has served you so well. And you, sir, for all of your wealth, fine clothes, and pufferies, are not worthy to clean the magistrate's boots with your dung-dripping tongue.'
Bidwell suddenly laughed, which made Matthew draw back.
'Is that the worst insult you can construct?' Bidwell lifted his eyebrows. 'Boy, you are a rank amateur! On the matter of the boots, however, I'll have you recollect that they are not the magistrate's. Indeed, every item of your own clothing was supplied by me. You came to this town near-naked, the both of you. So remember that I clothed you, fed you, and housed you, while you are flinging insults in my face.' He noted the presence of Mrs.
Nettles from the corner of his eye, and he turned his head toward her and said, 'All's well, Mrs. Nettles. Our young guest has shown his tail, that's—'
The noise of the front door bursting open interrupted him. 'What the bloody hell?' he said, and now he brushed Matthew's hand aside and hoisted himself to his feet.
Edward Winston came into the dining room. But it was a different Winston than Matthew had seen; this one was breathing hard, as if he'd been running, and his face was drawn and pale in the aftermath of what seemed a terrible shock.
'What's the matter?' Bidwell asked. 'You look as if you've—'
'It's Nicholas!' Winston put a hand up to his forehead and appeared to be fighting a faint.
'What about him? T^k sense, man!'
'Nicholas... is dead, ' Winston answered. His mouth gaped, trying to form the words. 'He has been murdered.'
Bidwell staggered as if from a physical blow. But instantly he righted himself and his sense of control came to the forefront. 'Not a word about this!' he told Mrs. Nettles. 'Not to a single servant, not to anyone! Do you hear me?'
'Yes sir, I do.' She appeared just as stunned as her master.
'Where is he?' Bidwell asked Winston. 'The body, I mean?'
'His house. I just came from there.'
'You're sure of this?'
Winston managed a grim, sickened half-smile. 'Go look for yourself. I promise you won't soon forget such a sight.'
'Take me there. Clerk, you come too. Remember, Mrs. Nettles: not a word about this to a single soul!'
During the walk in the early sunlight, Bidwell maintained his pace at a quick clip for a man of his size. Several citizens called a morning greeting, which Bidwell had the presence of mind to answer in as carefree a voice as he could manage. It was only when one farmer tried to stop him to talk about the forthcoming execution that Bidwell snapped at the man like a dog at a worrisome flea. Then Bidwell, Winston, and Matthew reached the whitewashed dwelling of Nicholas Paine, which stood on Harmony Street four houses northward of Winston's shuttered pigsty.
Paine's house was also shuttered. Winston's pace slowed as they neared the closed door, and finally he stopped altogether.
'Come along!' Bidwell said. 'What's wrong with you?'
'I... would rather stay out here.'
'Come along, I said!'
'No, ' Winston answered defiantly. 'By God, I'm not going in there again!'
Bidwell stared at him openmouthed, thunderstruck by this show of impudence. Matthew walked past both men, lifted the door's latch, and pushed the door open. As he did, Winston turned his face and walked away a few strides.
Matthew's first impression was of the copious reek of blood. Secondly, he was aware of the buzzing of flies at work. Thirdly, he saw the body in the slanting rays of vermilion light that entered between the shutter slats.
Fourthly, his gorge rose and if he had eaten any breakfast he surely would have expelled it.
'Oh... my Jesus, ' Bidwell said softly, behind him. Then Bidwell was overcome by the picture. He hurried outside and around the house to vomit up his blood sausage and pickled melon where he would not be seen by any passing citizen.
Matthew stepped across the threshold and closed the door to block this sight from view of the street. He stood with his back against the door, the fresh sunlight reflecting off the huge pool of blood that surrounded the chair in which Paine was sitting. Indeed, it appeared that every drop had flowed from the man's veins onto the floor, and the corpse had taken on a waxy sallow color. Matthew saw that Paine had been tied in an upright position, ropes binding his arms behind him and his ankles to the chair legs. His shoes and stockings had been removed, and his ankles and feet slashed to sever the arteries. Likewise slashed were the insides of both arms beginning at the elbows. Matthew shifted his position to see that the deep, vein-slicing cuts continued down the forearms to the wrists. He moved a little closer to the corpse, careful that he not step into the crimson sea of gore.
Paine's head was tilted backward. In his mouth was stuffed a yellow cloth, possibly a pair of stockings. His eyes, mercifully, were closed. Around his neck was knotted a noose. On the right side of his forehead there was a vicious black bruise, and blood had flowed from both nostrils down the white of his shirt. A dozen or more flies crawled over the gashes in Paine's corpse and supped from the bloody banquet at his feet.
The door opened and Bidwell dared enter. He held a handkerchief pressed to his mouth, his face gleaming with beads of sweat. Quickly, he closed the door at his back and stood staring numbly at all the carnage.
'Don't be sick again, ' Matthew warned him. 'If you are, I shall be as well and it will not add to this prettiness.'
'I'm all right, ' Bidwell croaked. 'I... oh dear God... oh Christ... who could have done such a murder as this?'
'One man's murder is another man's execution. That's what this is. You see the hangman's noose?'
'Yes.' Bidwell rapidly averted his eyes. 'He... he's been drained of blood, hasn't he?'
'It appears his arteries have been opened, yes.' Matthew walked around to the back of the body, getting as close as possible without sinking his shoes into the quagmire. He saw a red clump of blood and tissue near the crown of Paine's head. 'Whoever killed him beat him first into insensibility with a blunt object, ' Matthew said. 'He was struck on the head by someone standing behind and above him. I think that would be a requirement because otherwise Paine would be a formidable opponent.'
'This is the Devil's work!' Bidwell said, his eyes glassy. 'Satan himself must have done it!'
'If that is so, Satan has a clinical eye as to the flow of blood. You'll notice that Paine's throat was not slashed, as I understand was done to Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth. Whoever murdered Paine wished him to bleed to death slowly and in excruciating fashion. I venture Paine might have regained consciousness during the procedure, and then was struck again on the forehead. If he was able to return to sensibility after that, by that time he would have been too weak to struggle.'
'Ohhhh... my stomach. Dear God... I'm going to be sick again.'
'Go outside, then, ' Matthew directed, but Bidwell lowered his head and tried to ward off the flood. Matthew looked around the room, which showed no other signs of tumult, and fixed his attention on a nearby desk. Its chair was missing, and probably was the chair in which Paine had died. On a blotter atop the desk was a sheet of paper with several lines written upon it. An inkpot was open, and on the floor lay the quill pen. A melted stub in a candlestick attested to his source of light. Matthew saw drops and smears of blood on the floor between the desk and where the chair was positioned. He walked to the desk and read the paper.
'I, Nicholas Paine, ' he recited, 'being of sound mind and of my own free will do hereby on this date of May eighteenth, sixteen hundred and ninety- nine, confess to the murder of...' And here the writing ended in a blotch of ink. 'Written sometime after midnight, it seems, ' Matthew said. 'Or close enough that Paine scribed today's date.' He saw something else in the room that warranted his attention: on the bedpallet was an open trunk that had been partly packed with clothing. 'He was about to leave Fount Royal, I think.'
Bidwell stared with dread fascination at the corpse. 'What... murder was he confessing?'
'An old one, I believe. Paine had some sins in his past. I think one of them caught up with him.' Matthew walked to the bed to inspect the contents of the trunk. The clothes had been thrown in, evidence of intention of a hurried departure.
'You don't think the Devil had anything to do with this? Or the witch?'
'I do not. The murders of the reverend and Daniel Howarth were—as I understand their description—meant
