He started to speak the name, but he knew it wouldn't help. Brightman regarded him with a stony stare.
'I don't know what intrigues are in progress here, ' Bright-man said, 'and neither do I wish to know. It is my experience that the Devil has a long arm.' He scanned the vista of Fount Royal, his eyes saddened. 'It pains me to say it, but I doubt we shall have need to come this way next summer. Many fine people lived here, and they were very kind to us. But... such are the tides of life. Now please pardon me, as I have work to do.'
Matthew could say nothing more. He watched as Brightman walked away to join a group of men who were taking down the yellow awning. Horses were being hitched to one of the wagons, and the other horses were being readied. It occurred to him that he might assert his rights and go to each wagon in turn until Smythe was found, but what then? If Smythe was too anguished to speak, what good would it do? But no, he couldn't let Smythe just ride out of here without telling Bidwell who the ratcatcher really was! It was inconceivable!
And it was equally inconceivable to grab an ailing person with a nervous disorder by the scruff of the neck and shake him like a dog until he talked.
Matthew staggered, light-headed, to the other side of Industry Street and sat down at the edge of a cornfield. He watched the camp dwindling as the wagons were further packed. Every few minutes he vowed he would stand, march defiantly over there and find Smythe for himself. But he remained seated, even when a whip cracked and the cry 'Get up!' rang out and the first wagon creaked away.
Once the departure of wagons had begun, the others soon followed. Brightman, however, remained with the final wagon and helped the Falstaffian-girthed thespian lift a last trunk and two smaller boxes. Before the work was completed, Bidwell's carriage came into view. Bidwell bade Goode halt, and Matthew watched as the master of Fount Royal climbed down and went to speak with Brightman.
The discussion lasted only three or four minutes. Bidwell did a lot of listening and nodding. It ended with the two men shaking hands, and then Brightman got up onto the driver's plank of his wagon, which the Falstaffian gentleman already occupied. A whip popped, Brightman boomed, 'Go on there, go on!' and the horses began their labor.
Matthew felt tears of bitter frustration burn his eyes. He bit his lower lip until it nearly bled. Brightman's wagon trundled away. Matthew stared at the ground until he saw a shadow approaching, and even then he kept his head bowed.
'I have assigned James Reed to guard the house, ' Bidwell said. His voice was wan and listless. 'James is a good, dependable man.'
Matthew looked up into Bidwell's face. The man had donned both his wig and tricorn again, but they sat at crooked angles. Bidwell's face appeared swollen and the color of yellow chalk, his eyes like those of a shot-stunned animal. 'James will keep them out, ' he said, and then he frowned. 'What shall we do for a ratcatcher?'
'I don't know, ' was all Matthew could say.
'A ratcatcher, ' Bidwell repeated. 'Every town must have one. Every town that wishes to grow, I mean.' He looked around sharply as another wagon—this one open-topped and carrying the hurriedly packed belongings of Martin and Constance Adams—passed along Industry Street on its way out. Martin was at the reins, his face set with grim resolve. His wife stared straight ahead also, as if terrified to even glance back at the house they were fleeing. The child, Violet, was pressed between them, all but smothered.
'Essential for a town, ' Bidwell went on, in a strangely calm tone. 'That rats be controlled. I shall... I shall put Edward on the problem. He will give me sound advice.'
Matthew clasped his fingers to his temples and then released the pressure. 'Mr. Bidwell, ' he said. 'We are dealing with a human being, not Satan. One human being. A cunning fox of which I have never before seen the like.'
'They'll be frightened at first, ' Bidwell replied. 'Yes, of course they will be. They were so looking forward to the maskers.'
'Lancaster was murdered because his killer knew he was about to be exposed. Either Lancaster told that man—or a very strong and ruthless woman—about Smythe identifying him... or the killer was in your house last night when Smythe related it to me.'
'I think... some of them will leave. I can't blame them. But they'll come to their senses, especially with the burning so near.'
'Please, Mr. Bidwell, ' Matthew said. 'Try to hear what I'm saying.' He lowered his head again, his mind almost overwhelmed by what he was thinking. 'I don't believe Mr. Winston to be capable of murder. Therefore... if indeed the killer was someone in your house last night... that narrows the field to Mrs. Nettles and Schoolmaster Johnstone.' Bidwell was silent, but Matthew heard his rough breathing.
'Mrs. Nettles... could have overheard, from outside the parlor. There may be... may be a fact I've missed about her. I recall... she said something important to me, concerning Reverend Grove... but I can't draw it up. The schoolmaster... are you absolutely certain his knee is—'
Bidwell began to laugh.
It was possibly the most terrible sound Matthew had ever heard. It was a laugh, yes, but also in the depths of it was something akin to a strangled shriek.
Matthew raised his eyes to Bidwell and received another shock. Bidwell's mouth was laughing, but his eyes were holes of horror and tears had streaked down his cheeks. He began to back away as the laughter spiralled up and up. He lifted his arm and aimed his index finger at Matthew, his hand trembling.
The crazed laughter abruptly stopped. 'You, ' he rasped. And now not only was he weeping, but his nose had begun to run. 'You're one of them, aren't you? Sent to ruin my town and drive me mad. But I'll beat you yet! I'll beat all of you! I've never failed and I shall not fail! Do you hear me? Never failed! And I shall not ... shall not... shall—'
'Mr. Bidwell, suh?' Goode had stepped beside the man and gently taken hold of his arm. Though it was such an improper gesture between slave and master, Bidwell made no attempt to pull away. 'We ought best be goin'.'
Bidwell continued to stare at Matthew, his eyes seeing only a prince of destruction. 'Suh?' Goode prompted quietly. 'Ought be goin'.' He gave Bidwell's arm just the slightest tug.
Bidwell shivered, though the sun was bright and warm. He lowered his gaze and wiped the tearstreaks from his face with the back of his free hand. 'Oh, ' he said; it was more the exhalation of breath than speech. 'I'm tired. Near... worn out.'
'Yes suh. You do needs a rest.'
'A rest.' He nodded. 'I'll feel better after a rest. Help me to the carriage, will you?'
'Yes suh, I will.' Goode looked at Matthew and put a finger to his lips, warning Matthew to make no further utterances. Then Goode steadied Bidwell, and the slave and master walked together to the carriage.
Matthew remained where he was. He watched Goode help his master into a seat, and then Goode got up behind the horses, flicked the reins, and the horses started off at an ambling pace.
When the carriage had departed from sight, Matthew stared blankly at the empty field where the maskers had been and thought he might weep himself.
His hopes of freeing Rachel were wrecked. He had not a shred of evidence to prove any of the things he knew to be true. Without Lancaster—and without Smythe to lend credence to the tale—the theory of how Fount Royal had been seduced by mental manipulation was a madman's folly. Finding the sapphire brooch and the book on ancient Egypt would have helped, but the killer had already known their value—and must have been well aware of their presence—and so had stolen them away as efficiently as he had murdered Lancaster. He—or she, God forbid—had even torn up the house so no one would know the ratcatcher's true living habits.
So. What now?
He had come through this maze to find himself at a dead end. Which only meant, he believed, that he must retrace his steps and search for the proper passage. But the time was almost gone.
Almost gone.
He knew he was grasping at straws by accusing either the schoolmaster or Mrs. Nettles. Lancaster might have told his killer yesterday that he'd been recognized, and the cunning fox had waited until long after dark to visit the wretched-looking house. Just because Smythe had revealed his recognition to Matthew in Bidwell's parlor didn't mean the killer had been there to overhear it.
He trusted Mrs. Nettles, and did not want to believe she had a hand in this. But what if everything the woman had said was a lie? What if she had been manipulating him all along? It might not have been Lancaster who took
