Speaks the Nightbird

by Robert R. McCammon

  “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 circumstances. 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 assure you that—”

  “I think neither you nor Mr. Bidwell can assure us of anything. Including the assurance 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 bass-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 assert 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 assigned 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—passed 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 yo
u 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 spiralled 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, God 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 passage. 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 damning poppets and hidden them in her house.

  Neither could he prove that Rachel had been chosen as the perfect candidate to paint as a witch by two persons—possibly more?—who both were masters of disguise.

  Certainly he couldn’t prove that Linch was Lancaster and Lancaster had been murdered by his accomplice, and that Satan himself didn’t scrawl that message on the door.

  Now Matthew truly felt close to weeping. He knew everything—or almost everything—of how it had been done, and he felt sure he knew why it had been done, and he knew the name of one of the persons who’d done it…

  But without proof he was a beggar in the house of justice, and could expect not a single scrap.

  Another wagon passed along Industry Street, carrying a family and their meager belongings away from this accursed town. The last days of Fount Royal had come.

  And Matthew was keenly aware that Rachel’s last hours were passing away, and that on Monday morning she would surely burn and for the rest of his life—the rest of his miserable, frost-souled life—only he would know the truth.

  No, that was wrong. There would be one other, who would grin as the flames roared and the ashes flew, as the houses emptied and the dream perished. Who would grin as the thought came clear: All the silver, gold, and jewels…all mine now…and those fools never even knew.

  Only one fool knew. And he was powerless to stop either the flow of time or the flow of citizens fleeing Fount Royal.

  thirty-five

  AND NOW THE WHOLE WORLD was silent.

  Or at least it seemed so, to Matthew’s ears. In fact, the world was so silent that the sound of his feet creeping on the hallway’s floorboards sounded to him like barely muffled cannonades, and the errant squeak of a loose timber like a high-pitched human shriek.

  He had a lantern in hand. He was dressed in his bedclothes, as he had retired to sleep several hours ago. In reality, though, he had retired to ponder and wait. The time had arrived, and he was on a journey to Bidwell’s upstairs study.

  It was now the Sabbath morning. He reasoned it was sometime between midnight and two o’clock. The previous day had truly been nightmarish, and this current day promised to be no less an ordeal.

  Matthew had himself seen eight more wagons departing Fount Royal. The gate had been opened and closed with a regularity that would have been comical had it not been so tragic. Bidwell had remained in his bedchamber all day. Winston had gone in to see him, as had Dr. Shields, and once Matthew had heard Bidwell’s voice raving and raging with a frightful intensity that made one believe all the demons of Hell had ringed his bed to pay their ghastly respects. Perhaps in Bidwell’s tortured mind they had.

  During the course of the day Matthew had sat at the magistrate’s bedside for several hours, reading the book on English plays and attempting to keep his mind from wandering to the Florida country. He was also there to guard against the magistrate finding out what had occurred this morning, as it might cause Woodward deep grief that would sink him again into sickness. The magistrate, though certainly able to communicate more clearly and feeling positive about his chances of improvement, was yet weak and in need of further rest. Dr. Shields had administered three more doses of the powerful medicine, but had been wise enough during his visits not to mention anything that could harm his patient’s outlook. The medicine did what it was meant to do: it sent Woodward to the dreamer’s land, where he could not know what tumult was taking place in reality.

  Fortunately, the magistrate had been asleep—or, rather, drugged—when Bidwell had carried out his raging. In the evening, as darkness called upon Fount Royal and many fewer lamps answered than the night before, Matthew had asked Mrs. Nettles for a deck of cards and played a dozen or so games of five and forty with the magistra
te, who was delighted at the chance to challenge his sluggish mind. As they played, Matthew made mention of Woodward’s dream of Oxford, and how Johnstone had also seemed to enjoy the recollections.

  “Yes,” Woodward had said, studying his cards. “Once an Oxford man…always so.”

  “Hm.” Matthew had decided to let another hand go by before he mentioned the schoolmaster again. “It is a shame about Mr. Johnstone’s knee. Being so deformed. But he does get around well, doesn’t he?”

  A slight smile had crept across the magistrate’s mouth. “Matthew, Matthew,” he’d said. “Do you never quit?”

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “Please. I am not…so ill and…weak-minded that I can’t see through you. What is this now…about his knee?”

  “Nothing, sir. I was just making mention of it, in passing. You did say you saw it, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “At close quarters?”

  “Close enough. I could smell nothing…because of my condition…but I recall that Mr. Winston was…quite repelled…by the odor of Mr. Johnstone’s hogsfat liniment.”

  “But you did clearly view the deformity?”

  “Yes,” Woodward had said. “Clearly, and…it was a viewing…I would not care to repeat. Now…may we return to our game?”

  Not long after that, Dr. Shields had arrived with the magistrate’s third dose of the day, and Woodward had been sleeping calmly ever since.