that bellpull, and the plaque.' He closed his eyes for a few seconds, taking in the wondrous memory. Then he opened them again and Matthew saw that Woodward's eyes had grown moist. 'Alan... your society was... what did you say it was?'
'The Ruskins, sir. An education fraternity.'
'Ah. Do you recall your motto?'
'Certainly I do. It was...' He paused, gathering it from the mist. 'The greatest sin is ignorance.'
'There's a fitting motto for an educator... is it not?' Woodward asked. 'As a jurist, I might... disagree with it... but then again, we were all young and yet to be schooled... at the university of life, were we not?'
'Oxford was difficult, ' Johnstone said. 'But the university of life is well nigh impossible.'
'Yes. It does... grade rather harshly.' The magistrate gave a long sigh, his newfound strength now almost spent. 'Pardon me... for my rambling. It seems that when one is ill... and so near death... the past becomes paramount... to ease the dwindling of one's future.'
'You need never ask apology of me to reflect on Oxford, Magistrate, ' Johnstone said with what seemed to Matthew an admirable grace. 'I too still walk those halls in my memory. Now... if you'll please forgive me... my knee also has a memory, and it is calling for liniment. Good night to you all.'
'I'll walk with you, Alan, ' Winston offered, and Johnstone accepted with a nod. 'Good night, Mr. Bidwell. Magistrate. Mt. Corbett.'
'Yes, good night, ' Bidwell replied.
Winston followed as Johnstone limped out of the room, leaning even more than usual on his cane. Then Bidwell poured himself the last few swallows of wine from the decanter and went upstairs to avoid any discourse or possible friction with Matthew. As Woodward half-dozed in the chair, Matthew awaited the arrival of Dr. Shields.
The question of Linch/Lancaster was uppermost in Matthew's mind. Here, at last, might be some hope to cling to. If Smythe could positively identify Linch as this other man, it would be a starting point to convince Bidwell that a fiction had been created around Rachel. Was it too much to hope for that all this might be accomplished on the morrow?
thirty-four
A PASSING THUNDERSHOWER had wet the earth just before dawn, but Saturday's sun shone through the dissipating clouds, and the blue sky again reappeared before the hour of eight. By then Matthew had finished his breakfast and was on his way to the maskers' camp.
He discovered—by sense of hearing before sense of sight— Phillip Brightman in discourse with two other thespians, all of them sitting in chairs behind a canvas screen, reading over and reciting pages from one of their morality scenes. When Matthew asked where he might find David Smythe, Brightman directed him to a yellow awning set up to protect a number of trunks, lanterns, and sundry other prop items. Beneath it Matthew found Smythe inspecting some brightly hued costumes that one of the troupe's women was adorning with rather used- looking peacock feathers.
'Good morning, Mr. Smythe, ' Matthew said. 'May I have a word with you?'
'Oh... good morning, Mr. Corbett. What may I help you with?'
Matthew glanced quickly at the seamstress. 'May we speak in private, please?'
'Certainly. Mrs. Prater, these are coming along very well. I'll speak with you again when the work is further advanced. Mr. Corbett, we might go over there if you like.' Smythe motioned toward a stand of oak trees about sixty feet behind the encampment.
As they walked, Smythe slid his thumbs into the pockets of his dark brown breeches. 'I think an apology is in order for our behavior last night. We left so abruptly... and for such an obvious reason. At least we might have tempered it with a more diplomatic excuse.'
'No apology is necessary. Everyone understood the reason. And better the truth than a false excuse, no matter how diplomatic.'
'Thank you, sir. I appreciate your candor.'
'The reason I wished to speak to you, ' Matthew said as they reached the oak trees' shade, 'concerns Gwinett Linch. The man you believe to be Jonathan Lancaster.'
'If I may correct you, not believe to be. As I said last night, I would swear to it. But he appears... so different. So changed. The man I knew would not be... well, would not be caught dead in such dirty rags. In fact, I recall he had a marked affinity for cleanliness.'
'And order?' Matthew asked. 'Would you say he had an affinity for that as well?'
'He kept his wagon neat enough. I remember one day he complained to my father about not having a supply of wheel grease on hand to silence a squeak.'
'Hm, ' Matthew said. He leaned against the trunk of an oak and crossed his arms. 'Exactly who was... I mean, who is... Jonathan Lancaster?'
'Well, I mentioned he had an act that involved trained rats. He had them jump through hoops and run races and such. The children loved it. Our circus travelled through most of England, and we did play London on several occasions but we found ourselves restricted to a very bad part of the city. So we mostly travelled from village to village. My father was the manager, my mother sold tickets, and I did whatever needed doing.'
'Lancaster, ' Matthew said, guiding Smythe back to the subject. 'He made his living with this trained rat show?'
'Yes, he did. None of us were exactly wealthy, but... we all pulled together.' Smythe frowned, and Matthew could tell he was forming his next statement. 'Mr. Lancaster... was a puzzling man.'
'How so? Because he worked with rats?'
'Not only that, ' Smythe said. 'But because of the other act he performed. The one that was done... well... that was done only behind closed curtains, for a small audience of adults—no children allowed—who wished to pay an extra coin to see it.'
'And what was that?'
'His display of animal magnetism.'
'Animal magnetism?' Now it was Matthew's turn to frown. 'What is that?'
'The art of magnetic manipulation. Have you not heard of such a thing?'
'I've heard of the process of magnetism, but never animal magnetism. Is this some theatrical whimsy?'
'It's been more popular in Europe than in England, I understand. Particularly in Germany, according to what my father told me. Mr. Lancaster was once a leading light of the cult of magnetism in Germany, though he was English-born. This is also according to my father, who if nothing else has a fortune of friends in the craft of public entertainment. That was, however, in Mr. Lancaster's younger years. An incident occurred that caused him to flee Germany.'
'An incident? Do you know what it was?'
'I know what my father told me, and wished me to keep secret.'
'You are no longer in England and no longer under your father's jurisdiction, ' Matthew said. 'It is vital that you tell me everything you know about Jonathan Lancaster. Particularly the secrets.'
Smythe paused and cocked his head to one side. 'May I ask why this is so important to you?'
It was a fair question. Matthew said, 'I'm going to trust you, as I hope you will trust me. Obviously Lancaster has hidden his true identity from Mr. Bidwell and everyone else in this town. I wish to know why. Also... I have reason to believe that Lancaster may be involved with the current situation in which this town finds itself.'
'What? You mean the witch?' Symthe offered a nervous smile. 'You're joking!'
'I am not, ' Matthew said firmly.
'Oh, that can't be! Mr. Lancaster may have been strange, but he wasn't demonic. I'd venture that his closed-curtain talent appeared to some to be witchcraft, but it was evidently based on principles of science.'
'Ah.' Matthew nodded, his heartbeat quickening. 'Now we approach the light, Mr. Smythe. What exactly was his closed-curtain talent?'
'Manipulation of the mind, ' Smythe answered, and Matthew had to struggle to suppress a victorious grin. 'By the application of magnetic force, Mr. Lancaster could deliver mental commands to some members of his audience, and cause them to do, believe, and say things that... um... would probably not suit the eyes and ears of
