Matthew to make out the words, "My back. Pains me."

"It will be well soon. You must lie still and rest."

"a bottle, " Woodward said, drowsing off once more. "Will you... bring me a bottlei"

"I shall, yes, sir." It seemed a small but helpful untruth. The magistrate's eyelids had ceased their war against gravity and he lay quiet again, his breathing returned to its accustomed rasp like that of a rusted hinge being slowly worked back and forth.

Matthew finished his task of carefully cleaning Woodward's nostrils. When he left the room, he was stricken in the middle of the hallway by what might have been a crushing weight suddenly applied to his shoulders. at the same time, the icy dagger that had entered his entrails seemed to twist toward his heart. He stood short of his own door, one hand clasped to his mouth and above it his eyes wide and brimming with tears.

He was trembling, and wished to make it cease but could not. a sensation of utter powerlessness had come upon him, a sensation of being a leaf stripped from a tree in a high wind and blown through a terrifying altitude of lightning and rain.

He had realized that every day - every hour - brought the magistrate closer to death. It was not now a question of whether the magistrate might die, but when. Matthew was sure this bleed-ing-and-blistering treatment was not sufficient; indeed, he doubted the ability of Dr. Shields to heal a man who was only half as ill as the magistrate. If Woodward could be gotten to Charles Town, to the attentions of the urban doctors who commanded fully equipped infirmaries and a benefit of medicines, then there was a chance - be it however diminished - that he might be cured of this savage malady.

Yet Matthew knew that no one here would volunteer to carry Woodward the long distance to Charles Town, especially if it meant denigrating the abilities of their own doctor. If he undertook to convey Woodward there, he would lose at the very least two vital days from his investigation, and by the time he returned here Rachel would likely be a black smudge on a charred stake. Woodward might not be his father, it was true, but the man had served in as near that capacity as was humanly possible, saving him from the drear almshouse and setting him on a path of purpose. Did he not, then, owe the magistrate at least somethingi

He might persuade Winston to take Woodward to Charles Town, under threat of revealing the incriminating bucket, but should such a disloyal dog be trusted with a man's lifei Winston could as well leave his charge on the side of the road for the animals to eat, and never return.

No, not Winston. But... would Nicholas Paine be willing to do the jobi

It was a spark, but it might kindle a flame. Matthew pulled himself together, wiped his eyes clear with the back of his hand, and continued into his room. There he shaved, cleaned his teeth, and finished dressing. Downstairs, he found Bidwell clad in a lime-green suit at the bountiful breakfast table, the foxtail of his wig tied with an emerald-hued ribbon.

"Sit down, sit down!" Bidwell offered, his mood jovial because the day promised to be as sunwarmed and beautiful as the one before. "Come have breakfast, but please let us announce a truce on the subject of theories."

"I haven't time for breakfast, " Matthew said. "I am on my way to - "

"Oh, of course you have time! Come sit down and at least eat a blood sausage!" Bidwell indicated the platter heaped with sausages, but their color was so similar to the ebon collapsed blisters on the magistrate's back that Matthew couldn't have swallowed one if it had been shot into his throat from a pistol. "Or, here, have a pickled melon!"

"No, thank you. I am on my way to see Mr. Paine. Can you tell me where he livesi"

"To see Nicholasi Whyi" Bidwell speared a segment of pickled melon with his knife and slid it into his mouth.

"Some business I wish to discuss."

"What businessi" Bidwell now was truly suspicious. "any business you have with him is also business with me."

"all right, then!" Matthew had reached his zenith of frustration. "I wish to ask him to take the magistrate to Charles Town! I want him placed in an infirmary there!"

Bidwell cut a blood sausage in two and chewed thoughtfully on half of it. "So you don't trust Dr. Shields's method of treatmenti Is that what you're sayingi"

"It is."

"I'll have you know, " and here Bidwell aimed his knife at Matthew, "that Ben is just as good a doctor as any of those quacks in Charles Town." He frowned, knowing that hadn't come out as he'd intended. "I mean to say, he's an able practitioner. Without his treatment, I'll grant you that the magistrate would have been deceased days ago!"

"It's the days hence I'm concerned about. The magistrate is showing no improvement at all. Just now he was speaking to me in delirium!"

Bidwell pushed his knife into the second half of sausage and guided the greasy black thing into his mouth. "You should by all means be on your way, then, " he said as he chewed. "Not to see Nicholas, but to visit the witch."

"Why should I wish to do thati"

"Well, isn't it obviousi One day after the decree is delivered, and the magistrate lies at death's doori Your skirt has placed a curse on him, boy!"

"That's nonsense!" Matthew said. "The magistrate's condition has worsened because of this excessive bloodletting! and also because he was required to sit in that cold gaol for hours when he should have been in bed resting!"

"Oh, ho! His sickness is now my fault, is that iti You cast about for blame from everyone except that to whom it rightly belongs! Besides... if you hadn't pulled your stunt with Seth Hazelton, the witch's case would have been heard in the public meetinghouse - which has a very comfortable hearth, I might add. So if you wish to blame anyone, go speak to a mirror!"

"all I wish to do is find the house of Nicholas Paine, " Matthew said, his cheeks flushed and his teeth gritted. "I don't care to argue with you, for that is like trying to outbray a jackass. Will you direct me to his house, or noti"

Bidwell busied himself by stirring the scrambled eggs on his plate. "I am Nicholas's employer, and I direct his comings and goings, " he said. "Nicholas will not go to Charles Town. He is needed here to help with the preparations."

"By God!" Matthew shouted, with such force that Bidwell jumped in his chair. "Would you deny the magistrate a chance at livingi"

"Calm your vigor, " Bidwell warned. a servant girl peeked in from the kitchen and then quickly drew her head back. "I will not be shouted at in my own house. If you wish to spend time hollering down the walls at the gaol, I might arrange it for you."

"Isaac needs better medical attention than what he's getting, " Matthew insisted. "He needs to be taken to Charles Town immediately. This morning, if possible."

"and I say you're wrong. I'd also say that the trip to Charles Town might well kill the poor wretch. But... if you're so willing to gallop in that direction, you should load him on a wagon and take him yourself. I will even make you a loan of a wagon and two horses, if you will sign a note of agreement."

Matthew had stood listening to this with his face downcast, staring at the floor. Now he drew in a deep breath, his cheeks mottled with red, and he walked purposefully to the end of the table. Something in his pace or demeanor alerted Bidwell to danger, because the man started to push his chair back and rise to his feet - but before he could, Matthew had reached Bidwell's side and with one sweep of his arm sent the breakfast platters off the table to the floor in a horrendous echoing crash.

as Bidwell struggled to stand up, his distended belly jiggling and his face dark with rage, Matthew clamped a hand on his right shoulder and bore down with all his weight, at the same time thrusting his face into Bidwell's.

"That man you call a wretch, " Matthew said, in what was barely more than an ominous whisper, "has served you with all of his heart and soul." Matthew's eyes blazed with a fire that promised to scorch Bidwell to a cinder, and the master of Fount Royal was for the moment transfixed. "That man you call a wretch lies dying because he has served you so well. and you, sir, for all of your wealth, fine clothes, and pufferies, are not worthy to clean the magistrate's boots with your dung-dripping tongue."

Bidwell suddenly laughed, which made Matthew draw back.

"Is that the worst insult you can constructi" Bidwell lifted his eyebrows. "Boy, you are a rank amateur! On the matter of the boots, however, I'll have you recollect that they are not the magistrate's. Indeed, every item of your own clothing was supplied by me. You came to this town near-naked, the both of you. So remember that I clothed you, fed you, and housed you, while you are flinging insults in my face." He noted the presence of Mrs.

Nettles from the corner of his eye, and he turned his head toward her and said, "all's well, Mrs. Nettles. Our young guest has shown his tail, that's - "

The noise of the front door bursting open interrupted him. "What the bloody helli" he said, and now he brushed Matthew's hand aside and hoisted himself to his feet.

Edward Winston came into the dining room. But it was a different Winston than Matthew had seen; this one was breathing hard, as if he'd been running, and his face was drawn and pale in the aftermath of what seemed a terrible shock.

"What's the matteri" Bidwell asked. "You look as if you've - "

"It's Nicholas!" Winston put a hand up to his forehead and appeared to be fighting a faint.

"What about himi T^k sense, man!"

"Nicholas... is dead, " Winston answered. His mouth gaped, trying to form the words. "He has been murdered."

Bidwell staggered as if from a physical blow. But instantly he righted himself and his sense of control came to the forefront. "Not a word about this!" he told Mrs. Nettles. "Not to a single servant, not to anyone! Do you hear mei"

"Yes sir, I do." She appeared just as stunned as her master.

"Where is hei" Bidwell asked Winston. "The body, I meani"

"His house. I just came from there."

"You're sure of thisi"

Winston managed a grim, sickened half-smile. "Go look for yourself. I promise you won't soon forget such a sight."

"Take me there. Clerk, you come too. Remember, Mrs. Nettles: not a word about this to a single soul!"

During the walk in the early sunlight, Bidwell maintained his pace at a quick clip for a man of his size. Several citizens called a morning greeting, which Bidwell had the presence of mind to answer in as carefree a voice as he could manage. It was only when one farmer tried to stop him to talk about the forthcoming execution that Bidwell snapped at the man like a dog at a worrisome flea. Then Bidwell, Winston, and Matthew reached the whitewashed dwelling of Nicholas Paine, which stood on Harmony Street four houses northward of Winston's shuttered pigsty.

Paine's house was also shuttered. Winston's pace slowed as they neared the closed door, and finally he stopped altogether.

"Come along!" Bidwell said. "What's wrong with youi"

"I... would rather stay out here."

"Come along, I said!"

"No, " Winston answered defiantly. "By God, I'm not going in there again!"

Bidwell stared at him openmouthed, thunderstruck by this show of impudence. Matthew walked past both men, lifted the door's latch, and pushed the door open. as he did, Winston turned his face and walked away a few strides.

Matthew's first impression was of the copious reek of blood. Secondly, he was aware of the buzzing of flies at work. Thirdly, he saw the body in the slanting rays of vermilion light that entered between the shutter slats.

Fourthly, his gorge rose and if he had eaten any breakfast he surely would have expelled it.

"Oh... my Jesus, " Bidwell said softly, behind him. Then Bidwell was overcome by the picture. He hurried outside and around the house to vomit up his blood sausage and pickled melon where he would not be seen by any passing citizen.

Matthew stepped across the threshold and closed the door to block this sight from view of the street. He stood with his back against the door, the fresh sunlight reflecting off the huge pool of blood that surrounded the chair in which Paine was sitting. Indeed, it appeared that every drop had flowed from the man's veins onto the floor, and the corpse had taken on a waxy sallow color. Matthew saw that Paine had been tied in an upright position, ropes binding his arms behind him and his ankles to the chair legs. His shoes and stockings had been removed, and his ankles and feet slashed to sever the arteries. Likewise slashed were the insides of both arms beginning at the elbows. Matthew shifted his position to see that the deep, vein-slicing cuts continued down the forearms to the wrists. He moved a little closer to the corpse, careful that he not step into the crimson sea of gore.

Paine's head was tilted backward. In his mouth was stuffed a yellow cloth, possibly a pair of stockings. His eyes, mercifully, were closed. around his neck was knotted a noose. On the right side of his forehead there was a vicious black bruise, and blood had flowed from both nostrils down the white of his shirt. a dozen or more flies crawled over the gashes in Paine's corpse and supped from the bloody banquet at his feet.

The door opened and Bidwell dared enter. He held a handkerchief pressed to his mouth, his face gleaming with beads of sweat. Quickly, he closed the door at his back and stood staring numbly at all the carnage.

"Don't be sick again, " Matthew warned him. "If you are, I shall be as well and it will not add to this prettiness."

"I'm all right, " Bidwell croaked. "I... oh dear God... oh Christ... who could have done such a murder as thisi"

"One man's murder is another man's execution. That's what this is. You see the hangman's noosei"

"Yes." Bidwell rapidly averted his eyes. "He... he's been drained of blood, hasn't hei"

"It appears his arteries have been opened, yes." Matthew walked around to the back of the body, getting as close as possible without sinking his shoes into the quagmire. He saw a red clump of blood and tissue near the crown of Paine's head. "Whoever killed him beat him first into insensibility with a blunt object, " Matthew said. "He was struck on the head by someone standing behind and above him. I think that would be a requirement because otherwise Paine would be a formidable opponent."

"This is the Devil's work!" Bidwell said, his eyes glassy. "Satan himself must have done it!"

"If that is so, Satan has a clinical eye as to the flow of blood. You'll notice that Paine's throat was not slashed, as I understand was done to Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth. Whoever murdered Paine wished him to bleed to death slowly and in excruciating fashion. I venture Paine might have regained consciousness during the procedure, and then was struck again on the forehead. If he was able to return to sensibility after that, by that time he would have been too weak to struggle."

"Ohhhh... my stomach. Dear God... I'm going to be sick again."

"Go outside, then, " Matthew directed, but Bidwell lowered his head and tried to ward off the flood. Matthew looked around the room, which showed no other signs of tumult, and fixed his attention on a nearby desk. Its chair was missing, and probably was the chair in which Paine had died. On a blotter atop the desk was a sheet of paper with several lines written upon it. an inkpot was open, and on the floor lay the quill pen. a melted stub in a candlestick attested to his source of light. Matthew saw drops and smears of blood on the floor between the desk and where the chair was positioned. He walked to the desk and read the paper.

"I, Nicholas Paine, " he recited, "being of sound mind and of my own free will do hereby on this date of May eighteenth, sixteen hundred and ninety- nine, confess to the murder of..." and here the writing ended in a blotch of ink. "Written sometime after midnight, it seems, " Matthew said. "Or close enough that Paine scribed today's date." He saw something else in the room that warranted his attention: on the bedpallet was an open trunk that had been partly packed with clothing. "He was about to leave Fount Royal, I think."

Bidwell stared with dread fascination at the corpse. "What... murder was he confessingi"

"an old one, I believe. Paine had some sins in his past. I think one of them caught up with him." Matthew walked to the bed to inspect the contents of the trunk. The clothes had been thrown in, evidence of intention of a hurried departure.

"You don't think the Devil had anything to do with thisi Or the witchi"

"I do not. The murders of the reverend and Daniel Howarth were - as I understand their description - meant to kill quickly. This was meant to linger. also, you'll note there are no claw marks, as in the other killings. This was done with a very sharp blade by a hand that was both vengeful and... shall we say... experienced in the craft of cutting."

"Oh my God... what shall we doi" Bidwell lifted a trembling hand to his forehead, his wig tilted to one side on his pate. "If the citizens find out about this... that we have another murderer among us... we won't have a soul in Fount Royal by the end of the day!"

"That, " Matthew said, "is true. It will do no good to advertise this crime. Therefore, don't expose it."

"What do you suggesti Hiding the corpsei"

"The details, I'm sure, are better left to you. But yes, I propose wrapping the corpse in a bedsheet and disposing of it at a later date. The later, of course, the more... disagreeable the task will be."

"We cannot just pretend Paine has left Fount Royal! He has friends here! and he at least deserves a Christian burial!"

Matthew aimed his stare at Bidwell. "It is your choice, sir. and your responsibility. after all, you are his employer and you direct his comings and goings." He walked around the body again and approached the door, which Bidwell stood against. "If you'll excuse mei"

"Where are you goingi" a flare of panic leaped in Bidwell's eyes. "You can't leave!"

"Yes, I can. Don't concern yourself with my speaking about this to anyone, for I vow I shall not." Except for one person, he might have added. The person he now intended to confront.

"Please... I need your help."

"By that, if you mean you need a pair of hands to strip the pallet, roll Paine up in the sheet, and scrub the floor with ashes and tar soap... then I must deny your noble request. Winston might help you, but I doubt if any amount of coercion or threat will make him cross that threshold again." Matthew smiled tightly. "Therefore... speaking to a man who so abhors failure... I sincerely hope you are successful at your present challenge. Good day to you, sir." Matthew thought he was going to have to bodily pry Bidwell away from the door, which might have been a labor fit for Hercules, but at last the master of Fount Royal moved aside.

as Matthew started to open the door, Bidwell said in a small voice, "You say... ashes and tar soap, theni"

"Some sand, too, " Matthew advised. "Isn't that how they scrub blood off the deck of a shipi" Bidwell didn't answer, but stood looking at the corpse with his handkerchief pressed against his mouth.

Outside, the air had never smelled sweeter. Matthew closed the door again, his stomach still roiling and what felt like cold sweat down the valley of his spine. He approached Winston, who stood in the shadow of an oak tree a few yards away.

"How did you come to find himi" Matthew asked.

Winston still appeared dazed, his color not yet returned. "I... intended... to ask Nicholas to escort me to Charles Town. On the pretense of negotiating for supplies."

"after which, you intended not to return herei"

"Yes. I planned on leaving Nicholas while I went to see Danforth. Then... I would simply lose myself in Charles Town."

"Well, half of your intent has come to fruition, " Matthew said. "You are indeed lost. Good day." He turned away from Winston and walked back along Harmony Street in the direction they'd come, as he had seen the infirmary in passing.

Presently Matthew stood before the door and pulled the bell-cord. There was no response to the first pull, nor to the fifth. Matthew tried the door, found it unlatched from within, and entered the doctor's domain.

The parlor held two canaries in a gilded cage, both singing happily toward the shafts of light that filtered through the white shutters. Matthew saw another door and knocked at it, but again there was no reply. He opened it and ventured into a hallway. ahead there were three rooms, the doors of the first two ajar. In the initial room stood the barber's chair and leather razor-sharpening strop; in the second room there was a trio of beds, all of which were neatly made and unoccupied. Matthew continued down the hallway to the third door, where he knocked once more.

When there was no response he pushed the door open and faced what appeared to be the doctor's chemistry study, judging from all the arcane bottles and beakers. The chamber held a single shuttered window through which the rays of bright sunlight streamed, though hazed by a pall of blue-tinged smoke.

Benjamin Shields sat in a chair with his back against the wall, holding a small object in a clamplike instrument in his right hand. The object was smoldering, emitting a thin smoke plume. Matthew thought the clouded air smelled of a combination of burnt peanuts and a rope that had been set afire.

The doctor's face was veiled by shadow, though stripes of contaminated light lay across the right shoulder and arm of his tan-colored suit. His spectacles had been placed atop a stack of two leatherbound books that sat on the desk to his right. His legs were crossed at the ankles, in a most casual pose. Matthew didn't speak. He watched as the doctor lifted the burning object - some kind of wrapped tobacco stick, it appeared - to his lips and pulled in a long, slow draw.

"Paine has been found, " Matthew said. Just as slowly as he had drawn the smoke, the doctor released it from his mouth. It floated in a shimmering cloud through the angled sunrays.

"I thought your creed was to save lives, not take them, " Matthew went on. again, Shields drew from the stick, held it, then let the smoke dribble out.

Matthew looked around at the vessels of the doctor's craft, the glass bottles and vials and beakers. "Sir, " he said, "you are as transparent as these implements. For what earthly reason did you commit such an atrocityi"

Still there was no reply.

Matthew felt as if he'd entered a tiger's den, and the tiger was playing with him like a housecat before it bared its fangs and claws and sprang at him. He kept firmly in mind the position of the door behind him. The savagery of Paine's death was undeniable, and therefore the ability of savagery lay within the man who sat not ten feet away. "May I offer a possible scenarioi" Matthew asked, and continued anyway when the doctor refused to speak. "Paine committed some terrible offense against you - or your family - some years ago. Did he murder a family memberi a son or a daughteri" a pause did not coax a reaction, except for a further cloud of smoke.

"Evidently he did, " Matthew said. "By a gunshot wound, it seems. But Paine was wounded first, therefore I'm inclined to believe his victim was male. Paine must have had cause to find a doctor to treat his injury. Is that how you followed his traili You searched for the doctor who treated him, and tracked Paine from that pointi How many months did it takei Longer than thati Yearsi" Matthew nodded. "Yes, I'd suspect several years. Many seasons of festering hatred. It must have taken that long, for a man of healing to give himself over so completely to the urge for destruction."

Shields regarded the burning tip of his tobacco stick.

"You learned the circumstances of the death of Paine's wife, " Matthew said. "But Paine, in wishing to put the past behind him, had never told anyone in Fount Royal that he'd ever been married. He must have been astounded when he realized you knew his history... and, Paine being an intelligent man, he also realized why you knew. So you went to his house sometime around midnight, is that correcti I presume you had all the ropes and blades you needed in your bag, but you probably left that outside. Did you offer to keep your silence if Paine would write a confession and immediately leave Fount Royali"

Smoke drifted slowly through the light.

"Paine never dreamt you'd gone there to kill him. He assumed you were interested in unmasking him before Bidwell and the town, and that the confession was the whole point of it. So you let Paine sit down and begin writing, and you took the opportunity to bash him in the head with a blunt instrument. Was it something you had hidden on you or something already therei"

No response was forthcoming.

"and then came the moment you relished, " Matthew said.

"You must have relished it, to have performed it so artfully. Did you taunt him as you opened his veinsi His mouth was gagged, his head near cracked, and his blood running out in streams. He must have been too weak to overturn the chair, but what would it have matteredi He probably did hear you taunting him as he died, though. Does that knowledge give you a feeling of great joy, siri" Matthew raised his eyebrows. "Is this one of the happiest mornings of your life, now that the man you've sought so long and steadfastly is a blood-drained huski"

Shields took another draw from the stick, released the smoke, and then leaned forward. Light touched his moist, perspiring face, and revealed the dark violet hollows of near-madness beneath his eyes.

"Young man, " the doctor said calmly, his voice thick with constrained emotion, "I should like to tell you... that these baseless accusations are extremely ill advised. My attention should rightly be directed to the magistrate's health... rather than any other mental pressure. Therefore... if you desire the magistrate to live beyond this evening... what you ought to do is..." He paused to suck once more from the dwindling stick. "... is make absolutely certain I am free to treat him." He leaned back again, and the shadows claimed his countenance. "But you have already decided that, have you noti Otherwise you never would have come here alone."

Matthew watched the smoke move slowly across the room. "Yes, " he said, feeling that his soul had less foundation than those miniature clouds. "I have already decided."

"an excellent... splendid decision. How goes his health this morningi"

"Badly." Matthew stared at the floor. "He's been delirious."

"Well... that may wax and wane. The fever, you see. I do believe the blistering will show a benefit, though. I intend to apply a colonic today, and that should aid in his recovery."

"His recoveryi" Matthew had spoken it with a shade of mockery. "Do you honestly believe he's going to recoveri"

"I honestly believe he has a chance, " came the reply. "a small chance, it is true... but I have seen patients come back from such an adverse condition. So... the best we can do is continue treatment and pray that Isaac will respond."

It was insane, Matthew thought. Here he was, talking about the healing arts with a half-crazed butcher! and talking about prayer, to add another level of lunacy! But what choice did he havei Matthew remembered what Bidwell had said, and it had rung very true though he'd made a show of temper over it: The trip to Charles Town might well kill the poor wretch.

Springtime or not, the open air and the swamp humours it carried were dangerous to Woodward's remaining strength. The wagon trip over that road would be torture to him, no matter how firmly he was swaddled. In spite of how much he wished to the contrary, Matthew sincerely doubted that the magistrate would reach Charles Town alive.

So he was forced to trust this man. This doctor. This murderer. He had noted a mortar and pestle on the shelf, and he said, "Can't you mix some medicine for himi Something that would break his feveri"

"Fever does not respond to medicine as much as it responds to the movement of blood, " Shields said. "and as a matter of record, the supply of medicine through Charles Town has become so pinched as to be withered. But I do have some vinegar, liverwort, and limonum. I could mix that with a cup of rum and opium and have him drink it... say... thrice daily. It might heat the blood enough to destroy the afflictions."

"at this point, anything is worth trying... as long as it doesn't poison him."

"I do know my chemicals, young man. You may rest assured of that."

"I won't rest, " Matthew said. "and I am not assured."

"as you please." Shields continued smoking what was now only a stub. The blue clouds swirled around his face, obscuring it from scrutiny even the more.

Matthew released a long, heavy sigh. "I don't doubt you had sufficient reason to kill Paine, but you certainly seemed to enjoy the process. The hangman's noose was a bit much, don't you thinki"

Shields said, "Our discussion of Isaac's treatment has ended. You may go."

"Yes, I'll go. But all that you told me of leaving Boston because your practise was suffering... of wanting to aid in the construction of a settlement and having your name forever emblazoned upon this infirmary... those were all lies, weren't theyi" Matthew waited, but he knew there would be no reply. "The one true accomplishment you sought was the death of Nicholas Paine." This had not been phrased as a question, because Matthew needed no answer to what he knew to be fact.

"You will pardon me, " Shields said quietly, "if I do not rise to show you out."

There was nothing more to be said, and certainly nothing more to be gained. Matthew retreated from the doctor's study, closed the door, and walked back along the hallway in a mind-numbed daze. The burning-rope smell of that tobacco stick had leeched into his nostrils. When he got outside, the first thing he did was lift his face to the sunlight and draw in a great draught of air. Then he trudged the distance to Bidwell's mansion, his head yet clouded on this clear and perfect day.