that the breeze didn't become a hot and malodorous tempest in this quarter of Fount Royal. Jerusalem's sister—and by that term Matthew didn't know whether the preacher meant by blood or by indecent patronage—was scrubbing clothes in a washpot next to the wagon, while the young nephew—and here it was best to make no mental comment— was lying on a quilt in the shade nearby, picking the petals off a yellow flower and tossing them idly aside. The black-garbed master of ceremonies, however, was hard at work; he stood upon an overturned crate, orating and gesticulating for a somber crowd of two men and a woman.
Matthew stared straight ahead, hoping to invoke invisibility as he slipped past Jerusalem's field of view, but he knew it was not to be. 'Ah!' came the sky-ripping shout. 'Ah, there walketh a sinner! Right there! Look, everyone! Look how he doth scurry like a thief in broad daylight!'
What Jerusalem called scurrying Matthew called picking up his pace. He dared not pause to deflect Jerusalem's hook, for then he would be nattered to holes by this pseudo-holy imbecile. Therefore he kept a constant course, even though the preacher began to rant and rave in a fashion that made Matthew's blood start to boil: 'Yes, look at him and thy looketh upon the pride of a witch's bed! Oh, did thou not all know the vile truth? Well, it is as plain as the writ of God across the soul of a righteous man! That sinner yonder hath actually struck me—struck me, I sayeth!—in defense of that wanton sorceress he so dearly yearn-eth to protect! And not just protect! Gentle flock, if thou but kneweth the cravings in that sinner's mind concerning the dark woman, thou might falleth to thy knees in the frenzy of madness! He wisheth the flesh of her body be gripped in his hands, her mouth open to his abominable needs, her every orifice a receptacle of his goatly lusts! And there he goeth, the blind wretched beast, scurrying away from the word of God lest it scorcheth some light into his eyes and maketh him see the path to Damnation upon which he rusheth to travel!'
The only path upon which Matthew rusheth was the one leading away from Exodus Jerusalem. It occurred to him, as he gladly left the preacher's caterwaulings behind, that the gentle flock would probably cough up some coins to hear more on the subject of orifices, receptacles, and goatly lusts, which was probably at the heart of it the whole reason for their attendance today. Matthew had to admit that Jerusalem had a talent at painting horny pictures. For now, though—until, dreadfully, he had to come back this way—his attention was focused on finding the ratcatcher's domicile.
He passed the Hamilton house and Violet's home, and continued by a large weed-choked field where a split- rail fence had fallen to disrepair. Further on, what appeared to be an attempt at an apple orchard was stubbled with dwarfed and twisted trees that seemed to be begging for the mercy of an axe. On the opposite side of Industry Street, the feeble trees of another unfortunate planting drooped in apparent pain, their few remaining leaves blotched with brown and ochre sores. In this area of Fount Royal, the sun might be shining but there was definitely no rejoicing of nature.
Matthew saw that Bidwell's orchards had suffered greatly during the long period of storms. The coarse, sandy earth had been washed away to such an extent that some trees seemed more exposed roots than branches, and what branches there were had shrivelled and malformed in their piteous reach for sunlight. Here and there some kind of knobby-looking thing had sprouted, but it was more green mold than edible product. This display of blighted agriculture seemed to stretch on and on like a preview of the harvests of Hell, and Matthew could readily understand how Bidwell and the citizens might ascribe the devastation not to natural causes but to a demonic purpose.
As Matthew continued walking between the miserable fields he reflected on the possibility that, in addition to the havoc wreaked by the deluge, this climate and soil might not be suited to sustain the types of crops that Bidwell was trying to grow. Of course Bidwell was trying to produce something that would earn him money and attention from the home country, but it might be that apples, for instance, were doomed in this swamp air. Likewise doomed was whatever those green molded things were. It might be, then, that a suitable cash crop for Fount Royal was yet to be planted, and Bidwell could benefit from the advice of a professional botanist. Yet a botanist would command a sizeable fee, and Matthew thought that if Winston was correct about Bidwell's combination of stinginess and swollen self-worth—and there was no reason to doubt it—then the master of Fount Royal was apt to consider himself as much an expert on growing crops as in building ships.
Presently Matthew came to the last dwelling on Industry Street, beyond which stood the fortress wall.
If the ratcatcher desired to live apart from other human beings, he could only have created a more suitable abode by digging a hole in the earth and covering it with a mudcaked roof. The house—-if it might be distinguished by such a term—made Winston's shack appear the brother of Bidwell's mansion. Brush had been allowed to grow up around it, all but obscuring it from view. Vines gripped the gray clapboards and ivy grew abundant on the roof. The house's four windows were sealed by unpainted and badly weathered shutters, and Matthew thought it was a wonder the rains hadn't broken the poor place down to the ground entirely.
Matthew made his way to the door over a bare yard still treacherous with mud. Over the door Linch had hung three large rat skeletons from leather cords, as if to announce his trade to the world—whatever portion of the world cared to come to this place, that is. But then again, perhaps those three rats had given him such a fight Linch felt the need to mount them as trophies. Matthew swallowed his disgust, balled up his fist, and knocked at the door.
He waited, but there was no response. Matthew knocked again, and this time called, 'Mr. Linch? May I speak with you, please?' Still there was no answer. The ratcatcher was out, probably pursuing some long-tailed dame or dandy.
Matthew had come a distance to see the man, and he despised the thought of making a second trip. He might wait for Linch, he decided, though there was no telling when the ratcatcher would return. He knocked a third time, just to know he had, and then he put his hand on the door's crude latch. He paused, weighing his sense of morality as concerning entering a man's home unbidden.
Pulling his hand back, he stepped away from the door and stood looking at the latch with his hands on his hips. What was the right thing to do? He glanced up Industry Street the way he'd come. There was no sign of a living soul. Of course, the right thing was to leave and return at a later time. The necessary thing... now that was a horse pulling a different cart.
But he wasn't sure he wanted to enter Linch's sanctum. If a place ever smelled like dead rats, he was sure this one did. And those skeletons did not speak well of what else might be on display in there. Matthew looked again down Industry Street. Still no sign of anyone. If he wanted a chance to explore the ratcatcher's quarters, this was definitely the moment.
He took a deep breath. Trespassing upon a house was far different than intruding upon a barn... or was it? He didn't care to debate the distinction.
He quickly lifted the latch, before he could think better of it, and pushed the door open. It went smoothly, on oiled hinges. And by the sunlight that entered the house Matthew saw a very strange thing.
He stood at the threshold, peering in and wondering if he had lost his senses. Or at least his sense of order. This revelation took him inside. He looked around, his curiosity now well and truly piqued.
There was a desk and a sleeping pallet, a hearth and a shelf of cooking utensils. There was a chair and beside it a table on which sat a lantern. Nearby were a half-dozen candles wrapped up in oiled paper. A chamberpot was placed at the foot of the pallet. Two pairs of dirty shoes were lined up side-by-side next to the hearth, which was perfectly devoid of ashes. A broom leaned against the wall, ready for work.
And this was what so completely astounded Matthew: Linch's dwelling was the absolute picture of neatness.
The pallet had been made, its bedding tight and precise. The chamberpot was spotless. So too were the cooking pots and utensils. The lantern's glass bore not a trace of candlesoot. The floor and walls had been recently scrubbed, and the house still smelled of pinetar soap. Matthew thought he might have eaten off that floor and not tasted a grain of dirt. Everything was so orderly that it put a scare into Matthew even more than the terrible chaos of Winston's home, for the single reason that— like Winston had been—the ratcatcher was not who he appeared to be.
'Well, ' Matthew said, and his voice trembled. He looked once more toward town, but thankfully Industry Street was still empty. Then he continued his examination of this place that seemed to be a hovel from without but within was the epitome of ... might the word Matthew was searching for be control?
This was one of the damnedest things he'd ever seen. The only bad note in the house was the foursome of dirty shoes, and Matthew thought those were part of Linch's ratcatching costume. He decided to add a pound to his penny of intrusion and therefore opened a trunk, finding within it more clothes—shirts, breeches, and stockings, all
