raging came up the stairs along with the sound of his footsteps and those of the person—two persons, it sounded to be—assisting him. Matthew heard Rachel's name hurled like a curse, and God's name taken in vain. Bidwell's voice gradually quieted, until at last it faded to nothing.
The house slept, fitfully, on this execution eve.
Matthew waited. Finally, when there were no more noises for a long while and his inner clock sensed the midnight hour had been passed, Matthew drew a breath, exhaled it, and stood up.
He was terrified, but he was ready.
He struck a match, lit his lantern, and put it on the dresser, then he soaped his face and shaved. It had occurred to him that his next opportunity to do so would be several weeks in the future. He used the chamberpot, and then he washed his hands and put on a clean pair of brown stockings, sand-colored breeches, and a fresh white shirt. He tore up another pair of stockings and padded the boot toes. He worked his feet into the boots and pulled them up snugly around his calves. In his bag, grown necessarily heavy with the food and other items, he packed the soap-cake and a change of clothes. He placed the explanatory letter on his bed, where it would be seen. Then he slipped the bag's strap over his shoulder, picked up the lantern, and quietly opened the door.
A feeling of panic struck him. I can yet change my mind, he thought. I can step back two paces, shut the door and—Forget? No.
Matthew shut the door behind him when he entered the hallway. He went into the magistrate's room and lit the double-candled lantern he had earlier brought there from downstairs. Opening the shutters, he set the lantern on the windowsill.
The magistrate made a muffled noise. Not of pain, simply some statement in the justice hall of sleep. Matthew stood beside the bed, looking down at Woodward's face and seeing not the magistrate but the man who had come to that almshouse and delivered him to a life he never would have imagined.
He almost touched Woodward's shoulder with a fond embrace, but he stayed his hand. Woodward was breathing well, if rather harshly, his mouth partway open. Matthew gave a quick and silent prayer that God would protect the good man's health and fortunes, and then there was no more time for lingering.
In Bidwell's study, that damned floorboard squealed again and almost sent Matthew out of his stolen boots. He lifted the map from its nail on the wall, carefully removed it from its frame and then folded it and put it down into his bag.
Downstairs—after an agonizingly slow descent meant to avoid any telltale thumps and squeaks that might bring Bidwell staggering out into the hallway—Matthew paused in the parlor to shine his lantern on the face of the mantel clock. It was near quarter to one.
He left the mansion, closed the door, and without a backward glance set off under a million stars. He kept the lantern low at his side, and shielded by his body in case the gate watchman—if indeed there remained in town anyone brave or foolish enough to sit up there all night—might happen to spy the moving flame and set off a bell- ringing alarm.
At the intersection he turned onto Truth Street and proceeded directly to the Howarth house. It was wretched in its abandonment, and made even more fearsome by the fact that Daniel Howarth had been found brutally murdered nearby. As Matthew opened the door and crossed the threshold, shining the lantern before him, he couldn't help but wonder that a ghost with a torn throat should be wandering within, forever searching for Rachel.
Ghosts there were none, but the rats had moved in. The gleam of red eyes and rodent teeth glittering under twitching whiskers greeted him, though he was certainly not a welcome guest. The rats scurried for their holes, and though Matthew had seen only five or six it sounded as if a duke's army of them festered the walls. He searched for and found the floorboard that had been lifted up to display the hidden poppets, and then he followed the lantern's glow into another room that held a bed. Its sheets and blanket were still crumpled and lying half on the floor from the March morning when Rachel was taken away.
Matthew found a pair of trunks, one containing Daniel's clothing and the other for Rachel's. He chose two dresses for her, both with long hems and full sleeves, as that was both the fashion and her favor. One dress was of a cream-colored, light material that he thought would be suitable for travelling in warm weather, and the other a stiffer dark blue printed material that impressed him as being of sturdy all-purpose use. At the bottom of the trunk were two pairs of Rachel's no-nonsense black shoes. Matthew put a pair of the shoes into his bag, the garments over his arm, and gladly left the sad, broken house to its current inhabitants.
His next destination was the gaol. He didn't go inside yet, however. There was still a major obstacle to deal with, and its name was Hannibal Green. Pinpricks of sweat had formed on his cheeks and forehead, and his insides had jellied at the thought of what could go wrong with his plan.
He left the garments and the shoulderbag in the knee-high grass beside the gaol. If all went as he hoped, he wouldn't be gone long enough for any rodent to find and investigate the package of food. Then he set his mind to the task ahead and began walking to Green's house.
As he went west on Truth Street he glanced quickly around and behind, just as a matter of reassurance—and suddenly he stopped in his tracks, his heart giving a vicious kick. He stood staring behind him, toward the gaol.
A light. Not there now, but he thought he'd seen a very brief glow there on the right side of the street, perhaps seventy or eighty feet away.
He paused, waiting, his heart slamming so hard he feared Bidwell might hear it and think a night-travelling drum corps had come to town.
If a light had indeed been displayed, it was gone. Or hidden when someone carrying it had dodged behind the protection of a hedge or wall, he thought grimly.
And another thought came to him, this one with dark consequences: had a citizen seen the flame of his lantern and emerged from a house to follow him? He realized someone might think he was either Satan incarnate or a lesser demon, prowling Fount Royal for another victim here in the dead of night. A single pistol shot would end his plans and possibly his life, but a single shout would have the same effect.
He waited. The urge to blow out his lamp was upon him, but that might truly be an admittance of foul deeds in progress. He scanned the dark. No further light appeared, if it had been there at all.
Time was passing. He had to continue his task. Matthew went on, from time to time casting a backward glance but seeing no evidence that he was being tracked. Presently he found himself in front of Green's house.
Now was the moment of truth. If he failed in the next few moments, everything would be ended.
He swallowed down a lump of fear and approached the door. Then, before he could lose his nerve, he balled up his fist and knocked.
thirty-seven
WHO... WHO'S THERE?' Matthew was taken aback. Green actually sounded frightened. Such was the double power of murder and fear, to imprison persons inside their own homes.
'It's Matthew Corbett, sir, ' he said, emboldened by the tremor in Green's voice. 'I have to speak with you.'
'Corbett? My Lord, boy! Do you know the hour?'
'Yes, sir, I do.' And here was the beginning of the necessary lie. 'I've been sent by Magistrate Woodward.' Amazing, how such a falsehood could roll off a desperate tongue!
A woman's voice spoke within, the sound muffled, and Green answered her with, 'It's that magistrate's clerk! I'll have to open it!' A latch was thrown and the door cracked. Green looked out, his red mane wild and his beard a fright. When he saw that it was only Matthew standing there and not an eight-foot-tall demon he opened the door wider. 'What's the need, boy?'
Matthew saw a rotund but not unpleasant-looking woman standing in the room behind him. She was holding a lantern in one hand and the other arm cradled a wide-eyed, red-haired child two or three years of age. 'The magistrate wishes to have Madam Howarth brought before him.'
'What? Now?'
'Yes, now.' Matthew glanced around; no other lights had appeared in the houses surrounding Green's, which was either a testament to fear or the fact that they had been abandoned.
'She'll be led to the stake in three or four hours!'
'That's why he wishes to see her now, to offer her a last chance for confession. It's a necessary part of the
