Speaks the Nightbird

not fail to have enemies. Constance Adams is one of them. Granny Lawry was another who spoke with a vehement tongue, but she passed away in late March. A number of citizens were outraged when Madam Howarth attended church, she being Portuguese and of such dark coloring. They wanted her to go worship in the slave quarters.'

'The slaves have a church?'

'A shed that serves the purpose. Anyway, since the day Madam Howarth set foot in church, she was the object of bitter resentment. The citizens were looking for a reason to openly despise her. The nature of her heritage—and the fact that she'd married a much older and reasonably wealthy man—had made her a target of scorn since she and Daniel arrived here.'

'Howarth was wealthy?' Woodward asked, his pap-loaded spoon poised near his mouth.

'Yes. Though not in the sense of Bidwell's wealth, of course. The Howarth land is larger than most of the other farms. He did have some money, as I understand.'

'Money from what source?'

'He was a wine merchant in Virginia. From what I heard, he'd suffered some bad luck. A shipment was lost at sea, another shipment was delivered foul, and evidently there was a continuing problem with a tax collector. As I understand, Daniel simply sickened of laboring beneath the threat of losing his business. He was married to another woman at that point, but I don't know if she died or returned to England. Some women can't stand the New World, you know.'

'Your own wife being an example?' Woodward whispered before he slid the spoon of pap into his mouth.

'Yes, my own Margaret.' Johnstone offered a thin smile. 'Ben told me you'd been asking questions. He said that somehow—he couldn't quite recall—you had wandered onto that field where Margaret lies buried. Figuratively speaking, of course. No, Margaret lives with her family now, south of London.' He shrugged. 'I suppose she does, if they haven't locked her up in Bedlam yet. She was—to be kind—mentally unstable, a condition that the rigors of life in Fount Royal made only worse. Unfortunately, she sought balance in the rum barrel.' Johnstone was silent, the firelight and shadows moving on his thin-nosed, aristocratic face. 'I expect Ben—knowing Ben as I do—has told you also of Margaret's . . . um . . . indiscretions?'

'Yes.'

'The one in particular, with that Noles bastard, was the worst. The man is an animal, and for Margaret—who when I married her was a virgin and comported herself as a proper lady—to have fallen to his level was the final insult to me. Well, she had made no secret of hating Fount Royal and everyone in it. It was for the best that I took her where she belonged.' He looked at Woodward with a pained expression. 'Some people change, no matter how hard one tries to deny it. Do you understand what I mean?'

'Yes,' Woodward answered, in his fragile voice. His own face had taken on some pain. He stared into the fire. 'I do understand.'

The schoolmaster continued to rub his deformed knee. Sparks popped from one of the logs. Outside, the sound of rain had become a dull roar. 'This weather,' Johnstone said, 'plays hell with my knee. Too much damp and I can hardly walk. You know, that preacher must be getting his feet wet. He's camped up on Industry Street. Last night he gave a sermon that I understand sent a few people into spasms and separated them from their coins as well. Of course, the subject of his speech was Rachel Howarth, and how her evil has contaminated the whole of Fount Royal. He mentioned you by name as one of those so afflicted, as well as your clerk, Nicholas Paine, and myself.'

'I'm not surprised.'

'At the risk of verifying the preacher's opinion of me,' Johnstone said, 'I suppose I'm here to plead for Madam Howarth. It just makes no sense to me that she would commit two murders, much less take up witchcraft. I'm aware that the witnesses are all reliable and of good character, but . . . something about this is very wrong, sir. If I were you, I'd be wary of rushing to pass sentence no matter how much pressure Bidwell puts upon you.'

'I am not rushing,' Woodward replied stiffly. 'I set my own pace.'

'Surely you do, and forgive me for stating otherwise. But it appears there is some pressure being put upon you. I understand how Bidwell feels Fount Royal is so endangered, and it's certainly true that the town is being vacated at an alarming rate. These fires we've been suffering don't help matters. Someone is trying to paint Madam Howarth as having the power of destruction beyond the gaol's walls.'

'Your opinion.'

'Yes, my opinion. I'm aware that you have more experience in these matters than do I, but does it not seem very strange to you that the Devil should so openly reveal himself about town? And it seems to me quite peculiar that a woman who can burn down houses at a distance can't free herself from a rusty lock.'

'The nature of evil,' Woodward said as he ate another spoonful of the tasteless mush, 'is never fully understood.'

'Agreed. But I would think Satan would be more cunning than illogical. It appears to me that the Devil went to great pains to make certain everyone in town knew there was a witch among us, and that her name was Rachel Howarth.'

After a moment of contemplation, Woodward said, 'Perhaps it is strange. Still, we have the witnesses.'

'Yes, the witnesses.' Johnstone frowned, his gaze fixed upon the fire. 'A puzzle, it seems. Unless . . . one considers the possibility that—as much as I might wish to deny it—Satan is indeed at work in Fount Royal, and has given Madam Howarth's face to the true witch. Or warlock, as the case might be.'

Woodward had been about to eat the last swallow of his pap, but he paused in lifting the spoon. This idea advanced by Johnstone had never occurred to him. Still, it was only an idea, and the witnesses had sworn on the Bible. But what if the witnesses had been themselves entranced, without knowing it? What if they had been led to believe they were viewing Madam Howarth, when indeed it was not? And when Satan had spoken Madam Howarth's name to Violet Adams, was he simply attempting to shield the identity of the true witch?

No! There was the evidence of the poppets found in Madam Howarth's house! But, as Matthew had pointed out, the house was empty for such a period of time that someone else might have secreted them there. Afterward, Satan might have slipped the vision into Madam Grunewald's dreams, and thereby the poppets were discovered.

Was it possible—only by the slimmest possibility—that the wrong person was behind bars, and the real witch still free?

'I don't wish to cloud your thinking,' Johnstone said in response to the magistrate's silence, 'but only to point out what damage a rush to execute Madam Howarth might do. Now, that being said, I have to ask if you have progressed any in your search for the thief.'

'The thief?' It took Woodward a few seconds to shift his thoughts to the missing gold coin. 'Oh. No progress.'

'Well, Ben also informed me that you and your clerk had questions about my knee, and if I was able to climb the staircase or not. I suppose I could, if I had to. But I'm flattered that you would consider I could move as quickly as the thief evidently did.' The schoolmaster leaned forward and unbuttoned his breeches leg at the knee. 'I wish you to judge for yourself.'

'Uh ... it isn't necessary,' Woodward whispered.

'Oh, but it is! I want you to see.' He pulled the breeches leg back and then rolled his stocking down. A bandage had been secured around the knee, and this Johnstone began to slowly unwrap. When he was finished, he turned his leg so as to offer Woodward a clear view of the deformity by the firelight. 'There,' Johnstone said grimly. 'My pride.'

Woodward saw that a leather brace was buckled around Johnstone's knee, but the kneecap itself was fully exposed. It was the size of a knotty fist, gray-colored and glistening with some kind of oil. The bone itself appeared terribly misshapen, bulging up in a ghastly ridge along the top of the kneecap and then forming a concavity at the knee's center. Woodward found himself recoiling from the sight.

'Alan! We heard the bell, but why didn't you announce yourself?' Bidwell had just entered the parlor, with Winston a few steps behind him.

'I had business with the magistrate. I wished to show him my knee. Would you care to look?'