“Very good to meet you.” Matthew withdrew his hand, thinking that Brightman’s power had been seasoned by a life of turning a gruelling wheel between the poles of the maskers’ art and the necessity of food on the table. “I understand your troupe has arrived somewhat early.”
“Early, yes. Our standing engagements in two other communities were…urn…unfortunately cancelled. But now we’re glad to be here among such treasured friends!”
“Mr. Corbett!” Winston strolled out of the parlor, wineglass in hand. He was clean, close-shaven, relaxed and smiling, and dressed in a spotless dark blue suit. “Do join us and meet Mr. Smythe!”
Bidwell suddenly appeared behind Winston to toss in his two pence. “I’m sure Mr. Corbett has matters to attend to upstairs. We shouldn’t keep him. Isn’t that right, Mr. Corbett?”
“Oh, I believe he should at least step in and say hello,” Winston insisted. “Perhaps have a glass of wine.”
Bidwell glowered at Matthew, but he said with no trace of rancor, “As you please, Edward,” and returned to the parlor.
“Come along,” Johnstone urged, as he limped on his cane past Matthew. “A glass of wine for your digestion.”
“I’m full up with apple beer. But may I ask who Mr. Smythe is?”
“The Red Bull’s new stage manager,” Brightman supplied. “Newly arrived from England, where he performed excellent service to the Saturn Cross Company and before that to James Prue’s Players. I wish to hear firsthand about the witch, too. Come, come!” Before Matthew could make an excuse to leave—since he did have a matter to attend to upstairs concerning a certain French-drawn map—Brightman grasped him by the upper arm and guided him into the parlor.
“Mr. David Smythe, Mr. Matthew Corbett,” Winston said, with a gesture toward each individual in turn. “The magistrate’s clerk, Mr. Smythe. He delivered the guilty decree to the witch.”
“Really? Fascinating. And rather fearful too, was it not?” Smythe was the young blond-haired man Matthew had seen sitting beside Brightman on the driver’s plank of the lead wagon. He had an open, friendly face, his smile revealing that he’d been blessed with a mouthful of sturdy white teeth. Matthew judged him to be around twenty-five.
“Not so fearful,” Matthew replied. “I did have the benefit of iron bars between us. And Mr. Bidwell was at my side.”
“Fat lot of good I might have done!” Bidwell said mirthfully, also in an effort to take control of this conversation. “One snap from that damned woman and I would’ve left my boots standing empty!”
Brightman boomed a laugh. Smythe laughed also, and so did Bidwell at his own wit, but Winston and the schoolmaster merely offered polite smiles.
Matthew was stone-faced. “Gentlemen, I remain unconvinced that—” He felt a tension suddenly rise in the room, and Bidwell’s laugh abruptly ended. “—that Mr. Bidwell would have been anything less than courageous,” Matthew finished, and the sigh of relief from the master of Fount Royal was almost audible.
“I neither recall meeting the woman nor her husband last year,” Brightman said. “Did they not attend our play, I wonder?”
“Likely not.” Bidwell crossed the parlor to a decanter of wine and filled his own glass. “He was a rather quiet…one might say reclusive…sort, and she was surely busy fashioning her own acting skills. Uh…not to infer that your craft has anything whatsoever to do with the infernal realm.”
Brightman laughed again, though not nearly so heartily. “Some would disagree with you, Mr. Bidwell! Particularly a reverend hereabouts. You know we had occasion to oust a certain Bible-thumper from our camp this afternoon.”
“Yes, I heard. Reverend Jerusalem possesses a fire that unfortunately sears the righteous as well as the wicked. Not to fear, though: as soon as he applies the rite of sanctimonity to the witch’s ashes, he’ll be booted out of our Garden of Eden.”
Oh, the wit overflowed tonight! Matthew thought. “The rite of sanctimonity?” He recalled hearing Jerusalem use that phrase when the preacher had first come to the gaol to confront his “enemy mine.” “What kind of nonsense is that?”
“Nothing you would understand,” Bidwell said, with a warning glance.
“I’m sure he would,” Johnstone countered. “The preacher plans to administer some kind of ridiculous rite over Madam Howarth’s ashes to keep her spirit, phantasm, or whatever from returning to haunt Fount Royal. If you ask me, I think Jerusalem has studied Marlowe and Shakespeare at least as much as he’s studied Adam and Moses!”
“Oh, you speak the names of our gods, sir!” Brightman said, with a huge smile. His smile, however, quickly faded as a more serious subject came to mind. “I do heavily regret the passing of another reverend, though. Reverend Grove was a man who saw a noble place for theatrical endeavors. I do miss seeing him this trip. David, you would have liked the man. He was of good humor, good faith, and certainly good reason. Mr. Bidwell, I’m sure your community is diminished by his absence.”
“It most certainly is. But after the witch is dead—and thank God it will be soon—and our town back on an even keel, we shall endeavor to find a man of similar sterling qualities.”
“I doubt you shall find a reverend who was a better player at chess!” Brightman said, smiling again. “Grove trounced me soundly on two occasions!”
“He trounced us all,” Johnstone said, with a sip of his wine. “It got to the point I refused to play him.”
“He once beat me in a game that took all of five minutes,” Winston added. “Of course, with him calling out all his moves in Latin and me being a dunce at that language, I was befuddled from the opening pawn.”
“Well,” Brightman said, and he lifted his wineglass. “Let me propose a toast to the memory of Reverend Grove. And also the memory of so many others who have departed your town, whether by choice or circumstance.”
All but Matthew, who had no glass, participated in the toast. “I do miss seeing others I recall,” Brightman continued, sadness in his voice. “A stroll around town told me how much the witch has hurt you. There weren’t nearly so many empty houses, were there? Or burned ones?”
“No, there were not,” Winston said, with either admirable pluck or stunning gall.
“Demonic doings, I gather?” Brightman asked Bidwell, who nodded. Then the thespian turned his attention to Johnstone. “And the schoolhouse burned too?”
“Yes.” The schoolmaster’s voice held an angry edge. “Burned to the ground before my eyes. The sorriest sight of my life. If our fire fighters had been at all trained and a great deal less lazy, the schoolhouse might have been saved.”
“Let us not delve into that again, Alan.” It was obvious to Matthew that Bidwell was trying to soothe a terribly sore point. “We must let it go.”
“I’ll not let it go!” Johnstone snapped, his eyes darting toward Bidwell. “It was a damned crime that those so-called firemen stood there and allowed that schoolhouse—my schoolhouse—to burn! After all that work put into it!”
“Yes, Alan, it was a crime,” Bidwell agreed. He stared into his glass. “But all the work was done by others, so why should you be so angry? The schoolhouse can be—and shall be—rebuilt.” Brightman nervously cleared his throat, because again a tension had entered the room.
“What you mean to say, Robert, is that due to my deformity I simply stood aside while others did the labor?” Johnstone’s anger was turning colder. “Is that your meaning?”
“I said…and meant…nothing of the sort.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Brightman’s smile was intended to return warmth to the gathering. “Let us not forget that Fount Royal faces the morning of a wondrous new day! I have no doubt the schoolhouse and all the rest of the structures shall be returned to their former glory, and that those houses vacated by past friends shall be soon inhabited by new ones.” Still the chilly air lingered between Bidwell and Johnstone. Brightman looked to Smythe. “David, what was that you were telling me this afternoon? You recall, before that preacher
stormed in? Mr. Bidwell, you might find this of interest!”
“Yes?” Bidwell raised his eyebrows, while Johnstone hobbled away to refill his glass.
“Oh…about the man,” Smythe said. “Yes, this was peculiar. A man came to the camp today. He was looking about. I know it sounds very odd, but…I found something familiar about him. His walk…his bearing…something.”
“And you know who it was?” Brightman asked Bidwell. “Of all people, your ratcatcher!” At the mere mention of the man, Matthew’s throat seemed to clutch.
“Linch?” Bidwell frowned. “Was he over there bothering you?”
“No, not that,” Smythe said. “He seemed to be just…inspecting us, I suppose. We’d had several visitors who just strolled around the camp. But this man…well, it does sound very strange, but…I watched him for a moment or two, and then I approached him from behind. He had picked up a blue glass lantern that is used in one of our morality scenes. The way his fingers moved over the glass…the way he turned the lantern this way and that…I thought I had seen such movements before. And I also thought I knew who the man was, yet…he was dressed in filthy clothes, and he was so very changed from the last time I’d seen him, when I was perhaps…oh…sixteen or seventeen years old.”
“Pardon me,” Matthew said, his throat still tight. “But who did you think Mr. Linch might have been?”
“Well, I spoke the name. I’m sure I sounded incredulous. I said: ‘Mr. Lancaster?’ and he turned around.” Smythe put a finger to his mouth, as if determining whether to continue this tale or not.
“Yes?” Matthew prodded. “What then?”
“I…know this is absolutely ridiculous…but then again, Mr. Lancaster did have an act in the circus that involved trained rats, so when Mr. Brightman explained to me that the man was Fount Royal’s ratcatcher, then…it’s all very puzzling.”
“Puzzling?” Johnstone had returned with his fresh glass of wine. “How so?”
“I could swear the man was Jonathan Lancaster,” Smythe said. “In fact, I would swear it. He turned toward me and looked me right in the face…and I saw his eyes. Such eyes…pale as ice…and piercing to the soul. I have seen them before. The man is Jonathan Lancaster, but…” He shook his head, his blond brows knit. “I…had not planned on mentioning this to anyone but Mr. Brightman. I intended first to locate Mr. Lancaster—your ratcatcher, I mean—and find out for myself, in private, why he has…um…sunken to such a low profession.”
“My pardon, please!” Brightman said. “I didn’t realize this was a personal matter!”
“Oh, that’s all right.” He gave Brightman a rather vexed glance. “Once a cat is out of a bag, sir, it is very difficult to put it back in again.”
“The same might be said of a fox,” Matthew offered. “But tell me: did Linch—or Lancaster—speak to you? Did he seem to recognize you as well?”
“No, I saw no recognition on his part. As soon as I spoke his name, he hurried away. I was going to follow him, but…I decided he might be ashamed to be seen dressed in rags. I wished not to intrude on his privacy until I had considered if I was mistaken or not.”
“Gwinett Linch has always been Gwinett Linch, from what I know,” Bidwell contended. “Who is this Jonathan Lancaster?”
“Mr. Lancaster was employed at the circus at the same time my father was its manager,” Smythe said. “I had the run of the place, and I helped where my father directed me. As I said, Mr. Lancaster had an act that involved trained rats, but he also—”
The door’s bell rang with such ferocity that it must have been near pulled off its hinge. Before two seconds had passed, the door burst open and the visitor announced himself with a soul-withering shout: “How dare ye! How dare ye do me such an injury!”
“Oh my Lord!” Brightman said, his eyes wide. “The storm returns!”
Indeed the black-clad, black-tricorned whirlwind entered the room, his gaunt and wrinkled face florid with rage and the cords standing out in his neck. “I demand to know!” Exodus Jerusalem hollered, aiming his mouth at Bidwell. “Why was I not invited to thy preparations?”
“What preparations?” Bidwell fired back, his own temper in danger of explosion. “And how dare you enter my house with such rudeness!”
“If thee wisheth to speak of rudeness, we might speak of the rudeness thou hast not only shown to me, but also shown to thy God Almighty!” The last two words had been brayed so loudly the walls seemed to tremble. “It was not enough for thee to allow such sinful filth as play-actors into thy town, but then thou forceth me to abide within nostril’s reach of them on the same street! God warrant it, I should have given thy town up as lost to Hell’s fires that very instant! And I still wouldst, if not for the rite of just layment!”
“The rite of just layment?” Bidwell now exhibited a suspicious scowl. “Hold a moment, preacher! I thought you said it was the rite of sanctimonity!”
“Oh…yes, it is also called such!” Jerusalem’s voice had faltered, but already it was gathering hot wind again for another bellow. “Wouldst thou believe that so important a rite wouldst only have one name? Even God Himself is also called Jehovah! Lord above, deliver thy servant from such blind pride as we vieweth aplenty in this room!”
Matthew was not so blind as to fail to realize that Jerusalem, as was his nature, had taken center stage in the prideful parlor. Brightman and Smythe had retreated for the safety of their ears, Bidwell had backed up several paces, and even the stalwart schoolmaster had staggered back, the knuckles of his cane-gripping hand white with pressure.
Winston, however, had stood his ground. “What’s the meaning of bursting in on Mr. Bidwell’s private affairs?”
“Sir, in God’s great kingdom there are no private affairs!” Jerusalem snapped. “It is only Satan who craveth secrecy! That is why I am so amazed and confounded by the fact that thou wouldst hide this meeting with the play-actors from mine eyes!”
“I did not hide anything from you!” Bidwell said. “Anyway, how the hell…I mean…how on earth did you find out the actors were even here?”
“I wouldst have remained unenlightened had I not ventured to the play-actors’ camp—as a man who loveth peace and brotherhood—to speak with their leader. And then I learneth from some fat thespian whose saint must surely be gluttony that Mr. Brightman is here with thee! And I kneweth exactly what must be transpiring!”
“And exactly what is transpiring?” Winston asked.
“The planning, as thou well knoweth!” It was spoken with dripping sarcasm. “To cut me out of the execution day!”
“What?” Bidwell saw that Mrs. Nettles and two serving-girls had come to peer into the room, perhaps fearing violence from the wall-shaking volume. He waved them away. “Preacher, I fail to understand what you’re—”
“I went to see thee, brother Brightman,” Jerusalem interrupted, addressing the other man, “for the purpose of creating an agreement. I understand that thou planneth a play after the witch hath been burned. That evening, as I hear. I mineself have intentions that very eve to deliver a message to the citizens upon the burning battleground. As an observer of debased human nature, I fully realize there are more misguided sinners who wouldst attend a pig-and-bear show than hear the word of God Almighty, no matter how compelling the speaker. Therefore I wished—as a peaceful, brotherly man—to offer up mine services to enricheth your performance. Say…a message delivered to the crowd between each scene, building to a finale that will hopefully enricheth us all?”
A stunned quiet reigned. Brightman broke it, with thunder. “This is outrageous! I don’t know from where you hear your faulty information, but we’re planning no play on the night of the witch’s burning! Our plans are to exhibit morality scenes several nights afterward!”
“And from where do you get this information, preacher?” Winston challenged.
“From a fine woman of thy town. Madam Lucretia Vaughan came to speak with me earlier this evening. She wisheth to afford the crowd with her breads
and pies, a sample of which she was most delighted to give.” Matthew had to wonder if that was the only sample the woman had given the lecherous rogue.
“In fact,” Jerusalem went on, “Madam Vaughan hath created a special bread to be offered at the burning. She calleth it ‘Witch Riddance Loaf.’”
“For God’s justice!” Matthew said, unable to hold his silence an instant longer. “Get this fool out of here!”
“Spoken as a true demon in training!” Jerusalem retorted, with a sneering grin. “If thy magistrate knew anything of God’s justice, he would have a second stake prepared for thee!”
“His magistrate…does know God’s justice, sir,” came a weak but determined voice from the parlor’s doorway.
Every man turned toward the sound.
And there—miraculously!—stood Isaac Temple Woodward, returned from the land of the near-dead.
“Magistrate!” Matthew exclaimed. “You shouldn’t be out of bed!” He rushed to his side to offer him support, but Woodward held out a hand to ward him off while he gripped the wall with his other.
“I am sufficiently able…to be out, up, and about. Please…allow me room in which to draw a breath.”
Not only had Woodward climbed out of bed and negotiated the staircase, he had also dressed in a pair of tan breeches and a fresh white shirt. His thin calves were bare, however, and he wore no shoes. His face was yet very pallid, which made the dark purple hollows beneath his eyes darker still; his scalp was also milk-pale, the age-spots upon his head a deep red in contrast. Gray grizzle covered his cheeks and chin.
“Please! Sit down, sit down!” Bidwell recovered from his shock and motioned to the chair nearest Woodward.
“Yes…I think I shall. The stairs have winded me.” Woodward, with Matthew’s aid, eased to the chair and sank down onto it. Matthew felt no trace of fever from the magistrate, but there was still emanating from him the sweetish-sour odor of the sickbed.
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