Speaks the Nightbird

account for that?'

'If I could account for it—and could prove it—I would make sure it was brought to Mr. Bidwell's attention.'

'Exactly what I'm trying to do. I understand that Rachel was not well liked here, and was forced away from the church, but can you think of anyone who might have held such a grudge against her that they would wish to paint her as a witch?'

'No sir, I canna'. As I say, there were plenty who disliked her for bein' dark and near Spaniard. Disliked her for bein' a handsome woman, too. But no one I can think of who had that much hate in 'em.'

'What about Mr. Howarth?' Matthew asked. 'Did he have enemies?'

'A few, but as far as I know they've all either died or left town.'

'And Reverend Grove? Did anyone display ill feelings toward him?'

'No one,' Mrs. Nettles said flatly. 'The rev'rend and his wife were fine people. He was a smart man, too. If he was still alive, he'd be the first to defend Mistress Howarth and that's the truth.'

'I wish he were alive. I'd much rather Reverend Grove calm the crowd than Exodus Jerusalem work them into a frenzy.'

'Yes sir, he's a right loose cannon,' Mrs. Nettles agreed. 'May I ask if I should set a plate for you at the midday meal?'

'No, it's not necessary. I have some places to go. But would you please look in on the magistrate from time to time?'

'Yes sir.' She glanced quickly toward the closed door. 'I'm feared he's doin' poorly.'

'I know. All I can hope is that Dr. Shields tends him adequately until we can return to Charles Town, and that he doesn't grow any worse.'

'I ha' seen this sickness before, sir,' she said, after which she was silent but Matthew grasped what was left unspoken.

'I'll return in the afternoon,' he told her, and then he walked by Mrs. Nettles and descended the stairs.

The day continued gloomy, befitting Matthew's state of mind. He trudged past the spring on his way to the conjunction of streets, where he turned west onto Industry. A sharp eye had to be kept ready for the blacksmith, but Matthew put Hazelton's property behind him without incident. He did, however, receive a generous spattering of mud from the wheels of a wagon that creaked past, freighted with the belongings of a family—father, mother, three small children—who evidently had chosen this as the day to abandon Fount Royal.

Indeed, the town under this murky gray sky appeared all but deserted, with only a few citizens in evidence. Matthew saw on both sides of Industry Street the fallow fields and forlorn dwellings that were the results of wretched weather, ill fate, and the fear of witchcraft. It seemed to him that the further he ventured along Industry, in the direction of the orchards and farmland that should have been the pride of Fount Royal, the worse became the sense of desolation and futility. Piles of animal manure littered the street, among them more than a few nuggets of human waste as well. Matthew saw the wagon and campsite of Exodus Jerusalem but the preacher was not in view. When Matthew came upon the carcass of a pig, its bulk having been gnawed open and the innards being ravaged by a couple of desperate-looking mongrels, he thought that the days of Fount Royal were numbered—no matter what Bidwell did to save the place—simply because the lethargy of the doomed had settled here like a funeral shroud.

He did spy an elderly man who was outside his barn lathering a saddle, and from him he inquired as to the home of Martin Adams. 'House is up the way. Got blue shutters,' the aged gent answered. Then, 'Seen you take the lash this mornin'. You done good not to holler. When's that witch gonna burn?'

'The magistrate is debating,' Matthew said, starting to move along.

'Hope it's in a day or two. I'll be there, you can mark it!'

Matthew kept going. The very next house—whitewashed but losing its paint in large, ugly splotches—looked to be long vacant and its front door was partway open but all the shutters sealed. Matthew suspected this was the Hamilton place, where Violet had experienced her encounter. Three more houses, and there stood the one with blue shutters. He walked to the door and knocked.

When the door was opened, Violet herself stood before him. Her eyes widened and she started to retreat but Matthew said, 'Hello, Violet. May I speak with you?'

'No sir,' she said, obviously overcome by his presence and the memory it stirred. 'I have to go, sir.' She made a motion to close the door in his face.

'Please.' Matthew put his hand against the door. 'Just one moment.'

'Who is that?' came a woman's rather shrill voice from within. 'Violet, who's there?'

'The man who asked me questions, Mama!' Almost at once Violet was pulled aside none too gently and a woman who was as thin and rawboned as her husband stepped upon the threshold. Constance Adams wore a drab brown dress and white bonnet, a stained and frayed apron, and held a broom. She was older than her husband, possibly in her late thirties, and might have been a handsome woman but for the length of her pointed chin and the unrestrained anger in her pale blue eyes.

'What do you want?' she snapped, as if biting off a piece of beef jerky.

'Pardon my intrusion,' he said. 'I wanted to ask your daughter another question pertaining to—'

'No,' she interrupted. 'Violet's answered enough questions.

That woman is a curse and a plague on us, and I wish her dead. Now go away!'

Matthew kept his hand on the door. 'One question,' he said firmly. He saw the little girl standing behind her mother, about to bolt like a scared deer. 'Violet told me that in the Hamilton house she heard the voice of a man singing. I asked her to think about it further, and try to remember what she heard.'

'You're painin' her, don't you see that? All these questions are like to make her head split open, she's hurtin' so bad!'

'Mama?' Violet said, close to tears. 'Don't yell, Mama!'

'Hush!' The woman laid the broom's handle against Matthew's chest. 'Violet can't sleep at night, her head aches so! Dr. Shields can't even help her! All this thinkin' and remem-berin' of such evil things is drivin' us all to madness!'

'I can understand your difficulty, but I have to—'

'You don't have to do nothin' but turn around and go!' she said, all but shouting. 'If the witch had been put to death three month past, this town would be all right, but look at it now! She's near killed it, just like she killed the reverend and her own husband! Just like she's killed Sarah Davis and James Lathrop, Giles Geddy and Dorcas Chester and all the rest of 'em laid down in them graves! And now she's tryin' to kill my Violet by a knife to the brains!' Spittle had spewed from the woman's mouth and glistened on her chin. The expression in her eyes, wild to begin with, now had taken on a frightening fever. 'I told 'em she was no good! I told 'em all along, but they didn't care to hear me! No, they let her walk in that church, just walk in and her a black nigger from Hell!'

'Mama! Mama!' Violet was crying, and had clasped her hands to her ears.

'She will damn us all before she's done!' Constance Adams continued to rave, her voice now risen to a dreadful, piercing pitch. 'I've begged him to leave! By Christ I've begged him, but he says we ain't runnin'! She's tainted his mind, too, and she'll have him dead a'fore long!'

Matthew presumed she meant her husband. It was obvious that the woman was in danger of losing her last tattered rag of sanity. And obvious as well that no good was being done here. He backed away from the door as the distraught wretch went on jabbering, 'She killed Phillip Beale! Choked him on blood in his sleep! I told 'em to run her out of this town! I told 'em she was evil, and Abby Hamilton knew it too! Lord God protect and save us! Burn her, for the love of Almighty God, burn her!' The door slammed shut, and from beyond it Matthew heard Constance Adams wailing like an injured, terrified animal caught in a cage.

He turned around and walked away from the house, going eastward along Industry Street. His heart was pounding, his stomach seemingly twisted into a knot by his encounter with the madwoman. He understood, though, the power of fear to distort and destroy. Perhaps Constance Adams had been long balanced on a precarious edge, and this situation had pushed her over. In any case, he could expect no further help from woman or child. This he found extremely unfortunate, because the matter of a man's singing voice in the demon-inhabited Hamilton house was so strange that he felt it might have great bearing on the truth.