'But I saw it myself!' Winston spoke up. 'It was terribly deformed!'
'No, it appeared terribly deformed. How did you construct such a thing, Mr. Johnstone? Come now, don't be modest about your talents! You are a man of many black facets! If I myself had wished to make a false knee, I might have used... oh... clay and candle wax, I suppose. Something to cover the kneecap, build it up and make it appear deformed. You chose a time to reveal the knee when I was unfortunately otherwise occupied.' He swung his gaze to Dr. Shields. 'Doctor, you sell a liniment to Mr. Johnstone for the supposed pain in his knee, don't you?'
'Yes, I do. A hogsfat-based liniment.'
'Does this liniment have an objectionable odor?'
'Well... it's not pleasant, but it can be endured.'
'What if the hogsfat is allowed to sit over heat, and become rancid before application? Mr. Winston, the magistrate mentioned to me that you were repelled by the odor. Is that correct?'
'Yes. Very quickly repelled, as I recall.'
'That was a safeguard, you see. To prevent anyone from either looking too closely at the false knee, or— heaven forbid— touching it. Isn't that true, Mr. Johnstone?'
Johnstone stared at the floor. He rubbed the bulge of his knee, a pulse beating at his temple.
'I'm sure that's not very comfortable. Is it intended to force a limp? You probably really can't climb stairs with it on, can you? Therefore you removed it to go up and look at the gold coin? Did you mean to steal that coin, or were you simply surprised at being caught in the act? Did your greedy hand clutch it in what was for you a normal reaction?'
'Wait, ' the doctor said. He was struggling to keep up, his own brain blasted by the rigors of his confession. 'You mean to say... Alan was never educated at Oxford? But I myself heard him trading tales of Oxford with the magistrate! He seemed to know the place so well!'
'Seemed to is right, sir. I expect he must have played a schoolmaster's role in some play and picked up a modicum of information. He also knew that by passing himself off as having an Oxford education, the town would more readily dismiss the efforts of the man who served as the previous teacher.'
'But what about Margaret? Johnstone's wife?' Winston asked. 'I know her bell seemed cracked, but... wouldn't she have known if he wasn't really a schoolmaster?'
'He had a wife?' This was the first Matthew had heard of it. 'Was he wed in Fount Royal, or did he bring her with him when he arrived?'
'He brought her, ' Winston said. 'And she seemed to despise Fount Royal and all of us from the beginning. So much so that he was obliged to return her to her family in England.' He shot Johnstone a dark glance. 'At least that's what he told us.'
'Ah, now you're beginning to understand that what he told you was never necessarily the truth—and rarely so. Mr. Johnstone, what about this woman? Who was she?'
Johnstone continued to stare at the floor.
'Whoever she was, I doubt she was really wed to you. But it was a clever artifice, gentlemen, and further disguised himself as a decent schoolmaster.' Matthew suddenly had a thought, a flashing sun of revelation, and he smiled slightly as he regarded the fox. 'So: you returned this woman to her family in England, is that correct?'
Of course there was no answer.
'Mr. Bidwell, how long was it after Johnstone came back from England that the ratcatcher arrived here?'
'It was... I don't know... a month, possibly. Three weeks. I can't recall.'
'Less than three weeks, ' Winston said. 'I remember the day Linch arrived and offered his services. We were so glad to see him, as the rats were overrunning us.'
'Mr. Johnstone?' Matthew prompted. 'Had you, as a thes-pian, ever seen John Lancaster—and that was his true name— performing his act? Had you heard about his magnetism abilities while your troupe was travelling England? Perhaps you'd already met him?' Johnstone only stared blankly at the floorboards. 'In any case, ' Matthew continued with authority, 'you didn't go to England to return that so-called wife to her family. You went to England to seek a man you thought could help carry out your scheme. You knew what it would take. By then you had probably decided who the victims were going to be—even though I think your murder of Reverend Grove had more to do with hiding your falsehood than anything else—and you needed a man with the uncommon ability to create perceived truth from wholesale illusion. And you found him, didn't you?'
'Mad.' Johnstone's voice was husky and wounded. 'Mad... goddamned mad...'
'Then you convinced him to join your mission, ' Matthew went on. 'I presume you had a trinket or two to show him as proof? Did you give him the brooch? Was that one of the things you'd found during those nights you posed as a surveyor? As you declined Mr. Bidwell's offer of a bed and pitched your tent right there beside the spring, you could go swimming without being discovered. What else did you find down there?'
'I'm not...' Johnstone struggled to stand. 'I'm not staying to hear this madman's slander!'
'Look how he remains in character!' Matthew said. 'I should have known you were an actor the first night we met! I should have realized from that face powder you wore, as you wore it the night of the maskers' dinner, that an actor never feels truly comfortable before a new audience without the benefit of makeup.'
'I'm leaving!' Johnstone had gained his feet. He turned his sallow, sweating face toward the door.
'Alan? I know all about John Lancaster.' Johnstone had been about to hobble out; now he froze again, at the sound of Bidwell's quiet, powerful voice.
'I know all about his abilities, though I don't understand such things. I do understand, however, from where Lancaster took his concept of the three demons. They were freaks he'd seen, at that circus which employed David Smythe's father.'
Johnstone stood motionless, staring at the door, his back to Matthew. Perhaps the fox trembled, at this recognition of being torn asunder by the hounds.
'You see, Alan, ' Bidwell went on, 'I opened a letter that Matthew had left for the magistrate. I read that letter... and I began to wonder why such a demon-possessed boy would fear for my safety. My safety, after all the insults and taunts I hurled at him. I began to wonder... if I had not best take Mr. Winston and go to Charles Town to find the Red Bull Players. They were camped just to the south. I found Mr. Smythe, and asked him the questions that were directed in that letter.'
Johnstone had not moved, and still did not.
'Sit down, ' Bidwell commanded. 'Whatever your name is, you bastard.'
forty-two
MATTHEW AND THE OTHERS now witnessed a transformation.
Instead of being cowed by this command, instead of slumping under the iron fist of truth, Alan Johnstone slowly straightened his spine. In seconds he seemed an inch or two taller. His shoulders appeared to widen against the fabric of his dark blue jacket, as if the man had been tightly compressing himself around his secret core.
When he turned toward Matthew again, it was with an unhurried grace. Johnstone was smiling, but the truth had delivered its blow; his face was damp, his eyes deep-sunken and shock-blasted.
'Sirs, ' he said, 'dear sirs. I must confess... I never attended Oxford. Oh, this is embarrassing. Quite so. I attended a small school in Wales. I was... the son of a miner, and I realized at an early age... that some doors would be closed to my ascent, if I did not attempt to hide some... um... unfortunate and unsavory elements of my family. Therefore, I created—'
'A lie, just as you're creating now, ' Matthew interrupted. 'Are you incapable of telling the truth?'
Johnstone's mouth, which was open to speak the next falsehood, slowly closed. His smile had vanished, his face as grim as gray stone.
'I think he's lived with lies so long they're like a suit, without which he would feel nude to the world, ' Matthew said. 'You did learn a great deal about Oxford, though, didn't you? Did you actually go there and tour the place when you returned to England, just in case you needed the information? It never hurts to add details to your script, does it? And all that about your social club!' Matthew shook his head and clucked his tongue. 'Are the Ruskins even really in existence, or is that your own true name? You know, I might have realized I had proof of your lies that very night. When the magistrate recited the motto of his own social club to you, he spoke it in Latin, believing that as a fellow Oxford brother you would need no translation. But when you recited back the motto of the
