said. 'I do understand.'
'You'd better, or by God you'll wish you had!' Shields held Matthew pressed up against the wall for a few seconds longer— an eternity to Matthew—and then the doctor's hand left his shirt. Without a further word, Shields walked away and descended the stairs.
Matthew was left severely confused and no less severely scared. The doctor might have been a brother to Will Shawcombe, for all that rough treatment. As he straightened his shirt and tried to steady his nerves, Matthew realized something truly treacherous was going on between Shields and Paine; indeed, the violence induced from Shields spoke volumes about the doctor's mental state. What had all that been, about wounds and weapons and Paine's deceased wife? I presume my wound left a trail, Paine had said. Is that what you followed?
Whatever the problem was, it had to do with Paine's past— which seemed more infamous now than ever. But Matthew was faced with so many puzzles to untangle concerning Rachel's plight—and such a short time to untangle them—that this new situation seemed more of a sideshow than a compelling attraction. He didn't believe the strife between the two men had anything to do with Rachel, whereas, for instance, Gwinett Linch's voice singing in the darkness of the Hamilton house while Satan laid an ultimatum at the feet of Violet Adams most certainly did.
Therefore, though he might fervently desire to know more about the relationship he'd witnessed tonight, he felt pressed by time to keep his focus on proving Rachel's innocence and let old griefs fall by the wayside. For now, at least.
He looked in once more on the magistrate and waited for the servant girl to come with the cold compress. Matthew thanked her, bade her go, and himself applied the compress—a water-soaked cotton cloth, to be accurate—to the sleeping man's face and on the back of his neck where the fever seemed most heated. Afterward, Matthew went downstairs and found Mrs. Nettles closing the shutters for the night. He asked if he might have a pot of tea and some biscuits, and was soon thereafter in possession of a tray with both. He took the moment to inquire of Mrs. Nettles what she knew about the ratcatcher, but she could supply nothing other than the facts that Linch kept to himself, and though he was sorely needed he was something of a pariah because of the nature of his craft. Matthew also asked—in a most casual way—if Mrs. Nettles had ever detected a tension between Dr. Shields and Nicholas Paine, or knew of anything that might be a cause of trouble in their dealings with each other.
Mrs. Nettles answered that she knew of no trouble, but that she was aware of a certain chill emanating from the good doctor regarding Mr. Paine. By contrast, she said, Dr. Shields acted warmly toward Mr. Winston and Mr. Bidwell, but it was apparent to her that the doctor would rather not share the same room in which Mr. Paine was present. It was nothing so dramatic that anyone else might notice, but in her opinion Dr. Shields had a marked distaste for the man.
'Thank you, ' Matthew said. 'Oh... one more thing. Who arrived first in Fount Royal? Mr. Paine or the doctor?'
'Mr. Paine did, ' she replied. 'It was... oh, more'n a month or two a'fore Dr. Shields came.' She knew there must be a valid reason for these questions. 'Does this concern Rachel Howarth?'
'No, I don't believe so. It's only an observation I needed verified.'
'Oh, I swan it's more'n that!' She offered him a sly smile. 'You canna' leave a thread undone, can ya?'
'I might find employment as a weaver of rugs, if that's what you mean.'
'Ha!' She gave a rough bark of a laugh. 'Yes, I 'spect you might!' However, her smile vanished and her countenance darkened until she had reached her customary grim composure. 'It's all up for Madam Howarth then, is that the basket?'
'The lid has not yet been closed, ' Matthew said.
'Meanin' what?'
'Meaning that the execution flame has not yet been lighted... and that I have some reading to do. Excuse me and good night.' Matthew took his tray of tea and biscuits upstairs to his room, where he poured himself a cup and sat down next to the open window, his lantern burning on its sill. For the third time he took the documents from their protective box and began reading through them, starting at the beginning.
By now he might have recited the testimony by heart. Still he felt—or, rather, ardently hoped—that something in the thicket of words might leap out at him like a directional signpost, signaling the next step in his exploration. He drank from his cup of tea and chewed on a biscuit. Bidwell had taken his own repast at Van Gundy's tavern, as Matthew had discovered from Dr. Shields, who had earlier seen Bidwell hoisting a tankard with Winston and several other men in a general air of merry celebration.
He finished—for the third time—Jeremiah Buckner's account and paused to rub his eyes. He felt in need of a tankard himself, yet strong drink would weaken his resolve and blur his sight. Oh, for a night of pure sleep untouched by the thought of Rachel afire on the stake!
Or even a night untouched by the thought of Rachel. Period.
He recalled what the magistrate had said: Helping her. Finding the truth. Being of service. Whatever and however you choose to phrase it... Rachel Howarth is your nightbird, Matthew. Perhaps the magistrate was right, but not in the sinister way he had meant it.
Matthew closed his eyes for a moment to rest them. Then he opened them, drank some more tea to fortify himself, and continued his reading. Now he was venturing into the testimony of Elias Garrick, and the man's recollection of the night he had awakened and— Wait, he thought. That was odd.
He read again over the section he had just digested. That night I was feelin' poorly, and I waked up to go outside and spew what was makin' me ill. It was silent. Every thin' was silent, like the whole world was afeared to breathe.
Matthew sat up from his slouched position in the chair. He reached out and pulled the lantern nearer. Then he turned back through the pages until he found the beginning of Jeremiah Buckner's testimony.
And there it was.
Me and Patience went to bed just like usual that night. She put out the lamp. Then... I don't know how long it was later...
With an eager hand, Matthew turned to the beginning of Violet Adams's testimony, as she recounted entering the Hamilton house. He put a finger on the line of importance, his heart starting to slam hard in his chest.
There wasn't nary a noise. It was silent, like... it was just me breathin' and that was the only sound.
Three witnesses.
Three testimonies.
But the same word: silent.
And that about breathing being the only sound... what possible coincidence could that be? Also the repeated phrase whole world by both Buckner and Garrick... it defied reason to think both men would speak the exact same words.
Unless... without knowing it... all three of the witnesses had been told what to say.
Matthew felt a chill skitter up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck moved. He realized he had just had a glimpse of the shadow he sought.
It was a terrifying realization. Because the shadow was larger and darker and more strangely powerful than he had dared believe. The shadow had been standing behind Jeremiah Buckner,
Elias Garrick, and Violet Adams there in the gaol, all the time they'd been giving their accounts.
'My God, ' Matthew whispered, his eyes wide. Because he had realized the shadow was in their minds, directing their words, emotions, and counterfeit memories. The three witnesses were no more than flesh-and-blood poppets, constructed by the hand of an evil beyond Matthew's imagining.
One hand. The same hand. A hand that sewed six gold buttons on a Satanic cloak. That created a white- haired imp, a leathery lizard-like manbeast, and a bizarre creature that had a male penis and female breasts. The same hand had created these scenes of sickening depravity, had painted them on the very air to display to Buckner, Garrick, Violet, and probably other citizens, who had fled for their sanity. For that's what the scenes were: air- paintings. Or, rather, paintings that came to life inside the minds that were spelled to accept them as truth.
That was why Buckner could not recall where he'd put his cane, which he was unable to get around without, or whether he had worn a coat outside in the cold February air, or whether he had taken his shoes off when he'd climbed back into bed.
That was why Garrick could not recall what clothes he had worn outside to go spew, or whether he had put
