the coin, but Mrs. Nettles. She certainly could have laid the magistrate out cold if she'd chosen to.
And the schoolmaster. An Oxford man, yes. A highly educated man. The magistrate had seen Johnstone's deformed knee, it was true, but still...
There was the question of the bearded surveyor and his interest in the fount. It was important. Matthew knew it was, but he could not prove it.
Neither could he prove the fount was a pirate's treasure vault, nor indeed that it held a single coin or jewel.
Neither could he prove that any of the witnesses had not actually seen what they believed to see, and that Rachel hadn't made those damning poppets and hidden them in her house.
Neither could he prove that Rachel had been chosen as the perfect candidate to paint as a witch by two persons—possibly more?—who both were masters of disguise.
Certainly he couldn't prove that Linch was Lancaster and Lancaster had been murdered by his accomplice, and that Satan himself didn't scrawl that message on the door.
Now Matthew truly felt close to weeping. He knew everything—or almost everything—of how it had been done, and he felt sure he knew why it had been done, and he knew the name of one of the persons who'd done it...
But without proof he was a beggar in the house of justice, and could expect not a single scrap.
Another wagon passed along Industry Street, carrying a family and their meager belongings away from this accursed town. The last days of Fount Royal had come.
And Matthew was keenly aware that Rachel's last hours were passing away, and that on Monday morning she would surely burn and for the rest of his life—the rest of his miserable, frost-souled life—only he would know the truth.
No, that was wrong. There would be one other, who would grin as the flames roared and the ashes flew, as the houses emptied and the dream perished. Who would grin as the thought came clear: All the silver, gold, and jewels... all mine now... and those fools never even knew.
Only one fool knew. And he was powerless to stop either the flow of time or the flow of citizens fleeing Fount Royal.
thirty-five
AND NOW THE WHOLE WORLD was silent. Or at least it seemed so, to Matthew's ears. In fact, the world was so silent that the sound of his feet creeping on the hallway's floorboards sounded to him like barely muffled cannonades, and the errant squeak of a loose timber like a high-pitched human shriek.
He had a lantern in hand. He was dressed in his bedclothes, as he had retired to sleep several hours ago. In reality, though, he had retired to ponder and wait. The time had arrived, and he was on a journey to Bidwell's upstairs study.
It was now the Sabbath morning. He reasoned it was sometime between midnight and two o'clock. The previous day had truly been nightmarish, and this current day promised to be no less an ordeal.
Matthew had himself seen eight more wagons departing Fount Royal. The gate had been opened and closed with a regularity that would have been comical had it not been so tragic. Bidwell had remained in his bedchamber all day. Winston had gone in to see him, as had Dr. Shields, and once Matthew had heard Bidwell's voice raving and raging with a frightful intensity that made one believe all the demons of Hell had ringed his bed to pay their ghastly respects. Perhaps in Bidwell's tortured mind they had.
During the course of the day Matthew had sat at the magistrate's bedside for several hours, reading the book on English plays and attempting to keep his mind from wandering to the Florida country. He was also there to guard against the magistrate finding out what had occurred this morning, as it might cause Woodward deep grief that would sink him again into sickness. The magistrate, though certainly able to communicate more clearly and feeling positive about his chances of improvement, was yet weak and in need of further rest. Dr. Shields had administered three more doses of the powerful medicine, but had been wise enough during his visits not to mention anything that could harm his patient's outlook. The medicine did what it was meant to do: it sent Woodward to the dreamer's land, where he could not know what tumult was taking place in reality.
Fortunately, the magistrate had been asleep—or, rather, drugged—when Bidwell had carried out his raging. In the evening, as darkness called upon Fount Royal and many fewer lamps answered than the night before, Matthew had asked Mrs. Nettles for a deck of cards and played a dozen or so games of five and forty with the magistrate, who was delighted at the chance to challenge his sluggish mind. As they played, Matthew made mention of Woodward's dream of Oxford, and how Johnstone had also seemed to enjoy the recollections.
'Yes, ' Woodward had said, studying his cards. 'Once an Oxford man... always so.'
'Hm.' Matthew had decided to let another hand go by before he mentioned the schoolmaster again. 'It is a shame about Mr. Johnstone's knee. Being so deformed. But he does get around well, doesn't he?'
A slight smile had crept across the magistrate's mouth. 'Matthew, Matthew, ' he'd said. 'Do you never quit?'
'I'm sorry, sir?'
'Please. I am not... so ill and... weak-minded that I can't see through you. What is this now... about his knee?'
'Nothing, sir. I was just making mention of it, in passing. You did say you saw it, did you not?'
'I did.'
'At close quarters?'
'Close enough. I could smell nothing... because of my condition... but I recall that Mr. Winston was... quite repelled... by the odor of Mr. Johnstone's hogsfat liniment.'
'But you did clearly view the deformity?'
'Yes, ' Woodward had said. 'Clearly, and... it was a viewing... I would not care to repeat. Now... may we return to our game?'
Not long after that, Dr. Shields had arrived with the magistrate's third dose of the day, and Woodward had been sleeping calmly ever since.
Matthew had, in the afternoon, taken the opportunity for a quick look into Bidwell's study, so now in the middle of the night he had no problem getting inside. He closed the door behind him and crossed the gold-and-red Persian rug to the large mahogany desk that commanded the room. He sat down in the desk's chair and quietly pulled open the topmost drawer. He found no map there, so he went on to the next drawer. A careful search through papers, wax seals with the scrolled letter B, official-looking documents and the like revealed no map. Neither did the third drawer, nor the fourth and final one.
Matthew stood up, taking his lantern to the study's bookshelves. On the way, the squeal of a loose pinewood floorboard made his flesh crawl. Then he began to methodically move all the leatherbound books one from another, thinking that perhaps the map might be folded up and stored between two of them. Of course, the map might also be folded up inside one of the books, which was going to necessitate a longer search than he'd anticipated.
He was perhaps near midway in his route through the bookshelves when he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He hesitated, listening more intently. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and also hesitated. There was a space of time in which neither Matthew nor the person in the hallway moved. Then he heard the footsteps approaching and he saw lantern light in the space between door and floorboards.
Quickly he opened the glass of his own lamp and blew out the flame. He retreated to the protection of the desk and crouched down on the floor.
The door opened. Someone entered, paused for a few seconds, and then the door was closed again. Matthew could see the ruddy glow of the person's lantern upon the walls as it moved from side to side. And then the voice came, but cast low so as not to leave the room: 'Mr. Corbett, I know ye just blew out a candle. I can smell it. If you'd show y'self, please?'
He stood up and Mrs. Nettles centered her lamplight on him. 'Ye mi' care to know that my own quarters are 'neath this room, ' she said. 'I heard someone walkin' and 'sumed it must be Mr. Bidwell, as this is his private study.'
'Pardon me, I didn't mean to wake you.'
'I'm sure you didn't, but I was already waked. I was plan-nin' on comin' up and lookin' in on 'im, since he was
