Speaks the Nightbird

'No. Excepting Garrick, of course. But he's only been here twice, and the second time was at our dinner.' Again he wet his face with a handful of water. It dawned upon him what Matthew was getting at. 'You believe the thief was a common acquaintance of mine?'

'A probability. I found no lantern in my room. The man may have entered in the dark and been familiar enough with your house not to need illumination.'

'A servant, then!' Bidwell looked at Mrs. Nettles. 'Have you seen to my bedchamber yet?'

'Yes sir, I have. Your coin box is undisturbed. I took the liberty also of inspectin' your study. Nothin' missin' there, as far as I could tell. And—if I ma' speak my mind, sir—the servants know where your coin box is. There're Dutch gold pieces aplenty in it.' She lifted her eyebrows. 'You follow what I'm sayin', sir?'

'Mr. Bidwell?' Matthew said. He had come to a conclusion of sorts. 'Whoever entered your house had been here before, probably many times. I believe he specifically wanted the coin that was in my possession. He knew I wouldn't be in the room. He knew also that the magistrate was a hard sleeper. Because I told him.'

'You did?'

'Yes, sir. Except this theory is somewhat flawed. Schoolmaster Johnstone couldn't have run down the stairs.'

Bidwell stared at him, mouth agape. And then from that open mouth came a laugh like donkey's bray. 'Now you've shown your true intellect, boy!' he said, with more than a touch of glee. 'Schoolmaster Johnstone a thief! Put this in your broken pipe and puff on it: the man's even unable to climb stairs, much less run down them! He has a deformed knee, in case it's escaped you!'

'I've seen what appears to be a deformed knee,' Matthew said calmly. 'I've not seen the knee itself.'

'By God, you are a right brash set of bones!' Bidwell grinned savagely. 'Have you lost whatever mind you brought to this town?'

'I am only telling you, sir, that I informed the schoolmaster that Magistrate Woodward was asleep in his room.'

'Well, Hell's burnin' bells! I told the same thing to Nicholas Paine, when he asked where the magistrate was!'

'And Mr. Winston asked me,' Mrs. Nettles said. 'I told him I thought the magistrate was still abed.'

'Mrs. Nettles knew it!' Bidwell brayed on. 'I think she could knock a man down, don't you?' His wet face flushed when he realized what he'd just said. 'No offense, Mrs. Nettles.'

'None taken, sir. I once threw my dear departed husband through a winda.'

'There, you see?' Bidwell turned his glare upon Woodward. 'Sir, if this was the most able clerk you could discover, I pity the judicial world!'

'He's able enough,' was the magistrate's rather frosty reply. 'Even if he does sometimes put his cart before his horses.'

'In this case, his cart is lacking not only horses but wheels!' Bidwell shook his head, disgusted with the whole business. 'Oh, if I live to see the new year I shall count it as a miracle! Here, what's that you're drinking?'

'Rum,' Woodward answered.

'What's rum for one is rum for two, then!' Bidwell took the tankard from him and swigged the rest of it down.

'There is another thing,' Matthew said; he'd remembered it, just as Bidwell had mentioned living to see the new year. 'Dr. Shields.'

'Yes? What about him? Was he in here with the schoolmaster, both of them thieving?'

'He also inquired as to the whereabouts of the magistrate, and Mr. Johnstone told him what I'd said. The doctor excused himself from my presence just after Mr. Johnstone left.'

'Oh, so now we have a gang of thieves! The schoolmaster, Dr. Shields, Mr. Paine, Winston, and Mrs. Nettles! A fearsome five, indeed!'

'Make light as you wish,' Matthew said, 'but I think one of those five entered this house and took my gold coin.'

'Not me!' the woman said sharply. 'Surely you don't mean me!'

'Of course he means you!' Bidwell assured her. 'If he can accuse a cripple of running down a staircase in the dark, he can accuse whomever the hell he pleases!'

'It wasn't the doctor.' Woodward placed his hand against his bruised shoulder. 'The man who hit me had some size to him. Six feet he was, at least. A giant, possibly. And he moved as swiftly as a snake.'

'Yes, sir.' Matthew gave a faint smile. 'And we fought off Shawcombe with candles versus daggers, didn't we?'

Woodward understood his meaning, and tucked his head down an inch or so. Bidwell slammed the tankard down upon the nearest tabletop. 'I'm going back up to bed, for whatever sleep I can find! I daresay it won't be much!' He focused his gaze directly at Matthew. 'First light will be here in two hours. I'll expect you to be ready to carry out your sentence.'

'I shall be.'

Bidwell picked up a lantern and took three weary steps toward the staircase. Then he abruptly stopped and looked back, his face daubed yellow in the glow. 'Is there something in particular about that coin I should know?'

Matthew recalled the conversation he'd had with Woodward, concerning the theory that there might be an encampment of Spanish soldiers near the Indians' village. Now, however, seemed not the moment to bring it up with Bidwell, his being in such a fractious temperament.

'What I'm asking is,' Bidwell continued, 'why would someone risk entering my house for one gold coin?'

Matthew said, 'I don't know.'

'No ideas? Have your theories failed you?'

'For the moment, yes.'

'I think,' Bidwell said bluntly, 'that you know much more about this than you wish to say. But I'll let it go, as I'm in no mood for a fencing match with you. Good night, gentlemen.' Bidwell ascended the stairs, and Mrs. Nettles gave the two men a crisp good night—her face a solemn mask that told Matthew she was quite offended at his accusation of thievery—and went about her business.

Woodward waited until he was positive they were alone. Then he gave a quiet laugh. 'Of course you have a theory, don't you? You have a theory for everything under the sun.'

'If you mean I fervently desire to know the why of things, you're correct.'

'The why of things,' Woodward repeated, and there was a bitter edge in his voice. 'Knowing the why of things can kill a man, Matthew.' He put his hand to his throat and massaged it. 'Sometimes it's best not to ask too many questions. Haven't you learned that yet?'

'It's not my nature, sir,' Matthew replied; he felt sure that Woodward's attitude in this matter of the why had to do with the man's past life in London.

'You are young. I am old. That makes all the difference.' He let go a long, pained sigh. 'All right, then. Tell me what you're thinking.'

'We may have had a visit tonight,' Matthew said quietly, 'from the Spanish spy.' Woodward didn't respond. He scratched the mosquito bite on his cheek. 'That coin may be evidence of the Spanish presence near the Indians' village, wherever it might be,' Matthew continued, keeping his voice hushed. 'The spy may have felt it necessary to remove it from sight.'

'But the damage has been done. Bidwell already knows about the coin. The entire population does, it seems.'

'Yes, sir, but—as Bidwell might say—a hole in a ship must be patched, regardless how much water has already flooded the hull. The thief didn't expect to be interrupted. Perhaps he hoped I might believe the coin to be misplaced. But removing it from sight would also remove it as an object of Bidwell's interest.'

'And of course,' Woodward added, 'the spy wouldn't know your suspicions.'