Speaks the Nightbird

Fount Royal. He knew that Bid-well would wish for a downpour to smother this conflagration, but it was not to be. The farmhouse—the very same deserted farmhouse upon which three crows had been sitting the previous morning as Matthew and Woodward had paused to talk—was doomed.

But there wasn't much danger of the fire spreading. Certainly the firemen knew it, which was why they had formed only a single line instead of a double or triple. Yesterday's torrential rain had soaked the occupied house that stood opposite a split-rail fence from the burning structure, and other houses—and the gaol, as well—were distant enough from the flying embers. It was a fierce fire in appearance and it was gnawing down its victim quickly, but it would not leap to any other roof.

Which had started Matthew thinking. Everything had been so thoroughly wet; how had this fire started? A lightning strike, perhaps? He wasn't sure if even lightning had the power to burn drenched wood. No, the fire had to have begun inside the house. Even so, how?

'That one's gone,' a man said, standing to Matthew's right.

Matthew glanced at the speaker. He was a tall, slim man wearing a brown cloak and a woolen cap. It took Matthew a few seconds to register the man's face: a long, aristocratic nose and lofty forehead, narrowed and reserved dark blue eyes. Without his white wig, his face powder, and rouge the schoolmaster looked— at least at first glance—a different person altogether. But Johnstone leaned on his twisted cane with its ivory handle, the flames daubing his face red and orange. 'It was William Bryerson's house,' he said. 'His two sons used to come to school.'

'When did the family leave?'

'Oh, William didn't leave. He lies in the cemetery yonder.

But his widow took the boys and they left ... I suppose it was early last year.' Johnstone turned his gaze upon Matthew. 'I understand your magistrate is beginning his interviews tomorrow?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I heard so from Mr. Winston. I also heard that you got into some trouble with Seth Hazelton?' Matthew nodded. 'Talk is a great currency in this town,' Johnstone said. 'Everyone knows everyone else's business. But you happened to have stumbled onto a secret, is that correct?'

'Who told you this?'

'Winston, again. Mr. Bidwell confides everything in him. He visits me of an afternoon. We play a few hands of all fours and a game or two of chess, after which I am completely educated as to current events.' He stared at the burning house again. Bidwell was shouting orders, trying to get more barrels of water to the scene, but the energy of the firemen was dwindling. 'You're going to spend three days in the gaol and receive three lashes, I understand.'

'Correct.'

'And the interviews are to be held in the gaol? That will be a novel setting.'

'It was on Mr. Bidwell's request.'

'Mr. Bidwell,' Johnstone said, his face showing not a shade of emotion, 'is a bastard hungry for coin, young man. He presents himself as an altruistic gentleman, concerned for the future of safe shipping to this colony, when indeed his one single goal is the further stuffing of his pockets. And for that purpose he will have Rachel Howarth executed.'

'He believes she's a witch.' Matthew paused a few seconds. 'Don't you?'

Johnstone gave a faint half-smile. 'Do you?'

'It remains to be seen.'

'Ah, diplomacy in action. It's to be commended in this day and age, but I'd request a more honest answer.' Matthew was silent, not knowing what more he should reveal. 'The magistrate,' Johnstone said, looking around. 'Where is he?'

'I left him asleep at the house. He's not easily awakened.'

'Evidently not. Well, since he's not within earshot, I'd like to know what you honestly think about Rachel Howarth.'

'It would be betraying my office, sir.'

Johnstone thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. He tilted his head to one side, intently watching the fire. 'Thank you; you've told me what I needed to know. I assumed you were an educated young man, freed from the bondage of ancient thinking. You have your doubts about witchcraft, as I do. Rachel Howarth is in a cage because of several reasons, not the least of which being she is a beautiful woman and threatens the sensibilities of the more portly cows in this town. Her Portuguese blood is also a mark against her. Too close to being a Spaniard. Add to that the fact that Daniel Howarth was a man of Bidwell's stripe, without his charm. He had enemies here, without a doubt.'

'What, then?' Matthew had to take a glance around to make sure no one was standing close enough to overhear. 'You believe someone else murdered him?'

'Yes, I do. Not Satan. A man. Or a woman who has a man's strength, of which there are some hereabouts.'

'But Mr. Garrick saw Madam Howarth and . . . something . . . behind the barn.'

'Mr. Garrick,' Johnstone said calmly, 'has a mind like an iron sieve. I would question if not his eyesight, then his soundness of sanity.'

'Why did you not speak out at our dinner, then?'

'Yes, and then I might find myself a cellmate with Rachel Howarth. That's an honor I would not wish to have.'

'This is a merry damnation, isn't it?' someone else spoke up, stepping beside the schoolmaster. The small- framed Dr. Shields was in his nightshirt, his long hair wild and wind-whipped, his pale blue eyes large behind the oval spectacles. 'It's no use the waste of good water!'

'Hello, Benjamin.' Johnstone gave a slight nod. 'I should think you'd stay in bed, these fires being such a commonplace nowadays.'

'I could say the same for you. In truth, this is much more exciting than watching crops fail to grow.' He steadied his gaze at Matthew. 'Hello there, young man. In some trouble yesterday, I hear.'

'A little,' Matthew said.

'Three days in the gaol and three lashes is a modicum, not a minimum. Favor me, as I shall be applying liniment to your stripes before long. Where's the magistrate?'

'In bed,' Johnstone said before Matthew could answer. 'He's a sensible sleeper, it seems, not given to excitement over the burning of abandoned houses.'

'Yes, but he's a man of the city, and therefore has learned how to sleep through all manner of holocausts.' Shields faced the fire, which was now totally beyond control. Bidwell was still hollering orders, trying to rouse the firemen to further action but some of the urgency had gone from his demeanor. Matthew saw Nicholas Paine conferring with Bidwell, who waved an impatient arm in the direction of his mansion. Then Paine merged into the onlookers again and was gone from sight. Matthew noted also the presence of Mrs. Nettles, who was wrapped up in a long black robe; there was the giant gaol-keeper, Mr. Green, standing off to one side smoking a corncob pipe; Garrick was there, looking mightily worried; Edward Winston, wearing a gray shirt and wrinkled brown trousers that appeared hastily climbed into, stood beside Garrick. Winston glanced back over his shoulder and his eyes locked for a second or two with Matthew's. Then he too moved off into the throng of onlookers.

'I'm going home to bed,' Johnstone announced. 'The dampness gives my knee the devil of an ache.'

'I'll give you some more liniment, if you like,' Shields offered.

'You and that liniment! Matthew, if it's the same hogsfat preparation for your stripes as it is for my knee, you have my sincerest condolences. I suggest you practise wearing a clothes pin on your nose.' Johnstone started to limp away, but then paused. 'You think on what I've said, young man,' he entreated. 'When your time is served, I should like to talk to you further on this subject.'

'What, are these secrets I shouldn't be hearing?' Shields asked.

'No secrets, Benjamin. I'm just attempting to advance the young man's education. Good night.' So saying, he turned and followed his cane through the crowd.

'Well,' Shields said with a sigh, 'I should be returning to bed myself. I have a long hard day of watching another patient die.' He gave a twisted smile. 'Life in the New World, indeed.'