on shoes or boots, or what pattern the six gold buttons were arranged in though he clearly noted their number.
That was why Violet Adams had not noticed the reek of a decaying dog's carcass, or the fact that the Hamilton house was overrun by canines.
Not one of the three witnesses had actually witnessed anything but these mental paintings, constructed by a shadowy hand that had emphasized some details for the purpose of shock and disgust—the kind of details that would make for damning court testimony—but had omitted other details of a more commonplace nature.
Except for the pattern of gold buttons on the cloak, Matthew thought. That was where the shadowy hand had been... the only word Matthew could think of was precious.
The hand had made the oversight of not detailing the arrangement of buttons for Buckner or Garrick, but had attempted to make up for it by providing that detail to Violet, who collected buttons and therefore might be more observant as to their pattern.
It occurred to Matthew that the shadowy hand might have placed the poppets under the floor of Rachel's house, and then painted the dream by which Cara Grunewald had seen an item of importance hidden there. He would have liked to have spoken to Madam Grunewald, to learn if, when she'd gone to sleep that night, everything was silent, as if the whole world was feared to breathe.
Matthew turned through the pages to another point he recalled of Garrick's account. It was when he had challenged Garrick concerning the arrangement of the six gold buttons, and had pressed his question to the man's obviously confused agitation.
Garrick's response had been a whispered It was a silent town. Silent. The whole world, afeared to breathe.
Matthew realized that what he had heard was Garrick repeating a phrase supplied to him by the owner of the shadowy hand. Garrick had been unable to answer the question, and had unwittingly fixed on that somnambulistic phrase in a moment of great stress because it was one of the clearest things he did remember.
And now there was the question of Linch's voice, singing in the dark at the Hamilton house. If Violet had not actually set foot in the house, how could she have heard the ratcatcher singing his grotesque ditty from the back room?
Matthew put aside the documents and finished his cup of tea, staring out the window toward the slaves' quarters and the darkness beyond. He might have decided that Violet had been dreaming the involvement of Linch as well as the rest of it, but his own exploration of Linch's dwelling told Matthew the ratcatcher had concealed the secrets of his identity behind a cleverly constructed front.
Linch was literate and obviously cunning. Was it possible his was the shadowy hand that had guided the three witnesses?
But why? And how? By what form of sorcery had Linch—or whomever—caused three individuals to see similar apparitions and believe without a doubt they had been viewing reality? It had to be black magic, of a sort. Not the kind popularly associated with Satan, but the kind that evolves from a corrupt and twisted human mentality. But also a mentality that was well ordered and precise, as Linch's must be.
Matthew couldn't understand how Linch, or anyone else, might have done it.
Such a thing—the guiding of three minds toward a common fiction—seemed to be absolutely impossible. Nevertheless, Matthew was certain that was exactly what had occurred.
And what of the question of motive? Why go to such lengths—and such incredible risk—to paint Rachel as being a servant of the Devil? It had to be much more than simply covering the tracks that led away from the murders of Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth. In fact, those killings seemed to Matthew to have been committed to add weight of suspicion upon Rachel.
So the point was to create a witch, Matthew thought. Rachel was already disliked by many of the citizens before Grove was murdered. Her dark beauty could not have aided her popularity among the other women, and her Portuguese heritage reminded the men of how close the Spanish territory lay to their farmland. She had a tongue, a willful spirit, and courage that ruffled the feathers of the church-guarding hens. Therefore Rachel was from the beginning a perfect candidate.
Matthew chewed on another biscuit. He looked at the stars that glittered above the ocean, and at the candle that burned within the lantern's glass. The light of understanding was what he sought, yet it was a difficult illumination to unveil.
Why create a witch? What possible reason was there for it? To hurt Bidwell? Was all this engineered by the jealous ravens of Charles Town to destroy Fount Royal before it could grow to rivalry?
If that were so, wouldn't Winston have known Rachel was innocent? Or had the Charles Town elders planted another traitor or two within Fount Royal's midst and for the sake of security not informed Winston?
And then there was the question of the mysterious surveyor, and what might lie in the mud at the fount's bottom. It struck him that tomorrow night—very late, after the last lantern had gone out and the final celebrants swept from Van Gundy's tavern—he might try his strength at some underwater swimming.
Though the tea was certainly sturdy enough, Matthew still felt weariness pulling at him. It was his mind that needed rest just as much—if not more so—than his body. He needed to climb into bed, sleep until dawn, and awaken ready for a fresh appraisal of what he suspected, what he knew, and what he had yet to learn.
Matthew relieved himself at the chamberpot, then undressed and lay down upon the bed. He left the lantern burning, as his realization of the shadowy hand's strange and compelling power had made him somewhat less than easy with the dark.
He tossed and turned in the first bout of what would be a nightlong grappling with the hot gearwheels of his brain. At last, though, he relaxed enough to sleep for a time, and except for the occasional barking of a mongrel the town was ruled by silence.
twenty-nine
UPON AWAKENING AT FIRST LIGHT and the rooster chorale, Matthew hurriedly pulled on his breeches and crossed the hall to look in on the magistrate.
Woodward was still sleeping on his stomach, his breathing harsh but steady. Matthew was curious as to the state of the blisters on Woodward's back, and so carefully lifted the gown to view them.
Instantly he wished he had not. The blisters had flattened into ugly ebony bruises surrounded by circles of mottled flesh. Streaks of red ran underneath the skin, attesting to the pressures that the magistrate's body had endured. It occurred to Matthew that this procedure of heat and blister cups was more suited for the torture chamber than the sickbed. He lowered Woodward's gown again, then dipped a cloth into the bowl of water that sat atop the dresser and spent a moment wiping away the green crust that had accumulated around the magistrate's nostrils. The magistrate's face was damp and swollen, the fever radiating from him like the calidity from a bellows- coaxed blaze.
'What...' Woodward whispered, his eyelids fluttering. 'What is the day?'
'Thursday, sir.'
'I must... get up... and about. Can you help me?'
'I don't think it's wise to get up quite yet, sir. Possibly later in the day.'
'Nonsense. I... shall miss court... if I don't get up.' Matthew felt something as keen as an icy dagger pierce his guts. 'They... already think me... lax in my duties, ' Woodward continued. 'They think... I am more fond... of the rumpot... than the gavel. Yes, I saw Mendenhall yesterday. That peacock. Laughing at me... behind his hand. What day is it, did you say?'
'Thursday.' Matthew's voice was hushed.
'I... have a larceny trial to hear. This morning. Where are my boots?'
'Sir?' Matthew said. 'I fear... that court has been postponed for the day.'
Woodward was quiet. Then, 'Postponed?'
'Yes, sir. The weather being so bad.' Even as he spoke it, he could hear birds singing in the trees around the spring.
'Ahhhhh, the weather, ' Woodward whispered. His eyes had never fully opened, but remained hidden behind the fever-inflamed lids. 'Then I shall stay indoors today, ' he said. 'Shall light a fire... drink a hot rum.'
'Yes, sir, I think that would be best.'
