Speaks the Nightbird

'They are. And they are also the vessels of choice by those who would hunt pirates in service of the trading companies.'

'That was your profession, then?'

'Hardly a profession. I was sixteen years old, hot-tempered and eager to fight. I served one year and four months on a coastal patrol before a black-flagger's rapier laid me low. That was the end of my saltwater adventures.'

'Oh,' Matthew said quietly. 'I see.'

'What? Did you think me a pirate?'

'I wondered.' Now that the subject had been opened, he had to ask the next question as well: 'Might I inquire . . . who taught you to roll your tobacco in the Spanish fashion?'

'A Spaniard, of course,' Paine said. 'A prisoner aboard ship. He had no teeth, but he dearly loved his cigars. I think he was hanged with one in his mouth.'

'Oh,' Matthew repeated. His suspicions concerning the Spanish spy had just fallen to pieces like shattered mirrorglass, and he felt an utter fool.

'All right, I admit it! ' Paine lifted his hands. 'Yes, I have done the things the witch claims, but they were not all my doing! Lucretia Vaughan came after me like a shewolf! I couldn't walk the street without being near attacked by her! A match can only bear so much friction before it flames, and a single hot blaze is all I gave her! You know how such things happen!'

'Um ...' Matthew inspected the tip of his quill. 'Well . . . yes, such things do happen.'

'And perhaps—perhaps—my eye does wander. I did, at one point, feel an attraction to the witch. Before she was a witch, I mean. You must admit, she's a handsome piece. Is she not?'

'My opinion is of no consequence.' Matthew blushed so furiously that his face hurt.

'You do admit it. You'd have to be blind if you did not. Well,

I may have looked in her direction once or twice, but I never laid a hand on her. I had respect for her husband.'

'I'd be amazed if you had respect for anyone!' Rachel said sharply.

Paine started to fire off another volley at her, but he checked himself. After a pause in which he stared at the floor, he answered in what was almost a saddened tone, 'You don't know me very well, madam, even though you imagine you do. I am not the beast you make me out to be. It is my nature to respect only those who respect themselves. As for the others, from them I feel free to take what is offered. Whether that makes me good or bad, I can't say, but that is how I am.' He looked at the magistrate and lifted his chin high. 'I did not put those poppets in the witch's house. I found them, according to a dream related to me by Cara Grunewald. It seems she had a vision—God-sent, if you want my opinion—in which a shining figure told her there was something of importance hidden beneath the floor of Rachel Howarth's kitchen. We knew not what we were searching for. But there the poppets were, beneath a loosened board.'

'This was how long after Madam Howarth had been removed from her house?' Matthew asked.

'Two weeks, I believe. Not any longer.'

'I presume her house wasn't guarded or watched in any way?'

'No. Why should it have been?'

'No reason. But two weeks was time enough for someone else to form the poppets and hide them under the floor, don't you think?'

Paine surprised Matthew by giving a short, sharp laugh. 'You're jesting, of course!'

'Two weeks,' Matthew repeated. 'An empty, unguarded house. The poppets are made of common materials. Anyone might have placed them there.'

'Have you lost your senses, clerk? No one put them there but the witch herself! You're forgetting that Madam Grunewald had a divine vision that directed us where to look!'

'I know nothing of divine visions. I only know two weeks passed and the house was open to all who might want to enter.'

'No one wanted to enter,' Paine argued. 'The only reason I and the others who were with me entered is that we had a task to perform. When it was done, we didn't linger there!'

'Who discovered the loosened board? You or someone else?'

'I did, and if you like I'll vow on the Bible that I hadn't set foot in that house since the morning the witch was taken out of it!'

Matthew glanced at the magistrate. Woodward, who was looking dourly at him, shook his head. Matthew felt he'd come to the end of this particular road. He believed Paine. Why should the man have made the poppets and placed them there? Perhaps it had been a divine vision sent from God to Cara Grunewald; but then again, if he followed that track, he must come to the conclusion that Rachel was indeed performing witchcraft. He sighed heavily and said, 'It's not necessary that you swear on the Bible, sir. Thank you for your candor in this matter. I believe you may go, if the magistrate desires it.'

'Go,' Woodward said.

Paine hesitated. 'Are you thinking,' he said to Matthew, 'that someone other than the prisoner might have murdered Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth? If so, you'd best take care the witch is not casting a spell on your mind this very minute! She did those crimes, and she did the other sins she's been accused of too. Her ultimate purpose was the destruction of this town, which she nearly did—and still might do, if she's not soon ashes! Why should it be anyone else's purpose?'

To this question, Matthew had no answer. 'Good afternoon, sir,' Paine said, addressing the magistrate, and then he turned away and stalked out of the gaol.

Woodward watched through hooded eyes as the militia captain left. The magistrate had recalled something else Dr. Shields had said concerning the subject of Paine's deceased wife: // was a long time ago, and I'm sure Paine wouldn't care to speak about it. In fact, I know he would not. Had it been such a terrible experience that Paine had decided to deny to the people of Fount Royal that he ever had a wife? And if so, why had he confided it to Dr. Shields? It was a small thing, to be sure . . . but still, a point of interest.

On Matthew's mind was the imminent arrival of the final witness, the child Violet Adams. He cleaned his quill and prepared a fresh sheet of paper. Rachel returned to her bench and sat down, her head lowered. Woodward closely inspected one of the black-ribboned poppets, after which he closed his eyes and took the opportunity to rest.

In a short while the gaol's door was opened, and Violet Adams had arrived.

eighteen

EDWARD WINSTON ENTERED FIRST through the door, followed by a thin brown-haired man of about thirty years who wore a dark green suit and tan stockings. Close behind him—up under his arm, it would be more accurate to say—was the child, of eleven or twelve years. She, too, was slender. Her light brown hair was pulled severely back from her forehead under the constriction of a stiff white bonnet. She wore a smoke-gray cassock from throat to ankles, and sturdy black shoes that had recently been buffed. Her right hand gripped the left of her father's, while in the crook of her own left arm she held a battered Bible. Her blue eyes, set rather far apart on her long, sallow face, were wide with fear.

'Magistrate, this is Violet Adams and her father, Martin,' Winston said as he led them in. The child balked at the entrance to the cell, but her father spoke quietly and firmly to her and she reluctantly came along.

'Hello,' Woodward whispered to the little girl; the sound of his raw voice seemed to alarm her further, as she stepped back a pace and might have fled had not Martin Adams put his arm around her. 'I'm having trouble speaking,' Woodward explained. 'Therefore my clerk will speak for me.'

'Tell her to quit a'lookin' at us!' Adams said, his bony face damp with sweat. 'She's castin' the evil eye!'

Matthew saw that Rachel was indeed staring at them. 'Madam, in the interests of keeping everyone calm, would you refrain from looking at this father and child?'

She aimed her gaze at the floor. 'Ain't good 'nuff!' Adams protested. 'Cain't you put her somewheres else?'