Now here was another obstacle. If indeed he surmounted the first two problems and set off with Rachel, then the realization of what Matthew had done could well lay the magistrate in his grave. He might be setting his nightbird free at the cost of killing the man who had opened his own cage from a life of grim despair.
That's what's wrong with you legalists. You think too much.
Candles and lamps were ablaze at the mansion. Obviously the festivity was still under way. Matthew entered the house and heard voices from the parlor. He was intent on unobtrusively walking past the room on his way to the stairs when someone said, 'Mr. Corbett! Please join us!'
Alan Johnstone had just emerged on his cane from the dining room, along with the gray-bearded man that Matthew had assumed was the acting troupe's leader. Both men were well dressed—Johnstone certainly more so than the masker—and held goblets of wine. The schoolmaster had adorned his face with a dusting of white powder, just as he'd done the night of Matthew's and the magistrate's arrival. The men appeared fed and satisfied, indicating that dinner had just recently adjourned.
'This young man is Matthew Corbett, the magistrate's clerk, ' Johnstone explained to his companion. 'Mr. Corbett, this is Mr. Phillip Brightman, the founder and principal actor of the Red Bull Players.'
'A pleasure!' Brightman boomed, displaying a basso voice powerful enough to wake cemetery sleepers. He shook Matthew's hand with a grip that might have tested the blacksmith's strength, but he was in fact a slim and rather unassuming-looking fellow though he did have that commanding, theatrical air about him.
'Very good to meet you.' Matthew withdrew his hand, thinking that Brightman's power had been seasoned by a life of turning a gruelling wheel between the poles of the maskers' art and the necessity of food on the table. 'I understand your troupe has arrived somewhat early.'
'Early, yes. Our standing engagements in two other communities were... urn... unfortunately cancelled. But now we're glad to be here among such treasured friends!'
'Mr. Corbett!' Winston strolled out of the parlor, wineglass in hand. He was clean, close-shaven, relaxed and smiling, and dressed in a spotless dark blue suit. 'Do join us and meet Mr. Smythe!'
Bidwell suddenly appeared behind Winston to toss in his two pence. 'I'm sure Mr. Corbett has matters to attend to upstairs. We shouldn't keep him. Isn't that right, Mr. Corbett?'
'Oh, I believe he should at least step in and say hello, ' Winston insisted. 'Perhaps have a glass of wine.'
Bidwell glowered at Matthew, but he said with no trace of rancor, 'As you please, Edward, ' and returned to the parlor.
'Come along, ' Johnstone urged, as he limped on his cane past Matthew. 'A glass of wine for your digestion.'
'I'm full up with apple beer. But may I ask who Mr. Smythe is?'
'The Red Bull's new stage manager, ' Brightman supplied. 'Newly arrived from England, where he performed excellent service to the Saturn Cross Company and before that to James Prue's Players. I wish to hear firsthand about the witch, too. Come, come!' Before Matthew could make an excuse to leave— since he did have a matter to attend to upstairs concerning a certain French-drawn map—Brightman grasped him by the upper arm and guided him into the parlor.
'Mr. David Smythe, Mr. Matthew Corbett, ' Winston said, with a gesture toward each individual in turn. 'The magistrate's clerk, Mr. Smythe. He delivered the guilty decree to the witch.'
'Really? Fascinating. And rather fearful too, was it not?' Smythe was the young blond-haired man Matthew had seen sitting beside Brightman on the driver's plank of the lead wagon. He had an open, friendly face, his smile revealing that he'd been blessed with a mouthful of sturdy white teeth. Matthew judged him to be around twenty- five.
'Not so fearful, ' Matthew replied. 'I did have the benefit of iron bars between us. And Mr. Bidwell was at my side.'
'Fat lot of good I might have done!' Bidwell said mirthfully, also in an effort to take control of this conversation. 'One snap from that damned woman and I would've left my boots standing empty!'
Brightman boomed a laugh. Smythe laughed also, and so did Bidwell at his own wit, but Winston and the schoolmaster merely offered polite smiles.
Matthew was stone-faced. 'Gentlemen, I remain unconvinced that—' He felt a tension suddenly rise in the room, and Bidwell's laugh abruptly ended. '—that Mr. Bidwell would have been anything less than courageous, ' Matthew finished, and the sigh of relief from the master of Fount Royal was almost audible.
'I neither recall meeting the woman nor her husband last year, ' Brightman said. 'Did they not attend our play, I wonder?'
'Likely not.' Bidwell crossed the parlor to a decanter of wine and filled his own glass. 'He was a rather quiet... one might say reclusive... sort, and she was surely busy fashioning her own acting skills. Uh... not to infer that your craft has anything whatsoever to do with the infernal realm.'
Brightman laughed again, though not nearly so heartily. 'Some would disagree with you, Mr. Bidwell! Particularly a reverend hereabouts. You know we had occasion to oust a certain Bible-thumper from our camp this afternoon.'
'Yes, I heard. Reverend Jerusalem possesses a fire that unfortunately sears the righteous as well as the wicked. Not to fear, though: as soon as he applies the rite of sanctimonity to the witch's ashes, he'll be booted out of our Garden of Eden.'
Oh, the wit overflowed tonight! Matthew thought. 'The rite of sanctimonity?' He recalled hearing Jerusalem use that phrase when the preacher had first come to the gaol to confront his 'enemy mine.'
'What kind of nonsense is that?'
'Nothing you would understand, ' Bidwell said, with a warning glance.
'I'm sure he would, ' Johnstone countered. 'The preacher plans to administer some kind of ridiculous rite over Madam Howarth's ashes to keep her spirit, phantasm, or whatever from returning to haunt Fount Royal. If you ask me, I think Jerusalem has studied Marlowe and Shakespeare at least as much as he's studied Adam and Moses!'
'Oh, you speak the names of our gods, sir!' Brightman said, with a huge smile. His smile, however, quickly faded as a more serious subject came to mind. 'I do heavily regret the passing of another reverend, though. Reverend Grove was a man who saw a noble place for theatrical endeavors. I do miss seeing him this trip. David, you would have liked the man. He was of good humor, good faith, and certainly good reason. Mr. Bidwell, I'm sure your community is diminished by his absence.'
'It most certainly is. But after the witch is dead—and thank God it will be soon—and our town back on an even keel, we shall endeavor to find a man of similar sterling qualities.'
'I doubt you shall find a reverend who was a better player at chess!' Brightman said, smiling again. 'Grove trounced me soundly on two occasions!'
'He trounced us all, ' Johnstone said, with a sip of his wine. 'It got to the point I refused to play him.'
'He once beat me in a game that took all of five minutes, ' Winston added. 'Of course, with him calling out all his moves in Latin and me being a dunce at that language, I was befuddled from the opening pawn.'
'Well, ' Brightman said, and he lifted his wineglass. 'Let me propose a toast to the memory of Reverend Grove. And also the memory of so many others who have departed your town, whether by choice or circumstance.'
All but Matthew, who had no glass, participated in the toast. 'I do miss seeing others I recall, ' Brightman continued, sadness in his voice. 'A stroll around town told me how much the witch has hurt you. There weren't nearly so many empty houses, were there? Or burned ones?'
'No, there were not, ' Winston said, with either admirable pluck or stunning gall.
'Demonic doings, I gather?' Brightman asked Bidwell, who nodded. Then the thespian turned his attention to Johnstone. 'And the schoolhouse burned too?'
'Yes.' The schoolmaster's voice held an angry edge. 'Burned to the ground before my eyes. The sorriest sight of my life. If our fire fighters had been at all trained and a great deal less lazy, the schoolhouse might have been saved.'
'Let us not delve into that again, Alan.' It was obvious to Matthew that Bidwell was trying to soothe a terribly sore point. 'We must let it go.'
'I'll not let it go!' Johnstone snapped, his eyes darting toward Bidwell. 'It was a damned crime that those
