moist, perspiring face, and revealed the dark violet hollows of near-madness beneath his eyes.
'Young man, ' the doctor said calmly, his voice thick with constrained emotion, 'I should like to tell you... that these baseless accusations are extremely ill advised. My attention should rightly be directed to the magistrate's health... rather than any other mental pressure. Therefore... if you desire the magistrate to live beyond this evening... what you ought to do is...' He paused to suck once more from the dwindling stick. '... is make absolutely certain I am free to treat him.' He leaned back again, and the shadows claimed his countenance. 'But you have already decided that, have you not? Otherwise you never would have come here alone.'
Matthew watched the smoke move slowly across the room. 'Yes, ' he said, feeling that his soul had less foundation than those miniature clouds. 'I have already decided.'
'An excellent... splendid decision. How goes his health this morning?'
'Badly.' Matthew stared at the floor. 'He's been delirious.'
'Well... that may wax and wane. The fever, you see. I do believe the blistering will show a benefit, though. I intend to apply a colonic today, and that should aid in his recovery.'
'His recovery?' Matthew had spoken it with a shade of mockery. 'Do you honestly believe he's going to recover?'
'I honestly believe he has a chance, ' came the reply. 'A small chance, it is true... but I have seen patients come back from such an adverse condition. So... the best we can do is continue treatment and pray that Isaac will respond.'
It was insane, Matthew thought. Here he was, talking about the healing arts with a half-crazed butcher! And talking about prayer, to add another level of lunacy! But what choice did he have? Matthew remembered what Bidwell had said, and it had rung very true though he'd made a show of temper over it: The trip to Charles Town might well kill the poor wretch.
Springtime or not, the open air and the swamp humours it carried were dangerous to Woodward's remaining strength. The wagon trip over that road would be torture to him, no matter how firmly he was swaddled. In spite of how much he wished to the contrary, Matthew sincerely doubted that the magistrate would reach Charles Town alive.
So he was forced to trust this man. This doctor. This murderer. He had noted a mortar and pestle on the shelf, and he said, 'Can't you mix some medicine for him? Something that would break his fever?'
'Fever does not respond to medicine as much as it responds to the movement of blood, ' Shields said. 'And as a matter of record, the supply of medicine through Charles Town has become so pinched as to be withered. But I do have some vinegar, liverwort, and limonum. I could mix that with a cup of rum and opium and have him drink it... say... thrice daily. It might heat the blood enough to destroy the afflictions.'
'At this point, anything is worth trying... as long as it doesn't poison him.'
'I do know my chemicals, young man. You may rest assured of that.'
'I won't rest, ' Matthew said. 'And I am not assured.'
'As you please.' Shields continued smoking what was now only a stub. The blue clouds swirled around his face, obscuring it from scrutiny even the more.
Matthew released a long, heavy sigh. 'I don't doubt you had sufficient reason to kill Paine, but you certainly seemed to enjoy the process. The hangman's noose was a bit much, don't you think?'
Shields said, 'Our discussion of Isaac's treatment has ended. You may go.'
'Yes, I'll go. But all that you told me of leaving Boston because your practise was suffering... of wanting to aid in the construction of a settlement and having your name forever emblazoned upon this infirmary... those were all lies, weren't they?' Matthew waited, but he knew there would be no reply. 'The one true accomplishment you sought was the death of Nicholas Paine.' This had not been phrased as a question, because Matthew needed no answer to what he knew to be fact.
'You will pardon me, ' Shields said quietly, 'if I do not rise to show you out.'
There was nothing more to be said, and certainly nothing more to be gained. Matthew retreated from the doctor's study, closed the door, and walked back along the hallway in a mind-numbed daze. The burning-rope smell of that tobacco stick had leeched into his nostrils. When he got outside, the first thing he did was lift his face to the sunlight and draw in a great draught of air. Then he trudged the distance to Bidwell's mansion, his head yet clouded on this clear and perfect day.
thirty
'MR. VAUGHAN?' He got up from his chair, where he'd been drowsing in the twilight of early evening, and opened the door. 'What does he want?'
Mrs. Nettles pursed her lips, as if in a silent scold for his deficient memory. 'He says he's come to escort you to his home for dinner, and that it shall be a'table at six o'clock.'
'Oh, I did forget! What time is it now?'
'Near ha' past five, by the mantel clock.'
'If there was ever an evening I didn't care to go out to dinner, this is it, ' Matthew said, rubbing his bleary eyes.
'That may be so, ' Mrs. Nettles said curtly, 'but as much as I do nae care for Lucretia Vaughan, I am also sure some effort has been made to show you hospitality. Ye ought nae to disappoint 'em.'
Matthew nodded, though he couldn't erase his frown. 'Yes, you're right. Very well, then: please tell Mr. Vaughan I'll be downstairs in a few minutes.'
'I shall. Oh... have ye seen Mr. Bidwell since mornin'?'
'No, I haven't.'
'He always tells me if he's gonna attend dinner. I'm driftin' without a sea-chain, nae knowin' what he cares ta do.'
'Mr. Bidwell... likely is wrapped up in the sorry engagement involving Mr. Paine, ' Matthew said. 'You of all people must know how buried he becomes in his work.'
'Oh, yes sir, 'tis true! But y'know, we're havin' a festival of sorts here tomorra eve. Mr. Bidwell's hostin' a dinner for some of the maskers. Even though we've suffered such a tragedy, I do need ta know what he desires a'table.'
'I'm sure he'll be around sooner or later tonight.'
'Mayhaps. I've told no one about the murder, sir. Just as he wished. But do you have any idea who mi' ha' done it?'
'Not Rachel, the Devil, or any imagined demon, if that's what you're asking. This was a man's work.' He dared go no further. 'Excuse me, I'd best get ready.'
'Yes sir, I'll tell Mr. Vaughan.'
As he hurriedly scraped a razor across the day's growth and then washed his face, Matthew steeled himself for companionship though he fervently wished only to be left alone. He had spent the day attending to the magistrate, and observing Dr. Shields as the excruciating colonic was applied. A fresh plaster had been pressed to the pine oil dressing on Woodward's chesty and the pine oil liniment had also been rubbed around his nostrils. The doctor on his first visit this morning had brought a murky amber liquid that the magistrate swallowed with great difficulty, and had administered a second dose of the potion around four o'clock. Matthew could not help but watch Dr. Shields's hands and envision their grisly work of the previous midnight.
If Matthew had been expecting rapid results, he was disappointed; for most of the day Woodward had remained in a stupor, his fever merciless; but at least the magistrate once asked Matthew if preparations for Madam Howarth's execution were proceeding, therefore he seemed to have returned from his bout with delirium.
Matthew put on a fresh shirt and buttoned it up to the neck, then left his room and went downstairs. Waiting for him was a slim, small-statured man in a gray suit, white stockings, and polished square-toed black shoes. On his head was a brown tricorn and he was holding a lantern that bore double candles. It took only a few seconds of observation for Matthew to detect the darned patches at the man's knees and the fact that his suit jacket was perhaps two sizes too large, indicating either a borrow or a barter.
