Speaks the Nightbird

beautiful kaleidoscope. 'You are master of the healing arts.'

'Would that I were!' Shields gave a hollow laugh, then leaned forward to give a conspiratorial whisper: 'Most of the time, I don't know what the hell I'm doing.''Oh, you're joking!'

'No.' Shields drew again and the smoke spooled from his mouth. 'It's quite pitifully true.'

'I think your honesty has lost its brindle. I mean . . .' Woodward had to pause to collect the words. The lessening of the pressure in his head also seemed to have shaken the proper vocabulary from his brain. 'Your modesty has lost its bridle, I think.'

'Being a physician here ... in this town, at this time ... is a depressing occupation, sir. I have occasion to stroll past the cemetery in visiting my patients. Sometimes I feel I should set up office amid the graves, as there would not be as much travel required.' He held the hemp stick between his lips and pulled rather violently on it. The amount of smoke that poured from his mouth was copious. Behind his spectacles, his eyes had become reddened and sad. 'It's the swamp, of course. Human beings were not meant to live so near to such a miasma. It burdens the soul and weakens the spirit. Add upon that dismal picture the continual rain and the presence of the witch, and I cannot for the life of me see how Bidwell's town can thrive. People are leaving here every day . . . one way or the other. No.' He shook his head. 'Mark Fount Royal as doomed.'

'If you really believe so, why don't you take your wife and leave?''My wife?'

'Yes.' Woodward blinked heavily. His air passages were feeling so much clearer, but his mind seemed befogged. 'The woman who admitted me. Isn't she your wife?'

'Oh, you mean Mrs. Heussen. My nurse. No, my wife and two sons—no, one son— live in Boston. My wife is a seamstress. I did have two sons. One of them ...' He inhaled in a way that struck Woodward as being needful. '... the eldest, was murdered by a highwayman on the Philadelphia Post Road. That would be . . . oh . .. eight years ago, I suppose, but still some wounds refuse the remedy of time. To have a child— no matter what age—snatched away from you in such a fashion ...' He trailed off, watching the blue smoke swirl in currents and eddies as it rose toward the ceiling. 'Pardon me,' he said presently, lifting a hand to rub his eyes. 'My mind wandered.'

'If I may ask,' Woodward ventured, 'why does your wife remain in Boston?'

'You're not suggesting that she come here to live, are you? Christ's Blood, I wouldn't hear of it! No, she's much better off in Boston, where the medical facilities are modern. They've tamed their salt marshes and tidepools up there, as well, so the damp humours aren't so vengeful.' He took a quick sip of the hemp and slowly spewed out the smoke. 'For the same reasons, Winston left his family in England and Bidwell wouldn't dream of having his wife make the voyage—not even on one of his own ships! You know, Johnstone's wife so detested the place that she returned to England and refused to make the crossing again. Do you blame her? This isn't a woman's land, that's a surety!'

Woodward, though this fog was rapidly overcoming his mind, remembered what he had intended to ask Dr. Shields. 'About Schoolmaster Johnstone,' he said, his tongue thick and seemingly coated with cat fur. 'I have to inquire about this, and I know it must sound very strange, but . . . have you ever seen his deformed knee?'

'His knee? No, I haven't. I'm not sure I would care to, since deformation is not my area of interest. I have sold him bandages and liniment for his discomfort, though.' Shields frowned. 'Why do you ask such a question?'

'My curiosity,' he replied, though it was more Matthew's curiosity that his own. 'Uh . . . would it be unlikely that Mr. Johnstone could ... for instance . . . run or climb stairs?'

The doctor looked at Woodward as if the magistrate's senses had flown the coop.'I take it that he could not,' Woodward said.

'Most certainly not. Well, he might be able to climb stairs one at the time, but I think the effort would be considerable.' He cocked his head to one side, his owlish eyes bright. 'What are these questions about, Isaac? May I call you Isaac?''Yes, of course. And may I call you Benjamin?'

'Absolutely. So: Isaac, my friend, why these questions pertaining to Johnstone's knee?'

'A thief entered Mr. Bidwell's house early this morning,' Woodward said, leaning his head forward. Smoke moved sinuously between himself and the doctor. 'Whoever it was, he stole a gold coin from my clerk's room —'

'Ah, yes.' Shields nodded. 'The famous coin. I heard about it from Malcolm Jennings when he came to have a boil lanced.'

'I encountered the thief in the hallway,' Woodward continued. 'He was a big man, with the strength of a bull. I fought him as best I could, but as he had caught me from behind I was at the disadvantage.' It seemed more true now in his recollection that this had occurred, and who was to say it had not? 'Everything happened so quickly,' Woodward said. 'I didn't see his face. He knocked a lamp from my hand and fled down the staircase. Of course I know Mr. Johnstone's deformity is severe, but . . . my clerk wanted to learn whether you've inspected his knee, and if he's capable of such an action.'

Shields laughed. 'Surely you're not serious! Alan Johnstone a thief! I should say that in all of Fount Royal there's no one who'd be less a thief! The man's from a wealthy family!'

'I presumed so, since he did attend All Souls' College at Oxford, but one never knows.'

'I've personally seen his gold pocket watch, inscribed with his initials. He owns a gold ring with a ruby in it the size of a man's fingernail!' Shields laughed again, rather giddily. 'A thief indeed! No, it wouldn't be possible for Alan to run down a staircase. You've seen how he depends on his cane.'

'Yes, I have. But the theory that I believe my clerk is advancing—and understand, please, that he's young and his imagination roams unrestrained—is that Mr. Johnstone's knee appears to be malformed, but is in truth—his theory, now—as normal as yours or mine.'

Shields blinked, took a sip of smoke, blinked again, and then his face broke into a merry grin. 'Oh, you're wearing a jester's cap now, is that it?'

Woodward shrugged. 'My clerk is quite serious. Therefore I had to make the inquiry.'

The doctor's grin faltered. 'This is the most . . . unbalanced thing I've ever heard! You can see the deformity of his knee through his stocking! He's been in Fount Royal for three years! Why in the world would it serve him to devise such a pretense?'

'I have no idea. Again, please understand that Matthew is a very intelligent young man, but that sometimes his mind is unfettered by common sense.'

'I should say so!' Shields smoked his remedy some more, and so did the magistrate. Woodward was feeling quite better now, most of the pain having left his throat and his breathing passages much clearer. The movement of the smoke entranced him, and the quality of the light entering the room was like gray silk. 'I will tell you something about Alan that you might find of interest,' Shields suddenly confided. 'About his wife, I mean.' He pitched his voice a little lower. 'Her name was Margaret. She was . . . how shall I say this ... of a peculiar character.''In what way?'

'A lovely woman, no doubt. But . . . her bell was somewhat cracked. I never witnessed any of her outbursts, but I heard from reliable sources that she was quite the hellion, with a penchant for throwing whatever came to hand. Winston witnessed it, one night at Bidwell's house. The woman flew into a rage and smashed a platter of chicken against the wall. And there was the other thing.' Shields let his sentence hang while he puffed his hemp stick, which was beginning to burn down between his fingers. 'One moment.' He got up, went to the workbench, and returned with the small stub of hemp clamped in the probe as the cotton had been. He sat down again, a mischievous shine in his eyes. 'Mrs. Johnstone and the husband of that poor woman in the infirmary ...' He motioned with an angling of his head in the direction of the other room. 'They had a number of assignations.''Noles and Johnstone's wife?'

'Correct. And quite bold about it, as I recall. Many knew what was going on—including Noles's wife. In time someone told Alan, but I think it came as no surprise to him. Well, Margaret despised Fount Royal anyway—she made no secret of that—and so Alan took her back to England to live with her parents. She was of wealthy stock too—her father was in the textile business—but I believe she was a trifle overbred. A few months later, Alan returned here and the matter was forgotten.'

'Adultery is a serious offense,' Woodward said. 'Did he not wish to press charges?'

'I honestly think he was relieved to be rid of the woman. She was a menace to his reputation, and certainly lacking in decorum. Alan is a quiet, thoughtful man who keeps to himself for the most part, but he does have a cutting wit.'