entered the gaol supported between Hannibal Green and Nicholas Paine, wore a long gray overcoat and a rust- colored scarf wrapped about his throat. His face—which glistened with sweat and was a few shades lighter than his coat—was cast downward, mindful of his walking. He took feeble steps, as if he'd aged twenty years since Matthew had seen him yesterday afternoon.
When Green had brought the midday meal, he'd explained to Matthew that the course of the trial had been delayed because the magistrate had fallen very ill during the night, but what he heard from Paine was that Elias Garrick was scheduled to appear at two o'clock. Therefore Matthew had expected to see the magistrate under the weather, but not become a near invalid. He realized at once that Woodward should be in bed—or possibly even at Dr. Shields's infirmary.
'What are you bringing him in here for?' Matthew protested, standing at the bars. 'The magistrate's not healthy enough to sit at court today!'
'I'm following Mr. Bidwell's orders,' Paine replied, as he steadied Woodward while Green unlocked the cell. 'He said to bring the magistrate here.'
'This is an outrage! The magistrate shouldn't be forced to work when he's hardly strong enough to stand!'
'I see no one forcing him,' Paine answered. Green got the door open and then helped Paine walk Woodward through. A strong, bitter medicinal odor also entered.
'I demand to see Bidwell!' Matthew had almost shouted it, his cheeks reddening as his temper rose. 'Bring him here this minute!'
'Hush,' the magistrate whispered. 'That hurts my ears.'
'Sir, why did you allow yourself to be brought here? You're in no condition to—'
'The work must be done,' Woodward interrupted. 'The sooner the trial is ended . . . the sooner we may leave this wretched town.' He eased himself down into his chair. 'Hot tea,' he said to Paine, his face pinched with the effort of speech.
'Yes sir, I'll get you some directly.'
'But
'Yes sir.'
'Mr. Paine!' Matthew said as he and Green started to leave the cell. 'You know the magistrate has no business being here!'
'Matthew, settle yourself,' Woodward cautioned, in his raw whisper. 'I may be somewhat ill . . . but I have my responsibilities. You have your own. Be seated and prepare for our witness.' He glanced through the bars into the next cage. 'Good afternoon, madam.' Rachel nodded at him from her seat on the bench, her face grim but well composed. Paine and Green left the cell and made their way out of the gaol.
'Sit and prepare,' Woodward repeated to his clerk. 'Mr. Garrick will soon be here.'
Matthew knew there was no point in further argument. He put the Bible in front of Woodward, then opened the desk drawer into which he'd placed the box of writing supplies and placed it atop his own desk. He sat down, lifted the boxlid, and removed the quill, inkwell, and paper, after he began to massage his right hand to warm it for the exertion that was to follow. The noise of Woodward's husky, labored breathing was going to be a considerable distraction. In fact, he didn't know how he could concentrate at all today. He said, 'Sir, tell me this: how are you going to ask questions of Mr. Garrick when you can hardly speak?'
'Mr. Garrick will do most of the speaking.' Woodward paused, securing a breath. His eyes closed for a few seconds; he felt so weak he feared he might have to lay his head down upon the desk. The pungent fumes of the liniment that even now heated his chest, back, and throat rose around his face and up his swollen nostrils. He opened his eyes, his vision blurred. 'I will do my task,' he vowed. 'Just do yours.'
In a few minutes Edward Winston entered the gaol with Elias Garrick, who wore a dark brown suit that appeared two sizes too small and bore fresh patches on the elbows and knees. His gray hair had been combed back against his scalp with glistening pomade. Garrick looked fearfully into the cell at Rachel Howarth, prompting Winston to say, 'She can't harm you, Elias. Come along.'
Garrick was motioned toward the stool that had been positioned before Woodward's desk. He sat down upon it, his gaunt-cheeked face cast toward the floor. His sinewy hands clasped together, as if in silent supplication.
'You're going to be fine.' Winston placed his hand on Gar-rick's shoulder. 'Magistrate, you can understand that Elias is a bit nervous, with the witch in such close proximity.'
'He won't be kept long,' was Woodward's rasped reply.
'Uh . . . well sir, I was wondering, then.' Winston raised his eyebrows. 'What time should I bring Violet Adams?'
'Pardon?'
'Violet Adams,' Winston said. 'The child. Mr. Bidwell told me to fetch her later this afternoon. What time would be agreeable?'
'One moment!' It was all Matthew could do to keep his seat. 'The magistrate's only seeing one witness today!'
'Well. . . Mr. Bidwell seems to think otherwise. On the way to get Elias, I stopped at the Adams house and informed the family that Violet was expected to testify this afternoon. It was Mr. Bidwell's wish that the trial be concluded today.'
'I don't care whose wish it was! Magistrate Woodward is too ill to—'
Woodward suddenly reached our and grasped Matthew's arm, squeezing it to command silence. 'Very well,' he whispered. 'Bring the child ... at four o'clock.'
'I shall.'
Matthew looked incredulously at the magistrate, who paid him no attention.
'Thank you, Mr. Winston,' Woodward said. 'You may go.'
'Yes sir.' Winston gave Garrick a reassuring pat on the shoulder and took his leave.
Before Matthew could say anything more, Woodward picked up the Bible and offered it to Garrick. 'Hold this. Matthew, swear him to truth.'
Matthew obeyed. When the ritual was done and Matthew reached out to take the Good Book, Garrick pressed it against his chest. 'Please? Might I keep a'hold of it?'
'You may,' Woodward answered. 'Go ahead and tell your story.'
'You mean what I already done told you?'
'This time for the record.' Woodward motioned toward Matthew, who sat with his quill freshly dipped and poised over the paper.
'Where do you want me to start?'
'From the beginning.'
'All right, then.' Garrick continued to stare at the floor, then licked his lips and said, 'Well . . . like I done told you, my land's right next to the Howarth farm. That night I was feelin' poorly, and I waked up to go outside and spew what was makin' me ill. It was silent. Everythin' was silent, like the whole world was afeared to breathe.'
'Sir?' Matthew said to the farmer. 'What time would you make this to be?'
'What time? Oh . . . two or three, maybe. I don't recall.' He looked at Woodward. 'Want me to go on?' Woodward nodded. 'Anyways, I went out. That's when I seen somebody crossin' the Howarth cornfield. Wasn't no stalks that time of year, y'see. I seen this person walkin' in the field, without no lantern. I thought it was awful strange, so I went over the fence, and I followed 'em behind the barn. That's when . . .' He stared at the floor again, a pulse beating at his temple. 'That's when I seen the witch naked and on her knees, tendin' to her master.'
'By 'the witch,' do you mean Rachel Howarth?' Woodward's frail whisper had just about vanished.
'Yes sir.'
Woodward started to ask another question, but now his voice would not respond. He had reached the end of his questioning. He looked at Matthew, his face stricken. 'Matthew?' he was able to say. 'Ask?'
Matthew realized the magistrate was giving over to him the reins of this interview. He redipped his quill, a dark anger simmering in him that Bidwell had either forced or persuaded the magistrate to imperil his health in such a fashion. But now that the interview had begun, it should be finished. Matthew cleared his throat. 'Mr. Garrick,' he said, 'what do you mean by 'master'?'
