Speaks the Nightbird

'Well, neither shall I. Tell me.'

'In essence, she requested that you and I both approach this case with an open mind. She believes Madam Howarth to be falsely accused.'

'And she told you why she believes this?'

'No, sir. Just that she fears our minds will be poisoned.'

Woodward stared off across Truth Street at a small pasture where several cows grazed. A woman wearing a straw hat was on her knees in a beanfield, pulling up weeds, while her husband was at work nailing shingles atop their farmhouse. Nearby, on the other side of a split-rail fence, stood a farmhouse that had been abandoned by its previous tenants, its field now a swampy thicket. Three crows perched on the roof of the forlorn house, looking to Woodward like a trio of black-robed magistrates. Perhaps, he mused, they were awaiting the departure of the next-door neighbors.

'You know,' he said quietly, 'that if Rachel Howarth is a witch, then she has powers of influence that are much beyond our perception.'

'Mrs. Nettles asked me not to mention our conversation to Bidwell, for the reason that he might think her so influenced.'

'Hmm,' Woodward said, a sound of thought. 'Poison can be served from many cups, Matthew. I'd beware the one from which I chose to drink. Come, let's walk.' They started off once more. 'What did you make of Noles's story?'

'Hogwash. He wants out of his cage.'

'And the Devil's marks on the woman's body?'

'Inconclusive,' Matthew said. 'Such marks are common on most people.' He didn't have to mention the blotches that marked Woodward's pate.

'Granted. What, then, of the poppets?'

'I think you should see them for yourself.'

'Agreed. I'm sorry Madam Grunewald is no longer available.'

'You should ask Bidwell for a list of witnesses who are available,' Matthew suggested. 'Then you should secure some place to interview them where Bidwell can't interfere.'

'Yes.' He nodded, then darted a sidelong glance at Matthew. 'We will have to interview Madam Howarth again, of course. At length. She seems to be acceptable to your questions, but mute to anyone else. Why do you think that is?'

'I don't know.'

Woodward let them stride a few more paces before he spoke again. 'You don't think it's possible that she knew Mrs. Nettles would speak to you this morning? And that by only addressing your questions she might. . . how shall I put this?. . . Win some favor from you?'

'I'm just a clerk. I have no—'

'—powers of influence?' Woodward interrupted. 'You see my point, don't you?'

'Yes, sir,' Matthew had to admit. 'I do.'

'And her unwillingness or inability to speak the Lord's Prayer is especially damning. If she would or could speak it, then why won't she? Do you have any theories?'

'None,' Matthew said.

'Except for the obvious, that—as Paine said—her tongue would be scorched by mention of the Holy Father. It's happened before in witchcraft trials that the accused made an attempt at speaking the prayer and fell convulsed with agony to the courtroom floor.'

'Has it ever happened that anyone accused of witchcraft spoke the prayer and was set free?'

'Of that I can't say. I'm far from an expert in these matters. I do know that some witches are able to speak the name of God without ill effect, being somehow shielded from harm by their master. That much I've read in court dockets. But if Madam Howarth did speak the prayer—in its entirety, with proper holy attitude and without fainting or crying out in pain—then it would go a distance in helping her cause.' The magistrate frowned, watching another crow circling above their heads. It came to him that the Devil could take many forms, and he ought to be wary of what he said and where he said it. 'You do realize, don't you, that Madam Howarth today made a confession of sorts?'

'Yes, sir.' Matthew knew what he meant. 'When she disrobed, she said, 'Here is the witch.''

'Correct. If that's not a confession, I never heard one. I could order the stake to be cut and the fire to be laid this afternoon, if I had a mind to.' He was silent for a moment, during which they neared the conjunction of Fount Royal's streets. 'Tell me why I should not,' he said.

'Because the witnesses should be heard. Because Madam Howarth deserves the right to speak without pressure from Bid-well. And because . . .' Matthew hesitated, 'I'd like to know why she murdered her husband.'

'And I the—' same, Woodward was about to say, but before he could finish he was interrupted by the high-pitched voice of a woman.

'Magistrate! Magistrate Woodward!'

It was so sharp and startling that for an instant Woodward thought the crow had spoken his name, and if he were to look up he would see the evil bird about to sink its talons into his scalp. But suddenly a woman came into view, hurrying across the square where Fount Royal's streets met. She wore a simple indigo blue dress, a blue- checked apron, and a white bonnet, and she carried a basket that held such household items as candles and blocks of soap. The magistrate and Matthew halted as the woman neared.

'Yes, madam?' Woodward asked.

She gave him a sunny smile and a quick curtsey. 'Forgive me, but when I saw you walking I had to come and introduce myself. I am Lucretia Vaughan. My husband is Stewart, who owns the carpentry shop.' She nodded in the direction of Industry Street.

'My pleasure. This is my clerk, Matthew—'

'Corbett, yes, I know. Oh, you two gentlemen are quite the talk hereabouts. How you defied that mad innkeeper and fought off his brood of murderers with a single sword! It's made for a welcome tale of bravery among us!' Matthew had to hold back a laugh; it seemed their midnight flight from Shawcombe's tavern was being transformed by the residents of Fount Royal into something akin to Ulysses's monumental battle with the Cyclops.

'Well,' Woodward said, unconsciously puffing out his chest a bit, 'it did take all our wits to escape that gang of killers.' Matthew was forced to lower his head and study the ground.

'But how exciting that must have been!' the woman went on, almost breathless. It had already registered to Woodward that she was a very handsome figure, in her thirties perhaps, with clear blue eyes and a friendly, open demeanor. Curls of light brown hair escaped her bonnet, and her face—though lined by time and the rigors of the frontier life—was as pleasing as a warm lantern on a chill, dark night. 'And to have found such a treasure, as well!'

Woodward's smile faltered. 'A treasure?'

'Yes, the sack of gold coins you discovered! Spanish gold, wasn't it? Come, sir, please don't be coy with a simple country lady!'

Matthew's heart was beating somewhere in the vicinity of his Adam's apple. He said, 'May I ask a question?' then waited for Mrs. Vaughan to nod. 'Who informed you of this sack of gold coins?'

'Well, I heard it from Cecilia Semmes, who heard it from Joan Baltour. But everyone knows, Mr. Corbett! Oh!' Her eyes widened, and she put a finger to her lips, 'Was it supposed to be a secret?'

'I fear you've been misinformed,' Woodward said. 'My clerk found a single coin of Spanish gold, not a sackful.'

'But Cecilia promised me it was God's truth! And Cecilia's not one to pass on tales that aren't true!'

'In this case, your friend has erred. Grievously,' Woodward added.

'But, I can't understand why—' She stopped, and a knowing smile spread over her face. Her eyes gleamed with delight. 'Ohhhh, I see! The cat jumped out of the bag, didn't it?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You can trust me, sir! Mum's the word!'