Speaks the Nightbird

and his mouth open. Woodward's eyes were heavy, his chin dropping. At last their host stood up, yawned, and stretched.

'I'll take my leave of you,' Bidwell announced. 'I hope you both sleep well.'

'I'm sure we shall, thank you.'

'If there's anything you need, Mrs. Nettles will be at your service. I trust your endeavors tomorrow will be successful.' He started out of the room, then halted on the threshold. 'Magistrate, don't put yourself at risk. Paine can handle a pistol. Let him and his men do the dirty work, as I require you for a higher purpose. Understand?'

'Yes.'

'Good night then, gentlemen.' Bidwell turned and left the dining room, and in a moment could be heard tromping up the staircase to his own quarters.

Woodward regarded the two sleepers, to make sure they were both unconscious, and then said to Matthew, 'Nothing like a command performance to sharpen the wits, eh? One week to decide the fate of a woman I've never met. Even the cold-hearted murderers in Newgate prison are afforded more time than that. Well . . .' He stood up, his vision bleary. 'I'm to bed. Good night.'

'Good night, sir,' Matthew replied. After the magistrate had trudged out, Matthew got up from the bench and retrieved the empty tankard near Dr. Shields's outstretched hand. He stared into it, recalling the tankard in which Shawcombe had dropped the gold coin. A Spanish coin, taken from an Indian. What was an Indian doing with a Spanish coin? This question had needled him all day, daring him to find an answer. It was still there, something that required clearing away before he could fully concentrate on his clerking duties and the case of the witch. Possibly Shawcombe could be persuaded to shed more light on it, before he swung.

Tomorrow was sure to be an interesting day. Mathew returned the tankard to the table, then wearily climbed the stairs to his room. Within a few minutes he was asleep in his borrowed clothes.

 six

FIRST PROVIDENCE HAD BROUGHT the magistrate and his clerk to Shawcombe's wretched little tavern, and now necessity had returned them.

There stood the place, festering alongside the muddy track. As he saw it come into view, Woodward felt his guts tighten. He and Matthew were sitting in a wagon whose team of horses was guided by Malcolm Jennings, he of the hawkish eye and toothless mouth. On the left, Nicholas Paine sat easily astride a burly chestnut stallion while on the right a third militiaman named Duncan Tyler—an older man, his beard gray and face seamed with wrinkles but his attitude right and eager for the job at hand—mounted a black horse. The journey from Fount Royal had taken well over three hours, and even though the rain had ceased before dawn the sky was still pale gray with clouds. The onset of an oppressive, damp heat had caused steam to rise from the muck. All the travellers were wet with sweat under their shirts, the horses ill tempered and stubborn.

Still fifty yards from the tavern, Paine lifted his hand as a signal for Jennings to halt the wagon. 'Wait here,' he commanded, and he and Tyler rode their horses on to the tavern's door. Paine reined his steed and dismounted. He brought his wheel-lock pistol from his saddlebag and inserted a spanner to properly wind and prepare the mechanism. Tyler got off his horse and, a readied wheel-lock pistol also in hand, followed the captain of militia up onto the tavern's porch.

Matthew and the magistrate watched as Paine balled up his fist and pounded the door. 'Shawcombe!' they heard him call. 'Open up!'

There was no response. Matthew expected at any second to hear the ugly crack of a pistol shot. The door was unlatched, and the force of Paine's fist had made it creak open a few inches. Inside was not a glimmer of light. 'Shawcombe!' Paine shouted warily. 'You'll be better served by showing yourself!' Still no response.

'They're like to get they heads blowed off,' Jennings said, both hands gripping the reins and his knuckles white.

Paine put one boot against the door and kicked it wide open.

'Careful,' Woodward breathed.

Paine and Tyler entered the tavern. The others waited, Matthew and Woodward expecting to hear shouts and shots. But no such things happened. Presently Paine reappeared. He held his pistol down at his side and motioned for Jennings to bring the wagon and the passengers the rest of the distance.

'Where are they?' Woodward asked as he climbed down from the wagon. 'Didn't you find them?'

'No sir. It appears they've cleared out.'

'Damn it!' Heat rose into Woodward's face. 'That cunning bastard! But wait, there's the barn to be searched!'

'Duncan!' Paine called into the tavern's gloom. 'I'm going back to the barn!' He started off, slogging through the mud, and Matthew followed at a distance respectful of any gunfire that might erupt from the barn or the forest. Matthew quickly noted that things had indeed changed: the horses were no longer in their corral, which was wide open, and the pigs were gone as well. The rooster, hens, and chicks were likewise vanished. The barn door was slightly ajar, its locking timber lying in the mud nearby. Paine lifted his pistol again. 'Come out of there!' he called toward the entrance. 'I won't hesitate to shoot!'

But again, no one replied. Paine glanced sharply back at Matthew as a warning to remain where he was, then he walked forward and pulled the barn door open wider. He peered in, his pistol ready for any sudden movement. He drew a breath to steel himself and walked inside.

Matthew waited, his heart pounding. Presently, Paine emerged with his pistol lowered. 'Not in there,' he said. 'I found two wagons, but no horses.'

Then they were well and truly fled, Matthew thought. Probably when Shawcombe realized his intended victims might reach Fount Royal, he knew his reign had ended. 'I'll show you where Shawcombe buried the bodies,' he told Paine, and led him around behind the barn toward the woods. Back there, where the water-soaked earth had given way and revealed Shawcombe's misdeeds, a small storm cloud of flies swirled above the grisly remains. Paine put one hand over his mouth and nose to stifle the smell and approached the gravepit, but only close enough for a quick look before he retreated.

'Yes,' he said, his face gone pasty-gray. 'I see the picture.'

Matthew and Paine returned to the tavern. Tyler had opened most of the shutters, allowing the daylight to overrun Shawcombe's sorry domain. With the onset of such illumination, the rats that had been making carnival in every room put up a fierce and indignant squealing and fled for their holes, save one large individual that bared its teeth and might've attacked had not Tyler's right boot dealt the first and bone-breaking blow. Jennings was happily busying himself by collecting such items as lanterns, wooden bowls, spoons and knives, and other small utensils that could be easily carted home. Matthew found the magistrate standing in the room from which they'd escaped; the light revealed the shattered door and on the floorboards the dark brown stains of Shawcombe's blood.

'Gone,' Woodward said grimly. 'Everything, gone.'

And so it was. Their luggage—the two trunks and the wig box, the valise containing Matthew's writing quills, inkpot, and tablet—had disappeared.

'My waistcoat.' Woodward might've sunken down onto the straw pallet, but evidence of rodent habitation prevented him, even though he felt weak enough to faint. 'That animal Shawcombe has taken my waistcoat, Matthew.' He looked into the younger man's face, and Matthew saw that his eyes were damp with soul-deep anguish. 'I'll never get it back now,' he said. 'Never.'

'It was just a garment, ' Matthew answered, and instantly he knew it was the wrong thing to say because the magistrate winced as if he'd been physically struck.

'No.' Woodward slowly shook his head; he stood stoop-shouldered, as if crushed by a tremendous sadness. 'It was my life.'

'Magistrate?' Paine called. He looked into the room before Woodward could rouse himself to respond. 'They haven't been gone very long. The fire's still banked. Did you find your belongings?'

'No. They've been taken.'

'Oh, I'm sorry. You had some items of value?'

'Very much value, yes. Shawcombe took everything.'

'This is a strange state of affairs,' Matthew said, after a moment of thought. He went to the open window and stared toward the barn. 'There are no horses here, but Shawcombe left two wagons. I presume one of those is