Speaks the Nightbird

bag, Matthew couldn't fail to notice, bulged with a number of carcasses. At least one that had not yet given up the ghost was still twitching.

Matthew realized he'd just witnessed Gwinett Linch—the ratcatcher—at his noble profession.

'Somebody's got to do it,' Linch said, reading Matthew's expression. 'A town may live without a magistrate, but it ain't no place to live without a ratcatcher. Sir.' He gave an exaggerated bow and walked past Matthew, making sure his bag of booty brushed along the young man's hip.

And now it was surely time to move on. The burning house had become a pile of seething embers and fiery spits. An old woman had begun hollering about how Rachel Howarth should be hauled from the gaol and beheaded with an axeblade bathed in the blood of a lamb. Matthew saw Bidwell standing staring into the waning flames, his shoulders slumped, and truly the master of Fount Royal appeared to have lost his foundations.

Matthew watched his footing as he walked back to the mansion. He also watched his back, taking care that Seth Hazelton wasn't stalking him.

He returned to find a number of lanterns illuminating the parlor, and Mrs. Nettles in attendance to the magistrate. Woodward was in the room's most comfortable chair, his head back, eyes closed, and a compress laid against his forehead. At once Matthew deduced that something very serious had happened. 'What's wrong?'

Woodward's eyes immediately opened. He sat bolt upright. 'I was attacked, Matthew!' he said forcefully, though his voice was strained and weak. 'By someone I took to be you!'

'Took to be me?'

'Someone was in your room.' Mrs. Nettles took the compress from Woodward's head and wet it again in a bowl of water nearby. 'The magistrate heard your door bein' latched.'

'In my room?' Matthew was aware he sounded all at sea, which he was. 'Who was it?'

Woodward shook his head. Mrs. Nettles replaced the wet compress. 'Didn't see his face,' Woodward said. 'It happened so swiftly. He knocked the lantern from my hand and near broke my shoulder. I heard him run down the stairs, and then . . . gone.'

'This happened only a short time ago?'

'Twenty minutes a' th' most,' Mrs. Nettles said. 'I'd just returned from the fire, and I heard him hollerin' 'Thief.''

'You mean the man stole something?'

'I don't know.' Woodward lifted a hand and held it against the compress. 'It was all I could think of at the moment. That he was a thief trying to ransack your room.'

'Well, I'm sure he was quite disappointed. Everything I have is borrowed.' And then it struck Matthew like a musketball. 'Except for one thing.' He picked up a lantern and hurriedly ascended the stairs. He found his room to be neat and orderly, not a trace of an intruder. Except for one thing, and this was what he'd suspected.

Before going to bed, he'd placed the gold coin upon the dresser top. The coin was now gone, and Matthew doubted that it would be found in this room.

A thief indeed, Matthew thought. He spent a moment searching the floor for a gold glint, but it was not to be. 'Damn!' he swore softly.

'Anythin' missin'?' Mrs. Nettles asked when Matthew returned to the parlor. 'Yes. My gold coin.'

'Oh my Lord! Mr. Bidwell keeps some coins in a box next to his bed! I'd best go up and see if they've been plucked too!' She took a lamp and went up the stairs with a speed that Matthew would never have assigned to her.

He stood next to the magistrate's chair. Woodward was a pasty color and his breathing was very harsh. 'You're not well at all,' Matthew said.

'Who would be, after such an encounter? Goode's gone to fetch me some rum. I'll be better presently.'

'It's more than the encounter. Your health concerns me.'

Woodward closed his eyes, his head tilted back. 'I'm under the weather. I told you, it's this swamp ai —•'

'No, sir,' Matthew interrupted. 'I think the swamp air is the least of it. I'm going to have one of the servants go get Dr. Shields.'

'No, no, no!' Woodward swatted a hand at that idea as if it were one of the bothersome insects. 'I have a job to do, and I intend to do it!'

'You can still do your job. But Dr. Shields needs to be informed of your condition. Perhaps he can prescribe a tonic.'

'Sir?' It was Goode, bringing a tray upon which sat a tankard of West Indies tonic. Woodward took it and put down two swallows that made his throat feel as if scraped with a razor.

Mrs. Nettles returned to the parlor. 'Everythin's there. At least, that box a' coins hasn't been touched. Must be you scared him off'fore he could get to Mr. Bidwell's room.'

'Likely someone who thought . . . because of the attention drawn to the fire ... he could rob at his leisure.' Woodward dared to take another drink; the pain was severe, but bearable.

'There are some people jealous of what Mr. Bidwell has, for sure.'

'Did this thief carry a lantern?' Matthew asked the magistrate.

'No. I told you . . . the lantern was knocked from my hand. Quite forcibly.'

Goode, who was standing behind Woodward's chair, suddenly spoke, 'Seems to me it had to be somebody knew this house.' All eyes stared at him. 'What I mean is . . . whoever it was had to know his way up and down them stairs in the dark. No rail to hold on to, you could break your neck if you mis-stepped.'

'And you say you heard the man run down the stairs?' Matthew returned his attention to Woodward. 'Yes. Definitely.'

'If I may ask, sir . . . was nothin' stolen, then?' Goode asked of Matthew.

'One thing only, at least from my room. A Spanish gold coin.'

'A gold coin,' Goode repeated, and he frowned. 'Uh ... if I may ask another question, sir?' He paused. 'Yes, go ahead.'

'Uh . . . where might you got this coin from, sir?'

'It was in the possession of a tavern-keeper on the road from Charles Town.' He saw the black servant's frown deepen, and this perplexed him. 'Why?'

'No reason, sir.' Instantly Goode's frown relaxed. 'No reason, just curious 'bout such a thing. Forgive an old man's boldness, sir.'

'I understand.' What Matthew understood was that Goode might know somewhat more about this incident than he was willing to say, but now was not the time to pursue it.

'Is there anythin' else I'm required for, ma'am?' Goode asked Mrs. Nettles, and she told him he was free to go. The servant left the parlor, moving rather hurriedly for his age.

Presently Bidwell returned to the house. His face was damp with sweat and streaked dark by ashes, and his regal bearing had been reduced to a pauperly state by the grievances of the crowd. Though he was bone-tired and sick at heart, still his presence of mind was sharp enough to immediately see from the gathering of Mrs. Nettles, Woodward, and Matthew that something untoward had occurred.

'We've suffered a thief,' Mrs. Nettles said, before the master of the mansion could speak. 'A man was in Mr. Corbett's room. He knocked the magistrate to the floor on escapin'.'

'Near broke my shoulder,' Woodward added.

'A thief? Did you recognize the man? What was taken?'

'I didn't see his face,' the magistrate said. 'But the man evidently stole Matthew's gold coin.'

'The coin you found at Shawcombe's tavern?' Bidwell had heard about it from Paine just after they'd returned from their expedition.

Matthew nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'I have to say I'm not surprised!' Bidwell put a hand into the bowl of water and wiped it across his sooty face. 'I understand the tales that were spreading magnified that single coin into a treasure box full! Small wonder some poor farmer didn't dare to come in here and make off with the fortune!'

'Sir?' Matthew said. 'Goode has advanced the theory that whoever did it might have been a frequent visitor to your house, in that he could negotiate the stairs without benefit of a candle. Do you have many poor farmers as your guests?'