unbalanced condition. 'The witch?'
'No, sir. Concerning a surveyor who came to Fount Royal four years ago.' Silence fell. 'Mr. Bidwell has told me you walked the man around, ' Matthew pressed on. 'I'd like to know what you might recall of him.'
'I... have no recollection of such a man. If you'll forgive me now... I have some ledger business to attend to.'
Matthew doubted that Winston had any business other than drinking and plotting more conflagrations. 'I do have some information pertaining to Rachel Howarth. Might you want to see the magistrate's decision? I've just come from reading it to her.'
Almost at once there was the sound of a latch being undone. The door opened a few inches, enough for a slice of sunlight to enter the house and fall upon Winston's haggard, unshaven face. 'The decision?' he said, squinting in the glare. 'You have it with you?'
'I do.' Matthew held up the rolled document. 'May I come in?'
Winston hesitated, but Matthew knew the die had been cast. The door was opened wide enough to admit Matthew and then closed again at his back.
Within the small front room, two candles burned on a wicker table. Beside the candles, and set before the bench that Winston had been occupying, was a squat blue bottle and a wooden tankard. Up until this moment Matthew had thought Winston to be—judging from his usual neatness of appearance and his precise manners—a paradigm of efficiency, but Matthew's opinion suddenly suffered a sharp reversal.
The room might have sickened a pig. On the floor lay scattered shirts, stockings, and breeches that Winston had not bothered to pick up. The smell of damp and musty cloth—coupled with body odor from some of the gamier articles—was somewhat less than appealing. Also littering the floor were crumpled balls of paper, spilled tobacco, a broken clay pipe here and there, a few books whose bindings had come unstitched, and sundry other items that had outlived their use but not been consigned to a proper garbage pit. Even the narrow little hearth was near choked with cold ashes and bits of trash. In fact, it might be within bounds to say that the entire room resembled a garbage pit, and Matthew shuddered to think what Winston's bedchamber might conceal. A bucket of sulphurous chemicals might be the least noxious of it.
Nearby stood the desk that Winston had recovered from the gaol. Now Matthew understood why it had been so thoroughly cleaned out when Winston had it carted over, as its surface was a jumbled mess of more crumpled and ink-splattered papers, a number of candles melted down to stubs, and a disorderly pile of ledger books. Matthew was surprised that Winston had been able to lay his hands on a clean sheaf of paper and an unspilled inkjar in this rat's nest. It occurred to him, in his brief but telling inspection, that all Winston's business with Bidwell was done at the mansion because Winston wished not to reveal his living conditions—and possibly the condition of his mental affairs—to his employer.
Winston was pouring liquid from the blue bottle into his tankard. He wore a long gray nightshirt that bore evidence of many poor repatchings, as well as several small scorched holes that told Matthew the man's control of fire did not extend to power over a spilled pipe. 'So, ' Winston said. 'The decree's been made, eh?' He downed some of his pleasure, which Matthew assumed was either hard cider or rum. 'Bring it over here and spread it out.'
Matthew did, but he kept a hand on the document, as it was his charge. Winston leaned over and read the ornate handwriting. 'No surprises there, I see. She's to be burned on Monday, then?'
'Yes.'
'High time. She should've gone to the stake a month ago; we'd all be the better for it.'
Matthew rolled the decree up again. He cast a disdainful eye about his surroundings. 'Do you always live in this fashion?'
Winston had been about to drink again, but the tankard's ascent paused. 'No, ' he said with sarcasm. 'My servants have been called away. Ordinarily I have a footman, a parlor wench, and a chamberpot scrubber.' The tankard went to his mouth and he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 'You may go now, Sir Reverence.'
Matthew smiled slightly, but his face was tight. Sir Reverence was gutter slang for human excrement. 'You must have had a late night, ' he said.
'A late night?' Winston's eyebrows went up. 'Meaning what?'
'Meaning... a late night. I had assumed you were an early riser, and therefore must have been working into the small hours.'
'Working.' He nodded. 'Yes. I'm always working.' He motioned toward the ledger-laden desk. 'See there? Managing his money. His pence and guineas and dog dollars. His ins and outs. That's what I do.'
'You don't sound particularly proud of your accomplishments for Mr. Bidwell, ' Matthew ventured. 'He must rely on your services quite a lot, doesn't he?'
Winston stared at Matthew, his bloodshot eyes wary. 'You may go now, ' he repeated, with a more ominous inflection.
'I shall. But Mr. Bidwell himself suggested I find you and ask about the surveyor. As you were the one who escorted the man around, I hoped that—'
'A surveyor? I hardly remember the man!' Again Winston quaffed from the tankard, and this time the gleaming residue trickled down his chin. 'What was it? Four years ago?'
'Or thereabouts.'
'Go on, get out!' Winston sneered. 'I don't have time for your foolishness!'
Matthew took a deep breath. 'Yes, you do, ' he answered.
'What? By God, will I have to throw you out of here?'
Matthew said quietly, 'I know about your nocturnal activities.'
The hand of God might have come down to stop time and still all sounds.
Matthew went on, taking advantage of the moment. 'In addition, I have one of the six buckets that Mr. Rawlings and the others buried. Therefore it's no use to go out tonight and move them. The seventh bucket you took away is hidden here somewhere, I presume?'
The hand of God was a mighty instrument. It had turned Edward Winston into a gape-mouthed statue. In another few seconds, however, the tankard slipped from Winston's grasp and crashed to the floor.
'I presume it is, ' Matthew said. 'You used a brush to paint the chemicals on the walls of the houses you set afire, am I correct? It does seem to be a potent concoction.'
Winston did not move, did not speak, and hardly appeared to be breathing. The color of his face and the somber grisard of his nightshirt were one and the same.
Matthew spent a moment looking around the littered room before he spoke again. 'This is what I believe, ' he said. 'That on one of your supply trips to Charles Town with Nicholas Paine, you approached someone of authority there. Possibly Mr. Danforth, the harbormaster, but possibly someone with more interest in seeing that Fount Royal never grows to Bidwell's ambition. I suspect you might have sent Mr. Paine on some errand or another while you made this contact. He doesn't know, does he?'
Matthew hadn't expected Winston to reply, therefore he was not disappointed. 'I don't think he knows, ' Matthew said. 'I think this is your intrigue alone. You volunteered to take advantage of Rachel Howarth's plight and set numerous fires to empty houses, thus speeding along the process of emptying more. Am I so far correct?' Winston slowly sank down upon his bench, his mouth still open.
'The problem was that you needed an incendiary to ignite in wet weather.' Matthew prodded some discarded clothes with the toe of his right shoe. 'The buckets of chemicals had to be mixed in Charles Town and secreted here by ship. The crew must have had some rough voyages, I'd suspect. But Mr. Rawlings must be making a profit for his risk. I would think you are making a profit for your risk as well. Or perhaps you've been promised a position in Charles Town after Fount Royal fails?'
Winston lifted a hand and put it to his forehead, his eyes glassy with shock.
'It is to your credit that you don't mar your dignity with denials, ' Matthew offered. 'I am curious, though. Bidwell tells me you've been in his employ for eight years. Why did you turn against him?'
Now both hands were pressed to Winston's face. He breathed raggedly, his shoulders slumped.
'I have seen enough of human nature to have an idea.' Matthew went to the cluttered desk and opened one of the ledger books. He flipped through the pages as he spoke. 'You know more than anyone else how much Bidwell is worth. You see his wealth on display, you see his plans for the future, and you see... your own existence, which according to the way you live is at a low flux. So I would venture to say this revolves around your own perceived
